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Susanocalypse Now

by on June 13, 2012

Last time in the Catrina Chronicles, things had gone pretty badly. Ermingard, tricked by Susan into reading Twilight and thus becoming Susan’s minion, had just shot Santa Clause with a spork. Catrina arrived too late to stop her, but just in time to fight a dramatic, if abbreviated, duel with her. Unfortunately, while Catrina and Ermingard were having it out, neither of them noticed that Susan had stolen Santa’s time-traveling sleigh and taken off to the 42nd century with Millicent, the manatee which contained the incredibly powerful Something Device….

Susan could hardly restrain herself from giggling, as she rode Santa’s sleigh through the wormhole. At last her evil plan was coming to fruition, really, this time. All her past evil plans hadn’t worked out so well, she had to admit, but this time, THIS time it was going to work. Catrina was stuck in 2016, as was Ermingard, and Ermingard was still overpowered by Twilight. Susan couldn’t think of anyone left who could stop her. Instead of giggling, she decided to sing. Her voice echoed around the swirly wormhole walls as the sleigh raced inevitably towards its destination, because one can definitely hear things in a wormhole, just like Star Trek.

If I ruled the world, even just for a day, I’d roll out of bed in the mornin’, dress up like Cruella and go,

I’d give orders to my minions who’d work for me, I would reorganize a country, and I wouldn’t get confronted for it. And they’d name it after me!

If I ruled the worrrrrld…..they would obey my commands! I would bring back the Macarena, and then I’d make ’em do the dance!

If I ruled the worrrrld….

But at that moment Susan’s song was cut off, as she plunged through the tail end of the wormhole and arrived in 4193, where things already seemed to be rolling towards a dramatic showdown….

***

Floss Anita stood on a hilltop, the Cow chewing a bit of grass placidly beside her, as together they surveyed their army. She had sworn to revenge the humiliation visited upon her by Ermingard, that blond floozy with her stupid pointy sporks. Floss Anita, grand viziersheep of EMTALA, had put two and two together, and though she hadn’t quite got four, she had come fairly close, 3.7, maybe 3.8. Ermingard was armed with sporks, the only ones Floss Anita knew who had spork-weapons were the Spork Brigade, and the brigadiers didn’t hand out their sporks willy-nilly like those free samples of muffins or bits of salad that you sometimes get in the grocery store. Thus, Ermingard had to be with the Spork Brigade. Floss Anita had rallied the forces of EMTALA from across the globe, and intended to launch them in a final furious assault against the Spork Brigade’s castle. But first, the obligatory villain speech had to be made. Unfortunately, tradition dictated that the leader of the villainous army deliver the speech himself. Silence fell around the hilltop, as the masses of evil sheep, each one armed to the teeth, waited to hear what terrible words the Cow would speak.

“Mooooooooo,” mooed the Cow.

Floss Anita coughed. “What our dear leader, the Cow, may he moo forever, meant to say was that this day we shall smash the Spork Brigade like so many toothpicks, we shall destroy their castle and melt their sporks down into slag, and then EMTALA shall rule this world forever! And after the world, THE GALAXY!”

The sheep, duly inspired now, let loose a rousing “Baaaaa!” of support, and waved their various swords, battleaxes, maces, clubs, javelins, pikes, and all sorts of other unhygenic medieval type weapons with sharpish edges high.

***

Burnside C. Nightingale, commanding officer of the 17th Spork Brigade, knew EMTALA was coming. The Brigade had driven back the zombie penguin tide, for a while. They would return, as they always did, but just at that moment he was more worried about Ermingard and EMTALA. She hadn’t returned back from the Queen’s Museum, and Burnside wondered if she’d gone off time-traveling again. He still had her hovercraft, and he thought about using it to look for her, but Burnside knew little about how to steer the darn thing. Suppose he ended up in the wrong time altogether? Worse, before she’d gone she had apparently antagonized EMTALA, and now they were going to be storming his castle. The Spork Brigadiers knew about the deadly horde of sheep; they knew too that Catrina had fought EMTALA two years before, but she had nearly perished herself, only being saved in the last minute by a strange man in a sleigh. If Catrina had to be rescued from EMTALA, what sort of a chance did they stand?

