The Return of Hochstetter (or: How the Major Successfully Failed, Act III)
by 80sarcades


Hello, and sorry for the late update! As always, thank you for reading and/or leaving reviews. I've been dealing with some strained muscles in my left leg (painful); fortunately, the doctor was able to help me with that. To everyone that participated, thank you for letting me use your screen names; its been a lot of fun! Special thanks also go to Sgt. Moffitt for her role as the Kommandant of the Mob!

There were some funny reviews from the last chapter. For some reason, people didn't want to open their front doors that day. Can't imagine why:-) In case you missed it, I wanted to share a review that Jinzle left for me. It's modified on a character from Saturday Night Live and was too good to pass up. Here it is:

Knock on door.

I try to dodge barking dog and kid crying to eat all the ice cream in the freezer.

"Who is it?"

"Telegram."

"Who the hell sends telegrams? Tell the wacko to email me."

"Candygram."

"I'm diabetic." I cried, picking up the yet another Barbie shoe off the floor that I just stepped on.

"Chippendale Dancer."

I drop kick the dog, throw a gallon of Rocky Road at the kid and race to the door. As I open it, I hear the voice on the other side of the door...

"Landshark!"

Whenever I read this bit, I have a mental image of a woman leaping over a pile of laundry while frantically racing towards the door…

Disclaimer: They're coming to take me away, ha, ha…

Double disclaimer: If the world ends before I post this, then it was not my fault!


Chapter 12: What Mob?

"Wow..." I breathed.

I was home.

Everything was just as I had left it. The popcorn was on the table, for instance. The TV was showing some tasteless movie about Justin Bieber. All was right with the world.

I retrieved my iPad from the office and tried to check my email. For some reason, my Internet and phone connection were down. Not a problem, though; I jacked the signal from my neighbor's wireless router to get online. Unfortunately, the bad luck continued to roll on. For some reason, I had 1,265,892 emails waiting to download.

Say what?

Frustrated, I then logged onto Facebook and found my account 'restricted' for everything except for basic housekeeping functions. I sighed heavily.

Did the whole world go to hell over the weekend?

On the other hand, there were some long-overdue things that I could do. On a whim, I updated some of my Facebook info, including the photo, before I booted up the laptop. Once it was up and running, I began to back up iTunes and other assorted documents.

As the first DVD burned away, I walked out of the office and to the living room. After I found the remote to the TV, I switched it on and flipped the cable box to one of the local channels. Surprisingly, the female announcer was talking about, of all things, Hogan's Heroes:

...and in the latest development in the Hogan's Heroes saga, Paramount Home Entertainment has confirmed that some of the affected DVD's have returned to normal. The company, citing legal issues, has refused to comment on the altered material. In a surprise move, CBS Home Video has also released a long-lost segment from the series that shows the characters in a relaxed moment. Here's the clip:

..."I take back everything I said about that chap," Newkirk said happily. The brunette he sat next to smiled as he handed her a glass of red wine. "Of course," he groused, "it would have been better if he had arranged some rooms while he was at it."

"He did," LeBeau interjected. Oddly, the woman he sat next to was a dead ringer for Marya. "We have rooms 210 through 214."

"Guys, I don't know if its such a good idea to fool around like this," said Carter. "I mean, we're the good guys! What-" Suddenly, the blonde sitting next to the American airman kissed him. It was a long while before either of them came up for air.

"Now that's one way to shut him up," the Englishman observed amusedly before locking lips with his own date. There was a strange gleam in Carter's eyes when he finally resurfaced from the kiss. A look his commanding officer knew all too well.

"Colonel?" he asked, all hesitance gone, "I'd like to requisition some of those, um, rubbers, sir. And a room key. Now."

Colonel Hogan laughed. "This, gentlemen," he announced, "is what's known as looking after your men." He dangled the requested items in front of the Sergeant, who quickly grabbed them.

As the enlisted man hustled his date towards the door, Hogan called out to him. "Remember, Carter," he warned, "you only have six hours before we need to head back to camp."

