Balloon Boy and the Porcupine Pals: Antihooliganism

by Mort Gloss

"How many guards again?" asked Russ, unsure he had heard Balloon correctly.

  "They got them 'bout 1,650 er so," answered Balloon, slouching in his chair as Russ manned the navigation controls.

  "And what's the layout of the location where it's kept?" said Russ.

  Balloon closed his eyes, envisioning the fortress that housed the Protective Essence. "She's like a big dome 'er somethin', with a whole heap a staircases 'n slabs a metal, and they's big fellas 'bout ever 10 feet er so holdin' laser cannons 'n what not."

  "And the location of the ball of power?"

  "She's right smack dab in the middle a everthang," answered Balloon, his eyes still shut. "She kinda up in the air a piece, like sittin' on some heap a glass type thang yonder up above them big fellas who's standin' guard in a big circle round about."

  "Enough with the details," yawned Tom, waking up from a few hours' sleep. "It doesn't matter anyway; Balloon's got this whole thing in the bag."

  "I just think it's a good idea to plan ahead," said Russ.

  "Planning ahead actually might make things worse," responded Tom, now stretching his arms. "Plus, I'd rather not spoil the ending. I want complete surprise. It's kind of like when somebody tells you the end of a movie; you don't even want to watch if you already know how it's going to shake down."

  "This whole thing's just a joke to you, isn't it?" asked Russ, a bit annoyed.

  "Calm down, Captain America," answered Tom, "I'm just saying none of this so-called planning matters. Balloon can handle anything. Which reminds me. Balloon, are the translators done yet?"

  "Yup. Got 'em all finished while y'all was snoozin'.

  "Did you ever know that you're my hero?" said Tom, standing up. He walked over to a mess of headsets and cables strewn out in the corner of the command center. "So how do I use this blasted thing?"

  "Git ya one of them there ear-things over yonder, 'n stick it in yer ear first off," explained Balloon.

  Tom complied with the instructions, fitting the earpiece and then turning around to face Balloon. "I always said I wouldn't be one of those toolbags who wears one of these things every second of the day. I guess sacrifices must be made for the greater good."

  "No," responded Russ, "it just turns out you are a toolbag."

  "You're probably right," said Tom. "At least I look the part with this thing in my ear. So now what do I do?"

  Balloon turned to face Tom and pointed to the ground beside him. "Git you one of them there Velcro things with that round speaker on her 'n strap her to yer neck, jist as if'n you was a hound wearin' a collar."

  "First I'm a toolbag, now I'm a hound. Things are really looking down for me these days," said Tom as he picked up the Velcro strap.

  "Ya gots to git that speaker thingy right over that there lump in yer throat. It'll hep y'all sound like y'all is really talkin' outta yer own head."

  "Excellent," said Tom, fitting the collar around his neck as he spoke, "I always make it a point to speak with my own head." He shifted the collar into the right position on his neck and tightened the strap. "Earpiece thingy: check. Dog collar: check. Now what?"

  "Ya 'bout got her. Take that there wire danglin' off the end a the collar, 'n plug her into that hole up yonder on the back a the earpiece. Then all y'all gots to do is tap the button on the earpiece thingy 'n ya can talk to everbody everwhere."

  Russ, who was still holding the controls even though no actual steering was required, turned and faced Tom. "You look like some kind of emo freakjob."

  "Why thank you, Russell; the look I could never quite master back in our high school days."

  Russ turned to Balloon. "How does it know what language it's supposed to translate?

  "Ya gotta git some words out from them folks speakin' the language y'all want to talk in, then she'll give ya the right words in yer ear."

  "How does it work?" asked Russ.

  "Really, Russ?" interrupted Tom. "Really? What does it matter? He's just going to spew out some technobabble in response that none of us will be able to understand anyway."

  "I want to know," answered Russ, resolute. "Tell me, Balloon, how does the translator work?"

  Balloon spit out the answer exactly how it came to him: "the universal translator is able to translate any language to any language, and vice versa, by detecting phonetic signals, tone variations, volume, and other audio data, thereby determining linguistic intent and meaning through sound. Once a language is sampled, the universal translator builds a detailed database of words and phrases and stores the information accordingly, drawing upon the information when needed by the speaker and/or hearer."

  "See," said Tom, "totally incomprehensible."

  "Don't make none sense to me," agreed Balloon.

  "We truly are the blind being led by the blind, aren't we, Russell?" laughed Tom.

  Balloon took the coke-bottle glasses from his face and began cleaning them with his sweat-soaked t-shirt. "I ain't blind, long as I got ma glasses on 'n they's clean."

  "I stand corrected," said Tom. "Balloon, tell me whether Rita is awake out there."

  "Just open the door and look, moron," said Russ, "she's only about 10 feet away."

  "I don't want to wake her up if she's asleep. Just tell me, Balloon."

  "She ain't sleepin'; she in there lookin' out the window at the stars 'n what not."

  "What's Victory doing?" asked Tom, a slight frown replacing his excited smile.

  "She up too, readin' somethin' 'er other."

  "Okay, Gibson, the time has come," said Tom, clenching his fists as he spoke, "I gotta do this now."

