See the Mars that time forgot! Fast ‘n’ loose is how the science works here, but hey, it was filmed in color!
Scene: The Long Up Chuk Chinese-American Restaurant. The lights are low, and mostly red-ish. The Legion of all the Dooms is lounging comfortably in the sagging vinyl booths and battered banquet chairs in the back. A dark miasma of malice hangs in the air like the stench of last years second hand smoke.
An argument is going on.
“I’ll have a Singapore Sling, heavy on the Singapore.”
“Let’s call Evil Buddha and take out Good Hitler once and for all!”
“That never works. They just clone up a new one. Every. Fucking. Time.”
“Well, fudge a monkey. We need to p0wn some chumps! Halloween’s here. It’s time for mischief.“
“How about … we hand out chocolate covered brussel sprouts!”
“More better, The Communist Manifesto, hidden under tasty chocolate coatings!”
“Or we build The Not-So-Great Pumpkin!”
“Candy that causes hiccups!”
“White chocolate, and… ah god, Circus Peanuts!” <retching noises>
“Broken iPhones!”
“Unhappy Meals. The special prize inside… Tax forms, heh heh.”
“Elephantiasis! In the water supply!”
“Gummy Bears, rock hard gummy bears…”
“Can the chin-music you sock monkeys!”
The bags under Secret Nixon’s eyes look extra dark tonight. “The NRA does more to torment children than we could. I say we stick the knife in deep. Deep in the sweaty little hearts of the Justice League of Justice. I say we take the battle to the enemy, on their own home turf!”
“You mean?”
“Yes… We’re going bowling!“
Good Hitler politely borrowed from Jon Rosenberg.
Kindly support his creative efforts by signing up for this kickstarter!
Good news, everyone!
Just what you’ve always wanted: the freedom from having to make decisions! Now you can have the computer link you directly to a random episode of the bits that don’t need to be read in any order anyway. Give it a try!
→ Jump to a random episode of The Curiously Banal Adventures of Banana Man
→ Jump to a random episode of Burning Pork
…Sadly, you’ll still have to pick which page of The Last Tiki Bar on Mars that you want to read. Which you can do here.
Charles Bronson AND Clint Eastwood ARE Brownstone and Brickwad IN…
BOWLING TO HELL – This time the ball will NOT be returned!
Coming soon to a cinema near you.
…flashback…
“Someone get that cigarette out of his mouth!” A black-garbed grip grabs for Arnold’s cig, but Arnold’s quick lip action shifts the stick to the other side of his gob as he blows a fragrant cloud of pig-lung scented tobacco smoke right in that guy’s face.
Fixing the grip with a stare that would curl a Jedi’s toes, Arnold sucks the smoke down to the filter, exhales and spits the but onto the floor.
The director, with his Don Johnson 3-day stubble and black watch cap rolls his eyes. “Are you ready to act now?”
“Show me the money.”
“We signed the contract.”
“Who do I look like, Snoopy? This is porn. I wanna see the cash.”
The director shrugs with that special “see what I have to put up with?” motion. He pulls out some greenbacks and waves them at the pig.
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Next, tape them to the camera.”
“What?”
“Hey, lookit Akira Kurosawa here. Listen Otto Preminger, this pig’s a method actor. I need to see my motivation.”
Sigh. The director motions to another stagehand who hands him some grip tape. He rips off a length, fastening the tip to the bottom of the camera lens and pastes on each $100 bill, one under the other so Arnold can see all five at once. “Better?”
“That’s more like it. Let ‘er roll, Laughing Boy!” Arnold settles back into the overstuffed armchair bracketed by smiling buxom blonde twins in red bikinis.
“Arnold Ziffel here, TV star and all-around Lady’s Pig. When a pig, or a man, needs to get off, he knows where to put his pork.”
“Neon Nights Productions VHS tapes home delivery!” Chime in the twins.
“That’s right ladies, it’s the best thing since chocolate covered porn stars.”
Wake up. Strangled in bra. How is this thing on backwards?
Bust out of bed. Bathroom, sink, splash face. Feed fish. Feed cat. Remember not to water cactus.
Dim sunlight through the kitchen nook window. Must remember to windex windows. Frozen waffle.
Shuddap phone!
Clothes. Shoes. Crazy hair. Crazy hair is fine. No one cares. Screw makeup.
Jacket. Shoulder bag. Out the door. Down the stairs. Almost to the front door escape portal.
“Hey Sugar, what’s cooking?”
Dr. Tomorrow. Same perfect hair. Same blinding white teeth and matching perfect white t-shirt. What is up with those black goggles? Doesn’t he have a job or something? Prepare to launch Morning Face Attack.
Dr. Tomorrow steps aside quickly, “Woah!” and gets sing-song, “if looks could kill, they probably will…” He’s bopping to his own rhythm. Out the door. Behind her she can still hear Doc going on, “Games without frontiers, war without tears, Jeux sans frontières!”
