Hey there... here we are at a crossroads... deciding whether to ditch and cut your losses or just throw in the die... well, for those who've decided to stay... howdy... I can already tell we're going to be friends...
After spending time in the parrot cage, I felt it appropriate to revise. That's right, it's all shiny and new, like bread rations! Special thanks for Tha Kalligrapha and his amazing reviewing powers; much love, darling!
But to first get off our chests, Screwy Squirrel is Tex "Red Hot" Avery, Porky Pig and Pepe "Libido" Le Pew are the Warner Brother's, Gandy "Randy" Goose and "Don't Piss Me Off" Sourpuss belong to Paul "Woolworth's' Terry, and Richard "Time Warp" O'Brien own Brad and Janet Majors.
Now may we kick this in gear, darling?
Between Nevada and Southern California lies the lonesome road strung on Death Valley. Most folks don't have an inkling of what transpires there in the sinking hours of night. Lizards, cacti, mean and dispensed heroin needles, murderers, scorpions, 'immaculate hospitals', the Manson Family, it has it all. And who's this driving recklessly at this ungodly hour? Why it's Screwy Squirrel, children's most postmodern cartoon! Carbon Dioxide sputters from the muffler as the Ford car leaves Porky Pig screaming about the obvious lack of water.A mad laugh flies out, fucked up bats from a belfry. He'll be fine, thinks Screwy, water's bound to be found in a big stretch of desert as that one; besides, the fat boy deserves it for trying to rat him out. He only had two ounces, is that a crime?
It can be said Screwy is, in clinical terms, an asshole; it can also be said the Earth travels around the Sun. Screwy eases the clutch up a couple hours on the road; it's the wee hours of morning and drowsiness is his personal gremlin out to sabotage him. His mind wanders as he reminiesces the young couple he passed over; well, he wasn't sure he 'passed' them as he made them eat tire. Memory's a funny thing. If he snorted some of what he had earlier he might notice the pedestrian in the way.The impact itself proves to be a real wake-up call, a total "woah!" that throws every internal system outside. He drags himself out the car with the fluidity and grace of a crack addict. Of all the states, animals, people, and highways of the good ol' U.S. of A., it has to be Pepe le Pew.
Screwy can tell the skunk is a pulpy mess; usually people are speechless for such moments but Screwy sums it in one word, "Shit!" He clutches his skull in a panic-stricken state; leans over Pepe, hoping he's dead. Nothing. Nothing. A gurgled sigh. Damn it he's alive and it sounds he doesn't have long in this physical plane. A hospital's out of the question; not risking another chance in the slammer. The idea light bulb soon crashes and leaves fragments in Screwy. Acting in haste, he wraps the car victim in towels; lePew becomes an impromptu hotel-mummy. "There," he answers, "I think you'll be fine right here." Slam, another murder rap avoided; Screwy congratulates himself, "Handled that perfectly. San Antonio look out for Screwy!" His laughter expels faster than pollution down that dark passage through Death Valley.
Some miles back, Brad and Janet Majors have their pretty selves squashed into raspberry by Screwy's jackassery, like so many animals and aspiring runaways. First the Frank-n-furterincident, now this; where can ordinary peoplehave a simplevacation? Normally people who get the red-asphalt treatment remain dead but tonight fate, God, chance, or diseases had intervened. Routine flying saucer had barely avoided a car's lack of common sense before immolating in Christmas lights. The resulting accident leaks space radiation, fully reanimating Brad and Janet from the big sleep. Unfortunatley, the lovers had no notion of their hit-and-run or their status as the undead.
Brad hoists himself, rubbing his head, "Uhhh... feels like I fell asleep on the sidewalk. Hey Janet, get up!"
He assists Janet, clutching with one stripped arm, "Oh what happened, Brad?"
"I dunno," he firmly establishes, "The tire blew out, the we were waving at someone, and then we just woke up! Must'vefell asleep! Hey Janet, you look a little funny."
"You know," she twists her head a full 180 degrees, "I do feel a bit wierd."
"Probably nothing a good shower can't fix. Let's get to the nearest motel."
Two hours pass without banal conversation, the deep violet sky opressive. If a priest had beheld this man and wife, he would certainly go into a fully on speaking-in-tongues freakout. Body parts absent, skin hanging like loose parchment, bloody puddles, brains exposed like raw hamburger meat; they were certainly a sight. Almost depressing in a way. Brad embraces his woman and smiles diconcertingly, "I have the strangest cravings for brains, I don't know why, but I do. We should go to a fast-food joint."
"Honestly, Brad, that talk frightens me. Though to be honest, I am hungry for some kind of spongy, raw meat..."
