"The Psychedelic Avengers," I offered.
"The Unkempt X-People," said Crank Boy.
"The Super Compadres," said Laurel.
"The Really Neat Team," I suggested.
"The Fantastic Four," Crank Boy said.
"I think that's taken," Laurel told him.
"Oh," Crank Boy replied, face falling in disappointment.
"The People Who Are Not To Be Fucked With," I said.
Laurel shook her head. "That's not very kid friendly."
"Neither am I!" I exclaimed, but down deep within the vestiges of what was left of that thing I once called a soul, I knew she was right.
"The Justice League of Kicking Ass!" Crank Boy shouted, slamming his Mad Dog down on the table. He whooped and I whooped and we high fived.
"Would you guys please focus?" Laurel protested. "This is serious!"
"Well, I don't hear you coming up with anything better, smartypants!" snapped Crank Boy.
Laurel's brow furrowed in deep, deep concentration. Then, her eyes lit up with a sudden sharp satisfaction.
"The Powerpoof Crew!" she shrieked.
The cold, withering stares from Crank Boy and I caused Laurel to age prematurely by several years.
"Oh fine," she said with a pout. It was a very cute pout, I must admit, with that cute little down-turned lip, and that wrinkled little button nose, and that way she began obsessively sharpening her Rambo knife.
Our deliberations were suddenly distracted by a loud boom from off in the distance. The house shook slightly on its foundation. A few pictures fell from the walls. Mostly they were pictures of me with famous people, like Howard Hesseman and I smiling and laughing, and Kathie Lee Gifford signing my underwear, and me kicking Charles Nelson Reilly right in the fookin crotch.
"What the hell was that?" Crank Boy asked.
We froze around the kitchen table, wondering if we'd just experienced some kind of weird collective hallucination, or if perhaps that big earthquake we'd been expecting was finally here and Seattle was about to be completely destroyed by tidal waves and volcanic lava and giant plates crashing together underground. Which, you have to admit, would be a stellar way to get whacked by reality.
It happened again, only this time it was more intense. The boom was louder, the walls shook a bit longer, and we could hear screams and sirens off in the distance.
"You know," Laurel said, a nice thoughtful Nancy Drew look crossing her face, "I can't say for sure, but I have a hunch it's the Space Needle hopping across town."
"Oh," said Crank Boy.
"Right," I said. "Of course."
Slowly we made our way to the living room and stared out the front window, just as yet another boom rippled through the foundation of the house, causing books to fall off shelves, and my TV to fall off its stand, and my life size plaster cast of Tina Yothers to come crashing to the floor. I couldn't get to it in time, and Tina's glorious nipples broke off and went flying across the room like deadly bullets.
Sure enough, from my house up in the Green Lake area, we could see the Space Needle rising and falling, rising and falling, in one of the most elegant one-legged hops we'd ever seen a major piece of modern architecture accomplish. Crank Boy covered his heart with his hand out of respect, and Laurel wept openly at the beauty before her. I stuffed Tina's nipples into my pocket and pretended I also cared about the outside world, meanwhile wondering if now would be a good time to steal the rest of Crank Boy's Mad Dog without him noticing.
"You know what would really be fun?" Crank Boy suddenly said as we watched the Space Needle gallivant into the distance. "We should play Risk!"
Well, you didn't have to be some kind of nucular genius to recognize the sheer abject brilliance of that plan. We cheered at the thought, and I dashed into my bedroom to fetch Risk from the pile of games in my closet. There it was, right underneath the Nine Circles of Hell-themed Monopoly and X-Rated Candyland. I snagged it, pausing only to once again admire my slender, athletic build in the mirror, before returning to the kitchen. To my chagrin, Crank Boy had finished my Mad Dog while I was gone.
"Sorry," was all he could offer.
I swept aside the pile of dirty dishes, unwashed pans, and molding animal bones that cluttered the kitchen table, and we hurriedly unfolded the playing board.
"Okay, house rules," I announced. "Terrorist rules are in effect: every third turn, a card from the pile is drawn at random, and that country experiences a dirty bomb, wiping out a third of the armies on the country. Also, atomic apoc rules are in effect: every tenth turn, a card from the pile is drawn at random, and a surprise nucular strike destroys all the armies on that country. And, Satanic conspiracy rules are in effect: every time you roll three sixes, His Satanic Majesty rises up from the underworld and sweeps up all your opponents' armies in that battle, but at the cost of a third of your own armies in sacrifice."
We settled in for a long, exciting evening. The acid hadn't even come close to wearing off yet, and the Mad Dog merely added a pleasant swirling kind of vertigo to the experience. In the back of my mind, I was troubled by a nagging, unexplainable notion that I was forgetting something… did I still have clothes in the washer that needed to go into the dryer? Did I forget to tape that week's episode of Buffy? Had I neglected to call my mom on her birthday and once again thank her profusely for having the good sense to be born so that she could ultimately have me as a child?
"You know, I keep thinking I'm forgetting something," Crank Boy said as he attacked Kamchatka from Madagascar.
"Yeah," Laurel said, "me too. It's like I might have left a pie in the oven, or forgotten to defuse the bomb under my bed."
"Oh man, I forgot to do that once," Crank Boy said, whistling. "You really shouldn't forget to do that."
"Well, I'm sure it'll come to us eventually," I said, as I cracked open the secret bottle of Everclear I kept stashed in plain view on the counter. "Anyone want to order a pizza?"