“Who would’ve thought you could make supply and demand into such a cauldron of meaningless numbers and phrases?” he asked as he flipped through her rarely-opened Megaeconomics Book.
“That’s what happens when you get a lot of old white guys together in a small room. They instinctively overcomplicate any and every subject that flitters across their feeble little minds,” Rachel answered sweetly. “It’s either that or turn gay like a bunch of hamsters in a box.”
“You have such a way with words.”
“Guilty as charged.” She winked.
“I’m going to be an old white guy some day, you know. So watch it.”
“I already am, and I gotta tell you, you’re on shaky ground, Mister.”
“Am I?”
“Let’s look at the facts. You have an eye for style,” she jeered his spandex. “You hang around a bunch of older guys who also have eyes for style, and you live with a flamboyant, mysterious gentleman who’s never been on a date.”
“Have you talked to Nuke? Do you know any girls willing to date that?”
“You’ve got me on that one, but what about yourself?”
“I could prove it to you, if you like.”
“Oh, baby,” she grinned.
__________
Dr. Menace’s patience had worn so thin it was transparent. Through the Evil: Spy Camera installed in the incomprehensibly evil Fubar doll affectionately nicknamed Pookaboo, she had agonized through the laborious task of witnessing Nuklear Man as he desperately tried to learn and then pathetically fail at it. Upon hearing him reason that “God is like a car that never breaks down,” she piloted Pookaboo into another room.
Unfortunately, due to her evil genius, Pookaboo’s sensor array was sensitive enough to still pick up the stupidity going on just outside. “Argh!” she growled in rage while directing her Fubar probe into the pocket of a coat that was carelessly discarded on floor of Danger: Nuke’s Room.
There was silence.
“Ah. Thank the godz.” She wiped her brow. “The wool coat iz blinding the sensors. I can plot Evil now that I’m free from that Nuklear Moron’s babbling.”
__________
Side by side, Atomik Lad and Rachel walked among the campus’s lush trees, clean walkways, hurried bikers, lounging students, and religious mutants.
“So, Sparky,” she began. “Why don’t you tell me—”
“Worship the healing power of Zarnak the Loving,” a man so hairless he didn’t even have eyebrows, yelled at Rachel and Atomik Lad.
They stopped, more from alarm than curiosity, and looked. The man was drenched in filthy gray robes that had once been pink. His skin was caked in layers of dirt and sweat that had baked in the sun for the last twenty years.
The sidekick shook his head to reboot his sense of hearing. “Excuse me?”
“Worship the healing power of Zarnak the Loving.”
“Why?” Rachel asked. It was far less wise for her to say that than it would have been to run like hell.
The Zarnakian Zealot shuffled his hands invisibly within his rags. They were arrayed over his body in such haphazard heaps that Atomik Lad couldn’t tell where one stained tatter began and another ended. It was the Gordian Knot of apparel. His grimy hands found what they so eagerly sought. Rachel waited impatiently as the stranger stealthily activated his Victim-B-Found Beeper-N-Pager unit, a handy device that summoned every religious wacko within a 300 yard radius. Every lunatic with a message is issued one.
“Why?” he finally answered, somewhat at a loss. “Well, he’d worship you if you were a god.”
“What yer sellin’, we ain’t buyin’,” Atomik Lad said. He placed an arm around Rachel and proceeded to lead them right into the clutches of—
“GULTANG, THE RAVAGER!” He was a mountain of warrior angst and bellowed at least as loud as the Zarnak guy. “QUAKE WITH FEAR, LOWLY MORTALS, FOR WHEN THE DAY OF RAVAGING IS UPON US, THE SEVEN SEALS OF DARKNESS ETERNAL WILL SHATTER LIKE BONES UNDER THE MIGHTY WEIGHT OF SIEGE ENGINES AS THEY TOPPLE THE GATES OF STURMUNDRANG KEEP HIGH UPON MT. GRIMGOTH WITHIN THE HELLFYRE PROVINCE OF BLOODANIA!” He paused, but whether this was to take a breath or catch up to whatever the hell he was talking about, neither Atomik Lad nor Rachel could hope to discern.
The newcomer had worked up a slight case of Foaming at the Mouth in his torrent of praising GULTANG. He wiped away the mess with one forearm—the one with the spiked gauntlet—since the other had an idling chainsaw with a makeshift flamethrower welded to it. The remainder of his outfit could best be described as a cross between a suit of medieval armor, several instruments of Chinese torture, a shipment of spikes, and a Giger painting mated with a tank.
