Following Mama Brain, Joe went to the store. They went to the store, got some meat. Went to the store, something to eat. Something to eat! Something to eat! Something to eat!
Joe approached the candy aisle. A fine holographic mist, Rupert Pennybags, still as invisible and ineffectual as a half-vanquished Voldemort, approached it as well.
Joe wasn't much for sweets in general, but since he was passing by, he examined the local offerings. Like much he had seen already in the three minutes he'd spent in the store, it was strange. Most eye-catching was a chintzy-plastic bag of small wrapped candies, with the brand name ACTION SYNTHESIZER HERO splattered across it in gritty shitty ink. Joe felt like he could see it peeling and fading away as he looked. The logo looked as comicsy as its name, and Joe's entire current universe, implied. A red irregular umpteen-pointed explosostar lay behind the words, with a thick yellow border.
The candy wrappers had a Golden-age-comics vibe, with many a POW and KERBANG and a bomb or a fist.
POW! A fist leaned on Joe's chin as he was leaning in to better examine the bag.
Friday, July 4, 2014
Thursday, July 3, 2014
Tim Curry was horrifying as Pennywise the Clown in the late 1980's television version of the Stephen King novel, IT.
Pennywise the clown had been hunting Mr. Pennybags for a hundred years, ever since the cartoon capitalist reared his disgusting paunch on the scene in the 1930's. He couldn't wait to chew off the old man's head and crunch on that fucking monocle.
Tim Curry put his red clown nose back on, cleared his throat, and went INTO THE STORE, looking for a fight.
Meanwhile, inside the store, Joe and Rupert had found the candy aisle.
Meanwhile, inside the store, Joe and Rupert had found the candy aisle.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Intermezzo: “As Per ‘Song of the Petlars’”
[Scene: A smoky, dimly-lit billiards hall in an unimportant location. At a lone table, psychologically distant from the billiards table, beneath a low-hanging, cone-shaded lamp, sit LEMTATA, JOSE, STING, and LEMMY. They puff cigars inbetween statements.]
LEMTATA: I'm sorry, but as per “Song of the Petlars,” who thinks the Thundercats put up a badass fight?!
JOSE: Ain't nothing to be sorry about.
STING: Ending with Panthro wasn’t epic enough... Needed to be a min longer. Show was meh... but hey, it’s geared for kids. Overall, good stuff so far.
LEMTATA: Interesting how Tygra has switched to being the resident laser gun maniac! Even though he showed that in the first episode he was good with a whip—AND could turn inexplicably invisible. I’m still wondering what good are the kittens in a fight. But Panthro shows he’s good with machines AND nunchucks—
JOSE: —Claw chucks?
LEMTATA: —so he's got enough amazing to counterbalance the uselessness of the kat & kit.
LEMMY: PANTRO BACK!!
STING: Great lines (wisdom) from Emrik. And I must say an intense realisation for Lion-O. I’m waiting for the scene when Lion-O uses Technology and Sorcery! [The capital letters are audible in Sting’s speech here and all following speech.]
LEMTATA: The fight scenes are super short and lack detail, honestly. I love the show—but. Fight scenes are not its strength.
JOSE: I got chills, once again, when the Thundercat call went out. [He taps the Thundercats button on his denim jacket while saying “Thundercat call.”]
STING: Well written episode! [At this, STING transforms into ACID.]
ACID: And also showed even outnumbered the fact that the Thundercats won't lay down or surrender shows there true loyalty and strength!
LEMTATA: Love, the, series. Interesting to see Panth-o being the first to embrace and use technology effectively. I love the leadership of Slythe in this episode. He’s not as corny as the 80s version!
LEMMY: POOR LIL EMERIC I CHOKED UP A LIL
ACID [unintelligibly, and unaware of his enthusiasm moments earlier]: i-wasn’t-happy-with-that-episode-at-all-i’m-not-gonna-dissect-it-because-it’s-a-cartoon-i-just-wasn’t-happy.
