* * * * *
Sidearms and Wolverine lay scattered beneath
the almost plastic reflected glossed sheen of a nuclear sunset, the eyes of
which are really intergalactic rings swerved around in antimatter gravitational
parabolic flux, giving the sunset the appearance of a double helixed rainbow,
protractored, polarly, ad infinitum. Juggernaut lingers not too far behind,
gingerly holding in his arms a heavily endowed red haired, wispy emerald
outfitted heiress. Col. Iron Horse has stocked ammunition and barrels around
his waist like the Punisher, grasping a shorthaired CIA executive, monikered
the dyslexic Dakota by a cigar-chomping Wolvie.
A blonde stranded hippie lingers not to far behind the posse, showing a
medieval creature who comes up to Juggernaut's knee-cap how to fire up something
called a doobie to, momentarily, double stamina and intelligence (if only for
two character rounds), before having to roll a double plus to avoid going out
on something called a doom-run, which normally entails gobs of Cookie-dough ice
cream and microwaveable pizza’s. An
oriental bandanna longhaired health guru with digitalized lashes blinks twice
and then wiggles his nose, like he smells something. An elderly man, Santa
Clausian in stature, salty beard sans portly waistline, toga clad, ruminates
over a scroll, sprinkling what looks like Vacation Bible School glitter up in
the air with a quick snap of his wrist, uttering out a foreign haiku. Lighting
then blinks and fire commences to rain in little Pentecostal flecks of light.
“Shit, you
think you could warn us Orgon.”
“Oooooops. Sorry. Instead of the
spell I was aiming for I read the recipe for a…”
A very large Insect, titanic in
bulk, flutters by overhead, buzzing.
“Let’s cling on to Insector.”
SideArms points and the rest of the team begins to dash.
Speedball is pointing saying look
man it’s like a winged flying insect dude or something. Digital adjusts his
bandanna. In a reticent tone, he blinks down into the barred bridge of his
num-chucks, squinting an electric line. Arm, halted, performing a half-twist
into nothing, he swings his chucks hard into apparent nothingness of the aural
neon blue. A thwack is emitted,
followed by a hammering humf. From
where he side-kicked and snapped, lies a winged troop, made visible.
“Wolvie, they’re all around here.
Death Wings disciples.”
“Time to dice and slice.”
Cha-ching. Claws sprout through his knuckles-a grimace smears around his lips.
Digital and Wolvie jump and
connect, pulverize invisible servants with strokes and sheer cunningness.
Sidearms struts over to Juggernaut to confer.
“How bad is she?”
“She’s out for the count.”
“Our ship is still eons above,”
SideArms taps, crooks his neck and then speaks into his shoulder blade. “Airman, Lt. Data, we have an invalid and are
in dire need of assistance.”
“Locale out of transport range,
Col.”
“Fuck.”
Wolverine and Digital Justice
continue to hump-kick the air. Speed Ball and Toad point when the adversaries
crumble out of blank sky. A sly-haircut raucous youth sits next to them,
holding out a cigarette and shaking it back and forth like a jilting car
antennae caught aflame.
“Orgon, can you dish us out a
spell.”
“Fire and Brimstone.”
Charcoal plummets from the sky,
making visible winged assailants for the Death Thorn. SideArms says thanks but
he was hoping for something to teleport us outta here like a.k.a pronto. A girl
with wings says what do you expect, the old man has lost his rocker, he’s
senile.
“Rocker?”
Oregon performs a snap and clouds
billow beneath his robe for a second. Orgon is seated on a Wooden Zebra,
rocking back and forth, spandex visible between holes in his jeans, pierced
nipple and a plume-lavender Mohawk momentarily superseding his white garb of
hair. He whistles and strums down on an air-guitar, shaped like one of his fire
and Brimstone lighting Bolts, swinging with a throaty nursing-home Lawrence
Welk warble.
“Everyone back in the USSR, you
don’t know how lucky you are.”
“See what I mean Sidey, senile.”
“Who’s seen Nyle?” Barks Orgon
“Shit.”
“Well, at least he’s taken care of
the acrobatic arsenals.”
“I’m not so sure,” Dakota speaks up
before bleeping out the word Shit, “I mean, I just felt something prod into my
bottom. Wolvie, sniff around here and make sure that you’ve nailed every single
one of those cerebral cunt-cakes.”
