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The Adventures of El Pinche Reynoso
Archive for 200510 ( return to current blog )
Wednesday October 12, 2005
Mr. Whiskers didn’t feel well. His stomach was a little jumpy, his tail was matted, and this steady diet of tasteless lab food was getting old. He’d seen the television cats eating what seemed to be delicious and so, so satisfying meals in fancy dishes; tuna, mackerel, chicken, beef......what in hell was this crap that Professor Klingst was feeding him?
If he could just get at those caged rats on the third floor...well, his troubles would be over. Last time he was up there, though, one of the rats had taunted him, ranting about if they ever got out of those cages, they would show Mr. Whiskers and anyone else who got in their way who was boss.
He padded over to his feeding station. The plastic sloppy mess was repulsive, and rather than risk tasting it, he headed for his favorite soft chair in the third floor reception area. The hell with grooming, he wasn’t gonna do it any more. What was the point? He settled into the chair, stretched and rolled, thinking, plotting, claws unsheathed.
Mr. Whiskers had been happy and unaware of much of anything but his simple needs, until while on his customary nocturnal foray through the lab, he jumped up onto a table, knocking over a beaker and spilling its contents. The sticky fluid that spilled was good smelling and good tasting. He lapped it all up, then went back to his chair.
It happened slowly, over the next month. Awareness settled on him by bits and pieces, a sudden thought here, a strange shape on a piece of paper became familiar, he heard and understood the Professor’s words. He realized all the nuance in "Here, Kitty." By the fourth month after ingesting the contents of the beaker marked "SHMUTZ Progenesis Factor", he was reading the Bergen Bugle and listening to the rats.
The rats were a loosely organized gang that milled around in their secure cage grumbling about everything. When news came from the radio on Elrod’s desk that the citizens of North Bergen were split over Professor Klingst’s illicit discovery, shmutz, the
rats voted to support the use of the addictive substance.
"That way, explained Cell 14 subject A6, the humans who use shmutz will be easier to conquer. They’ll accept anything as within the norm, even us..hah!"
Subject B13 spoke up. "How in hell are we going to support anything, brothers? Look at us! In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got some breaking news for you. We’re rats! In a cage! And not to scare you, but that ugly furball sleeping on the chair out front? That’s a cat! A cat!"
"I’m not afraid of no cat. I’ll bite him. Just let me out of this cage." Subject B6k was considered foolhardy and belligerent. He had only halfheartedly lent his support to the shmutz support initiative. All he really wanted, he explained, was the basics; food, sleep, sex, shelter, and sex. He was the one rat who taunted Mr. Whiskers every time he saw him. | | Posted by Edward at 1:37 AM - | |
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In spite of a constant lack of sobriety, Fletch Carnoustie was one hell of a pastry chef. Pies, cakes, little tarts with cherry fillings and sugary crusts that melted in your mouth, he invented his own recipes and baked them all day every day.
A product of humble beginnings, he had stayed in the house and baked as other kids in his neighborhood played ball or tortured each other. He reached his dream when he was accepted at the prestigious L’Ecole de Cruste, located in Upper Wannagannsett. He was tossed out of the school at the start of his second term, when it was discovered that he was more interested in the tart instructor’s buxom wife Lulu than in showing up for class. It was an ideal setup, for a couple of weeks, anyway. The instructor, one Arti Klann, simply couldn’t accept the fact that his wife or any other woman could possibly want to have an affair with this....this Fletch character. Fletch had buzz cut hair, wore thick lenses, and being only five foot three, looked up toward everyone with a myopic, one-eyed squint and a snaggletoothed sneer. It was disturbing until you got to know him.
Even with his suddenly shortened education, Fletch retained all he’d learned and went to work for a couple of fancy restaurants. Eventually he opened his own catering service, and began to build an impressive list of clients.
