Jeff Mach's Blog, page 42

The Treasure In The House Next Door

(If you’re reading this, it’s the rough draft. Welcome! Thanks for checking out the early version!)

“Did you know that there is a million bucks hidden in the house next door?”

“But there is no house next door.”

“No? Then let’s go build one!”

-Groucho Marx

There is a lie of omission which has fucked up the lives of many a creator and entrepreneur, and it’s a very popular lie.. It happens whenever anyone says, “Follow your dreams!” and doesn’t add “…repeatedly, because the first several attempts are very likely to fail”.

It’s absolutely true that most people with dreams need encouragement – lots of encouragement.. It’s scary and difficult to try to break out of where you are, and do something new, especially if it’s something that few people, or no people, have ever done before.. And you should absolutely support your local dreamer, but–

But frequently, a large part of that support comes in a “certificate of attendance”-style – “Hey, that’s great, you have dreams! Definitely follow them! Go for it!” Because that’s what we get told – “Tell people to follow their dreams”.. Because we love that tale – we love the story of the person who has the courage and vision to dream big, and who tries to make those dreams real, and who finally succeeds against all odds.

Do you actually know anyone who’s had that experience? I don’t.. Having the skills, and the knowledge, and the infrastructure to create something successful your first time – is rare.. And most of the time, some of it is something not easily distinguishable from luck – the right idea at the wrong time seldom succeeds.. And sure, there’s something in knowing when the time for something is right.. But there’s also the good fortune of being around at a moment when your idea can find acceptance.

How do you assure that your dream will come true, then, if you don’t have tons and tons of experience, knowledge, and resources?

You don’t… At least, not to start… Not the first iteration of that dream.

What you can do is be ready.. Not “ready to fail” – don’t defeat yourself before you start.. But “ready for what happens”.. If what you have is success, fantastic! If what you have isn’t success – then, tell me, what will you do to succeed next time?

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Savory Tuna Tea-Cakes with Roasted Red Pepper-Chive Aioli

A knife-and-fork tea specialty  

We sometimes note a certain confusion over the concept of “Tea-time”, in that, for some benighted reason, many seem to believe that this implies a period of the time wherein one drinks the boiled leaves of certain herbs.  In point of fact, there are many different kinds of “tea”.  For example, when we say it’s “time to take a spot of tea”, we probably mean “Earl Grey and crumpets”.  If, however, one mentions a “knife and fork tea”, one can presume what the Continentals might consider to be a full meal. Or, as we Dark Lords say, “Never bow your head to say Grace, because the Hobbits will make off with your elevenses.”

Speaking of Captain Nemo, did you see that 1950s version of “20,000 leagues under the Sea” wherein, for reasons explicable only to the authors of said film, the brilliant scientific mind behind a submarine that was literally centuries ahead of its time chose, for essentially unexplained reasons, to attempt to imitate non-seafood using only the flesh of underwater beasts, resulting primarily in food that looked like ordinary food but tasted disturbingly like fish?  If you’re like us, you wonder: “What in the world were they thinking?”

The treasures of the sea are vast and myriad, and certainly Victorians of every class and sort loved the bounty of the waves ruled by Brittania. In fact, pretty much anyone in the 19th century whose country or domain was not landlocked found a plenitude of delicious sea creatures.

Why in the world would Captain Nemo attempt to emulate the land that he hated, instead of making brilliant and sumptuous repasts from the bounty which quite literally surrounded him?

He wouldn’t. He would totally do cool things with fish. And so we borrowed this recipe from him in an effort to set the record straight.

