Chapter Twelve

Igor, having spent half of the previous dozen hours hard at work, was exhausted.

Somewhere, hanging onto the hands of a clock bound for the eastern side of midnight, Igor had managed to complete the device Melvin of the Jhew Alliance had offered to him -an exceptionally sophisticated set of explosives that not only scrambled and nullified the unique communications link that existed between the consumers, employers, victims and proponents of Adolph Industries' Conversation-Makey products and technologies, it also managed to be an old-fashioned explosive in a new fangled manner.

And now, the sun was rising. Solar illumination crept into Igor's bedroom, and shone into his eyes, which forced Igor, drearily, out of bed. He sat upright, leaned forward to put on the extra plush, navy blue slippers and immediately fell forward and hit the floor.

"Igor need coffee," he grumbled as the new day continued to slowly age.

* * * * *

As dawn continued breaking in the eastern skies, the early morning light that had risen Igor from his bed was close to shining down upon the rival temples of which Igor worked and Missy often screeched about.

Outside the Temple of Scienceology, Alejandro skittered back and forth nervously, waiting for Igor. An automotive hum was expected, but the approach of Missy on her bicycle, complete with wicker basket, was what was arriving. And she wasn't headed for the adjacent temple as she usually was.

Missy pedaled, and came to a stop outside, the Temple of Scienceology's front glass doors. Alejandro, fearing Missy's busybody nature might get her into a whole new world of trouble, attempted to intervene, and he skittered up to her as she dismounted her bicycle, marched neighborly to the glass, and stuck her face up against the doors to see what she could see. If there'd been a doorbell, she would've worn it out in less than three minutes.

ARF!

Hands on her hips, Missy then turned away from the Temple's doors and looked down upon Alejandro.

"Well, hello. Greetings from the Savior of the Cult of the Lowercase T." She then leaned down to pet Alejandro, and he bit her with as much force as he could manage.

"Ow! You little monster, I should have you put down! Come here!" Missy then began chasing Alejandro, who kept running between Missy's legs, to avoid her clutches.

"Alejandro. Igor here."

Missy's hands reached out one last time and again missed as Alejandro managed to stop on a dime, turn, and lunge again through Missy's legs. He then ran and pretended to hide behind Igor.

"Young man, is this animal yours?"

"Alejandro is," Igor lied.

"And has Allie Hand Ro had all of her shots?"

Alejandro then barked in protest at the butchering of its name and sex, to which Igor smiled a sleepy smile, knowing full well the dog had just called this woman a bitch. Coughing an oncoming chuckle back down, Igor casually replied "Yes, he has."

ARF!

Igor, incapable of holding it back, laughed briefly, which only caused further irritation from Missy.

"Do you think this is funny young man?"

"Alejandro suggests Missy pray the rabies away."

Frowning, Missy took to her bicycle, shook a warning finger at the tiny dog, said "Next time he
bites me, he's going to the pound." She then pedaled off in a huff.

Igor, unable to resist, offered in response "Missy'll get Igor, and Igor's little dog, too!"

ARF?

"Igor explain later."

* * * * *

Today, it seemed, was "Convert Your Kids Day" at the Temple of Scienceology, because the lobby, corridors, and rooms devoted to S-Meter analysis were teaming with youths from the age of newborns, who were believed to be guilty of things their bakery fresh brains couldn't yet understand, to the rowdy teenaged guys Igor's age who were more interested in the pelvic dance than they were in this crackpot gathering of believers.

Some of these rowdy guys, however, were aspiring scientists not unlike Igor, but where Igor had simply been interested in electronics and such, these rebellious teens had taken their fundamental belief there was no god and their close encounters with the neighborly Missy to heart, and so began the minor holy war between the adjacent cults.

Missy would stand outside with her congregation, praying as loudly as they could while the guys would take up cans of spray paint in the middle of the night and write proclamations across the Lowercase T's temples front doors proclaiming "Jesus Was A Monkey Before He Was A Messiah."

Unable to come up with a humorous response, Missy and the rest of the temples followers kept handing out gifts of food and drink (at the appropriate price, mind you), offered prayers, and maintained their assumed superiority while the boys of the Scienceology temple offered up the actual history of their church and how most of it was stolen from other religions, mainly paganism, and they were too stupid to realize the difference.

Being too stupid to realize the difference, the prayers and gifts kept coming.

And then the Grand High Mystic arrived for work. Ever perceptive of the goings and comings of the neighboring temple's population, Missy was the first to notice who was approaching the building.

"GET HIM! HE DOESN'T BELIEVE IN THE SAVIOR OF THE CULT OF THE LOWERCASE T!" shouted Missy.

Fast on his feet, the Mystic just barely managed to avoid the clutches of the Lowercase T'ians self appointed representatives this fine morning and let the front doors slam behind him as he made for the elevator. If he had looked back, he would've seen Missy pressed up against the glass doors staring inside, demanding at the top of her lungs to know what was going on in there, proclaiming why it most likely wasn't approved of by the Savior of the Cult of the Lowercase T, declaring how she was going to pray for them (whether they liked it or not) and remained pressed hard up against the glass to see it all.

* * * * *

For the past several years, the ongoing Hollywood careers of the likes of Jay Jay Abraham, Roland Emery, and Mikey Bay have given to the film going population some of the most expensive,  most popular, high concept pieces of shit that had absolutely no storytelling merit.

Jay Jay himself had recently dedicated himself to destroying an intelligent and noble science fiction franchise that had grown stagnant within the last decade due, mostly, to the incompetencey of its own show runners and demands for more, more, more from the studio that ran it so hard, they successfully ran it into the ground and buried it in a shallow grave down by the water front so that, eventually vultures could peck at its bones.

Roland Emery and Mikey Bay weren't much better, creating cinematic piles of crap dedicated to doomsday scenarios which usually involved threats from outer space, but at least they weren't grave robbing corpse rapists. Even Dr. Nefarious wouldn't stoop that low.

Many have wondered how this trio of incompetent directors became so highly successful in the modern world. You'll find yourself the answer in the basement in the temple of Scienceology, as Igor had been instructed to keep their mind numbing cinematic talents going by giving their respective brains a simultaneous wash.

"Scrub a dub dub, three nuts in a tub..." Igor sang to himself as he added more Brain-O.

"Keep them sanitized, Igor," said the Grand High Mystic when he introduced the directorial stooges to Igor earlier this morning. "They are our greatest collaborators, and will help usher in the new age."

"Yes, master" said Igor. The Mystic then patted Igor on the head, for less than fatherly reasons , and headed back to the elevator to check on the goings on upstairs.

And when he was alone, as the trio of brains were resting in their own jars alongside the walls, A Communication came through. Igor pulled out his Spartan flip phone, and was informed of how Jay Jay, Roland and Mikey were important to Adolph Industries master plan.

Numbing the minds through advanced, expensive conversation-makeys  had been the primary means of iDumbing down the home world population, but with the Hollywood alliance becoming stronger every day,  the Jhew Alliance knew they would have to strike soon.  Jay Jay, Roland and Mikey's finished products always seem to have the same cinematic shine and sheen the Adolph Industries perfected in its stores back home.

And now, here the directors were, scrubbed and shined, hooked up once again into the high speed communications relay that was jacked into the main console Katie had once shown Igor. Every so often, Igor would override the security programs, and raise Almighty Steve from his hidden alcove and witness for himself the horrors the Jhews were so concerned with.

Steve's health was continuing to regenerate.

Not good.

* * * * *

Outside the Temple of Scienceology, Alejandro of the Cheewahwah race, sat shaking at the temple doors, had been quietly waiting evacuating the Evolved Ones from the Temple of Scienceology. As they still had aluminum hats on their heads, and were still simple, submissive creatures that did what the descendants of Steve asked of them, Alejandro had to be creative in getting the Evolved One's attention, and so had resorted to dressing up as a bottle as a bottle of Tequila. In groups of five, Alejandro had been leading his charges from the building into the relative safety of the real world.

