creepy and hatboy – the abduction of hatboy and how i got his brain back

aliens abducted my sidekick

i sat alone in front of the campfire for about two days. the smell of burning pine is proving addictive. the tent sometimes leaks in the morning as the dew forms puddles on the dipping roof.
hatboy disappeared two nights ago. he was sitting in front of the fire, telling me all about the “eerie, and very spooky, thing with hairy legs which lives in the woods and eats sidekicks for breakfast before using their legs as toothpicks,” when a bright light shone down from above and he was swallowed up by a humming starship which then fled into the night sky.
from my spot, high in the mountains, i can see a field of corn which stretches across the horizon. aliens have carved wierd signs into the crops. roughly translated, the wiggly circles and lines say, “moon-unit was here.”
finally, when the light reappears, my super-sidekick is tossed to the earth amid a screeching hum and a vicious flower-type beam of white light. watching him twitch in the sand, i am reminded of the time seven first took me up to her borg cube. it was very green. i liked it. i hoped hatboy enjoyed his time away.
he has many stitches on his face, and his hair has been shaved. his eyes have that possum about to be splatted by a semi look.
i ask him how it went.
he begins to sing a shania twain song.
“my god,” i croak. “what have they done to you?”

shania by candlelight

i have my hands pressed against my head. no matter what i do, i can’t seem to block out the awful noise. he won’t stop singing. dear coke god, why?
he’s been shuffling about outside the tent, croaking out those awful tunes, bumping into trees, and slipping on his shoe laces. why won’t he do them up?
i run out of my tent, sieze him by his shirt and shake him. his glazed eyes barely notice i’m there, so i shake him some more.
he stumbles out of my grasp, wanders a little to his left and catches a low branch with his face. blood dribbles from his freshly-broken nose, but he doesn’t notice. he just keeps on singing.
i dive back into my tent, rummage around for a bit, then come up with a torch. i take it back outside, shine it into his eyes and scream, “this is a torch! with it, i wield mighty lights which will purge you of the evils of country music!”
and i hit him with it. several times.
in the dead leaves and wet twigs he lies unconscious. i tie him up, gag him with some gaffa tape, and sit on him as though he were a log, warming my hands by the fire.
rock back and forth on my companion, i glare up at the stars.
i’ll find them, i promise my snoozing sidekick.
those evil spacemen of much sidekick-lobotomy won’t get away with this one.
oh no, not during my holiday special.
hatboy groans so i show him the light some more.
it seems i’ve been playing god a whole lot, lately.

the cantina

i’ve decided not to hit my sidekick with the torch anymore, but i’m not going to take the gag off. he shuffles along beside me. i’ve tied a piece of rope about his neck, and i use a cattleprod to keep him in line. it seems to be working. we’ve made it as far as mos eisley.
walking into the cantina, i am immediately submitted to a collection of glares.
the silence is disturbing, and the tension is thicker than butter as i waddle up to the bar.
“we don’t serve your type here, mate,” the bartender hisses.
“my type?”
i glance around. everyone is looking at hatboy. or rather, at the rope.
“oh!” i tug on the rope and hatboy shuffles forward. i sit him on a stool, something which requires a minimum of cattle-prodding, probably due to his instinctive reflexes to sit at a bar. with another jerk on hatboy’s new leash, i say to the bertender, “this, it’s nothing.”
as i take off the black boba-type mask which has stopped sand from climbing up my nose, the bartender rolls his eyes. “you!” then he turns to the rest of the bar. “this is no bounty hunter. it’s just creepy!”
with a collective grunt of disappointment, the music continues and someone slaps my back. a fat slimey blobby-thing walks up to hatboy and gives him a sniff. hatboy dribbles over his gag. judging by the gleeful look on the ugly mutant’s face, i think hatboy’s just offered it sexual favours.
i tell the bartender to give me a “usual, thanks, mike.”
then a big hairy hand slaps down on my shoulder. quite heavily.
i don’t need to turn around. i’d recognise that odor anywhere.
“ah,” i say, hoping i had bought enough to cover my last game of tiddlywinks. “just the wookiee i was looking for.”

wookiees

i wonder if wookiees ride bicycles. i’ve never seen one do so. cyclists are known to shave their legs. i wonder how a wookiee would look without his leg hair. do wookie women shave their bikini line?
what is the wookie word for “stat?” what do wookiees say when performing heart surgery?
what colour underwear is most popular among wookiees? and would they wear y-fronts or boxers? when they’ve had a shower, do they use body-length hair dryers? and do punk wookiees dye their entire bodies, or just a little on top of their heads? are body perms in vogue on wookieworld? must be hard to untangle all that hair. when they get their hair trimmed, does it stick out at weird angles for weeks afterward? i wouldn’t like to be a barber for a wookie.
so many questions left unanswered. the reason they’re unanswered is probably best explained by chewbacca. once, when i asked him if he’d like to borrow some leave-in conditioner, it took me three days to remove myself from the cantina’s disposal bin.
even hatboy bet against me getting out in under four days.
one thing i do know about wookiees is that playing tiddlywinks with one in a cantina on mos eisley is not reccomended.
they’ll win every time.