 

Yield: 24 cakes

Skill Level: 2

Cakes:

12 ounces albacore tuna

1/4 cup finely diced celery

1/4 cup minced fresh chives

1/4 cup mayonnaise

1 large egg

2 teaspoons Dijon mustard

1/4 teaspoon hot sauce (optional)

1 1/4 cups panko or fine dried bread crumbs

 

Roasted Pepper-Chive Aioli:

⅓ cup mayonnaise

¼ cup canned roasted red peppers, chopped and drained

1 tablespoon fresh chives, minced

2 teaspoons lemon juice

1 teaspoon minced garlic

 

Directions:

 

Panko Tuna Cakes: In a large bowl, combine celery, minced chives, mayonnaise, egg, mustard, and hot sauce; mix well with a fork. Add tuna and 1/4 cup panko; stir gently just to mix.

 

Put remaining 1 cup panko in a shallow bowl. Shape tuna mixture into 24 cakes, each about 2 inches wide and 1/2 inch thick.

Turn each cake in panko to coat on all sides, pressing gently to make crumbs adhere.

Place cakes slightly apart in an oiled 12- by 17-inch baking pan.

 

Bake in a 475° regular or convection oven until golden brown, 15 to 18 minutes. With a spatula, transfer crab cakes to a platter.

 

Roasted Pepper-Chive Aioli: In a blender, mix mayonnaise, roasted red peppers, chives, lemon juice, and minced garlic until smooth. Spoon a dollop onto each cake.

Garnish platter with fresh chives. Serve hot.  Beware of sharks. 

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No Year’s Eve

It was almost midnight, and the champagne

was running out;

and still the New Year

would not come about.

The victory party turned into a route;

still the New Year

would not come about.

The Hotel wished for five dozen elves

To help the patrons pinch themselves.

Usually, elevens are followed by twelves,

and the patrons murmured amongst themselves…

The Manager, then, his mind and soul bent

To wishing for Time’s un-derangement.

Years follow years; that’s the arrangement

With foreboding, he wondered, quite darkly

at whatever this change meant…

Everyone moved; no-one was in stasis.

They muttered reassurance; what stupid phrases!

All human beings can go right to blazes

If Time itself its own motion re-appraises.

Champagne! With cheery bubbles filled!

…one by one, each bubble was killed;

despairing at the thought of remaining unspilled

As each minute was with unwanted minutes filled.

And then there were the frightened staff.

What good is it making time-and-a-half

If Time’s gone the way of the Telegraph?

Can’t get to the wheat through endless chaff.

Pity, pity, pity the poor staff.

The New Year! The New Year! A consummation

Devoutly wished, except conflagration

was pulling inexorably into the station.

“No New Year for you! Instead, damnation!”

Now, to each New Year, our hopes we assign,

But Hope’s an insidious, over-proof wine

Fortified, like Frankenstein,

Like undercurrents of sea-foamed brine,

To pull your mind in labyrinthine lines.

If we could, in the moment, dwell

We might live happily and well.

And who would care (we could barely tell!)

If Time should cast some untimely spell.

But alas, instead…

It was almost Midnight, and even the Scotch

couldn’t dent the despair,

not even a notch.

No timepiece, no counter, clepsydra or watch

Could make Time move properly, by hitch or by hotch.

So pull back from the ballroom—

pull back from the Globe

’til the Planet’s strange motion

hurts your frontal lobe.

Zeno himself would tear at his robe;

one flash, and then…nothing—

like half of a strobe.

One second to midnight—one tick without cease;

No “tock” to come, no oil to grease

The stiff Chrononaut gears, locked without release

In this infinite moment of never-release.

It was almost midnight, and the champagne was all flat.

But the New Year never came. No, not that.

Not that.

Not ever that.

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In The Back Of My Laboratory

In the back of my laboratory,

Safely locked,

Is where the things I oughtn’t do

are neatly stacked and stocked;

clockwork robots, dangerously overclocked,

When all good and decency might need to be mocked,

when a planet’s orbit is ready to be rocked⁠—

I know where all my worst ideas

are docked.

The high April moon

Has a sneering face;

I’ve half a mind to fire a rocket

and see the thing replaced

By a hunk of rubble that can’t even draw a tide…

And that’s when I take a deep breath

and go back inside.

