Tales of the Starbuck Avenger!!! (66)
Finally finishing this mother, within the next couple of weeks. For serious this time.
* * *
In the early morning depths of a dark Wisconsin winter, three figures roared up a deserted stretch of State Street on a tiny teal-colored Honda Metropolitan. They were arguing.
"HELMET!" shouted the young cloak-wearing dwarf girl on the passenger seat. Her garments floofed and billowed in the icy wind. It was a very dramatic effect, a dramatic effect that was a little bit undercut by the very oversized (but nevertheless cheery) matching teal scooter helmet perched loosely on top of her head. "DOGG MUST UNDERSTAND THAT UNDER TYPICAL CIRCUMSTANCES HELMETS IS A THANG HELL OF MANDATORY BOTH FOR LEGAL AND SAFETY PURPOSES."
"For cryin' in the mud," said the second figure, all laconic and shit. He was a smallish gray tabby cat seated on the running board, wearing driving goggles and a big conical collar etched with shining green lines. That he could talk at all was pretty remarkable, but he was also doing a spot-on Steve McQueen impersonation, and Steve McQueen impressions are hard to do, so it was doubly amazing. Unfortunately, you cannot actually credit the cat for his performance skills, since it was all due to his alien collar beaming both behavioral data and superpowers into his brain based on satellite television signals. "Unless I'm wrong," the cat continued, "and I don't think I'm wrong, that's the helmet that was on the back of this bike I stole."
"SCOOTER!" said the third, tiara-clad, figure, trying to keep her eyes on the road despite all the goddamn arguing. "THIS IS A SCOOTER! NOT A 'BIKE'!" This figure was me, your hero and mine, the Starbuck Avenger. Fear my narrative powers.
"Potato, Po-tah-to. Point is, miss, that helmet's too big for your little girlfriend."
"IT IS BASICALLY SUPERIOR TO NOT WEARING A HELMET AT ALL," said my hero partner, Mebby 'Corpseflower' Hull.
"OKAY LOOK," I yelled, over the noise of the wind. "I DIDN'T WANT TO TELL YOU THIS, BUT SOMEWHERE ALONG THE LINE I DEVELOPED SUPER HEALING POWERS WHICH WILL PREVENT ME FROM DYING IF I GET IN AN ACCIDENT, A SCENARIO THAT IS INCREASINGLY LIKELY THE MORE I SHOUT AND THE LESS I WATCH THE ROAD."
"YOU WHAT?" said Mebby.
I swerved the Metropolitan over towards the curve and hit the brakes. "Super healing powers," I said, disembarking from or off the scooter, whichever's more appropriate for the word "disembarking". "When I got chucked into the garbage before, it, um, broke my spine. I should probably be a little more deader than I am right now, is all I'm saying."
"Oh," said Mebby, in a heartbreakingly plain tone of voice.
I scowled a little in frustration. "I didn't want you getting all issue-tastic on me, okay? You already had that mentor guilt thing. Now come on, off the scooter."
"Uhm Starbuck," said Mebby, gazing up at the unimposing façade of Ian's Experimental Pizza. "We are basically nowhere near tha church you were carting us to. And this is not a good time for munchies."
"We're picking up some backup, okay?"
Mebby hesitated. "You're n-- not thinking of--"
"I am!" I said.
* * *
"You're… what?" said Tackle, wiping his hands on his apron. The tiny silver chains on his hands and arms glittered and tinkled with the motion. "Come again?"
"We're about to get our butts kicked," I said. "We're fighting an alien from another planet who sucks superpowers, and here's us: me, kinda super-healing super-athlete. Corpseflower, talks to plants and has some martial arts moves. And outside is a stupid-ass cat who has all the powers of your average Steve McQueen."
Through the picture windows at the front of the store, there came a bright green flash, corresponding to the general direction I had ditched both the scooter and the stupid cat.
"Okay, forget that last thing," I said. "I think he just changed channels. Now we don't even know what powers he has. They might be worse than Steve McQueen powers. He could be tuned into motherfucking Blue Peter by now."
"Your choice of idle reference," said Tackle, "is impressively cosmopolitan."
"Look, I frikkin' love Blue Peter, okay? The point is that we totally suck, and we need help."
"An' you're in on this, Corpsie?"
"What d-- dogg says goes," said Mebby, not meeting Tackle's gaze. I know she doesn't normally meet peoples' gazes but it is always extra special weird between these two. They have a capital-H History.
"C'mon, chickadees," said Tackle. "You know my bag. I don't truck with the evil-fighting thing. I'm a pizza jockey."