Fletch drank. A lot. He’d start the day with vodka, orange juice and toast ( once in a while he’d substitute vegetable juice; better for you, more antioxidants), followed by a mid-morning chaser of toffee liqeur. Lunch was three beers and a green salad, then he’d finish up his cooking day and head home. He’d read Epicurean Magazine and watch the Cooking Channel until....Bam!..his head hit the floor or sofa or bed. The next morning he’d stumble out of bed to do it all over again.
His sometime drinking buddy, Ralph Weirnd, a would-be gigolo, was practicing his male strip routine one day, soliciting constructive comment from a completely soused Fletch, when a brilliant idea struck.
"Fletch, can you bake a big cake that I can fit into? I want to do a surprise thing for my cousin Lesmeralda’s bachelorette party. All her girlfriends and a photographer will be there, and this could be a real career opportunity!"
"Sure, Ralph, when do you want to do it?"
"Two weeks from Saturday, seven p.m. at Lesmeralda’s place. I’ll need you to set me up and get the music started."
"OK, Ralphie, but this is gonna cost you."
Fletch worked on the cake for two days before the party. Ralph ok’d the icing and motif (quasi wedding-white cake with a little sombrero on top) and practiced getting in and out of the big cardboard cylinder in the center. He perfected his leap out, clad in a red thong, gyrating to the insistent and sexy beat of "Make That Thing Swing."
Saturday opened bright, sun splitting sky and nature abuzz. Fletch drank his breakfast and just because the day was so beautiful, had a couple more. When Ralph came by at six, Fletch told him, "You’re the goddamnedest best friend I ever had, god dammit, so les’ go to the party!"
"OK Fletch, I’m ready to roll, let’s load up the van."
"What’s the address, Ralph?"
"Nine Sixty-Six Oak Street."
"Alright, you get in the cake, and when we get there I’ll wheel you out of the van, and set up. Your cue to do your thing will be the music."
"Gotcha, let’s go."
"Bestest buddy ever."
Fletch’s speech was slightly slurred, but he walked steady and they got the cake into the van, Ralph into the cake, and a singing and whistling Fletch started the van, gunned the engine, and headed for Lesmerelda’s. Fletch was happy, and just to ensure continuous euphoria, took a couple of nips from the little bottle he kept in the glovebox. Dreamily, he guided the van toward Lesmerelda’s house on….where was it?….oh yeah, Elm Street.
Turning off S20 onto Elm, he saw the balloons and ribbons flying from the gate a few doors down, pulled up on the curb out front, and prepared to unload. He vaguely noticed that there was a lot of noise coming from the house, and a couple of festive
tables were on the lawn. This party must be well underway. He rolled the cake carefully through the gate and positioned it near the porch, where he could plug in the big boom box.
People crowded around, watching him as he tested the equipment. He scanned the tables for something to drink, but all he saw was soft drinks and fruit juice. What kind of a party was this?
A young lady swam into his vision.
"Hi, I’m Susan. Watcha got?"
"A surprise for the lucky girl." Fletch was clever. Didn’t want to give away the surprise.
Great, thought Susan, smiling. My ex decides to send a huge cake. Weirdo.
"All right then, we’ll be ready for the cake in five minutes. Let me get everyone to the tables."
Fletch was floating. This was gonna be the easiest money he’d ever earned. All he had to do now was turn on the music and Ralphie would do the rest. He staggered out to the van, had one more slug, and somehow made it back to the porch, the visual detail in front of him fading to a colorful haze.
The tables were full now, the din was earsplitting. He looked over at Susan, who winked and nodded.
Fletch fumbled and hunted for nearly a full minute, then finally found the button that said "Play". The bouncy hip hop intro boomed out, bass thudding…whoomp, duh duh whoomp, duh duh whoomp!
The top of Fletch’s latest masterpiece burst open and Ralph leaped out, his best exit from a cake yet, writhing in air, right on beat, padded red thong prominent.
