BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

They gave her looks. Brains. Nuclear capabilities. Everything but an “off” switch.

Since Gregory Hines died back in 2003, they called me to fill in.

“You know I can’t dance, right?” I asked.

By way of reply, they advanced their own question, “Do you know how to use a gun?”

“Well, yeah.”

One of them handed me a stack of paper. It was folded and dog-eared to a specific page. It looked like it had seen better days.

“I hate to tell you this,” I said. “But, this isn’t a gun.”

“This is a script. You get the gun when the properties master gets here,” the script girl replied. I knew she was the script girl because it said so on her t-shirt. She then followed up with yet another question as she tapped her index finger on the page. “Can you memorize this line right here?”

I looked down at the paper and read the text. I looked back up at them, then lowered my eyes and read the text again. Not only had the paper itself seen better days, so had the writing. Finally, I said, “You’re kidding, right?”

“No” was the answer.

“I can memorize it,” I told them. “In fact, now that I’ve read it once I’m pretty sure I’m never going to be able to forget it, unfortunately. “

“Good,” she quipped.

I shook my head. “You aren’t  going to expect me to actually say it or something ridiculous like that, are you?”

“Ssshhhhh!” the one with the wild-eyes shushed. “Here she comes.”

“Here who comes?” I asked.

“Eeek.”

“Eeek?”

“Ssshhh!”

I turned to see E K coming down the stairs. She was all decked out in a retro leather jacket, short skirt, and stiletto heels. I have to admit, she was looking pretty hot in a retro-80’s-disco-pop sorta way. Over her shoulder was a huge, black  duffle bag that looked more than a little suspicious.  What’s more, she was wearing an unhappy grimace. I wasn’t entirely sure whether it was because the duffle was too heavy or if she was seriously pissed off about the eighties pop wardrobe. Of course, it’s always possible she was just pissed about everything in general. I mean, we’re talking about E K here.

“Ummmm… Hi… Your worship,” I said.

The Evil One didn’t say a word. Instead she simply reached into the duffle, then quickly withdrew her hand and pointed a rather nasty looking machine pistol at me.

I cringed.

She stood there.

Finally I said, “What’s going on here?”

“She’s activated,” the script girl said.

“What do you mean she’s activated?” I asked.

“Ssshhh!” the wild-eyed one shushed me again, then whispered urgently, “You’ll set her off.”

“I’ve got some bad news for you,” I told him. “You don’t have to talk to set her off. Just leave the toilet seat up and see what happens. It’s pretty ugly.”

“Do you have a death wish?” the script girl hissed.

“No, but whoever gave my wife an Uzi obviously does,” I replied. “And, by the way. It’s EKay, not Eeek.”

“Not anymore,” said a new voice.

E K turned and fired.

I ducked.

So did everyone else.

Once the explosive burp and clatter of brass subsided, and the ringing in my ears started to fade, I looked over at the holes in the wall. The guy belonging to the new voice dragged himself up from the floor and gave me a nod.

“I knew she was going to do that,” he said.

I looked over and noticed that E K was just standing there staring with her breach hanging wide open. I would have mentioned it to her but I was afraid she’d just reload.

“Good on ya’,” I replied to the new guy. “So, who’s gonna fix my wall?”

“I’ll get a gaffer to take care of that. They have some pretty amazing tape.”

“So I hear.”

“You must be Colonel McQuade.”

“No, I’m Murv.”

He nodded and winked. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”

“Seriously.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he grunted

“So, what did you mean by not anymore?” I asked.

“Simple. She used to be EKay. Now she’s Eeek VIII.”

“Eeek Eight…”

“No, Eeek VIII.”

“That’s what I said.”

“This is a B movie. You have to say it with a Roman accent in order to make it sound important.”

“I see…” I grumbled. “So, what happened to Eeek One through… Excuse me, Eeek I through Eeek VII?”

“They were all blonds. The director wanted a redhead.”

“And they wanted to know if I had a death wish…” I mumbled while shaking my head, and then asked, “He’s not very bright, is he?”

“Hey! I’m right here…” the director shouted.

“Not very bright, are you?” I turned and asked.

He didn’t answer. Instead he just climbed back into his fancy folding chair and grumbled a lot.

“So…” I began. “What exactly does Eeek Eigh… I mean VIII do? I mean, besides destroy our house with an Uzi.”

