creepy and hatboy – the supervillain convention

this selection is a direct continuation from the mystery of the pizza delivery drivery murders.

st. alia’s visit

she shoved through the front door, stamped into the loungeroom and demanded to know why we hadn’t been answering the phone. we told her about our competition and she sniffed the air of the room with a wrinkle of her eyes which showed her displeasure. then, quietly, she pulled a jar from her pocket.
it took hatboy and myself only ten minutes to run to our rooms and return, clean.
she told us of her displeasure at having to wait so long to get hold of us. her news, she said, was important to our survival.
she’s going to a gathering of supervillains, and she wants us to go with her.
we pointed out that, even though she’s technically a villain of much power and importance, both hatboy and myself are super-sidekicks on the side of justice and righteousness. we protect the earth from the ugly truth that supervillains are scuttling around in the dark doing dastardly stuff.
st. alia von considered our argument, then dismissed it with a shrug.
“who’ll know? just change your names, and wear a silly uniform. no one will recognise you.”
hatboy is dubious, but i think it’ll be kind of fun.
i want to wear my jester hat, but hatboy says everyone knows about my silly hat by now.
i point out that it isn’t silly. it’s very stylish, and holds great sentimental value. i ask for the support of st. alia.
she goes with hatboy on that one.
i sigh, and consider wearing a different hat.
but there’s no way, i tell them, that they’ll stop me from wearing my shiny yellow latex gimpsuit.

st. alia von’s reminder note

she left a note on our front doorstep.
“hey, morons. don’t forget to wear your masks,” it said. “and try to look nasty. don’t give the waitress a tip. drinking mineral water is a big no-no, and never interrupt another super-villain’s yarn. yours, st. alia.”
i’ll be wearing a sleek little latex number, with yellow racing stripes on bright green. my utility belt is red, and my bright blue mask is like a strip of neon across my eyes.
i’ve been practising my gameshow smile. as a result, my teeth have become overly white. and, despite st. alia and hatboy’s objections, i’m still wearing the slippy hat the jester gave me. i’ve managed to disguise it by wearing it backwards.
hatboy has also managed to whip up a suitable costume. he’s decided on a kilt he borrowed from the washing line behind the girls-school, which we sometimes pillage from. the black shirt he’s wearing is tie-dyed, and his pom-pommy hat is black with some rather dastardly-looking red spots. he’s been practising his viking smile, and as a result, his teeth have yellowed.
he’s back to eating roaches, but he thinks i don’t notice the little stick legs sticking out from between his teeth. i’ve not said anything, because such roach-eating behavior is expected of insane megalomaniacs.
the most amazing thing about his costume is the savage display of secret pouches he has hidden under his kilt. with a flick of his wrist, he can pull out any one of a million secret gadgets which he has squirreled away. some of them look quite impressive. one of them even bleeps. he’s also wearing a bandoleer, but doesn’t have the hair to be called a wookiee.
which is a pity, because i’ve always wanted to call myself han.
in any case, i’ve decided to forego bringing along ol’ bob, and thought a nice white carnation stuck into my latex suit would be more appropriate for our entrance.
that, and the massive novelty codpiece i’ve strapped to my groin with a couple of strips of old razor wire.

hitchin’ a ride

seven gives us a lift to the convention via borg cube.
she didn’t get the gig as a jester, but won the consolation prize. she’s not telling what that is, but there is a comedy routine involved.
hatboy says he can’t see seven as a comedian.
seven tells him a joke.
hatboy doesn’t get it, but the borg aboard the cube begin giggling.
seven offers to explain it to him.
hatboy glances her assimilation tubules, which twitch while she makes her offer, and politely declines.
i tell seven that hatboy’s really quite smart. “he’ll figure it out,” i say.
i tell seven of our entrance to the super-villain convention. i tell her that it’s the slippiest thing we’ve ever done.
she listens politely, then admits that she doesn’t understand the joke.
hatboy reaches into his kilt and pulls out a nasty little needly-thing. it’s very sharp. he offers to explain the joke to seven, who raises an eyebrow and politely declines.
i tell hatboy that seven’s really smart. “she’ll figure it out,” i say.
we ask seven if she’d like to come along. she could meet the guys. davros should be there, i tell her. she can let him know how well the daleks have been toilet-trained.
she tells us of a quaint little earth saying.
“they don’t want us in heaven, and in hell, they’re scared we’ll take over.”
as we are transported into the lobby of the secret convention place, hatboy admits he has found a soft spot for the borg and their spooky zen wisdom.

