The Stupid: Never mind that now. I’m growing bored! Let’s start another contest!
Deity Guy: [floating up and down] Oh! Oh! I wanna go again! Can I go again?!
Prime: Of —
Deity Guy: [shouting] It’s my turn!
The Stupid: I —
Deity Guy: My turn! You promised!
The Stupid: [abruptly] Oh for Azathoth’s sake, you can have your turn if you just agree to shut up!
Deity Guy: Hooray!
[Deity Guy rushes over to the Pants-iverse and pulls out someone at random. He closes his eye, and in a flash of light and a second or two, an overweight balding gentleman in his late middle-age years wearing orange cat ears, a red sport coat, and yellow checkered pants stands before him. This man is Applekat, children’s cartoon host.]
Applekat: Gosh, kids! Look at all the neat… stuff! Is this where cream is made?
Deity Guy: Uh… what?
Applekat: Cream! You know, as a cat — an Applekat, to be exact — I love cream! Especially the whipped kind! It goes great with apples, which are the most important part of a balanced diet, kids! They keep the doctor away!
The Stupid: [barely stifling laughter] So, you’re, uh, Applekat, I take it? And why, why do they call you that?
Applekat: I’m Applekat, because Applekat is a cat who loves apples! Applekat, apples! Cat apples! Kitty cat, apple cat! Apple cider, cat cider, apple cider cat apples!
Deity Guy: Are… are you having a stroke…?
Prime: Maybe we should get a doctor.
Applekat: Nah, ol’ Applekat is fine, kids! Sometimes the old brain doesn’t work as well as it used to, but that doesn’t mean Applekat can’t bring you tons of cartoon fun every weekday morning from 8 am until 8:30 am! Harvey Toons! You like Heckel and Jeckel? Applekat sure does! And bacon lard! Applekat loves bacon lard! But as long as Applekat keeps eating apples, the doctors will stay far away and Applekat can eat all the bacon lard he wants!
The Stupid: [laughing hysterically] You really can pick them, Failty Guy! Hahaha!
Deity Guy: Well, well, well you can shut up. Yeah.
Prime: It’s okay, Deity Guy. Not every choice can be a winner. Just look at the last round, and the Stupid’s pick.
The Stupid: Hey!
Prime: Let’s keep this fair, okay? I’ll pick my contestant from the same universe as the Infarious Eleven. That way, we’ll be evenly matched.
Deity Guy: Fine. Whatever. [mumbles] Stupid cat.
[Prime’s light dims as he summons from the Danger-verse his contestant. In a flash of light, not one, but seven physically intimidating, somewhat handsome, and extremely douchey young men appear: six standing and talking, and one — the Italian stallion lady’s man in ripped jeans, black faux hawk, and vintage Led Zepplin t-shirt known as T-Bone — sitting with a blond stripper on his lap and her tongue in his mouth. In his hand, T-Bone holds a bottle of Russian Imperial Stout. One tall young man — J-Jeff — stops talking and turns, scowling at Prime. He is wearing a gray imported Italian track suit, and he is holding a bottle of Sangria.]
J-Jeff: Listen up. Because it’s America’s birthday, we’re going to give you alien fucks negative two seconds to send us back home or we’ll pull your lungs out through your mouths, such as they may be. So if you don’t want your Independence Day to end like the movie, well, clock’s ticking, fuckwits. [Turns back to the others, continuing the conversation. ]
The Stupid: Oh, I like him, Prime! He’s ill-tempered!
[Prime sighs in reply and floats over to group.]
Prime: Uh, guys? Can I have a minute?
[The shortest of the group, a young man wearing a black silk shirt, gray dress pants, and sporting a scruffy-looking beard, speaks first but does not look at Prime. He is holding a bottle of merlot.]
R-Man: Can you not interrupt us, asshole? C-Bass was just getting to the good part.
J-Jeff: Yeah. Way to be a dick. Also, this doesn’t look like my fucking home.
