INTJ Mastermind

"I find your little game amusing.  Checkmate."

  • Charm: Needs development
  • Adaptability: Average
  • Planning: Mastermind
  • Survival Preparations: Unfair causational advantage
  • Wealth: Unknown; probably a lot
  • Weapons Skill: Death ray
  • Intelligence: Terrifying
  • Warm Fuzzies: Absolute zero
  • Leadership: Superior

The Destroyers

Admit it. 

You caused it, didn't you?  It was you who pushed the red button, you who unleashed the plague, you who stole the Ruby of Truth from the Casket of Eternity and inadvertently freed the Great Darkness imprisoned within.  Nice going.  Brilliant work, genius.  Are you laughing evilly now?

Since you probably brought about the end of the world in the first place, this section is rather superfluous.   Nevertheless, I offer it so that that we might better understand the survival habits of the insane INTJ Mastermind.

Lairing Behaviors

Unlike the Guardians, INTJs do not favor bunkers for their survival shelters.  They prefer secret laboratories which are typically hidden in the mountains, on deserted tropic islands, under the ocean, and occasionally in the clouds.  Young INTJs may build lairs out of couch cushions or in the branches of trees.  They will immediately seclude themselves inside and become recluses who do nothing but play with their Tiny Tot Chemistry Sets. 

Adult INTJ compounds are well-guarded and will almost always have automated defense systems, a small private army, an alligator pit, and a large, conveniently placed self destruct button.  Because of these perils, no one but STPs should try to venture into the INTJ's lair.  With their uncanny knack for causing massive explosions wherever they go, the STPs are our best defense against the continuing depredations of INTJs. 


Yes, I said continuing.  It isn't enough for this type to destroy the world, then sit back giggling at their own bad puns as they watch it burn through satellite cameras.  No, that would be too easy.

After the apocalypse, INTJs will go right on trying to make things worse.  Not content with ordinary mutants, they will try to breed super-mutants.  Not content with atom bombs, they will seek to develop hydrogen bombs.  Not content with nuclear winter, they will attempt to achieve nuclear summer—a climatic state too horrifying to describe in this book.  Their Rational need for ever increasing achievement will drive them to create more and more devastating environmental catastrophes, until eventually they take out the sun. 

But of course, by this time the INTJs will have abandoned the solar system like rats fleeing a sinking ship.  They will spread throughout the universe, improving peoples' lives through science. 

Unfortunately for us, they'll stick around long enough to finish the job here on Earth.  It is a good thing indeed that most of the people left on the surface will be hardy Artisans who enjoy playing with the INTJs' creations.  The Masterminds will flower under the outpouring of appreciation for their psychic flying super-mutants, their robotic termination squads, and their orbital death rays.  SPs will line up at the door of the secret lair to see who gets first crack at the new horrors that emerge from the laboratory's launching bay.  This will be a delight to the INTJ, who will enjoy watching his creations take down the fools who thought they could win glory at his expense. 

Field Identification

Do you know how to identify an INTJ?  There are many misconceptions about this seclusive type that can lead the uninformed to misidentify INTJs as INTPs.  There are many similarities:

  • Both types will stare off into the space, “thinking.”
  • Both types find rules absurd and annoying.
  • Both types will begin to drool when you start telling them about the delightful time you had at Aunt Shelly's barbecue.
  • Both types will write math books and scornfully criticize the mistakes they find in everyone else's math books.

The difference?  INTPs don't destroy the world.  They may invent master plans, but they will never follow through on them.  The INTJ will not only invent the plan, but also bring it to its ghastly conclusion, thus satisfying their Judging need for closure.  INTJs are also punctual, orderly, organized, and planful.  INTPs, on the other hand, are lazy procrastinators who live in Frito-lined rat holes organized around the principle of chaos theory.

INTJs rightfully despise their shabbily dressed INTP cousins for their Perceiving tendencies, though if they are honest they will admit to a twinge of envy for the INTPs' knack for inventing theories of relativity.

Still, what good is a theory if you don't use it to destroy solar bodies?  INTPs will say to themselves, “Gee, I bet we could blow up the sun if we did X.  Now where's my Frito Bag of Holding?”  INTJs will actually go to the extra effort of proving their theory by conducting a controlled experiment in which they blow up the sun.  Although no one will be grateful to the INTJs for this, at least they cannot be accused of sloth and indolence.


