The Adventures of Couch Potato The Adventures of Couch PotatoThe Adventures of Couch Potato The Adventures of Couch Potato
Published by PLATYPI PUBLISHING http://www.platypipublishing.com
First edition published August 2006 Copyright August 2006 Nigel G. Mitchell
All rights reserved.
Digital copies of this work may be reproduced and distributed freely as long as it is without
compensation, and the work is used in its entirety with all authorship and copyright distribution notices intact. No changes or edits
in the content of this work or of the digital format are allowed.
This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author's
imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is used for the purpose of satire or entirely coincidental.
Contents
Part One: Maniacal Chairs………..4
Part Two: The King and I………...40
Part Three: Neither A Burrower Nor A Lender Be………..102
Prologue Prologue Prologue Prologue
Excerpted From "Superheroes of the 21st Century"
Vol. 2, pg. 231
Of all the superheroes of the 21st Century, perhaps the most obscure and underrated was Couch Potato.
Couch Potato was a living legend, which is usually the preferred method of being a legend, at least by the legend himself. Few people know his origin, his abilities, or even his adventures, yet we all owe him a debt of gratitude. He may not have been as popular or as muscular a hero as Captain Ego or Popsicle Man, but he did his part.
Couch Potato's birth began simply enough. It began when his true identity, Carl Potter, moved to Biggs City, New Jersey...
Part One:
Part One:
Part One:
Part One:
Maniacal Chairs
Maniacal Chairs
Maniacal Chairs
Maniacal Chairs
1 - William Shatner 1 - William Shatner 1 - William Shatner 1 - William Shatner
The moving van wasn't a big event in the neighborhood. Most people never even gave it a second glance as it wound its way through the streets, finally halting in front of a house.
Men got out of the van, but there was nothing unusual about that, either. A vast majority of cars require people to drive them.
The men began to unlock the back of the van, gaining access to the furniture and boxes stored inside. Again, nothing unusual. A smaller, but nonetheless significant amount of furniture requires people to move them from one place to another.
A station wagon pulled up behind the moving van. Two people got out.
This was unusual.
A few of the older residents in the neighborhood looked up. Here was something worth watching. They all had the same thought on their timeworn and somewhat
wrinkled minds.
New neighbors.
One of the occupants of the station wagon was a woman. Anatomically, at any rate. A case could have been made by a number of psychologists, zoologists, and the odd dermatologist, that she was a wild boar. A weapons manufacturer might have classified her as a battleaxe.
The woman took off her flamingo-shaped glasses. She peered at the house as if someone had recently coated it with slime. "So this is our new house. Jeez, you sure know how to pick 'em, huh, Carl?"
"Yes, dear," her companion said.
The same team of experts might have classified him as a marshmallow. He had roughly the same shape, texture, and disposition. He was also balding.
His name was Carl.
The woman shook her head. "Workin' for the same company for eleven years, and they ship ya off to this dump."
"Yes, dear." Carl shut the car-door.
The woman was about to launch into the meat of her conversation when she noticed one of the movers. He was carrying a chair.
By the legs.
"Hey!" she yelled. "Hey, get away from that, you idiot! That's an antique!"
She hurried off to accost the mover further. The mover was trying his best to put the chair between them as a shield.
Carl knew from experience that it wouldn't work.
With his wife gone, Carl was able to regard the new house with a jaundiced eye.
It was a nice house. Two story, a den, a sunken basement. Carl wasn't too particular about where he lived as long as it had a plug, a couch, and a fridge within easy reach.
Two feet usually did it. That's how long his arms were.
The plug was for the television.
Carl looked around and spotted one of the movers lugging a cardboard box to the front door. He held up a hand. "Excuse me?"
"Yeah?" the mover grunted. He was trying to get up the stairs.
"Did you see the TV set anywhere in there?"
"On the left. Two boxes down."
"Thanks."
"No problem." The mover managed to get the box through the door and was gone.
Carl was about to wonder what was in the box and where the mover was going to put it. Then he heard a loud crash and a frenzied scream of rage.
Judging by the decibel level of his wife's scream, Carl guessed it was the dishes.
His wife had never gotten along well with movers. She was terribly concerned with getting her belongings into the house in one piece. The movers were more concerned with getting it out of the truck.
Carl walked up to another mover coming out of the house. Actually, Carl waddled more than walked. His legs were a little too short, due to his waist size. It's a known fact that nothing grows well in the shade.
"Excuse me?" Carl asked.
The mover looked at him suggesting he was very rude for demanding attention at a time like this. "Yeah?"
"I was wondering if you moved the couch in yet."
"Yeah, me and Bubba just dropped it off."
Carl paused. "You don't mean...literally, do you?"
The mover paused. "Depends. Did you like that couch a whole lot?"
"Well, yes."
"Oh. Then, no, not literally."
Carl mopped his bald head with a handkerchief. "Well, could you carry the TV in for me? The living room would do fine."
The mover shrugged and lurched into the truck. He emerged a few minutes later carrying the television.
Carl instantly felt better. Some people say home was where your heart is. For Carl, home was where your TV was and where the remote control was at arms' length.
He followed the mover into the house. The mover carried the TV into the living room and set it down.
"No," Carl said, "a little to the left. In front of the armchair."
The mover shifted it.
"That's good. Thanks."
The mover grunted and trudged off to find something else to mangle.
Carl eased himself into the armchair and sighed. He shifted a little to fit himself into the grooves, worn into place by years of comfort and entertainment.
He was home.
Carl pulled the remote control out of his pocket. He always carried the remote control with him wherever he went. That way, he never lost it. At least, that's what he told his wife, who thought he was being an idiot.
The real reason he carried the remote control was that it was comforting. He never told his wife that, because she'd think he was an even bigger idiot.
He sighed, plugged in the TV, and clicked a button.
As the screen glowed to life, Carl felt the pressures drain away. Darkness gave way to light. Silence gave way to voices and laugh tracks.
Carl Potter was home again.
He changed the channel and miraculously found a daytime station without a talk show on it. Carl assumed it was a mistake. This was confirmed when the screen flashed a "Please Stand By." A talk show came on in its place.
"Figures," Carl muttered. He settled down to watch alcoholic neo-nazi teenage lounge singers and the women who loved them.
"Carl!" a voice yelled. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Just watching TV, dear," Carl said.
His wife stepped into his field of vision. Carl leaned over, allowing him to continue watching. He had honed that ability through years of practice.
"So," his wife snarled, "it all begins again, is that it? This entire house is empty, except for your stupid chair, your stupid TV, and a box of broken glass, and you're just going to let it all go?"
"Yes, dear," Carl said, vaguely.
"Great. Wonderful. Just what I need. Fine. Sit there on your fat butt while I do all the work. As usual."
"Yes, dear."
His wife stormed off. Carl turned up the sound.
His eyes drifted away from the screen long enough to spot a wire dangling out of the wall. He plugged it into the TV.
Cable. Carl flipped through the channels, drifting in a sea of mediocrity.
It didn't get any better than this.
Reception was a little off, though. He made a mental note to hook up the cable box later. Carl sighed. For now, there was nothing to do but relax and let the world wash over him in Technicolor.
"Catch," a voice said.
Something hit his chest with the force of a bullet. Carl doubled-over, coughing, and hit the floor.
He lay there for a moment on his side. Then, he looked at the object that had rolled off his lap onto the floor.
