by David Beem
“BLESSED ARE THE BABES WHO CAN’T HITETH SHIT!” he says. “FOR THERE’S ONE SHIT THEY CAN ALWAYS HITETH.” He grins and takes in the crowd, but only confused faces stare back at him. “I MEAN ME,” he clarifies with two thumbs. “I MEAN BABES CAN ALWAYS HITETH THIS SHIT RIGHT HERE. DAY OR NIGHT. THE WANGSTER IS OPEN FOR BUSINESS. AM I RIGHT? I SAID, AM I RIGHT?”
“In your dreams, loser!” calls one of the babes from below.
Wang lowers the microphone. “Shmuel. Man the ladder.”
“Huh?” Shmuel picks his ear and smells his finger. “I mean, how do I ‘man’ it? Is this like a don’t-read-the-instructions kinda thing?”
Wang screws his face up. “The fuck? No. Go to the ladder and stand by for further instructions. Fuck.”
“So… You want me to stand by it?”
“Yes. Jesus Christ.”
Shmuel salutes. “Aye-aye, Captain?”
Wang returns his attention to the crowd. A plan begins to form.
Danny’s head sags forward. He can’t move his arms. He hurts all over. Also, he has to poop.
“Danny! Danny!” someone whispers behind him.
Leo?
“Come on, man. Wake up.”
His head jerks up and cracks against something solid behind him.
“Ow!” cries Leo.
The back of Danny’s head pulses. “Sorry.” His eyes blink open. The world gradually comes into focus. Benches. Lockers. A shower room, and the unmistakable funk of sweaty men.
“Help me get these ropes off before she comes back,” says Leo.
Sharp twine cuts into Danny’s arms. His torso is tugged left and right. He’s seated in a chair. Wait—he’s tied up!
“What the—?”
“Come on!” urges Leo. “Before she comes back.”
Danny twists and pulls at the ropes. No good. Too tight. He glances over his shoulder. He and Leo are tied back to back.
The telltale click of a dead bolt snaps his attention leftward. A door opens. A long-legged green humanoid alien woman, clad in what can only be described as a space bikini, saunters into the room. Danny’s pulse begins doing a samba.
“Va-va-voom!” he exclaims. “But you’re a—you’re a—”
“An alien,” she says in her thick Russian accent and unsheathing from her hip a mirror-polished space machete with teeth. “Vee need to talk.”
Danny takes a deep breath, swallows.
“Who else knows about Vlad?”
“Vlad?” asks Danny. “Vladimir Putin?”
“Da, da,” says the commie alien, her wrist looping the sword in the air in an impatient gesture. “Who? And hurry eet up, or I cut off nutz, yah?”
Danny clenches his butt cheeks and prays his interrogation doesn’t end with him nut-less and sitting in his own crap. The sexy commie alien presses the tip of her sword into the chair between his legs.
“You’re wasting your time,” says Leo in a confident voice. “We don’t talk to commies.”
The alien bends at the waist. She drags the flat of the sword along the inside of his thigh, and Danny presses his skull against the back of Leo’s head. He pushes his torso against the chairback. Sweat rolls off his forehead.
“Who?” prompts the commie alien, and the words come speeding out of his face faster than a doomsday meteorite.
“Fabio, Wang, Shmuel, Ralph, Gemini, Christine, and Consuelo.”
Her full red lips stretch across her green face in a cruel smile.
CHAPTER Forty-Six
We hobble past the Golden Dome Building and push through a crowd. Above us is the Buck Rogers’ Jollies, Dak Neutron’s ship from those Space Pirates movies. It’s a massive set supported on scaffolding, and higher in the air than the golden dome. Someone’s ginning up the crowd from a loudspeaker on the pirate ship’s deck. Milling around Fabio and me are monkeys in sci-fi costumes, a space chicken person, cavemen carrying clubs, and four cross-dressing alien kung fu robots with TVs on their chests.
“Okay,” says Fabio. “We’re here. You said you have to face your greatest fear. There’s the Golden Dome.”
Yep. There it is, the Golden Dome. And with it comes the dread of learning I’d been expelled and the shame of having irrevocably disappointed Dad.
“I really hate this place.”
“I don’t know, dude,” Fabio replies. “Come on. There’s Gary Busey. And Space Chicken David Hasselhoff, whatever he’s supposed to be. And don’t forget: you’ve got me. There’s nothing at Notre Dame you can’t face with me at your side. I may be hobbit sized, but that also means I’ve got a hobbit’s heart. I’m your ticket up Mount Doom, dude.”
