On the 12th of May, pack your essentials and the board the train to Calvington. You’ll pack seven bathing suits, whereas my cunning self shall pack none. Note that we shall spend one week with the Livington-Grambles and then head out to Wembley where Lord Morrie Tad Barbie shall host us. Oh, how you will adore him! Give my best to Orson and the twins.

Sincerely,

The distinct aroma of greasy McDonald’s wrappers, the surround smell of styrofoam enriched coffee, and bladders on the turbulent brink.

Putter-purring engine, strip club billboards shouting, ‘FREE SHOWERS FOR TRUCKERS’, and silence.

We make scheduled stops. We make unscheduled stops. Parking in the hotel garage, like gas, food, and mental stability, will be reimbursed at a later date. Sally keeps her receipts in a special ziplock deeply hidden within the folds of her enormous handbag/purse. Frank jams his into a zippered compartment in his slacks. He also eats Cheetos for lunch and tucks the aforementioned slacks into his bizcas loafers.

Things you can count on: Frank’s sloppy lethargy, Sally’s 2003 autographed Purpose Driven Life Trapper Keeper, and my tendency to mix deep…into the crowd and drinks at the mini-bar. Yes, we’re all on auto-pilot: defense-mode. The schedule leaves nothing to chance or creativity. In fact, if a conference planner sees a creative being stabbed to death with an ink pen, they run for a paper towel and stain remover.

But, that is neither here nor there. Where are we? In a “session.” It looks like the University of Jimstragglee-Bowmanton has flown in a professor to talk about their research grant. Mainly, he is scratching his head, dictating monotone, and fiddling with his laser pointer. Eye candy, unbuttoned graduate students are passing out PowerPoint slide outlines. Yes, we listen to the slides being read, watch them on the projector, and read them on our heavily bound print-outs. These things last 30 or 45 minutes a piece and I don’t wear a watch. Shades of high school. I can’t bear to watch.

Did I mention this is a “Conference on Higher Learning”? In Higher Learning we’re obsessed with technology. Dear reader, I sense perspiration. Never fear. We aren’t doing anything to change your beloved status quo with this technology. No, we’re merely purchasing it at an alarming rate to compensate for the speed of innovation and the simultaneous stagnation of bureaucracy. It’s simple really. Buy an attractively packaged piece of software. Wait about a year and buy more expensive software to bypass the need to understand the last round. And the cycle is in motion. Hire the young, burn them, buy new software.

Ah, glad you’re up to speed. Come along, it’s time to take a look at swag. I’m lucky and I’ll be manning our booth today. Feel free to pick up a copy of our team’s weighty PowerPoint print-outs. And here’s a free pen in a plastic bag. Did you see it has our logo on it? High five! Thanks for stopping by. Be sure to stop at the other 40 tables. You’ll notice it’s a bit like a science fair in here. Pssst. I heard they have free mousepads over at table 26. First come, first serve!

Around six, we’ll be be dining in the hotel’s high-priced restaurant where Ponderosa meets Olive Garden. Meet me around seven down at the bar. We’ll talk about nothing but work. Nothing strenuous — just killing off the corrupted brain cells, the ones to weak too carry on in this line of work. The good news is you’ll drop like a stone when you hit that hotel bed. No dreams, tossing, or turning, just the sound of the 5am alarm. You, yawning, and getting ready to do it again.

I slowly and involuntarily made to get out of bed. The big problem was, I wasn’t lying on a bed. I opened my eyes and saw…sky? ‘That can’t be right,’ I decided. I looked around me for an explanation, and what I saw shocked me. ‘Penguins?’ I inquired. I looked down and saw webbed feet…not exactly a great thing when concerning a human being.

When I decided to get up, I realized that I didn’t know how. Trying to roll over, I got strange looks from the penguins and a nice, cold (not to mention unexpected) swim in the ocean. When I got out of the water, I waddled over to the other penguins.

Getting a closer look a them, many bore strong resemblance to my classmates. It was an odd notion, but true. I was sure that somewhere in the crowd, I even heard my friend Jennifer’s incessant laughter.

It took me a moment to find her, but when I did, somehow, there was no doubt in my mind it was she. Simultaneously, we seemed to realize how ironic this was that we had all turned into, penguins. I, for one, didn’t think it was very funny. Apparently, she did.

This should have annoyed me, because she knew perfectly well that I have been utterly terrified of penguins since I was six, and I had a nightmare about an intoxicated penguin exploding in my bedroom, but at this point, I knew Jennifer too well to care. And, anything familiar to me was very welcome. It was then that I realized just how strange and worrisome our situation was.

I cocked my head slightly to one side, hoping she would get the message that I was really confused. At my gesture, she raised her wings in a way that closely resembled a shrug.

I sighed exasperatedly and was shocked when a loud screech pierced the air instead. All the penguins turned to stare, and just as I began trying to find a nice, big hole to crawl in, to hide, so the others would stop staring, Jennifer’s constant giggling snapped me back to reality. I mentally rolled my eyes. Some things would never change, penguins or no penguins.

Two hours later, Jennifer and I were standing together, having a staring contest, because there really wasn’t much else to do. We were all getting a bit hungry by now, because it was seven-thirty, and no one had eaten any breakfast yet. I, personally, would rather starve than eat raw fish! ‘But then again,’ I thought, ‘maybe this would be the perfect time to try it.’

After I won fourteen staring contests in a row, and Jennifer won all the breath-holding contests, we were starting to become comatose. I suggested that we go for a walk to look for food (still using signals). ‘We’re going to get really good at this eventually,’ I thought.

We had been walking for about a half an hour without coming across anything interesting, when I saw a giant bird with a four-foot wingspan, flying straight for us. It was then that I remembered what I had read about penguins earlier this year, and it was nothing good. I was almost positive that this bird was a skua. A skua is a bird that hunts small penguins. This was very bad.

I nudged Jennifer (who hadn’t yet noticed anyting) with my wing, and turned to look at the skua. She obviously understood because the next second, both of us were waddling as fast as our short legs would take us toward the ocean.

When we got there, we dove in, and didn’t come up for a good forty-five seconds. ‘Good thing we had those breath-holding contests,’ I thought to myself. Immediately after we came to the water’s surface, we checked the air for any sign of the skua. When we didn’t see any, my penguin instincts finally got the better of me, and I dove back into the water, grabbing a mouthful of fish.

This relief only lasted about thirty seconds, though, because as I swimming, I saw another natural predator, a seal. I threw Jennifer a panicked look I knew she wouldn’t miss, and swam quickly back to shore, where we both collapsed from exhaustion after our narrow escapes.

The next morning, I awoke to find myself back in my bed, a human being again, and smiling. ‘Another penguin peril.’

