by Jeff South
“I wonder how long he’ll be like that,” I ask. We hear one more pout from Max as the janitor closet elevator doors slide shut.
“It’s fine! Really!”
*
Randi, Jeff, and I stand poised for action as the janitor closet elevator of Rube Goldberg Protocol 47 rises.
Randi holds up a copper plated laser pistol as she speaks. “When that door opens, I’m going to open fire because I’m sure there will be agents waiting for us.”
“What gun is that?” Jeff asks. “Never seen it before.”
“An early prototype of one of Simon Tybalt’s behavioral weapons,” she replies. “The White Girl Waster. One shot of this and you are drunker than a sorority girl at a homecoming tailgate party.”
“I gotta get me one of those,” Jeff says.
“Max has already downloaded a shitload of Araneae into agents here,” Randi tells us. Once we get through these first agents, we’ll head to the lobby and out the front door. You use the JazzHands gun and any other weapon you have time to shoot on the next wave to distract them.”
“Agreed.” I nod. The doors to the elevator open and two agents stand before us wearing golf shirts and khakis, weapons aimed at us.
“Let me be P.A.C. with you both,” says one of the them. He wears a salmon-colored golf shirt with thin white horizontal stripes across the front.
“P.A.C.?” I ask.
“Perfectly Absolutely Clear.” This point man rattles off an impressive stream of Corporate speak without a shred of human emotion. “It is our understanding the three of you have obtained a vital piece of our business intelligence that directly impacts several Corporate workstreams. It is critical that Bob here and I work this problem immediately.”
“Just to piggyback off of what Alan said,” pipes in the other agent. “We’ll need you to come with us so that we can debrief this situation and action plan some possible outcomes.”
“Oh my god!” Randi unloads several blasts from her laser pistols. Agents Bob and Alan slam against the Plexiglas wall behind them, but the cubicle dwellers on the other side seem oblivious to the violence. Bob and Alan stagger to their feet and lean against the wall. Their eyelids are only half open and they struggle to remain upright. Bob sips from a beverage only he can see.
“Ugh! This vodka and cranberry juice is disgusting.” He makes a gagging face and then holds up a hand to suggest he can’t even with this anymore.
“Girl, we just got here!” Alan announces. “Let’s do some shots! Woooooooo!”
“Wait!” Bob holds up his phone and leans into Alan. “Selfie!”
The pair strike a pose involving duck lips and snap several pics that will provoke many questions when they find them later.
“That’s freakin’ awesome,” Jeff says. “Where’d you get that?”
“Old Simon Tybalt prototypes,” Randi replies. “We gotta go!”
I follow Jeff’s lead down the hall as Randi brings up the rear looking for agents coming behind us. As she predicted, about a dozen more agents are waiting for us, all dressed smartly in various forms of business attire and look as if they are headed to work at a well-respected firm of some kind, except they are pointing guns at us. At the front of this group is a black man with a shiny bald head.
“We have been tasked with bringing you to a town hall meeting with Max regarding the stolen nanotech,” he says.
“Aw, man,” I say. “I know what they are. That’s a tiger team, a highly specialized group of experts tasked with solving complex problems.” Saying that feels like an out-of-body experience.
“Fire on ‘em!” Jeff shouts. “JazzHands! JazzHands!” I comply with his order and unleash a blast from the JazzHands 6375 at the tiger team. They immediately drop their weapons and launch into an impressive rendition of “You’re The One That I Want,” from Grease.
A third wave of agents shoots from behind us, but they fortunately have the aim of Imperial Stormtroopers. Randi and I return fire while Jeff leads through the hall. I drop the JazzHands gun and retrieve my Phobia Inducer and an object roughly the size of a golf ball from my left pocket. I’ve never used it before, but my nano is in overdrive right now, so it’s as if I’ve used it my whole life.
“What is that thing?” Randi asks.
“It’s called a Panic Ball.” I hold it up while running backward down the hall. “Pretty much does what you think it’s going to.”
“Ha!” Jeff calls out. “That’s using your balls!”
