Captain Hairdo- Conquers the Cosmos

by William McDonald

  “Jerry was a peasant thus was deserved a peasant’s death. You of royal constitution shall victor and be hailed a hero by all that hear the tale. Might I suggest that you drown these unpleasant feelings, with food?” Swansea hides his smirk behind a clenched fist.

  “If that is the case Swansea why are you just standing around reveling in my splendor? Where are my muffins? Swansea Picklesworth! I want my muffins! Swansea!” The communicator clicks off.

  As Elephantine’s beckons grow ever more grating, Swansea burst onto the balcony through a back entryway; a mountainous platter of pastries in hand. “Yes, my liege,” he pants, swaying a little to keep the mound from toppling, “I am but a servant of your will.”

  “Where are my muffins Swansea?! I hunger so!” beads of sweat start to seep from the emperor’s forehead and cheeks.

  “Here, my lord, freshly baked just for you sire. The pudding of malevolence is strong within them. Can you hear them, calling you?”

  “Give them here!” Swansea quickly brings the tray within grabbing range and bows, presenting the platter of several dozen muffins. Emperor Elephantine begins to have at them, snatching two and three at a time. “You’ve outdone yourself, Swansea. The malevolence is strong in these, not sure what it is, but I can tell it’s strong. Is it some sort of spice? So good!” crumbs sputtering with each word.

  “Enjoy them, my lord,” Swansea says then whispers an aside, “for they shall be your undoing.”

  “What?” the Emperor pauses. His eyes hard, demanding an explanation in contradiction to the crumbs spraying from his mouth.

  “Oh, nothing. Can’t a man speak to himself without being questioned?”

  Elephantine eyes his servant suspiciously. The gravity of Swansea’s plotting is easily dismissed at the thought of consuming more muffins. Which he does, finishing the platter in record time.

  Harden leans close and suggests in Swansea’s ear, “Thinking to yourself might solve that problem.”

  Swansea’s Nostrils flare, “You shall die a peasant’s death, earth woman!” Just as the reporter opens her mouth to retort, a loud belch wrests her attention.

  “More muffins!” The Emperor jolts from his seat, nearly knocking the empty platter from Swansea’s grasp. “Still, I hunger! And bring gravy, for Science’s sake. For I have the fancy to dunk and must quench this mighty thirst!” Swansea bows and darts from the room. “For now, let us be entertained. Activate the monitors and let the Butter Dome begin!”

  On the far side of the amphitheater in a pit, two heavy doors draw open. Chicken color guards march Captain Hairdo through the oppressive threshold. Scanning the gargantuan arena Hairdo readies himself for the many challenges the Butter Dome may offer. Chicken guards with all variety of plumage fill the auditorium. Rows of seating skirt the perimeter of the ring, staggering skyward, stopping half-way to the ceiling. The center of the Coliseum boasts a queer sort of structure, a basin of boiling butter. A large, column rises from the lactose lake offering a glimpse of possible obstacles to come. Hairdo spots Dale and the Emperor in the distance, high up on a balcony. Hairdo is awestruck by the magnitude of the chamber. He is even more astonished that the Emperor would have bothered constructing it, as he seems antisocial in general and has few guests to entertain in frequency.

  “Welcome!” A voice squeals over the intercom. Wincing at the feedback of overamplified speakers Hairdo immediately recognizes the voice; it belongs to Cockmaster General. The guards prod him along the path leading to the arena. They walk towards the dairy-filled basin and the column protruding from the depths. Only a narrow, retractable bridge separates safety and the chaos sure to ensue on the butter-encircled platform.

  “It’s the challenger you’ve all been waiting for!” The announcements continue even as the guards wrestle Hairdo into position on the platform. “The infamous Captain Hairdo from the Interstellar Confederation of United Planets has been captured through the extreme cunning and tactical know how, of our beloved leader, his Excellency, Emperor Elephantine.” The crowd wails in excitement, hurling expletives from their seats. Hairdo cringes at the creativity of some of their insults, shaking his fist in random directions. “Now, by order of the Emperor, he shall face the most sinister trials ever conceived: The Butter Dome!” The crowd intensifies to Hairdo’s distaste. “Without any further cuckoo, let the first round begin! Battle Droid One… Attack!”