“JESUS!” that one screams, silently through the glass and wind. Why’s it gotta be Jesus? I like Jesus. How ’bout I use your religious figure to swear with?
“MOHAMMED!”
Try that for size. Need a new travel-buddy now. Definitely rule out the truckers- they’re about as loyal to non-truckers as George was to Lennie. Buddha H. frickin’ Jones, that one nearly ran me over.

Turn on the radio and hit the scan button to shut them up. There’s Minnesota again, wave and say hi. Double-serving this time, very rare.
“RIGHT NOW YOU CAN GET A BRAND NEW TOYOTA-”
“CAUSE HE’S THE REASON FOR THE TEARDROPS ON MY-”
“- legs were amputated after a grenade-”
“- PUT A HOLE WHERE MY HEART SHOULD BE- EE-EE…”

Hit SCAN again to stop the cycle, hold the 1 to save that station to preset. Don’t know why, since trying to listen to a radio station on the interstate for any extended period of time is like trying to jump on a moving train (and the train is a mirage, speeding from static to Fergie to more static). Song’s over. The DJ makes some stupid joke involving sound effects and a guy getting hit by a car- hey, those are funny… – and one of the five hundred million songs that involve several references to bitches, hoes, hoods, “D’s”, cribs, bling, and of course “lovin’ ” comes on. Joseph Smith, I hate that stuff.

SCAN

A few hours later, there’s under a quarter tank left and it’s getting to be time for some “real” food-Subway is as far as that goes at gas stops. This one has a McDonald’s, and I grudgingly pull in, fill up, park, and walk inside. The line is almost as long and painful as the to-date casualty count. I never was one for euphemisms. But that was a hyperbole. It was nearly as long and painful as a trip to the throne after a week of sausage pizza. Finally, at the front of the line-
“Number Three Meal, please” -without inflection, the give- me- my- food- (crap)- I’ll- PayPass- and- go kind of statement.
A slow sigh, flips her hair back. I feel like the Oracle. Kind of cute… not too bright though.
“Do you want a drink and fries with that?”
A mental double-take. Drink? And fries? AND a meal? What’ll they think of next?
“Uh, yeah.”
She checks her watch, and I wish I had eyes in the front of her head. As if I’m the one holding us up. Where the hell is management? Oh wait, she is…
“You wann that for heah ‘ah t’ go?”
“To go.” With a little inflection on the go, meaning, do I need to light a match under your pretty butt or are you going to hurry up?
“Anything else?”
Will it be a clean guillotine? Apparently not- wait, Jeanine, let me stick my neck in a little further-
“Actually, yeahletmechangeouthatdrinkforacoffee.”
Instant regret. Now I’ve got the worn, torn, line-battered survivors behind me glaring like they recognize me from last night’s episode of To Catch a Predator. Boy, I can forget catching up to the Minnesot’ns now.
“Fuh hee’ah ta go?”
Bite back the sarcasm.
“To go.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Two of each.”
“Fuh hee’ah ta go?”
Are you serious? There’s no holding his one down.
“NAW, I’ll drink the cream and sugar here and take the coffee.”
Now suddenly I’m the bad guy. A steely glare from Cutie McStupid.
“Of course, sir, I’ll be glad to take care of that for you.”
Hokay, don’t get all wet over it or anything. Thank God- no, thank Visa- for PayPass. I’m not too sure God concerned himself too much with that part of the credit company. Though if He did, well, then that figures.
She turns around, heads to the back- I can see it in my ESP now- special instructions for the number 3 with coffee. McLoogie is what I asked for. A few minutes (weeks) later I get the food in a bag, and the cream and sugar on a tray. Ouch. She learned her sarcasm in Mime 101. I slide the whole shebang into the trash can- bin- thing- (SHUT UP!) on the way out. Not sure which part got the hawker but it doesn’t pay to find out the hard way.
Hey, that rhymed. You could make a million bucks like that you know- just add some pimpin’.

Back on the I-(insert random number between anything and anything else here). Heading away, but frankly my dear, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore staying right in the same situation. This isn’t solving a thing. So much for a quick getaway for the week. Swerve around the Buick (are they having an orgy in there or is that a pack of dogs in a rave party?) with the dark tints and make a U-turn on one of those convenient dirt medians that have the sign on it that says…

AUTHORIZED VEHICLES ONLY

Make that an illegal U-turn. Cops these days have the whole Hollywood thing going- you know, Lights, Camera, Action. The safety bumps on the emergency lane let me know I’m pulling over, which would’ve been great if I hadn’t actually noticed that myself. Don’t get me wrong, they’re a great feature- but who likes getting asked for
“License, insurance and registration please.”
I’m always cautious around cops. Some of them can get pretty antsy.
“They’re in the glove box…”
Reaching over, pulling the lever and opening it slowly. Reach in and pull out the papers, slower still until it’s all in plain sight. Look up, but this guy wasn’t even paying attention.
“Officer?”
“Uh, right.”
He takes them, goes back to his car and puts me into his Criminal Database that will forever leave me under intense scrutiny by every state officer who passes by. He comes back a few minutes later with his rugged laptop (because you never know when the coffee’s gonna spill) and says,
“Do you know why I pulled you over?”
Yup, I got the frostiest donut in the box. Never say yes, they’re just trying to make you confess to something else they can charge you with (milk you for more money).
“No sir.”
“You took that U-turn back there, the one with the sign that says NO UNAUTHORIZED VEHICLES.”
Was that what it said?
“Oh.”
“Sign here please, thisisnotanadmissionofguiltyouarejustacknowledgingthatyoureceivedthisticket.”
I make an X on the blank spot on the screen, just to piss him off. He doesn’t notice, just hands me a ticket.
“Righthere’salistofyourpaymentorcourtoptionshaveaniceday.” All business and polite. When I contest this in court, I will truthfully say
“No, Your Honor, that is not my signature”
and get off. No, I don’t remember if someone had borrowed my license… it was a month ago. If the rental company finds out someone else was driving the car, though, there’ll be hell to pay (where Hell=$600 per day). Dawg, I’m tellin’ you, all you need is your grandma’s car jacked up on twenty-four inch wheels and painted sparkly purple…

Back in town the next morning, I turn in the car and get prorated weekly charges on the car, a pittance. Avis probably thought I gypped them. I consider paying for a full two days- what would Confucius do?- but decide against even thinking about it. I was going to go for a week, but changed my mind. Deal with it. The urge to pee hits me suddenly and I think, oddly, that I’m out of lunch meat and haven’t had any pizza lately.

