Captain Hairdo- Conquers the Cosmos

by William McDonald

  One of the fuzzy ball creatures leaps to the top of the stone structure and lets loose a characteristic fart. Then, it performs a deed Botchit has yet to see. A stream of white goo flows from its anus, landing in a pile with the rest of…

  “My pillow!” The scientist claps his mouth shut gagging and pulls back behind cover in horror. Then, fully digesting exactly what he had ingested, he begins to claw at his tongue while spitting his mouth dry. “Oh no!” He looks down at his legs, which seem to be undulating. The ground is breathing steadily beneath him. “What’s happening to me?” He tries to balance against the rock, but his hands slip down as vertigo sets in. Laying on the ground, he tries to clear the raging storm of thoughts thundering inside his head. Moments pass, as the world around him spins out of control and fades to black.

  “Wake up.”

  “What?”

  “Wake up, Doctor Botchit!”

  Botchit jolts to life, the dreary rock faces and dust give way to a green meadow lit with a plethora of daisies.

  “How ya doing?”

  Confused about what is happing, the good doctor takes a moment assessing his status. Ten fingers, ten toes and all the bits in the right place, he smiles and responds, “Swell, how about you?” He is wholly unperturbed by the fact he’s holding a conversation with a singing cow. With dream logic, Botchit accepts his situation at face value and smiles awaiting the creature’s response.

  “Oh, I’m ok, I reckon.”

  “That's good.” A great roar erupts from Botchit's stomach. “Pardon me. I guess I am a bit hungry.”

  “You’re in luck! Have some of this.” The cow strips a piece of flesh from its side and tosses it at Botchit’s feet.

  This must be some sort of joke, Botchit thinks, a cow would never volunteer its own flesh as food. “Oh, no I couldn’t. You need that.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m just a stupid animal, bred and raised to titillate your taste buds, I don’t got no feelings.”

  Botchit ruminates; it is true that most cows were bred as a source of food prior to the invention of instantiaters. Even if the cow didn’t offer itself, it would most likely be murdered and harvested for its meat. What harm could there be in a small piece? Ravenous, Botchit lifts the piece of meat and chomps into it with the ferocity of a wild beast. “My science,” he exclaims mouth full, “this is delicious!” He hardly allocates himself time to chew, taking down each bite in a flavorful gulp.

  “Glad you're enjoying it. If you'll excuse me, I’m going to go pass out in a pool of my own blood now. See you later.”

  Botchit pulls his face away from the meat, chewing for the first time since his initial bite. “If all of you is this good, I certainly hope so.”

  “Ohhh,” the cow smiles, “that means a lot.” The cow starts to stumble its way through the field, towards a dirt path.

  Yards away, a group of fuzzy balls hops frantically, traumatized by the scene before them. A mutilated Sextus Primigenius struggles to escape from its tormentor, a blood-caked man. The wild-eyed man gnaws away at chunks of fresh mammalian flesh, torn from the six-legged beast. After a brief, but smelly exchange of rank debate, the balls come to a consensus and begin hopping away; as fast as their farts can carry them. Hearing the flutter of tiny farts, the wild man scans the terrain and spots them.

  They are beautiful! A fluffle of generously endowed anthropomorphic creatures, hop their way down a nearby dirt path. Botchit's cheeks flush at the sight and his pants tent. Breathing deep, he starts heavy pursuit of the bunny women.

  “Ladies don’t run! There’s something I’d like to show you!” Struggling as he chases, Botchit starts stripping away his clothes. Unashamed he lets everything hang out, advertising his hunt for copulation. “Doesn’t this look like the kind of experience you’d regret passing up?”

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  Splendora parts the foliage of a tall pastel colored bush, to reveal a large clearing. “This is the encampment of the Fuzzy Ball Tribe – at least, one of them. They are a primitive race that communicates primarily through smell.”

  “We’ve met,” Jerkoff scoffs.

  A firm backhand strikes Handy's face. “Silence, cur!” The blow sends him reeling backwards. Blinking, his eyes flutter with shock.

