Well that's all I have of this incarnation of "Life and Times of Igor." All the remaining material is the originating screenplay from ten years ago and it remains in screenplay format.
I am currently unable to begin the adaptation and updating process to novel format as I'm wrapped up with more important matters.
Hopefully you liked it, probably you didn't, and I still apologize for certain glaring errors in the body of the text.
But it's all done for the foreseeable future, so if you actually did enjoy it feel free to share the link and tell your friends to follow the tags to read it in the proper order.
Sincerely,
Starlight :)
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Epilogue
The next days passed, ultimately, much like a montage sequence in a film. There were lazy mornings spent hanging around the von Igor residence, which Momma Igor became increasingly tolerant of. There were afternoons spent in Igor's bedroom with great piles of medical journals piled as high as the bed, which Poppa Igor was increasingly sad about. So sad, in fact, he resorted to his only viable option.
"So, Momma, you play catch with me?"
Momma Igor thought about it for a moment, then offered her response. "Only if you look like Brad Pitt."
"Okay, but you know this end of Brad's film career." Poppa Igor then gently knocked on Igor's bedroom door, stuck his head in for just a moment, stated "Momma and I are going to California for a while boys. Don't wait up for us."
In the presence of absence of Igor's parents, Victor and Igor started to play doctor in the privacy of Igor's bedroom - literally. Igor revealed the secrets of his familial history, explained the intricacies of life granting electricity, and happily surrendered the secret family recipes and liquids of sustaining random piles of flesh and other organs in coherent form, all of which Victor promised to keep secret, but ultimately used as the basis of his doctoral thesis:
Once his doctorate was officially obtained, Victor Frankenstein immediately took to acting like an arrogant prick to all those who harmlessly called him by name, and not by his shiny new title.
Dr. Nefarious and the rest of Victor's instructor's at Evil University had pulled a few strings in the community and assured the tumbledown castle would be Victor's from now on, managing even to get him a generous government grant that would fund his research, and provide all that he and Igor would ever need for a considerable measure of time.
Eventually, Dr. Flappy made a full recovery from his injuries sustained under the big top, and ultimately retired from the performing arts altogether. He now sells home appliances at a major retailer located in Toad Suck, Arkansas.
Kyle, former patron of the Keep Klothes Klean Laundromat, married his lover Tyrone, moved to Zimbabwe, and they lived happily ever after.
Joe Wazniack, formerly The Grand High Mystic, is home once again. His planet is in the earliest days of the golden age of peace which will last many, many millennia. Upon Melvin's latest report to Igor, his older brother is hating every single minute of it.
Missy, ever vigilant member of the Cult of the Lowercase T, is still peering in other people's places of worship, demanding to know why they're not willing to pay for the gifts she offers them via the Savior of the Cult of the Lowercase T. It's only out of sheer godliness the rival temple members haven't broken her knees, duct tape her mouth shut, and dropped her in the nearest river.
Roger Frankenstein, his beloved wife, and their circus are now touring the country once again, after the debacle of the human cannonball incident. Jojo The Monkey Christ is now the star attraction. Ticket sales are through the roof.
As for Igor and the newly minted Dr. Victor Frankenstein, the adventure of scientific discovery is only beginning. What could possibly go wrong?
"So, Momma, you play catch with me?"
Momma Igor thought about it for a moment, then offered her response. "Only if you look like Brad Pitt."
"Okay, but you know this end of Brad's film career." Poppa Igor then gently knocked on Igor's bedroom door, stuck his head in for just a moment, stated "Momma and I are going to California for a while boys. Don't wait up for us."
In the presence of absence of Igor's parents, Victor and Igor started to play doctor in the privacy of Igor's bedroom - literally. Igor revealed the secrets of his familial history, explained the intricacies of life granting electricity, and happily surrendered the secret family recipes and liquids of sustaining random piles of flesh and other organs in coherent form, all of which Victor promised to keep secret, but ultimately used as the basis of his doctoral thesis:
Humpty Dumpty - An Evil Perspective:
The Possibilities And The Potential.
The Possibilities And The Potential.
Once his doctorate was officially obtained, Victor Frankenstein immediately took to acting like an arrogant prick to all those who harmlessly called him by name, and not by his shiny new title.
Dr. Nefarious and the rest of Victor's instructor's at Evil University had pulled a few strings in the community and assured the tumbledown castle would be Victor's from now on, managing even to get him a generous government grant that would fund his research, and provide all that he and Igor would ever need for a considerable measure of time.
* * * * *
Eventually, Dr. Flappy made a full recovery from his injuries sustained under the big top, and ultimately retired from the performing arts altogether. He now sells home appliances at a major retailer located in Toad Suck, Arkansas.
* * * * *
Dr. Nefarious, unable to get a proper position in the standard medical care facilities, founded a homeopathic clinic in Los Angeles that encourages anorexia in its patients. Nefarious, so far, has managed to keep his unique means of sexual gratification in his pants.
* * * * *
Kyle, former patron of the Keep Klothes Klean Laundromat, married his lover Tyrone, moved to Zimbabwe, and they lived happily ever after.
* * * * *
Joe Wazniack, formerly The Grand High Mystic, is home once again. His planet is in the earliest days of the golden age of peace which will last many, many millennia. Upon Melvin's latest report to Igor, his older brother is hating every single minute of it.
* * * * *
Missy, ever vigilant member of the Cult of the Lowercase T, is still peering in other people's places of worship, demanding to know why they're not willing to pay for the gifts she offers them via the Savior of the Cult of the Lowercase T. It's only out of sheer godliness the rival temple members haven't broken her knees, duct tape her mouth shut, and dropped her in the nearest river.
* * * * *
Roger Frankenstein, his beloved wife, and their circus are now touring the country once again, after the debacle of the human cannonball incident. Jojo The Monkey Christ is now the star attraction. Ticket sales are through the roof.
* * * * *
As for Igor and the newly minted Dr. Victor Frankenstein, the adventure of scientific discovery is only beginning. What could possibly go wrong?
The End...?
Chapter Sixteen
The sun rose hot over the small town suburbia of Transylvania, Utah the following morning, as it often tends to do. First it hit the town limits, crept west, enveloped Transylvania High and kept going as it eventually snuck upon the tumbledown castle set up a high hill out in the barren wastes outside the city limits.
And as morning continued onwards, a very disoriented Victor Frankenstein was hovering between the unconscious realms and the conscious ones. It was hard to distinguish which was which, as the resulting pain from a brick laden purse was still dancing hard and ricocheting within his skull.
"Hey...clown boy...you dead?" Poppa Igor inquired.
"Mwha...?" was the best Victor could manage.
"Here, drink this."
In the blurry haze of morning shadows seen through his eyelids, Victor was finding himself more and more in the realm of consciousness. He tried to fight it, because the pain here was more persistent, not to mention obvious.
Opening his eyes, Victor first focused gently upon the offered drink, and after an attempt or two, managed to actually find it with both hands, took hold of it, and took a swig. Whatever the refreshment was, it certainly wasn't pleasant, and would've vomited it back out had it not been for Poppa Igor's quick thinking by placing a hand upon Victor's mouth and shoving his head backwards to ensure he did swallow the horrendous concoction.
"Don't be stupid, boy, it good for you. Besides, there's no telling what Momma would do to you if you ruin her new couch. Then we'd have to start all over. Now drink the rest. Understand?"
Victor nodded gently, and drank down another mouthful.
"Good. You'll feel better in one moment. Wait here, I'll be right back."
After a few stomach wrenching moments, Victor was discovering that his mind seemed to be clearing, and the pain was definitely lessening. Encouraged by these results, he drank the rest in one hearty go, just as Poppa Igor was coming back into the von Igor sitting room. He had an expectant look, and something in his hands.
"So, what's your name, clown boy?"
"Victor. Victor Frankenstein."
"So, Victor, you feel better now?"
"Oddly enough...I do."
"Good. You want to play catch with me?"
Victor looked at the man who apparently had been caring for him, his hopeful smile, and the two baseball mitts and required ball for such a sport.
"What the hell..."
Upstairs, Igor had slept peacefully while Momma Igor lovingly reassembled her beloved son. Having had a tiring, traumatic evening, Igor was starting to stir later than usual and heard the gentle humming of his mother reattaching the last bits of his extremities.
"Where Igor?"
"You're in bed, dear. Momma is putting you back together."
"Where Victor?"
"Oh, he's around here somewhere," Momma offered with a touch of grumpiness. She then pulled a final piece of stitching a little harder than was necessary, snipped it, and proclaimed "All done!"
Igor briefly examined his body as a whole to make sure everything was working properly, then cautiously rose up out of bed, and turned to face the eastern windows in his bedroom. Gently Igor experimented with the bonds holding his legs and feet together, then slipped his navy blue slippers onto his bare feet and went to the window.
"Victor playing catch with Poppa?"
"It would seem so. Now, what do you want for breakfast?"
"No breakfast. Igor want to see Victor."
Victor and Poppa Igor had been playing catch for nearly half an hour before the rest of the von Igor's revealed themselves. In the intervening time, Igor's dog Sparky had been trying to catch the ball when it slipped from someone's mitt, and although Victor couldn't exactly put his finger on it, he knew that there was something not quite right about Sparky. Sparky could bark like a dog, chase his tail, pursue a foul ball, and check the messages he left on the nearest fire hydrant for any responses, and still engage in more dog-like activities.*
*Sparky, Victor later discovered, was very accomplished at rolling over, and especially competent at playing dead.
And at the sight of Igor, Sparky barked and ran for the youngest von Igor, while Momma Igor eyed Victor's game with her husband viciously. Still uncertain of what was going on, Victor just smiled when Poppa Igor threw the ball to Victor, then caught it, and was then caught in a fatherly embrace from Poppa Igor.