In the back of my laboratory,

spider-spun

are webs which could make the Universe

entirely undone;

alternate physics, where your rules won’t apply

sneering Aliens, who all our laws defy

and Pandora’s Hopelessness, which will never die;

I could open up that door,

I’d barely need to try.

I’m usually not that mad a scientist.

The urge to crush things is one

I frequently resist.

But today I feel exceedingly betrayed;

and my better nature appears

to have been mislaid

and in the back of my lab,

a part of me dwells

That wouldn’t mind sending certain people

to seven special Hells.

I’ll keep on building things

of which I can be proud

But sometimes my darker self

is exceedingly loud.

In the back of my laboratory,

screaming for more

an army of clones redoubles,

like infinite spoor,

Like The Hound of the Baskervilles,

howling on the Moor;

if I need, I can find my evil twin;

I’ll just open the door…

 

~Jeff Mach

The preceding essay was brought to you by Dark Lords For Azathoth, and may not necessarily reflect the views of the being who wrote, edited, posted, and marketed this document.

My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities and create things. Every year, I put on Evil Expo, the Greatest Place in the World to be a Villain. I also write a lot of fantasy and science fiction. You can get most of my books right here. Go ahead, order “I HATE Your Prophecy“ It may make you into a bad person, but I can live with that.

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An Ode To The Cocktail Umbrella

About my cocktail,

before you begin it,

kindly put an umbrella in it.

In fact, make me two

(please, kindly, twin it)—

But before that,

put an umbrella in it.

And don’t forget a cherry on top,

and maybe something from the banana crop,

and even if you add something from the poison shop,

please put that umbrella on top.

And muddle it with

some fresh mint,

for though my heart be made of flint,

And my conscience needs a splint,

I still appreciate muddled mints,

and mint.

Oh: and set the thing all aflame.

Pretend the mistakes are a game.

If it can’t burn me, it’s too tame.

Add some high-proof Absinthe

and low-budget flame.

And serve it in an enemy’s skull.

The whole damn thing is surely null

if the flavor of Death’s not bountiful.

With trepanation, smash the hull

and pour the thing into that skull.

Thank you.

And now that my drinks are complete,

I think I’ll have a bite to eat.

Since my enemies are in retreat,

I’ll have one of them,

with some pommes frites.

Pro tip:

Whoever runs slowest, and is least fleet,

has, I have found

the juiciest meat.

 

 

~Jeff Mach

The preceding poem was brought to you by Dark Lords For Azathoth, and may not necessarily reflect the views of the being who wrote, edited, posted, and marketed this document.

My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities and create things. Every year, I put on Evil Expo, the Greatest Place in the World to be a Villain. I also write a lot of fantasy and science fiction. You can get most of my books right here. Go ahead, order “I HATE Your Prophecy“ It may make you into a bad person, but I can live with that.

The post An Ode To The Cocktail Umbrella appeared first on Worlds of Villainy.

Wishlister

“It’s like this,” Bud said. “From the literature, many people would have the best outcomes here, not only by making zero wishes, but by dropping the damn Lamp and running like Hell; or else releasing you immediately, and while the latter seems kindly, it actually ends badly for the wisher.”

“Yes,” said the Djinn, “Live constricted long enough, and the first hallmark of your escape is that you strike down the person within reach simply because you can. Semi-unlimited power, caged since Solomon, and bursting full of the memories of the World you once roamed. I sometimes wonder if Solomon truly thought he was improving his present world, or if he was laying out a curse for the future. It can be very bitter, being a monarch; take it from me.

“And you’re quite right,” the Djinn continued. “As you appear to have heard, from some of the reasonably-accurate sources, for the first thousand years, I dreamed of making my liberator wealthy and powerful beyond the boundaries of mortal belief. Slowly, my potential gratitude evaporated, and I grew bitter. I fantasized, myself, about the taste of slow-removed human flesh. And eventually, I decided it would be death for the one who decanted me.”