  “That was totally uncalled-” he freezes, “Is that…Botchit?” The group falls silent and looks to where Jerkoff is staring. Down a small slope Fuzzy Balls mill about two central figures. Botchit lays worshiping and licking at Buck Aldrin's feet. Buck sits on a hand-woven wicker throne, surrounded by a white moat, starkly contrasting brown soil and the uneven stone ground. Buck is caked in white excrement, with finger painted geometric designs across his face, wearing a makeshift grass crown.

  “Botchit!” Jerkoff leaps to his feet, hands waving at his fellow scientist. He bounds down the hill, squealing excitedly. “I can’t believe you’re alive! And…and..." his pace slows and voice drops an octave, "and you're licking Aldren’s feet?”

  “Ice cream man,” Botchit sings dreamily. “Ice cream man you taste so good. So very good.”

  Buck smiles, adjusting the makeshift laurels adorning his head. “Just like my days at Studio 54...”

  Splendora and the rest of the group catch up to Jerkoff. Dale ushers Jerkoff aside, away from the gathering crowd of fuzzies, now guarding the throne. Splendora steps forward, the fuzzies part. She addresses the throne, “We have come to enlist you, Fuzzy Balls to aid in our noble war against the corrupt forces of Lord Ironfist.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Buck waves Splendora away, squirming as Botchit takes another lick of his feet.

  A hard crack pierces the air. “You will comply!” The bondage queen’s whip is raised and prepared for another authoritative snap.

  Buck shoos Botchit away and turns to face Splendora. “Well, when you put it that way.” His eyes pan up and down her form. Taking in her curves and the more revealing features of her outfit, his gaze finally comes to rest on her bountiful chest. Approving of the display, he smirks.

  Jerkoff whimpers from afar. “Botchit. How could you… With him of all people?”

  Interpreting the whimper as a summons, Botchit scampers over to his fellow, latches around his leg and humps violently.

  “Hey now, stop!” Jerkoff swats at Botchit as if he were an oversexed chihuahua. “Oh, I know I should resist, but it’s what I have always wanted.” He closes his eye and tilts his head back. Then, he loses balance and the two topple over.

  “Ignore them,” Splendora addresses the crowd of bouncing balls, “I summon you, hairballs!” More of the creatures emerge from their various dens, gathering around the queen. She smiles and lifts one up into her arms. “I’ve always been so fond of you little hairy balls. And it’s time that you repaid my kindness. You will join my ranks. Gather your strongest warriors. The reign of Iron Fist ends tonight!"

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  The chicken guards, Jamie and Jody, take turns holding back the overgrowth for Cockmaster. Each moving with care, avoiding the bright multi-colored floral barbs. They move slowly, following an overgrown trail towards a destination unknown. Further down the trail, Jody's foot catches on a root. He stumbles forward, tripping Jamie.

  “The barbs! Keep vigilant men, these little pricks could be hazardous.” Cockmaster covers his face, preparing for the full force of the barbed branch's punishing snap back. But it never comes, after a long pause, Cockmaster lowers his hands. The guards are bent over, ears to the ground. “Yes, I said prick, but this is no time to assume the position!” he bawks, then he hears it too.

  Beep...beep…beep.

  “That noise – it sounds like a beacon.” Cockmaster points out to the distance. “One of you, find it.”

  “This grass is pretty deep,” Jody informs.

  The two feel around for the object blindly, working their way towards the sound. Jody grabs onto the item and pulls it up. The object is spherical with no specifically identifiable features save a blinking LED “eye”. But from that alon
e, Cockmaster knows precisely what they’re dealing with.

  “It’s a distress beacon.” He removes the ball from the guard’s possession, fingering it suspiciously. He plugs it into his communicator and hails, “Cockmaster General here. Report.”

  “General, sir!” comes the voice from the other side. “Thank the cosmos you found us. I told you he'd find it Earl –”

  A different voice interrupts. “Thank the cosmos indeed, considering where you dropped it, Bruuuce, it’s a statistical anomaly he found it at all!” There’s a bout of bickering that follows which Cockmaster entertains for a moment. Until it dawns on him that the men were supposed to have reported back to him long ago.

  “Enough! Why didn’t you report in earlier?”

  Static pours through the communicator. “We’ve been captured. Forced to endure things that defy description!”

  "He’s making us do unspeakable things. Things we’d never do, that is… except under your direct supervision.”

  “You don’t mean?!” Cockmaster becomes furious -- has some fiend violated his guardsmen without his express order? Unacceptable.