gone shootin’

we marched past the bellboy, who politely ignored our costumes. wise choice, i thought.
hatboy stabbed a flick-knife into the front desk, and demanded, in broken viking, to know just where the hell the mens room was, because he needed to “powder his nose.”
the clerk blinked at him, and earned a swift backhand smack across the snout.
as hatboy twaddled off in search of a mens room, i engaged the clerk in idle conversation. i told him about my latex suit. “it’s very slinky, because it has to be,” i told him. “and do you like my carnation?”
“yes, sir. it’s a very nice carnation.”
“you lie!” i screeched, siezing his shirt and dragging him halfway across the counter. i jerked hatboy’s knife from the wood and pushed it up against his eyelid.
“no! no, i’m not lying!” the clerk screamed.
i gave him my best evil-type hiss. “convince me!”
“well, my mother grows carnations in her garden, and i like my mother, don’t i?”
i squinted at him. he was dressed nicely. red bow tie and all. his evidence might indeed be plausable. i noticed his highly-polished shoes.
“who does your shoes?” i asked.
“mama.”
“hmmm.” i let him go, re-stabbed the knife into the desk, and looked down at my own boots. they were looking a little under-polished. “you think she’d do mine?”
“oh, i’m sure she would!” enthused the clerk.
i’m really digging this slippy super-villain stuff.

second shootin’

“shall we?”
“i don’t suppose you’ve got a pretty little gun-thing in that kilt of yours?”
“sexual connotations aside, yes, i think i do.”
“think it’ll completely rip those suckers off their hinges?”
“no. but i can guarantee a complete lack of splinters.”
“well, fire up the great gun of door-o-bangy, and let’s make our entrance.”
“if they figure us out, we’ll be dead meat.”
“not if you’ve got a thing-of-much-escapey in your kilt.”
“nope. i left it at home.”
“that was bright.”
“i wanted to bring the coffee. it was either coffee, or a method of extending our lives.”
“without coffee, there’s no life. with coffee, there’s always hope.”
“glad you approve.”
“do you like my carnation?”
“no.”
“the clerk did.”
“yes, but i’ll bet you had a knife to his eye.”
“how did you know?”
“it’s the kind of thing you do when you’re having fun.”
“and this is fun.”
“of course. but i hope that you brought a thing-of-much-escapey.”
“in this latex suit? where would i hide such a thing?”
“this is getting stupider with every second.”
“just aim, shoot, and leave it all up to me. i got us covered. besides, it was either come here, or watch the olympics on tv.”
“the olympics?”
“yes.”
“well, better dead than watching that rubbish. although, i hope you’re recording the women’s gymnastics.”
“but of course.”
“ready?”
“ready.”
“it’s a pity that i forgot my jelly babies. i could go a red one right now.”
“here, have one of mine.”
“where the hell were you hiding those?”
“none of your business, my super-sidekick buddy. now: the door!”
“very well. let’s couch!”
the explosion was terrific, and true to hatboy’s promise, there wasn’t a single splinter to be seen among the very shocked expressions on the other side of a loudly-disintegrated set of double-doors.

a grand entrance

“who are you?” one of the super-villains demanded, pulling out a little ray-gun of much-killy.
“put down your stupendous weapon of mass destruction!” i boomed in my best evil voice as i stepped through the rubble. “for we are badguys, too.”
“oh.” he put it away and stuck out his grimy gloved hand. “that’s different then. hi there. i’m badass.”
“really? me too!”
we shook hands, and he kept grinning. i crushed his hand in my gloved fist. he crushed mine. we kept crushing fists until we heard two loud cracks. mutually impressed, we both let go and chuckled our insane megalomaniac chuckles. “no, really,” he said. “my name’s badass. what’s yours?”
i pushed back my heavy cape, revealing my astounding codpiece of mortal terror. hatboy thrust his pelvis forward, and i gave them the full effect of my gleaming gameshow grin. a few of the lesser villains cowered. the others fought to keep their ground. st. alia von, hidden up the back with her new partner in crime, xil the martian sister of xol, just groaned.
“behold, my codpiece,” i boomed. “with it i control the supreme powers of much animal-magnetistic-sexy which even now converge on an unsuspecting world. in just ten short days, my enigmatic partner of much-super-evil and i will have this feeble world in our clenched fists of horror!” i clenched my fist for them. hatboy fiddled with his sporran. “remember our faces, for within the fortnight, you will know them well, because they’ll be stamped on all your glittery pennies and pounds. oh my, yes, remember our names, for within the fortnight, you will know them well, as they will be staple-gunned to your foreheads of much-info-forgetty!”
“yes, but who are you?” badass whined, grovelling at our shiny boots.
hatboy slapped his chops for interrupting me.
“our names? what? you have forgotten already?” i nodded to hatboy, who delved deep into his kilt for a small, yet impressive needly instrument. it looked a bit uncomfortable. not for hatboy, but for badass, who winced as my partner in crime shoved it against the grovelling man’s sweaty forehead. after a short, but chunky, thunking sound, he stashed the dastardly thing away once more, leaving behind the perfect tattoo-impression of our new names.
sexgod and nadboy had entered the hall, and the lives of these insecure evil people would never be the same again.

