"Beetle, my friend, you are the frickin' MAN!"
"Say it with me."
"Where we goin' next, dude?"
Firebeetle. A local hero, as down to Earth as one got without having the ability to tunnel himself into the planet by consuming large amounts of raw earth. Having emigrated from Las Vegas after an extended stint at an unspecified community college, this young twenty-something turned adventurer now called Boise, Idaho home and was something of a costumed vigilante, making these dangerous streets safe for all who might walk them.
"Anywhere you want, Brewster. I'm just glad you came all the way out here to see me, man."
"What are you kidding? Once you told me that YOU were the Firebeetle, how could I stay home? That's the biggest news I heard, like, all year. My college roommate, the Firebeetle. Still, though... you couldn't have picked a better city to hang out than Boise?" James Brewster looked around him, studying the maze of store front property, assailed upon by adults and children alike. It lacked something, a sort of excitement replaced instead with the sort of convince normally offered by a corner store. He suppressed a yawn.
"What's wrong with Boise? Man, am I shitfaced...what is it, noon?" Firebeetle fell back a step and reached up to adjust the large bulbous amber lensed goggles that he wore. Half the reward of being Boise's local hero was mingling among the natives in hero garb, ever ready to fight danger wherever it might lurk. Just as soon as someone called Smitty's Bar and told him exactly where it was lurking.
"I don't know. I guess it's just kinda... well, I mean, I guess you probably don't see a hell of a lot of Cons out here. Just a lot of corn fields, but I guess there's that whole Children of the Corn mystique going on..." Brewster's disdain for the locale was increasingly obvious by the look on his face. He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and wondered what was going on in Vegas and how soon he could get there if he left now.
"Yeah, well, funny thing about Cons, Brew...augghhh..." Firebeetle stopped as if suddenly under vicious attack. He bent over, grabbing at his knees, and started breathing deeply. Even words were hard to form! Only one thought seemed prominent as the hero reached out to his friend, as if to shove him out of the path of an oncoming energy attack.
"What's wrong, man; you good?" Brewster stood by his former college roommate, unabated by Firebeetle's struggle to remain upright. He had, after all, seen his friend in this position more than once and probably more often than what Beetle remembered.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm golden. Give me a second, just need to augghhh..." Firebeetle's hands returned to his knees, clutching them as a growing pressure built in his stomach. Could it have been a viral attack? Was Smitty replaced by an evil alien, bent on the prompt invasion of Boise by first eliminating its erstwhile champion?
"Yeah, man, out with the bad, in with the goo--"
Firebeetle suddenly straightened, startling his friend. His mouth opened as if to scream a most earnest warning but instead managed only one horrendous and terrifying sound.
*burp*
A vicious pillar of projectile flame erupted from Firebeetle's mouth, a bizarre phenomenon in which his mutagenic abilities ignited the alcohol in his breath, creating a sort of blowtorch effect. The flame shot out across the street for thirty feet, igniting the sides of buildings, trees, and nearby automobiles.
"Dude! SHIT!"
"No, man. That was a belch. Get your orifices straight."
"My next colonics appointment isn't for another month," Brewster replied, deadpan.
Firebeetle sniffed around him, smelling trouble in the air. "Do... do you smell barbecue?"
"If by barbecue you mean fried baby, yep." Brewster pointed in the direction of the growing blaze.
"SHIT!"
"That's that I said!"
"We... we gotta save the day, man. We gotta be heroi-hikk. Uh, when did I eat cucumber?" Firebeetle took on a familiar battle stance, wondering what he should fight. He almost fell over.
Brewster slowly inched away. "Uh. Right. You get right on that. I'll see you back at the apartment. In Vegas."
"You're leaving me?"
"Hasta, dude."
Firebeetle looked from Brewster back to the burning street. A parked car exploded, spitting more flame against buildings that had so far remained unscathed. Pedestrians ran in erratic circles, patting at their clothes and dated Idaho hairstyles. The hero of Boise took a step forward and suddenly felt dizzy. "Oh, shi--*burp*"
Humanity #7
Artifice America
"Hooked On Colonics"
By Matthew J. Pierce and Ian Astheimer
"Tell you what: it's on the house."
"Really?" The hero, or Pro as the public had come to call them, continued the simulated act of searching pockets he didn't have for spare change or a wallet. He would have equipped his red and gray full body spandex costume with places for such things, but it would have made him look so unsightly! Imagine trying to battle cretins with the public staring at your ass, wondering what the bulge was over your right butt cheek!
"Yeah, sure. It's the least I can do for the Red Lamplight. Well, except for maybe coming up with a better code name for ya."
"Say again?" A mound of Philly Cheesesteak was lodged between the Red Lamplight's cheek and teeth. It was no wonder he couldn't hear the street vendor, the way he was chewing with his mouth open. Not to mention his breath smelled oddly of ten-day-old Jack Daniel's.
