Bananarama 8

Such a nice pleasant day. That’s what I thought. Normally I hate Tuesdays as much as anybody who wears a lot of orange and hates lasagna, but I was enjoying myself, now that a guy like me can just walk around Memphis again (OOC’s Note: Psycho Gecko doesn’t actually read Garfield). Shut up, OOC, yes I do! Anyway, this was starting to become quite the hostile city to a guy who enjoys a fine, cheap, stolen wine and a nice bubble bloodbath. With Venus out of the way, all this “hey, maybe we should stop the colorful thieves and murderers” business is just water under the bridge. Water under a bridge where you dump the bodies with a weight tied to them.

Didn’t even have to scramble to get my stuff back from the cops. They were probably a bit confused when they got into the lair and realized that the tech villain didn’t have a whole lot of junk around for his reputation. The junk, in fact, was in my trunk, which was at the end of our escape tunnel to facilitate my getaway.

Now, it’s not that I think the people of this or any other city have no right to defend themselves. The problem is when they defend themselves against me. I mean, if everyone I ever wrong is going to start taking a stand against me, I’m just going to have to go back to killing rather than maiming.

It’s become a disturbing trend lately. I’ve been going a lot easier on people ever since right after the space marine ship.

For instance, there I was, chowing down on some Chicken Teriyaki at a Chinese place that probably got really annoyed of people asking them for Japanese food. The part that gets to me is why the FUCK did they put onions in my fried rice when I told them not to. I know what you’re thinking. Jump up, terrify some poor immigrants, play with them a bit, and maybe toss the chef’s ass onto the grill, with the added benefit of frying up his egg roll and sperm sack.

Instead, I picked my helmet off the flimsy wood folding table with its underside of discarded gum and boogers and stood, causing the already-terrified man with his body between myself and his family to set his face. Determined. Fatalistically so. I was quite a sight in my full armor, complete with a pair of machetes strapped to my back and all sorts of improvised weaponry hanging off my belt. Throwing knives. A potato peeler. Rubber chickens. A ballistic knife. Those he recognized. The cans attached to spikes and the spheres with levers on them, not so much, and we all know how people fear the unknown. I came loaded up with all sorts of toys thanks to actually taking a few days to throw things together, and me with a plan or preparation also seems to be something to worry about. Plus, you know, I was a murderer who had bounded in happily asking for NO FUCKING ONIONS in my food.

I slipped my helmet on and got it properly latched and attached. Always important to keep your head properly protected. Don’t believe me? A few years back, I saw in the news about a biker driving around to protest helmet laws. Lost control of his bike, put on the breaks, flew over his own handles. Would have survived if he’d been wearing his helmet.

I showed up at the service dressed to blend in. Big fake beard, flannel shirt. Jeans. Ok, so the blood on the lap of the jeans had them on edge. They also didn’t like when I muscled my way up to the front of the bar to say something by the casket. The straw that finally broke the camel’s back was when I told them all that their buddy was a great inspiration to me in my struggle against the metal cup regulations in my day job as the supervisor of a team of child lumberjacks. I too knew the pain of losing a head in my protest. To this date, that is the only time I ever got into a bar brawl while giving a eulogy, though I hope to change that some day.

Nearly got caught graverobbing too, because I dug his dumb ass back up that night just to laugh at him some more. And Mix N’ Max needed a body for something. I don’t ask many questions about that sort of thing.

He edged closer as I walked over right in front of the man to the boxes on the counter and grabbed a bunch of soy sauce packets. I held them up and told the man, “I like this stuff. It’s mind blowing. It opens doors to other worlds, man,” before working them into one of the pouches on my belt Then I projected a cowboy hat on my head and gave the man a tip of my hat.

Rather than take the door, with its simple paper sign saying “Try our new Kung Pao Chicken!”, I threw myself out the window. Just for the hell of it. Seriously, you guys should try it the next time you’re encased in armor.

I stood up, made a show of brushing myself off, and began to walk away. Just walk away. You’d almost think I was learning to be a more patient person. This time, feel free to imagine I was walking in slow motion as the shop went up courtesy of the bomb I left in the soy sauce box. Why did the improvised explosive device go in the Chinese restaurant? Because the cooks there would have spotted the chicken grenade. Ba dum tish!

The mental image would be slightly distorted by me running back afterward and grabbing the sign out of the shattered glass from their door. When I taped it back to the door frame, it read, “Try our new Kung Pao Chicken! Now with 80% more pao!”

Yep, nice pleasant day outside too. Distant smoke. Police sirens in the distance. The blazing sails of the Pompeii’s Revenge floating over Downtown as Flamebeard attacked another bank. Those corporate raiders can be a vicious lot. I’m not quite sure what the other two guys are doing. All I know for sure is that Snowblower has covered the big glass pyramid in ice. If he had enough time, I’d suggest making an igloo, but it’s summer here right now and ice is not allowed to exist outside by law in the South during summer. Unlike most laws in the South, though, this one is based on science. Something to do with temperature, to be specific.

Currently, the legislature of Tennessee is working on a bill making it illegal to even mention the word “ice” outside, in the hopes that not saying something means people won’t even notice anything about its existence. They tried the same thing with the word “gay” but then were forced to pass yet another of these bills regarding the existence of the bill to not say “gay”.

