"I won’t calm down until she’s in my arms and we’ve consummated the deed and the only thing left for us to do is to chain smoke our post coital cigarette and romanticize about our perfect future together..."

Wolverine is in the reck-room slash recently converted coffee lounge of CUMULUS Seven kish-ka-bobing with his adamantium planks. Maxima (who rumor has it possesses multiple, esoteric telekinetic sexual powers) is telekinetically supporting a floating cuisine saucer with spiked flames as Wolverine (or, ‘That’s Chef Wolvie to you-you Jerk-jock humanoid horses arsewipe’, as he occasionally likes to remind his compadres and cohorts) raises his claw up near his exemplary wine-tasting olfactory organ, before retracting his unbreakable scissors into his swollen carpenter knuckles. Maxima’s face brushes into an onstage postproduction blush as she watches the balled slabs of meat and grilled vegetables tumble out of near nothingness and collect into Wolvie’s  mouth. Wolverine taps his stomach with an audible awww, as he comments on the convenient benefits of modern living. Maxima blushes even more. Using her pointer finger, Maxima makes a question mark curly-cue with one of her long reddish strands.

 

“Then what happened?”

 

“Hold on. Yes. Give me fifteen minutes. Alright.”

 

“Sis?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“So anyway, where were we?”

 

“I believe you and Maxima were kickin’ it in the reck room.”

 

“I shall have my character inquire if Maxima would like to sample another entrée, particular that of a Canadian meatball sandwich to sate her burgeoning lust for me.”

 

“Funny I never realized that Canada was located in the southern hemisphere.”

 

“Very funny wah-wah-wah. Oh look, I’m David the almighty and all-powerful GM and I just cannot wait to give my characters so much shit about the size of their pecker. I mean comeon!!!What’s a hairy-ass mutant gotta do to get some hardcore ass around here?”

 

“You can start by plugging a cork into your hairy-ass lips so that I can continue on with the narrative.”

 

 

Wolverine’s shoulder turns left into Maxima and smiles a gruff sandpaper grin, signaling to her that not only is his unit composed of the same, unbreakable and for some inexplicable pre-ordained thank you god reason innately-ribbed substance of his claws but also that he has the ability to regenerate so that he can go all night and all day and then some. Before Wolverine became interested in ethics and morality he once did a short stint of three months (his memory has little recollection of this-like dispersing cloud imagery) in a Shang-Hi brothel, where he literally fucked a geisha girl for one hundred and eighty-six hours straight, only to watch her head go gimp and her eyes roll up into her flailing orgasmic forehead failing to reopen afterwards. Wolvie likes his girls and he likes his competition, his wine, his self-served and digestive entrees- that is to say raw yet wet with a smooth finish folded into it. Maxima has been heavily involved with Wolvie’s best friend Juggernaut and rumor has it holds atavistic ties with Sidey, whose origins stems somewhere from the swirly navel of the Vegan universe. Maxima presses up the volume in Voluptuous and once (when Speedball and Wolvie and Juggernaut covertly hooked up a secret visual dissemination into the Female-Androgynous locker quarter) Wolvie remembers Maxima bitching to Jasmine and Pagoda about Super bra not being quite as super as it was cracked up to be, before clasping the front hooks and fishing around her tote bag for stretch-spandex to place over her lower hemisphere. Maxima in panties looks like an albino sugarcane holding generous double-scooped planets of vanilla. Maxima continues to blush and inquire girl talk tease improbable questions that begin with the words Like, so, suppose into the jittering lobes of Wolverine.

 

“So like suppose you had this huge aerial bubble bath which was really a propelling metropolis of a city that was also a plane, and that so like you were on this huge city-state all alone with someone you kind of like but still would like to get to know better-like the attraction at this point is almost purely unabashedly animalistic and sexual and lust driven, and like suppose you had this technological utopia at your genitalia’s imminent disposal and you were so-so dating but more like fucking someone whom you would classify as being just  one stroke handicap of being special and you could DEW IT anywhere in the whole city, where would you choose to DEWIT.”