Now, as the tiny Cheewahwah rested, it amused itself with the ongoing arguments from the rowdy Scienceologist teens and the highly pious Cult of the Lowercase T's. The argument was one concerning the actual fossil histories and evolutionary process of the planet, plus the superiority of scientific investigation over being a parrot, spouting the same old views of invisible men in the sky that, although claims to love you, also has His finger hovering over the button which controls the celestial trap door which will open up any minute and drop the infidels into the eternal furnace below.

Missy continued praying for the lost souls as loudly as she could, and the Scienceologist retaliated with their prized creation: Jojo The Monkey Christ*.


* Sometimes science is like a game of Truth Or Dare. The unwilling atheistic initiates to the Temple had decided that spray painting slogans wasn't getting the job done, so they staged a midnight raid on the nearest public zoo, kidnapped their prized member of the simian setup, spent weeks running gene sequence analyses, and performed humiliating experiments such as dressing JoJo in a red thong while teaching him to sing "Viva Las Vegas." 


"Blasphemy," shouted the tiny Missy.

"Worship him," cried the teens! "You wanna walk on water, Jojo?"

"OOOH AAAH AAAH AHH! OOOH AAAH AAAH!" howled Jojo, and he monkeyed his way to a child's inflatable pool that was filled to the brim. Jojo jumped in, landed softly, rose and fell slightly with the water underneath him, and stayed afloat. Jojo brought his hairy hands together, and hung his head in prayer.

It only took a moment for the Lowercase T'ians to scramble to get a look at their new messiah, fell hard to their knees, and began praising the simian.

"Oh lord it is a miracle!" cried Missy.

"...of science, bitches!"

* * * * *

When lunchtime rolled around, Igor took the gleaming brains from the sanitizing wash, placed them in their appropriate containers along the walls, and made his way to the upper levels where lunch would most assuredly be underway.

On ground level, the elevator swung open and let The Mystic in, who smiled an unreadable smile at Igor, and motioned for some guests to enter into the lift. Filed in they, these unshaven, odorous, and cerebrally deficient business partners of The Mystic.

"Oh, hello Igor, let me introduce you to some great potential for our organization's growth. This is Harry, this is Larry, this fellow here is Gary, followed by Barry and, last but not least, Mary."

Uncertain, Igor asked "Mary?" and a gruff, bearded voice came from amongst the other unshaven individuals. "That's me, ain't it. I done reckon it's a pleasure to make yer acquaintance."

Mary was a woman of a certain presence - it certainly presented itself and Igor wished it would back the hell off, take a damned shower, apply a few pounds of deodorant, perfume, toothpaste, mouthwash, and copious amounts of shaving cream. But the same could be said for the other entrants into Igor's elevator bound for the cafeteria still a few levels away.

Igor, wanting not to give a further line of questioning due to the fact it would require inhaling the now polluted atmosphere, simply nodded and half smiled at the remaining occupants, as The Mystic eyed the illuminated button Igor had pressed.

"Lunchtime I see," he said turning back to Igor and smiling. "I do hope there's pistachio ice cream today for dessert. A man can't get enough pistachio ice cream, right Igor?"

"Yes, master." Igor replied out of force of habit, and swallowed a mouthful of  redneck aroma. It nearly caused immediate unconsciousness.

With the press of a button, The Mystic then allowed the elevator to rise again to its original destination, and The Mystic continued his conversation with the newcomers. They, Igor learned, were members of a family from the backwoods negotiating their contracts for an upcoming reality show they felt they deserved, because they were white, eccentric, stupid, and loud.

Being white, eccentric, stupid, and loud was the now the go to formula in reality television, and The Mystic took advantage of it immediately. Through his connections with Hollywood, The Mystic had arranged a multitude of brain draining sources of entertainment that now clogged the American television viewing habit.

It'd started off simply, with a fat comedian called "Larry The Idiot Boy." His first appearance on stage was coupled with his famous self introduction: "I'm Larry The Idiot Boy, And I'm Here To Be Fat, Loud, And Obnoxious! Because I'm Larry The Idiot Boy."

And Larry was an immediate success. 

Then came Honey Baby, the tale of a backwater child the size of a prized hog who acted as such. And she was an even bigger success.

Then came the antics of Wild Bucks, which consisted of idiots at play in an often dangerous fashion which would ultimately take the lives of half the cast, proving Darwin's theories wholly accurate yet again.

And now, here Igor was overhearing the latest venture into reality television, and it filled him with a new sense of horror and a profound loss of appetite.

* * * * *

Later that afternoon, just outside the Temple's front doors,  the street corner holy war continued, while inside the messages continued to come through Igor's phone.

We're receiving increased levels in Radioactive Stupidity in your vicinity. What's going on there, Igor?

And Igor spoke aloud his message to his phone, which automatically shunted said message back to the Jhews.

"Local crazies having theological discussion. It normal. Oh, and new reality TV show being planned. Plus monkey singing Elvis' greatest hits. Igor not know why though."

Has The Cheewahwah Representative Evacuated His People?

ARF!

Good.  We Must Act Quickly. Your Society Is Doomed. Tie Up Whatever Loose Ends You
May Have, And Signal Us When You Are Ready. You Are The Galaxy's Only Hope, Igor.

Igor closed up his phone, turned to the corner where, perfectly concealed in the far
reaching shadows, Igor's only benevolent contact on Earth came skittering up to the
hunchback on shaking legs and let out a small, but declarative, ARF!

"Igor understand. Get fellow Cheewahwah's home, Alejandro."

ARF! and away went the tiny brown dog.

Chapter Eleven

It had been nearly a week since Victor Frankenstein had been admitted to the local hospital*, here he had been placed in a room alongside Dr. Flappy, who was suffering an adverse reaction to his pain medication which added severe paranoia to his already precarious state.

*The details of Bertha's night of enforced lovemaking upon Victor remain somewhat sketchy.  When Victor was found shaking and broken the next morning, he kept muttering on and on about positions and moves not to be found in your standard Kama Sutra. Moves, such as "The Scrubbing Brush," "The Saxophone," "The Existential Colonoscopy And Prostrate Paddlewheel."
"I know they may look benign, Victor, but please, for the love of Bobo, don't trust the gift shop's Get Well Soon balloons. I'm telling you, they're from hell or North Korea or something, just don't let them near you. Okay?"

Victor had only been conscious a few hours, and Dr. Flappy had been repeating this since Victor first woke up. As a curtain separated the two injured funnymen, Flappy couldn't see beyond the cloth boundary, Victor hadn't the heart to tell his roommate that half a dozen of these very same balloons had been tied to his own bed so Victor lay silently, and murmured a response whenever he deemed it necessary to Flappy's rants.

Meanwhile, back home, the state of the circus was a bleak one as of lately and was becoming more and more somber with every passing minute. Bertha, sick from loneliness and guilt at what had transpired to her beloved funny clown, took to the communal shower tent with manual and electric razors, and the most feminine sweet scented shaving gels, bath soaps, and hair products. Bertha The Bearded Lady was no more. She handed in her papers, bought a bus ticket for parts eastward bound for a quiet life.

As Victor was recuperating in a hospital bed, the medical bills promised to bleed the Frankenstein's of all they were worth, and when the creditors would eventually come they wouldn't stop there -- circus equipment had a value as well, and that would be the final strike which would result in the complete dismantling of not just the circus, but the scattering of a family which had seen both prosperous times and long and lean times.

To get young Victor the help he needed, his parents had gathered up all the medical records from the past week, along with the necessary disability forms provided by the local Social Security office. To shield Victor from the added strain, his parents found a respectable disability attorney, who immediately took up the case, and pushed for an early determination to help pay off the mounting bills and ensure a future for the Frankenstein's only son.

And he was immediately denied.

Emotional and confused, the Frankenstein's returned to the attorney to find out what had gone wrong -- all the legitimate documents, reports, and records which had been provided by all responsible parties, mysteriously vanished in a puff of bureaucracy and Victor had been sent a letter declaring him by the state to be completely capable of working, and that he should get off his lazy fucking ass and get a job. Victor broke out laughing as he read this from his wheelchair as he was being pushed around the second floor of the hospital campus.

