“Oh man, Nuke I—”
“Silence your blather, simpleton! I’ve been sued, we’ve got precious little time! I need a lawyer and four dozen monkeys,
stat!”
Far more stunned than before, Norman answered with two blinks.
“Well!” The Hero demanded while flinging his cape into a more natural and suitable position.
“Four dozen monkeys?”
“Good gravy, man! I haven’t the time to discuss every detail of The Plan with you. Suffice it to say, we need us some monkey power.”
“Right.”
“Gah! There’s no time! We’ll have to divvy up the tasks. Look. You get the monkeys, I’ll get the lawyer. Now
go,
my werewolframite chum! There’s precious little time!”
“Yeah, you just said that.”
“Never mind that now. Just think monkey!”
“Four
dozen?”
“Exactly!”
__________
“How long can it take to sink this boat!” Rachel growled at the screen. “They’re using torpedoes, for the love of all things holy! Let the boy drown, already!”
“Sympathy. For male lead. Growing.”
“Water + lungs = dead. It’s a simple equation, people.”
“Ghkkkk!”
“Geez. Sparky, how can you just sit there and watch this crap?”
“Vision. Tunneling.”
“Ugh. Wish
mine
was.”
“Suffocating!”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”
“I don’t. Gasp. Think so.”
“Watching this damn thing is like having a vice grip squeeze your soul dry of its capacity to love.”
“Oxygen.”
“What, oxygen? No, you’re thinking of the lungs. You see, the soul doesn’t breathe.” She turned to him and shook her head. “Oh, Sparky. Stop goofing around.”
“Not goofing. Asphyxiating. Tell Nuke that I—”
She pushed a little button on the restraints. They immediately retracted. Atomik Lad crumpled over and gasped for air.
“What was I supposed to tell Nuklear Man?” she asked with a sweet smile.
“Huff, Never, puff, mind.”
“C’mon, sit up. You’ll miss the drowning sce—dammit! The boat is
still
sinking!”
Atomik Lad was so dizzy from the lack of air that he had to hold onto the arm rests to keep from falling onto the floor. This had the rather beneficial side effect of putting his hand on top of Rachel’s since hers was already occupying the armrest between them. She tried her best to hide a smile, failed completely, and beamed brightly.
“Of course, in order for the film to complete its narrative cycle, a longer ending might not be such a bad idea,” she said.
Atomik Lad felt the weight of his body return with every breath of sweet air. The stars around his periphery vision were slowly fading, his extremities tingled with that “we’re still here” feeling, and a warmth returned to his torso with a dizzying and sickening pace. His face flushed and he tightened his grip on the armrests to keep from catapulting into the couple in the row in front of him. Rachel’s drop-dead gorgeous smile deepened into an obliteratingly beautiful one as she hid her face in her free hand. “You sly devil, you.” She leaned over and gave Atomik Lad’s ear the slightest little nibble.
Suddenly, Atomik Lad found all was right with the world.
__________
Issue 34 – Drinkin’ Buddies
Across town, in the luxurious Pub District, Angus stumbled into a bar. The atmosphere of the place was a thick cloud of noxious cigarette fumes tinted obscene shades of red, yellow, and orange from a multitude of neon signs in varying states of functionality. He stumbled, not from inebriation, as no good Scotsman worth his weight in liquor would have that problem…so early in the day. Nay, Angus stumbled from the extremely awkward backwards arrangement of his Iron: Battlesuit.
“Bah!” Angus snapped at his Iron: Bagpipe Thrusters after trying, unsuccessfully, to get the damn exhaust pipes out of his face. He stomped up to an empty barstool and crossed his arms with an angry huff. Unfortunately, due to the Iron: Bagpipe Thrusters being located in what could be called Prime Arm Crossing Territory, crossing his arms produced a quick splurt of a most unflattering sound. Angus simmered in the broth of his anger as he felt every pair of eyes in the bar burning straight through him.
“WHAT!” he demanded. Everyone’s attention was simultaneously redirected.
Angus scowled at the barstool looming over him.
“Lookit that barstool. Just sittin’ there, lookin’ down at me. Thinkin’ it’s better than me. Bah!” He produced the Surprisingly Concealable and Wieldly Enemy-B-Crushed Named “Bertha” from what has been scientifically proven to be Thin Air. He bashed the barstool with a mighty two-handed overhead
WHAM
.
