Invasion from Uranus (16 page)

It was a marvel of technology, the greatest gift the valley had ever received, and nobody even knew the name of their mysterious benefactor. May the Maker bless the stranger, whoever he was; man, mutie, or machine.

Sometimes, life was good.

"Technically, this next piece is not an actual story," Nick said slowly, watching the ceiling for any traitorous movements. "Rather, it is a Feghoot, a 'Shaggy Dog' tale written just so the reader can arrive at a weird joke, or an outrageous pun."

Suddenly, the room lights went out and the control booth was cast into darkness with only the twinkling array of colorful dials on the console offering a rainbow glow of illumination.

"So, brace yourself," he whispered, hunkering low in the usurped chair. "It's a real doozy."

Everybody wonders why rap stars carry such huge silver crosses around our necks, and even bigger guns under our macks. Well shit, we need those to stop the fangbangers. Our music pulls in the juicy warm bodies and when the hunters arrive to feed, that's when we kick it old school style.

I was slamming a freestyle rap on stage at the Metro, when suddenly I could feel a presence in the crowd of homeys and bettys. Thrill, a hunter was here, checking for sweetmeat to jack. Well, not in my hood. Cutting the rap short, I finished and made a fist with my right hand to thump my chest twice, then showed two fingers. The crackers in the audience thought that meant 'peace' or some hippie shit like that. But my G in the boxseat nodded and flashed me back the two-finger V, which stood for vampire. Houston, we have a hunter.

Chilling on stage, I slipped into the next rap, knowing my 11 was solid. My posse was hip to the bad vibes in the Metro and had my butt covered. But we had to move fast, fangbangers only come out when they're jonesing for the red. Those boneyard bitches sure ain't here to window shop. Don't take no Cronkite to get down with that.

The gig was def, but bouncing the show short I slipped off-stage, telling the Beavis I was going to the knock boots with a slit. But hitting the side door, I stepped into the alleyway and my dawgs rolled up in a classic 98. Putting on a game face, I took the shotgun seat and tucked on some steel. A deuce-deuce in my belt loaded with hollowpoints packed with garlic mixed with high-ex mercury, and a Glock nine under my arm carrying blessed African Ironwood rounds. The rest of my posse had crossbows, gauges, and a lot of wooden shanks. Tasty. Unless the toothfairys were packing mil, we owned their supernat ass.

Swinging out of the alley onto MLK, we did a drive-by on the crowd pouring out of the Metro, players and homegirls all cursing as we sprayed them with Holy Water from our supersoakers. Def. Nobody fired a cap back 'cause it was me in the '98 Olds and that made it all hardcore.

Then a brother in biker leather caught the H2Holy and burst into fire. Lottery! The two stags alongside the flamer took off at B-boy speed, but G at the wheel slammed through a P.O. to blindside 'em both on the lamp. Domes went uptown, while hightops went for the burbs, but the Bloody Crypts were still aces and came humming, charging the low-rider like crackheads from Hell, screaming and spitting.

Damn! We didn't need to drop science on a cipher to know it was time to get medieval on their ass, so we cut loose with our Dillons. Catching wooden pills, the bloodsuckers went down, exploding into ashes that got blown away on the Hawk from the d-town river. Totally phat.

Then from out of no-fucking-where some steroid junkie drops from the sky and crumbles the hood of the 98. Eight feet tall, with fangs and cape, sheet, he must have been the old school McCoy itself!

Slapping mags, we knuckled up gats. But instead of showing us his pearlies, the supernat bad ass whips out a Mossberg and starts pumping lead!

The windshield shattered, and G jerked backwards as he caught a burst in the dome, his face removed to the bone. Sombitch gakked my bro! I emptied the nine into the red rum czar, but he only fell off the Olds and hit the ground running. Wigger had a mil vest and was playing us! Now I was bugging.

My posse poured onto the pavement and laid down everything they had while I calmly drew the deuce-deuce and took aim as if this was LP and I had all the damn time in the world.

As they stopped pouring wood, he turned to fire the Mossberg and I stroked the trigger to cap a .22 smack in the dirtnapper's ear. Zero! His head burst into flames from the detonating garlic, so I gave him another taste in the eye and he hit the sidewalk thrashing and squealing like a new fish in stir tossing a salad.

