Four True Villains and Their Stories

Villains aren’t necessarily sociopaths who live in head-shaped volcano bases. Misdeeds such as public urination and double parking are common. Those might sound like Seinfeld subplots, but they’re actually small-scale acts of pure villainy. And this problem is growing faster than a radioactive Chia Pet.

Go ahead and laugh, but when your neighbor moves from littering to electroshocking people’s groins with his mind, I’ll be glad I live far away from his Fortress of Terror. Even Kim Jong Il worked his way up from removing mattress tags to unleashing nuclear holocausts. That’s why I had to write an article about villains.

"I look at the Constitution’s cruel and unusual punishments bill and all I see is a challenge to my creativity."

As before, I’ve elected to focus on stories you may or may not have heard. Sure, it would be easy to catalog, say, Osama Bin Laden’s spiral into supervillainy or Keith Richard’s zombie contract with Satan, but I want to expose some lesser known sickos to the stinging antiseptic of justice.

Also, as before, I’ve suggested ways in which history should remember these assholes. In other words, ways they deserve to be punished. If you’re from the ACLU, don’t read this, you pansy Communist. I look at the Constitution’s “cruel and unusual punishments” bill and all I see is a challenge to my creativity.

It seemed like an ordinary day in Wilmington, N.C., when Clarence Stowers happened upon a custard shop, where he stopped to enjoy a delicious frozen treat. But Clarence had no way of knowing he was about to experience the sort of trauma that pushes one into the realm of supervillainy.

This trauma-to-villainy equation is well-documented, by the way. Every time Batman pushes you into a vat of chemicals, you’re probably going to become a homicidal clown. And every time you find the tip of a severed finger in your custard, you’re going to become a greedy, opportunistic fuck, which is exactly what happened to Clarence Stowers.

See, what I haven’t told you is that the fingertip in question had been severed only moments ago, when custard-jockey Brandon Fizer stuck his hand in a mixing machine. This hilarious accident is doubly tragic when you realize that Brandon was about to trade in the glamorous world of custard sales to become a hand model.

Now, as every WWI field surgeon knows, severed digits can actually be re-attached. Sure, it’s a painful process, and the Church probably opposes it for some reason. But it’s better than going through life only being able to count as high as nine. What I’m saying is, tragedy could have been averted. But Clarence Stowers REFUSED TO GIVE THE DUDE HIS FINGER BACK!

Even though Clarence had fingerprints on his teeth, he also had dollar signs in his eyes. Clearly, the rogue digit was meant to be Exhibit A in some lawsuit in which Stowers would be given approximately one million billion dollars. It’s difficult to fault the guy for wanting to get rich at the hands of the bloated, corrupt custard industry. But just try explaining that to the poor kid, not 10 feet away, who’ll have to give up on his rock ‘n roll guitar dreams, thanks to you.

Apparently, digit re-attachment has about a 6-hour window of opportunity before the finger in question becomes just another macabre paperweight. But even with doctors and custard shop managers screaming at him to return it, Stowers kept the finger and stored it in his freezer, pulling it out occasionally to show TV reporters.

Media darling Clarence Stowers would give them genius sound bites like, “I thought it was candy because they put candy in your ice cream ... to make it a treat.” I’d like to think that he then stepped on a rake and a metal bucket fell on his head, causing him to ask the reporters, “Who turned out the lights?”

Eventually, he did offer to return the finger, but it was weeks too late to do anything for Brandon Fizer and his now-unfulfilled girlfriend. I think this finger-stealing Dr. Frankenstein deserves to spend eternity in the “Ironic Punishment” division of hell, eating mountains of custard made from nothing but human fingers. Screw you, Clarence Stowers. You got the finger, and for that, you get the finger.

The next villain story features a tag team of degenerates that make me want to vomit with rage and disgust. If you happen to be reading my article to a roomful of innocent schoolchildren, you might want to stop now, or at least replace the word “sodomize” with “tickle,” and the word “llama” with “rainbow.”

It’s hard for me to type this, but Pettyjohn and Eldred beat, slashed, and tickled two rainbows to death. Ah, fuck it. I can’t be expected to protect the innocence of children in the face of llama sodomy, can I?

The Dipshit Duo apparently got high one night on beer, pot, and Xanax. In other words, the night had all the makings of a good time. Until, that is, they dragged a 3-month-old llama named Willie Wonka from her pen and gouged its eye out. When another llama (named Monopoly) approached, they attacked her as well, and she died a few hours later.

The owner of the pets, guilty of nothing more than giving really stupid names to llamas, came upon the scene the next morning. Apparently, a golf club-wielding Eldred had encountered a deputy the night before. When a broken club was found at the scene of the crime, the crack investigative team of Pinellas County, Florida decided to bring Eldred in.

While llama-stud #1 was being questioned, another deputy found Pettyjohn passed out in a Jeep on his parents’ driveway. Though reluctant to wake up, Pettyjohn eventually came to when his mother started slapping him, at which point he was heard to mumble, “We were just fucking around with the llamas, man.”

A necropsy later revealed that Monopoly the Llama had been sodomized repeatedly and beaten to death about her reproductive organs. Guys, I know it’s hard to find the right woman these days, but this is not the answer. Besides, at 19 years old, if you can score weed, you can attract girls. There’s no need to resort to savage llama rape.