LEMMY: PANTHRO IS BACK BITCHES!!
[Scene fades.]
LEMTATA: I'm sorry, but as per “Song of the Petlars,” who thinks the Thundercats put up a badass fight?!
JOSE: Ain't nothing to be sorry about.
STING: Ending with Panthro wasn’t epic enough... Needed to be a min longer. Show was meh... but hey, it’s geared for kids. Overall, good stuff so far.
LEMTATA: Interesting how Tygra has switched to being the resident laser gun maniac! Even though he showed that in the first episode he was good with a whip—AND could turn inexplicably invisible. I’m still wondering what good are the kittens in a fight. But Panthro shows he’s good with machines AND nunchucks—
JOSE: —Claw chucks?
LEMTATA: —so he's got enough amazing to counterbalance the uselessness of the kat & kit.
LEMMY: PANTRO BACK!!
STING: Great lines (wisdom) from Emrik. And I must say an intense realisation for Lion-O. I’m waiting for the scene when Lion-O uses Technology and Sorcery! [The capital letters are audible in Sting’s speech here and all following speech.]
LEMTATA: The fight scenes are super short and lack detail, honestly. I love the show—but. Fight scenes are not its strength.
JOSE: I got chills, once again, when the Thundercat call went out. [He taps the Thundercats button on his denim jacket while saying “Thundercat call.”]
STING: Well written episode! [At this, STING transforms into ACID.]
ACID: And also showed even outnumbered the fact that the Thundercats won't lay down or surrender shows there true loyalty and strength!
LEMTATA: Love, the, series. Interesting to see Panth-o being the first to embrace and use technology effectively. I love the leadership of Slythe in this episode. He’s not as corny as the 80s version!
LEMMY: POOR LIL EMERIC I CHOKED UP A LIL
ACID [unintelligibly, and unaware of his enthusiasm moments earlier]: i-wasn’t-happy-with-that-episode-at-all-i’m-not-gonna-dissect-it-because-it’s-a-cartoon-i-just-wasn’t-happy.
LEMMY: PANTHRO IS BACK BITCHES!!
[Scene fades.]
Mama Brain
Pennybags screeched through the slums, nearly uprooting a fire hydrant on the corner of Baltic and Mediterranean. While the neighborhood showed no more true signs of life than a Monopoly board, its otherwise perfectly-shaped green houses showed the marks of crayons and cats' teeth.
Then just as the streets were straightening, static abruptly took over the radio broadcast. And then the air was suddenly filled with an announcer’s voice speaking Commie. (“Jane... Jane... Jane...,” it uttered sotto voce.) —Pennybags’ moustache turned brown with fright. “Is this your devilry, young man? I’ll have you know we don’t tolerate subversion!”—“I don’t understand any more than you!”
Then came music from Moscow, followed by English and French speech. (“The recording was made at the Moscow Theatre of Musical Miniatures.”) Pennybags punched the radio’s facade in frustration, nearly running over a metal dog in his distraction.
At this the radio broadcast abandoned all pretensions of coming from the radio, and suffocated the air. “YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE. AT THE RECOMMENDATION OF THE INTERNATIONAL
TIME BUREAU, COMMENCING AT TWENTY-THREE HOURS, FIFTY-NINE MINUTES, SIXTY SECONDS UTC, AN EXTRA SECOND WILL BE INSERTED INTO THE NBS TIME SCALE. THIS ADJUSTMENT IS REQUIRED TO MAINTAIN INTERNATIONALLY COORDINATED UNIVERSAL TIME AS BROADCAST FROM THESE STATIONS, IN CLOSE AGREEMENT WITH UT1, OR ASTRONOMICAL TIME.”
