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Bill and Ted weren't the best housekeepers in the world.  Evil Bill and Evil Ted were even worse - - horrible, in fact.  They were also totally into mindless destruction, and while Good Bill and Good Ted had their faults, destroying for destroying's sake was not one of them.  Of course, they knew that once they got the Wyld Stallyns off the ground, they would have to destroy a few thousand dollars' worth of equipment whenever they played some live gigs in mega-arenas - - the fans would expect it - - but that was in the future, when they could afford it.

With Evil Bill and Evil Ted, on the other hand, it was not only their life's work, what they had been totally programmed to do, but it was their hobby as well.  Now, having destroyed the relationship between Good Ted and Good Bill and the princesses and murdering Bill and Ted into the bargain, Evil Bill and Evil Ted were addressing themselves to the question of trashing Bill and Ted's apartment.  They were very good at it.  Pros, you might say.

They had already had a certain amount of fun tearing up what there was of Bill and Ted's meager wardrobe, flushing smaller household items down the toilet and totally scratching and smashing their prized collection of Aerosmith and Iron Maiden records.  The stereo and the TV were just smoking shells, the posters had been stripped from the walls, the rug ripped up from the floor, the curtains destroyed, the furniture hacked to splinters.

Evil Bill and Evil Ted now turned to the kitchen and found that that was a very entertaining venue, opening up many opportunities for creative and imaginative ways of destroying things.

Ted threw open the door of the refrigerator and yanked out a can of soda.  He shook it furiously and then fired a long stream of sticky liquid at Evil Bill.

"You look thirsty, dude!" cackled Evil Ted.

"And you look hungry!" yelled Evil Bill.  He grabbed a handful of eggs from the rack in the door of the refrigerator and pasted Evil Ted in the side of the head with two of them.

"Yah!" Evil Ted squeezed some of the yolk from his hair.  "And I know what you want!"

"What?"

"Dessert, dude!"  Evil Ted pulled out an aerosol can of whipped cream topping and blasted away at Evil Bill.  Cream, eggs and soda made the kitchen floor sticky underfoot, and just for the heck of it, Evil Bill and Evil Ted pulled all the food out of the refrigerator, tossed it to the ground and trampled it into paste.

Then they turned their attention to the kitchen cabinets, inventing, on the spur of the moment, a new kind of basketball.  Instead of using a ball, like normal people, or even normal robots, they played with all the glassware - plates, glasses, saucers -- that they found in the cabinets.  True, you couldn't dribble a plate - no bounce, right? -- but it did make for a very satisfying slam dunk.

You see, Bill and Ted had a little indoor basketball net over their kitchen door, and sometimes, when they had to have some very serious and deep conversation, they would sit at their kitchen counter, talking about the Wyld Stallyns, their babes, their future and other serious things, shooting a nerf ball at the hoop.  It helped them concentrate and it didn't do any harm.

That just wasn't Evil Bill and Evil Ted's kind of game.  Evil Ted had a big water glass in his right hand, and he was backing in toward the basket, his left arm out to keep Evil Bill out of the way.  Evil Bill, for his part, was working hard to block, in Evil Ted's face, trying to prevent the attacker from getting a look at the basket.

"No way, dude," said Evil Bill, "you'll never get through my totally non-heinous and most resplendent blocking."

"Yah?" Evil Ted powered in a few feet and hooked the glass at the basket.  It sailed through the air, end over end, whiffed through the basket and exploded with a crash on the tile floor.

"Two points, dude!"

"Lucky, dude, that's all.  My turn."  He scooped up a dinner plate, faked right, went left and blew by Evil Ted, leaped for the hoop and jammed, slamming the plate to smithereens.

"He shoots!  He scores!" yelled Evil Bill.  "The man, er, robot is unstoppable!"

Evil Ted had an armful of glasses, and he was standing about where he imagined the free throw line to be, pitching them toward the basket.  Not all of them swished - - a couple of them just smashed against the kitchen wall, showering glass over everything - - but most found their target and then shattered.