The last picture in Fletch’s brain before he passed out was of a near-nude Ralph, puzzlement clouding his face, and Susan screaming while ten big-eyed and slack-jawed sixth-grade children stared in silent amazement. | | Posted by Edward at 1:35 AM - | |
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North Bergen was a cocoon of a city where people raised up their kids, paid their taxes and got the services those taxes paid for. They lived workaday lives and supported their communities, toiling, toiling and dreaming. Not much happened to open people’s eyes wide or raise their ire; life ground on predictably, punctuated by an occasional scandalous blip that drew brief attention, then faded from mind.
The first event to produce headlines and rouse the populace that autumn was, unpredictably, a win by a local high school football team. The North Bergen Badgers ran away from the Quaintsville Queens in a 47-0 blowout. The Quaintsville players left the field demoralized and grumbling. They chose a spokesman who announced to the athletic director that they hated their team name and mascot, and weren’t playing any more games until all that was changed. The Badger coach called them a bunch of whiners, which drew the righteous wrath of several Quaintsville parents. The next school day, the Quaintsville Principal acted. Nominations were taken for a new mascot, the students voted, and the Quaintsville Gorillas won their next three games, losing the season finale in a one point squeaker to the Our Lady of Presumption Fighting Meerkats.
The good citizens of North Bergen had never expected or experienced anything like the rash of bank robberies that began just as November blustered in. It was always the same m.o., and the media followed each heist with twenty four hour news coverage, witness interviews, statements from the Chief of Police and lots of pure speculation. The suspect, dubbed Legs LeGrande by an editor at the Bergen Bugle, would walk calmly into the bank lobby wearing a pink Jackie O. pillbox hat with matching gloves and trenchcoat. While everyone was frozen in disbelief, Legs would pull his longbarrel .45, point it at the nearest teller’s forehead and order him to fill his Gucci bag with large denomination bills, no dye packs, please, or else. The teller would nearly faint when Legs, reaching the front door and before exiting, turned around and zipped open his
coat. Underneath, he was bare chested and wore bright red tights and Air Jordans. His pixelated image was taped to every shop window, a pop-up on the North Bergen municipal website, and every citizen with an exaggerated sense of civic responsibility was on the lookout for the infamous Legs LeGrande.
As El Pinche and Lesmeralda walked up the steps to the front porch they could hear the seldom heard warble from the yellow phone. He and Lesmerelda had been enjoying the sun and the air of Indian Summer at a little picnic in the park nearby. Autumn had showered the ground with gold, red and yellow. They had walked through the leaves, hand in hand, discussing love and life and future delights. While at the park, a shiny black NBPD cruiser had sped by, siren shrieking bloody murder. The news on the car radio on the way home confirmed El Pinche’s suspicions. Legs LeGrande was at it again. Something was going to have to be done, and soon. El Pinche answered the phone, while Lesmerelda stood near, worry painting her face.
"Señor Mayor, what can I do for you?"
"Agent E, an hour ago Legs LeGrande hit the FairView Savings and Loan over in Summitfield. He got away with nearly twenty thousand dollars, and several people fainted while he was in the bank. He has his own style, if you want to call it that. He’ll rob two banks in one day, then we won’t see him for a week or so. This guy hits, then fades away, and what’s really strange is that no witnesses have seen where he goes once he leaves the bank.
"Ai yi yi.....you mean he’s invisible?"
"Something like that. Anyhow, he’s got one hell of a getaway plan. Look, you’ve had surveillance and criminal profile training, and frankly, I think you’re the man for the job. We need to get this scum off the street. When can you get down here?"
"Agent E is on the way, señor."
"Good, See you then. Oh, and come ready to work."
"Si, Mayor Crandall." He laid down the receiver and turned to Lesmerelda. "My sweetness, I must go once again to protect our somewhat fair city."
Lesmerelda threw her arms around El Pinche’s neck, clinging to him as tightly as she could. Tears wet her eyes, this time might be different, somehow. He’d managed success in all his previous missions, but...one never knew.
