The Mystery Science of Harsh Millennium Files, Part 2
Meanwhile, over at Castle Forrester, Pearl
is spending a clement afternoon groping a captive and suicidal
Michael Flately, Bobo burbles like trout in vats of Cheetos, as
the Department of Transportation trowels asphalt into the moat
in preparation for an I-95 extension, which will allow Pearl greater
access to dim-bulb tourists with wads of traveler's checks that
can aid in her plot towards global domination.
Suddenly, an albino bat dipped in blueberry enamel flaps into
the room, the bow-shock flattening his indigo noodle to a glassy
sheen like a best-of-show schnauzer.
"Pearl!" yelps Brain Guy, "We have company!"
"Busy. Go away."
"Did they bring snacks?" queries Bobo, plush in a queasy
orange flourescent hue and more annoying than a rendering plant
at high noon.
"Ms. Forrester?" says Dana Scully, striding through
the door with confident presumption, looking for all the world
like Miss America trying to impersonate an androgenous dwarf and
failing miserably, "We are with the FBI and have received
information that someone is seditiously planning global domination.
You are our only lead."
"'We?'", asks Pearl, Bobo, and Brain Guy, slightly addled.
Scully looks around, in what appears to be chronic pique and barely
a nanosecond away from napalming a petting zoo in frustration,
when finally a vapid and non-descript man wanders into the room,
clothed in a spangled Speedo and roseate smiles, accompanied by
a small child singing 'Love is Blue'.
"This," continues Scully distastefully, "Is my
partner, Fox Mulder."
"Hi," says Fox, attempting to strike a manly pose as
automatic weapons and cell phones pour clattering out of every
orifice like lug nuts from an SUV glove-box.
"And I'm Jordan Black!" squeaks the young girl, carrying
a dead parakeet dressed in Barbie's 'Princess of Darkness' ensemble.
"Nonono," chortles the indulgent Mulder, squatting down
giddily like a Budweiser frog preparing to disco, "You're
really my sister, Samantha, abducted by space aliens and teleported
to their home planet where you were victimized by vicious body
probes and hideous mind-wipes before being returned to earth which
had aged decades but you didn't, so I promise to make up for those
lost years with lots of trips to Six Flags and Sea World and Uncle
Willy's Raunch Ranch where, to be honest, I'd rather be right
now whether you'd showed up or not."
(.....beat......beat.....)
"You gotta warrant?" demands Pearl, "Cuz I got
lawyers."
"And I got the IRS," replies Scully.
(stand-off)
"Hooo-key dokey," coos Pearl, "Let's see now, hmm,
'global domination', wow, that's scary stuff, uh huh. Oh look!
Down there! Branch Davidians!"
As Scully and Mulder swoop grimly down the castle's granite spiral
stairs, glutinous with roach scat and arming their combination
Rebel-killer spike/scud missile/make-up kit/blow dryers, Pearl
throws the bolt on the drawbridge and drags her bemused and rooted
cohorts into the secret hidden inner sanctum/sauna/Lucretia Borgia
museum.
"Ok, guys," whispers Pearl, "We either got competition
or one of you ratted me out to the feds, in which case I'm gonna
grind you both to sloshing bottles of snot, or it's 'good-bye
hob-nailed leather friends' for you, Brain Guy, and 'Farewell
double-filtered-walrus-oil' for you Bobo, and 'Bye bye bon-bon-blast
bonanza' for me and all of us are knee-deep in 'Leavenworth-here-we-come'
no matter what."
"Why don't we just ask Chris Carter what all of this means?"
interjects Brain Guy helpfully.
(.....beat.....beat....)
"Think of something!" yells Pearl, gazing fiercely at
Bobo, then suddenly realizing that she might as well ask earthworms
to polka. "We're gonna need reinforcements," she mutters
darkly.
It was as if Pearl had uttered a soaring and imperative cosmic
prayer to the lofty Fates of grasping monomaniacal ladies shackled
on the down-escalator to Felon World, because slowly and relentlessly,
aid came rumbling over the horizon on nimbi of gaudy-throated
sirens, gim-crack side-swiping crashes, and small-arms fire.
"Now what?" groans Pearl, in the head-holding throes
of ignominious defeat, "Leprosy?"
"Well," observed Brain Guy, peering out the barred and
razor-wire encrusted castle-tower window, "It appears to
be the 32nd Airborne in an armor-plated Ford Torino."
To be continued.....