Something Weird

by Ian Watson

  “Nasty looking bugger, isn’t he?” the Professor said. “Spawned by a Tarvosian, I’d wager.”

  Good morning to you, too, Boss, Marilyn thought.

  “How do you figure that?” she said.

  “They’re the ones who excrete popcorn kernels.”

  “You mean we’re being attacked by an…. intergalactic turd?”

  Marilyn shook her head. This job.

  “What happened?” she said.

  Agar shrugged. “He came, he saw, he destroyed everything in his path.”

  “I got that. How do we stop him?”

  The Professor smiled.

  She followed him into another harshly lit room, full of identical people in identical uniforms. Pausing in the doorway, he said, “Say hello to our star quarterback.”

  Marilyn glanced over to where Agar pointed. The saviour of New York wore a blue sailor’s collar and a red neckerchief, with a white sailor hat tilted at a rakish angle. The hat sported a red ribbon and a blue hatband that bore the words Stay Puft.

  “It’s…”

  “Yes. The one and only.”

  The Stay Puft Marshmallow Man turned to look at Marilyn.

  Who screamed.

  ***

  “Oh, pull yourself together,” Agar said. “Is that any way to treat a friend?”

  Stay Puft didn’t think so. He slumped in a corner with his arms folded, sulking.

  “I…I…” Marilyn said.

  “For Heaven’s sake. You’ve seen a Marshmallow Man before, haven’t you?”

  “Oh sure. In fact, now you mention it, I don’t know what came over me. Of course I haven’t. What is this?”

  “It’s all perfectly logical, if you put on the right glasses. When faced by an unusual adversary, we turn to an unusual hero.”

  Marilyn stared at the Marshmallow Man. “Hero,” she said.

  Stay Puft gave her the finger.

  “Do you mind?” the Professor said. “He happens to be rather sensitive.”

  “I thought he was dead.”

  “How do you kill something made from water, sugar, and corn syrup? No, no, he’s the ultimate secret weapon, in the right hands. Once he was reassembled, it was just a case of…re-educating him. He’s harmless, I assure you, though you have to watch him during Bridge games. He cheats.”

  “Um,” Marilyn said.

  “We’ve used him before, of course, on several occasions, but they keep trying to get him to, you know, do things. Demolish the ghettoes, start a land war in China, that sort of nonsense. We’re not having any of that are we, Dan?”

  Stay Puft beamed, giving a thumbs-up.

  “You call him Dan?” Marilyn said.

  “Dan, Dan, the Marshmallow Man. He prefers it to Gozer.”

  “And you have faith in….him. I mean, you think he can do this?”

  “Sure. Don’t you?”

  Dead air.

  “That’s what I thought.” To Stay Puft, he said: “Ready, Dan?”

  Stay Puft nodded.

  “Then go kick some arse, old boy.”

  ***

  New York not like Popcorn Man. Popcorn Man not like New York. Popcorn Man smaaaash.

  So long, Paris Café. Deal with you later, Daily News. Oops, there goes the Supreme Court building. Popcorn Man have date with Miss Liberty.

  He swam out to Liberty Island, aware of helicopters overhead, possibly recording his movements. That might’ve bothered him once, but not today. Today he was putting on a show just for them.

  Climbing ashore, he shook himself off and paused a while, long enough for the news crews to get their footage, then walked inland. First, he trashed the information centre, closely followed by the bookstore. The café came next, after which he set his sights on the gift shop. Nothing adventurous – he rose up and flopped right on top of it, crushing it like a sandcastle. He was saving himself for the Lady.

  Old Miss Liberty sure wasn’t any oil painting, but he reminded himself he wasn’t doing this for fun. He was doing this for the fame. Pretty soon, he’d be on more TV screens than Gamera. Maybe even as famous as Godzilla

  Godzilla, by God.

  Striding over to the Lady, Popcorn Man was tweaking her boobs when he felt himself being watched. Not recorded, not viewed, but watched, as though someone was sharing the island with him.

  Or something.

  He ceased tweaking and looked up, which was when he saw the Marshmallow Man wade ashore.

  ***

  Game on, Marilyn thought.

