“What exactly are you doing now,” the janitor laughs, sloshing his dirtying water about the floor. “Wait, don’t tell me. You’re trying to kill me, from afar. With your magic powers, right? The ones you don’t have, yeah?” The janitor laughs himself into a fit of coughing, bending over with his hands on his knees.
Swansea turns away, embarrassed. Discreetly, he shakes the numbness from his hands. This submission notwithstanding, the janitor continues, “That’s definitely the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. Wait, wait, give me a minute. Let me retaliate.” He extends his own arms out towards Swansea; begins to contort them, just as a light fixture falls from its mount in the ceiling and crashes down, right onto his head.
Swansea stands bewildered. The janitor is lying on the floor. Blood seeps from the fallen custodian’s head wound, mixing with the filthy water. For a moment, Swansea is unsure how to respond. Then for the first time in a great while his face cracks into a sincere smile. He is overcome with pride and exuberance at the magnificence of his great powers. “Excellent.” He wrings his hands. “It appears despite your doubting, contrary to your contempt, I directed your fate and when your arrogance was at its apex… well I clenched it. And now you’re smoked.”
Swansea sniffs. “Smoked…” He sniffs again, an acrid scent fills the air. “Is something…,” eyes widen, “the muffins!”
∆ ∆ ∆
Dingy white cells line the hallways of the detainment area. Each is secured by a highly lethal set of lasers in lieu of traditional metal bars. Because, you know, why not, right?
Most of the cells are empty save for: a plethora of musty smells, a variety of cobwebs and a few hungry ratigators. Two cells house one inmate each. A man stands in the corner of his cell, lightly weeping while banging his head against the wall. While a female inmate sits looking into a compact calmly touching up her makeup. The dark brown curls framing her face spring up and down tickling, causing enough bother for her to re-pin them up over her temples. The man begins pacing around. Kicking at the ground he causes a pair of small hairless ratigators to scurry away in panic. Dust and cobwebs seize him, he responds in an explosion of spittle and mucous.
The woman turns in her cell, pressing an ear to the wall. “Is someone there?”
Hairdo freezes in excitement at the sound of a female voice. “Oh science, I didn’t realize I’m not alone. Ahem.” He straightens himself up, discreetly blows his nose and approaches the laser bars. “Name’s Hairdo.”
“You don’t mean Captain Hairdo, the famous Earth hero?”
“The one and only.”
“Fantastic. I’m Dale Harden, lead reporter for Atomic Times Monthly. Or as we like to call it in the business, A.T.M.”
“Dale Hardon…that name stirs something in my gut.”
“Harden, it’s Hungarian.”
Hairdo snaps his fingers. “That explains it,” Hairdo muses. “Well, Miss Harden, how did you end up imprisoned on an imperial space station?”
“I was building an in-depth profile on Doctor Handy Jerkoff and his revolutionary work in Technicolor prismatic beams; when my ship encountered extremely powerful magnetism. Jerkoff tried to improvise additional thrust by rerouting power, but it ultimately failed. We were pulled towards this base and the engines burned out trying to escape it.”
“Where is Jerkoff now?”
“No idea, we were immediately separated after capture...”
“And how long have you been here?” Hairdo queried.
“Too long! Most of it has been spent waiting for an opportunity to escape.”
“Escape? How do you intend to do that?”
“Easy. My makeup compact.”
“Excellent! We can use the makeup to disguise ourselves.”
“Are you serious?”
“When they don’t recognize us, they’ll have no choice but to let us go! Absolutely brilliant!”
“I really wish you could see my look of pure disdain right now.” Harden shakes her head. “We can use the compact on the bars, you palooka.”
“Yeah! Yeah…I don’t follow.”
“These bars are comprised solely of lasers.”
“Ok… Fancy.”
“Which means they can be reflected.”
“Very Cool, so we distract the guards with the laser light show winning over their loyalty and admiration, they let us out and fight on our side as imperial rebel defectors.”
While Hairdo drones on about laser shows, Dale puts her plan into action. Angling the compact to optimize the gap between diverted laser bar and the wall; Dale gingerly slides out of her cell.