“Buzz off, Henry. I hadn’t finished preaching the word of Zarnak’s endless Love for all that is, was, and ever will be.”
Henry snarled, though it was difficult to distinguish it from the rumble of the chainsaw engine. “THEN WHY, UPON THE GREAT PILLARS OF DARKMARE’S DEMON PIT DID YOU ENGAGE THE BECKONING? THEO AND THE OTHERS WILL BE HERE ANY MINUTE!”
Zarnak’s mortal messenger shrank. “I never got this far before. I was eager.”
Atomik Lad and Rachel had been inconspicuously running for their lives by cautiously sidling away from the lunatics.
A great iron hand clamped around Atomik Lad’s shoulder, slumping him over from the weight. “THERE IS ONLY ONE WAY TO SAVE YOURSELF AND THE WENCH FROM THE DAY OF RAVAGING—” Atomik Lad would have asked Oh? But there was no way to stop Henry for a second once he got going. “—WHEN THE HERETICS, THOSE WHO DO NOT SACRIFICE THEIR LIVES TO THE SOULFIRE OF RAVAGING, WILL FACE UNDESCRIBABLE AGONY WHILST SPENDING ALL ETERNITY WITHIN GULTANG’S MIGHTY DIGESTIVE TRACT, MOST LIKELY SOMEWHERE NEAR THE END OF IT. THEY WILL KNOW ONLY TERROR, ONLY PAIN. THEIR MINDS WILL BE IMMUNE TO ALL BUT SUFFERING—THIS IS THE PUNISHMENT YOU SHALL ENDURE FOR ALL TIME UNLESS YOU REPENT IN THE NAME OF ALL-VENGEFUL GULTANG!”
“Zarnak will still love you though. He will heal any wounds this windbag’s god can dish out.”
“HEY, LOVE-FEST, WHALE-SUCKIN’, FLOWER-GROWIN’, TREE-HUGGIN’, HASHISH-SMOKIN’, HIPPY-BOY! IT’S CALLED SHUTTIN’ UP, LOOK INTO IT!”
“Do not anger the god of unconditional love,” he warned.
“AH, UNCONDITIONAL THIS!” Henry swung a hitherto unseen mace with motorized spinning razors doused in some sort of hyperactive napalm at the Zarnakian Zealot who, as his religion demanded, turned the other cheek and ran to fetch reinforcements.
“NOW THAT WE’RE FREE OF HIS MEDDLING—” Henry realized his quarry had scrammed as well. He sniffed the air. “THE HUNT IS ON!” He dashed after them, clanging like an exploding junk heap with every step.
__________
“Do you think we lost them?” Rachel said between deep gasps for air. They paused behind a large tree some distance away. If not for the old academic buildings of the university that surrounded them, the area could have very easily been mistaken for a park.
Atomik Lad leaned over, catching his breath. “I don’t think we’ll have to worry about any more religious freaks today.”
“That is true,” a mysterious voice agreed from behind them.
“Verily, for our gods are true and pure.”
Atomik Lad and Rachel groaned as their new prophets posed in order to clearly distinguish themselves from the ordinary riffraff. Amongst their number was an Indian, an Indian from India, a large Nordic gentleman, and a particularly angsty gothic chic.
“This is hell,” Rachel observed.
Atomik Lad steeled his already steely nerves. “Run. Save yourself. Warn the others. Remember me fondly, try not to think about the morbid nature of my demise.”
She gripped his hand tightly. “We’re in this together.”
__________
Nuklear Man dashed into his room with his usual heroic flare. So, of course, he tripped over a coat that had been carelessly cast across the Danger: Floor. He floated up and disentangled himself from the clothing conundrum, dropping the “Lo
usy backstabbing coat” to the ground. Pookaboo rolled out of the inside pocket. Since its optical sensors had automatically gone to infrared upon entering the deep, pocket, its eyes glowed a maniacal red—as no other color truly captures the idiom of maniacal. Due to this, and the horrendous lack of any Danger: Labels, not to mention Nuklear Man’s inherent lack of recollection regarding anything but himself, he Freaked Out. “Eeeek! A pocket monster!”
“What iz that fool babbling about now?” Dr. Menace asked the computer screen.