"Loved what you did at that Sonics game last week, Lampshade. I could have sworn that was a team mascot."
"No, sir. Con. Seattle is full of 'em." Con, of course, being a criminal with beyond human abilities.
"Well, you sure beat the snot out of 'im. Liked how his head fell off to reveal an unconscious teenager inside. So... where you off to?" the vendor asked, looking wearily for other customers. Perhaps sober ones whose Johnsons weren't displayed so prominently in their pants.
"Ah, I got this frickin' eye exam I've been blowing off for weeks. Got a speck of bird shit or something caught in my eye while going supersonic last month. Thing stung like a mother, let me tell ya." Red Lampshade pointed to his domino mask and the bloodshot eyes behind it.
The trite conversation between street-wise hero and concerned citizen was interrupted by the roar of jet engines, yet downtown Seattle was too far away from Seattle-Tacoma Airport. If a plane was flying this low, it must have been in trouble. Red Lamplight looked up into the sky and saw the voluminous trail of gray smoke heading toward the highly identifiable Seattle Space Needle.
"That a bird or a plane?!"
"Con. Seattle's full of 'em. Thanks for the Philly Cheese." Red Lamplight looked skyward and raised his right hand, his fingers clutched around his late afternoon breakfast. Around his wrist, blazing a bright fiery red, the Power Bangle all had come to associate as Red Lamplight's source of power.
Immediately airborne, Red Lamplight's head moved on his neck to a beat only he could hear, an excellent use of his Power Bangle. In many ways, it was better than an in-dash CD player. "Roxanne! You don't have to turn on the Red Lamplight! Roxanne! You don't have to sell your body to the night!"
As the hero rocketed through the clouded sky, he could see his target just ahead. As he figured, it was the mad genius, Abstract Thinker, more than likely propelled by a rocket pack of his own design. The technology, deviously built or not, was no match for the Red Lamplight's negative emotion powered alien jewelry. He was gaining on him and, by his own expert estimations, should have been able to snatch the Thinker's jet pack in another few seconds; plenty of time to grab another bite of his Philly Cheesesteak.
Without warning, Red Lamplight narrowly prevented the Cheesteak from stabbing him in the eye, focusing his keen senses on guiding it instead into his mouth. He cursed inwardly. Perhaps he should be getting on to his eye exam. No harm in letting the Thinker get away with--
BAM! SNAP! CRASH! SCREAM! LOUD WORDS!
The much deserved and well-earned Cheesesteak fell from Red Lamplight's gloved hands, but the hero's attentions were more focused on the shock of pain expanding across his face. He pressed his now-emptied hand against his features and peered through his fingers as the top seven feet of the Space Needle's antenna tower plummeted toward the ground below.
"Oh, fuck me, that was a good Philly Cheese." Red Lamplight dove, forcing every bit of pissed off frustration he could into his Power Bangle.
***
"Hey, no worries, my little poppies. There's plenty for everyone, no need to push." Theodore 'Ted' Hollis was a tall man. Scouts had him marked for a scholarship to Sacramento on account of his rebounds. A minor possession charge eliminated him as an NCAA hopeful and yet strangely guaranteed him a seat at Berkeley.
Following Ted around was a man from a local college paper. Ted had forgotten the man's name a minute after he said it, but it was Wayne Morris. Wayne had a dead man's grip on a tape recorder, and his mind raced to keep the order of his questions straight. To his surprise, he didn't need to ask a single one. Ted Hollis was a talker, and, of all the subjects in the world, he enjoyed talking about peace, Delta-9-Tetrahydrocannabinol, and himself... despite how redundant that was since Ted had long since become a human plant. And not just any plant. Oh, no.
"So, yeah, man, I just didn't feel like I was doing anyone any real good, staying on campus a seventh year, you know?" Ted passed a local customer wearing a knit cap who paused long enough to pluck what appeared to be moss off Hollis' bicep. "Thanks, man." Ted smiled happily before going on. "I mean, it was cool being monarch of my own campus empire and all. My name was legendary there, dude. I had honorary title in nine Fraternities and keys to eleven Sorority houses!" Hollis laughed and slapped a leafy forearm against Wayne's chest as he walked around an island counter. A girl with librarian glasses walked by and pulled off a handful of leaf from Ted's lower back. He turned and smiled. "Peace, sister." She smiled back.
"So, that's when you borrowed money from your family? To open this head shop?"
"Nah, man. That was when I had this most terrific send off party!" Ted spoke with his big leafy hands, his mouth moving like two swollen cactus pedals. "We had all sorts of weed there, man. It made a 4-20 celebration look like a couple kids sneaking cigarettes out behind the school parking lot. Dude, we had Thai Stix, Double Bubblegum, Super Gold Thai, Red Mao--" Ted gave a thumbs up to a couple local politicians who covertly snagged a couple threads of his hair and disappeared into a crowd of people. "--and even some stuff this guy got from an old gamma radiation test site out near Barstow."
