I have a basement full of clones of my sons. Well, had. People get into such histrionics about it, but really, if you have death-prone sons, what do you expect their father to do?

I have, oh... maybe two friends here? Counting Helper? I miss the Monarch, for god's sake. My tormentor. At least he kept things interesting.

I've made life before. Artificial life, that is. He had to be put down after he gained too much sentience. Back to the drawing board.

Oh, and a machine that gave you your greatest desire. It was powered by an orphan's heart, but in my defense, it was only one heart. That's quite a feat for such a powerful invention.

And the requisite I'm actually a failure, blah blah blah, my father was horribly abusive and it's a wonder I came out as well adjusted as I am now, blah blah blah, my father died of mysterious causes before I could pave my own way, blah blah blah.

God, I need to get laid.