Back into it.

It was right about this point in hearin the story that I got a mite distracted. I ain't sayin the story was borin, in fact, it was the dickenest thing I ever did hear. And I ain't tryin to say the tellin of it wasn't great. If anything, it convinced me that this whole "multiple Pat" thing was true as the day is long, or as the sky is black, dependin on which planet you're on. And after all the coffee they fed me, it wasn't because I was tired or unfocused or nothin like that. Nah, what really distracted me from this fine tale was the thunderous, repeated hammering that came from the opening hatch and the sudden panic that followed. Now, I like to think of myself as a considerate listener, but it becomes mighty difficult when there's red lights flashin, alarms blarin out with their whoop-whoopin and Pats poppin in and out of the room like they was kernels of dried corn sittin in a plate full of simmerin bacon grease and yellin things like, "They've found us!" and "Code 3! Code 3!" and "Get him outta here, quick!"

I didn't wanna get in the way or nothin, so I just sat where I was while all of this was goin on. I learned my lesson about that when I was at the Wal-Mart last year. You know how it is. You're just sittin there at the Wal-Mart snack bar, waitin for your nephew to wander around the store and pick up whatever new game he's lookin at so he can shoot aliens or steal cars or shoot alien cars or whatever it is he does all day. So, there you are, drinkin your coffee, maybe readin the paper if you're lucky enough to sit at a table where someone left one behind, and people just start screamin. At first, you just tune 'em out, thinkin the Montana Brothers have just put out a new poster, or whatever crazy new thing the kids are into these days. I don't really keep up that well. But, just as you finish doin the sudoku puzzle (which you gotta do in your head because the last guy did it in ink, but did it all wrong), you look up to see some kind of slimy tentacle thing crawlin its way out of housewares, its pseudopods ripplin overhead like grandma's arm flab and all you can think is that, if your nephew doesn't get back with his game soon, you just may have to wrestle with this thing.

So, you go back to readin the paper, catchin up on local high school sports and whatnot and, when you look up again, you see that this tentacle thing has devoured all of housewares and isn't so much as movin as it is growin towards the toys section, where you assume the games is, which would mean that's where your nephew is and, if you lose one more nephew to crazy alien and/or demon spawn while game shoppin at the Wal-Mart, your sister Frank's prolly never gonna speak to you again, so you figure it's time to take action. Now, as you're prolly well aware if you spend as much time waitin in the Wal-Mart snack bar as I do, that every Wal-Mart keeps an assortment of weapons just behind the popcorn machine, in case of alien invasion or zombie attack or whatever else can go wrong. So, you jump the counter, which is usually without employees, and start sortin through a cardboard box full of creature killin devices. Now, when in this situation, seein a tentacled creature devour the back of the Wal-Mart, you ain't likely to know right away if the creature is from another dimension, another planet or is just the product of some combination of genetic tinkerin and a lousy sewer system. Now, it's mighty kind of the Wal-Mart people to mark each weapon with its name and uses, but seein a tag that says "Nuclear Destablilizer; for use on multi-dimensional creatures or minor Great Old Ones" ain't gonna help you a whole lot if you ain't got your "Guide to Creatures What May Devour and/or Destroy the Earth" handy. If I were in this situation, and I was, I would just grab myself a roll of the duct tape and get to work tapin all them weapons together to make yourself one massive super weapon. Sure, it's gonna be heavy and unwieldy, like tryin to oil wrestle an elephant with no legs, but that's what carts are for, right? And you already got the duct tape out, so why not tape a couple of them carts together to give yourself a little more stability? And, while you're at it, why not tape that super gun you just made to the cart, in case you hit a bump or somethin? I mean, you don't want that thing fallin of the floor, misfirin and mutatin all the cheetos into a big orange monster, now, do ya?

So, there ya is, runnin through automotive, screamin like a banshee and bearin down on this thing thats got as many eyes on each tentacle as it has tentacles, and every eye is turned to look at you. The sweat's rollin down your back like a you're a flock of ducks in Noah's flood and you're gettin a little hoarse because you been yellin all the way from the snack bar and you forgot how big the Wal-Mart really is.Then this tentacle comes sweepin out of nowhere behind you and picks you up along with the cart like you ain't nothin more than a kernel of popcorn in its shoe. Now, as you prolly know, this is the time for panic. So, you start shootin your gun off every which way and, just as you suspected, when it hits the food section, the cheetos, owin to some chemical properties, you spect, mutate into a cheeto monster what leaves orange streaks on the ceiling as it moves and which is pretty angry for somethin that's just been created. You can't help but feel relieved as you get flung aside because, apparently, Captain McTentacles needs all his thrashin power to take on Orangey O'Cheetohead. What you don't know, and what, in all fairness, the manager at the Wal-Mart shouldn't have really expected you to know and it's pretty unfair of him to think you could possibly know, is that when Pseudopod McGee and Cheeto Orangystuff there collide, it sets off some kind of sciency nuclear reaction that causes both to stop existing dramatically, explosively, and gooily.

Now, you'd think when this happens, people would come around and thank ya by shakin your hand, covered in black slime and orange cheese dust though it may be. But there, my friend, you would be wrong. Instead, what's gonna happen in this situation, is there's yet another Wal-Mart you ain't allowed into because the manager is on some sorta power trip. So now, you gotta drive a whole hour whenever your nephew desperately needs to fight aliens on the tv because heaven forbid he help you when you need to do it in real life. So, long story short, when the panic erupts, it's best to just stay out of the way. If you've ever been to the Wal-Mart, I'm sure you can relate.

And that's precisely what I was doin amid all the hammerin and whoopin and yellin hubbub that was goin on down in the bunker, stayin out of the way. I figured, when I needed to do somethin, I would be informed. In the meantime, I might as well get myself ready by finishin that sandwich that was just sittin in the center of the table and drinkin my coffee. I was on the last bite of said sandwich when a Pat popped in, tossed a shirt and a small can on the table and told me, "Here, put on the shirt and use the makeup to black out your teeth. We've got to get you to the ships."

I ain't usually one to argue with myself, even if myself isn't myself, so I did as I was told. I slipped the shirt, which I saw said "Slayer" on it and had the sleeves cut out, and opened the can to find black goo inside, which I covered my teeth with. As soon as this was done, I was hustled into a grate in the floor. It turns out that, as an army, I'm pretty darn resourceful. I even dig tunnels under my tunnels. I don't wanna brag or nothin, but I'm pretty darn proud of that. There was a whole tunnel complex underneath that there grate. I didn't get much time to look around, but from what I could see, it appeared that there was cubby holes and whatnot set in the tunnels where the Pat army was keepin paintings and statues and books. It all looked sorta high-fallutin to me, but I'm a simple man. But I was curious so I made a note to ask about it later.

After runnin through what felt like miles of tunnel, the Pat leadin me stopped us and did some fiddlin with the wall, which turned into a door through which we walked. On the other side of that wall was a perfectly normal garage with a couple of muscle cars sittin in it. Pat nodded at a 69 Camaro with slicks on the back and a chrome blower stickin out of the hood and told me, "Get in."

I slid into the passenger seat, and was hookin up my five point harness as Pat told me, "We're gonna drive like Indian food outta a man with irritable bowel syndrome. If we're lucky, we won't be caught. If we're not lucky, then we will be caught and you gotta act like a junkie. Just itch and twitch, buddy, just itch and twitch."

And with that, we were rocketing through the night.