II: Send in the Brimleys or How We Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb
The skyline of the city of Miami stood proudly in the distance, a hot summer haze hanging around the very tops of its very tallest buildings. It looked like a peaceful day. A day when petty theft and shark attacks were at a minimum.
Suddenly, a noise louder than the loudest key-tar plugged into the loudest amplifier rocked the city until the earth shook. Several of the tallest buildings trembled.
Then, in a blast like a snap of the fingers, the center of town was vaporized. Above what remained of the skyline of the city of Miami loomed the legendary shape of a mushroom cloud, for all to see.
Not that there was anyone left to see it.
The day before…
Johnny Go held a dead cat to his ear. His face was flushed and furious.
“All right, listen you inbred pigeon fondler, we have a thermo-nuclear weapon…”
The day before that…
The battered, rusty blue Caprice Classic rumbled down the causeway. It was a vivid blue afternoon; the sun was high in the sky. All the windows in the car were rolled down and a small pair of feet with shocking pink toenails were flopped outside the passenger window. A makeshift flag flew from the cars antennae. It was white and had on it a squat blue penguin, which had become the new symbol of Shazbot Industries somewhere around North Carolina. Periodically grapefruit peels and beer cans flew from the car windows.
Instinctively the car made its way to Little Havana, and it was there, in front of a blue, two story tropical bungalow, that the shifty and eccentric Johnny Go slammed on the brakes, causing his beautiful and psychotic sidekick Dixie Doublestacks to slam her head into the windshield.
An hour later they were back in the car, keys to the bungalow in hand, clattering though downtown Miami. They were headed toward the busy docks.
They arrived at a pier from which a massive cruise ship had just departed, and thus, was completely empty. Johnny Go piloted the Caprice to the end of the pier and stopped, leaving the motor running. Without a word, Johnny and Dixie got out of the car, and with a few pushes sent it sailing into the waters below.
“Well,” said Johnny, dusting off his hands as they walked away, “that’s done. What’s next?”
“Beer and chicken,” Dixie replied, gazing off into the distance. “Then we’re gonna need some new clothes. We’re totally overdressed.”
***
Back in Frenchtown, NJ, Sweaty Mulligan and Chichay Milano had just finished a somewhat romantic dinner. Somewhat, because they were surrounded by boxes and other packing supplies, and because they had had the power turned off that afternoon due to their departure for Florida planned for the next morning. On the floor between them were the remains of two chicken Parmesans, a half finished six-pack of beer, and a bottle of soda.
Being an assassin, Chichay never drank.
“Man, I’m gonna miss these chicken parms,” Sweaty said, looking out the window at the little pizza shop that had seen the last days of their friend A.C. McCavity. “They don’t make one this good anywhere else.”
“You know, you’re right.” Chichay Milano smiled at him and took another bite. “I haven’t been in Miami since I applied for that Cuban leadership assassination job. I didn’t get it and I feel the cold war is a direct result of that, but anyway, in Little Havana there wasn’t a single decent restaurant. Eat in, take out, nothing. Everything had those little hot dogs in it.
“The ones that look like dog penises?”
“Yeah.” Chichay paused and finished off her sandwich. “So I guess my concern is that the new headquarters is in Little Havana. What if there’s no good food places to deliver? I’ve never seen Dixie or Johnny cook anything ever, and the only thing I’ve seen you do is deep-fry things you find dead. I don’t want to end up being the resident cook.”
“Well, I’ll have you know that I’m one of the greatest bar-b-que cooks in the century or last,” Sweaty Mulligan said, indignant, “ but I don’t want to be the cook either. Then again, I’ve known Johnny to travel three light years back to Philadelphia just to get a Butterscotch Krimpet TastyKake, so maybe there’ll at least be decent takeout in a drivable distance.”
***
Dixie and Johnny were leaving a little fast food joint called El Señor Pollo. Johnny was pushing a hand truck loaded with four cases of beer; the top case was already open and half empty.
“For being in the South, that was the worst fried chicken I’ve ever had,” Dixie said.
“Yeah, what a bummer.”
“Well, let’s see if we can find a thrift store and get us some new clothes.”
“Yeah, there has to be good thrift stores around here, there’s a ton of old people who’ve gotta be expiring daily.”
“Ooh!” Dixie cried, “Maybe the clothes we buy will be haunted!”
A moment later they exited a goodwill store, completely reinvented. Dixie was wearing a Donna Reed-esq dress, high waist, sweetheart neckline and bright red, open-toed heels. She also had on a huge straw sun hat.
Johnny Go was wearing what appeared to be the same suit pants he’d originally had on, but they were now cut jaggedly off at the knee, exposing his black dress socks and the old-fashioned garters holding them up. He had traded the rest of his suit for a Hawaiian shirt, which was threadbare and partially unbuttoned. He was also wearing a straw hat, but his was shaped more like a fedora and had a red band around it. They were pulling several garbage bags of clothing along with them in a little red wagon.
The two heroes strode down the sidewalk, walking in the sun when they came across the sign for a taxidermy shop. Without hesitation Johnny stopped, allowing the hand truck and beer to clatter to the sidewalk. He removed one of his shoes, unhooked the sock from the garter and pulled it off. He then took a can of beer from the top case, slid it into the sock, and, with one shoe on, marched into the shop. Dixie sipped her beer and watched with something almost like interest.
From within the shop a loud crack was heard, followed by a thump.
Johnny Go emerged from the taxidermy shop a moment later carrying a large swordfish mounted on a board. He placed it on top of the bags of clothing.
“Look, I fuckin’ told you it’s a long goddamn drive, and we got fifteen fucking speeding tickets. I’m here now, so no more fucking bitching.” Johnny was shaking his fist at the swordfish. He grabbed another beer from the top case and they continued down the street.
***
Back at Shazbot Industries new headquarters, a tall, lean, slick man was pounding on the front door.
“Open up, bastards!”
Dixie and Johnny staggered up the street and paused at a distance when they noticed the man at the door. Johnny readied his sock-weapon and approached slowly, attempting the stealth of a hunter, but drunkenly stumbled into some metal trash cans and stepped on the tail of a small howler monkey, drawing the attention of everyone in a two-mile radius.
