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It took me two months to figure out Brent’s password, but I finally did.

Sure I could have hired some nerdy brainiac for like 50 bucks … but the satisfaction of having done it personally just tickles me pink.

Plus I didn’t have 50 bucks.

So I started with “1, 2, 3 … ” and so forth.

His password, fortunately, can only be 9 digits long; I only had to go to 999,999,999 before I figured out that the jerk must have letters in it too.

Oh, very clever Brent.

Very clever.

So I began again. “1A, 2A, 3A … ” and so forth.

Three weeks in, I no longer slept or ate.

-And I lost count at 87A4B669.

“Brent!” I sobbed into the air. “Truly you are a worthy adversary,” I cried.

“What if his password is case-sensitive?” asked LadyTerri.

I don’t remember much after that. But somebody had apparently thrown the Christmas tree through the living room window. I had been trying to get around to taking it down for some time already, and while this was an appreciably and straightforward solution to the issue, it would have been better to open the window first.

With the cold February winds blowing through the living room, it was clear that my plans to infiltrate Brent’s Platform of Evil would have to temporarily be postponed: by sheer bad luck, The Ominous Comma would continue to survive on borrowed time.

At this point I was also forced to conclude that going through the 51,999,999,896,000,000,052 possible permutations of his password wasn’t going to be a very practical solution.

Plus people might think I was obsessing.

I decided to sneak into his house instead.

Brent going to Texas for a wedding turned out to be just the break I needed to crack this case; with him safely out of the country, I could do a little unobserved personal reconnaissance. My three private investigators got his address within hours, and it turned out to be only about an 11 hour drive.

I put the long journey to good use by playing Tinsel of Doom backwards and at varying speeds, searching for secret messages. I found numerous. For instance, during the song Danger Couch is Coming to Town you can distinctly hear the following:

“And then I will kill LOBO, and
dancing upon the charred and blackened
remains of his clearly superior blog,
I shall build an empire that dominates the Blogosphere!”

-You have to add all the nouns and verbs to tie it together. But once you do that, the sinister message is clear as a bell., I’ll have to minimize my commentary on his startlingly tasteful decorative skill; while lacking the acid-spitting robot watchdogs I was expecting, his house is pretty cool as far as evil geniuses go.But I was on a mission to find Brent’s password, and that seemed nowhere to be found.I needed to think like Brent.

So I put on Brent’s evil pajamas, and padded down to his evil refrigerator and got one of his evil beers. And then I sat in his evil living room eating his evil popcorn and watching his evil DVD No Country for Old Men. That movie was awesome. But what was up with that ending? Did all the writers suddenly get tired and just say “Ah, whatever“?

Cursory searches provided little information, save for some rather incriminating evidence here and there.

I didn’t strike gold until I went into Brent’s den. The evil in that room was nothing short of palpable, and his new computer hummed and throbbed with electronic malevolence.

So this is where it all happens, I thought to myself. My God.

Fearfully, I pressed the ‘On’ button, and the booting cycle began. And after a few moments, a deeply synthesized voice greeted me.

“Good evening Brent,” it said. “What despicable evil shall we inflict on LOBO today?”

Terrified, I clutched my mouth to hold back a scream. I became dizzy and grasped desperately at the edge of his desk for balance, accidentally tearing a Post-It note by his mousepad loose.

I staggered backward in into the hallway in barely-muted horror.

Only then did I dare read the Post-It.

It said:

Reeling in the mixed emotions of victory and fright, I felt myself overwhelmed by the urge to vomit. Quickly finding a nearby bathroom I flicked on the evil light, lifted the evil toilet lid, and roared Technicolor chunks of popcorn, beer and bile for what seemed like an eternity.

Shakily, I went to wash my sweating face in an effort to regain composure.

It was then I noticed a small brown furry object on the counter.

At first I thought it was a caterpillar.

As the slow realization of what this strange object really was sunk in, the hair on the back of my neck began to rise.

It was Doctor Toboggan’s mustache.

Overwhelmed with panic, I shrieked and fled the house.

Unfortunately, we may never know what Brent has done with the rest of poor Doctor Toboggans.

… But would we really want to?


With Brent on his evil way home, Lobo can be found bravely basking behind the beatific bulwarks of Predator Press.

Insert gratuitous mention of and here.