Between the supervillains and the Tennessee State Legislature, there was more than enough criminal actions and criminal idiocy going on without me. But why not pile on? After all, I want things in Memphis to be intolerable. Make life miserable enough to get the city right where I want them. Operation Troll the Fuck out of Memphis is a go.

I guess that’s why I started with the good food places first. I’m trying to work away from that though.

I walked down the road. Radio Chic, good place for spare parts. I chucked in a chicken and lit that motherclucker up. Even better place for spare parts now.

Autozone. I pulled out a throwing knife and tossed it at the window. It exploded and took out the door, but that’s not the best part. The best part came when I pulled out one of the lever grenades, jammed the levers all the way to the opposite side, and threw it into the doorway. The resulting explosion was followed by the sound of tires all over the shop deflating from the nail pieces now embedded in them Autopwned.

ATT phone store. I left it alone. Do you know how hard it is in this day and age to chase victims who have terrible phone reception while trying to call for help? There are these masked killers out there who do nothing but murder teenagers and they absolutely love that company.

Nah, I’m just kidding. I hauled open the door and sprayed down the place in hot latte, scorching people and cheap phones alike in the unrighteous coffee of evil.

It was getting boring just hitting up whatever crossed my path. I don’t want to get stuck as the food guy, but restaurants have a lot of people in them and interesting projectiles. Hmmm. It would fuck with Memphis on a cultural, financial, and religious level. Luckily, I know a place that’s even better about projectile weaponry and screwing with Memphis. I opened a channel back to my temporary lodging at a dirty little Motel 6.

“Moai, bring me the Minstrel cycle. We’re going house hunting.”


Go ahead, take a look at the giant memorial they built to Elvis’s house and his nearby grave and tell me it doesn’t fit. You don’t just drive up to the house on your own, though. You are supposed to stop off across the street at the visitor center and take a small shuttle through the gates. Did I mention the street itself was called Elvis Presley Boulevard? Ever heard of overkill? Neither have the people at Graceland. However, I don’t need a shuttle to get through a simple gate. I scooted up, took aim, and fired a rocket from behind the headlight of my Minstrel cycle. I like my vehicles to carry a lot of ordinance.

In the aftermath of the explosion, sirens approached. Two patrol cars coming at me from each direction on the boulevard. “Hold on, I’ll choke their point,” I said to my passenger in his new sidecar. Moai had his helmet on too. It had flames surrounding a scene of that statue, Aphrodite of Milos, laying on towel by the beach. I let Moai pick it out, the horndog. Then again, have you seen that statue? I’d fuck that rock.

I dropped a chicken. I gunned it up the driveway a short distance, popped a wheelie and loosed a stream off the Minstrel’s flamethrower into the air as the explosion went off. It caught one car attempting to turn in after me and stopped it there, the engine block smoking. Another one was part of the way up the driveway, having made it in time. They had braked when the grenade blocked off the entrance and probably killed a buddy of theirs. Now the engine roared and it shot forward for me. I angled the scooter around to face them, giving it gas as well, but not moving in any direction as they played a game of chicken that I was meant to lose.

The headlight on my scooter shifted out and lowered as a rocket extended out of the hole it had just occupied in the frame. “I play chicken to win, motherfuckers!” I yelled out at them as I fired it. The cops saw the flames and tried to swerve and put on the brakes, anything. The rocket crashed through the windshield and exploded.

I enlisted the help of my new hostages to help Moai push the burning police car into place at the gate. On my orders, they were released with a message for the police and the city of Memphis before the burning car sealed up the entranceway of the house.

I told them to tell all the official types that I have officially stolen Graceland mansion. Mine. If anyone attempts to take it from me, I will totally wreck Elvis’s shit and crap in the bushes. I am also rigging Elvis’s grave and parts of the mansion to blow by remote detonator if anyone gets any ideas of trespassing while I’m out buying groceries or something. If the family and Elvis Presley Enterprises want it back, they’re going to have to pony up a hell of a lot of cash.

I didn’t actually tell them how much cash. I know they’ve made a lot off the place, but the real reason for being so vague is so I can spend even more time here while we negotiate. I’ve never had my own mansion before. Life is looking up. Women are just going to fall into my lap now.

It’s almost a shame the whole place will have to go when Honky Tonk Hero drags the out of town heroes and Gorilla Awesome back and into the middle of my plan. I very much want a lot of heroes back here for this next part.



5 thoughts on “Bananarama 8

  1. Jerden

    “as a rocket extended out of the whole it had just occupied in the frame.”
    There shouldn’t be a w on hole! How do you expect to conquer the world if you can’t even overcome the English language?

  2. Pingback: Bananarama 7 | World Domination in Retrospect

  3. Pingback: Bananarama 9 | World Domination in Retrospect

  4. farmerbob1

    “I am also rigging Elvis’s grave to blow and parts of the mansion to blow by remote detonator if anyone gets any ideas of trespassing while I’m out buying groceries or something.”
    “I am also rigging Elvis’s grave as well as other parts of the mansion to blow by remote detonator if anyone gets any ideas of trespassing while I’m out buying groceries or something.”


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