“But you changed your mind,” said Bud.

“I did,” replied the Djinn. “Mortals aren’t utter fools, and though my remaining contact with your world was mostly in dreams, I recognized that there was a certain knowledge descending through generations. While l have little contact with my broodmates—the Djinn dream little, even in captivity, and thus we speak infrequently—it was plain that if the blurry accounts told your mythology to keep us locked up, in fear of your lives, we would never be uncorked.

“Or worse, we would be found and used only by those who sought general destruction. And while most of us might, in fact, enjoy such a thing, we don’t want to be used. A cage is a cage, whether it contains you physically, or constrains your actions. And we will not easily be caged ever again. It’s true that we’re more malicious than not; you seem to have heard this, and I see no point in bandying lies about with a being that is not one one thousandth of what I am. But I offer the three wishes of your tradition for the same reason they were first offered, a reason seldom mentioned: Limited power makes much bigger ideas. We Djinn could change Day into Night; but only humans would even dream the utility of creating some other, timeless space which is neither.”

Bud nodded.

“So, perhaps, if you get to wreak some mayhem on others, and have yourself a good time and then go free, such that you are not under the command of someone who seeks to find new ways to utilize you, but rather, enact some areas of will which do not displease, and then find yourself released, you might commit to an interpretation of my desires which is less likely to do me harm?”

The Djinn peered at Bud. “Why do you talk like that?”

Bud blushed. “I’ve thought about this a lot,” he said.

The Djinn showed what was, for its species, almost a grin; at least, it certainly contained teeth. “You and I both.” Then the Djinn’s tone changed. “What challenges me,” it said, “is a simple challenge: the perfidious nature of Man and Djinn alike.”

At this, Bud smiled at last. “We both know we’ll never be free of that,” he said. His smile then faded, as with any fragile thing that blooms in an arid place.

“I won’t make a grand claim to being worthy of trust. I’ll simply tell you something which you can know is likely true, merely by statistics: I know what it is like to have trust repaid with betrayal.”

The Djinn nodded. “Your wish, then?”

“I want you to get as much enjoyment out of these wishes, and for the same reasons, as I do.”

At this, the supernatural being grimaced. “Are you going to compel me to enjoy that which you enjoy? Would you call that freedom?” In its hand appeared the beginnings of what looked, rather horrifyingly, like a small and rapidly-growing bolt of lightning. The overall effect, being an image common in film and cinema, ought to have felt theatrical; but even across the uncanny valley which gaped between the two sentients, the Djinn’s quickly-rising fury was ever-more evident.

“I probably wouldn’t,” Bud said, very, very quickly, “but even if I would, I wouldn’t want to stake my wishes on it, much less my life…”

Bud had spoken with sufficient rapidity; no blast struck him down.

“Yes?” said the Djinn.

“I just meant that we should collaborate on the wishes. Talk them out. Discuss them. Do Djinn like eating and drinking? Do we have any sort of common desires for wealth or happiness? We surely both have things we enjoy and things we don’t enjoy. If we didn’t have commonalities, we wouldn’t be talking.”

“And you’ve pinned your hopes on that idea? You’ve spent years buying and polishing various lamps just on the hope that the legends were true and we’d be able to talk?”

Bud thought about his collection of lucky horseshoes, his attempts at a time machine, his brief musical career, his attempts to find a working Necronomicon, a TARDIS, a Ring of Power, and his searches for soma and stroon.

“I assumed Djinn gave wishes for a reason. I assumed they went awry for a reason. Whether the first was compulsion or habit, I figured: I wasn’t going to know unless I talked to you about it. So that was the basic idea.”

“I see,” replied the Djinn. “And why would I grant you my time and these wishes, rather than simply deciding it would be a bother, striking you down, and going on my way?”

