Tales of a Wandering Warlord Part 5: Remember the Al'a Mode

NOVEMBER 5, 2005.

I arrived in Texas with a burning question that I had to answer. Folks had said that bloggers FMRagtops and Fitch is Never Always Right from Radioactive Liberty are the same person writing under two different names.

I just couldn't believe such a crazy story, and I had to investigate for myself. FMRagtops is always good for some mindless sycophancy, while Fitch has had the unmitigated spoboks to question the validity of my existence. They couldn't possibly be the same people.

Using some sophisticated technology that I won't bother to explain, because you puny Earthlings are too mental unevolved to understand how to properly use such an advanced device like a phone book.

The phone book led me to a roadhouse on the border with Mexico called Los Casa De Cucarachas, which, judging by its appearance would need a million dollar federal grant to elevate it up to seedy.

As I approached the door, a shot rang out, and I felt the rush of a bullet narrowly missing my head. I performed an expert roll, pulled a nearby cactus out of the ground and flung it at the source of the shot.

"Ouch!" screamed a voice from behind the rusted out hulk of a Ford Fairlane. "Those almost pricked me!"

"If you don't drop your piece right now and come out," I said as I lifted an SUV above my head, "I'm going to drop this here SUV on you, and you know how they always blow up."

"I'm coming out," said my wannabe assailant, tossing his gun on the dirt before he came out.

"Remulak?" said my attacker.

"You know me?"

"It's me, SeanS," he said, his hands in the air.

"Why did you shoot at me?" I asked.

"My blog's called 'Shoot a Liberal,'" answered SeanS, "and since Keith Olberman says we're all mindless drones who are prone to violence, I figured I needed to actually shoot at least one."

"So you got a gun and came to Texas?" I asked.

"Yeah," answered SeanS sheepishly. "The pickings are a might thin here."

"And you somehow mistook me for a liberal?"

"You are blue," answered SeanS, "I reckoned you had to be some kind of mutant Democrat."

"You're a dull boy SeanS," I said, dropping the SUV on him.

Beneath the roar of the SUV exploding in a ball of flames I could hear his squeal.

"Damn! That's my blogging hand! Now I'll have to retire!"

***

I entered the bar, broken bottles, peanut shells, and cockroaches crunching beneath my feet.

"It's you!" bellowed a fellow at the back of the bar. He then fell to his knees and began kowtowing with all the grace of a 19th century Mandarin bureaucrat meeting his emperor for the first time. "Oh great and glorious conqueror of the stars, you honour us with your glorious presence."

"FMRagtops?" I said, recognizing his unique brand of brown-nosing. "What are you doing here? I thought you lived in Louisiana?"

"What's all the commotion?" asked a voice from a backroom. "I'm trying to train a game-cock here!"

Then an incredible surprise came out of the backroom, clutching his game-cock.

"By the Great Glands of Galactus," I said in shock, "Is that you Fitch?"

"Yeah," answered Fitch, "what's it to you?"

"You and FMRagtops look exactly alike!" I uttered in amazement. "Are you twins?"

"We're clones," snarled Fitch and waving his angry cock at me, "part of a botched experiment by Karl Rove, now who the hell are you?"

"Don't you recognize the Most Glorious of the Glorified! The One & Only Remulak MoxArgon!" declared FMRagtops. "All hail Remulak!"

"There's no such person," declared Fitch, affectionately stroking his cock. "And will you stop referring to my fighting rooster as a cock in the narration, I will not be a party to a lame double entendre. Now if you don't mind, I have to go choke my chicken."

"Fine," I said, turning to the door. "By the way, do you own a blue SUV parked in front?"

"Yeah," said Fitch, "so what?"

"Nothing," I said as I left. "Nothing at all."

***

"Would you like to sign this petition?" said a middle aged lady in a coffee shop in Crawford Texas.

"You leave the customers alone Cindy," said the woman from the counter. "They're trying to have lunch."

"Are you Cindy Sheehan?" I said.

"I prefer to be called 'Mother Sheehan,'" she answered. "For I am the mother of peace and possessor of absolute moral authority since George W. Bush murdered my son."

"How did he murder your son?" I asked. "Casey volunteered to joint eh army, and he volunteered again to go on a dangerous rescue mission where he was killed by insurgents whose sole purpose in life is to kill innocent people and plunge them into a fascist dark age. Casey stood up for freedom, that makes him a hero. You hug dictators, I don't want to know what that makes you."

"How dare you use logic and facts against me!" screeched Mother Sheehan before she hissed and fled the cafe.

"What's her problem?" I asked.

***

"One, two, three, four," chanted the half dozen hippies on the side of the road leading to the Bush ranch, "freedom's not worth fighting for!"

There was Mother Sheehan, leading some grubby looking granola-munchers on yet another pointless protest.

I pulled over and got out of my car, I was on my way to Vegas for some fun in the desert sun, but I knew that I could get a little entertainment while I was in Crawford.

I took out my tricorder and scanned the area. Within seconds I had a location.

There was Mother Sheehan's illegally planted uterus buried by a fence post.

I snuck over to the fence post. Took out a vial of mutagenic chemicals I like to keep on me for such occasions, and let a few drops hit the soil.

After a second the ground started to shift slightly.

I hopped back in my car and hit the gas, spraying Sheehan's hippy gathering with dust and gravel. I had to make a quick getaway, because what was gonna come out of that ground was gonna be hungry and pissed.

As I sped away I listened to their latest chant condeming the Joos turn into a collective scream of horror.

Man, I can be a real bastard sometimes.

Anyway, Las Vegas, here I come!