“I guess I should become a drug addict or learn to speak Mexican,” Victor said a little too loud.

“That’s evil,” the female attendant pushing his wheelchair told him.

"Hmm, evil," Victor thought. He then again read the denial letter, and did a second examination of his current situation. “Evil comes in many forms, my dear. It can be merely unfair, have a complete and total denial of what truly is, or can cackle hysterically after having locked itself up in a subterranean dungeon that is alive with random electric sparks.

It can found religions, lay hidden in faith based charity organizations, and creep up on you
in the guise of talkative fat women passing bags of candy back and forth in your local movie theater. It resides in both the pretty pampered girls and the illiterate gun loving redneck jackasses that dominate real life and reality television. You’ll hear it echoing off the wet tiled walls in the locker rooms of professional sports in yet another form all too trusted authority figures that are actually child rapists, and ultimately you’ll find those that forgive all that I mentioned. Especially the rapists. That, and all points in-between, is true evil.”

Victor’s attendant thought about this in silence, as she gently wheeled him around a corner and past the office of one Dr. Nefarious, whose door had been accidentally left ajar. From within came a most curious sound of rattling bones and breathless exclamations. The attendant pushing Victor pulled him a stop. She then knocked cautiously on his door.

“Dr. Nefarious? Do you need help, sir?”

And as she gently pushed open the heavy wooden office door,  a gray haired, middle aged man in a lab coat was revealed with his pants down around his ankles in scene of such sexual perversion it only helped to prove Victor’s points on the characteristics of evil being everywhere.

* * * * *

On this, his second morning of employment at the Temple of Sciencelogy, Igor found his path being blocked by a representative of the neighboring dominant religious organization, The Cult of the Lowercase T. Missy wasn't much taller than Tommy, but was equally loud and obnoxiously devoted to her cult of choice. She had a wicker basket of homemade goodies, such as fresh bread, various jams, and a few canned goods that were two days past their expiration date she had selected out of her own cupboard to donate to someone in a fit of rabid Love Thy Neighborliness.

"Yoohoo, good morning!" came the overly good natured shriek from the short banshee. Igor immediately turned in mid-step, hoping to get away. She immediately chased after him, demanding to be heard.

"Young man, are you new here?"

Igor sighed, stopped, and looked down upon the figure who seemed to be yelling at him. Igor figured she was over-compensating for her lack of height, but would eventually come to the realization that since she couldn't be seen in a crowd, by god she would at least be heard.

"Igor new here."

"I brought you a basket of goodies, courtesy of the Savior of the Cult of the Lowercase T."

"What in basket?" Igor offered as he searched his peripheral vision for a quick escape.

"Oh many wonderful things. Here's some delicious home cooked bread. Now I don't want to brag, but I made it myself and it's incredibly delicious. Here, try some." Missy then tore off a section and shoved it into Igor's mouth. Igor chewed on it kindly, because there was nothing else to do.

"Fank oo," he said.

"Oh, do you like it?"

Igor just grinned as best as he could, with his mouth full. Missy then shoved the basket into his hands and said "that'll be twenty dollars." Igor ceased chewing and then spat the bread out.

"Twenty dollars? Why? It gift."

"I don't just give gifts away, young man."

"Igor guesses short woman also not give tips at restaurants."

Missy stood there silently, half smiling, half frowning as if to say "Any tips are added into the final total of the meal." Instead, she stated "Well, if you ever want to avoid the flames of Hell, then come see me across at our church the street. I'll be praying for you, young man."

"That not necessary."

"Well, I'll do it anyways. Have a good day!" And off she strode back to the temple of the Cult of the Lowercase T. Igor shrugged off the bizarre encounter as, he had to admit, the closest thing to normal that had happened to him within the last twenty-four hours.

It was about to get even weirder.

* * * * *

“Security to Dr. Nefarious’ office. He’s doing IT again.”

The hospital administrator’s had long denied the existence of Dr. Edward Nefarious’ sexual exploits. Of course he was eccentric, but he was the best of the best in his field, and that included research, surgery, and the unfortunate, but best ignored, raping of skeletons. So long as he kept it to himself and didn’t engage in such activity at work, the hospital was happy to accommodate Nefarious by allowing him to take a recently retired bony example of the internal structure of your average human being home for pool parties and the occasional orgy.

But, one day in the morgue, he was found humping a body bag bound for the local funeral home and Nefarious was placed on six weeks leave, and made to attend a rehabilitation center where he, along with the occasional coke addicted supermodel, were made to see the error of their ways.

It never happened, but both perverted scientist and underweight supermodel declared their wicked ways were behind them. At the graduation ceremony Nefarious stated his supermodel co-patient had an exquisite bone structure, and provided his name and address of where he worked should she ever pass on and wish to leave her body to him for hot steamy scientific analysis in his laboratory of love.

* * * * *

It was quiet this day in the underground space Igor toiled about in the lowest levels of the Temple of Scienceology. The Grand High Mystic was nowhere to be found, and had informed Igor of his coming absence as, he'd stated some very special members would be arriving in a matter of days, not to mention an upcoming  occasion of special means that would hopefully involve initiating the youngest members to date the Temple had ever welcomed. With all this generated mystery and an atmosphere and ease, so Igor did as he was told and took to enjoying the serene stillness of this day.

The memory of Missy's kamikaze encounter had been wiped away by this time, and Igor sat in a desk chair with his feet up on a bucket that was usually reserved for Brain-O. He was twelve pages deep into the latest issue of Popular Mechanics when he noticed the sound of a soft ARF! echoing off the walls, and what sounded to be the soft tearing of aluminum foil.

Igor looked up, and noticed one of the few windows along the uppermost regions of the cavernous room at once had aluminum foil placed upon it, and now it was gone. Something small, Igor noticed, seemed to be walking along the narrow walkways that lined the inner perimeter of the structure and was now headed for the nearest steps towards the basement floor.

"Who there?" Igor asked, as he got up to get a better look.

ARF! was the reply.

Igor was about to ask "Arf who?" when his flip phone began to ring. Igor turned away from the noise to answer his phone. Igor, distracted, forgot about his investigation, opened up his cellular, tried to make sense of the Caller ID information being display, and uttered a very curious "Hello? This Igor, speaking."

And through an electronic, distorted veil of sound, came a reply. "Hello, Igor. Listen, we need to have a little chat," said a young man's voice.

* * * * *

In the ensuing rush of labcoats, the parting of patients, the hurried puff and wheeze of overweight security guards, not to mention the chaos of Nefarious' remote controlled self destruct button, did the deranged doctor and his skeletal love doll make their escape.

In all fairness, Nefarious had wielded the remote as a weapon with the big threatening button in order to let him pass in peace, with the promise he would never return again. And then he decided to take a hostage. Or at least offered Victor the chance to become one.

"Come on, kid, I know your story. You've got nowhere to go and nothing to do. But, the thing is, I can give you a brand new start."

"Put The Button Down, Doctor!" demanded the fat security guard, who obviously spent too much time watching over blown action movies while using his overgrown stomach as a convenient table for the placement of his pizza laden plates. His bulbous, shaking fingers barely fit around the trigger.

"God damn it all, Albert, calm the hell down. You look like you're about to have a damned stroke. And get your fat ass to the gym. Doctor's orders. " was Nefarious' all too matter of fact statement. Upon hearing it, Albert the fat security guard hung his head in shame, holstered his pistol, and wheezed out something that sounded like "yes, doc."

As Albert turned and left, Nefarious again offered Victor the chance to join him.

"You want a way out? You think you know what evil truly is, kid? You've got no fucking clue. This," he waved the dangerous button, "is evil."

And he pressed it.

The explosions began. The hallway was full of panic, and the unmistakable screaming of Victor's roommate, Dr. Flappy could be heard.

"It's your call kid, here's where you can find me." Nefarious handed Victor a  business card, grabbed up the skeleton he kept in his office, and headed for the stair well while Victor wheeled himself back to his bedroom through the insanity in the destructive aftermath to find Flappy hiding under his own hospital bed.