"So, at which point did you start.... growing weed, Mr. Hollis?"
"Hey man, we're all brothers here. Call me ‘Ted' or--better yet--what all the kids on campus call me: The Cannabis Commando."
"Cannabis... Commando?"
"Yeah, or my favorite: Smoke Thing. Though, I kinda dig Man-Weed."
Wayne swallowed hard and thought about that for a moment, then repeated his question. "Okay, so at which point did your start growing weed, Cannabis Commando?"
"When I was about eight, dude. Had a do it yourself Hydroponics kit in my closet; it was pretty cool, man."
"I mean all over your body, Commando."
"Oh, that. Well, huh," Ted had to think about that one. He counted months or years off fingers that looked like green pine cones. A passer by reached for something like a turnip near his groin. "Whoa, hey! You can't smoke that, dude! You know I think it must have been shortly after that blow-out send-off."
"And, what has been the reaction from the DEA about your... skin growth?"
"Well, what do you mean?"
"You grow cannabis instead of body hair, Commando. People smoke what you call skin."
"Yeah?" Ted seemed genuinely confused.
"So, what does the DEA think about that?"
Ted opened his mouth and then closed it, thinking about the inquiry, its moral implications, and how soon it was ‘til lunch. "Can you, uh, rephrase the question?"
***
Washington, D.C.
United States Capitol
House Subcommittee on Emergency Preparedness, Science, and Technology
Office of Congressman Kevin Shelton (R - NC)
Kevin Shelton was picture-perfect politician: conservative wired framed glasses, straight teeth, neatly trimmed brown hair parted to the side, a solid chin, two clearly defined eyebrows, ear lobes that did not end at this kneecaps, and not a red bow tie in sight. He wore conservative colors to the office like blues, whites, and red ties that increased his chance of notice. Sadly, however, Kevin Shelton spent most days like a child, seen and not heard by the upperclassmen on Capitol Hill. This day, however, was slightly different. Lucky Kevin.
"Look, I'd do it, Kev, but the fact is I've already got this thing downstairs being looked at by the Senate."
"Dolphins that can smell biological gas in coffee beans? You actually believe they'll approve funding for that, Jim?"
"Fuck yeah, man. You know how much coke those Colombians ship in coffee? My Home Decorator was telling me about it." Of course, 'Home Decorator' was Congress slang for the guy who made house calls to deliver blow. The Chairman's upper lip was sweating, and Kevin Shelton felt sick to his stomach. If only that bitch from Deleware hadn't beat him to Ways and Means, he wouldn't have had to put up with this bullshit everyday.
"You sure that's not from some movie, Jim?"
"Quote me. Biothreat and coffee beans. Anyway, I got that going down. I need you to write up a proposal for this Post Modern Human thing."
"Why? Who gives a shit? We don't mess with them; they keep the sky from falling. Hell, we'd all be tanned and taking chemo in our lunch boxes if it wasn't for Ozonia. You see her spread in that swimsuit issue, by the way?" Shelton flexed his clearly defined and trimmed eyebrows. No unibrow here. No, sir.
"Hello? Government to Kevin!" Jim, the Committee Chairman, made a mock 'telephone' gesture. Shelton wanted to shove his envelope opener into Jim's jugular. Maybe he could propose legislation making killing your boss legal and hide it in an Education Services bill. Actually... that wasn't a bad idea. It wasn't like the President actually read anything before signing it.
"Who cares? POTUS cares!" So much for that theory. "You didn't hear the news at Charlie's Grill yesterday?"
"Nah, I had to take my wife to her colonics appoin--"
Chairman Jim sat his maximum capacity ass on the edge of Shelton's desk, promptly ruining four or five pages of what Shelton needed to do for Jim before going home for the day. "Get this," Jim laughed, "some sixteen year old kid got nabbed down at Argosy Community. Peeping Tom with x-ray eyesight, if you can believe that."
"Po-Mo with a hangover snaps off the top of the Space Needle and squashes a dozen tourists, but this is news? So, why's POTUS hot and bothered?"
"Where's your head, Kev?" Jim asked, a little dumbfounded. Shelton stifled a scream between gritted teeth. "Who goes to Argosy Community College, brainiac?"
"The President's daughter."
"Who's room was on the other side of the wall where the kid got caught?"
"Okay, yeah, I get it. X-Ray Kid gets a free show, and now the President wants legislation governing Post-Modern Beings."
"Welcome to the United States Government, Mister Shelton. Here's a three hundred dollar tie pin."