"Oh Lucky, can’t someone else do this?" She only used her pet name for him in the most intimate moments, and never in public.
"No, no, my darling. The Mayor, he has great faith in me and I must not disappoint."
"But..."
El Pinche placed his fingers on her lips. "I will return soon, unharmed, this I promise you."
"I love you," she said through teary eyes as he pulled away.
"As I do you, my love." He kissed her once more, then dressed and armed himself to leave.
This was El Pinche’s first mission that required a disguise. He was going to have to blend in with the general populace in order to do effective surveillance. He was clad, courtesy of Bill’s Cuff and Cravat, in his newly borrowed dark blue deliveryman’s outfit. A snappy black-billed hat hid his combat sombrero, and his baggy right trouser leg hid his whip of choice, the new SnapDragon DeLuxe II. A full eighteen feet uncoiled, it was state-of-the-art, featuring the latest in multiuse lashtips and came equipped with a custom molded handle with gyroscopic balance and "smart" infrared aiming technology. The hilt of the grip held an area scanning sensor that analyzed 31 different stages of aggression within a fraction of a second, loaded the appropriate lashtips, and flashed a "ready" signal. All El Pinche really needed to do was point and snap, and the criminal mastermind at the business end of his whip was either gassed, temporarily blinded, shocked, hog-tied, or rendered senseless and slobbering, depending on the perceived threat level.
El Pinche spent more than two hours at Mayor Tony Crandall’s office, reviewing the details, the movements, the bank employee statements and any information gathered from the robberies in question. He highlighted every heist location on the big North Bergen wall map, and carefully noted the date and time of each incident. Sure enough, a pattern was evolving there on the wall. Legs LeGrande was working his way around the city, following the Interstate 44 Loop. Every bank hit so far was located on a
one-way street entering within one mile directly onto the Loop and headed away from town.
"Señor Crandall, look at the map! This robber, he is going to hit the SquareOne Mutual in Plumber Valley!"
"By God, Agent E, I think you may be right! Head over there and set up. Maintain radio contact and check in every hour. I’ll have backup in the area, a couple of plainclothes will be within a block of you."
El Pinche flowed into action. The silver SUV rumbled through the center of town, menacing, featureless, windows tinted dark purple, finally stopping at Scheistermann’s Rent-A-Hulk. He parked in his reserved space, then headed into the garage through a side door, emerging from the gate a few minutes later driving a nondescript and decrepit yellow delivery van loaded with empty boxes. Radio Latina blared from the one working speaker. He reached down and patted the SnapDragon, secure against his right leg.
Backup? We don’t need no stinking backup!
Legs LeGrande sat disguised in the coffee shop across the street from SquareOne and watched the people come and go. He was in his Air Force Sergeant’s uniform, and no one really gave him a third glance. He pretended to be reading the Daily Tattler, peeping over the top of the paper from time to time. The front page of the newsrag he held had a picture of himself pulling one of his jobs. Underneath was a photo of an attractive blonde actress, Monica Flowers, holding a newborn. The bold headline read "Legs LeGrande Fathered My Baby."
Legs always cased his jobs, looking for guards, making sure there was time and space to escape, but most of all, a place nearby to stash a suit of clothes to change into. This city had been good to him, just one more job and he would be ready to move on. He was tired. He’d made over two hundred thousand from this ville so far, and that little piece of property in Tucumcari was nearly his. He could get out of this business, become somebody respectable, above reproach, a landowner, a pillar of the community, maybe join a bowling league. He was a bank robber with a retirement plan.
Hell, he mused, the job this morning was such a piece of cake. Thirty five grand
lus, if you counted the twenties.
Working alone was good. He’d been smart that way, never had to share with anyone else. No stooges, no snitches, no nothin’, just Legs LeGrande getting the cash and moving on.
Well, time to get to business. It was mid afternoon, the bank closed at five, and there was usually too much traffic after four p.m. He scrutinized his watch. No one had gone in or out of the bank for eleven minutes.