making plans over laksa

chewie’s seen them. he knows the spooky aliens who have been abducting sidekicks all over the universe. he says they conduct frightening experiments on them, then leave them in the desert to find their own way home. he says that most sidekicks never recover from the experience. he nods at hatboy, who dribbles back at him, and says he doesn’t think hatboy’s going to make it.
he gives me the address anyway.
he tells me to be careful.
i ask if he wants to come along. just for moral support.
he says he can’t. his stupid partner has gone and offered to take some kid and an old man off to some distant star. apparently his partner’s getting a bit soft, and the thought of getting an opportunity to hump the kid’s little sister is just too much for an old space-pirate to bear.
chewie’s hoping they got wookie prostitutes on the death star.
he asks if i’ve seen the new wookie girl in the next cantina. i tell him i don’t have the money for that, either.
hooting loudly, he tells me i don’t know what i’m missing.
but i do.
i shudder violently as i drag hatboy from the cantina.
thanks to seventeen weeks in traction, i know only too well.

the long ride here

i take the gag off, so i can make him look a bit more presentable.
the dribble wipes away easily, but each word he lets loose is another cancer drilling into my brain.
he’s singing the song dolly parton did with that kenny fellow. he’s doing all dolly’s lines. i fight to keep the tears from my eyes. i’m losing him. in under an hour, i know he’ll be beyond saving, no matter how advanced these spooky aliens are.
“hold on,” i tell him. “we’re almost there. they’ll give you your brain back, i promise.”
if he begins singing the theme to sound of music, i know i’ll have to put him out of my misery.

nougies

they want to know why i’ve invaded their planet.
i topple down a few more buildings with my super-sidekick powers, and threaten to unleash the awesome might of my choc-topped nougie bars.
shaken by the thought of rampant nougies with menacing choc-tops, they agree to have a look at my super-sidekick.
the first surgeon who climbs aboard our tiny shuttle, is cross-eyed.
strangely enough, so is the second. and the third.
in fact, all ten of them are cross-eyed.
“we’re really very sorry,” says the first surgeon. “sometimes we have a problem with our rights and lefts.”
they open up hatboy’s skull and one of the surgeons reaches in with a gloved hand, flicks the funky red ‘on’ switch they installed previous to dropping his gibbering carcase into my campsite, and the others sew him right back up again.
“that should stop the singing,” says the surgeon. “make sure he eats minties for the next few weeks, and if that doesn’t work, then i’m afraid he’ll probably go insane, and the subsequent killing spree is not at all pretty unless you find your local butcher’s store to be a place of intense artistic expression and the minced meat section to be strangely attractive. we offer no refunds, but seeing as how yours is a special case, and you are currently holding our planet hostage with your super-sidekick powers, we’d like to offer you a complimentary gift of sixteen genetically-enhanced supermodels should your super-sidekick partner actually go on an insane killing rampage and you are forced to put him down following this brief surgery.”
they leave me with a bucketload of minties and, as hatboy begins to mumble in his sleep, i am faced with a sudden dilemma . . .

attack of the strawberry cream puff-monster

while hatboy got used to having his brain back, i spent my time sitting on a beach in bermuda, sipping odd assortments of alcoholic beverages from coconuts.
the sun was very bright.
the pink bikinis stung my eyes like visual jellyfish, only prettier.
the blue water swam before me like the belly of a giant blobby something.
hatboy spoke constantly. his chatter disturbed my melancholy. i handed him a coconut full of something green. he sipped, which silenced him for two hours, but then he began his twitching noises some more, and i began to wonder if i should keep his minties from him for another day.
then he was blurring about the beach, spinning about like some tasmanian devil on crack. his screaming chit-chat made me shake my head at him. he sometimes spun about in front of me, and i giggled at the tutu effect his kilt was making.
i told him, in a steady voice, that despite the giggliness of his kilt, the pink bikinis were much more attractive. so i gave him a score of five point six and said i hoped he got some practise and a boob job.
later, when i woke from a deep and dreamless sleep, he was still chattering. this time he was demanding to know why i hadn’t helped him to battle something strawberrily creamy. i shrugged. i saw no puff-monster, i told him.
i asked him to hand me a coconut o’ gunk.
he told me to get it myself, and said we were leaving. apparently all this coconut stuff has riddled my brain with worms of no-thinky.
i let him lead me off to the wormhole.
as we walked through the sand, my hands kept reaching out.
i was a deranged tourist, suddenly informed of my imminent departure, desperate for trinkets, snapshots of my hotel, and complimentary bath towels. my fingers snapped this, snapped that. there were novelty mementos everywhere. i was drunk on the siezing of such, and hatboy dragged me, giggling all the way, to the colourful green swirly bit, into which he tossed me before blindly following my chortling passage.
when we landed at our next destination i had, much to hatboy’s mix of disgust and fascination, fourteen bikini tops, fifteen thong bikini bottoms, two silicone implants and one blonde wig.
i used the implants as pillows for my feet.
i let hatboy wear the wig.
he was much happier after that.

Tags: creepy and hatboy