[ wp ] create the most nasty , evil , degenerate villian you can , and give them a backstory and/or trait that make them completely loveable .

Grinning and giggling like an uncommonly amused baby, He directed his dingy Ruger MK II toward the young family. The father stepped forward, threateningly, and one jeer from Him froze the red haired man in place. The mother stood protectively in front of her son, fear poorly obscured by a weak snarl. Big, green eyes peered through the empty space between the crest of her elbow and her waist. 
 
 He said to the eyes, in His high, cruel voice, `` Do n't worry little guy, you and your parents will still be with each other in a few minutes. There may be a brief moment of separation, but, really, do n't worry.'' 
 
 Again, clutching the gun tighter, aim steadied, He said, `` Do n't worry.'' 
 
 This was it. It was really happening, He was finally going to feel the rush of heinous murder, the burst of dopamine that accompanied forceful expiration of innocent human life. 
 
 As He squeezed the trigger, every muscle in his body tensing with rapture, he simultaneously prayed to some evil, dark deity out of time and space that this attempt would be different, that nothing would— 
 
 -- 
 
 Gerald was a fat alley cat, a cool jivin' pussy that liked sexing other feral felines, and just *loved* to have himself leftover scraps of meat from the adjacent Italian deli. He had been napping, snoring peacefully, dreaming about yowling tabbies and... and some pepperoni. Hoo-wee, that sounded nice. A hot slice of stepped-on salami, maybe? 
 
 His patchy, flea-bitten belly grumbled, and his lazy nap was ruined. 
 
 *I need some food, man, * he thought, as his stomach growled again. *Hot damn. * 
 
 Gerald followed his scratched-up pink nose along the cracked asphalt of his alley, spying a couple Bigs toward its mouth. There was a grimy flash of salty flesh from under one of them. 
 
 *Well what do we got here, * he purred to himself. *A nice chunk of bologna? Don ’ t mind if I do. * 
 
 Unfortunately for both parties, the bologna was under the biggest Big ’ s shoe and Gerald was a very fat, very determined, very *hungry* cat. 
 
 Feeling an unusual sense of territorial rage, perhaps brought on by a snickering god of misfortune, Gerald extended claws from his beaten paw and slashed the Big across his ankle. 
 
 -- 
 
 —happen, like the *other* times. 
 
 *I friggin' knew it, * He thought, just before: 
 
 Shocked, shrieking loudly, He slipped back, and misfired over the ducking family, who soon slipped out of the alley. He heard their panicked, fading sprint as He hissed in pain on the ground, digging His nails into the skin around the wound. The goddamn piece of shit cat lazily walked up to Him, peed on His nose, and sauntered away with a flap of grey meat dangling from its jowls. 
 
 Across the street, within the dark depths of another alley, another cat was about to commit murder. This cat, however, was human. He held a snubnosed revolver to the neck of a homeless man who had n't payed him his `` insurance.'' ( Basically, this guy beats the shit outta you if you do n't pay him not to—and straight-up *kills* you if you refuse to pay, even after so many beatings. ) 
 
 As he cocked the hammer, as he grinned in “ righteous ” fury, as he said, “ Sorry Charlie, ” a bullet whistled karmically through the air and through his neck, burying itself into the brick wall at the end of the alley. 
 
 The homeless man stared in shock as blood spurted from the neck of Al `` I'll-Fuck-You-the-Fuck-up'' Jones. He squinted past the empty street, past the haze of shitty streetlights, and into another alley, where a man sat on his haunches—gun tip smoking, eyes filled with hate, mouth screwed up like he ate a lemon. 
 
 `` Thankya friend!'' he shouted, to which the mysterious stranger growled and disappeared into the shadows. 
 
 `` Huh,'' mumbled Charlie the homeless man, `` I did n't even get to invite him to my box for a celebratory half-eaten meal.'' 
 
 -- 
 
 He paced in His lair, evil, ice-blue eyes reflecting the glow of His many monitors. 
 
 Where had He gone wrong? He seemed to have done everything correctly, planned for every contingency, and yet nothing went right. 
 
 Oh, He was n't just thinking about the happenings of the previous night, where He failed simply to kill three powerless idiots, three innocent passers-by that just happened to pass by the wrong alley. No, that was a mere hiccup compared to some of the world shifting deeds He had accidentally played a role in. 
 
 His was a past filled with fuck-ups, both small and grand in scale. 
 
 There was the bombing in Uganda, where He had *originally* planned to destroy a large chunk of Johannesburg, South Africa. Due to a `` freak surge of cosmic radiation'' the satellites responsible sent the explosive payload some 2,000-miles North East—where a slaver of hundreds of child soldiers was getting up from a 12-hour sleep to eat and start on a day of rape & pillage. He, his rabid lieutenants and his hut were atomized on impact. 
 
 There was the Cancer Cure incident. Utilizing His genius intellect and the great well of resources available to Him, He developed a previously-unknown form of radiation, one He postulated could wipe out humanity in one fell-swoop. Luckily, before He attempted to disperse among enemy states and government offices, He tested the radiation on lab rats. Turned out, it cured their quickly forming rat-tumors. Disheartened, but realizing this had great potential, He wrote up a pitch to sell the Cure to pharmaceutical companies and black market doctors; as well as worldwide organizations, from which He planned to hold the `` formula'' hostage. However, unluckily for Him, He fell asleep at His desk and during one of His more violent night terrors managed to leak all of His notes and discoveries across the internet. His name was attached to none of it. Various governments around the world claimed responsibility, and it was soon agreed upon that this belonged to the world, no One Lucky Nation. 
 
 And there were others, so many damned others. Yet it seemed, despite His most sinister efforts, none of His deeds ever played out just how He wanted. In fact, they ended up as exactly the opposite of what He wanted. 
 
 He had a sudden revelation. 
 
 *I can be immortal, * He thought. There was a brief moment where He felt like laughing at how ridiculous a premise that was, but He stopped Himself. 
 
 Nothing evil He did ever panned out. Really, it always ended in good. And since He was always doing something evil, or trying at the very least, He was always doing something good. So if in a situation where He was close to death, on the brink of oblivion, all He had to do was... attempt suicide. 
 
 It would n't be creating a paradox, because He was n't actually evil. His intent was evil, but did n't that cliche phrase say actions speak louder than words? 
 
 If He was the greatest force of Good on the planet, and all of his Evil deeds backfired, what would happen if he Evilly tried to kill the greatest Good, Himself? 
 
 Gleefully, on a stupid crazed impulse, He twirled His Ruger, turning it on Himself. 
 
 Whispering, `` Welcome to Godhood,'' He pulled the trigger. 
 
 -- 
 
 `` *Ah*,'' sighed Fate, wiping some sweat from her brow. She looked very pleased with herself. 
 
 `` *What's got you so satisfied? *'' questioned Love, oblivious to the tiny loveless blip in human history. 
 
 `` *Well, Earth now has one less psychopath. *''