Burnside had to reassure his troops. He assembled them all out in the courtyard of the castle, mounted a slightly rickety wooden platform built for the purpose, and gave a little cough. “Ahem. Soldiers. I realize we’re about to be attacked by a horde of demon sheep, who have us woefully outnumbered, and we’ll most likely be killed in the morning. Or maybe we won’t. And if we die, er, we die with sporks. But we may not actually, er, die, because, ” and here Burnside produced and unrolled an ancient scroll he’d discovered in the castle library just that morning, “as the motto of the 17th Spork Brigade says….tennis shoes are funny things with strings and souls, but even then they lack rhythm.”
An awkward silence fell over the troops, rather like that awkward silence that happens when you’re in an elevator with a person you don’t know and who looks a little dodgy.  Several uncomfortable seconds ticked past. Finally, one of the junior lieutenants raised his hand. “Sir? How, exactly, is that supposed to be inspirational?”

Burnside did some very rapid thinking. “Well….because….because, like tennis shoes, we lack rhythm. The rhythm of evil! Rhythm is regimented, ordered, planned out, just like that soulless army of demon sheep coming towards us, but we’re not like that, are we? No, we’re spontaneous, we’re random, chaotic, we have souls and amusing conversation, we have….SPORKS!”

Now the soldiers were on the same page; they cheered defiantly as Burnside swept on. “And so, gentlemen, that’s why it’s inspirational, because tennis shoes are clearly the symbols of freedom and democracy! It’s just as our other motto, the Spork Brigade’s Oath, says,”  and here they all joined in,

In scary nights and shiny noons, we wield together fork and spoons! Let those who prey on helpless dorks, beware our fury! WE HAVE SPORKS!”

“Sure, you do,” Susan said, from where she had just appeared atop the wall. “Twips.”

“Who the blazes are you?” Burnside demanded.

“Susan. And I suppose I should’ve waited until the dramatic battle scene between you and EMTALA, but I got bored. So, let’s cut to the chase, shall we? I murdered Santa Clause, and now I’m going to wipe out the whole world with this manatee.”

Burnside should have ordered his soldiers to launch a hundred screaming sporks right at Susan, and if he had they might have reached her in time and might have averted what happened next, but here Burnside made one of the classic mistakes that heroes make: he assumed that Susan wanted to deliver her villain monologue, and so he set her up for it. “And just what exactly can one manatee possibly do?”

“This,” said Susan, and pressed the little red button behind Millicent’s left ear. A spurt of flame suddenly blasted out from behind the manatee’s tail, and it rocketed high into the sky. Susan dived for Santa’s sleigh, parked next to her on the walltop, and time-traveled like Character Hell out of there, which was a very prudent thing to do. Millicent rose higher into the night sky, glowing brilliantly, so bright that the Spork Brigadiers and the sheep of EMTALA could see it, shining like a tiny red star.

At that moment yet another wormhole opened up in the sky, and the Dangling Participle soared dramatically through. “Hurrah!” cheered Ferdinand Roderick Marshalham Willingsford, the Seventh. “We’ve arrived just in-”  But they hadn’t.

Millicent unleashed a pulse wave of crackling green energy that did not transform people into green rage monsters, but rather simply incinerated them, wiping almost every living thing on Earth, and sending the Dangling Participle screaming down to crash smack into a statue of Catrina, built ages before.  The energy, as it happened, only affected living things, not the undead. And so, as the sun rose the following morning, its yellow-red rays shone sadly upon a shattered world, inhabited only by one elderly sheep who had hidden in a bunker underground, and by the vast hordes of zombie penguins.

Well, that’s a depressing note to end on, you say. Is this like “Beneath the Planet of the Apes” where Charlton Heston pretty much kills everybody and ends with a fade-to-black? No, no it is, but to find out how our heroines get out of this one, you’ll have to stay tuned for Episode 47.  For previous episodes of the Catrina Chronicles, go here. Thanks for reading!

 

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2 Comments
  1. The Macarena??? It’s official. Susan is way more evil than Murphy ever was.

    And yes, that was a mighty depressing note to end on, but it was so depressing it made me laugh. Weird? Yes, I’m weird. 😛

    • No weirder than I am, considering I wrote it. 😛 And yes, Susan is indeed the incarnation of evil. She’s just mean, she is..

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