Acting in my capacity as the resident expert in supervillain technology, I’ve spent the past few days inspecting the weather control buoy. Which isn’t to say I know a damn thing what I’m doing. Most of my admittedly-limited expertise is in the area of optics. Still, I gave the President a run down on the devious device.
“I never saw the original, but I know they had a lot of them and access to a nearby weather station. You might check on any weather center on this or any of your other islands, but this thing has all kinds of stuff inside it. Most people try to stimulate rain by increasing moisture and particulates, but that doesn’t necessarily mean wind and lightning go with it. Near as I can tell, this thing has to do with stimulating ions, causing changes in pressure, lightning, and that kind of thing. Normally, I’d doubt it could make tsunami-like waves, but it’s more likely than this thing being able to make a volcano happen, which you said happened by dumb luck anyway.” I took a bow and slipped off my sock puppets that stood for the buoy and the island.
The President clapped. “Again! Again!”
Next to him, a beautiful woman with a large forehead laid a hand on his shoulder. “Mr. President, please control yourself. My people don’t understand the technology involved at all. Dozens died and worst of all that thing destroyed the library.” She pointed at the sock puppet in my hand.
Speaking slowly, I told her, “This is a sock puppet.”
“Yes, do not be ridiculous. How could a sock puppet kill someone? You are a grown woman.” The President clapped his hand on her shoulder and shook her gently back and forth. He pulled his hand away and gestured to the rest of his cabinet. “Does anyone have anything to add to the Education adviser’s assessment?” He winked at said big-headed adviser and turned to a hippie-looking adviser in particular. “What do you think of all this?”
“I think it was wonderful!” The head of the Environmental Department practically squeed. “Mother Nature needs to cleanse and this device allows us to help her do it instead of contributing to the problem as mankind has always done.” I liked this one. It’s pretty much entirely because of our mutual appreciation for massacres. At first, I suspected she and I disagreed on a lot of issues, because of her flower-patterned hemp clothing, headband, sandals, and the flower tucked behind her ear. However, she had quite an enthusiastic gleam in her eye as she gushed over the destruction wrought by the device deployed against the island. “Are there any more around the rest of the archipelago?”
“Under orders from the President, my men destroyed every buoy in the vicinity of our home islands,” answered the top general of the nation, General Rodriguez. I remembered hearing an announcement about that. They have a funny arrangement where one DJ is a toady for the President and the other opposes every little thing he does. According to her, a celebration where he released white doves was just a plot to bombard her motorcycle with bird crap, which is why she called on dissenting citizens to shoot every bird they can find. Local chicken producers weren’t amused.
Heedless of my reminiscences, the General continued. “We have freedom from the terror of that weapon. How soon can we use it for ourselves?”
“We can’t,” I announced. “In disabling it, I was forced to destroy the power source. There is nothing on the island compact enough to power it, save my little project. If you help me complete it quickly, I could provide another to power this device.”
I lied. I removed the power source, true, but the thing interested me too much to hand over. It resembled a purple glowing hockey puck, so all I had to do was paint it black to hide it. They only care about soccer around here, so I’ll be safe as long as it doesn’t say insulting things about the Llamas. The soccer team, not the animals, though some of the ranchers here are quite proud of their critters.
The hockey puck should be fine, as long as it doesn’t explode. No hurry. Not while I’m still assembling my latest armor.
I mixed my original design with the newer one. Thin armor strips once again gave it a vaguely reptilian look on the chest, though I included a central strip of armor straight up the middle of them on the front and back. The helmet had a visor with a dip in the middle as if glaring, and the outer edges of them continued back into the ears or horns of a jester’s cap, only without bells on the end. They ended in points that arched back, with a third one arching forward from my forehead three inches.
The bottoms were thinner looking material with armor plates held in it, leaving me with maneuverability and room for the jump-enhancing pseudomuscle boosters. The boots weren’t anything special. I considered it, but spinners would have just gotten in the way of walking. Don’t even get me started on the stripper pole. Bitches love stripper poles, almost as much as they hate being called bitches.
The gloves are now gauntlets. I almost replaced the barbed wire look with an oval dome for the same effect, but settled on a pair of spirals that cross going back and forth on each gauntlet. The more things change, the more they brutally stay the same, eh? Same reason why the primary colors are still orange and a lighter shade of black.
By the time I got that well underway, the President had pretty much given up on inviting me out to go party with him. It doesn’t help that I’m trying to avoid unnecessary casualties to his people. That severely limits the fun I can have. Even visiting the prison doesn’t interest me. For starters, every time I’ve tried to say torture doesn’t work, I get accurate information in no time flat. And anytime I mention racism, I run into less than I expected. It’s bizarre. Gee, I sure hope no big-tittied strippers want me to judge a blowjob contest.
Still, the balcony of the Presidential Palace gave me a great view of him giving speeches to adoring crowds. Well, they became adoring crowds. They started as protestors in favor of more housing and another cathedral on the island.
I don’t get what they’re complaining about. They already have one cathedral. I’ve seen it in my tour of the island. Seems to have staffing problem though. Probably because they built it next to a grade school. Hey, don’t be worried for the kids. To give the President credit, he thought of how to deal with that. There’s a gun factory across the street from both, and the school regularly sends classes on field trips to it. Suffer the little children at your own risk.