"I have new son. One that will play catch with me. Igor, get out."
"Poppa..." Igor simply let the statement slide, while Momma growled at the growing kinship between her husband and the young man who was responsible for shooting her beloved son out of a cannon.
"Now don't snarl, Momma. That's no way to treat your new son. Right, my boy?"
"Uh...I guess?" Victor responded as Poppa Igor mussed up his hair in a proud manner.
"Humph!" Momma Igor snarled, went back inside, and slammed the door behind her.
"Poppa, can Igor have moment with Victor?"
"You're not going to play catch with him, are you?" Poppa Igor looked suspiciously upon his one offspring.
"No."
"Good. Come by any time, Victor."
Poppa Igor then took the baseball mitt from Victor, turned towards the house, and stepped inside whistling. It stopped short after the door closed, and a soft CLAAANNGGG! was heard through the early morning stillness.
For a moment, there was a general sense of cautious hesitation between Victor and Igor as, from the house, a muffled argument erupted between Momma Igor's insistence on Victor being responsible for the sorry state of her baby boy, and Poppa Igor's ongoing demands about how Momma Igor was being unreasonable, and that she should reattach his head to its aimlessly wandering body that kept crashing into the sitting room furniture. Finally, Igor broke the silence.
"So, Victor want to go get pizza?"
"Sounds great. Let's go."
And together stepped they into a blossoming friendship.
And as morning continued onwards, a very disoriented Victor Frankenstein was hovering between the unconscious realms and the conscious ones. It was hard to distinguish which was which, as the resulting pain from a brick laden purse was still dancing hard and ricocheting within his skull.
"Hey...clown boy...you dead?" Poppa Igor inquired.
"Mwha...?" was the best Victor could manage.
"Here, drink this."
In the blurry haze of morning shadows seen through his eyelids, Victor was finding himself more and more in the realm of consciousness. He tried to fight it, because the pain here was more persistent, not to mention obvious.
Opening his eyes, Victor first focused gently upon the offered drink, and after an attempt or two, managed to actually find it with both hands, took hold of it, and took a swig. Whatever the refreshment was, it certainly wasn't pleasant, and would've vomited it back out had it not been for Poppa Igor's quick thinking by placing a hand upon Victor's mouth and shoving his head backwards to ensure he did swallow the horrendous concoction.
"Don't be stupid, boy, it good for you. Besides, there's no telling what Momma would do to you if you ruin her new couch. Then we'd have to start all over. Now drink the rest. Understand?"
Victor nodded gently, and drank down another mouthful.
"Good. You'll feel better in one moment. Wait here, I'll be right back."
After a few stomach wrenching moments, Victor was discovering that his mind seemed to be clearing, and the pain was definitely lessening. Encouraged by these results, he drank the rest in one hearty go, just as Poppa Igor was coming back into the von Igor sitting room. He had an expectant look, and something in his hands.
"So, what's your name, clown boy?"
"Victor. Victor Frankenstein."
"So, Victor, you feel better now?"
"Oddly enough...I do."
"Good. You want to play catch with me?"
Victor looked at the man who apparently had been caring for him, his hopeful smile, and the two baseball mitts and required ball for such a sport.
"What the hell..."
* * * * *
Upstairs, Igor had slept peacefully while Momma Igor lovingly reassembled her beloved son. Having had a tiring, traumatic evening, Igor was starting to stir later than usual and heard the gentle humming of his mother reattaching the last bits of his extremities.
"Where Igor?"
"You're in bed, dear. Momma is putting you back together."
"Where Victor?"
"Oh, he's around here somewhere," Momma offered with a touch of grumpiness. She then pulled a final piece of stitching a little harder than was necessary, snipped it, and proclaimed "All done!"
Igor briefly examined his body as a whole to make sure everything was working properly, then cautiously rose up out of bed, and turned to face the eastern windows in his bedroom. Gently Igor experimented with the bonds holding his legs and feet together, then slipped his navy blue slippers onto his bare feet and went to the window.
"Victor playing catch with Poppa?"
"It would seem so. Now, what do you want for breakfast?"
"No breakfast. Igor want to see Victor."
* * * * *
Victor and Poppa Igor had been playing catch for nearly half an hour before the rest of the von Igor's revealed themselves. In the intervening time, Igor's dog Sparky had been trying to catch the ball when it slipped from someone's mitt, and although Victor couldn't exactly put his finger on it, he knew that there was something not quite right about Sparky. Sparky could bark like a dog, chase his tail, pursue a foul ball, and check the messages he left on the nearest fire hydrant for any responses, and still engage in more dog-like activities.*
*Sparky, Victor later discovered, was very accomplished at rolling over, and especially competent at playing dead.
And at the sight of Igor, Sparky barked and ran for the youngest von Igor, while Momma Igor eyed Victor's game with her husband viciously. Still uncertain of what was going on, Victor just smiled when Poppa Igor threw the ball to Victor, then caught it, and was then caught in a fatherly embrace from Poppa Igor.
"I have new son. One that will play catch with me. Igor, get out."
"Poppa..." Igor simply let the statement slide, while Momma growled at the growing kinship between her husband and the young man who was responsible for shooting her beloved son out of a cannon.
"Now don't snarl, Momma. That's no way to treat your new son. Right, my boy?"
"Uh...I guess?" Victor responded as Poppa Igor mussed up his hair in a proud manner.
"Humph!" Momma Igor snarled, went back inside, and slammed the door behind her.
"Poppa, can Igor have moment with Victor?"
"You're not going to play catch with him, are you?" Poppa Igor looked suspiciously upon his one offspring.
"No."
"Good. Come by any time, Victor."
Poppa Igor then took the baseball mitt from Victor, turned towards the house, and stepped inside whistling. It stopped short after the door closed, and a soft CLAAANNGGG! was heard through the early morning stillness.
For a moment, there was a general sense of cautious hesitation between Victor and Igor as, from the house, a muffled argument erupted between Momma Igor's insistence on Victor being responsible for the sorry state of her baby boy, and Poppa Igor's ongoing demands about how Momma Igor was being unreasonable, and that she should reattach his head to its aimlessly wandering body that kept crashing into the sitting room furniture. Finally, Igor broke the silence.
"So, Victor want to go get pizza?"
"Sounds great. Let's go."
And together stepped they into a blossoming friendship.
Chapter Fifteen
The night of Igor's debut performance came one week later, and in the intervening time the majestic blue and gold cannon, which had for all these years served merely as a prop, was checked and rechecked, dismantled where capable, studied, and every connection, seal and bolt was put under tremendous scrutiny as this was to be a return to the good old days of performance yesteryear with an admittedly dangerous act that hadn't been seen in decades.
As an additional means of welcoming Igor to the big top, Roger Frankenstein and his son pored over the endless texts of safety measures and protective equipment and came up with a patriotic red, white and blue sequined jumpsuit complete with polyester cape, gloves, and the appropriate protective headwear.
The Master of Ceremonies, with a new found sense of dedication, took to the airwaves to promote their fresh blood and the performances he'd be undertaking. Roger himself had taken over Dr. Dipsy's role in choreographing the dancing bears, and taught them a few new routines and a new tumbling act as they fought a mock battle over picnic baskets and who would get the edible ambrosia contained within.
And after the promise was made of a brand new show and the ongoing media campaign by its Master of Ceremonies, the circus was beginning to find its audience again, and come Saturday evening the hopeful and the dreamers filed in, along with the parents of the big top's latest act.
Poppa Igor was followed by his wife, with her brick laden purse ever at the ready in case a tap dancing bear should happen to find her son to be a delectable morsel.
"Oh, I hope Igor will be okay."
"Put it down, Momma. Bears not eat Igor."
"They'd better not, or we'll have new grizzly carpeting in den tomorrow."
"Ssh, Momma, circus starting."
The lights went down, the pipe organ began playing a bouncy, cheerful tune, and the center spotlight shined down upon the Master of Ceremonies as he welcomed the crowds and promised them a show they wouldn't soon forget.
First up were the dancing bears, followed by fiery chainsaw juggling, and the standard clown dessert based battles. Victor dedicated a rendition of Perry Como's "Hot Diggity" to the memory of Bertha, which sent Dr. Flappy into paranoid hysterics due to the fact the show was being aired live on the local cable access channels. Bertha herself shed several joyous tears from up in the bleachers, but remained incognito for the sake of the show.
And then, as Flappy's screaming was subsiding due to large quantities of emergency pharmaceuticals, the lights came down again and the music stirred up the crowds with a rhythmic applause that resulted in an eruption of noise as two spotlights shined down - one upon the giant canon, the other on Igor as he strode towards the giant iron beast.
The Master of Ceremonies once again took up his microphone, and unseen in the darkness with only the dramatic rhythm of a drumbeat to fill the nervous hush, he proclaimed the return of show stopping grandeur and how the life of one brave young man hung in the balance.
It was all quite theatrical, but Igor never heard a word of it. His only sensations were one of dampness from the sweat and formaldehyde mixture that he was shedding with great vigor, almost as if such an act would increase his aerodynamic chances of landing safely in the net on the far side of the enclosed tent.
Sometime amongst his worrying, the Master of Ceremonies fell quiet and Igor, with the help of his new friend Victor, loaded himself into giant barrel. Victor offered a quick and enthusiastic "good luck," as the loading chamber was sealed. Victor was then handed a silly, oversized stick of dynamite which was lit that would serve as the means of firing off the hunchbacked cannonball.
And, in the darkness of the cannon chamber, a distant echoing sound reached Igor's ears.
"Ten!"
Up in the seating, Momma Igor fussed with her purse, searching for something.
"Nine!"
On the opposite end of the cannon, Bertha wiped tears of unrequited love from her eyes.
"Eight!"
