Elephantine gurgles again, frantically, attempting to protest the Technicolor Bomb being used on his ally. Swansea, however, is not deterred and ignores his protestations.
“What’s that you say? I should fire as soon as possible? Oh, the gelatin gyrations of anticipation shimmy up my spine! I was hoping to let them get a bit closer, but if you insist. I can’t say no to my emperor, can I?” His chair rolls away from the periscope to the other side of the science lab where a new cubicle has popped up. Inside is a three-hundred and sixty-degree screen, providing a view of the entirety of space around the star base. He powers on the device and locates Cockmaster’s ship. In the center of the room, a headpiece descends from a ceiling compartment. He drops the helmet over his face and adjusts the settings. From the floor, a manual aim apparatus ascends, Swansea clutches it eagerly in his hands. The display on the headset lights up and a rectangle appears onscreen. He maneuvers the device until Cockmaster’s ship comes into sight and activates the manual aim. Swansea presses the trigger button; a small rectangle appears and snaps to target. Swansea holds his aim steady, humming happily to himself. “Farewell.”
One of the space station’s mounted cannons light up, a flicker of light grows to a huge ball of energy. The ballistic is fully charged and ready to fire. Swansea activates another button, the energy concentrated in the machine discharges. The first blast of heterogeneous colors is launched from the Technicolor Bomb. The projectiles barrel towards the approaching ship.
Chapter 6
The Techni-Colored Truth
The Technicolor Bomb blast engulfs the ship, emitting an intense starburst of spectacular rainbow light waves. From his targeting station, Swansea cackles maniacally as the explosion runs its course. Bright streaks of rainbow fly across space like a squadron of Nyan cats. Swansea rolls away from his observation periscope and spins in his chair flailing his arms above his head wrists limps like a Muppet; rejoicing in his triumph.
Cockmaster’s shuttle rockets forward pushed by the explosion's wake, seemingly undamaged by the Technicolor Bomb.
Inside the cockpit of the Rooster’s Crow, the party mills about in a daze. Having survived such an incredible blast, the crew are left bewildered and astonished.
“What…the hell?” Dale looks around the room as though every object is now foreign to her.
Botchit does the same. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
“What were you expecting?” Jerkoff laughs. “Total destruction? We are dealing with light waves after all.”
“Last I heard, it was a weapon.” Hairdo scratches his head and returns to his station.
Dale sighs, annoyed. “Look around. You, me, everything looks… different, like the hues have been shifted or something.”
“Precisely that!” Jerkoff applauds. “It is a weapon. A weapon against transspecies racial prejudice. How do you think people will react when they realize that by simply setting off this device their color can be altered at will?” Enraptured his eyes drift up, he raises his open palms as if the Technicolor Bomb is his personal sacred panacea. “Imagine how people will react once they realize just how trivial skin color really is. A white man could be orange or purple. An Asian man can be turned red, cyan or even a lovely shade of pink. A Vegan can go from their pallid gray to neon green, they’d fancy that. A black man can be mahogany, navy, maybe even a sweet plumb. You see the possibilities are endless!”
“In its limited capacity, the possibilities are endless,” Bochit chimes in clapping.
“Too true the device does have its limitations. It can change the warty green men of Neptune to a charming magenta, but unfortunately, it does nothing to their disgusting turkey-like snood. They just hang off of their face. Smack dab in the middle of their forehead, like a particularly disgusting testicle, hanging right between the eyes. Sure, it's rude to stare and everyone in the confederacy knows it, but there it is!” He smacks his forehead with his open palm skewing his glasses. “What are you supposed to look at; their bulbous pickle nose?” He looks around searching his friends’ confused and horrified faces.
Jerkoff continues engrossed in his memories. “So now you are unemployed, living on a remote derelict ship, working on your device that is supposed to revolutionize the cosmos; earn you the Nebular prize and you realize it won’t do a science damn thing to make those obscenely ugly bastards any less disgusting.”
He spins, “Oh yeah Terry, how was I supposed to know that warty betesticled toad beast was my new science-damned supervisor?”
Spinning back, “Right Terry, he was just there for,” he air quotes, ”‘emotional support’.”
