Saturday, April 12, 2008

The Hounds of Amadus (by Blockade Boy Revenge Squad Treasurer, Intern Alchemy)

Attend us, friends; we are undone!

Via as-yet-unknown means, the Hairy One himself has breached our defenses, and the Grand Ballroom has transmogrified into a realm of Chaos! It is only here, in our space-cheddah vault, that I am afforded security. I confess, readers, it is an imperfect sanctuary; Green Boy's haphazard sheetrocking work left appreciable gaps in the corners.

I am live-blogging this, in the hopes that my brethren in the Great and Secret Art of Alchemy will read it, and come to our aid! Alas, I fear this will not be the result, as we Alchemists are a solitary lot, more apt to fiddle with our beakers than to commune with the Material World. And yet, as a young princess abandons her rich clothes on her wedding night to show herself to her husband in her virginal and sumptuous nudity, so too must I abandon my scholarly robes and supplicate myself on the shimmering altar of the Intergalactic Intraweb.

'Twas no more than five minutes before the initiation of Calorie Queen's festivities, when a mighty knocking sounded upon the Inertron Portal that serves as our chief means of entrance. Polecat beheld the image on Security Monitor One, with a curious mixture of delight and apprehension. He motioned imperiously to Green Boy, and barked, "Let them in!"

At this, Calamity King grew petulant, and retorted, "I'm the leader, and I'll give the orders, here! ...Green Boy, let them in."

Our visitors proved to be a pair of men, both of great height and breadth, with trunk-like limbs. The one in the buckskin cloak and cowl held the second, who was bloodied, seemingly unconscious, and tightly bound with ropes. The former, none of us recognized. The latter was Blockade Boy.

Gossip Queen entered the room in a frantic, cane-tapping dash, exclaiming, "He's here! Blockade Boy is here! I can sense it!"

"Easy, fat-ass," hissed Calamity King. "He's trussed up."

"Screw U, CLOSET-CASE!!!!!!" sneered Gossip Queen.

In a deep, unmodulated whisper, the first man introduced himself as "Zagor", a "mountain man" from Earth, and a superior hunter and tracker.


He was armed with only a stone hammer and an antique projectile weapon, and yet, he had brought low our Nemesis. All of us gathered 'round, to gaze in wonderment at this prodigy. Calamity King smiled queerly. "Blockade Boy's blood," he murmured. "How delicious!" And with that, he swept his fingers along one of Blockade Boy's wounds, and licked them.

His expression altered to one of consternation. "The hell--?! Strawberry jam?!"

Two stout protuberances thrust upward from beneath "Blockade Boy's" wig, and belched an overpowering cloud of musk that enveloped the Squad. The admittedly-pleasant odor suffocated us, and caused our eyes to brim with tears. All of us, that is, except for Polecat, who just stood there, stewing with a quiet fury.

I glimpsed the following events through a veil of saltwater: "Blockade Boy's" ropes slipped away, and he hopped to his feet, triumphant. Likewise, he removed the wig (now askew) from his head, revealing a bald pate. "Za-Gor" plucked off his cowl (with attached hair!) with a flourish, as a sickeningly-familiar brown-and-white beard sprouted on his face. It was Blockade Boy.

"Good work, babe," he purred to his compatriot. He punctuated this sentiment with a genial slap to his confederate's ass. Then, he whistled, and his eight-legged super-cat, Cootie, emerged from a large pouch on his waist. Thus fortified, he addressed Polecat: "Jig's up, motherfucker. I know everything you've done, and once I present my proof to the U.P., they'll send all of your asses to Takron-Galtos, while they give me a full pardon. I mean, what's a little unintentional fraud and some aggravated makeovers, compared to illegal arms trading and attempted murder?"

Wordlessly, the false Blockade Boy removed a force-field gauntlet and handed it to the real one. As he slipped it onto his hand, Blockade Boy smirked, and said, "So do you want to come along peacefully, or do you want me to beat the holy bejeebus out of you, first? 'Cause I am spoiling for a fight."

My vision began to clear, and I pulled myself to my feet, as did the rest of the Squad. Calamity King spat, "I'm in charge, here! And I say we fight! There's seven of us, and only two of them, not counting that damn cat."

"Tater" began to interject, but he only had time to say "Ack'shully...!" before the Intertron Portal was forced open by a crazed mob!