DISCLAIMER
WORDCHASM ACCEPTS NO RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANY BOUTS OF NAUSEA PRODUCED BY READING THIS POST. WHILE IT IS NOT RESTRICTED ON AGE LINES, ANYONE WITH A WEAK CONSTITUTION, A SENSE OF ÆSTHETICS, OR IMPECCABLY GOOD TASTE SHOULD AVOID THIS ARTICLE. WORDCHASM MAY FIND, AT SOME AS-YET-UNDETERMINED TIME, THAT WE, THE UNDERSIGNED, MAY PROVIDE AIRSICKNESS BAGS; OUR CHOICE OF AIRLINE, PLEASE.

FADE UP ON
A burning pickle, wreathed in flame, rising from the smoldering pit of brimstone. It squirts a vinegary stream of hot ketchup out onto an unsuspecting hamburger. It roars, unsure of the giant fork flying toward it, but dodges at the last second. The fork flies into the pit, from which a huge, roiling groan of anguish coils, snakelike, into the foul steam rising. The Pickle looks back into the Pit, shakes what passes for a warty, misshapen head, and moves on.

A Hostess Snacks delivery truck pulls up in front of the camera. A Twinkie™ wearing a bandanna tied around his “neck” and a cowboy hat perched on his “head” looks out the window. “They laughed at me at the University,” he says.

DISSOLVE TO
Russell “Professor” Johnson from Gilligan’s Island: “True, but he was doing a standup routine at the time. At that, it wasn’t half bad for a bland, spongy pastry injected with cream filling so sugary it crunches.” A stereotypical Polynesian warrior runs in from stage left and lops off Professor’s head. Blood oozes down his trademark Oxford-cloth shirt as the body collapses onto the sand. The Warrior tosses the head into an also stereotypically boiling cauldron. Mmm… geek’s-head soup.

FADE UP TO
The Pickle, terrorizing the city. The Hostess Snack truck drives along, as if to lure the Pickle toward more mayhem and mischief.

SCENE PULLS BACK TO INSET VIDEO, STACY FLUFFPIECE AT NEWSDESK.
STACY FLUFFPIECE: That was the scene today in the heart of our fair city. Here with the story is our own Al Roquefort. Al?

CUT TO LOCATION SHOT
AL ROQUEFORT (wiping sweat off his prodigious ebony brow): Thanks, Stacy. What motivates a pickle? Why is it terrorizing the city? Is it looking for the legendary hamburger with that shake? Why do I look like Mr. Potatohead?

CUT TO
The Pickle lurches forward, rivulets of chartreuse pickle water emanating from its flesh. An oblivious little old lady shuffles past its shadow, her travel umbrella at the ready. Yellow spatters appear on her tattered, coleslaw-scented cardigan sweater where the threadbare bumberchute doesn’t shield her from the raunchy sweat of the cantankerous cuke.

Somewhere on a street corner, an East German street choir performs songs from Before The Wall Fell, accompanied by an organ grinder with a monkey. The perky beats drive the feet of passerbys to tapping. The six or seven men in the choir suddenly start whistling in near unison. The buildings start to appear to breathe as the scene morphs into a 1930s-style cartoon. The buildings start to cavort, suddenly towering to new, dark heights, as the Pickle turns to the whistling and tapping of the carefree Communists.

Rain spatters the pavement as the gargoyles above, suddenly crapulous with the cloudburst of acid rain, vomit their watery chunderings on the scene below. The very buildings take on the look of acid reflux sufferers, with torrents and fountains of fiery acid blistering their esophagi.

The Communist choir tears apart the hurdy-gurdy to use as rain hats. Still getting the icy tongues of filthy gargoyle effluvia down their backs, they offer up the monkey as a sacrifice. They rip it apart bare-handed, blood and fur drowning in the swill of the rain and pickle juice.

The Pickle looks upon the debacle with indulgence. It raises a huge, horrible hockering noise in its throat. It squelches and swishes the saliva, phlegm, and rancid yellow juice in its pimply, pickled mouth, consummating the vile act by spraying the bloodthirsty choir with the noxious plasma. The onlookers suddenly get that odd lemon-vinegar-bakelite taste in the backs of their throats, feeling their stomachs heave at the dastardly mob scene degrading before their eyes.

CUT TO NETWORK LOGO STILL IMAGE
STACY FLUFFPIECE (Voiceover): You’re watching the World News Network. Stay tuned!

CUT TO COMMERCIAL
Waxed-hair, shrill-voiced beard guy: This is Billy Might. Try new OxyAcetylene Cleaner. Set your cleaning on fire with our new Blowtorch Applicator! If you order now, we’ll double the order, so you get 2 tanks of OxyAcetylene Cleaner. Not enough, you say? OK, we’ll throw in a stiff cleaning brush and a set of rubber gloves. That’s a $20 value for the low price of $19.95. Operators are standing by, on chairs, with nooses around their necks, committed to suicide if we don’t sell enough units. Don’t let their blood be on your hands, order now.

CUT TO COMMERCIAL
[ALEX FROM A CLOCKWORK ORANGE, in the brainwashing chair, eyes clamped open. A beautiful rendition of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony begins to play.]
ALEX: Please, no, not the Ludwig Van!
[Lab assistant, a long-tressed metalhead burnout dude with weasel-like face and gnarled teeth, looks thoughtful.]
METALHEAD: Like, OK, man.
[Late 1980s/early 1990s Hair Metal Ballad Love Will Find A Way starts blaring]
ALEX: Wot the ‘ell is THAT?
METALHEAD: Like, Man, it’s HAIR BANDS RULE, dude. Check it out.
[Titles of Greatest Ballads of Winger, Poison, Cinderella, etc. begin to scroll at a nauseating pace]
ALEX (despairingly): Please. Put the Ludwig Van back on.
METALHEAD: Uh, sorry, dude, like, the button ain’t workin’. Guess ya better buy one!
ALEX: NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
METALHEAD: Heh heh, heh heh, heh heh, heh-heh. (muttering) Hmm. Needs more explosions.
[Order info screen pops up]
ANNOUNCER: Hair Bands Rule, a limited time offer from Rustco. Only $24.95 on your Visa or Mastercard.

STATION IDENTIFICATION

CUT TO NETWORK LOGO STILL IMAGE
STACY FLUFFPIECE (Voiceover): We now return you to the Pickle Assault, live. You’re watching the World News Network. Stay tuned for all the latest developments!

SUDDEN [JARRING] CUT TO LIVE FEED
The miserable heat ripples off the hissing street. The Twinkie sweats, viscous, opaque trails of cream filling glacially oozing down its face. Onlookers pry their shirts from their backs and underarms, stuck there by 99% humidity. The Twinkie, preparing for the final battle, removes his absurd Western Stetson hat, 5 sizes too small, and flings it haphazardly into the back of the oblivious delivery van. He makes a lazy 180-degree turn, back toward the Pickle. He slows to a snail’s pace, at the ready to subdue the vigilante vegetable.

