The whole world felt off kilter. John Barleycorn’s head throbbed and stars twinkled in his eyes. He had never traveled in a portal of any sort before, generally content to take roads paved with colored bricks—be they red, yellow or maroogundy. He felt groggy and itchy, like the time he was trapped under a cow for the night. He had no idea where he was and his eyes were doing that adjustment thing like when you look at the sun for too long and everything seems really dark in comparison. He was inside somewhere and he could hear plenty of commotion. A blur of what looked like a two headed camel strode past him and he dove between two giant crates, narrowly averting being spotted.
His hay filled hand dropped into something squishy. It smelled like dingleberries. Odd, he considered, but upon reconsidering it was about on par with everything else that happened to him today.
Two starched gloves wrapped around his chest and pulled him farther back behind the crates. “Barelycorn, is that you?”
The startled scarecrow recognized the sultry voice right away. “Agent Rainmaker. How did you get here?”
“I should be asking you the same thing. There’s some seriously dangerous stuff going down tonight, seriously. What were you thinking, jumping into that portal?” She asked, still holding him close to her chest.
John Barleycorn couldn’t help but blush as her hot breath ruffled the frayed tips of his ears. “I—I don’t know. I overheard Giant Baby conspiring against Mr. Fantasy, and before I could do anything they dragged him through the portal.” He paused for a moment, reorienting himself. “How come you didn’t do anything? I tried to warn you.”
“Barelycorn, you’ve done stumbled yourself into a dilly of a pickle here. What’s going on is, I caught wind of something fishy involving Mr. Fantasy and this here abandoned factory. Now I’m sandwiched between the law and doing the right thing.”
“What do you mean? Mr. Fantasy is in on this?”
Agent Rainmaker smothered Barleycorn’s mouth just as two pair of hoofed feet were striding past. Shhh. She mimed. “Just stick with me Barelycorn, and you’ll make it out of here. You dig?”
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Oh, and it’s Barleycorn.”
“That’s what I said.”
“You said Barelycorn. But it’s—“
“Whatever, just stick with me. Let’s go.”
“Unhand me now,” Mr. Fantasy demanded. “You don’t know what you’re doing Giant Baby.”
“Shaddup you turd,” Giant Baby grunted, teething on his cigar. He shoved Mr. Fantasy onto a chair and tow henchmen went to work tying up the silver maned patriarch of the Land of Make Believe. With one hand still relatively free, Mr. Fantasy tried to reach for his pocket. Giant Baby helped him out and snatched the neck of the bottle which sat just beyond his grasp.
“Wut have we Heare?” The hideous, poorly spoken grammar of Highwayman cut through the floor of the Fantasy Factory. An awed hush fell over the place, cautiously awaiting what would come next. “A boddle of bubblie? How 4tunate, this will b perfict for tha sellabration.”Highwayman eyed the odd concoction brewed by Glad the Imp Aler. Thinking nothing it would have absolutely no bearing on the climax of tonight’s events, he tossed it to his nearest henchman.
That henchman just happened to be Enrick Schmidt the duck-billed simian, the only henchmen with a name and a backstory.
“Highwayman?!” Mr. Fantasy gasped. “What are you doing? Why have you brought me here?”
“Mister Fantassy, y should I tell u when I can sho u instead?” Highwayman fished a tiny remote with a solitary red button out of his pocket. Pointing it towards the roof, he dangled his finger over the bright red button. Keeping his finger there, he teased the button like he was dangling a cookie just out of reach of a fat kid (which even in his advanced stages of villainy, he did not consider himself above doing—fun was fun).
“No!” John Barleycorn cried out. Acting on impulse he dove for Highwayman’s hands, but came up short at the impediment of that dastardly two-headed camel.
“A stuped scaircrowe?” Highwayman said, noticeably upset as though he expected a greater show of opposition. “I don’t no wut ur doing heer, but you mr scaircrowe, have folloed the yell-o brick rode rite to your owne d-mise.”
