Chapter 5
| The Story | The Authors |
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| "I AM IRON MAN!" bellowed the former Dr. Smack. The walls shook, flushing bats from their dank hiding-places along the moldy ceiling-molding. | |
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The nurses shrunk back in terror, the tremors of the doctor's booming voice shaking away the remainder of their flimsy costumes, revealing them to the imposters Smack had expected -- minor demons in the employ of -- let's see, red insignia, three skulls on a field of entrails, must be -- why, these were petty clerks in the employ of arch-demon Mixmatosis, of course! "Stand up, scum! How's my old friend the Mixmaster? Still re-flaying plea-bargain tax evadors for a living, or have they finally promoted him to the Lake of Boiling Clorox?" "Oh, forgive give us, dread lordshipness!" whimpered the demons. "We were not warned. We were told to waylay three human females and their possible entourage, said to be carrying a stolen item of great value, an item very, very dear to our Master. We did not think, we were not told, we did not expect to encounter the fiery countenance of He Whose Face Cannot Be Looked Upon, the great Ozzy! We are not worthy! We are not worthy! We are not worthy!" "Silence, carrion!" roared the once-doctor Smack. "Your qubbling serves only to inject seismic jitters into my concentration, which offends my Muse even more than the overpowering manure aroma of your detestable persons offends my sulfurous nostrils! Silence, again, I say, chop-chop. Sit thee down, recline thy oblong bottoms along the length of yon love-seat, for the Oz-man feels touched by the wispy digits of Melpomene, and would sing thee a song, ay, thee and all thy folk and kin. Ready, boys? Uh-one, uh-two, uh-one-two-three-four..." | |
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"Blue jean baybee L.A. lady seamstress for the bayand ballerina you must have seen her dancing in the sayand now she's in me always with me tiny dancer in my hayand and oh how it feels so real lying here with no one near only you and you can hear me as I say softly slowly hold me closer tiny dancer count the headlights on the highway lay me down in sheets of linen you've had a busy day todayay..." "Ah, do have a soft spot for the stylings of the one true master of the honkey chateau himself. Such strong soul for a turd burglar." | |
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Ozzy had only covered Elton once, at the legendary Ozzfest show in Zagreb, Summer '97. Forty-six avid rockers had been eagerly stomped to death in the ensuing riot. But this was just too much, dude. The two junior demons could only shake their heads in awe and continue to repeat "We are not worthy, we are not worthy, we are not worthy," until the Rock Legend standing before them, anxious to embark upon his latest Classic Rock Classic -- the Nicene Creed scored for nine electric guitars and a continuous drum solo -- had no recourse but to beat them both about their resounding noggins with the mike stand until they shut up.
As the band tuned up behind him, he felt a growl of hunger in the great convexity of his stomach; he set the microphone back in the stand, reached for the nearest bat, bit its head off and commenced to chew. They really weren't all that bad. | |
| Meanwhile, inside the savage rock n' roll animal, poor, helpless Dr. Smack cried out in silent agony, unable to bear the shameful, shameful fact that his corporeal body was currently gyrating its pelvis inside a pair of skin-tight black leather pants. | |
| The fans roared. Three girls climbed the stage and ran to him, tearing at his chest-hair, screaming in crew-slut disbelief, and baring their perky young breasts at the rock and roll idol, the god of thunder, the master of this world, the war-pig, the iron man, the ozz-man. | |
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"God, MTV is so predictable now," said Janice, luxuriously reclining in her bed, entirely unaware that the man humping the mike stand was none other than the Hydelike manifestation of the Jungian shadow-side of the same man who had replaced her fingers with gleaming titanium cybernetics. "Dot dash dot," chittered her second voicebox. Another ship going down off the storm-lashed Newfoundland shore. She switched the channel to CNN. "A mysterious enemy," intoned the newswoman, a plastic blonde with genetically lengthened ears, "has been stealing the East Wings of major hospitals around the country. Suspects are currently being rounded up, including known Latvian terrorist Volga Fatkatskavich. Citizens are cautioned to remain in their bathtubs until this crisis has passed." For fuck's sake, she muttered; it's always something, isn't it? This crazy world never calms down for a single second. I don't understand how anything can go on like it does for such a long damn time without stopping to catch its breath! What the hell is it on, I wonder? Some celestial mother of all cocaine? |
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