A Minion By Any Other Name
By E.M. Wollof from SLN More Blogs by This AuthorFrom the The Blog Cosmic Blog Series
Call me Minion.
For the duration of this tale dear reader, I ask that you suspend your disbelief in those circumstances commonly described as "the impossible" or "the improbable," for my story is riddled, wrapped, and bow-tied in both.
I was born Eugene Maximillian Udicious, and my mother gave birth to me in a bed of American trash. I say this not with metaphorical intent, but the most serious of descriptors. I was born in the back of an American trash collector truck.
For the first seven minutes and fourteen seconds I was exposed to my mother before she left me in a mailbox shaped like a small-mouth bass, I got the feeling she was not the type of woman to "sweat the small stuff." I came to this conclusion for a myriad of reasons, but mostly because she was able to dispose of me, tape a strip of a Kellog's Rice Krispy Treats wrapper with my name on it to my forehead, put me in the mailbox, and still make her daily route on time. I know all of this because I have traveled back to that point in my life numerous times.
As it turns out, the lovely couple in whose mailbox I was so delicately placed were even less enthused by my existence then mine own mother. Like the "pure" stock they undoubtedly were, the kind couple wrapped me in a grease rag from their garage and place me in their neighbor's mailbox, house number 1195.
It no longer pains me to say that this reaction took place well on into the night on my day of birth. By the time I found a home, I was 12 blocks from my birth, fully clothed, $240 more wealthy than I began, and had the immune system of a fully grown adult.
I found a home in the most unlikely, but certainly fated, of places: the domicile of Dr. Bertram F. Pennyworth.
My Father, The Molecular Physicist
Dr. Bertram F. Pennyworth was a molecular physicist of the highest order and I was fortunate that he had left his house that day in the expectation he would find the flux capacitor he had ordered the week prior. Instead, he found a well clothed baby boy who was fast asleep on top of his, now moist with my urine, flux capacitor. Most would expect Bertram to have turned a blind eye to my swaddling innocence and sent me along on my chain mail existence, but the combination of my arrival and the last piece of his time traveling puzzle spoke to something deep within him. I was officially his son by the end of the week.
Despite his preferred isolation, Bertram was an extremely talkative man. All of his thoughts were recorded by his home A.I. "Glenda," and I learned the English language from his musings on life.
He had made a fortune after selling his creation, the "Quantum Waste Eliminator." With one mushroom fueled invention he had effectively solved the world's waste problem. Ironic that the one county who had yet to receive this technology was the one in which he lived, and the one in which I had been born into, on the last vestige of trash none the less. If he had believed in destiny or fate, I'm sure he would have dismissed it as fortuitous circumstance.
At a very young age (3), I began to be the focal point of Bertram's experiments. Due to my birth day journey, my immune system was well equipped to handle all the poking and prodding he could think of. He became obsessed with the idea that my superior genetic code and his massive intellect would help discover the next step in human evolution. He was not far from the truth.
By my teenage years I was an accomplished mechanical engineer, capable of manipulating all currently existing technologies and quickly learning any new piece within a matter of minutes. This vast knowledge had very little to do with any studious tendencies on my part (I was partial to the culinary arts, much to Bertram's delight). No, I had merely woken up on my 13th birthday and was a genius. Bertram greeted me that morning very simply:
"Happy birthday my son. You are now a genius mechanical engineer!"
While many of you may giggle, or think this slightly off of center, it was as normal to me as birthday cake. By the age of twenty I was a master of all the physical sciences, and quite the philosopher (much to Bertram's delight as well, for he loved a good philosophical bout).
My childhood was glorious and I remember it fondly, but all that would change on the eve of my 22nd birthday.
Men In Black
There came a knock on the door and Glenda answered it in her usual fashion, which is unfortunate as the American government is not a huge fan of unregistered advanced technologies. Needless to say, Glenda was never heard from again. We have heard rumors that she became the first self-sufficient McDonald's though.
In total, there were three men that came into the house of Dr. Bertram F. Pennyworth and Eugene Maximillian Udicious that day. These three men were dressed in exactly the manner you would expect: perfectly pressed, black everything, and an over starched white shirt. They claimed they had been called by one of our neighbors under suspicion of terrorist activity. Both Bertram and I laughed in their faces, as we knew full well no one in our neighborhood would ever betray our trust.