In his hospital bed, Flappy rested and his television was unplugged, for his own protection.
"Seven!"
The clowns, gathered about in various sections of the seating area, cheered the crowd on as the countdown continued.
"Six!"
Victor, caught up in the moment, was waving the oversized, cartoon inspired, stick of dynamite complete with lit fuse as theatrically as he could. It pulled even more energy from the gathered crowds.
"Five!"
In the barrel, Igor suddenly considered what he hadn't before -- being a human cannonball was essentially a giant game of catch, which was a byproduct of baseball. Both games, Igor realized, never ended well.
"Four!"
"Find it yet, Momma?" Poppa Igor asked of his wife.
"Three!"
"It must be in car," Momma Igor replied, as she continued rifling through her purse.
"Two!"
"No, wait, here it is..."
"One!"
And Victor spun around in place, and dropped the burning flame upon the fuse of the cannon. The earth shaking shudder of noise and chaos launched Igor up into the highest reaches of the big top, and he remained unseen as smoke filled the arena and everyone was distracted by the fact the net fashioned to catch any and all daredevils was completely devoid of said safe capture.
When the world inside the tent settled down and the confusion seemed to last the rest of the evening, until a scream from beyond the net up in the bleachers shocked the circus and its attendees into reality once again, as Igor had collided at high speed with Bertha and broke apart upon impact. Bertha herself was knocked unconscious and those surrounding her were removing dismembered limbs from their clothes and picking smaller body parts from their popcorn and cotton candy, and ultimately they ran screaming from the stadium.
Victor, still lost in the moment of excitement, was kicked back into reality when he saw the parting crowds and the carnage of body parts covering a third of the immediate area where he collided with the spectators.
"Oh god I killed him!"
Victor, caught in a swarm of escaping audience members, managed to fight his way to the
nearest steps leading to the impact zone, and did an unnatural dance hopping and twisting his way
as to not step on his friend's remains, and briefly forget about the carnage as he checked the
unconscious woman's vitals.
Bertha, completely unrecognizable to the graduate student Victor now was, stirred briefly,
looked up into the face of her one true love, and smiled.
"Ma'am, it's okay. Just hang on, I'm a doctor...almost a doctor, at least."
"Funny clown doctor now? My hero...." and Bertha slipped back into unconsciousness.
As Victor tried to piece together the meaning of this one statement, a second voice turned
Victor's attention to the carnage he'd been trying to avoid.
It was Igor's. His head was a few feet up from Bertha's sleeping form, and looked to be
suffering the exact text book definition of Woozy Squared.
"Victor have sewing kit?"
"Igor? You're alive?"
"Igor alive. Victor have sewing kit?"
"Uh, no. Why?"
"Igor need sewing kit. Put Igor back together."
"What?"
"Igor not dead. See?"
Igor's head motioned as best as it could to the left. An arm was slowly dragging itself
along the bleachers towards Igor's head, stopped for a moment, and waved to Victor.
"Igor just need quick patch up and Igor be fine."
There was a scurrying behind Victor that was barely recognizable. It sounded like some
mad woman crying about her son.
"My baby! He hurt my baby!" was the last thing, besides the darkening pain, Victor was
able to recollect that particular evening.
As an additional means of welcoming Igor to the big top, Roger Frankenstein and his son pored over the endless texts of safety measures and protective equipment and came up with a patriotic red, white and blue sequined jumpsuit complete with polyester cape, gloves, and the appropriate protective headwear.
The Master of Ceremonies, with a new found sense of dedication, took to the airwaves to promote their fresh blood and the performances he'd be undertaking. Roger himself had taken over Dr. Dipsy's role in choreographing the dancing bears, and taught them a few new routines and a new tumbling act as they fought a mock battle over picnic baskets and who would get the edible ambrosia contained within.
And after the promise was made of a brand new show and the ongoing media campaign by its Master of Ceremonies, the circus was beginning to find its audience again, and come Saturday evening the hopeful and the dreamers filed in, along with the parents of the big top's latest act.
Poppa Igor was followed by his wife, with her brick laden purse ever at the ready in case a tap dancing bear should happen to find her son to be a delectable morsel.
"Oh, I hope Igor will be okay."
"Put it down, Momma. Bears not eat Igor."
"They'd better not, or we'll have new grizzly carpeting in den tomorrow."
"Ssh, Momma, circus starting."
The lights went down, the pipe organ began playing a bouncy, cheerful tune, and the center spotlight shined down upon the Master of Ceremonies as he welcomed the crowds and promised them a show they wouldn't soon forget.
First up were the dancing bears, followed by fiery chainsaw juggling, and the standard clown dessert based battles. Victor dedicated a rendition of Perry Como's "Hot Diggity" to the memory of Bertha, which sent Dr. Flappy into paranoid hysterics due to the fact the show was being aired live on the local cable access channels. Bertha herself shed several joyous tears from up in the bleachers, but remained incognito for the sake of the show.
And then, as Flappy's screaming was subsiding due to large quantities of emergency pharmaceuticals, the lights came down again and the music stirred up the crowds with a rhythmic applause that resulted in an eruption of noise as two spotlights shined down - one upon the giant canon, the other on Igor as he strode towards the giant iron beast.
The Master of Ceremonies once again took up his microphone, and unseen in the darkness with only the dramatic rhythm of a drumbeat to fill the nervous hush, he proclaimed the return of show stopping grandeur and how the life of one brave young man hung in the balance.
It was all quite theatrical, but Igor never heard a word of it. His only sensations were one of dampness from the sweat and formaldehyde mixture that he was shedding with great vigor, almost as if such an act would increase his aerodynamic chances of landing safely in the net on the far side of the enclosed tent.
Sometime amongst his worrying, the Master of Ceremonies fell quiet and Igor, with the help of his new friend Victor, loaded himself into giant barrel. Victor offered a quick and enthusiastic "good luck," as the loading chamber was sealed. Victor was then handed a silly, oversized stick of dynamite which was lit that would serve as the means of firing off the hunchbacked cannonball.
And, in the darkness of the cannon chamber, a distant echoing sound reached Igor's ears.
"Ten!"
Up in the seating, Momma Igor fussed with her purse, searching for something.
"Nine!"
On the opposite end of the cannon, Bertha wiped tears of unrequited love from her eyes.
"Eight!"
In his hospital bed, Flappy rested and his television was unplugged, for his own protection.
"Seven!"
The clowns, gathered about in various sections of the seating area, cheered the crowd on as the countdown continued.
"Six!"
Victor, caught up in the moment, was waving the oversized, cartoon inspired, stick of dynamite complete with lit fuse as theatrically as he could. It pulled even more energy from the gathered crowds.
"Five!"
In the barrel, Igor suddenly considered what he hadn't before -- being a human cannonball was essentially a giant game of catch, which was a byproduct of baseball. Both games, Igor realized, never ended well.
"Four!"
"Find it yet, Momma?" Poppa Igor asked of his wife.
"Three!"
"It must be in car," Momma Igor replied, as she continued rifling through her purse.
"Two!"
"No, wait, here it is..."
"One!"
And Victor spun around in place, and dropped the burning flame upon the fuse of the cannon. The earth shaking shudder of noise and chaos launched Igor up into the highest reaches of the big top, and he remained unseen as smoke filled the arena and everyone was distracted by the fact the net fashioned to catch any and all daredevils was completely devoid of said safe capture.
When the world inside the tent settled down and the confusion seemed to last the rest of the evening, until a scream from beyond the net up in the bleachers shocked the circus and its attendees into reality once again, as Igor had collided at high speed with Bertha and broke apart upon impact. Bertha herself was knocked unconscious and those surrounding her were removing dismembered limbs from their clothes and picking smaller body parts from their popcorn and cotton candy, and ultimately they ran screaming from the stadium.
Victor, still lost in the moment of excitement, was kicked back into reality when he saw the parting crowds and the carnage of body parts covering a third of the immediate area where he collided with the spectators.
"Oh god I killed him!"
Victor, caught in a swarm of escaping audience members, managed to fight his way to the
nearest steps leading to the impact zone, and did an unnatural dance hopping and twisting his way
as to not step on his friend's remains, and briefly forget about the carnage as he checked the
unconscious woman's vitals.
Bertha, completely unrecognizable to the graduate student Victor now was, stirred briefly,
looked up into the face of her one true love, and smiled.
"Ma'am, it's okay. Just hang on, I'm a doctor...almost a doctor, at least."
"Funny clown doctor now? My hero...." and Bertha slipped back into unconsciousness.
As Victor tried to piece together the meaning of this one statement, a second voice turned
Victor's attention to the carnage he'd been trying to avoid.
It was Igor's. His head was a few feet up from Bertha's sleeping form, and looked to be
suffering the exact text book definition of Woozy Squared.
"Victor have sewing kit?"
"Igor? You're alive?"
"Igor alive. Victor have sewing kit?"
"Uh, no. Why?"
"Igor need sewing kit. Put Igor back together."
"What?"
"Igor not dead. See?"
Igor's head motioned as best as it could to the left. An arm was slowly dragging itself
along the bleachers towards Igor's head, stopped for a moment, and waved to Victor.
"Igor just need quick patch up and Igor be fine."
There was a scurrying behind Victor that was barely recognizable. It sounded like some
mad woman crying about her son.
"My baby! He hurt my baby!" was the last thing, besides the darkening pain, Victor was
able to recollect that particular evening.
Chapter Fourteen
Three weeks had passed since Almighty Steve's disconnection from the iLive to which he'd been attached, and with Joe Wazniack's now permanent absence and remaining psychological hold over the Cheewahwah's Evolved Ones now broken, along with the dismantling of the Temple of Scienceology (Formerly A Cult,) Igor was now out of a job.
