My secret moonbase lab is excessively sticky.

I did not expect my hobbit-cyborgs to have a use-by date.

Hmm. Perhaps ordinary robots would work better.

::fumes::

FORGET ME?

FORGET ME?


I HAVE ORANGE HAIR!!! HOW COULD YOU FORGET ME?

::plots evilly::

Woe. I am still injured. Where are the nurses? Why are there no nurses? No nurses in little hats ?

DAMMIT. I knew I forgot something for my secret lab.

Dear Citizens of Middle Earth,

I, Deagol, criminal mastermind/evil genius extraordinaire, am holding to ransom, blackmailing, exacting a fee for my services from you, my lowly subjects, the people of Middle Earth.
I want one meeeeeeeeeeeellion pieces of gold, plus assorted diamonds, mythril jackets, trinkets and suchlike, delievered to a secret location, a hideout, an evil lair, to be disclosed later, not now, at some other time.
If I fail to receive this hoard, riches, treasure, nest egg, I shall be forced to unleash a most terrible scourge, affliction, bane, upon you, the inhabitants, the dwellers of Middle Earth.

THE 150 ft TALL SINGING BEAST.

Thanks,

Deagol

hmmm.

Hmm. Random people injecting me with chemicals means I am no closer to returning to my cartoon state.


::mopes::

::peers through microscope::

hmmm. The molecules appear to be... doing the lambada. This is...worrying.

Am still not cartoon. Am getting depressed. two-dimensionalism is sorely missed. cannot talk in full sentences. do not have verve. am sad. must experiment more but am too lifeless. ::weepses::

Theory: Mixing the wrong chemicals makes you 3-dimensional.
Evidence: Can no longer slide under doors.
Conclusion: Am no longer cartoon. Bah. Most inconvienient. 3-dimensional form is not optimal.

::mope::

::mixes chemicals::