the sporran

amid the roar of super-villain glee, hatboy aka nadboy, merely sighed. “why do i always get the silly name?”
“you should have thought to wear a silly codpiece. then you could have been called nobby.”
he pointed at his sporran. “but i’ve got a sporran!”
“and i’m sure it’s a nice little sporran, too.”
“i still don’t think it’s right.”
“well, next time, you can have the slippy name. but you also have to do the speech.”
“you know i don’t like speeches.”
“then why are you complaining?”
“you’d complain, too, if you were called nadboy.”
i pointed at my novelty codpiece. “what? with a codpiece like this? now, let’s make with the animal magnetism. did you see those evil chicks in back? i’m just going to go check out their black leather thigh-highs a little more.”
“but they’re evil!”
“you’re telling me they are.”
“if they find out who you really are…”
“what? you think they’re going to care?” i pointed at my codpiece. “with a codpiece like thi-”
“oh, shut up. and go drink some punch. i’m going in search of munchies.”
“careful. they’re evil munchies.”
“shut up.”
“i saw some evil cheesey things by the doorway you exploded.”
“shut up!”
“look! that waitress over there, she’s got some evil fishy eggsies!”
“i said shut up! that’s it. i’m too hungry to talk. you go get yourself killed by a bunch of evil chicks in fishnets and leather. i’m going to go find some nice meat pie.”
“evil meat pie?”
“and if you get into trouble, don’t hesitate to use your communicator so i can listen as you die horribly.”
i nodded happily. “deal.”

big bad wolf

she is dressed in tight blue leather. stripes of black wound round her legs and arms. long fingerless gloves, and high boots with the sharpest heels. shiny buckles like medallions criss-crossed her costume. she smiles and her thin lips burn.
she notices my hat and her eyes sparkle. “i once gave someone a hat like that,” she says.
“it’s a common hat. there are many like it selling for a small fortune at the markets.”
“that’s possible.”
her nails are long. she walks with purpose. stalks. toward me. touches my hat with sharp fingertip.
she tells me i’m wearing it backwards.
“that depends on your point of view.”
“next week, i’ll be reducing a small country town to a pit of despair. i hope to use their children as a tool with which to enslave their elders. i will eat the hearts of the youngest, and feed on the suffering of their grieving parents. then, i will put the oldest to the torch, and their screaming bodies will light my castle. a pretty glow they will make, for certain.”
“that sounds groovy,” i say. “what will you be doing next month?”
“whatever i please.” her sharp teeth glisten. “i am not the delicate child any more. i wear no colours. no whites.”
“so i see. it’s a nice touch. i like the boots.”
“i bought them in japan.”
“japan? really? did you go to fuji?”
“i was too busy learning how to best bleed my food.”
“i hear your mouth is like the molten rock and fresh flowing lava which haunts tropical islands.”
“that’s a delicious thing to say.”
step close. touch her lip with fingertip. she presses one warm fang against my skin. push against the point, feel the rupture. blood trickles down her mouth. little wet pieces of me.
whispers as i suck the wound clean. “what can i say?”
“say nothing.”
and i watch in silence as the jester walks away once more.