Clinching his fists, spittle flying, “Yes Terry, ‘it wasn't supposed to happen’ and ‘you will be sorry’, you two-timing whore!” Jerkoff wipes the froth from his mouth and looks over at Dale. Head down, her swinging shoulder length hair forms a teal curtain; she is feverishly scribbling notes on her holo-pad.
“Ugh, just disregard that little emotional vent. It was purely theoretical, I assure you. A thought exercise to determine a possible shortcoming of the device, that may be addressed at a later date. Nothing to concern yourself with, heh. Now, where was I? Yes, there are many practical color specific applications available with the device.”
Dale inquires, “Was that Terry with and I or Y?”
Jerkoff scowls.
"It could be great for parties, pink and purple girls everywhere, no way of knowing which pink girls are really purple or purple, pink or even stripy, it does do stripes right?" Hairdo inquires his interest piqued.
"Umm…" Jerkoff considers the potential challenges and possibilities that patterns present.
"No way of knowing if that pink girl was really purple until the next day when your balls hurt to high hell and you find yourself heavily pregnant."
Everyone stares confused and enthralled, this just may be the best Hairdo story yet.
"Hairdo, what?" Dale appears truly confused, concerned and intrigued in equal measure.
"Oh, science every single day of those two months you put a laser pistol in your mouth; just not sure if you can go on. Or if you even want to. Sure, she tells you that its only two more weeks, a week and so on but there is no way to discern the truth. Besides she is the one that did this to you, can you really trust her?"
“Two-month gestation, that seems quite short,” Bochit observes.
“Can you imagine carrying a baby in your man satchel for anything longer than that without pulling the trigger, because I can't." Hairdo shudders. “The only thing worse than the pregnancy is the delivery. Gentlemen, I don't think that I need draw a diagram to illustrate the pain endured by squeezing a grapefruit through a... well, I don't have a fancy metaphor for my peehole. So, there it is, delivering a baby the size of a grapefruit through my peehole.”
“Hairdo I would very much like a graph of that, if it is at all possible,” Jerkoff replies.
“Actually, I would too,” adds Dale, “with plenty of illustrations.”
“So, you have a half-alien baby out there Hairdo?” Botchit inquires.
"Well not that I acknowledge, or pay for... I don't really like to think about this whole thing." He ends his diatribe by waving his hand around his genital region, then makes an explosion gesture, grimacing. “You know what Jerkoff, never mind, maybe it's not so safe for parties after all.”
"Noted."
Hairdo runs a hand through his now raven hair, mumbling to himself with a far-off stare.
“So, it doesn’t actually harm anyone, well in most instances.” Cockmaster provides, “Swansea doesn’t actually have a weapon, does he?”
“No, he does,” Jerkoff insists. “Just not one that can hurt us… physically.”
“Either way, none of us have anything to fear from it once we board the station. I’d say it’s time to force Picklesworth to feed on the fudge of failure.” Cockmaster casts a glance over to his guards who instantly straighten up and assume military stance while nodding in affirmation.
∆ ∆ ∆
Swansea hears the inbound vessel claxon and summons a viewing screen. Jumping and clutching his chrome dome, he spies the Hairdo/Cockmaster posse on a direct course for the science room. With no time to lose, he locks the door, grabs the Technicolor Bomb and dives behind the nightmarishly bloated emperor.
Hairdo can be heard outside the door, “Where is he?!”
The doors to the room retract quickly as the manual override is engaged. Breaching the threshold in urgency and indignation our heroes pile into the squalid science room.
Cockmaster leaps in front of Hairdo, wide-eyed in astonishment. “Emperor! What has become of you?!”
“Sooooooo…haaaaaa…peeeee.” Emperor Elephantine takes another suck from the feeding tube. Sustenance flows, he gulps several times, but he is filled to capacity and it only trickles back out, down the sides of his mouth. The tube then slowly pulls away as the mixer restocks. Suddenly, the emperor’s eyes go wide, and his many folds begin to ungulate. There’s audible ripping, then a squelch, pop, splatter that echoes around the room, as the center of the emperor’s stomach bursts open. From the melon-sized rupture a mysterious creature begins to emerge from his stygian depths.
