Rated K+
Season Four
Episode 1
It is my intention to offer a continuation of this marvelous story where it was unfortunately stopped those years ago, and to expand the perspective on the story by occasionally stepping out of the third-person narrative style and into limited perspective third-person to focus on one character's personal development at crucial moments in their stories. I also intend to plant a new character into the story to provide a fresh emotionally and psychologically invested perspective to the plot.
Much as I would like to claim them, The Biker Mice From Mars and all related titles and images remain the sole property of their copyright holders and officially licensed affiliates, neither of which am I. No monetary gain is made by the publishing of this work.
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The pulse of the city was slow and steady in the cool spring afternoon. Free from the push of tourists and industry that ebb and flow around the skyscrapers downtown, the neighborhood streets were nearly empty in the pre rush hour calm. Black asphalt and gray concrete, littered with bits of the discarded news, glistened with the remnant of midday rain, and storefront windows shone bright from the washing. All the glass, even the broken bottles in the gutter, reflected the soft grayscale of buildings and brilliant blue of the clear sky.
A few cars lined the cracked, puddled sidewalks. One clunker was waiting in front of a small store. It's door chimed with tiny bells as two men walked in. The clerk smiled broadly, eager to greet his customers.
"Buenos Dias, Sirs. Welcome. How can I help..."
He faltered at the sight of a firearm leveling at his chest. A burly, bald man dressed in leathers and grunge fashion sneered, while another flipped the door lock and turned the welcome sign to "Closed".
"You can start by putt'n your hands up!" The gunman ordered with amusement in his voice.
The clerk complied, rolling his eyes.
"Oy, again? Three times now I've been robed this month."
"Well boo hoo. Shut up and open the register. Andy, check the rest of the store. We ain't leavin' an audience."
The other man lumbered forward, looking down isles as he went. He paced slowly across the small store seeking movement beyond the shelves, or reflected in the high-gloss polish of the linoleum floor. As register sounded, he spotted an open cold-case door on the last isle.
A woman crouched behind a display, mentally berating herself as heavy footfalls drew closer. In her haste to disappear, she had dropped her purchase where she stood looking through the refrigerated case. Now they held the door wide open. Poised on the edge of fight-or-flight, she peeked over the shelf to look for a way around her would-be assailant.
Her eyes met a pair of kneecaps. Her vision followed up the legs and engorged torso to a yellowed grin and a beard streaked with tobacco stains. A nine millimeter was steady in the man's beefy hand.
"Hey babe." He grabbed a fist-full of her jacket, yanking her to her feet. She pulled hard to the left and managed to slip from his grasp, but before taking even a step, she felt the push of the gun barrel in her spine. "Hands up, woman, and get moving."
She planted her feet right there and squared her shoulders, refusing to make a move, even when the pistol pressed harder against her back. The attacker leaned in, breathing heavily next to her face.
"You walk or I carry you."
Slowly, she raised her hands, growling. Her steps were steady as she moved, shaking her head to hide behind a fall of wavy dark hair. As the leader watched her approach, she refused to look up. They halted within arms reach.
"Well, lookie here. A shy little trick, eh? Let's see your pretty face."
The gun on her back relaxed as he reached out. She bit at his hand and stood to full hight, glaring at the man with piercing green eyes.
"Shit! It's the Davidson girl! Andy, we gotta get out of here!"
"What?" The fat man barked, laughing. "She isn't even armed. What the Hell's wrong with you?"
"You don't get it man; she's got friends! When I worked for Limburger–"
CRACK! The thief was propelled sideways and a small splatter of blood sailed out where the forgotten store clerk's baseball bat made contact with his ear and temple.
A spray of laser darts lanced the air as the falling man shot wildly, slipping into unconsciousness. The clerk cried out, "Charley, DUCK!"
Crouching low, the woman threw herself at the second man. His gun rang out. The bullet aimed at the clerk, veered towards the window...
Outside, the sun was glinting off streams of water racing in the gutter and the pristine chrome of three motorcycles pulling up. The roar of their engines stilled as the riders planted their boots.
"Hey Throttle, this is where Charley said to meet her, right?"
"I thought so big felleh'. She said she was grocery shopping, but it looks like Manwelo closed early today."
"He can't do that; we're all out of root beer!"
The rider's indignation was cut short by a shout and the report of laser fire ringing inside the shop. Instantly the trio moved as one, jumping off their bikes and rushing towards the door. The glass window before them exploded as a bullet made contact, and they dove to the pavement.
Inside, the bearded goon shoved Charley away and scrambled to his feet, retraining his gun on the clerk. Manwelo glared back defiantly. His dark eyes were steely as he wrung the neck of his bat like a major-league hitter. Terrible stillness gripped the scene. Hearts pounded as both men tensed to move.
A throat cleared, and all eyes turned at the sound. Glass crunched underfoot as Modo and Vinnie stepped through the broken window joining Throttle. Modo's eye was glowing red with furry, and sunlight glinted sharply off the Vinnie's quicksilver face and the laser blaster in his hand.
Throttle cracked his knuckles.
"Is there a problem here, citizen?"