Hairdo approaches the end of his cell, listening to the sound of Harden’s footsteps approach. As she appears before him a sly expression crosses his face, “You’re naked!”
“Just take your clothes off and get ready to toss them over the gap.”
“I knew it!”
Harden maneuvers the mirror under the last laser. “Hush! Toss your clothes and clear that gap soldier.” Waggling her index finger at Hairdo Dale adds, “try not to wiggle too much.”
“It’s been a long day and I never would have pegged you as the type, but if you’re into kinky stuff I’m game.”
“Just come through, would you? Security is probably watching us as we speak.” She points to one of the cameras for emphasis.
“Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind, Miss Harden?” His blue eyes twinkle as he winks.
Hairdo shimmies through the lasers with an excessive use of his hips. Dale winces at the fool hearty gyrations that court disaster with every thrust. Hairdo seemingly oblivious to the bris-full danger, gleefully laps up the attention and goes harder, in a final thrust he clears the lasers.
Brooking none of Hairdo’s foolishness Dale begins collecting her clothes from the floor.
Hairdo helicopters while attempting intense eye contact, “Wow, why didn’t I think of that…”
Harden slips the compact in the pocket of her folded pants. “Because you’re male… Get dressed.”
∆ ∆ ∆
Illuminated by dozens of brightly lit screens, Cockmaster General sits observing movement from all sectors of the space station. His attention halts on the guard room monitor. He cocks his head to one side and clucks. “What, those two aren’t assigned to that sector...” He watches the screen a little longer as the two patrolmen close the door behind themselves. They strip clothes from each other until down to their underwear. “I don’t think this is protocol…” he whispers unsure and draws his head ever closer to the screen. Then, the two men produce a bottle of oil – from science knows where – and tenderly apply it to each other. The eyes on Cockmaster’s mask widen. The guards fondle each other, rub shoulders and massage the curves of their bodies. The foreplay culminates in a feat that puts the Cockmaster General on the edge of his seat.
One man grabs the other’s nipples and slowly twists them. The recipient throws his head back, moaning in pleasure. Cockmaster jumps onto his seat and flaps his arms. “That’s definitely against regulations – but, it is the most interesting thing that’s happened all day.” Cockmaster’s feelings jumble as the humping intensifies. His flapping slows to a halt and he falls back into his seat spent. “My feathers are ruffled but…” He strokes the waddle on his mask. “Maybe I could get into this.”
∆ ∆ ∆
Bochit struggles against his restraints. Strapped into an adult sized highchair his arms, legs and torso are immobilized. He thought it a bit overkill when they buckled up his forehead then around his neck and jawline. The most perplexing bit of bondage though had to be the industrial plug they finally affixed to his aquiline nose, kinky. At his feet lies a twelve-gallon tub with a large spoon on top. Three chicken guards wearing aprons, long rubber gloves and muck boots approach.
“No, I will not.” A spoonful of butter is crammed between Botchit’s lips. A feeder forcefully closes Botchit’s mouth then a second instigates his swallowing reflex. When they finally allow him to open his
mouth for air, he gasps and chokes. Before Bochit can force his mouth shut, a dental gag crams inside his maw, propping it open while another spoonful of butter is prepared. “I can’t!” Botchit begs, though none of them pays him any heed.
Suddenly, the room’s only door slides open and the Emperor jounces in. The three feeders salute him and pull the tub away.
“Dr. Lemme Botchit,” the Emperor chuckles.
“What, do you want?” the captive pants.
“Quite delightful, isn’t it?”
Botchit starts sweating and twitching.
“You didn’t like it?” He steps closer, squinting at Botchit.
“It’s…the cholesterol…bad for you.”
“What was that? Butter is bad for you? Well then, I suppose we’ll have to stop letting you have it. Boys!”
“No!” Botchit rages against his restraints, gnashing his teeth at the approaching feeders. “I must have it!”
“Ha! You must have it,” Elephantine raises his hands to the ceiling releasing a triumphant chuckle, “then you shall have it, as much as you desire!” His voice palliative, he tilts the feeding rack to observe the contents. He coos, “Of course, our supply of butter isn’t unlimited. If you truly want more, you’ll have to pay a small price. A trade, if you will.”