The eel-like creature squeals with glee. It has finally found its way to the outside world, free to breathe the same air as its host.
“That thing is hideous,” Hairdo cries out shrill, reeling back in terror.
Dale clasps both hands over her mouth and spasms several times, fighting back the urge to vomit. “Dear science no! I thought the battle thong was the most disgusting… blargh.” Repulsed she backs away breathing heavily, shielding her eyes to keep the creature out of sight.
Contrary to the rest of the group, the scientists are fascinated, “By science!” they exclaim together. “It’s amazing!”
Elephantine burps loudly then smiles, “I feel much better now. Room for seconds.”
“Ma…ma…” The creature cranes its head upward, long body still sunk into Elephantine’s bowels like an uncut umbilical cord.
“Oh my,” Elephantine giggles. “Finally, a child to love and call my own.” He pets the creature lovingly.
“I liked it better when you weren’t speaking.” Swansea emerges from behind Elephantine’s gargantuan mass. “Hail General, you look unexpectedly healthy… how disappointing.” Swansea waves his hand up and down indicating Cockmaster’s body. “Interesting getup, flamboyant plumage, gone from Rooster to Peacock? Yes, a vulgar display, but now at least your outside matches your insides.”
“What have you done to our emperor?” Cockmaster’s finger points erect and shaking with anger, but Hairdo bullies his way in front of him.
“There will be time for explanations later, surrender Swansea, we’ve got you cornered!”
“Cornered?” Swansea rolls his eyes and waves a lazy hand at his adversaries. “Fools! Have you already forgotten, I control the Technicolor Bomb?!”
“It’s not that we’ve forgotten, it’s just that we don’t care.” Dale smirks at their upper hand.
Swansea’s own laughter comes to an immediate halt. He’s at a complete loss. His adversaries look completely intact. How can that be? Though something is different, wasn't Hairdo blonde before? He also doesn’t recall Dale having a bright green cast to her pallor. Makeup? No. Then it dawns on him, he has been operating under a terrible misconception as to the actual function of his beloved doomsday weapon.
“The pudding of malevolence flows through me. I cannot be defeated!” Swansea raises his right hand performing his choking maneuver while backing up. He makes distance between himself and the group. “Nothing can stop me now. I will rule the cosmos, I am the cosmos!” He drops his arm and charges forward kicking Emperor Elephantine in one of his many back rolls.
Elephantine’s arms windmill in a vain attempt to maintain his balance. He topples out of the dilapidated remains of his throne with a bounce, creature flailing wildly. His massive girth is sent rolling towards the heroes. The group scatters giving Swansea a clear path through the door.
“He’s coming right for us!” Hairdo warns Botchit, too late. Jerkoff’s senses are keener and he’s much closer to Bochit’s hideous plight. Without giving the prospect any thought, he lunges forward; shoving Botchit out of the way, taking on the full weight of the Emperor.
Botchit is laid out, unaware of what has just transpired. For a moment, everyone is equally confused, though their shared focus is on the lump of lard emperor and the missing Jerkoff.
“By Science! I understand!” Botchit whispers. “I finally really do, understand… Oh science, why?! Jerkoff! Dr. Handy Jerkoff! Why?!”
Faint cries emerge from beneath the body of the emperor.
“Doctor Jerkoff? Jerkoff, is that you?”
“I’m alright,” the wheeze suggests.
“Are you alive?” Botchit cries.
“I’m alright, just buried.”
“Oh, science be praised.” A trembling hand wipes tears from his eyes. “Quickly, he must be buried under one of the many folds of fat! Don’t worry my love, I shall save you, in the name of science we, shall be together!”
“Oof… I think we have more important things to worry about at the moment,” Dale grunts as she assists in lifting one of the larger fat folds.
“Cockmaster take the right, guards play defense, I’ll take the middle, ok break!” Hairdo sprints into the corridor after Swansea. Cockmaster and the guards follow shortly behind him, forming an unlikely team.
With the emperor now partially rolled over, Jerkoff squeezes out from under the primary fat roll, grasping Botchit’s hand. “You came for me!”