Suddenly, the President stopped speaking and spun to the floor. A gunshot rang out. Sniper. I picked up on the glare from the lens on the roof of a nearby parking garage. Finally, someone to kill! I ran out onto my balcony and hopped the edge, grabbing at a banner of the President’s face and sliding to the ground on that. I noticed someone jump from the parking garage and open a parachute.
I never paid attention to what was under my balcony, it seems, as I landed in the middle of an bunch of pens full of camels. The President wasn’t kidding about getting them all the time. I looked at the nearest one and nodded. It could work.
I hopped atop the nearest one, causing it to rear up on its rear legs like some ridiculous beast I never knew was able to rear. Its front hooves kicked open the gate to its pen and I raced out, balls bouncing painfully as I rode the desert beast of burden bareback into the streets, following the chute through the air.
Damn assassin rode the thermals over the road to extend the length of his gliding.He didn’t head anywhere near the docks area, either. I needed to get him down. Unfortunately, I first had to find a way to jump the hardware store right in my path. I gave the traditional war cry associated with such a joust, “Aaaaaaaaaah!”
By the time I made it through the window, the displays, the shelves, the stock room, and the back door, I’d lost everything below the waist of my coat, which had turned black due to spray paint, and a length of chain around my throat almost choked me. I slipped the chain off and whirled it around over my head as I checked the sky to find my target again.
I saw him, oblivious to my pursuit, opening a bottle of wine and pulling out a cup to enjoy a celebratory drink. Methinks he’s popped his cork a mite too early! I flung the chain at the tuxedo-clad man, trying to wrap it around his leg. I missed, but he noticed me alright. He started fiddling for something in his pocket while I urged my ball buster of a mount onward. “Hi-ho, Al-Silvah, away!”
The fucker dropped a Molotov on me. Whatever he opened in the air was high enough proof, and I wasn’t fireproof. The bottle broke on my head and splattered me with dry, sweet wine tasting of just a hint of vanilla. And dare I say, a certain spicy aftertaste that burned the tongue? Or was that just my face on fire?
It kicked my camel into high gear, though. Fire worked wonders on the animal’s ability to push it to the limit.
The situation got even better. In front of us, there’d been a big accident in the road. A truck emblazoned with the logo of the President’s personal petting zoo had crashed and the alligators in the back got loose in the middle of the street, causing a car hauler to crash and drop its load when the back dropped.
This is what happens in a world without school prayer to the Aztec deities. Every school shooting to ever take place occurred only after kids stopped cutting out human hearts and offering them to Huitzilopochtli. And look at the massive increase in car accidents after those beings got neglected. This day was no exception.
So there I was. I rode toward a massive car accident backed by a congregation of gators, with my head on fire, my coat cut short and turned black, swinging a chain overhead, trying to catch a parachuting assassin in a tuxedo who sipped on wine as he tried to escape.
It was awesome. Not that I appreciated it at the time, with the horrible burning sensation on my scalp, but those are the risks you take not using Head and Shoulders. It got more awesome as my camel expertly dodged cars and took the path of least resistance up the car hauler’s ramp and jumped. We sailed through the air like a majestic squid, the chompers of the President’s cuddly gators snapping shut beneath us.
With the benefit of having cybernetic eyes as opposed to easily-cooked flesh and blood ones, I could still see. And I noticed a lovely sight: we were in range. I swung for the assassin and caught him about the shin with my chain. He pulled me off the camel and into the air, briefly. Then the extra weight dropped us both to the street. Dropping and rolling to protect myself put the flames out, incidentally.
As I rose, the hitman pulled a small handgun. I dove behind a food cart as he opened fire. He went through seven shots quickly. He began changing magazines, but I rose from behind the cart, wielding a fried fruit-filled corn wrap in each hand. Isla Tropica’s favorite snacks smacked into his face, blinding him with deep-fried pineapple and banana. All it took to put him down then was a gentle tap with the cart’s metal umbrella pole to the head, and another ten hits to make sure once he was down.
To my great surprise, the President himself rolled up in his white Presidential limo and stuck his Desert Eagle out the window to hold it on the assassin. “You are under arrest. Do not move. I did not like you shooting my body double and interrupting my Swedish massage. I took night classes for six months and the Swedish woman almost asked me for a happy ending. And I worked very hard pre-recording that speech!”
After yelling at the downed assassin, he collected himself and smiled at the gathering crowd before continuing, “It focused on my tireless efforts to fight crime, including the crime of trying to kill political leaders. What smells like barbecue?”
He sniffed around, then seemed to notice me standing there. “You do not look good, my friend, but you smell great. I hope you do not mind I want my men to speak to this dick sucker.”
I waved it off, feeling part of my scalp blow away in a gust of wind. “Go ahead. It never goes how I want it to. Every time I try to make a point about torture not working, they go and give me accurate information.”
“You should cool down, friend.” He looked at someone inside his limo. “Bartender, a drink for my friend.”
“I think I’ll have a Long, Slow, Comfortable Screw Against a Wall,” I told him. “Shaken, not stirred. And my face on the rocks.”
Ba dum tish, folks. Ba dum tish.