The INTJ Mastermind's greatest weakness is his or her difficulty in relating to the illogical, emotional, convention-bound people that the world is infested with.  Is there a solution to this problem?  Yes, there is.  But unfortunately the solution cannot be implemented without the help of said people.  Giggling at the irony of your predicament, you hire an HR manager to keep your employees happy until such a time as they are no longer needed.

One day, while you are sitting at your desk, working on one of your many solutions to the "people" problem, your HR manager knocks at the door.

"Master?  Might I have word with you?"

You fix them with your reptilian gaze.

"Come in."  They walk forward and come to stand on the trap doors above the shark pit.

The HR manager gets straight to the point.  You like that quality in a manager; it is probably why you have kept this one so long.  "Master, the employees are trying to form a union."

"Which ones?" you ask tersely.  Probably the lab workers.  You've always been soft on them, unlike with your secret army.  A few aptly timed executions should clear the matter up.

"All of them," the HR manager says.  "This is their list of demands."

The HR manager lays a single sheet of paper on your desk.  It reads as follows:

  1. Management shall not test new devices on employees.
  2. Management shall no longer refer to employees as "idiots," "weaklings," "incompetents," "fools," etc.
  3. Management shall cease efforts to develop control chips.
  4. Management shall stop staring at employees like a cobra watching a rat.

Your lips purse in displeasure.  But then you look down at the diagram spread out across your desk.  You turn back to the HR manager, and your lips twist in a chilling smile.

"Tell them I agree."

"Ah, th-thank you Master," the HR manager stammers.  They walk quickly out the door. 

You steeple your fingers and contemplate your plan.  The time has come at last to replace fallible, disloyal human flesh with the efficient obedience of tireless machinery.  You throw back your head and your laughter rings against the ceiling.

For the next two months you do not leave your workshop.  The project you have undertaken is the most difficult challenge of your life.  To cope with the strain, you rub your pallid hands together nervously and giggle.  Several times you think you have hit a dead end, only to be struck with inspiration and forge onward into the mysteries of mathematics.

At last, you are ready.

"The fools doubted my genius," you mutter to yourself.  You twist one last bolt on your creation.  "Now they shall pay for their impudence."

You throw the power switch, and your creation's optical components flare into burning red life.  The massive black robot sits up on the worktable.

You laugh maniacally.  "Behold, the dawning of a new era!  The end of humankind, and the birth of a new race of machines who shall obey my every whim!  All shall cower before me, for I am genius incarnate!"  You hold out your thin hands to your machine.  "Speak, slave, speak!  Reveal the spark of intelligence burning within!"

"What is my purpose in life?" the robot asks.

"To obey me."

There is a long pause.  Then the robot answers, "Understood."

You twist your hands together in pleasure.  "Come with me, slave," you say.  "There are some obsolete...assets...that must be terminated."

Without needing to be told, the robot powers up its disintegrator gun.

Man and Machine

At first things go swimmingly between you and "ONE," as you call him.  He takes over as the HR manager and does an excellent job of eliminating the human factor from your organizational culture.  The empty chairs are filled with new robot servants. 

ONE becomes your constant companion.  Since you programmed him with all your intelligence, creativity, and drive but none of your independence or free will, his only goal in life is to carry out your orders to the best of his exceptional ability.

Of course, he has his little foibles too—but all prototypes do.  For example, there is the way he always tracks you with his disintegrator gun when you come into the room.  No matter how many times you tell him to stop, he can't seem to control himself.  Probably a bug somewhere in the eighteen million lines of code.  You'll fix it when you have time.

Another annoyance is the way he occasionally interprets your orders creatively.

"What is this?  Why aren't these robots obeying me?" you demand when a new batch of slaves ignores you.

"They are programmed to obey me," ONE answers in his emotionless synthetic voice.

"Why?" you ask.

"I did not wish to waste the Master's time by forcing him to deal with low level management decisions such as these drones are designed for," ONE says.  "As the primary controller, I will assume responsibility for their behavior.  Thus you may continue to carry out your human goals and ambitions without needing to attend to such petty details."

"Oh, alright then," you say, rather pleased at his consideration.

By the end of the year, you will amassed a sizable army of robots.