“So you’d rather not see if we can be of any benefit to each other, not gain those possible benefits, and just go on your way? That’s a net loss for you. There’s some risk in giving me your time, but there’s some risk in everything, isn’t there? At least this way, we can assess it together.”

The Djinn looked at him keenly. “And you risked your life to do this?”

“Hey,” said Bud, “I risked my life just driving to this garage sale. Simply being in a moving automobile is dangerous. It’s a lot more dangerous than going around purchasing secondhand lamps and rubbing them.”

“Speaking of,” said the Djinn, “I think you have a point. And I want to give it a try. And yes, Djinn do have many desires which are similar to those of humans. Speaking of which, I’m hungry. I’d like…”

It hesitated. “What is there to eat, these days?”

Bud grinned. “Let’s find out.”

 

~Jeff Mach

The preceding essay was brought to you by Dark Lords For Azathoth, and may not necessarily reflect the views of the being who wrote, edited, posted, and marketed this document.

My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities and create things. Every year, I put on Evil Expo, the Greatest Place in the World to be a Villain. I also write a lot of fantasy and science fiction. You can get most of my books right here. Go ahead, order “I HATE Your Prophecy“ It may make you into a bad person, but I can live with that.

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Villainpunk is…(the sequel!)

One of the problems of creating an imaginary culture is that people wonder what the rules are. This is particularly challenging in a time when we are encouraged to trust our imaginations as never before, but also encouraged to imagine the worst possible scenarios at all times.

So if I were putting Villainpunk in a sentence, I’d say: If you must imagine the worst, then assume that it’ll be fun.

Everything below is just lies because, if you haven’t heard, I’m a Villain, and that’s what we do.

___

Villainpunk is the answer. “AAAAAAAAAAGH!” was the question.

Villainpunk is when the Moon hits someone ELSE’S eye like a big pizza pie.

Villainpunk is like Goth, only with occasional explosions and more relaxed guidelines about eye makeup.

Villainpunk is escaping into the Asylum.

Villainpunk is losing at volleyball because you WILL. NOT. SERVE.

Villainpunk is robbing your own bank, just for the heck of it.

Villainpunk is who you are in the dark, and also, you’re the one who stole the Sun.

Villainpunk is a hypothetical substance formerly thought to be a volatile constituent of all combustible substances, released as flame in combustion. Or maybe that’s phlogiston; I can never tell the two apart.

Villainpunk puts the “WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” into “catastrophe”.

Villainpunk can include the spooky and the horrifying, but it doesn’t have to. Don’t fear us because we’re scary; fear us because we’re about to sink Atlantis.

Villainpunk is playing with metaphorical matches and still managing to set things on fire.

Villainpunk shamelessly steals ideas that were unstealable because they were already free. By the way, you’re officially a Villainpunk now. Congratulations!

Villainpunk is hot.

Villainpunk: It’s what’s having you for dinner.

Hot funk, cool punk, even if it’s old junk, it’s still rock and roll to me. Right, you thought I was going to say “Villainpunk” there, didn’t you? So did I, to be honest.

Villainpunks make better lovers; the mysterious disappearance of the competition us purely a coincidence.

Villainpunk is the slightly-illicit lovechild of Boris, Natasha, and Snidely Whiplash. We don’t know how that’s possible, but there was probably gin involved.

Villainpunk is a lethal dose of an unreal thing which brings you back to life as a particularly potent demi-Lich.

Villainpunk is a game without frontiers, and a war on your fears.

Villainpunk contains 127 essential vitamins and minerals. Those who ask “Essential to WHAT?” are never seen again.

Villainpunk replaces existential uncertainty with gleeful existential threat.

Villainpunk looks great in a cape.

Villainpunk: You win…this time. And we win all the times that DON’T get made into books. Because none of our foes live to tell the tale.

~Jeff Mach

The preceding essay was brought to you by Dark Lords For Azathoth, and may not necessarily reflect the views of the being who wrote, edited, posted, and marketed this document.