“She terminates Japanese Beetles.”

“With a machine gun?”

“That’s one method. She’s capable of destroying Japanese Beetles in a variety of ways. And, if she is overcome by them at any point, she is also equipped with a tactical nuclear device.”

“Yeah,” I grunted. “I know. I live with her. I’ve seen her melt down.”

“Here,” he said, then handed me a Sig Sauer. “This is your gun.”

“Great,” I said, taking the firearm from him. “What am I supposed to do with it? I thought Eeek over here was the Japanese Beetle Exterminator.”

“She is.” He replied, then directed himself to retro E K. “Eeek VIII. Kill.”

With that, my wife reloaded the Uzi and stalked through the house. A moment later the back door exploded off its hinges and that was followed by the burp of the machine pistol, occasionally punctuated by silence. I assumed  that just meant she was reloading, because the gunfire would commence again within a few seconds.

I jogged through the house to the smoking hole where my back door used to be, and looked out at the carnage. Japanese Beetles were screaming for mercy as E K… I mean Eeek VIII… was peppering the back yard with 9mm rounds while stomping the carcasses of the wounded insects and gleefully grinding them into the ground.  The crunching noise was absolutely horrific, and she showed no sign of stopping. In fact, she really seemed to be enjoying herself.

“Now do you know what to do?” the properties guy asked.

“Run and hide?” I replied.

“Pssstttt!” a noise came from behind.

I turned to see the script girl motioning wildly.

“What?” I asked.

“Your line…” she hissed urgently. “Say your line…”

“You mean you seriously want me to say that?”

“Yes!” the director demanded.

I moaned.

“We can have wardrobe put you into a Japanese Beetle costume,” the director threatened.

“Yeah, okay, fine…” I grumbled, then cleared my throat and said, “Well this is quite some toy you have yourselves here gentlemen. I suppose you want me to put it back in its box.”

“CUT!” the director yelled.

The crunching and gunfire continued, along with a bit of giggling coming from the retro-clad redhead.

“CUT!” the director yelled again.

Eeek VIII kept stomping beetles and blowing holes into the sides of our neighbor’s houses with the Uzi.

“You idiots really did forget to give her an off switch, didn’t you?”

“Ummm… Animatronics wasn’t my department,” the properties master said. “Just props.”

“Yeah, great… Pass the buck,” I replied, then asked, “Okay, so what now?”

“Well… Ummm… She’s your wife. We were hoping you could tell us…”

“Yeah, actually, I think I can… Don’t call me if you decide to remake The Fly. She hates those too…”

More to come…

Murv

(NOTE: It is entirely possible that the movie reference above is a bit too obscure. My apologies for that. However, I watched it many years ago and figured I should subject the rest of you to it as well. The movie is “Eve of Destruction” – Also known in other countries as Eve Eight, Android Assassin, as well as Terminator Woman. It was a B Minus / C Plus Terminatoresque ripoff S/F flick starring Gregory Hines and Dutch actress Renée Soutendijk in a dual role as Doctor Eve Simmons and Eve VIII. You can read more about the actual movie here: Eve Of Destruction. I recommend pizza, booze, and nothing much else to do before actually watching this. But if you like mindless B schlock movies, it’s worth a gander. In the interest of full disclosure, while E K does in fact have leather and stilettos, she does not own an Uzi nor a tactical nuclear device. Production stills and frame grabs  of the actual movie were used to create Eeek Eig… I mean, Eeek VIII.)

“You’re absolutely sure?” the park ranger asked.

“Yeah,” I told her with a nod. “I think we’ll be okay.”

“We have a confirmed sighting,” she insisted. “From what I’ve been told this particular Sasquatch must have already raided another campsite because he was carrying a Coleman lantern when he was last seen.”

“It wouldn’t happen to be a red headed Sasquatch, would it?” I asked.

“How did you know?” she replied. “Have you seen it?”

“Not recently.”

“But you’ve seen it?”

“You could say that.”

“I see,” she answered with a nod. “Well, then you are aware of the danger. I really think you and your group should consider packing up and staying at a hotel in town.”

“Seriously, we’ll be fine,” I assured her.

“Suit yourself,” she said as she climbed back into her official forestry service vehicle and started the engine. “But don’t say you weren’t warned.”