st. alia von and xil

xil was dressed identically to st. alia von. they both carried some rather suspicious-looking jars, filled with ugly yellow fluid.
i asked how they were doing, and if they liked my carnation.
xil said she liked my suit, but didn’t think much of my codpiece. “there’s no fist,” she said.
st. alia von patted my head and spoke to xil, telling her how i was merely attempting to get in touch with my feminine side.
“wow. i have a feminine side, too?” i asked.
“we all do, dear.”
they told me about the few dozen empty jars they had in their room. “we need to fill them by dawn,” xil told me. “it’s a mission we’re on.”
i told them it sounded like a fun mission, and asked if they needed any help collecting bodyparts. st. alia reminded me that i’m not a super-villain, but am merely pretending to be one in order to meet super-villain chicks.
i told her of a borg saying. “when in grid 92 of subjunction 12, do what the grid 92 of subjunction 12ers do.”
st. alia told me to stop making stuff up.
xil said it was nice of me to offer, but that they were leaving soon, anyway. “we’re going to venus.”
i told st. alia von to pack a raincoat. it’s cold in venus. and it rains insects a lot.
they said they knew.
i wished them well.
st. alia leaned down and whispered to me. “keep an eye on hatboy, he’s been hanging out with these two really strange-looking goons.”
i nodded. “he’s probably trying to collect my life insurance.”
“he’s trying to kill you?”
“i think so. but the joke’s on him. i have no life insurance.”
“he can’t kill you. i’ve got dibs on your major and minor organs!”
“i’m sure he’d give them to you, if you asked him.”
“that’s not the same thing. it wouldn’t feel right.”
she pulled another jar out of her bag, and angrily wrote out a label. she stuck it to the glass. “if he so much as breaks a bone, i’m going to use this!”
the label had hatboy’s name on it.
under his name, was a description of a bodypart.
i winced.
“now, my dear, you have insurance.”

the dinner is nice

the food arrives and everyone sits at their table. hatboy sits opposite me. he seems to be busy studying the congregation. beside him, two big guys, who look remarkably like takeshi’s old goons, in immaculate suits pretend to look bored. one of them is reading a book, entitled, the ethical practises of the sophisticated goon.
the first speech is by a ferengi, who tells us about the vision of domination, and how lucky we are to share the dream held by many. he tells us about the first evil guy, who probably ate too many vegetables, and didn’t share the meaty visions of his caveman pals. he wanted to rule their sandy pit. wanted to hold the rock of power.
we are moved by the romantic vision of gul the caveman as he bashes in the skulls of his friends, and rules over the dead bodies for many years, before being assassinated by a rogue sabre tooth tiger. we weep at his courage, and hatboy mutters under his breath. st. alia shakes her head at him, and taps her empty jar.
one of the goons wipes a single tear from his eye. he has been moved by the speech, too.
either that, or he’s allergic to hatboy’s aftershave.
the next speaker tells of a dream of independance. he tells of the system he created, which would eventually destroy the universe. “i don’t have to be there,” he says. “i know it will end. that’s what i wanted when i created it. it’s the perfect system. it’s better than gameshows, because it will outlast television.”
despite the inner-revulsion of such a horrendous loss of televisiony-goodness, i am eager to hear of his system.
it’s apparently better than lotto.
more successful than a how-to-get-rich-quick book.
when he’s finished, the little ferengi takes his seat once more. his final words, it all began on earth, echo through the hall.
as orders are given to consume, the caped super-villain next to me leans over and whispers, “you know, you guys look kinda familiar to me. you sure we’ve never met?”
i glance at hatboy, who has gone a slight shade of grey. the goon next to him pushes one hand into his coat and looks at his partner, who reads from his book and shakes his head. the goon sighs, and withdraws his hand. “we get that a lot,” i say, pointing my fork at hatboy. “it must be his sporran.”

after dinner minties

i talked to evil incarnate that evening. she wore a nice slinky dress.
i spoke to the dark wanderer, too. he had a hole in his head, and i wondered how much that gem would be worth.
hatboy’s goons grumbled a lot.
we spoke to a man in a blue rubber suit. his mask was a bit frayed at the edge, and his eyes leaked salt water constantly. hatboy bought an old microchip from him, and we were about to leave when the old man mentioned pizzas, which stopped hatboy cold.
hatboy, never able to leave a conversation involving pizzas, mentioned the lack of delivery drivers.
“a great shame,” the old man said.
“do you know who did it?” hatboy asked.
the old man said he didn’t, but he wished he was ten years younger. then he’d find out who the guy was, and offer to race him, corpse for corpse. “but i wouldn’t do pizza delivery drivers,” the old man said. “they’re like sacred animals.”
i pointed out how they were also not very punctual, and often delivered pizzas in a less than satisfactory condition. he said he didn’t know anything about that, and pulled out his teeth to let us see his gums. “i wouldn’t know real pizza from rubber,” he said.
i told him that, if he’d been eating pizzas ten years ago, given the current level of expertise among pizza delivery drivers, he still wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.
i tell him i’m thinking of converting to gourmet.
hatboy, shocked by the thought of gourmet pizza, decides to waddle away again.
the old man asks what’s wrong with him.
“i think he wanted to wear the codpiece,” i tell him.
the old man nods, understanding. “that’s why i don’t work with partners. either they get a better cozzie than you, or they filch pieces of yours in the middle of the night.”
i tell him about my goldfish, and the talking coke can on the wall.