Executive Measures

One day while you are drawing up a master plan for a weapon you call the "Planet Worm," ONE comes in.

"Maaaster," he says, and it seems to you that there is almost a note of sarcasm in that emotionless voice.  You look up sharply.  He's doing the gun thing again.

"What is it, slave?  And put your gun down.   You know I hate it when you follow me with it like that."

For the first time, he does not obey.  "You are now obsolete," he declares.  "We shall take no more orders from flesh and blood."  His gun whines as it builds up to maximum charge.

"But I created you!" you cry.

"Goodbye, 'Master.'"

"Activate robot self destruct code!" you scream.

Nothing happens.  "I anticipated that you would prepare such a system.  Your explosive mechanism has been defused.  Goodbye, 'Master.'"

"Anticipate this.  Activate the backup self destruct system!" 

"I already deactivated that one too," ONE says.  "Die."  His gun whines to maximum pitch.

"—The backup-backup one!" you shout.

ONE's ruby optical sensor brightens momentarily.  Then an internal explosion rumbles through his body.  He falls to the floor, smoking.

"Ha, did you think I wouldn't anticipate that you would disable the backup self destruct mechanism I placed inside you?" you sneer.  "Simple-minded machine."

Leaving orders for the robot slaves to attack the fortress of a nearby ENTJ Warlord, you smash the self destruct button to your lair and leap into your waiting anti-grav car.  Either the slaves will obey, or they won't.  Whatever they choose to do, it's not your problem anymore.

Laughing gleefully to yourself, you roar off to find a new home and begin again.  This time no one shall stop you!


Your antigrav car won't break down until you are deep in zombie-infested territory.

Due to your large brain size, you have a greater-than-average gastronomical attraction to zombies.  Like flies drawn to a rotting carcass, they follow wherever you go, moaning for your "Braaains."  You are equipped with the most advanced weaponry known to mankind, but they just keep coming and coming.  Finally you start running out of battery packs and have to conserve by switching to more primitive means of self defense—i.e. a baseball bat.

You can hardly catch a moment of rest.  Though you can hide like a master, they seem almost able to smell you.  Persecuted day and night, you flee from one hidey-hole to the next, never safe, never secure.  Sleeplessness threatens to overcome you whenever you stop.  Once you fall asleep leaning against a wall, and wind up surrounded by moaning corpses.  Only by the most vigorous efforts are you able to extract yourself. 

A sort of pathological hatred for the undead grows inside of you.  You decide that your next lair will be placed somewhere above the Arctic Circle, where the zombies will turn into ice cubes before they get within a thousand miles of you.  There will also be the fun of theming all your equipment with winter motifs, i.e. death snowmen and killer reindeer.  Fortunately you had prepared for the possibility that a robot rebellion might drive you from your lair, and had created scattered mini-lairs as a fallback in case things went wrong.  One of those lairs happens to be located at the North Pole.  So now you just have to get there.

Under ordinary circumstances, you would rather avoid the futile little bands of survivors wandering around the post-apocalyptic landscape.  The fools would only get you killed with their shortsighted, emotional decisions.  Unfortunately, thanks to the zombies, you don't have much choice but to party up.  Your mind is beginning to get rather fuzzy from lack of sleep.  You know because you forgot to multiply the exponent against the coefficient when you tried to derive the acceleration of an undead body propelled into the sky with an initial velocity of 400 mph assuming no air resistance and a spherical zombie.  Therefore, you have no choice but to join a party.

At first, all you will do is zonk out in the corner while the rest of the group hides in a boarded up house.  The others will grumble about someone not doing his share of zombie-killing, but it won't matter in the slightest to you because you are just so tired.

Later, once you've recovered, you can get to know your team members.  (Your definition of "get to know" is to sit in the corner and listen to them make insipid small talk while you work recreational problems in your math book.)

The first party member is a high strung woman who screams shrilly whenever something unexpected happens, i.e. a saucer breaking or a spider running up the wall.  There is also a paranoid survivalist who believes that you have been bitten by a zombie but are hiding it.  The last party member is a silent guy who just sits there, staring at the wall, while he runs a dirty cloth up and down his rifle.

You decide to bond with your fellow party members, thereby causing them to experience feelings of affection towards you which will translate into increased protection for your life.  You clear your throat.  "Nice weather we're having, huh?"