Pennybags was shaking. —“Thank Providence that we’ve reached The Store!” he shouted, gesturing with a pale finger at a boutique by the roadside, which looked like a drawing in bold simple colors and 3-D lines thick as the outlines of Superman’s thighs. He slammed on the brakes and exited the car, dragging Joe with him. He draw in his breath and screeched, straining to outshout the broadcast (“WA6ODB....with...a question!”):
“Do you know how many time zones there will be in the Soviet Union? Eleven. Eleven! One, two, three—one, two, three—eleven!! And, uh—do you know how many time zones there will be in the Soviet Union? And about power, do you know—we have so much power now, young man—do you know how many time zones there’ll be in the Soviet Union?!” he raved. Sensing a break, Joe answered:
“Eleven.”
“One, two three, one two three—”
“Eleven.”
Pennybags continued raving inconsequentially; suddenly curious, Joe poked him. His finger passed right through. Emboldened, though feeling a bit gross for doing so, he leaned over and smelled Pennybag’s armpit, having correctly judged that Pennybags would take no notice. He smelled nothing. A lick? No taste either.
“The Soviet Union’ll be the whole half side of the world!” Pennybags continued. Upon this statement, his features began transforming into those of a typical 80’s AM radio talk show caller.
“...Yeah?”
“They, uh, when you talk about fightin’, we’re a country that, uh, we’re a firm believer on pride, and it’s called help thy neighbor, do not kill, do not, you know, steal, cheat, lie from everybody,” the now thoroughly-redneck Pennybags continued. As this sentence drew to an end, his voice began breaking up, and so did his image.
“That's why we have to have computers, because man, nobody’s perfect. You know.” This was the last Joe heard or saw of Pennybags—for the moment—before his whole bi-sensual being faded into static.
Joe—who still less jaded than one might expect, old chap—gawked for long minutes.
He was only broken out of it by the arrival of Mama Brain. Her afro told more in a glance than Pennybags had said of consequence in the last hour.
“Follow quickly, brother! We can’t jam Pennybags forever.”
Then just as the streets were straightening, static abruptly took over the radio broadcast. And then the air was suddenly filled with an announcer’s voice speaking Commie. (“Jane... Jane... Jane...,” it uttered sotto voce.) —Pennybags’ moustache turned brown with fright. “Is this your devilry, young man? I’ll have you know we don’t tolerate subversion!”—“I don’t understand any more than you!”
Then came music from Moscow, followed by English and French speech. (“The recording was made at the Moscow Theatre of Musical Miniatures.”) Pennybags punched the radio’s facade in frustration, nearly running over a metal dog in his distraction.
At this the radio broadcast abandoned all pretensions of coming from the radio, and suffocated the air. “YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE. AT THE RECOMMENDATION OF THE INTERNATIONAL
TIME BUREAU, COMMENCING AT TWENTY-THREE HOURS, FIFTY-NINE MINUTES, SIXTY SECONDS UTC, AN EXTRA SECOND WILL BE INSERTED INTO THE NBS TIME SCALE. THIS ADJUSTMENT IS REQUIRED TO MAINTAIN INTERNATIONALLY COORDINATED UNIVERSAL TIME AS BROADCAST FROM THESE STATIONS, IN CLOSE AGREEMENT WITH UT1, OR ASTRONOMICAL TIME.”
Pennybags was shaking. —“Thank Providence that we’ve reached The Store!” he shouted, gesturing with a pale finger at a boutique by the roadside, which looked like a drawing in bold simple colors and 3-D lines thick as the outlines of Superman’s thighs. He slammed on the brakes and exited the car, dragging Joe with him. He draw in his breath and screeched, straining to outshout the broadcast (“WA6ODB....with...a question!”):
“Do you know how many time zones there will be in the Soviet Union? Eleven. Eleven! One, two, three—one, two, three—eleven!! And, uh—do you know how many time zones there will be in the Soviet Union? And about power, do you know—we have so much power now, young man—do you know how many time zones there’ll be in the Soviet Union?!” he raved. Sensing a break, Joe answered:
“Eleven.”