Despite my low spirits, a smile fights its way onto my face. “You may have a hobbit’s heart, but you’ve also got a hobo’s stench. Fabio, you reek of pot. You don’t smoke pot. Please tell me you didn’t bring Wang and Shmuel.”
My arm still slung over his shoulder, Fabio shrugs. “I tried to get rid of them. But then there was that whole thing with Johnny Gemini, and now we’re making this movie with Ralph and—”
“Johnny Gemini? The actor? Wait—are you starring in Space Pirates?”
“Dude. You have no idea what a pain in the ass this whole storage-locker thing has been.”
“…AND BLESSED ARE THE YOGA PANTS. TRULY I SAY TO YOU: IT IS EASIER FOR A CAMEL TOE TO PASS INTO HEAVEN THAN… AW, FUCK IT. I DON’T EVEN KNOW.”
I whip around, my gaze searching for who’s got the mic. A plunging realization sinks in. The Buck Rogers’ Jollies. Up there, on the starboard deck. Wang with a microphone and an audience. Who thought this would be a good idea?
“Oh no,” says Fabio. “Oh no, no, no.”
“PAY US TO GET INTO HEAVEN, MOTHERFUCKERS!” Wang yells.
Fabio’s mouth compresses. “Yep. That’s Wang all right.”
“TRULY I SAY TO YOU, UNLESS A BRAIN OF WHEAT FALLS UNTO THE EARTH AND DIES, IT REMAINS A BRAIN?”
“THAT’S GRAIN—MORON—GIVE ME THE MICROPHONE!”
“And Shmuel,” says Fabio, flinging his arms out in a gesture of exasperation. “God. It’s like babysitting a stoned Calvin and Hobbes. This is my greatest fear. So what do we do now? Just stand here? Face our greatest fears together?”
“ALL WE ARE IS DUST IN THE WIND!”
“I don’t know,” I reply. “I think Dad was counting on me figuring something out at the minute I need to figure it out.”
“DOMO ARIGATO, MR. ROBOTO!”
“Well, you’re not going to glean any wisdom from these guys,” Fabio replies.
“WHO AMONG YOU IS WORTHY TO JOIN THE CHURCH OF THE LADDER DAY DUDES?”
“I am!” yells Space Chicken David Hasselhoff as, inexplicably, he lurches toward the spaceship set, dragging one foot behind like a zombie.
“As shall I!” cries Gary Busey, waving his space machete around.
“Dude,” says Fabio. “What. The. Hell.”
“Is this part of the movie?” an onlooker asks.
“I have no idea what’s going on right now,” a different onlooker replies.
Fabio and I stand there like flagpoles as Garey Busey and David Hasselhoff climb the ladder leading into the Buck Rogers’ Jollies set. A minute later, they appear at Wang and Shmuel’s side on the starboard deck. Hasselhoff grabs the mic.
“THE CHURCH OF THE LADDER DAY DUDES CHANGED MY LIFE,” says the space chicken.
“THE CHURCH OF THE LADDER DAY DUDES CURED MY CROTCH CRICKETS,” says Busey, pulling the mic closer. “THEY ALL JUST LEAPED AWAY,” he pauses, his fingers miming tiny little crotch crickets, “LEAPED AWAY, AFRAID OF THE LORD.”
Groans of disgust tear through the crowd as a monkey pushes past me. I watch as it tugs the hand of a college student drinking from a water bottle. The student finishes his sip and looks down. The monkey thrusts out something metal.
“Okay, boys. Hands where I can see them.”
I know that voice.
Fabio and I turn. A throng of college students parts, and there she is, Ma
ry, dressed inexplicably in a space corset and pointing the tip of a sword at us that’s part machete, part chain saw. Behind her, a smaller crowd breaks off from the larger group to form up around us.
“This has gotta be part of the movie,” someone says.
“Wow,” says Fabio, breathless, his eyes taking in Mary’s exposed tan legs and hips. “Just… Wow.”
“Why’d you do it?” I ask, too exhausted to be afraid or angry, but Mary’s empty stare is her only reply. My gaze flits to her finger. She’s not wearing her ring. I thumb my fake wedding ring to make sure it’s still there. The gravity in my chest seems to triple.
“Edge. Buddy. Friend or foe here?” asks Fabio.
“I’m not sure,” I reply.