It was a baseball.
A pair of sneakers attached to jeans walked into his field of vision. A small boy's red-haired face leaned into view.
"I told you to catch it, didn't I?" the face asked.
Carl wheezed. He wheezed again. The third time, he managed to get it to mimic speech.
"Who're you?" he whispered.
The face grinned. A hand grasped Carl's and shook it. "Bobby. Bobby Gordon.
You gonna lie there all day? 'Cause if you are, I could join you."
"Can't...move."
"Okay, hang on."
The face moved away. A moment later, hands were guiding Carl to an upright position. Carl dropped into his chair and looked up at his savior.
Carl guessed the boy was around ten years old. He was dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a Deep Space Nine T-shirt.
The boy picked up the baseball and dropped it into his pocket.
"So," Bobby said, "you're the new neighbors, huh?"
Carl rubbed his chest, nodding. "Y-yes. I'm Carl Potter. That's my wife, Mabel."
Bobby turned and looked at the woman on the front lawn, yelling at the movers hauling the fridge into the kitchen.
"That's your wife, huh?" Bobby asked.
Carl nodded.
"That explains why you're in here. Watching TV. You don't get out much, do you?"
"Not really, no. Uh, and you are..."
Bobby grinned. "I live next-door, the one on your left. I'll introduce you to my parents."
He pulled a cellular phone out of his jeans, tapped a few buttons, and waited.
"Hi, Mom?" Bobby asked. "Say hello to our new neighbor."
He held the phone out to Carl.
"Hi," a voice on the phone said. There was a click.
Bobby pushed some more buttons and held the phone to his ear again. "Hi, Dad? Say hello to our new neighbor."
He held the phone out to Carl.
"Hi." There was another click.
Bobby folded the phone back up and hooked it to his belt again. "My parents are pretty busy. That's the best I can do for now. Maybe sometime next week you can wave to them on their way in."
Carl stopped rubbing his chest. "You mean...your parents aren't home?"
"Nope. Hardly ever home, really. It's cool, though. I get to watch TV, play video games, stay up late. They leave my allowance sticky-noted to the fridge. I pretty much got the run of the house."
"Oh," Carl said.
Bobby sat down on the floor next to him. "So, what do you do for a living?"
"I'm a product tester at the Pretty Posy Paper Clip Company."
"Oh, yeah, the one they put up downtown."
"That's right. I was relocated to fill the position at the new plant."
"Cool. Well, I think you'll like it here in Biggs City. Nothing much happens, but it makes up for it in mind-numbing boredom. I'll probably be hanging around here a lot.
I've got a key."
Carl blinked. "You do? Where'd you get it?"
"I copied it from the locksmith when he was installing the locks. Did you want to watch Jeopardy?"
"Uh, yes."
"It's on Channel Ten in three minutes. And Revenge of the Sith is playing on Videomax."
Bobby stood up and brushed off his jeans. "Well, see you, fatso. You mind if I call you that?"
"Uh, a little."
"Okay, no problem. Just testing your temper. You look like a nice guy, Mister Potter. You mind if I call you that?"
"Uh, no."
"Great. See you later. You should work on your reflexes."
Bobby hopped out a nearby window. A rattling noise followed. Bobby zipped past again on a skateboard. He waved to Carl and headed off down the road.
Carl sighed. He wondered if what he'd just experienced was going to be the exception or the norm.
Mabel poked her head in through the door. "Carl! Come on, we have to get a new couch. Those idiots you hired wrecked the old one."
"Yes, dear." Carl got up and followed her out to the car.
"There's a new furniture store downtown," Mabel said, sliding into the passenger seat. "Just heard about it from our wonderful new neighbor, Miss Pierce."
Carl glanced at an old woman sitting on the front porch of the house next door.
The woman was glaring at him as if she expected him to pull out an axe and go on a homicidal rampage at any minute.
Carl waved to her. "Ah."
"Hmm," Mabel said. "That house across the road could use a new coat of paint."
"Yes, dear." Carl drove.
His wife gave the movers a look that implied leaving the job unfinished, even though she wasn't there, would have dire consequences, indeed.
Carl sighed. He'd always wanted a little portable TV he could carry around with him for just such an emergency. He was missing Jeopardy.
The furniture store was huge, almost a warehouse. Its roof rose up to a peak and an enormous sign read "Mostly Chairs." A banner hung beneath it: "Grand Opening!
50% Off Everything!"
Mabel's eyes were wide open. Carl thought he could see her knees trembling. If
there was one thing his wife loved more than shopping, then Carl didn't know about it.
The parking lot was crowded. The doors were crowded. The inside of the store was crowded. Everywhere was crowded. It looked like the whole city had come out to buy furniture, and buying it they were.
Even Carl was impressed. The selection was incredible. There were chairs of every conceivable shape and size. Against one wall was a wide selection of love seats.
Against another was an excessive amount of footstools. Against a third was a long row of couches.
But no desks. No tables. No furniture of any kind that you didn't sit in.
Now this is a specialty store, Carl thought.
But it seemed to be doing good business, contrary to all logic. Who would've ever thought there would be a market for such a thing.
Carl looked around and realized Mabel was gone. He caught her vaulting over old ladies to get to the couch-section.
Carl sighed. He hated shopping. He'd heard somebody had invented a TV you could wear like a pair of glasses. That seemed like a dream come true. Since he had nothing else to do, Carl wandered around the store.
He seemed to be the only one not fighting for merchandise. Women clawed their way to the bargains. Men tackled salespeople.
Salespeople. That was a funny thing. For a place this large, there weren't many of them. Carl counted three, all wearing white uniforms. Then, there was a man
standing against one wall, fielding questions, laughing, and generally deflecting customers. He looked exactly like William Shatner.
Carl walked over to him. "Excuse me."
The man turned to him and smiled. He held out his hands. His voice was filled with a lot of pauses, followed by a rapid succession of words.
"Welcome, welcome to the...wonderful world of...Mostly Chairs.
We...have...many selections to choose from. Feel free to browse, my friend."
Amazing, Carl thought. Even talks like him.
"Say," he said, "did anyone ever say you look just like William Shatner?"
"Who?" the man asked, then smacked his forehead. His hair loosened slightly, but the man smoothed it back again.
"Oh, yes, yes, of course!" the man said, laughing. "Yes, William..."
He shook his hands. "Shatner. Yes, I...happened to be a celebrity impersonator...for a while. Then, I got out of the business and...came here."
"You work here?"
"I don't just work here. I...own it, my friend, this..."
He spread his arms wide. "...is all mine."
"Wow," Carl said. "Nice place."
"Thank you. Would you care to see something...in a comforter?"
"Oh, no, my wife..."
"Carl!" Mabel was jumping up and down, waving.
"...is over there. Nice meeting you."
"I assure you, the...pleasure is all mine."
"Right." Carl walked away.
Nice guy, he thought. Has a problem with overacting, though.
He reached his wife, who grabbed his arm and began dragging him to the door.
"This place is amazing," she said. "I got a new couch and a new armchair for half what I bought the old couch for. I tell you, they're practically giving this stuff away. I don't know how they can afford it."
"Amazing. Uh, did you say armchair?"
Mabel pushed him out into the parking lot. "Yes. We're getting rid of that ratty old one. I got you a brand-new one, almost as good, at a fraction of the price."
"Oh." Carl would miss his old chair. He was getting used to watching TV with springs jamming into his butt.
