AHEAD OFF TARGET TO THE FATWA: IOLA AND JENNIFER ERADICATING RADICALS
By Quillon42
[SPOILERS FOR FORCE AWAKENS INCIDENTALLY]
SOMETIME IN 1987 IN BOMBASTIC BAYPORT
Extra spring was placed into step as the young ebon-tressed teen approached her garage-ensconced vehicle. Never again would Iola bear to witness Joe Hardy, he who was heretofore the giant heart at the center of her solar system of devotion, fraternizing with another girl like that.
Nay, should another such treacherous transgression occur against her, she would make sure she'd take her prized 1986 Cutlass Ciera (as the vehicle appeared to be on the cover of Dead on Target) and when she was through with her beau, they'd have to scrape that younger son of Fenton of the effing fender. Miss Morton would make the mook moribund indeed, as far as she was concerned.
Thoughts such as these coursed through the circuits of chubby Chet's kid sister as she began to cover the last couple hundred feet to her car…when of a sudden
[FAAASSSSSHHHHH FAAASSSSSHHHHH FTTTAAAAAASSSSSSHHHHHH]
the sable-follicled sleuthess was shunted shockingly backward, almost against a pillar of the parking area. A moment or so more, and Iola was reaching her knees, then her feet to espy what had nearly run her down.
It was a sleek black pickup, snazzy from roof to tire with the exception of five or six cheesyfuck "KC" decal thingamabobs along a top rack and across the front grill. Steam hissed all about the coal-shaded conveyance as a svelte, demure, almost back-in-the-day-Brooke-Shieldsy brunette exited from the truck's driver's side.
Iola held close to her chest the leaflets from the Bayport Mall demonstration she organized with the Hardys. Watched with expression agape as this seeming vacuum-manifested maiden addressed her, the other glancing all around the garage before fixing her gaze upon Lady Morton.
"Man…I try to get away from the boys a bit…but this space just takes me back to all the makeouts at the Twin Pines…"
Only unbelieving blinking from Iola in response to this.
"…
"…I mean, the Lone Pine.
"Well, anyway, yeah. It's Miss…Morton, is it?"
After a spell more of slack jaw, a nervous nod from the other woman.
"I'm Jennifer. Parker." She approached Iola to shake, but the latter shook only her head and started to divert again towards the Cutlass.
"I don't think you have…excuse m…"
And then an abrupt snag of the hand of Callie Shaw's best pal.
"Look, Iola, you have to listen to me…"
"What is this rap, doll…like, 'Come with me, if you want to live…'?!"
The FranklinDixonian blackhead sneered defiantly, with an indignation that was somewhat innocent in nature, at the Zemeckisian brunette. All the latter could do was point steadily at the Oldsmobile the former wanted to enter.
With firm conviction now, Jennifer:
"You get in that car, you'll be blown to Hardy Hell.
"…
"Trust me; I know the kind of people we're dealing with."
A pause in which all one hundred thirty Casefiles™ could be placed.
And then anxious Iola eyes, darting back and forth between the beautiful features of Claudia-Wells Jennifer (NOT crappy-ass-imitation Elizabeth-Shue Jennifer here, mind you) and the car that Madamoiselle Morton wanted so badly, in her emotionally-upheaved state, to crush into now.
Before Miss Parker could venture to convince the other vixen of the folly of her resolve, another, quite pernicious presence arrived coarsely onto the scene to make Iola understand.
[VRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTT]
The most vicious of 1970s Volkswagen van-buses now headed both belles off at the pass of safety and soundness.
As has been the case so far this past page, Iola could barely utter a syllable…but Jenny was ready for the uncouth interlopers.
Dragging a protesting babe of Bayport in tow now, the plucky Parker then wrenching back behind the four-by-four's steering wheel, under her breath:
"Oh my God. I found them.
"I don't know how, but I found them."
Failing to comprehend, Iola in shotgun: "Who? Who?!"
"Who do you think?!"
Then gunning the Toyota's engine, Jennifer jolting to send the vehicle into full throttle:
"THE ISISIANS!"
Their eyes bleached with fear, the enemy could not begin to bicker amongst itself, much less endeavor to evade the oncoming time-traversing truck hurtling toward them. Jenny was more than sure that, regarding her ride, the bitch could do 90…and so it did as the pickup plowed full-speed into the victim of a VW, the punchbuggy's cousin pulverized an instant following, within the corniest of steel coffins a half-dozen insurgents purged on impact.