Mary. We faced everything together. The Dr. Seuss clones, disco-ball water torture, Darth Elevator Hurler… We even had our own dead body disposal cupboard. I mean, I know it’s strange, but bonding through all that, she’s earned my complete trust. Even after killing her own father, I’m holding out for the off chance it was all a trick. She could kill me where I stand, and I’d die believing we’re on the same team. I must be losing my mind. I’m in love with her. I’m in stupid, crazy, irrational love with her. Nigel was right. I’m not thinking straight. I never was.
“I trusted you,” I say, my voice hitching.
A cloud passes overhead, engulfing us in shadow. In this light, Mary’s cheekbones are sharper. The shape of her eyebrows more angular. And even though we’re staring right at each other, her dead gaze doesn’t seem to recognize me.
The gathering crowd gasps.
“Edge? Buddy?”
I wrench my eyes from Mary and face Fabio. Holy crap—he’s lifting into the air! I reach for his arm, dodging his kicking feet, but Mary’s sword at my throat blocks me. I pull away without thinking, then tumble onto my back. The cloud shadow grows darker. Wait—that’s no cloud. That’s a space station. It’s the Space Pirates Joe Mutha Ship set we passed coming in. Half constructed, with scaffolding on one side and photorealistic-looking matte painting on the other.
“Edge!” cries Fabio, now some thirty yards above, still kicking and flailing.
Her sword steady at my neck, Mary’s gaze tracks Fabio’s progress. A green screen section at the bottom of the Mutha Ship opens. Fabio flies inside. But how is this happening? Is she using the Force?
The crowd is rapt. Everyone is gaping at the floating space station like this is all part of the filming, and never mind how they’re doing it. The Joe Mutha Ship’s hatch closes and the set swoops away over the heads of astonished onlookers. Spontaneous applause breaks out. Cheering.
Mary’s gaze follows the shrinking movie set into the distance before returning to me from over the length of the sword at my throat. The applause dies down, and all eyes return to us. They know the show isn’t over. They’re eager to know if the kinky blonde is going to kill the dork.
“Listen to me very closely,” she says. “I’m not going to kill you.”
“Well, that wasn’t very suspenseful,” I reply. “Mary, I’ve lost everything. Nostradamus killed my dad.”
“You haven’t lost everything,” she says. “We have Fabio.”
“Mary, no.”
This can’t be happening. It makes no sense. Why would she be doing this? Wait—how is she even here? Wasn’t it just an hour ago I saw her in a live video feed from New York? Surely she can’t teleport. My lips vibrate as I expel a burst of air. Yeah, right. Because that would be the telepower that breaks the camel’s back.
“You’re overacting, dude!” yells someone from the crowd.
“We’ll keep going,” says Evil Mary. “We’ll hurt anyone we need to until you’re willing to cooperate.”
“Who are you?” I ask.
“Cliché!” yells the person from the crowd again. “Can you even motive, bruh?”
Evil Mary’s lips curl into a faint sneer.
“Who are you?” I ask again, my brain refusing to compute. It’s all so opposite from the reality I was just starting to embrace. Mary, my loyal protector. This isn’t the Mary who rejects her Scum-Sucking Bad Person Man dad. This is like an evil clone of that person.
Mary smiles. “You’re figuring it out.”
“You’re the ghost of Mary’s past,” I mutter. “Blythe Watson.”
Her eyes narrow, amplifying an already fiendish smile.
“’Scuse me,” says a new voice in a commanding tone. “Coming through.”
The college students gathered around us part to admit a newcomer—Mary! Wait. The real Mary? I scan for the wedding ring—but she’s not wearing one either. This new Mary is dressed in the same thigh-high boots and slutty space corset. Carrying the same sword. Hearing the steel in her voice, the crowd cheers her on. The hero has arrived to save the day. Let’s hope they’re not wrong.
“This one’s an evil clone!” I say, jabbing my finger at Blythe and casting around for anyone in the crowd willing to make eye contact. Several onlookers gasp.
Blythe rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Typical.”
“Typical?” I retort. “How is that typical? How can accusing anyone of being an evil clone be typical? That’s literally one of the least typical things a person can say.”
“You think just because she’s on your side, I’m the clone and she’s not?” asks Blythe, sneering. “You’re a bigot.”
My mouth opens and shuts, but the words won’t make it out. Come on, mouth. Not even a “meep?” She calls me a bigot, and you pick now to fail me?
I shake my head to clear it. That’s better.