“Throw it!” Randi commands and I comply. It lands at the feet of the approaching tiger team and billows of yellow smoke emerge from it. The tiger team stops and coughs and waves away the smoke. The yellow cloud around them dissipates and their eyes are wide with fear.
“Raptors!” I yell and point behind them in the greatest show of terror I can muster. “Oh, my god! Raptors! Run for your lives!”
The tiger team members scream and begin stampeding toward us. A different wave of panic washes over me, Randi, and Jeff as we realize they might trample us running away from the imaginary raptors.
“Why didn’t you tell them the raptors were coming from behind us?” Randi asks.
“I’m making this up as I go along!”
“It’s freaking awesome!” Jeff shouts. “We own the night!”
We turn the corner and enter the atrium where two more teams await. Jeff fires on one team with the JazzHands while I hit the other with another Panic Ball. Team One launches into the opening number from West Side Story. Team Two loses their shit at the sight of it. They point, scream, and scatter in all directions.
“Oh my god, you guys!” yells a woman pointing at the dancers. “It’s the Jets and the Sharks! Let’s get outta here!”
The security guards Jerry and Dale appear, so I reach for the Gulliball, but realize I didn’t bring it with me after using it on them earlier. I freeze, sure that the jig is up.
“We must’ve missed Scarlett Johansson?” asks Dale. “Did you get the plumbing job done?”
“Yep,” I say as I step past them. Clearly the Gulliball is still working on these two. “We’ll send you a bill.”
“Sounds great!” says Jerry. “Hey! Dancing!”
*
We are in a full sprint toward the parking lot. A laser shot from behind us hits the pavement while another grazes my ear. I feel a slight burn from it and turn to see where it came from. I stumble and fall and another shot from an agent’s laser hits the pavement beside my head. A tiny flame emerges from the landing spot and burns away. Max Gentry is shooting at us with a more dangerous weapon than any of us have. Randi pulls me to my feet and we start our run toward the Cosmic VW Bus only to be stopped by the sight of Jeff’s 1976 Chevy Vega. His beloved Miss America – the one powered by the quintonium drive- is parked in the fire lane of the Corporate HQ parking lot. Clint Hudson’s Truck of Overcompensation looms behind it. Clint and his two cronies, Dalton and Tyler, sit on the Vega’s hood each wearing the kind of cocky sneer that begs to be slapped off with a tire iron. A few steps in front of them stand Grandor the Malevolent and Jackleigh the Curvaceous. The metallic orb once inhabited by Jackie hovers above them.
“We have an appointment with Max Gentry,” Grandor announces. “Is he still available?
“He’s shooting at us,” I say and point toward the front door where Max stands.
“Take all their weapons,” Jackleigh orders the three dumbasses and they do as they’re told. They’re breath smells of sulfur, stale coffee, and a low GPA.
“So help me,” growls Jeff, JazzHands gun aimed. “If you’ve done anything to my car, I will kill you. I don’t care what it is. Scratched a fender. Messed up the drive settings. Played bro country on my stereo. I will find you and I will kill you.”
“They have the backpack with the Araneae,” Max calls out as he walks toward us, weapon poised. “Give Grandor the backpack.”
Randi surveys the situation around us, appearing to weigh any options we may have.
“Hand over the Araneae, please,” Grandor says. “Slowly.” And with that, the orb shoots a blob of bright pink energy at us. It envelops us like warm goo though it’s not liquid. I’m aware of my movements slowing to a slightly faster rate than a frame-by-frame advancement of a movie. Reaching for weapon to fire is futile. Randi has no choice but to ease the backpack onto the pavement and slide it over to Grandor. He opens the pack and inspects its contents. His face is one of a child opening a disappointing birthday present.
“What’s the problem?” Max asks. “Everything is there.”
“You placed valuable nanotech in a backpack?” Grandor asks.
“Yes,” Max says. “That is a very secure pack designed by our top-notch R&D team at Corporate.”
“It seems so…basic.”
“Enough of this.” Jackleigh waves a hand at the orb. “Release them.”