“One, two three, one two three—”
“Eleven.”
Pennybags continued raving inconsequentially; suddenly curious, Joe poked him. His finger passed right through. Emboldened, though feeling a bit gross for doing so, he leaned over and smelled Pennybag’s armpit, having correctly judged that Pennybags would take no notice. He smelled nothing. A lick? No taste either.
“The Soviet Union’ll be the whole half side of the world!” Pennybags continued. Upon this statement, his features began transforming into those of a typical 80’s AM radio talk show caller.
“...Yeah?”
“They, uh, when you talk about fightin’, we’re a country that, uh, we’re a firm believer on pride, and it’s called help thy neighbor, do not kill, do not, you know, steal, cheat, lie from everybody,” the now thoroughly-redneck Pennybags continued. As this sentence drew to an end, his voice began breaking up, and so did his image.
“That's why we have to have computers, because man, nobody’s perfect. You know.” This was the last Joe heard or saw of Pennybags—for the moment—before his whole bi-sensual being faded into static.
Joe—who still less jaded than one might expect, old chap—gawked for long minutes.
He was only broken out of it by the arrival of Mama Brain. Her afro told more in a glance than Pennybags had said of consequence in the last hour.
“Follow quickly, brother! We can’t jam Pennybags forever.”
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Rich Uncle Pennybags Goes to the Store
"London?" asked Joe, confused. He was tired of walking and tired of the fog.
"No, my friend!" said the monocled man, who was wearing a black tuxedo and top hat,
"You've wandered into the Endless Parking Lot of Ukk, my good man! Don't you see the spaces painted everywhere on the ground, which is asphalt? Haven't you noticed the faint glow of the florescent lights, the eerie shadows of the light poles? Don't you hear a faint squealing of tires far off in the distance?"
Joe at once noticed all these details around him in the haze, though he could have sworn they had not JUST been there the second before the strange man appeared.
"The Endless Parking Lot of Uh... What? Who are you?" Joe asked.
The monocled man chuckled, pulling out from his inside pocket a wad of comically oversized five hundred dollar bills in a gold money clip.
Joe noticed then that the bills were not real currency. In fact, they were...
"This should explain everything," said the man, smiling sadly and handing the whole wad to Joe. "My name is Pennybags. Richard U. Pennybags. My friends call me Rupert. Would you like a ride to the store?"
Joe did not notice, but next to the man there suddenly appeared what seemed a giant game piece shaped like an old 1930's car.
"The store..." Joe said absently, inspecting the money. Yep. It was oversized Monopoly money. Joe's gaze snapped back to the man's face as the thought clicked. "You're the old man from the game? The Monopoly mascot? Rich Uncle Pennybags? Now I know I am dreaming! Or maybe still tripping, or maybe both. Wait, what store?"
"I went to the store, late last night," said Richard, "I went to the store."
"If going to the store will get me outta this void, let's go." muttered Joe.
"Climb in, then, if you will," said Rich Uncle Pennybags, and jumped in the driver's seat of the game piece. It roared into life and an old a.m. radio began emitting the strains of an old big band slow dance number. Joe climbed into the passenger seat and shook his head. He hoped this wouldn't make things worse. Pennybags grinded the gearshift and they shot off like a bullet, veering crazily between lightposts and plowing through occasional shopping carts.
"No, my friend!" said the monocled man, who was wearing a black tuxedo and top hat,
"You've wandered into the Endless Parking Lot of Ukk, my good man! Don't you see the spaces painted everywhere on the ground, which is asphalt? Haven't you noticed the faint glow of the florescent lights, the eerie shadows of the light poles? Don't you hear a faint squealing of tires far off in the distance?"
Joe at once noticed all these details around him in the haze, though he could have sworn they had not JUST been there the second before the strange man appeared.
"The Endless Parking Lot of Uh... What? Who are you?" Joe asked.
