Botchit runs his fingers over the tub. “Margarine?” He pops the lid and takes a deep inhale. “It smells exactly like butter.” He runs his index finger over the surface, scoops a dollop and brings it to his mouth licking it off. “And it certainly tastes like butter… by Science, I can’t believe it’s not butter!”
“Yeah its great until the aftertaste kicks in. Nothing like a little negative association to break a nasty habit.” Hairdo winks at the scientists wearing a Cheshire grin.
Jerkoff relieves Hairdo of a second beige tub and scoops copious amount in his cheeks resembling a greasy chipmunk. Slurring around his pooched cheeks, “aftertaste?”
Bochit closes his tub, stowing it in his lab coat stoically, “Indeed.”
Jerkoff shudders slightly and follows suit, “Ugh, ok I’m good.”
“Dear Science, it’s quite filmy,” Botchit complains gathering supplies.
Jerkoff adds, tongue between his teeth, eyes attempting to inspect it, “isss…stuck on my tongue too! Just consider the scientific applications.”
“Science later lads, right now we need to find Dale and make our way back to the ship.” Hairdo smiles and strikes out towards the corridor, with Botchit and Jerkoff in tow.
Beep. Beep.
Hairdo pauses and doubles back, “Is that who I think it is?”
“Very observant, Mr. Hairdo!” Jerkoff dips around the space hero and scuttles off into the corner, to unplug Hairdo’s robot companion, “For whatever reason, Elephantine decided to plug him in here for his data dump. But it’s just as well! We can use him as a human – err, robot – shield.”
Beep beep. Robo-Droid rolls out and falls in next to Hairdo.
“What in the name of texturizer do we need a shield for?”
“Well, we may have to fight our way out of here.”
Beep…beep.
“Fight?” Botchit’s forehead puckers in contemplation.
“Well…maybe. We’re bringing the robot to avoid that. But we need to hurry, Cockmaster is probably watching as we speak.”
Beep beep.
∆ ∆ ∆
The Imperial grill blazes, a platoon of guards diligently barbecue a prodigious multitude of hot dogs. Two of the guards, are distracted from their assigned cooking tasks. They playfully tease, slapping each other in the beak with limp uncooked hot dogs.
“Gentlemen!”
Chicken Guards Jody and Jamie snap to attention, immediately saluting their superior officer. In their haste, the wieners still clutched in their hands bounce against their foreheads. In a bid to salvage some dignity they both jettison the offending meat tubes to the furthest reaches of the kitchens and knuckle down to work. The guards both work twice as diligently as their fellows: throwing hot dogs upon the grill, stabbing them with forks, trying desperately to look the busiest as management approaches.
“What’s going on here?”
They exchange confused glances with each other, sigh and slowly straighten up their postures. “We were just, uh, preparing the wieners for the Emperor’s feast.”
“Hmm.” Cockmaster pulls up a chair and makes himself comfortable. “Don’t lie to me, boys.”
The two begin to sweat.
“It’s okay. As you were. Go on, pick them up.”
In a rush, the men scramble to pick up their respective hotdogs and resume slapping each other in the beaks, giggling flirtatiously with every impact.
Stroking his wattle Cockmaster purrs, “Very good. Daddy like.”
∆ ∆ ∆
“So, do we all comprehend the plan?”
“I think so, but explain the part involving naked dancing men again.” Hairdo intreats.
Jerkoff sighs. “It’s to distract the guards and allow the rest of us to escape… obviously.”
“I suppose that makes sense…but why does Botchit have to run around nude? Couldn’t he run just as well with his pants on? Sure, he has less wind resistance without his clothes, but the added comfort of clothing might help him to run faster on a psychological level. Wait…how do I even know that?”
“Err… impact! Yes, uh a dangling dongle will make anyone sit up and take notice. Er, no matter, he just doesn’t need a shirt, okay?”
“No, I think Hairdo’s right. That part really doesn’t make sense.”
Beep. “And why must I wear a skirt? I am a robot. I do not need clothing.” Beep.
“It’s a disguise, alright? Look, everyone knows what to do. No more discussion let’s just hurry up and get on with this, so we can get out of here!”
“No!”