The Pickle, suddenly seeming to become doubly enraged at the weaving pastry truck, turns its attention there as it comes to a halt in the middle of the sweltering boulevard. It reaches up and sticks a finger into its own throat, and retches. A tsunami of bile and triple-acidity pickle juice wells up and projects in a orange-brown-chartreuse stream at the hapless vehicle facing it. The paint bubbles and sizzles, as does the pavement that the foul mess drools onto from the now-sagging van.

The Twinkie has no choice. He steps into the street, into the pool of Pickle sputum, and as he does, his feet singe and begin to burn and smoke before he quickly steps to drier but equally as-hot macadam. From the holsters at his sides, he draws two incongruous six-guns, comically large, shimmering in the equatorial inferno of the noonday Summer sun.

He fires, streams of cream filling spraying the Pickle with insensate sweetness. The Pickle roars, kicking at the Twinkie, knocking him down. The suddenly-impotent cream shooters clatter away on the broiling asphalt.

The Pickle sneers at its spongy yellow foe, and raises a huge green foot to stomp it, when it’s pelted by a shower of pebbles. It turns, face hunched in anger, to see the source of the latest feeble insult. A freckle-faced kid, incongruous in the city scene, dressed in ratty overalls and a faded, torn plaid shirt, holds a hand-made tree branch slingshot in his hand. He looks up, realizing he’s extended a silver-platter invitation to the wrath of the demonic dill. Frozen for a moment, he sees there are no more rocks to sling.

The Pickle smiles a warty, gloating smile as it gets ready to demolish this pint-sized hillbilly. However, a camping lantern flashes over the kid’s head where a light bulb would normally be. He digs into his generous, speckled nose and pulls out a greenish gob of snot. Rolling it quickly in the sling, he fires and hits the Pickle in one of its eyes.

The Twinkie has had enough time to collect his death dealing spray guns, coming up large behind the Pickle, and shooting it squarely in the back, keeping the guns trained on it. The Pickle starts to vibrate and shake, undulating in the relentless waves of filling. The filling oozes into its pores. Pickle juice sprays out over the crowd.

Suddenly, a pack of ninjas jump out from the shadows of a building, slicing the gherkin Godzilla into a giant pile of fluttering slices. Unfortunately, they also bisect the brave pastry, who was standing too close to their silent swords of death. As the sword cleaves the Twinkie in twain, its filling erupts and falls over the scene as treacle-sweet, sticky snow. The ninjas spread the remains of the Twinkie and the Pickle out over the street to dry. Smoke bombs explode. Odd, moving, ninja-sized bumps appear under the streets and even in the brick walls of buildings, and, as fast as they have come, they are gone.

CUT TO
AL ROQUEFORT (wiping sweat off his prodigious ebony brow): Thanks, Ninjas and Twinkie. You will be missed. This leaves us all with some questions. Where did this vagabond vegetable come from? Was this a failed experiment from a snacking company? Who’s going to clean this mess up, the squad who always cleans up after ultra-disastrous fight scenes? And of course, the age old question… why do I look like Mr. Potatohead?

FIN (WE HOPE).

I’m wincing, still thinking about 8:30. A mammoth camper rolled up and out hopped a manic middle-aged woman — her hair frayed like Saturday morning, eyes on mission; she rifled through sifting for gold.

She waddled up to me with full arms and pointed to our dresser, “How much?”

“Fifteen,” I replied from behind my imitation blue blockers.

“Your wife and I have the SAME TASTE!”

I smiled and nodded distractedly. She stared on.

“I’ll take it.”

She handed me forty dollars and looked off in the direction of her camper.

A young girl of around ten years hopped out and ambled up the lawn rubbing her eyes. Her white tank top was askew; she stared blankly through puffy half-closed eyelids. Quickly, she grabbed a pair of sandals and handed me a dollar.

“We’ll be back for the dresser,” said the mother.

I sat scratching my head in the encroaching 10:00 heat as sweat bit my squinting eyes in a continuous caustic stream. Just then, a purple bike came to a screeching halt. A fifty-something bespectacled man dismounted slowly. The lanyard ID around his neck read Regional Transit System Volunteer: Benny. His beer belly clinging t-shirt: GOD MEN 24/7.

Some salers come to poke about and scowl, some aspire to Antiques Road Show, and Benny. Benny just wanted to talk. Each item on the tables before him segued into a loosely related tale: his stint as an engine mechanic, his military travels, this crazy weather, and where he would be next week. He heavily scrutinized each item with the curiosity of a toddler. I littered his consciousness with “uh-uhs,” and “yeah, sures,”. With no item left unturned and my ears on auto, a rolling hand truck scraped down the street.

She looked beat. Her eyes had continued to swell.

“I’m back for the dresser,” she deadpanned.

I flinched at her seriousness, which belied her adolescence. She hiked the dresser up onto the dolly without another word, but the drawers teetered and toppled. Benny ran to her aid.

“I’ll hep’ ya out. Where ya headed?” he joyously queried.

“Over to 10th.”

“Well, here we go!”

He heaved and spun the dresser on its side in a quick sideward motion. I wondered if she would be safe, despite Benny’s best intentions. Ah, better than no escort at all, I surmised.

Benny came back an hour later drenched in sweat — drinking a glass of water.

“Hed tah stop fer a rest,” he chuckled. “Et’s maighty hot out here, buddy.”

He quickly grabbed my orange desk lamp and handed me two dollars.

“E’ll be back fur them dog crates later,” he drawled from atop his sparkling Huffy.

As is custom, the sale wound down in the afternoon. The searing heat topped out at 105 and my remaining belongings went to the curb. I sat inside enjoying a tall glass of lemonade and heard a knock at the window.

I was greeted by a jagged smile housed on a leather face — his wispy white hair grew from the sides of his head and neck like a wise, elderly lion. I popped open the window.

“Hello,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“My friend, the pharmacist, he’d probably want your cage.”

I stared back, befuddled.

“From the curb. See…my friend, Jim Novak, the pharmacist, he works on bikes…better’n me I think, but he’s got alottofthem — I’ll call him. Can I use yer phone?”

I walked outside and he extended a sweaty palm.

“The name’s Larry. I’ve been out here all day, man. Rode seventy miles total before I saw yer cage and thought to stop. I was out at the flea market — bought all kindsa brackets, a few tubes, coupla nice, new pedals.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, I ride all the time. Had a real bad accident a few weeks ago. I was on bed rest 3 days. Ambulance came and I waved’em off. See? Look here…”

He pointed to his heavily scabbed shin. I nodded, pursing my lips.