“That’s what this was all about? You weren’t after the butter for your own enjoyment. But to lure us here, to coerce me.”
“Very clever Doctor,” Elephantine dances orbiting Bochit. “For me, it was always about the butter! I craved it before ever knowing the rich taste. Swansea values it for other applications,” Elephantine sweeps a wobbly arm across the feeding chamber. “He gathers power that my empire hasn’t seen for too long… which is good too, I guess. So Doctor, with your suspicions all but confirmed my question is: did it work?”
Elephantine’s hand rises from the tub with a massive dollop of butter. Slowly, as though feeding an infant, he lets the spoon hover towards Botchit’s mouth.
The scientist is frothing and twitching in his bondage, losing the battle against his better sensibilities. The moment the spoon floats within reach, he cranes his neck like a rabid snapping turtle and takes a voracious bite from the butter mound. The first bite clears his esophagus, he cranes forward for a second bite, but Elephantine snatches the spoon away, “Don’t be so hasty now. We still haven’t solidified the details of our arrangement.”
Botchit pants. “What do you want me to do? Anything. I’ll do anything!”
“We have need of a weapon…”
∆ ∆ ∆
“Are you sure you know where you’re going?”
“You’re not talking, again are you?” Harden turns to see Hairdo leaning against a wall, breathing heavily. “We’ll stop if you’re tired. We need to find a quiet place to strategize anyway.”
“There,” Hairdo limply points at a door in the corner at the end of the hall. “Not many guards around here. It’s probably empty.”
“Then get moving. Let’s go.” The reluctant team makes haste to the end of the hallway. Hairdo, tired, leans against the door, turns the handle and falls through. Harden’s honey eyes bulge in terror as her oafish companion stumbles over two guards; vigorously humping. The bottom man bellows, deep guttural moans. The top man pulls at his hair and maneuvers his body like a wild animal. Neither notice the intrusion on their private moment.
Hairdo, completely taken aback by the situation, only stares in fascination with a puzzled, “is that legal?” smile plastering his face.
∆ ∆ ∆
“Oh yeah, Daddy like...” Cockmaster sits hunched over in the process of living up to his moniker. He leans back, feathers ruffled releasing a satisfied sigh. For a moment, he takes a well-deserved rest. “That was incredible. I’ve got high expectations for the next round. Let’s see if they’re taking a—what” Cockmaster, slams the alarm. As he stands up to leave the room, he feels a draft. Embarrassed he gathers his pants pooled at his ankles. “Whoever interrupted this has a lot to answer for!” He fumbles with the onboard microphone, pressing his beak closely.
“Attention, you two. Yeah, you, Jody. Stop looking around, Jamie, I’m talking to you too.”
The guards begin dressing themselves, pointing accusing fingers at each other. “Calm down, there’s no need to deflect the responsibility here. Remember: we’re all in this together.” Cockmaster strokes the microphone and breathes heavily, then zips up his pants.
“Two of our prisoners have managed to escape the containment area. All evidence indicates that they are hiding out in your sector. These escapees, in fact, are literally right behind you. Don’t look at the camera like that. Yes, I’m serious. Turn around.”
The guards do as they’re instructed. When they realize the exposure they’ve endured both scramble even faster to clothe themselves.
“Come on, guys, don’t panic. Everything’s okay. Just detain the prisoners or something and I’ll be there in… in a few minutes. Just finishing off – up, up, off! – up here.” The intercom goes silent. Hairdo slowly takes a few steps back in the direction he came from, trying not to focus on anything. He passes through the threshold and feels Harden’s arm wrap around his.
“You almost made that a guerrilla ménage a trois.” Dale chuckles, “We should probably find a different room for our meeting.”
“Agreed.”
∆ ∆ ∆
Elephantine plops onto his throne, leash in hand. Next to him, his newest pet subserviently follows every tug of the tether. Whimpering is his pet’s only signs of discontent. The emperor wears a perverse grin, his satisfaction with the day’s accomplishments nearing climax. He takes his seat and directs his pet to stand beside the throne. “Face forward,” he commands it. “Let my guardsmen see you.”