Carl and Mabel climbed into the station wagon and drove away.
"Can you believe it?" Mabel asked. "Free home delivery. Guaranteed same-day.
Fifty percent off and free same-day home delivery. I don't know how they do it. I just don't know how they do it."
Carl nodded, but he wasn't really listening. He was trying to figure out how to sneak his old chair into the basement.
"Stop the car!"
Carl hit the brakes, tires squealing. When he managed to upright himself, Mabel was running out the door to a nearby house.
"A garage sale!" she was yelling. "Look at this, a blender for five dollars! A new vacuum for twenty cents!"
Carl sighed. Mabel always felt better when she was shopping. Maybe this would keep her happy for a while.
2 - Lightning 2 - Lightning 2 - Lightning 2 - Lightning
A new blender, a new vacuum cleaner, a new toaster, and a new waffle iron.
Mabel was in seventh heaven.
Actually, to be more accurate, she was in a bingo parlor that Miss Pierce had taken her to. Carl was alone, but he didn't mind so much because it gave him time to hook up the cable box.
The walls rumbled as another wave of thunder crept through the skies. The rain was really coming down now. Carl wondered if it was safe to leave the TV on. He seemed to recall reading something about that. Something along the lines of "Never ever, ever, ever turn on a TV during a thunderstorm."
Either that or "Don't stand under a tree." Whatever. TV's were made of wood or at least imitation wood, and Carl wasn't standing under it. He was leaning over it. Trying to hook up the wires.
Carl flipped a page in the instruction manual and frowned. He'd been working with the manual for about two hours now and he wasn't even sure it was written in English. Most of the words contained more than five syllables and every sentence ended in an exclamation point. There were diagrams, but he had to look at them upside-down in a mirror to make sense of them.
Carl picked up a wire and frowned. He couldn't remember what he was supposed to do with it. According to the manual, he had to grench it three times with a Number Eight Wretzingle under a full moon. He couldn't see the moon. It was too cloudy. And he'd checked his toolbox. No wretzingles at all, let alone a Number Eight.
Carl sighed and did what he'd been doing for the past two hours. He started poking it at various holes in the machinery, trying to find one that fit.
A bright light flared out the window. Carl peeked out and saw two identical Mercedes turning into the neighbor's driveway. Bobby's driveway.
The cars stopped at the exact same spot. The doors opened at the same time. A man and a woman got out. They unfolded umbrellas simultaneously.
The woman was incredibly beautiful. The man had a cleft in his chin you could split logs on. They were both dressed in designer fashions. They were both talking on cellular phones.
They began walking up to the front door, apparently unaware of each other's existence.
Their attentions were entirely absorbed in their conversations.
"No, I said two shipments," the man was saying. "Two, not one. Will you give me a break? This deal is big, Murray, bigger than you..."
"That's right, seventeen," the woman was saying. "And send Jeanne over to marketing. I have to have those proposals by nine o'clock..."
Carl opened his window and leaned out, shielding his face against the rain.
"Evening. My name's Carl, I'm your new neighbor."
The man and woman glanced back at him, then turned away.
Carl's phone rang. He ran over to pick it up.
"Evening," a man and a woman's voice said in unison, and hung up.
Carl hung up with a frown. He wondered if it was possible to surgically attach a phone to your ear. If so, Bobby's parents seemed to have managed it.
He went back to the cable box. After a few more tries and a few mild electric shocks, Carl plugged the wire into a socket. He sighed. One down, twenty-five more to go.
He was checking off wires on the diagram as he went. He reached for his pen. It was gone.
He patted his pockets. He checked the floor. That was odd. He could've sworn...did he leave it on the chair? He got up and looked, but it wasn't there. He started to look under the TV.
A crash of thunder rang out. Carl jumped up and banged his head on the TV.
When he regained consciousness, he decided the pen wasn't worth the effort.
Besides, there was a Simpsons marathon on the All-Rerun Network in two minutes.
He'd have to hurry.
Carl got up, chose another loose wire, and began poking it at the TV again.
What happened next changed his life forever. But at the time, all Carl was sure of was that it stung quite a bit.
Actually, it stung quite a lot. Anyone who's ever been hit by lightning can attest to that. But those people know nothing of the experience of being hit by lightning while poking a wire into an electrical appliance, like, say, a television set.
The lightning bolt jumped down from the ceiling to the TV. There was an explosion of sparks. Carl was thrown across the room. He hit the wall, slid down, toppled over a stack of books onto his head, and lay there for a moment, dazed.
He tried to figure out what happened. He had no idea.
Carl dragged himself up, nursing his back, and winced. He looked at the hand that had been holding the wire. It was a little red. A spark popped on his index finger.
Then, a rumble of thunder followed.
"Lightning," Carl whispered.
The wall behind the TV was branded with a star of black soot. The carpet under the TV was alive with wisps of smoke. The cable box jerked with the occasional spark.
But no real damage.
Carl had read about people getting hit by lightning. Very few of them ever got the chance to tell people what it was like. Carl shivered. Now he knew.
He staggered a little to the TV and gave it a thorough examination. Everything seemed to be intact. The only real change was the VCR's clock, which read 7:29 PM, but that was okay, because it was the correct time. Before, it had read 12:00 AM, because Carl hadn't programmed it yet.
The lightning had programmed his VCR. Carl thought that was worth a few thousand volts running through his body.
Carl looked at the cable box and decided maybe The Simpsons wasn't his favorite show after all.
He eased himself into his chair and sighed. No broken bones. He picked up the TV Guide and thumbed through it. Batman Returns was on the Pointless and Unoriginal Movie Sequel Channel. And The View was on Channel 16.
He debated with himself, then decided to watch Batman Returns. If he wanted to hear his gender trashed, he could talk to his wife for a half-hour.
Carl picked up the remote control, sighed, and clicked the power button.
The TV screen glowed and figures danced on the screen. Law and Order was on.
Carl clicked the channel-change button. Nothing happened. He frowned.
Something was wrong with his remote. Carl pointed the remote at himself to see if the little red light came on while he pushed the button again.
The channel changed. So did Carl.
A flash of light blinded Carl, and it took a moment before he realized the flash of light came from him. He looked down at himself to see where it had come from.
He instantly forgot all about it.
At first, he wondered why his underwear was on the outside. Then he realized someone had taken his plaid shirt and slacks, replacing them with a brown skin-tight costume. A brown speckled oval marked his chest. He wore red gloves, red boots, and red briefs on the outside. A buckle with his initials "C.P." fastened a belt around his waist. When he blinked, he realized he wore a mask that covered his eyes, ears, and hair.
Carl reached up and touched it. "What in--"
He tried to pull it off. It didn't move. It felt like it was glued to his face. He got up for more leverage.
He was wearing a cape.
Carl looked himself over three times, and it still didn't make sense. He looked at the clock. Maybe somebody had knocked him out and taken his clothes...
No, only a few seconds had passed.
"I must be dreaming," Carl said. "That's it. I'm dreaming I've been struck by lightning and that I'm wearing somebody else's clothes. Sort of a twist on that I'm-at- school-naked dream."
He decided to pinch himself and wake up. That's what they always said to do. He pinched his arm.
He rapidly discovered that "they" had neglected to mention how long he was supposed to pinch before he woke up. Eventually, Carl's pain threshold made the decision for him.