  Mechanical clicking and buzzing sounds emanate from beneath the platform. The column lists, which causes the platform to rumble. In the pool of butter, a small stretch smooths, then parts as another platform rises. With a jolt and a click, the column locks into place. Seemingly out of nowhere a hatch opens in the slick butter smeared surface. Battle Droid One rises through the mysterious aperture primed and ready. Festooned with spikes upon spikes striving to project a dark, foreboding menace or potentially tetanus and a bolted steel carapace as black as its circuitry. It is a synthetic humanoid military construct gladiator bot with a single pistoned leg, built for war crimes and blocking views at metal concerts. Droid One bears down lowering its torso as the lift it rode up on merges with the platform floor seamlessly. In one smooth motion it springs up and shoots down onto Hairdo’s circular platform. Instinctively, Hairdo reels back, using one hand to cover his face and extending the other in an act of self-preservation. By some miracle of science, his extended palm and the droid’s face connect. The impact is followed by a tremendously loud explosion and brilliant blue sparks discharging from Battle Droid’s External Aural Receptors. Battle Droid One collapses and slides like a tenpin across and over the platform plopping into the bubbling butter.

  The emperor is gobsmacked, “Ohh. He’s good.”

  Shakily, Hairdo spreads his fingers to peek out at his adversary, who is nowhere to be found. His surprised laughter transforms into a triumphant hoot and fist pump. “It seems you have underestimated my abilities!” He strikes his favorite heroic come at me bro pose daring more droids to challenge him.

  Cockmaster General, now a master of body language, quickly takes him up on his offer. “Battle Droid Two, attack!” Another platform rises from beneath the butter. This time when the droid drags itself from its clandestine hatch, it is bipedal. Its body is an overdesigned mess of flails, blades and smokestacks, a steampunk nightmare. Hairdo is not quite sure what the designer was going for, but they really went for it. Rotating Blades whir in clunky epilates while chugging smokestacks crowd the behemoth’s back producing a choking miasma of toxic fumes. The two legs resemble oil derricks in both elegance and mobility. Battle Droid Two’s head is reminiscent of an antique factory whistle but with a large, glowing red button in the center.

  Battle Droid’s smoke stacks begin chugging frenetically, the noxious cloud that drapes it thickens considerably. Its torso screws down and its legs’ secondary stabilizing architecture engage as its mobility pads disengage. It is launched off of the platform. Its flight is seemingly more a feat of fuel-based propulsion defying gravity than the engineered athleticism displayed by BD1. The flight and subsequent landing are far less spry as it collides with the primary platform. The cyclopean monstrosity shambles towards Hairdo with exaggerated motor deficiency. As it draws nearer, the glowing red button becomes clear enough to read: OFF. Without much thought, Hairdo lunges at the droid’s face, smashing the “off” button. Battle Droid Two seizes in a show of chugging smoke, sputters then dies; belching oily black emissions like an overworked ’78 Chevy Impala.

  Hairdo claps the dust from his palms. He looks up and around the dome until he focusses on the primary view screen and Elephantine’s bewildered face. “You can send the real battle droids whenever you’re ready.”

  On the projector, the Emperor deviously strokes his many chins. “It seems I have been underestimated his skills... Cockmaster General! Bring out the big boy!”

  Sparing the audience of any dramatic tension, Cockmaster calls out, “Battle Droid Three, attack!”

  Hairdo only laughs at his next opponent�
�s introduction. “I suppose it’ll have three legs this time?”

  “Actually, no,” Cockmaster intones banally through the loudspeaker, “twelve. Get him, number three!”

  The captain hears the myriad of synchronized footsteps squelching through the ground behind him. His best reflexes on display, Hairdo spins around to adopt a fighting stance. Immediately, as he readies himself, twelve painful impacts buffet his face. Hairdo catches his breath and quickly recovers. Steadied, he cocks his fist for a straight right punch, but before his fist can complete its forward thrust the droid’s first-foot rockets back around to reinitiate the chain of blows. Each mechanical foot accelerates in constant rotation, pummeling Hairdo mercilessly in a frenetic cycle. Hairdo tries to soldier through the rapid onslaught, but all of his efforts fail. The constant brutality proves too much for Captain Hairdo. He attempts a flying jump kick just as the eighth foot hooks him under the chin, he is sent tumbling to the ground.