 

 

Maxima pronounces the words “do it” like it is a last name at a license bureau. She also has a tendency to make PGA analogies since Juggernaut’s idea of a bona-fide earth date seems to always be mini-golfing, followed by Dune bugging and generous helping of corndogs and strawberry Icees- offering non-apologetic addendum to Maxima that in some countries, belching and flatulence is considered the highest echelons of compliment. Maxima about lost it when Juggernaut took her to what he calls Laid Right and a Movie showing Maxima Groundhog’s Day for what seems like the twenty-millionth time. Sex with Juggernaut is always a matter of personal safety for his partner and of his not cumming in any orifice whatsoever for fear of flood and death by drowning. When Juggernaut comes it’s more like someone has just struck oil. He just keeps on cumming state park around-the-clock-geyser-style. Lately Juggernaut has been blowing his load at a single grope. Juggernaut’s plumbing seemed a little rusty at first if not properly stimulated. If Juggy refrains in holding back his orgasm-the giant dissemination of fluid oozing out in hurricane proportion could plop a nice sizewhole (like the one Patrick has covered up in his bedroom thanks to Hale)-or a dent in the DC universe-enough to so that if Juggy aimed at the moon, he could probably take her out with one blow. Digital Justice has often suggested that maybe, if Juggy could arouse himself in the right manner during battle-he could whip his 2x4 pecker out and spray down the opposition with all the facility of a firemen and his hose, a remark which made SideArms just role his eyes up into his copper skull and shake his head back and forth in bewildered embitterment.

 

“So?” Maxima’s peacock lashes blink several times in a row as if someone is pulling on a light chord which keeps going back on. Wolverine can feel his adamantieum hard-on start to take on a personality of its own. It is like his penis is standing straight up healthy back style during the gospel reading at Vespers. Shit. Wolverine vacillates by turning his head and blushing and pelting out queries.

 

“Uh-uh-uh. Omigod Dave, what do I say?”

 

“I believe you don’t say anything. Just let your characters sexual acumen do the talking.  You don’t even have to role.”

 

Wolverine’s sexual acumen has risen three character levels since last week when Hale made a bet with Patrick that Wolverine could so too with his Hairy Irish-Canadian tongue floss Maxima’s ass like a g-string. Wolverine and Juggernaut made a bet-the looser having to embarrass themselves by performing a rendition of what damn near everyone residing in Air city labels as OPERA DRAG (due to SideArms proclivity an insistence of Tosca and the opera lasting eight hours and everyone, with the exception of Side himself-being bored to fucking tears until Jasmine decided to take matters personally into her own petite charred hands by soaring out stage during the flight ride of the  Valkyries, hoisting up the pantaloons and corset of Soaring Valkyrie Winkie #3, revealing urinary protective undergarments as the burgundy curtain went limp and fell and SideArms refused for some reason to talk to the team as a whole for two weeks.

 

“So Maxima, to answer your very thought provoking query,”

 

“Which isn’t, if I may so amend, the only thing thought provoking?”

 

“Shut up Dave, Wolverine isn’t talking to you, he’s talking to Maxima-this is bad enough.”

 

 “Alright sorry.”

 

“Anyway-I would begin with a rather intimate tour of the Linen Unit; make sure all the bundles are ...."

 BEEEEEEEEEP

“What.”

 

“Dude sorry, incoming call. Hold on a second bro.”

 

“Alright. Yeah.”

 

Click.

 

“Hey-how’s it going?”

 

“Whew-who, my dear friend Mister VonBehren, how is life with you here today on this rather fine day?”

 

“Going all good, holms-just got P-man on the other line right now.”

 

“Whenever you say P-man I think of a super capped hero with an upside down triangle and a giant P in the center of his chest, boasting to his fellow Justice leaguers about the substantial hang-time of his juicing abilities.”

 

VonBehren is quiet. Hale continues. “It’s the Pee man, da-duh-duh-duuuuuum!” Hale trumpets before making twinkling noises in the phone. VonBehren begins to laugh, remembers Patrick on the other line and rejoins the conversation.

 

“What is it that Patrick always says, coffee drinkers have elongated bladders.”

 

“Yuck. Coffee. Who would ever drink coffee? A crisp, cool refreshing Mountain Dew is all I ever need to get me through the day.” Hale adds, with a prominent belch.

 

“And a little Doctor Pepper for those late night dice clacking endeavors?”

 

“Anyway, the reason I was calling is because I was wondering if our plan was still-how shall I say it my dear friend?-intact.” Whether he has been formally introduced to the individual or not, Hale, the heavy hearted almond eyed B.F.G.always refers to human beings as his dear friends. Almost always. This is inclusive of Mailmen, hygiene deficient salesclerk, green felted Mall Police Mounties, the entire U.S. population above age sixty especially if the conversation centers around BINGO halls, craft shows, or the recent happening at the local EAGLES or VFW, Wyld Side employees and esp. meter readers who also happen to be single mothers. Hale himself is capable of starting a damn fine conversation of almost about damn near everything and nothing at the same time.

 

“What plan?”

