It all started out innocently enough. I swear! I showed up for work in the Latverian Oval Office one day to report to my lord and master, Dr. Doom, that exactly 1,548 kittens had just been killed in his name in order to please thunder god, Thor, so that he would not find it necessary to smite us again with his un-kitten-sacrificed wrath. It was then that Victor Von Doom saw something that pleased him. No, not my sweet (but supple) bod, but my rugged ninja shirt that I had previously used to survive E3 2001 and many a drunken, and possibly humiliating, debacle.

Ol' Vic said, "You, shitfucker, come hither. Doom wants to see your lovely shirt. It pleases Doom to no end."

"Whoa, whoa, WHOA, lord Doom," said I. "I don't think you fully understand just how cut-ass-rugged this Storm Shadow ninja shirt truly is! Sure, at one point or another in the past or in an alternate storyline you may have held the Infinity Gauntlet in your wicked hand. And I'm pretty sure you know what the Silver Sable feels like wrapped around your scarred and wrinkled body. But you are NOT ready to feel unadulterated pleasure such as this shirt can provide to the right wearer! NOBODY but the Rossman is ready for that kind of kinkiness!"

Actually, I meant to say that, but Doom had already grabbed me and begun to strip me of my most valued possession. I felt more violated than Celine Dion's evil vibrator.

Doom sure is one aggressive mother! He seemed pretty skilled in removing the clothing off of the backs of squirming men. At first I tried to fight back with all the dirty tricks that I knew. But Vic just kept pounding me down like the little bitch with the broken foot that I was (and apparently he also wears a steel cup to match his face). Then I tried some stalling tactics in the hopes that Spider-Man or the Red Skull would somehow come to my rescue or kill me before I was indignified further. No such luck. It was only after I squirted the rest of my strawberry-flavored body lube down his mask's eye sockets that I was able to break free and run and hide like an 11 year-old girl on crack. But where was I to hide so that Lord Doom would never find me? Where could I be sure that I would be safe from his ever pissed and all seeing eye?

After fleeing from Doom like Arnold in The Running Man (sans collar, thank God!), the first thing that I did was head on over to the Greenwood house. If anybody could help me it would be those lovable guys and gals!

Unfortunately Greenwood seemed to have been sold to an elderly Mexican couple (who didn't understand what I was saying despite how loud I yelled or how many things I threw through their windows) since last I had been there. Somebody must have just forgotten to tell me where everybody had gone. All I could do was hire a few dozen private investigators (with funds from the Latverian Supervillain Emergency Account) to track all of their asses down and force them to hide me. Mehve was the first to be dragged out of hiding by my P.I. lackeys. He caved and told me where the rest of the crew was when I threatened to hide some puppy crap in one of his 235 pairs of shoes and then make him try them on one at a time until he found it... and then hand him over to Oprah to be her boy-toy for a while.

I was brought to the new Greenwood Shelter for Indiscriminate Fear and exploded my way inside. Adamantium-laced doors may keep out the riff-raff, but the Rossman can be more rabid than a horny Hulk who's hankerin' for some big green vagina when he (me) wants or needs to be! I found a few more Greenwooders cowering in the corner (actually they were more like "passed out" and covered in plaster and shards of door) and made them take pity on me. If they couldn't help me find safety from Doom, nobody could... or would want to.

The Greenwooders and I feasted like hungry, irradiated beings on the irradiated flesh of furry woodland creatures... well, because we were and we did. But that's mostly the fault of Atlanta's shitty and contaminated drinking water reservoirs. We talked about my life in the big dump of a country, Latveria, and why I had to hide from the one that I had pledged my very life to just days before. They all called me a "communist bitch," but I had to correct them by informing them that I was a "monarchistic dictatorship bitch." We Latverians didn't believe in "the people" in the least. After a few more pints of Juan's Three Worm Tequila we had all come up with a cunning plan. I would kidnap the present members of Team Greenwood and use them as a human shield as we all hid from Victor Von Doom in the one place in the world that he would never DARE look for me... Orlando, Florida!... But that's mostly because he got kicked out of Disney World after he turned the "It's a Small World" ride into a blazing inferno of napalm and lighter fluid. Also, when I said "we had come up with a cunning plan" I really meant, "I drugged them and threw them into my car and took off like a bat out of hell before the rest of Greenwood showed up and hit me with a big stick again."