  “Well,” Hairdo coughs. “This is annoying.” He charges headfirst shoulders down, hoping to catch the battle droid off guard, but the machine anticipates his foolhardy counterattack and launches an adroit countermeasure, pummeling Hairdo back to the ground.

  “Okay…okay, now you’re making me angry.” Again, Hairdo charges forward and, again, he is walloped.

  “For Science sake Hairdo, dodge!” Dale’s voice rings through Elephantine’s microphone. Hairdo quickly glances at the balcony surprised to see the Emperor in a half nelson, Dale’s arm’s locked around his corpulent flesh, her foot up on a railing as leverage. The brawl on the balcony almost as vicious as his own, Hairdo returns focus to his own fracases invigorated and impressed.

  “Damn, she is as brilliant as she is beautiful!” Inspired by the brilliance and novelty of Dale’s strategy Hairdo dips under Battle Droid Three’s fourth foot. As the fifth foot arcs at his head from the opposite direction, he drops to his knees just under the swipe, spiraling as he lands. The slick surface of the platform supports Hairdo’s slide beneath the furious bone-crushing windmill of feet six through twelve. With momentum building, much to Hairdo’s dismay, he starts waving his arms scooping runnels of butter as he goes, hoping to induce drag. Hairdo sits at the edge of the platform, one leg propped up bent at the knee the other hanging off, akin to the I sit on my desk, chairs are for chumps attitude so common to English Lit Professors. Realizing he did not plummet to the dairy doom and that he is now behind his nemesis, his bluster and confidence are much restored.

  The view from behind the Battle Bot was quite revelatory. “Hah!” Hairdo lunges forward to push another glowing OFF button, this time located on the mechanical beast’s posterior. Hairdo grins triumphantly as his hands land on the glowing button and he pushes. The force of his arms pushing, combined with his butter saturated body and the churned surface, cause a backward building momentum. Instead of the button depressing and Captain Hairdo gaining his much-deserved victory he is now accelerating away from Battle Droid Three. Hairdo slides nearing the edge, careening towards his death, or at least uncertainty. Flailing and cursing Hairdo spills off the platform, plunging headfirst into the scolding-hot, whirl of butter. In an instant, he is sucked under and quickly disappears down the drain.

  The crowd goes silent. Droves of Elephantine’s supporters who had once clamored for the utter annihilation of Hairdo are left at odds with themselves. They are openly disappointed that the hero of the Confederation of Planets couldn’t provide them with at least a few more minutes of entertainment. Cockmaster General and his entourage scratch their combs in disbelief. Everyone had wanted him to die, but none could have imagined his death would be so…anti-climactic.

  Disengaging with the Emperor and peering down from the balcony, Dale is in shock. Shaken by the spectacle of Hairdo plummeting headlong seemingly to his death, she disregards everything else. Emperor Elephantine awkwardly clears his throat pushing several buttons. The throne and dais rotate back to the throne room and the viewing screen disappears into the ceiling.

  “I can’t imagine,” Dale laments, finally addressing the scientists who have been silent witnesses to the unfortunate events. “What’s down there? Where does that whirlpool go? What’s going to happen to him?!”

  Abruptly, Swansea appears behind Dale, head looming over her shoulder. “It is the pit of exquisite agony. No man has ever escaped.”

  Looking at the scientists, Dale quietly asserts, “Looks like I have to find us a way out myself …”

  Swansea Continues, “At last the linguini of calamity has ensnared him in its tendrils.” Swansea opens his mouth to laugh, but the only sound he hears is a hungry call for…

  “Muffins!”

  “Yes, my liege. I’m more than happy to oblige.”

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  Captain Hairdo bodysurfs through the viscous butter torrent feeling equal parts horror and exhilaration. Though thoroughly realizing this ride may end in death, he can’t help but compare it to the all Slip and Slide public transportation on Planet Chub Chub, his favorite vacation spot. Plummeting into the substructure of the infamous Butter Dome, Hairdo notices the speed of his descent increase with each passing second.

  Boom!