“Hairdo, for the last time, it’s a distraction!”
“You knave! How dare you mistake me for that bumbling imbecile!”
Jerkoff turns around, perplexed, only to find that Swansea Picklesworth now shares their space.
“As for leaving, hair fetishist and assorted crew of science nerds you won’t see anything outside of these four walls again, ever.”
“Does that mean Robo-Droid can leave?”
“I’m not with them.” Beep.
“No!” Swansea stomps childishly. “Can someone please muffle that annoying contraption? Every other word is a beep with the damn thing. Could you ‘illustrious’ Earth scientists not take a moment to program a tolerable voice? A perfectly pleasant atmosphere and then some shitty guitar VOX screeches interrupting the ambiance, caterwauling like a pubescent teenager through a drive-thru PA speaker. Have you no standards? I feel the spumoni of sickening shivering up my spine every time that thing even looks like it’s about to say something.”
Beeeeeeep. Robo-Droid returns to his corner, dejected by the flurry of insults. The rest of the group watches sympathetically, then they all turn simultaneously looking at Swansea with enmity.
“Oh, don’t you look at me like that. Seriously, could today get any worse? All I wanted to do was to check on the progress of the Technicolor Bomb. That’s all I wanted, but the moment is ruined. Of all people, I find Hairdo bumbling around, the imbecile having survived… having survived… you know, I really want an explanation for how you did manage to survive your plunge through the Butter Dome.”
“The owner of hair this magnificent can’t be subjected to forces as weak as gravity. Physics in action, baby!”
“Actually—” Botchit and Jerkoff begin together, but both surrender before denying Hairdo his moment. They know any arguments will simply fly straight over his head, anyway.
“But, no man has ever returned… Stupefying, but no matter, what of the weapon?”
Jerkoff assumes a stoic face. “Development is complete, and all tests seem to be successful.” He approaches the Technicolor station. “It’s right here.”
“What are you doing, Jerkoff!” Botchit steps forward to smash the samples, but Swansea is quick on his feet and intercepts with a truculent swipe.
“I’m doing what’s best for all us. If we don’t give it to him, he’ll kill us.” Jerkoff squeezes between Botchit and Swansea, buffering their intense emotions. “Besides,” he fully faces Botchit. His eyes, dull and red from hours of butter therapy and staring through microscopes, gaze at Bochit longingly. “The Earth means nothing to me without you.”
While Botchit gawps dumbfounded, not fully understanding the revelation, Swansea seizes his opportunity to snatch the completed device. His maniacal laughter echoes off the lab walls.
“Did you hear me, Botchit? I need you?”
“I don’t follow you...”
Jerkoff runs a hand through Botchit’s hair, forcing extreme eye contact. “You’ll understand, in time... In time…”
“Silence you fools!” Swansea holds the weapon high above his head. “The pudding of malevolence is pleased and soon the crepe of tyranny shall spread its shroud across the galaxy! For I now possess the Bomb and can finally be rid of that infantile emperor!”
“Infantile?!”
Swansea’s face immediately falls slack, his color drains.
Emperor Elephantine stands in th
e doorway, having escorted Dale to the science lab. She looks up at him, nodding. “Yep, that’s definitely the right word.”
The Emperor hunches over, bringing his mouth close to Dale’s ear. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Yes.”
Elephantine slowly adjusts his posture, standing upright and glaring directly at Swansea. “How. Dare. You. If it wasn’t for your years of loyal service in the food industry, I’d have you executed for such a remark. Consider this is your final warning Swansea and where are my muffins?!”
Gathering himself, Swansea fires back, “And with every passing moment, you prove just how infantile you are. In case you haven’t noticed, I now hold all the cards here. I possess the most powerful weapon in the universe!” He holds up the Technicolor Bomb, light glinting off it.
“Get back, Botchit!” Jerkoff grasps his colleague, pulling him closer to Hairdo and Robo-Droid in the corner. “I think he’s serious.”
