The Avengers Forever: Illuminations

	Illuminations Page 12 of 14

Deprived of my Vermeer, my Van Gogh, my Warhol, my Puccini, my Tex Avery, my Savile Row Conduit Cut, my Blue Mountain Jamaica Coffee, my Guerlain Fluers Des Alpes from Paris, my Ronson Wind Lite petrol lighter, my Chester Gould, my Swaine & Adeney attaché case, my Mouton Rothschild 1953, my vintage Spyder convertible in silver—all that is left of me is the singular solace in proclaiming, "I am to blame." Of course, without me, Mrs. Emma Peel and whatsisname would never pair as avenging crime fighters, but that's what they are—my little creation running amuck to set the world right. Long ago She was convinced by her knight in shining wool to go Notorious on Me, and I made sure that she could never forgive Him. I feel fine. In the end, all They have is the endless struggle to dispatch the likes of Me.

Sure, I feel that warm sense of relief when I talk a warder into killing himself or when I walk a fellow inmate down the sunlit road to suicidal depression (five down; who will be number six?) but this is my hobby, and no one ever set the world on fire by collecting stamps. Once free, I will complete my first masterpiece—not unlike Saturn, I have no problem devouring my children.

I don't know why I didn't murder Ola. That's what I do. Maybe I wanted to make Emma jealous, but that doesn't make sense to me now. I can see for miles and I can see the future and I can see the past as clearly as ants walking on the ceiling. But Emma obfuscates the canvas. How many times have I stood over her sleeping salty sweet body? Ola is merely a mockery of my addiction and in the end I still don't know what I was going to do with Emma because what do you do with the one thing that you love? I love her, I do... to death. How do you love someone TO DEATH?