He wasn't dreaming. He really had been struck by lightning. He really was wearing a...a...
What was it?
Carl ran to the mirror in their bedroom. His cape flapped behind him quite
impressively.
It only took one glance to confirm that he was wearing a superhero costume. Carl had read a few comics in his time, and he'd seen the entire Superman movie series.
He'd even managed to sit through most of Superman IV.
Unfortunately, most superhero costumes he'd seen looked better. Quite frankly, his stomach had the fabric at the breaking point.
"This doesn't make sense," Carl whispered, tugging on his cape.
Carl sat down on the bed, trying to figure out what to do.
He was wearing a superhero costume. He'd never owned a superhero costume in his life. Well, once, but they were Batman pajamas, and that was when he was four years old.
Why was he wearing one now? Was he hallucinating? Something in the beer he'd had for dinner? Or was it some weird cosmic force? Or perhaps an extraterrestrial took him up to their craft and bestowed the wisdom of the ages upon him, along with this uniform, impervious to harm...
A voice in his head told him not to be so silly. It was probably the lightning.
Lightning. That confused Carl even more. He'd never heard of lightning giving people super-suits, although he had heard of it growing hair on people's heads. Not quite the same thing.
Wait a minute, Carl thought. Suppose the lightning gave me something more than the super-suit? Maybe it gave me...
Carl stood up and walked over to the closet door. It was stuck. The decorators had painted over the hinges, and Carl had tried all day to get it open. It had resisted all efforts.
Carl took hold of the doorknobs, braced himself for the strain, and pulled.
One could say he didn't know his own strength, but in fact, Carl hadn't known he had any strength at all. That's why he tore the door right off its hinges, taking a fair amount of the doorframe with it.
Carl's eyes widened inside his mask. He hefted the door. It felt as light as a feather.
Carl tossed it aside and hoisted the bed with one hand. It lifted as easily as if it were made of paper.
He put it back down and studied his arms. No apparent muscle tone. But he was as strong as...as...well, he was a heck of a lot stronger than he used to be, that's for sure.
Carl rubbed his hands together, grinning. He could get to like this. Maybe he could get a job in the circus or something. Or maybe he could start his own one-man show; Carl Potter, superman extraordinary.
Carl wondered what else he could do. He tried to get something to happen, but he flexed every muscle he could think of and nothing happened. He wondered if superpowers came with instruction booklets.
A light turned into the driveway. Carl tried to use X-ray vision to see through the
walls, but it didn't work. He used the window.
It was his wife. She got out of her car and headed up the walk.
Carl panicked. He had lived with Mabel Potter long enough to know that if she found out he'd gotten struck by lightning and gained superpowers, she'd kill him.
He tried frantically to pull the costume off. It didn't have any zippers. Even the belt was attached.
With a flash of survival-driven insight, Carl remembered that he'd changed when he clicked the remote control. He didn't even bother to contemplate why. He ran for it.
Carl bolted down the corridor into the living room. He snatched up the remote control, aimed it at himself, and clicked the channel-button just as a key slid into the door.
Carl transformed in a flash of light. He was back wearing his old clothes. The super-suit was gone.
Carl flung himself into his chair and tried to compose himself.
Just as the front door opened, Carl looked at the still smoking television and its surroundings.
He sighed. Nothing was ever easy anymore.
"Carl Potter! What in the world did you do to my house?"
3 - The Cosmic Scheme 3 - The Cosmic Scheme 3 - The Cosmic Scheme 3 - The Cosmic Scheme
Carl sighed. His wife was asleep. Even Mabel couldn't yell when she was asleep.
Not that she hadn't tried.
Mabel had been furious, to say the least. Carl had spent the rest of the night washing the wall, replacing the closet door, and shampooing the carpet in the living room. He hadn't bothered trying to give her an explanation for it all.
Carl couldn't sleep. He kept thinking about the power running through his body, a power that was somehow connected to the television set and the remote control.
Carl had tried lifting the bed without the costume. He'd come close to giving himself a hernia.
Carl wasn't a scientist by any means, but he guessed that the lightning and the fact that he was holding the cable-box wire at the time were connected. Somehow, the combination of the two had gifted him with fantastic powers. He didn't know how it worked and figured he probably never would.
But he had to know more.
Carl waited until his wife's snoring had reached its peak, then crept out of bed.
He was good at that. Mabel put him on a lot of diets. Ninjas were clog dancers compared to a fat man sneaking into the kitchen for a late-night snack.
He crept into the living room and felt around in the dark until he found the remote control. He wondered if he'd have to put back on the same clothes he'd been wearing before. He clicked the channel-button.
There was a flash of light.
Apparently not, Carl thought, looking down.
He tucked the remote control into his belt and quietly exited through the back door.
The moon shone onto him and the backyard as Carl ran out into the open. He stood in the middle of the lawn for a moment, giddy with power.
He rubbed his hands together. What to try first...uproot a few trees? Tie a street lamp into a granny knot? Bench-press the station wagon a few times?
That got boring. He put down the car and decided to try something new.
Something he'd wanted to do for a long, long time.
He was going to fly.
He put his arms straight-out. He bent his knees. He squared his shoulders. He closed his eyes.
Nothing happened.
He jumped a little into the air.
Nothing happened.
He took a few running steps, his arms thrust out in front of him.
Nothing happened.
Carl sighed. Well, super-strength was nothing to sneeze at. He hefted the car a few more times, trying to think of something else to do.
He heard clapping. "Bravo, encore, encore."
Carl looked up. Bobby was sitting in the tree above him.
"Not bad," Bobby said, his chin resting in his hand. "Do any card tricks?"
Carl was so startled that he dropped the car. He made a dive for it and managed to catch it just before it hit the ground. He set it down as gently as he could.
Bobby dropped to the ground beside him and looked Carl up and down. Carl tried to look casual.
"Nice outfit," Bobby said. "Lemme guess. Armani?"
"It's, uh, it's not what you think, Bobby."
"Oh, you mean you haven't got superpowers?"
"Okay, it is what you think. But this costume is strictly involuntary. It comes with the powers. I don't even like it."
"Too bad. I do. Looks kinda spiffy."
"Really?"
"Sure." Bobby leaned forward a little and squinted at Carl's chest. "What is that?"
Carl looked down at the brown speckled oval. "I dunno. I think it's a starry sky or something."
"But it's brown."
"Maybe it's the starry sky over Los Angeles."
"Whatever." Bobby sat down on the grass and wrapped his arms around his legs.
"So, you gonna tell me about this or should we play twenty questions?"
Carl sighed and told the story.
"Wild," Bobby said when he was finished. "But not unusual."
"Really?"
"Sure. Lightning's been a prime source of superpowers for decades. That and radiation. One-Eyed Man got his powers from lightning. Not a pleasant story, but he did get heat-vision out of it."
"Wow. You sure know a lot about superpowers."
"Yep. I've got the largest collection of comic books in Biggs City. I know all there is to know about superpowers. That's why I'm gonna help you."
Carl frowned. "Help me? Help me how?"
Bobby stood up and dusted off his jeans. "You, my friend, are looking at the guy with the world's most useless superpower."
Carl's eyes widened. "You have a superpower?"
"Yep. Betcha can't guess what it is."
"Uh, you can rearrange mashed potatoes into unusual shapes?"
"Not even that useful. I can see dimly into the immediate future."
"Doesn't seem that useless to me."
