When the story of the greatest villain in the history of the world is written, many will seek to explain what made William Madsdorf the man he was. His surname supplanted Hitler as a synonym for perfidy. Historians, journalists and physiatrists will pour over the documentation looking for the cause of his evil. They will only find good friends, loving parents, a happy home, a superlative liberal (and Liberal) education, and fulfillment in everything he did.

No matter how hard the writers will look, they will not find anything. Because sometimes a person is just a bad seed.

The old man sat on the river bank. Fishing.

Across the river, an impatient bearded man kept reeling his in line and recasting it.

Then the bearded man walked across the surface of the deep river.

“Hello brother,” the bearded man said. “I’m late… Um, you caught anything?”

“There’s one in the basket.”

The bearded man looked in the basket. “Amazing! Now there are ten! Can I take five? The boys are waiting for dinner.”

The old man nodded.

“Thanks a lot. Never been much of a fisher of fishes. More a fisher of men type ‘o guy.”

Gilles set out on a bright spring day. All his young life, he’d wondered about the patches of similarly shaped stones around the village fields. Most of the village houses were made of these square-ish stones taken from the fields. One day he realized he could connect the patches together in a line. It dawned on him that the stones were a path.

And so it was, in March 1173, Gilles the peasant left his village in Anjou to follow the path.

Many months later Gilles learned that all roads do in fact lead to Rome.

Jackson groaned to himself.

The Big Boss had come from the penthouse to the cage where Jackson and three others worked.

“I’ve come for the key to 721.”

Jackson’s skin crawled. There were looks.

He retrieved the tarnished brass key, signed the paperwork, and gave it to the Big Boss.

The Big Boss was going to hand the key to someone. That person would hand it off to someone else. Hand by hand it would go. Eventually the key would get to the right person.

When the right person had it, then all hell would break loose.

The Marshal stepped into Wallace’s Saloon. He had a scattergun in one hand and a Peacemaker in the other.

He’d been shot three times during his career. His face was scarred on one side from buckshot and on the other from knife wounds. The knife scars created a pull on one corner of his mouth.

He looked to a table with three disreputables.

“Nate,” he commanded. “Come with me or throw down.”

Sadly what most of the saloon heard was “Come with me to the hoedown.”

That is when the laughing started.

Shortly after the laughing came the killing.

The ronin grimaced and planted his sword in the ground. The Lord’s party was certain he was exhausted. The ronin had sent 10 peasant spearmen and two samurai to the void. The lieutenant of the Lord’s guard approached.

The ronin raised his open palm, then he pulled his penis from his pants and proceeded to pee.

“Look at my powerful stream!” he yelled. “It goes further than any of yours, you fucks!”

The Lord’s party was shocked.

When he was finished the ronin got his sword and waived in the lieutenant of the guard.

The Buick in front of John Harding was going 15 mph under the limit in the left lane.

John saw a break and passed on the right. As he pulled back into the left lane he noticed the hole in the grill of the Buick. Old lady driving probably ran into a trailer hitch.

In the Buick, Babette Rodger’s blood boiled. She didn’t have the decomposing head of the last driver to piss her off stuck behind the grill for nothing. She yelled out, “It’s on muthafuckah!” and put in her mouthpiece.

Oh yes. It was on.

She was about to pull off an intelligence coup that would rival any in history.

Her life had been preparing for this. Chinese immigrant parents taught her their rural accent. She worked harder than her obvious intelligence required in school. Good luck gave her physical beauty.

She’d spent years insinuating herself, eventually, into the bed of a top intelligence official. Now she had a list of active agents on a $4 flash drive wrapped in cellophane pushed further inside her than any man had ever been.

She’d omit the last part when she turned in the drive.

This was why Roger Tomlinson signed up for when he took the temporary Census job. He needed a summer away from Brown and his parents. He was meeting people outside his milieu.

He regarded the shack. The front porch was festooned with cast-off chairs and a weight set. It smelled of urine and stale beer.

A rangy man emerged from the shack.

“Hello Sir. I’m with the Census. Your name is Mister…”

“Snopes.”

“Really?!?!”

“Naw. Just shittin’ you college boy. Lemme ask, you read any James Dickey?”

“No sir.”

“Good. That’ll make our visit more interestin’.”

It seemed like she’d been talking forever. While she droned on he contemplated her form. She had wide hips and a large bottom. Her waist was narrow and accentuated her large breasts. There was something about the shape of her eyes and their position on her face that struck him. Something animalistic. Something arousing.

She mistook his gaze for interest in what she was saying.

Then the epiphany.

He blurted out, “Your face looks like a lion’s.” It was true; her face did have a leonine aspect. “I want you so badly. Let’s go.”

Now she stared at him.

“So I have this 80s movie remake idea. Take “The Final Countdown” a step further. The USS Ronald Reagan is transported back to December 5, 1941. They are able to stop the attack on Pearl Harbor. Then they single-handedly sink the Japanese fleet. Then they go and nuke Tokyo. Then they sail around to the Atlantic and nuke Berlin to end WWII. It is sort of an Inglourious Basterds alternate history ending.”

The executive asked, “Could we add a CGI Ronald Reagan to the movie?”

“Of course!”

“Friggin’ brilliant. Green light!!!!”

The President basked in the shower of applauds from the Joint Session of Congress. He beamed at the assembled government of the nation. The television cameras panned the room showing Senators, Congressmen, Judges, Ambassadors and Cabinet Secretaries.

The President wanted to tell his secret. He wanted to let the world know what he knew. But it wasn’t time.

Before heading to the Capitol he secretly contacted his handler, Zegulus of the planet Xpflaxus-Primus. Zegulus told him that the invasion fleet was still organizing behind Mars and it was not time.

Next year. Surely next year.

Rodrigo had always thought that if he had someone else’s body and good looks coupled with his personality; he’d be a hit with the ladies. Everyone told him that he was a great guy and had lots to offer someone. It had to be his blandly normal body and face that kept him from getting chicks.

Then he found the lamp.

He made the wish of a lifetime.

Now he looked uncannily like Brad Pitt.

He was Rodrigo’s personality in a Brad Pitt body.

Unfortunately, it turned out that Rodrigo’s personality was the problem all along.

The senior member chose the seating arrangement for the tri-annual game. She liked putting the dealer under the grand portrait of Harlan Saunders. The contrast of whites amused her.

“Two please Josef,” she said as she discarded.

“Benedict or Benny please,” the dealer replied politely.

“Right.”

A wide-faced spectacled man entered the room and sat at the table. “Sorry for being late everyone. Liz, thanks for having us.”

“You’re welcome Warren. Buy-in is 2 billion cash or a controlling stake small nation or major bank.” The Queen smiled at him.

The Pentaverate poker game was on.

Greetings, loyal minions. Your Maximum Leader was sitting down at the computer typing out a 100 Below story. While your Maximum Leader was typing his son, the Wee Villain (aged 4) sauntered in and asked what your Maximum Leader was doing. After explaining a 100 Below story to him, the Wee Villain asked if he could tell one and get it posted on the interwebs.

Your Maximum Leader agreed. Here is the 100 Below story from the Wee Villain:

Once upon a time there was a boy. He got up. He went to school. He came home from school. He played Star Wars Legos. He pooped. He had ham for dinner. He went to bed. The end.

In retrospect, his story is just as good as the one your Maximum Leader thought of writing…

Carry on.