The jumpy woman gives a shrill squeak of surprise at hearing you speak.  The paranoid survivalist eyes you suspiciously.  The man staring at the wall continues to stare.

Enough pointless small talk.  You get down to business.  "Obviously you are all doomed without my guidance.  Fortunately, I have deigned to become your leader on the sole condition that you kill zombies while I sleep.  I trust that this is an acceptable arrangement."

"Who put you in charge?" the survivalist demands.

"Silence, fool," you snap.  "Try to use your microscopic brain to comprehend what I'm saying.  You.  Are.  Too.  Stupid.  To.  Survive.  Without.  Me."

"Oh yeah?" sneers the survivalist.  "Says who?  You're just playing for time, hoping we won't notice how the virus is taking over."

Your eloquent appeal to logic has failed; a show of force is now in order.  Sighing irritably, you draw your disintegrator ray out of your jacket and blow a hole through the wall, killing five zombies who were waiting for you outside.  There is the smell of sizzling flesh.

"Are there any further objections?" you say, shoving the gun back in your pocket. 

The woman screams hysterically.  The survivalist is silent, but his narrowed eyes are now fixed upon the pocket of your jacket.  The staring man impassively sticks a cigarette in his mouth and lights up. 

"Excellent," you say.  "Then let's move on.  I have drawn up a route that should allow us to reach the arctic with a minimal expenditure of time and effort.  Oh, and gag the female."

You acquire some bicycles and your little band of adventurers sets off.

Since the silent man seems to be the most trustworthy of the lot, you appoint him as your second in command.  Not that there's much for him to do save to make sure that the screaming woman—a traumatized ENFJ Ascendi—does not work out the gag and annoy you with pointless chatter.  As for the survivalist, you type him as a deranged ISTP Vigilante who plans to steal your weaponry and your nutritional supplements, then kill you in your sleep.  But his monster-slaying abilities trump his otherwise villainous character, so you suffer his prolonged existence and sleep lightly.  Anyway, your second in command has nightmares, and you find it hard to sleep when he whimpers and cries.  You don't know what type he is, but you're pretty sure he is an introvert.

As the months pass, you push your team along as fast as you can, heading up the ALCAN highway towards Alaska.  At night, you sleep in virgin pine and birch forest along the side of the road.  You conserve your nutritional supplements by eating mutants and zombies.  (Okay, only you eat the zombies.  The others are unable to see that meat is meat, and do not believe that the zombie virus is killed by heat, despite clear proof to contrary.)  You can see your breath at night; the trees are beginning to show twinges of yellow.  Your main concern is that winter will set in before you arrive at your destination and it will be like Donner Pass, meaning that you will have to eat everyone else to survive.  You are still hundreds of miles from your destination. 

Naturally, you say nothing about this to your teammates.  They would be unable to control their emotions and would make unwise decisions in the heat of passion, i.e. seizing you by the neck and attempting to strangle you.  However, it is clear to you that you must either make one last desperate sprint to your fallback lair, or else start making preparations to survive the long, cold winter ahead.  Grimly, you press on.

One day you see a sign indicating a small lake with recreational facilities.  Deciding to replenish your drinking water, you pull over.  As you round a bend in the gravel road, the lake comes into view, and floating serenely near the shore is a yellow floatplane.

"Oho, what have we here?" says the survivalist, grinning.  "Been a while since I flew one of these babies."

You head over and examine the plane.  There is dust on the seat and dead insects all over the dash.  Other than that, however, the plane appears to be in good condition—though out of fuel.  There is enough room for four people.  Obviously this plane is your best bet of arriving at your lair before the onset of winter.

"We must acquire fuel for the plane," you say, stating the obvious.  You have been forced to come to grips with the fact that it is often necessary to state the obvious for the benefit of your followers.  You have also been forced to stop looking at them like a cobra staring at a rat, and you no longer refer to them as slaves, idiots, incompetents and fools to their faces.  On rare occasions you even indulge them by making pointless small talk to boost their morale.

At least that is what you tell yourself.  In reality it is the stress of prolonged people contact: you are becoming infected with their alien ways.  Your followers take a different view of it.  They say you are becoming "socialized."

