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.

powered by performancing firefox

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