Captain Hairdo- Conquers the Cosmos

by William McDonald

  He Sucks the crumbs from each finger, “Mmm… yes… that’s quite the change of heart, good… good macaroons.”

  Dale perches on the arm of Elephantine’s throne, drawing lazy circles on his slimy paw, gently demanding his attention, “So do you wanna? I mean, you do want to, right?”

  “Finally!” the Emperor erupts from his seat, obtusely tumbling Dale to the floor. “I haven’t done it in so long. Dear Science, when was it last? Oh my – do I look okay?” He glances down judgmentally, attempting to stick out his stomach. Dejected he slumps back into his throne, stuffing his mouth full of macaroons, “Never mind, don’t answer that. On with the interview.”

  Heartened, Dale whips out a small rectangular box, seemingly from nowhere and brings it to her eye. The box lights up and projects a hologram of a large camera lens that morphs several times before settling on a wide model, the label reading Galaxy Wide Angle Lens. Engaging controls, the lens adjusts, and she snaps a picture, “Don’t worry about how you look. It’s holo-print, we’ll touch it up. The Atomic Times Monthly will love this.” Camera down, she clears her throat and fidgets with the collar of her shirt, “Emperor Elephantine, you now hold two Earth scientists hostage and control a massive intergalactic space station. What are your goals? Your dreams? Why are you doing this?”

  “Butter.” Short and sweet.

  Dale’s eyes squint slightly in suspicious disbelief, “Butter?”

  “Yes. It’s delightful and I want more of it.”

  “Okay, but what does this have to do with—”

  “Everything! Butter is the answer!”

  “Wait, are you serious?”

  “Yes! But Swansea advised me to say it is the completion of the Technicolor Bomb.”

  “The… Technicolor Bomb?”

  “Yes.” The Emperor claps thrice. On cue, a display screen lowers from the ceiling. Unlike the sleek screens used for interstellar communications, it appears to be an older, boxier model, two-dimensional pixel based, utilized primarily for educational and training purposes. A preloaded video clip is paused on the display. The Emperor claps twice more and the video begins to play, with mild digital distortion stuttering the playback at random.

  The screen shows an active room filled with scientific instruments. A scientist walks from off-screen to midframe and pivots to face the camera. “Greetings!” stutter skip, “The Technicolor Bomb, capable of hyper-accelerating, amplifying and altering the reflective properties” the stutter skip, “of light, thereby making it a weapon of unheard of soc-” stutter skip, “destruction.” The program ends abruptly, flickering off and the screen rises back up to the ceiling.

  “How is that even possible?” Dale probes.

  “Do I look like a scientist to you? I don’t know. I only know that it works because Swansea Picklesworth tells me so. He explained it in big words that I didn’t understand, but it all sounded right. He’s actually rather smart,” Elephantine observes. “Though he has a troubling tendency to go off topic and say all of his innie words, outie.”

  “Yeah, I did notice that he seems to lack an inner monologue...” Dale posits, then observes the Emperor rattling off more high praises in a stream of conscious ode to his snacks. “Maybe it’s just a guy thing.”

  The primary screen flickers on, Cockmaster General appears. “My lord, we’ve detected a foreign craft approaching at high velocity.”

  “What?” Emperor Elephantine reddens and begins to fume, sweat pooling around his collar. “Give me a visual.”

  “We are having an issue locking onto its exact position, but it looks like… a hotdog? I suppose? Anyway! We need to take immediate action or—”

  “A hot dog you say?” The heat of irritation becomes the heat of desire. Licking his lips in anticipation the emperor commands, “Sounds delightful! Get it onboard immediately! I now crave the delicacy that is known as a ‘hotdog.’”

  “But, my lord, the craft is on a collision course and moving too quickly to capture with our Totin Cannon. If we don’t take immediate action against it—”

  “Oh! Then engage the lightening shield if you must – I prefer a roast anyway – but just enough to slow it down.”

  “You know sir it can’t be a real hotdog,” clucks Cockmaster.

  Face reddening further Elephantine stammers, “Are you… ah I know that, you dope.”

  Dale adds, “Let’s say it was, by some crazy circumstance, most likely it would be vile with space junk and radiation.”