"Hey. Hey! Flappy, what's wrong?!"

Shaking from pure terror, Flappy managed to point to the source of the explosion.
Upon Victor's bed lay the deflated remains of the Get Well Soon balloons he had been given. Confused, Victor attempted to get Flappy back in bed, but called for the nurses as he was in no shape to do so. Victor then examined the card Nefarious had given him. It read:

Dr. Edward Nefarious - Instructor, Physician, And Suicide Balloonist.
Graduate of Evil University - Omaha

* * * * *

If someone asked you, "Hey, where can I find Evil University's admission's building," how would you reply? You can't just petition an academic institution built on the solid, sound, everlasting principles and shining philosophy of taking everything great and good in the world and making it your life's work of screwing it all up. No one in their right mind asks to be evil, much like no one asks to be a paragon of virtue -- you have to either be tricked into it, have it thrust upon you, or much more commonly, born into it.

Victor was none of these, and although he did claim to want it in his younger days, the offer Dr. Nefarious had made to undergo his tutelage at Evil U. was pretty much all the still recovering Victor had left in the way of life choices.

So, with the hastily scribbled directions to the Evil University campus in hand, Victor caught the bus and headed to where the introduction into his childhood dream would be fashioned into reality. Here, under darkened, crackling skies, the entrance to the future lay in the abandoned remains of what used to be, by far, the most wicked commercial establishment known to humanity  -- a health food mega store that had been founded on purely organic, needlessly overpriced principles.

Victor pushed his way through the decaying doors serving as the entrance to the building just as lightning arced overhead, and struck a tree in close vicinity to him. And he remembered the joyous energy of chaos and panic the day of his late Uncle Phil's funeral, and how a minor joy buzzer in the rain as supplied by his own father in a bit of fun obliterated the somber mood of the day.

One strike of lightning. One step into a future of possibilities once forgotten. Up until that instant, the former circus clown had simply been going through the motions as life offered him nothing else.

And Victor smiled in the moment, as it was shared with the shrinking of his heart three sizes that night.

He would rule the world, after all.

* * * * *

It had been quite a chat. In fact, it had been less chat and more conversation along the lines of introductions, revelations, and declarations of dire days to come that mimicked worrisome days from many years ago across untold light years. Thoughts and notions no human or hunchback had ever conceived of now bounced ominously off the inner walls of Igor's brain.

The actual conversation itself had only lasted several minutes, but the signal that carried it dumped most of the actual information necessary to the coming days directly into Igor's brain, which he was still processing.

Igor was still going over the happenings of this unique conversation in his head, to make sure he understood it all, so he formed a mental list of the things he now knew to be true.

1. The Grand High Mystic, having feared a force known as "The Jhew Alliance," was very much active and operating within the walls of the Temple.

2. Katie, the Jhews former operative, had completed that which was asked of her and had been allowed to abandon the grip of the Scienceologist's, mind intact, and had managed to find safe shelter with the help of a co-operative named Alejandro.

3. Alejandro was a dog.

4. But not just any dog. Alejandro was a pure blood descendant of what was once known as The Cheewahwah's, and the information concerning their arrival on Earth, along with their personal history, the state of the Evolved Ones, and such was being still being processed in Igor's cerebral matter.

5. With the help of Alejandro** and the Jhew Alliance, Igor could topple the Temple once and for all.

**Igor, admittedly, doubted this notion as Alejandro was just a tiny, brown, rat-like dog that seemed to be shivering all the damned time.

Quitting time was coming around, and Igor looked down at Alejandro. Amidst the information that had been dumped into Igor's mind there included a schematic for a device Igor's needed to build, and a translation matrix for Cheewahwah To English had been shoved into Igor's mind.

"Alejandro certain about this?"

ARF!

"Get fellow Cheewahwah's and Evolved Ones ready. Igor be ready soon as possible.
Okay?"

ARF!

Alejandro then scampered on tiny paws into the darkness and disappeared, as Igor brought his day to an end.

* * * * *

The first night of Evil University was one of paper work, which had the great fortune of being both necessary and evil. There were attendance rosters to sign and text books to collect, which involved all incoming scholars forming a flash mob at the local legitimate college campus bookstore, and taking everything that was applicable in any fashion, and returning to Evil U's campus. Fortunately, completing this activity automatically cancelled out the physical education requirement.

On the second night, the lectures began. In what had been the exotic breads section of the mega-store, a second hand blackboard had been hung with an arrangement of discarded desks from the local high school in a semi-circle, in a poor man's attempt to recreate a lecture hall.

Upon the blackboard, scrawled in pink sidewalk chalk, were these words:

 BEING EVIL - AN INTRODUCTION

At nine o'clock sharp, into the makeshift lecture hall stepped the disheveled  Dr. Nefarious, who looked red in the face as if he'd just ran a marathon. A model skeleton's right hand was sticking conspicuously out of his trouser pocket. Nefarious sat behind his desk, immediately ignored the student role sheet, and set to it.

"Welcome to the introductory course of Being Evil. Now, I'm certain most of you enrolled only for the glory of being evil, but let me tell you right now it can be very hard work! We must follow closely the most basic philosophies of evildoing. You there, tell me what it takes to be evil!"

A skinhead boy with tattoos of skulls, chains, and pretty pink unicorns across his naked scalp stood up and cautiously offered "Uh...crazy hair?"

"That's a perk jackass, not a philosophy. Sit the hell down!"

The skin headed unicorn loving student sat down, while from a neighboring student shot up.

"What about if it's Michael Bolton, or even professional football players that have shampoo endorsements? That's evil, correct?"

"Good point. Another characteristic of being evil?"

Feeling she was on a role, the same student offered "Maniacal laughter?"

"Very good. Maniacal laughter is important, but you have to have something to laugh AT! But maniacal belly laughs is important. Einstein couldn't laugh like we do! He didn't have that necessary streak of evil to accomplish it!"

And so the sciences and ideological structures of evil were laid out  nightly, and resulted in copious notes on the subject upon Victor's notepads he'd ripped from a computer science major one evening.

On the whole, the classes, though challenging, were equally enlightening. While normal science dealt with annoying things such as precautions and limitations, evil science had no boundaries. If it could be imagined, it would be created. And this most beautiful and basic concept would be most easily recognized in the instructor who taught Plotting And Scheming 101.

Tucked away in a corner far from Nefarious' preferred corner of Evil U's campus was a laboratory that shared the triple purpose of studying both Plotting And Scheming along with the classes Genetic Manipulation and Practical Mutation For The Modern World. Victor's instructors in the latter two were exceptionally proud of his prodigal abilities and experimentation, seeing as how he'd never read a book on biological science that wasn't at one time in its existence covered with pie filling.

And now Victor stepped into Plotting And Scheming 101, weighted backpack hanging from one shoulder, as the instructor began his lesson plan.

"Plotting and scheming requires imagination! Who among you here has a creative streak? No one?"

An epic silence and equally notable state of misunderstanding filled the room as the instructor's question finished echoing off the walls. One student, very hesitant to be the one to point out the obvious, still managed to get his hand up in the air.

"Sir?"

"Yes, what is it, you little pissant?"

"Sir, may I ask why you're a penguin?"

"Because I had imagination, you little shit! I woke up one morning, said to myself I hated being a middle aged man. I'd also wanted to learn how to swim. So, I used my imagination! I turned myself into a goddamned penguin! Is that all right with you?"

The student dropped his hand immediately, while the penguin shaped instructor waddled about his desk and continued his declarations.

"One day, my penguin brothers and I will rule over you worthless bastards! And do you know why?"

The same hand went up again. "'Because we have the fish?"

"Stop trying to kiss my ass you little shit." And down the hand went again.

"No! Cause we have imagination! Mr. Frankenstein!"

Victor, who had been smirking with delight at the mistreatment of the weaker member of his fellow student population, snapped to attention and stood up so fast he almost knocked his desk over.

"Y-yes...sir?"

