"What..." the supervillainess asked in an ominous tone that promised an imminent world of suffering for someone. "... is this?"
One of her latest batch of interchangeable minions, who was pretty sure he was that someone, gulped audibly, before hesitantly replying "Y... Your mail, Mistress Despair?"
Mistress Despair — née Déesse Poire — growled and swiped the ridiculously high stack of bills off her Desk of Doom — 4799€ for this configuration, with the blinking lights and the buttons that did abominable things — causing a short-lived paper blizzard in her office. A clawed finger pointed straight at the idiot, who trembled and stared at its sharp tip. "You must be new here, so I'll tell you how the world works. Once."
It was true what they said. If you wanted competent help, you needed to use the premium minioning agencies. Something to remember for next time...
"Mistress Despair does not pay bills." She paused. Gave him a meaningful look. "Why aren't you cleaning up your mess?" As the poor minion bent to pick up the scattered mail, most of it stamped with big red FINAL NOTICE warnings, she explained, as if to a three year old: "They should be glad that Mistress Despair is using their produ—"
One of the envelopes caught her eye. "Leave that one." she commanded.
"Mistress?" the befuddled minion said, fingers releasing the thick, creamy paper. He should have stayed with his uncle, learned the fishing trade. But no, he had to see the world! Had to experience adventure! Well, he'd had enough of it. Of the world. Of working for villains. He was going back as soon as he could. Yes, the sea was also mercurial, but at least when the sea killed you, it wasn't because she was having a snit.
"I said leave it!" Déesse shrieked, throwing a desk ornament in the form of a hand clutching the world — $52.99 from Vile Tigers — at his head, chasing him out of the room. The ornament shattered harmlessly against the lair's volcanic rock wall. She'd have to call someone to clean that up later. Someone else.
Finally alone again, she picked up the heavy envelope, turning it over in her hands. The lurid M.A.S.T.E.R logo grinned up at her. This was one message she couldn't ignore. Quarterly dues she had to pay.
Supervillains didn't have anything as crass as a union, of course. Unions were disgusting groups where pathetic minions who wanted to be coddled banded together and whined at their betters, demanding all kinds of ridiculous things from them.
No, as its name plainly stated, it was a Mutual Aid Society for Terribly Evil Rogues. Among its many services, it lobbied with the governments of the world on their behalf and provided legal aid, or paid medical costs when one of its members got stomped too hard by the so-called heroes of this world, like what happened to poor Pierrot-Maniac last month.
Totally different.