MSTed: The Seven Stars, Chapter 2 (Part 3 of Many)

[Kevin Mowery]

Damn scary and damn ambidextrous he was. If not a bullet, then a
blade. I almost snickered at his extreme preparations until I realized
that, if the situation were reversed, I probably would have done the
same damn thing.

CROW: But I would have shot him.

There
is no such thing as paranoia, after all. Still, with the Glock out of
the way, I breathed a little easier for the first time today.
Muttering something about "an early breakfast" under his breath, Sammy
scampered spastically down the hall, humming merrily to himself.

CROW: I'm an imp!
MIKE: As annoying as Sammy sounds, he's still more likeable than the
narrator.

I followed the familiar trail of Sammy's

TOM: Sammy scat!

merry humming, negotiating the old hardwood floor like an automaton.
Not even the shock of the cold hardwood floor on my bare feet shook me
from my stupor, though. I was like that, at times. So I shuffled
along,

MIKE: The hardwood floor.
TOM: That is one hardwood floor.
MIKE: Never has there been a floor more hardwood.

content in my discontent,
still following the sound of Sammy's eager-beaver humming. I barely
noticed as the hallway gave way to the den, then the den to the
kitchen. Focus returned, however, as soon as I saw Sammy perched upon
a small stepladder in front of the sink, combating a small army of
filthy dishes with a Brillo pad in either hand,

CROW: How's he holding the dishes?

a neon-green apron his most curious battle fatigues.

MIKE: He was wearing a gladiator costume.

Praying that he was too busy to notice a stumbling zombie out of the
corner of his eye, I turned sharply around and scooted back down the
hall,

TOM: And was eaten by a stumbling zombie. The end!

then into the den at double-zombie speed, wondering if his notorious
all-seeing eyes could have seen me. I hoped not. I hated doing the
dishes with a passion.
Thinking as fast as I could in my zombie-state, I shuffled over to the
"Cathode God"—Sammy's pet name for his big-screen television set—and
frantically began searching the hazardous den area for the remote
control.

MIKE: Ah, here's the remote, in the jaws of the bear trap next to the
leaky vat of acid.

I thought that if I could get
the TV up and running in time, I could actually fool him into
believing that I had walked in here first and not the kitchen, where
doom in the shape of plates and glasses lay waiting. At least, that
was my plan, if I could find the damned remote thingie!

CROW: He forgot what he was talking about after two sentences.
TOM: He's probably holding it.
MIKE: The remote.
TOM: The remote.

"It's underneath the Penthouse on the coffee table," Sammy blared over
the noise of running water and furious scrubbing. His all-seeing eyes
never blinked.

CROW: So Sammy's a lizard?

"Uh...thanks!" I replied, at last finding the blasted thing with
Sammy's clairvoyant directions. "Uh, do you need any help with those
abominations?" I asked, a little quieter than necessary.

TOM: Then I remembered which game world I was in.
MIKE: I'm embarrassed that you know that.

Even though he had "busted" me, I'd be damned if I'd go willingly
into Dish Hell.
"Nope!" came my salvation, and that was that. Now he knew that I knew
that I owed him, in the Way of Slovenly Men. Or something inane like
that.

CROW: Or like this.

Relieved, I sank into the

TOM: Quicksand! The end!
MIKE: That's getting a little tired, Tom.
TOM: So am I.

plush, heavy pseudo-leather
couch (the shrine of the Cathode God, that is) and flicked on the tube
with the remote, deciding to zombie-out with the latest
ram-it-down-your-throat CNN newscast. Such was my habitual, vicarious
absolution. My personal demons were nothing compared to those of the
news. Seriously: How could a nightmare, no matter how insane, compare
to a terrorist bombing, an earthquake, or even the latest Third World
Bus Plunge? I was already starting to chomp at the bit and foam at the
mouth once I considered the insane shit that the Talking Heads on the
tube were about to tell me with their hilariously straight faces and
their preprogrammed Disneyworld Animatronic movements.

MIKE: When he's relaxed he chomps and foams? Maybe Luther can get him
some Valium.

Much to my disgust, though, once the Cathode God roared to life, I got
nothing but static.

CROW: Static! I'm gonna hurl!

Jittery, creepy-crawly white ant-static. Not good, that. Feeling
disconnected from my cable-umbilical chord, I scanned the channels,
only to get more and more and more static.

TOM: How much static can a channel have?

Dammit, Sammy!

MIKE: <singing> I love you!

I fumed, wondering how close the Kremlin
was to red alert because of his latest mad scientist experiment.
"What in the hell's wrong with the TV, Sammy?" I complained loudly
over the hissing static. "Have you been down in your 'lab' again?"
"Innocent on all accounts, whatever they be!" was his instant, snappy
reply.
"But there's nothing but static on every channel!"
"Still innocent, boyo! I haven't caused any electromagnetic pulses
lately!" Sammy's hyena laughter denied his denials.

MIKE: And the author demonstrates his inexact knowledge of physics.
TOM: And English.

But, before I could get my zombie-self
in gear to get up and give him a swift kick in the ass, he added, "But
knowing our cable company, Logan, I'd bet that whatever it is isn't
just an isolated occurrence.

CROW: Ah, they get Warner Cable.

Hell. Most of southern
Louisiana is probably disconnected even as we speak. If they weren't
already disconnected before, that is..."
I considered that no-brainer for about half a second, even as the
little lunatic started belting out the raunchy lyrics to the Fear
song, "Disconnected." Right as rain he was. Those crazy cable guys.

MIKE: <faux laughter> Cable guys! What are you gonna do with 'em?
CROW: <Jim Carrey> Cable guy!

They never could get it right, whatever "it" was. Knowing how they
operated their brainless monopoly, those cable bozos were probably
using their satellite dishes for woks even as we spoke.
Hmmm...

TOM: <Homer Simpson> Stir fry.....

Wheels turned in my mind as I considered this ridiculous notion. Woks
to Chinese food; Chinese food to martial arts; martial arts to my old
sparring partner, Michael Reese.

CROW: To Reese's Cups. I had the munchies.

Funny how those wheels turned in that mush that I called a mind.

MIKE: Spinning and going nowhere, throwing up roostertails of grey
matter.

TO BE CONTINUED....

--The MST3K characters are copyrighted by Best Brains, Inc. The text
of the novel is copyrighted by Nova Eth publishing or Todd King or
whoever. No infringement is intended.