A pained expression appeared on the other man's face. "Just six hours, sir?" he complained, obviously wishing otherwise. Hogan nodded. As the American disappeared out the door, his best friend laughed.

"Competition! That's all we need," the RAF corporal joked. "Soon, he'll be giving us tips."

"I'm a Frenchman," Lebeau said, then snorted. "I don't need 'tips'..." His voice trailed off as his date quietly whispered something into his ear. "I stand corrected," he softly murmured in surprise. He and his date collected their key and left.

"Well, I'll be off meself," Newkirk said, standing up. "We English have a reputation to maintain, you know, against the French," he explained. "That's why they've lost all their wars. They believe in love. We, however," he added, "have bigger swords-"

"Will you just take the key and go, Newkirk?" Kinch interrupted, somewhat annoyed. His date, a gorgeous black bombshell, giggled. "I'd like to go to our own room," he said, throwing a glare at the Englishman. "If you don't mind."

Newkirk eyed the American Sergeant in annoyance for a moment, then chuckled. "You're too quiet, Kinch," he complained. "And just when I was getting warmed up!"

"If you two don't mind," Hogan said, interrupting, "I'd like the chance to get warmed up myself."

Both men blushed. "Sorry, Colonel," they choursed. With keys in hand, they left the Colonel and his lady alone.

"So who is this 80sarcades, Colonel?" his date purred. "A collegue? A friend, perhaps?"

Hogan smiled. "Just a nice guy that helped set up these visits," the American said. "He even arranged for us to have several nights out every month if we want. How does that sound to you?"

"Oh, darling," the blonde moaned. "It sounds wonderful!" Her hands moved down Hogan's hard chest before they stopped at his waistline. As she undid his belt...

The clip ended; the screen returned to the normal news broadcast.

"Unfortunately," the announcer continued, "the remaining portion of the clip is too graphic to be shown on TV. There has been some speculation as to how the segment avoided the network censors of that time. One theory argues that the clip is part of a 'gag reel' not meant to be seen by the viewing public. However, Richard Dawson and Robert Clary, both surviving cast members, have denied that this particular scene ever occurred."

"In a related story," she went on, "there has been rampant speculation that the '80sarcades' person mentioned in the clip might actually be-"

I turned off the TV, utterly pleased with myself.

Enjoy yourselves, guys, I thought smilingly You've earned it. And then some.

After consuming five DVD's, the backup was finally finished. As I put the discs away in a nearby cabinet, I noticed something decidedly odd about the computer screen. A hateful red eye glared at me from the desktop wallpaper. Puzzled, I stared at it.

That's strange, I thought, somewhat puzzled. My Hello Kitty picture never looked that demonic! Suddenly, an evil voice startled me as it oozed from the speakers:

"This isn't over, 80sarcades," it warned, spitting venom. "We will meet again!" I sighed, then rolled my eyes. When does it ever stop with this guy?

"Major Hochstetter," I spat. "I thought you were in some mental hospital somewhere. I was SO hoping that you were going through electroshock treatments right now. How'd you get out, anyway?"

"The Gestapo will never be beaten," the German said boastfully. "This isn't over. One way or another, I will win!"

And he's right, I realized. I can't stop him from coming to this world. For starters, I don't even know how he does it! Some things are just beyond my control. However, there is something I can do.

"You know, I feel like a rock star," I casually commented. The eye narrowed in confusion as my right hand, unnoticed, slipped off to the side.

"What?" my opponent demanded.

"I am also so happy I backed up everything," I cheerfully went on. "It makes this so much easier..."

With that, I held up the Louisville Slugger in both hands and grinned manically. The eye image widened in shock before the voice returned, this time desperate:

"No! You can't!" it implored. "The power-"

"Say goodnight, Wolfie," I yelled before I lifted the bat above my head. As I swung it down, man roaring at the top of my lungs, I heard Hochstetter's voice scream "No!" again. Like I cared.

Computer keys and parts went flying as the bat impacted with plastic and metal. Strangely, the red dot on the screen was the last thing to go out before the plastic around it fragmented into pieces. A thin wisp of smoke hovered above the destroyed junk pile while I nodded in satisfaction.