The slick guy turned around at the commotion.
“Ey, look at this fuckin’ guy!” he rushed over to Johnny Go, who was holding his ankle where the howler monkey had bitten him.
“Gotcha, huh? What the fuck is that thing?” Rex asked, looking around at the trash strewn over the ground around the trashcans.
“Ah, it’s just a howler monkey,” Johnny replied, standing up and looking at Rex.
“Rex Ponticello. Where the fuck you been?” Johnny shook hands with Rex and turned, calling over his shoulder to Dixie.
“Dix!” By this time, Dixie was laying across the trash bags of clothing. “Dix, it’s fucking Rex. He’s not dead after all.”
“Rex, you skank-banging skank! We thought some giant woman had eaten you for sure.” Dixie attempted to stand, but by this time was far too drunk and so settled for wheeling herself across the small lawn on the little red wagon.
***
Once inside the bungalow, Johnny Go set about transferring the three and a half remaining cases of beer to the fridge in the kitchen. He tossed two cans to Rex, who was seated at the table with his feet up.
Wordlessly and stumbling, Dixie began dragging an old claw-footed bathtub into the kitchen from the backyard. She then assembled her welding kit, and donned her Fred Savage safety mask. A few minutes later she was on her way to assembling a still next to where Johnny and Rex were sitting.
As Rex and Johnny sat quietly drinking their beer, the howler monkey that had bitten Johnny earlier by the trash cans peeked shyly through the back door, an apologetic look on his face. He was holding a box of genuine Cuban cigars, and lifted the lid and offered them to Johnny and Rex.
“Oh, all right,” Johnny said to the monkey, “I’m sorry, too. Come on in.” With that, the monkey darted across the room and hopped up on the table. Johnny took the cigars from the monkey and, removing one from the box, lit it off of the already lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. He then removed a deck of cards from his pocket.
“So what’s the game plan for living here?” Rex asked, “Are you guys looking for Captain Corona?”
“Who?” Johnny selected three cards from the deck and tossed the rest into the kitchen sink. “It’s fucking Florida, man, the weather’s better.” He arranged the cards in front of the monkey and showed him the Ace.
Rex crushed his beer can and tossed it out the back door.
“You want another one?” he asked, putting his feet back on the floor and standing.
“Yeah,” Johnny replied as he swiftly moved the cards, “and get one for him, too.” He gestured to the monkey.
Rex put three beers on the table, slid one across to Johnny, popped open the second and set it in front of the monkey, then resumed his place at the table with his feet up.
“Anyway, we don’t really have anything to do here, but Sweaty and Chichay are on their way. I’m sure they’ll figure it out.”
“Who’s Chichay?”
“Sweaty’s fuckin’ lady-friend or whatever. She’s a Malaysian assassin. They fell in love when she was hired to kill him or us or, I don’t know. She’s all right. Bailed us out of a tight spot back in Jersey.”
“Well good for Sweaty, gettin’ some ass. How’d that turn out in Jersey, anyway? I wasn’t around, but when I stopped back there at headquarters the building was blown to hell and there was all this shit in the papers about a local company spoiling a terrorist plot and saving the state. Was that you guys?”
Johnny waited while the monkey chose a card. When he picked the correct card Johnny chugged his entire beer, signaling for the monkey to do the same. He did, and let out a howl.
“Sweaty’s drugs he was making exploded and blew up the building, which is how the lost the Becoller. Then those llama-twin fuckers tried to kill us by blowing up New Jersey. But Chichay or Sweaty, I forget which one, killed them before they could, so the only person they actually killed was A.C. Oh, and me and Dix won $64 in the ice caps.” Johnny paused and dealt a new hand to the monkey.
“They killed A.C.!?! Holy shit! I never even said goodbye.” Rex was sitting upright at the news, clutching his beer can.
“Yeah, but he had a good run. And the llamas are dead now anyway. Unless there’s more,” Johnny said as he laid the cards out again and shuffled. “Where the fuck were you while all that was happening, anyway? Sweaty said the last thing he remembered was you showing up with an army of trashy broads.” Rex looked sheepish as he stood up for another round of beers.
“Hm. Where do I start? I was hanging out in front of the ladies clink, cruising for tail…”
One month earlier…
Rex leaned on the fender of a robin’s egg Chevy pick-up stacked with boxes. He wore a gray open-collared shirt and a paisley scarf. A Cuban boot heel rested on the dusty tire. The rusted old gate across the shimmering prison parking lot swung open, losing a herd of squinting female cons on the so-called “outside.” A behemoth named Kelleen with skin like tarpaper sauntered up to Rex. You could fit a dick between her two front teeth.
“Hey, little man! You goin’ my way?” she asked.
“Name’s Rex. Which way you goin’?”
“South, baby. Waaay down south.”
“Well then, lil’ mama, you’re in luck,” Rex replied with a crooked grin.
“Bitch, I ain’t no lil’ mama,” Kelleen shouted, “I’m a grown-ass woman!” She made her way to the passenger side of the truck.
“Indeed,” Rex replied.
***
The Chevy pulled into the parking lot of a lonely, faded Rite Aid. Kelleen climbed out of the truck.
“You just wait right here, baby. Big Mama’s gotta get her some Insulin.”
Rex sat back in the truck and smiled. “A little type II? So on. So fucking on.”
Moments later they were speeding down the Atlantic Coast Highway. The ocean swelled on their left like a nauseous iron rug. Kellen pulled down the waistband of her shorts and handed Rex a thin syringe. Sweat glistened in his thin moustache. His face twisted in ecstasy and he plunged in the spike. When its load was spent, they slumped together into the naugahyde. Their breath came in gasps.
“Say, what you got in them boxes back there?” Kelleen asked.
“Glass eyes,” Rex replied.
“Shit, you got glass eyes?” Kelleen sat up a little.
“Uhhh… yeah.”
“Well, if you got glass eyes, baby, I got the soldering iron.”
Back in the kitchen…
Johnny gasped, spitting his beer all over the howler monkey, ruining his cigar.