"Yeah," I said. "I know this story. You are also the world's greatest on-the-fly improvisational engineer. You once refilled our drinks from halfway across the room using only the godawful amount of metal stringing your piercings together and a common coat-rack. But you know exactly what you can do, and you don't need me telling you. So I'm going to ask one question, and you give me one answer, and we're done." I leaned in close. "Will you," I said, "or will you not come save the world with us?"
He hesitated. "Look," he said. "Miss… spear-chucking coffee princess woman. What you lot don't understand is that--"
"YES," I said, "OR NO. We were out of time five seconds ago."
Tackle waffled again. "It's not that I don't--"
Aaand we were done. With a swoop of my apron/cape, I was out the door and back into the cold. It was a loss, and I meant it when said we were probably going to get our butts kicked, but I hate it when people don't take me friggin' serious. And we were, in fact, pretty much out of time. My Inner Greatness, which was a lot better at math than me, had been calculating exactly how fast the alien snatcher could make it to St. Raf's as compared to how fast the three of us on the Metropolitan could, and the results were pretty gloomy. Mebby stayed behind for a second and exchanged a few private words with Tackle as I gunned the ignition on the scooter. Channel Cat gazed up at me as I did so, his face all green-lit like some kind of… negative… universe… Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer or, um, you know what, forget it. My metaphors suck ass.
I looked back down at him. "So what the hell's your deal? Are you useful or useless now?"
"Ha ha ha!" said the Channel Cat, his lips totally out of sync with his words. "You dare challenge the usefulness of me, the MIGHTY HERCULES?"
"Oh boy," I said.
Mebby stormed out of the pizza shop and chucked herself on back of the scooter. I gunned the engine and darted back out into the street. "W-- what's tha sitch on the cat," said Mebby.
"The cat's Hercules now," I said. "Out of some spaghetti fantasy film, I think."
Mebby nodded. "C-- could be useful."
"Yep," I said, squinting into the wind as we tore past the head of State Street and onto the Capitol Square. Two days ago, I would have thought this conversation was pretty ridiculous, but I guess I was finally 100% acclimatized; this was just the new baseline of dumbness now. My life had finally come back into balance.
Just in time to get killed, I thought, again.
The Metropolitan's wheels skidded hard as we hit East Main Street. My knuckles were bone-white on the handgrips. Mebby shivered in the seat behind me. Channel Cat lounged smugly on the running board, like the Greek demigod he currently was.
Saint Raphael's cathedral, both the beginning and end of my very long road, lay before us.
* * *
In the early morning depths of a dark Wisconsin winter, three figures roared up a deserted stretch of State Street on a tiny teal-colored Honda Metropolitan. They were arguing.
"HELMET!" shouted the young cloak-wearing dwarf girl on the passenger seat. Her garments floofed and billowed in the icy wind. It was a very dramatic effect, a dramatic effect that was a little bit undercut by the very oversized (but nevertheless cheery) matching teal scooter helmet perched loosely on top of her head. "DOGG MUST UNDERSTAND THAT UNDER TYPICAL CIRCUMSTANCES HELMETS IS A THANG HELL OF MANDATORY BOTH FOR LEGAL AND SAFETY PURPOSES."
"For cryin' in the mud," said the second figure, all laconic and shit. He was a smallish gray tabby cat seated on the running board, wearing driving goggles and a big conical collar etched with shining green lines. That he could talk at all was pretty remarkable, but he was also doing a spot-on Steve McQueen impersonation, and Steve McQueen impressions are hard to do, so it was doubly amazing. Unfortunately, you cannot actually credit the cat for his performance skills, since it was all due to his alien collar beaming both behavioral data and superpowers into his brain based on satellite television signals. "Unless I'm wrong," the cat continued, "and I don't think I'm wrong, that's the helmet that was on the back of this bike I stole."
"SCOOTER!" said the third, tiara-clad, figure, trying to keep her eyes on the road despite all the goddamn arguing. "THIS IS A SCOOTER! NOT A 'BIKE'!" This figure was me, your hero and mine, the Starbuck Avenger. Fear my narrative powers.
"Potato, Po-tah-to. Point is, miss, that helmet's too big for your little girlfriend."
"IT IS BASICALLY SUPERIOR TO NOT WEARING A HELMET AT ALL," said my hero partner, Mebby 'Corpseflower' Hull.
"OKAY LOOK," I yelled, over the noise of the wind. "I DIDN'T WANT TO TELL YOU THIS, BUT SOMEWHERE ALONG THE LINE I DEVELOPED SUPER HEALING POWERS WHICH WILL PREVENT ME FROM DYING IF I GET IN AN ACCIDENT, A SCENARIO THAT IS INCREASINGLY LIKELY THE MORE I SHOUT AND THE LESS I WATCH THE ROAD."