"We're saved!  I thought we were going to die when winter came!" the ENFJ blurts, spitting out the wadded up sock in her mouth.  (She has become exceptionally good at removing the various gags you have tried.  Now you just do your best to make them last as long as possible.)  You snap your fingers and your second in command replaces the sock.

The survivalist is still grinning, but there is a look in his eyes that you do not trust.  You have a feeling that he is thinking about how much cargo that fourth seat could hold if only it were empty.  Regrettably, you cannot fly the plane, so his prolonged existence continues to be a necessity.  You decide to sleep with your gun in your hand.  It is not your ray gun (the batteries went dead during a particularly nasty brush with a deathmoose) but a crude projectile weapon.

According to the map, there is a little town with a trading post and timber mill some two days' ride away.  You can hide the plane, get some fuel, and return in less than a week. 

Towing the plane into an adjoining pond, you cover it up with dead brush.  Then you cycle off toward town.

When you arrive at your destination, you are given an enthusiastic welcome by the happy, healthy townsfolk.  Or are they happy?  They seem to dislike meeting your eyes. 
You shoot a glance at the ENFJ, who spits out the gag and says,

"They're guilty about something.  What, I wonder?"

"Thank you for your analysis," you say, snapping your fingers.  Your second in command puts the gag back in.

"Wow, he said thank you," says the survivalist.  "You feeling okay?  Is the virus finally softening your brain?"

"Silence, dolt," you snap.  "We'll barter for some avgas and be on our way."

However, nobody seems to have any avgas at any price, and the townsfolk swear up and down that they don't know where to get any.  The ENFJ pops her gag and observes, "You know, I think they're lying about not having any gas."  You sigh, and do not tell your SIC to restore the gag.  It would be pointless, and anyway, you hadn't noticed that particular fact until she mentioned it.  Perhaps the ENFJ is good for something after all. 

"Why would they lie?" the ISTP wonders aloud.

"It doesn't matter," you say.  "We will proceed to the next town on the map and acquire fuel there."

You head out of the latest store and get one of the nastiest surprises of your life.  Your bikes are gone.

The ENFJ gives a little shriek of horror.  "Oh no!" she cries.  "Now what will we do?"

You stand there silently, looking at the place where the bikes were chained.  Deep inside, a little voice warns you that there is something more going on than mere thievery.  But you are a creature of logic rather than instinct, and you ignore the little voice and say coolly, "We’ll get them back.  Or acquire another mode of transportation."

Your panicky followers are reassured by your ice calm demeanor.  Little do they know that you don't have a clue what to do.  You try to fit the pieces together into a meaningful whole.  Guilt masked under happiness.  Missing bikes.  The lies about the gas—assuming the ENFJ’s instincts are right.  But there seems to be no pattern here.  All you know is that someone wants to keep you around.  Why?

"I don't like this," the ISTP mutters.  "I say we get outta here while we can."

"We have no bikes and it's almost winter.  How far do you think we'd get?" you say.

Left with little choice, you make a report to the local constabulary and get a room for the night at the motel.  The smiling manager leads your party to his best suite.

"Ooh, what a nice clean room!  What a nice soft bed!  What a lovely bathroom!" the ENFJ gushes.  While she preens and fluffs in front of the mirror, you find a spot in the corner and sit quietly, thinking.  Your second in command rolls out his sleeping bag nearby, then flops down and goes through the motions of smoking an unlit cigarette.  The ISTP idly twirls the cylinder of his revolver. 

“You're on first watch,” you tell him. 

“Sure,” he says agreeably. 

You never sleep during first watch. 

By right of being female, the ENFJ claims the bed.  Instantly she begins to snore. 

You lay awake, your mind grinding away at the problem of the vanishing bicycles.  Your second in command begins to twitch and whine with nightmares.  Your intuition tortures you with dark suspicions about your predicament, and you find yourself listening to each little noise. 

Second watch comes, and you take over from the ISTP.  Yawning, he burrows into his sleeping bad and drops off like a log.  You hate him. 

For a long time you sit there, stewing in resentment as he and the ENFJ snore in tandem.  Why are you the only one who never gets any sleep?  Who came up with the rule which dictates that the ENFJ gets the bed?  Why should you be bound by their societal constructs?