My wife and I waved goodbye as the Ranger drove away through the night and we continued to watch after her until the tail lights eventually disappeared. In the silence that ensued we just stared into the darkness and scanned the murky woods.

“So, do you think we should go look for him?” E K finally asked.

I started to agree with her plan, but then noticed a lightning bug that didn’t seem to be winking quite like the others; not to mention the fact that it seemed to be following a much less erratic flight plan than its cohorts. In fact, it was traveling a fairly linear course. It also glowed white as opposed to the yellow pinpoints that were obviously firefly butts. I watched it bob along in the distance as it flickered in a rapid staccato. Before long it dawned on me that I was watching a Coleman lantern moving between the trunks of the distant trees.

“That’s him right there, isn’t it?” I asked, pointing at the faraway glow.

Before my wife could answer we heard the drawn out echo of Chris’ voice as he whooped an unintelligible, yet gleefully inebriated cry. The light stopped for a moment, swung back and forth, then started bobbing again as it slowly grew in size.

“I think you’re right,” E K said. “That’s him and now he’s coming this way.”

I turned back toward the camp. Folks were relaxing following a long day of canoeing down the Current river and a fine meal cooked over an open fire.  Chris’ wife Tammy, in particular, was sprawled out in a lounge chair with damp towels laying across her sunburned thighs and shoulders.

“It looks like he’s heading back toward us,” I called out to her.

She looked over her shoulder at me and said, “It’s about time, Gaaaahhhhdd-Dammit!”

I didn’t think anything odd about her reply. You see, Tammy insists that “Gaaaahhhhdd” personally damn just about everything at least once each day. Just to make sure, she reminds “her” at repeated intervals throughout. And, when it came to Chris, well, let’s just say “Gaaaahhhhdd” had a standing damning order from Tammy Jean.

The drunken yell was becoming louder in one of those bizarre, Doppler distorted sorts of ways. By the same token, the 6 foot plus, buck naked, carrot topped, Chris was looming more visible through the night as he drew closer.

“He doesn’t look like he’s going to stop,” E K announced.

“Yeah… I think you’re right,” I mumbled, then turned toward the camp again and announced, “Better make a hole, everybody. Here he comes.”

They all looked up and noticed the naked freight train coming our way. E K and I stepped to either side of the path as the whooping madman shot between us. I turned just in time to see him snatch a beer from an open cooler as he barreled through the camp.

“Chris, Gaaaahhhhdd-Dammit!” Tammy screamed, not entirely unexpectedly, of course.

Mike just watched him run down the hill and along the gravel bar, a beer in one hand and the lantern in the other. As the soused-war cry faded he looked over at Carrie and said, “Yep… And there he goes.”

Sandy, on the other hand, the chronicler of our group, had her camera slung around her neck and took off at a dead sprint behind the escaping lunatic. Her husband Mark just sat in his lawn chair and said, “Ya’know, I really don’t like Swiss cheese. It smells like feet.”

Bill and Muffy missed the whole thing because they were off in their tent doing… Well… What Bill and Muffy generally did whenever they were in their tent, if you get my meaning.

E K and I wandered back into the camp and pulled our chairs up near the fire.

“How long do you think he’ll keep this up?” my wife asked.

“I dunno, Gaaaahhhhdd-dammit,” Tammy mumbled.

I cracked open a fresh beer and settled back into my seat. “Well, it’s been about two hours now… He’ll probably go until the lantern runs out of fuel or he comes within 20 feet or so of Mark’s Ford truck out there.”

“Oh, yeah…” Tammy said with a nod. “Ford truck. That’s right. Gaaaahhhhdd-dammit.”

Sometime around four in the morning we found Chris. He was sprawled in the bed of Mark’s Ford pickup just as I’d predicted, passed out and snoring so hard that the resulting shockwave caused Bill and Muffy’s tent to cave in on them – not that such seemed to have any ill effect on their activities, as evidenced by the rhythmic undulations of the nylon.  But, we had other fish to fry… Or, Sasquatches to rescue, I should say, because the clearing was filled with Park Rangers carrying nets and tranquilizer guns.

In the end we managed to talk them into simply tagging Chris and letting him go.

And, that’s why ever since then we only let him drink light beer.

More to come…

Murv