"YOU WHAT?" said Mebby.
I swerved the Metropolitan over towards the curve and hit the brakes. "Super healing powers," I said, disembarking from or off the scooter, whichever's more appropriate for the word "disembarking". "When I got chucked into the garbage before, it, um, broke my spine. I should probably be a little more deader than I am right now, is all I'm saying."
"Oh," said Mebby, in a heartbreakingly plain tone of voice.
I scowled a little in frustration. "I didn't want you getting all issue-tastic on me, okay? You already had that mentor guilt thing. Now come on, off the scooter."
"Uhm Starbuck," said Mebby, gazing up at the unimposing façade of Ian's Experimental Pizza. "We are basically nowhere near tha church you were carting us to. And this is not a good time for munchies."
"We're picking up some backup, okay?"
Mebby hesitated. "You're n-- not thinking of--"
"I am!" I said.
* * *
"You're… what?" said Tackle, wiping his hands on his apron. The tiny silver chains on his hands and arms glittered and tinkled with the motion. "Come again?"
"We're about to get our butts kicked," I said. "We're fighting an alien from another planet who sucks superpowers, and here's us: me, kinda super-healing super-athlete. Corpseflower, talks to plants and has some martial arts moves. And outside is a stupid-ass cat who has all the powers of your average Steve McQueen."
Through the picture windows at the front of the store, there came a bright green flash, corresponding to the general direction I had ditched both the scooter and the stupid cat.
"Okay, forget that last thing," I said. "I think he just changed channels. Now we don't even know what powers he has. They might be worse than Steve McQueen powers. He could be tuned into motherfucking Blue Peter by now."
"Your choice of idle reference," said Tackle, "is impressively cosmopolitan."
"Look, I frikkin' love Blue Peter, okay? The point is that we totally suck, and we need help."
"An' you're in on this, Corpsie?"
"What d-- dogg says goes," said Mebby, not meeting Tackle's gaze. I know she doesn't normally meet peoples' gazes but it is always extra special weird between these two. They have a capital-H History.
"C'mon, chickadees," said Tackle. "You know my bag. I don't truck with the evil-fighting thing. I'm a pizza jockey."
"Yeah," I said. "I know this story. You are also the world's greatest on-the-fly improvisational engineer. You once refilled our drinks from halfway across the room using only the godawful amount of metal stringing your piercings together and a common coat-rack. But you know exactly what you can do, and you don't need me telling you. So I'm going to ask one question, and you give me one answer, and we're done." I leaned in close. "Will you," I said, "or will you not come save the world with us?"
He hesitated. "Look," he said. "Miss… spear-chucking coffee princess woman. What you lot don't understand is that--"
"YES," I said, "OR NO. We were out of time five seconds ago."
Tackle waffled again. "It's not that I don't--"
Aaand we were done. With a swoop of my apron/cape, I was out the door and back into the cold. It was a loss, and I meant it when said we were probably going to get our butts kicked, but I hate it when people don't take me friggin' serious. And we were, in fact, pretty much out of time. My Inner Greatness, which was a lot better at math than me, had been calculating exactly how fast the alien snatcher could make it to St. Raf's as compared to how fast the three of us on the Metropolitan could, and the results were pretty gloomy. Mebby stayed behind for a second and exchanged a few private words with Tackle as I gunned the ignition on the scooter. Channel Cat gazed up at me as I did so, his face all green-lit like some kind of… negative… universe… Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer or, um, you know what, forget it. My metaphors suck ass.
I looked back down at him. "So what the hell's your deal? Are you useful or useless now?"
"Ha ha ha!" said the Channel Cat, his lips totally out of sync with his words. "You dare challenge the usefulness of me, the MIGHTY HERCULES?"
"Oh boy," I said.
Mebby stormed out of the pizza shop and chucked herself on back of the scooter. I gunned the engine and darted back out into the street. "W-- what's tha sitch on the cat," said Mebby.
"The cat's Hercules now," I said. "Out of some spaghetti fantasy film, I think."
Mebby nodded. "C-- could be useful."
"Yep," I said, squinting into the wind as we tore past the head of State Street and onto the Capitol Square. Two days ago, I would have thought this conversation was pretty ridiculous, but I guess I was finally 100% acclimatized; this was just the new baseline of dumbness now. My life had finally come back into balance.
Just in time to get killed, I thought, again.
The Metropolitan's wheels skidded hard as we hit East Main Street. My knuckles were bone-white on the handgrips. Mebby shivered in the seat behind me. Channel Cat lounged smugly on the running board, like the Greek demigod he currently was.
Saint Raphael's cathedral, both the beginning and end of my very long road, lay before us.