But he wasn't the only one -- the resident Cheewahwah, Alejandro included, were finding themselves on the lower links of the food chain, immediately sought protection in the arms of the rich and powerful, brain dead, pretty people whose only claim to fame was they were exceptionally thin, vain, and completely incapable of holding down a real job that didn't involve them spreading their legs for a paycheck and, should the day come, a hot meal.
But Igor wasn't the only one without work. Thankfully, having been released from the programming of Almighty Steve's worshippers, the Evolved Ones abandoned the temple and filled spaces in society that were dedicated to skilled laborers who lacked any genuine skills, didn't speak the language, and worked for a pittance compared to those who actual had the skills, could communicate, and expected a fee that was comparable to the work done. The rest remained in their traditional roles of cleaning up after white people, just as it had been so in the now defunct Temple.
After having taken a week off to relax and gather his thoughts, Igor practically ran screaming from his household as Poppa Igor tried to force quality time upon him by trying to engage him in a game of catch, among other things. Movie night was the worst.
"Come watch this movie with me, boy."
"Igor no want to."
"It good movie. Igor not even know what it is yet, and already you say no."
"Fine. What is movie, Poppa?"
"It Field of Dreams, with Kevin Costner."
With a movie marathon of baseball themed movies with Poppa Igor, along with one accidental showing of a film involving baseball, Brad Pitt, and a very amorous Momma Igor*, the youngest von Igor had experienced enough, grabbed the keys to the Prius, and started looking for any place of employment that would have him.
* To Quote Mama Igor: "I wish Brad Pitt wanted to throw his balls at me. I'd catch them."
But everywhere Igor applied, it seemed, the Evolved Ones had swarmed every employment opportunity and gobbled them up like termites in the woodwork of the American workforce. However, there were a few unspoken opportunities the Evolved Cheewahwah were unable of undertaking.**
** Oddly enough, Undertaking as a profession was one opportunity Igor passed up. He preferred not to mix his personal and professional lives.
The first real opportunity that Igor took advantage of utilized his knowledge of modern day electronics, such as high definition televisions, Blu-Ray players, wires of all types and purposes, computer accessories, and gaming consoles.
Immediately, Igor was hired to work in the Electronics Department of Sam Mart, a giant discount retailer based in south that shared many ideals of The Descendents of Steve, with the main exception that founding member Sam himself, albeit dead with no real chance of resurrection, was on display*** in the basement of their corporate headquarters.
***It has been suggested that the Sam-Martians gather once a year in Arkansas, the birthplace of Sam-Mart, for the sole reason of paying homage to their founder by dry humping his corpse.
The first few days into Igor's new job proved refreshingly peaceful, but as it must always, something came along to royally screw things up for the hunchback. And it came in camouflage.
"Well, whut da hale is this shit?"
"Can Igor help customer?"
"Yeah, I gots a question. This here TV thingy, ya see mine went out now I gots to git a new one, so I'm a lookin at yore TV's here and damnit it all iffin it ain't whut I need."
Baffled, Igor just stood there silently, while the customer continued.
"Ya see, this here signs sez this here TV is forty-two inches, but my measuring tape I gots here sez it's only thirty eight anna half. Now whut da hale you people tryin' to sell a TV that's not even the proper size."
"Customer not measuring TV correctly."
"Now sonny, I knows how to measure a TV. Now this 'un sez it's forty-two, but look here, it only goes to thirty-eight anna half. I ain't gonna pay no full price when you'ins is cheatin' me outta two an' a half TV inches."
"Customer not measuring TV correctly. Let Igor show customer."
"And why don't you speakify properly, boy? You one of them Canadians?"
Igor, normally ever patient, gently grabbed the tape measure from the hillbilly asshole, and demonstrated the proper way of measuring a television screen: diagonally.
"See? Forty-two inches, as advertised."
"Now how da hale was I supposed to know that?"
"It says here on display all measurements of television, diagonal measurement included."
Igor's kind resistance to hillbilly stupidity was wearing off quickly, as he pointed to the appropriate signage with his middle finger.
"Now just how da hale was I supposed to know that?"
"Customer could've read it."
At least, Customer could've read it if Customer wasn't a fucking illiterate hick.
Plan B consisted of a laundromat, with such a highly limited clientele it amazed Igor that it remained in business. The establishment in question, called Keep Klothes Klean, was a subsidiary of another organization, with an equally alliterative club name. Although these facts wasn't openly advertised, it was widely known. Well, widely known, except to Igor.
Being of a lumpy, gray fleshed nature, businessman, owner and operator Gunther hired Igor on the spot, and introduced his one and only employee to the cleaning facilities of the KKK -- washing machines, drying machines, and bleach. Lots and lots of bleach. Starch, Igor observed, was important too, as there were countless aerosol cans on the shelves as well.
"What does Gunther wash here?"
"Robes, mostly. Some hoods. Sometimes we get wild and do the occasional sock, but it's mostly robes."
It seemed fairly straightforward and reasonably simple, Igor felt, so he took the job. His time here would prove to be shorter than the time spent at Sam Mart.
On the morning of his first (and ultimately last) day at Keep Klothes Klean, a pale faced skin head named Kyle dropped off a load of linens meant for cleaning. There was a definite smell of burning wood and ash stains pock marking the usually achingly white robes. Igor took the basket of robes, and dumped the lot into the nearest available washing machine. Igor added the appropriate amount of bleach, and turned the machine on.
The robes went in black and white, and came out pink. Gunther wasn't happy, twice over, and immediately phoned up Kyle.
"Come down here and git your panties**** out of the wash, Kyle!" Gunther hung up the phone, and turned his rage to Igor.
****Kyle panties, apparently, had been personalized. In white lettering, upon the red fabric, read the following: Tyrone Hearts Kyle's Apple Shaped Ass.
"And you, just because we here at Keep Klothes Klean hate niggers, faggots and Jews doesn't mean we can't have fresh smelling linens! Now get your ass to Sam Mart, get a few boxes of the tropical mango and lavender scented fabric softeners, and do it again!"
Suffice it to say, Kyle never reclaimed his misplaced panties, and Igor simply headed home and endured a game of catch for the rest of the afternoon.
In fact, due to the shortened curriculum and the rapid passing of time due to the heavy quantum fields of Pure Enjoyment, (not to mention everyone else had washed out of Evil University, which gave the instructors much more time to focus on their one remaining student) Victor Frankenstein found himself before his doctoral panel.
Sitting in Nefarious' makeshift lecture hall, Dr. Nefarious, the Penguin, and Victor's other instructors had gathered around with the talented young man with all the promise of malevolence (albeit often wacky and slightly covered in custard pie), to discuss Victor's future.
"So, Mr. Frankenstein, you've come a long way. Your singing vegetables were evil, but disposing of them was an exemplary display of true evil. Did they suffer?" asked Dr. Nefarious.
"Horribly," replied Victor.
"Excellent, Victor, excellent. Have you decided what you would do for your doctoral thesis?" asked the Penguin as it munched on a bucket of fish.
"I haven't found a topic yet."
"You haven't?" Nefarious looked astonished.
"I don't believe it. You're among the brightest and best in your class! Hell, you're the only one worthy of our classes! Go find something worthy of your brilliance and destroy it! Go, or all your hard work will be for nothing!" shouted the Penguin.
There was a general murmuring of disappointment from the remaining instructors and Victor picked up his backpack and headed out into the night. On the corner along the street that once delivered traffic to and from the abandoned health food store was a public bench that had been painted green which was used to cover up an old faded advertisement and a number for said establishment. Victor plopped down in it with mild disgust as he stared out across Evil University's small campus and beyond to the twenty-four hour adult novelty store two blocks away.
"May I?"
The subtle question of Nefarious shook Victor from his day dreaming.
"Please."
"I remember being faced by the need to complete my doctoral thesis," Nefarious began as Victor made room for his professor next to him on the bench. He then continued.
"It wasn't easy, and everywhere I looked I found nothing that was suitably...well...evil."
"It takes a lot out of you. All the scheming, the plotting, the hysterical cackling," replied Victor, obviously exhausted.
"It certainly does. Our line of study isn't for everyone. Sure, environmentalists and such work hard, but they only work during the daylight hours. Ours is a thankless task that must be lived every moment of every night and day."
"What was your thesis about, doctor?"
"Eggs," Nefarious said matter-of-factly. "I invented cholesterol. The bad kind, obviously. Sure I told them it was natural, and everywhere, but I invented it in the seventies."
"How'd you come up with something like that?"
"I stopped looking at the world as a whole, and looked at where I came from. My family, to be exact. They were chicken farmers. Nothing hits as close to home as family, Victor. So if I were you, instead of hitting the books and spending hours in the lab, I'd go home. You'll find something worthy of your talent in the outrage of your parents."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it. Goodnight."
And Nefarious got up, and disappeared into the night. And while Victor considered the advice of his mentor, he gathered up his books and notepads as he planned to head towards his three ring hometown. He thought of the vegetarian lions, Sally, and imagined all the truly terribly horrible things he could now do to Bertha, unaware she was no longer part of the act.
With a direction in mind, Victor jaywalked across the street towards the gas station just across from the Evil University campus to buy a drink before he boarded the city bus at the bus stop located on the far side of the road.
As Victor crossed the street, he passed one particular Prius parked at one of the fuel pumps. Victor would meet its peculiar driver at the counter as he was paying for refreshments.
"And what can I help you with?"
"Igor need new job. Igor work here?"
"There are no jobs here for you damned Canadians. Off with you. And what can I do for you, young man?"
Igor headed for the glass doors displaying store hours and proclamations of particular individuals who wrote hot checks, and stopped for a moment when he saw the community board. Upon it was a help wanted sign for the local circus. And Igor read it, entranced.
"Igor could join circus. That not sound hard."