You see, the combined genius of Bertram and I had allowed this wholesome community to exist free from government control. There were no bills to be paid because we provided all the creature comforts the town needed through our Q.C.C., or Quantum Comfort Creator. All things are possible at the molecular level, dear reader. Also, I baked the most delicious macadamia nut cookies for every member of our little commune, every week. So, no. No one would have called the American government on us.
Never the less, there we were, tied down and witnessing our life's work being torn apart by brutes with no grasp at the potential futures they were snuffing out. Bertram cried. I cried. I mean no offense in saying this dear reader, but you can not possibly grasp the implication of the work we were doing. We had dug so deeply into the molecular world that we could manipulate it as we saw fit. We could build 400 story skyscrapers in a manner of minutes, and erase them in the blink of an eye.
Admittedly, if applied the wrong way, our molecular dynamics could destroy the planet, but that is why we were in isolation. Until we could code regulations into the technology, we never even thought of releasing even a whisper of this into the world. We would never have dreamed of it. We were having far too much fun to let lesser minds turn it into something evil. Again, no offense. But, as Tolkien once said, "A single dream is more powerful than a thousand realities."
Our dream had scared the wrong people. In the end, it was the fear of change and the loss of absolute power that scared the American machine the most. In their fear they ruined the one great hope they had for true peace and prosperity, and they created the greatest evil this world will ever know.
The Bunker: Nice Guys
Bertram and I were taken to a military bunker deep beneath the hustle and bustle of New York City; approximately 500 miles deep. It was here that the government began our "repurposing."
Initially, the repurposing was rather cordial. These well dressed men would stroll in and speak about the greatness of the American Dream, and the even greater threats that this Dream came up against on a daily basis. Unfortunately for them, we had recently witnessed them obliterate every dream we had, so we were less than receptive to the "upbeat" portion of their sales pitch. The aforementioned portion of our repurposing lasted for three days. After that, Bertram and I were separated. I would not see him again for two years.
The Bunker: Less Than Amiable Shadows
The next phase of my repurposing began in earnest on the morning of the fourth day. I will spare you the details dear reader, only to say this: I went in to this situation a wide-eyed boy of science, and I came out a dead husk of rage-fueled vengeance.
For two years they attempted to tear apart everything that I was, both mentally and physically; and they succeeded. There was no light, there were no faces, there was only the terrible machinations of cowardly humans. There were only the shadows of greed. There were only the shadows of fear. There were only the shadows of evil. I heard only mine own voice for two straight years of torture, and the change I heard scared me far more than all the tortures those puny minds could put forth. Nothing of who I was could have prepared me for the experience, so I threw away all I was and became what I needed to be.
The First Day
I awoke on the morning of my 737th day of imprisonment to find the door of my cell ajar. I didn't question my good fortune, for I had been waiting for the day Bertram would overcome these feeble minded fools ever since they had separated us.
I wandered the corridors of the bunker, now devoid of all life, for hours; wondering at times if it had indeed been Bertram who had freed me. I didn't look for an exit dear reader. No. I knew that if it was in fact Bertram who had freed me, he would be in the middle of this marvelously hidden secret; and find him I did.
When I stumbled upon him in the power core of the bunker, I saw that something had also changed in him. Never the less, we embraced and wept tears of joy for hours; lamenting the passage of childlike innocence and reveling in the new found power of rage.
"No longer will we be the quiet men of science we once were my son. From now until the end of all time, we shall henceforth be known as The Good Doctor and Minion!"
I hear you now dear reader. Minion? Really? Yes, really. Minion does not only signify a person of servitude, but a person of high regard as well. Remember this reader: Bertram took me in when a whole community of people would not. He made me who I am, and I would take any name he would give if it meant I could be by his side every step of the way.
"Now, please Minion, step onto the quantum pedestal."
"To receive your next evolutionary step my son."
"Did you just drop acid?"
"I did, but you know that only makes things more interesting."
I laughed, "That is very true sir."