  Belly gurgling Elephantine agrees, “Yes, lets’ say… I mean you are nuts, of course, I would, never, must not- eat it. Set the table! I must be assuaged!”

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  “Sorry about earlier, it was just a small misunderstanding,” Captain Hairdo confesses. Hairdo sits awkwardly with his bosom triumvirate.

  “You’d be surprised at how often it happens.” The middle nymph winks unperturbed.

  “Actually no, I don’t think I would be.” He looks from one woman to another, musing on their distinctly feminine features. “So…you’re a man?”

  “No, I’m a changeling. I transform into whatever your heart truly desires.”

  “Okay, that explains why there’s three of you… but why did you think it was appropriate to add a penis.”

  “Hey, it’s your subconscious, not mine. I’m gender neutral, I change to accommodate your truest and deepest desires.”

  At a loss, Hairdo turns away from the changeling. “It’s probably best if I just go.”

  “Take a minute and be honest with yourself. Have you ever met anyone more perfect for you than I?”

  Hairdo looks uncomfortable but can brook no argument.

  “Why do you think all these skeletons are here?”

  “Avant-garde décor?”

  “If any still lived, they would give a stirring testimonial. Try it just once, discover true pleasure, you’ll never want to leave. Then you too can die satisfied and truly at peace.”

  Hairdo begins to slowly backpedal, “Look, uh…I’ve got to go do… some Earth hero things – yeah, that’s it – things that are expected of me. Being a hero, that is. Sorry, it’s not that you’re not perfect...” He takes a final look, eyes drifting over the changelings’ flawless bodies, lingering on to the large bulge barely concealed in her silky thin lingerie. Hairdo looks down feeling his loins stir to his own pique; quickly he crosses his hands over his lap. Hairdo gently bites his lower lip, “Okay, well, bye!” His feet clap against the bones, stirring up a cloud of dust to follow his hasty retreat.

  “Ah! He’ll be back…” the changeling’s three projections merge into one. She grabs a Starways Select instant dinner from the nearest instantiater and kicks away a pile of bones, clearing a comfortable section of pillows. Sighing, she lowers herself as a viewscreen slides down. Relaxing into the pillows she laughs at her favorite Space Confederation Cable Channel character, Mr. Bloople, as he bungles his anniversary plans, yet again.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  A unit of chicken guards stand at the ready, watching the Tontin canon reel in the slightly burnt hot dog. At the front of their formation stands Cockmaster General, arms cocked, hands at his hips. As the ship docks in the bay, he turns around to address his underlings. “On your guard men, this could be dangerous. When the ship stabilizes, close in and be ready for anything.”

  “Yes, sir!” They salute in unison.

  The Tontin canon’s beam finally powers down the craft safely within the bay. Cockmaster leaps into action, latching onto the handle of the craft. His men move forward. They maneuver into a daisy chain formation each guard moving in simultaneously. They grab each other’s shoulders and lean into their general.

  “Alright, men. Three…two…”

  “Hold it!” The guards flinch at the rich nasal voice. “Smoked sausages! Just what do you think you’re doing?” From behind them, Swansea Picklesworth appears, hands on his waist. Cockmaster’s troop turns to salute him.

  “Sir Duke!” Cockmaster salutes. �
��We are inspecting this alien craft under the direct orders of Emperor Elephantine.”

  “Alien craft, you say?” Swansea cocks his head at it. “Leave it in my capable hands.”

  “What?”

  “Leave now! Or choose your fate, the pudding of malevolence or the popsicle of Darkness!” Swansea leans in waving his finger in Cockmaster’s face. Attempting to intimidate the man with a clear 50lbs. of muscle more than him.

  Confused at his proffered options Cockmaster raises his hands in placation. He rounds on his troops, “Then we shall go.” Reflecting on the craft in front of him and his previous conversation with the emperor, he formulates a plan to mitigate some of his sovereign’s inevitable disappointment. Addressing his flock, “Fall out troop, destination the royal mess, objective prepare an obscene volume hotdogs!”

  “Finally,” Swansea twiddles his fingers, “daddy gets his desserts. Just once, just for me.” As he reaches to open the door, the mechanism turns, thick fog hisses from its frame. Emerging from the obscuring haze, standing illuminated by an array of lights, comes a vintage earth astronaut. By the appearance of his garb, the flow of time has carried him to a distant shore. He seems unaware of being anachronistic. Cockmaster and his men, cease their exodus and hold back to observe the spectacle.