***
"Po-Mo's? What the hell do I know about Post Moderns, anyway? Republican prick, I'm so changing parties."
As if on cue and possibly detecting the high level of sarcasm and apparent need for more over-riced Government white label coffee, in came the office intern. "More coffee, sir? Oooh, man, is that Supranomicon #1?! Sir, if I may be so bold, may I ask where you got that limited edition foil cover? Comicsarama said that was going to be a convention exclusive and so I went to eBay the other day and I noticed there were two hours left and already it was up to two hundred---"
"Wait, wait. Come again, son?" Shelton looked up at his intern, puzzled. Had he even seen this kid before? Didn't he at least get respect enough to choose his own intern? Someone with enough cleavage to totally make up for a lack of inhibitions maybe?
"Hey, I said I was a fan. I'm not a fetishist." Stan McKinnis was tall and lanky, the kind of guy you expected to run like a girl and the one person in the neighborhood who always got picked to be goalie in street hockey. That was because other kids liked to slap shot hockey pucks at him, not because he had anything remotely related to mad goalie skills. But then, that was Stan McKinnis. The kid who wore impact proof glasses because he thought they were sporty and who had a sexy cleft chin like Superman but hair like Bill Shatner. And not sexy Captain Kirk 1960's Shatner either. No, more like Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home Shatner. Yeah.
"You know what? That's right: I do remember seeing you reading the funnybooks now and again in the intern pool."
"Graphic novels, man. Graphic novels." Stan lowered the coffee pot and rolled his eyes. Amateurs. It was a wonder how man was ever able to make it beyond Mars, let alone completely terra-forming Alpha Centauri for amazonian colonization. It must have been the genes.
"Sorry, graphic novels." Shelton adjusted his wire-framed glasses and gave his curiosity chase. "So, what do you know about how these powers work?"
"Great power. Great responsibility. High stakes. Moral messages. Morality tales." Stan tossed a hand in the air as if he had answered the question a million times, mostly to English teachers who refused to accept his books reports on Amazing Fantasy #15.
"You're hired." Shelton turned his attention back toward the papers on his desk and his flatscreen monitor. He had three weeks to draft a Bill, and, with any luck, the uber-geek next to him would do all the work for a fraction of the money Shelton planned to claim for research costs and per diem. Unphased by the news of his spur of the moment promotion, Stan grabbed the Congressman's cup of coffee and drank it himself.
"Great... power...," Shelton's fingers were ablaze, capturing the words on screen for later plagiarizing, "great responsibility. We should use that in the proposal. Congress will love it."
"It's... uh, copyrighted, sir."
"Shit! Got anything better?"
"Not yet, but I know this guy who's in advertising..."
"He any good?"
"Kinda. I mean, he's stuck on this whole ‘trying to come up with a slogan for Captain Awesome's Awesome Underwear' thing."
"A subject matter expert. Call him up. He's got the job."
***
"So, maybe you could try, ‘Feeling Awesome' or ‘With Awesome Support' or ‘Awesome in All the Right Places' or...something." Stan sat cross-legged on his bed. Like so many young adults in America, Stan had grown up only to relocate to the finest in parental basement bedrooms. On his lap, narrowly opened so as to not to create a crease on the cover, was the limited edition firs issue of Supranomicon, ‘borrowed' from work for matters related to research.
"You know what would be cool?"
"A new Star Wars movie that didn't suck? They could totally adapt the Timothy Zahn novels and, like, use Christopher Walken as Grand Admril Thrawn and paint him blue--but not like Mystique blue because then the message boards would be filled with all of those lamer smurf jokes and--"
"A Captain Awesome smiley set for AIM." Stan's compatriot was Greg, who worked in advertising when he wasn't reading comics, playing X-Box, or partaking of the ganja. Only when he made his infrequent trips into the office did he not wear a hooded sweatshirt, hemp cap, and blond dreads. Normally, he was an advertising genius, securing his right to somehow avoid having to actually show up for work.
"Oh, dude! I once saw my smiley and thought it kinda looked like Deadpool. But, you know, I wish they made a Watchmen smiley package."
"That would rock." Greg's whole body shifted left from where he sat on the floor, both hands trained on an X-Box controller as his digital avatar narrowly evaded its certain on-screen demise.
"Must be done."
"Wait. Did you just say 'a smiley package'?" Greg looked puzzled, trying to recollect the last few moments worth of conversation without having to actually take his eyes off of Halo2.
Stan's abruptly looked up form the comic on his lap. "Yea-- No. I mean, um... why again?"
***
"Okay, so why are we sticking it to the Po-Mo's again, Congressman Shelton?" Stan leaned toward the straw sticking out of his Starbuck's Frappacino, nearly impaling his eyeball with it. He quickly scanned the table to ensure there were no witnesses, then began considering how he would covertly eliminate them if there were any.
