They work hard, they understand mad science. Do they catch a break? No, everybody else gets a happy ending but them. Because I like fantasy, I felt that equal-opportunity rec time is in order:
Club Med for Mad Scientists and Dark Lords.
After a steady diet of reading about mad scientists and dark lords when I was young, I felt a sneaking sympathy for them. The Mac Scientists put in all that effort at their giant computers, just to get blown up for their trouble.
And Dark Lords! You have world-smashing megapower and yet your castle reeks of dried blood, where insects, monsters, ghouls, and other vermin of minimal conversational ability roam at will, and your décor is restricted to bones, skulls, and the ugly, moss-covered statuary required for the blood sacrifices you have to spend so much time presiding over, when you’d really rather be looking at spiffing the GNP, and trade negotiations with Elfland.
Mad Scientists and Dark Lords both have got to be suffering constant migraines from the buzzing of their protective nuclear-powered eyepacks and blood spells respectively, meant to keep heroes’ eyes from smoldering, burning, piercing, and scorching them. Where can they go for a getaway?
What about granting them their own Club Med? This seaside retreat will not only forbid battery-powered eye-lights, but all Dark Lords will be issued, on entry, comfortable t-shirts in several tastefully cheery colors, easy-wear draw-string trousers, and espadrilles, with a laundry facility just a phone call away. Mad Scientists will get an unending supply of fresh lab coats, if they like, along with surfer trunks for maximum comfort.
The décor will be airy, audio-equipped with musical choices ranging from smoky blues to high opera (hiphop for the younger Dark Prince) and food will be fresh, tasty, no blood—in fact, tomato juice will be dyed just to avoid the reminders of the required diet at home.
All child visitors will be normal, loud, obnoxious brats who punch and shove one another, repeat stupid butt jokes endlessly, and eat like pigs—not a beautiful, delicate child in sight, and their eye-packs, too, will be confiscated, so if one of the urchins races by any Dark Lord’s chaise lounge by the pool, he will not be discommoded by innocent gazes piercing to being-cores. In fact, all being-cores will be firmly stored in the boot closet, leaving everyone just a normal spine, liver, spleen, and other functioning guts.
Mad Scientists’ daughters and nieces will have an optional club of their own, which will not be frequented by any two-fisted manly men. Any of these latter will be firmly escorted to the cage fighting sports bar at the other end of town.
Igors and robot computers can serve if they wish, but their time off will find them in their own wing, featuring a spa, make-over, and a fully equipped lab with programmers who will design apps to re-direct the incendiary effect of Star Trekian fake-philosophy questions into harmless fireworks.
All priests in red robes will be sent to the Calvinist retreat down the road, white coated minions to the Unitarian Universalists to help at the bake sale—and the only sacrifices will be of one’s bank account.