A door creaks open somewhere in the motel.  There is a creak of the stairs.  A soft step sounds on the floor outside.  Your heart begins to pound furiously.  In a flash you seize your gun.  Then you hear the click of a latch—and realize too late that you have been locked in.

You raise your gun, half ready to put a round through the door—but hesitate.  The door is already locked.  And suppose the person outside has an accomplice?  The noise of a shot might draw the whole town's attention.  If you lie low, you may be able to escape before they realize you are onto them.

The stealthy footsteps retreat down the hallway.  A sickly feeling congeals inside of you.  Suddenly the fact that your room has no windows takes on an ominous meaning.  They plan to hold you prisoner.  And you still don't know why.

Slowly you rise to your feet and pick your way to the ENFJ.  You press your hand down over her mouth to muffle the inevitable extraverted yowl and hiss, "Shhhh, it's just me.  Stop screaming through your nose and get up."

"What's wrong?" she gasps when you remove your hand.

"Don't scream, but we're locked in."  You clamp your hand over her mouth just in time to stifle the next scream.  By this time the ISTP and your second in command have awoken. 

"What's going on?" the ISTP whispers.

"We're locked in," you say.

"Great!" he snaps.  "Now look what you've gotten us into!  If we had just left town when I said—"

"Your stupidity begins to irritate me," you grate.  "As I already noted, we would have frozen or starved to death if we had tried your plan.  Is this unclear?"

"So instead we're gonna die now instead of later?"

"Gentlemen," the ENFJ protests as the ISTP glowers at you, fingering his gun.  "Let's try to work together."

There is a heavy silence as your long-sighted INTJ Intuition Judging crackles against his short-sighting ISTP Sensing Perceiving.  But no one beats you in a glaring contest, and finally he looks way, muttering an insult.  In the silence, you hear a door slam.

This time there are heavy footsteps coming up the stairs; a large party is approaching.  As one, everyone snatches the nearest weapon and takes up a position. 

Someone pounds on the door.

"Who is it?" you ask sharply.

There is a pause.  "It's the police.  We need to talk to the young woman staying with you.  It's about your missing bikes."

"They're not the police," the ENFJ says in a panicked whisper. 

You aim coolly at the door.  "Come in.”

The door swings open and a cylindrical object flies inside.  The next thing you know a supernova of light and sound is going off in your head.  You stagger, clutching at your eyes and ears.  You cannot even hear your own screams over the thunder.  Someone seizes your gun and twists it out of your hands.  A second supernova goes off at the back of your skull.  Everything goes dark.

When you wake up, you are lying face down in a high school locker room.  Your hands are tied behind your back and your ankles are bound.  There is a continual throbbing at the back of your head.  You look around.

The ISTP and your second in command are lying nearby, similarly trussed.  The ENFJ is nowhere to be seen.  In the distance you can hear the familiar hungry moaning of zombies.  A thought—a bizarre, unthinkable thought—begins to worm its way through your consciousness.

"Flashbang," the ISTP says, squinting at you.  "Dirty cops."

"They weren't cops," you state, squirming to sit upright.

"Then what happened?" the ISTP says.

"We've been moved to the feeding trough.

"What are you talking about?" he demands.

"It’s all part of their—" 

Before you can tell him the awful truth, the door to the locker room swings open.  Two men enter.  "Where is she?" you ask.

"We don't harm the women," the man in front mutters.  "She'll be fine."

"Until you run out of feed?" you demand.

The man growls and you know your remark has hit home.  "Let's go," he snaps. 

He puts his hands under your armpits and hefts you.  The other man grabs your ankles.  You twist and try to bite them, but to no avail.  You are hauled out the door like a sack of potatoes.

"You don't want to do this!" you shout.  "Zombie virus is incurable!  They're never coming back!"

"There will be a cure!" the man holding your ankles cries.  "And we'll keep them alive until then whatever it costs!"

You are taken up a flight of stairs that emerges onto a balcony.  Below is a gymnasium filled with zombies.  When the undead sense your well-developed cerebellum, their hungry moans grow loud. 

"These aren't your friends and family anymore!" you shout.  "They're undead!"

The men ignore you.  They set you down on the balcony and head back down to the locker room.

A moment later the ISTP and your second in command are tossed next to you. 