  She stood beside Professor Agar in the bunker, watching the events on a live feed. As Stay Puft charged towards his opponent, his expression changed, switching from joy to pure hatred. Popcorn Man swatted him across the face, sending him staggering backwards.

  “Good start,” Marilyn said, and the Professor shrugged.

  As the Marshmallow Man recovered, his opponent headbutted him once, twice. Then as Dan stumbled backwards, dazed, Popcorn Man got behind him and stuck out his foot.

  Stay Puft stumbled and fell backwards.

  He landed on his back, and as he struggled to orient himself, Popcorn started kicking him, calling him every name under the sun. “Your daddy was a Martian bull frog! Your mother sells rocks on Hyperion! Your sister sees more action than a space bus to Ganymede!”

  Stay Puft grabbed him with both hands. Rolling to his side, he came up in a crouch and swung Popcorn Man above his head, letting go after thirty seconds.

  Popcorn Man crashed by the base of the statue. He lay a while, then righted himself. He held the poise of a WWE fighter.

  That all you got?

  Dan punched him in the head.

  He dove in with a left hook, but Popcorn Man sidestepped and, as Dan stepped into the space he’d vacated, jumped onto his back. Using his weight, Popcorn Man brought him crashing down, then smashed his head against the deck until Stay Puft’s elbow connected with his jaw.

  Rising, Dan rabbit-punched his opponent in the stomach, then threw himself forward, crashing down on top of the other creature. They tussled in the dirt a while, then gave up the ghost and collapsed on top of each other.

  They stayed that way a long time.

  “What am I watching?” Marilyn said.

  The Professor exhaled. He said nothing.

  ***

  Breathless, panting with exertion, Popcorn Man looked into his quarry’s eyes. “You gonna get off me then, you goddamned fairy?”

  “Hush,” Dan said, “I’m all tuckered out here.”

  All of a sudden, Popcorn Man’s eyes went wide.

  “Why, Mr Stay Puft,” he said. “Don’t tell me that’s a rocket in your pocket.”

  “Why don’t you take a look? Might have your name on it.”

  “Uh huh, I ain’t riding backwards up Brokeback, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Sure about that, tough guy?”

  Popcorn Man shrugged.

  “Well,” he said, “maybe just this once.”

  Leaning forward, he kissed Stay Puft on the lips.

  “How about that?” Dan said. “Guess that’s what folks mean by keeping your enemies closer.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head, no-neck. You’re the one wearing the sailor costume.”

  “This is true. But at least I don’t have fatties pouring butter all over me.”

  “Tough words for someone who’s soft, squidgy and also available in pink.”

  “Are we gonna trade insults all day? Because, unless I miss my guess, there’s a city needs destroying.”

  “Hot diggity,” Popcorn Man said. “With all this excitement, I forgot about that sucker.”

  “We can get a room afterwards.”

  “We don’t need no room, Pilgrim. I got my ride out back. Ever done it while navigating an asteroid belt?”

  “Now you’re just showing off.” Stay Puft got to his feet. “C’mon. I got m
e a jones for some epic-scale destruction.”

  ***

  As Marilyn watched, Popcorn Man plucked Lady Liberty from her base and used her as a back-scratcher while Stay Puft jogged backwards and clapped his hands together, initiating a game of catch. They played a while, then Dan’s interest waned. He tossed the statue into the Hudson and they waded across to Manhattan.

  Crushing buildings like sandcastles, they moved north, across Fifth Avenue and into the Flatiron District. They played peek-a-boo in Lincoln Square, took a dump on the American Museum of Natural History and climbed to the roof of the Empire State Building. They were photographing each other’s King Kong poses when – irony alert – two F-16s swooped out of the clear blue sky.

  Discharging six thousand 20mm rounds per minute, four M61 Vulcan cannons opened fire. “Do you feel something?” Stay Puft said.

  “Burning sensation between my toes,” Popcorn Man said. “Athlete’s foot, you think?”

  “Better get that looked at.”

  When the jets swooped round for their second pass, Popcorn Man tossed a Lolly Gobble Bliss Bomb. The explosion sent the first F-16 spinning right, straight in front of his colleague.

  As they collided, Professor Agar shook his head.

  “Now might be a good time to pack your bags,” he said.