"Keep your voices down and don't call me Congressman out loud." Shelton patted the air and checked over his shoulder. "And, it's not like we're sticking it to them. These laws--they'd actually protect the heroes, not to mention us civilians who have no real super powers."
"Speak for yourself, flatscan."
"Yes. Greg was born a mutant. Show him your gift, Greg."
"He is a non-believer and hasn't earned the right." Greg arched an eyebrow and spoke matter-of-factly to Stan, then turned back to the Congressman sitting across from them. "So, what you're saying, Mr. Shelton, is: this legislation has nothing to do with hospitals around the country being overrun with all these tangentially connected wounds from P-Mod mishaps."
"Uhhh...no?"
"Deception indicated," Greg proclaimed.
"Ho, man, Mr. Shelton, you shouldn't lie to Greg. I tried lying to him once about who bent his first edition Magic the Gathering Mox Diamond, and he--"
"Okay, okay!" Shelton massaged the vein that was standing at attention on his forehead. "Jesus Christ in a birthday suit, I'm surrounded by comic geeks--"
"We prefer 'nerds' if any unflattering terminology must be used to describe us, Mr. Shelton." Greg spoke almost without inflection and arched an eyebrow, his only display of emotion since meeting Shelton at this pre-arranged rendez vous. "'Geeks' bite the heads off chickens. ‘Nerds' are delicious candy, hand-crafted by Oompa Loompas."
"Look," Shelton interjected in effort to move on from the inanities of this conversation. "We've had Po-Mo's in this country for decades. For all I know, we had the first Post Modern Being."
"An occurrence I have dedicated many hours and web surfing to, I assure you. I have consulted with my fellow Illuminati and --"
Shelton continued, not wanting to hear any more from Mr. Spock or Mr. Dork or whomever he was emulating. "The government failed to make adequate protections, and now we have to jump through our asses here. Christ, why am I telling you any of this?"
Stan was the first to answer. "Because, Congressman Shelton, we are still wanted by the government; we survive as soldiers of fortune. If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find us, maybe you can hire... the... uhhh..."
"Find you? You're sitting right there." Shelton pointed a confused finger at the intern. People passed by the three of them in the booth, wondering what they seemed to be so intently discussing in the middle of a shopping mall Starbuck's. "And, stop calling me that."
"Yeah, but I was speaking figuratively."
"Trust us, Mr. Shelton. Of all of the people you could have gone to, no one knows P-Mods like Stanley and I."
"Stan," Stan corrected.
"We have limitless resources and information. We have thirty years of comic history illegally downloaded and every volume of The Science of Post Modern Beings in print. You want to know how to regulate Po-Mo's in America? We'll tell you."
Shelton furrowed his brow and looked form Greg to Stan. "Great," he said with an exasperated sigh. "You have two weeks."
"We have a crack team standing by. You can count on us, Congressman Shelton."
***
"DUDE! You so got Pwned!" Stan tossed the X-Box controller in his lap and threw his arms into the air as he claimed yet another kill on Halo2 at Greg's expense. A bowl of stale, lime-flavoured Tostidos was knocked over, but neither seemed to notice or care. This was a gamer's den, a comic reader's mecca. It was the basement by which all other basements would be judged.
"Of course, you know I'm just feeding your ego for the big hustle. Talk to me when you want to play for cash."
"Whatever, man. Anyway, we need to get back to this thing for Shelton." Stan rose from the throw rug in front of the television set and looked for the folder of notes, stashed somewhere between issues of Maxim and Wizard and beneath a roll of toilet paper.
"Screw that, dude. Put on some Snoop."
"What the hell for? It's my turn, and I call New Order," Stan whined.
"Snoop. Time to warm up Dong Vader." Greg's hand revealed a remote control, held together with black electrical tape and skateboard decals. "I have the ultimate discussion nullifier, Richards. Snoop it is."
"Okay-fine, but, after your smoke, we need to go over this."
"No sweat. I'll be in just the state of mind necessary to recommend changes for our US government."
***
"Man, check this out. In California some kid who could open portals was busted shoplifting. He was stashing his loot in pockets of hyperspace he could create."
"Wicked. How very ‘Bag of Holding.' Did they castrate him?" Greg popped another cheeto into his mouth and watched the immobile poster on his ceiling before returning to his video game.
"Dunno. Says here he opened a portal and pulled out a Cheetah while trying to run from Walmart Security."
"Fuck, man, Walmart? Those dudes are trained to shoot first and cuff later. Kid deserved what he got. Shoulda went to Target. Pass me some chips, bro."
"Should the punishment for superhuman shoplifting be different than that of regular shoplifting?"
"Yeah, sounds -- OH, I CALL BULLSHIT!" Greg chucked the game controller at the television and missed. He stood up and brushed orange snack food residue off his hooded sweatshirt.