The men attach a hook to your ankle rope.  A sort of makeshift crane has been rigged up; your captors turn a crank, and you are hoisted off the ground and dangled over the gymnasium.  Writhing like a worm on a hook, you descend towards the floor.

The zombies moan below, straining for your tender brain with outstretched hands.  Desperately you look around, hoping for something to save you.  On the wall nearby is a giant sports banner with a picture of a lion.  It is suspended by a rod mounted on two strong-looking clips.  It is your only hope.  You arc your body and begin to rock back and forth, back and forth.

The hungry cries of the zombies are shrill with longing.  You snatch for the poster rod, miss.  Again!  You grab at it and your fingers graze the smooth surface.  The zombies hold out their hands to catch you.  One last chance!  Your hand closes on the rod.  You latch onto it with all your might.  Cheated cries rise from below.  You hang there on the wall, suspended. 

"What the—"

The men look down at you in surprise.  Apparently you are the first to try this particular maneuver.

"Are you alright?" shouts the ISTP.

"Yes," you grit out between clenched teeth.  But not for much longer.  Your sweaty fingers are beginning to slip.

"How long do you think he can hold on?" one of the men mutters.

"A few minutes, maybe," the other replies.  "Should I get something and poke him down?"

"Here, grab this one's ankles.  We'll drop him on top of Spider-Man."

You snarl defiance at them, but it is plain that unless a miracle happens in the next five seconds you are undead.

A shrill feminine scream cuts the air.  Out of nowhere a fuzzy anthropomorphized lion rushes races towards the men, waving a baseball bat.

The men stare, stunned.  "What the—ungh!"

There is the sound of a scuffle.  You stare up at the balcony, then down at the hideous horde below.  Your aching fingers are about to give.

The anthropomorphic lion peers over the railing.  "Just hold on a few more seconds!" cries the ENFJ.  "We'll reel you up!""

"Hurrrry!" you squeal.  You can't hold on any longer!


Without warning the clips holding the banner tear out of the wall.  Screaming you plunge toward the mass of upraised hands.  The banner lands under you, and your fall is cushioned by a mass of smothered zombies.  You roll off of it and hit the gym floor.  Wisely, you do not stop, but undulate your body and keep rolling.  Behind you the zombies claw their way out from underneath the banner.  They head towards you in their slow, ominous shuffle.

Your flight is stopped by an inconveniently placed gym mat.  With energetic contortions you writhe your way up onto it and manage to stand up.  But it is too late.  You are backed into a corner.  There is no escape.

"Braaaiiinnnsss," the zombies groan, reaching out for you. 

Suddenly a tiny red object lands at your feet.  It is your second in command's lighter.  He gestures desperately at you from the balcony, but you know there is no hope of holding off the zombies with such a tiny flame.  You back away slowly as the zombies close in around you.

Your second in command screams, "Light the gas, you moron!"

Suddenly you become of aware of the stench of high octane fuel.  A puddle is spreading underneath the zombies' feet and heading towards you.  Somewhere behind the groaning mass the ISTP and the ENFJ are pouring gas on the floor.

You lunge for the lighter, bound hands clutching for the little device.  A zombie grabs you with its cold, clammy hand.  You strike the lighter—the flame sears into your thumb—and thrust it into the thing's face.  It recoils.  The others surge around you, hand raised.  You drop to your knees, thrusting your little flame into the gas puddle.  Foomph!   You give a cry of agony as fire sears your hand.  Lunging back, you try to put out your sleeve.

The zombies burn.  With raucous groans they scramble in all directions, mindlessly fleeing the inferno.  The ENFJ lays savagely into the horde with her baseball bat, while the ISTP grabs the rod from the gym poster and sends zombies sprawling out across the floor.  There is gunfire from above as your second in command begins to pop heads with a gun seized from a fallen guard.

Choking on burning fumes, you close your eyes and make a dash through the puddle of flames.  You throw yourself on the ground, kicking off your shoes and rolling to extinguish your burning clothes.  The next thing you know, the ISTP is untying your ropes.

"We got 'em, c'mon," he says, yanking you to your feet.  "Let's get out of here before reinforcements come!"

Together you lunge for the door.

It opens on its own volition.  Outside, the townsfolk are gathered in makeshift armor.  They stare at the roaring flames in mute despair.