Wolverine’s nostrils continue to
sniff, much to the guilty chagrin of Iron Horse, whose face is the color of a
steak ordered extremely rare.
“I was just thinking honey that
maybe we could…” Iterates Iron Horse, with both hands in front of her. Dakota
North slashes her hand in front of her neck, signaling Paul to stop his
romantic tirade, telling him to please trim off his excessive B.S. fat like a
Weight Watchers campaign.
“I already told you Paul, none of
that ancient Indian tantric behind-the-bend and inside-the-honey-cave type of
sexual excuses this time. If you like anal sex we can just sit down at a café
sometime and discuss your lewd, distasteful sexual proclivity like the mature
adults that we are.”
Jasmine out holds her
right-shielded palm, commenting in a very seesaw manner to Dakota that,
alright, that was just a leetle bit more information than she needed to know at
this time. Thanks.
“Stop all the goddamn bickering
people,” A husky voice speaks up. “ I mean, for the love of God, what to you
think this is in my hand, road kill?”
Juggernaut holds Maxima out like a Blakean lamb, bludgeoned to death by
deconstructing academics.
“No, dude, that’s not road kill,
that’s Maxima.” Speedball impedes, garnering collective high-fives and alights
from Toad and the other teenager with the cigarette.
“Well, I could of told you that,”
Harks Grandpa Orgon. “I remember Maxima when she was all babbling and
bobby-pinned in huggies and didn’t know which orifice to shit out of.”
Jasmine re-instates her hackneyed
more information than I needed to know, bit. Orgon grouses into his rotary
Zebra tail, calling it Sparky, and informing it that this is the problem with
kids these years, they just don’t care enough about history give a rat’s-ass.
“But,” reinstates Speedball, “if
that’s Maxima, then why does she look like she’s just been hammered off a
Harley Davidson?” The protons and neutrons orbiting Speedball all nod their
heads and offer a “Yeah, that’s weird,” sort of bit.
“Because when you infidels we’re
out firing up another one, some of us, I’m not going to mention who,”
Juggernaut pause, looks at Wolvie, SA, Jasmine, Grandpa O, Digital, Insector,
Iron Horse and Bride before bowing his head into his laps and full arms, “Some
of us, were extremely busy saving the Marvel galaxy.”
“Like, dude, what’s that?”
Hale pronounces Orgon’s name like
the state, with an inserted an optional Midwest pronounced ‘e’. Patrick pops up
and down, periodically sniffing from the top rung with one nostril perched. Mr.
Teske hurtles a nerf football at jean kids on the blacktop. Eric Bushman, Aron
Bowman and Todd Nelson are playing basketball over the russet metallic heating
pump, tossing a miniature striped globetrotter ball on a ruffled plate of metal
that has no discernible purpose. On top of the red monkey bars, girls sit
ushering girl talk, mentioning the names nine-oh-too-one-oh and New Kids,
blushing in buttoned stonewashed jean jackets, side ponytails and scrunchies.
From time to time Patrick will face that direction, hoping that Holly’s lashes
will find his in the short spaces between.
“So now, what are we going to do?”
SideArms assays the troops. An
austere Octomus Prime grin signaling sincerity cosigns his stance. Quickly, he
signals out the boy with the half, smoked cigarette.
“Can you deliver us to Air City?”
“Like, dude, only if Hera here will
re-open her Harem.”
“Fat chance Stoney,” Jasmine barks
back.
“Please, “Sidearms says, before
tapping back into his shoulder, “Data, meet us back at Air City in five,”
“Roger, captain,”
“Ready,”
In three winks and half-a coconuts
sneeze the bevy of armored, besmirched troops arrive on deck of air city,
Juggernaut rushes Maxima into the hospital corridors, Sidearms speaks up.
“Troops, all of us meet in the
conference room in five minutes, “I have reason to believe that a war is slowly
being spooled, threaded by the unlikely collaboration of the most sinister
forces in the Universe.”
“Who?” Dakota North speaks up. Iron
Horse is trying to shove her in the custodial closet lining the corridor for a
quickie.
“Shredder and Death Wing,”
Everyone in the group sort of
gasps. Out of nowhere a voice is heard, offering a pimply, chewed ‘T’ahs Up
guys!’ Sidearms, Oregon and Wolvie’s
head’s all turn inside and face up the air craft-city-state.
