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Post By Lisa (via Visionary) Wed Feb 07, 2007 at 09:23:17 pm EST |
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The Meteor Team: The soul-shattering conclusion to Book 2!!! | |
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A quick note from Visionary: Yeah, I have no idea what happened to "Book 1". As editor, it never quite arrived on my desk. What you've been reading is "Book 2", which is concluded with this posting. ("Book 3" has recently arrived in my office, so I felt the numbering may become an issue for some people.) For those who fancy themselves completists, you may feel free to imagine your own "Book 1", although I can't believe this would be conductive to your good mental health. Anyway, without further ado, our conclusion... The Snip Snaps were lazily dozing by a stream on Atomic Bomb Atoll. It was a beautiful day, just right for picking on smaller animals and stealing their candy money. The Snip Snaps yawned and stretched; they intended to roust themselves and head over to the school where there would be lots of prime targets for assault and battery. Just at that moment, an ugly looking bug stepped up to the biggest snapping turtle and made a brief announcement. “Ahem, her ladyship, Baby Elephant, Queen of the Universe, wishes your presence in her royal, er, condo immediately.” The extra large snapper looked bored and uncooperative. Finally, he stretched his neck out of his slimy, black shell and drawled, “Is this about the door-to-door “homemade chocolate” sales? I keep telling her that no one wants to buy the stuff. Heck, I can’t even give it away. People take one sniff, and it’s a vomit volcano every time.” “No, sir, this has nothing to do with selling the Queen’s confections, delicious though they are. (After all, he is a dung beetle, right?) Her Majesty wishes instead to speak to you about the latest debacle involving that accursed Meteor Team. She seems to feel that you and your Snip Snaps were conspicuously absent during the battle. She demands an explanation. May I suggest you bring her some cookies or ice cream to calm her down a wee bit?” “Are you kidding,” laughed the lead turtle. “I’m not bringing that crazy, dinky mutant herbivore a darn thing. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, she can go pound mud. Are you with me on that, boys?” Suddenly, out of nowhere, a big missile came screeching down upon the big, rude terrapin, blowing him into about a jillion pieces. The only recognizable remains consisted of an overpowering smell of elephant farts. “Um,” said the next biggest turtle, “Does the Queen prefer chocolate or vanilla ice cream? Or maybe strawberry ripple? (Baby Elephant prefers fudge swirl, accompanied by a liberal mix-in of Oreo Doublestuff cookies.) High in the sky above Death Island, two magnificent green dragons circled again and again, attempting to locate the scent of Baby Elephant and her “easily replaceable so don’t you fergit it” insect cohorts. Bionl and Spik had originally believed that finding Baby Elephant would be as easy as cake. After all, although she is terminally dinky, her rancid odor is normally a dead giveaway. Strangely enough, however, the only scent they could focus on was that of rotting spinach with small underling hints of spicy, grilled meat and fudge swirl ice cream. Surely the minute pachyderm had nothing to do with that, right? Right? (Wrong. Actually, the hardest part about writing is preserving the subtly of phrasing that maintains maximum suspense for the reader.) The two daring dragons continued to fly back and forth in search of the eensy weensy desperado, but it was getting dark. Everything on Death Island became more dangerous at night. Back at the Meteor Mansion, Jet and his friends, including the other four dragons and Dorilla, were becoming more and more worried. So Jet, Hotwheels, Jaws, and Siunid decided to conduct a ground search, starting at Death Island dump. It seemed the logical place to look for the miniscule lawbreakers since Baby Elephant loves garbage with a passion unknown to reasonably sane, right minded folk. (i.e. Democrats.) Once at the mosquito-ridden dump, our heroes were disappointed to find nothing more than a few rusted supermarket trolleys, some broken dancing Elmos, and a large population of giant, naked mole rats who appeared to be lost. Jet gingerly approached the strange rodents. “Can I help you? You look a little confused?” he asked them gently. One of the most unashamedly naked mole rats looked over at him and looked relieved. It lisped in return, “Thank goodneth, you are friendly, not like thoth thieveth who came before you. They grabbed our thpinach crate and ran off with it. Then they came back the nexth day and grabbed a few of uth!” “Did they say anything when they performed these foul deeds?” queried Jet, while Hotwheels gasped in horror. “Nothing on the firth attack, but during the thecond, they thqueaked thomething that thounded like ‘Thnipes, Thnipes!’ It wath horrible, juth horrible.” “May I ask a question?” Siunid looked intensely interested. “Yeth, what ith it?” “What are mole rats doing here anyways? I mean, don’t you live in Kenya and suchlike? Why here on Death Island in a vegetable crate?” “That wath three quethionth,” said the naked little beast, “Tho according to mole rat tradition, now I can’t anther any of them. Thorry.” (If that wasn’t a cheap way out for the writer, I can’t imagine what would be.) “It dothn’t, *cough* I mean, it doesn’t matter,” said Jet hurriedly, “We just need to know one extremely important thing: where did these criminals go after they kidnapped your friends.” Pointing towards a dark, unpleasant looking alley, the mole rat spokesperson whispered, with perfect articulation, “They went thataway.” Baby Elephant wiped her greasy little trunk on a convenient mole rat and burped with contentment. “I dunno what you icky little sniper-heads are, but ya sure fry up a good chicken BarbyQ! I especially liked the extra spicy wing feathers. They went real good with the icey cream.” “Thank you, Mith Queen,” responded the terrified mole rat chief chef. “Now send in the Snip Snaps *burp* and go away before I squish ya.” “At least thith ruler doethn’t ask any quethionth,” sighed another mole rat, as all the now freed rodents crept their way back to the dump. “That could get ugly. Lucky the Baby Elephant juth yellth a lot and toot’th like a tugboat with indigethion.” As the freshly arrived turtles tried to squeeze themselves into the crate, an evil (yet dinky) voice rang out. “Well,” Baby Elephant snarled, “What do ya have to say to me, the hugest, most humongously tusked elephant in the whole, entire universe?” The Snip Snaps exchanged glances, and all but one, the new leader, pulled completely into their shells. This boss spoke humbly, “It was like this, most Delicious, Chocolate-Coated One, we were so sure of your absolute victory over those nasty, unnaturally trunkless Meteor gang that we went home to watch your stunning victory on T.V.” Here the turtle paused for a second and then continued onward, choosing his words very, very carefully. “And what a victory it was! You showed those slimy meddlers a thing or two! Three Boo-Yahs for our beloved Baby Elephant, Empress of Everything!! “BOO-YAH! BOO-YAH! BOO-YAH!” shouted the rest of the Snip Snaps, albeit with slightly quavering voices. (Not one of them had forgotten what happened to the last turtle that back-sassed Baby Elephant. I guess sometimes her devices do work (although not often enough to officially qualify her as an honorary mad scientist – for the record, Baby Elephant claims that the voting is always fixed for that particular contest. If that’s true, perhaps she should consider bribing the judges with something other than a batch of her best ultra-“fudgy” brownies.)) “Nice save,” murmured a slightly impressed pachyderm. “As a result, I have decided not to play ‘Trample the Turtles.’ So go back to your tacky ol’swamp and await my next orders. Oh, and next time, bring some pie. Everybody loves pie… unless I say they don’t, *snarfsnarfsnarf*” Rather than going directly into the disturbing alley that had been indicated by a mole rat at the dump, Jet, the valiant leopard gecko, wisely opted for first summoning the rest of his team, the six friendly dragons, and Dorilla the Mighty. With all of these amazing creatures assembled by the entrance to the alley, Jet felt there was nothing they could not overcome. Unfortunately, the first thing they could not overcome was the cold hard fact that the dragons were simply too big to fit within the confines of the alley. The best they could do was to stick their heads in and be prepared to fire off a blast of heat at appropriate targets. (Poor Jet was forced to explain