"You have an active imagination, correct?"

"I guess," he mumbled.

"Good! Prove it! What sort of insidious deeds would you like to unleash upon the world?"

"My mutated vegetables!" said Victor, as he filled with malevolent glee.

"Mutating food isn't evil! Annoying, sometimes accidental, occasionally necessary, but not evil!"

Victor only half heard this, as he was busy pulling something from his backpack. It seemed to be a collection of five different vegetables, that had grown arms, legs, eyes and a mouth each.

"It is evil if they sing and dance! Let's hear it boys!"

And then danced these mutated veggies, much like a 90's boy band at the height of their popularity.

"Shoo dooby dooby doo wop. Shoo dooby, dooby wop de doo. Oooh yeah..." sang the dancing veggies in perfect five part harmony.

"They sing! They dance! They will conquer the world! And once I win the world's heart with my veggie boy band, I WILL RULE THE WORLD!"

Astonished, the penguin instructor clapped his fins together.

"Very evil, Victor! Very evil indeed! Everyone, give Victor a hand! The rest of you pissants all fail! Class dismissed! Victor wait for me in my office, and the rest of you can get the hell out!"

Hopeful faces fell in the light of Victor's triumph, and those that had been forced out of class returned to their normal studies in a standard college to live out their unhappy lives in a job that promised great benefits for humanity. Half of them would take their lives before they graduated from the sheer melancholy of it all.

As for Victor, having felt  triumphant over the revealing of his singing vegetables, Victor soon learned that what is created for evil often has its own interpretation of  what evil is. Tucked away in Evil U's campus dormitories, better known as an empty refrigerator box in what used to be the storage room, the dancing veggies began to reveal their plans.

"You know, father, we've been thinking." said the lead tomato vocalist.

"It's the perfect plan, Tomato. Trust me on this. We dress you up in some fancy clothes, teach you to sing all these third rate love songs, get you on MTV and veggie mania will sweep the nation. You'll be on posters! Calendars! Bed sheets! And I, as your manager, will earn large amounts of cash! We will suck the population dry! We'll be more feared than the oil companies!"

"Well, that's great and all, but the boys and I have other dreams."

"Okay, well what did you have in mind there, Tomato?"

"We want to sing about Jesus, and tell biblical based, faith affirming stories."

"You're supposed to be evil! I created you to help me rule the world!

"We don't mind ruling the world, sneaking our insidious messages into the brains of malleable children. And we can still sing and dance, but this form of evil is much more subtle. And, therefore, much more evil," grinned the tomato.

"That's evil, but not the evil you were meant for. It's the Cuisinart for you!"

Enraged Victor grabbed up the traitorous plants, and headed for the nearest food processor, and threw his bastard creations within.

"No, master! Don't do it!" pleaded the tomato.

Victor's finger hovered over the Puree button, and then pressed it as hard as he could. In a final moment of prayer, the tomato cried out "Forgive him, for he knows not what he does!"

And so ended the tale of religious foodstuffs. It couldn't have come soon enough.

Chapter Ten

Down in his subterranean workspace, the hunger pangs were kicking in. Even though there were no time pieces down in the basement of the Temple of Scienceology, Igor felt for certain it was roughly lunchtime and that meant not only a chance to eat, but further opportunities into discovering more about this place where Igor worked.

Igor stepped into the elevator, and after studying the various illuminated readouts on the inside of the elevator, Igor quickly found the floor the cafeteria was, pressed the appropriate button, and headed upwards.

Before the elevator could deposit Igor on the third level, where the cafeteria was, it had stopped on the second and allowed entrance to a man who wore an aluminum foil hat and had eyes that seemed to be intently focused on something in front of him that simply didn't exist. Every movement he made looked as if he was a marionette being controlled by a jittery and inexperienced puppeteer.

The Puppet Man made the exact, exaggerated walking motion with all three steps he took, then both legs fell quickly in place on the floor, and he immediately turned around. He then moved his upper body in a dramatic turn to the right to look at Igor, and stated in an electronic voice “SIXTH FLOOR PLEASE.”

Igor pressed the appropriate button, and as the door began to close, he decided to involve this odd man in conversation.

“Igor famished. Igor also new employee. What good here?”

The Puppet Man's eyes intently focused eyes looked beyond Igor and replied “TRY THE PISTACHIO. IT IS BOTH HEALTHY AND HELPS FIGHT THE ALIEN OVERLORDS.”

“What wrong with you? Brain upside down?”

The Puppet Man continued to stare at Igor as the doors to the third floor cafeteria swept by, and Igor simply stepped out into the most astonishingly brightly lit white room he'd ever come across. It had the appearance of having been sanitized to a point past insanity. No one was in line, and in fact it turns out that no one was preparing food. Igor did manage to find a menu, so he took it and considered its vast array of meals: all of them included pistachio ice cream. At the top of the menu there was a declaration -- All Members Must Eat Their Pistachio Ice Cream.

As Igor continued to study the non-ice cream sections of the menu, the elevator dinged and a very worried young woman came scrambling out. She looked around, seemed to find no sense of refuge, then looked at Igor.

“Please, for the love of god, you've got to help me.”

“What can Igor do for pretty girl?”

A message, much like telepathy, came across the girl's cerebral structure and she collapsed in pain. The message went like this: “Come on, baby we just want you to join! It's just like getting a discount card at Books A Million, except you don't save ten percent on your purchases! What matters is that you belong!!!”

“Leave me alone you bastard!”

Igor looked around, very confused. Then turned back to his menu, when she reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, pleading tears in her eyes.

“Don't let them take me! Please!”

Behind them, the hum of the elevator started approaching the third floor again. Tommy, her intended, was coming.

“Pretty girl hide. Igor handle this.”

As she hid within the cafeteria workstations, Igor turned back to his menu as the elevator doors opened and out stepped an impeccably dressed, short, angry man. Tommy, the Grand Lesser Mystic, eyed the violently white room carefully, then stepped up to Igor.

“And who are you?”

“Igor. Are you big movie star?”

“I am.”

“Igor thought so.”

Igor then kicked Tommy, and sent the A-List jackass flying into the walls of the cafeteria. “That for messing up Mission Impossible.”

Momentarily stunned, Tommy brought himself up to his full three foot stature and demanded the location of his wife.

“Igor don't know. Celebrities don't look same in real life. Is it true camera adds two feet to your appearance?”

Tommy just stood there fuming.

“Igor thought so. How's the pistachio?”

“If you see my wife, tell her I'm looking for her.”

“She looking for you too. Likely can't see you down there.  Bye, bye.”

The rest of the day passed without incident. The young woman, ever so grateful for Igor's role in her escape, joined Igor down in the brainwashing basement, and they sat and chatted for a while. She talked of how she met Tommy, and even pointed out which brain was his amongst the jars of Igor's workstation.

“Wait, this Tommy's brain?”

“Yeah. He took me down here yesterday, to show it off.”

“It such big brain.”

“Don't kid yourself Igor, it's been inflated by unnatural means.”

“How?”

“My guess is the genetically modified Pistachio ice cream played a role, but most of it's just cerebral implants, ego and compensation for having such a tiny dick.”

“But...if this Tommy's brain, how Tommy function in real world?”

“This is how.”

Igor was amazed to see the young woman leap to an illuminated work station, enter a short series of numbers into the display, and hit the ACTIVATE button. In the center of the room, rising slowly from the floor, came an immensely complicated control station with what appeared to be a brain on an advanced life support system. The brain itself was turning a sickly green color, and floated there in a somber sense of approaching death.

“Igor...this is Almighty Steve.”
And she relayed the story of how, in his final moments, Almighty Steve had designed the iLive. Wazinkski had been put in charge of constructing the iLive, while his subordinates had calculated and designed the vast move from their home planet to Earth. The Jhew Alliance had been originally led to believe it successfully ran Adolph Industries from their planet, and although it was true in a sense, the creation of the iLive and the preservation of Almighty Steve was the ultimate reason his descendents got the hell out of there.