"It only works on television."
"Oh."
Bobby thrust his hands into his pockets. "Yessir, my superpower is that I'm a walking TV guide. I can tell you what's on any time, any day of the week. I also do fall previews and an occasional Cheers and Jeers."
"Wow," Carl said. He felt it was expected of him.
Bobby laid a fond hand onto Carl's shoulder. "So fear not, my friend. Your secret's safe with me as long as you keep mine. Not even my parents know what I can do. I'd prefer if you didn't spread it around. I could be used for evil purposes."
That took Carl aback. "Like what?"
"Are you kidding? If somebody analyzed me and managed to duplicate it, there'd be anarchy. I've already got seventeen TV guide publishers after my head."
"Well...I guess so." Carl looked down at his gloves. "I just wish I knew what to do with all this. I mean, how does something like this happen?"
"Who knows?" Bobby asked. "Some things happen for a reason, Carl. Some things happen because they fit into the Cosmic Scheme of the universe. But I think this was just dumb luck."
"Well, dumb, anyway."
Bobby yawned and trudged back up to the tree hanging over Carl's lawn from next-door. "Tomorrow's Saturday. Meet me at the baseball park, around nine-ish. We'll try you out, see what you can do."
"Okay. Hey, what were you doing up in that tree, anyway?"
Bobby paused in his deft climb up the tree-trunk. "Sitting."
He disappeared into the branches.
Carl went back into the house. Just as he was closing the door, he thought he saw something moving in the bushes, but there was no one there.
He banged his shin on his armchair on the way back to bed. He made a mental note to ask Mabel to quit moving the furniture.
4 - Trial And Error 4 - Trial And Error 4 - Trial And Error 4 - Trial And Error
It had been resolved quickly. Mabel insisted she never moved the furniture and Carl had apologized. Then, she went to the store to buy some pens. She couldn't seem to find any left in the house.
Carl seized his chance. He headed for the ballpark with the remote control in his pocket.
It was a bright Saturday morning in Biggs City. Since Mabel had the car, it was a long walk. By the time he got there, Carl could have beaten Marlon Brando in a
wheezing contest.
The ballpark was deserted and surrounded by high walls of bleachers. Sitting on the pitchers' mound, drinking a Coke and reading a comic book, was Bobby.
He grinned up at Carl. "Hey-oh, Mister Potter. Glad you could make it. Your tongue's hanging out."
"I know," Carl gasped. "I think I'll leave it where it's comfortable."
"Suit yourself." Bobby stood up, brushing off his jeans, then gave Carl the once- over. "You're not wearing the suit. You got it on under your clothes or something?"
"Uh, not exactly. I change with this." Carl took out the remote control and pointed it at himself. "You might want to cover your eyes. There's a bit of a flash."
"No problem," Bobby said. "I'm used to it. I'm the staring-at-the-sun champion of New Jersey."
"Really? I didn't know there was a call for that."
Bobby shrugged. "I told you this city was boring. Anyway, it's not such a big deal.
The vision usually comes back in a day or two. Fire it up."
Carl clicked the remote control.
In a flash, he was fully dressed in his uniform.
"Cool," Bobby said. "Where's it go when you switch it off?"
"I have no idea. I don't even know what it does with my old clothes."
"Hm. Maybe the remote control restructures the clothes you're wearing on a molecular level to create the super-suit. Remind me to add that to our list of
experiments."
Bobby picked up a clipboard and pen and scribbled something down. Carl peered over his shoulder and saw him write, "Have Mister Potter change naked."
"What?"
Bobby looked up at him. "So we can test the theory."
"But I don't wanna be naked!"
"Hey, I'm not too crazy about the idea either, Mister Potter. But we can't stand in the way of science. Now, I've done extensive research, and I've made a list of all the superpowers that exist in superhero-dom today. We'll just go down the list and see what you've got."
"Okay."
"Super-strength?"
"Check."
"How much can you lift?"
"Well, I lifted my car and didn't feel too strained."
Bobby tapped his chin with his pencil. "That car's about, what, a ton?"
"Something like that."
Bobby wrote this down. "Good enough to start with. We'll have to remember to check that. Okay, um, X-ray vision?"
"I'm not really sure."
Bobby held up his clipboard in front of his hand. "I've got something behind this.
See if you can tell what it is."
Carl narrowed his eyes and concentrated as hard as he could. It gave him a headache. "Sorry. Nothing."
Bobby nodded and shrugged. "Okay, one out of two ain't bad."
While Bobby wrote this down, Carl watched his pencil. Before he could register it, the outside of the wood seemed to fade, and Bobby was writing with a thin stick of gray.
"Hey, I think something happening," Carl said. I can see into that pencil."
Bobby looked at him, then the pencil. He nodded.
"I see," he said. "I think this clears it up. You have X-ray vision, but you can only see through lead."
"Uh, I guess so."
"Not very useful." Bobby wrote this down. "Okay, next. Do you have super- speed?"
"Um, I don't think so. I'm still pretty tired from the trip over here."
"Well, maybe you didn't switch it on or something. Maybe it's like Baron Munchausen. Ever see that movie?"
"No."
"Hm. Anyway, what you've got to do is get it primed, you know? You can't just be fast. Let's see you run a lap around the park."
Carl looked at the park. It was big. "Are you sure about this?"
"Trust me. Go for it."
Carl sighed and shook out his legs. He folded his cape out of the way, bounced up and down a little, and started to run.
"Go," Bobby yelled. "Come on, open up! Push it as hard as you can!"
Carl bit his lower lip and ran faster. His arms pumped furiously until he thought they were going to start spinning in their sockets. Sweat broke out on his forehead.
As he ran, he began to feel a lifting sensation. He felt as if his feet were leaving the ground. He suddenly felt lighter than he had ever felt before.
So this is the runner's high I've heard so much about, Carl thought to himself. Not bad.
He was halfway around the park. Bobby was far away, waving and jumping up
and down.
What's his problem? Carl thought.
He looked down to see if he was running any faster.
It took him a moment to register it.
Then he screamed and fell out of the sky.
Bobby ran across the field to where he was lying, groaning to himself.
"That was amazing," Bobby said, leaning over him. "And I've seen some pretty amazing things. Ever seen Angelina Jolie's tattoos? That's quite an experience. And have you ever caught your lower lip in a bicycle gear? Me either. Wonder what it's like."
Carl looked up at him. "What happened?"
Bobby shrugged. "What's it look like happened? You were flying."
"But I was right-side up."
"So? The comic book definition of flying is rising through the air. You can do it standing up, lying down, standing on your head...doesn't matter as long as you're airborne. Boy, that was cool. You should've seen it from down here."
Carl rubbed his back. "I wish I had."
Bobby took his arm and began pulling him to his feet. "Come on. Let's try it again. Intentionally, this time."
Carl waited until he was upright before shaking off Bobby's arm. He looked at the track and tried to find somewhere soft to aim for. "Why couldn't I do this before? I tried."
Bobby was taking notes on his clipboard. "I think it only works if you get a
running start. You ever see the old Superman TV show? He was like that, except I think he needed to give it a jump start, too."
Carl shook his head and warmed up again. Then, he started to run.
This time, he paid attention to the lifting sensation, and carefully lifted his legs off the ground.
He kept going. He hazarded a look down.