Evil Bill did his best to help out, goaltending, tipping in a few of the rim shots.  It sounded as if it were raining broken glass in the wreckage of Bill and Ted's apartment.

Then, abruptly, it stopped.

"More!" demanded Evil Bill.

Evil Ted was peering into the cupboards, rummaging around, throwing out cans and cereal boxes, rifling the shelves, like a thief searching for hidden valuables.

"Bad news, dude."

"What?"

"Game's over.  We are totally out of dishes!"

"Heinous."

They looked for a moment over the extensive wreckage, smiles of satisfaction on their faces.

"Well," said Evil Bill.  "It was fun while it lasted.  I just wish those other us's had more stuff to wreck."

"Well, we didn't make all that much at Pretzels 'n' Cheese, dude."

"Yah, but I wish we had spent more on decorating."

Later in the novel is more destruction:

You had to hand it to De Nomolos - when he built the Evil Bill and the Evil Ted, he certainly made exact copies of Good Bill and Good Ted.  He could have fixed it that his creations could play the guitar a little better than the originals, but he didn't.  Evil Ted was wandering around the Good Bill and the Good Ted's now-totally-trashed apartment, thundering away on Ted's guitar.  Awful - really terrible - music wailed, so loud it shook the windows and could have been heard five blocks away.

Evil Bill had to shout to make himself heard on the phone.  He was talking to Good Bill's Uncle Milton, a harmless soul who had always stuck up for his nephew.  Uncle Milton was shocked at what he was hearing.

"I never liked you, Uncle Milton," said Bill venemously.  "You were always, like, a total pain in the neck."

"Bill," said Uncle Milton.  "I can't believe my ears."

"Well, believe ‘em, dude."

"You know I'm going to have to talk to your father about this."

"Like I care, Uncle Milt.  Listen, just flake off, okay?"

Bill slammed down the phone.  He shouted over Ted's incredibly loud "music."

"Okay.  I totally blew off Good Bill's Uncle Milton.  And let me tell you, dude, it was fun.  I can't wait to do it again.  Who's next?"

Evil Ted stopped "playing" for a moment.  The silence was totally golden.  "uh . . . what about that teacher in high school?  The dude who was nice to them . . . the History-Social Studies-dude.  What's his name?"

Evil Bill snapped his fingers.  "Good idea, Evil Ted.  Ryan.  Mr. Ryan would be totally blown away to hear from us."  Evil Bill snatched up the phone and quickly punched in a number.

Mr. Ryan answered on the first ring.  "Hello, Mr. Ryan?" said Evil Bill.  "Bill S. Preston here."

"How's it going, Bill?  I hear you and Ted made it into the Battle of the - "

"You stink, dude," said Bill, cutting him off.

"What?  What did you say?"

"You heard me." Bill slammed down the receiver.  "That was one surprised dude, dude."

Ted unhooked his guitar and flung it away.  It fell with a wild, howling jangle as it slid strings across the floor.  "Cool . . . " observed Ted.  "Now, let's do something else totally bad."

"Yah," said Evil Bill.  "But like what?"  He counted off every evil thing they had done so far.  "We killed them already."

"And most resplendently loogied them, don't forget," put in Evil Ted.

"Yah.  And we trashed their apartment and messed things up with the princesses.  And totally wrecked their relationships with their family and friends.  Let's do something else totally heinous."

Evil Ted's eyes lit up.  "I know!  Let's get them in trouble for insider trading!"

"We don't got the time, dude.  De Nomolos wants us to nab the females and get to the concert."

Evil Ted looked very disappointed. " Awww . . . It would be so triumphant."

"Look - I tell you what.  We'll take the Porsche and cause trouble on the freeway."

"Like what?"

Evil Bill thought for a moment.  "Like driving slow in the fast lane."

"Insider trading would be more fun."

"Gotta improvise, dude."