  “What is your position?”

  “Lord Ironfist’s fortress. They blindfolded us when we were brought here, but my buddy system distress beacon is on! Please save us!”

  “Don’t worry your sweet little asses, I never leave a man behind.”

  “Our hero,” the voices cry out together.

  “I swear, in the emperor’s name, we will save you. The distress beacon is locked on. Rendezvous in six hours, over and out.” Cockmaster fiddles with his communicator. The ball in the communicator synchs with its buddy unit and an arrow lights up to point the way.

  Cockmaster grows stern and puffs his chest. He turns to face his two guards. “Alright, boys, time to straighten up and fly right. We execute rescue mission alpha.” He salutes and begins to march away.

  The guards look at each other confused by the phrasing, "Straighten up?” but they do as instructed and follow shortly behind him.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  “Big wall.” Hairdo cranes his neck up inspecting the massive structure laid out before them.

  “Well, that’s obvious.” Dale brushes her hand across the construction, “it’s made of iron,” then knocks, “quite hard.”

  “It sure is,” a moan comes from behind the main party.

  Everyone’s eyes turn towards Jerkoff, pants down around his ankles. Botchit’s face is pressed hard against his crotch accompanied by a loud slurping sound.

  Briefly, Botchit pulls away. “This popsicle tastes like mayonnaise.”

  “It sure does… Ge-Ge-Get back down there.,” Jerkoff insists, hand pushing down on Botchit’s head, moving him back into position.

  “How revolting,” Splendora scoffs, turning her attention back to the wall. “Gimps! Climb!” Two of her subordinates hurl themselves against the wall with a deafening clang. They latch on, sticking to the wall like magnets.

  “What!?” Botchit jumps up from his knees, glancing around, confused. He feels a viscous dribble cooling in the corner of his mouth and wipes it against his sleeve. “What the hell was I doing down there? That’s not a popsicle!” He squints at Jerkoff’s man parts and comes to realize what has transpired. Botchit examines the fluid on his sleeve, touches a finger back to his mouth and observes the saliva still dripping down Jerkoff’s leg. “Well. That’s – uh – awkward.”

  “It’s okay.” Jerkoff smiles and pulls up his pants. “Now you finally understand how I feel.”

  “I think I follow you. I mean having a man do that to you without your express written consent must be very… Awkward for you as well.”

  Suddenly, Jerkoff is enraged. “You fool!” He hastens redonning his garments and shuffles towards the rest of the group. The Gimps continue to scale the colossal wall, but even with their surprising agility, progress is slow. Dale observes their struggle and starts contemplating all the options in her head.

  “You know, it’s too bad we can’t just fly up there. If the ship was still operational—”

  “If your ship were still operational, you wouldn’t be here, you doltish sow.” Splendora laughs, “Just leave it to my Gimps.”

  “Or maybe…” Hairdo rubs his chin. “Dale, you might be on to something. Botchit, do you still have that solar-powered rocket pack with you?”

  “Of course!”

  Dale’s face contorts with shock. “Since when do you have a solar-powered rocket pack? How do you even carry something that big around with you, without anyone noticing?”

  “Come now, Dale. Don’t make an issue of our good fortune. Give it here, Botchit.”

  “Weather looks a bit spotty up there, some cloud cover. I don’t know if solar-powered is our best option here.”

  “The only option is always the best option.” Hairdo straps the pack on and does a few warmup squats and thrusts. “As long as we get the timing right,” stretching left side, then right, he primes himself for takeoff. “It shouldn’t be…three…a…two…problem…one!” He pushes off the ground and activates the propellant, sporting a confident grin. In less than a second, he shoots yards past Splendora’s Gimps, before the device sputters to a halt. He plummets spiraling, then crashes back down to the ground.

  “Yep,” Dale nods sarcastically, “all in the timing.”

  Hairdo gets to his feet undaunted, readjusting the jetpack, “One more time.” Again, he goes through his preparatory ritual and boosts himself into the air. Unlike his first attempt, this time he moves upward at a much slower velocity. The climb is slow, but more controlled and steady, carrying him much higher.

