Upon each of Doom's visits to the island of Manhattan, he cannot be but amused that such a country as the United Fools of America boasts of its high standard of living yet is populated with the castoffs of human society: what would have in years gone by been referred to as "bums" but which the deluded, politically correct society of American now comforts themselves by calling "the homeless."
Upon Doom's swift and effective conclusion of the breakfast meeting with the Thinker, I felt the need to walk through this city as a brief amusement before I return to enact my deadly plan of just vengeance against Richards and his accursed family, but not before I fulfill my "blogging" obligations to the tiny bovine. For those of you who choose to question why Victor von Doom, rightful Lord of Latveria, would deign to impart his wisdom to the milk-slurping masses that frequent the comics "blogosphere," let it be known that while Doom owes no man or mouse an explanation of his actions, I will say only this: Doom is a man of his word, and Doom's word is a steel bond that cannot be broken. Just as I vow that Richards shall be destroyed...destroyed, hear the word of Doom!...so I also vow my word and pledge as a man of honor that the wisdom and knowledge of Doom shall be heard to those who normally gather to hear the voice of a small farm animal.
Doom's purposeful but unplanned wandering took him southward through the island of Manhattan, and while I attracted a good deal of attention and hushed whispers of awe and fear as I moved through the New York City crowds, none dared approach or confront Doom, showing that despite their weak reliance on the Fantastic Four, these New Yorkers have the natural sense to recognize and respect one superior to them in social status, intellect, and sheer power.
So rapt was Doom in his plan of righteous justice and vengeance against Richards and his brood that my eyes did not initially take in my surroundings, so when Broadway ended and then Doom turned his purposeful path onto a street off of the Bowery, he was not originally aware of his surroundings until a noisome, tattered, bearded example of humanity's misbegottens lunged drunkenly at Doom, grasped at the regal cloak and slurred "Spare a quarter, buddy?"
For such an invasion of my personal space, others have suffered greatly. I burned the Symkarian ambassador alive in his own embassy for daring to jab his fleshy finger against my chest plate; none dared question the retaliatory actions of Doom as they were just and right. None may lay hands upon the person of Doom! And yet, as I pulled away, my first instinct to sear this invading creature alive, Doom reconsidered and stayed his hand. It is not the fault of such a one that he has been forgotten by those in power of this upstart nation. The weakness and corruption of the United States has placed men and women in the same position, yet in my own beloved Latveria none go hungry or begging in the street. Such is the weakness and hypocrisy costumed fools like Captain America claim to fight for. When the world is under the rightful thumb of Doctor Doom, none shall go hungry, and the only repayment the masses shall be accountable for is to drop to their bended knee and accept Doom as their lord and master.
So instead of reducing the miscreant to his component atoms with a gesture of my gauntleted hand, I instead pushed him away with a sharp verbal correction of "Bah! Doom carries no pocket change." The tattered man whimpered and scurried away into an alley, and pleased with my self-control (for in fact my anger is more rightfully targeted like a fury at Reed Richards) I continued my walk.
Only a moment or so later, however, Doom was assaulted again with a shout from the shadows of the tall apartment buildings cramped together and a clatter of activity could be heard but was unseen, like the scurrying of the roaches that populate this city. "Hey, tin can!" came a rough uneducated voice from out of the shadows, echoing through the tangle of brick alleys so that Doom was unable to ascertain its source, "Who said dat ya could walk on our turf?"
Rough laughter accompanied these words, and Doom whirled to confront these impudent taunters, but none were in immediate sight. Raising my gauntlet, I announced imperiously, "Who challenges Doom? Step forward, impudent dog, and face the wrath of my power!"
My words were greeted with hysterical laughter and giggling, an insane sound that would not have been out of place in the studio audience of one of the simplistic and time-wasting American "situation comedies" that you seem to enjoy so much, suckling on the teat of the networks and cable providers each night. Unless it is a secret plot of mind control by your government, Doom does not understand much of the hold that "teevee" has on your weak minds. Instead of quiet nights of reflection in which law-abiding Latverian citizens retreat to their homes following the enforced curfew and relax by reading from the collected words of Victor von Doom, you Americans rot your brains and imaginations with the likes of Survivor and Yes, Dear and Everyone Loves Raymond. Your unimaginative pap like American Idol perhaps gives you a foolish belief that you have a say in how this nation is run. Although there is no such thing, understand this: if Latverian Idol existed, there would be no voting: you would unconditionally accept Doom's choice of the winner, and mark my words: it would not be that butter-cheeked, cobweb-coiffed prancing and whining doxy.
In short, Doom does not understand much of your attraction with the medium of television, although Doom does confess a certain admiration of Gilmore Girls. Doom has no time or need for romance, but were he so inclined, Lorelai Gilmore, with her sharp tongue and quick wit, is indeed a paramour worthy of Doom.
Where was Doom? Ah, yes...
Although I moved into tactical stance to confront my taunters, they were still nowhere to be seen. I heard footfalls and the rattling of fire escapes above me, but when I glanced upwards there was naught but brief rushing shadows to be seen. "Aw, gedoudda here, Doomsie!" shrieked a laughing taunter, and Doom was immediately at the center of a barrage of rotten vegetables raining down upon our person: tomatoes, potatoes, turnips, cabbage and a single rancid rutabaga that smashed and splattered across my chest plate, sending its rotten detritus flying up across Doom's faceplate.
Their laughter rang after me as I chose to consider them beneath my attention and moved swiftlynot retreating, of course, Doom does not retreat and those who choose to say otherwise shall face my vengeanceand the contents of an entire metal garbage can showered down on my person as I darted through the street, followed closely by the garbage can itself. As I emerged back onto the Bowery, I heard the first voice taunt after me "And if ya know what's good fer ya, Dr. Doof, stay offa Yancy Street!"
I glanced up and saw the YANCY STREET sign above me; indeed I had wandered inadvertently onto the birthplace and childhood home of the grotesque and misshapen Benjamin Grimm. I strode away, the laughter fading behind me, and raised my hand imperiously for a yellow cab. When one did not stop, I placed myself before him and tore his vehicle's hood from the taxi, threatening to do the same for the driver's head until he agreed to rush me to the Latverian Embassy. I did not much care for his sniffing of the air; Doom was well aware of the noxious garbage aroma.
Perhaps insubordination on the part of such peasants is to be expected, I mused, but quashing that spirit will make the conquering of America so much sweeter to force these ruffians to kneel down before Doom. Perhaps when I have done so, as a reminder of my power, I shall have their misbegotten Yancy Street repaved with orange stones ripped from the Thing as he howls in pain and begs Doom to make the pain stop. That will, of course, be after I send Richards to hell, whimpering and mewing in submission. Yes, that will be an excellent "#2" item on Doom's "To Do" list, after I have destroyed Richards.
I will destroy you, Richards! DESTROY!