  “Time to leave town?” Marilyn said.

  “Time to leave the country.”

  ***

  They walked through the Upper East Side, hand in hand.

  “Swear I parked around here,” Popcorn Man said. “Swear I did.”

  While he searched, turning the air around him blue, Dan thought about a conversation he’d overheard at Rochester House. He didn’t know if there was any truth in it, but it didn’t hurt to bring it up.

  “I hear there’s a special place for people like, you know, us,” he said. “Where they’ll treat us like regular folks, not freaks. We’ll fit right in and, if you want, we can even get married. It’s legal there. After a while, we’ll forget all about days like today. Be able to put all this crazy stuff behind us. What do you think?”

  “I think it sounds boss,” Popcorn Man said. “What’s this place called?”

  Stay Puft thought a while.

  “Texas,” he said.

  Overhead, two more F-16s appeared.

  Part 6

  It was easier than he’d thought.

  The car pulled into the driveway at seven o’clock, exactly as planned. Blake got out, and he was alone.

  Travel bag in hand, he began jangling keys. Slowly, awkwardly, the door opened.

  Bishop snapped on the lights.

  “Close it,” he said, and the writer did so. He said, “Do you know who I am?”

  The other man shook his head.

  “I’m Bishop,” he said.

  And shot him.

  Moments later, having staged the scene to look like a robbery, Bishop was back on the road, travelling south. He threw the gun in a reservoir, left the stolen car in a parking lot with the keys inside and took a Greyhound back to Newark, paying in cash. He slept for most of the journey, and his dreams were untroubled.

  The following day, back home, he re-read the manuscript. It was an unexpected bonus, and judging from its form, nobody else had read it. Ideas began to form.

  Let’s see: a tweak needed here, a little polish there and he could whip it into shape. Maybe tone down the explicitness. Send it off to an editor and-

  His phone buzzed.

  Bishop answered and heard keys jangling, a lock turning. A door opened and a voice said, “Close it.”

  His voice.

  The sound of the gunshot caused him to drop the cell. When he retrieved it, he realized the line was still open.

  “Mr Bishop,” the voice said. “I have a proposition.”

  Dead air.

  “You’ve already taken a man’s life, stolen his work. You might as well have the spoils.”

  Plastic creaked as Bishop’s grip tightened. He closed his eyes, rubbed the sockets.

  “You envied his career,” the caller said. “You can have it. Everything, it’s yours. But with a caveat.”

  Of course, Bishop thought.

  “We had a contract, the writer and I. More of an understanding, really. Your nemesis was a very smart man. He realized there’s no success without….sacrifice.”

  “What do you want?”

  “One family. Every twelve months. In return for which you get to live the life of your dreams. Have your answer for me by nine o’clock, tomorrow morning.”

  The line went dead.

  Bishop made dinner and ate in silence, barely tasting the food. Later, after struggling to concentrate on the book he was reading, he showered, shaved, and went to bed, falling asleep almost immediately.

  He woke shortly after dawn, feeling uneasy. It was only when he raised himself from the bed that he realized everything had changed.

  He was no longer in his own room. Looking around, he recognised the furniture. It belonged in another house, the one he’d been in twenty-four hours earlier.

  Bishop stared at his reflection, and another man stared back. Not a stranger, exactly, because this was a man he’d gotten to know well over several weeks. Whose daily routine he had gone over and over, again and again.

  The phone rang.

  When he lifted the receiver, a voice said, “How do you like your new lifestyle?”

  You’ve reached the end of Something Weird, but read on for an extract from Blood Sex & Scooby Snacks, which is available now.

  Part 7

  Say you’ve been sucked through the screen at your local multiplex, but unlike that kid in Last Action Hero, you haven’t been transported into a Schwarzenegger movie. You don’t know where the hell you are. But there’s an old timer up ahead and he’s hollering at a bunch of teenagers that if they don’t turn around and go back, if they don’t skedaddle toot sweet, they’re gonna be sorry. And, by the way, don’t go near the Miller place after dark.