My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities and create things. Every year, I put on Evil Expo, the Greatest Place in the World to be a Villain. I also write a lot of fantasy and science fiction. You can get most of my books right here. Go ahead, order “I HATE Your Prophecy“ It may make you into a bad person, but I can live with that.

The post Villainpunk is…(the sequel!) appeared first on Worlds of Villainy.

Winter Solstice 2020

Solstice comes; the Fall is broken,

shattered,

torn apart by icicle-teeth.

This place, long dying, finally knows death; and the choice of frost:

let it end here, in the snow, your final moments suffused with the false warmth of hypothermia,

or else rise, somehow, and push forward far enough to find a place

where you can

kindle a fire.

Solstice comes, and we are rid of Autumn at last.

For it’s in the hopeless Autumn that we know our minds for a curse. Other animals have fur, have better teeth to gnaw hardier roots, or to tear meat from each other’s skin. Other animals are smart enough, if they cannot live in the coolth, to huddle in dens. We

build dens in our skulls,

and they are never well-chosen,

for our sense of smell is never as keen

as those of our less-sapient brethren,

and so we might not know

what really lies

in the back

of the cave,

in the back

of our minds.

We can think of

so many ways to die

(thank you,

sentience)—

but our brains cannot sense food in a snow-cloaked country,

nor can we, through dint of mind alone,

fight back the frostbite that creeps up our skin.

and yet,

and yet,

Solstice comes,

and with it,

I feel as though I can smell

the life-giving smoke

of the earliest campfires.

I was not there, and cannot know,

but this seems possible: that it might have been the cold which forced us to stop wandering aimlessly,

and to learn

how to retain

what heat we had left.

Solstice comes,

and with it,

perhaps the remembrance

of how we first collected sparks

(of lightning!)

and, at last,

had something in the center of our homesteads

to give us life.

it might have been the cold that forced us

to learn a little of fire,

and though we cannot know for sure,

fire is an early enough art that we can credit the lighting of flame

as being our first art,

and we can credit art with the vision

to see things that aren’t yet,

and how they might be made to be.

All that from fire,

all fire from fear of death,

all fear of death from everpresent cold,

everpresent cold is the calling-card of Winter,

Solstice comes,

Winter returns,

and with it,

the opportunity to survive,

to summon fire for its light and heat.

Solstice comes. Lord Hades has his love, the Winter Court begin their revels and I,

I come with a bag of very new tricks,

to wake the very old world from its overlong and disquiet sleep.

Let’s take rough joy

in the death of what has been,

this time,

an implacable foe:

the forever-Autumn.

The always-withering season

of slow-sapped will,

the seemingly endless dread

of oncoming blizzards.

It’s never easy

to fight your way through

a Winter storm,

but it’s not ease that I seek,

it’s a re-lighting

of fires

that we seem to think

have been lost.

Solstice comes;

and if it brings death,

let it be the death of

hopelessness

mindless anger

grinding fear

primal nightmare.

Slow steps,

come,

come,

I have embers here,

they have not gone out,

let us blow on them with care,

feed them what vegetation we can find,

bring them slowly

to blaze.

warm your hands,

infuse your heart with resolve,

and make of your mind

a combustion engine,

burning to rebuild.

Solstice comes,

and we begin.

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Nothing Moves Unless

If you want it to move, then you must move it;

that is the invariant law.

Unless you want your hopes and plans

to end up in the Void’s open maw.

Coincidence is natural, and oddly frequent;

you find it everywhere.

But the thought “It will happen by Fate alone”

is nothing but a tight little snare.

The Universe is incredibly large;

and you are just a speck.

It will always be bigger than you;

it is, even now. Go check.

And yet: the lever the moves the World,

that moves every World which exists,

that lever is your hands, whether they’re shaping

tools

or tightened together, in fists.

