I was just getting around to wondering if a cold soak might remove ketchup stains better than a hot wash when there was a light crackling sound in the air, like crumpled cellophane. It grew louder, and green tendrils of electricity started to envelop the Kenwood mixer, then grew stronger until a greenish glow like St. Elmo’s fire was dancing around the microwave. There was a bright light and a rumble of thunder as three figures started to materialize into the kitchen. Two of them were dressed in body armor and holding ridiculously large blaster-type weapons; the other figure was tall and dressed in jet black high-collared robes that hung to the floor in one direction and buttoned tightly up to his throat in the other. He had a pale complexion, high cheekbones and a small and very precise goatee. He stood with his arms crossed and was staring at me with one eyebrow raised imperiously. This was truly a tyrant among tyrants, a cruel galactic leader who had murdered billions in his never-ending and inadequately explained quest for total galactic domination. This . . . was Emperor Zhark.

17.

Emperor Zhark

The eight Emperor Zhark novels were written throughout the seventies by Handley Paige, an author whose previous works included Spacestation Z-5 and Revenge of the Thraals. With Zhark he hit upon a pastiche of everything a bad SF novel should ever be. Weird worlds, tentacled aliens, space travel and square-jawed fighter aces doing battle with a pantomime emperor who lived for no other reason than to cause evil and disharmony in the galaxy. His usual nemesis in the books was Colonel Brandt of the Space Corps assisted by his alien partner, Ashley. There have been two Zhark films starring Buck Stallion, Zhark the Destroyer and Bad Day at Big Rock, neither of which was any good.

Millon de Floss, The Books of H. Paige

Do you have to do that?” I asked.

“Dowhat?” replied the Emperor.

“Make such a pointlessly dramatic entrance? And what are those two goons doing here?”

“Who said that?” said a muffled voice from inside the opaque helmet of one of his minders. “I can’t see a sodding thing in here.”

“Who’s a goon?” said the other.

“It’s a contractual thing,” explained the Emperor, ignoring them both. “I’ve got a new agent who knows how to properly handle a character of my quality. I have to be given a minimum of eighty words’ description at least once in any featured book, and at least twice in a book a chapter has to end with my appearance.”

“Do you get book-title billing?”

“We gave that one away in exchange for chapter-heading status. If this were a novel, you’d have to start a new chapter as soon as I appeared.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we’re not,” I replied. “If my mother was here, she’d probably have had a heart attack.”

“Oh!” replied the Emperor, looking around. “Do you live with your mother, too?”