“I know, right?” Rex looked at them.
“What did you do?” Johnny asked.
“Kicked that bitch outta my truck. Musta been doin’ about 70 at the time.” Rex paused and Dixie, Johnny, and the howler monkey stared at him opened-mouthed.
“Fuck,” Johnny said.
“Yeah, well, you win some, you lose some,’ Rex replied, “Hey, let’s head downtown and cruise for some tail.”
“We can’t,” Dixie interjected, “we didn’t buy a new car yet.”
“I passed a car lot while I was looking for the bungalow,” Rex offered. With that, all three dropped what they were doing and up and left the bungalow, leaving a very tipsy howler monkey exploring the kitchen, wearing Dixie’s discarded Fred Savage mask.
***
On the road between New Jersey and Florida (in some part of the country where there were lots of churches and drive-thru restaurants) Sweaty and Chichay were motoring their way toward their friends. Sweaty wore a look of concentration on his face while Chichay worked with a small set of tools on a lipstick-gun in her lap. Sweaty was humming a Beach Boys tune.
“Why Florida?” Chichay asked suddenly.
“Huh?”
“Why Florida? What made Dixie and Johnny pick up and go to Florida?”
“Oh. It’s Captain Corona’s strong-hold. I take it they’re planning on trying to get the Becoller back. That and the weather’s better.”
“Huh?”
“The Becoller is this seahorse thing. It’s supposed to know where Atlantis is, so who ever it tells will get rich. We had it for a while, but when my vat of drugs blew up and it compromised security at the old headquarters, Captain Corona and his Sport Alligators jumped at the opportunity and stole him.”
“Uh huh. And who or what is Captain Corona?” Chichay asked while putting her lipstick gun back together.
“Rumor has it, back before teenage alcoholism was such a big deal he was the head of subliminal advertising for a huge beer company. He was fired and put on trial after some kids died at spring break in Daytona from alcohol poisoning. He disappeared before the end of the trial and stays in hiding. He only comes out disguised as a conquistador. And he’s somehow gotten an unholy army of sport alligators to do his bidding.”
“Do sport alligators have powers or something?”
“No, I guess they’re just scary. And they can drink beer underwater. Like frat boys with teeth.”
Chichay looked confused. “So we’re moving to Florida to steal the Becoller from the gators? We could have done that without relocating,” Chichay paused and looked at Sweaty, “I could have done it in 24 hours with a shard of mirror and a toothpick. Besides, do you really believe that Dixie and Johnny remembered that they lost this thing, figured out who took it and where it was, then decided to go there and actually carried out that plan? That’s so not like them.”
“Yeah. Well, the weather’s better,” Sweaty replied. Chichay rolled her eyes.
***
Dixie, Johnny and Rex ambled through the car lot accompanied by a greasy salesman in a plaid sport coat who looked oddly similar to Johnny Go. The dealer showed them one gleaming convertible after another, and each suggestion was met with thumbs-down, tongues out, or furious slaps to the back of the man’s head.
After exhausting every possibility on the lot, the salesman finally led them to a far corner, fenced off and full of cars that had seen much better days. Suddenly Johnny let out a gasp, then winked at Rex.
“We thank you for your time, sir, but your vehicles are not even fit for Michael Jackson’s circumcised monkey,” Dixie said, as she and Johnny headed toward the street. The salesman was about to call after them when Rex grabbed his arm.
“All is not lost, my friend,” he said as he forced a crumpled wad of bills into the salesman’s coat pocket and half guided, half forced him toward the office, “after all, there’s still an unsold Nissan Pulsar on the lot.”
***
A few minutes later, the salesman sat at his desk filling in paperwork with Rex, a shower of sparks that put the bicentennial fireworks to shame was visible through the window of the office. The salesman gasped and leapt to his feet, starting toward the door. Rex placed his hand on the man’s shoulder to stop him.
“I’d just keep right on with that paperwork if I were you,” he said, pulling what appeared to be a switchblade from his shirt pocket.
[Let the record show that it’s only a switchblade comb.]
Shaking, the man sat down and resumed his business. When he finished, Rex shoved yet another wad of bills into the man’s trembling hand and exited the office, combing his hair as he went.
***
A moment later Rex was back out on the lot, the keys to his new car in hand. Dixie and Johnny were in the process of hacking the roof off of the Buick Estate Wagon they’d spotted in the corner of the lot using a combination of a chainsaw and the Jaws of Life. At that moment, Johnny severed the final piece of the car and with Dixie’s help tossed the roof onto the ground in the middle of the sales lot. With that, Rex walked to his new Nissan Pulsar and the two heroes jumped into the car and in an instant had it hot-wired. It sounded like gravel in a Laundromat dryer. In a cloud of exhaust and smoke, they peeled out of the parking lot, drag racing all the way home.
***
Johnny Go and Rex Ponticello dropped Dixie Doublestacks off at the new headquarters and headed out for a night of drinking, womanizing, and filling the saltshakers of local eateries with ground glass.
Dixie spent the evening singing operatic arias to the howler monkey and drinking peach schnapps from the bottle. When Johnny Go arrived home the next morning he found her sleeping in a blue wheelbarrow in the living room, clutching the empty bottle in one arm and the howler monkey in the other. Her shoes were still on.
Without hesitation, Johnny tipped the wheelbarrow over, sending Dixie crashing to the floor. She sat up and looked at him.
“Good morning, fucker,” she said to Johnny. “And good morning Mr. Chips,” she said to the howler monkey, who was now throwing up in the corner. She attempted to squeeze a drop out of the schnapps bottle. “Where the fuck were you all night?”
“Couple of bars with Rex, but he ran off with this broad who’s like 90 around 11 o’clock, so I settled in with a cactus farmer from Arizona and talked about the space program till about two when he passed out.”
“Oh, sick, you mean Rex is still into that shit?” Dixie looked like she might want to throw up.
“Yeah, I don’t know. I think that’s why he was so excited to come down here with us.” Johnny paused and produced a wallet from his pocket; “anyway, we should use those cards while they’re still live. So right after I took that guy’s wallet I noticed a commotion down on the beach, fucking frat boys I figured, but when I went to have a look I realized it was a bunch of alligators doing keg stands in the water. And that alligator guy was with them.”