  Uh oh. The local prophet of doom, a handful of kids and a creepy location. That means you’re either in a horror movie or that episode of Scooby Doo! Where Are You? where the Mystery Machine arrives in this ghost town, and instead of helping the others, Shaggy and Scooby sneak off in search of food but a monster chases them so Fred devises a plan and they set a trap but it fails and leads to a climactic chase that ends with Scooby colliding with the villain, who’s then unmasked as….

  Come to think of it, that’s every episode.

  Anyway, you can’t tell where you are, and even looking at the cast doesn’t tell you much because it’s two attractive leads, a nerd, a stoner plus a brown-skinned comic relief character who speaks in a peculiar dialect, eats watermelon and shows more interest in “Scooby snacks” than the ladies. Then there’s the dialogue. Whenever somebody finds themselves trapped, they say, “We’re trapped!” Upon entering a haunted house, they say, “This place is spooky!” There’s also the Talking Villain scene, where the culprit gives a speech explaining his sinister scheme, which he might’ve gotten away with if it hadn’t been for those meddling kids and their damn dog.

  Scientists, Mayors, college Deans, police officers and, now you mention it, pretty much every other person in a position of authority, right down to the parents, cannot be trusted. Also, the Sheriff is either unhelpful, corrupt or thoroughly evil, and probably has a dark secret. Also a Deputy dumb enough to deny the monster’s existence without first looking over his shoulder. Although that’s no guarantee that he’s not the villain.

  You see, our more-evil-than-Enron fiend will, for most of the running time, appear where and when he damn well pleases, and to hell with logic. In his presence, power supplies will fail and cars refuse to start. Characters will wander alone down dark corridors saying, “Hello?” Fire exits will be mysteriously blocked.

  And if you’re thinking of phoning a frien
d and saying please oh please get me out of this movie, forget it. The phones don’t work. And there’s a thunderstorm moving in.

  Then, as you run out of fuel and hike through the middle of nowhere in the dead of night, searching for a gas station that isn’t operated by Brad Dourif, the thought occurs: how did it come to this?

  It all started when Nixon was in the White House, the Manson Family were at large and Vietnam was more than just a talking point. Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy had been assassinated, and if you hadn’t yet figured out times were changing, then a controversial new film called Midnight Cowboy, the first X-rated movie to win Best Picture, would change your mind.

  Into this muddled-up, mixed-up world came four teenagers named Geoff, Kelly, Linda and WW, who roamed the country with their sheepdog, Too Much. Or they would have, if CBS executive Fred Silverman hadn’t nixed the idea for a show called Mysteries Five. He wanted a series that would repeat the ratings success of The Archie Show as well as placate parent-led pressure groups that considered Saturday morning television too violent, so between them, Silverman, writers Joe Ruby and Ken Spears, plus animator Iwao Takamoto came up with Who’s S-S-Scared?, whose teens were modelled on characters from CBS’s previous comedy hit, The Many Loves Of Dobie Gillis.

  Though based on Dobie himself, Fred Jones, the group’s self-appointed hero/leader, would’ve been more familiar to teenaged viewers as the square-jawed protagonist who battled Blobs, mad scientists and rubber-suited monsters at the Drive-in every Saturday night. His supposed girlfriend, Daphne Blake, had the token damsel-in-distress role while her considerably less attractive (and feminine looking) classmate Velma Dinkley, a near-sighted bookworm, could lecture for hours on such topics as runic symbols, palaeontology, Viking history etc. Along for the ride, as well as provide comic relief, was Norville ‘Shaggy’ Rogers, a long-haired, unshaven coward based on Bob Denver’s Dobie character, Maynard G Krebs, primetime’s first beatnik. Rounding out the line-up was Mystery Incorporated’s mascot, a talking Great Dane whose name came not from Sacha Distel’s 1958 hit Scoubidou or even Frank Sinatra’s dooby-dooby-dooing on Strangers In The Night, but Denise by Randy And The Rainbows, which Blondie later covered as Denis.

  CBS President Frank Stanton rejected Who’s S-S-Scared? for being too scary for its intended audience, so Silverman, determined to revitalize his Saturday morning schedule, changed the title and toned down the material, which was apparently enough to obtain the necessary greenlight. In other words, Scooby Doo! Where Are You? came into existence because it was safe, formulaic and unlikely to tax an eight-year-old overmuch.