“This is…lotta m’ friends have been dying: diabetes is the thing. Ya know, over half our country is over weight. But, I’m healthy — always prepared. See, I got this rolla tape here. It saved my life last week. I had a blow-out and wrapped that baby up til I got home.”

I handed him my cordless. He dialed.

“Hey, Jim? Yeah, I’ve got a rabbit cage for ya. And I remember ya sayin’ somethin’ about needin’ one. Yeah? Yeah? Ok. Just come up 13th…”

I drifted off and back again, mesmerized by haze rising from the road, but shifting from foot-to-foot to preserve my bare feet.

“Thanks.” He handed the phone back to me and I nodded. He pulled a leather pouch off of his bike.

“I’ve got emergency rations. Look here.”

He pulled out four granola bars and handed me one.

My face shriveled and it lay in my open palm.

“Don’t they…melt?” I asked.

“NAH! They really don’t! Take it, take it! I’ve got 400 more at the house!”

“It was sort of a split-second decision.” The words were out of my mouth before I’d had a chance to process them, and the air seemed to be escaping from my lungs before it had even safely arrived in them. Jerkily, my hands snapped out to clutch the bar in front of me.

“I’ve never ridden this before, have you?” I didn’t know why I was asking him. It was as if my mouth was on turbo-drive. Not that I’ve ever seen anything in turbo-drive before, my brain quipped. I told it to shut up. The man didn’t seem to have heard me, in any case, and a few moments passed in which neither of us said anythhing. Then the buzzer sounded.

“Awww… this’s gonna be the one that gets me sick!” the man groaned, and I experienced a pang of regret at my rather hasty decision to ride this horrible contraption. When had I become so reckless? All coherent thought deserted me, however, the next instant, when our little metal compartment went hurtling forward toward the ground.

“We’ve gotta scream now, come on!” he said as I found myself completely vertical and relying on the thin steel rail beneath me to prevent me from crashing into the plastic-spork-and-Fritos-bag-infested grass below. “Wooooooohooo! We gotta make ‘em think you’re crazy! Come on, now!” he urged, and my mind, frantic by this point, saw no reason not to comply.

“Aaaiieeeeeeh!” came my shrill cry in response. I caught glimpses of my friends’ laughing faces below, and it occurred to me to turn came and I screamed once more, wondering at my surprising lung capacity, but no longer caring who saw me.

“Yeah… this’s the one that’s gonna make me sick,” the man stated grimly for the second time, seemingly oblivious to the fact that this was not a pleasing concept for me. The ride sped up and I decided I’d better hold on tightly if I was to avoid crashing into the guy and testing his apparently squirming insides. This soon proved impossible, however, as the ride sped up once more and my hands slid along with the rest of me.

“Sorry!” I told him hoarsely as I silently cursed carnies everywhere and vowed never again to ride anything after 10:00 p.m. He neglected to respond yet again, which I took to mean he either hadn’t heard me, didn’t think it was okay at all, or was going to keep his mouth shut for the rest of the ride in an attempt to keep his dinner to himself. The latter possibility was rejected a moment later, though, when he screamed once more.

“I don’t hear you screamin’!” This time I was a little more in control of my response, but still felt it was best to do as he said. My mind wandered to the gigantic Budweiser truck over by the festival entrance, and I once more that night found myself lamenting its presence.

Then, abruptly, we stopped, backs parallel to the ground and far higher in the air than I cared to think about. “Whoa,” the man grunted, “I thought for sure that one was gonna make me sick.” I clenched my teeth and said nothing, but I gave another little nervous laugh, and found myself spinning at a reasonably slow pace toward the ground again. The ride squealed to a halt and I forced myself to relax.

“Well,” said the man, whose name I realized I did not know, “thanks again for ridin’ with me.” I opened my mouth to reassure him that it was my pleasure, but was cut off as he announced loudly, “Now I think I’m gonna be sick.”

And with that lovely parting note, he tore off the seat belt, shoved his way through the door, and tore after the nearest trash can.

Some people want an identity, some miss high school football, others are masochistic by nature — I just wanted to blow off some steam. So, I headed down to check out a practice. They took one look and had me pegged. I was way into the wind sprints; the mud; inflicting pain. Ah, but the pesky rules brought back memories of chess…maybe battle chess. Still, the strange mix of unbridled rage and lawlessness mixed awkwardly with stipulations and puzzling geometry that would have baffled Mr. Wizard peaked my curiosity all the more.

My forearms were blue and bulgy; all my shirts went v-neck; my skin turned scab; I stalked campus like a caveman — an open wound; adrenaline seeping from every dirt clogged pore. I loved watching the hair stand up where coach’s neck used to be — all four foot, ten inches of him waddling up and down the line with the whistle in his mouth…grimacing like he just inhaled a razor blade.

I threw my body around like a stunt man — my only goal to cause as much pain as possible. My massive forehead head sailed like a missile into noses, balls…the ground. I still remember the crack of bones, the stench of asscrack.

It was all a part of being alive. I scored my first tri against Bowling Green and the gang went berzerk. Won the game — hoisted like a hero. I was surrounded by whispers…chuckles. On the bus, they arranged the party. Both teams — according to tradition — would drink together. At nightfall, the festivities began.

I could drink with best of them. I was ready. Yet, an anxiety around those whispers popped around in my chest. I paced around — delaying the inevitable. I showed up late, hoping to slide in like a Geo Metro. My arrival was met with drunken cheers.

“ZULU, ZULU…ZULU WARRIOR…ZULU!”

The hooker staggered up and grabbed me by the arm. Not the hooker you are imagining. See? I told you this game was confusing. He proceeded to explain:

“As a part of the uuuh Zulu Warrior ritual, you’ve gotta run naked around the neighborhood. You ring the doorbell, stand there until they answer, and then…run like hell.”

My eyes grew to the size of walnuts and the cold air scraped my lungs. Riotous laughter erupted as a circle formed around me. Emboldened shouts came from all around.

“TAKE OFF YOUR CLOTHES NOW, ROOK!”

“LET’S GO, BITCH!”

“COME ON, ZULU WARRIOR!”

I noticed pitchers of beer in their hands — the countdown commenced.

FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO…ONE!”

Beer doused me from head-to-toe as I hastily disrobed. My eyes stung badly and I lost my bearings. When I was fully nude, the last shower of liquid refreshment struck my chest. I rubbed my eyes and to my surprise saw my smallest teammate scurry up a tree with every last garment…even my shoes.

Slowly, I headed across the street as the mob looked on. I rang the doorbell and inside, they were waiting. I ran down down the street with John J. Stripeshirt sprinting and heaving behind. Lucky for me, I was sober and in good — albeit naked — condition.