What he did not do, however, was take into account the padded seat atop said barstool, which caused Bertha to bounce back and
WHAM
into Angus’s Iron: Battlehelm. The Surly Scot wobbled a few steps back, teetering from the tremendous impact. He dislodged Bertha from his helm, adjusted the dented headpiece, and snarled., “All right, ye blasted barstool. Now Ah sees how ye are.” He stored Bertha wherever the hell it goes, dug his heels into the floor, charged the barstool, and tackled it head on.
What he did not do, however, was take into account that this was a revolving barstool. On impact, the Surly Scot was spun around by his own momentum and slammed against the bar. He blinked blearily from the bar floor.
“Ye days are numbered, laddie! The gloves is off!”
About half an hour later Angus managed to climb onto his barstool despite the Iron: Cast on his left leg. “Ha! Ye bloody stool! How do ye likes that, hm? Ye don’t, that’s how. Barkeep!” Angus called.
Barry the Bartender approached his stout customer while polishing a glass. “Yes?”
Angus perused the expansive wall-to-wall display of alcohol behind the bar. “Ah’ll take everythin’ on the left.”
Still polishing, “Everything on the left, huh?”
“Aye. I wants to start out slow.”
“Of course you do. Mind if I see some ID first, sonny?”
“What.”
“Look, I can appreciate what you’re doing, I used to try to sneak into bars all the time when I was younger, though judging by your height, I was at least twice your age at the time.”
“What.” Angus’s right eye developed a minor twitch.
“In fact, that’s probably why I’m a bartender now. I’d sure hate to see a kid as young as you must be go down the same path I did. All you do is watch people drink their lives away. It’s quite draining, really.”
Angus’s minor twitch graduated into a Major Twitch.
“How old are you anyway, son? That fake beard is a nice touch, but there’s no way anyone’s gonna believe an adult is as short as y—”
Barry the Bartender would have to drink his meals for the next three months.
__________
Rachel and Atomik Lad walked out of the theater blinking and squinting against the blasted dayball. “Gah,” Atomik Lad said, recoiling as he desperately shaded his eyes. “Does it have to be that bright? It’s the middle of the day, people are out here, it’s dangerous.”
Rachel was about to reply when her stomach interrupted her with RRROWRRRWEORUPSAFD;JKLPOITWPOEIRUSDOWRR! “Well, that was freaky.”
“She’s gonna blow!”
“On the second date? Someone’s gotta high opinion of himself.”
Atomik Lad couldn’t even sputter incoherently. She grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him down the street. “Food now,” she grunted in her best cave person impression.
__________
Angus had found another bar. It was a bit flashier than he would ordinarily prefer, but it being the middle of the afternoon, there weren’t many bars open and beggars can’t be choosers. The music from the dance floor was a tad too loud, but catchy for not being bagpipes. He had been sitting at a table for some time, quite nearly content, which is saying a heck of a lot for Angus. This near contentedness was in part due to the fact that he didn’t have to battle his chair to earn the right to sit in it. But also, as luck would have it, this bar actually served his favorite drink. He was drumming his fingers on the table, his legs swinging back and forth, thinking,
Hmm, Ah never did quite catch the name o’ this here place
. He noticed a fellow patron walking to the dance floor and asked, “Hey, what be the name o’ this here place, laddie?”
“Oh, this is the Tool Box.”
“Ah thank ye.”
“By the way, I lllllove your outfit, you should’ve been here Friday. It was Dress as Your Favorite Village Person Nite. I bet you could’ve won first prize.”
“Um, aye. Thank ye again,” the Surly Scot said with a slight nod as the stranger jived over to the dance floor. “Hm, Toool Boox, eh? Sounds good and manly. This just might be my kinda place. Good chairs, good people, good drinks...if’n it ever gets here.”
He resumed his table drumming and idly examined the establishment. “Ah just can’t shake the feelin’ that soomethin’ about this place ain’t right,” he noted. He gave the dance floor a piercing Scotsman Stare. “Hmm, just a bunch o’ laddies havin’ a good time. Maybe it’s the bar. No, just a bunch o’ laddies havin’ a good time. Somethin’ about this place just don’t settle with ol’ Angus.”
His dandy of a waiter appeared.
“Finally, me favorite drink is here!”
The waiter delivered the Surly Scot’s giant, gaudy neon colored drink. It had its own bouquet of flowers and a dozen straws sticking out of it. The waiter announced with a flourish, “One Ssuper Ssasssy Ssassparilla Sswirl! Enjoy!”
