In an attempt to further my cause of world domination I, Dr. Kato Katonian, scientist and evil genius extraordinaire, have concocted a particularly nasty virus with which to infect the workers of the world. Unfortunately, whilst working on the formula I momentarily forgot lab protocol and instead of wafting gently from the test tube I took a great big sniff. My Chemistry teacher back in high school would have been very disappointed in me, if I hadn't had him silenced for trying to expose my plot to put a mind-control chemical in the chocolate milk.

The only solace I have, now that I've contracted this deadly virus, is that I've unleashed it upon my unsuspecting coworkers at my day job as well. I was originally going to inject it into a rhesus monkey and let it loose in the building, but a human vector certainly draws much less suspicion. I know Mr. Bananas is disappointed, but he'll serve my evil designs yet. The sound of muffled coughs reverberates down the hall and every day one more office is left strangely vacant. Its potency far exceeds my expectations--I only hope my genetically enhanced immune system will see me through to the end. For the sake of science and/or minions that may find nothing but an empty husk should I fail to fight this off, I have begun recording my daily experiences with the HR-K. For posterity I am also including this sketch of the virus. Behold the bringer of your doom:

Thursday: Accident in the lab. I have doomed myself with my own diabolical concoction. This is what I get for years of screwing with super-science. Damned hubris! Why, why, am I so great that such things should befall my superior being?
Slight scratchy sensation in the chest.

Friday: Perhaps I was mistaken in assuming my laboratory faux pas would result in my eventual demise. I feel fine. Maybe there is a flaw in the serum? No, couldn't be, I ran hundreds of simulations. It must be my advanced immune system. Little do these fools know that I've spent my entire life eating a Twinkee with every meal in order to ingest enough preservatives to make me nigh immortal! I am a little weary, though. Must be all the super genius work I've been doing.

Saturday: Death, take me, before I change my mind! I forgot about the incubation period on the virus, and now I'm suffering from the initial onset of genuine symptoms. I thought it would be more dramatic if the symptoms struck one at a time, instead of all at once. There's certainly not enough drama in today's pandemics. I'm suffering from Stage 1: The Chiggety Chills. Either that or I fell asleep in the hot tub last night like Kramer in that one episode of Seinfeld. That show reminds me a lot of how me and my friends in the Guild of Calamitous Intent act when we're together. I'm always having trouble with women, finding little faults with them that make me have to break up with them, like they don't have a large enough supply of Anthrax, or their hideout is inside a volcano but it isn't active, or they eat their peas one at a time. The Stormbringer is always like, "What's the deal with Weapons of Mass Destruction? Last time I checked, Smallpox doesn't destroy anything. Except people, of course." And Grim Weasel, he's always coming in the door like "Waaaahhhh"--well, I can't do it, but you know what I mean. The scratchy sensation in my chest is now a full blown cough. Mucus threatens.

Sunday: Does anyone remember Buster Poindexter? God I hated that freak. Feelin' hot, hot, hot. Yes, well, he wasn't so hot after I had his flight to New Jersey diverted to the North Pole, now was he? Say it again, Buster, and I'll make sure you're on the first deep-space mission to Pluto. Anyway, I'm reminded of the foul taste of his lyrical epiphany because of my sudden change in personal thermodynamics. I've entered Stage 2: En Fuego. The juxtaposition in temperature from yesterday is quite jarring--I guess that's what I get for using Malaria as a template. The Mercury-powered Thermographic Core Energy Output Detection and Display Device and Coffee Stirrer confirms that I am at 1.0182 Katonian Thermal Units. I just hope the temperature rises no further or else I fear it might impair my supreme intellect. Also I'm afraid of seeing that baby crawling across the ceiling again, that really messed me up last time. The cough has reached full blown lung-expulsion levels. I had to retrieve my inner organs several times today after projecting them forcibly across The Lair. The last time my left lung slid under the console near the Death Ray, which hasn't been swept in ages, and got all dusty. I'm still looking for my spleen. The mucus factor is approaching drowning proportions. My body began to ache, curiously, as I lay myself down to watch The Daily Show on Evilvision^TM. Hopefully some ibuprofen and the comic stylings of Jon Stewart will ease the pain.