Legs paid his tab, picked up his duffelbag and stepped out onto the sidewalk. A shabby grey haired elderly man, skin burned to red ochre, shuffled up to him and snapped a stiff salute.
"God bless you boys, you’re doing a great job, and we support the troops, yes we do."
"Uh, yeah, thanks". Legs returned the salute, then in his best attempt at military bearing, moved on, checking his surroundings as he walked. Coast was clear, no one watching. He slipped into the alley, one block away from SquareOne Mutual, scanning overhead for cameras. None. Good. Behind a dumpster, he pulled his robbing outfit from the dufflebag and hastily changed. Pink hat secure, pistol in purse, tights pulled up.
Dammit, this is painful! Guess ballerina tights weren’t made for two hundred pound men who dressed to the left. He paced the block to the back of the bank and paused, taking several deep breaths, then broke into a sprint for the front door.
Two thirty p.m. and half a block from the bank, El Pinche waited in the big van. He saw the old vagrant salute the man in uniform. The street was relatively empty, but if Legs LeGrande was going to stick to habit, operate as he always did, he should be showing up any time now. El Pinche focused on his surroundings, watching, listening, looking for anything out of place.
At two thirty-two p.m., the sun moved behind a cloud.
At two thirty-three p.m., Legs LeGrande, resplendent in pink, streaked from the alley and bounded up the steps to the bank entrance, pulling the pistol from his purse
as he ran.
Yes! I guessed right!
El Pinche watched Legs enter the bank, then exploded out of the van and scrambled across the street, cardboard box in hand. The SnapDragon rode easily in his leg pocket, auto activated, loaded with immediasleep lashtips. He opened the bank entrance door boldly and walked to the service desk.
"Delivery." He was calm and cool. Legs was twenty feet away, stepping up to the first teller window.
"Hold it! Everyone stand still and do not move. I’m going to reallocate some of your assets, and then be on my way. No one interferes, no one gets hurt." Legs handed his Gucci bag to the frightened teller. "Fill the bag now and hurry, or you’ll die." His tone was flat and matter-of-fact. He hoisted the heavy grey steel pistol to forehead level and cocked it, chambering a round with a sickening metallic click. At the edge of his vision, he felt and saw El Pinche move, and swung his weapon in the direction of the movement. The delivery guy was leaping toward him, some kind of stick-thing with a blinking green light in his right hand. Legs panicked and fired. The bullet pierced the blue deliveryman’s cap, knocking it from El Pinche’s head, revealing the Whipmaster sombrero beneath.
Ssshhh-Pow! El Pinche’s first snap struck from fifteen feet away, knicking Legs’ right calf, causing a run in his tights.
The second snap came even faster. Later on, the witnesses said they could not see the action of the SnapDragon DeLuxe II, it was simply too fast for the human eye to track. The last two feet of the lash wrapped around Legs’ pistol and the lashtip pierced his hand. The immediasleep toxin activated instantaneously. Legs collapsed, snoring, pink pillbox upside down on the white marble floor.
Incandescence from above, diffused, yellow, flickering, now brightening. Walter struggled up and out of the dark womb that squeezed him, stretching for the soft glow overhead. Hard-edged voices, now audible, now muffled, pulled him to the light.
"Yeah, chief, his name’s Walter Wellesley, wanted in four states. Yes, sir. Armed robbery, jaywalking, and impersonating a celebrity. Looks like he’s starting to come around now."
Walter didn’t want to hear more. He shut his eyes tight, turned off his senses, and drifted on tender clouds, down, down, away from the light. | | Posted by Edward at 1:32 AM - | |
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North Bergen had split into a city of two camps; those who believed in shmutz and those who didn’t. Both ideologies claimed popular support, and posters adorned every available inch of open space, impinging on outdoor advertising. Smack in the middle of a billboard for DigiCell’s newest internet phone would be plastered a large poster that said "Shmutz: It’s Here, Get Used To It!", or one that said "Shmutz Is Not Healthy For Living Things."