"And you know, my skin feels really cold, does yours..."
"Not to mention how my kidney's been hanging out and nothing! It's all very wierd..."
"Yeah, it's like ever since we woke up from the pavement..." Memories flooded back like rotten chocolate milk, realization dawned over Janet's face, a red sun-face, 'Oh Brad! It's all coming back to me! Don't you remember? The car... the squirrel.."
"Oh my God, yes! It's all clear, sometime tonight we must've been run over by some lunatic squirrel, hence the missing amount of time! Which must mean...'
Janet despaired, "We're dead! Don't you see? The cravings, the coldness, the lack of lungs, we're dead!"
"My god... you're right... that squirrel must've placed some voodoo on us! There's one thing we must do..."
"What's that? "
"We have to find this magician rodent, and there's only one place he would've gone... Los Angeles!"
"What are you waiting here for? Let's go!"
Two living corpses slunk down golden streaked in dawn.
Along Death Valley, a diner drawn from the 'no I'm serious' files; it only appears to the mention of the temperature or simply out of pure ignorance. Here Sourpuss and Gandy Goose attempt to enjoy good bacon; too late, two mugs smash the tranquility with gungho. It seems impossiblefor a low-profile cartoon goose and cat to feast in peace. Sourpuss does his best to appear stoic as some punk-ass kids in ski masks attempt pulling off a robbery; the other patrons cower but he merely sits tight. No hacks were going to make him hide with his tail between his legs. Almost immediately the cold pressure of steel digs in to his head.
A voice that would've belong to a trashy record-store clerk growls, "why ain't you on the floor like everybody else? You've got a death wish man?" Sourpuss' eyes glowers to an angry slit, Gandy hasn't returned from the bathroom, looks like he'd have to buy time. "You think," his raspy dialect spits out, "I'm afraid of a sumabitch like you? I know a thing or two about killin', and I know you ain't gonna pull that trigger."
The guy's arm is visibly shaking, as if seized by tremors, "You think I don't have the balls? Well, just you see, man"
"Before you smoke me out, could you tell me your name?"
"I ain't tellin' you!"
"Hey 'I ain't tellin ya'," he motions with his finger, "Come 'ere, I got somethin' to show ya." Held by idiot curiosity 'I ain't telling you' peeks at Sourpuss' lap to see what it was he had to show.
Time to improvise, he thinks; whoosh, bang, the tables turned. Holding him by the neck, Sourpuss wins himself a hostage (always carry a gun he tells himself), now to negotiate while waiting for his pal. The robber-turned-victim quickly realizes his predicament, "Um, Welt, I have a problem." Welt swivels around, instantly he cocks the gun to full alert, "All right, wise-ass, I think it's in your best interest to put the gun down." Sourpuss shoves the gun harder into the captured man's head, "No, here's what I want you to do, at the end of three seconds, I want you ta put the weapon away, got it"
End of three seconds, weapons still drawn; he sighs, "I guess it's a showdown, den. But let me tell ya, I'll have you twos on the ground, dead." At this touching scene, Gandy enters busily wiping his hands, "Sourpuss, I got some breath mints from the..."
"Gandy! Don't just stand there! Shoot him ! shoot him"
Instantaneously, Gandy grabs his piece and ducks under a table right before Welt empties rounds into the restroom door. Boom, boom, Welt collapses leaking human juice everywhere. Grinning to 'I ain't tellin' you', Sourpuss gloats, "Guess you lost ya bargainin' card." Bam, brains all over the table; he wipes his hands, as to clean himself of a messy job, "Ain't called Sourpuss for no reason. Common, Goose, let's go." His counterpart stood in a near catatonic state, "I just shot him Sourpuss... just shot him... we didn't have to"
"Whatta ya talkin' about? You've done this hundreds of times!"
"But I called the police... they would've..."
"You called the...? Ya numb fuck..."
Speak of the devil, the officers roll through the window; one rotund officer approaches the scene, "Sir, I got your call and now I'll take care of these-oh." He gives an admonishing look to Sourpuss, "Well, I see you already handled things so expertly here so I see there's no reason for me to stay..."
"Sure ya do," the cat gives a passive wave leaving the diner, "You can take care of the stiffs, it'd be a real help. Get in the car, Gandy, let's go."
Like he tells himself, police are janitors with guns.
There you have it, folks! The first installment of the many lost essays and writings of Just Plain Jhonny! Laugh, cry, love it, hate it, hate it some more; doesn't matter, you'll never get that hour of life back! You may feel at liberty to R&R.
And remember, 'Hong Kong Phooey' likes fondling his coworkers! All of them!