  “And who are you?” Swansea’s black eyes scan the man’s slicked-back brown hair and spots his pristine antique space boots.

  The astronaut looks down with a wide condescending overly white smile, “What, you don’t recognize me? Buck Aldrin, space hero.”

  “Sweet potatoes, if one more self-declared ‘hero’ ends up on this station…”

  Buck trots down the ramp which automatically retracts behind him. “Nice digs, man. Maybe you could tell me where I am? Wait, don’t. Manhattan? Is this Mid-Town, no Greenwich isn’t it?” He walks astounded around the docking area, sweeping his hazel eyes up and around, rubbing his fingers over everything. “Yep, definitely Manhattan. Nowhere else on earth could a venue curate an experience this authentic. Yes! This must be that new nightclub I’ve been hearing about!” He swivels around and grins excitedly at Swansea Picklesworth but doesn’t let the second-in-command add his voice to the conversation. Instead, Buck hollers a loud “whoop” and throws his hands upwards. “Oh yeah, this is gonna be a blast! I’m partial to the Danceteria, but this is definitely lookin', like a decent place to work up a sweat. Hey!” He nods to Swansea finally acknowledging that Swansea is a living, breathing creature and not just part of the décor. “I’m parched. Who do I have to blow to get a drink around here?”

  “You are not familiar with the chain of command-”

  “Not at all. Is it the house special? For now, I’ll stick to the old favs. I’ve got mucho time and tolerance to taste my way through the menu. Just get me a Blue Hawaiian. Actually, no. A Lime Rickey might suit my mood a little better. Oh – no, no, no. I’ve got just the thing, a Chocolate Soldier!”

  Swansea narrows his eyes in confusion, checking to see if his compatriots are just as puzzled. One of the brown plumed guards takes a half step forward, pointing to himself, looking around inquisitively.

  “Geez, I must’ve been out of the game for longer than I thought. Don’t tell me these aren’t popular drinks anymore. What about you?” turning his attention to the confused brown feathered chicken guard, “Look, cowboy – or chicken… guy-thing? – I just need a few to oil up the old motor, then we’ll see where the night takes us.” He winks, then mimes tipping a drink down his throat several times, in an over-the-top fashion. “You must be one of the new guys. I get it. Haven’t been working here long. Don’t know the names of all the drinks. Hell, probably don’t even know where they keep the mixers. But lemme tell you this: once you start mixing, it’s a whole new world, buddy.” He pauses, briefly. “Get out a pencil and paper if you need to. Paralyzer and Apple Martini to start. Once I loosen up, I might go for a pair of Buttery Nipples. Oh, Buttery Nipples. So smooth.”

  “Ehem! Sir?”

  “There are always just too many options. Please tell me I’m not the only one with this problem? Chi Chi, Mudslide, Jungle Juice – all so appealing in their own way. There! I’ve decided! Get me a Jungle Juice.”

  “Look here, I’m not—”

  “I suppose you’re right. A Cheeky Vimito would better suit the mood.”

  “Enough!”

  “Right call, Slim Jim. Blue Hawaiian would be better for a kick back and relax sesh which I could use, am I right?”

  “For Science’s sake, I said enough! What the hell is wrong with heroes these days – eh, yesterdays? – or…these morrows? Regardless! Who are you, for the croissant of inquiry demands to know!”

  Buck pauses, his smile falls and the zeal fades from his face. Likewise, his posture shifts, his broad shoulders square as he adopts an aggressive stance. “Boy,” he starts in a cold voice, approaching Swansea with slow, heavy steps, “you have some nerve.” He raises a tan finger. “First of all, you won’t take my order, you’ve been yelling this whole time and you’ve already forgotten my name. Did you sleep through my introduction, buddy?”

  “Actually—”

  “Don’t answer!” finger-wagging angrily in Swansea’s face, “I want to speak with your supervisor and I want comp drink vouchers. And I wanted them yesterday, understand?”

  “You insolent little whelp!” Fists clenched, Swansea stands toe-to-toe with the newcomer. “Who are you to presume to give me orders? I answer to no one!”