I escaped the potentially humiliating beating and returned about fifteen minutes later for my clothes. My naked threats did not impress tiny conspirator. He snickered and swayed drunkenly behind the keg — pointing to my shivering shrinkage. A kind soul brought me a towel and some clothes. He explained that this was indeed an initiation ritual.

Two weeks later, I tore my calf muscle in half. I took it as a sign — glad not to participate in the proverbial tarring and feathering of the next lucky warrior — I joined the injured reserve.

The doorbell glowed yellow — I stared at it blankly for a spell. I raised my arm, wrist, finger toward the button. The door swung open fast and there stood Derk. He hung his head out the doorway with a mad grin. His spiky blonde hair sparkled in the morning sun.

“Are you just gonna stand there?” he asked incredulously.

“Neh…sorry.” I smiled and followed inside.

Loud grunts echoed through the front hallway.

“OOH KAL, KNOCK IT OFF!”

“What, Derk?”

A tall thin man with red curly hair hoisted a loveseat over his head; he swung back down low in one motion unleashing another pained grunt; it ended in a gasping wheeze. He set it down and took a seat.

“Hi, I’m Derk’s Dad.” he said. “Just getting in a lil’ workout.”

He shook my hand warmly…sweaty. His tight pocket t-shirt smelled like dedication; the jeans, which I thought might split a second ago, looked no worse for wear. I stared into his friendly bespectacled eyes.

“Hello.”

“Let’s go back outside,” said Derk. “I’ve gotta game we can play.”

He grabbed a football from the garage and skipped out into the vacant neighborhood street. It was eerie quiet. Cars lined the block without a soul in sight.

“Ever played masochistic burnout?”

“…”

“Ha! Didn’t think so! I MADE IT UP!”

One side of my face broke into the first of many freeing smiles. The strangeness of the situation was freeing and my previous anxiety whispered away.

“We stand twenty paces away…take turns throwing the football at one another. First one to cry loses.”

My laughter echoed through the street. I picked up the football and marched out the distance.

“Visitors first?” I inquired.

He nodded and a wheezing laugh burst from his belly; he was hopping with excitement.

“I’M READY! BRING IT ON! NO FLINCHING! NONE!”

I heaved the ball not for accuracy, but in hopes of a quick exit — if it hit, it would hurt. He turned sideways and the spinning point of the ball struck his hip.

“AAWWWWWRGH!” He laughed hysterically. “OH my GOD, I cheated and you still got me!”

His turn; I knew I should close my eyes, but I didn’t. He unleashed the ball with Monica Seles fury and it wobbled hard and fast into my shoulder.

“SONFABITCH!”

The melee continued with more laughter than pain until my eventual throw struck him square in the nose. Lucky shot. A high pitch scream loosed from his lungs. Still, he laughed, but tears streamed down his cheeks. Blood began to trickle down over his lips and onto his chin. He wiped it on his shirt.

“That c…ounts.” he said between heaving giggle breaths.

Mike and I loped down the dark street. We’d taken leave of the girls pajama partying it up in our Hungarian studio apartment. Call it a half loft…make it a fourth. They would snuggle up with the bottle of wine and the hunk of cheese.

Mike’s red hair crumpled down to his eyebrows, which were generally upturned. His slender frame allowed most shirts to hang like priest robes — he rolled up the sleeves continually. He smoked and talked rapidly — always doing something with his hands — demonstrative gestures and the long loping strides of Herr Sommer. I was dressing disctintively more European with my tight black jeans and slick shoes. My normally shortish hair had grown into a Ginobli deluxe.

The air had a bite — enough to subract two drinks, but there was no wind blowing down the main drag. I was hopping a bit between steps. I do this sometimes to help the mood. Mike paid no mind. His face was strained now; he kicked a pebble into the sewer.

“Let’s get high. Do you suppose that’s possible?”

He waved his cigarette around like a bad charades partner.

“We can’t just walk down this street like something’s gonna happen. Nothin’s gonna happen.”

Just then a man dressed from head to toe in Jamaican rastawear appeared from the alley up ahead.

Mike’s reddish complexion lit up like a kerosene lamp. There’s something funny about when a six-foot, five inch man gets giddy. His limbs fumbled about — broiling with pent up energy. Before I could discourage this brand of typecasting, he trot-jogged up the street. I caught up a few seconds later.

“Got any…?” He made a frantic toking gesture with a maniacal afterface — something out of Reefer Madness. I was half-lit, a bit embarassed, but intrigued — especially when he pulled out the balls of foil.

There were four in all and he showed no signs of discretion — not an inkling of paranoia. The three of us stood under a street light inspecting the furry green contents.

“Is it…good?” smiled Mike.

“Gooood shit, mon…from Poland.”

“What the fuck, Poland?” I mumbled.

Mike’s enthusiasm had not dimmed. He handed the man a few American dollars that he’d neglected to change at the airport. We were all smiling.

Headed to a joint called Blues Bar. People were filing in and out at a good pace. Inside, a few young, well-coifed twenty-somethings looked us up and down. They whispered a bit and one spoke.

“It be twenty dolla coavar.”

“They paid no cover!” I pointed to a score of people already on the dance floor.

“You heaaa thees musak? Whaat kind of musak?”

I looked at Mike; he shrugged.

“Disco.” I said.

They had a good chuckle.

“Eeees Russian techno. YOU PAY COVVAA!”

We walked out and avoided an impending incident. The beautiful blondes snickered at us, hiked up their skirts, and continued.

Down the street, we closed down what we deemed a true drinking establishment. The dark, thick, wonderous ale came cheap and often. Songs, camraderie, it felt like a good movie. Back in the alley, early in the morning, we smoked our Polish delight out of a coke can. Not wise, but fun.

The sun was up and the ladies were passed out on the floor like an anti-drug commercial. Smashed cheetos and McDonald’s wrappers decorated the floor. World’s largest McDonald’s just down the street. Ah, America the beautiful — world ambassador, true patron of complacency.

“Take a look at this map, fucker!” I tossed a crumpled piece of vintage computer paper in his lap.

He pulled the fuzzy long hair out of his eyes and smoothed the paper frantically with his momentarily useless hands.

“Whaa-whoo-where are we going anyway?!” he grambled.

“Gimmee that!” I snarled — snatching the paper from his hands. “The Museum of Living History…it’s too good to be true. I can’t even imagine the madness they must have going on in there.”

I knew the Camaro well — Suarez was the green monster’s name — he would be overheating any minute. The music on the radio turned ominous.

H-H-H-H-ERE’S SOMETHIN’, H-H-H-HERE’S SOMETHIN…B-B–B-B-ABY, YOU JUST AIN’T GONNA FORGET!