Hustle down the street. Why didn’t I bring my earbuds? Traffic rolls by with the farting of exhaust, creaking of internal combustion engines fighting the morning, weak sun glancing off anything shiny stabbing the eyes. Feet stomping the pavement.
Shadowy Figure, figures, seems to somehow materialize directly in Sugar Diablo’s path.
“Are you ready to join us, Sugar Diablo? The Legion of All The Dooms awaits…”
Same long black coat, same slouch hat that somehow always hides the identity and even the gender of this Shadowy Figure. Pushy fuck. Stop for one second. Angry Morning Face Attack! Spit on ground. Power on by.
Shouted after her. “We can help you release your hate! You’ll like it!”
Involuntary fist clench. Eyes narrow. hsss…. I’ll show you what I’d like…
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Finally, library. Job. Boss Monster. Ugly green over-sized sweater. Big teeth. Glasses on chain around neck. Hair piled high, formerly grown on Planet WTF. “Sugar Diablo, you’re ten minutes late!”
Through gritted teeth. “No, I’m twenty-three hours early for tomorrow.” Mumbled under breath, “bitch.”
The struggle with the Universe has just begun.
“So, what are you in for, pig?”
Arnold turns slowly to look at the scruffy white kid sitting on the concrete bench beside him. Arnold is chewing on the short stub of a disposable chopstick while he takes in the tattered black hoodie, the moth-eaten black watch cap, the cargo shorts.
“Ass-fucking a police officer and crapping in his mouth.”
“Really?”
“What do you think, Einstein?” Arnold hops off the bench, trots over the unadorned concrete floor to another young man lying on his side with a roll of toilet paper cushioning his head, snoring lightly. “Always make ‘m show you the money first.” He shakes his head and spits on the floor. “It’s always a fuckin’ power thing with the goddamn cops.” Arnold raises his right back leg and lets loose a yellow stream soaking the kid’s already soiled Wal*Mart t-shirt. The kid doesn’t stir.
“What did you do that for?”
“Pig’s gotta take a piss. You think I can hit the crapper from down here?” He jabs his snout at the bleak, seatless metal appliance sticking out of the opposite wall like a robot mushroom. “Just be glad it wasn’t you. This time.” Arnold nods back at the now-wet kid on the floor. “What’s the deal with Sleeping Beauty?”
The kid on the bench shrugs. “Jimmy swallowed all our pills, when the cops pulled us over.”
“Lucky fuck.” Arnold rolls over on his back, schooching across the floor, attempting to get a scratch out of the smooth surface. He stops and stares at the clock on the wall, its hands moving with all the verve and alacrity of break time at an Eskimo molasses factory. With half-lidded eyes he watches the perfectly uniformed cops sauntering about outside the door, doing whatever cops do at 5am. Making photocopies, drinking coffee, grab-ass.
The kid on the bench scratches his head. “Ya ever, ya know, get a DUI?”
“First time, eh?” grunts the pig.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Run your mother’s mini-van over some mailboxes?”
“Nah, they caught us doing donuts in Jimmy’s Honda in the parking lot at the factory.”
Arnold rolls onto his side, hooves clattering on the hard floor. He lets loose a wet one. He quotes in a sing-song voice, “Git yer girl in the mood quicker…”
“Hey, how’d you know we had 40’s?”
The door clangs open and a uniformed figure beckons to Arnold. “Ok pig, you’re free to go.”
The kid pops off the bench. “Hey, what about me?”
Arnold looks over his pork shoulder.
“Don’t worry about it kid, you’re just getting started.”
When you stare into the movie abyss, the movie abyss stares back into you. Also known as The Wizard of Mars, from 1965, this has… well, probably nothing you wanted in a movie. Other than being free.
I suppose if you were in your Dad’s car with your date at a drive-in in 1965, this gave you plenty of reason to fool around and I suppose that was the point.
In addition to fighting grime at night as a janitor and fighting crime during the day as Banana Man, Banana Man has a son: Kid Banana. Kid Banana gets “Dad Time” alternative weekends. This is one of them.
Banana Man straightens the slightly soiled white ball cap over Kid Banana’s long-ish straggly dirty blonde hair. He steps back a moment to take a good look. Normal-looking skinny 13 yr old boy. Blank white ball cap. Slightly soiled and just a bit too large white overalls. White T-shirt printed with one word: “TRASH”. Work gloves.
Banana Man turns and looks at his reflection in the windows of the storefront of the Stark Industries office. He’s dressed just the same, only bigger.
“Ok Kid, ready to get your superpowers?”
“Um, ok Dad. I guess, I mean.” Comes the uncertain reply.
“Good Kid. Just follow my lead. Nod your head a lot. Let me do the talking.”