By now we could hear a ghetto-bird in the air, and I knew the 5-0 was coming. But the life-jacker was still moving, trying to crawl into the storm sewer and escape. Fuck that shit. We grabbed the heavy silver crosses off our necklaces and drummed him a ride on the forever train until even his ash was bust. He had game, but we were slamming that night.

Done deal, it was Miller time. But this sort of gig was much too hard to 411 to the city blues. So we left my bomb Oldsmobile were it was parked, and bounced into the shadows on a ghost. We were gone.

So go ahead, chill in the crib with a tallboy and Leno, we got ya six, cos. Rap gangstas are a secret brotherhood of heavily-armed musicians that stalk the night, protecting all the homies and fat cats alike. My straight name is Robert Adams, all my dawgs call me Big Daddy. But to the downtown fangbangers, I'm Puffy, the vampire slayer.

Word up. Peace.

"I have always been annoyed when characters in stories, movies, television, whatever, don't act logically," Nick said, jerking open a cabinet to reveal only assorted electrical equipment, and petrified mouse droppings. "Like when a sheriff calls the governor about an invasion of giant spiders, and the National Guard arrives only an hour later to save the day. Yeah, right." Turning away from the cabinet, Nick snapped his fingers. "Oh waiter! Reality check for one, please!"

Suddenly, the doorknob to the control room rattled, and there came the soft ticking of metal on metal from the deadbolt lock. Reaching back into the cabinet, Nick grabbed a ferruled power cord, and ripped off the end. Quickly, he touched it to the lock of the door. There was a loud snap of power, and a flash of blue light, closely followed by a sizzling sound, and the tangy stink of frying evil. Holding his breath, Nick listened hopefully for the dull thud of an unconscious body falling limply to the floor, but there was only a deep, stentorian silence. Crap!

"Anyway, as I was thumbing through Bullfinch's Mythology one day," Nick muttered, laying the power cord on the floor. "I began to ponder what would happen if somebody with just a dash of common sense found themselves in such a bizarre predicament...."

"Please, Merlin," the young King Arthur begged. "Please?"

With a weary sigh, the ancient wizard threw both of his hands into the air. "Enough!" Merlin cried exasperated. "Yes, you may have a view of the future."

"Excellent!"

"But sheath Excalibur first," Merlin said sternly, waggling a finger. "Its power greatly interferes with my magiks."

"Of course, old friend," Arthur said excitedly, sliding the glowing blade of power into its heavy scabbard. Although no longer a scrawny lad being taught by the wizard, the young king still wiggled excitedly on the tree stump being used as a makeshift chair in the heart of the forest. What a boon, to see the future!

"Anything else I should do?" Arthur asked, brushing back his wild crop of untamed hair.

"No, that's fine," Merlin muttered, crackling slightly as he gathered the power primordial for the simple spell. After vanquishing the Saxons and coming up with the idea of a Round Table of Knights all by himself, the fledgling king deserved a special treat, and certainly this was a small enough request.

Then in a rush of panic, the wizard turned to stare at his friend. "However, ye shall not see anything of your own future," Merlin stated forcefully. "Nothing from within your lifetime. That could be very dangerous. But something from the very distant future, many eons ahead of us, should be safe enough. What harm in that, eh?"

"None, sir!" the king cried. The forest leaves rustled around them, alive with the sounds of nature unleashed in the fullness of spring.

Now standing with his legs splayed, Merlin made a complex gesture in air, his fingertips leaving glowing contrails behind. Suddenly, the king was bathed in a whirlpool of sparkling lights and Arthur's eyes went wide as they filled with a swirling mist and the ages spread before him like a tunnel of stars.

"I want to see the capitol of England," Arthur murmured, leaning into the spell as if it was a strong wind.

"Then will it so, lad," Merlin said chuckling. "I guided the time, but the places are for your choosing."

The king squinted with the effort, and the smiled widened. "Yes! I can see it! Oh, what strange sights are these?" Arthur gasped, recoiling slightly. "I see a great city of stone and steel! A million stars trapped inside glass balls to light the night, and carriages moving without horses!"

Hmm, could be downtown London
, Merlin guessed sagely.
The city is a farking mudhole right now, but in a few centuries, wow, what a really big, expensive farking mudhole it would become
!