He was flying. No question about it. He tried to rise higher, but he couldn't figure out what muscle he was using. Then, he imagined himself running, and concentrated on running faster. He rose higher.
"How's it feel?" Bobby called up to him as he did a circle over the park.
Carl was still curled into a ball. He didn't feel confident enough to stretch out yet.
"Weird. Like jogging on thin air."
Bobby nodded and wrote it down. "Okay, try stretching out, like Superman."
Carl slowly unwrapped himself until he was lying on his stomach on thin air. He balled up his hands into fists. The position didn't seem to do much for his flying ability.
He stretched out his hands flat. Still no difference. Carl was surprised. He had always figured there was something aerodynamic about the pose.
Then he looked down at his stomach. There was nothing aerodynamic about that.
"Well," Bobby said, watching him, "no one's going to mistake you for a bird or a plane, that's for sure. I wonder if that matters. We're bucking tradition here."
"Could you please just tell me how I'm supposed to get down?" Carl yelled. "I have a little problem with heights."
"What do you mean, get down? You mean you don't know?"
"No. Last time, I fell and I don't feel like doing that again."
"Well, try...easing off, gradually."
Carl slowed himself in his mind and watched the ground approaching him ever so slowly. When it was close enough, he lowered his legs and jogged. He tripped and fell flat on his face.
"Not bad for a maiden voyage," Bobby said, walking up to him. "How'd you feel?"
Carl wiped his sweaty forehead, but his mask got in the way. He grinned. "Not bad. Felt pretty good, actually. I'm a little out of shape, though, I don't think I could manage it again."
"You're not out of shape," Bobby said. "You're a shape. A pear shape. Get it?"
"Uh-huh."
"Learned that one from my dad. He was yelling at somebody on the phone.
Okay, so, no super-speed. At least, not that we know of. But you can fly. Not a bad trade-off. We'll have to work on that some more."
He jotted something down, then nodded. "Okay, now let's see if you're bulletproof."
He pulled out a gun.
Carl held out his hands and backed away. "Hey, hey, hey! What're you doing?"
"Don't worry," Bobby said, taking aim. "I'm only gonna wing you. Shoulder or kneecaps, maximum. Don't worry, if you're bulletproof, it'll bounce right off."
"But what if I'm not?"
"Well, then we have a problem."
"Bobby," Carl said, "I'm only saying this once. You're talking to a two-hundred- pound man with super-strength who can fly. Put the gun down."
"Fine," Bobby said, lowering it. "If you're gonna be nasty about it. Hey, there's your wife."
Carl spun around, trying to cover his suit. "What? Where?"
There was a loud bang. Something hit him on the shoulder.
"OW!" Carl clutched his arm and started bouncing around the park. "You shot me! I can't believe you shot me!"
"Don't worry, Mister Potter," Bobby said, writing in his notepad. "It bounced off."
"But it still hurt!"
"Oh, really? Hmm. That could be a problem."
Carl lifted his hand. When no fountains of blood ensued, he decided it was safe.
He flipped his cape out of the way and headed for the sidewalk.
"That does it," he said. "I've had it with this superhero business. I'm going home and this remote control is going back to the manufacturer."
"Wait! Wait!" Bobby sprinted after him. "Mister Potter, you can't do that."
"Why not?"
"Because you owe it to the world."
Carl stopped and glared at him. "What now? You gonna hit me with a bazooka or something?"
"No," Bobby said, hiding something behind his back. "I mean it. Listen to me.
You...you have a gift. Not a big gift and it's probably a job to wrap for Christmas, but a gift nonetheless. You owe it to the world to use it. There aren't many people like you.
People don't get hit by lightning every day, no matter what the National Enquirer says.
Superheroes are a dime a dozen, and you, my friend, are a dime."
"I guess," Carl muttered.
Bobby approached him. "Mister Potter...I've read this in the comics all the time.
Some normal guy gets powers and supervillains come out of the woodwork. It's some sort of magnetic effect, I'm sure of it. Now that you're a super-being, you're gonna have to choose. You'll be a superhero or a supervillain. There's no two ways about it."
"Can't I just not wear the suit anymore?"
"No."
"Crud. Well, I dunno. I'll think about it."
"Go right ahead, Hyperman."
Carl stared at him. "What?"
Bobby frowned. "Or how about Fatman? Hmm, too self-deprecating. Oo, Spheroid Man! Sounds really high-tech."
"What's it mean?"
"That you're round. You know, fat."
"Look, what is it with you? Why are you so obsessed with my weight?"
"Because I'm skinny. Besides, if I don't bring it up, somebody else will."
Carl folded up his cape and tucked it under his arm. "Fine. Whatever. So now I'm Spheroid Man. I can fly, I'm super-strong, and I can see through lead. I have to think about this."
"Can I be your sidekick?" Bobby asked. "Boy, this is gonna be cool. I could be...TV Guide! Hmm, could be copyright problems. How about Video Boy? Yeah!
Spheroid Man and Video Boy. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
"Bobby, I don't think so. What're you gonna do in the thick of battle, yell local cable listings at the enemy?"
Bobby looked a little indignant. "Hey, I'll have you know that I studied kung-fu in junior high. I'm a master of martial arts. Hee-ya!"
His foot shot up centimeters away from Carl's face. "See?"
"Uh-huh," said Carl, who was getting a good view of the sole of Bobby's sneaker.
"Could you see if there's any gum stuck on there?" Bobby asked. "'Cause when I walk, it feels a little sticky."
"No. Can you move that, please?"
Bobby did.
"Goodbye, Bobby," Carl said. "Go...play in the video arcade or something."
"Wow," Bobby said as Carl walked away. "This is so cool. It's just like the comics,
only I'm a part of it. And they usually have better physiques. You know, that's a funny thing. Why is it that only guys who work out get super-powers in the comics?"
"Maybe they can handle it better," Carl muttered.
He was halfway down the street before Bobby yelled, "Hey, Mister Potter! Don't you think you should change back into your clothes now?"
Fortunately, nobody was watching.
5 - Ricardo Montalban 5 - Ricardo Montalban 5 - Ricardo Montalban 5 - Ricardo Montalban
His wife was gone to bingo again. She was hooked. Carl had asked her if she ever won anything, but Mabel said that wasn't the point. She said it was being around people, friends, and loved ones. Carl thought there were cheaper ways to get all those things, but he kept his mouth shut.
It had been a quiet day for him. He'd spent most of it watching TV, which placed him firmly in the norm regarding his Saturdays.
It had been a strange morning, though. Pedestrians filled the streets all day long, all carrying home pens. As the day went on, more and more pens were carried, until it was typical for Carl to see people dragging bags of pens down the street.
Carl could understand that. He seemed to be having trouble hanging onto pens lately. His wife had brought home a whole bag and they were all gone, except for the one Carl hoarded in his shirt pocket.
And paper clips...they were a lost cause, but that was good for business, so Carl didn't mind.
Now it was nightfall, and Carl was alone in the house at last. He was watching his favorite sitcom, Those Wacky Teaspoons, and doing some prep work for his job at the paper clip factory. He had some reviews of the new spring line to go over.
As teaspoons tripped over the TV screen to gales of laughter, Carl made notes on the ergonomic design of the new paper clip. It had a wider base. During tests, Carl kept getting his thumb caught in it. That wasn't good.
He was also thinking about his super-suit. It was so strange. His remote control now contained the awesome power of Spheroid Man. The name wasn't too bad, actually, as long as most people didn't know what "spheroid" meant.
