A/N: I own none of this. Honest. Nope, not me.
Harry Potter and the Trademark Dispute.
Chapter 3 - The Guild
"This is the standard Minion contract Mr. Voldemort."
"Oh holding yourself above the common working thug are you?"
Voldemort pulled the wand from his sleeve and held it in a threatening manner.
"Using a wand during a negotiation is a violation of the Henchperson accords of 1964 Mr. Voldemort, cast a single spell and you'll find every union and guild you have any dealings with suddenly forgetting you exist."
"I use no unions!"
"Clean your own robes do you? Clean your own lair? Who cooks your food? Local 204 of the Caterers of Evil that's who. Cast a single spell and you'll be eating your own cooking for the next decade."
Riddle's red eyes narrowed. "Fine." He read the contract. "What's this? No crucios except for cause?"
"Yes. You are entirely too free with that curse. You routinely curse underlings when you screw up, their only mistake would be working for an incompetent with blame issues."
"Fine." He read on "No killing minions? What kind of Dark Lord will I be if I can't kill my minions?"
"One who actually achieves his goals occasionally?"
"Fine. 'Sexual Harassment Sensitivity Training? This is an evil organization, not a tea party!"
"You and your entire Inner Circle are just too easy with your Imperius curses on your female and occasionally male Death Eaters. The work place is no place for angry women or crying men."
"Fine! Wait, what's this? They expect to be paid for the honor of wearing my mark?"
"Of course they want to be paid! How else will we collect the Guild dues that pay my salary?"
"This would put my pay roll at over 3 million Galleons per year. What if I were to make a 'donation' to the International Brotherhood of 1 million per year and forget about the payroll?
"I would say that would be the kind of forward thinking that makes a great and powerful Evil organization."
"Excellent." He read on. "A dental plan?"
"I'm afraid that is nonnegotiable Mr. Voldemort."
"There will be no 'dental plan'."
"That is part of every contract the Brotherhood is involved in."
"You forget, we are a BRITISH Evil organization."
The Union rep blinked. Twice. He then looked embarrassed. Reaching across the table, he picked up the contract and redacted the dental plan from its verbiage.
"Terribly sorry, I forgot."
"His Death Eaters are on strike for the 4 day work week!" Ron was rolling on the floor laughing his ass off. "Wormtail is their shop steward! Lucius pulled Malfoy out of school to walk the picket line for him! Make them stop! It hurts to laugh this much!"
While Ron was on the floor in the fetal position giggling incoherently Harry and Hermione were in a strategy conference. A strategy conference that involved her massaging his tonsils with her tongue, and he massaging her breasts with his hands, while Ron was otherwise indisposed. They both considered it to be good strategy.
Ron sat up, Harry pulled his hands from under Hermione's jumper and started searching for his glasses, Hermione wiped her and Harry's chin and pulled a sheaf of parchment roughly the size of the New York City phonebook from her bag.
"In the small amount of research I've managed to do since yesterday, I'm ready for the next step in Operation Dork Lord. I've discovered that the term 'Dark Lord' is a trademarked title, owned by 'The Guild of Evil Overlords, Criminal Masterminds and Malevolent Sorcerers' who among other things control the world's major Drug Cartels, International Terrorism, Telemarketing conglomerates and San Francisco Street Mimes."
"Whoa" said Harry, having found his glasses and was in the process of attempting to untangle them from Hermione's suspender-belt (the article of clothing that had caused Harry to declare her'The Best Girlfriend in the World') "They ARE evil." He shuddered. "Mimes. Ugh! All silent and stuff."
"There, there." Hermione comforted him while extricating his glasses from her undergarments. "Any way, my research indicated that they protect their trademarks rather jealously, so I wrote them a little letter about a guy named Tom Riddle..."
Riddle had finally resolved his labour problems, his Death Eaters were ready to lay waste to Wizarding Britain (at 24 Galleons an hour.) when the door to his throne room suddenly burst open. A man wearing armour and a green cloak strode in as if he ruled the world.
"How dare you enter my presence unbidden? Crucio!" the spell arced its way across the room to the armoured man, who never broke step on his way to the throne.
"Doom dares anything he desires"thundered the Armoured man. I am looking for the insignificant minor magician Tom Riddle."
"I am Lord Voldemort!" he put his wand into the Armoured man's face. The wand was snatched away. Doom examined the wand, waving a diagnostic tool over it's length.
"Interesting minor magic technology." A panel opened on his gauntlet, and he put the wand into it. Alight flashed and the wand was ejected. He pointed his finger at Riddle and intoned 'crucio'. The spell impacted on Riddle before he could move and he fell screaming. "Interesting, but not terribly useful. He extended his other hand and a force bolt shot out impacting on the wall of Riddle's throne room. The resulting explosion destroyed the entire wall and much of the house behind it. That is power weakling."
"I am Doom. Chairman of the Technomage Division of the Guild of Evil Overlords, Criminal Masterminds and Malevolent Sorcerers. You and your minor powers have been found wanting. You are not deserving of the title 'Dark Lord' of the Technomage Division of the Guild of Evil Overlords, Criminal Masterminds and Malevolent Sorcerers. You have Four reviews remaining, the Mage Division, The Science Division, The Criminal Division, and the Division of Conquest. Should you fail to qualify for the title you have taken for yourself in any of those division, we will take appropriate action.
"You will sue me?"
"Silly magician, we will kill you."
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