three times before the dragons fully understood (and agreed) that Dorilla was not an appropriate target, not even if the “tiny lizard” whistled off key for the entire adventure.) The remaining Meteor Team members, however, and Dorilla, of course, were able to enter the alley without any problems. That is, until they reached a dinky plastic cube that was strewn with brownish spinach leaves and empty ice cream cartons. “This is it, friends. We are now before the beating heart of evil. No one knows what could happen now,” solemnly declared Jet. “I’m scared,” admitted Hotwheels. “Me too,” Dorilla hissed. “So am I, Brother, so am I,” responded the normally unflappable Sawtooth. “Hey, you lizardy guys wanna keep it down out there?!” Whined out an all too familiar voice, “Me and my bugs are trying to watch Nigel Marvin get eaten by this ginormous big prehistoric crocodile thingy. We’ve watched this show eleven times already, but I’m sure it’s really gonna get’em this time.” “OK, so I’m a little less scared now,” said Dorilla with a grin. “I keep forgetting how truly dinky she is. You could carry her around in a freezer bag. In fact, we probably should. It’d be one way of avoiding her *shudder* chocolate coating.” “Now don’t get cocky, ‘Rilla. She may be ridiculously small, but she still has her secret weapon… her holiday carols. Never underestimate their power to destroy everything around them.” “Aw right, that does it. If you’re not gonna hush up, I’m gonna hafta open up a can of Baby Elephant’s badness on you!” A dinky, stinky (In case you are wondering, the dragons were not able to sniff out B.E. because her own personal miasma was temporarily overpowered by the odor of cowardly snapping turtles making in their shells. The bouquet of mole rat flop sweat also didn’t improve matters any.) form came crashing out of the crate and landed right smack in front of the good guys. “Oh, crudbunnies,” it snarfed, “This wasn’t the way my overwhelming attack on your HQ was supposed to happen at all. Can we start over? I’ll even give ya one do-again too… we could call it, ya know, a practice swing!” “Not a chance,” said Jet. “Don’t be silly,” said Sawtooth. “Are you sure that mammals are more advanced than us?” spoke the dragon heads in unison. Baby Elephant looked as though she might be about to “NOI” but realized she was outnumbered. “Could you at least tell me if Nigel Marvin finally gets eaten?” pleaded the dim little mutant elephant. “I think that the mammals must be regressing,” replied Sawtooth sadly. And so it was that the Baby Elephant was trounced. Once again. And if you have been paying any attention at all, dear readers, you are probably wondering what happens next, now that the itsy bitsy varmint has fought the law, and the law has won. Seeing as you’ve been so patient, I’ll fill you in on the future doings of some of our many fine bad guys. What happens to the Evil Baby Elephant? Once again, the Baby Elephant has lucked out… at least at first glance. Since Baby Elephant is, duh, a baby, she is also legally a mere juvenile. (Imagine her as a mature adult, or worse yet, a teenager… with a gruesome case of adolescent elephant acne and an overpowering love for boy bands.) This means that she bears only limited accountability for her evil actions. Accordingly, the authorities acknowledge that they can only keep her locked up until she reaches her majority, i.e. age eighteen. On the other hand, looking at the situation in a bit more detail, our dinky little super villainess is kinda up the creek without even a blob of petrified poo to row with. You see, as Baby Elephant’s “Generator Pee” keeps her from aging even a day, she’s probably incarcerated for the long haul. (Which translates into: “Until the writer gets paid mega bucks to come up with a sequel.”) What Happens to the Dung Beetles of Doom? This time the Dung Beetles of Doom accompanied their evil mistress to Death Island Security Prison. It was their idea. They had discovered that Baby Elephant’s prison cell was over one hundred times bigger than the original Castle of Despair. As a result, they decided to name their new home the “Dungeon of Despair” … which seems pretty melodramatic considering that Baby Elephant has her own T.V. with cable and gets fed homemade cookies almost every day at snack time. (Death Island has a very progressive prison system.) What Happens to the Snip Snaps? The