The Villain's Crazy Shenanigans

It began at precisely 7:46 AM—rush hour in Grinsberg City. Skyscrapers glinted under the morning sun, traffic crawled like molasses through downtown, and caffeine-deprived commuters shuffled through their routines like zombies with deadlines. Then, the sky cracked open. Not with lightning. Not with warships. But with an enormous blimp shaped like a rubber chicken. The people of Grinsberg barely had time to raise their eyebrows before the loudspeakers blared: "PEOPLE OF GRINSBERG! PREPARE TO GIGGLE. YOUR DOOM IS… AMUSINGLY NIGH!" A hatch opened on the belly of the chicken-blimp, and clouds of pink gas hissed out like cotton candy fog, blanketing the streets. “Funny Gas,” it was later called. Though its proper name, according to Professor Deathjoke’s personal lab notes, was “Laughogenic Hyperoxide Compound-7 (With Hints of Bubblegum).” It took only seconds. A man in a business suit paused mid-coffee sip and began snorting uncontrollably. A barista dropped her mug and fell to the floor, howling with laughter, tears streaming down her face. Children giggled until they collapsed into blissful unconsciousness. Within minutes, the entire financial district was a pile of giggling bodies. Atop a nearby building, Professor Deathjoke stood, arms akimbo, lab coat flapping in the wind. His goggles reflected the chaos below as he grinned wide enough to split atoms. “THE CITY IS MINE!” he declared, then sipped from a neon-green soda through a twisty straw. “Well, technically, it’s unconscious. So I guess I just inherited a bunch of giggling real estate!” Behind him stood a man in a yellow plaid suit and red Converse sneakers, holding a clipboard and a banana. His name was Smiley—not his real name, of course, but the only one anyone remembered. His perpetually grinning face had gotten him the nickname back in med school... which he never actually finished. “Sir,” Smiley said between chews of chewing gum, “the gas is 99.9% effective. Except for one mime. Immune, apparently.” Deathjoke sighed. “Of course it had to be the mime. They laugh on the inside.” Smiley chuckled. “Honestly, boss, I thought today’s plan was gonna be the burrito cannon again.” “Too spicy,” muttered Deathjoke. “I’m saving that for Taco Tuesday.” Meanwhile, deep beneath the city in a fortified biotech bunker, red sirens spun and klaxons screamed. HYBRID opened her eyes. She was Grinsberg’s last line of defense—a synthetic superhuman enhanced with spliced genes from over a hundred species. The more genetic material she bonded with, the stronger and more adaptive she became. Today, she was running on eagle vision, cheetah speed, electric eel skin, and a sprinkling of honey badger. And now someone had declared a laughter apocalypse? She smirked. “Deathjoke again,” she muttered, rolling her neck. “Time to add ‘prank-busting’ to my résumé.” Gene syringes hissed into her back as her body processed the latest batch: laughing hyena reflexes for chaos anticipation, octopus nerves for adaptability, and armadillo dermal plates for blunt force resistance. Hybrid launched through the city streets like a silver blur, her boots sparking against the pavement. She leapt over unconscious civilians and dodged laughing gas pockets as she made her way toward the rubber chicken blimp. But by the time she reached the rooftop where he’d broadcast his ridiculous speech... Professor Deathjoke and Smiley were already gone. Only a balloon animal of himself danced lazily in the wind, holding a sticky note that read: "TOO LATE, GENE QUEEN! NEXT TIME, BRING A JOKE!" — Love, Prof. D. Hybrid clenched her fist, cracking the concrete below her. “Next time, I’m gene-splicing you into a hamster.” And as the giggling city began to stir and emergency teams pumped in antidote jazz and soda vapor, Hybrid’s eyes scanned the sky. The next time Professor Deathjoke struck, she’d be ready—with new genes, new power... And maybe, just maybe, a knockout punch lined with irony. Before the rubber chicken blimp, before the giggle gas, before the chaos… There was Simon Caleb. At just 19, Simon was already hailed as the "Young Da Vinci" at the Grinsberg Institute of Advanced Sciences. A child prodigy. A brain wired like a motherboard. The kid who built a prototype quantum motor for his electric scooter... just to skip bus fare. He wasn’t just smart—he belonged to the future. Then came the Omega Lens Project—a satellite-based energy redirection array meant to help drought-ridden countries receive heat-controlled weather adjustments. Simon proposed the initial design as an intern. But something went wrong. Not with the equations. Not with the tech. With the humans. The lead researcher pushed the prototype too early, bypassing Simon’s final stabilizer algorithm. The beam misfired during the demo. It hit a civilian water tower—boiling it. The media called it a “steampunk death ray.” Public outrage exploded. The lab was shut down. Simon begged to explain the truth. But no one listened. His professors denounced him to save their careers. His fellow interns avoided him. News anchors called him “The Boil Kid.” In a matter of weeks, Simon Caleb—rising star—was reduced to a joke in every coffee shop punchline. He disappeared. Some said he ran to another country. Others claimed he joined a cult. The truth? Simon stood on the edge of Grinsberg Bridge one foggy night, a note in his pocket that simply read: “I just wanted to help.” Then, a slow clap broke the silence. “Tragic,” said a voice behind him. “Not the jump. The waste. A brain like yours? You could cook a city with comedy.” Simon turned, eyes wide. Standing behind him was a tall man in a polka-dot tie and a lab coat that looked like it had gone through a confetti storm. His wild eyes sparkled behind blue-tinted goggles. Professor Deathjoke. “You're Simon Caleb. You built an entire solar array using tinfoil, mirrors, and thirty stolen calculators.” Simon said nothing. Just blinked. “Everyone thinks you’re a failure,” Deathjoke said. “Which means they’re all wrong. You’re not a failure, Simon. You’re unpolished brilliance.” The professor extended a hand, grinning. “Come with me. Be my assistant. My protegee. Let’s make inventions that matter—not to them, but to us. Let’s give the world chaos… and color.” Simon didn’t take the hand immediately. But he didn’t jump either. Years passed. Simon shed the name the city used to laugh at. He became Smiley—Professor Deathjoke’s right-hand man, design engineer, field strategist, and comic relief all in one. His wardrobe turned from lab coats to yellow plaid and checkered socks. His grin became permanent—almost manic—because he’d decided if the world was going to laugh... He’d make sure it was his joke. Back in the present, deep inside their hideout, Smiley adjusted a new gas nozzle on Deathjoke’s next project: the "Soap Sneeze Sprinkler." “You know, Professor,” Smiley said, chewing his gum loud, “Hybrid’s probably plotting to gene-blast us into next week.” “Pfft. That’s what makes it fun!” Deathjoke replied, tightening a bolt on his croissant launcher. “Besides, she’s brilliant. I love brilliant.” “You think she’ll figure out the code you left?” “I hope so,” Deathjoke muttered. “Wouldn’t be fun if she didn’t.” Smiley glanced at the news screen showing Hybrid launching into the sky, tracking their last transmission. He cracked a real smile this time—not the sarcastic one he wore like a mask. A real one. “Thanks for not letting me jump,” he said quietly. Deathjoke paused. “Don’t thank me yet,” he said with a grin. “Wait until we drop the disco fog on City Hall next week.”