They were a horrific sight: a hoard of strapping, hairy men, all of them dressed in amalgams of Blockade Boy's various costumes. This gaudy apparel mingled obscenely with hover-biker gear of shiny ebon leather. Most of the doppelgangers were smoking pipes. Among them, I spied several (former?) lawmen whom Blockade Boy had forcibly "made over", doubtless in more than appearance.


The interlopers numbered in the hundreds -- at least! -- and they surged forward, engulfing friend and foe alike in a raging, punching, kicking mass. In the confusion, I found one of the secret passages I'd installed in our Headquarters -- passages so secret, I alone know of their location. (I, and mayhap the insignificant buzzing insects I've so often heard there, of late.)

The passages now resound with the roar of battle, more fearful than the baying of the dragon Charcouroboros. From the general noise has emerged an ominous thumping, which grows e'er louder. Could it be... footsteps?

God, they are breaking through! They are breaking through! Smoke is pouring from the corners of the wall. Their tongues-- ahhh--


LurkerWithout said...

Damn that over-zealous Blockade Mob! Now I'll never be able to film the Butterscotch Pudding Honor Wrestling Match between Polecat and Musk Ox. The Seers of whatever the name of the planet with all the psychics is were right to say it was only a POSSIBLE future. BUT ALL THOSE POTENTIAL PPV BUY-INS. I woulda been rich I tells ya! Finacially solvent and secure!

Those Tater Buggz Secret Sex Berserker vids aren't selling ANYWHERE near the numbers I'd hoped for...

Gus Casals said...

Ahhh! The Blockade Mob finally strikes... Of course I knew it all along (just check the costume of the guy in front! ). I had been highly anticipating this.

So B-Boy, just tell me if you are going to post details of the reclaiming celebration. Now, THAT is something to write about, but probably not in a family oriented blog.

Jeremy Rizza said...

Lurker: Hot damn! How do I get a piece of that action? You'll be hearing from my (hot, half-naked) lawyers.

Gustavo: The "reclaiming" celebration is apt to be pretty much like the battle, only with less clothing and even more thrusting and parrying. (Okay, so not so much with the parrying.)

Nepharia said...

Mmmmmmm, hot tongues....

Anonymous said...

Dude, Alchemy Intern, we could have told you that the whole "we're taking over Blockade Boy's blog" thing was a bad idea. Did you not read any of the archives? Six words for you: drunken groping in monomolecular diamond tulle. Extremely dangerous even while plastered out of his mind!

Regardless, we're all quite sympathetic to hear about your terrible plight. It may be a harrowing experience, but odds are that you will survive.

Just remember, if you are attacked by a bear, fall to the ground and play dead. He'll probably give up once it's clear you're a motionless, unresponsive blob. And if not... try to enjoy it. Or at least lie back and think of Lallor.

Jeremy Rizza said...

Nepharia: Haw! And yet, why do I get the feeling Intern Alchemy tastes like a car battery? The Blockade Mob can have 'im.

Dr. Tectonic: I've taken the liberty of putting your sage advice in a holo-pamphlet, and distributing it to emergency rooms and nightclubs.

LurkerWithout said...

Under the advice of my lawyer I have to say that I do NOT have a horde of time-traveling nanocams following Blockade Boy and his associates around. There is NO SECRET FILMING FOR PROFIT going on. NOT AT ALL. Continue to engage in smexing that shocks and titillates the potential audiences of the 22nd Century with NO WORRY ABOUT SECRET FILMING! WHICH THERE IS NONE OF!

Also, how many hours a day can Tusker spend crying in the bathroom? Man up boyo!

Jeremy Rizza said...

Well, that's a relief.

As for Tusker, that's like asking how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Tootsie Pop.

LurkerWithout said...

It all depends on what kind of tongue action is employed...

Bill S. said...

The testosterone lies thick, like fog.

Johnathan said...

Manly fog.

MaGnUs said...

I fainted at "hairy men" and "obscenely". No Musketeer Blockade?

Jeremy Rizza said...

Haw! Y'all are crackin' me up, in a sexful way. MaGnUs: I think I saw one of those, among the Blockade Mob. Lacey-cuffed coat, over a leather harness. It was an intriguing look!

Anonymous said...

The Blockade mob reminds me a bit of the Ginyu Force from Dragonball Z.

Except hella awesome.

Jeremy Rizza said...

Wow, what a cool image. I think you're right, though: the Blockade Mob could totally take those guys.