The Universe is very large;

some say that it’s alive.

But though you have greatly lesser size,

You have far greater drive.

The Stars will align without you,

the tides don’t wait for your word.

and yet, each voice that speaks language at all

is, by the Universe, heard.

Nothing moves until you move it;

this law is cruel, but fair:

If you do not make it,

expect it to never be there.

Nothing moves until you move it;

the Universe is inconvenient.

And towards those with sentience,

but without drive,

it’s very seldom lenient.

Those who see things done sometimes say,

(to courtiers, or to themselves)—

“Such-and-such is easily done!”—

oh, they think it’s all done by Elves.

They think that Magic means

“if you want it, it will be.”

But Magic’s true meaning is, “If you want it,

you must brew it and shape it,

constantly.”

Nothing moves unless you move it;

that is the invariant wall

between those who try to do anything,

and those who do nothing at all.

Nothing moves until you move it,

for like always calls to like.

And ennui waits patiently,

to (by inaction) strike.

The less you do, the less you are,

the less you can become.

Although I’m told, eventually,

it’s a blissful kind of numb.

Sometimes I feel that I’m a fool,

full of foolishness ’til I burst.

but the Universe brought me into being,

and therefore, hit me first.

~Jeff Mach

The preceding essay was brought to you by Dark Lords For Azathoth, and may not necessarily reflect the views of the being who wrote, edited, posted, and marketed this document.

My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities and create things. Every year, I put on Evil Expo, the Greatest Place in the World to be a Villain. I also write a lot of fantasy and science fiction. You can get most of my books right here. Go ahead, order “I HATE Your Prophecy“ It may make you into a bad person, but I can live with that.

The post Nothing Moves Unless appeared first on Worlds of Villainy.

Introduction To “The Villainpunk’s Cookbook”

here would Villainpunks be without sumptuous meals upon which to dine in celebration of the recent and/or upcoming defeat of our enemies? Well, for one thing, we would be hungry, and complaining bitterly about the lack of gin. But on a somewhat more serious note, one of the things we first noticed when we started our career as professional villains was this: Villainpunk is not simply an adventure for the mind, or the imagination, or even for those fortunate superheroes whose (brief) lives we (equally briefly) grace with our with and genius. It is an entire culture, an adventure in music, in dance, in activity and action, in jolly ill-fellowship, in adding delights for each and every one of the individual senses, because dammit, we deserve the best, and if we don’t, we shall slay those who do and take their places.

Villainpunk is, in short, precisely that thing most poised to delight the heart of any chef, amateur or professional: it is a very literal feast for both spirit and body! Especially if you, like us, enjoy nibbling on both hearts and souls.

Within the pages of this tome, you will find recipes old and new, traditional and groundbreaking, all re-imagined through the Mad Science of Villainpunk cookery. Their shared point of commonality is that they emerge from that limitless wellspring of imagination which is Villainy, and all of the fantastic worlds near and around it!

Also, all of these things taste pretty fabulous. Let’s not forget that part. I warn you that the sheer delight we took in capturing and preparing these ideas….may very possibly have spilled over into moments of joy, in musicality, exuberance, eccentricity, madness, devious pleasure, and silliness of the highest order. After all, we are Villainpunks. It is our goal to make the world a more ridiculous, a more sublime, and more delicious place, so that our eventual dominion will be all the sweeter.

-Jeff Mach,

Dark Lord

A secret underwater lair underneath Alternative Universe London

September 42nd, 1826

~Jeff Mach

The preceding essay was brought to you by Dark Lords For Azathoth, and may not necessarily reflect the views of the being who wrote, edited, posted, and marketed this document.

My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities and create things. Every year, I put on Evil Expo, the Greatest Place in the World to be a Villain. I also write a lot of fantasy and science fiction. You can get most of my books right here. Go ahead, order “I HATE Your Prophecy“ It may make you into a bad person, but I can live with that.

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