Recovery, Ho!

The sleek, glow-in-the-dark Kzinti Lego Desert Cruiser Mark II cruised above the arid California countryside.  The Stranger was parched, and about to pop a candy from the Elvis Pez dispenser Orson Welles gave him earlier.

As he came around a creosote bush, though, his eyes grew large in surprise and delight.

“Oh thank the gods, over whom none have leverage!

For there’s a store! And I sure crave a beverage!”

He parked the Mark II, and walked inside the 7-Eleven.  The Stranger grabbed a six-pack of Olde English 800 Malt Liquor in 16 oz cans, a dozen eggs, a Slim Jim Tabasco Flavored beef stick, and an empty SuperMega Gulp cup.   The cashier lasered the Stranger’s purchases warily–The Stranger was, after all, wearing a Guy Fawkes mask.

“That’ll be $15.64.”

“Here you go dear.  Please feel free to keep the change.

`The Way it Is,’ was Bruce Hornsby and the Range.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

The Stranger laughed, leaned across the counter, smacked the scared girl on the ass, collected his bag, and walked out to the Mark II, which was hovering patiently outside. 

The Stranger cracked four eggs into the 64 oz cup, then poured in three of the OE800’s.  He circumcised the Slim Jim, and used its peppery, nitratey goodness to stir his beverage into a protein and alcohol froth.  He lifted his cape over his head, lifted the mask, and chugged the half-gallon in one.  He belched with gurgly heartiness, then replaced his mask, and uncovered his face. 

Next to the dumpster, a grizzled wino watched The Stranger with bleary-eyed curiousity.  The Stranger bowed theatrically, then handed the three remaining OE800’s  and eight remaining eggs to the wino. 

The wino beamed.  “Thanks, pal.”

Again, The Stranger bowed.  He lifted his cape, turned, farted saxophonically, flicked the Slim Jim into the wino’s face, then laughed as he walked back to the Mark II.

At The Facility, the Cheneymonster was brooding inside his  command coffin.  His thoughts turned to his archnemesis,  a small, brown dog named Sam.  Cheneymonster’s mind went back to a Wednesday morning several years ago.  Cheneymonster had been in his former host body then, a sneering old bald man.  On the previous weekend’s hunting trip, Cheneymonster, in a rare fit of high spirits, had blasted his friend in the face with a shotgun.  That morning, Cheneymonster had gotten out of bed, only to put his gnarled foot right in a cold pile of dog poo.  His next step, the same.  In fact, all the way to the bathroom, every one of his steps was into dog poo.  He cursed and grunted and sneered his way into the tile floored master bath, where his foot hit a puddle of dog piddle.  Cheney monster slipped and fell flat on his back. 

When he came to, Cheneymonster found Sam sitting on his chest.  The Wonderdog spoke in the clear, menacing voice of Jack Nicholson in “A Few Good Men.”

“You’re a punk, you spawn-of-satan sonofabitch.  I don’t give a squirt of piss if you get up to your evil reindeer games when you’re down in The Pit, but if you’re going to be in my tri-state area, you will NOT shoot people in the face.  You piss off Kelly Vision again, and you’ll have me so far up your papery wrinkled old white guy ass you’ll think I’m your proctologist.  I’ll be watching you, Cheneymonster.  You’d better hope you never hear my voice again.  Well, unless you’re watching `A Few Good Men.’ I will smite the ever-loving shit out of you.  ARE WE CLEAR?”

“Crystal,” sneered Cheneymonster, many years ago.  Inside the command coffin, he repeated.  “Crystal.”

From opposite directions, the Mark II and the Lamborghini SUV arrived at The Facility’s main gate.  Overhead, dark clouds of foreboding gathered, while high in a pine tree, two squirrels chatteringly made love.

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5 Responses to “Recovery, Ho!”

  1. Oh thank the gods, over whom none have leverage!
    For there’s a store! And I sure crave a beverage!”

    Heee!

  2. Gingersister Says:

    Good dog Sam! Very VERY good dog!

    (thanks for my previously requested back-story)

  3. Good Boy!

    Malt liquor, eggs, and a Mark II? I sure hope Orson Welles knew what he was doing.

  4. I have a feeling that the squirrels are going to play a very key role… *toot*

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