 

 

“You know, the reason Juggernaut is out of town this weekend-does Patrick know yet?”

 

“Know what?”

 

“Like we haven’t already discussed this in private on the Monkey bars last Thurs.,  Whinestein.”

 

“………”

 

“You know, when Patrick was in trouble for writing that lewd note to Alicia Donaghue which he claimed was ‘to the extreme’ personal and which never intended on sending but she somehow received it anyoleways.”

 

“Note?”

 

“Yes, the note where Patrick invited Alicia over to the new gambling boat so that he could put quarters in her slot machine and hopefully suck on her whirling cherries all night long.”

 

“That’s why Patrick is always panhandling us for spare change”

 

“No, it was only a note. A story. More like a journal entry type of thingy, you know.”

 

“Oh yeah-is he still in trouble for that?”

 

“Apparently his death sentenced has been, how shall we say it, emotionally mitigated since-after his three thousands, sentences in which he had to chalk out GOD DOES NOT FULLY APPRECIATE ME SAYING THAT I WANT TO STUFF MY MEAT INTO ALICIA’S DONAGHUE’S TACO IN EITHER THOUGHT, WORD OR DEED heavily chalking the sentences out using what Mr. Mooney called a scientific mixture of Greek and ancient Hebrew hieroglyphics he diluted himself, Mr. Mooney scolded Patrick, telling him that if he would have memorized, as he was supposed to in the first place, Luther’s Small Catechism, and maybe learned how to shoot from the arch, Patrick would have vividly recalled the later portion of the prayers which says something to the extent of ALL THAT I HAVE DONE, AND ALL THAT I HAVE LEFT UNDONE, and in Patrick’s case, trying to get some from a Varsity cheerleader is certainly something which he should have left undone right from the very outset of his endeavor.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Well, anyway. Patrick was trying to chisel out these chalk emblems on the board when Mistress Marilyn walks in.”

 

“Who?”

 

“You know—Marilyn who feeds you seconds, thirds and sixteenth helpings of tatter tots everyday.”

 

“AwyeeeeeeaaaaaaaaH.” VonBehren nods into the side of the phone when saying o and then affirming it.

 

“Well anyway Marilyn comes, sees Patrick and then kinda smiles her gingerbread glisten dimple homecookin’ sweetheart smile to herself upon seeing Patrick. Now Patrick, knowing that Coach M is a self-confessed hornball himself, gleans this as an amble opportunity to wedge himself out of the peanut butter and shitsandwhich coach M. is trying to make him with.”

 

“So what does he do?”

 

“He simply looks at Marilyn and suggests a few, how shall we say it, slight changes to the Lunch menu.”

 

“Which were?”

 

“We’ll, he tells Marilyn that for Lunch tomorrow he would like nothing more, nothing less than rubber balls and liqueur. To which Mr. Mooney, looking at some kind of map stabled out of what is obviously a periodical in a VBS book cover states that he considers himself  somewhat of a single-malt whisky dilettante himself and prefers only the finest whiskeys. Basin and Jefferson’s reserve come first to mind, and come to think about it, aren’t you a little young to be sniffing around in the Faculty liqueur cabinet young man. Patrick informs Mr. Mooney that only once, when he was helping put away folding chairs (in their place you know, the long scary catacombs underneath the west end of the stage, where all the folding chairs are kept) did he tumble upon a secret door bolted closed which smelled like long thick rugs of cigar smoke and Patrick stayed back there just a little too long (hoping to get the, as he calls it  ‘salubrious’ long term affects of second hand smoke) when he hears Holly Lyons father clicking together glass vessels containing ice, talking about Marilyn Claussen, and god damn, that ass of hers is so tight you could use it to screw a Phillips with-to which Mr. Mooney responded to Mr. Lyons, or at least you can use it just to Screw the hell out of-which of course, is what I always do.”

 

“What happened then?”  

 

 “Well, Mr. Mooney, still obsessed with his map foldout and forgetting that Madame Marilyn actually is in the room , says something along the lines of, yes, I remember vividly that night, that was the night where I ended up hooking up with so and so from the SMASH –Soccer Moms Against Sole Husbandry…..and the next thing you know Madame Marilyn is swamping a Chinese WOK over Coach M.’s temple, claiming that even though she may sauté meat, she is certainly not a piece of meat to be sautéed if you know what I mean, my dear friend.”

 

“So then what happened?”

 

“We’ll, apparently Patrick worked something out with both of them-Marilyn agreed not to douse this years Potato Pancake batter with cyanide if Coach M would agree to halt flirting and philandering with the married mothers residing  in thee hallways after school.”