Shmuel Derschkowitz, the leader of the militant pro-shmutz faction (otherwise known as shmutzinistas), exhorted his followers to commit acts of vandalism, arson and sabotage. He had vowed in videotaped messages to destroy all who opposed him, and the city was not in any shape to face these threats unassisted. A plot had been foiled over in Jersey City when a shmutzinista ring was infiltrated and their facility raided. They had been constructing a "dirty bomb" designed to spread shmutz over a fifty square mile area. The NBPD had placed a million dollar bounty on Derschkowitz’ head, and Mayor Tony Crandall was being pressured by city officials to ask the Governor to send in National Guard troops to restore order.
To further complicate matters, the shmutzinistas had now broken into several government facilities, ripping out computer equipment, breaking windows, and placing "Shmutz; Love It Or Leave It" stickers everywhere they went.
Mayor Crandall was fed up. He had just received word of an ugly new escalation in current hostilities, and only knew of one possible way to regain control. Time to call in his secret weapon. He felt under his desk and flipped a switch, opening a secret compartment in the wall, then reached inside and dialed one digit on the yellow phone.
El Pinche had just gotten out of the shower, and was trimming his toenails when the red eye on his special yellow phone blinked and the alarm warbled. He dropped his towel and rushed to pick it up. Ssshhh...Don’t wake Lesmeralda.
"Si, Señor Mayor."
"Yes, El Pinche, we have a situation. Let me lay it out for you. One hour ago, armed shmutzinistas broke into the Outland Research Facility and released several chimpanzees from their cages. They have been spotted in several neighborhoods, creating havoc. They have broken into homes and stolen food, attacked several people, and one was spotted driving a stolen Studebaker."
"Que?" El Pinche shook his head. Perhaps his ears had heard wrong.
"Er...yes. These chimps were undergoing various stages of experimental genetic protocols, and some of them are more...advanced, if you will. That’s about all the information I have and I’m asking you to round them up. Can you do it?"
"Of course, Señor Mayor. Rest assured that Whipmaster El Pinche is undefeatable."
"Uh,.. yeah. Think you’ll need backup?"
"El Pinche fights alone." He bristled.
"Very good, then. Oh, and by the way, this conversation never took place."
"What conversation, Señor? Heh..heh."
El Pinche dressed silently and with purpose. His spandex and black leather jumpsuit was made expressly for these missions. He needed to be able to move fast and keep his whip arm free. He strapped on his utility belt, then selected his best combat whip, the Revenger X. It was twenty inches longer than the standard competition whip, and featured a custom grip, fitted to only his hand. He adjusted his tiny sombrero over the black skullcap, hooked up his hands-free comm system, kissed a still-slumbering Lesmerelda, and headed out the door.
The titanium silver SUV, windows tinted purple, glided through chaotic city streets alive with people running from an unseen threat. Screams echoed from alleys and smoke and flame poured from several buildings as fire crews battled to contain the outbreaks.
El Pinche turned on his comm console and was immediately in direct contact with the NBPD dispatch.
"Agent E reporting. What’s my target?"
"Agent E, proceed to P.S. #9 at Twenty-Fourth and Abercrombie to remove a gang of chimps that have commandeered the school cafeteria."
"Proceeding. Ayyy...chihuahua!"
Public School #9 was a three story worn out red brick building, with the cafeteria on the northwest wing of the first floor. A crowd of sobbing and angry parents had gathered outside the main entrance; a single security guard tried to calm and hold them at bay.
El Pinche parked the suv and ran up the steps, parting the crowd. He flashed his badge and was beckoned inside by the guard.
"What’s the situation?"
"Well," replied the guard, a pimply faced young man named Lance, "The chimps broke into the cafeteria at lunch time and overran the place. It’s been chaotic. We don’t have any injuries reported, but apparently the kids have been herded into one corner while the chimps eat everything in sight. What’s your plan?"