Two henchmen promptly grabbed John Barleycorn and tossed him into the monkey cage adjacent to the one Agent Rackensack was currently housed in.
Agent Rainmaker shook her head. That Barelycorn was so stupid. How could he be so impulsive? It was alright, she thought, perhaps Highwayman would think that that was the full scope of his snooping opposition to whatever sinister scheme he had concocted.
Highwayman’s eyes lit with maniacal glee and with an exaggerated sweeping motion, he pressed the button.
The roof of the fantasy factory creaked to life. A thin veil of the Winking Moon’s light slipped through the widening slit.
“What are you getting at?” Mr. Fantasy demanded.
“Shaddup!” Giant Baby demanded, smacking his confused elder square in the face.
“Such a 1derful nite issnt it,” Highwayman ruminated. Discarding the remote, he fished into his pocket and pulled out yet another one, an exact match for size and shape except this one had a blue button. With the same grandiose motions, Highwayman compressed the supple contours of the protruding blue cylinder until it was nearly flush with the black surface.
“Not on my watch!” Agent Rainmaker shouted, lunging from the shadows and kicking the remote from Highwayman’s outstretched hand.
Giant Baby was quick to jump to Highwayman’s aid, and for his efforts he received a whopper of a roundhouse kick right in his chubby cheeks. The low heel of Rainmaker’s shoes nicked his cheek and instinctively he pinched it to stop the bleeding. Giant Baby being—well, a giant baby—was prone to massive amounts of cheek pinching. And he hated every second of it. Pinching his own cheek was no different, so Giant Baby picked up his toys and went home.
Agent Rainmaker fought quite valiantly, clobbering the various henchmen with karate chop action. Highwayman tired of the intrusion. “Wear is that balrog?” The henchmen not in the middle of a good old fashioned clobbering looked at one another and then down to the ground, and slowly receded from Highwayman. “Any1?!” He interrobanged, daring the help to speak up. “No1 notissed a giant ballrog leeve the building?”
Before anyone of the henchmen could speak up (not that they would), Agent Rainmaker quadruple clobbered a quartet of quietly quivering…uh, bad guys… and conspired to quell Highwayman’s quixotic quest to conquer the kwyjibo.
Try saying that ten times fast.
Anyway, Agent Rainmaker closed the distance between her and Highwayman and prepared to throw down.
“Good greef,” he said, ashamed of his goons. “Musst I dew everything my self?” With Rainmaker closing in on him he held his palms out vertically and moved them around as though he were trying to throw a fireball (down, forward, punch).
All set for some Highwayman clobbering, Agent Rainmaker collided with an invisible wall and crashed to the ground. Highwayman promptly made manifest a cube in which to encase our valiant heroine.
“Nooo!” Agent Stiffupperlip screamed from the monkey cage. “It’s you! You’re the meanie who killed Constable Ballyhoo!”
Highwayman smiled his lecherous, treacherous smile and turned his head to the Stiffupperlip. “Bravo, Stiff Upper Lip, uve fine-alley cracked the kase. It is eye hoo you’ve beene seaching for all these yeers. And now u have 2 bare witness while I do something that can’t yet B reveeled.” He depressed the blue button of the remote, causing a rocket to rise from a hatch in the ground.
Arriving late to the party was Agent Rackensack. He saw the sinister smile of Highwayman, the gleaming rocket of doom and the anguished screams of his partner. Fishing through his pocket, Highwayman pulled out yet another tiny remote control, completely similar to the others save for one small detail. That small detail: the button, was yellow!
It didn’t take a detective to figure out what was happening: he had to stop the remote wielding madman.
Meanwhile, Agent Stiffupperlip was determined to get out and put the hurt on the evil mime. So, he went to work doing some hardcore reminiscing. He thought back to the time when he spent months in the icy mountains of Fepiogj under the tutelage of the legendary monkey bar bending monk, Nfksdnfo where he learned the ancient Upogijjgwopian art of monkey bar bending known as Wpirjghp.