Prime: Heh, yeah, sorry. Listen, this will just take a second. See, there’s this tournament where we’re pulling people from universes to fight, and —
R-Man: Danger Force’s specialty is fighting, so you obviously came to the right place.
J-Jeff: Seriously, what the fuck kind of aliens are you?
T-Bone: [placing his hand into the stripper’s panties] My alien’s about to bust out of my pants. Can we hurry this shit up? Someone drop this clown and let’s get back. The shitty brightness is killing the mood.
Stripper: [moaning] Mmm, not for me…!
[Prime floats back over to Deity Guy, Applekat, and the Stupid.]
Deity Guy: What did they say?
Prime: Uh, well…
[A tall young man — J Mike — breaks off from the group. He is wearing camo pants, a red, white, and blue felt stovepipe top hat, and a gray “Big Johnson“ t-shirt. The tattoos on his arms, both full sleeves of all manner of skulls, dragons, and flames, almost seem to be writhing. He holds in his hand a glass filled with Rum and Coke. The group goes silent, and they all move closer to the others.]
J Mike: All right, guys, calm down. These pricks obviously brought us here for a reason. It sounds like some sort of boring nerdy sci-fi action movie type shit, but what-the-fuck-ever. So, what is it you need, nerds?
Prime: We don’t need anything. We would like you to fight for us. [Turns to Applekat.] Both of you.
Applekat: Aw, shucks kids, I don’t fight, and neither should you! [Points finger out into the open air, as though speaking with someone who isn’t there.] Fighting is wrong!
J Mike: Fighting? Pfft. Fuck that, I’m not drunk enough yet. [Takes a swig of his Rum and Coke.]
Applekat: Wow, kids! That sure is awful language yer using! You might wanna —
[The members of Danger Force all turn to Applekat and stare, as though noticing him for the first time. Most carry a smile of disbelief, but the most ill-tempered and unpredictable member of all — E-Machine — is unamused. He holds in his hand a bottle of imported Absinthe. E-Machine steps up to Applekat, standing a mere inch or two away from the older gentleman’s nose.]
E-Machine: You might wanna shut the fuck up before my fist and your face collide in a fist-face-fuck-up! [Pushes his index finger into Applekat’s middle-aged chest hard enough to make a dull hollow sound upon contact.] Understand, gramps?
Applekat: [gulps hard] Uh, sure, sure, kid. Whatever you say! [Looks down at the blood stains on E-Machine’s white t-shirt, the black block print letters posing the question, “Dr. Who — the FUCK cares?“ He then steps back and pulls out an apple from his pocket, shaking and smiling nervously as he holds it out for E-Machine.] N-no hard feelings, huh?
T-Bone: [looks up from fondling the blond stripper sitting on his lap] “No hard feelings“? [laughs] Fuck, dude. Did he just call you gay?
[E-Machine looks at the apple, then back at Applekat with rage burning in his eyes. Quickly and without warning, E-Machine slaps the apple out of Applekat’s hands. The other members of Danger Force erupt in laughter. A giant of a man with a chiseled jaw, insanely grown mutton chop sideburns, and wearing a muscle shirt — the mute behemoth called Chops — steps behind E-Machine as though hitting the unsaid point home even further. Chops is holding a bottle of whiskey.]
Prime: These are the heroes of the Danger-verse?
The Stupid: These are my kinds of heroes!
J Mike: Okay, that‘s enough grab ass. Stand down, E-Machine. You, too, Chops.
[E-Machine begrudgingly does so, never taking his eyes from the profusely sweating Applekat. Chops nods and steps back into line with the others, his arms crossed.]
J Mike: [to the Embodiments] Do you dumb-shits have a TV or something? It’s a holiday, and I’m in the mood for some sports. Preferably football.
R-Man: [snickering] Football? There’s always — THE WORLD CUP! [R-Man bursts out laughing, as do the other members of Danger Force.]