“Wait a sec. Just how many Marys are there? And for a follow up: Do any of them not have a body disposal cupboard in their garage? Asking for a friend.”
“She’s an aberration,” says Blythe, spitting. Her eyes narrow as she lowers her sword from my throat to face her clone. “A defect. A lemon.”
The identical women square off, each inching sideways, stalking the other, their paths circular and in mirror image. The newcomer Mary stops first. She crouches low and holds her sword overhead, angled downward. Behind her, a guy pulls out his cell phone and snaps a picture. Blythe leaps and spins a full 720 degrees to land in a defensive crouch, sword angled up. The crowd cheers, and the guy with the cell phone snaps another picture. A chant is raised: “Fight! Fight! Fight!”
I struggle to my feet. Someone from behind me grabs my elbow and helps me up. A freckle-faced college girl thrusts a water bottle at me. “How’d they do that thing with the floating guy and the ship?” she asks. “I can’t find the camera or the wires. This is totally the coolest thing that ever happened in South Bend.”
Historic Spying on a Hairy HARDON, as Chronicled by Herodotus, (C. 484—C. 425 BCE)
As their names would suggest, HARDON and GSPOT spies tend to be highly motivated individuals. There is no challenge a HARDON spy cannot rise to meet. Conversely, there is no disappointment great enough to thwart a determined GSPOT spy from climbing back up on her steed and galloping full speed ahead for that elusive second chance. This is why, after their unusual failure to protect Edger from kidnapping, Alex and Caleb went off script to devise a new plan.
Conceding that stopping the assassination of the prime minister of Australia was now secondary to rescuing their greatest asset, Alex and Caleb cut their losses and split up. Caleb followed intel pointing to the Notre Dame campus, while Alex stayed behind to prevent the assassination. (And for the record, that Bob-Ross-on-steroids secret agent Edger saw in Nostradamus’s glove really was the ambassador of Grand Manistan.)
Which brings us to Caleb’s itchier-than-poison-ivy costume and his presence on set filming scenes for The Stench at Galaxy’s Rear End. Lest anyone think this would be a deterrent for a HARDON secret agent, be assured: HARDON men do their best work undercover. For Caleb, who would be instantly recognized as the famous NFL quarterback for the LA Chargers, suiting up as a random extra is quite impossible. For this reason, he has rendered unconscious the noted
thespian Peter Meow, who plays the hairy sidekick, Roar Atcha. The only problem complicating matters for Caleb now is Roar Atcha is no mere bit part. This character has key scenes to film.
CHAPTER Forty-seven
“Quiet on set!” calls the director. “Roar—can I have you over here?”
Caleb lets the director lead him to the opposite side of the closed set. For some reason, Caleb can’t begin to surmise, there’s a conveyor belt in the center with chomping teeth at the end. The actor Johnny Gemini is tied to the conveyor belt and surrounded by scantily clad green alien women covered in so much makeup, he could be staring at his own sister and not know it. Caleb shudders. What a strange way for Notre Dame’s star quarterback to return to campus: dressed as a space gorilla-unicorn.
“Now,” says the director. “Roar, I need you to take the bonto ball over here and throw it like this.” He mimes the throw, and Caleb winces at the director’s technique. It’s like watching Richard Simmons impersonating Boy George impersonating Liberace throwing a football. “Try to throw it to that guy there. Don’t worry if you miss. We can fix it in post, m’kay?”
Caleb nods as impatience builds in his stomach. Where is Edger? The intelligence he got was clear: Edger is supposed to be here, crazy as that seems, but Agent X is never wrong. He’d been right about the tip on the UN assassination, just as he’d been right about the bomb on the disco ball at Underwearld. It’d been Agent X who’d tipped them off about Edger’s selection to become Zarathustra in the first place. Caleb shakes his head. In almost every way, he’s been letting his buddy down for the past five years. Ever since Kate, and the lab. And now locking up Mary… As far as he’s concerned, disappointing Edger stops today.
“Earth to Roar?”
Huh?
The director’s eyebrows rise as he ducks his head for eye contact through the space gorilla-unicorn mask.
“You still with us?”
Caleb nods.
“Good,” says the director. “Okay. Then, after you throw the bonto ball, we’ll need you to charge straight at that guy there.” The director points. “And I want you to put your shoulder down like this, ’kay?” The director mimes a sloppy-looking defensive sack maneuver, then straightens and puts his knuckles on his hips. “Do you think you can do that?”