Sunday, December 14, 2008

Pat's Mission

I got up pretty early yesterday mornin. Round about 4:30, I got me some terrible heartburn. It felt like I'd swallowed me a cup of lava with some chopped habanero peppers in it, then threw in some fire demons from the 4th circle of hell down in there to stir it up with some light sabers. In short, I needed me some antacids right quick. I'm a wanderin' this way and that in Lindbergh's mansion, lookin for a medicine cabinet or whatnot. I don't ever find one, but I find this weird lab thingy that's got all these heads and arms and gears and stuff in it. I was a little scared at first, you know, thinkin this was just a plot to steal the head of Pat O'Neil and put it on display or whatnot. But then I figure, first, why would anyone want to display my mug anywheres that wasn't Halloween related or otherwise meant to scare kids away from something or another, second, who's gonna be visiting a display of heads in a secret underground bunker in the middle of no where. It's not like Lindbergh encourages visitors here, what with the razor wire and Siberian tiger and giant ball that chases people around. That last one, he said he got a good deal on it when The Prisoner wrapped production. The funny thing is, he says, is that the ball was actually a people eating ball. They just pretended that it wasn't because people would be horrified to learn that such a thing existed. In fact, so Charles tells me, the entire tv series was originally aired as a documentary, but people were so offended at what their country was doing that there were riots at the focus groups. Fortunately, members of MI5 were there to ship the troublemakers off to the island. Later, when they simply repackaged the show as fiction, people loved it. Why, you may wonder, did they show it in the first place? Well, this was in the '60s and even world governments were experimenting with openness. Plus, England was a little strapped for cash after their secret war with the moon spiders and thought a TV show could help them recover in time to have a beneficial trade alliance with the mole people, who were asking for a down payment of 5%. With all that, I felt confident that this was not all some wacky secret plot to steal my, or anyone else's head. So, I looked a little closer and saw that the heads were all filled with machinery and whatnot. It seems that Lindbergh has some sorta robot lab or something in his basement. There was one robot that looked kinda complete layin next to the door. It was slumped against a wall with its hair over its face, so I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, or a manwoman, like I saw at the circus that once. It was droopin like Dali's mustache after a shower and I could see a little switch in the back of its neck. Now, I'm like anyone in that, if there's a switch around, I just gotta flip it. I mean, what if it were an antacid delivery robot or somethin like that? Then I would be missin out on two things, seein a robot and gettin an antacid. So there I was, reachin out to touch the switch. I could feel its cold metal switchiness under my ring finger. As I started to apply pressure to the switch, I heard voices.

"Are you sure he's ready?" That was Lindbergh, I could tell because he sounded human, and he didn't sound like Douggy.

"I'm positive." That was Alistair. I could tell because he sounded just like you think a creature that was a combination of squirrel, monkey, some donkey, a little spider and a dash of giraffe thrown in there for good measure, what designed and built his own voice box would sound like, if you were the type to imagine those kinds of things. "He's been ready for this before we recruited him."

"I'm still not sure," Lindbergh said, "I want to..."

Their voices faded away in the distance. When I thought it was safe, I left the robot lab and followed the direction they went. I figured one of them would know where I could get somethin to fix the molten metal that was exploding in my chest. You know, now that I think of it, I bet that sandwich had something to do with this. I knew I shouldn'ta finished it all in one day. Honestly, I didn't really want to, but it was just too good not to eat. Plus, you know how it is when you have somethin deep fried. It's just not the same when you reheat it. The taste is there, but the crunch is all gone. Anyway, I followed the sound of voices until I reached the kitchen. There, I saw Alistair standing up on his hind legs on the counter while Charles was makin himself a sea monkey tortilla, I suppose for one on his burritos. Charles was in the middle of sayin somethin low and conspiratory when I caught his eye.

"Oh, hey, Pat!" he said. He's usually very nice, but he's got a weird way of speakin. Sometimes, he's real quiet, so it's hard to hear, and other times he's just a little too loud and friendly. It's like he doesn't know what a normal tone or level of voice is. That's OK with me, because my grandpa was sorta the same way. He lost his hearing because of a bomb in the first world war. The bomb itself didn't really damage him, but there was a German runnin right at him at the time. The bomb actually hit the German and his pointy helmet flew off his head, bounced off two ot three trees, flew up in the air and knocked out another piece of artillery that was headed right for the hospital tent, careened off another group of Germans who was about to rush my grandpa's position, knockin all of 'em flat, and makin the helmet shoot offa one of their heads. Then, the helmets flew two separate directions, each caught in the barbed wire that was surroundin pappy, and flew back at him at the exact same time with just enough force to pop both his eardrums. He was rushed to the hospital tent right away, which is where he met my grandma, and they saved as much of his hearing as they could. Later, he was one of the first people to get a hearing aid. He got one of the early, gas powered models that had to be wheeled around in a wagon. I was never sure if it worked because it made his hearing better or if it just made everyone yell louder to be heard over the gas engine. But, because pappy was always luggin this hearin aid around, and he could never really hear right anyway, he would shout when he was talkin to other people or mumble when he was talkin to himself. Charles is a bit the same way, only minus the gas engine, the wagon and the trumpet lookin things attached to his head with leather straps, at least so far as I've seen.

"Mornin' Charles. Mornin' Alistair," I said, "What are you two gents doin up so early?" 'Cause of the heartburn, I was squinchin and squeezin my face up a little.

I think Charles noticed that somethin was wrong, 'cause he asked, "Is something wrong? You're squinching and squeezing your face up a little. It looks like you've got some discomfort."

"Yeah," I told him, "I got some horrible heartburn here. I was just up lookin for an antacid or somethin."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle, which he tossed to me. "That one works pretty quick for me."