He really didn’t have time to come up with real names for the all of the proper nouns, or come up with detailed back stories for all of the aspects of his fabricated memories. Skipping the details was a deadly risk for the inexperienced flashbacker, but he didn’t have time.
“Don’t touch that dial!” Agent Rackensack screamed, jumping down from his perch with a flying knee attack. He caught Highwayman square in the chest and knocked the wind out of his opponent. Standing triumphant over his foe, Rackensack kicked the remote aside. “After these messages, we’ll be right back.” And he punched Highwayman in the face.
Feeling like he just saved the day (but at the same time feeling like a doofus for his horrendous attempt at both his attacking and victorious one-liners), he stepped proudly over towards the monkey cage to free his partner. He was stunned to see Stiffupperlip sitting calmly and staring out with empty eyes.
Rackensack was also stunned when he learned the hard way that Highwayman was only faking. A musical note shot out of Highwayman’s heel and pinged Rackensack in the back of the head. (1)
Highwayman lifted himself up with the aid of an invisible rope, and after picking up the yellow buttoned remote, he tooted Rackensack’s nose. (2) After pressing the button (it made no humorous noises, just a simple click), Highwayman watched with glee as the rocket slowly titled up towards the night sky. It turned about 15° above the horizontal and stopped. Highwayman pulled another remote from his pocket. Tiny. Purple button. Exaggerated motion. Rocket moving into position.
Highwayman and what was left of his henchmen looked around, expecting some sort of resistance. There was none.
Another remote. White button. Dance a little jig. Depression. Missile craning towards the sky. No resistance.
New remote. Pink. Dance. Press. No resistance.
Remote. Maroon button.
Lime green.
Fuchsia.
Burnt sienna.
Razzmatazz.
Mac and cheese.
Orange.
Each time a new, evil (and honestly, a very well coordinated) dance accompanied each depression. The pile of discarded remotes grew and grew, covering the body of (3).
Gears turning, all sorts of lights flashing, at one point there was even fog that shot out beneath the cart, bells, whistles, the only thing that was missing was Michael Buffer. No. Wait. Here he is. On the press of the sepia button, in case you were wondering.
“Tonight we are going to witness the most anticipated event in the history of the land of Make Believe. Are yooouuuuuuu ready? To the dozens in attendance and the trillions watching around the world, from the run down Fantasy Factory, ladies and gentlemen; pixies and henchmen; ogres and flying monkeys. Let’s get ready to rrrrumble!”
As quickly as he appeared, Michael Buffer disappeared from sight beneath the haze of a fog machine. Using the fog for dramatic effect, Highwayman pulled the final remote control from his pocket. This one was huge. It was like as big as it would have to be if Highwayman was as tall as, like, that Gulliver fellow. And it’s button, was a smiley face.
At the press of the button—the very last chance for last minute heroics—a prerecorded voice sputtered to life from the squawk box. “Ignition sequence activated. Missile launch in thirty minutes.” The voice was oddly calming and unsettlingly sexy.
(1) Agent Rackensack wouldn’t realize it until much later when he went over the transcripts of the events of the evening with his superiors, but he was relegated to the footnotes of the legendary affair that would soon come to be known and the Shootout at the Fantasy Factory.
(2) His head was still reeling from the attack, but he would not abide the musicification of he nose. “Why I oughtta,” he said. He got up and headbutted Highwayman right in the face. And then, he gave Highwayman noogies and Indian burns until the evil mime cried out for Uncle Phil just like a certain Fresh Prince did whenever the stakes got too high.
(3) That would be our hero, Agent Rackensack. At this point, he was shaking hands with Zimmer Man and being congratulated on a job well done. “You’re gonna like the way you look, in your new position as detective,” the Zimmer Man said, “I guarantee it.”