DJ was looking sick and anxious. His face beaded with sweat; the sun sent drops from his slight beard sizzling down onto the dashboard.

“Damn you! What are you good for anyway?!”

DJ hurried through his pockets like Garth searching for an empty snowcone. He pulled out a multi-colored pipe. It was full of green and his face began to change colors. The sweat moved from a downpour to a drizzle. He handed me the pipe with great satisfaction.

Any love is good lovin

So I took what I could get

I deftly extricated a lighter from my suit pants pocket and set the pipe ablaze. DJ steadied the wheel with suddenly calm hands.

And then, and then, and then she looked at me with those big brown eyes and said

You ain’t seen nothing yet
Baby you just ain’t seen n-n-nothing yet

I exhaled a great cloud of smoke and the hazy road ahead came into focus. But, DJ was pointing wordlessly — pipe in hand — behind us. In the rearview, white smoke blanketed the road. I swerved Suarez across four lanes of traffic — no time to brake. We hurtled down the exit ramp toward an unexpected curve accompanied by many honking horns.

“WE’RE HISTORY!” coughed DJ clutching the door.

But, the green monster hugged the curve — expertly shrouded in a white cloud. I held the wheel steady and slammed on the brakes. We Tokyo drifted into the Citgo station to awe struck faces. They held their noses and flapped their arms like upset mother hens. A fire was emerging from under the hood and I knew it. I grabbed my emergency canteen, popped the hood, and doused the engine. I jumped back just in-time to avoid the vicious blast of steam and landed on my back near the overflowing trash can.

My neck was rubbed raw — plasma oozed down into the neck of my shredded leather jacket. I was one lucky jacket away from road rash. I scrambled a few yards away from Suarez — unsure of his level of combustibility. DJ still sat inside; his crazed silence escaping with the unending layers of steam.

Heat radiated from the car giving me a tanning bed sensation on my already sunburnt face. Wincing, I made my way over the to the passenger side and pulled him from the car. The contact startled him back into his frenzy and I had to smack him sensible. Still, he kept his hand on his face and walked gingerly — a few steps behind me.

I eyed the station. It was no larger than a tollbooth. The sign outside advertised cold drinks: 2 FOR 5 TWELVE PACKS! My arm rested on the door as I waited for DJ. I paused to wonder where they kept all the drinks…

A man stood leaning on the counter scratching lottery tickets with rural malaise. His eyes stayed focused on the tickets and the cashier looked in our direction impatiently. Had she noticed our near explosion? I wondered.

We grabbed our drinks. DJ obeyed his thirst and I reached for an exotic cold coffee malt beverage. The conversation had turned to us.

“You fellas headed to the party?” asked lottery man. We attempted to mask our confusion.

“Y-y-es,” I stammered — convinced he had read my mind.
A major vein in DJ’s forehead looked as though it might collapse. I went with the flow.

“Where are we going to park?” I wondered aloud.
The cashier was disinterested. “Cephus, I just don’t know what I’m gonna do for this boy’s birthday party. I mean…” she continued.

“I just don’t think we’ll find a place at this hour. I mean…where?”

Apparently, their extrasensory perception had failed or they didn’t care. We placed our drinks on the counter, paid, and left with some dignity in tact. Low and behold, the car was still in one piece…albeit, still smoking.

We carefully slid inside. The dark leather singed my neck like fresh baked blacktop.

“Sweet Christ! Pass me that BOWL,” I growled.
Third gear before we were out of the parking lot. There was no question: we would make it — still a half tank of gas, still no cops.

Suarez roared past every car in sight. I was in the arcade zone — knowing somehow that if we flipped there were continues available at a low price. Fists and fingers flew out of open windows. We had startled highway slumberboxes into action — even if only for a moment of rage.

This time I took the exit gently. Our speed would not go over well in the dense urban jungle of Dallas. Nevertheless, I parked hurriedly on the street and beckoned DJ.

“Feed the meter!” I shouteded crassly. I stiffly jogged toward the entrance still feeling the retched sting in my neck. Keys, change, and miscellaneous bulk scratched my sweaty thighs. Huffing and puffing, I reached the top of the stairs.

Large, grey marble columns greeted me. I dashed past them distractedly and slammed into an exiting patron. The books in her hands spilled all the way down the steps. DJ stopped his ascent to assist. One high heel appeared to be broken; she limped toward me with a savage grin. Her eyes bulged with disproportionate anger.

“YOU ought to WATCH…where YOU’RE going!” she frothed.
I sneered and pushed her down the stairs. DJ looked up in horror. He dropped the books on her chest and quickly followed me into the museum.

A carnival for the eyes besieged us inside. A tall burly man in short red shorts stamped his foot repeatedly in front of his three year old son. An echo slapped around all four monstrous walls as the child wailed. He stared at a clipboard full of x’s and o’s while his face reddened.

I realized then that these were no ordinary exhibits. This was a collision of space and time.

DJ wandered awestruck to his left where a frenzied group of middle-aged men clamored for pole position. Their prize: a giant foot statue. Sharp elbows sparred, knuckes were bitten; grown men rolled on the floor — all to kiss the great tantamount to their shared sexual obsession.

A crowd of middle-aged women to my left stood staggered in trapezoid formation chain smoking their torches of freedom. Their heads bobbed like pigeons as they checked their watches and repeatedly powdered their noses. Tight tops clung to their silocon breasts muted only by the bright light shining off their Robin McGraw porcelain veneers, half carat diamonds rings, and leather botox skin.

In time, DJ and I wandered to the center of the grand hall. A giant wood cross emerged from a deep hole in the ground. Blood flowed along its entirety while ambitious climbers slipped their way to the top and through the roof. Continual shrieks and moans started soft and ended in sanguinous, bone-shattering thuds.
A calm voice patched through to my brain — a resounding intercom loud enough to drown out the rest.

“Repent, repent, repent…” it pleaded.

Up walked an 8 foot man dressed in black flowing robes. His bald head shone brighter than bling, waxy skin, and sparkling teeth substitutes. He opened his mouth and a black snake gurgled silenty forth. I turned to look for DJ, but my neck moved slowly. A dimmer switch slowly strangled my sense. The man placed the snake around my neck.

“She won’t bite,” he promised with death on his breath.

“Who are…you?” I rattled.

“You’re my psychic vampire.” he answered.

“Uh-oh,” thought the right-fieldsman Abercrombie. The pitcher nodded to the catcher and changed his grip on the ball in his hand. He reeled his arm back for the pitch, and with a jerk of his body let the ball fly out of his hand at an incredible speed. The ball cut through the air like a bird being sucked through the engine turbine of a large airplane, and Big “Babe” Christianson moved her whole body into the swing. A loud crack was heard as the bat relentlessly hammered the ball into the rotisserie-baked afternoon sky. Abercrombie followed the ball with his head, planning its trajectory to be slightly to the right of him.