Take that!

As I came down from my testosterone high, I heard what sounded like a distant rhythmic chant. At first, I dismissed it; my next door neighbor played some really weird stuff at times. Instead, I walked to the kitchen and fixed myself a stiff Scotch.

And God, how I need it!

By the time I came back from the kitchen, the sound was louder; this time, the chanting was almost clear enough to make out. I looked out the front window but saw nothing. Some kind of parade? I wondered.

Whatever it was, it was catchy. Almost familiar, somehow. An old sixties antiwar rhyme, but different. Suddenly, I could begin to make out the words. As they became clearer, my mind flashed back to when my laptop was returned...something about Hochstetter changing the DVD's...

Uh, oh.

The singing was now easily understandable. As I looked out the window, I saw tons of people spilling onto my lawn with many more behind them. Some of the crowd held banners and signs; all of them looked deadly serious. As one, their voices belted out:

"...Hey, hey, Eighties Arcades,

How many DVDs did you trash today?"

Even the sound was causing the windows to vibrate. I stepped back from the glass and evaluated my options. Another glance through the blinds told me how limited those were.

There's no way I can leave, I quickly noted. They've blocked off the garage! And I am not ruining the wax job on my car just to push through them! I've gotta get some help, I decided. The phone is out...my cellphone!

I raced to the office, grabbed the little device, and dialed 911. Instantly, there was a response from a female operator.

"Nacogdoches 911, Sophia Villo speaking" she said politely. "What is the nature of your emergency?"

"Oh, thank goodness," I gushed. "Listen, I have a bloodthirsty mob outside. I need some help!"

"Not to worry, sir," she replied. "May I have your name and address, please?"

I gave it to her. The sounds of keyboard keys being pressed echoed through the phone line before her voice returned.

"Sir, I already have officers on the way," she said reassuringly. "They should be there within a few minutes."

"Oh, thank God!" I breathed in relief. "It's decent people like you that make a difference, you know..."

Just then, my police scanner - which had been relatively quiet up to this point- blared into life, cutting my words off. To my surprise, a familiar voice - the 911 operator's - sounded on the speaker.

"Officers," she began, "please be advised that subject Arcades is in the residence at this time. Shoot to kill orders remain in effect, I repeat, remain in effect..."

"Hey!" I interrupted angrily. "I thought 911 was supposed to help you! What is this?"

"I'm sorry, sir," the woman said, unapologetically. "Your 911 service has been canceled. Have a nice day!" As the connection broke, I stared at the phone dumbly.

Well, its official: I'm screwed!

But then again, maybe not, I decided. If they know who I am, then that also means they probably have my picture. Logically, the only one they would have is my driver's license picture. Fortunately, it was taken ten years ago, back when I was doing that whole hippie/goth thing...

Just then, an ominous silence fell over the house as the chanting ceased. Suddenly, the front doorbell rang out. It was quickly followed by a quiet knocking sound. Obviously, someone was trying to be polite.

Ah, the old Men At Work favorite: Who can it be now?

I grabbed an old baseball cap and put it on my head before I walked to the front of the house. For a long moment, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath to steady my nerves. When I was ready, I opened the wooden door. If anything, the crowd outside seemed to stretch into infinity. The names of the Heroes were stenciled on various banners held up by the mob. Vendors worked the gathering, selling everything from bottled water to...

"...Pitchforks and torches!" a rough faced man nasally yelled. "You can't have a lynching without a pitchfork and torch! Only $29.99 for a combo deal...thank you, sir, here's your change. Pitchforks..."

My eyes broke away from the crowd and onto the three people standing before me at the door. All of them - and so did the rest of the crowd, I noted - wore colorful nametags on their pockets. The first one wore a tag with the name EL GRINGO LOCO and was carrying…

a Ferengi walking stick? Now that's just crazy!

The second one was dressed in a conservative business outfit. Unlike the other members of the mob, she was unarmed save for a serious expression on her face. Instead, she carried a leather folio cradled underneath her left arm. Her name, or so her tag said, was CHOPSTICK LEGEND.

