It occurred to Reinhardt that he could burn the castle down himself. Which would be stupid. Rebuilding was a pain in the ass and equipping a mad scientist’s lab had become difficult since 9/11. Try ordering a Jacob’s ladder or a kiloliter of bromium fluorohexane these days and you got a letter from U.S. DHS politely asking if you were either (a) a terrorist or (b) starting a meth lab. The latter always puzzled him: he didn’t know how one made meth, but he was pretty sure that high-voltage electrical equipment wasn’t involved.

He put his ear to the door, to eavesdrop on Lorencz and the Abomination. Were they conspiring against the harsh master? Was the henchman lighting matches to torment the beast?

“You’re a d-d-damn munchkin!”

“It’s a legal build! You didn’t say anything about splatbooks!”

“Spl-splatbooks? Spl-splatbooks, Hell! Th-that’s a f-f-forty p-p-point b-build! Munchkin!”

Reinhardt began pounding his head against the doorframe. It hurt, but not as much as listening to the pair in the next room.