And the story continued, about how certain restructuring and addition of various non-terrestrial elements to Earth's common aluminum foil had been utilized in blocking the basic radio signals sent by the Jhew Alliance. Then came the sudden development of smart phone technology, what they call Conversation-Makey's, and all members of the Temple of Scienceology had similar technology implanted into their cerebral mass, but only after they had been accustomed to and indeed demanded the presence of over priced phone technology that, oddly enough became obsolete in less than two years, allowing for the Scienceologists to put out newer models at even higher prices with the double effect of enslaving the human race and ensuring an enormous amount of everlasting research funds.

“But Igor still no know what it have to do with Tommy.”

And she continued --  “Upon reaching a certain level of initiation, the Scienceologists have their brains removed, and a shiny new one that was an identical clone genetically, but enhanced with their native Conversation-Makey technology. The aluminum foil has been worn on the initiate's heads to keep the Jhew Alliance out, while the new brain uses high speed communication lines to mimic telepathy. And all of those signals are channeled into Almighty Steve, so he can feel the love of the Scienceologists and all those who own a smart-phone. It's always been an alien invasion dedicated to enslaving the Earth and restoring Adolph Industries and its glorious founder to power!”

“How come pretty girl know all this?”

“It's in their pamphlet.”

She picked one of the many pamphlets laying around the basement and showed it to him.

“How come Igor not see this before?”

From within the darkened corners of the basement, Igor thought he'd heard a small Arf! echoing off the walls. Igor looked again, and noticed tiny markings as if a small animal had been chewing on the pamphlets.

“Doesn't matter. We have to get out of here.”

“But Igor have job here.”

“Then there's only one thing I can ask of you, Igor.”

* * * * *

As good as things were for Igor, Victor realized he was having female troubles. Five hundred pounds of them, to be exact. In a soft pink, stretched to the seams piece of lingerie nearly half the size of a full moon, Bertha traipsed none too lightly across the circus grounds, in horny pursuit of her beloved funny clown.

Thankfully, for Victor's sake, the soft flutter of sweet nothings one would normally utter was a throaty growl from Bertha, which gave Victor a good thirty second head start.

And he ran for his life.

“Ohhh funny clown! Where are you?”

Pressed up against a tent and hiding amongst the shadows cast in the near dark, Victor trembled like a baby bunny emerging from its den for the very first time. He had abandoned the big floppy shoes because those would most certainly give him away. Victor moved along the edge of the tent, not noticing it was the communal shower setup, felt for the half open flap and fell in head first.

Sally's scream caused him to hide by attempting to wrap himself up in the flapping fabric at the tent's opening.

“What the hell are you doing, spying on me like this? You sick fucking pervert!”

“Sally?”

Victor emerged gently from his entanglement, and finally noticed how the flow from one running shower head cast its spray upon a definite form of feminine nature, complete with drops gently flowing Sally's ample breasts which, although unseen, painted a picture of absolute certainty of what Victor was observing. It took a moment for him to snap out of it.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry Sally! I didn’t see you in here!”

“GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE, YOU PERVERT!”

For a moment, the sensual cascading of water remained in the spray, and then disappeared as the water was shut off. The only notion of movement from Sally, besides the direction from which her voice came, was in the fashion her bath towel floated in the air and headed malevolently towards Victor.

“I swear, I didn’t know you were in there!”

“Don’t give me that Can’t-See-The-Invisible-Woman bullshit! You knew I was in here!”

“Sally, please, keep your voice down.”

“Why?”

“Bertha's after me.”

“I know,” she replied.

“She invited me over for a game of  Twister, then said she'd cuddle me!”

“I know.” This time the response hung in the air, and Sally's sadistic smile was damn near visible from the glow of vengeance that Sally was emanating.

“What do you mean you know?”

“I put her up to it.”

“You WHAT?”

“She likes you.”

“Well I don't like her! Please, you've got to hide me.”

A few remaining drops of water slowly cascaded down Sally's transparent form, and found the curve of Sally's breasts. She was standing very, very close to him, as a few drops fell upon Victor's hands. And she seemed to be leaning in closer.

“It's too late for that,” Sally purred in a whisper.

“Why do you say that?”

“IN HERE, BERTHA!”

The ferocity of the scream caused Victor to drop to his knees in pure terror.

“No, Sally please no!” 

“Happy cuddling, lover.”

Victor's wide eyes scanned frantically for where Sally was as she threw her bath towel upon him, which he used to cover himself with as a last minute means of protection. He cowered under it for a whole five second before Bertha found it and ripped it off him.

“There you are! Naughty clown! Thought you could escape! No more hide and seek! Now we play kinky sex game!”

Bertha then grabbed up Victor by his feet, and started dragging him caveman style back to her tent. Once inside, she then lifted him off the ground and attempted to lightly place him upon her bed.

“Sing for Bertha!”

“Why?”"

“Okay, kinky sex game instead. I'll be the Nookie Monster.”

Desperate to stall her, Victor declared “Sing! I'll sing! What do you want me to sing?”

Bertha smiled, and whispered into Victor's ear her song of choice. It only caused further horror for poor Victor.
“Oh hell no. I'm not singing that.”

“Okay. Here come Nookie Monster.”

“FINE! Fine, I'll do it!”

“Good. Then come Nookie Monster.”

“...Fat bottomed girls you make the rocking world go round...” screeched Victor.

“Louder!”

* * * * *

It had been mere moments since Katie had made her escape from the tiny action star and the cult he served as second in command of. She had given Igor the jamming device she had learned of through her one and only communication with The Jhew Alliance, via payphone at a local pizzeria.

The Jhews had instructed her on how to build a means of interrupting Adolph Industries ground based communications systems, and why it was of extreme importance to follow their instructions. As they Jhews relayed the basic schematics of what they termed "The Jammer," to her, she quickly interrupted them for a moment.

"Oh, we've got those on Earth."

"Really? Your society is that advanced after all?"

"Well, yeah. But we don't call them 'jammers,' we call 'em 'hammers.'"

"Good enough," was the reply from the Jhews. "Smash away, dear. Smash away."

And upon her next visit to the Temple of Scienceology, while Tommy was considering his next fast paced, high profile action movie from fellow member Jay Jay Abraham, Katie snuck away and applied the metal jammer to the necessary junction on the neon signage.

It was Igor's father that ultimately realized what damage had been done earlier this particular day, and the counter-invasion was a go.

* * * * *

Quitting time came, and although he expected the Grand High Mystic to offer him a pleasant evening at the end of his first working day, Igor came across no one. Stepping outside of the front doors, Igor sighed and looked up at the sky. The honking of a car horn interrupted his brief recollection of all that was said in his basement. Momma Igor waved to her son.
“How work?”

“It good. Igor met famous movie stars.”

“Good for you.”

"Why Igor have hammer?"

Igor, desperate for a lie to cover up all that he'd learned today, ended up telling the truth.

"Igor need it for work, apparently."

As Igor got into the family car, he took one last look up at the flickering neon sign on top of the temple. Although part of the sign continued to malfunction, Igor knew that it spoke the truth.

Temple of Scienceology -- A Cult.

Another Brief Intermission...

I must take a moment here to apologize for the messed up way the text has appeared in the more recent entries of Igor's life. I can't figure out what's causing this, let alone how or why.

I'm doing everything I can in the original text and then again in the posting window. It always looks just fine when I hit the PUBLISH button, and then I get to the main page, and it's all out of whack.

So sorry folks. Dial-up and the gremlins aren't being nice to Igor.

Sincerely,

Starlight

Chapter Nine

It should be noted to all those who found or follow a religion, there is one thing the functioning hierarchy or most loyal members of said religion never allow to happen: keep the doubters of the church within the tight clutches of said church.

Many hundreds of years ago, and even in some modern cases, banishment from the church
of your choice (whether you chose it or not), was the most severe punishment said member could suffer. And after the excommunicated member suffered the shock of having had their humanity restored to them, their self-awareness would begin to reassert itself as if to say You Stupid Jackass, I Told You They Were Fucking Crazy And You Didn't Listen.