The monocled man chuckled, pulling out from his inside pocket a wad of comically oversized five hundred dollar bills in a gold money clip.
Joe noticed then that the bills were not real currency. In fact, they were...
"This should explain everything," said the man, smiling sadly and handing the whole wad to Joe. "My name is Pennybags. Richard U. Pennybags. My friends call me Rupert. Would you like a ride to the store?"
Joe did not notice, but next to the man there suddenly appeared what seemed a giant game piece shaped like an old 1930's car.
"The store..." Joe said absently, inspecting the money. Yep. It was oversized Monopoly money. Joe's gaze snapped back to the man's face as the thought clicked. "You're the old man from the game? The Monopoly mascot? Rich Uncle Pennybags? Now I know I am dreaming! Or maybe still tripping, or maybe both. Wait, what store?"
"I went to the store, late last night," said Richard, "I went to the store."
"If going to the store will get me outta this void, let's go." muttered Joe.
"Climb in, then, if you will," said Rich Uncle Pennybags, and jumped in the driver's seat of the game piece. It roared into life and an old a.m. radio began emitting the strains of an old big band slow dance number. Joe climbed into the passenger seat and shook his head. He hoped this wouldn't make things worse. Pennybags grinded the gearshift and they shot off like a bullet, veering crazily between lightposts and plowing through occasional shopping carts.
Saturday, March 8, 2014
Anarchy in the Ukk
Nearly blinded, almost senseless with pain, Joe swatted poorly and slid slowly deeper into hopeless... but then remembered he was probably anything but alone. "All you corpses!" he shouted. "Let's kill moths!"
His hate for the innocent-looking beasts was shared by everyone else in this mass illusion, and soon they all were, despite the pain of mostly missing at hitting their own lacerated bodies, swatting furiously.
After a few minutes, a POP emanated from where the skater boiz lie, and the gloom lessened. Joe could feel his body heal a bit; Lemmy suddenly remembered his manners; Lemtata was more whole. And yet the horror persisted. They all swatted on. One more time a POP and a slight lifting of the gloom. They swatted more, victoriously now, and much less in pain and horror. A third POP, and there was no horror but the void.
It was a pretty horrible void, even with people and a floor in it. A pearly floor and an endless pearly mist. "Where am I?" Joe screamed, this time the horror his own.
No-one's voice replied from all directions. "OOKEEKAY OOKEEKAY OOKEEKAY OOKEEKAY OOKEEKAY OOKEEKAY" like an echo, but far too persistent. Though it was not loud, it was overwhelming. Joe put his fingers in his ears and inexplicably felt compelled to close his eyes as well.
When the voice had faded and he had opened his eyes, there was anarchy all around him. It looked like a Hieronymous Bosch painting, but with all people, no props, except the few effects they had brought with them into this void. Passionless sex, deathless murder, lifeless laughter, hateless screaming.
"Maybe I should have stuck with the moths."
Joe decided things couldn't get any worse, and that he had no friends to abandon until the end of this anarchy. He walked away, in a straight line, aiming to get lost and die, or live - either one would be salvation.
"Really is a lovely place, isn't it?" drawled the monocled man who emerged from the fog after Joe had walked an hour. "I call it the Ukk. Let me show you why. WHERE AM I?!"
The man quickly showed displeasure... then fear when Joe did not crumble.
His hate for the innocent-looking beasts was shared by everyone else in this mass illusion, and soon they all were, despite the pain of mostly missing at hitting their own lacerated bodies, swatting furiously.
After a few minutes, a POP emanated from where the skater boiz lie, and the gloom lessened. Joe could feel his body heal a bit; Lemmy suddenly remembered his manners; Lemtata was more whole. And yet the horror persisted. They all swatted on. One more time a POP and a slight lifting of the gloom. They swatted more, victoriously now, and much less in pain and horror. A third POP, and there was no horror but the void.
