scotto.org
Stories Scripts Videos Music Non-Fiction Books Blog



Captain Scotto and His Heroes To Be

Episode Sixteen

We stepped out onto the front porch of my house. I could imagine the movie poster that would promote the blockbuster adaptation of our heroic exploits: Crank Boy with an UZI in one hand, and razor sharp adamantium claws extended from the other; Laurel holding a big ass shotgun and trying to figure out how to breathe with a spider-head mask over her nose and mouth; me with my arm lovingly supporting a newly blond Michael Landon; and Michael Landon wearing assless chaps and a tight red corset. Perhaps they would call our story Captain Scotto and His Heroes to Be. Or, more likely, perhaps they would call it Three Dumbfucks and a Wax Girly-Man. You know how capricious Hollywood can be.

We were each equipped with snazzy headset radios that would allow us to communicate after we had gone our separate ways. Our plan was for Crank Boy and Laurel to sneak around behind Dr. Ugly's center of destruction, while Michael Landon and I attempted to face Dr. Ugly head on. My only hope was to catch Dr. Ugly with his hood on, so that his immense ugliness didn't melt Michael Landon on the spot. I had no specific plan for doing that, trusting that the glorious fates would intervene… those same glorious fates that had, uh, hmm, let's see, driven me to suicide, destroyed most of Seattle, and left me performing sexy mambos with Michael Landon. Well, at any rate, the game was afoot.

The game proved to be a lot more complicated to play than I had anticipated. This is due to my severely decreased mental facilities, which I attribute to a dire vitamin deficiency and years of being dropped on my head. Well, it was really only the one year, but it was pretty regular that year, and mostly just kind of occasionally after that, when Mom just felt like she was in the mood. Years later, I'd go home to visit, and Mom would be like, "Come on, let me drop you on your head just one more time for old time's sake," and it would be like a bonding thing, except as I got older, she had to drop me from higher and higher heights in order to really approach the same damage she could inflict in a single drop when I was younger. But you know, I love my Mom, so.

"Muchacho to Spearmint Gum, come in," Crank Boy's voice came over the radio. "I repeat: Muchacho to Spearmint Gum, come in."

Dead silence followed. I couldn't really remember if I was Spearmint Gum or not.

"Uh, this is Vicks Vap-o-Rub," said Laurel, "could you repeat that last transmission? Over."

"Muchacho to Vicks Vap-o-Rub, I am looking for Spearmint Gum, over," Crank Boy said.

"Oh," Laurel replied. "Have you tried a convenience store? Over."

"That is not funny, I repeat, that is not funny," Crank Boy said. "Over."

"Spearmint Gum to Muchacho, come in, Muchacho," I said.

"Muchacho to Spearmint Gum, I have news for you. Over."

"Spearmint Gum to Muchacho, is your news that our radio nicknames are really fookin stupid, or is it something I don't know? Over."

"Vicks Vap-o-Rub to Muchacho, please be advised that our radio nicknames are not stupid and keep in mind that Spearmint Gum is the one who spent the last half hour dirty dancing with Michael Landon. Over."

"Spearmint Gum to Vicks Vap-o-Rub, you please be advised that I did not derive any pleasure from said dirty dancing. At least not until the chaps were off. Over."

"Muchacho to Spearmint Gum, would you please stick to business? Dr. Ugly has taken up a position downtown at the intersection of Pike and 5th. Military units are converging on his position. His hood is still on, if you can get there fast enough. Over."

"Roger that. I am headed that direction. Vicks Vap-o-Rub, you are a poopyhead. Over and out."