So the question of an appropriate punishment remains. There was some jail time involved, but obviously not nearly enough for these scumbags. I’d like to see a life sentence in prison, where they’re kept on all fours and tethered, llama-style, by their necks to the cell bars of the biggest, meanest, rapin’est dudes in the joint.

As far as supervillains go, the public probably doesn’t need to fear Pettyjohn and Eldred very much. As long as they keep their attention on sexy quadrupeds, the rest of us will be safe. So I say, burn in hell, Robert Pettyjohn and Brandon Eldred. I hope you think that llama was worth it when you hit your thirties, and the only action you can get is masturbating to Napoleon Dynamite.

Finger thieves and llama molesters aside, there are some villains out there who attain truly retarded levels of evil. One that comes to mind is Chytoria Graham. One night in Erie, PA, Graham found herself in a domestic dispute with her boyfriend. And if the show COPS has taught me anything, it’s that “domestic dispute” is police jargon for “oddly compelling, shirtless redneck screech-fest.”

Sometimes these disputes escalate to the point where weapons are grabbed. But on this occasion, the nearest available weapon just happened to be a four-week-old baby. Not that this deterred Graham, who grabbed the infant’s feet, swung him through the air like a flail, and smashed him headfirst into the boyfriend. You’ll probably need to re-read that sentence a few times to let the horror sink in properly.

My ultra-intense, mountaintop ninja training has taught me that anything can be used as a weapon. Napkins, orthopedic shoe inserts and scented candles can all be deadly, if you happen to be Jackie Chan. But using a live human baby just seems wrong somehow. For one thing, baby skulls are fragile, and unlikely to damage your opponent. Also, I’m pretty sure there’s some kind of moral implication when you decide to launch an infant-based attack.

This was an experienced mother of five. So, it’s not like she thought she was grabbing a baby-shaped club or something; she knew what she was doing. It’s kind of hard to fathom the kind of rage one would need to summon in order to do this. I imagine it had something to do with child support, and her not receiving it from “the baby daddy.” At least, that’s what I’ve been able to deduce from rap lyrics.

Police said that said the comatose infant suffered a fracture of the right temporal region and bleeding in his brain after Ms. Graham swung him and smacked his head against her boyfriend's torso. Honestly, this poor kid would have been better off with a mom who drank thalidomide smoothies and birthed him with a set of flippers instead of arms.

Chytoria, probably named by a lousy speller who meant to call her “Chlamydia,” was charged with aggravated assault and reckless endangerment. That’s great and all, but this woman is clearly two more kids and a carbon monoxide-filled garage short of true notoriety. She needs to have her tubes tied, forcibly. In really tight knots.

Then, when this baby grows up, he should be allowed to fire her out of a cannon into a brick wall. That way, two generations of Grahams will understand what it means to be a human projectile. This story is horrifying, but just be glad Chytoria never had conjoined twins: then she would have had nunchuks!

I don’t want you to think that violence is the only path to villainy, though. Sometimes, all you need is a firm belief in your own awesomeness. That’s how Saparmurat Niyazov came to power as the political, social, and spiritual leader of Turkmenistan. He’s like Big Brother, Mussolini, and the Wizard of Oz, all rolled into one.

If you’ve never heard of Turkmenistan, I wouldn’t worry about it. I know it sounds like someone just smashed the names of some other countries together, but it actually exists, nestled in the warm, fuzzy bosom between Iran and Afghanistan. And if you ever go there, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to practice saying how great Niyazov is, because that’s pretty much the prevailing national sentiment… or else.

Let me give you an idea as to the scope of Niyazov’s megalomania. Of course his face is on all the currency. He installed golden statues of himself in every city (the one in the capital rotates so that it always faces the sun). He renamed the days of the week after his own family members. He organized the curriculum of every school around his poetry. Suffice it to say, he’s the Grand Poobah of Turkmennonites.

Now, I’ve seen some pretty impressive personality cults, but Niyazov takes the cake (which is also probably shaped like him, or else Fudgie the Whale). And as much as I admire ridiculous delusions of grandeur, they come at a high price. Half the country lives in abject poverty. Churches have been knocked down. Libraries were also removed when Niyazov decreed that ordinary citizens don’t read. And all hospitals outside of the capital were deemed unnecessary.

A staged assassination attempt in 2002 allowed him to arrest massive numbers of suspected dissidents. Needless to say, they weren’t exactly fed scones and given aromatherapy treatments. One unlucky Soviet-born businessman said of his ordeal, “Beating, first of all. Of course, beating. They beat me with big stick, like baseball.” Nice of him to frame it with a metaphor Americans can understand.

But it’s the little things that skyrocket Il Douche from petty dictator to insane tyrant. He outlawed gold teeth, because he thought they were unattractive. He ruled that women must wear their hair in braids. He has local TV stations superimpose a golden profile of himself onto all programming. Hmm. I know this is supposed to be about villains, but I’m actually kind of starting to like this guy.

Though poor, his citizens receive free water, gas and electricity. And even though he was elected president for life in a 1999 election (by a vote of 2,500 to 0), Niyazov has indicated he will step down soon. Maybe he’s not all bad. Oh, wait, in December 2005, he banned video games, denouncing them as too violent. What an ass. The citizens of Turkmenistan should rise up and hang him from his stupid rotating golden statue.