Ripping the sign from the board, Igor stepped back to the attendant as he was handing Victor's change back to him.
"Where circus?"
"Just a few miles east of here. Thinking of joining it?"
"Igor is. Igor could work at circus."
"If you do, be sure to stay away from Bertha." said Victor, as he was headed out the door. Igor stepped up to Victor, and followed him as a puppy would follow a newfound friend.
"Who Bertha?"
"Bertha. She's the bearded lady. She likes to cuddle."
"How you know?"
"I used to perform there. My name's Victor."
"Victor worked at circus? Does circus have jobs available?"
"Well, I guess. I'm going there tonight."
Igor stopped in front of his car while Victor continued onwards to the bus stop.
"Victor ride there with Igor? Show Igor where it is?"
Victor looked the hunchback up and down, decided he posed very little threat, and relented.
"Well, let's go then."
Life has an uncanny way of bringing the right people together at the right time: Bernie Taupin and Elton John. Hall and Oats. Loggins and Messina. And now, life placed young lives together who, apart were capable of many things, but together will likely rule the world.
Upon arrival at Victor's old stomping grounds in the evening's darkness, the lights shining from Igor's vehicle illuminated the offices and a handful of performer's tents and, wondering who it could be at this hour, Victor's father, Sally, and their Master of Ceremonies emerged in various states of dress and welcomed their lost member home. In this moment, Victor introduced his new friend Igor the group, who began to explain he was seeking employment.
"Come with me, young man," said the Master of Ceremonies as he put his arm around Igor. "Let's talk. Good to see you again, Victor." And together Igor and the circus' ring leader went into his office to discuss Igor's talents and capabilities.
Meanwhile, Roger Frankenstein maintained a subdued manner as he took his son around the circus grounds and explained the grim situation that had befallen their once proud facilities.
"Son, after the incident with Bertha and Dr. Flappy, it all started going downhill. Obviously, Flappy still hasn't returned to us and probably never will. Bertha handed in her copious body hair and leotard after...well...you remember. We're looking for fresh blood and new talents to spice things up before we have to fold up for good. Do you think this Igor fellow has anything to offer us?"
Victor, albeit on the verge of having an official certification of evil, knew things were bleak for his family and friends from the old big top and couldn't help feeling sorry for the old gang. And his dad's revelation that Bertha had called it quits for good deflated the many insidious plans for revenge Victor had been formulating during the ride here, while the echoing advice from Dr. Nefarious about finding inspiration in his parents' horrors bounced off the furthest corner of his mind and faded away for good before it reached the frontal lobe.
"I don't know, dad. I just met him." In an effort to lighten the mood, Victor asked about seeing the vegeterian lions, and was met with a response that wasn't the least bit promising.
"Son, we had to put them down."
"The lions. They're dead?"
"Yeah. How do I explain this one," Roger said to himself, and seemed to decide that the reality of the situation was the only way to go.
"It turns out they really weren't vegetarian. Dipsy claimed their diet of honey, cat food, and V8 sustained them, but we found...well...most of him one night and the rest the second after their enclosure was being cleaned. We haven't revealed all of this to Flappy, as he's still in a fragile state of mind."
Victor was about to respond to this latest bit of horror, but was interrupted as Igor and the Master of Ceremonies came around the corner of one tent, smiling.
"I'm proud to announce that we've found a place within our family for your friend here, Victor."
"Congratulations, young man, welcome to the greatest show on Earth." Roger said half heartedly, but emphatically shook Igor's hand, almost to the point of it falling off, but Igor managed to pull away before his unique handicap was discovered.
Satisfied with his new position, Igor offered to drive Victor back home, but refused the offer by simply stating "I am home."
"Igor must thank Victor for this."
"Don't mention it."
And with a simple handshake, Victor returned Igor's thanks. Victor returned to what was once his personal tent, and Igor went home and informed his parents of his new position -- human cannonball. Before the night of Igor's debut would be over, it would prove to be such a glorious disaster that would inspire Victor in ways nothing else has ever done before.
But he wasn't the only one -- the resident Cheewahwah, Alejandro included, were finding themselves on the lower links of the food chain, immediately sought protection in the arms of the rich and powerful, brain dead, pretty people whose only claim to fame was they were exceptionally thin, vain, and completely incapable of holding down a real job that didn't involve them spreading their legs for a paycheck and, should the day come, a hot meal.
But Igor wasn't the only one without work. Thankfully, having been released from the programming of Almighty Steve's worshippers, the Evolved Ones abandoned the temple and filled spaces in society that were dedicated to skilled laborers who lacked any genuine skills, didn't speak the language, and worked for a pittance compared to those who actual had the skills, could communicate, and expected a fee that was comparable to the work done. The rest remained in their traditional roles of cleaning up after white people, just as it had been so in the now defunct Temple.
After having taken a week off to relax and gather his thoughts, Igor practically ran screaming from his household as Poppa Igor tried to force quality time upon him by trying to engage him in a game of catch, among other things. Movie night was the worst.
"Come watch this movie with me, boy."
"Igor no want to."
"It good movie. Igor not even know what it is yet, and already you say no."
"Fine. What is movie, Poppa?"
"It Field of Dreams, with Kevin Costner."
With a movie marathon of baseball themed movies with Poppa Igor, along with one accidental showing of a film involving baseball, Brad Pitt, and a very amorous Momma Igor*, the youngest von Igor had experienced enough, grabbed the keys to the Prius, and started looking for any place of employment that would have him.
* To Quote Mama Igor: "I wish Brad Pitt wanted to throw his balls at me. I'd catch them."
But everywhere Igor applied, it seemed, the Evolved Ones had swarmed every employment opportunity and gobbled them up like termites in the woodwork of the American workforce. However, there were a few unspoken opportunities the Evolved Cheewahwah were unable of undertaking.**
** Oddly enough, Undertaking as a profession was one opportunity Igor passed up. He preferred not to mix his personal and professional lives.
The first real opportunity that Igor took advantage of utilized his knowledge of modern day electronics, such as high definition televisions, Blu-Ray players, wires of all types and purposes, computer accessories, and gaming consoles.
Immediately, Igor was hired to work in the Electronics Department of Sam Mart, a giant discount retailer based in south that shared many ideals of The Descendents of Steve, with the main exception that founding member Sam himself, albeit dead with no real chance of resurrection, was on display*** in the basement of their corporate headquarters.
***It has been suggested that the Sam-Martians gather once a year in Arkansas, the birthplace of Sam-Mart, for the sole reason of paying homage to their founder by dry humping his corpse.
The first few days into Igor's new job proved refreshingly peaceful, but as it must always, something came along to royally screw things up for the hunchback. And it came in camouflage.
"Well, whut da hale is this shit?"
"Can Igor help customer?"
"Yeah, I gots a question. This here TV thingy, ya see mine went out now I gots to git a new one, so I'm a lookin at yore TV's here and damnit it all iffin it ain't whut I need."
Baffled, Igor just stood there silently, while the customer continued.
"Ya see, this here signs sez this here TV is forty-two inches, but my measuring tape I gots here sez it's only thirty eight anna half. Now whut da hale you people tryin' to sell a TV that's not even the proper size."
"Customer not measuring TV correctly."
"Now sonny, I knows how to measure a TV. Now this 'un sez it's forty-two, but look here, it only goes to thirty-eight anna half. I ain't gonna pay no full price when you'ins is cheatin' me outta two an' a half TV inches."
"Customer not measuring TV correctly. Let Igor show customer."
"And why don't you speakify properly, boy? You one of them Canadians?"
Igor, normally ever patient, gently grabbed the tape measure from the hillbilly asshole, and demonstrated the proper way of measuring a television screen: diagonally.
"See? Forty-two inches, as advertised."
"Now how da hale was I supposed to know that?"
"It says here on display all measurements of television, diagonal measurement included."
Igor's kind resistance to hillbilly stupidity was wearing off quickly, as he pointed to the appropriate signage with his middle finger.
"Now just how da hale was I supposed to know that?"
"Customer could've read it."
At least, Customer could've read it if Customer wasn't a fucking illiterate hick.
* * * * *
One sale later, Igor handed in his keys to the video game displays to his boss, and made a quick getaway while his sanity was still intact. As he was returning home, Igor found Poppa Igor and Sparky playing a game of catch in the front yard, and Igor immediately punched the accelerator as he considered his Plan B that was formulated, since the Sam Mart position proved to be unsuccessful.Plan B consisted of a laundromat, with such a highly limited clientele it amazed Igor that it remained in business. The establishment in question, called Keep Klothes Klean, was a subsidiary of another organization, with an equally alliterative club name. Although these facts wasn't openly advertised, it was widely known. Well, widely known, except to Igor.
Being of a lumpy, gray fleshed nature, businessman, owner and operator Gunther hired Igor on the spot, and introduced his one and only employee to the cleaning facilities of the KKK -- washing machines, drying machines, and bleach. Lots and lots of bleach. Starch, Igor observed, was important too, as there were countless aerosol cans on the shelves as well.
"What does Gunther wash here?"
"Robes, mostly. Some hoods. Sometimes we get wild and do the occasional sock, but it's mostly robes."
It seemed fairly straightforward and reasonably simple, Igor felt, so he took the job. His time here would prove to be shorter than the time spent at Sam Mart.
On the morning of his first (and ultimately last) day at Keep Klothes Klean, a pale faced skin head named Kyle dropped off a load of linens meant for cleaning. There was a definite smell of burning wood and ash stains pock marking the usually achingly white robes. Igor took the basket of robes, and dumped the lot into the nearest available washing machine. Igor added the appropriate amount of bleach, and turned the machine on.
The robes went in black and white, and came out pink. Gunther wasn't happy, twice over, and immediately phoned up Kyle.