It was a pretty horrible void, even with people and a floor in it. A pearly floor and an endless pearly mist. "Where am I?" Joe screamed, this time the horror his own.
No-one's voice replied from all directions. "OOKEEKAY OOKEEKAY OOKEEKAY OOKEEKAY OOKEEKAY OOKEEKAY" like an echo, but far too persistent. Though it was not loud, it was overwhelming. Joe put his fingers in his ears and inexplicably felt compelled to close his eyes as well.
When the voice had faded and he had opened his eyes, there was anarchy all around him. It looked like a Hieronymous Bosch painting, but with all people, no props, except the few effects they had brought with them into this void. Passionless sex, deathless murder, lifeless laughter, hateless screaming.
"Maybe I should have stuck with the moths."
Joe decided things couldn't get any worse, and that he had no friends to abandon until the end of this anarchy. He walked away, in a straight line, aiming to get lost and die, or live - either one would be salvation.
"Really is a lovely place, isn't it?" drawled the monocled man who emerged from the fog after Joe had walked an hour. "I call it the Ukk. Let me show you why. WHERE AM I?!"
The man quickly showed displeasure... then fear when Joe did not crumble.
Friday, March 7, 2014
Moth Balls
Joe was lying on pavement. His light cycle was gone, though he could feel shards of glass beneath him. Tron was quiet. Dave and the Lords and the whole damn spark city. Gone.
At first the sensation was that there was a large power source somewhere nearby, because of the insane humming. But then Joe felt the fluttering all about his face and hands. It was dark, but he thought he could just make out...& then the sun burst through the black (clouds?) and blinded him for a second but not before he saw for a split second.
Lemtata and Jose were feet away from him, dead. All his friends and the Lords, all the concert goers and the skate kids. Lying in piles, everywhere. More bodies than he'd ever seen. Picked clean. Just the clothing and hair to identify them.
Suddenly he was seized with immense blinding pain and thousands of bugs began to bite him all over his body. Fluttering and his own screaming. The sun again and he saw.
Moths. Millions upon millions, flying in flocks like migrating black birds, waves and waves of them. He looked down and what wasn't covered with moths was bleeding profusely. He began to weep. How had it come to this? Funny, they didn't look harmful. They almost looked...a word was struggling to come to his mind.
"Innocuous?" Lemtata's breastless corpse moaned. Lemmy's corpse was trying to fuck her.
Of course. George Rhea's three nightmare inducing moths.
"It isn't real, Danny. It's just like pictures in a book, Danny!!!!" Joe screamed. He began swatting at all the moths that were on him, hoping he'd by some chance strike one of the three. They must have been responsible for a lot of this nonsense.
At first the sensation was that there was a large power source somewhere nearby, because of the insane humming. But then Joe felt the fluttering all about his face and hands. It was dark, but he thought he could just make out...& then the sun burst through the black (clouds?) and blinded him for a second but not before he saw for a split second.
Lemtata and Jose were feet away from him, dead. All his friends and the Lords, all the concert goers and the skate kids. Lying in piles, everywhere. More bodies than he'd ever seen. Picked clean. Just the clothing and hair to identify them.
Suddenly he was seized with immense blinding pain and thousands of bugs began to bite him all over his body. Fluttering and his own screaming. The sun again and he saw.
Moths. Millions upon millions, flying in flocks like migrating black birds, waves and waves of them. He looked down and what wasn't covered with moths was bleeding profusely. He began to weep. How had it come to this? Funny, they didn't look harmful. They almost looked...a word was struggling to come to his mind.
"Innocuous?" Lemtata's breastless corpse moaned. Lemmy's corpse was trying to fuck her.
Of course. George Rhea's three nightmare inducing moths.
"It isn't real, Danny. It's just like pictures in a book, Danny!!!!" Joe screamed. He began swatting at all the moths that were on him, hoping he'd by some chance strike one of the three. They must have been responsible for a lot of this nonsense.
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