“Kill it! Kill it!” Nuklear Man shrieked while trying to stomp the vicious red-eyed Pookaboo doll of infinite evil. But, thanks to Dr. Menace’s brilliance, the autodefense.exe program easily maneuvered the Fubar out of harm’s way while forcing Nuklear Man into a one-man mambo.
“That idiot must have stumbled onto my scheme. No matter. Fubar, disengage surveillance, activate escape plan Omega!”
Pookaboo zipped out of Danger: Nuke’s Room into the more expansive Danger: Living Room. Nuklear Man leapt to the doorway, but alas, Pookaboo had already made it to the Danger: Launch Pad.
Being a strategic genius has its advantages, Nuklear Man thought to himself. “Katkat! Thunder Pounce Attack!” The feline nearly awoke from his perch next to the Danger: Supercomputer. “Accursed, yet snuggily cat!” He blindly reached toward the dresser next to the door for any loose object to hurl at Katkat, and hurl he did. A little ping-pong ball bounced off Katkat’s furry scalp. One eye cracked open then shut even tighter than before as he yawned and recharged his cat-batteries from the exhausting effort of sleep.
__________
Dr. Menace growled as she pushed the Launch button for the tenth time. “This iz the last time I use those inferior Bolivian ignition switches.”
Meanwhile, Pookaboo, the source of all evil now and forever, made cute little hops in its futile attempts at blasting off. Around the globe, eighty-three percent of the world’s Fubar population rocketed themselves around the house at speeds in excess of 200 mph. Only a young boy, Edward, was injured during this escapade, but that was on completely unrelated matters involving a bowl of wax fruit and a bowling trophy.
“Now’s your chance, Katkat! Thunder Pounce Attack!”
Katkat washed his face.
“That doesn’t look like—hey! You’re not doing it, are you?”
“Mreow.”
“Oh, don’t be afraid of battling a pocket monster. No one ever got hurt fighting. Honest.”
“Meowr?”
“Well, it doesn’t hurt me. I’m pretty typical, I think. Other than the being superior to everything part.”
Katkat was either unconvinced or had no way of comprehending what Nuklear Man was talking about. One way or the other, he stood his ground by sitting on the Danger: Supercomputer Table.
“Aww, shucks,” Nuklear Man hovered next to his new favorite sidekick.
Pookaboo, the somewhat diabolic Fubar doll, continued hopping on the Danger: Launch Pad.
“Here. Lemme help ya,” the Hero said to Katkat. “Thunder Pounce Attack!” He pointed to the hopping Fubar, made sure no one was looking, and Plazma Beamed the Fubar to slag. “You did it, Katkat! Yay!”
“Meow!”
__________
Dr. Menace stared into her giant screen. It was a blizzard of static. “On to Plan E.”
__________
Atomik Lad ran like he hadn’t run in, well, the past few minutes. He kept himself between Rachel and the pursuing prophets who couldn’t take “No” for an answer. Nor, it seemed, could they take “Get the hell away from us, you damn new-age god freaks!” in jest. Or as anything short of a reason for blood sacrifices for that matter.
“Mighty Thor! Strike down thine doubters!” the one known as Jarl Jarlson bellowed to the heavens.
A bolt of thunder crashed in front of Rachel, barely missing her by inches. “Ack!” she exclaimed in shock while falling over herself in mid-stride. Atomik Lad leapt for her and reflexively enveloped both of them in his Atomik Field. He flew them away from their antagonists almost before he realized he was airborne in the first place. The earth zoomed a few feet under his stomach while Rachel clutched to his back.
“Saddle up, baby.”
“Any time,” she said, causing Atomik Lad to almost tumble into the ground. She looked back at their hunters. “I don’t like being chased.”
“Well, neither do I.”
“No, no, no. You’re supposed to say ‘I’ll take care of that.’ Don’t you know anything about double entendre?”
The Swahili Swami shouted, “Many hands of Vishnu, grapple and capture the heretics so that we may sacrifice them to your—”
“Hey now,” Chief Silent Wind interrupted. “Who said you get to do the sacrifice? Wolf will get the sacrifice of this worthy prey.”
“Why?”
“He’s more deserving.”
“But I think Vishnu is more deserving.”
“And I think great Thor is the only god mighty enough to deserve this sacrifice.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t count because it’s not what I believe.”
“Hey, Silent Wind. Make like your name and shut yer air-hole.”