  Jerkoff gasps in amazement, “I think he’s going to make it.” The group watches Hairdo shrink into the sky until he disappears in the brightness of the sun. Everything falls quiet as the onlookers shield their eyes from the glare. They wait in silence for a sign that Hairdo has landed safely. What they hear instead is something much less inspiring. A far-off cry grows into desperate screams for help. In freefall, he comes into sight arms flailing desperately. Hairdo struggles with the controls, attempting one last blast to slow his descent. It activates after a delay, sputtering and coughing in short bursts. He gains just enough thrust to ensure his crash back to earth is non-fatal.

  Splendora sneers in disgust. She draws the whip from her waist and cracks it, shrieking to the very limit of her voice, “Ready the bitch!” Her gimps don’t hesitate in raising the dazed Hairdo back to his unsteady feet. A quick slap forces him back into a coherent state. Hairdo attempts to shake himself awake, his vision doubled and blurred from the impact. There is a black, shadowy serpentine figure ahead of him. Its tongue unfurls and whips to the left and right. He hears words through the haze – instructions to aim. His body is then hoisted and shifted into position by the two gimps. Head swimming, Hairdo feels like he's going through atmospheric reentry sans dampeners or spaceship.

  “Wh…what's going on?” he mutters, head still muddled. His face angles up viewing the top of the wall.

  “Fire!”

  The gimps nod in agreement, then jam down the ignition button on the jetpack. The Earth Hero is sent flying both faster and higher than with either of his previous attempts. The wind whips through his hair; Hairdo's sensibilities return. The entire unbearable ascent is heralded by a drawn-out scream. Clearing the pinnacle of the front gate, he begins his descent into the heart of enemy territory. Falling out of sight, Hairdo's landing is broadcasted by a massive crash and a muffled, “Ow.”

  Botchit, Dale and Jerkoff approach the gate calling out for Hairdo. But, the crack of Splendora’s whip silences them. “Patience dogs,” she orders, snapping twice more. The geared mechanisms grind facilitating the gradual slide of the front gate.

  Behind the gate, salutations come from a bruised and battered Hairdo. His clothes are burnt, dirty and tattered. More troubling though, his majestic pompadour is mussed and deflated. Shoulders slumped his hands drag at his knees. Head sagging, facing the gr
ound, he lacks the energy to raise it. He takes one step forward and immediately collapses, stirring a mote of dust.

  Splendora is visibly pleased by Hairdo's sacrifice, she rewards him with small pats on his bruised scalp, “That’s a good pet.” Hairdo's tongue lulls, his left leg twitches in response. She steps over him and proceeds to enter Lord Ironfist’s domain. Most of the group follows, briefly glancing at Hairdo’s mangled body.

  The fuzzy balls emerge from their various hiding places. They bounce, across Hairdo indiscriminately trampling him as they stampede through the gate. But his body is already too numb from trauma to notice a few hundred creatures misusing it further.

  Dale approaches last, taking a moment to squat next the captain. She offers him a hand up, chuckling in bemusement, “You're pathetic.”

  With a grunt, Hairdo is back on his feet. After a quick dusting off and a liberal application of hair gel, the duo catches up with the rest of the group.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  Cries resonate through the halls, anguish is soon muffled by the whine of metal scraping. Sweat drips down Bruce’s mask, as he applies more pressure on the grinder that buffs Lord Ironfist’s gauntlets. Sparks spray in all directions; little embers fall on the chicken guards’ bare chests.

  “Shouldn’t we be wearing more for this?”

  “Seriously, who had the brilliant idea to costume us in loin clothes and grease for metalwork?” Earl flinches and shrieks at the sparks.

  The large female guard chuckles. “Count yourselves lucky you were allowed those masks.” She quirks her eyebrow. “Or those loincloths.” She gestures for Bruce to shut off the grinder. “Here put this on”, she throws a terrycloth jumpsuit at Earl. He steps into the suit and joins the Velcro up the front smoothing the closure. In one fluid motion, Magna the lady guard picks him up by a sewn in fabric handle on the back of the onesie, “Now hold on like a baby drop bear and I will do the rest.” The chicken guard straddles Ironfist’s gauntlet then locks his hands at his wrists and feet at the ankles. Ironfist raises his arm in a bicep curl. The burly Iron guardswoman grabs the handle and begins rotating the stubby chicken guard around the gauntlet.