💾 Archived View for spam.works › mirrors › textfiles › stories › bulmrx.txt captured on 2023-11-04 at 15:32:25.
⬅️ Previous capture (2023-06-16)
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
They Don't Come Any Larger
Chapter One in the continuing adventures of Mr.X
It was a cold night in Sabre city. The kind of night
when honest citizens huddled close in their homes, watching
"Moonlighting" and drinking kool-aid. The wind blew threw
the barren trees forming visages from the countless bad
horror movies we all go to see. But a few people did dare to
walk the streets. Yes, the geeks, noids, and depraved all
dared, they didn't have the brains not to. Who could keep
the teenagers, partyers, and criminals behind bars? But more
insidious than the rest was doc Skin and his portly co-hort
The Berg.
Yea, It was up to me, Mr.X, the Sam spade, David
Adison, and Dick Tracy; of this two-bit city, to keep these
city slime in line. I was sitting behind my desk in my
$100,000 office kicking back when a new case came bursting
in. It was Ma Shlepberg, a local rep. for a sporting goods
company. The company was an off-shoot of a mental brew-thru
owned by none other than doc Skin. She was quick to talk
telling me that the doc was trying to muscle her out of her
new position because she new too much. Simple case, familiar
plot. No sweat. I took the case, I was going to nail these
lying bunch of non's once and for all!
My first step was to gather dirt on these dweebes. I
picked up the 'ol raprod and called the local P.W.N.B.T.D.
(people with nothing better to do) office. Hell, I was going
to need help and this was the best place to find it. I
talked to a guy who gave me the names of a "few good men"
willing to help. I called up the people on the list and told
them what was up. Only four guys volunteered. Fine by me, I
didn't need any wimps on my team, people who couldn't take
the heat.
We fanned out across the city to find what we needed. I
grabbed my Nikon Super Automated Do-Everything camera, my
all purpose 17 to 500mm lens, and of course my .50 Calibre
auto pistol in case somebody wanted to give themselves
trouble. I headed down to corporate HQ to confront doc Skin
and his henchmen. As I drove up I noticed the sign on the
building-Adolescent Instructional Brain Cramming Corporation-
"We're good at what we do and we're fair too." I laughed at
this as I parked and went up to see the big guy.
The receptionist was just what you would expect, tall,
blond, and perfect. Just the kind of girl you'd like to- no,
later, back to the story. She wasn't to keen about letting
me in but I persuaded her by just ignoring her and going
right on in.
"What's the meaning of this?" barked the doc.
"I'm here on the behalf of Ma Shlepberg," "I know what
you're up to but it won't work, you're through in this town
bucko so pack your bags!"
I snapped a few pictures as his head turned a bright
red. He drew a Big Gun from the top drawer of his desk.
This, I thought, would be a very good time to leave.
I floored my car out of the garage with three old,
black, Lincoln "biscanes" on my tail and a hail of bullets
raining down on all sides. BOOM, was the only sound I heard
as my 1965 Corvette Stingray lost a tire and careened off
the road and into a large ice cream truck, sending
tutti-fruti everywhere. I pulled my way out of the wreckage
and watched with ddoouubbllee vision as cars tore off down
the street in the opposite direction from which I came. Yes,
I realized, my patented Acme Hero Anti-Death Suit had saved
my life yet again. They were going to pay dearly for this,
"they ruined all that tutti-fruiti and broke my camera," I
thought, as I sunk into an black oblivion...
The moist touch of a towel awoke me from my 72 hour
sleep. My head felt as if an elephant with hiccups had sat
on it. Take it from me, it's not a nice feeling. As I forced
my eyes open to view my towel bearing savior, the words
"ooh, dat eesh niice!!!!" came to mind. She was a vision.
5'6". Brunette. Brown eyes and a bod to match it all. "Move
over Annete Funichello", I thought.
"I'm Bessie", she purred. "Dont try to get up", she said, as
I did just that. "you've got a terrible boo boo on your
head".
Well, following the rules of being a "tough guy" I
ignored her pleas and forced my self back into my slick
Anti-Death Suit. She fixed me a little breakfast (which the
FDA would probably have put into quarantine) and told me
just the facts. According to her, she found me trapped under
only what could be described as a sickly looking, blue, 1976
Toyota Mark II. Using her "muscles in all the right places,"
she dragged me free and into her pink, convertible,
volkswagon bug. She brought me home , cleaned the
tutii-fruti out of my ears and put me to bed.
As I strapped on my pistol and all the other nifty dyno
gadgets I carry with me, Bessie slunk her way over to me.
"Let me go with you, I've always wanted to live a life of
danger," she said.
I just couldn't tell her that eating her cooking was
just that, so I consented to let her come along. We hopped
into her other car, a slick looking Ford Tempo. A real
get-up-and-go-nowhere-machine, 0-60 in 3.8 minutes. I used
her "Cellular One" as we sped down route 66 back towards the
big city. I called the guys that were doing my dirty work
and told them to meet me at my office for a big pow wow-war
council.
After a long and dangerous trip (women drivers!), we
made it back to my office. Sending Bessie out of the room, I
got everyone's attention and got down to business. Lance
Speedstick informed me that we could expect to get any aid
necessary from the homosexuals and transvestites of the
underground in cracking this case. And they would all love
to "kiss ass" to help; scratch that area of info,
definitely! Next was I.R. Cool, our liaison to the cities
teens. They were smart kids, they new nothing and had
learned it all in high school. Unless it dealt with parties
and alcohol you could count them out. Biff Appleton had
talked to the yuppies of the area. No good, they were all
worried about what color wall paper to put up and paying off
their new BMW's. Last but not least Senator J.D. Bedfellow
had contacted the local politicians, all of which refused to
comment unless they were being indited. This was a blow, it
looked like I was going to have to do all the butt kicking
my self! Lord knows I was just the guy to do it.
I adjourned my meeting and took Bessie with me back to
my apartment to get all my supper bad guy beating equipment.
As we drove along I reflected upon my long career...well, so
maybe this was my first case. I studied under Sherlock
Holmes, yea, that's the ticket. We arrived at my penthouse
to find it gone, along with the rest of the building. Forgot
to lock it up...Well at least I knew what my next case was.
That was the last straw, I was mad, and the only person to
take it out on was doc Skin and The Berg. As we pulled up in
front of their corporate office, I slipped into my new
Acme-Battle Suit. With a hearty "Up, up, and gone!" I flew
out of the car and into the 80th story window (I really wish
they'd open the windows in these stupid stories!) to face my
foes. "It's a pigeon, it's the Concord, NO! it's Shtupor
Man!!!"
I went right into action, with a giant "S" on my chest
and a billowing pink cape.
"Hold it right there you "Aunt Jamima" looking somebodies!"
First, knowing that the bullets from my .50 cal. pistol
would never penetrate the fat on the Berg, I lifted him up
and threw him out the window to land with a large "splat!"
on the roof of a taxi 80 stories bellow. Bang, the sound of
a gun shot! Doc Skin smiles as a Ronco Mini-nuke smashes me
in the chest doing full damage. Ouch! Faulty #