Swamp Police had arrested the Snip Snaps shortly after the terrified turtles slouched in terror from the Condo of Despair. Nevertheless, the shelled menaces were soon released with a stern warning and two million hours (each) of community service in lieu of jail. Their very first assignment was to clean up the alley that had contained the Condo of Despair. Because B.E. had left it strewn with countless numbers of “homemade chocolates” with extra “caramel” and “sprinkles,” it is suspected that it will take the naughty snapping turtles most of their judicially ordered hours to finish the nasty job. Fortunately, the Snip Snaps don’t really mind this obscenely icky chore, as they had already lost their sense of smell, due to posttraumatic stress disorder, (Around the time they soiled their shells.) right before Baby Elephant’s final defeat. What Happens to the Rabid Conch Shell? As it turned out, the rabid conch shell was not actually rabid. Instead, it speaks an obscure undersea dialect and had attacked our heroes only because it was suffering from a momentary hysterical rage. This was presumably caused by no one telling the deeply frustrated mollusk, no matter how politely he asked, whether or not the water at Tiny Turtle Lagoon was safe to drink. Thus, once Jet and the Team had answered all of its questions about the Atomic Bomb Atoll exchange rate and the precise location of its cleanest restrooms, the conch went peaceably back to its home in the Mid-Atlantic Trench, vowing never to choose a package tour again. So far he has kept that vow and has not returned to this day. What happened to the Naked Mole Rats, aka The Snipes? Similarly, the giant naked mole rats soon returned to Kenya, although, curiously, they took their spinach crate with them. (Despite the bright orange biohazard stickers pasted all over it…) Moreover, they never did tell anyone why they came to be living in the Death Island Dump in the first place. Local consensus of opinion has it that the wrinkled, buck-toothed little rodents had been looking for the fabled mole rat promised land of milk and honey, but, in its place, found the potty of a dinky psychotic elephant with little or no bowel control. It is thought that they then took the spinach crate as a sort of memento, to remind (warn) them and all later generations of mole rats that “There’s no place like home.” Now, let’s go onward and upward to the future of the good guys. But first, can I hear a quick “BOO-YAH” for our cold-blooded champions! A little louder, please. That’s much better! Now the writer won’t have to drink so much… coffee for inspiration. Meteor Mansion was alight with laughter, friendship, and rapidly disappearing cheese-flavored snack foods. Jet and his team, Sawtooth and Hotwheels, their friend Dorilla, and their new neighbor, the friendly dragons, were all celebrating their scales off. Baby Elephant’s defeat had everyone in the mood for some carefree fun and relaxation. However, midway through the festivities, dragon leader Jaws stood up and called everyone near. (Which really annoyed Hotwheels, who had finally mastered the Funky Chicken and didn’t want any interruptions while he tried to Moonwalk.) Jaws sounded appropriately grave… at least at first. “A short time ago, we’ve received disturbing news. Consequently, we wondered if we might ask a small favor of you fine twenty-first century reptiles,” He cleared his massive throat. “A person can always ask…” Dorilla spoke cautiously. Jet nodded in wary agreement with Dorilla. “If truth be told, we really could use your help for a bit. We’ve had an emergency call from our allies in the Triassic; it looks like bad things are starting to happen there. (Or is it “then?”) We need to go there [then?] without further delay. So, ahem, would you please consider coming with us, for a few hours, or for two weeks at most? Baby Elephant may be safely tucked away in the state penitentiary, but there are still plenty of nasty predators and mysterious environmental catastrophes from which to save young dinos and prehistoric dragons. Isn’t that right, Arnya?” At this point, Jaws inevitably began to wander off track. “Um, by the by, could you pass over some more of that delish chip dip, Si? That punkin’ o’ mine sure knows her way around the kitchen, doesn’t she, boys? You know, there is nothing I like better than *Moumph* *Gurgle*” This time Aryna’s ploy worked; cramming