John K. Vormath’s Fist of Revenge: A random action sequence

The Wheel People were following him again. “Damn them and their pointy-headed little brothers,” Cheswick hissed to himself. “Now I’ll have to get nasty.” He checked the potato gun in his shoulder-holster; only one shot left. Cheswick knew that it might be miles before he saw fresh spuds again. He cursed himself for not filling up at the truck stop back in Argusa, but it was a little too late for regrets.
Talking a deep breath, Cheswick sprinted from behind the concealing mass of the clock tower and started across the yard towards the mass of gunmen huddled around the overturned truck. He knew he had about 15 seconds before one of the “wheelies” managed to focus his notoriously poor vision and spot him. He had to count on the noonday sun to create heat ripples to distort his image as he ran.
Ramon was the first one to spot him. The cry rang out: “Infidel! Infidel!” As if on instinct, fifteen spudzookas moved as one and focused on the inner part of the yard. Cheswick cursed under his breath; he wasn’t going to make it! If only he could find a place to hide, but there were only ibex carcasses scattered randomly across the expanse of concrete around him…
Suddenly a low thrumming sound reverberated around the courtyard. Stunned, Chiswick and the wheelies lowered their guns and looked to the sky. Chiswick’s heart leaped as he saw what was descending from above: Charlie had gotten the chopper fixed! The wheelies gibbered in terror, but held their ground. Chiswick realized that this wasn’t going to be easy. “Damn…” he thought, girding himself for whatever happened next. “Better make this quick, before those spuds start flyin’…”
Luckily, Charlie was way ahead of him. As if on cue, a rope ladder flopped to the ground a few feet to the right of Chiswick. He wasted no time in jumping to grab it; he knew that a volley of spuds were imminent. Like a cheetah, he began to scramble up the ladder to safety. Potato projectiles whizzed past him on either side; he was cooked if any of them connected. He knew he had to take out their leader; the rest would scatter.
He leaned back and pulled the gun out of its holster. The feel of it in his hand calmed him. H extended his arm and set the sight at the center of Ramon’s head, and in one single Zenlike motion leaned forward slightly and squeezed off the final shot he had left. He hit his mark perfectly; Ramon’s head exploded in a dazzling spray of maroon liquid.
Chiswick slumped back into the ladder and letter the chopper take him up. Nothing mattered now. His fight was over. Finally at peace, he could only stare at the tableau of confusion as it receded from his view. All that was left was a final bendiction:
“See you in Pittsburgh, asshole.”

The Inevitable Cross-Promotional Foofraw

Hello, little ducklings! This posting is to let you know that you are about to once again be inundated with fudge. Our very own Scott Sookman has started a blog devoted to the concept of the “virtual comedy club”, an idea whose time has definitely come. In comfort and privacy of your own doghouse you can now thrill and giggle to the latest exploits of a barge of virtual standup comedy, and there’s no minimum drink order! No parking hassles! No bouncers to eject you after you begin throwing chunks of your own fecal matter at some lame-ass smarmwhore who doesn’t deserve a kick in the teeth, let alone a hunk of your cover charge! The Earl (oh, sorry, “URL”) is:

Virtual Comedy Club

And please don’t forget that our old friend Bill Spring is over at:

Viking Funeral

Got it? Excellent! Now I won’t have to kick your door in.