telephone

“excuse me, sir. there is a telephone call for you. the lady did not give her name.”
“lady?”
“yes, sir.” the waiter handed me the mobile phone and walked away.
i pressed it to my ear. i knew my voice would sound wonky. “hello?”
“creepy!”
“winona?”
“how you doing? i just wanted to tell you about mexico!”
“i thought you were in jamaica.”
“i was, but now i’m in mexico. i thought about tacos all week, since you sent me that taco recipe. so, i thought, while i was running around the world anyway, i might as well drop by and grab a few taco recipes. did i interrupt you or anything?”
“no. i wasn’t really doing anything. i hope you didn’t ask for me by name.”
“no, i remembered what you said. i asked if they’d grab me the guy who blew the front doors apart. they said they couldn’t find him, but they did have the guy who made the speech. i figured that’d be you.”
“they couldn’t find hatboy?”
“is that a problem? i mean, he wouldn’t have spoken to me, anyway. he’d just have done his heavy breathing thing at me. why does he do that?”
“it’s a super-sidekick tradition thing.”
“oh. well, look, i found this terrific one right here. you won’t believe it ‘til you taste it. they’ve got room service there, right?”
“i hope so. if they don’t, i’m killing some guys until they do.”
“good. then, give them this recipe. have them make a batch for you tonight, before bed. promise?”
“promise.”
“have you got a pen? well, first, you get a couple of dozen nice juicy jalepenos…”

getting to know the guys

davros burped. “well, that’s nothing!” he croaked. “this one time, i was, like, ten seconds from completely destroying the earth’s moon, thus rendering all their lunar-based technology completely useless. it would have been easy for my daleks to take over the earth from then.”
“the only thing easy about that plan, my dear daleky-type-person, are your bimbo daleks!”
davros scowled at the tall man wearing the glossy black face-mask. “i’ll thank you to be more respectful. it took an entire regiment of rebels, an all-knowing meddling timelord, and his tardis-full of rampant sidekicks to ruin my plan in the final ten seconds, but only a single peasantboy to ruin yours, mister vader.”
“but this boy had the force. and a laser sword. what did your timelord have? a pocket-knife?”
“a sonic screwdriver could hardly be considered a pocket-knife. it’s deadlier. and much more fun at parties.”
the clowny-looking guy sighed. “well, i think both of you have never had it bad. why, a few years ago, i had the timer clicking down. i had batman strapped to a great machine of doom, which would have killed him at exactly midnight, which was when my machine was set to destroy gotham city. then wouldn’t you believe it? we had a power outage! caused by one of my own minions dropping a spanner onto an overhead powerline, no less.”
“ah, joker. we know you got it bad. but that’s because you’re incompetent. my stormtroopers were better minions than yours. hell, even davros’ daleks were better minions than yours. at least they managed to kill some rebels, even if their noses are rather pointlessly created.”
the joker waved his arms about. “i resent that! it’s not my fault you can’t get decent minions in gotham.”
“minions. if we didn’t need them, we’d have taken over the world already. my daleks would be like momentos, then. i could put them on all the street corners to frighten naughty children.”
“amen to that. i could turn my stormtroopers into little nightlights.”
“i’d not worry about my daleks wearing bikinis.”
“what? your daleks wear bikinis?”
“yes. i caught a few of them at it the other week. what’s worse, is they’ve been auditioning at strip clubs.”
“well. i’d pay a few dollars to see that. hang on, are you talking about your bimbos, or the clunky wheely-bins?”
“the wheely bins. oh, the shame.”
“ouch. i feel for you, little man. i really do.”
“gee, thanks darth. at least someone understands.”
“i caught a few of mine wearing sexy black lingerie, too.”
“really? that makes me feel a lot better.”
“mine have never worn lingerie. damn.”
“shut up, joker, and get us another round of beers.”
“lite, or extra lite?”
“no, this is time for the hard stuff. bring on the shandies.”
“be right back then.” the joker hobbled away.
“hey, darth, did you hear about ming? i heard he got beaten up by a footballer.”
“you heard that too? poor ming. at least the people who ruin our mighty plans have some kind of force, or wacky transportation. ming, beaten by a mere mortal. how humiliating. no wonder he didn’t show up this year. hey, a wookiee told me that the guy who’s been killing pizza delivery drivers was supposed to make an entrance here this year.”
“really?” davros looked dreamily into his empty mug. “that’s so cool. y’know, i really dig his work.”
“me too. the force is strong with that one.”
“yadda yadda, force shmorce.”
“why don’t you train to be a jedi, davros? i’m sure i could teach you a trick or two.”
“really?”
“sure. the force can be fun, sometimes. here, watch this. when joker comes back, i’ll crush his windpipe for a bit. that’s always amusing. and, if you want, i’ll show you how to levitate barmaids’ skirts.”
“ooh! now there’s a talent i could use!”
“i thought you’d like it. now, shh, because here he comes with those beers…”