To which the restored individual would say You're Right, Self. I Don't Know What I Was Thinking.

And the inevitable reply was You Weren't Thinking. Now Let's Tell The World That Those Nut Cases Like Raping Children, Among Other Odd Things Like Worshipping Lowercase T's.

Joe Wazinski, also known as The Grand High Mystic, also known as The Great And
Powerful Waz*, never should've let Susan The Receptionist go.

*Also known, privately, to himself as Cheryl.  



The instant she crossed through threshold out the front doors, the carefully concealed link between various spaced based communications satellites, terrestrial towers, and the receiver planted in Susan's head short circuited, and she fell to the gum and grime covered concrete sidewalk and immediately lost consciousness.

The last thing she heard in this imitation of life was a loud ARF! from a very small dog.

When she awoke again, she was in the bed surrounded by her loving family and all were happy to see Susan had suffered no physical or mental strain. They never realized, let alone were told, all forms of stress, cerebral manipulation, and the Conversation-Makey that had been implanted into her head by the cruel and corrupt Adolph Industries had been carefully removed, thanks be to a fast thinking member of the original Cheewahwah race outside the Temple of Scienceology as it was making routine inspections of their Evolved Ones that were still forcibly employed inside the temple they had been forced to construct for the descendents of Almighty Steve.

Admittedly free of the loving, soulless grip of the gifts Adolph Industries had blessed two worlds with, Susan soon took refuge in another damned cult -- the same one that worshipped The
Lowercase T and had a tendency to go on and on about how their messiah was resurrected on the
exact same day another religion** celebrated.


**One that was incorrect and had to be replaced because it wasn't worshipping a lowercase T.
On this day The Cult of the Lowercase T would state "He Is Risen" on their signage, which would lead those still capable of intelligent thought why these Lowercase T people would get so damned excited about their messiah's lack of Erectile dysfunction. Said holiday's original purpose was one dedicated to fertility, after all, but you try to remind the Lowercase T's that and they simply excommunicate you from their circle, which worked out fine for at least two individuals -- one didn't have to have the horror of having to deal with the restoration of both their humanity and mental acumen, and the other had a good laugh and a bit of revenge to boot.

    * * * * *

The inner workings of the Temple of Scienceology were quite busy with lockdown procedures. Igor had heard the call come from intercom system; then came the hurried, worried
movements of the maintenance staff. Igor waited patiently in the same room, just as he was told,
as the head of the maintenance staff summoned his work staff and led them through the halls
carrying large rolls of what appeared to be aluminum foil and duct tape. Two of the work staff,
Pedro and Manuel, stepped in and set to work.

"'Scuze mee, seenyore," said Pedro.

"No problem," Igor replied.

The Grand High Mystic stepped back into the room to look for Igor and immediately found Pedro and Manuel finishing up their task.

"All feeneeshed, seenyore."

"Very good, on with you to the next corridor." said the Mystic, as he eyed their very low cost handiwork. Pedro and Manuel stepped past and continued onwards to the next section of the temple.

"Igor have question, master."

"Yes?"

"Why Mexicans cover window with aluminum foil?"

"It's just a precaution, Igor."

"From what?"

"Oh, you know, chemical bombs, radioactive fallout, the ghost of Bin-Laden, mental disrupting rays from outer space. The usual stuff, really. We can't be too cautious these days, right?"

"Igor understand, master."

"Good, and now we must set you to work, Igor. Come with me."

It hadn't been a very long time since Igor had first caught the attention of the Mystic at the science fair. In fact it had been little more than two weeks, and still fresh out of high school, Igor was amazed that his natural achievements with electricity and reanimation could lead him to a position of such importance in so short a time. Of course Igor had placed upon his employment application all he was familiar with in the matters of science, technology, biology and cerebral experimentation, which had only accelerated his acceptance into the Temple's employment. And now here he was being given what would most likely be his very own workspace and who knows what else.

The Mystic, stopping at an elevator, pushed the down button and waited patiently. When the hum of the lift had arrived at their location, the doors pulled aside gently and the Mystic beckoned Igor forward.

"After you, young man."

"Okay."

Igor stepped in, and noticed a wide range of buttons on the internal panel, and noticed that the Mystic pressed the button marked B as he entered.

"What B stand for, master?"

"It's the basement, Igor, and it's where you will be working."

"What in basement?"

"Ahh, something very special. You'll fit in quite well. What do you know about the brain Igor?"

"Igor know lots about brains. Igor made Uncle Joe think he chicken."

The Mystic, having studied Igor's application to the point where he could recite it from memory, smiled an internal smile that was so bright it was knocking on his lips from the inside demanding out. "Really? A chicken, you say. Good gracious me, how did you manage that? Hypnotism?"

"Hypnosis? No. Igor have no need for hypnosis. Igor put brain of chicken in Uncle Joe. It funny. There also time Igor put another brain in upside down. It was accident."

"What happened then?"

"Uncle Joe believed he was truck driving lesbian."

Inside him, the smile of the Mystic had transformed into a full on celebration, with streamers, cake, and the possibilities -- oh the possibilities and promises the future could hold with someone as capable as this. The Descendants of Steve, led by the Great and Powerful Waz, would once again achieve the greatest heights and possibly, it could very well be possible to achieve, The Restoration of Almighty Steve. With our advances, and the potential wonders Igor could give us, Steve might just be given back to us once more. It was a bodily noise, of seemingly nature, that brought the Mystic's attention back to the here and now.

"Dear god, what's that smell?"

Igor, sheepishly, held his head in shame in much the same way conservative politicians do when their constituents find out said politician, often times a noted champion for Heterosexual
Supremacy, had divorced his wife and made many payments for secretive encounters with a
fifteen year old boy for oral sex in the congressional gym.

"Sorry" Igor apologized simply as he realized a bodily concoction of formaldehyde, alcohol,  and other fluids started seeping through a loosed bit of flesh that Igor was now repairing with a bit of surgical stitching. He then took a medium sized vial of the same fluids and rubbed it into the now resealed wound, looked up into the face of the Mystic and explained the situation.

"Igor have to carry formaldehyde just in case arm or hand fall off. It no big deal."

"I see."

With that, and the slowing of the elevator and the eventual ding of the bell, the conversation was brought to a close. The doors swept aside and the two stepped into a large cavernous room that was fairly dark and filled with lots of chairs like you'd find in a barber shop. Over along one wall rested various mops, what seemed to be cleaning products, and such.  Along another wall were shelves as far as one could behold, and what appeared to be crystal clear jars will with a clear
liquid, most with a brain floating inside.

"Where Igor?"

"Igor, this will be your personal work space."

"What those?" He indicated the rows of jars. Here, the Mystic stumbled, but only for half a moment.

"Those are the brains of those who are...uh...members of our organization."

"What Igor do with them?"

"Simple. You keep them clean."

"How?"

"With these."

Half unseen in the darkness, the Mystic turned to the wall covered in mops and cleaning substances. He gathered up a fresh mop, picked up an unopened bottle of cleaner marked
BRAIN-O,  set it in a fresh bucket and carried them to one of the vacant chairs.

"Igor, I now present to you the tools of your trade and officially give unto you the rank and position you have so rightly earned  Head Brainwasher of the Temple of Scienceology. If you
need anything, just buzz me via the intercom. See you at the company picnic."

And with that, the Mystic stepped back towards the elevator and rode it upwards, leaving Igor alone in the half darkness.

* * * * *

As the Descendants of Steve often recall, it was the unholy combination of Movie-
Watchy's and Ringy-Dingy-Conversation-Makey's that was the beginning of the end of the
civilization Almighty Steve was a part of, helped undermine, and served as the primary destruction of said civilization.

So when The Jhew Alliance apparently forced Adolph Industries from their planet to ours, the Adolph Intelligence systems of the carrier ships focused their scanning equipment at strategic
locations mere hundreds of miles from the western coast of the North American continent, to be in easy reach of both the inland territories while still having reasonably easy access to the that tarnished golden region known as Hollywood. In this city of dreams came the prospect of said dreams coming true, you only had to sacrifice any and all ambitions of creativity, originality, sensibility, and any imperfections*** in body structure in order to succeed.