Where Would They Be Now? (If They Were Alive) 1st in a series

“Is everyone inside?” Jim Morrison hypnotically intoned to the crowd before him. No one answered; all was silent. Extending the moment, he shifted slightly and asked one further time before proceeding: “Is everyone inside? We’re about to begin…”
With a slight pnuematic hiss, the doors of the bus closed and Morrison turned away from the lunchtime crowd, gripping the wheel in a daredevil mockery of the 2 and 10 o’clock hand positions required of all MTA drivers. As we pulled away from the curb I could still see a mischievous twinkle in his eyes; somewhere inside the brown uniform, the scraggly beard and the rolls of middle-age fat the Lizard King still burned with the flame of Bacchanalian splendor.
“Where was I?” he said distractedly, swerving to avoid a cyclist. “Oh, yeah…the 70s. Well, shee-it, man, Elektra dropped us some time around ’75, ’76…it’s hard to remember all of that crap. I was pretty heavily into ‘H’ at that point and those fuckers tried kickin’ me out of the band.” Morrison snorted contemptuously. “I mean, fuck, can you imagine the Doors without Jim Morrison? Without the fucking LIZARD KING???” His rage, potent as ever, was too much for him. Overwrought, he coughed twice and fumbled for the inhaler in his jacket pocket. A young Latina mother and her child sitting directly behind him scooted nervously back several seats, obviously awed by the sheer animal magnetism that slumbered under his Vesuvius-like frame.
He took a minute to regain control of both his composure and his breathing. When he had calmed down he continued, softly: “It didn’t take. They tried working with Iggy Pop, but that was a fucking disaster. We got back together again a few years later…Hillhurst! Next stop, Hillhurst!”
I consulted my notes. “That was around the time of the disco remake of ‘Light My Fire’, right?…”
Morrison looked blankly ahead, lost in some kind of inner rapture. “Uhh…I think so. It’s all kinda hazy to me now. That one had that ‘Riders on the Storm’ remake…”
“’Dancers on the Floor’.”
“Yeah! Yeah, that was the one. Oh, man, we had some fantastic blow for those sessions. There were some young 13-year old nubiles that…heh, heh, heh…Sunset! Sunset Boulevard!” He coughed once more and glanced back in my direction. “So is Wenner still kickin’ ass, man?”
I sat blankly for a moment before understanding the question. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Morrison, but if you’ll remember, I’m not from Rolling Stone. I’m from the Santa Cruz University Daily Oracle…”
“Oh, yeah, the student kid.” Morrison mumbled. “Fuckin’ Wenner, won’t return my calls…they’re just a bunch of record company pricks, LA DE DA!!” As his voice rose, his words and tone took on the shamanistic quality of his rants of old. “You wanna know why they won’t return my calls? They’re the sons of Hitler, man! They’re the long-lost bastard children of Pan the Deceiver!! Juno gazes down from the clouds of Mount Olympus and sends them pestilence! Disease! BOILS!!” A fever gripped him as he began to foam slightly between his clenched teeth; the dead Indian spirits had taken him.
Then, as quickly as it began, it ended. Morrison slumped back in his seat and let out a long sigh. Clipping the fender of a Linclon town car, he turned right onto Santa Monica and rubbed his eyes, moving his fingers down his face. I then sat in awe of one of classic rock’s mightiest heroes, as he slowly, sinuously began to pick at the inner reaches of his nose. Further and further he dove until man and digit became entwined in a Dionysian orgy of olifactory bliss! Truly he had not lost, pardon my expression, his touch.
As he extracted and inspected the contents of his journey into the mind of the Lizard King, he continued, “Last time I had any kind of a contract was that ‘Morrisons’ debacle…” I nodded sagely. He was obviously referring to the classic rock “supergroup” from the mid-80s thrown together by a pack of A&R sharks who smelled fresh demographic. It featured both Jim & Van Morrison, and was dubbed by the wags at Spin as “the dueling Brandos of rock” due to the amount of girth appearing onstage every night. An unfair comparison, even though Brando and Jim have both done important work without pants.
“Still, I regret nothing.” he continued. “The world is a stage, man, and we are all but riders on the infinite…” He paused, fumbling slightly for words, “no, wait, I mean we’re a stage that doesn’t…shit! Goddammit, I can’t remember this shit anymore!!” he yelled.
I looked at him uneasily. Disturbing thoughts started to enter my head…”maybe the rumors were true”, they whispered to me, “at least a little bit”. This was hard for me to reconcile. The Jim Morrison I knew, the Lizard King of old, a washed up old man? This ran counter to the myth; Jim you’re supposed to be young forever…!
I fought back tears; his was spell broken. But then, as if he sensed the anguish I was feeling, he leaned over slightly and gestured to me. I eagerly leaned in to hear what he had to say; there was an impish grin on his face. What a relief! He had just been playing with me, and was doubtless now going to quote the ancient Greek myths which were at the center of his compelling Apollonian world.
“Back in the 60’s…” Yes, Jim, yes? “…we sure got some great pussy. SHIT!” He sat bolt upright and swerved the bus to avoid an oncoming SUV. Screeching to a curbside halt, he flung the doors of the bus wide open.
“This is the end, my friend!” he bellowed. “Western Avenue!”

Some Random Directions Which May Be Helpful:

Turn twice before inserting into tab.
Grasp the outer handles and pull towards the groin. Repeat.
Staple repeatedly until upper flap is completely parallel; loosen hinge.
Lather. Rinse. Explode.
Siphon until the globules have reached the bottom of the oil. DO NOT look askew at the resulting solution.
Add the resulting mixture to the mold until 2/3 full. Convert to Judaism.
REMEMBER that microns are not peanut-soluble. Do NOT expose them to direct taunting.
Refresh buffer memory until sated. Light a honkin’ doob.
If cylinder is not flush by this point, keep hammerin’ the sucker until it capitulates.
Do as I say, NOT as I do.
Sit down and have some pie.
Stop gigglin’, or “the Geech” will throw us in detention for a month!
Moisten the lower fold. Moisten again. Moisten, moisten, oh God, moisten! Keep going, dammit!
Continue to insert tip until the bowels begin to loosen. Run!