The slow-mo force field dissipates and we stand in helpless inactivity. Jeff makes a rush toward his car only to be greeted by a shot from one of our Neutralizers held by Jackleigh. The bolt sends Jeff spilling backwards clutching his chest.
“These are fun little toys,” Jackleigh says, “but a girl likes something with a little more firepower.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jackleigh points a remote at the floating orb. An arm extends from it in the same manner as The Jackie Took Over Leigh Ann Shocker in Grandor’s basement on planet Lloyd. Jackleigh turns around and raises her long raven hair to expose her neck. The arm attaches to her neck and Jackleigh spasms a couple of times while thin tentacles of electricity crackle around the extension. The spasms stop and the arm disconnects from the human form of Leigh Ann. She staggers disoriented.
“What the hell?” I look at Randi who can only shrug. Jeff runs to Leigh Ann and helps her to feet.
“Leigh Ann?” He coddles her as they walk. “Baby?”
“Where are we?” the doe-eyed girl asks. “What’s going on? Is everyone going for waffles?”
The orb buzzes over to the Vega and enters through the open driver’s side window. It hovers around the steering wheel and I can see the extension arm attach to something on the car’s dashboard. Miss America rocks and shakes. Her headlights flash on and off and the horn honks in short blasts as if her alarm was going off.
“Tony!” Jeff shouts. “I’m about to say something misogynistic!”
“Don’t do it,” I shout back.
“All kinds of sexist comments are forming right now!”
“Fight the urge! It’s not worth it!”
All is silent.
“This is not at all what I expected.” Jackie’s voice echoes from somewhere deep inside Miss America. “I like it, though.”
“What the hell?” Jeff shouts.
“Simon Tybalt broke under our torture,” the Jackie Vega says. “He told us that your car is the quintonium drive and what it is capable of.”
“She possessed my car,” Jeff mumbles in shock. “That bitch possessed my car.”
“Gentlemen.” Grandor walks to the Vega and holds the backpack aloft. “I have a new haiku for you:
“I have your Vega
And I have the Araneae.
You suck at your job.”
“I’m going to invent new ways to hurt you,” Jeff tells Grandor. He pulls out his phone and starts swiping. “I’m Googling new ways right now, you big-headed purple shit.”
“For our next trick.” Grandor pulls a remote from the backpack and holds it out. “We shall turn an entire civic celebration into an enslaved humanity.”
“Clint, Tyler, and Dalton,” Jackie the car says. “Take care of them.”
The sound of a car’s blowing horn and screeching tires interrupts the proceedings from across the parking lot. We all turn and see my parents’ minivan speeding toward the scene. Marlene speeds alongside them on her motor scooter and flanked on their other side is another scooter ridden by someone I don’t recognize. The riders fire lasers at the scene, hitting light posts, parking signs, and even the side panel of the Truck of Overcompensation. My mom leans out the passenger’s side window firing a kind of laser rifle.
“Well, I be damned,” I say. “They escaped.”
Randi elbows Max in the face and wrestles his laser from his hand. She opens fire on Grandor and the Vega. Jeff takes Leigh Ann by the hand and starts a dead sprint for the Cosmic VW Bus. After a couple of more shots, Randi follows them. I stand frozen, unsure of what my move should be.
“Randi!” I shout. “I need a gun.”
She tosses me the White Girl Waster and I spin and unload on Clint, Tyler, and Dalton. The round fuchsia balls of energy hit their chests and they trip backward.
Miss America’s engine fires up and Jackie throws her into reverse. The car spins in a doughnut and heads toward the parking lot exit. Jeff steers the Cosmic VW Bus after them with Leigh Ann sitting in the passenger seat. I step toward Clint, Tyler, and Dalton ready to shoot again if need be. I stop when I see the three of them stagger and fight to stand upright.
“Hey, all y’all!” yells Clint. “I am, like, sooooo drunk! I think I’ve had, like, seven shots of tequila.”
“Riiiiight?” says Tyler, his voice nasally and whiny. “This is the best night ever!”
Dalton, on the other hand, breaks down into tears and drops to his knees.
“God, you guys,” he sobs. “Everybody hates me. They hate me!”
