Chaos is beautiful to the cruel. But what spawns cruelty? A childhood affinity with super-villains slowly crushed by the harsh realities of physics, economics, and the sad absence of super-heroes and ambiguously moral yet unambiguously “good” spies with which to do battle. You come to wonder what is the point of studying science, if you can never have your orbiting laser platform? What is the use of architecture, if your designs for undersea fortresses are to go unrealised? Why learn a dozen languages, if you cannot orchestrate grand international intrigues? A financial downturn destroys your dream of amassing a vast financial empire, capable of sustaining a secret army, illicit nuclear weapons purchases, and the manipulations of governments in triple-tiered conspiracies. Life, ultimately, robs you of all your dreams. But it never takes your malice.
You become an accountant. You raise butterflies.
You find some solace in your lepidoptiary; it becomes your fortress, your lair. You smile cruel smiles and imagine long-winded monologues aimed at nemeses that will never come.
You release your butterflies and dream of hurricanes.