“Oh no, I’m going to have to catch this one,” he thought to himself. Not being the best player on the field, indeed being kind of pale, awkward and lanky, Abercrombie stumbled a few steps to his right and stuck his arm up above his head. Shutting his eyes, his whole world warped into concentration, hoping the ball would somehow land in his glove.

Suddenly, however, his concentration was broken by a sound in the distance. It was the most terrible sound he had ever heard, like someone playing Foreigner extremely loud.

“God I hate Foreigner,” thought the pitcher BWC. Just as he thought this, everything became darker, dimmer, as if a giant rain cloud had just moved in front of the sun. All the children let out quiet moans at the prospect of rain. But as they all turned to see the rain clouds coming, they were surprised by the largest, blackest rain cloud they had ever seen. As far as their vision stretched, nothing but unbroken blackness covered the sky. It was moving past them at remarkable speed, beginning to cover the other side of the sky.

“How did I not see that?” said the batboy Colin.

Slowly, BWC came to the realization that something was not right with this particular rain cloud. It almost seemed to be moving within itself, as if tiny black hands kept reaching out of the cloud and then retracting. At that moment, something swooped down from the sky and pecked Colin’s eye out. “A bat!” thought BWC. “Why, that’s no rain cloud at all,” BWC said aloud. “It’s a BAT-CLOUD!”

Almost immediately after coming to this realization, killer bats began swooping down from the sky attacking the children. If you don’t think this is scary, obviously a bat has never attacked you.

“Oh no!” kids started yelling as they fell on the ground crying. All the kids except BWC, that is. His parents had prepared him for this. Packing up his things, he began running off of the field toward his home. He passed other players who were dropping like sacks of dirt to the ground as the bats attacked their little eyes, blinding them. As he ran past Big “Babe” Christianson, she called out his name, and he didn’t have the heart to leave her. He picked her up and put her in his sports bag with his baseball gear.
The run home was not easy. Every step was difficult as BWC trudged through the onslaught of bats. The little bats resisted his every movement, as if he were trying to run at the bottom of a pool or pass a federal law raising minimum wage. Eventually he made it, however, and found his parents in the living room watching Star Trek.
“Mom, Dad, don’t you realize what is happening?!” he yelled as he switched it to the news. Having no idea what was happening, they responded “No.”

“Giant killer bats are taking over the world, which is bad for everyone except the zombies, who think now might be a good time to come out because no one will notice,” BWC exclaimed to them as he pointed to the TV. On the news there was a diagram of the world laid out with giant pictures of bats over certain areas of different countries, indicating where the bats were attacking.

“Oh, no, that’s terrible,” cried BWC’s mom. Just then a bat broke through one of the windows in the living room and fluttered into the house, going for the necks of all inside. The whole family screamed, but BWC picked up a piece of the broken glass and stabbed the bat in the belly. It dropped straight to the floor and bled all over the new rug.

“What ever are we going to do?” cried Big “Babe” Christianson, who had unzipped herself from the duffel bag and joined the family. “Giant killer bats are attacking everyone, darkening the day-time sky!”

A group of survivors from the neighborhood, including little one-eyed Colin, opened the front door of BWC’s house and ran inside for sanctuary. “We’re the last survivors from the neighborhood,” they said, oddly in unison. “We need to form a plan.”
“Let’s move into the battle-bridge,” said BWC as they all followed him down the hall. Taking a right, the entered a large room, roughly the size of a warehouse with a sign on it that said “War Room”. The only light came from computer monitors and incandescent displays at various terminals scattered throughout the room. Chatter could be heard among different groups of tactical and battle officers, discussing plans at their various stations. Perhaps most impressive was the large screen on the far wall, displaying various images of bats and zombies from across the globe. A man in a blue dress shirt and a tie approached the group and attacked them, eating their brains. BWC cut off his head and then another man in a blue dress shirt and a tie approached them.

“Good to see you, BWC,” said the man. “Good to see you, too, Mr. Hruska,” BWC responded. “What’ve you got for me?”

“The President wants to speak to you.”

“Patch him through to the main viewer.”

After a couple seconds of static, the President’s face appeared before them on the large screen on the far wall. “Hello, BWC,” said the President.

“Hello, Mr. President, what can I do for you?” responded BWC.

“Well, as I’m sure you know, bats are attacking people.”
“Yes, I know.”

“Well, we think this may be the latest weapon deployment from Iraq, intended to hurt American civilians,” said the President angrily.

“No, that’s not true,” said BWC. “Remember, Iraq was required to disarm all of its bats in the early 90s. UN sanctions don’t allow them to have bats.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot,” said the President. “Nevertheless, the bats must be stopped,” he continued.

“I’m already on it, sir. We’ll have this little problem cleaned up before long,” BWC said confidently. “BWC over and out.”

BWC then got in his B-2 Stealth Bomber and flew around the world, launching anti-bat weapons. Bats were killed but BWC cried at the humanity of it all. “C’est la vie,” he told himself, wiping tears from his eyes. He killed lots of bats all through the night, only suffering minimal damage to his B-2 Stealth Bomber. He fired lots of guns and missiles at them, really whooping their butts. Those bat jerks kept coming, but he followed them to their source—a giant cave in South America.

When BWC flew his B-2 Stealth Bomber into the cave, he found the giant Queen Bat waiting for him, ready to fight.

“I’m not afraid of you, Queen Bat,” BWC said “You’re really running me amok,” he continued. He smirked as he fired his ICBM missiles at her, but when the smoke cleared he was astonished to see that they had no effect on the Queen Bat. She struck his bomber with her huge winged arms, and the aircraft went into a nose-dive. BWC hit the eject button, and landed on his feet in front of the Bat.

She towered over him several hundred feet. With each war-cry shriek she let out, BWC’s eardrums were shattered. But he knew this one was for all the marbles. The Queen Bat beat the hell out of BWC and knocked him to the floor. Then he got up and knocked her to the floor. She was being such a jackoff.

BWC made a fist and pulled his arm back and punched her in the face. She exploded and BWC knew he had won this round. He went home to the cheers of his comrades as they all thanked him.

“It’s all in a day’s work,” he said, taking Big “Babe” Christianson in his arms and kissing her passionately. Confetti fell and trumpets sounded as everyone cheered for BWC. The sun shone again on the regular American town, and everyone was there to celebrate. Right-fielding Abercrombie, Mr. Hruska, Mrs. Bergeron. Even little one-eyed Colin was there.

Then suddenly a dead zombie man came and ate Colin’s head.