Botchit pulls his comrade to his feet, “Of course, you saved me.” The two now stand as equals, looking into each other’s eyes. Their arms rise up and gently brush the Elephantine excreta from each other’s faces. They move closer, lips lock, atoms fuse and in their eyes stars are born. Blindly struggling with their belts, they topple to the floor entwined. Dale gingerly steps out of the room, to check in on the others.
“It’s a wide hall, spread out!” Cockmaster lists to the right, granting Hairdo fuller access to the center. The remainder of the group catches up, falling in line. Swansea hasn’t gained much distance. His fleeing is wildly devoid of any athleticism. Hairdo catches up to him before the usurper can arrive at the next hall. He lunges from several feet behind, sending Swansea sprawling to the floor. Hairdo sits up to straddle his waist, pinning the self-proclaimed Lord of Evil’s arms to the ground. As Dale catches up, Swansea struggles valiantly against his grip but to no avail. Hairdo’s strength is inexhaustible against his meager attempts at escape. Realizing this, he goes limp.
All his fight spent, he surrenders implicitly. “Well then, what do you intend to do with me?”
“What we’ve wanted to do for a while now.” Botchit and Jerkoff walk up to the dogpile and signal for Cockmster General and Captian Hairdo to hoist Swansea. The couple shares a brief kiss. A limp Swansea is lifted under his arms. Suddenly Swansea raises his hands, an aerosol can in each. He sprays Cockmaster and Hairdo in the face. Coughing they drop him.
A cackling Swansea runs down the hall. Dropping the cans, he waves Cockmaster’s disintrator pistol in the air. He shoots the two cans dissolving them, spraying oil all over the floor. Swansea turns and runs further down the hall. In a fiendish and admittedly petty afterthought, he fires off one last shot before disappearing around the corner.
The disintegrator beam strikes the wall centimeters from Dale’s head. She ducks too late from the flying debris and ash. “Why me? With all of these other jackasses to choose from, no offence, you fire at me?”
She hears, “a peasant’s death…”, echoing down the hallway from the fleeing Swansea.
Dale punches her balled fist in her hand. “I think it’s time for some hard-h
itting journalism”
Squeaks and clicks herald New Jerry slowly wheeling a mop and bucket out of an adjacent janitor’s closet, in front of the gagging Hairdo. He whistles, wrings the mop and begins clearing Swansea’s oil slick.
Dale springs into action and initiates a return to pursuit. “Move it pal, I’ve got a hot lead on a cold turd and I aim to flush it!”
“Not before this dries you don’t,” the janitor stretches out an arm curbing Dale’s pursuit. Affronted Dale struggles against the nonplussed New Jerry, then retreats confused. Sensing that the scuffle is done New Jerry placidly sets out a caution wet floor sign, “safety first fellas.”
“But he’s getting away!” Dale protests.
New Jerry continues to mop calmly, taking his time. Winking under his chicken mask he assures, “I wouldn’t worry about that friends. The Janitorial Union’s got it covered.”
∆ ∆ ∆
Swansea’s thoughts race with much more acumen than his feet. “Well the souffle of subterfuge has unexpectedly fallen, but that matters not! I didn’t survive as an envoy all those years without learning how to avoid death as the barer of bad news. Or at least avoid being the one who is killed…” He shakes his head momentarily, attempting to regain focus.
Taking an abrupt right turn at a hallway intersection, he goes through his mental catalog of contingency plans. “Too bad I couldn’t stop by the armory and leave them a few explosive parting gifts, but I’m afraid my diversion has only granted me minutes before they sound a general alarm… Almost there,” Swansea wipes his brow, missing as sweat rivulets burn his eyes. Pushing his body to its limit he continues down the hall towards the least populated farthest flung section of the station, the decommissioned ministry of peace sector.
Large obsidian black doors slide open, revealing the long-abandoned Propaganda Production studio’s personnel offices. “Never thought I’d be here again… I miss the days when the empire had actual planets in its greasy grasp, before the Emperor’s Station First isolationism and hedonistic bingeing let it all slip from our grip.” Sighing, “I could have changed everything…” The nostalgia distracts Swansea for several moments, until he hears a click on the loud speakers and the deafening sound of the general alarm blare, “Sausages! I need to hurry!”
Captain Hairdo- Conquers the Cosmos Page 13
