“Move aside! Move aside!” Trauma shouted at the swarms of turbin wearing salesmen. One particularly skinny one with hundreds of wrinkles and only three teeth and smelled of that hot mutton curry held up a chicken in front of Trauma’s path holding up the line as the rest of the group carried out the pilfered goods. “Thanks.” Trauma growled grabbing the poultry and shoving the man several feet back into the crowd but his face.
Peeling out of town, swerving to avoid the cows they started for their next location.
“Hey Dragon. Pass me up a slurpie.” Vindicator asked from the passenger seat.
“Blueberry. I love it when my tongue turns blue.”
Dragon turned the lever on the slurpie machine, which was fastened securely on the trunk of the convertible, and added the blueberry flavouring, then passed it up.
“Hey Trauma. Where’s that chicken?” Blade asked remembering about chicken.
Pointing forward as he drove, everyone followed his finger. There, tied to the hood where the hood ornament was, was the chicken. Feathers whipping back the wind raced by its beak
The sun was setting as they drove through the Rocky mountains looking for the next hit. “Aaaaaaahhhhhhhh.” Vindicator said as he stuck out his tongue to show everyone the neat colouration…
[writer - TRAUMA - Can we put this on file? And then DL for ourselves???]
…He instantly realized the folly of this action because when he closed his mouth, the crunching noise and sour taste gave him the impression that several winged insects had flown into his mouth. Dragon saying “Dude, several winged insects just flew into you mouth” did nothing to allay his fears. The next sound that could be heard (for miles around) was that of low glutteral retching, followed by Trauma complaining about the stain on his pants.
As they drove up the steep incline of the Rocky Mountains, they came across a castle. Perched atop a rather high tower was a soldier keeping watch. As they neared the castle, the soldier began to call out to them.
“Go away you silly Kniggits, we already have a slurpie machine”
“WHAT?” cried the intrepid explorers/thieves.
“I blow my nose at you! I fart in your general direction, now go away or I will taunt you a second time!”
Growing weary of his tired rhetoric, Trauma shot him between the eyes with a Pez. The soldier plummeted to his death. Unfortunately, they were so preoccupied with the French Soldier, they were totally oblivious to the fact that they, they slurpie machine and the car which carried them, had just driven over a Kurt (cliff)
[writer - The Vindicator - What? Me, worry?]
As our Hero’s/Thieves plummet to their deaths, Vindicator remembers the emergency red button. As he opens the emergency panel he notices that only 37 of the fifty buttons are painted red. Which one is it asks Blade. At this moment Dragon passes out due to the extreme stupidity of this situation. Trauma quickly states “It’s this button I’m sure!” Vindicator replies “When were falling off a Kurt (cliff) I’m the boss. So it’s this button (pointing to the same one)”. Blade, fed up with the situation at hand, closes his eyes, and pressed a blue button. “NOT THE BLUE BUTTON!” cried Vindicator and Trauma.
P.S. To any confused individual, the reason the conversation is still taking place is because of the extreme long drop, and that the laws of the known universe do not apply in anyway to the above story.
“So that’s what the blue button does.” replies Vindicator. “Who cares.” cries Trauma. Again Blade press another random button. Suddenly the car stops in mid-air. The chicken hood ornament flies off the hood, landing on the ground with a crunch. “Must be KFC.” says BLADE. “Your a genius” says Trauma. “What was it the air brakes” asks Vindicator. “Nope! Looks like we’re outta gas.” replies Blade. “Then what did you press?” asks Dragon groggily. Pulling out the manual, Vindicator said, “He just pushed the … Emergency gas TANK!”
“AHHHHHHHHHHH” screams all.
… It’s a good thing that they were only 5 feet above the ground when Dragon refuelled the car otherwise this story may well have been cut short (severely!).
There was a small problem, however. When the car did hit the ground, it landed with its tires in the air and our intrepid heroes where trapped in the small space between the shag carpet of the Eldoradro and the dry, cracked hardpan of the canyon floor.
This in itself was not so bad, but then somebody farted…
[writer - The Vindicator]
Kicking frantically at the doors everyone was desperate to escape the gas chamber inside the overturned car. Finally giving way everyone scrambled out and inhaled the fresh air. “Holy Shit!” Trauma exclaimed, “What the fuck did you eat?” Everyone looked over at Dragon. “What?” he said, “The Mutton curry was good.”
Looking around, the four adventurers needed a plan. “We need a plan.” Blade said. “Wait! I have a cunning plan… “ Trauma smiled. They huddled to discuss the plan. All the while the chicken sat on the nearby rocks… doing cute little chicken things with its head.
[writer - TRAUMA - Edmund BlackAdder... Groovy.]
The plan was this… They would dress up like a band of Gypsy’s and try to hitch a ride into town.
Trauma dressed up as the Gypsy King, The Vindicator as his eldest son. Blade was impersonating the uncle, while Dragon, the chicken stuffed up his shirt, impersonated Trauma’s pregnant (bearded) wife.