Furious at what he’s been reduced to – but overjoyed at the prospect of more butter – Botchit turns to face outward. Some of the faces patrolling the control room snicker or are covered by hands. They internally ridicule him for such overt degradation.
“How does the thong feel?” Elephantine asks the scientist. “I thought the metal finish would complement my throne.”
Botchit pants heavily, sticking out his tongue and widening his eyes.
“I suppose you’ve been obedient thus far.”
A very deranged Botchit watches the emperor dip two fingers into a bowl of butter. His eyes trace those fingers carefully as they loop circles above the Emperor’s head, hover just out of reach, then move into the former scientist’s range. His tongue lashes out at the fingers, licking off all the butter in a matter of seconds.
“Mmmm. Nom nom, my pet. Nom nom.”
A furry creature leaps from behind the Emperor’s chair. Close inspection makes it clear to Botchit that this furry creature was, much like himself, manipulated into a fiendish devotion to all things buttery.
“Oh, does Handy want some noms, too?” Elephantine double dips his slobbery fingers into the butter bowl.
“Despite all the indignity,” the slight, furry creature responds under his breath. His garnet eyes look across the throne at Botchit. Oh? Who’s this lovely specimen? What a visage, I can picture him poured into Argyle and khakis, pocket protector stuffed to the brim. Oh, how it warms me. Handy only takes passive licks of the butter, his focus remaining on his burly new kennel mate.
“Elephantine!” Dale harangues, as the chamber doors slide open. Her figure stands strong, silhouetted by the stark corridor light. She points an accusatory finger at the corpulent criminal.
“We’re back for you!” Hairdo chimes in. Their vigor is short-lived, a glimpse of the gentled scientists saps their righteous indignation.
“Jerkoff!” Dale Harden’s jaw goes slack.
“Botchit!” Captain Hairdo covers his eyes.
“Botchit?” Harden turns to face Hairdo, shocked.
“Jerkoff?” Hairdo seconds the sentiment confused.
Looking their respective scientists up and down Dale and Hairdo question in unis
on, “What in science are you wearing?”
The reunion of scientists and their partners ends abruptly with Emperor Elephantine’s sharp staccato clap. He slowly rises from his throne, keeping the clap going. Once fully erect, he pauses mid-motion. His arms open wide, as if in anticipation of embrace and he cackles wickedly, “Now that you’ve all met,” he pauses mid-sentence to strike a pose, “To the Butter Dome!”
Chapter 3
The Butter Dome and the Bastard’s Betrayal
The Emperor chuckles to himself as guards fall upon Hairdo, restraining him. Dale and the two scientists watch dumfounded at Hairdo’s futile struggles. The guards drag him, a braying kicking mule, across the floor, out of sight and hearing.
Two guards nudge Harden towards the foot of the throne, her eyes narrow, “You monster!”
“No need for insults. It’s up to Hairdo to redeem his life.”
“So, if Hairdo wins, you’ll let him go?” Dale inquires. Despite all her reservations toward Hairdo, her fists clench in indignation. To see another person – regardless of how crass and boorish – imprisoned at Elephantine’s hands is unacceptable.
“Of course not!” the Emperor chortles, “If he wins, we just throw him into the delicious bath of boiling-” The Emperor licks his lips and presses a button on his controller, “Butter.”
The throne’s dais vibrates and shifts, rotating one hundred and eighty degrees, turning the wall, Emperor Elephantine, Dale and several guards. They now look down from a high balcony, overlooking a massive three-tiered colosseum. A low gurgling is heard as the Emperor’s belly jiggles violently, “Owwwie, my tummy it burns.” Anxiety spreads across his face. “Swansea, what an unpleasant feeling…” The Emperor clutches his belly and whines into the communicator.
“It sounds like a spot of mild indigestion most corpulent one.” Swansea intones drolly while examining the stitching on his gloves.
“Like Jerry?!?” Elephantie cries, “How long do I have to live? I’m too young and beautiful to die!” He falls to his knees and wails to the cosmos.
Captain Hairdo- Conquers the Cosmos Page 4
