VD & VD To Be

Back at PUDHQ, Pliers sat on a comfy chair in the lounge facing Doc.  Pliers' usual holey pantaloons and plaid pullovers were replaced with chainmail shirt and greaves.  Over these he wore a banner that looked a lot like a big, green smiley face.  Idly, he spun a carbonite staff shaped in the form of a gnarled branch in his right hand.

"Sure wish those other dudes would show up," he said.

"The remaining league members will arrive presently," Doc replied.  Doc had wrapped a shimmering deep blue cloak around his disc.  It barely touched the floor and was kept billowed outward slightly from the disc's exhaust.  On his head sat a pointy hat decorated with blinking lights.

"Your costume is totally cool," Pliers said.

"Thank you, Team Member Pliers," Doc replied.

"Your hat is really awesome," Pliers continued, "but I think you gotta tape it down or something.  It's slipping off your head."

"Nonsense," Doc snapped.  "This is an accurate recreation of Medieval magical clothing.  The 'hat' as you so eloquently name it is called a Hennin."

Pliers sat with his elbows on his knees, staring blankly at Doc as Doc kept adjusting his headgear.  "Who are you again?" Pliers asked.

"Really, Pliers, you should have read all the manuals I e-zipped to everyone.  Everything you need to know is in them."  Doc twirled a sucker-tipped digit in the air and pointed up.  "But, I understand how easy information somehow leaks from your memory cells, so I will reiterate the pertinent points for your edification."

"Yeah," Pliers said.  "Well I guess I could use some edufac...edofic..."

Doc rolled his eyes.  The motion shifted his hat and Doc pulled it tighter down over his ears.

"Should of used tape," Pliers muttered.

Doc squinted his eyes at Pliers for a moment.  "The word you seek is ed-i-fi-ca-tion.  And the information you somehow lost is that I am Pharznar, The Spectral Wizard of Blitsnit."  Doc ended his sentence with an odd rise in tone, almost as if he asked a question.

***[The Sphincter Wizard of Bullshit]***

"Big deal," Pliers replied.  "Wizards in VD & VD  version 44 aren't worth crap.  You might as well be the Sphincter Wizard of Bullshit."  Pliers' face broke into a goofy grin.  "Damn, that was a good one."

"Ha!" Doc reached into a nearly-invisible pocket and pulled out a small box with an array of buttons on the top.  "With this, I shall circumvent those pesky restrictions."  He held the item up in the air and raised his voice.  "Prepare yourself for the most magnificent and scientifically sound enhancements to Virtual Dungeons and Virtual Dragons since the Darkest Ages, when spell components had to be kept in bags and player characters were limited to a paltry handful of spells which had to be memorized day after day..."

"Hey!" Pliers blurted, jumping to his feet.  "That's illegal."

At that moment, PB and Bullet strode into the lounge.  Apparently accidentally (but we know better), PB managed to stroll beneath the air conditioning duct, which was blowing conditioned air and coincidentally brushing PB's golden hair in distinct rippling waves, giving the ardent observer the impression he was walking against a small, yet stable, breeze.  Bullet followed directly behind PB, goose-stepping as always.

"What's illegal?" PB asked, grinning like a chimp in heat...with golden locks of hair.

"Doc can't take future stuff into the arena," Pliers said, pointing at the box in Doc's hand.

PB spun on his left heel and planted himself in Pose #12 (Radiance of Elan), facing Doc.  The light from the bulbs in the ceiling glinted off the mirror-like armor he wore.  From his neck down to his toes, the plates shifted smoothly and soundlessly with every motion.  When he placed his armored hands upon his armored hips with a clink, he narrowed one eye.

"So, Doc," he said.  "Planning on cheating again?  I thought you were smarter than that."

"Do not insult my superior intelligence," Doc huffed.  "My plans fully anticipate discarding this bit of electronics long before we clamber into the arena."

"Don't be such a jerk," Bullet said.  "Ve vill not haff fun if you screw zis up like last time."  Bullet crooked a gloved finger at Doc and squinted his un-monocled eye in suspicion.  The air-conditioned air ruffled his kilt ever-so-slightly.

"Now, how can a remote control unit possibly damage our enjoyment vector?" Doc asked.

PB quickly snatched the remote from Doc's hand before he could react.  "Well," PB mused.  "If it's just a remote for the vid, then we should probably pull up the Virtual Gamer's channel to see if  Avast Ye Hardy Gamers is playing.  We could probably use their advice."