Top 10 signs you’re spending too much time on Ebay:

10. Instead of sending a card, you post positive feedback for Mom on Mother’s Day.
9. You haven’t checked your porn site bookmarks in DAYS.
8. You stay up until 4 A.M. to bid on those “authentic Bavarian nail clippers” from Austria in real time.
7. The “Do Not Reply to This Message…” automated response system starts mailing you “just to make sure you’re OK”.
6. Your feedback rating is more important to you than your credit rating.
5. You haven’t checked your porn site bookmarks in WEEKS.
4. You start to refer to your wife, who you bought an antique waffle iron from online, as “Ebabe”.
3. You start constructing an Ebay-related Top 10 list.
2. You start trying to outbid the person in front of you in the checkout line of the supermarket for his groceries. And you win.
1. You don’t HAVE any porn site bookmarks.

Why We Hate Bill

I've just found out that my "friend" Bill has been telling OUTRIGHT LIES about me over at his blog. Just to clarify, we have NEVER been in the navy together, I NEVER made an offer to "swab his deck", and he NEVER caught me standing over his bed in the middle of the night, naked and with an erection, drooling over his sweet, sweet downy-soft naked body. I would like to stress that nothing has been proven in court, and that tape had already been erased when I handed it over to the authorities.

Consequently, I urge you to NOT visit his Blog over at:

Viking Funeral

Again, do NOT use this link to go to:

Viking Funeral

Got it?

Why We Like Bill

Hey! Bill kindly sent me info on how to link to his Blog. This is where ya go:

Viking Funeral

Definitely check it out! It's the tweezers!

Possible book titles and/or rock group names and/or masturbation euphemisms

The Concrete Vulva
Clegg! The autobiography
Unsolicited Reprisals
No more chickens for you, Stanley!
The Dormouse Chronicles
Labia, Spiffy & Wabs
Checking out of the Hotel Scrunge
Seeing Japan by Angstroms
Puttin' the hurt on the ol' stool pigeon
Hard to handle, hard to swallow
It Never Tasted Like Toast Before!
Lepton? I Can Hardly Move!
Cradle of Dust
Handgrenade Expulsion Reversal

