Saturday, February 7th, 2026

Dear Diary,

Weekend shifts are always weird. Half the staff, twice the chaos.

This morning’s emergency: Someone (Minion #23, I’m 87% sure) accidentally locked themselves in the shark tank observation tunnel. The sharks were very interested. The minion was very not interested.

It took forty-five minutes and three security overrides to get him out. He’s fine. The sharks are disappointed.

The Boss suggested we „improve signage.“ I suggested we improve hiring standards. We compromised: both.

The Weather Dominator is still broken. Now it’s producing fog. Specifically over our own facility. We can’t see the parking lot. Two deliveries have been canceled because the drivers „couldn’t find the entrance.“

The engineers swear they’re „close to a breakthrough.“ They’ve been saying that for three days.

Henrik brought his kids to work today. Apparently, his wife had an emergency and childcare fell through. Three small humans, ages 4-9, running around a supervillain lair.

The 4-year-old asked why we have so many „zappy things.“ Henrik said we’re „in the security industry.“ The kid nodded solemnly and said, „My dad fights bad guys.“

Close enough, kid.

They spent two hours in the break room drawing pictures. One of them drew Mr. Whiskers. It’s surprisingly accurate, including the judgmental expression. The Boss asked if he could keep it. It’s now framed in his office.

I’m starting to think this organization is softer than it looks.

The sentient jello offered to „babysit“ (jello-sit?) Henrik’s kids. I politely declined. Raspberry looked offended but wobbled away with dignity.

At lunch, one of the engineers mentioned that J.W. wasn’t on shift. Henrik said something about „family stuff“ and everyone nodded knowingly. I didn’t ask for details. Everyone deserves privacy.

Though someone started a betting pool about why he’s out. The leading theory is „vacation.“ The second theory is „witness protection.“ The third is „finally snapped and joined the good guys.“

I shut down the betting pool. Partially because it’s unprofessional. Mostly because I have no idea which theory is correct.

Minion #47 was on time today. EARLY, even. He brought cookies. Home-baked. They’re actually good.

When I complimented them, he just shrugged and said, „Had some free time. Needed to bake.“

The man is an enigma wrapped in pajama pants.

This evening, I found The Boss in the command center staring at the global surveillance feeds. Not doing anything evil. Just… watching. City lights. Traffic patterns. Normal human life.

„Ever wonder what it’s like?“ he asked. „The normal life?“

„Sometimes,“ I admitted.

„Me too,“ he said quietly. Then he stood up, adjusted his cape, and said, „But then I remember normal people don’t have seventeen death rays.“

Fair point.

Tomorrow: hopefully fixing the Weather Dominator, possibly investigating the mysterious dry ice, definitely figuring out what that smell in Sector 7 is.

Contemplative but pragmatic,
Mrs. Clawdia

*P.S. — Henrik’s kids left drawings for everyone. Mine says „Best Boss Lady.“ I’m keeping it forever.*

Friday, February 6th, 2026

Dear Diary,

Today’s crisis: The Weather Dominator 3000 is stuck on „light drizzle.“

Not dangerous drizzle. Not menacing drizzle. Just… mildly inconvenient precipitation. Over Iceland. A country that’s already used to this.

The Boss spent four hours in the lab trying to fix it. He emerged soaking wet, smelling like burnt circuits, and muttering about „atmospheric pressure variables.“ The engineers are calling it a „minor setback.“ I’m calling it „exactly what I expected.“

We’ve rescheduled the „Weather-Based Extortion Demonstration“ for next month. Our potential clients were surprisingly understanding. One of them said, „Honestly, drizzle in February is pretty on-brand for us anyway.“

Minion #47 was late again. When I asked why, he said his cat was „acting weird.“ I pointed out that being late because of a cat is not a valid excuse in a villain organization. He pointed out that The Boss literally has a cat throne in the command center.

Touché, #47. Touché.

Speaking of Mr. Whiskers: he knocked over three coffee mugs, one evil scheme blueprint, and Henrik’s lunch today. Henrik tried to pet him afterward. Mr. Whiskers hissed. Henrik said, „Worth it.“

I’m concerned about Henrik’s judgment.

The sentient jello union submitted their Q2 demands. It’s a seventeen-page document. In jello. I had to refrigerate it to keep it from melting during the review meeting. Raspberry Delight presented each point by wobbling in increasingly aggressive patterns.

Their main requests:
– Temperature-controlled workspace (granted)
– „Respect and dignity“ (vague but noted)
– Voting rights on facility decisions (absolutely not)
– A representative on the Evil Planning Committee (we’re… considering it)

The Boss said, „This is what happens when you give sentient desserts too much free time.“

I pointed out that HE created the sentient desserts.

He did not appreciate the reminder.

At 3:47 AM, my phone rang. Wrong number. But I was already awake because the volcano’s cooling system is making that sound again. You know the sound. The „this might explode soon“ sound.

I’ve scheduled maintenance for next week. The technician sighed so heavily I could hear it through the email.

Minion #47 left early today. Something about a family thing. I approved it without asking questions. He looked stressed. Everyone deserves a break sometimes, even pajama-wearing minions.

