The Mystery Science of Harsh Millennium Files, Part 4
"But, I *am* merciful," says
Omar Santiago, exhausted and recumbent in his customized 'James
Cameron I-own-Hollywood' barcalounger, after spending the day
dropping anvils on puppies. "Someday, I'll be bigger than,
oh, Connery. Yes! I will boink my granddaughter's girlfriends
and Vito Corleone will send *me* wedding cakes!"
"Yeth, Mathtah," snivels Krychek, leaving a gelatinous
snail-trail across the endangered baby seal-skin throw rug, "But
the higher ATM charges are making the masses.......uneasy."
"Two thousand years, and it's come to this," mourns
Frank Black, filling his online Land's End shopping cart with
hair-shirts and burlap.
Suddenly, the gilded rococo acoustic ceiling tiles char, crumble,
and collapse in a flaming heap as Mike Pinocchio's Ford Torino
crashes onto the faux marble formica floor, crushing two of the
myriad computer terminals, denying Santiago the opportunity to
insert Jamie Lee Curtis into 'Blair Witch 2', and sending Cancer
Man flopping into the basement where an imprisoned Tooms leeringly
dispatches him with bilious haste.
"You're finished, Omar!" yells Pinocchio, somewhat hindered
in displaying his innate macho demeanor by a weeping, love besotted
Brain Guy latched onto his black-spandexed thigh like an azure
remora, and resulting in an intimidation factor equivalent to
Bambi wielding a sprig of mistletoe.
"Spread 'em!" exclaims Scully, now hunched to half her
already diminutive size and hennaed from head to toe due to riding
in the trunk with Bobo.
"Can I get 'Doom' on this thing?" asks Mulder, sauntering
around the nerve center of global domination.
"Give it up, Tyrant Boy," thunders Pearl, "No phony
candy-ass parallel universe can compete with the authentic terrors
of 'Red Zone Cuba'."
Omar, frozen in shock, was not long deflected by this display
of aggression from a bizarre legion of Saturday morning escapees,
and began examining his many options of reducing this mob to iridescent
sludge on a floppy disk. But before he could flip the switch labelled
'copy and delete', a sonic boom shook western Canada and half
the room imploded as a paper-mache/polyethylene space-station
escape pod drop-loaded smack on Santiago's knotty pine downsized
middle manager power desk, shattering eardrums clear to Ottawa.
Skinner wasted no time in pounding the cringing Krychek into dingy
lubricant, and then, his rage spent like a maxed out Visa, went
looking for a balcony.
"Now what?" asks Mike Nelson, "Teleport him to
Metaluna?"
"Wouldn't work," says Emma, wan and weak at having the
ouroboros tattoo removed from her backside by a very clumsy Torgo
with a belt sander, "He's a hologram."
"Ok," says Mike thoughtfully, "Pirates of the Caribbean,
then."
"Why don't we just wait for Y2K," says Servo, "When
he'll revert back into 'Pong'?"
"Why don't we just unplug him?," says Crow
(.....beat.......beat.....)
Omar Santiago, cunning as yoghurt but dimly aware that he was
also a stationary target, summons up the better (and more prudent)
part of valor and slithers out a wall socket in a cowardly display
of short-circuited self-absorption and takes temporary refuge
inside a cuisinart at Sears, but not before punching the 'Tour
of Hell' button that renders active every one of the booby traps
fiendishly installed within his cinder block and plywood citadel
of scurvy perfidy.
"We're being broadsided by phone jacks!" yells Crow,
as the migrating anacondas of spring-loaded terminal cables quickly
swath and entomb our heroes like gift-wrapped moorings, slithering
into nostrils and downloading into brain-pans each individual's
most vigorous nightmare and Hellraiser spam.
"Oh no!" cries Servo, "I'm a lawn jockey at a Wichita
Petsmart surrounded by packs of Irish Setters with spastic bladders
the size of beer kegs!"
"Count your blessings," snorts Pearl, "I'm selling
Mary Kay from the back of a Toyota."
"Oh swell," says Frank Black, "I'm Linda Blair."
"Where'd this Harley come from," asks Mike Nelson, "And
what the heck is Sturgis?"
"Trade you," says Skinner, "I'm working graveyard
red-capping baggage through La Guardia."
"Serves you right," says Scully, "For sending me
to the Aleutians investigating crop circles. Upside, this cable
just rootered out the rest of my tumors."
"Not much change here," says Mulder, "Still doing
background checks at Taco Bell."
"I'm a Thigh Master!" wails Crow.
Shelly the nanite, alarmed and powerless, watches as Gypsy dredges
river bottoms in the Everglades and as Pinocchio opens a Vidal
Sassoon franchise. What they needed now was a savior, all-powerful,
a gallant colossus of courage, who would remain stalwart against
any diabolical foe the universe could fashion, and it suddenly
came to her whom that would be. Yes indeed, thought Shelly, as
she escaped to hunt for their superstar of liberation, it could
only be one man, their only and last best hope. It was.........
To be continued..........