Elephantine flings Dale to the side and stomps towards his second-in-command, arms gesturing emphatically, fat flapping with every gesture, “No one usurps my empire! Not you! Not Hairdo! Not me! No one!” His approach picks up traction. In spite of his oft-projected lethargy; his body moves across the room with tremendous speed, bouldering over science stations in the process. His great speed takes Swansea by surprise, without a chance to flee or parry all he can do is cower. The traitor receives the full force of Elephantine’s charge. The two careen across the floor and hit the back wall. Elephantine’s head, smashes through safety glass and depresses the laboratory fire alarm button.
The stark lab lighting dims, replaced by flashing red lights. Jets spray fire suppressant foam and a screeching alarm alerts emergency personnel. Startled screams echo throughout the room and bodies scatter in the tumultuous chaos. Eventually, Hairdo and his motley group manage to reconvene in a corner. They stand opposite an unconscious Elephantine a desperate Swansea pinned under the rotund belly, hopelessly attempting to leverage himself out.
“Everyone accounted for?” Hairdo stage whispers to his team. His troop replies earnestly, Robo-Droid included. “Then let’s get out of here before they notice us. Keep your heads down. And most importantly, stay quiet!”
∆ ∆ ∆
“Order, men. Keep calm and remember the buddy system! We must locate and defend the emperor!”
The guards continue to dart about the kitchen like chickens with their heads cut off; squealing for salvation from the red claxon terror.
Cockmaster throws himself into the tumult, grabbing two of the men by their upper arms, seizing their attention. “Behave like grown cocks!” he mandates, jostling the two upright and ushering them towards the door.
“Viewing screen on.” The illumination of the monitor provides a secondary light source and the discord quickly subsides. On screen, Hairdo’s group dashes through the halls, stumbling but making their way in the depths of the darkened corridors. “The Earth prisoners are escaping! Fly my chicken-men! Fly!”
“But sir, we can’t fly.”
Cockmaster stands dumbfounded. “I mean run – yes, that’s it. Run, my chicken-men! Run! Find our escapees!”
“Yes sir!”
“We should be able to cut them off at corridor five, near the docking bay. But only if we fly – er, run. On me!” The guards fall into line behind their leader as he races through the darkness.
∆ ∆ ∆
Soft ambient light spills into a dark corridor. A single sharp light strobes in sync with the alarm, illuminating the very center of the only occupied cell. The sole prisoner sits in anguish from a wicked hangover. The harsh wail of the alarm and the constant hum of his laser bars in turn split his head in pain and roil his stomach with nausea. His bleary red eyes focus intently on the entrance. He waits for the doors to slide open and reveal some rando, less distinguished, unnamed hero. Clad in his own considerably less fab uniform, def not designed by the Bob Mackie; saunter forward and claim the distinction of saving famous space hero, Buck Aldrin. He watches and waits with the intensity, anticipation and nervousness of a virgin on their first go around. The memories of his 12th birthday charm him and aid in easing some tension.
“If I die in here, at least I’ll go remembering good times.” He closes his eyes and waits. The door flies open and footsteps pound across the ground. Buck opens his eyes and follows the sound. A ragtag group of confederates clearly unassociated with the fiends that imprisoned him blow past his cell. “Quite the party you’ve got there!”
The footsteps stop. Hairdo extends his arms to block off the group behind him. “I smell something on the wind.”
“Sorry.” Botchit shrinks, guilty.
“Forgiven. Now, onward!” Hairdo leads the group onward at a brisk walk. Robo-Droid pulls ahead of the group and docks his dongle in the prison wall’s security data port.
“Hey!” Buck pleads, “dudes, come back! Please! Come on!”
“Freeze!” Hairdo extends his arms again. “Botchit?”
“Not me Hairdo, got it all out the first time.”
“Hey!” Buck screams straining his voice. “If you guys are going to party out there, I demand an invite.”
“Over there, Hairdo!” Botchit points cautiously.
“By Science, what is that creature?”
Dale chimes in, “What manner of garb is that?”
“Forget that,” Buck waves dismissively. “No way you aren’t up to no good out there. Hey, slip me some nose candy?!”
Hairdo’s group exchanges puzzled glances.
“Aw, come on, you know. Nose candy? Uh…Colombian snow-”
Botchit interrupts, “I for one, have no idea what he’s driving at. Who are you?” The group then delves into a discussion about the sanity of the strangely-dressed prisoner. Buck attempts to follow the conversation, leaning close to his energy bars, struggling to catch every other word of their discussion. When his eavesdropping fails, he loudly whistles between his fingers drawing the group’s attention.
