"-then she said 'There! Now don't do bad things anymore!' and she left. The s-silly little girl. You see, you must help me, doctor, I have nowhere else to turn.

Ok I guess i can f-fully see why you don't think this is a problem. Although it's a secret I would normally k-keep well, you know I'm the BlackChainer because I, for some insane f-foolish reason, feel I have to answer every question fully, honestly and even provide supplementary information if there's a chance of confusion. Because lying is f-fundamental bad. And so is sarcasm, ap-absolutely. And you think that me not doing bad things anymore is a good thing.

Ok. Fine. Encoding all the banks, governments and medical records behind a concensus algorithm protocol and holding the world to ranson was not just a work of g-g- a very naughty little cleverclogs it was also quantifyably harmful. But you are sorely mistaken if you think that's all I do. I worked tirelessly to get myself into a position of trust - as my alter-ego, Barum Manifest, tech billionaire, in case you were wondering, I normally wear plasti-skin over the facial scars, and a prosthetic hand instead of the claw, if I cover the scars with my hand like this and you imagine me wearing glasses, yeah, yeah, you got it. F-fiddlesticks.

Well, as Barum I run factories all across Asia, admittedly the best of them were sweatshops and the rest used slave labour, d-drat. Ok I own Friendpad and YourBox outright - mostly I used them to manipulate the populace, distort the truth and steal from or spy on my customers, b-bugsplat. Health insurance firms - that formed a cartel with my private hospitals, specialised in shoddy plastic surgery, to hike the prices for the uninsured to force everyone to insure or essentially die in poverty. F-fuchsine h-heliotrope! I was running those as legitimate business fronts for my nefarious schemes. I'm worse than I thought.

But the fact remains that, forget the evil g-cleverclogs stuff, I can't run my f-functional business empire while I'm like this, without a major value overhaul and reorganisation, I'd have to change the business model to something like a co-operative, and cut a lot of ties and fire a lot of people who even I find distasteful anyway, but I could totally do it and still make a profit if I tried because I'm a g-very swotty cleverclogs.

Fine... fine. Did I tell how I realised the nature of my ailment? No? Very well then. So that s-silly girl did her bop on the head and no more badness thing and I thought 'Really? And you're just going to walk away? No enforcement? No consquences beyond a smashed lab and a few henchmen turned into off-broadway chorus dancers, Artsy artists and on demand Etsy model-makers. I'll have rebuilt in a week.' I picked myself out of the wreckage of the ChainGun, disguised myself as best I could and walked to the nearest safe house - flat 47a on Madison, key 1337 into the pad and it just lets you in. S-shoot.

At least I tried to, turns out disguising yourself is bad, I spent 15 minutes trying to apply the plasti-skin and fit the f-funny prosthetic hand before I gave up. At the time I put it down to nerves. I got a cloak with a collar from some recess and stepped out in the evening drizzle. The appartment is just across the road from the ChainCave, it should present no problem. Except I got to the deserted thoroughfare and just couldn't cross it. I had to walk 500 yards to the nearest pedestrian Illumination, wait for the f-flashing green man, and then walk 500 yards back.

While i was returning in the cursed deluge I spied a p-, a p-... Really? I can't say p- p-... A cock-of-the-walk remonstrating physically with one of his hens. It's a scene I've seen a hundred times and there's nothing anyone can do - unless you're a billionaire, or even just have some disposable income, and can use it to set them both up with a safe space away from their constraining lives, a re-education and retraining program and some seed money for their new careers. Um. I was compelled to intercede. 'Unhand that woman!' I cried. Yes. They laughed too. That's when I knew there was something amiss beyond any nerves or brain damage.

Thanks to his inebriation, and a boyhood summer spent as grease-monkey aboard an ilicit Solomon Islands pearl diving schooner, I survived the ensuing fisticuffs: my dignity did not.

If you must resort to such crude categorisations as 'super-villian' I consider myself on the cerebral rather than the physical side of the profession. I did have several lethal and non-lethal forms of self-protection upon my person; apparently it's immoral to use a tonic immobility ray in a fistfight, even if your sparring partner outweighs you by a good 30 pounds.

I immobilised him briefly, despite having to abide by strict Marquess of Queensbury rules in a street brawl, and fled to my refuge place. It was there I discovered that my attempts at self-concealment had failed because of this st-silly curse rather than nerves.

There was a car, ready in the garage. Have you ever tried to drive with exact obeyance of the highway code in this city? I was almost run off the road by SUVs twice before I reached the mansion I share with my partner- Bradley Travers the Non-Fungible-Titan. Um. With whom I have a had p- a carnal relationship more years than that st- b- silly little girl has been on the planet. A relationship without the tawdry commonplaces of how the general herd display their w- affection, a relationship which has plumbed the very depths of pleasure and pain -because I Luv! Luv! Luv! my snuggle bear and he still makes my heart go pitter-patter after 20 years and I get sad if I don't see him for so much as a day. Uh. Can we just both forget I ever said that? Please?

Anyway I came home tired and defeated. I wanted physical-and emotional and spiritual- comfort from my partner. He welcomed me wonderfully, asked me if anything was wrong. I tried to kiss him. I couldn't. I tried to hug him. I couldn't. All I could do was pat him manfully on the shoulder. That s- silly girl had done what a dozen sessions of electro-shock 'therapy' administered to my teenage brain by a grinning, sadistic, colleague of yours could not and made me think my own homosexuality was 'bad'.

Except, of course, it wasn't the silly girl- who I think has a semi-serious relationship with a sapient female unicorn. That's not how the spell works, that's not how the spell can work. It's me that's the closet homophobe. It's no wonder considering I was fathered by an ageing, aristocratic, Brindisi gigolo who tried to cure his 13-year-old sons penchant for b-backdoorsmanship by making me throw porcelain dolls at the convent girls and paying the local pr-. Ladies of i- r-. Extra friendly ladies to flagellate me; and my mother, a defrocked skete nun, beat me every Saturday, Sunday too if there was an 'm' or an 'n' in the month, with a wooden shoe stretcher for reasons of hygiene. I realised that if the problem lies within me I merely need to heal myself.

Which is where you come in, I don't seem to think it's bad to see a s-psycho-analyst so long as it's a Jungian with an academic non-practicing role, can't go near a Freudian without screaming childish abuse, and CBT practitioners make me throw rocks, I'm the richest entity since Mansa Musa and you're on an academic stipend surely we can work something out.

Instead of worrying about what I might do if you help me - although obviously if you managed to cured me complete I might kill you to tie up loose ends. Um. You should think about what I might do as I am. I told you enough about my upbringing for you to realise it was unconventional. My dad told me it's bad not to stick up for women no matter the cost. My mum told me it's bad to swear. And they both taught me that even a semblance of a lie is bad. But try to imagine what else an impotent nymphomaniac and a holy laudanum addict had to teach a growning boy. If you asked your secretary in here I could show you how my father taught me it's bad not to salute a pretty lady with an exposed erection everytime she enters the room. My mother told me that the best and right thing to give to the children of the poor was a severe birching to warm their blood. I blanked out most of my childhood but who knows what over horrors await within. I could be worse for being unable to do anything I consider bad. Imagine if she'd done this to an entity like Thomas the TorqueArmada or The Ayatollah K-Maimy? I don't need to be able to commit mass-murder or steal the world's GDP- I just want to be able to hold my Snuggie-wuggems."