J Mike: [throws his glass against the floor in a rage] God damn it! I want to watch my god damned football on holidays, not that shitty non-football sport! [Pulls a flask out of his pocket and takes a swig. It too is filled with Rum and Coke.] The only thing I hate more than ice in my Rum and Coke is when America tries to kow-tow to the rest of the damned world by pretending to give two shits about soccer. Why the hell can’t you use your hands? Are you supposed to keep them free to jerk off your opponents or something? [Takes another swig of his Rum and Coke.] God damn it.
J-Jeff: Watch the trash talk. T-Bone played soccer in grade school.
T-Bone: [pulls his mouth from one of the stripper’s exposed nipples as she squeaks in disappointment] Yeah, well, there was this rumor that Ms. Gornischelli — Ms. G — our eighth grade teacher, was into soccer players, right? She was a hot redhead. Tall, nice tits, great ass. Had to tap that twat, know what I mean?
[The sage C-Bass, a stocky young man built like a brick house and sporting an Army baseball cap, Army t-shirt, dog tags, and moustache the likes of which haven’t been seen since the days of Chester A. Arthur, smirks. He holds in his hands a bottle of Scotch.]
C-Bass: Oh, Ms. G? Yeah, I tapped that. One 4th of July, I was home from Iraq on leave, right? So I’m in the grocery store, buying groceries and shit because a fucker needs to eat sometimes, and who’s walking down the aisle but hot-twat Ms. G? That night, I sprayed her red bush white to relieve my blue balls.
Deity Guy: That’s the grossest thing I’ve ever heard but I can’t keep myself from wanting to hear more.
Prime: Please, don’t encourage them…
C-Bass: Little did I realize, she wasn’t Ms. G anymore, but Mrs. Sydney. I guess she was, like, forty-five or something and married. Her husband walked in as I was making her queef the Star-Spangled Banner with my tongue. He was yelling some stupid bullshit about how he was going to beat the shit out of me, so I picked up my gun and blew his cock off. Then I got back on top of her and blew my load in her fox hole so fucking hard her back cracked. She would have screamed, but I was choking her, which made her clamp down on me and made me cum hard again. Anyway, by the time we were done, Mrs. Sydney was Ms. G again because the ambulance didn’t make it in time and she gave me a key to her 5th Avenue loft. I hit her hot pocket at least three times a week, if I’m not busy.
Deity Guy: I’m alternating between awe and nausea! Nause-awe?
Prime: Don’t. Just… don’t.
J-Jeff: Ha, looks like you snatched her snatch, C-Bass!
The Stupid: Ha ha! These are the best heroes I’ve ever seen from you, Prime! I’m going to hang out with them.
Prime: No, no, no! [to Danger Force and Apple Cat] Okay, fellas, here’s what we’re going to do. Since no one feels like fighting, we’re going to have a drinking contest. Shot after shot of your drink of choice.
Applekat: Can it be apple juice?
Applekat: Can it be bacon lard?
Applekat: Can it be apple lard bacon juice, bacon apple?
Prime: NO! What?! Just, no! Alcoholic drinks only. First one to hit the floor loses. [to Danger Force] Which one of you is going up against Applekat?
J Mike: [snickers] More like Crapple Cat. Fuck it, I’ll do it.
Prime: Good. [Summons a table and two chairs just as the stripper on T-Bone’s lap climaxes from his heavy petting.] Ugh. The rest of you are going back home.
[T-Bone stands up, dropping the stripper hard on the ground, and rushes in between J Mike and Prime. The rest of Danger Force steps between them as well.]
C-Bass: No way. Like my Uncle Cage always said when he was fighting in ‘Nam, we all go home or none of us go home.
T-Bone: [punches his fist into his open hand] Danger Force doesn’t ditch on a bro like that.
Prime: [sighs] Fine, I guess you can stay. But for this event, you’re the audience, okay? No helping.
R-Man: Do we look like a bunch of bitches to you?
E-Machine: [pulls out a switchblade and opens it] Bitches get stitches. So do people who think we’re bitches.
The Stupid: Never mind that now. I’m growing bored! Let’s start another contest!