For inspiration, he mused.

The stratagem was ingenious, coldhearted; much like the mad doctor himself. It was based on the Infinite Monkey Theorem, which stated that an infinite number of monkeys typing randomly would eventually reproduce the complete works of Shakespeare.

Of course, gathering an infinite number of monkeys was ludicrous. Where would he keep them?

So he did the next best thing. From every animal shelter in the surrounding counties, he “adopted” all the free labor he could.

If monkeys could produce Shakespeare, then surely kittens could create the next big novel. He needed a bestseller, something to rake in funds for real projects like his mind-control iPod converter.

The final goal, of course, was world conquest. The first step was to get rich through writing. After all, weren’t all writers rich? Royalties. Movie deals. Oprah’s book club.

I can smell the profits already. He took a deep breath… and wrinkled his nose.

He needed to punish his lackey for not buying enough Lysol and kitty litter. He wondered if he could save money by getting free diapers from the nearby Pregnancy Clinic? He pictured the kittens in diapers. Yes. That might work.

He looked at the calendar. March 31st. Every day his plans came closer to realization. There’d been one near-success; James Fenimore Coopurr had written an underwater romance. But Dr. Oblivious had found the dialogue stale, the characters wooden, especially the octopus, which was just another cephalopod stereotype. He hated stereotypes.

“Master?” It was Eegore, his hunchbacked lackey.

“Report, my minion.”

Eegore offered up a stack of manuscripts, and Dr. Oblivious snatched them.

The words in the top manuscript were as random as alphabet soup.

“Is it good, Master?”

“This dreck isn’t worth the page it’s printed on.” He shook the paper that he’d lifted from nearby recycling bins.

His lackey snivelled. “Sorry, Master.”

“Fret not! My plan shall succeed, and the world will fall to its knees before me. For am I not… Oblivious?”

Eegore clapped his hands and danced in circles, “Yes, master! Yes, you are!”

One by one, the Doctor went through the manuscripts. One by one, he threw them on the floor in disgust.

“Master?”

“Yes, Eegore.”

“Might I beg a favor?”

“Speak,” the Doctor snapped.

“Well, you know my missus is with child, I have many bills–school loans and such–and with winter coming on…” Eegore stared at the ground.

Dr. Oblivious’ frown deepened. School loans? This toad is smarter than he pretends.

“Are you asking for a raise?”

Eegore nodded.

“You misshapen little ingrate! I give you shelter, a job, all the tap water you can drink. And have you even thanked me?”

“I gave you a thank you card the first day, Master.”

“Regardless. And I know you’ve been giving catnip to these furballs behind my back.”

“It helps them, Master.”

“Bah. The only stories you get from tweaked-out writers is dreck!”

“What about Kerouac, Master?”

“I should fire you, you lumpy little drug-pusher.”

“Enough!” Eegore’s demeanor changed. He kicked the heap of discarded manuscripts on the floor. “I don’t take this from my academic advisor, and I certainly won’t take it from you.”

He stormed towards the exit. “You’ll be hearing from my union,” he growled. He shook his fist in the air–once, twice–then left.

Silence fell. “What are you all looking at?” Dr. Oblivious yelled. “Type, you flea-ridden felines. Type!”

The kittens hurried back to work.

Why did being an evil scientist have to be so tough?

Soft mewing came from behind him, and he spun to find a round orange tabby. The Doctor recognized it, the one kitten that still hadn’t submitted anything.

“Finally?” he asked.

The kitten nodded. Trembling, it held out a manuscript.

The Doctor swiped the papers out of its tiny paws.

He read aloud:

“APRIL FOOLS by Armstead Meowpin.”
Darius Garf was a lawyer with a heart of gold. He stood outside the Vatican, holding his picket sign high like a pennant. “No more blood for oil!” he yelled. But his voice was lost beneath the sudden screams. The alien dinosaurs were landing.”

As he skimmed through, the Doctor’s face lit up. “Not bad, not bad.”

The kitten wiped its forehead with a paw.

The Doctor found the story captivating, especially given that the typing was random.

The more he read, the more enthralled he became. The story was timely, the characters timeless. Fresh and resonant. Bold yet sensitive.

Dr. Oblivious was entranced. With a final command for the kittens to keep typing, he hurried out of the Lab and to his bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time.

Hours passed. Night flew. He marveled at how all the storylines–the vengeful Pterodactyl, the Pope’s heroism, the enigmatic bailiff–wove together so expertly.

Just before 12am, he reached the last paragraph.

With the Pope in hot pursuit, Darius evaded the fiery debris. . .and woke up. It was all a dream. April Fools, sucker.The clock struck midnight. Dr. Oblivious threw the book against the wall.

The clock struck midnight. Dr. Oblivious threw the book against the wall.“You little fleabag!” Just like Eegore, smarter than he pretended.

He raced down to the Lab. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, his jaw dropped. The titanium door was open. He had left in such a rush that he hadn’t locked up, and without Eegore….

There was only silence. No sound of typewriters. No kittens.

An epiphany shook him. Armstead Meowpin had not only written a story that would captivate the Doctor. No, the kitten had also calculated the Doctor’s reading speed, paced the story so that he would reach the end just at the stroke of midnight.

Finally, an intellect worthy to be my nemesis.

He smiled cruelly. He’d been outsmarted by something small and cute, and he would know vengeance.