Monday (am): Calloo callay! I awoke today a free man, no longer a slave to the virus of my own diabolical creation. I sprung from my hermetically sealed rest chamber this morning feeling refreshed and ready to get back to the full-time task of preparing for global domination. I was relieved to find that my head had cleared--over the past two days I had felt not-altogether-there, like the Invisible Man or David Caruso's career. But today the vigor has returned to me, as has my appetite. I had a full bowl of Evil-O's this morning and a bran muffin. Regularity is the key to success, they say. Today's going to be a good day.
Monday (pm): ...Or not. Again, I have overestimated my T-cells and underestimated HR-K. The cough remains my nemesis, though I've constructed a rig out of a surgeon's mask and some duct-tape that should help contain most of my internal organs. The fluid that once filled my lungs at an alarming rate now appears to have migrated northward. If a surgical grade lancing pin (they make such things, do they not?) were applied to my swollen sinuses I imagine most of the tri-county area would eventually drown under the copious amounts of fluid issuing forth like a lahar. Of course the viscosity of such fluid appears to be approaching infinity, so it would be like drowning in molasses. My head now pounds like the ceiling of the tenants living underneath Kirstie Alley's Manhattan apartment. My ability to concentrate is sorely diminished and the feeling that I might pass out at any minute is certainly unsettling.

Tuesday: I cannot decide which was worse: the wet cough, or the dry one. At least when I was in fear that my spasms were going to trigger an aneurysm in my brain, I was at least coughing up something to make the effort seem worthwhile. But now my lungs are trapped in a perpetual cycle of "need to cough, Need To Cough, NEED TO COUGH, *COUGH*" without giving me anything in return for my troubles other than a wheeze and a feeling like glass being shot through my bronchioles. Hmm, mental note, design next virus to turn lung tissue into glass shards! It is very difficult to order the henchmen about when every sentence is punctuated by a 30-second-long expulsion that stops just short of a dry retch. Seriously, I was unaware that my lungs could hold that much air, let alone be capable of being set into such a spasmodic state as to interfere with the resonance frequencies of the very fabric of space-time itself. Was that too melodramatic? If I'm not dead soon, possibly by my own hand, I'll be very surprised. I am also intrigued by this whole appetite thing, which is an unexpected consequence of the disease. I find myself uninterested in food, yet as soon as I eat something I am suddenly famished and it is the most fulfilling sustenance in existence. I'm certain The Lair's electric bills will skyrocket this month: not only did I have a new Tesla Weapon built and installed but I also stood in front of the break-room fridge for an hour trying to decide what to eat. Seriously, nothing appealed to me at all.

Wednesday: The flood gates are open! One of the more ingenious aspects of this particular infectious agent is that it causes your body to leak fluids through every known orifice (and some unknown). This was apparent today as I tried in vain to reign in my sinuses that had prepared themselves yesterday by hoarding mucus only to let it all loose today. I felt like affixing a Kleenex permanently under my nose to catch the seemingly unending stream. When I became an evil scientist I succumbed to the peer pressure and the advice of Evil Facial Hair Monthly and grew a moustache. It definitely gives me the edge during negotiations with the U.N. or with the so-called Leaders of the Free World, because everyone knows that the moustache means business. But, seriously, when you've got a runny nose it just becomes an unpleasant mess. It also retains barbecue sauce when I eat ribs, but I've gotten used to that.
My body has also decided that simply draining isn't an efficent enough method for the explusion of fluids, I've begun sneezing like a man allergic to air. And it's not the normal sneeze where you get ample warning, like "Hey, buddy, we're starting to tingle in here. I'm going to recommend we do a full evacuation of the nasal cavities and try to expel the foreign substance. Can I rely on your cooperation?" No, no, it's more like a stealthy ninja sneeze, where it just sneaks up on you and you suddenly find yourself in the throes of sternutation. One minute you're having a discussion with a henchman about last night's C.S.I., the next you're expelling the inner layer of your lungs at 100 miles per hour. Brutal.

Thursday: Though this may be another fake-out, I think my superior immune system may have finally gained the upper hand in the battle against the Katonian virus. I must remember next time to program in a mechanism by which I, the creator, cannot be attacked by such a vile and devious agent. That's one thing I wish they had a course on back at the University of Villainy: planning. I don't know how many times my evil schemes have been foiled ‘cause I just didn't think them through all the way. I mean, there were plenty of classes on how to give speeches on your designs to rule the world, or how to deliver a one-minute summary of your master plan to your arch-enemy before you eviscerate them with a weapons-grade laser, but never anything on project planning. Oh well, I guess they won't be seeing any more of my alumni money.

It would appear that I've only suffered minor bodily harm as a result of my weeklong sickness. My normal maniacal laugh has been replaced by that of a 70 year old man with a 2-pack-a-day Asbestos habit. Also, I sound a little like Tom Waits when I talk, now.

Which isn't a bad thing.