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"Now, tell me again," said the attractive blond in the black-rimmed glasses, "why do you think you're a super villain?"

Her patient sighed. He was draped across her leather couch, one hand hanging limp over its side, grazing the lush carpet as though it was soft grass.

The therapist chewed on her pencil and waited.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" he said. "I'm a scientist. I come from a long line of super villainy, and it's up to me to keep up the family reputation." He turned on his side to gaze at her. "Have I ever told you that you bear a remarkable resemblance to my minion?"

"Minion," the woman said, scribbled in her notebook. "Go on, tell me about her. Isn't 'minion' usually a derogatory term? What do you think about women?"

The man sighed again. "Oh, no," he said. "I know the term may have started out that way, but minion work is incredibly rewarding. My personal minion is extremely competent, brilliant..." He trailed off.

More scribbling. "And how do you feel about that? Do you find an intelligent woman threatening?"

Her patient laughed, great guffaws that filled her small office. "No, it's refreshing!"