He sighed, then watched one of the teaspoons turn to the camera and say his trademark phrase.
"You know, toothpicks wear curlers in the summertime," it said.
Carl burst out laughing. When he was calm enough to breathe again, he tried to find his pen. Oh great, it had fallen into the crack between the cushions of his new chair, and was sinking fast.
Carl managed to grab it and pulled.
It felt like it was stuck. He pulled harder. Still nothing. In fact, it seemed to be sinking faster.
"What is this, quicksand?" Carl muttered, and used both hands.
The massage vibrations of the chair were making it hard to get a grip. Carl bit his lip as he strained harder. He thought maybe he should put on his super-suit for extra kick.
The pen sank so far into the chair that Carl's hands went with it.
"Forget it," Carl muttered, and let go of the pen. He'd find a new one somewhere.
He tugged one hand free, then tried the other one.
It stayed where it was. In fact, it started sinking deeper into the cushion.
Carl heard a gurgling sound. Was that the sink? He pulled. His hand was stuck.
He made a face. It sure felt slimy down there. Carl wondered whether Bobby had stuck something in it.
His hand was still sinking. He was in up to his elbow now. Carl was getting worried. Something funny was going on...
Then, it suddenly hit him like a flash.
His chair didn't have a massage option.
The gurgle came again, louder. It was coming from the chair. Carl felt something else down there. It felt like teeth. His arm wasn't sinking. It was being sucked into the chair.
Carl gasped and pulled harder. He was trapped.
"This can't be happening," he panted. "This can't be happening..."
He looked around and spotted the remote control. He lunged as far as the chair would let him and grabbed it. He clicked the channel changer.
With a flash, he was transformed. The chair gave off a little squeak of surprise.
Carl yanked his arm free and landed on his butt a few feet away. He just sat there, tangled in his cape, gasping and waiting for his heart to calm down.
It didn't get the chance. The armchair wriggled and seemed to pull itself up. It began to slide towards him. Its cushions rippled into a snarl.
Carl got to his feet and punched it in the seat. A cloud of dust rose up that sent Carl staggering back against the wall, coughing hysterically.
It had done it on purpose. Carl was sure of it.
Then, he realized it had him backed up into the corner. He was trapped. The chair was lurching towards him. A tongue slid out from under the seat cushion and licked its lips.
Carl looked around and his eyes fell on the new vacuum cleaner standing within reach. He grabbed it, flicked it on, and aimed it at the chair.
The suction came on with a roar and the chair's slipcover disappeared into the vacuum. The chair squealed, turned itself around, and galloped away.
It leapt out a window with a crash, taking some of the frame with it as a souvenir.
Carl let the vacuum drop from his fingers and just stood there, dazed. He was having trouble comprehending what he'd just experienced.
It hadn't sucked down the pen. It had eaten the pen. Carl wondered if that had been where all the pens had been going lately. It sort of made sense in a way. Carl had lost pens dozens of times and later found them between the cushions of his couch. It just seemed like this chair wasn't giving them back.
Couch. Carl eyed the new couch, suspiciously. It sat there, dead to the world.
Carl reached for the vacuum.
The new couch hoisted itself up, twisted like a worm, and smashed down the front door. It fled.
Carl spun and glared at all the other furniture. "Anyone else here feel like taking a little stroll?"
Nothing else moved.
Carl made the rounds of the house, poking everything with his vacuum. Nothing else tried to make a break for it, so he assumed they were safe. But he passed a window and happened to glance outside.
The streets were crowded, even more so for the time of night. But it was what was crowding the streets that bothered Carl.
Armchairs and couches roamed the city, leading people like baton-twirlers in a parade.
Store windows were broken. Lines of people were being formed to load pens out into wheelbarrows.
Children rode bicycles dragging bags of Magic Markers behind them.
All of them had vacant expressions. All of them were being watched over by the chairs.
"It's an invasion," Carl whispered.
He heard a scream coming from Bobby's house next-door.
Carl threw his vacuum aside and took a running leap at the window. He crashed through it and was flying towards Bobby house.
He could have opened the window, but what the hey? What good was being bulletproof with the power of flight if you couldn't wreak a little destruction every now and then?
He flew across the lawn and smashed through the Gordons' living-room window.
He tried to think of something heroic to say, like "Up, up, and away," but he didn't.
Bobby's parents were on their portable phones as usual. But they were also emptying bags of ballpoint pens into their couches and chairs. The furniture was making gulping noises.
The two yuppies looked at Carl and nodded.
"Good evening, Mister Potter," they said in unison. "Won't you join us in feeding our new masters?"
Now, Carl knew something was wrong. They were talking to him directly.
He heard the scream again.
"Somebody help!"
Carl charged up the staircase and ran down a hallway. The yell came again, and he smashed down a nearby door.
Bobby was pressed up against a wall as an armchair sidled towards him, growling. Bobby was kicking it back.
"Get away!" he yelled. "Hee-yah! Bad chair!"
Carl looked around the room and his eyes fell on a glass of grape juice on the table. Something clicked in his head. He picked up the glass and threw it at the chair.
The grape juice splashed all over the chair, staining it instantly. The chair gave out a squeak of surprise. Smoke began to rise from the stain.
The chair scrambled around the room a bit before leaping past Bobby out the window. Carl watched it galloping down the street.
Bobby sighed. "Good work, Mister Potter. Thought I was a goner there. Hey, you're wearing the suit."
"Uh-huh," Carl said, throwing away the glass. "You okay?"
"Sure, no problem. I was just doing my homework, and my new chair came to life. Coincidence? I think not. I'm gonna write a paper on the dangers of schoolwork."
"It's not the homework," Carl said. "My chair came to life, too. All the chairs and couches in the city are coming to life. They've enslaved the whole city, and I think they eat pens."
"Pens?"
"Pens. What're we gonna do?"
"Perhaps I can help," a voice with a Mexican accent said.
Carl and Bobby turned to look.
Ricardo Montalban was standing in the doorway of Bobby's bedroom.
Carl blinked. "Do you know William Shatner?"
6 - Appliances 6 - Appliances 6 - Appliances 6 - Appliances
"Yes," Ricardo Montalban said. "Uh, sort of. I do not know the William Shatner, if that's what you mean, but I think you mean the William Shatner who owns Mostly Chairs, yes?"
"Yes," Carl said.
"I thought so."
"Excuse me?" Bobby asked. "Uh, Mister Potter, don't you think it's a little odd that the former star of Fantasy Island is standing in my doorway?"
"Bobby," Carl said, "there are couches rampaging all over the city. Nothing surprises me anymore."
"Allow me to clarify this for you," Ricardo Montalban said. "I am not the real Ricardo Montalban. I have only assumed his shape to better communicate with you.
Come. I will explain everything at your home, Carl Potter."
"Spheroid Man," Bobby said. "Lead on, Mister Montalban. I loved you in Naked Gun 2/3. You have a real gift for comedy."
They followed Ricardo Montalban down the stairs and out the door. They ignored Bobby's parents stuffing handfuls of felt-tips into the cushions of the chairs.
They walked through the streets of the city, eyeing the chaos, nervously. Ricardo himself barely gave it a second glance, even though several of the chairs growled at him.
He led them to Carl's house and they stepped inside. He locked the door.
"We will be safe here," Ricardo said. "They would not dare enter this house with us."