They stood by the side of the road and awaited any passing vehicle.
An hour passed.
Just when they were about to give up, nothing continued to happen and Trauma became annoyed.
“I’m annoyed.”, he said.
“This chicken is pecking at my navel”, complained Dragon… “Let’s just cook it up and eat it!”
“We can’t!” Said The Vindicator… “We don’t have any white wine!”
They sat on the rocks and considered their predicament.
They didn’t even notice the jet-black Mustang convertible drive by them.
Nor did they notice the driver.
They didn’t have a clue about the rose tattoo.
But The Vindicator and Trauma at least knew where it was located!
[writer - The Vindicator]
Walking miles down the road the “Gypsies” flashed the thumb to every passing vehicle. Every time the response was the same, they would flip them the bird and attempt to serve into them. Especially the big transports. Wondering why the hostility Trauma and Vindicator (quite by accident) noticed Dragon as the next car was passing. Instead of sticking up a thumb, he was flipping everyone the bird! Well that explained it.
Half an hour later and several hundred tries by Trauma, Vindicator and Blade they finally taught him which finger to use. Hard concentration and mental will power played its role in establishing fine motor control over individual fingers. Winding its why towards them on the forested road here in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado.
The sun reflected off the dusty black Pontiac and the rusty muffler half dragged on the road and rumbled. Pulling up beside them he rolled down the passenger side window. “Hey man. Need a ride?”
At the same time Trauma and Vindicator yelled out, “Tito!” And everyone piled into the car. Vindicator was sitting in the front seat after telling Trauma to wait while he got in first so he could get into the backseat. (It was a 4 door)
[writer - TRAUMA - Groovy.]
“You know this guy?” Asked Dragon
“Yes indeed”, said The Vindicator… “But he and Trauma have known each other longer.”
“Where’re you guys headed?” Asked Tito, sounding extremely macho.
“Up into the mountains.”, answered Trauma.
“Cool! I can drop you off on my way to the Nazi Youth of North America meeting… It’s right across the road from the Serbian Proletariat!”
“Well that’s convenient as all hell, ain’t it?”, The Vindicator muttered.
As they ambled up the winding mountain roads, they suddenly came to a screeching halt. Everyone jumped, startled and fearing that they would plummet to their deaths.
“What happened?” Asked Blaze.
Tito pointed to the roadside further up the mountain and said:
“Toothpick tree!” and pulled out a small (nearly empty) container of toothpicks.
He took the soggy, old one from his mouth and flicked in into Trauma’s right eye, for old time’s sake.
[writer - Vindicator]
As the day dragged on, the old vespa sputtered through the winding woodland highway. Occasionally Tito would try and run down any animal that ventured onto the road. Hours past without a person or building in sight. As dusk drew near they finally happened upon an old mansion off some dirt road. “Hey lets check that out and see if they got a phone.” Vindicator said. “Yeah. And maybe they’ll have some cash and TVs and shit too.” Tito said appraising the potential of the house while he wiggled another soggy toothpick in his mouth.
The house was abandoned, dusty and old. Light shone through the cracks in the roof and walls and through boarded up paneless windows. A rickety set of stairs led up to the mansions upper level while archways and doors gaped off into the rest of the house. Standing in the open doorway Trauma had just kicked open he looked around at the rest of the group. “Hey.” he noticed someone missing. “Where’s Tito?” The sound of a trunk slamming shut turned their attention to Tito swaggering up the walk with a gym bag laden with bolt cutters, crowbar and a flashlight. Seeing the expression on their faces he shrugged, “What?” And pushed past Trauma into the house and disappeared into the interconnecting rooms.
“HEY! Guys! Come here quick!” Vindicator called out. He was in the Library thumbing through a thick, ancient tome.
“What’s that?” Trauma asked.
“The cover reads: ‘The Adventurers Guide to Time Travel and Other Silly Things.’ Blade answered. Trauma looked confused for a moment longer and than shook his head again (much like a little child would), “No. I mean WHAT is THAT?”
Vindicator rolled his eyes and answered, “It’s a book.”
“Oh.” Trauma said, turning back to the window. “Oooooo. Butterfly.”
Reading through the first incantation (unaware of course) Vindicator inadvertently opened a temporal rift. Unfortunately he did not pronounce the words exactly.
“If these words are not spoken correctly the Rift will go screwy and all who enter it will be lost in a hodgepodge world of dimensional mayhem.”
“Shit.” Vindicator muttered suddenly objects in the room began swirling and were starting to surrender to the pull of the Rift Vortex. Vindicator still gripping the book was sucked in first, next went Blade and then Dragon, who was still clutching the chicken for dear life. Trauma and Tito followed.
Falling endlessly through blackness Trauma looked at Tito, and Tito back at Trauma. “This seems familiar, doesn’t it?” Trauma asked. “Oh shit. Not again.” Tito frowned.
[writer - TRAUMA - To be continued....]