“Wait a second.” Angus looked to the drink, to the waiter, back to the drink, back to the waiter. Drink, waiter, drink, waiter, dance floor, laddies, bar, laddies, drink, waiter—TWITCH! “Ah didn’t order this blasted sissy French Frilly La-Dee-Dah Drink! Ah ordered me a Super
Sexy
Sarsparilla
Spin
with a Swirl! Now Ah know what’s so fishy about this place!”
“Nothing,” the waiter murmured.
“It’s got lousy service! Good day!”
And with that, Angus left the building.
__________
Rachel chomped at her massive sub like a vicious carnivore devouring the feast of a recent kill, a spot of metaphoric mustard-blood in the corner of her lips.
“How’s it goin’ over there?” Atomik Lad asked with a smile before taking a bite from his own sub.
She swallowed. “Ahhh. Fooood.”
“Hungry gal, huh?”
“Hungry to spill your samurai blood.”
“Oh ho. I see how it is. You’ve been fattening me up here to weaken my Whirling Dragon Style so you can beat me.”
“Your Whirling Dragon Style doesn’t need any help from me to be weakened, Champ.”
“Ouch, below the belt.”
“Not quite yet, hon.”
“Gk!”
“Well? You’ve been challenged, Sparky-san. You don’t wanna lose face, do ya?”
“Bring. It.
On.”
__________
Angus had found yet
another
bar. Nothing flashy, no frills, just some tables, a bartender, a few somewhat cooperative stools, regular patrons, and lots of liquor without any hassles. The Surly Scot sipped at his quaff of ale, savoring the life-giving mead for nearly a second before sucking it down like a black hole. “Ahhh, nothin’ beats a good ol’ glass o’ whiskey.”
“Supaa whiskey-san is no good for drinked. Hai.”
Angus’s spine tingled with backwashed fury. He turned to the source of the comment and eyed the Tiny Typhoon to his immediate left. His eye was almost twitching. “
What
.”
Shiro held up a little decorative bowl and gave a wide friendly smile. “Time for brain action killer is now with sake. Heavy with powaa.”
Angus scowled at his fellow Dwarf Warrior. “Look, ye walkin’ cultural stereotype, Ah’m the one with the hard to understand accent. Git ye own runnin’ gag.”
Shiro took a light sip from his sake bowl. “When dragon go frying, the ways and means of thunder and is loud with following are soon to been go.”
Angus shook. “That’s not even words! Ye just be babblin’ ye bloody head off!”
Another sip. “The neck is fire log when lit with fire.”
“Stop talkin’ nonsense talk!”
One more sip. “Sake betterer than whiskey any day, Joe.”
Angus’s right eye twitched. “WHAT!”
__________
Inside Rachel’s dorm room, a mad flurry of clicking raged like a storm. Swords clashed. Energy fireballs flew, were deflected, and swat away. Battlecries rang against the fast-paced background music and sword-slashing sound effects. Occasionally, a human grunt or curse was uttered. At last a victorious “WAHOO!” echoed through Wayne Hall.
“Crap,” Atomik Lad said. “I almost had you.”
“Almost only counts in Horseshoe Hand Grenades 3D, m’dear Sparky.”
“Don’t suppose you’ve got that one here, do ya?”
“I’m afraid not, but I loved it in the arcade.”
“I’ve got it at my place.”
She snapped her fingers and pointed to the door, “Let’s roll.”
__________
“Now lookie here, ye, ye
short
laddie!”
Shiro straightened up, squared his shoulders, and stood nearly an inch taller than the Surly Scot. Angus rage-shook a little more violently.
“Whiskey!” Angus announced, shoving his shot glass into Shiro’s face.
“Sake!” Counter-shove.
“Whiskey!” Shove!
“Sake!” Shove!
“Whiskey!” SHOVE!
“...Whiskey!” SHOVE!
“Sa—Oohhh no ye don’t, ye backstabbin’ son of an oppressive nobleman o’ English descent circa 1350 C.E.” He paused a moment. “Well, it’s a right ugly insult where
Ah
comes froom.”
“Sake!” Shiro insisted and shoved his little drinking bowl one last time. At the apex of this motion the bowl slipped from his fingers, tumbled through the air, and deposited a significant amount of sake into Angus’s shot glass. The two diminutive warriors stared into the tiny flask as the disputed liquids swirled and danced into an entirely new creation.
“Ye got sake in me whiskey.”
“Now is you whiskey mix the four winds like sake into half as many again as with.”
And yet neither proud warrior could deny the alluring aroma of their new concoction.