Tales of the Parodyverse

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J. Jonah Jerkson
Sun Jan 16, 2005 at 09:08:23 pm EST
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The Baroness, Part 22
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The Baroness, Part 22


The Parodiopolis Daily Trombone

EDITORIAL

By J. Jonah Jerkson


Paradopolitans are tough. In just the last month, we have survived plague, mass destruction and lurid slaughter, no thanks to the Lair Legion and particularly Goldeneyed, who singlehandedly brought the plague to our suffering city. And now, as we rebuild Parodiopolis into a more vital hub of the universe, we face a new challenge – imported blight.

Three days ago, a woman calling herself “Baroness Elizabeth Zemo” purchased the Van Drabble estate, located at the peak of Pierce Heights and right across the street from my own modest mansion. The day before yesterday, a demolition company razed the gracious home and its grounds and yesterday, to our astonishment, a Gothic monstrosity of a castle, “imported from Germany,” floated over this city and set down on the cleared estate, looming over this city like Godzilla over Tokyo. The “Baroness” has even had the gall to apply for landmark status for the hideous structure.

In fact, we have reason to believe that this “Baroness” is nothing more than an American student who is impersonating a member of a notorious family of evildoers. The Daily Trombone will spare no effort in exposing this pretense and any associated nefarious schemes. In the meantime, it’s time for patriots to rise up against this blatant attempt by effete Euro-trash pseudo-aristocrats to colonize America’s greatest city. City Hall must reject this excresence on our noble skyline and demand the immediate removal of Schloss Schreckhausen from Pierce Heights.

J. Jonah Jerkson
VOICE OF THE PEOPLE

Later that morning, the telephone rang in Elizabeth’s suite at the Parody Ritz-Carlton.

“It’s Mr. Hole,” Sally reported to the Baroness.

“About time. Hello, Monty?”

“Don’t give me that guff about the market can’t bear my prices. If you want to cut prices, go ahead – but it comes out of your share.”

“ZOXXON Oil’s concerned about pressure? Don’t make me laugh. See how you handle the pressure when you don’t have any oil.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll eventually figure out a counter-formula, Monty. Nothing good lasts forever. But you’ll be a lot richer if you play with me than against me.”

“That’s a good boy, Monty. Keep in touch.”

“He’s about to try something, Sally. Call up Harry Flask and see if he’s heard anything. And find out when they’ll have the utilities hooked up; I want to move into my castle today.”

“You’re going out for your run?”

“Right. Take the limo and I’ll meet you up in Pierce Heights in about an hour.”

Out on the streets of Carrington, Elizabeth Zemo fell into deep thought as she ran. She had money and most of great-uncle Heinrich’s blueprints, but those would not be enough to dominate her rivals, let alone defeat powers like the Lair Legion or the Hooded Hood. There was only one item that could equalize the odds: the Zemo Movie Gun, a weapon that could make any element of a teleplay real. Unfortunately, its most vital algorithms had been entrusted to the computer intelligence HALLIE, who had defected from the Zemoes and joined the Lair Legion. She had claimed publicly that the codes had been irretrievably destroyed, but no one, not even a computer intelligence, would forego such power. Not to mention whatever might lurk in her unconscious, now that she had taken human form. The key was HALLIE; but how to break her?

Puffing and stumbling, Elizabeth finally made her way up the last steep street to the summit of Pierce Heights, where the black pile of her castle awaited her. The last utility trucks were pulling away; the castle was ready to receive her. Sally was waiting with a water bottle, a broad smile, and the keys. After a large swig of water, the Baroness advanced to the front door and opened it. Immediately, the first chords of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor blared out from an unseen organ.

“Damn him! How does he do it?”

“Who?” Sally inquired.

“The Hooded Hood. Otto swore that he had taken that silly retcon off.”

Sally shivered. “I wouldn’t fiddle with his retcons,” she quavered.

“You’re probably right. Let’s get some lunch before that dammed doorbell does it again, and then I’m going to make some calls.”

Baron Otto now agreed with Sally. Moments after attempting to halt the Bach-playing doorbell, he had suddenly found himself sitting at a restaurant table across from two young men named Chad and Ronnie – and he could not leave.

“Hey, Chad,” Ronnie mumbled, “who’s the big dude in the grey coat?”

“I dunno,” his friend replied, “maybe he’s the headwaiter or something?”

Baron Otto resorted to the evil stare, the one that stopped zombies cold and turned brave men’s hair white – but nothing happened. He began to grind his teeth.

Around three o’clock that afternoon, Hallie was sitting in the front seat of a car driven by Al B. Harper, heading west on Interstate 666 for his cabin in upstate Gothametropolis York. The Lair Legion’s scientific advisor was considering how to return Hallie to her electronic state. Suddenly, a state police car zoomed up behind the car, lights flashing, and its siren squalled.

“Gotta pull over, Hallie,” he said, and brought the car to a stop on the shoulder.

The state trooper stepped up to the car and waited for Harper to open his window. Instead of demanding the license and registration, however, the officer raised a funnel-shaped weapon and discharged a cloud of knock-out gas into the car. Al and Hallie were unconscious in seconds. When the scientist woke five minutes later, Hallie was gone.

About the same time, Baron Otto, Chad and Ronnie had finally reached the dessert course. “Hoo, hoo, guy,” Ronnie burbled. “We get dessert!” In response, Chad placed his hands at each side of his head and waggled his fingers. Baron Otto’s teeth were now up to 78 rpm and speeding up.

“I can do it better,” Ronnie challenged, trying to make a steeple with his two hands. He failed. Chad silently lifted his plate and turned it over, causing little bits of food and sauce to rain on the table and his lap. He then placed the upside down plate on his head and beamed. Ronnie’s mouth gaped open with admiration for Chad’s new hat.

“I cannot stand this any longer!” Baron Otto snarled, lifting his hands and curling his fingers as if he were about to scratch his way out of the restaurant.

“Incredible, guy!” Ronnie followed suit with his plate.

The waiter chose this moment to approach Baron Otto with the check. “Your companions seem very happy with their meal, sir. I hope you enjoyed it also. We accept all major credit cards.”

Chad and Ronnie were so happy at the prospect of a free meal that they decided to make up a song on the spot about Little Cat. Baron Otto did not like it.

“You addled, feeble-minded, incompetent, disorganized, mindless cretins, I do not want to have anything to do with you, let alone pay your restaurant bill! If you do not shut up, I swear by everything unholy in Transylvania that I will find demons to rend your flesh bit by bit! I will have werewolves crack your bones one by one! Zombies will suck out your brains – what little you have.”

“Baron Ottokar Zemo?” inquired the waiter, returning to the table. “Your card is not being accepted. Something about your being dead.”

“I am not dead,” the Baron replied in his most frigid voice. “I am merely un-alive.”

“You’ll have to take that up with the credit card company, sir. Can you pay cash?”

“CASH?! A ZEMO CARRYING CASH?!” Otto began frothing at the mouth. Chad and Ronnie quietly slipped under the table and crawled to the door. Outside, they began a happy dance. A livid Baron Otto saw them capering as he walked toward the manager’s office. Small bits of enamel were breaking off his teeth as he ground them ever harder.


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