  Hairdo impacts with the ground. Panicking he can’t breathe, physically he can’t catch his breath and there is something suffocating in the air. Blocking his nostrils, his mouth is full, “Dear Tesla,” he exclaims, “I can’t see!” As the room settles and his shock wears off Hairdo opens his eyes and blows out. Feathers erupt from his mouth and nose. He sneezes and lays back after surveying the large bowl-shaped room filled with pillows. Looking up at the shaft he fell from, Hairdo finds it astonishing that he survived the fall and even more surprising that he didn’t ruin his jumpsuit. Eyeing the Northwest corner of the room, he notices a large recessed alcove with an enormous sign reading, “EXIT.”

  “Perfect!” He rolls to his feet, ready to make his way back to his compatriots; when he finally figures out what has been bothering him. “Check it out, all of these folks forgot to bring their meat suits to the slumber party,” Hairdo points out attempting to bring some levity to his situation and failing miserably, managing to creep himself out in the process.

  Hundreds of humanoid skeletons lay scattered on the piles of pillows. Taking in the charnel scene Hairdo feels: distress, despair and for the first-time self-doubt. Stalled and not sure how to proceed, Hairdo spies an extraordinary sight. Three beautiful, identical, women stand in the corner, beckoning to him. Needing no additional motivation, he hastily approaches. Fluffing his hair, flicking a piece of tofu from between his teeth, revealing the dazzling set of pearly whites underneath, he slinks up to them. “Hello, ladies. Name’s Hairdo. Captain Hairdo. Maybe you’ve heard of me?” He nonchalantly flexes his biceps. “Famous Earth hero?” The three women nod approvingly at each other, licking their slick ruby lips. They converge rapidly on their target.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  The royal ovens burp steam from their industrial smokestacks, as Swansea blazes hot with hatred, “Muffins, I’ll give you muffins. It’s only a matter of time Elephantine!”

  Walking to one side of the oven he fixates on a cooking timer displaying days, hours, minutes and seconds counting down with exact precession. “Mmmmh, yes. Soon, very soon my cukes will brine and my rancorous recipe will be realized! Producing the pickles of perniciousness, then my empire will be forged salty and sour like a gherkin.”

  Splash, Swansea hears the slosh of water churning in a bucket behind him. A gruff voice interrupts his monologue, “Uh, are you speaking to me?”

  Swansea looks around, eyes wide with surprise, then narrow with suspicion he mutters, “Oh! Argh, I really need to be more aware of my surroundings…”

  “So uh, what was all that talk about plans and empires?”

  Swansea’s hand shoot forward forming a death grip. Summoning all of his will, veins popping, grunting with effort, he attempts to harness his recently actualized powers.

  The young heavyset ja
nitor stares at the surreal show. A man twice his age pantomimes crushing his windpipe, “Uh, look, never mind, I think I’ll just be going…” The janitor slowly withdraws dragging his mop with him.

  “Mph! Mph! Erg! Push Swansea, you can do it!” the thrusting of Swansea’s arm becomes frantic his face desperate. Face purple, eyes bulging, already protruding veins look ready to burst, his puckered forehead drips with sweat.

  Distracted by the deranged display, the janitor slips on the wet floor. Fingers spread, arms pinwheel and flail, sending his mop flying. He stumbles backward over his wash bucket, landing on the ground with a skull crunching crack.

  Swansea’s shoulders return to their natural droop. He calmly observes his handiwork humming approvingly, “Mm-hmm, yes. Excellent.” Glancing away his hands wringing, “I’ve got to be more careful.” Sniffing the air his nose wrinkles, “Oh no, not again!” he wrenches the oven door ajar, black smoke cascades from the pans.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  “Good riddance! I’m glad those two are gone. They just kept going on and on!” Elephantine waves his arms rocking his throne and dais so hard that even the tchotchkes on nearby pedestals vibrate. “Science this! Science that! An emperor grows weary of hearing the same thing over and over – muffins! Where are my muffins?” Suddenly, the flesh of his belly ripples, he doubles over clutching his gut. “This must be advanced indigestion, it is putting up a good fight, but I think I’m winning.” Elephantine thrusts his hand into a bowl on his armrest, pulling out a fistful of dismembered macaroons. “I need those muffins now Swansea!”

  “Forget about him.” Harden steps up to the throne, swaying her hips. She trails her finger up his belly stopping just under his lowest chin with a playful flick that results in a blubbery ripple. “You know…” She turns away coyly.

  “Yes?” Elephantine asks mashing a handful of the fruity confections into his mouth.

  “As long as it’s just you…and me…alone…maybe we could liven things up?”