Good evening, Mr. S.
Blowfish!
The number of people in your curious profession is
quite small.
Even so,
I doubt that you will be missed.
You've interfered with my plans
for the last time!
What plans?
You don't even have a lair.
This is a comedy club dressing room.
I just gave them the light. You're on in five.
Do you want me to mention your Netflix special?
What's it called again?
23 Hours to Kill.
Oy.
"Oy"?
Who designed the bathroom stall
with the under-display viewing window?
So we can all see the lifeless, collapsed pant legs
and tragic little shoe fronts that are just barely poking out
from underneath the impotent belt lying helpless?
How much more money is it
to bring this wall down another foot?
Being a super villain is not that much money.
It's not comedy special money.
Well, you gotta have the material.
How about something about,
these super villains always want to take over the world,
but they build these death machines
that never work?
That's funny.
Take it. It's funnier coming from you, anyway.