This is enough for Marlene and the other rider to open fire on the three male drunk females with their Herpezoid dissolvers. The blasts land and Clint, Tyler, and Dalton melt into puddles of green goo on the pavement, a reminder of their true Herpezoid form.
“I don’t hate you, Dalton,” the puddle formerly known as Clint says. “I love you. I wanna be you.”
“Oh my god, you guys!” shouts gooey Tyler. “This is my jam! This is my freaking jam! Woooooo!”
The unknown rider removes her helmet and I see she is the caliente lederhosen-wearing babe from the Taco Haus drive thru and the Waffle Palace.
“This is Clara,” Marlene tells me. “She’s kind of a freelancer like me.”
“What do you freelance in?” I ask.
“We find alien scum and end them,” Clara’s words frighten me, but her voice excites me. The two hottest girls I’ve ever known are standing in front of me. If it weren’t for all of the nonsense about stopping a potential cataclysmic event, life would be pretty good right now.
“Tony!” Dad yells from the minivan. “We gotta go!”
“You coming with?” I ask the girls.
“The River Luau is loaded with Herpezoids posing as carnies,” Marlene says.
“We must end the scum,” Clara adds.
“So, you’re coming with, then. Good.” I climb in the minivan and we speed away.
*
Dad navigates the Pershing Minivan of Action through the streets of Poplar Bluff with little to no regard for traffic law. Marlene and Clara stay close behind on their motor scooters. I look at my mom who is recharging a laser pistol with the van’s cigarette lighter. Both my parents have dirt, mud, and green Herpezoid blood on them. Kevin Raulston sits in the back seat dispersing weapons from a briefcase. I recognize them as a straightforward High Powered Fusion Dissolver, or a good old fashioned Herpezoid killer.
“These are all freshly charged,” Kevin informs us. “Should last us for a few hours.”
“A few hours?” Dad shakes his head. “I hope this won’t take that long.”
A few months ago, I thought I was the only person in this group with a big secret. Nothing in my life was what it seemed. I see now we all have secrets. Like the character of Kilroy in Jeff Harper’s favorite song, I am now a man whose circumstances are beyond his control. Suddenly, I crave an apricot.
“Where’s Jeff’s mom?” I ask.
“Sandra stayed behind to take out some Herpezoids,” Mom says. “She also wanted to find Simon Tybalt. We tried to get her to come with us, but she insisted on staying behind to rescue him. Kep
t saying something about closure.”
“Dad?” I lean forward after looking out the rear window. “I think the entire Poplar Bluff police force is following us.”
*
The Pershing Minivan of Action barrels into the dirt parking lot of the River Luau. We exit the vehicle and rush out of it. Three cop cars followed us here and the officers inside them climb out and demand we stop.
“Officers,” Dad calls out. “We really can’t –”
His attempt to explain this all to Poplar Bluff’s finest is interrupted by a brilliant white beam fired from behind us. The beam hits the cops, freezing them where they stand. We turn and look in the direction from which the shot came and see Simon Tybalt holding what looks like a grenade launcher.
“Single Shot Photon Freeze Ray Launcher.” He looks at the weapon the way one regards on old friend. “Sometimes you gotta play the classics.”
“Where did you get that?” I ask.
“It unfolds from a pocket knife I had stuffed in my sock.”
“How long will they be like that?” Mom asks.
“Long enough,” he says. “It also fiddles with short term memory. They’ll know they were supposed to be here for something, but won’t remember why.”
“Where’s Jackie and Grandor?” I ask. “They’re going to release the Araneae on the crowd.”
“Oh, no.” Simon Tybalt starts running toward the main entrance. “This is very bad.”
“How did you escape?” I ask
“A lovely Hispanic girl raided the camper they were holding me in and freed me.”
People are jogging toward the exit with their funnel cakes and souvenir stuffed animals.
They wear concerned expressions and those tacky plastic leis because this is a luau, after all.
“Excuse me.” Dad stops one of the exiting fairgoers, a middle-aged man with what I assume is his wife and two children. “Why is everyone leaving?”