Reorganized Crime
by MouseyWithMoxy
edited by VicKnight
On the sidelines, the fallen thief moaned and pushed up from the ground, but one glance at the alien trio caused him to swoon again.
"No body move!" the remaining thief shouted, pointing his gun where Charely had landed "or the girl gets it!"
"What girl?" Vinnie asked with a widening grin.
The desperate criminal glanced to see an empty floor where his pistol pointed. He turned just in time to watch a two gallon pickle jar crash down on his head.
"That girl." Modo said grinning proudly.
Charlene Davidson slipped her hands into her pockets and smiled triumphantly at her friends.
"Thanks for the distraction guys."
Once the thieves were secure, police were called, and the mice talked their way out of Charley's offer to help clean up the store, our heros and their human companion loaded their bikes with root beer and hotdogs, "on the house," and tore out into the city. Seven decibels of heavy metal haled their passing en rout to Quigly field, where the bad-to-the-bone Biker Mice made their Teran home and hideout inside the enormous scoreboard. The local radio disk jockey Georgie Brown had just put on Freeway Fame by Deep Violet when Vinnie crowed and popped a wheelie, much to the surprise of Charley who was hanging onto him for dear life.
"Vinnie!" she shouted over the din, "Take it easy!"
If he heard her, he did not bother to respond: "Bros, I'm going out of my mind! Not one evil plot to mess up, and the first goon we spot in weeks, Charley stomps him before I get the chance! So unfair."
"Well excuse me for taking initiative!" Charley shouted, thumping the side of his helmet.
Modo laughed at the pair, raising his own voice. "I know what you mean bro. With Ol' Fish Face on recall, the low lives' been layin way too low."
"I wonder if Lard Lips misses us."
Light years away, Lawrence Lactavius Limburger would have gladly come face to faces with is old enemies at that moment rather than endure his current, rather dire, situation.
In the bottom of a massive arena, Limburger was bound hand over hand, looking truly green around the gills. Surrounding and towering above were flights of floating screens which, only moments ago, had projected the leering, jeering faces of his peers, the Plutarkian warlords and conquerors. Now, however they displayed the even more horrific spectacle of close to 200 Plutarkian posteriors engaged in simultaneous traditional Plutarkian greeting. The widest pressed-hams in the universe wiggled, and pound upon pound of bellies and arm flab jiggled as the legion raised an uproarious chant:
"From cheek to cheek,
And stink to stink,
As Plutark rule's the Galaxy shrinks.
Woooah!"
Limburger thought he was going to be sick, and was not entirely sure whether the cause was the display he just witnessed, or the terror that gripped his slimy spine as High Chairman Camembert began to address him.
"Now, to business... Your incompetence has plagued our plans for the last time Limburger! For three years, we have occupied that puny planet, and what do you have to show for it? A few thousand gallons of water and the profits off 200 slaves. Earth should have been stripped to its core by now!"
Limburger was ready to crack, his ponderous piscine figure visibly quaking. The gaudy purple pin-striped suit he had been wearing for a week of captivity was dark in broadening patches where sweat oozed between his scales, and his odor was beginning to rival even the lauded Counsuler Perry Provoloni.
"But, Lord Camembert, benevolent chairman, you can hardly hold me solely responsible. After all, the others..."
"Silence! You swindled your way to the first appointment on that planet, and you have less to show for it than your counter parts! Any shortcomings within their operations are the direct result of a minor problem that you have repeatedly failed to solve."
As Camembert railed, several screens switched over to recordings and images of the trio of Martian freedom fighters on Earth and their human accomplice. One even began looping videos of the various ways the fighters managed to destroy Limburger's headquarters, Limburger Tower. "These three insignificant creatures have made a fool of you at every turn, and their continued interference has caused costly delays in three regions outside your own! How can you justify your inability to destroy mere rodents Limburger?"
Suddenly, a vicious glint flashed in Limburger's eye and his tremors stopped.
"But chairman, let us not forget that these insignificant rodents are the same three that cost Plutark so dearly in the last battle for Mars."
Camembert began to visibly fluster, his color deepening. "What do you mean, Limburger."
Limburger was standing straighter, and even lifted his shackled hands to straighten his tie.
"That is to say, Chairman, that those are the same three freedom fighters who escaped Stilton's fortress during the Martian occupation and liberated the Martian Army. It was, of course, coincidence that you ordered all forces to begin withdrawing from the planet within hours of that debacle, your excellency. Perhaps if you had seen fit to destroy them before you approved departure, they would not be such a problem now."
A murmur arose throughout the room. Several lords began nodding to one another and private communication lines popped up in the corners of several screens.
Camembert, seeing his grip on the room slipping away, was seething with anger. He lunged out of his chair, gripping the balcony edge and shaking his massive jowls as he shouted. "Do you dare to imply those mammals had anything to do with the timing of my decisions?"
Limburger did not raised his voice a fraction. "Not at all, exquisite excellency. I merely wish to point out that while many of us have dealt with these revolting riders, these Biker Mice, I have come close to killing the creatures on numerous occasions."
"Yet you have failed each time!"