"Oh, no," Doc said, reaching for the remote.  "The station is currently showing reruns of Blogsnord Battle Grounds, which have nothing..."

"Really...hey, what's this?"  PB pulled the control closer to his face with an intense look of concentration.  "What's that brown button for?  I've never seen a brown button on these remotes."

"Brown?  Well, that's..um..it's sort of a channel jumper thing that..um..."  Doc sputtered away into silence and shrugged.

PB pressed it and a large plate of fried chicken, Blogsnord jerky, gremble fruit, Twinkies, and a chocolate bar appeared in front of him.  Before he could recover from his surprise, the plate crashed to the ground, flinging bits of food everywhere and mostly all over his shiny armor, now decidedly un-shiny.

PB's eyes widened at the sight of his soiled armor.  His upper lip twitched for a moment.  "Channel jumper, huh?" he said.

"Now, really," Doc implored.  "You cannot expect me to survive on that detestable Medieval fare which you humans call food.  My metabolism operates at a higher level and if I do not attain enough vital sustenance, I fear my organs will begin to atrophy...just like that time when we played VD & VD with the girls from Accounting."

Pliers grabbed his staff and fiercely struck the ground.  Everyone started in surprise and looked at him.

"Higher level?  Dude, you told me your metabolism ran really slow, which was why you couldn't smoke that doob, cause you said you would, like, freeze in time or something."

Doc glanced at PB.  PB looked Doc in the eye and raised an eyebrow.  Bullet's face sprouted a wide grin.  Pliers' face remained steadfast, even after his eyes seemed to lose focus.

"Oh, for the sake of all that's intelligent, PB!" Doc said.  "Are you going to believe that imbecile?"

"Well, he did seem to be rather vehement about calling you a liar."  PB glanced back at Pliers, who remained staring at a spot far away from anywhere near, his face firmly pinched in determination.  For a moment, PB thought Pliers may have actually had a coherent thought.  Then he noticed Pliers leaning away from his staff, farther and farther.

"...tomes to make of a bluer...forgot the under bit...needle nose," Pliers mumbled.

"Well, mostly," PB added.

Bullet stepped forward and held out a gloved hand.  "Give zat device to me, herr PB," he said.  "I vill lock it up properly."

Keeping his eyes on Doc, PB handed Bullet the remote control.  "I suppose that was all you had up your sleeve?" he asked Doc.

"Really, PB," Doc said with a sniff, folding his arms across his chest.  "Am I not a valued member of our infamous League?  Have I not proven, time and again, my loyalty and devotion to the success of our endeavors?"

"Do we have to search you?" PB said, taking a step toward Doc.

"All right," pouted Doc.  "I don't need your infestation-ridden hands groping my privates."

Several minutes later, the four league members left the lounge for the arena, leaving behind a small pile of non-Medieval devices, including three ion pistols, an assortment of doughnuts, a bag of Cheezies, a portable campsite (including the latest Fire-U-Up smokeless roasting pit), a signal flare, two mobile teleport pads (PB never found out why he needed two), and the VD & VD Cheater's Guide For Morons.

Bullet Blasts Blogsnord Behind Big Booble's Bofforium, Part 3

If you haven't yet, read the prior installments: Part 1 and Part 2.

Shortly after the ship touched down, the engines sputtered for a few moments and then belched a puff of greenish smoke. A hatch opened and three figures emerged. Two looked humanoid and one looked like a small spinning disc that hovered over the ground.

"Har. I do believe I know these folks. Aren't they your fellows, Mister Bullshit?" Booble scrutinized Bullet with one eye stalk while the others kept focused on the newcomers. Fairbairne sighed and sat down on the ground.

"Yo, Bullet!" yelled Pliers.

"Vat...vat...," Bullet stammered.

Doc accelerated over the snow and stopped with a puff of white powder in front of Bullet. "Greetings, Bullet of the League."

Bullet found his voice. "Vat is ze problem? I'm still on my vacation."

"No you're not," P.B. said, stopping in front of the Blogsnord. "Say, isn't this a Blogsnord?"

"The name is Fairbairne, good sir. And you must be P.B."

P.B. swished back a lock of golden hair from his face and tilted his head so that the sunlight glinted off his polished teeth. "That's correct. You may ask for my autograph now."

"Vat do you mean by 'not on vacation'?"

Doc rose in the air until his eyes were level with Bullet's. "The time change alters everything. The Galactic Empire moved it up considerably, and we are bound to comply."

"So? It iz only an hour difference."

"Not so," Doc replied. "Because the GE found the mistake several years after an earlier miscalculation on their part, they decided to make a retroactive change."