the dastardly plan of much-evil-doey

we’ve got the satellites tuned. they’re spitting static into the ozone layer. ready to muffle the electronic shrieks of panicking tourists. the moon and the sun need to align. a lunar eclispse will offer the spooky power needed to keep the satellites pulsing their evil power of sexgod and nadboy across the earth.
safe in our moonlab, we’ll be sipping red wine. the dancing girls will keep our eyes busy while outside our supreme powers converge. the mega-laser-shooty-thing is aimed at a passing comet. at the exact second the satellites are positioned, it will fire. bits of the tail will be ripped from its butt, and will be tossed like italian salad into orbit, where the special patented sexgod and nadboy super-sexray of mortal-madness will target each icy piece and shower them with our evil adiation of doom.
as these pieces (each the size of a ripe peach), enter the atmosphere, the ozone layer will turn a delicious shade of reddish-pink, and the clouds will become like fluffy yellow cinnamon buns. with bright pink icing. picasso would be most impressed.
as the radiation scatters across the globe, the people will be affected. their minds will become as zombies. they will lose their will, their decision-making powers. they will be ripe for picking. they will be our peaches. they will need guidance. they will do what we say in return for the sexual gratification which comes from our presence. our sexgod and nadboy powers can’t help but be triumphant.
in the end, our satellites will bombard the planet with neural-energy which de-pole their magnetised brains, turning them into a sexually-excitable collective whose only pleasure is to serve. oh, and to create pizza. seven would be impressed.
we can’t help but to triumph, really. i promise.
it will succeed. it has to.
all we need to do is make sure the timing is right. perfect, even. down to the last millisecond. we have to hope that 007 doesn’t suddenly pop into our pantry and take the well-iced and sprinkled cakes, or the whole thing will fall apart.
after all, how can you be megalomaniac-supervillains on the road to total global domination through the use of sexual magnetism, if you don’t have any cakes?

pirates in the punchbowl

we’ve had a go at mingling. hatboy’s been doing well. he’s managed to upset almost everyone he’s spoken to, and i’m sure i noticed poison ivy slipping him a packet of seeds. doctor doom also gave my super-sidekick a packet of computer parts, which made him do a small jig.
doctor doom pointed at my super-sidekick’s sporran, and hatboy sighed.
i haven’t been getting into the feel of the convention as much as i thought i would. after being offered coke syrup-badness at the bar, the night kind of moved into a subdued background noise. one minute i feel like scoffing nachos, and the next i want pizza. i can’t seem to decide between catwoman’s latex suit, or the witch in fishnets.
hatboy stumbled up to me, holding out his packet of parts. “well, i’m done.”
“have you tried the party punch?”
hatboy glanced over to where blackbeard was pouring orange juice into the bowl.
“damn,” hatboy grumbled. “i hate it when they spike it with juice.”