“Who?”
“You know, that guy Captain Corona.”
“Isn’t that the guy who stole the Becoller?”
“Oh yeah, I guess that’s why he looked familiar.”
“Did you follow them?”
“They were dragging a keg up the beach, the fuck d’you think I did?”
“And?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember anything else till this morning when I woke up on a lounge chair next to the freeway. Whatever, I know the bar we were at, so I figure you and me’ll just go back there today and try to figure out where they’re keeping that keg. But, uh, first I’m gonna need an omelet and an eye-opener.”
***
Dixie and Johnny stood in the kitchen in front of an elderly blender. Johnny was emptying a container of frozen concentrate lemonade into it, while Dixie broke up a bag of ice. When those two had been combined, Johnny reached for two bottles of tequila and a bottle of Boone’s Farm Fuzzy Navel from a shelf beside the sink, poured them both in, and, without putting the lid on, blended furiously.
The pair stood, mouths open, trying to catch the drops spraying from the blender. When the contents had reached the desired consistency, Johnny yanked the blender from its base and took a long drink from the side.
“Ah. Nothing like a Tequila Mockingbird to start your day right.”
“Give it here.”
When that pitcher was finished, they made another round and headed toward the door, pitcher in hand. As they were about to leave in search of omelets, Dixie glanced down at her dress and noticed a moderate sized stain.
“Shit,” she exclaimed. Johnny stopped and looked.
“Nice stain,” he said, “did that happen last night?”
“I don’t think so. I guess it was there when I bought the dress.” She paused, thinking and swaying side to side. “Looks a little like a shaved raccoon playing a tub bass, huh?” Johnny took another long drink and nodded in agreement.
“I wonder what made that stain,” he mused.
“Well, we’ll have to ask the skank that croaked in this dress, then, won’t we,” Dixie said, with her mind made up.
“Yeah,” Johnny said, “but where are we gonna find a whack-a-mole machine?”
***
Sweaty Mulligan slammed on the brakes and swerved furiously off of the road. When he brought the car to a stop Chichay looked furiously at him.
“What the hell are you doing?! You could have killed us!” Sweaty had already thrown the car in park and opened the door.
“There’s a dead cat back there and I know Dixie and Johnny haven’t bothered to build a phone yet,” he replied. He jumped out of the car. Chichay followed him in exasperated silence.
Once outside the car she had to shout over the roar of the traffic. “What does a phone have to do with a dead cat?” Sweaty paused and turned to look at her.
“There’s only two rules at Shazbot Industries,” he said, “one is ‘No Store Bought Phones.’ Now, open the trunk so I can get this in there.” He picked up the cat and a swarm of flies lifted off of it. Chichay did as he asked. As she opened the trunk she noticed a large wood-splitting maul with “J.G.” carved into the handle. As she stepped aside to let the cat pass she mused out loud, “I can’t believe Johnny went all the way to Florida without his maul.” Sweaty picked up the maul.
“Yeah,” he said, “but he’s got his moose antlers with him. And he’s real handy with them.”
***
Sweaty Mulligan and Chichay Milano’s car slowed to a stop outside of the blue, two-story tropical bungalow that served as the new Shazbot Industries headquarters just in time to witness a hoard of Cuban garbage men advancing on a very drunk Dixie Doublestacks and Johnny Go on the front lawn. As the garbage men swung chains and lit Molotov cocktails, Johnny swung wildly with a pair of sharpened moose antlers in an attempt to give Dixie enough time to load her potato gun.
Crouched behind the dented metal trash cans, Dixie hurriedly stuffed gunpowder and a large Russet potato down into the cylinder of her potato-zooka.
“Johnny, am I clear?” she screamed when the gun was loaded.
“Hang on,” Johnny shouted back, taking an overhead swing at a garbage man who was twirling an 18-inch length of chain and almost severing the man’s left arm. As the man fell to the ground in agony, another rushed up to take his place. Johnny leapt into the air, spinning, and brought the antlers across the man’s throat. Blood gushed out, but his jugular was intact.
“NOW!”
With that signal, Dixie stood up from behind the trash cans, took aim, and fired. The potato blasted out of the gun and into the sternum of one of the men, splitting it in two with an awful crack and sending him flying into the back of the truck. She immediately ducked back behind the cans to reload.
Johnny kept on swinging.
Back in the car, Sweaty and Chichay looked at one another in disbelief. With the ease that comes only with years of professionalism, Chichay reached into her briefcase of doom and pulled out her most impressive looking firearm. Calmly, she stepped from the car and held the weapon up for the Cubans to see.
Horror washed over their faces when they recognized the gun and the assassin, and they started a hasty retreat, but not before Johnny Go sliced off the ear of the man in front of him.
“That’s right, you pickled crotches, run home to your flame-broiled cock sandwiches! We don’t need your sanitation!”
“Go sleep with Phil Collins, bitches!” Dixie screamed as she took one final shot. The potato hit the lone remaining garbage man in the back of the head as he reached for the already accelerating garbage truck. The potato embedded itself halfway into his skull, and he was dead before he hit the ground. The garbage men sped off down the street, leaving their fallen compadre in the gutter.
***
Inside Shazbot Industries headquarters, Sweaty and Chichay were unloading the remainder of their things from the car. Sweaty was stacking computer parts in the corner of the bungalow’s living room, and Chichay was arranging her armory in the hall closet when there was a loud crash. They both turned, Chichay with her hand on a gun, and watched as the end of a pickaxe came through the wall that separated the living room from the kitchen. Drywall crumbled to the floor, and Johnny Go’s head appeared through the hole in the wall.
“What’s up, fellas? Just making room to run the fax line.” With that, Johnny’s head disappeared into the kitchen and a long green cable, looking suspiciously like a garden hose, appeared in its place.
“We have a fax machine?” Chichay crossed the room and helped Johnny pull the cable through the hole in the wall.
“Yeah, we needed to build one so we could find out what the stain on Dixie’s dress is,” Johnny said.