I flew just below the cloud cover, slowly approaching so that I'd be able to detect any signs of de-hooding. Sure enough, to my chagrin, I saw the leading edge of the military approach: several nasty looking humvees with machine guns mounted on top, and a tank that was rumbling down 5th with all the grace of a hippopotamus on speed. I averted my eyes just as Dr. Ugly removed his hood, and with my peripheral vision, I realized Dr. Ugly had gained an enormous amount of control over his powers of diabolical ugliness. The humvees and the tank began firing, and of course the shells practically traveled backwards in an attempt to flee that horrible throbbing morass he called a face. But worse, as the vehicles attempted to turn around, Dr. Ugly took control of their flight and sent them deliberately away, firing the weapons with his ugliness, controlling their massive engines with his ugliness. He used the vehicles to assault the next line of humvees and jeeps, leaving them a surprised and devastated ruin. Helicopters drew too close, and came within his titanic ugliness rays, and now he sent them spinning in circles above his head, undoubtedly to keep me from flying too close to the scene. Within a matter of minutes, Dr. Ugly controlled a deadly arsenal courtesy of the United States Army. There would be no way for Crank Boy and Laurel to get in close now.

I decided to land a safe distance away, at the grounds of the Seattle Center, where the World's Tallest Space Needle once stood proudly and graced our skyline with its futuristic wonder. I leaned Michael Landon up against a tree and paused to consider a new plan of attack. It was then that I heard a beautiful, beautiful sound, one that I hadn't heard in ages… it was the sound of a Galaga game in the nearby arcade, calling to me with its promise of excitement and heroism. I turned off my radio. Surely Dr. Ugly could wait while I rescued the universe from an alien armada one last time. I even kept a roll of quarters in my utility belt for just such an occasion… but with my precious, precious Galaga, it would only take one quarter, yea verily, it would only take one quarter.

The arcade was deserted, meaning I would not have to brutally assault some hapless youngster in order to play like usual. The mushrooms were really starting to come on, which meant I could truly play from the zone, that special place in spacetime where my psyche truly connected with the joystick to make a union more holy than that of priest and altar boy. Or something like that. I trembled as I viewed the high score… a respectable number, but nothing to fear, for I was a wizard of dexterity and aplomb under combat conditions. Oh, how I had forgotten the deep, luscious pleasures of row after row of menacing alien insects, the compelling drama of fighting them off with only my trusty allotment of space capsules at hand.

I inserted a quarter, and pressed the Player 1 button. Time seemed to stop. I passed Challenging Stage after Challenging Stage, my ever increasing rank only bolstering my confidence. Some nagging part of me wondered if there wasn't something better I was supposed to be doing with my time, but I chalked that up to Mom's admonitions as a child, from those days when she couldn't stand to see me fritter money away on video games when there were hookers and cocaine to save my precious coins for. Ah, to be ten years old again…

And then, an unfortunate yelp snatched me out of my reverie. It was the distinctive sound of Crank Boy shouting "YES!" from across the room. My attention momentarily diverted, the wretched aliens destroyed both my attacking vessels with a blistering assault, and my game was sadly over.

I charged across the arcade floor, shouting, "SPEARMINT GUM TO MUCHACHO! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE? OVER!"

Crank Boy spun away from his game of Ms. Pac-Man, and in that brutal instant, the vicious ghost Inky sucked the very lifeblood from the strangely attractive round heroine of the game.

"Aw, geez, aren't you supposed to be fighting Dr. Ugly?" he whined.

"I could ask you the same question!" I shouted.

Silence followed.

"Well?" I demanded.

"Well what?" he replied.

"Answer my question!" I said.

"You didn't ask a question," he said.

"I did!"

"You didn't. You merely implied that you could ask me a question. I think there's a big difference ontologically between implying a thing and actually doing a thing, don't you?" He paused. "Where's Vicks Vap-o-Rub?"

"She's not with you?" I asked.

"See? Now that is an actual question, as opposed to before, which was merely an implication."

"Are you going to answer the damn question?"

"Another fine question—"

"CRANK BOY!"

"That's Muchacho, thank you very much, and the answer is, no, she's not with me. I thought she was with you, fighting Dr. Ugly."

That could mean only one thing. Laurel was out fighting Dr. Ugly alone. I frantically switched on my radio, only to hear her frantic shouts:

"VICKS VAP-O-RUB TO ANYBODY, WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU GUYS? I'M SURROUNDED!"

"Bring Michael Landon!" I barked at Crank Boy. "I'll get there faster if I fly on my own." And with that, I sprinted to the door and took off into the sky. A fateful confrontation was at last at hand…



Copyright Scotto.org until 2087