“Ok, Dad.” Kid Banana scuffs the pavement with his worn Keds then looks up at the sign. “Are you sure this is OK dad? I mean, I don’t wanna go to jail or ‘nuthin’.”
“Hey, don’t you worry about it.” Banana Man gives the Kid one of those mock knuckles-across-the-chin punches. “What do the kids say these days? ‘You got this!’ Follow me. Onward towards Justice…” He pushes open the door. Inside standard-issue corporate beige carpet, white walls with minimal color added by abstract paintings and plastic plants. A few chairs. A wide reception desk occupied by a man with thick, round glasses underneath the big gold letters of a “STARK INDUSTRIES” sign.
“May I help you?”
BM steps forward confidently. “Yes. We are here about the trash.”
“Ah yes, that.” He presses a button and a set of double doors to his left swings open. “Just follow the green line in the floor. That will take you to the staff lunch room. Then follow the black line which will take you to the back door and the dumpsters.” He shakes his head. “Man, that was some retirement lunch for Leonard yesterday. You’re going to have your hands full.”
“We’re on it. We are professionals. We fight grime.” Banana Man confidently strides through the doorway, Kid Banana in tow. Once through the passageway and out of earshot of the man at the reception desk, BM turns and whispers to KB. “Ok, now keep your eyes peeled. Watch for a research lab, chemicals. Anything marked ‘Radioactive’.”
“Um, OK Dad.” KB trails along as his dad takes the lead peering around corners, examining signs on doors and peeking through windows.
The green line leads them further into the building. “Nothing yet. Looks so ordinary. Must be something here…” The place seems pretty empty of people. Saturday, no surprise perhaps. The green line abruptly ends at a set of double doors which our heroes push open. “Hm. Lunchroom.” Sure enough. Ever seen a generic employee lunchroom? They look just like this one, perhaps with fewer grease-soaked pizza boxes, half eaten cake mushed into paper napkins, empty sodie-pop cans. Cheap paper banners celebrating Leonard’s long years of service droop on the walls as if sad the whole thing’s over.
“What now, Dad?”
Banana Man scratches his chin. “Hrm. Trash is our cover story.” He waves over at some large trash cans in the corner. “Gimmie a hand loading these up.” The pair start stuffing the remains of the party into the big 50-gallon trash barrels, lined with your standard garbage can liners. “Hey cool, these things are on wheels. Handy!” They roll the cans out the doors and start following the black line in the floor. “We’ll stick to the black line. We call that our ‘cover story’.”
They walk along, Banana Man keeping a sharp eye out, occasionally trying a door only to find either bland beige office cubicles or a locked door. Frustration. Not too long later and the black line has lead them another double-set of doors that clearly leads outside. Banana Man bangs them open with his can. Sure enough, an almost empty parking lot and two dumpsters.
“Shit.”
“If you need that, the bathroom’s inside, man.” A man is leaning against the building. Foot crooked back against the wall and holding a cigarette between his fingers. He’s wearing a white lab coat and sunglasses.
Banana Man huffs the first trash can into the dumpster. He turns to the guy in the lab coat. “Say, you guys work with radiation here?”
“Nah, not really.”
Banana Man mumbles to himself, “So much for the Spiderman angle.”
The man eyes the remaining stuffed garbage can. “Leonard, what a card. He invented Anti-Velveeta. What will we do without him?”
“Hm. Maybe you’ve got some kind of toxic waste?”
“Maybe, not my department. What would you want that for?”
BM motions to Kid Banana. “Kid here needs some super powers. I was hoping for maybe a bite from a radioactive rhino.”
The tall man chuckles and scratches his beard. “Heh. Well, I’ve got some rats that are totally high on cocaine.”
“No good. What else you got?”
Another scratch. “We’ve got some grumpy bunnies. We’re working on some new anti-flea medications.”
“Anything that shoots some kind of rays? Gamma rays worked for The Hulk.”
“Unless you count the photocopier, no.”
“You call yourselves a research lab, or what?”
“Oh sure. Want to sign up for a study on diet pills? Have be 18 or older though.” The man waves a hand dismissively.
“What is this world coming too? I expected more from Stark Industries. Maybe you’ve got some strong chemicals?”
With a snort, “Yeah, lots of bleach.”
“Feh.” Banana Man heaves the other trash can into the dumpster. He dusts his hands. “Dead end.” He grits his teeth and puts his hand on Kid Banana’s shoulder. “Ok kid, no superpowers today. Let’s go get some donuts.”
Free on YouTube, a faux film – a documentary on The Great Martian War of 1913-1917.
A product of the History Channel, done in the History Channel style, it’s a modern retelling of The War of the Worlds. It’s fiction, of course, but adding CGI Martians to WWI footage plus interviews of people telling stories they create a very believable “documentary” of something that never happened.
The greatest thing ever? No, but you may enjoy it: