Deep in the forest, something or someone howls at the moon.

Yeah, it's a someone. It's Doctor Evil, standing beside the broken down, rusted remains of his Bob's Big Boy, boo-hooing over it's lamentable state of non-function. If only he could use it to fly off, abandon ship, leave this bar and all its insolent patrons behind. It has become increasingly clear to the evil genius that he has been too long distracted from his goal of taking over the world. His imagination and ambition got away from him. Why take over one world when you could take over... the universe? Yeah. He could have anything. Even one MILLION dollars.

Turns out there is a very good reason: the people in this bar are a gigantic pain in the ass.

Sighing, he wipes his face and lifts his chin, giving Mini-Me an imperious look that will hopefully distract from his existential crisis of moments before.

"Mini-Me, my precious clone in one-eighth form, I have been lamentably... not stupid, because I remain an evil genius... but blinded by a too large picture. Yeah. Need to back it up a bit. Rewind the tape. No? Don't know what a tape is? Honestly. How quickly the young forget and the idiots assimilate. Riiiiight, how about... As Number Two likes to say before I shoot him with my Nerf gun, 'restructure' the 'business.'"

He nods, the motion vaguely spasmodic.

"Who are these football hooligans? It doesn't matter. No. I am Doctor Evil! I... will TRIUMPH!" he yells, pumping his fist in the air. Moments later, frozen in place, he asks Mini-Me without moving his lips, "Are they here? No? Show Daddy where to hide next. Yeah. We're going to go full on Statham on their ass... asses? Whatever."

Someone has put up a tent -- the nothing but canopy type you see at weddings when the weather is a little too damp -- by the lake. Under it are two chairs, one large and one small. They resemble the high-backed desk chairs found in any office supply store on Earth, until they start to rotate. The large chair even has a keypad or control console built into the arm. It's all very technological.

At the moment, they are covered in plastic rain slickers and empty.

Rugs inexplicably line the ground around the chairs. There's also a cooler and something bubbling over an open fire, just outside the tent.

"...really you are an exceptional cephalopod. Yeah. Your bilateral symmetry is remark-a-ble. Purple ink is exquisite. What evil genius wouldn't like to sign their name in purple ink?" Beat. "Okay, I can see how you might take that the wrong way. I don't want to ink you. Just weaponize you. Yeah. It's empowering."

Dr. Evil is standing by the shore, attempting to sweet talk Raspberry. Evidence suggests it's not going well. Of course, it could be going far worse. There's a tiny fish tank containing a sea urchin at his feet, just in case it does. That way, at least he'd have someone to talk to, right?

The game has been called, the players have retreated for safer ground and the demon bunnies have, after growing bored with gnawing on bases and bats (not the fun kind), moved on. Once again, the baseball field is quiet. Almost serene.

"I'll take you out with attack bunnies.
I'll take you out with a shaaaaaark.
Buy me an Eggo and Hot Po-cket.
Or I'll rip your arm out its so-o-cket."

Out of the woods creeps Dr. Evil, scanning the ground with a machine that blips but doesn't appear to do much else. He and his (approximate) clone in one-eigth form are wearing full HAZMAT suits. As they cross into left field, a lone bunny hops over and regards them with blood red eyes.

"Shoo. Shoo," orders the evil doctor, making wild hand motions that convey the same message. The bunny continues to stare. "Shoo, Bunnicula. Before I rearrange your photoreceptor cells and introduce you to a terrine, you crimson-eyed freak."

When this accomplishes nothing, Mini-Me smiles from ear to ear and blasts the bunny with a fire extinguisher. The bunny hops off.

"Well done, Mini-Me. The trajectory was exquisite. You're my special boy! Perhaps you should have been a Paradox. Or..." He lifts his pinky to his mouth. "An En-ig-ma?"

Mini-Me copies Dr. Evil's stance and nods enthusiastically, while keeping one eye on another bunny. This one is lurking on the foul line, looking a bit worse for wear and strangely... full. It won't be hopping anywhere anytime soon.

Dr. Evil fails to notice. "Number Two's Demon Leporid Attack Itching Powder is a success. Stick that in your cottontail and smoke it!" He pauses to reconsider that suggestion, then shrugs. "I won't have to dip Number Two in magma first thing Monday Morning. Pity. I do so love a good mag-ma dunking. Sets the tone for the week. Yeah, really. No. Number Two is safe! Did you see what I did there, Mini-Me? He's safe from mag-ma, but it's also a baseball meta-" He does a complete turn. "Mini-Me? No! Down, Mini-Me. We don't gnaw on Daddy's science experiment."

Mini-Me holds his fingers slightly apart and looks hopeful. Just a little?

"Oh, all right. You know I can't resist my own puppy eyes in one-eighth form. Okay, that was weird."

Unconcerned, Mini-Me gnaws on a chunk of demon bunny ear like it was a piece of beef jerky.

"Now all my minions have to do is round up some attack demon rabbits for our own evil use and..." Dr. Evil trips over something and faceplants in the grass. "It's all right. Meant to do that. Stretching. That's right. Calisthenics. Forgot my leg warmers." He reaches down, grabs an abandoned baseball mit; his beady eyes get shiny. "Be evil, and the minions will come." Beat. "Okay. No more gnawing. You can have an evil snack later, after arts and crafts."

Rolling around like a beached whale, Dr. Evil finally rights himself and throws the mitt to Mini-Me. Most of the way, anyway. He shuffles over to home plate and finds a bat. After many elaborate and ridiculous 'warm-up swings' he steps into the box.

"Daddy needs you to pitch now. Yeah. Don't hold back."

Somehow, Mini Me has a pile of baseballs beside him when he takes the mound. It's better not to ask. He eyes Dr. Evil through his HAZMAT helmet and lets go of the ball.

It sails past Dr. Evil's head like a bullet and crashes into the stands. Dr. Evil swings anyway, so hard that he does two complete turns before stopping, facing away from his clone.

"Riiiiight." He blinks. "Clearly you got Daddy's athletic prowess. Yeah. Perhaps you should pitch underhand."

He does. Another swing and a miss!

"Meant to do that, too."

This time, Dr. Evil crosses halfway to the mound and tells his clone to "Just toss it like a frickin' bean bag."

Mini-Me tosses the ball, underhand and without any real effort. Dr. Evil swings and... completely misses. He blinks, then throws the bat high over his shoulder and starts running for first. "I'm running! I'm running!" The bat lands on home plate with a disturbing thump.

Valiantly, Mini-Me refrains from pointing out that he's not so much running as skipping, mostly because Mini-Me never bothers to speak.

"I'm stealing second! Stealing second!"

Mini-Me watches. He's used to Daddy not making much sense.

Dr. Evil rounds third base (without touching it) and does a slow motion run for home. It's so close he can taste it! Victory will be his! Next: the world! He slides, fingers reaching out...

And stops just shy of touching the plate.

"Riiiiiight. Baseball is a ridiculous game. Come on, Mini-Me. Let's go back to the lair. All this physical activity is making me hungry. I could use a Hot Pocket. Or perhaps a Lean Pocket? I don't know. I worked out. I feel healthy."

The evil doctor pulls his dirt-stained monochromatic futuristic jacket back into place and marches toward second, where Mini-Me has just ripped second plate off the ground. He offers it up, grinning.

Dr. Evil regards him with pursed lips. "Okaaaaaay. Daddy's told you not to be so literal. Yeah. Read the rule book." He bobs his head and lets out a hissing sort of laugh. "Bring it. Daddy will let his precious clone paint the base and put it in the evil trophy case. Or throw it at minions. Whatever. Now Daddy has to consider real world applications for angry, itchy demon bunnies. Also large-scale Hot Pocket microwave sleeves. Time to go."

He tries to whistle as he walks away, then settles for improvising another verse:

"I'll bet bet bet on the evil team
If they don't win it's a crime
For it's one, two, three chances you've got


...is that an ascot?

Riiiight.

And really bad eggs."

"The song lied, Number Two. Find the person responsible and pelt him with tennis rackets," Dr. Evil demanded, shuffling off to his evil bed, while adjusting his evil nightcap.

The cat had not come back the very next day, nor the day after that. In fact, Mr. Bigglesworth had been missing for 72.5 hours, according to Frau's watch. It had to be Frau's watch because Dr. Evil felt wristwatches were confining and Communist, and he didn't care to wear his Mickey Mouse alarm clock around his neck outside of the joint. He felt it sent the wrong message. Time had always been his bitch; there is no time, only Dr. Evil.

Dejected, Dr. Evil climbed into bed and carefully arranged his New Kids on the Block sheets while clutching his Glo-worm. “Where could he be hiding?” Dr. Evil asked himself aloud. There weren't many hairless kitties wandering the streets. The other kitties never let them play their reindeer games.

"Perhaps he got a wig," he mused. "He is all alone. Probably scared. Yeah, scared. I hope he found some peeps. Gets some street cred."

Mini-Me didn't seem to mind Mr. Bigglesworth's absence. When told, he had simply shrugged and mimed cutting off the cat's tail.

At least Dr. Evil assumed it was the cat's tail. Anything else was just gross.

Agitated, Dr. Evil threw the Glo-worm as hard as he could -- it's possible it cleared the end of the bed -- and fumed, "I can not be an evil genius without something to stroke! Honestly. Just look at Napoleon. His prized russian blue choked on a high heel. Really. Napoleon was forced to stroke himself. It's true. Look at all the paintings."

Not surprisingly, the silence didn't respond.

"I am completely inconsolable," Dr. Evil said, sullenly.

Five minutes later, the heartbroken evil doctor reached into his bedside table for his Hello Kitty diary and began to write:

Number Two,

Place this ad in all local newspapers and Seventeen magazine. I need a new kitty.

WANTED -

One vivacious, volatile, villainous and virile evil doctor seeks companion of the feline variety* for stroking, plotting and image purposes. Must enjoy margaritas and getting caught in the rain. Also magma. Lack of fur preferred for hypoallergenic reasons, but will allow for evil tendencies. Interest in world domination and meat helmets a plus. Some risk of liquidation and being menaced by evil clone in 1/8th form, but the experience is really quite exquisite. Go where no cat** has gone before and explore the limits of time, space and Bob's Big Boy. Interested applicants should apply at: evilmojodaddy @ Hotmail.com.org

*Only cats need apply, with the exception of Beazley (Beelzebub?) and Barney (an overgrown eggplant?), due to their previous experience. India? Call me. On the phone. Yeah.

**Except Mr. Bigglesworth, but he was ungrateful.

*A loud crash sounds outside the front door. Several seconds go by before a voice marked by a curious, stilted inflection can be heard growing steadily closer.*

Mini-me? Where are you? Do you want me to call Clones R' Us and place an order for a new rep-li-ca? Is that what you want? I think I would make my new clone one-seventh my size. To differentiate, you understand. Less Liliputian... or would that be more? I don't do math.

It is ridiculously dark out here.*more crashing* Who left that gardening tool there? Honestly. I'm ok. Ok. Walking it off. Doesn't hurt a bit. Daddy's fine.

This is not acceptable, Mini-me. Remind me to tie a frickin' anchor around your diminutive neck. See how you like that, you irritating megalomanic. No, I didn't mean that. Really. You are my clone, and Daddy loves you. Now get back here right now before I melt the planet. Mr. Bigglesworth is not amused. *pause* Daddy's going to be mad if you went through this door.

*The door opens. Dr Evil stands in the entrance holding a cat completely devoid of fur. He blinks at the sudden light and covers Mr. Bigglesworth's eyes with one hand. Bottom lip protruding in an odd manner, Dr. Evil thrusts his shoulders back and glares imperiously around the bar.*

A bar. Riiiiiight. *hopefully* Is it an evil bar?