  Cockmaster General clears his throat.

  “Except for our wise and benevolent ruler Emperor Elephantine, of course.” Cockmaster nods to Swansea’s clarification. Buck gaffes, “Oh, second string.”

  Swansea’s eye twitches, “Guards! Escort this nuisance to the VIP suite.”

  The self-proclaimed space hero shifts posture once more, returning to his usual self. “Well, it’s about damn time you started treating me with some courtesy.” Guards converge on him, a multitude of hands lifting him from all angles. “Whoa, there, great service but watch the threads, delicate fabric. Anyone got any nose candy?”

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  “Who would have thought that captivity would bring us so much closer to breaking through the barriers of modern science?” Dr. Jerkoff activates a sequence of buttons on a bright, multicolored display. Each of their respective stations stand in harsh contrast to the other: reagents, compounds, solvents, clash. Tools, techniques, equipment, differ. The laboratory seems to be the product of divergent minds.

  “Not I,” Botchit whistles, rolling his chair across the slick floor to an observation panel. He peers into a microscope distractedly. “We’ve made incredible progress these last few days. Almost makes the whole butter thing worth it.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” snaps Jerkoff dryly, looking himself, over adjusting his lab coat. “And I’m still itching from that infernal fur getup. Nevertheless, you’ve been a credit to my work.”

  “And you to mine.” Bochit’s glare through the microscope intensifies and he pulls himself closer to the station. “Jerkoff… Over here, come quickly!”

  “What have you found?”

  “Come, just look. Here. See how these molecules are reacting?” Botchit slides his chair away and pushes Jerkoff into the station, guiding his attention to particular structures within the sample.

  “Is this?” Jerkoff jerks away from the microscope. He runs his hands through his short auburn hair, wide-eyed and trembling. “Like a mushroom cloud, just as we hypothesized. This must be it!”

  “What else could it be?” Botchit spins in his chair.

  “The hyper-acceleration catalyst!”

  “By Science… but to have discovered it here, like this. What could it mean?”

  “Nothing good for the Interstellar Confederacy of United Planets, I’m afraid.”

  “So, then this is what he’s been looking for all along,” Botchit tugs his goatee thoughtfully.

  Jerkoff nods, deep in thought. “I’m afraid so
. The Emperor finally has his weapon.”

  Botchit looks down, conflicted. Jerkoff joins him in melancholy reflection. Both scientists face the microscope, each imagine their own version of the destruction Elephantine could levy with such a formidable weapon. Botchit closes his grey eyes and imagines the deadly mushroom cloud once more. His thoughts are interrupted by echoing thuds. Sounds of popping aluminum sheets, squeals of skin sliding against cold metal, impacts of a clumsy sod rolling down a hill in a steel drum comes from high above his shoulder. His face tightens at every impact, each new thump growing louder and apparently closer.

  “Look out below!” a shrill scream breaks the contemplative silence. Both scientists jolt, looking upwards to the source of the unsettling cacophony. An air vent cover explodes from its housing. Captain Hairdo tumbles out of the black duct, directly onto Jerkoff’s workstation scattering tools and materials.

  “Science be praised, Hairdo, you’re alive!” Botchit rushes over to his comrade’s point of impact.

  “Not likely after a fall like that,” Jerkoff gasps, inching slowly towards the destroyed workstation.

  “You can survive anything, with enough practice,” the hero’s familiar voice wheezes through the debris.

  Botchit helps Hairdo extricate himself from his pitiful position.

  “That’s the gladiator from the Butterdome. The guy who slid right in?”

  “The one and only,” Hairdo beams.

  “He’s got a knack for making impactful first impressions. And exits. And apparently, entrances too.” Botchit winces slightly at the mess but resigns himself to a chuckle.

  Hairdo, dusts himself off and, strikes a pose, “No time to explain, we’ve got to get out of here.”

  “I wish we could, Hairdo.” Botchit looks himself over. “But we can’t, we’re strung out on Butter. I don’t want to go through withdrawals again. Never again.”

  “Good thing I found this then!” Hairdo produces a thick beige tub and shoves it into Botchit’s hands.

  “What’s this supposed to be?”

  “I found it in a hot dog shaped ship parked in the docking bay… It’s a 20th-century butter detox product.”