"Arr," Booble said. "I don't pretend to understand what the spinning top says, but I know what he must be driving at. It appears that the GE made their mistake a very long time ago."

"Exactly," P.B. interjected. "And so, instead of leaping ahead one hour, we've leaped ahead several weeks. The most amazing benefit of the leap in time is that now I'll be two months younger for the rest of my life."

Doc shook his head and his long tube-like ears waved. "Your logic, P.B. of the League, is -- as usual -- wrought with errors. We will all be two months younger. Therefore, none of us will be younger."

"Oh, wow," Pliers said. "Just think of all the pregnant women who are gonna deliver two months ahead of schedule. There'll be a rash of premature babies. That is so totally cool."

"Zis is not very good news. I vas hoping for a nice, long rest, but now I haff to go back to ze office."

"Ah, but that's not the worst of it," P.B. said. "Since you've been on vacation for two months, you owe the League some extra work."

Bullet nearly choked on his own tongue. "Vat?"

"P.B. of the League is correct, Bullet of the League. You have already spent twice the allotted vacation time on this planet. Company rules state that you must work an extra year in order for you to regain your vacation privileges."

"Ha!" Fairbairne bellowed. "I get two years of peace."

Bullet spun to face the Blogsnord and quickly drew a gun from his coat. "Ve shall see who laffs the last laff, you evil beast."

Before anyone could react, Bullet fired every single bullet into the Blogsnord's chest. Fairbairne blinked several times and then collapsed into a bloody heap.

"Ha. It iz I who has the last laff. Ha. There it is again. You are not so smart now, are you?" Bullet placed the gun back in his coat and headed toward the landing craft.

The others shrugged, all except Booble. Doc, Pliers, and P.B. followed Bullet without comment.

Booble went back into the restaurant and returned with a large meat cleaver. "It's only fitting that Fairbairne gets a right proper burial. But, my freezer is nearly empty and I have a large wedding party to cater on the morrow. I hope that roast Blogsnord is as good as everyone says."

He approached the Blogsnord and studied the corpse. As he raised the cleaver above his head, the League's landing craft shot into the air with a loud growl. It disappeared into the icy blue sky.

Booble spent the rest of that day and most of the night chopping, hauling, and preparing. Everyone at the party said they thought the Blogsnord tasted a lot like cherry pie.

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Bullet Blasts Blogsnord Behind Big Booble's Bofforium, Part 2

You can review Part 1 or go to Part 3 next

The Blogsnord, effecting graceful aplomb, dismissed Bullet's stinging comments with a dainty wave of an eleven-fingered, razor-tipped paw.

"I'm dangerous only when cornered," it mewed. "Otherwise, I'm as gentle as a Tribble."

The Blogsnord sniffed. Bullet folded his arms and opened his mouth to protest, but then realized that he was thoroughly dumbfounded by the concept of a Blogsnord which was anything but vicious. Perhaps, he thought, there was something that he missed. Could it be that there were a few good Blogsnords among the murderous masses?

"Zis is incomprehensible," Bullet announced. "Your entire race exists for ze sole purpose of annihilating und zen eating everything in your path. Your history iz filled mit countless examples of wholesale carnage."

"Yes," admitted the Blogsnord. "You are correct. The history of my people runs red, green, blue, and sometimes ochre with the life blood of the millions of extinct species we've obliterated throughout the galaxy. We ravaged entire worlds in order to feed the malevolent psyche with which we are all innocently born."

A small tear ran down the Blogsnord's furry cheek and landed in the downy snow without a sound.

"Mein lieben!*" Bullet squawked. "Zat is ze most nauseating sing I haff ever vitnessed."

Just then, a door swung open and a squat biped draped in a dirty white smock emerged into the cold morning air carrying a trashcan, its triple eyestalks focused on the ground. Bullet drew in a breath to yell out a warning, but the Hoozemite beat him to the punch.

"Fairbairne! Is that you raising all this ruckus?" the Hoozemite bellowed.

To Bullet's amazement, the Hoozemite appeared to be addressing the Blogsnord. He drew in another breath to howl an awe-inspired expletive, but he was interrupted by Fairbairne the Blogsnord.

"Morning, Booble. I was just having a discussion with a friend of mine."

Fairbairne the Blogsnord gestured toward Bullet with a pointy-clawed paw and the Hoozemite directed its three-pronged attention towards the Bozo.

"By the sweet arse of Mathilda! Isn't that Bullshit the Bozo?"

