The Mystery Science of Harsh Millennium Files, Part 1
Omar Santiago, Chris Carter's wet-dream
version of Grigory Rasputin, was very worried. It was true, he
pondered deeply, that he now ran the world, including Dow Jones,
Usenet, the Mustang Ranch, AT&T, Taco Bell, FOX, General Motors,
MasterCard, Charmin, Star Wars and Trek, Nike, a few religions,
Hot Pockets, the postal service, and everything else that humanity
held sacred, with a benign, albeit merciless and lethal hand,
he was not yet content, no, frightfully distressed, that the one
thing he could not control was insidiously scheming to bring about
his personal doom and ruin his life-long vision of porking more
interns than any gelatinous politician could not imagine without
swooning. He must find the meaty, pulsating heart of this nemesis,
and crush it. The hair implants could wait.
"You!" exclaimed Omar imperiously, as he turned to his
cringing assistant, flailing him raw with a lacerating glance,
"Bring me my most worthy operative!"
"Yeth, Mathtah," puled Krychek, as he oozed under the
door and down the elevator shaft with Renfield-like alacrity,
and a quick backwards reptilian smirk that chilled the normally
stoic Omar down to his bronze jock.
"Well," thought Omar abjectly, "I'll have to kiss
him again. But no more tongues."
For the next hour, Omar amused himself with the cyanotic carcass
of Thomas Hobbes, downloading jpgs into his victim's brainpan
of his dog Dexter foolishly following Queequeg into the swamp,
and Thomas' beloved fiancee Sophie morphing into Bella Abzug.
But, he soon tired of these diversions, and ratcheted the former
Navy Seal back to the overflowing frozen-tuna storage facility
where countless slabs of soldiers and green-goo space aliens were
spilling out into the streets.
"Peter?" whispered Frank Black from a corner of Omar's
well-appointed office high atop the Vancouver Soil Conservation
District's headquarters. "What you're doing is wrong, so
wrong. It's Satan, Peter. You dance with the Devil and now he's
fox-trotting you to perdition, macrenaing your soul into hopeless
doom and eternal despair, disco-ing your life towards a vast,
empty abyss of-"
"I appreciate it, Frank," said Omar soothingly while
stuffing a phone book down Frank's gullet, "And I will always
be grateful for the diversions you created to save me. Dragging
Spender's head-shot corpse into my living room was pure genius.
And I can never thank you enough for taking my place when that
federal building exploded. Good thing you've got the aged and
indestructible hide of a runnelled formica rhino, huh, Frank?
But, let's face it buddy, haven't I given you everything you've
ever desired and yearned for? Lara Means looney and spread-eagled
in leather? An unlimited line of credit at Goodwill? An erection?
Work with me on this, Frank."
As Frank continued gurgling about eternal, cosmic torment, Omar's
precious secret agent strode confidently through the door, bathed
in Arctic ice and Nicoderm patches, breathing shallowly like a
pneumatic turbine with a slack fanbelt.
"(*COUGH, HACK*)," said Cancer Man, coating the walls
with phlegm.
"Ah, there you are, my friend," gushed Omar, gingerly
placing an arm around CSM's ravaged and heaving shoulders while
simultaneously avoiding clots of lung tissue spewed out onto the
floor.
"(WHEEZE,GAG*)," said the nefarious icon of reeking
plaid LL Bean power ties, as Omar Lysoled the furniture.
"Yes, yes, I'm sorry," groaned Omar, "Transferring
the entire holdings of R.J. Reynolds into your Zurich account
went smoothly, but the title to western Kentucky is being held
up in court by the FDA."
"(*GASP, CHOKE*)".
"Happily," brightened Omar, "We got Dolly Parton
to donate her lungs. You'll be back on the championship bowling
circuit in no time. Now, sit down here (pat pat) and listen to
my final plan for global domination."
Slowly and relentlessly, like an embodied pustulating zit of zeal,
Omar laid out procedures for finding and neutralizing this last
and most powerful barrier thwarting him like a baby with a fishhook
pacifier, as CSM listened intently over the sounds of his spavened
and sprung diaphragm slapping against the carpet.
"We will reverese their planetary acclaim," sneered
Omar distastefully, "We will shred every fiber of disgusting
bonhomie which has infected the hearts of humanity, and replace
it with our own patented brand of drive-thru existence and all-you-can-eat
cubed and freeze-dried holistic life-on-a-bun. But first we must
find it. We must hunt it down without cease, giving it no advantage
nor escape. Make no mistake. We will corner, and then destroy,
this 'Satellite of Love'"............
To be continued..........