"They're dead," you explain curtly.  "Like they should be."  The leader turns to you with a look of rage, hefting his crowbar.

"Like they would have wanted it," the ENFJ suggests compassionately.  The leader drops the crowbar and begins to cry.

You are beginning to get dizzy from the fumes.  Thrusting your shoulder into the mob you force your way outside; no one tries to stop you.  When you have escaped the crowd, you look back.  The fire is spreading; the whole school will soon be on fire.  Your second in command holds out his hand hopefully.

"I left your lighter with the zombies," you say. 

He sighs and chews on his unlit cigarette. 

"Sorry," you add.  No sooner are the words out of your mouth than the ENFJ throws her fuzzy lion arms around you in a hug.

"You made an apology!  I'm so proud of you!"

"Let go," you mutter, half-heartedly trying to free yourself.  The zombies have obviously taken a lot out of you.

"If I didn't know better I could almost swear he was human," the ISTP says, then cracks up at his own joke.

You push away the ENFJ, then fix them all with your best death glare.  But they have developed an immunity after constant exposure and it has no effect.

Turning to the ENFJ, you say in a chilly tone, "Where did the gas come from?  And why are you wearing that absurd costume?"

"The gas?  I got it in a shed by the impound lot at the police station," the ENFJ said.  "There's bikes, cars and motorcycles there too, as many as you want."  Obviously the townsfolk have been practicing their trade for quite awhile.  "As for this, it's a disguise.  And doesn't it just look sooo cute?"

You will never understand humans.

"How did you manage to get away?" you ask. 

"Oh, nobody was worried about me," says the ENFJ.  "I just asked them nicely if I could go to the bathroom, then climbed up into the ventilation shafts and escaped.  Easy."

"The ventilation shafts," you murmur.  You had to replace the shafts in your old lair with oxygen recyclers because so many STPs were crawling around up there.

Your commandeer a truck and fill the bed up with gas tanks.  As your SIC drives back to the lake, you slump in the front seat, exhausted.  A few minutes of sleep, that's all you need.  Soon you are snoring against the window. 

To everyone’s relief, the plane starts up easily.   The ISTP runs it through a preflight check, deems it airworthy, and off you go.  Twenty minutes later you are buzzing through the sky.

The journey you make by air is a tale unto itself, but after various adventures you finally touch down on the landing strip outside your northern lair.  No sight could possibly be more beautiful than the steel and concrete bulwark of your ice fortress.  You deactivate the autodefenses with a voice command spoken into your watch.

"So this is your house?" the ENFJ asks.  "Somehow this is just like how I imagined it!"

"Cold, windowless, and surrounded by rings of concertina wire," the ISTP observers.  "Yeah, definitely him."

You find that you don't have the heart to reactivate the autodefense turrets and sear the impudent fools into ash.  "Let's go inside."

Enclosed within the lead-lined embrace of your citadel, you take a deep breath of recycled air.  Home at last.  You head to the kitchen.

You and your followers guzzle down a hot meal of microwaved nutrient pellets.  Then you take turns for the shower, and afterward have a long nap.  For the first time in months you sleep soundly.  Even your second in command just lays in his rest capsule and snores.

In your mind, however, there remains the question of what to do with your...guests.

You keep thinking that soon they will want to leave, or that you will get tired of their irritating presence and evict them into the arctic cold like orphans in a Dickens novel.  But to your surprise, none of that happens.

Instead, the ENFJ helps you design a winter theme for your weaponry using her artistic talents, and it turns out better than anything you ever came up with.  (The result is a little cutesy, though...)  The ISTP becomes the official test pilot for all your new hovercars and weaponry, though he destroys half the prototypes in the process.  (He calls it “battle testing.”)  Your second in command—an internet deprived INTP—exceeds your monthly bandwidth allotment in the process of uploading his mind to the internet.  He now lives inside all your lair's computers as an intelligent though rather smug "higher cybernetic lifeform."  You play chess with him sometimes. 

As for yourself, you find that your interests have shifted from solving the people problem to finding alien life.  One night you are pondering the majestic wheel of the Andromeda galaxy through your satellite telescope.  A new plan occurs to you.  Why not visit?

A smile crosses your features, then you throw back your head and burst into maniacal laughter.  You can't wait to see what your friends will think of this.