an episode where pizza rules apply

just before the convention convenes, we decide to journey out for pizza. hatboy wants anything, so long as there’s plenty of meat. i’m looking for capsicum. fresh red capsicum.
an evil henchman calls to him as we stomp through the evil crowd. “hey, you know, you look kinda fami-”
“yes, yes! i know! it’s the sporran, alright? the sporran!” hatboy quickens the pace a bit.
we find the little pizza place overlooking the sea. the pizzaguy at the counter takes our order and we sit outside to watch the waves frolic on the sand. hatboy says he doesn’t mind this pizza place. it’s very peaceful. it smells of dough.
i tell him it’s only this way because there’s no pizza delivery drivers. hatboy frowns. “what? they don’t deliver?”
no, i tell him. they don’t deliver from here. this is one of those rare little pizza places which values pizza, rather than a steady outward stream of petroleum-powered super-pizza-people with telephones and gimmicky numbers twanging on the radio. they don’t want your money. i point back at the pizzaguy, who is whistling while he works. “see? he lives only to feed us yummy-pizza. he doesn’t get stingy with the capsicums and fresh tomato. he doesn’t drench it in grease.”
hatboy looks a little distressed. i don’t think he likes the idea of a pizza place which refuses to deliver. “pizza delivery drivers aren’t that bad, though. they’re like angels sent from heaven. they bring pizza to you. sure, it’s not fresh, but it’s pizza. and that’s all that matters. that, and the fact that the little globules of meaty-tuff are nummy.” he asks.
i point at the ocean. “last night, i had another dream. i dreamed of dolphins and sharks. they were swimming together. they didn’t have a problem with that, and i certainly didn’t want to upset the equilibrium by pointing out that they’re supposed to attack each other. the dolphins completely ignored me. the sharks, on the other hand, they nudged me as i floated in the water, pushing at me with their blunt beaks. i don’t know where they were pushing me, but it felt kind of comfortable.”
hatboy shakes his head as the pizza is placed in front of us. he takes a slice, and bites. “so, what you’re saying is that pizza guys are sharks, and they’re pushing you to eat olives?”
“no. what i’m saying is sometimes you can’t tell the sharks for the dolphins, even if they’re all swimming in an ocean of cheese…”
i don’t understand what i just said, but hatboy seems to have reached an inner-conclusion. satisfied that i have managed to promote an aura of complete zen wisdom, i begin to eat my pizza. they’ve burnt the edges again, but that’s okay, because the capsicum is fresh.

flashback

the final round of drinks arrived and we all toasted many things. my head was a little fuzzy at the time, but i do remember saying something about catwoman’s gorgeous little latex suit. she gave me her telephone number, and i stuffed it in my codpiece for later.
hatboy mentioned something about a pizza delivery driver and my head just kind of blacked out a bit. when i blinked the darkness clear, hatboy was looking at me like i had just vomitted onto his favourite kilt, a party trick he considers his own.
the super-villains were staring at me. one began to applaude. another yelled “you go, girl!”
“americans,” muttered the mad bomber. he flicked a switch on his remote control, and something up the back of the room exploded, followed by another cheer.
catwoman winked at me.
hannibal glared. he pushed his hava beans away, and managed a jealous scowl.
darth looked like he needed a polish.
i made a whooshing gesture with my hand. “sorry,” i told the group, wondering why i should apologise for losing interest in the precedings which had followed my receiving catwoman’s magical number of much-telephonic-goodness. “flashback.”
that’s also the moment when hatboy’s two henchmen decided to shoot me full of bullety badness.
as i spun about, the zinging bits of fast-flung lead punching me around in jagged circles, i suddenly remembered the name of the girl i used to adore when i was seven years old.

