Dr. Strange amputated at least ten toes.

How's that?

Ah, good memories, my friend!

Are you excited about the coming documentary about your life?

WHERE YOU BEEN?

Good to see you!

I keep a pretty low profile lately.

You all knew he was really Dick Morris, didn't you?

That's the last time I hire off of Craig's List!

While reading through the Lounge, Dr. Strange played with the two kidneys like a pair of ben wa balls from his latest victim in his blood covered hands. Shifting them back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, he went ever deeper into a meditative state while simultaneously growing ever deeper into a rage over the failure of DU members to at least agree that, whatever the failures of Hillary or Bernie, either one is a ten thousand percent better option than any of the tea thuglicans the GOP is offering this year.

"What the godless fuck is wrong with people?" he asked himself. He sighed do deeply that he brought himself out of his melancholy enough to realize that the kidneys didn't feel right. "By the eye of Horus, they've got me so agitated that I didn't remove the perirenal fat. No wonder I can't concentrate."

This was, of course, one of Dr. Strange's most egregious moral failures: that when stressed or anxious, he lacked the mental fortitude to do his job. A mental fortitude that, let's be honest, even a Cruz or a Trump could easily triumph in exercising.

SOteric choked on her 100 year old Yamazaki whisky at Dr. Strange's announcement, spraying the precious liquid into the sanginuous Sanctum Sanctorum of the morally deficient mage. "Seriously? You had one job, you piece of shit. One job." She tossed the empty snifter into his fireplace. "One job. Fuck you."

Strange had no reply except to lower his head, still wet from the lymphatic spray from his victim, like a dog that tried to defeat the alpha and ended up the omega.

"You make me puke," she said. "And not like from something honorable like food poisoning or drinking the blended combination of n ephah of thin mint cookies and a jeroboam of olive oil. But the kind of puke that comes from you just being a goddamn failure."

She spat on the floor. But elegantly, because she's SOteric. A spittle that was immediately granted a UNESCO Heritage Site.

Dr. Strange folded himself into a fetal position of pure shame.

"Goddamn right to do that, you are," she said.

But Strange was not to be so easily dismissed from is status as a world class mage.

He wrapped his cloak around himself and cast a spell to teleport him to Paris. "Her spittle gets to be a Heritage Site? Fuck that. All fo Paris is a Heritage Site. I'll show her, the Plugra- and white-pepper-worshiping bint."

But of course, Strange's location wasn't the issue. Whether he were to go to Paris, or to Dubai, or even Arkansas, the fact of the matter is that he was not in competition against SOteric or any other person. The issue is that he was so sloppy because of his unsurpassed (and equally unearned arrogance) that he failed to understand that there wasn't a single law enforcement agency in the world, no matter how incompetent, that wouldn't easily discover that for every person in the world who had been murdered, he had a jar labeled with their name and which contained at least ten toes.

Oh my!

Don't read post #9.

You stole that from the movie script didn't you? I look forward to Cumberbatch's portrayal in this scene. Of course, he won't fair well against SOteric. Unlike me. I would kick her ass easily. She would quake before my awesomnity, lest she be destroyed.

So it is written, so it shall be, and what have you.

though I hear that they cast Peter Gabriel, wearing his flower costume from his Genesis days, as SOteric.

Red and yellow.
Blue and green.
Prettiest things I've ever seen

Rainbow nails on ten cute toes
Some on gals
Some on bros

How to be a nail painter, if I may emote it?
Gitcher self some nail polish, git to work and coat it.

That's more of a curse than anything.