Stan looked up at Greg, seemingly stuck with the issue. "What do you think we should recommend?"
"Hmmm." Greg thought for a few seconds and then shrugged. "Castration works. I'm going out for a cigarette."
***
"Now, god dammit, you tell whoever you got there on hold that I'm the god damn Secretary of Defense, and I will not wait another minute, Clarissa! Now, I demand respect, Clarissa. Respect!"
"All right, Mr. Secretary. Now, calm down. Remember your blood pressure, honey, I'll be right back." Clarissa's voice, smooth like Sade chased down with cool afternoon vermouth, had an immediate effect on the otherwise irate Secretary. She reached down to the telephone and pressed hold and then one of the other flashing lights on her own personal switchboard. Life wasn't always easy for the 1-900 operator to the stars, but it sure was profitable.
"William? Sorry for the delay, sugar. Maybe we should continue this another time." She adjusted the foam padded mic near her supple lips and paged through a thick notebook of hand scribbled notes. The sort of notes that could crash countries and derail Fortune 500 companies.
"You've got another gentlemen caller on the line, don't you?"
"Now, William, we've been through this..."
"Is it the friggin' Secretary again? You tell that son of a bitch--"
"William, stop talking." There was an immediate silence. Such things happened when Clarissa spoke. Many things happened when she spoke, whatever she wanted as a matter of fact. Hers was the power of verbal suggestion, and it made her terribly wealthy... and connected. "I'll tell you what, William. Until we speak again, there is a report that the Chief Executive Officer of Microtech made under the table campaign contributions to the last man who hoped to be President. Those contributions came directly from an unnamed network of sleeze shops in Vietnam that make a habit of employing underage orphans. I believe your televised tabloid is in need of something to round out the six o'clock hour, you handsome Irish devil. Go play with your new bone and call me tomorrow, darling." The caller hung up, and the light on the switchboard went dark, the only one to do so. Clarissa smiled and returned to her Secretary in waiting.
"Now, Donald. Tell me again about those black clad troopers of yours in Tehran, and I'll tell you what I'm not wearing beneath my plaid skirt."
***
"This will never fly, man." Greg pulled the knit cap off his dreads and stashed it into the front pocket of his hooded sweatshirt. Stan had ambushed him in the garage and pursued him all the way down into the basement. Looking over their jointly written proposal, Greg suddenly began to realize the idea of legalizing P-Mods was preposterous.
"Sure, it will. You didn't have a problem with it yesterday when we put it together!" Stan was whining again.
"I was high, you moron. I wouldn't have a problem with a nail through my nutsack after hitting Dong Vader." Greg shoved the Power Point print-out proposal into his best friend's hands, let the skateboard clamor to the ground, and made for the mini fridge beside his computer desk. "The thing will never fly without a catalyst. A Reichstag fire, you know? We'll do it over. Tomorrow though, I'm jonseing for some Luda."
"Two weeks." Stan let his arm fall to his side, the papers folding against his leg.
"What?"
"We had two weeks. We put this off, talked about it, goofed off for two weeks. We don't hand something in tomorrow morning, and I could get canned. You know I need this internship, man."
"All right, all right, don't rupture a pancreas over it. Jesus. Okay, bottom line: your boss wants rules for Po-Mo's. They don't follow the rules that means they're breaking the law."
"What is the law? No spill blood!" Stan smiled, his eyes shimmering as if the clouds overhead had certainly parted and sunshine was beating down on him directly.
"Not now, Dr. Moreau." Greg frowned, suddenly feeling uncomfortably intelligent and sober beside his youthful minded friend. He took the presentation back from Stan and dropped like a ton of bricks into the bean bag chair that was his personal throne, musing as he considered what they had come up with.
"Well?"
"All too easy," he said ominously. "This is what defines Pros from Cons, my dear Watson. Follow the law, be a Pro. Fly like a speeding bullet in a resedential zone... be a Con."
"Excellent," cooed Stan, tapping his fingers together in a sinister looking stance.
"Take a memo, Smithers." Greg raised the presentation into the air and reached for his bottle of Gatorade. "We have laws to write."
Stan stopped after having picked up a notepad and pen. He stood there quietly, which Greg knew to be a bad sign. It meant Stan was thinking too much, rationalizing or possibly plotting the town's demise from a clock tower, he could never tell exactly. "Uh, oh."
"What are we doing, Greg?"
"What do you mean, dude? We're making policy. No. More than that. We're making our mark."
"But, is it right?"