 

“And Patrick’s role in this is?”

 

“Mr. Mooney told Patrick that he would look thee other way the next time Patrick cussed out Aron Bowman in the school lunchroom, but that he would still have to take Aron’s word for it if tattled upon. Also, Coach M. Suggested a special intervarsity game where the CLS all-stars would play Veterans of Foreign wars (most of are on Oxygen or in wheel chairs)-at thee VFW for Memorial Day. Coach M said that he was toying with the idea of changing the schools name form the Christ Lutheran Comets to the Christ Lutheran Cavities for this one game-and seeing here that Patrick has more crowns in his mouth than the damn British monarchy, he was wondering if Patrick, being such a good sport and all, being such a team player-would arrive in a specialized double zero jersey and kind of warm up the crowd by pretending to shoot free throws with customized Lawrence Welk basketballs and (inadvertently) hitting thee VFW’s seventyish something coach, who Mr. Mooney claimed was both devious and Evangelical.”

 

 

 “SHIT!”

 

BEEEEEEEEEEEP.

 

“Anyway, my dear friend, now that you have been sufficiently updated on thee status quo of our dear friend, might I allow you to return me the favor by reassuring me that OUR plan to sexually quash Patrick’s feeble emotional acumen is indeed intact.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“So are you telling me that he doesn’t suspect a thing?”

 

“NO, he doesn’t know yet.”

 

“He-he. This should be so funny. Wait til' he finds out.”

 

BEEEEEEEP

 

 

“Shit Dave, hold on, he must have hung up and then peddled back in. Hold on.”

 

Click.

 

“I’m waiting.”

 

“Patrick?”

 

“Uh, yeah— Sir, I believed you left me hangin’.”

 

“With that adamantium skeletal frame of yours I don’t believe anything should be hanging. Believe it or not Hale himself is on the other line.”

 

“Hale doesn’t know anything about this yet does he?”

 

“Know what?”

 

“That I’m fucking his fiancé while he’s out of town.”

“Know what?”

 

“That I’m about ready to drill more holes in Maxima than a firing range.”

 

“Relax, he doesn’t know a thing. I have a simultaneous single hero catharsis involving Hale coming to terms with his long lost genealogy. It’ll really piss him off when his character discerns that this long lost twin brother of his is a cross-over form Flanagan’s campaign.”

 

“What!!!! Why do all the good adventures always happen to him?” Patrick comments into the shell of the phone in a querulous semi-nasal drawl.

 

“Excuse me, who is fucking Maxima right now?”

 

“Well…”

 

“And who, dare I remind you my dear friend, was the sole Hero and intergalactic avatar of our all out role playing war last weekend?”

 

“Ok, ok-I can’t bitch too much.”

 

“You keep confusing me with the GM down the street.”

 

“Alright, you can please shut up now and continue.”

 

“And who, dare I say, has the highest intellectual acuity of any Marvel-DC character crossover with the exception of SideArms.”

 

“Dave, I said I’m sorry now plug it! Back to Wolverine’s sexual esca-“

 

“Hold on a second. Hale must have dialed back in. Hold on.”

 

“Hello.”

 

“Whew-hoo-does he know yet?”

 

“Know-he hasn’t the foggiest.”

 

 

“Well, while myself and my fair, God Damn oh so voluptuous red haired fiancé are attending the Surrogate Human Initiative Conference, I think I shall  purchase a decoy of Dakota North as well-you know-for the Old Iron Horse-you know what they say, Dave,”

 

“No. What?”

 

“Just because the old horse is made out of Iron doesn’t mean that can keep the old horse from ever climbing out of the corral. Whew-hoo.”

 

“Very funny Dave.”

 

“Hey, Dave, do me a favor, it will be funny.  Click over to thee other line real quick and tell Patrick what I just told you, only tell him that my character said it when he was at a conference.”

 

 For some inexplicable reason Hale pronounces the word ‘the’ in a very King James sort of way.

 

“Go on, tell him. It will be fun.”

 

“Alright, hold on.”

 

CLICK

 

“Bout time.”

 

“Patrick chill.”

 

“NO, you chill, in my sole thirteen years of life on this putrid planet this is the absolute closest I’ve ever been to achieving anything that even closely resembles the configuration of a coitus and all you can do is to click over to the other line and spoon-feed Hale’s nuthouse with grim details about his tattered past!”

 

“Patrick!”

 

“Dude, literally, I’m sorry. This whole cuckolding Hale with Maxima just makes me so Horny that I keep forgetting which instrument is in which hand if you know what I mean.”