Bullet's right eyebrow twitched in a quick spasm. He inhaled a third time, barely managing to keep his wits about him. His mouth then opened and he scarcely begun to protest when he was drowned out by a loud roar of turbine engines above.

Nimbly, a large P.U.D.** planet hopper dropped out of the dim sky above, hovered a few seconds, then landed in a nearby copse of trees, thoroughly smashing every bit of lumber into splinters. Bullet, Fairbairne, and Booble stood staring at the ship for several long seconds.

"Well," Fairbairne said. "It looks like we've got company."

"Aye," Booble replied, absently setting the trashcan on the ground. "And they pilot a ship like a drunken monkey."

Bullet remained motionless, his mouth still open.



--------------------
* Mein leiben is believed to be pronounced as "mīn lē'-bin". Archaeological findings from several planets in sector M have led linguistics experts to what they believe is a complete morphology of a dead language thought to have originated from the Betazene-998-Wr3 system. Confirmation of these beliefs is virtually impossible, due to the fact that the suspected originating system contains little more than an ancient dwarf star surrounded by bands of asteroids.

** For the uninitiated, "P.U.D." is not pronounced "pud", but is in fact pronounced as "Pee You Dee".

Bullet Blasts Blogsnord Behind Big Booble's Bofforium

Whilst casually strolling down the boulevard one day, Bullet, the gun-toting uber-marksman of The League of Tremendous Bozos, caught sight of a fearsome Blogsnord which was nosing its way through a trash bin. He placed a firm grip on his trusty plasma blaster and cautiously approached the rummaging beast. The Blogsnord, being older and somewhat wiser than the average Blogsnord, heard Bullet's approach and turned to face the Bozo.

"Urrr," it urred.

Bullet froze in his tracks. The Blogsnord faced him squarely, making nasty urr sounds. Bullet ran through several options in his mind. There was some cover on the right, but not close enough to escape the Blogsnord, should it decide to lunge forward. The blaster in his hand was holstered and couldn't be removed without following the standard Bozo Safety First procedures: dialing the combination lock, holding his thumb to the Digi-print scanner, and verbally agreeing to accept any and all damages resulting from stray projectiles, molten shrapnel, or energy beams. Bullet silently cursed the day he vowed to follow the Protectors' rules.

"Yo, 'tard-monkey," the Blogsnord blurted. "You just gonna stand there all day staring into space with your hand on that pea-shooter in your pocket?"

Bullet's eyes widened considerably. A talking Blogsnord was the rarest of finds, an enigma both frightening and thrilling. This was no simple game for a master with the blaster. Bullet found himself face to face with a beast more predator than prey.

And so, before another beastly idiom was writ, the Blogsnord leaned back and lifted itself on it's four hind legs. It extended its forepaws, wiggled its fingers for a moment, then carefully began making motions like a hideous mime.

"Do. You. Un. Der. Stand. What. I. Am. Say. Ing?"

Bullet's uncanny fear suddenly ebbed when he realized what the Blogsnord was doing.

"I'm not deaf, beast."

The Blogsnord stopped waving its fingers about.

"Oh, so you do have a brain. Go figure."

"Zat iz right. Und I object to your suggestion zat my brain iz challenged in some vay."

The Blogsnord bared its titanium fangs and made a gurgly rumbling noise in its throat.

"Oh, man, I thought I recognized you. You're the monkey everyone calls 'Bullshit'."

"Ach!" Bullet slapped a hand to his forehead. "Vy iz it so difficult to remember ze name 'Bullet'?"

"Hey, I'm just telling you what I heard." The Blogsnord dropped down on all legs and moved into a more comfortable position. "So, what are you doing in this neck of the woods? There's no evil shit happening around here."

"Zat iz none of your business. Besides, vat are you doing here? A blogsnord in a resort town isn't exactly a common sight. Your species iz on ze ten most dangerous list of organisms in zis sector." Bullet shook an accusing finger at the beast. "I am required by law to shoot you on sight and deliver your carcass to ze nearest alien control station."

"Oh, please. Don't make me bite your arms off."

"Ach! Zis iz vy your species must be controlled. You are dangerous. Gott im Himmel, I cannot believe I am having zis discussion with a Blogsnord."

(To be continued..)

You can continue to Part 2 or just jump to Part 3 for the exciting conclusion.

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A Message From Pliers

Fade in from black.

A small leathery head hovers over a small flying saucer Pulsating waves of anti-gravity bubble out of the bottom. A sack of bubblegum floats in the air, surrounded by a fiery aura.

