Shootout at the Fantasy Factory - Chapter 8

And through the power of Wpirjghp, Agent Stiffupperlip spread open the diliddium metal bars of the monkey cage like they were made of a more malleable metal. By his watch, there was still around nine minutes before the missile launched. Plenty of time to save the day with enough time to tuck the missus in for bed. But before that his first order of business was to retrieve his gun and then discharge said gun directly into the area of space occupied by Highwayman’s face and then hand out a big heap of whoop ‘em to Highwayman’s stupid henchmen and disarm the rocket and say a kick-butt pun and maybe even chew some bubblegum—in that order. But before he began his first order of business, there was the ritual of the zeroth order of business that preceded any and all business—the straightening of one’s tie, the dusting off of one’s lapels and the adjusting of one’s cuff situation. Confident in his appearance, Stiffupperlip sprung into action.

“Psst.” John Barleycorn whispered, and thus forcing Stiffupperlip to pause. “Get me outta here. I can help.” He spoke with an air of reverence. Though Barleycorn couldn’t be certain of it, he suspected that he was in the presence of a student of the great monkey bar bending master Nfksdnfo.

“It’s no good scarecrow, I can’t have any civilian casualties. You’ll stay in the cage until it’s safe to come out, capiche?” Stiffupperlip said, repeating the zeroth order of business. He promptly turned from the scarecrow and a hay-stuffed fist scratched the back of his jacket.

“No, please. I have a terrible fear of monkeys, especially of the flying variety.”

Agent Stiffupperip was ready to shrug the bothersome field decoration off when a faint aroma tickled his senses and propelled him to spin around in a flurry. “Dingleberries!”

Barleycorn jumped back from the bars, “Sorry officer. I meant no harm, honest.” He said, over-apologizing and ushering Stiffupperlip to be on his way with his eyes. Barleycorn nearly busted at the seams when he was yanked back to the front of the cage. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Stop, please. Stop!” He sobbed. When no harm became of him, he paused from his reaction which he then categorized as a gross overreaction.

Stiffupperlip was sniffing (sniffing?) sniffing Barleycorn’s vest. Face planted right in the scarecrow’s bosom. “Dingleberries,” he said, even more dramatically than the last time. “Why do you smell like dingleberries?”

Solidified in an embarrassing wince, Barleycorn peered through his button eye. “Dingleberries?” he asked at last. “Oh yes, dingleberries. I dropped my hand in a big pile of them over there.”

“Where?” Stiffupperlip grilled.

“Over there.”

Stiffupperlip recognized the area immediately as the place where his roll right stone came to a stop. Just then he had an idea. The monkey bars holding John Barleycorn wiggled like wet spaghetti as he yanked the timid scarecrow from the cage. “C’mon scarecrow. We’ve got a day to save.”

Highwayman grew tired of waiting for the missile to launch. He had to go out to his van and pull a camping chair out of the back because he was tired of standing around and waiting for his plans to fruit (read: fru-isch). Although the chair looked much more comfortable than it actually was (as camping chairs are wont to being) he sure did make it look comfy to the rest of his minions who were just standing around waiting for something bad to happen. Highwayman stretched out and rested his feet atop the glass case that encapsulated the once-heroic and dastardly Agent Rainmaker.

Crime did pay, Highwayman decided. Sure it took years of scheming and enough moolah to buy a moderately sized country, but it was worth it. He was mere minutes away from blasting that stinking Winking Moon into oblivion. Yes, that was his plan all along: to nuke the moon. Taking his cue from President Barbicane, Highwayman conspired to send a missile to the moon and blind the moon’s one good eye, thus snuffing out the narrator. That handsome and dashing, dapper and alluring, good-looking and pleasant to be around narrator. As far as the story is concerned, there was just no logical reason for him to want to snuff out the narrator. Without the Winking Moon there was no land of Make Believe, no Fantasy Factory (sometimes capitalized, sometimes not) and no Highwayman. What a stinker of a plan. To think, he wants to rob the good people of some middle notch, grade ‘C’ fiction. What a tool. Unfortunately, it looks like he may get away with it too, even though he’s never recited his motive.

Highwayman had a good motive for wanting to blind the Winking Moon, and he was a little upset that he didn’t get a chance to recite his monologue—it took him years to perfect the evil monologue—longer than it did to plan the dastardly deed itself. But none of his adversaries proved to be daring and or dashing enough to deserve such a performance.

Somehow, and he didn’t know how, the countdown went from ten minutes to ten seconds. And for some reason, there was a cartoon bean and a pixie standing in the middle of the factory floor.

Everything was going to plan, and now sooner than anticipated; the bean and the pixie weren’t part of it, but you’ve got to admire the efficiency. Highwayman was pleased “10, 9, ate, Se7en (starring Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman), sicks…” Highwayman said along with the somewhat sexy sounding voice. He was glad he paid the few extra clams for the sexy voice, it was much more pleasing that the nasally voice.

Wait a galddarn minute, Highwayman thought, this is exactly the type of situation that precludes the reemergence of the story’s true hero. He sat up in a hurry, readying himself for whatever was sure to come at him.

“Hey guys, looks like we succeeded in evil,” Enrick Schmidt the duck-billed simian said, proudly holding onto the bottle thrown to him early by Highwayman. “What do you say we have a toast?”

Highwayman leapt up from his lawn chair, his actions hampered from stiff muscles caused by the lawn chair. “No!” He screamed as Enrick Schmidt the duck-billed simian popped the lid. The last thoughts that crossed Highwayman’s mind after he heard the cork erupt was that he couldn’t believe that the ultimate hero would have been that dang lawn chair that gave him a cramp that stopped him from reaching his henchman in time.

The bottle of Vlad the Imp Aler exploded in a shower of chickpeas. The beans of the garbanzo variety sprayed in all directions from the mouth of the bottle, pummeling Enrick Schmidt the duck-billed simian and all those around him. And what more, the rocket’s fuse had been doused with hummus, never to light again.

While Highwayman had a contingency against any willful heroism, he failed to account for heroism of the stupid kind. Good ol’ Enrick Schmidt, after this is all done he was going to finish conductrician school and live a happy life. Hooray Enrick!

Agent Rackensack snored in his footnote-encrusted sleep and he very nearly rolled over, but not quite. (4)

(4) Agent Rackensack found himself on the back of a luck dragon. It was totally awesome and he was having so much fun. He wasn’t even thinking about that night at the fantasy factory when he was the big hero that saved everyone. There were too many radio and television ads that occupied the forefront of his thoughts. It seemed like everybody wanted him to endorse their products nowadays—he even got an offer to supplant that hilarious two-dimensional anthropomorphic coffee bean that everyone loved so much.