The Adventures of Cardinal Eng, Volume 1

Cardinal Eng rocked back on his jackbooted heels and snickered to himself. All was going according to plan, and if he had his way, he would soon have complete control over the entire eastern seaboard. Unconciously salivating at the thought of millions of people under his direct control, he lightly ran his gloved hands over the shaft of the already-vibrating Super Immerso Ray cannon. Having already dispatched the ineffectual Captain Marzipants and his League of Hyper-Endowed Swimsuit Models, he knew that nothing stood in the way of his complete victory. But first, lunch.
As he turned to make his way to the cafeteria, he saw the figure of his main flunky, Flunky, approaching from the other end of the hangar. He looked distressed. With him was a man of indeterminate origin, wearing a hardhat, safety goggles and a white coat. As Eng met them in the center of the hangar, Flunky prostrated himself in the usual manner. “Oh, nefarious scion of evil,” Flunky somewhat wearily intoned, “this insignificant snail of a bureaucrat thinks he can address your magnificent visage…”
“Skip it.” Eng distractedly snarled, hungry. “What’s your deal?” he opined to the newcomer.
The bespectacled man produced a clipboard and carefully perused it. “Well, Mr…uh, Eng.”
“Cardinal. Cardinal Eng.”
“Uh, yes, Cardinal Eng. Phil Logan, ISO Standards Bureau.” With that, he stuck out a hand in Eng’s direction. Eng, surprised, gripped it and feebly shook. Logan looked up, smiling briefly, and then returned his gaze to his clipboard. “Look, Cardinal, I’ll get straight to the point. We’ve had several complaints about you and your workspace here, and how you might be violating several aspects of ISO manufacturing standards.”
Eng blinked and considered his options. Laser eye blast? No, his Opto-Destructor had been on the blink lately, and he want his helmet to go into the shop for a week again. Magnetic Grip of Death? No, damn arthritis was acting up on him again. He had to squeeze for two whole minutes before the Adjuticatrix went under last week. Have the boys take him out and beat him to death? That would be nice and quick, but there’s no poetry in that. Besides, they just got all of the uniforms back from the cleaners, and there was a group picture later, so he didn’t want his thugs getting all messed up… but before he could come to a conclusion, Logan continued.
“Let’s see, it looks like you have a large heat sink located somewhere in this building…”
Flunky spoke up helpfully. “Fusion generator. You’ve got to keep the combined atoms in a magnetic field, since they need to be heated to 3000 degrees to combine correctly…”
Eng shot him a look that said OOH, I’M SHOOTING YOU SUCH A LOOK! Flunky carefully took one step back. Logan continued, “Yes, well, I’m afraid that 3000 degrees well exceeds the limit placed on thermal pollution as delineated by ISO section 9875 guidelines for metalurgical compounding…is that a laser cannon?” he said, pointing his pen at the Super Immerso.
Eng followed his gaze and cleared his throat. “Technically, yes. However, we’ve modified it with a proton-reduction coil that allows…” he stopped himself and sputtered, “now, wait a minute, you…!”
“That’s gotta go.” Logan made a note on his clipboard. “You’re in direct violation of ISO 6777 guidelines on proton-enhanced optical/radiative apparati. How about that? Mind-control machine?” he said, gesturing to the OmniZombie 3000 in the corner.
“Um…well, yes.”
Logan briskly walked to the machine and inspected the ventilation ducts, sniffing slightly. Eng and Flunky slowly followed him. Logan turned to face them. “Hmmm…have you changed the filters on this recently?”
Flunky bowed his head and asked Eng in a conspiratorial whisper, “This thing has a filter?”
“Shh!” Eng hissed at Flunky. To Logan: “Look, it’s less than a year old. All I’ve done is hypnotized a few selected people, not even an entire town, really. You know, convinced some hot babes to go down on me, that kind of stuff.”
Logan clicked his tongue thoughtfully and made another note. “Needs a good cleaning. Wouldn’t be surprised if the bearings were out of whack, too.” He vaguely gestured around the facility. “This is all going to have to be shut down.”
Eng’s left eye flickered incredulously as he trembeled with rage. “What??!! Dolt! Do you have any idea how much power I hold at my fingertips??” and with that shot his arms out ahead of him. Blue fire flickered from the ends of his fingertips, crackling into life and shooting across the room, incinerating a soda machine.
Logan shook his head and made more notes. “Open source of electricity…not good.” He pointed with his pen to Flunky. “Now, Mr. Flooky here…”
“Flunky.”
“Flunky? Ah, good. Mr. Flunky mentions that you’re building some kind of an underground fortress some miles north in downtown Atasca. Just as an FYI, that area is zoned for commercial use; hero/villain clubhouses and other underground lairs are restricted to the unincorporated area…”
Suddenly there was another blinding flash from Eng’s hands, and the space around Phil Logan began to glow white-hot. Logan himself, however, remained untouched. Eng stared at him, gaping.
“I can understand your incredulity, Mr. Eng, but I’m afraid we deal with megalomaniacal super-villians every day. A personal force field is certainly not out of the question considering the work I’m contracted to do; also please keep in mind that we’ve just activated an energy dampening field that will prevenet you from using any…let’s see…” as he consulted his clipboard, Eng and Flunky looked up through the open windows to see a giant hemispherical container cement itself over the hangar “any rays of destruction, hypnotism, super-power containment, etcetera and so on. Please keep in mind that operational costs will be added to the fines already being levied against you.”
Flunky nodded glumly. “It’s true, O Great Dark Bird of Terror. We’re being shut down by every federal bureaucracy with an acronym. OSHA, ISO, PETA, you name it. Cindy in the front office has received fines totalling over 5 million dollars. I’ve tried to mention it over the last week, but whenever I start, you start cackling about defeating Major Inconvenience and his Band of Gold or some such homoerotic nonsense.”
Logan handed a card to Eng, who took it defeatedly. “Have your lawyer call me Monday and we’ll set up an appointment. We can set up a payment schedule once all of the outstanding issues have been taken care of.” And with that he turned and whistled, and dozens of men in white coats came streaming into the hangar to dismantle all of the equipment that it contained. Logan turned on his heel and walked towards them, directing them distractedly.
Eng looked furiously at Flunky and gestured at the sky impotently. Curses bagan to form on his lips; his brow furrowed; his lips pulled back in a grimace. A growl escaped his clenched teeth. And finally, realizing the futility of fighting any further, he sighed and wiped his forehead. “Is this how it all ends, Phil?” he pondered morosely, “the greatest criminal mind of this century beaten down, not by the overeager forces of do-good vigalanteism, but by the slow but unyielding wheels of governmental bureaucracy?”
“I know”, Phil Flunky sympathetically agreed. “This never would have happened with the Republicans in office.”

CATCH MORE EXCITING ADVENTURES WITH CARDINAL ENG WHEN AL GETS OFF HIS ASS AND WRITES THEM!!

Wherein the Author Introduces Himself

Good evening, creatures.

When my buddy Bill told me about this wonderful exchange, the veins popped out on my neck and I swooned a little swoon. Here was the answer to my admittedly feeble prayers! A place where the mental diaharrea that so naturally flows out of my skull could be preserved for all eternity! And I wouldn't have to work, hardly! Or as Jim Morrison once said, "Gakkkk! My heart!!" Please sit enraptured as I while away my daily work breaks (all 37 of them) and I provide more grist for the "Is Al mentally challenged or just from space?" conversations which I know you're having right now behind my back. Enjoy!

P.S. They've upped my medication, and now I cannot get my tongue back in my mouth.