El Pinche thought hard for a minute. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for this, but...
"My plan is to rescue the children and fight off the chimps simultaneously. I’ll need you to get the kids out the door while I keep the chimps busy. Can you handle that?"
"Let’s do it,"
From his utility pouch, El Pinche selected an immediasleep stunner. This was a metal hollow needle filled with a powerful sedative, that when affixed to the lashtip and flicked into the body of the enemy, could put an elephant to sleep in seconds. It was good for four hits, then a new stunner had to be loaded.
Armed and feeling dangerous, El Pinche opened the door to the lunchroom. A cacophony of yips and hoots greeted him. Six chimps stood on separate tables, grinning at him with bared yellow teeth. Two of the chimps had bandaged skulls, all six walked on fully shaved legs. They moved as one, off the tables and onto the floor toward El Pinche, forcing him to stay near the door. Senses tingling, whip hand itching, he decided to preempt the chimps’ attack, and faster than thought, the Revenger X slid
into his hand, uncoiling with controlled fury.
Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Reload. Four chimps lay contorted, limbs limp, torsos twitching, as Lance herded the handful of students out the door. One of the remaining chimps made a feint to the left, then ran in a half-crouch to the right. El Pinche was not fooled. Crack! Another chimp bit the dust, leaving only one, a graying male who sat unmoving, watching El Pinche through liquid black eyes. The chimp calmly unscrewed the lid on a jar of prunes and ate them one at a time, never taking his eyes off El Pinche.
Confused into frozen inaction by the chimp’s behavior, El Pinche was even more surprised when the chimp spoke.
"The prunes were delicious."
"You...you can t...talk!" El Pinche sputtered.
"Of course, doesn’t everyone?" The chimp’s voice sounded rasping and eerie, like Joan Rivers with emphysema. As the chimp spoke, he toyed with a small vial hanging from a chain around his neck.
El Pinche moved closer. "Steady now, I just want to talk! What is your name?" he asked the chimp.
"God."
"Who told you your name was God?"
"Professor Klingst."
Well, that explains it, thought El Pinche. This was another case of a mad scientist inserting human genetic material into wild primates in order to create a race of intelligient chimps and take over the world. This kind of thing happened now and then, you just needed to nip it in the bud before it went any further.
"What’s in the vial on that necklace?" he asked "God".
"Shmutz."
"I knew it!" yelled El Pinche. Those shmutzinistas were planning on building an army of genetically enhanced simians. Foul. Foul indeed.
The Revenger X lashed out one last time, and "God" fell from the table, twitching and whimpering. El Pinche walked up to the muttering chimp and snatched
the chain and its deadly vial. It was heavy and warm in his palm. He looked closer, held it up to the light. The semi-solid contents were alive, boiling, glinting gold with an inner luminescence. Shmutz, eh? This is what has everyone killing each other?
El Pinche looked closer. The vial felt warmer and a tingle ran up his arm. So pretty. So damn pretty. Look at the pretty light. He felt faint suddenly, knees weak, an overwhelming thirst for the contents of the vial blocking out all other reality. The urge to open the vial became an insistent command in his brain. Open it..open it.. I must open it...now.. Helpless, he reached to unscrew the gold cap just as Lance knocked him down and kicked the vial across the room. El Pinche sat stunned. It took several minutes to regain his composure and speak.
"Thank you."
"It nearly had you, man."
El Pinche’s comm unit warbled. It was Lesmerelda.
"Yes, my sweetness. I’ll be there soon." He pushed the button for NBPD dispatch.
"Agent E here."
"Go ahead, Agent E."
"Once more, El Pinche has prevailed. Site is secure. Send somebody to pick up six sleeping beauties, por favor."
"Wagon’s on its way. Go on home, but remain on standby."
"Si. Agent E out."