  "What's your plan, Romeo?" asked Russ. "You think she's just going to melt when the translator starts hissing at her for you?"

  "I told you before. The plan is... there is no plan," answered Tom. And then, a spark came into his eyes. "But wait a second; I should ask Balloon for a plan. Balloon," he said, turning around and facing him, "what should I say when I get in there to get the lovely Rita to like me?"

  Balloon asked himself the question, as observed by both Tom and Russ, but nothing came out of his mouth.

  "Oh come on, seriously? There's nothing I can say to her that would be helpful?"

  Balloon asked himself the question again, this time squinting his eyes extra tight as he did so. "Ya can be hepful by askin' her if'n she wanna drink 'er somethin'," came the response.

  "You're hosed," laughed Russ.

  "I told you; I'm going out there, regardless of what supergenius over here knows or doesn't know," said Tom.

  Tom quietly walked to the doorway, slowly turned the knob, and attempted to push the door open without making any audible noise. His attempt failed, however, as the door swung open with a loud creaking sound. Both Rita and Victory shot him annoyed looks.

  "Good luck," said Russ, taking note of Tom's initial failure.

  "Won't be necessary," said Tom, in a quiet response.

  Tom walked toward the flower couch, which seated both the tremendous Victory and the lean Rita. Victory sat approximately one foot lower on her portion of the couch, pushing Rita's end higher. "How are you doing?" Tom said to Rita, his hands finding their way to his pockets as he spoke. Rita refused to look at him. The translator attached to his head did nothing.

  "What do you care, Starley?" answered Victory, not even lifting her gaze from the pages of her book.

  "Balloon," said Tom, ignoring Victory and turning his head around, "this thing isn't working."

  "I done told ya," said Balloon, yelling from his command seat, "ya gots to git some speakin' outta her 'fore she can translate nothin'."

  "Oh yeah, I remember now," said Tom. He turned back to Rita and tried again. "I hope you're enjoying our little spacecraft here. We think it's pretty ... uh ... nifty." His words came out in English for a second time.

  "Did you say nifty?" came Russ' sarcastic tone from the other room.

  Victory was getting aggravated. "Quit bugging me," she said, a scowl coming across her face as she turned a pag
e in her book.

  Rita of course paid no attention to him whatsoever.

  Tom walked the few steps back to the command center and stood next to Balloon's chair. "This isn't working, Balloon," he said, "what do I need to do to get her to talk to me?"

  Balloon asked himself the question. Without a word in response to Tom's question, he heaved himself out of his seat and walked into the next room. Tom followed closely behind. As he entered, Rita gave him her undivided attention. "How ya' doin' there, Rita?" he said in the Zaxmorthian common tongue. "Ma friend here, Tommy, wants to speak to ya 'bout some stuff."

  As Balloon spoke to Rita, Tom's translator fed the words into his ear in English. But, to Tom's surprise, it wasn't regular English; it was Balloon's special version of west Texas idiot speak.

  "Wow, this thing is incredible," said Tom, meaning to speak in English. Although English was the language that may have formed in his throat, Zaxmorthian emanated from the speaker attached to his neck.

  And then Tom heard Rita speak, really speak, for the first time. "Of course, my Lord Protector," she said, facing Balloon with an almost worshipful expression, "I am happy to speak with your slave per your illustrious commands."

  Had any other person in the universe intimated Tom was Balloon's "slave," he would have unleashed a barrage of scorn. However, Rita's soft, feminine voice-as it translated into his earpiece-captivated him.

  "Thank you, Rita; thank you," came Tom's ridiculous response.

  Balloon's face started to burn red with embarrassment. "Well, I reckon y'all needs some privacies 'n what not. I's gonna be over yonder if'n y'all need anythang." With that, Balloon turned to walk back to the command center. Before he left, however, he turned to Victory and said: "Hey, Vic."

  "Hey," she said, never lifting her eyes from the pages of her book. Balloon quietly sighed and went into the other room.

  As soon as he was gone, Rita's expression soured. She looked at Tom with disdain. "What do you want, slave?" she asked.

  Tom could faintly hear the actual sounds of the words that came out of her mouth, comprising a series of snarls and hissing sounds. But with the assistance of the universal translator, Rita's tender, almost songlike voice was his main point of focus. "I just wanted to talk to you," he responded stupidly. "How are you doing?"

  "I don't speak to vermin unless commanded to do so," came her cold response.

  "Okay. I'm not really sure why you are calling me slave and vermin. What's that all about?" asked Tom, completely sincere.

  "Those are the titles you merit. Look at you; you are nothing more than a skinny, weak, slow-minded shell," she said, gesturing at Tom's lanky frame as she spoke. "If your master were not the Lord Protector himself, I would question your appointment as his slave."

  "Well, first of all," said Tom, trying to defend himself, "I'm not his slave, or his servant, or anything like that. We're friends... sort of. Second, there's no way that guy is this 'Lord Protector' you're talking about."

  "Your station is lower than I originally anticipated. Not only are you a malnourished slave; you are a shortsighted liar."