"That's not for us to decide, Stanley. We make the suggestions, as crazy as they might be. I mean, come on, they'll never go with what we're saying. You just have to turn this shit in to keep your job. But, think about this: even if they take just one of our ideas and use it—just one—we will have made our mark, dude. We would have made our mark on the world, something to be remembered by. We instigated change within the system! It'd be like... like every Rage song, every message by Chuck D and Flava Flav come true, man. We're not just supporting the revolution... we're leading it! Just...one idea. It's like what James Kirk said in ‘Mirror, Mirror': 'In every revolution, there's one man with a vision.' Be that man, Stanley. Lead this revolution. Now... what say you?"
"I say...," Stan raised a fist into the air. "Fight the power."
A moment later. "And, it's just Stan."
***
It was without any warning that the non-descript door in an otherwise oval office opened. An abrupt glance at the large, broad shouldered man in a suit betrayed the concern on the elder statesman's face.
"What is it, Steve?"
"My apologies, Mr. President, but we have an alarm."
President Bush nodded, understanding softening his features as he rose from behind the desk. Simultaneously, a half dozen additional suits filtered into the Oval Office. He allowed the mob of Secret Service agents to do their duty, to become intermediaries between the President and any attacks from outside.
"What have we got this time? Bi-partisan dogs come to pee on the White House lawn, Steve?" The President laughed at his own joke. No one joined him in the moment of jocularity.
"Afraid not, sir." Steve Bennett's stoic features seemed more grave. "This alarm is a bit more... credible."
"What is it?"
"No need to be concerned, sir. The Family is secured."
"What's the threat, Steve?"
"It's... Well, it's monkeys, sir."
"Monkeys? What the hell are you--"
"Ninja monkeys."
Dread washed over the President's face. Terrorists. Despots. Nuclear ambition. Nothing deterred the President of the United States. Nothing stopped the Leader of the Free World. But, then again, no one fucked with ninja monkeys. "Good Lord in Heaven. Someone get me the Secretary of Defense."
Outside, the aforementioned wave of ninja monkeys (Note: Not the band The Monkees because, man, that would've just been weird) rushed the white house lawn, deftly evading the defensive attacks of the Secret Service agents. DC police flocked to the scene in screaming police cars and vans, dizzying red and blue painting the White House lawn in a psychedelic spasm of color. Emanating from the center of the ninja monkey storm was a fountain of mist and, within it, a bald Asian man in a tuxedo.
From the nexus of the monkeys in the mist came the monotone message. "After many months of searching... After many months of bathing most cautiously in a prison system modeled after your imperialistic gulags… I have found you, Bush43! I, the terror of the Orient, the avenger of Asia, the sole inheritor of the lost Wailing Monkey Thumb Kung-Fu technique! I, Woo!"
Steve's enlarged brow deepened as if trying to hear the accented voice over the cacophony of gunshots, monkey chirps, ricocheting ninja stars, and wet splats of monkey poo. Ninja monkey poo, to be precise.
"Who?"
"I think it was Woo, actually," Another Agent, Steve's right hand man and confidant, replied. "The President wants the Marines called in."
"Little drastic for a bunch of monkeys and some loon from Chinatown, isn't it?"
"SECDEF said something about nukes. And, they're ninja monkeys, sir."
Steve sighed. "I got this shit."
Twenty minutes later, and the monkey storm continued. The White House looked like the cover of a novel from Hu Fwung Pu, and the President was being rushed to a nearby chopper, ninja monkeys kept at bay with a water cannon.
"Why?! Why do you persist to cower in the presence of your pillared home, Bush43?! This citadel built in honor to the Greeks, in this land built on the backs of Asians, from an industry borne of railroads we built beneath the whip and gun of Western tyranny!" Woo shook angered fists toward the skies and felt his eyes begin to well up as he remembered the last time he faced Bush43, in the streets of Pacific City. "Why do you not come and face me as you have before?! Face me now, Bush43, with your flag and your... your agile and graceful fighting style that so narrowly defeated me once before!"
On the other side of the White House, President Bush ducked slightly as he made his way to the Marine Corps helicopter, flanked by Secret Service agents. "Why does he keep calling me that? What's a Bush43?"
"I think it has something to do with your being the forty-third president, sir."
"That's crazy! He couldn't have just come calling for Clinton42?"
"Suppose not, Mr. President."
Steve Bennett watched ninja monkeys swing from pillar to pillar, his right hand man still more than a little nervous...and a little puzzled by the bald Asian in a tuxedo. "You notice how, when Woo talks, his lips don't match what he's saying?"
"Guess I missed that." Steve looked at his watch, clearly impatient. "Come on, where are they?"
"Christ, this reminds me of my last colonics appointment," Another Agent mumbled, dodging a line of fecal fire. "Wait, where's who?"
"Them." Steve pointed with a grin. A white truck screeched to the curb in front of the Capital fence line. SWAT troopers, stained with feces, flooded into the street, tearing open the back doors of the truck and climbing inside. After a brief pause, the troops returned to the street, their arms full.
"Is that...a fruit truck?"