"Thanks," I told him, chewin a coupla tablets. It was like someone dumped ice water down my throat and I was instantly better. "Wow," I said, surprised, "That worked fast."

"Yeah," he said, almost silently, "It's a recipe I invented myself. Eating these burritos thrice a day is murder on my digestion. Sometimes, I wonder if it's worth it. But then, I think about the sheer horror of ninjas selling meth, and I realize that it is. Speaking of which, would you like a burrito? It's made with sea monkeys."

"No thanks," I tell him, "When I was a kid, my uncle Charlie bought me a Sea Monkey set from the back of a catalog. We was gonna raise them together for a sea monkey circus. The day the sea monkeys came, though, a civet cat got caught in the mail box, quite unbeknownst to Uncle Charlie. He was so excited to get the sea monkeys that he reached into the mail box without lookin, which was contrary to his usual habit after he got bit by that cottonmouth that once and the poison went right to his heart and he had to have it replaced with a baboon heart, which wasn't really that bad 'cept he always got a little worked up when people smiled at him because he thought they was challenging him to a fight and he beat up those teenagers that once when they mooned him and he went to jail for a month where he met aunt Sally who was in there for throwin feces at a guy at the supermarket because she had a baboon heart too and he was flirtin with her. They used to always say they were two people with one babboon heart, which was kinda sweet. Oh yeah, they lived in a tree, too. So, anyways, uncle Charlie reached in for the sea monkeys without looking and the civet cat took his arm right off, all the way to the shoulder. He was runnin around, hootin and hollerin and shakin his shoulder when the civet cat, poisoned by the baboonieness of Charlie's blood, died right there on his arm. He went right straight to the doctor, who told him that they coudn't remove the civet cat because it had latched onto his artery and if the cat was removed, uncle Charlie would die. So, instead, Charlie went to this guy Tom he knew who was a great taxidermist. Tom preserved that civet cat while it was still attached to uncle Charlie. So, for the rest of his life, Uncle Charlie walked around with a preserved civet cat stuck to his arm. I tried to raise my sea monkeys and train them in circuslike things, but it just wasn't the same without uncle Charlie helping me."

Charles looked a me for a second, then shook his head quickly. He asked me, "Pat, is any of that true?"

Well, I was a little chagrined, "Nah, not a word of it. It just came spillin out, really." I was afraid he was gonna be mad at me or something.

But instead, he turned to Alistair and said, "Amazing!"

Alistair responded, "I told you. He will never be more ready!"

"Ready for what?" I inquired.

"Pat," Charles began, "We have a very special mission for you. One that you are uniquely qualified to perform."

"Oh yeah? What's that?" I was getting intrigued.

"It has come to our attention that Clan Platypus is attempting to open up new markets. The rural areas are already saturated with meth, and so their distribution is progressing slowly there. They are attempting to market their product to writers now. They have formed a diabolical plan to start with the lower level writers, get them hooked on meth, and then work their way up the literary ladder until they can capture the minds of tenured literature professors at major universities. They can then use the influence of these professors to encourage meth use in the students, capturing a whole new generation of college educated adults who will then spread their meth use through new economic and social areas, destroying society as we know it."

"That sounds awful," I say, knowing how the liberal elite have done the same sorta thing, which is why no one college educated have ever voted for anyone but a liberal, because, we all know, tenured university literature professors are the most influential of all people anyone can ever meet in their lives, "What can I do to help?"

Charles and Alistair explained to me that the National Association of Makin Stuff Up (NAMSU for short) is holdin their annual Makin Stuff Up contest in Florida next week. Clan Platypus has put up some pretty tough competition who, on winning the championship, will credit her success in makin stuff up to meth. Their hope is that some people will start doin meth to get leg up on next year's competition and the snowball will start rollin. Even if there's someone better, the ninjas will assassinate them before the final round and Clan Platypus' ringer will win.

"This is very dangerous, Pat," Alistair explained to me, "and you don't have to do it if you don't want. However, there will be thirty squimonk in the ceiling and Douggy will be disguised in the audience in case something goes wrong. We will make your safety our only priority. All you will need to worry about is beating their ringer."

"I'll do it," I said, fully committed, "I trust you and Douggy with my life, and I want to do what I can to help defeat the evils of meth ninjas. Just one question, though. Who's their ringer?"

Charles looked at me and shouted, "The most evil woman in the history of time! Amelia Earhart!"

I was just as confused as you are now, but I gotta go practice my makin stuff up, so I'll fill you in on those details tomorrow or the next day.

7 comments:

Grégoire said...

This is really some funny shit. You're a great writer.

poodlepaw said...

Holy cow! Pat O'Neil vs. Amelia Earhart?! Incredible. Epic. That'll go down in the history books. I can't wait for the next post!

Brunhilda said...

Now why is Amelia Earhardt the most evil woman in the history of time??? I am intrigued and cannot wait for the battle o' nonsense!

It is a pity about deep fried things. You never can warm them up, huh? Not even in the oven. Glad you got some antacids.

garrett said...

I would usually be too agitated to function normally on the news that Amelia Earhart was on the cusp of further promulgating meth by her exceptional skills at making stuff up, but since I got my Pat O'Neil shirts in on Friday I've been remarkably content.

Aside from being inordinately awesome, they're reassuringly well-made.

Pat O'Neil said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Pat O'Neil said...

Would you, sir, in a completely objective commentary, not elicited at all by Pat O'Neil or his handler, say that the shirts have given meaning and direction to your life and that readers of this story would be morally wrong NOT to buy one?

niffiwan said...

These last few entries have made me laugh out loud more multiple times, and left me with a huge grin on my face. Thank you.

I'm slowly catching up on my "Pat" reading (I wish I had more time to read). But egad, I'm a whole two months behind! I wonder if I'll ever catch up.