I've tried to be decent about this, but global genocide is really the only option left to me.
You see what I have to deal with.
Anyway, my death toll was originally only going to be a few thousand. A million at the very most. Just those who have earned my undying enmity. Not many at all. A small snack for my army of mutant spiderhanas.
(I should explain here that a spiderhana is a sort of cross between a tarantula and a pirhana. They scuttle about eating all day - raw meat, mostly. Expensive to keep, but you'd be astonished what you can get on the black market if you're willing to spend a million or so. Needless to say the practice has been pretty much liquidated along with most of my other assets, so if you're still sitting in the waiting room in the hope of wasting my time with your endless neuroticisms - by all means stay there. It'll be a Starbucks next week, and I'm sure they're very good listeners.)
I was all set to declare war only on those who had wronged me. And then you had to go and have your little ceremony.
I know for a fact that Ralph hated Superboy with every fibre of his being. No, they can't hear you, Ralph - only I can hear you, we established that. I'm sure they know why you hated Superboy, you had to stare at his genitals a dozen times in statue form - yes, yes, fine, I'll tell them.
I can't have a moment's peace.
Superboy didn't even have a proper costume. If every sullen emo kid in a T-shirt had their own yearly memorial service, we'd be constantly expected to stand around in public squares sobbing and wearing skintight outfits and anyway it's pretty obvious that Superboy being beaten to death by himself like that was just the Superman Family equivalent of a tearful Evervescence fan slitting his own wrists. It was simply the most efficient way the wretched little turd could do the deed. Now stop giving the pathetic little bastard attention and get on with your lives! All of you!
That was Ralph, by the way. Not me. I'd never think that. But unfortunately the Superboy worshippers are on the death list nontheless.
So you can imagine my concern when Steve Lombard - already destined to be casualty #305 in what will be known to the future as Willis War One - covered the event for GBS, saying that "The whole world must be weeping for the plucky youngster whose bones were shattered for us all! Over to you, Bambi!" I slumped back in my chair, too overcome even to notice Bambi introducing that week's Face You Want To Mace (Because They Hate Freedom) - probably Al Gore again. So it had come to this! The entire world worshipped Superboy! Except possibly the scientologists, and they also must die!
Well, as Emily Dickinson said, it is better to be the hammer than the anvil, and thanks to my foresight in preparing to take on my new career I have just the hammer for the task. Indeed my finger is on the button as we speak. A true gentlemen must allow those he disagrees with the opportunity for a rejoinder, and also the chance to put any outstanding affairs in order, so you have until Friday before I activate my Thanatonotron and detonate the planet like a gigantic bomb. Please confine any protests to the comments section - you'll never find the Hidden Lair Of Doctor Willis, and if you do, the spiderhanas are ravenous and the cost of raw meat is prohibitive in these uncertain times. I think you get my meaning.
The world ends on Friday, by the command of Dr Robert Amersham Willis, PhD! You're welcome.