“Alright, everyone, let’s get real. Yes, it’s me, 1984’s sexiest man alive, The Buck Aldrin. Hold the applause. Yeah, beat out Burt Reynolds by a landslide… obviously. You can see it in my physique can’t you, the raw, natural manliness? Oh, and one-word manscaping… Yes, it’s really me.”
“That getup isn’t doing you any favors.” Hairdo finds himself strangely engrossed in Aldrin’s story, stepping closer to the cell to get a better look at the man’s form on the pretense of a fashion analysis.
“Need a closer inspection, do you? Most people don’t. ‘As seen in’ Time, or People, or any of the dozens of other publications that just won’t stop printing my picture. Speaking of, you don’t happen to read Vogue, do you?”
“What's a ‘vogue?’” asks Dale.
“Thank heavens. The photo shoot was very chichi, the nude shots definitely made me a bit uncomfortable. I’m certain I was super bloated that week. I wish I could say I regret the experience.” He sighs deeply. “It’s amazing the things you do under the right influences. Speaking of which…” He focuses intently on Dale, looking her up and down.
“Please continue. That’s not creepy at all.”
“My pleasure,” Buck smiles wide as he continues to observe her shapely athletic body.
“No, seriously, I will hurt you.”
The alleged sexiest man alive takes two steps back, cringing. “Very few women can resist my charms. I can respect that. Ok, I’ll cut to the chase. Are you carrying?”
“Time out.” Botchit steps between Buck and Dale. “Did he say he won sexiest man of 1984? As in the 20th century?”
“Indeed.” Jerkoff produces a holo-mag, scrolling down its index and side swiping on his desired location.
Dale screws up her face puzzled. “Where did you get that?”
Jerkoff clears his throat, turning away from the inquiry. “According to my sources, there was indeed an astronaut, voted 1984’s sexist man alive- these photos…” Jerkoff gulps, his voice cracks and fa
ce reddens, “What a specimen…” Clearing his throat again, “uh- lost in space in the mid-1980’s, disappeared craft and all. Some scientists speculate that the combination of that era’s aerosol hairspray and his craft’s artificial atmosphere could have resulted in a temporary state of suspended animation.”
Dale crosses her arms and nods. “That sounds reasonable.”
Botchit rubs his chin and appears thoughtful. “And scientifically sound.”
“Just a minute,” Buck protests from the cell, beginning to piece together the situation. “Does that rag give the astronaut’s name?”
Jerkoff swipes through the holo-pages effortlessly, “One Mister Aldrin.”
“This isn’t Manhattan, is it?”
Everyone shakes their heads, a bit confused.
“Look, you’ve got to get me out of here. I can’t survive in a place like this, it just not my style. I need freedom. Free like an eagle. An eagle on a prairie, chasing a rainbow, seeking a dream...”
“That,” Dale eyes dilate, “was so beautiful.”
“I’m a quarter Cherokee, you know? Spirituality is my thing, its in my blood. Wanna make out?”
Her face twists in revulsion, “Ehhh!”
“Ahem.” Hairdo combs his hair back and steps forward. “At any rate, we have a decision to make. What do we do with this imprisoned and very confusing astronaut?”
Beep. “They will find us. We need protection... I need protection... Meat shield for Robo Shield!” Beep.
An electric buzz echoes through the cell block. The laser bars dissipate, Jerkoff stands at the console, “The robot is right. Worst case scenario, we have an outsider to use as a human shield.”
“Wait, what? A human what?”
“Accomplice! A human accomplice is what I said.” Jerkoff slinks behind the group. Before he’s completely obscured from sight, Hairdo turns to Dale, his brow lifts with an inquiry.
“If there was a button within reach, then why did you bother reflecting the bar and tell me to jump through that tight gap naked?”
“Didn’t see it,” Dale responds nonchalantly then winks, “besides my way was much more exciting.” Hairdo eyes her perplexed, with a dopey grin he watches her sashay past Jerkoff.
Captain Hairdo- Conquers the Cosmos Page 7
