“As you wish, Cousin.” The Witchboy stabbed the last word at Simon like a knife. And Simon certainly didn’t appreciate it. “I, Klarian…”

“Dude, ya gotta stop that. First off, your name is Carl, not Klarion. I don’t give a gorram, frakkin’ she-itte how many comics you’ve read; changin’ your name don’t give you power.”

Klarian stood in awe of Simon’s words. And Simon knew, without a doubt, that this was not what Carl had been expecting. Heck, Carl probably had been practicing some lame supervillian-esqe speech in-front of the mirror a dozen times.

“And secondly,” Simon continued, “we’re not Cousins. We’re not even related. At all. In the least.” Simon paused, trying to think of a more firm way of stating it. “At all.”

“But,” Klarian interceded, “it was I, Klarian, who bettered the cat-goddess Bast and imprisoned her; it was I, Klarian, who had bent the will of the old crone who lived here to his own ends; and it was I…”

Simon had always liked Mrs. B. “Okay, you are so going down, Bitchboy...”