“Patrick!”

 

“Literally, I nearly sprayed my paints thinking about globs of Red Hair and her svelte skin pressed up against mine like a removable yet steadfast bookend.”

 

 

 

“Patrick—dude man, listen. Before you go through with this you have to realize one thing: Maxima is not a real creature. If anything she’s contrived out of outlines, ink plops and white bubbles. I excerpted her from a Superman Comic last February purely because I felt that Juggernaut needed a little bit of loving plus I realized that Hale always had sort of a thing for redheads with short skirts and tire-sized knockers. Patrick, listen to me here, all she really is an assimilation of mass quantities of ink scripted out of an imagination much more creatively adept than my own.”

 

“What?”

 

BEEEEEEEP

 

“What I’m saying is that Maxima is just a fiction.”

 

Patrick’s face falls very silent once again.  Another Beep is heard. VonBehren reiterates his cosmology about fact versus fiction.  He tells Patrick that she is nothing more or less than a seventy-five cents per syndication.

 

“Not to me she’s not.”

 

BEEEEEEEEP

 

“Hold on, Hale’s probably wanting to know more about his hazy past.”

 

“Speaking of which, when is that long overdue organ of Wolvie episode ‘spose to…”

 

“Hold on…Hale?”

 

“E-e, what did he say?”

 

“Oh, the P-man made a bet.”

 

“Which is?”

 

“He thinks that Wolverine can fuck Maxima’s brains out while simultaneously decimating the act all across the contiguous US on Cable access (Speedball has been dabbling) and that this will not only prove that he is the superior Chef Wolvie—'better than Juggernaut is or now and will ever be’ when it comes to sex but also that, when Juggernaut sees the ad-because his intelligence is, as Patrick (oops, I mean Wolvie puts it) a few French fries short of a McDonald Happy meal, will, when viewing the seventy-nine cable access documentary on the Joys of Mutant-Alien intercourse and infidelity, be so bemused at the whole situation that Juggernaut will wonder out loud what Maxima is doing running a campaign for Icelandic Yogurt and distilled non-lactose dairy products.”

 

“What?”

 

“Or he said something like that to that extent anyway.”

 

“Tell him he’s on. He-he-Dave, can you make the ersatz Maxima’s head tumble over, or give Wolvie’s pecker a jolting electric shock when he first, he-he, how shall we say it, Plugs her into thee old socket.”

 

“Yeah—no problem. Geez, you guys are vindictive.”

 

“All I can say is that Patrick deserves it since his so-called holier-than-thou-approach to-BUUUUURRRRR-“

 

“Hold on,”

 

“Just call me back when you are…”

 

Click.

 

“Jayzus farkin’ Crest-what does a hairy-assed Canadian minority have to do to get some ass around here?”

 

“Patrick, don’t you think that’s a little extreme-you should really quit fucking with your team mates like that.”

 

“HA! I find it rather humorous. Juggy always gets the girls. I mean, shit, this is like my one chance to bolster and better my self-image. After I’ve done the horizontal tango with Maxima I’ll be a new man.”

 

“I believe you mean mutant.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

“You make it sound like Wolverine is going to give up cigars, get a short haircut, and even vote in the primaries next year.”

 

“Dave. Listen, ink droppings on recycled papers or not, you just don’t realize inside how important this is to me right now. I mean, think about it, not only me, but my mutant bildungsroman.”

 

“What,”

 

“Spelling bee word, I’ll get back to later. Anyway, think about it for a moment Mutant and superheroes are, like us, essentially lonely. When a superhero isn’t using his cape to fly he’s using it as a blanket to cry in. Do you think anyone wants to date let alone marry a superhero—the demands. The schedule. I’m a mutant-synonymous with the word freak. That’s freak. Who wants a freak? Look at Holly and Angie and Karen. Do you think they want to fuck a freak? They don’t even want to be associated with freaks in any way, shape or form.”

 

“Patrick.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Calm down, it’s only a game.”

 

“No-I won’t calm.... .”

Beeeeeeep

 

“Hold on a second bro- It’s Hale. OK?”

 

“NO! I won’t calm down until she’s in my arms and we’ve consummated the deed and the only thing left for us to do is to chain smoke our post coital cigarette together and romanticize about our perfect future together. That is the only thing left to do, and all I am waiting for you to do is just give me the old go ahead. The thumbs up. The green light. All you have to do is have Maxima say that one word, that one word I’ve been waiting to hear all my life. Then and only then will I calm the fuck…..hello? Dave? Hello? Son of a…

 

“BEEEEEEEEP.”