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H. Powis worked in an office; a place in which the soul is slowly destroyed, piece by putrid piece, as it is stripped away and left to fester in a simmering pit of despair. It is in this dark place of shame and revulsion that the rage and venom built into a frenzied wrathful pustule of oozing irksomeness, expanding remorselessly until finally bursting forth its viscous seepage (which had a slightly off green tint) and splattering it all over the interwebspace.
This humble genius intends to take over the world though the power of fiction, mind-control and a chaos army of winged badgers.
However, only one badger has so far survived the wing grafting process. His name is Nigel and he has a bit of a squint.