*** Imperfections such as not having big enough chest humps.


Often enough at the various awards ceremonies that were held yearly, the vain, overly
manicured and plastic enhanced would tearfully thank their preferred messiah, who, it must be
stated had nothing to do with their career advancement or the fact they'd just won a shiny trophy
which had a shelf life shorter than the length of the ceremonies at which it had been awarded.

The time of reassignment came almost immediately after the Cheewahwah's had finished
constructing the Temple of Scienceology that the Grand High Mystic, The Great And Powerful
Waz, was just another loony spouting religious bullshit without any of the validation that comes
with being an "honest" and legitimate tax-exempt religion. Just because you've got a building, a
feeling, and you're too busy believing and converting doesn't make you worth a damned dime,
especially in this area.

So Wazinski approached those that were standing center spotlight everyday of their lives, convinced them the messiah of the Cult of the Lowercase T had nothing to do with their
blossoming careers, then Wazinski would take them away from their champagne and sex soaked
high class parties and show them the truths of his promises as the provider of the gifts of Almighty Steve.


It started with the first generation Conversation-Makey that had been adapted for use on planet Earth. When the electronic screen activated, it proudly displayed the corporate logo for Adolph Industries, then the image would scatter a bit, and a second display for the product logo would come through: iDumb.

"What's an iDumb," the high profile movie star would ask, then Wazinski would turn away, curse the Jhews loudly for their remote tampering, and immediately the local population went quiet.

A man named Shapiro, who represented many of those who had made it in the film business, stepped up to challenge Wazinksi. In the race to be face to face with the offending Wazinksi, Shapiro's nose beat the rest of his face.

"It's the Jhews. They're tampering with my equipment."

Wazinksi later found himself hooked up to various life monitoring equipment in a sterile
white room with a broken nose, a punctured lung, and a few broken limbs. The very small and
square movie-watchy device permanently attached to the opposite wall switched on briefly,
flickered a silent, visual message of HA HA HA, Love, The Jhew Alliance.
After returning to the freshly constructed temple on the site of where their population had immigrated to from the southern regions, Wazinski turned his attention away from converting the visible talent, to pitching the love and joys of watching the forms of entertainment Hollywood produced on his tiny little screen you could take anywhere. Interestingly enough, these screens would become most visible in the first run theaters on the opening nights of Hollywood's latest mass produced concepts, which were  rigorously itemized characteristics to X demographic, and had painfully over cooked storylines with the help of seventeen writers all scrambling for credit because, as we all know, no solitary writer can create anything of value, or so was the opinion of the movie making elite.

As for opening night, and admittedly the nights that followed, movie going experience was often wrecked because the Conversation-Makey's demanded attention because they're more important than what you actually came there for. Besides, that movie will be on your Conversation-Makey in six months so what's the point seeing it on a proper screen when you could watch it on your cute, aesthetically pleasing Conversation-Makey?

The pencil pushing dollar jockeys in suits soon discovered the joys of watching their products on Conversation-Makey's, because it was one more outlet they could make money AND screw those who created said product out of their royalties.****

**** Especially their screenwriters. Seventeen of them, in fact, to come up with one lousy sentence.

And as Conversation-Makey's became more prevalent in the business, those that starred in
the entertainment programs started taking note of them -- firstly because they weren't being paid
properly, but primarily because it was a shiny gadget that seemed to whisper the promises
Almighty Steve could grant, if only they would leave the Cult of the Lowercase T.

The first of this legion was a man who wanted to go far in life, but knew he wouldn't
because he was only three feet tall and was unnaturally bitchy for the male of the native species.
His Conversation-Makey, using the latest in four wheeled, Get-Aroundy technology, led him to
the front steps of the Temple of Scienceology. By now Wazinksi was simply the Grand High
Mystic, and he took this short, angry man within his organization, stuck him with the S-Meter,
and taught him the ways of Almighty Steve, the dangers of certain particles, and why the Terror
Of The Solar Lizard King wasn't just a cautionary tale on his home planet.

The short angry man only remembered the bits that didn't include Almighty Steve, thanks
to a quick incision here, a bit of gray matter shuffling there, and a minty fresh splash of Brain-O
and another round with the S-Meter. Now serves a dual role as Grand Lesser Mystic, and Really
Straight And Tall Action Hero Movie Guy, or simply "Tommy" for short.

And this partnership between the Descendents of Steve, Hollywood, and Tommy became
the early days of Scienceology. One after another the Lowercase T's suffered losses in their
attendance while Scienceology temples flourished like the plague. Now everyone knows if you
want to be part of the film business and you're on the west coast, you need to have an S-Meter
shoved up your ass, then report to the basement for cerebral enhancement by means of a mop, a
highly specialized cleaning product, and a visit to the Head Brainwasher.

* * * * *

It was an afternoon dedicated to relaxation as all scheduled circus performances had been
completed, and the time was approaching for the circus to pack its tents and head out on the open road again, but seeing as how Dr. Flappy would remain out of commission for quite awhile still, there was an ever present uncertainty of how to proceed next. Everyone was just doing their best to fill the empty hours until a consensus of what should come next was reached, and by the looks of it such a decision would not be given life anytime soon.

So, while the circus waited to find its footing again, everyone took to trying out new acts,
attending to the animals, looking for temp jobs in town, or just sitting back breathing in the air
that came with a calm sense of relaxation.

Young Victor, feeling a need to enhance his coordination, took up juggling as of this morning and could handle three air-borne spheres with a relative ease and was getting better and better with each hour.

With most of the circus grounds empty, the paths going and coming from the various attractions, tents, and animal enclosures were relatively empty so Victor took the opportunity to
stretch his legs around the area while tossing the balls around in ever increasing patterns, turned a corner, and damn near walked collided with the wooden bench at which Bertha and Sally were
sitting at, having lunch.

"Good morning, Victor,"  said the scantily clad, yet still transparent form of Sally as she bit down onto her sandwich. Across from her was Bertha, a blushing behemoth that choked down
her embarrassment and whispered "Hi" as well.

Being a cunning lover boy, Victor placed his juggling implements into his pockets, and made an overly dramatic romantic motion of sitting down next to Sally and leaned his head upon what he estimated was her shoulder and let the fake charm flow.

"Hey, what are you ladies talking about? Me I hope. Oh Sally, you saucy vixen, when will you come back to my tent for snuggling? You know I'm lonely. After all, I don't get to SEE you 
enough, now do I?" By now, Victor was stroking where he hoped Sally's long hair was laying
upon her shoulders.

"No Victor."

"Oh! You tease. How you wound me!" Victor exclaimed, but expected as much, so he stood up, offered "Have a good day ladies," and resumed his juggling exercises as he got up and slowly walked away. When the ladies felt Victor was no longer within earshot, the girl talk resumed with a new topic at hand.

"You dating funny clown?"

Sally nearly choked on her sandwich at the thought of Bertha's question.

"Oh god no. He's nice, but no."

"Why not? He handsome."

"Bertha, do you have a soft spot for young Victor?"

"I would cuddle Victor. But he'd never let me."

To herself, Sally considered the possibilities.

"Maybe I can arrange that."

Having come across a dead end in his path, Victor turned on the spot and felt an electric chill, light headedness, and his knees gave out underneath him. A soft echo of some malevolent
thought was caught in the wind which carried it down the same path Victor had started down, and
the thought then caught the side of a flapping tent wall which kicked it down the dead end from
which Victor was about to emerge from. The sensation, in the eventual days ahead, a random
assemblage of body parts will explain as that feeling as having had someone just step across their grave.

Victor gathered his strength, picked himself up, and happened to look upon the table
where Bertha and Sally sat. An odd smile and a suspicious wave from Bertha sent another spooky shudder into Victor's mind.

"Just dropped my balls!" he shouted at them, smiled half-heartedly, then turned away quickly as he descended into manic paranoia.

"Oh dear god, they're plotting together."