“Oh, yeah. Hey Jeremy.” Patrick’s
voice resonates, dips in a slurred disinterest to the arrival of his friend and
fellow nerd.
“Whatcha doing?” Before Hale can
state to Jeremy that they were in the middle of a very-serious game, Jeremy
plops off the monkey bars, wailing pleas for help. Eighth grade starting Center Marcellus Buck
and one-bibbed buckled Javon Worthington are seen chasing after him,
eventually, gripping his arm into a crooked wind behind his back. Buck reaches down, creepering Jeremiah behind
the garage.
“What do you say,” Jeremiah’s face
transitions into cranberry red.
“Thyme thorry!” He screams.
“Thorry thigh accidentally
stepped on thor one-hundred and thifteen dollar thike heir seadluses,”
“Accident?” Buck winds back the arm.
“Thurpose! Thurpose!”
Jeremiah writhes, tears stream down his face. His wedgied underoos nearly hang
off the top of his headgear. “Thyme sorry thigh thatsendentally stepped on
your one hundred and fifteen dollars Thike hair Sedaluses on purpose.”
Jeremiah’s plea is chirped out with staccato sounding quarter notes accompanied
with deflated helium balloon string tears sluicing down the side of his face.
“That’s better fag, remember, your
momma ain’t even worth one- hundred and fifteen cents,”
Jeers are heard. The standard ‘aw
look’!!! and ‘boy just done in got his ass stomped on!’ permeates amongst the
crowd. Mario rushes over and clouds one arm around Jeremy, pretending that he is
his bosom buddy.
“You gonna take that from him.
Shit, boy. Someone said that about my mother I wouldn’t take that. Would you
take that sort of a lame ass excuse, Bowman?”
Bowman steps up, pretending that he
is Jeremiah’s ring manager, “Shit boy, I wouldn’t take that shit if I were you.
You hear that Javon, Jeremiah ain’t gonna take that shit, are you, now?”
Jeremiah slowly removes his
glasses, wipes his drooling face with one long sweatered swab of his forearm.
Karen and Alicia totter by spooning at his tears. Laughing. Everyone is
laughing at Jeremiah’s creeper and tears.
“What the fuck is that shit,”
Wolverine says about the Shredder/Death Wing collaboration. Patrick looks in
the direction of the martyred, stuttering prophet.
“Maybe we should just go in their
and kick their ass,” Mentions Juggernaut, looking down. Hale raises his vision
over the top arched rung, as if adjusting reading glasses.
Three hundred yards away teachers
stand, blanketed in coats thick monastic hoods adding cover of projected shadow
to their foreheads. A whistle blows. Boots and sneakers trample over dead grass
and pools of dirt and mulch, to the black top, lining up to go inside. SideArms
continues with his somber soliloquy. In a conference room with one rather large
table, bodies and bruised necks turned in an oval, facing him. A cigarette
half-dangling from between his lips.
“We have substantial evidence to
believe the collaboration of Shredder and Death Wing. As we all know this will
spawn a major dissonance in the Marvel Universe, perhaps even perpetuating an
army of oligarchic darkness.”
Juggernaut peeps in and says that
this is gonna mean deep shit for all of us people.
“Boys—I believe you heard the
whistle. I believe you know what that means.”
Sidearms, unruffled, continues,
“The entire Marvel counsel of heroes has been selected to partake in this fray.
We’ll conduct strategically expertise tonight, via telekinetic cyber optics.
The rumble will convene tomorrow tonight, at a rather exact location.”
The teacher begins to rip out
single names. “Patrick. David. David. Let’s go gentlemen.” The boys heave
themselves from the top of the structure.
“Shit, the battle to end all-at my
own B-day tomorrow night.”
“I’m resuscitating the entire
Marvel catalogue, it’ll literally be every man-slash-mutant for himherself.”
“Jeremiah let’s go. This is your
last warning.” A plea for commiseration
is heard as Jeremiah adjusts elastic and zipper, patting the thawed grass in
search of a glass lenses, prodded from frame in the altercation.
“An all night rumble!”
“Twelve hours of dice clattering,
then the woods in the morning.”
“With a one hour hiatus to play
guns downstairs in the basement with the lights off.”
