I am Hugo Malady, a nefarious, scheming scoundrel who mercilessly preys upon the weak in my shameless quest for power.  I am ruler of all that I see, which at this moment entails the notebook I am writing on, and the number two pencil in my hand.  Hugo used to write with pens and mechanical pencils, but I found I enjoy the sharpening of wooden pencils.  The taking of something stretched and dull, and creating a brisk, sharp implement with the grinding of blades—the turning of cranks!  Yes, my future subjects, Hugo even used to use an electric sharpener, until I unthinkingly placed a Bic pen into its motorized mandibles.  Blasted Bic!  A thousand curses do I now lay upon your head!  Now I use a simple manual sharpener, which pleases Hugo.  I thrill with the turning of the crank, as if I am wearing a pair of sharp studded leather gloves and grasping the pencil by its small cylindrical throat and squeezing the precious, precious graphite from its bosom of pine.

The notebook I am writing in is a wide ruled Mead spiral, adorned with unicorns galloping in the clouds.  Hugo would have rather purchased a notebook with a panther standing upon an alter of skulls, but the Mead Paper Company does not manufacture such a notebook.  I called the Mead Corporation’s Customer Service agency to suggest a change of design, but the operator, a foul whoreson named “Brett” greeted me with indignity.  Blast that Brett and his condescending air!  I spit on his family name for a thousand years.  If Mead will not offer a wider variety of products, may their demographics remain fixed and their profits stay slim.  And if their customer representatives cannot be friendly and courteous then Hugo will crush them with a mighty blow from his armies, when at last the time comes for me to consume this world in fire and remake it in my own image.

Although currently, all I am able to consume in fire is my supper.  Hugo has burned three eggs, and all these tiny chickens have died in vain.  The yolks are too runny; they spread too thin and blacken and curl before I can remove them from the pan.  Perhaps I have used too much butter to grease the pan.  Tomorrow Hugo will use less butter.  No—tomorrow Hugo will hunt down Brett the Mead operator and force him to prepare my egg sandwich—which will be toasted!  Yes, think big Hugo.  Think big.

I, Hugo Malady, am the zenith of mankind, Ozymandias incarnate.  I stand a proud six foot five, slim, refined.  My face is slender as well, with a proud Roman nose that lends my face its royal character.  A handlebar moustache stretches inches apart from my face on either side.  My eyebrows are large and thoughtful, often drawn down in a sour grimace to meet my enemies in this world (who outnumber me 5,999,999,999 to one).  A large stovepipe top hat adds another foot to my already formidable height, and I garb myself in a sharp black suit, complete with a red ascot and black cloak.  The picture of grace and style, I am accustomed to—no, demand—the finer things in life.  I smoke the finest Turkish cigarettes (though recent financial concerns have led me to smoke Price Bin Cigarettes—the Cadillac of American tobacco.  They taste awful, and I suspect they are made from horse droppings and tree bark—potent tree bark, though it may be.  I smoke my tobacco through my cigarette holder, which is a majestic three feet long.  It takes me the better part of an hour to draw a single puff through its mass, which is just as well when one smokes Price Bin.  Also, it is frustrating to light a cigarette three feet from one’s mouth, but Hugo will triumph. 

Among my pastimes: scheming, plotting, conspiring, and conniving.  I also enjoy twirling my moustache while scheming, plotting, conspiring, and conniving.  I have been known to scheme, plot, conspire, and connive at night, but also in the day.  And sometimes, when I’m feeling blue, I scheme, plot, conspire, and connive while looking at pretty things that I hate because they’re pretty.  

I spend my days slinking about, bathing myself in shadow while children ride by on bicycles and greet me.  I give them a “Bah!” and raise my cloak above my nose.  I despise the children of this town.  Once, as a child was riding by, I rammed a stick between the spokes of his bicycle, throwing him over his handlebars and onto the pavement.  I clapped merrily and skipped away.  Unfortunately, his friends could ride their scooters much faster than I could skip merrily.  Receiving the thrashing of your life from a band of eight year olds on a Ritalin bender builds character.  Had those insolent curs not left for home to watch Rugrats, I would have had to administer spankings to them all. 

Though, the image of a six foot four man in a top hat administering spankings to a pack of children in the middle of the street would lend itself to scandal, if not to incarceration.  Better that I bide my time.  Yes, those boys will someday be men, men who no longer care for the antics of Nickelodeon cartoons.  And then, I will have my revenge.  Ha ha ha!  I will spit and dance on their graves!  Though, not at the same time.  I really get into the moment when I dance; I just let the music take me where it wants to go.  Hugo would slather himself in his own saliva, and that’s no way to strike fear into the hearts of my enemies.  If I’m torturing my enemy to discover the secret satellite codes, they won’t be able to concentrate on my instruments of pain: they’ll be thinking, “Does he know he has spit on his cloak?  Should I tell him?  Would that make him happy, or incur his wrath further?”  I like my victims to remain focused while I strip them of their dignity and consciousness.  So I have resolved to dance on the graves of the neighborhood children, and then spit.  For if I spit first, I may slip on my spit and this is no way to inspire fear.