His sound was oily smooth as he reeled the Chairman in. "But I have been learning your excellency. If you recall me from Chicago now, whom ever would attempt to fill my shoes will not know their tactics and weaknesses, and the threatening threesome will overcome quickly. Return me to earth. Permit me to pound those petulant pests permanently, and I assure you that all of Chicago will be ours for the taking."
Camembert rubbed the fifth layer of his chin with a webbed claw as he sat back on his throne, uttering a thoughtful "hmm..."
"Very well Limburger, but I warn you: this is your final chance. If Plutark does not see results soon, you will be stripped of all rank and sentenced to spend the rest of your days in the homeworld waste processing plant!"
At that heinous threat, a final shudder broke Limburger's confidence. *Gulp* "Thank you, oh charming chairman."
The shackles fell away from his hands and Limburger quickly turned to leave.
"One more thing, Limburger."
He cringed and turned again to face the platform.
"Since stripping down a defenseless planet and exterminating a few pests has proven too much for you to handle," a deep, cruel chuckle escaped the chairman, "I have decided to relieve some of your burden. I am assigning a second Plutarkian to your city. Surely between the two of you, something will be accomplished."
Laughter erupted around the room, and Limburger's eyes bulged.
"But Chairman!" He began, "That is an unprecedented act of–"
"Unprecedented actions are the only options in the face of your unprecedented failure! If you would rather, I will simply recall you now and send you off to the homeworld today."
"Err, um... no. Thank you chairman."
"Excellent. That will be all Limburger." Camembert waved a dismissive hand at him and looked away. "Where the hell is my glacial mercury water!"
His ranting continued, but Limburger did not hear it. His fluids were boiling in his ears as he walked stiffly through the exit. As soon as he reached the safety of the empty hall, Limburger began cursing the whole of Plutark as he navigated towards the prison chambers.
"Damn that demented dictator! I'll show that reeking ruler some results. I'll become the greatest harvester that Plutark has ever seen! Then we'll see who calls who a failure! And as for that fat, flatulent fraud who dares to muscle in on my mission, I'll see him served up sushi style for a Saturian banquet!"
"You there!" He bellowed at a guard behind the prisoner processing window, "I demand to have my things back at once!"
The young Plutarkian, impressively broad for one of soldier status, stood up from his chair and brandished his blaster, waving the business end casually towards the shouting conqueror.
"You are demanding what now, sir?"
"Err... that is too say, my fine young lad, I would appreciate it if you would return the belongings that I *ahem* entrusted you with when I arrived here."
"You mean your stuff we confiscated? Wait here."
Limburger mopped his brow with his hand and sighed with relief as the gun lowered. The guard returned with a box full of sundries.
"Here you are sir: One silk handkerchief, three sticks of double-worm gum, keys to one Plutarkian tier three cruiser, three cents in Earth currency, and one rubber earthling mask. Sign here."
Limburger signed the form and took the box eagerly. He immediately grabbed the mask and stretched it over his piscine face, breathing a deep sigh of relief as it formed into place.
"Aaah, that's better. Well, I think that is everything. Now if you would just point me towards the parking bay, I will be on my way."
"Hey, wait a minute." The guard paused, looking at the form. "It says here you have some additional belongings in holding cell two."
As the guard came out of the office and headed towards the cell doors, Limburger began frantically trying to talk his way out.
"Oh dear, no. I am sure this is everything I brought! If I have left anything else, it's yours! You are welcome it! I'll just be going now–"
The cell door opened.
"Duhh, Boss!"
An enormous being raced towards Limburger, who groaned, rolling his eyes. Not surprisingly, the nearly-human behemoth known as Greasepit slipped on a puddle of his own slime, lost his footing mid-stride and slid head first upto the tip of Limburger's shoes.
"Hi, Mr. Limburger."
Limburger sighed. "Greasepit, dear boy..."
"Duhh, yeah boss?"
"STOP LEAKING ON MY LOAFERS!"
Greasepitt jumped to his feet, releasing a shower of grease that splattered Limburger's already disgraceful suit.
"Sorry boss."
Limburger sneered as he wiped at the fresh stains.
"Yes you are Greasepit. I have never known a sorrier specimen."
Suddenly, a nasal whine interrupted the ludicrous conversation.
"Oh fragrant fuhrer! My lactatious liege! I knew you wouldn't leave us! *wheeze*
Fred, get off me!"
Limburger rolled his eyes. "I stand corrected."
The nefarious mad scientist, Dr. Karbunkle staggered out of the cell while swatting at the deformed mass, his masochistic lab assistant Fred the Mutant, who had attached its self to his leg and refused to let go for fear of being left behind.
Limburger turned to the guard. "Must I claim these?"
"You brought em, you take em. Sign here sir."
Limburger complied, then turned to his huddling henchman.
"Since you miserable morons are my burden to bear, I suggest you make yourselves useful. Greasepit! Locate the parking bay and prepare the ship for takeoff. Karbunkle! Bring that deformed dim-whit assistant of yours and come with me. We have a lot of planning to do."
"For what are we preparing, oh honored head-cheese?"
"For my soon to be triumphant return to earth and the inevitable end to the Biker Mice from Mars."
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