And through it all, nary a flaw upon the four by four; the machine's bumpers were just as bolstered up as its flux capacitor.
"You never earned any of that plutonium, you…you…
"…you fucking chickens."
What vitriol was spewed from the jaws of Jennifer Parker! Of course, as every Hill Valleyan was well aware—especially the easily-flappable McFly clan—there was no epithet more devastating, not "piece of shit," not "motherfucker"…nothing so irretrievably damaging as that condemnatory slur of language most fowl.
And for certain, said radioactive resources were unearned amongst the tacky-ass terrorists—just as in a most recent opus of Awakening, the camaraderie between Poe and Finn was unearned; as was the attachment underlying the slaughter of Han by Kylo; as was, yes, the victory over said Ren by Rey. As many others across Internets are arguing, it took Luke at least a film and a half to even stand up to Vader…and yet the Jakkuan who was more just-out-of-the-box than Jedi could defeat a practiced Sith Lord. While this author can respect warriors of either gender who work to merit their achievements, he cannot laud writers who resort to demographic pandering over damn straight plausibility.
(And as one more aside to complete this utterly irrelevant digression: JJ Abrams in his profit-prostitutioning of old franchises, purely for money rather than for motives artistic or aesthetic, makes him no different from Michael Effing Bay…the latter of whom is abhorrent and more detestable even than the likes of…)
"AL-ROUSASA!"
Iola shot a shocked look out the passenger's at the receding segment of feces who was retreating towards a particular egress of the garage.
Before Frank Hardy's future sister-in-law (to be damn sure, in this reality) could begin to formulate a sentence, Jennifer once againnifer:
"That filthy fuckpiece is the one who compromised your Cutlass, Yoles! We can't let him…"
And then the murderous Miss Morton was already one jigowatt jump ahead of her seething seatmate.
Not even Marty's main squeeze saw coming the vindictive flourish initiated by Iola as the latter brandished that bazooka that Jenny boosted from the Libyans…Io transforming now not into the embattled heifer that was once her first two syllables' mythological counterpart…but rather into a combative hoyden, hauling off with her righteous rocket launcher as she herself boomed:
"TAKE THIS UP YOUR AL-ROUSASSSSSS!"
[WWWHHHSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS]
The zooker zinger issued most magnificently from the tungsten tube, the weighty explosive diamond of destruction spiraling along like the fiercest football, it catching up to the corrupt cad and then
[SSSHHHTTTTTCCCHHHHH]
hitching him up by the makeshift rear neckline of his tattered garb, the roaring rocket continuing to convey Al-Rousasa out an open doorway of the garage and into the ether of the atmosphere, the trajectory of the projectile propelling the paramecium of a person all the way out past the border of Bayport…out toward a nearby body of water where The Phantom Freighter of the Hardys' twenty-sixth of original mysteries had still been haunting (said Freighter was indeed more of a Phantom fright than whatever the original Menace was of Lucasfilms's first chimeras of celluloid…
(…because this story really needed another fun irrelevant digression into Star Wars territory).
In any case
[BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM]
while the Freighter was as unfazed by the ensuing blast into its side as Buzzy Beetle was by the balls of Mario's florally-empowered fire…the fucker who rode the incoming rocket was reduced to so many cubits of cauterized shit, courtesy of the fatwa brought on by the furious femme under the irrepressible moniker of Iola Morton.
Back at the Bayport Mall, both bellicose gals kept gaping in gratification at the magnanimous amount of mass destruction they caused for the sake of the greater good. Thanks to the immense justice perpetrated by I and J here, the threat of ISIS would be contained in an entire multiverse of extant (yet also unfortunately all-fictional) realities. (And the impact of this event would even scare off the Libyans for the time being, too!)
But no rest for the wiliest of women here.
[ERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR]
"Whoa, where're we goin', Jenns?"
"Just take it easy, Yo-Yo Mo. I'll getcha back to the arms of your betrothed Joey in no time. Meanwhile I'm callin' my primo pooch Einstein to defuse the fuck out of your Oldsmobile, so's you can drive her again…and right now I'm takin' the Toyota back to 2015.
As Jennifer accelerated a bit more while barreling down a Bayport highway, she readying to rip ahead back into the "futuristic" decade and a half into the new millennium…
"Marty and the Doc are in need of my help, see? Like, it was bad enough when I first got there, and saw that holographic headline, 'Cubs Get Swept In NLCS'…but then everything hit the crapper when my guy McFly tried to get away from Griff…on A HOVERBOARD SUBJECT TO A RECALL…"