He stood up, straightened his tiny sombrero, holstered his whip, adjusted his aviator sunglasses, then as cheers erupted from the crowd, El Pinche exited the building. | | Posted by Edward at 1:25 AM - | |
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The white-coated figure that was Professor Hanover Klingst unlocked and pushed open the heavy steel door. It was time. This ungrateful city would now experience first-hand the results of his life’s lonely toil. His face was twisted and flushed, he was breathing hard, sweat rolled from his slick skull down his cheeks, and he peered up at the darkening sky through impossibly thick lenses.
"Yes! Oh, yes, my beautiful children, go! Go out into the world and bring me its wealth! Let no one stand in your way! The world will tremble before the genius of Hanover Klingst! Ha! ha! ha!..ha..ha....ha......ha.....uhh..."
The chimps scampered through the door of Lab 31, bottom floor of the Outland Research Institute, silent and deadly, disappearing into the dusk rapidly descending over North Bergen.
Klingst’s research was based on biomolecular pseudo-science and an intense interest in the work of Doctors Moreau and Frankenstein. Early on, he had succeeded in transferring dendritic brain material from a pit bull into the medulla oblongata of a hummingbird, the results of which were disastrous. About 24 hours after the genetic transfer, the hummingbird tried to eat from a bowl of kibble, and unsuccessful, attacked the lab cat, swooping in and barking..er..chirping furiously. Mr. Whiskers swatted the hapless bird out of the air and ate him, ending the experiment. To Professor Klingst, though, the results were very encouraging, but he definitely needed bigger, smarter animals for his next round. The following experiment was extremely difficult to hide, especially when the horse insisted on migrating out of the lab and south for the winter, and the goose.....well, it was too horrible to describe.
Lab Assistant Level 5 Elrod Flemmerton had the unfortunate luck to be Professor Klingst’s star pupil. A doctoral candidate, his thesis delved into biomolecular reprogramming. He headed up the Biogenetic Interspecies Transference Encoding Machine Experiment, otherwise known as BITEME. In offshoot research, he had succeeded in constructing a matrix for dissimilar species’ brain cells to interface without any rejection complications. Known as the Simulated Hybrid Matrix Utilization Transfer Zygote, or SHMUTZ, this material had very unique properties. It was endothermic, or grew warm when touched. As it heated up, it tried to do the job for which it was designed, and that was to prepare a brain for an infusion of new genetic material. The process was quick, it entered the bloodstream wherever it touched the skin, and the subject, when once invaded by the shmutz, would sink into a restful, receptive, happy, know-it-all euphoria. Shmutz was quickly found to be extremely addictive, and of course, someone hacked the development protocols from the Institute’s computers and released shmutz onto the streets of North Bergen, resulting in armies of extremely relaxed and talkative opinionated people invading movie houses, coffee shops, and artsy fartsy salons.
Professor Klingst was pleased at the obvious potential of shmutz, and of course, took complete credit for the results. Because of the secretive nature of their work, the circle of people involved in the research was very small; Professor Klingst, Elrod, and Larry the janitor.
The Professor was now ready for the next level. Through a Botswanan middleman, Klingst obtained six chimpanzees, but needed a new human volunteer for the next big experiment. He thought a bit, then rejected his first plan, the one that involved kidnapping. He snapped open his comm unit and dialed the Bergen Bugle.
"Bugle Classifieds, home of the Thrifty Buy and the "Hey, I Sold It" service. How may I help you?" Her voice was clear blue and sweet.
"I would like to place a help-wanted ad please."
"Fine, sir, what is the job classification?"
"Medical Research Technician’s Assistant." He gave her the particulars and went back to work.
Twenty nine interviews and a look-see at the on-line employment applications later, Professor Klingst sat in his office, decision imminent.
Hmm..... Here’s an MBA who’s tired of working at Burger King. Maybe... Wait! Oh yes, here we are!
A down-on-his-luck actor, hadn’t done a movie in years after that polygamy scandal and palimony award had made him a Hollywood untouchable. Yes! This was the new Medical Research Technician’s Assistant. Pierce Brosnan would do just fine.
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