“Plus, you forget,” Hale speaks up,
“Parents will be in bed by two in the morning, Spicenight Showtime.”
“And late night Skinamax!”
Patrick looks and faces the troops,
“We have the three P’s for my birthday,” Patrick pauses twists his eyes
Northwest corner of the clouds, “ Role-playing, Pepsi and Pornography.”
“Not to mention water pistols,”
Hale amends.
“You guys forgot about Pizza!” Von
Behren inserts. “We need at least four Big Foots.”
“Why, so you can eat three of them
by yourself?”
“To pull a very Timothy S.
Flanagan, ‘I’m the GM’, how else am I gonna accumulate the mental tenacity to
game for thirteen-fourteen hours straight?”
Hale motions to Patrick, “Perhaps
maybe we can even get a little chuga-chuga.” Hale mimes with his fingertips
that he is grasping an invisible cylinder and with Adam’s apple chugs down his
thick throat. Hale then looks at VonBehren as he begins to sing (off key) the
song Patrick taught hem during the DARE JUST SAY NO campaign last spring.
“Liqueur in the morning. Liqueur
in the evening. Lick her when her daddy ain’t home.”
“She’s like an everlasting
gobstopper,” VonBehren interjects, “You can suck on her and suck on her and she
never goes dry. Never.”
Patrick, Von Behren and Hale
all leap off the last rung staggering in laughter. Hale mocks that he is a lush
at Happy Hour, cupping his arm around Patrick as he carols into a drool rhythm.
“How dry I am. How dry I am.” Patrick laughs, Hale looks back at him, arm
wrapped around him like a shawl, inquiring, “Are you my friend? Are you my
friend?” Hale erupts in laughter. His laugh is gruff and flowers, elevates
with the sonic roar of a plane heartily thrusting walloping in an aerial gulf
prior to take off. Von Behren monkeys his limbs around Patrick and David,
continuing to jaunt up to the school door entrance. VonB lifts his voice.
“This may be an entire weekend
festival,”
“You boys can just stay out here
then. Don’t expect any extra privileges for the rest of the week.” The teacher
head turns while all three of the boys’ middle fingers light up like candles on
top of a cupcake.
“Can you imagine an entire weekend
of dropping dice?”
“Forty-eight hours?”
“We can jip church and Sunday
School on Sunday morning.” Von Behren and Hale hi-five, Patrick walks with a
hurried pace, past the petrified dwarfs, onto the hop-scotched blacktop, over
the black top snow mounds, collecting sneaker-sole drudge in the late February
clime.
“Wait a minute, what are my folks
going to say about a full weekend party?” Says Patrick, expressing concern.
“Oh, nothing, just tell them that
you only turn thirteen once,”
“I figure that since you lost it
with Hollis there needs to be reason to celebrate.”
“Dammit Dave!”
“Just kidding. If your folks think
that we’re monopolizing the living room, we can always just adjourn to Amy’s
bedroom for the remainder of the weekend, I’m sure she won’t mind three
attractive males ogling her every move, vying for her precious hand.”
“Funny, I never considered Tim
Flanagan male,” Hale adds as Patrick
nudges him in the rib cage. The heavy opening doors that open the school like a
locket heave open and staple close. The boys file into the classroom, VonBehren
turn to Patrick, “Of course,” clearing his throat, “We can always move into the
asbestos attic, there’s a good view of Amy in there as well,”
‘I have just two words for you my
friend, Tie Ler.”
“That’s one word, Mr. All school
spelling bee champ.”
“Hows about Tyler will kick your
ass tie you in a knot and FED EX you to Audboodaubee-this being after he
gingerly pricks off your testicles and shove them so far up your ass that
you’ll be able to taste them on your palette.”
“I say bring him on-there’s three
of us and only one of him.”
“You’re just lucky that I accept
the fact that you are spying on my sister as part of your burgeoning Teenage
lust and not tell her. Although, if you would allow me a pair of binoculars
I’d be all over your sisters room like…”
“Teaching them how to play Black
Jack at my last Birthday party was bad enough.”
“You should’ve seen what else I
taught them how to do.”
“You fucker. Good retort. Let’s get
some work done. Miss Wiltz will be in here after Confirmation class.”
“Mama.”
***********
pgs 94-104 in text...
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