Unfortunately, the Many Hands of Vishnu sprouted from the very earth in front of Atomik Lad and his lovely passenger. He pulled up and back in a loop. The religious nuts, lacking neat powers of flight, ran headlong into their own trap without missing a beat of their divine quarrel.
Atomik Lad touched down and his field dispersed. Rachel was wrapped around him piggyback style. “You can get down now,” he said.
She leaned her cheek against his. “Do I have to?”
His entire body quivered. “Mercy.”
An black ankh the size of a pen flashed across their field of vision and pierced the earth between Atomik Lad’s feet. Instinctively analyzing, processing, and tracing the projectile’s trajectory with their eyes, both sidekick and college girl found their gazes met by a small woman with a ghastly pallor that contrasted grotesquely with her black leather, black lace, black dress, black lipstick, black fingernails, black eyeliner, and dyed black hair. Each hand held the opposite shoulder in a quasi-Egyptian mummy fashion. She fanned her fingers. A black ankh identical to the one just thrown appeared between every finger. “You’re not out of this yet. You still have to contend with me, Sorrow St. Angstie Ankhmyre!”
Rachel climbed down slowly.
Atomik Lad grumbled, “Damn.”
__________
Issue 28 – Combative Religions
Katkat slept soundly on the Danger: Coffee Table. He had to recover from the strain of waking up for a few minutes several hours earlier. He did this comfortably despite the position of his neck in relation to his spine, or his spine to his legs. Such is the power of cat. His whole body was in an impossible S shape with cute little tufts of white fur being all sticky-outy along his belly.
Nuklear Man examined Danger: Sparky’s Room’s door with careful measurements made by rough estimations. He held a Danger: T-Square in his right hand and a Danger: Blueprint in his left. He compared some figures with his Danger: Field Notes which made no sense architecturally speaking since they consisted entirely of the statement, “Gosh, I’m hungry.” He slid the Danger: T-Square around his Danger: Blueprint to convince himself that he was being professional.
“Feh. This is easy.” He gingerly approached the door, thoughtlessly tossed his Danger: Architect Gear somewhere to the side, peeled the Danger: Sparky’s Room label off with surgical patience, and replaced it with a Danger: Katkat’s Room label.
Upside down.
He leaned back to review his craftsmanship. “Perfection!”
“And where will Atomik Lad reside?” Danger: Computer Lady inquired.
“Eh, he can sleep on the couch. But not when we have company.”
__________
“This alleged Atomik Field of yours is very irksome,” Rachel commented as she and Atomik Lad took cover behind a brick short wall lined with newspaper m
achines that were being pelted by razor sharp black ankhs.
“You cannot escape Sorrow!” their aggressor yelled. And then – silence.
“Maybe she took a wrong turn?” Rachel whispered as they huddled for cover.
“What wrong turn? We ran straight to this spot, jumped the wall, and ducked here,” he said.
“No offense, but I’ve noticed that most of these villains of yours aren’t too bright.”
“None taken, but—”
“The Queen of Anarchy, Anguish, and Angst eyed her unsuspecting prey as they clung to each other pathetically,” Sorrow’s voice seemed to radiate from everywhere.
“Not another Self-Narrator,” Atomik Lad mumbled as he eyed the high and leafy branches of the tree on the other side of their wall. “I really hate those.”
Sorrow continued. “Look at them, nearly as pathetic as those teenybopper kids going to the mall every weekend, tenaciously clinging to the hope that their meaningless lives have some shred of significance while they try on blouses at The Gorge and watch EMPtv for the latest edition of Real Life or Road Trip—as if there’s a difference—while debating the latest occurrences of Demographic Place. Saturating their minds with these contrived and clichéd media amalgamations designed to keep them placid and unthinking, never being aware of the maze, just rats waiting for the next New Backstreet Kids Who Sing ‘N Tandem 2U4ever video.”
“I don’t know where the hell she is, but that’s incredible lung capacity,” Rachel noted.
“Sorrow stroked the cold, hard, black metal of her ankh-darts, her weapons of choice for delivering sweet death unto the banal masses. Such bittersweet irony that the ankh, a symbol of life, should bring the sharp sting of death upon her prey!”
“Wait a second, you’ve killed people?!” Rachel blurted.
“Um, Sorrow could not hear the girl’s question, for Sorrow was drunk with the eroticism she found only in bringing death.”
Nuklear Age Page 27