The head looks sad, then tired, then right at the lens. It opens a toothless mouth. A bead of sweat forms upon its forehead, twinkling from the 60,000-watt array of floods and spotlights that sit all around the cameras.

"Hi. Yeah, um, I'm Pliers. You might have seen me...like...somewhere while I was fighting crime and stuff. I mean, I don't really fight, 'cause I'm sorta pro-non-violence, you know? Well anyway, there's this...um...thing right here that...uh..."

A biped that looks more like a round pile of tomatoes than a proper, in-the-image sort of guy whirls around the conference room, grasping the remote controller for the television on the wall. The leathery face freezes in mid "uh".

"Sweet magenta cheese! Pliers, baby, what's with the 'um uh' thing? You sound like you're about to cry. That's no way for a super hero to act."

"I'm not sure," Pliers moans, leaning back on an energy chair. "I just don't feel the goodness in this...well, this thing, M.B."

"Pliers," M.B. explains, "this isn't about how good something is. It's about your face, baby. One look at those baby browns and...cha-ching! The goodness will be flowin' on in."

"But..."

"Just smile and say the words I showed you earlier. Do I have to remind you about the contract that P.U.D. signed with Blowit Enterprises?"

Pliers sighs and sinks down into the energy chair. "Well, ok."

"That's more like it." M.B. rubs his hands together and takes a deep breath. "Ok, everyone. Let's start all over from the top. Lights! Camera..."

A robot materializes in front of the camera and says: "Blowit Gum commercial, take seventeen..." The clapboard snaps.

"...Action!"

"Hi. I'm Pliers. The guy from the League of Tremendous Bozos. I like to fix things all the time. Sometimes, however, I like to get a quick fix when things are going all wrong. That's when I reach for Blowit Gum. Mmmm."

"Cut! Print! Way to go Pliers. I knew you had it in you all along."

Pliers sheepishly smiles as he leaves the set.

Fade to black.

Another Blip in Communications

GP - As the aquachurns disseminate resonance upon beetle-nosed slorns in temperatures analagous to particle-less vacuums, zep-eyed conundrumites gather in tribe fashion amidst speculation of the magenta-flavored sort. Such was the fruitless effort in recent decay cycles.

"A quandry most absent of taste," spake the mind-hive controller interface organism under the tumbling gaseous sentience at perigee. "A question with no answer."

Remote research facility Zorax of Sub-Quintile 3889 proceeds in and without active communication members. Mind-hive consciousness laments the frozen nothingness during the particle generation effort which remains status-less despite far-sight probe emissions of the deep violet. Resumption plans of the ochre sort coalesce.

Preceeding abrupt termination, Sub-Quintile threads argue of speculation: "A generator of extreme unction. A bi-transitive and abnormal substrate upon the mantle. A disruption which neither destroys nor is destroyed. A capsule from forgotten times. Tentacles gather in protection..."

Now the collective P.U.D. becomes active. Of organisms with solitary consciousness, the HH-Class limbs of four has active injectionism that proceeds on the unusual macro path over tainted embellishments. "We're going to find them," spake Paine, the title granted "Major".

Grel beasts mimic the slow accretion of silicate while another cycle spins. The modulatory efforts of simple organisms shall remain steadfast while the decay holds inertia. Thus had we Galactic Press and its concomitant member being in the same resonance.

Boponop T. 09-b reports from the Golgoth Mind-Hive Collection O.P. for the Galactic Press

The League is Born

GP - The Protectors of Universal Democracy (PUD) unveiled the details on their latest crime-fighting unit in their most recent press briefing. Dubbed the "League of Tremendous Bozos" (LOTB), the four-organism team was described as the most highly-trained group of agents that the galaxy has ever seen in its entire 300 billion year history.

Bliznit Pontifrab, spokesthing for PUD, gave no specific details on the organization of the LOTB and refused to answer any pointed questions, saying instead that "the League is out there to protect all citizens of this galaxy from the evil machinations of every terrorist thug, be they vertebrate or not".

Galactic Press wanted to know exactly what the PUD defined as "terrorist" thugs but were only told that "they only hate organisms with more freedom than they...currently...have".

The League of Tremendous Bozos, a fearsome foursome with the backing of PUD to boot, were painted as the only means of securing peace in the vast reaches of space. If this is indeed the case, then PUD's plea for "Bozo Support" certainly deserves everything's attention.

Xanthanadannabannannaofanna 'Chckkchk' Jimpimbimlimwim is the the lead reporter for the Galactic Press in Quadrant C-92-b05, during all third reproductive cycles.