"Come down here and git your panties**** out of the wash, Kyle!" Gunther hung up the phone, and turned his rage to Igor.
****Kyle panties, apparently, had been personalized. In white lettering, upon the red fabric, read the following: Tyrone Hearts Kyle's Apple Shaped Ass.
"And you, just because we here at Keep Klothes Klean hate niggers, faggots and Jews doesn't mean we can't have fresh smelling linens! Now get your ass to Sam Mart, get a few boxes of the tropical mango and lavender scented fabric softeners, and do it again!"
Suffice it to say, Kyle never reclaimed his misplaced panties, and Igor simply headed home and endured a game of catch for the rest of the afternoon.
* * * * *
While Igor spent his time searching the classifieds and running away from baseballs, Victor was discovering the benefits of pursuing an evil education, which proved to have a much shorter academic run as only the core elements were taught, with absolutely no emphasis on all things that might better a person, such as British Literature, Music Appreciation, Ethics, or Philosophy. Various lessons in the field of history were readily available, but they only focused on plagues, wars, and the like. And even those offerings were optional.In fact, due to the shortened curriculum and the rapid passing of time due to the heavy quantum fields of Pure Enjoyment, (not to mention everyone else had washed out of Evil University, which gave the instructors much more time to focus on their one remaining student) Victor Frankenstein found himself before his doctoral panel.
Sitting in Nefarious' makeshift lecture hall, Dr. Nefarious, the Penguin, and Victor's other instructors had gathered around with the talented young man with all the promise of malevolence (albeit often wacky and slightly covered in custard pie), to discuss Victor's future.
"So, Mr. Frankenstein, you've come a long way. Your singing vegetables were evil, but disposing of them was an exemplary display of true evil. Did they suffer?" asked Dr. Nefarious.
"Horribly," replied Victor.
"Excellent, Victor, excellent. Have you decided what you would do for your doctoral thesis?" asked the Penguin as it munched on a bucket of fish.
"I haven't found a topic yet."
"You haven't?" Nefarious looked astonished.
"I don't believe it. You're among the brightest and best in your class! Hell, you're the only one worthy of our classes! Go find something worthy of your brilliance and destroy it! Go, or all your hard work will be for nothing!" shouted the Penguin.
There was a general murmuring of disappointment from the remaining instructors and Victor picked up his backpack and headed out into the night. On the corner along the street that once delivered traffic to and from the abandoned health food store was a public bench that had been painted green which was used to cover up an old faded advertisement and a number for said establishment. Victor plopped down in it with mild disgust as he stared out across Evil University's small campus and beyond to the twenty-four hour adult novelty store two blocks away.
"May I?"
The subtle question of Nefarious shook Victor from his day dreaming.
"Please."
"I remember being faced by the need to complete my doctoral thesis," Nefarious began as Victor made room for his professor next to him on the bench. He then continued.
"It wasn't easy, and everywhere I looked I found nothing that was suitably...well...evil."
"It takes a lot out of you. All the scheming, the plotting, the hysterical cackling," replied Victor, obviously exhausted.
"It certainly does. Our line of study isn't for everyone. Sure, environmentalists and such work hard, but they only work during the daylight hours. Ours is a thankless task that must be lived every moment of every night and day."
"What was your thesis about, doctor?"
"Eggs," Nefarious said matter-of-factly. "I invented cholesterol. The bad kind, obviously. Sure I told them it was natural, and everywhere, but I invented it in the seventies."
"How'd you come up with something like that?"
"I stopped looking at the world as a whole, and looked at where I came from. My family, to be exact. They were chicken farmers. Nothing hits as close to home as family, Victor. So if I were you, instead of hitting the books and spending hours in the lab, I'd go home. You'll find something worthy of your talent in the outrage of your parents."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it. Goodnight."
And Nefarious got up, and disappeared into the night. And while Victor considered the advice of his mentor, he gathered up his books and notepads as he planned to head towards his three ring hometown. He thought of the vegetarian lions, Sally, and imagined all the truly terribly horrible things he could now do to Bertha, unaware she was no longer part of the act.
With a direction in mind, Victor jaywalked across the street towards the gas station just across from the Evil University campus to buy a drink before he boarded the city bus at the bus stop located on the far side of the road.
As Victor crossed the street, he passed one particular Prius parked at one of the fuel pumps. Victor would meet its peculiar driver at the counter as he was paying for refreshments.
"And what can I help you with?"
"Igor need new job. Igor work here?"
"There are no jobs here for you damned Canadians. Off with you. And what can I do for you, young man?"
Igor headed for the glass doors displaying store hours and proclamations of particular individuals who wrote hot checks, and stopped for a moment when he saw the community board. Upon it was a help wanted sign for the local circus. And Igor read it, entranced.
"Igor could join circus. That not sound hard."
Ripping the sign from the board, Igor stepped back to the attendant as he was handing Victor's change back to him.
"Where circus?"
"Just a few miles east of here. Thinking of joining it?"
"Igor is. Igor could work at circus."
"If you do, be sure to stay away from Bertha." said Victor, as he was headed out the door. Igor stepped up to Victor, and followed him as a puppy would follow a newfound friend.
"Who Bertha?"
"Bertha. She's the bearded lady. She likes to cuddle."
"How you know?"
"I used to perform there. My name's Victor."
"Victor worked at circus? Does circus have jobs available?"
"Well, I guess. I'm going there tonight."
Igor stopped in front of his car while Victor continued onwards to the bus stop.
"Victor ride there with Igor? Show Igor where it is?"
Victor looked the hunchback up and down, decided he posed very little threat, and relented.
"Well, let's go then."
* * * * *
Life has an uncanny way of bringing the right people together at the right time: Bernie Taupin and Elton John. Hall and Oats. Loggins and Messina. And now, life placed young lives together who, apart were capable of many things, but together will likely rule the world.
Upon arrival at Victor's old stomping grounds in the evening's darkness, the lights shining from Igor's vehicle illuminated the offices and a handful of performer's tents and, wondering who it could be at this hour, Victor's father, Sally, and their Master of Ceremonies emerged in various states of dress and welcomed their lost member home. In this moment, Victor introduced his new friend Igor the group, who began to explain he was seeking employment.
"Come with me, young man," said the Master of Ceremonies as he put his arm around Igor. "Let's talk. Good to see you again, Victor." And together Igor and the circus' ring leader went into his office to discuss Igor's talents and capabilities.
Meanwhile, Roger Frankenstein maintained a subdued manner as he took his son around the circus grounds and explained the grim situation that had befallen their once proud facilities.
"Son, after the incident with Bertha and Dr. Flappy, it all started going downhill. Obviously, Flappy still hasn't returned to us and probably never will. Bertha handed in her copious body hair and leotard after...well...you remember. We're looking for fresh blood and new talents to spice things up before we have to fold up for good. Do you think this Igor fellow has anything to offer us?"
Victor, albeit on the verge of having an official certification of evil, knew things were bleak for his family and friends from the old big top and couldn't help feeling sorry for the old gang. And his dad's revelation that Bertha had called it quits for good deflated the many insidious plans for revenge Victor had been formulating during the ride here, while the echoing advice from Dr. Nefarious about finding inspiration in his parents' horrors bounced off the furthest corner of his mind and faded away for good before it reached the frontal lobe.
"I don't know, dad. I just met him." In an effort to lighten the mood, Victor asked about seeing the vegeterian lions, and was met with a response that wasn't the least bit promising.
"Son, we had to put them down."
"The lions. They're dead?"
"Yeah. How do I explain this one," Roger said to himself, and seemed to decide that the reality of the situation was the only way to go.
"It turns out they really weren't vegetarian. Dipsy claimed their diet of honey, cat food, and V8 sustained them, but we found...well...most of him one night and the rest the second after their enclosure was being cleaned. We haven't revealed all of this to Flappy, as he's still in a fragile state of mind."
Victor was about to respond to this latest bit of horror, but was interrupted as Igor and the Master of Ceremonies came around the corner of one tent, smiling.
"I'm proud to announce that we've found a place within our family for your friend here, Victor."
"Congratulations, young man, welcome to the greatest show on Earth." Roger said half heartedly, but emphatically shook Igor's hand, almost to the point of it falling off, but Igor managed to pull away before his unique handicap was discovered.
Satisfied with his new position, Igor offered to drive Victor back home, but refused the offer by simply stating "I am home."
"Igor must thank Victor for this."
"Don't mention it."
And with a simple handshake, Victor returned Igor's thanks. Victor returned to what was once his personal tent, and Igor went home and informed his parents of his new position -- human cannonball. Before the night of Igor's debut would be over, it would prove to be such a glorious disaster that would inspire Victor in ways nothing else has ever done before.
Friday, August 30, 2013
Chapter Thirteen
As stated previously, Wazinski and the Descendents of Almighty Steve, having been banished from their home world, took Steve's research, his followers, and a shining belief in overpriced mind numbing technology to the stars beyond and headed for a more receptive world where they would be free to continue their holy work.
Banishment was the price handed down by the Jhew Alliance, or so it would appear. That's how those on the wrong side of Fate felt about it. But, to be perfectly honest, Wazinski and his comrades would never admit to the actual split from their home society. They were, in fact, spoiled brats who were too self centered to see what their beloved Conversation-Makey's were doing to them and their society as a whole, and feeling oppressed by the Jhew Alliance decided they'd have enough of this and packed up their belongings, joined the forces of Adolph Industries who were abandoning ship, and they all together ran away from home.
And this alerted the Jhew Alliance to the coming troubles mounting on an alien world, and as it was an unfortunate by-product of what had happened twenty-five years prior, the Jhews decided to take action.
"Oi, such a problem those boys are causing," said one of the leading members of the Jhews, in their native Jhew language.
"Look at 'em, You'd think they'd learn, but noooo, too good they are to listen to their mommas." said another prominent member.