  Tom did his best to smile. "Well, at least I'm not short," he said with a forced laugh. Rita looked at him with confused disdain. "I still don't quite understand why you hate me, Rita."

  "Hate is a deep-seated emotion which you do not merit," answered Rita matter-of-factly. "While climbing a mountain one does not voluntarily slide down."

  "Okay," answered Tom, "not sure what that means, but it's all good."

  "Are you finished wasting my time?" asked Rita, standing up from the flower couch and placing her hands on her hips.

  "Oh no, not even close. But I'll give you a break for the time being if that's what you want."

  "Answer me this, slave," said Rita, moving close to Tom and flicking the collar portion of the translator with her long fingernails, "why do you need this ridiculous contraption to speak the language common among all sentient beings in the galaxy?"

  "Either I'm an idiot, or I'm not from your galaxy. You'll probably incorrectly guess the former," answered Tom.

  "Don't insult my intelligence. I may not be a member of the Protector Class, but I am learned in the science of interplanetary travel. Transgalactic flight cannot be achieved."

  "Sure about that, Rita?" asked Tom, gaining a bit of confidence.

  "You're testing my patience, slave," she answered.

  "Turns out this pristine piece of rectangular dwelling comes from the Milky Way Galaxy, which is... uh... pretty far from here."

  "There is no such collection of systems," she answered, resolute.

  "Balloon!" yelled Tom toward the command center, covering the microphone of the translator so Rita would not be able to understand his question. "How do the Zaxmorthians refer to the Milky Way Galaxy?"

  "They got some numbers 'n what not fer her," shouted Balloon matter-of-factly from the other room. "She ain't got no proper name, on account a them thinkin' she ain't much, so they's jist call her one a them there 'insignificant galaxies.'"

  "Well, give me the blasted number then," said Tom.

  "IGN 4594," answered Balloon.

  "What the deuce does the IGN stand for?" said Tom, trying to fake a smile at Rita as he continued his Q&A session with Balloon.

  "Insignificant Galaxy Number," came the response.

  "Perfect," said Tom. He turned to Rita and again offered her a perfunctory smile. "We're from galaxy number 4594, my lady."

  "Throwing out some random number doesn't convince me of anything, slave," responded Rita. "However, if you were from some other collection of systems," she added, "I would expect it to be one of the insignificant galaxies, as you've suggested."

  "I kind of thought you'd say that," said Tom. "I'm not really sure how to prove it to you, other than having my large friend in there tell you himself. You seem to believe anything he says."

  Rita did not respond, her scowling expression softening somewhat.

  Tom yelled to Balloon without muffling the microphone. "Balloon, please tell the lovely Rita here where we're from."

  "We all from Midland, Texas," said Balloon proudly, pulling up his pants as he walked back into the living room.

  "Perhaps you could be a bit less specific on this one," said Tom, covering up his microphone again. "Just tell her what galaxy we're from, and use their name for it."

  "We's from IGN 4594," said Balloon, amending his answer to match Tom's demands.

  "My Lord Protector," responded Rita in reverential tones, "I was unaware such immense travel was possible. Indeed, you are powerful." With that she bowed her head and said no more, as if she were waiting for Balloon to say something majestic and lordly.

  "Ain't no thang," he said.

  Tom again spoke to Balloon so Rita could not understand. "Tell her everything I did to help you get the single-wide here."

  "I couldna done her without Tommy here," said Balloon hastily. "He's a real good hepper, gittin' the stuff I done told him we'all needed to make this here trip, 'n puttin' everthang on the single-wide in the jist right place like I done told him."

  Rita looked at Tom with a gloating smile. "Thanks, Balloon," said Tom sheepishly.

  "Your home must indeed be illustrious and grand, to serve as the abode of someone of your unparalleled magnitude," said Rita.

  "You've clearly never been to west Texas," laughed Tom. Both Rita and Balloon stared at him with contempt. "I guess it's...uh...nice. Texas is the biggest state in the United ..., well, if you don't count...." He trailed off as he spoke.

  "My Lord Protector," said Rita with total sincerity, "I offer my services to you, and I thank you for this esteemed opportunity to assist in your quest."

  "We's gonna need all the hep we can git, so I thanks ya kindly," responded Balloon, failing in his attempt to perform a bow as he spoke. With that, he lumbered back into the command center and slouched down into his chair.

  "You see, Rita, I am from a different galaxy, which explain
s why I can't speak your native tongue, beautiful as it may be."

  "With the exception of our Lord Protector, and his magnificent companion here," said Rita, gesturing to Victory, "your planet of origin must indeed be both feeble-minded and malnourished. It is the only logical explanation for why a dog like you could end up serving someone of his greatness."

  Tom resigned himself to her accusations. "What can I say? I'm a lucky guy," he said, trying not to laugh as he spoke.

  "And I expect this will conclude our conversation. Am I correct that you have nothing else of any value to say to me?" said Rita.

  "Well, I guess I don't right now," answered Tom. "But I'm sure I'll come up with something later on."

  Rita sat down on the couch, positioning herself in order to resume her gaze out the living room window. "Let's hope it's later rather than sooner," she said, without looking at Tom.