Now a villain without a victim, I decided on more slinking.  Slinking is considerably more difficult than it was in the old days, when places weren’t as well lit.  Some of history’s greatest slinking has been done in pubs, stables, alleys, watering holes, and apothecaries.  Now the only places left to slink are franchised stores and fast food chains.  Have you ever tried to look inconspicuous underneath the fluorescent glow of a CVS Pharmacy aisle?  Creepy men in top hats with 48-inch cigarette holders stick out like an orca whale on top of the Empire State Building (Note: Not a bad idea!) 

Now, I must ask myself how I must go about recruiting my tight inner circle of followers.  Is there anyone here on Honeywood Drive who would willingly join my ranks?  Let’s see: the man next door to me is called Gary.  He’s retired (from what, only God can say).  He keeps a constant vigilance over the neighbor.  Regardless of the weather, he stands in his yard, holding a can of alcohol.  I do not think he is alone in the house; I have seen a car leaving and entering his garage.  He doesn’t wave to the car.  Of the people on Honeywood Drive, he causes me the most concern.  Whenever I slink about—he is there, watching.  He doesn’t say a word, ever the silent vanguard.  But I know he passing judgment, waiting to reveal me.  But I shall have the last laugh. 

Across the street from Gary lives Professor DeAnn Chadwick.  She lives in the small yellow house with three, perhaps four, cats.  I once spent an afternoon in her gardening shed when she was throwing an Independence Day cookout for several of her coworkers.  The affair was planned as an ironic tribute to American Independence, because as she says, “The American continent isn’t free even to this day.  I mean, the whole history of Western civilization has been male dominance of the female.  I mean, how can you overlook that?”  No, she is too strong willed to control.  She would never do for a lackey.

Her next-door neighbors, those across the street from me, are the Rogers’.  This family sickens me.  There are four of them: husband, wife, son, and daughter.  They place emphasis on physical well-being and exercise.  Hardly a day has passed that these insufferable thugs have not played some sort of planned athletic enterprise in their front yard.  Disgusting displays of affection and camaraderie.  What one does, they all do.  Perhaps, if I create some discord in their harmonious world, I can use one against the whole.  Yes.  Yes that would do nicely.

Next to them are the Cratchets, whom I believe are the two oldest people in the world.  Whenever they are in one another’s company, they are incapable of speaking beneath a shout.  I believe they hate one another as much as two human beings have ever hated anything.  They are archenemies in the tradition of Romeo and Tybalt, Cain and Abel.  Easy to manipulate, but far too old to be useful.

Reverend Richards lives next door to me, with his expecting wife and twin sons.  The boys are still youths, fifteen at the oldest, and they are a mystery to me.  I see them occasionally, always together, carrying machinery or packages up and down the street.  Of all the residents on this street, they alone remain undisclosed to me.  Are they on the side of the angels, like their parents?  Or like me, do they tread in shadow?  I must keep my Eye upon them.

Across the street from Rev. Richards and family are two trailer hitches filled with as many as seven Asian families.  Their children attend school, but I never see the parents leave for work.  They have an old above ground swimming pool that is filled with old toys, battered bicycles, car parts and a washing machine.  There is constant yelling coming from these homes—wonderful divisiveness.  One can only imagine the Machiavellian maneuvering in such a household.  Yes, it would be quite simply for Hugo to slip his talons into these homes and usurp their bellicose ways for my own gain.

The Three Giants and their mother live next to the Angry Asians.  The Giants are young, enormous men, each topping over six and half feet and weighing better than three hundred pounds.  They are quite docile, except when indulging in grain alcohol.  Then they become quite belligerent and hold fistfights on the lawn.  On one summer’s night the police arrived, and Reverend Richards attempted to calm the fray.  One officer emptied his clip into the oldest giant, who, in his fury, picked up the Escort he was working on that day and hurled it into the policeman’s car.  Since then, the neighborhood has understood that when the Three Giants begin brawling, it is best to let them work it out among themselves.  

The McGuggles live in the largest house on the street.  They are stoic Catholics, and their household is accordingly in shambles.  Swearing off all forms of contraceptive, the family already boasted eight children before Mrs. McGuggle gave birth to septuplets.  Now drowning in fifteen children and a failing Internet business, Mr. McGuggle is no longer allowed to lie with his wife.  The doctors have assured her that if anyone or anything attempts to make love to her, she will surely die.  The patriarch McGuggle now has two obsessions: the weight of eternal damnation and Melanie, the young, supple lifeguard that works in the public pool just across the street.  Many say he is going mad, surrounded by such pressures and ungrateful children.  I doubt that the man has slept in months, yet he is always alert, paranoid.  I fear him.

Across the street from the McGuggles, on the other corner of Honeywood Drive, live Red and Robin Ringler, two brothers outcast by the System, though for different reasons.  Robin was dismissed from high school for his rebellious penchant for electric guitar music in public places.  Indeed, his public abuse of his instrument, as shared with us through an enormous sound system on his porch, has caused alarm at many a neighborhood meeting (which I always attend incognito).  They would have been ousted from the community long ago, were it not for the political efforts of Red.  Red, self-named, was a business major in college until he realized the plight of the workingman and became a Marxist with a college degree he despises.  He dreams of someday attending graduate school, but feels responsible for his reckless younger brother.  Too intelligent to be a lackey, but he would prove useful in my bid for neighborhood domination. 

Next to the Brothers Ringler live the Sisters Sosnowski: five young, bubbly women who, in the summer months, often engage in water hose fights on their lawn.  These women please Hugo—please him very much indeed.  He’ll think about them later, when he is done writing.