"Yep," Bobby said, hitching up his pajama pants. "I guess we're pretty tough hombres."
"Oh, no, not because of you. Because of them."
Ricardo Montalban pointed to Carl's new vacuum, blender, and toaster.
"Okay," Bobby said, "I think the weirdness level's just gone off the scale."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I will explain. You see, your city has become the center of an intergalactic war. I, those appliances, William Shatner, and the couches and chairs from the establishment you know as Mostly Chairs, are shape-changers from another planet.
"We call ourselves the Xynthiakfngmelnakntaxcwindo. Don't bother trying to pronounce it. Your tongue will explode. The chairs are our enemies, the Kraf'T Mat'K.
We have been fighting them for several of your Earth centuries. Recently, we placed an embargo on their prime source of nourishment; pens, paper clips, and spare change."
"They eat that stuff?" Bobby asked.
"Oh, yes," Ricardo said. "It is quite a delicacy on our world. But with their source of food cut off, the Kraf'T Mat'K faced the choice of starvation or surrender. It seemed victory was assured.
"Then, they discovered your planet. A world where pens, paper clips, and spare change flows in abundance. They also discovered that these objects often get lodged in the cushions of your chairs and couches and are never missed. So they hatched a plan.
"An army took on chair-shaped forms, all but their general. He intercepted one of your Earth broadcasts, a movie entitled, Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. He took on the form of the being known on your planet as William Shatner."
"Wow," Bobby breathed.
"Yes. It was an error in research. He thought it would make him inconspicuous.
The Kraf'T Mat'K's plan was to find a way of getting their soldiers into every home in this settlement and the best way was through a store. So Mostly Chairs was born."
"I thought their prices were too good to be true," Carl muttered.
"Yes," Ricardo Montalban said, "the plan worked. They infiltrated every home and began gathering pens, paper clips, and spare change for the journey home. But the Kraf'T Mat'K are greedy. They are no longer content to sit by and gather what they need. It seems they have decided to launch a full-scale invasion. They are breeding here, building an army to take over the world. They are going...to franchise."
Carl and Bobby shivered.
"They must be stopped," Bobby said.
"Yes," Ricardo said. "That is why we are here. I took the form of Ricardo Montalban from the same movie in order to tell you this. My companions took on the form of household appliances and posed as a garage sale in order to enter your home and protect you. The Kraf'T Mat'K are using mind-control rays to enslave the city, but you are now immune, thanks to us."
"Hey, what about me?" Bobby asked.
Ricardo grinned. "Do you remember your parents buying you a new cellular phone?"
"Whoa," Bobby muttered. "You guys are good."
Carl snapped his fingers. "Hey, when I grabbed the vacuum..."
"That's right," Ricardo said. "We were assisting you."
The vacuum rolled forward and bowed.
"Oh," Carl said. "Uh, thanks."
"Not at all. We sensed that you two have the power, the power to stop the Kraf'T Mat'K's sinister invasion. Our attack fleet is on its way here, but they will not arrive for another two days. By then, the Kraf'T Mat'K will have erected a defense grid around the planet, and their franchise will have spread all over the world."
"In two days?" Carl asked.
"Hey," Bobby warned, "don't underestimate the power of franchising. McDonald's just built a store in Antarctica."
"Oh."
"You must stop them," Ricardo insisted. "Only you have the power to keep Earth from becoming a slave planet, fit only for harvesting their precious cargo. If the Kraf'T Mat'K succeed, the war will continue and the universe will be doomed. But if you
succeed in stopping them, the Kraf'T Mat'K will be forced to surrender and peace will return to the galaxy."
Carl puffed out his chest and nodded. "You can count on me."
"And me," Bobby added.
Ricardo Montalban smiled. "Good. I knew we could, Spheroid Man and Video Boy."
"Hey, that reminds me. I don't have a costume. I can't be a superhero in jeans and a T-shirt. I mean, I could, but I always thought I'd look pretty good in Spandex. I've been working out."
Ricardo held up a hand. "Please. Allow us. Zink?"
The toaster hopped forward and swelled. It twisted, losing its metallic texture. It wrapped itself around Bobby, adhering to his clothes and changing color. It turned into a costume.
"Wow!" Bobby said, looking down at himself. "This is awesome! I especially like the little TV screen on the chest with the static all over it.
"We knew you would like it," Ricardo said. "We saw Batman. Jack Nicholson was wonderful. I especially liked the part where he used that boxing glove on a spring. I would have taken his shape, but it's so hard to do his voice justice and that hair...but I digress. Go, my friends. Save your planet. We will stay here and watch Star Trek: Deep Space Nine."
Carl and Bobby headed for the door, then turned back.
"I didn't know they had Trekkies in space," Carl said.
Ricardo and the appliances were gathering in front of the television. Ricardo looked up at him.
"Oh, yes," he said. "It's actually surprisingly accurate."
"You mean, Klingons--"
"Yes," Ricardo said. "Although in the real world, they are bright green."
Carl shook his head. Bobby grinned at him as they ran out into the street.
"What'd I tell you?" Bobby asked. "Like a magnet."
The entire city had been enslaved. Everyone had been turned to a single purpose; gathering pens, paper clips, and all the spare change they could get. The bank vaults were being unloaded into trucks and the coins carted away. Every store in the city was being raided. The Pretty Posy Paper Clip Company was under attack.
Carl wanted to help. His company loyalty was being tested. But he knew there was only one way to really stop the invasion, and that was to stop it at the source.
Mostly Chairs. Carl knew that was where everyone was going. It had to be destroyed.
Carl carried Bobby on his back as they flew over the city.
"Where are we going?" Bobby yelled over the wind. "The furniture store's that way!"
"We have to arm ourselves, Bobby," Carl yelled back. "My powers are no match for these things! The only thing that has any effect on them is grape juice! Stains hurt the Kraf'T Mat'K!"
"Oh, yeah. Right. Say, maybe we should start calling each other by our super- names."
"Why?"
"I dunno. It's just something that happens when people put on super-costumes. I mean, what's the point of changing our names at all if..."
"Okay, okay...Video Boy."
Bobby gave him a thumbs-up. "Atta boy, Spheroid Man."
They landed on the roof of a Circle J convenience store. The mobs hadn't reached it yet and Spheroid Man ripped a hole in the ceiling. They dropped inside.
Video Boy found the light switch and they got to work.
They went to the produce section and gathered all the grape juice they could find. Ink, they decided, would just make them stronger, but potting soil, iodine, and cans of paint went into their shopping cart.
They went to the toy section and selected two of the most powerful water guns on the racks. Video Boy was the guide.
"This'll do," he said, patting his gun. "The Niagara AK-47. It's got three
chambers, a hydraulic pump, a laser-sight, and a touch-sensitive trigger. It could drown Godzilla. It can handle a few chairs."
Spheroid Man nodded and tucked one into his belt.
They went to the condiment aisle. Video Boy, who had done a lot of surfing on anarchist websites, taught Spheroid Man how to make bombs.
Spheroid Man shook his head as he filled a length of pipe with a gray powder.
"Fantastic. I'll never look at mustard the same again."
Spheroid Man jammed his share of the bombs into his belt and stood up. He drew his gun and clicked off the safety. He looked down at Video Boy.
"Okay, Bobby," he snarled, feeling a rush of adrenaline. "Let's kick some springs."