Frowning slightly, King Arthur went still, his head tilting as if he was listening to distant music. After a moment, he started tapping a boot, then Arthur went abruptly pale.

"What is it, lad?" Merlin asked in concern, stepping closer. By the goddess, had the boy's spirit wandered into a porno theatre, or a Hyde Park strip club? Perhaps this had not been such a wise idea after all.

Wordlessly waving the mage away, the trembling king sat straighter on the stump and slowly raised an imperious eyebrow at the unseen sights. Watching the young man closely for any negative reactions, Merlin stepped away again, and went to lean against a nearby tree to wait for the king to return of his own accord. While a common man could be shielded from the ills of the world, a king should know all.

Well, not all
, Merlin amended privately, pulling out an apple and starting to munch.
But enough to get him there, at least. The lad was engaged and should bloody well know something about the birds and the bees in preparation of the coming royal honeymoon.

Slow hours passed in the peaceful forest, as the sun moved across the azure sky. Without warning, Arthur stood and the swirling mists of time departed from his eyes, leaving them clear and clean, like the sea after a storm.

"Have fun?" Merlin asked politely, taking another bite of a half-eaten apple. He was sure the lad had many burning questions and the wizard was more than prepared to explain the wicked ways of the 20th century.

"Well, yes," King Arthur said slowly, checking the sword at his side. "And no. But more importantly, I have to immediately place a kill on sight command for Morgana LeFey to make sure she never gets anywhere near you, old friend. Crystal cave, my arse!"

"C-come again, sire?" Merlin asked, dropping the apple.

But Arthur was already heading out of the forest at a brisk pace. "Then I'm canceling my forthcoming marriage to the Lady Guinevere and making her a royal ward of the court, so that when Lancelot arrives from France next year they can fall in love and get married. That way I keep my champion, England keeps the Round Table, and a major war is averted."

"My liege!" the wizard cried, swooning against the tree for support. "What did you...how do you...."

"Now, now, old friend, everything is fine," Arthur said soothingly, climbing onto his warhorse. "I merely caught a merriment at the Palladium Theatre. A sprightly show of dancing and many gapes."

"What was it called?" Merlin asked in a very small voice, blood thundering in his temples.

"Ah! Now that was the very thing which caught my attention as I was walking down the street," the king said with smile, turning to glance at the distant silver castle being built on the horizon. "The musical was called Camelot."

The only reply from Merlin was an incoherent sputter.

"Very catchy tunes I must admit," King Arthur said, starting to ride away. "Even if Richard Harris was a bit old to play me."

With a startled gurgle, the wizard clutched his chest and toppled to the ground in a dead faint.

"Now this next story was inspired by real-world events I learned about," Nick said, thrusting the letter opener into a suspicious shadow, "while researching my Fantasy novel 'That Darn Squid God'..."

"Available from Double Dragon Press," a ghostly sponsor moaned in the preternatural stillness of the stygian control room.

"Until then, I had always thought the Freemasons were just a myth," Nick said, reclaiming his chair, only to defensively shift his position, then do it again. Sometimes, sponsors could be just as dangerous as homicidal maniacs. "Sort of like hoop snakes, big foot, and spray-on cheese. But nope, they're real and for hundreds of years have routinely helped out folk by building things like public libraries and children's hospitals."

In the murky darkness, the badly singed DJ rose into view from behind the console. His lips were foaming, and cradled in his hands was the fire axe, the edge shining sharper than a lie from a friend. Snarling insanely, the disk jockey swung the axe with all of his might! Kicking away from the console, Nick wheeled out of the path of the blade, the wind of its passage moving across his cheeks.

Stopping short as he reached the end of the cable attached to the headphones, Nick raised the chair as a crude shield while trying desperately to think of something incredibly clever to do. Snarling, the smoky DJ started around the console when the Sound Effect man dropped from the ceiling onto the disk jockey, driving him to the floor. A wild fight instantly ensued, the two wrestling men cursing and grunting, spitting and kicking, punching and biting.

"Yet in spite of that, the Freemasons have a bad reputation," Nick growled, brandishing the chair and starting around the console to join the raucous donnybrook. "Weird, eh? So I decided to try and explain the dichotomy of why the good guys might want a questionable rep on the mean streets of modern day America..."