--Deathfox, The New Art of War. New York: Kopf, 2056

OK, no vacation. Nobody wanted to go (though Shu Tri would have loved it once she got there, the little island rat). Anya picked a fight about what I was feeding my kid (as if she gave an ass-is that the human idiom?) as an excuse to walk out. These sad, lazy doldrums infuriate! My life was on overdrive until her departure, and it was good for me. I think I'll go back to the most arid motherland tonight and start preparations to take over the world. My daughter will accompany me, as will, with any luck, the Dog with Human Hands. Though that depends on how warm his fur can get and/or how willing he is to wear doggie sweaters. (I hope he's very willing, don't you?) I wish my kind urinated. I would march into the freezer and piss all over Deathfox for making me murder my kindred Snowbeings (Epithode 4, True Believerth! -Ed.). He deserves death, but that's simply not feasible with our overhead.

Actually, I've been thinking about inviting him along. His skill with strategy and logistics, as well as his detective's eye for treachery and brutality once he is certain of betrayal-that's to say, once he is awake-would come in most handy. His megalomania, obviously, might also sway him to get in on the ground floor of a full-frontal assault on humanity. He mostly prefers playing silly and confusing mind games, then killing the foolish participants as if he were fate itself, redressing hubris, but I think that perhaps after six months frozen solid, I would accept a change of pace. In exchange for my flea-bitten life. But he's still got four months in there. Ah, screw it. Real men like Deathfox deserve to be thawed just enough to act as the ball in a rousing (and arousing) game of field-hockey. You see what losing Anya has done to me? I talk about sordid things as a way of delaying them. I have to stop this nonsense, thaw D-Fizzy, beat him in front of my daughter so that she never wants to pick up or see another field-hockey stick, and recruit the evil bastard as my personal bodyguard and advisor for the coming conflagration between our species, reader. Therefore, behold. My to-do list.

Thaw him, beat him, greet him. Determine criteria for success: Humanity destroyed. No, take too long. Throne of Snowmpire (thus to be called in honor of what's-his-name), running planet-wide human slave ring, Dog and Fox as capos. Create species of second class citizens on earth from which only my daughter will be exempt. Good. Like it. Plan? Get farmer's almanac for cycles of the moon. Destroy it with ice beam. Practice ice beam. Train all snowpeople. Set template for training schedule. Access latest reports on Snowmonster activity. Access U.S. military research and development, as well as current hardware specs. Steal gadgets. Hit Siberia in the Foxfire. Contingencies? What do I need if any part fails? Plane crash: my cushioned and girl-enveloping body; my bare, murderous hands to avenge the Dog. Hacking: In case of failure, infiltrate military complex with shape-shifting ability, or send trained underling to do same. Take every precaution: setbacks delay task considerably. Go to bathroom.

Back. Phase II. Arrive in Siberia. Displace current snow-leader of ragtag remaining forces. Should be easy by reputation. Can't afford to kill even him. Or her. Gawd. Become benevolent ruler. Promote the self-motivated. Begin training in hardware. 6 AM hardware. 7 Breakfast. 7:15 indoctrination & motivational speakers. 8:00 hardware training. 1 PM hand-to-hand and short-range weapons training. 9 PM dinner. 9:15 lights out. Shu Tri will not follow this example, and will practice shooting ice beams out of her mouth with me at 9:30, go back to sleep, then eat throughout daylight hours. Ah yes, 6 PM leadership and strategy seminar for officers. Food served if Eskimos have not been hunted to extinction. Discipline? If the dissident's heart is in the right place, perhaps a speech and exoneration. If not, assign latrine duty. We'll need more of these workers than we can create with punishment anyway, especially with me around.

What about money? Damn. I'm late considering that. Where am I going to get money for all this? Perhaps I can pay them with insufficient food, and bribe them into informing with supplementary morsels, as the appetite-trained ancient Greeks did their slaves. Yes, that sounds suitably old-world . . . at least when I'm . . . well. You know. Under my current disposition. Sloshed!

I'll tell you what else. Not one of you will be saved from my fiery armadas. Certainly not by your "mothers" (look, I know you mammals value that term a great deal, but think of what it really means! Yuck. Get the picture? You can expect more from me on that). Nor by your armies, for I will have poached your best soldiers with all of my money. Money that I will steal . . . from Deathfox. My plan is excellent.

Where do you think you're going? You need to hear this.

EEEEEEEEEEEE!

Haha! Did I hurt your ears? Oh, quit being such a little American bitch. I was just joking. Hey! Don't you walk away from me. Why not? Because I HATE YOU.