“It looks like a shaved raccoon playing a tub bass,” Dixie yelled from the kitchen.
“Uh huh. So how’s the fax machine gonna help you figure this out?”
“We’re gonna fax the old broad who croaked in the dress,” Johnny replied, in a matter of fact way. Chichay stared at him. Johnny sighed.
“Dix, show Chichay how the machine works!”
When Chichay entered the kitchen she found Dixie bent over the front of a whack-a-mole machine. In one hand she held a Mai Tai in a jelly jar, with the other hand she painted letters and numbers in fluorescent pink nail polish onto Saltine crackers that had been glued to the front of the machine. Making one final mark, she set down the nail polish and chugged the rest of the Mai Tai, tossing the jar blindly over her shoulder.
Dixie typed a message into the saltine-keys. When she finished she picked up the mallet and beat furiously and violently on the mole heads, which were all in the up position, for a solid ten minutes. When she was finished she tossed the mallet aside, strode to the fridge and fixed herself a White Russian. As she did, the “fax machine” whirred to life. Chichay looked shocked.
“The fridge is full,” Dixie announced as she closed the door and sat at the kitchen table with her drink. Johnny appeared in the back door.
“There’s another fridge out back, let’s swap them.” As they turned toward the door, a potato crashed through the kitchen window, knocking a bottle of bourbon off the shelf and landing with a crash at Johnny’s feet.
“Johnny, get your gun,” Dixie yelled to Johnny as he rushed to the window and yanked it open. Leaning out, he screamed, “Fucking Cubans!”
“We prefer high viscosity Americans,” a heavily accented man shouted in the distance.
“Not you, Hector,” Dixie and Johnny replied in unison.
***
All four stood in the shabby backyard of the bungalow after having shoved the old refrigerator into the corner of the yard between a rusty boat and a pile of old mattresses.
“How come we didn’t just clean all the old milk cartons out? Why’d we have to swap the whole fridge with another one?”
“Sweaty, I trust there’s a reason your lady-friend is unaware that rule number one at Shazbot Industries is that no one finishes the milk under penalty of – hey, what’s under all these mattresses?”
Dixie and Johnny rushed to the dirty, soggy mattress pile and began dragging them away. When they moved the last one they stopped and stared in shock and awe.
“Wow,” all four muttered in unison.
“That’s gotta be from the 50s,” Sweaty said.
“It’s vintage,” said Johnny.
“I wonder how it got here,” Chichay said.
“I don’t know, but things coulda been a lot easier if we knew it was here,” Dixie said. With that, she picked up a huge railroad spike and a sledgehammer from the ground and handed them to Johnny.
“Let’s crack this bitch open and see what she’s hiding,” Johnny said, putting the spike to the large, retro nuclear weapon. Dixie put her White Russian glass under the spike.
“President Horse-Face, let the party begin,” Dixie said as Johnny raised the sledgehammer above his head.
“NO!” Chichay and Sweaty tackled Dixie and Johnny, respectively.
“What the fuck, man,” Johnny shouted.
“Johnny, that’s not a keg, that’s a nuclear warhead,” Sweaty said, “it doesn’t have beer in it.”
Johnny looked at Dixie, who had struggled out from under Chichay and was looking longingly at her now empty cocktail glass.
“No booze?”
“It’s just a stinkin’ doomsday device?”
“Well, fuck it,” Johnny Go said, standing up, “we’ll go to plan B.” Sweaty stood up quickly and placed himself between Johnny and Dixie and the bomb.
“What’s plan B,” he asked, hesitantly.
“We’re gonna go find that alligator and take everything he’s got.”
***
On a crowded section of the beach, Johnny Go stood in the sand, dress shoes, socks and garters on, holding a rusty nine-iron over one shoulder. He and Dixie sipped fancy, fruity alcoholic beverages. The drinks were still in their original bar-wear. Up at the beach-front Tiki bar, the management scanned the grounds for the odd looking drunk pair that had ordered the $18 “El Diablo Paradisio” margaritas and skipped out on the tab, taking the drinks with them.
Sweaty Mulligan and Chichay Milano were staring expectantly at Dixie and Johnny.
“So did Captain Corona have the Becoller when you saw him? The Becoller wasn’t revealing the prophecy, was he?”
“Did who have the what?” Johnny asked.
“Captain Corona. When you saw him here, did he have the Becoller?”
“Johnny, what the fuck is he talking about? I thought we were here to steal a keg from a conquistador,” Dixie said, taking the orange slice from the rim of her glass and flinging it at a couple making out on a nearby beach blanket.
“Yeah,” Johnny said, “I don’t know what episode you guys are tuned into, we’re just here to take the conquista-gators beer.”
“But we thought you came here to track down the Becoller,” Chichay said.
“We came here because the weather’s better,” Johnny replied, “and last night I was fortunate enough to spot that alligator fucker rolling tons of free beer down the beach.”
“You mean Captain Corona and the Sport Alligators?”
“Tomato, onion, it’s the same shit. Why can’t you guys get behind that quest for free beer, here?” Johnny downed the last of his girly drink.
“But the guy you saw,” Sweaty was speaking slowly and angrily in his frustration, “he has the Becoller, which is yours, and will someday bring us all vast fortune. That is why it’s so important to get it back.”
“Well then, Officer Know-It-All,” Dixie said, “I guess you better hop-to and follow the gator tracks, since you obviously value business over pleasure.” Dixie pointed at some distinct alligator tracks running down the beach in the dunes, away from the crowds.
“Yeah,” Johnny said, placing his large empty glass down on the sand, “go grab the money machine and meet up back here.” He stepped up to the glass and readied his golf club.
“We’ll be soaking up the sun.” With that, Johnny swung the golf club into the glass, sending shards into the surrounding bathers. Sweaty and Chichay hurried away as Dixie placed her empty glass on the sand so Johnny could take a second shot.
“FORE!!!!”
***
Inside what should have been a swanky penthouse apartment overlooking Miami, the head of an elderly man was visible over the back of a rusty colored recliner. The man was facing a useless fireplace with a lavish painting of Joseph McCarthy above the mantle. Next to the man stood a small Cuban boy holding an oscillating fan.
From another room, an older Cuban man entered, carrying a piece of paper.
“Sir, this just came over the fax machine.” The elderly man gripped the arms of the chair furiously.
“I thought I told you to get rid of that goddamn commie contraption!”
“But Mr. Brimley, I really think you should take a look at this,” the man replied, with a thick accent. Brimley yanked the paper out of the man’s hands and read aloud in a wheezing voice.
“‘Hey lady, what’d you do to make that stain on my red dress? The one that looks like a shaved raccoon playing a tub base.’” Brimley slammed his fist down and reached frantically for his cane.
“Goddam those pinkos. They’re planning a takeover and we’ve intercepted their coded communiqué. Jose, find out where this came from! Where’s Clover? Clover!!! Bring the Econoline around, we’re going to defend capitalism.” With that, he reached under the arm of the chair and pressed a button, causing the chair to emit grinding mechanical sounds as the back of the chair slowly raised up from the floor until Wilford Brimley was just about standing. He slid to his feet, grabbed his cane, and hobbled out of the room.
“Boy! Let’s go!” The boy looked panic-stricken.
“But Senor Brimley! The cord. She will not reach!”
***
Sweaty Mulligan and Chichay Milano crouched by the entrance to a murky lair in the sewer deep beneath the city of Miami. Inside the lair, Captain Corona paced the room and angrily threw darts at a dartboard with a photo of the very same Wilford Brimley taped to it. He was in the middle of a ranting lecture.
“… and I couldn’t go to jail. I know what goes on in jail. So I broke out. I ran and I ran and I hid. In my shack. I stayed there until I was forced by necessity to go into town, and when I was, I wore this disguise. Then, one day on my way back to my meager shack, he drove by. With his mad ravings and repulsive little boy fanning him with a folded up map. And before I could get out of the way, he stepped on the gas of his filthy American car and the next thing I knew I was in the middle of the swamp, bound and gagged, and listening to that fuck lecture me about the morals of capitalism.
“Eventually he grew short on breath, and that little Cuban boy-slave helped him back to the car. He left me there, in the swamp.
“I was about to leave when I saw her. You mother. With those eyes and hips. I stayed in the swamp because it seemed, at that moment, that everything that had happened in my life was justified. I was content.
“A week after you were all born she split. She split and left me with a brood of mutant children with behavioral problems and fetal alcohol syndrome. And I’ve been stuck with you jack-offs ever since. You’re almost grown, and all you clowns do is get drunk and destroy things and I have to cover your asses. And I’m the one who’s still hiding from the law.
“Well, the time is ripe for revenge. And as soon as this little seahorse tells us where the death ray is, I’ll have my revenge on all who’ve wronged me. And you.”
There was a loud crash as Captain Corona overturned the foosball table for emphasis of his displeasure with his sons.
“You ungrateful children can play your games. You can live in your pathetic world of free trade, basketball and genital herpes. I’ll be free”
Silence, except for the sound of dripping sewer water, followed.
“Now let’s get the seahorse to the poker shack before dark. When it starts talking I don’t want anyone else around to hear it.”
***
Back on the beach, Dixie and Johnny were standing ankle deep in the rushing surf. Johnny Go still had his shoes on. They were passing a flask back and forth and swaying violently.
“I’m starving.”
“Me too.”
“The food here blows,” Johnny said, taking a drink.
“Does it ever. Let’s go back to headquarters and order chicken parms from that real good place where A.C. died.”
***
Back in the kitchen of the new headquarters, Johnny Go held the receiver of the dead cat phone to his ear.
“Yes, I’d like to order two chicken parms, for delivery. Yeah, the address is, hang on, WHAT?” Johnny looked up at the swordfish, which was mounted above the doorway to the living room. “Come on, I told you we were ordering and asked you what you wanted and you said nothing, so I called and ordered.” He paused, then addressed the telephone again, “ok, two chicken parms and a tuna hoagie for delivery. The address is --- Miami, Florida.
“It’s only fourteen hours.
“Come on, there’s a nice tip in it for ya.
“All right, listen you inbred pigeon fondler, we have a thermo-nuclear weapon! That means we don’t have to eat Cuban food anymore, so if those chicken parms aren’t at our door in fourteen hours, consider yourselves vaporized!” Johnny Go slammed down the phone.
An instant later the phone rang again. Smiling, he answered, saying “Mario doesn’t negotiate with terrorists my ass…” he paused, “Liberty who now?
“Diabetic what strips?
“Ew, hold on, REX!
“He’s not here.”
Meanwhile, across town…
Inside the bedroom of his new mistress, Rex Ponticello lay on the hospital-style bed. As he rubbed himself all over with diabetic test strips, which littered the bed like rose petals, his elderly girlfriend held her oxygen mask to his face and softly muttered words of passion.
***
“Wait a minute, how did you get this number?” Not getting an answer, Johnny slammed down the phone again. A moment later there was a knock at the door. As Johnny made his way toward the door to answer it, Dixie said to him, “That can’t be food already.”
“Dix, you gotta learn to stop worrying and love the bomb.” Johnny opened the door, and in burst two angry Cubans and a very agitated Wilford Brimley. They fell upon Johnny and Dixie with a kind of capitalist fury, knocking the two over and dragging them by various appendages out the door.
***
Sweaty and Chichay stood in the backyard of the bungalow, attempting to free the motor from the old rusty boat. When they’d finally worked it loose, they dragged it over to the vintage nuclear weapon and secured it with bungee cords.
“Ok, let’s get the car keys,” Sweaty said, walking toward the bungalow. When they walked in the back door they noticed that the front door stood open, the howler monkey looked agitated, and Dixie and Johnny were nowhere to be seen.
“Shit, now what,” Sweaty said.
“Think they went on a bender?”
“No, if they’d gone drinking they would have taken the car.” He walked back to the kitchen to look for the keys. The monkey hopped up to Chichay and handed her a roll of paper with words printed on it. The end of the paper was trailing from the fax machine. She took the printout to the kitchen.
“Hey, is it just me, or does that monkey really look like somebody?” Chichay asked. Sweaty had his hand in the blender, feeling around for the car keys, which were at the bottom of a crusty pitcher of Tequila Mockingbirds. He looked at Chichay and answered, “Yeah, like an old Puerto Rican actor.”
“Yeah, there’s something really TV Land about him.”
“What are those papers?”
“I don’t know, he gave them to me, it looks like a print out from the fax machine,” Chichay said and paused. “Actually, I think it’s part of Flowers in the Attic. I read this as a kid. It sucked.”
“Got ‘em! Let’s go.” Sweaty shook the orange juice pulp from the keys and headed toward the front door.
A moment later they peeled off down the street, the bomb sitting in the back of the Buick.
***
Wilford Brimley’s Econoline van drew to a halt on a dirt road deep in the everglades and surrounded by dense growth. Up ahead, the stagnant water lapped close to the road, and a fan boat was tethered to a tree.
The front passenger door opened and a wheezing agitated Brimley slid down from the front seat, gripping the door and his cane for balance.
“Clover, get that fan going and have ‘er ready, we need to dispose of these commie punks. For the good of America!” As he spoke, the driver’s side door opened and a large orangutan descended from the van. He wore simple leather sandals, the white loose white robes of a devout Muslim, and his head was covered in a Kufi. He lumbered toward the fan boat without looking back.
Watching Clover walk away, Brimley muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, presumably about communism, and turned his attention back to the van. With the handle of his cane, he rapped sharply on the side.
“Jose, Ramon! Get the hell out of the van. We’ve gotta exterminate these goddamn commie sonsabitches and get home in time for Wheel of Fortune.” He rapped the side of the van again for emphasis. The back door opened and Jose jumped out, followed slowly by Ramon, still clutching his oscillating fan. Up the road the fan boat whirred to life.
“Drag ‘em to the boat, boys. And fast.” Brimley began to hobble toward the boat, as Jose and Ramon began to drag a cartoonishly hog-tied Dixie Doublestacks and Johnny Go out of the back of the van, with Jose doing most of the work.
By the time they reached the boat and tossed Dixie and Johnny aboard, Brimley had already taken his seat just in front of Clover, who was always in charge of driving. The boat began to pull away just as Ramon and his fan jumped onto it, coming very close to leaving the boy on the shore. As they began to cruise deeper into the swamp, Ramon moved to Brimley’s side and held his fan. Jose began tying short lengths of rope to some cinder blocks that were stacked on the boat’s small deck.
While all this was going on, Dixie and Johnny were awkwardly piled in a heap.
“What the fuck is this, man?” Johnny whispered. “And why does that creepy kid stand there with the fan like that? It isn’t even plugged in.”
“Can you reach your matches?” Dixie asked, straining to turn her head to get a view of Ramon. When she finally saw him she burst out laughing. Brimley looked down.
“That’s right, laugh, you filthy pinkos. Laugh! You’ll never know what it means to be free. You take for granted every god-fearing American that rolled up his sleeves and fought to defend you. You goddamn reds. Selling your bodies and your souls to your party…”
***
A short distance away in the swamp, Chichay Milano and Sweaty Mulligan sat astride the bomb, with a motor strapped to the back of it, and cruised quietly through the murky water. Sweaty steered while Chichay kept a lookout. She wore two large guns strapped across her back, and kept her left hand on a small pistol in a holster on her hip.
As they motored on they became aware of a voice ringing faintly in the distance.
“Do you hear that?” Chichay asked.
“Yeah, sounds like somebody’s freakin’ out,” Sweaty replied, craning his neck as if to hear more clearly.
“Follow it, let’s see what it is,” Chichay said, pointing her free hand in the direction of voice. Sweaty turned the makeshift boat and they made their way through the thick growth and low hanging tree branches until they came to a little clearing where the swamped looked a bit more like a lake.
In the center of the little lake sat the fan boat, rocking gently with the current. The Cuban man was busy on the deck, tying cinder blocks to rope, while two bound figures writhed near the stern. In a throne-like chair high above the deck sat Wilford Brimley, his voice now clear as patriotic sentiments spilled from his lips. By his side was a young Cuban boy, pitifully clutching an oscillating fan. On the front of the boat, a large orange orangutan knelt on a small rug, facing Mecca, his head pressed to the ground.
“Is that Dixie and Johnny?” Chichay asked.
“Uh huh,” Sweaty said, looking puzzled.
“And Wilford Brimley?”
“Looks like.”
“On a fan boat with an orangutan?”
“And two Cubans.”
“Is this how it’s gonna be?” asked Chichay.
“Pretty much. Can you make out what the hell he’s shouting about?”
“Communism, it sounds like.”
“Well, we’d better go get them,” Sweaty said with a sigh.
“Ok, I’ll hold off the older Cuban, he’s the only threat, you untie Dixie and Johnny,” Chichay said.
“What about the other two, and the monkey?”
“Brimley won’t even notice that we’re there, the kid is basically a lawn ornament, and the monkey will only intervene if this threatens Palestine.”
“You’re right, let’s move.”
With that, the engine roared to life and in a few moments the pair had drawn up alongside the fan boat. Sweaty quickly tied the nuclear bomb to the boat with some of the leftover rope and made his way to the back where Dixie and Johnny were bound. Chichay marched right up to Jose and, before he could even straighten from his cinder blocks, Chichay clocked him in the jaw with the butt of her pistol.
As predicted, Brimley didn’t bat an eyelash. His speech continued.
Despite the sneak attack, a fierce fight ensued, with Chichay holding off Jose so Sweaty could continue freeing Dixie and Johnny.
Brimley kept ranting and Ramon frantically stayed by his side, holding his fan.
“…Why, that’s the most unheard of thing I’ve ever heard of! Well I’ll tell you what, you and Gypsy Rose and Artie Shaw can go join up with the goddamn communist army. Because any man who protects communism is not fit to wear my country’s uniform. I’m not gonna turn. I won’t cross over to your godless side…”
Brimley’s speech rose to a crescendo just as Chichay, tired of fighting, fired two shots into Jose’s chest, sending him into the swamp. Brimley rose from his throne aboard the fan boat, gripping the armrests for balance. Sweaty and the recently freed Dixie and Johnny crept around to watch the spectacle.
“PIES!” Brimley shouted, his eyes bulging, “my mother made the most fantastic pies. Blueberry pies, meringue, apple, and cherry. Fields of pies! If it weren’t for America, she couldn’t have made those pies. Coconut cream pies, do you think they have those in the Soviet Union? Do you think the Soviets have peach pie? Those commie bastards don’t know what a good pie is! A good lemon meringue pie. And they don’t deserve it. They stand in line for bread, hard moldy bread, not wonder bread, because they support that sicko Lenin, Stalin and Gorbachev. They don’t have the freedom that makes great pecan pie. Apple pie that my mother fought and suffered for, that American’s died for. Fresh apple pie with walnuts. Amber waves of pie. Peach pie, sponge pie. KEY LIME PIE! Custard pie, chocolate mousse pie… pie… pie…”
Wilford Brimley clutched his chest and slumped over, tumbling to the deck below. Ramon stood, frozen with fear, clutching his fan as Brimley reached out his hand for help. Ramon remained motionless.
“¿Y tú, Ramon?” Brimley croaked with his last breath. He died on the boat’s deck in a rumpled, patriotic heap.
After a pause, Chichay approached Brimley’s body. She leaned in and nudged his head with the toe of her sandal, then turned and looked at the others. Dixie and Johnny looked at one another, then from Sweaty to Chichay, and shrugged. With that, Chichay rolled Wilford Brimely’s dead body off of the boat and into the swamp.
As the splash subsided Johnny Go dusted off his hands, even though he hadn’t done anything. Ramon let out a sob.
“He’ll be hot without his fan!” Ramon darted across the deck, past the others, and leapt into the water, still clutching his fan.
“¡Señor Brimley! Te amo!”
“Well,” asked Sweaty, turning to the others, “should we finish what we started?” Chichay nodded. Sweaty turned to Dixie and Johnny, saying, “we’ll take the bomb, you guys might as well follow us in this thing.”
“We don’t know how to drive this,” Dixie shouted as Sweaty and Chichay climbed aboard their motor-bomb.
“That’s what he’s for,” Chichay called over her shoulder, gesturing with a nod to Clover, who had once again taken his place at the wheel. Johnny looked up at him.
“Well, you heard the man.”
***
After a bit of searching, Chichay and Sweaty, followed by Dixie, Johnny and Clover, located Captain Corona’s poker shack. They docked their boats and walked cautiously toward the door, with Chichay and Sweaty in the lead.
“I don’t like the looks of this place,” Dixie whispered to Johnny, “get out you lighter.” Chichay and Sweaty stopped dead and whirled around.
“No fires! We’ve got a plan all worked out,” Sweaty whispered furiously through clenched teeth.
“Fine,” Johnny sulked, putting his lighter back in his pocket. They reached the door and paused.
“Ok,” Chichay whispered to Sweaty, “we’ll just come right out and make him the offer. No stalling just cut right to the chase. Once we make the trade we get the hell out of here fast because-” She stopped abruptly as something caught her eye.
Over in the corner of the shack’s small porch, Dixie and Johnny were crouched over a pile of newspapers, both holding lighters and attempting to set the bundle on fire.
“Oh no! Get the hell out of here,” Chichay yelled. “Clover! Take them home before they do any damage!”
Dixie and Johnny straightened up and looked at Sweaty and Chichay.
“Fine,” Johnny said, “we’ll catch up with you guys later. We’ll send a telegram to the usual.” He turned to leave.
“Yeah,” Dixie said, before following him, “this place is full of assholes anyway.” They shuffled off, hopping on the boat. As Clover started the fan and pulled away from the dock, Johnny looked up at him and said, “Say monkey, you ever been to Atlantic City?” As if listening, Johnny Go paused, and then replied, “well, is it against your religion to wait in the car?”
After they were safely out of sight, Sweaty rapped gently on the door. After a moment, Captain Corona answered.
“Who the hell are you?”
“You don’t know us,” Sweaty Mulligan began, “but we have something that might help you.” Captain Corona looked suspicious, and several of his mutant offspring appeared to stand behind him for back up.
“Just hear us out,” Chichay said quickly. Several more Sport Alligators stood behind their father.
“This better be good,” Corona replied, as the last of his children advanced on the doorway, “or I’ll feed you to my children.” Sweaty took a deep breath and began.
“We think we have a solution to your problem.”
Later…
Dixie and Johnny were in the back of the Buick drinking NFC’s, which consisted of liquor in a football helmet. Clover was driving. Suddenly, police lights flashed from behind the car. Calmly, Clover pulled over to the side of the road.
An officer, looking oddly like Erik Estrada, but also like the howler monkey they’d had back at the house, walked up to the car, carrying Johnny Go’s mounted swordfish under his arm.
“You folks left this back at the bungalow,” he said, with an unmistakable accent.
“Thanks Mr. Chips,” Johnny Go replied, “and thanks for those cigars.”
***
A short way off the coast, with the city skyline in the background, Rex pilots a large yacht belonging to his girlfriend. He was having a peaceful day, when suddenly a bang rocked the city. He turned in time to see the city engulfed in a bright flash. A moment later a mushroom cloud filled the space where the skyscrapers had been. Rex turned to his girlfriend.
“Well babe, I guess it’s time to weigh anchor and get out of range of the fallout… Baby?”
Rex walked to his girlfriend, who had been sitting in a deck chair enjoying the warmth of the sun. He felt her pulse. Nothing.
Dragging her, still in the chair, to the side of the boat, Rex tossed his girlfriend overboard, started up the motors, and sailed off into the sunset.
***
With the aftermath of the nuclear bomb hanging in the distance, Chichay and Sweaty drove at top speed in Wilford Brimley’s Econoline van to get out of town.
“That was easy,” Sweaty said, checking side view mirror, “we got the Becoller back and no harm was done.” Chichay looked at him in disbelief.
“What are you talking about? We just facilitated the nuking of the city of Miami. Thousands of people have died because of us.”
“You heard Dixie, that place was full of assholes.”