Steve was still smiling. "Our last, best chance to defend this great nation, Agent. Dole."
SWAT troopers spread out into the White House lawn, tossing fresh, yellow bananas onto the ground. The ninja monkeys, just minutes from overwhelming the unprepared agents, halted in their tracks and smelled the air.
"No! Stop that! Don't you do that!" Woo shook a fist at the SWAT troopers to no avail. His eyes widened as he looked back, toward the White House and the ensuing swarm of monkeys bounding greedily toward him. "Stop! Go back! You shall not defy Woo! You shall not--" Woo tried to step into the path of the approaching monkey storm, angering one ninja monkey in particular, who promptly kicked Woo between the legs. Woo covered his groin, his eyes rolling back in pain, and then crumpled to the lawn. As he landed on his knees, a barrage of the ninja monkeys' most efficient and plentiful weapon pelted him, adding insult to injury.
All around them, the Ninja Monkeys bounded for the smorgasbord of bananas, literally falling from the sky, as they bounded off and away from the not-so-White House. DC Metropolitan police and SWAT cautiously converged on the defeated Asian man on the White House lawn as two secret servicemen watched from a safe distance.
"I've heard of cats and dogs, but this? This is ridiculous."
Steven was smiling from ear to ear as he watched SWAT make their arrest of the defeated nemesis that was Woo. "Yeah, it's...er...splitsville."
"All we need is ice cream," Hayes replied.
"We've already got the nuts."
***
Washington, D.C.
United States Capitol
House Subcommittee on Emergency Preparedness, Science, and Technology
Office of Congressman Kevin Shelton (R - NC)
"Shelton!" The door opened, Congressman Jim squeezing his death grip on the knob, a look of panic etched on his face and depositing sweat on his upper lip.
"Hey, Jim." Kevin flipped another page of what had to have been the most prposteroous document he ever read and contemplated brighting his boss' day by sharing it... then decided against it. Fuck him.
"You remember that thing I came to you about a couple weeks ago?"
"Uh, you don't mean the draft legislation on policy for Post Modern Humans or whatever, do you?"
"That's exactly what I meant. You heard about the shit hitting the fan at the White House yesterday?"
"Who hasn't? And nice pun, by the way."
Jim ignored the complement. It was clear now what was happening. The Legislation, which was once a pipe dream, was now becoming reality after a bald Asian Con with a battalion of ninja monkeys painted the White House in excrement. "Well, I need it now."
"As in now 'now'? You said I had a few weeks, I only got this thing--I mean I only finished the draft--"
"It's perfect. We'll get it watermarked and sent up the flag pole." Already Jim was looking more relaxed, color returning to his cheeks.
"I'm not sure you want to take that, Jim. It's really...um...raw, right now."
But, Jim wasn't listening, already heading back out of the office. "I have to get this back out before lunch." And nothing held Congressman Jim back from taking a lunch on time. "I'll let you know if there any questions." Which, of course, meant questions Jim himself couldn't answer, given this was meant to look like his handiwork without ever touching it.
Kevin Shelton thought about that for a moment. A slow smile spread across his face. He almost wish he had planned it all this way. What better way to secure a promotion than to let your boss make himself look like an idiot by ratifying a document written by two potheads? Then again, who was around to say that Kevin didn't plan it that way? He leaned back in his $1200 leather back chair and folded his hands behind his head. It was going to be good, finally getting that office with a view.
***
One week later, at a Georgetown cafe, three hours after the President of the United States signed an emergency Education bill into law.
"So, I told you: you had nothing to worry about."
"I should have never doubted you."
"Damn right. You get to keep your job and get a special envelope from your boss," Greg smiled, searching his pockets for the rolled up sandwhich bag he thought he was carrying. "So, you going to open that thing or what?"
"Should I? I'm so nervous!"
"Oh, stop being a Nancy and open the damn thing."
Stan tore into the envelope with reckless abandon, pulling out the folded letter with fine, Grade A parchment and the Congressional seal. As brief as it was, he read it silently first and then decided to recite it out loud...but not so loud as to tip any covert enemy of their newfound importance.
"Gentlemen, on behalf of a grateful nation, I want to thank you for your services to this proud country. I would also like to remind you that you signed Statements of Nondisclosure, and the slightest mention of our meetings or business arrangement will result in swift and brutal legal acti--termination. With extreme prejudice. Like T-1000 style. Goodbye, gentlemen."
The two looked at each other in silence, happy with the recognition. As little as the form seemed by way of compensation, both Stan and Gary knew that their hard work had been included, deep within the President's education bill. Laws for Post Modern Beings had been made a reality, and both were sure that at least one of their ideas had to be in there somewhere. At least one.
"Holy shit," Stan concluded.
"I frickin' told you so," Gary replied finally. "Now quit bogartin' the weed."