"Now, you mustn't beat yourself up like that. It's not your fault." said the first voice.
"You're right," came the second voice. "Melvin! Melvin, get down here. And put down that iPorn. You know what those things do to you."
"Yes, mother," came the voice of a fifteen year old boy as he and his father came into room.
"Kids these days, whacking off to gadgets. In my day, I'll tell you, I never had none of those fancy pants iPorns to whack off to! I did it properly, at the farm I'll have you know!" came a third voice of the male persuasion.
"Harold, you stop that right now. You're going to give the boy ideas." came the first voice again."
"Melvin, you listen to your father, there's no shame in whacking off at the farm! Here, Melvin, I'll take that while you take care of your mother."
"Yes, father."
"Incidentally, this fancy doodad thingy doesn't have horses on it, does it?"
"Harold!"
"I'm just asking, Gertrude. Go help your mother, son."
*Well, that's how he liked to refer to himself. Being The Grand High Mystic's little brother, Melvin was intimately aware of the situation, and had been volunteered by their parents to put a stop to the elder brother's society wrecking shenanigans. Knowing full well it would earn Melvin further respect by being a miserable little tattle-tale on his brother's actions, he'd set to work with almost manic glee. It had been Melvin who'd sent messages through Susan The Receptionist via altered states of consciousness.
Bizarre stretches of shiny alien substances had been deflecting the communications of the home world to Earth, and it was obvious the runaway splinter group was intent, it must be said, on not picking up the phone.
So a round about way was devised, an Earth female was enlisted, who then passed on certain vital knowledge to what Melvin had considered was an Earth male, though he had unique characteristics and a DNA pattern which varied depending on which extremity or internal organ you were studying.
"He'll do," said Gertrude upon Melvin's report.
And now, in the final hours before the inevitable invasion forces arrived, Igor waited in his workspace in the lowest levels of the Temple of Scienceology. A final communiqué had arrived just hours ago, and given its interstellar nature, it was surprisingly simple and effective in its message: Nearly There, Just A Few More Hours. Mom Thinks You Look Thin. She Suggests Having A Snack While You Wait.**
** Mothers, even interstellar mothers, can't help themselves. Doesn't matter how old the child is; they could be in their mid-thirties and a mother would still offer unneeded motherly advice. Some men in their mid-thirties have come to the conclusion that You Can't Spell "Smother" Without Mother.
Confused as to the somewhat altered tone in the messages, Igor replied "Igor not have time for snack. Besides, Igor hate pistachio ice cream."
Igor had barely finished sending his response when he heard the hum of the lift and
became increasingly closer to the basement. In the instant before the doors opened, Igor grabbed up a mop and pretended to be hard at work cleaning the floors of his work space, while something shadowy moved in the furthest darkened corner. Igor took quick notice of it, made an ever so brief acknowledgement of it, and went back to his assumed position.
As the doors of the lift parted, the smiling face of the Grand High Mystic was seen flanked by two cronies, and down by their knees, frowning with his arms crossed was Tommy.
"Ah, Igor my boy. Hard at work, I see. But there's no need for you to push that filthy old mop anymore."
"Igor not understand. Is Igor fired?"
"Fired, oh heavens no. In fact, you're being promoted! It's time, Igor, you enjoyed the benefits of full membership of Scienceology."
"Igor say screw that. Scienceologists crazy. Not one scientist here."
Suddenly the Mystic, his cronies, and Tommy advanced on Igor. Igor made a quick scan of the four individuals advancing on him, avoided the onrush from the blank faced cronies crying out "JOIN US. JOIN US. JOIN US." Igor executed a roundhouse kick, knocking the aluminum foil hat off one of the cronies, and landed on his feet.
The man on the floor, dazed from the impact of Igor's attack, swayed uneasily on the floor for a moment, and then had a sudden realization.
"What...what happened? I...can think...clearly. Oh my god! It's all a lie! It's all about control and money, just like other religions! I'm free! Free!"
"Stop him, Tommy!" bellowed the Mystic, as he and the remaining crony began scrambling about the floor in desperate search for the aluminum foil hat. In the ensuing chaos, the recent convert back to sanity headed for the elevator and made his get away.
Then Igor called out "NOW!" to the shadows.
ARF! was the response he received.
"What's going on?" Tommy looked to the corner from where the sound of the Cheewahwah had come, and was knocked unconscious as Igor wielded his mop like a club and took out the tiny man. Momma Igor would've been proud.
"What's the meaning of this, Igor?!"
Igor just smiled his toothy, decaying smile, then turned and punched the secret button which raised the central hub of Almighty Steve's iLive containing the nearly healed brain of Steve himself.
"What are doing?! Who told you about this?!"
"Jhew Alliance sends its love."
And, for the first time in years, the Grand High Mystic knew horror, as Igor made his way to Steve's iLive, pulled an iGoBboom from his pants pocket, and held it over the whole setup.
"Crazies leave Igor alone, or beloved messiah get it."
"Put that thing down! You don't know what you're doing!"
"Igor know what Igor doing very well. This iGoBoom, designed by Adolph Industries if Igor not mistaken. It used to eradicate devices and services similar to those offered, but not owned or trademarked by, Adolph Industries. Jhew Alliance kind enough to send Igor schematics, now it target all Adolph Industries products. Including iLive's.
"You're bluffing."
"Crazies sure about that?"
Igor then dropped the iGoBoom into the vessel containing Almighty Steve, and was detonated via remote by a tiny shaking paw at street level outside the Temple of Scienceology. When the neon signage exploded, the Cheewahwah took shelter from the falling debris and ARF-ed in joyous celebration.
Down below, a resonance field activated, and sent a wave of energy feedback through the airwaves, to the ground based broadcast towers, and back again into the minds of those who had dedicated themselves to a lifetime of compliance at the hands of Adolph Industries. The Mystic and the remaining crony fell screaming to the floor, clutching their heads in a vain attempt to release the pain coursing through their nervous system as the Conversation-Makey's implanted in their cerebral mass self destructed.
Unaffected by these events, Igor took the mop in hand again, and with a solitary swing, sent the again rapidly decaying brain of Almighty Steve across the room, and landed in a corner. Igor's task had been completed.
"Igor be seeing you." he said as he stepped his way across the fallen bodies and headed for the elevator, but stopped short as the decaying brain weakly bounced over to Igor's feet.
"You! You've ruined everything!"
"Igor no think so. "
"I'll have my followers again! You can't keep them from me! Tommy! Where's my
sweet Tommy? He gives good brraaaiiinnn!" With this final gasp, Almighty Steve was no more.
Then Igor looked around to where Tommy had laid unconscious, and was now stirring again. Uncertainty dominated his face, and then certainty set in.
"Oh my god, I am a terrible actor! And gay too!"
"Igor knew that for years. That not hard figure out."
* * * * *
Sometime about midnight, the Jhew Alliance arrived. By bus, no less.
At least, it was bus shaped. What it was, was an actual means of interstellar transport, powered by space\time warping engines and what could only be termed as gravity magnets. It landed with a slight jolt in front of what had been up until recently the Temple of Scienceology, and a was made from several sections of what were apparently second hand pieces of metallic materials and other compounds that had been holding the loose pieces in place.
What had to be their equivalent of an airlock hissed, then pulled aside. And out stepped the Jhew Alliance. Wazniack had not been looking forward to this.
Out stepped Getrurde Wazniack, followed by her husband Harold and Joe's younger brother Melvin, who was busy with his iPorn.
"Joe Wazniack, I told you this would happen! Just look at you! And when's the last time you had a proper meal! Here, would it kill you to eat something?"
"Mom..." Joe whined, but Mrs. Wazniack pushed him aside, stepped up to Igor, grabbed his cheeks and kissed him on his forehead.
"Now there's the good boy who gave me back my son and prevented the destruction of his own society. In one night too! I bet he listens to his mother."
Igor simply blushed.
"Igor love Igor's mother."
"Just like a good boy should. Thank you, son, for all you've done for us. Now, we must be going."
"Ahem..." coughed Harold, briefly.
"Oh, right. My husband was wondering, what with all the junk you've got orbiting such a pretty planet, if it'd be all right if we might could do you a favor and take some of it with us."
"You're not using it anyway," said Harold as he took away Melvin's iPorn.
"Igor guess. It no use to Earth anyways."
"Splendid!" Harold clapped his hands together, and ushered his sons into the bus.
"Well, dearie, again thank you. And I'm sorry for all the trouble our oldest son has given your planet."
"It not problem."
"Ah, so modest aren't you? Now be certain to take care of yourself, and you'd do well with an extra meal here and there. No sense a boy your age being all skin and bone." Gertrude then pulled a frilly space hanky from her pocket, spat on it, and cleaned Igor's cheek before getting back into the bus.
"Igor have question."
"Yes, what is it?"
"Why space people want Earth's old orbiting junk?"
"No sense in letting it go to waste, my boy!" came Harold's reply.
And then the state of the bus and Harold's interest in salvaging NASA's old equipment made blinding sense, as the ship lifted up and headed for the starry skies and beyo
Banishment was the price handed down by the Jhew Alliance, or so it would appear. That's how those on the wrong side of Fate felt about it. But, to be perfectly honest, Wazinski and his comrades would never admit to the actual split from their home society. They were, in fact, spoiled brats who were too self centered to see what their beloved Conversation-Makey's were doing to them and their society as a whole, and feeling oppressed by the Jhew Alliance decided they'd have enough of this and packed up their belongings, joined the forces of Adolph Industries who were abandoning ship, and they all together ran away from home.
