The missile tubes are coated in heat-resistant latex, which makes them excellent flume slides when not in use, while the lasers provide dynamic light displays to rival any EDM festival or Lady Gaga concert. Should you require the venue for weddings or bar-mitzvahs, my platoon of pneumatic, glacially beautiful death maidens can formation dance to “Daddy Cool” and other disco classics for a pre-agreed surcharge.
If that’s not for you, my submarine-guzzling supertanker makes an excellent children’s party venue–
What, you’re surprised?
Listen up, my friend: remote lairs and underground redoubts do not pay for themselves. Supervillains live in the real world too: cost of living, inflation, supply chain issues. These days a world-class megalomaniac needs a side hustle to get by just to keep the lights on in the bioweapons lab. The gig economy has disrupted everyone, including us world devourers.
Now where were we– Children’s parties!
Please note there will be a small re-installation fee to replace the tanker’s piranha pools with child-friendly bouncing foam and I’m sorry to say that the monorail is out of bounds. However, when switched to safe mode, the cyborg kill-bots do make excellent playmates for children aged five and up (rider required). If you get in touch a week in advance, we’re also able to provide friendly Bumblebee masks to cover the AI-enhanced neuro-cybernetic death facias.
For more adult-themed “pampering events,” the ice-bound Alpine fortress includes top-of-the-range spa facilities and among my platoon of deadly North Korean martial arts specialists several are trained in shiatsu, needlework (non-lethal) and reflexology. The plutonium cooling tanks make for great mineral baths when filled with Himalayan salts and fully de-radiated.
As a complimentary extra, feel free to use any of my ruthlessly efficient Nordic cyber-warriors to get to the head of the line at Ticketmaster for those latest Taylor Swift dates, or that hard-to-score reservation at your favorite top 100 eatery. It’s all free of charge but tips are appreciated—and advised, if you value your online identity.
The off-planet moon base has a world-class plastic surgery clinic attached: zero-G works wonders for cellular recovery! The particle beam generator makes for a super fun play space—just hang some bistro lights from the accelerator tubes and fill the chamber with multi-colored foam balls (provided) for hours of weightless fun! More “grown-up” parties might want to try out some naked Space Polo.
My underground missile silo has extensive parking facilities and the needle elevator to the sub-atmospheric command center can be tons of fun for milestone anniversary photos. We had a platinum couple up there just a few weeks ago—and in-between used it to blackmail the world for a thousand tons of uncut diamonds and used biomedical AI to inject labradoodle DNA into the world’s maternity wards (thus turning all future mankind into a servile—but very cute—crossbreed of human and dog, genetically programmed to sit at my command). This excursion is so popular it recently made Condé Nast Traveller’s top ten “Luxury Retreats” list.
By the way, little-known fact: in between holding the world ransom and unleashing nuclear tidal waves at Rio de Janeiro, one of my hobbies is dog breeding. I’ve competed in several major competitions, winning Best in Show twice at Chelsea and a special mention at Crufts for my albino dwarf chihuahua.
Why am I offering all this?
An understandable question, for a moronic fool of fathomless idiocy.
A peon like you has no idea how expensive it is to run a secret but flamboyantly grandiose global criminal empire. Just the apparel alone will run to hundreds of thousands of dollars, if you’re using a halfway decent haberdasher (big mistake to go cheap on the garb).
Do you have any clue about the catering costs for an Antarctic redoubt? Thought not! Transport and storage for basic foodstuffs alone is like feeding a general hospital. Let’s not even get into what’s involved with hosting a supervillain summit–
Oh god, the canapés! Bombastic megalomaniacs with insatiable dreams of world domination love their finger food (you need a finger free for pressing buttons) and not simple snacks either; that’s a lot of white rhinoceros foie gras and Bengal tiger bone marrow going inside the vol-au-vent cases.
So get real, Mr Bond. Because now, I fully intend you to die.
Just as soon as we finish vacuuming the confetti from the death ray.