The Mystery Science of Harsh Millennium Files, Part 3
Meanwhile, up in the Satellite of Love,
Mike Nelson is inflicting his robot friends with vivid tales of
his childhood adventures in the cheese-wrapping profession, and
relating embarrassing confessions of the adolescent pursuit of
pulchritude, until everyone, including Cambot and Mike himself
has about nodded off. As Gypsy leads Mike aft for nap time, Crow
and Servo dive head-first into the shimmering reactor core for
a little recharging.
"Ya know," muses Crow, "I have this sudden craving
for global domination."
"That happened to me once," replies Servo, "Until
they threatened to fill my shorts with fire ants."
Suddenly, a terrible booming noise rose from outside the hull.
"The Hell......?" says Servo.
"You order out again?" asks Crow.
"Incoming!" yells Gypsy, as the hexfield viewscreen
cranks open to capacity, and FBI Assistant Director Walter Skinner
comes hurling onto the SOL like a meaty ballistic suppository,
bouncing off the bulkheads, mashing his area on the Rowsdower
memorial engine block, which renders him helpless, flacid, and
as jolly as anthrax.
"Hey, it's Goldberg," says Servo.
"Where...Who....!?" gasps and demands the testosterone-soaked
Skinner, in a voice that could shatter sequoia and induce alien
invaders to reconsider global domination and haul ass for home.
"Roswell," replies Crow, "I'm Michael Rennie."
"Hey guy," says Mike, chipper and delighted as if he'd
just discovered fire, "Welcome aboard."
Skinner slowly recovers his equilibrium and wonders how he could
go from turtle-waxing his pearly pecs one minute to being catapulted
through the vacuum of space and nearly unmanned by Muppets and
a goofy vanilla rattlehead the next.
"Maybe he was mugged by a worm-hole," says Servo.
"Or drop-kicked by Kevin Nash," says Mike.
"We're not hiring right now, Imhotep" says Crow.
"It was me!" hollars Shelly the nanite from Skinner's
substantial shoulder, "We've been living in his bloodstream
since last season. If it weren't for us bulking him up, he'd look
just like Michael Jeter."
"Imagine living inside a pork roast," ponders Servo.
"You're in terrible danger!" she continues, "A
monomaniacal jar-head reject has reprogrammed SimCity and is taking
over the world! He's already plundered Yahoo and everyone's ending
up at Stepfather.com, getting their brains bashed in with wall
phones and strapped to exploding Pepsi vending machines! Plus,
he's demanding that everyone grow a wussy moustache. And now he's
coming after the SOL!"
"Why?" asks Crow, "He wants to corner the market
on crappy movies?"
"We really should save the earth again, Mike," says
Servo, "But this time you be Willis and I'll be Affleck."
"No one's going anywhere," says Emma Hollis, rolling
in on a cordon of tail-eating snakes. "Yes, that's right,
Mr. Skinner, *I* am the traitor in your midst. Omar Santiago cured
my father's Alzheimers and got him a job quarterbacking for the
Green Bay Packers, plus he got me bigger residuals than Duchovney's
sorry ass is ever going to see, and I've sold him my soul, now
and forever."
"Chris Carter is the Antichrist?" asks Servo.
"See what happens when part-time surfers get a lucky break?"
replies Crow.
"And don't even *think* about snapping my neck again, Walter,"
says Emma, glaring at Skinner, "That tiresome bit of foreplay
is no longer frightful when you've spent two days in a peat bog
with Frank Black."
"Whoa, here now," says Mike, placid but confused, wondering
if he'd somehow managed to stumble into a 'Lifetime' movie, "No
need to be unfriendly, is there? C'mon guys."
"Step back slowly, Mike," warns Servo, with visions
of Mike's head marinating in a gravy pan while Scully dissects
it like a pomegranate because Mulder is convinced it's either
a space-alien marital aid or Leonard Betts' Tupperwared lunch.
Suddenly, a bright purple dervish enters the room, blowing and
plastering assembled protagonists against the keel like an Ocean
Spray ceiling fan attacking soggy porno videos stored in a leaky
water bed.
"Here's the deal, Girlfriend," whispers Gypsy into Emma's
flattened ear, "You can either stand down now, or spend the
rest of your life like Diane Fowley, bedding emphasematic skeletal
geezers, trying to seduce delusional special agents who haven't
seen a mammary since infancy and couldn't be pried from the fetal
position with a diesel drag-line, while your prematurely aged
fly-blown fizz could clear a ballroom at the J. Edgar Hoover Memorial
Genderless Singles' Night, then desperately renting yourself out
to Psychic Friends just to hear another human voice."
"Deal," says Emma without hesitation.
"So," says Servo, "We're gonna battle global domination?"
"Not without major medical and dental," says Crow.
"I better pack a bigger thong," says Mike.
"Feeeeeeeltheeeeeeee peeeeeegz," says Estrella.
"Can I keep Skinner?" asks Shelly, "I have a requisition."
To be continued.........