* * * * *
Five years ago, as the products and promises of Almighty Steve were finally beginning to flourish upon this mostly aquatic planet, the interstellar equipment on the home world began to take notice of a dramatic shift upwards in the local background radioactive idiot levels upon the Earth. And this alerted the Jhew Alliance to the coming troubles mounting on an alien world, and as it was an unfortunate by-product of what had happened twenty-five years prior, the Jhews decided to take action.
"Oi, such a problem those boys are causing," said one of the leading members of the Jhews, in their native Jhew language.
"Look at 'em, You'd think they'd learn, but noooo, too good they are to listen to their mommas." said another prominent member.
"Now, you mustn't beat yourself up like that. It's not your fault." said the first voice.
"You're right," came the second voice. "Melvin! Melvin, get down here. And put down that iPorn. You know what those things do to you."
"Yes, mother," came the voice of a fifteen year old boy as he and his father came into room.
"Kids these days, whacking off to gadgets. In my day, I'll tell you, I never had none of those fancy pants iPorns to whack off to! I did it properly, at the farm I'll have you know!" came a third voice of the male persuasion.
"Harold, you stop that right now. You're going to give the boy ideas." came the first voice again."
"Melvin, you listen to your father, there's no shame in whacking off at the farm! Here, Melvin, I'll take that while you take care of your mother."
"Yes, father."
"Incidentally, this fancy doodad thingy doesn't have horses on it, does it?"
"Harold!"
"I'm just asking, Gertrude. Go help your mother, son."
* * * * *
Melvin, Chief Communications Officer* of the Jhew Alliance, had only had a few minor troubles in contacting the planet known as Earth. *Well, that's how he liked to refer to himself. Being The Grand High Mystic's little brother, Melvin was intimately aware of the situation, and had been volunteered by their parents to put a stop to the elder brother's society wrecking shenanigans. Knowing full well it would earn Melvin further respect by being a miserable little tattle-tale on his brother's actions, he'd set to work with almost manic glee. It had been Melvin who'd sent messages through Susan The Receptionist via altered states of consciousness.
Bizarre stretches of shiny alien substances had been deflecting the communications of the home world to Earth, and it was obvious the runaway splinter group was intent, it must be said, on not picking up the phone.
So a round about way was devised, an Earth female was enlisted, who then passed on certain vital knowledge to what Melvin had considered was an Earth male, though he had unique characteristics and a DNA pattern which varied depending on which extremity or internal organ you were studying.
"He'll do," said Gertrude upon Melvin's report.
* * * * *
And now, in the final hours before the inevitable invasion forces arrived, Igor waited in his workspace in the lowest levels of the Temple of Scienceology. A final communiqué had arrived just hours ago, and given its interstellar nature, it was surprisingly simple and effective in its message: Nearly There, Just A Few More Hours. Mom Thinks You Look Thin. She Suggests Having A Snack While You Wait.**
** Mothers, even interstellar mothers, can't help themselves. Doesn't matter how old the child is; they could be in their mid-thirties and a mother would still offer unneeded motherly advice. Some men in their mid-thirties have come to the conclusion that You Can't Spell "Smother" Without Mother.
Confused as to the somewhat altered tone in the messages, Igor replied "Igor not have time for snack. Besides, Igor hate pistachio ice cream."
Igor had barely finished sending his response when he heard the hum of the lift and
became increasingly closer to the basement. In the instant before the doors opened, Igor grabbed up a mop and pretended to be hard at work cleaning the floors of his work space, while something shadowy moved in the furthest darkened corner. Igor took quick notice of it, made an ever so brief acknowledgement of it, and went back to his assumed position.
As the doors of the lift parted, the smiling face of the Grand High Mystic was seen flanked by two cronies, and down by their knees, frowning with his arms crossed was Tommy.
"Ah, Igor my boy. Hard at work, I see. But there's no need for you to push that filthy old mop anymore."
"Igor not understand. Is Igor fired?"
"Fired, oh heavens no. In fact, you're being promoted! It's time, Igor, you enjoyed the benefits of full membership of Scienceology."
"Igor say screw that. Scienceologists crazy. Not one scientist here."
Suddenly the Mystic, his cronies, and Tommy advanced on Igor. Igor made a quick scan of the four individuals advancing on him, avoided the onrush from the blank faced cronies crying out "JOIN US. JOIN US. JOIN US." Igor executed a roundhouse kick, knocking the aluminum foil hat off one of the cronies, and landed on his feet.
The man on the floor, dazed from the impact of Igor's attack, swayed uneasily on the floor for a moment, and then had a sudden realization.
"What...what happened? I...can think...clearly. Oh my god! It's all a lie! It's all about control and money, just like other religions! I'm free! Free!"
"Stop him, Tommy!" bellowed the Mystic, as he and the remaining crony began scrambling about the floor in desperate search for the aluminum foil hat. In the ensuing chaos, the recent convert back to sanity headed for the elevator and made his get away.
Then Igor called out "NOW!" to the shadows.
ARF! was the response he received.
"What's going on?" Tommy looked to the corner from where the sound of the Cheewahwah had come, and was knocked unconscious as Igor wielded his mop like a club and took out the tiny man. Momma Igor would've been proud.
"What's the meaning of this, Igor?!"
Igor just smiled his toothy, decaying smile, then turned and punched the secret button which raised the central hub of Almighty Steve's iLive containing the nearly healed brain of Steve himself.
"What are doing?! Who told you about this?!"
"Jhew Alliance sends its love."
And, for the first time in years, the Grand High Mystic knew horror, as Igor made his way to Steve's iLive, pulled an iGoBboom from his pants pocket, and held it over the whole setup.
"Crazies leave Igor alone, or beloved messiah get it."
"Put that thing down! You don't know what you're doing!"
"Igor know what Igor doing very well. This iGoBoom, designed by Adolph Industries if Igor not mistaken. It used to eradicate devices and services similar to those offered, but not owned or trademarked by, Adolph Industries. Jhew Alliance kind enough to send Igor schematics, now it target all Adolph Industries products. Including iLive's.
"You're bluffing."
"Crazies sure about that?"
Igor then dropped the iGoBoom into the vessel containing Almighty Steve, and was detonated via remote by a tiny shaking paw at street level outside the Temple of Scienceology. When the neon signage exploded, the Cheewahwah took shelter from the falling debris and ARF-ed in joyous celebration.
Down below, a resonance field activated, and sent a wave of energy feedback through the airwaves, to the ground based broadcast towers, and back again into the minds of those who had dedicated themselves to a lifetime of compliance at the hands of Adolph Industries. The Mystic and the remaining crony fell screaming to the floor, clutching their heads in a vain attempt to release the pain coursing through their nervous system as the Conversation-Makey's implanted in their cerebral mass self destructed.
Unaffected by these events, Igor took the mop in hand again, and with a solitary swing, sent the again rapidly decaying brain of Almighty Steve across the room, and landed in a corner. Igor's task had been completed.
"Igor be seeing you." he said as he stepped his way across the fallen bodies and headed for the elevator, but stopped short as the decaying brain weakly bounced over to Igor's feet.
"You! You've ruined everything!"
"Igor no think so. "
"I'll have my followers again! You can't keep them from me! Tommy! Where's my
sweet Tommy? He gives good brraaaiiinnn!" With this final gasp, Almighty Steve was no more.
Then Igor looked around to where Tommy had laid unconscious, and was now stirring again. Uncertainty dominated his face, and then certainty set in.
"Oh my god, I am a terrible actor! And gay too!"
"Igor knew that for years. That not hard figure out."
* * * * *
Sometime about midnight, the Jhew Alliance arrived. By bus, no less.
At least, it was bus shaped. What it was, was an actual means of interstellar transport, powered by space\time warping engines and what could only be termed as gravity magnets. It landed with a slight jolt in front of what had been up until recently the Temple of Scienceology, and a was made from several sections of what were apparently second hand pieces of metallic materials and other compounds that had been holding the loose pieces in place.
What had to be their equivalent of an airlock hissed, then pulled aside. And out stepped the Jhew Alliance. Wazniack had not been looking forward to this.
Out stepped Getrurde Wazniack, followed by her husband Harold and Joe's younger brother Melvin, who was busy with his iPorn.
"Joe Wazniack, I told you this would happen! Just look at you! And when's the last time you had a proper meal! Here, would it kill you to eat something?"
"Mom..." Joe whined, but Mrs. Wazniack pushed him aside, stepped up to Igor, grabbed his cheeks and kissed him on his forehead.
"Now there's the good boy who gave me back my son and prevented the destruction of his own society. In one night too! I bet he listens to his mother."
Igor simply blushed.
"Igor love Igor's mother."
"Just like a good boy should. Thank you, son, for all you've done for us. Now, we must be going."
"Ahem..." coughed Harold, briefly.
"Oh, right. My husband was wondering, what with all the junk you've got orbiting such a pretty planet, if it'd be all right if we might could do you a favor and take some of it with us."
"You're not using it anyway," said Harold as he took away Melvin's iPorn.
"Igor guess. It no use to Earth anyways."
"Splendid!" Harold clapped his hands together, and ushered his sons into the bus.
"Well, dearie, again thank you. And I'm sorry for all the trouble our oldest son has given your planet."
"It not problem."
"Ah, so modest aren't you? Now be certain to take care of yourself, and you'd do well with an extra meal here and there. No sense a boy your age being all skin and bone." Gertrude then pulled a frilly space hanky from her pocket, spat on it, and cleaned Igor's cheek before getting back into the bus.
"Igor have question."
"Yes, what is it?"
"Why space people want Earth's old orbiting junk?"
"No sense in letting it go to waste, my boy!" came Harold's reply.
And then the state of the bus and Harold's interest in salvaging NASA's old equipment made blinding sense, as the ship lifted up and headed for the starry skies and beyo
Saturday, August 24, 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
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:
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:
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.
*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.
* * * * *
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
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.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
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.
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.
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