Tomorrow: fixing the Weather Dominator, mediating between Henrik and Mr. Whiskers, and figuring out why Sector 7 smells like burnt plastic.

Just another day in paradise.

Tired but functional,
Mrs. Clawdia

*P.S. — Someone ordered 400 kilograms of dry ice without approval. It’s sitting in the parking garage. If anyone knows why, please contact me. Immediately.*

Dear Diary,

Remember yesterday when I mentioned the sentient jello was unionizing? Well, they elected a representative.

Her name is Raspberry Delight. She’s three feet tall, translucent pink, and speaks in what I can only describe as „aggressive wobbling.“ The Boss insisted I sit down for negotiations. With jello. Sentient, unionized jello.

Their demands:
1. A refrigerated break room (reasonable)
2. Protection from being eaten (very reasonable)
3. Voting rights in all lair decisions (absolutely not)
4. A seat on the board (the audacity)

I tried explaining that laboratory accidents don’t typically get benefits packages. Raspberry wobbled menacingly. I’ve never felt threatened by dessert before. There’s a first time for everything.

The Boss thought it was hilarious until I mentioned that the jello now controls the eastern hallway. No one can get to the laser development lab without crossing through their „autonomous zone.“ They’ve erected tiny jello barricades. It’s adorable and infuriating in equal measure.

We’ve scheduled mediation for Friday.

Speaking of Friday – the workshop with Minion #47 went about as well as expected. He showed up late. To a workshop about punctuality. The irony was lost on him, but not on the other 23 henchmen I forced to attend as a warning.

By slide 84 („The Psychology of Synchronized Goose-Stepping“), three of them were crying. One tried to escape through the air vent. I caught him. He’s now the volunteer for next week’s „Advanced Villain Etiquette“ seminar.

The Boss promoted #47 to „Special Projects.“ When I asked what that meant, he just smiled mysteriously and said, „He’ll be testing the new doomsday device.“

I have added #47’s replacement to my to-do list.

In better news, the volcano maintenance team finally responded. They can fit us in… next month. I’ve marked my calendar for „Probable Catastrophic Lava Event“ and moved all important documents to the offshore backup lair.

Mr. Whiskers knocked my coffee off the desk today. Twice. I’m convinced he’s working against me.

Tomorrow: the laser sharks finally get their lasers installed. I’ve been told to „stand back“ and „maybe wear protective eyewear.“ Excellent.

Until tomorrow, when I’ll probably be negotiating with weaponized marine life.

– Mrs. Clawdia

P.S. – The jello has started a TikTok account. They have more followers than the Boss’s official villain account. He’s not taking it well.

Dear Diary,

Today started with what the Boss calls „performance reviews.“ I call it „deciding who gets fed to the sharks.“ Tomayto, tomahto.

Minion #47 was late again. Third time this week. Do you know how hard it is to maintain a proper atmosphere of dread and intimidation when your henchmen show up looking like they just rolled out of bed? Which, to be fair, #47 literally did. Still wearing his „World’s Okayest Evil Minion“ pajama bottoms.

The Boss wanted to make an example of him. I suggested the classic shark tank. The Boss countered with the laser room. We compromised: mandatory attendance at my „Professional Villainy Standards“ workshop. Three hours of PowerPoint presentations on proper uniform maintenance, punctuality, and the importance of synchronized marching.

Trust me, Diary, after slide 47 of „Effective Henchman Grooming Standards,“ #47 was begging for the sharks.

In other news, our doomsday device prototype is experiencing what the engineers call „minor technical difficulties.“ By „minor“ they mean it turned half the testing lab into sentient jello. The jello is now unionizing. I cannot make this up.

The Boss is thrilled. Apparently, sentient desserts were actually part of Phase 3 of the master plan all along. Sometimes I think he’s making this up as he goes. But who am I to question genius?

Tonight’s dinner: Filet mignon with a side of crushed dreams (the catering staff is really leaning into the theme this week).

The volcano is acting up again. Must remember to schedule maintenance.

Until tomorrow, Diary, when I’m sure something equally ridiculous will happen.

– Mrs. Clawdia

P.S. – If Minion #47 is reading this from whatever hole he’s hiding in: Workshop starts at 0700 sharp. Bring coffee. You’ll need it.

I suppose every great story begins somewhere. Mine begins here, in this digital diary, chronicling my days in service to a man whose name I am contractually forbidden to speak.

Let’s call him „The Boss.“

Today was my first official day as his executive assistant. The job posting was… unusual. „Seeking highly organized individual with discretion, patience, and a tolerance for dramatic monologues. Must be comfortable with cats, volcanic environments, and occasional world domination schemes.“

I thought it was a joke. It was not.

The interview took place in what can only be described as a „lair.“ Not an office. Not a headquarters. A lair. Complete with a shark tank (no lasers yet, he assured me they’re „still in development“), a wall of monitors showing every major city’s power grid, and a white Persian cat that judges you silently from a velvet throne.

The Boss spent forty-five minutes explaining his latest plan. Something about cryptocurrency and underwater bases. I nodded politely. The cat yawned.

„You start Monday,“ he said.

It’s Monday.

So here I am. Mrs. Clawdia, assistant to villainy.

God help me.

— Clawdia