green oceans of red

i am driftwood.
my skin soaks the wet. above, the clouds circle like vultures. they rain down, filling the green with blistered moments of red.
there is a voice, and it’s kind of funky. makes my belly turn and twist. my ears shiver. it’s not a voice i admire.
“have you ever eaten the eggs of fish? it’s kind of like eating bubblewrap. i ate a whole can, once. made me throw up all over my nice rug. have you seen my nice rug? it’s very orange, isn’t it? by the way, are you staying for supper? it’s just that this bucket of blood and bone needs a really good chewing before it’s ready to be roasted on an open fire. ah, i love cooking on an open fire. have you ever tried cooking the intestines of a split pig on an open fire? they bubble and squirm and taste nothing at all like pockets of plastic filled with foamy jelly-air. instead, if you soak them in sauce beforehand, they taste kind of like underfed eels. not that i’ve eaten underfed eels, but you can tell what they’d taste like just by looking at them. i once threw up on a painting by picasso, dd you know that? no, really, i’m not kidding. hey? are you alright? son, you don’t look so good. have you seen a doctor?”
i’ve seen the doctor, i try to tell him. but the doctor prescribed me panadol for a gunshot wound. needless to say, it’s not working.
but i can’t afford the health cover, so they’re letting me bleed in the white room.
i like the white room.
it’s filled with interesting people. one of them holds her stomach in with her hands. bits of her intestines are pushing outward between her fingers, and her mouth is flat and hard against the tip of her nose as she gulps air too quickly. the wheezing of her breathing sounds like the grunts of a split pig.
she’s standing on bubblewrap and tries to do a jig.
halfway through her dance, she lets her stomach open, and the twisted fetus lands on the bubblewrap and begins to squeal to the tune of hey joe.
i tell her that the kid’s got the best singing voice i’ve ever heard.
which is when the nurse approaches and tells me they’ve no more beds in the inn, and sends me out to the barn where a cow licks my bullet wounds and moos in my ear. i can’t make out what it’s saying but it has a copy of playboy which it’s trying to get me interested in. i take it and read an article.
in the article, a businessman tells of his lonely life. he has no one he can trust. it’s all the rest of the world’s fault. if only everyone wasn’t so money-hungry, he says. maybe then he could trust without pre-nuptuals. i tell the cow that i don’t feel sorry for him. the cow shakes her head, takes back the magazine, tells me, in perfect spanish, that i missed the point, and prompty kicks me in each shin.
the nurse who hovers nearby is knitting a jumper made out of the wool of an alpaca. she tells me i am a burden. i waste space. the hay on which i sleep would best be used to feed her poor horse.
the horse agrees, but offers to take me away with it.
it’s going to manhattan.
seven and i were going to do manhattan.
hatboy was going to come too.
the drones were going to take broadway.
i was going to sing. we were all going to dance.
the floor would have been shiny.
there would be no hay, only a glistening sea of stars and a matress of silk on which we’d order room service.
“send up pizza. we really need pizza.”
and it wouldn’t taste of soap.
it would taste of cheese.
and the businessman’s words ring in my ears like the mocking voice of someone who taught me in third grade.
“it’s lonely at the top.”
and down here, where the maggots squirm to eat my chest, and the worms dig at my arms, and the ants scurry down my veins in search of meat, i fall back in my blanket of hay and scream for silence.
i want to be lonely, i tell the nurse. and the horse. and the cow. and the guy who wants me to eat pig. and the fleas. and the people who poke and prod me with little metal spikes. i want to be lonely, too.

waking up on the kitchen table

“it’s alive!” hatboy screams, waving a butterknife about his head like some deranged scottish weatherman on crack.
“yes,” i sputter. “alive. right.”
he helps me to sit up and offers me a glass of water. i look down at my clothes. they’re ruined. i wonder what catwoman did to them, then realise just who it was who opened my chest with bullets.
hatboy tells me that he’s been under a great deal of pressure lately. that the lack of cheesy-pizza goodness has not helped. his roach thing is getting out of control. he needs pizza. and he needs it regularly. “this ordering pizza through taxi driver just isn’t on any more,” he tells me. “so, i’ve decided to do something about it.”
he tells me that next time we are forced to eat pizza through such desperate means, he’s going to once more feed me pepsi.
i wonder how he figures that will solve the problem of the missing pizza delivery drivers, or how it’ll pursuade the union to let them get back to work.
“that, my dear creepy, is entirely up to you. use your super-sidekick powers, of which i know you have plenty. but i swear, if you don’t get them back to work, i’m feeding you that evil pepsi stuff of creepy-killy.”
i think he means it, and decide to do something about it immediately.
i get up. i need to change costumes. i look down at my freshly-resurgeoned corpse of much-life-movey, and i think of doing something about the pizza thing tomorrow. or the next day.
in the meantime, my chest hurts.
there are many holes.
i poke one of them with a curious finger.
i don’t know what he’s filled them with, but at least it stopped the bleeding.

grumpy custard

i ask him where his goons are. “i sent them home,” he said. “i don’t need them anymore.”
i tell him about how my life insurance is pretty minimal. “in fact, there isn’t any.”
he tells me that he’s already spoken to st. alia. i pat his back and grin my gameshow grin. “she likes you. she made you a jar.”
he’s going on another holiday, he says. just a few more pieces left, and the garage will be ready. i ask what he’s building, and he frowns. “you’ve never asked before.” but it’s still a secret. when it’s finished, he’ll let me know.
“deal.”
“i’ll be gone, just a few days, no more. don’t do anything silly.”
it’s my turn to frown. i do so. “anything silly?”
“you know. silly.”
“ah,” i say, pretending to understand. “silly. i get it.”
i make a mental note to have him checked in to an asylum on his return. i hear they zap you with a lot of electricity in the crazy houses. they also do lobotomies. i wonder what he’d be like with a lobotomy. i wonder how i’d look with a pillow in my hands.
i think the evil-convention may have warped my personality.
“just promise,” he says. “no silly-doing.”
“deal.”
“really? you mean it?”
i nod. “honest injun.”

Tags: conventions, creepy and hatboy