an entire fifty-gallon bucket of sour cream and chives into her mate’s mouth stopped him short. There was a moment of respectful silence, and then the dragons looked expectantly at their newfound friends. “That’s, ah, quite a favor, all right,” blinked Jet. He turned and addressed Dorilla and the team. “What do you Gentlemen think? Is it yea or is it nay?” “Let’s go for it,” shouted the excitable Hotwheels. “I agree most strongly,” stated Sawtooth, “Where there are innocent creatures in trouble, we must respond. It’s a matter of honor.” “I say ‘BOO-YAH!’” cheered Dorilla. Seeing everyone’s’ bewildered expressions, he finished somewhat lamely, “Um, that means ‘yes,’ guys…” “Then there’s no dissent!” Jet winked by flicking a tongue across his left eye. “My dragon friends, it seems you have yourselves some prehistoric partners. Let’s waste no more time talking and go boogie on over to the time portal. We have work to do!!!” So they did it. (But I ain’t gonna tell ya about it unless you pay me, preferably in small, unmarked bills.) “Well, hello, children,” an annoying yet insignificant voice crackles out from millions of entertainment centers across the world (and perhaps beyond). After the static clears, a dinky figure with plate-sized ears, stompy feet, and a ratty little brush tail soon appears onscreen in place of the regular scheduled programming. “This week the Happy Elephant Hour is made possible by my good friend, the sch’mold. It came to see Baby Elephant, Queen of the Universe, during visiting hours. And while your super smart (Compared to most rocks, yes.) Queen couldn’t understand a word it said, it used her cable TV connection to take over Nickelodeon, The Disney Channel, and Cartoon Planet. What a nice prezzie for me! So, it’s yer turn to justify my wholesome and G-rated love, kiddies. You, my most loyal subjects, have my gracious, royal permission -- that means yer gonna do it if ya know what’s good for ya, ‘cause, after all, ya gotta sleep sometime -- to tell yer ungrateful parents that CNN, ESPN, and the rest of those networks starting with silly initials are next on the list… unless, of course, my totally arbitrary and unreasonable demands are instantly met. Do you have something to write with, children? Why, yes, you may certainly use spray paint and mommy’s best dress. Good, here goes: First, I demand lots more cookies (but no oatmeal raisin please, ‘cause them raisins is grosser than dung beetle dooty), plus some nice chocolatey pudding, at least a squillion times a day. Second, I want someone to get these flippin’ cockaroaches outta here! They keep eating my homemade chocolate and, at night, they snore really loud. (To be fair, Dung Beetles of Doom can’t actually snore, because beetles tend to breathe through spiracles in their limbs and lower bodies, not through their snouts. I wonder if you can guess who does breathe deafeningly through a gross, wet, teensy snout.) It’s like trying to sleep with a pack of dying hyenas, fercryingoutloud. (How she knows what that sounds like is anybody’s guess (and the writer’s worst nightmare).) Third, the warden has to let me sing the solo parts at the next prison holiday pageant. I mean, come on, geez, that tone-deaf Enron guy, who can’t hold a note ta save his puny plea-bargainin’ skin, gets the best roles every freakin’ time! That’s just not right. I thought he was supposed to be too broke ta payoff anyone… Ten Billionth, (Told you she can’t count worth an economy-sized glob of elephant goobers.) we, the forgotten prisoners of establishment meanies and global powers like PepsiCo, should not have to take any baths. All that hot, soapy water is really cramping our style. Hey, it says right in the UPS Constipation’s Bail of Blights that I have “the height to wear a chocolate coating on my arms.” (Oh, never mind; this one’s hopeless.) Eleventy-Twelve, could someone get those snipey-things over here to make me more chicken? Them snipies were pretty gross looking, all nakedy and snaggly toothed, but they sure can fry up an extra crunchy chicken fillet with spicy tail feathers. Sixty Eight Thousand and Three, ok, LISTEN UP! This one is very, very important. Let me talk to ya about meddling reptiles that need to get squished…” The End? (Unless B.E. gets that coveted celebrity endorsement deal from Godiva chocolates… yeah, right.) |
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