A short, balding man sat in a threadbare
seat upholstered in orangey plaid fabric that clashed with every other fabric
ever woven. He wore a Nehru jacket and was absently stroking a large mass of
fur that squirmed uncomfortably on his lap.
“Soon, Mr. Shorty,” he
hissed, “soon everything will be in place, and the seeds of chaos that
we have sewn for world domination will come to fruition!”
“That’s cool man!”
said a guy on the seat next to him, “growing your own fruit is like, environmentally
sound, and shit…” The guy had a scraggly brown beard with matching
scraggly brown hair. He was wearing faded hemp jeans, a blue flannel shirt,
a heavy parka, and a ratty pair of leather sandals with no socks, (despite the
cold, November weather.) Beside him was a backpack that contained all his worldly
possessions, and a makeshift sign made from a cardboard box and a black permanent
marker that read, “Richmond or Smeg!”
His name was Steve, and he thought that the old lady in the Winnebago that was giving him a lift to Virginia was a pretty righteous old broad, but her creep of a son in the geeky jacket who was petting the hairball was really tripping him out.
The dude with the Tribble snarled
at him in that obnoxious accent again. He sounded something like that guy in
the bow tie who demonstrated gadgets in those infomercials with Mike Leavey
that Steve used to enjoy watching while stoned. He had a hard time understanding
the guy ‘cause he was speakin’ too fast, (that and the Pygmy iguana
herders kept racing their flocks around the Winnebago, which was really distracting.
Steve was really beginning to regret popping those ‘shrooms before he
got in the camper.)
“Say again man?” Steve
said, “can’t hear ya. It’s too crowded in here!”
“I said, I wasn’t talking
to you, you cretin!” the dude shouted.
Steve said, and proceeded to stare at the rude gestures that the plaid pattern
was making at him.
“Soon, Mr. Shorty,” the
man hissed, looking at a huge pile of plastic disks that were unceremoniously
piled in the back of the Winnebago, “we will amass enough of the material
to complete the machine. And with it, we will bring the entertainment world,
(a long pause for dramatic effect,) to its KNEES! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
“Quiet back there!” an
elderly voice screeched from the front of the Winnebago, “Nigel? Are you
annoying that nice boy, Steven again?”
The criminal genius suddenly panicked,
“No mother, I just thought of something funny. That’s all!”
“Good!” the voice called
back, “you just leave him alone. I don’t want to have to pull this
lorry over to the side of the road!”
“Of course mother,” the
genius quickly pulled an incredibly convincing innocent smile, (well, he thought
it looked innocent. He actually looked somewhat constipated.) He then looked
at the small lump of fur in his lap and whispered, “soon, Mr. Shorty.
We will have our revenge.”
The Winnebago continued to rattle down the highway.