The third member of the group was obviously the leader of the bunch. The giveaway, strangely enough, was a Luftwaffe Officer's uniform cap perched on top of her head. Otherwise, the rest of her outfit was the standard Army Combat Uniform. Master Sergeant's stripes decorated her sleeves; an old AR-15 rifle, slung across her shoulder, completed the ensemble. On her front pocket was a colorful tag that read:

Hi! I'm part of the mob

My name is

SGT. MOFFITT

"Hi," she said politely. "Would you happen to be 80sarcades?"

Given the circumstances, I did what any red-blooded American would do when faced by a bloodthirsty mob.

And yes, I did lie. Convincingly.

I shook my head. "No, I'm not," my voice loudly announced in a fake redneck accent. "However, he did hire me to look after his house. Are you that mob from the TV?," I gushingly asked, a goofy grin appearing on my face. "This is so cool!"

Meanwhile, the crowd groaned as the bad news spread. Inwardly, I felt like grinning. Suckers!

"Hey, if you guys want something to drink, you're perfectly welcome to raid his fridge," I continued. "Not that there's much there, anyway." I then looked curiously at the character with the walking stick. "Not to be nosy, or anything," I asked, "but what's your story? How'd you get involved with this bunch?"

"Actually, I'm just here to serve Mr. Arcades with a congressional subpoena," Loco explained, then smiled evilly. "Kind of jumped at the chance to riot and get paid for it!"

"Uh, huh…" I said, nodding, before turning my head to the second figure. "And you?"

"I'm from Amnesty International," the woman declared in an Australian accent. "We're here as observers."

I raised an eyebrow. "So you're here to protect 80sarcades?" I asked, confused.

"Of course not!" she said. "Who cares about that? No, we just want to make sure no one violates the human rights of the mob." I gave her a disgusted look.

Mental Note: ask for my donations back. Plus interest. Failing that, slash their tires.

"Obviously, you're Sergeant Moffitt," I said, turning to the third member. To my utter relief, she was comparing the picture from my driver's license to me and coming up blank. Behind her I could see other mob members with tags - namely, Hogan Macgyver, Jinzle, ColHogan, Canadian Hogan's Fan, Snooky-9093, Justalittlehhfan, Marie1964, Bits and Pieces, and Crystal Rose of Pollux - waiting at the ready with various weapons in their hands.

Oddly, the last four were holding some kind of strange white device in their hands. Each of their thumbs was poised over a little red button on the top side of the object they held. My right eyebrow raised in curiosity.

Wonder what that's all about?

A dejected look came over Moffitt's face as she finally realized that I wasn't her target. "I'm sorry for the trouble," she explained. "Do you have any idea where 80sarcades is?"

"He just packed up, threw me his keys, and asked me to take care of his house," I explained. Suddenly, I had a Doctor Who moment. My mind began to come up with a plan.

"Actually, he did leave me something," my voice confided. "Thought it was pretty silly when he told me about it, but if it'll help you…" My voice trailed off as Moffitt's eyes lit up in excitement. Fortunately, the table by the door had an envelope on it. It actually contained a letter protesting my property taxes. Not that anyone else knew that.

My fingers ripped the letter open and withdrew a sheet of paper. "This is what he wanted me to say if anyone showed up," I explained. "Here, let me read it out to you…"

Moffitt raised her hand to stop me. "Just a minute," she ordered. The Kommandant then turned around towards the mob and raised her hands for silence. Another hand handed her a megaphone that she raised to her lips.

"80sarcades is not here," she bluntly confirmed to the crowd. In response, the mob booed and jeered before she raised her hand again. "That coward can run, but there is nowhere he can hide from us!," her amplified voice roared, working the crowd. "We will find him, and have our revenge!"

This time, the mob roared its wholehearted approval. Honestly, I was jealous. Memories of being part of a mob came to the fore in my mind. Savoring the emotional bloodlust as you tracked your prey down, closing in for the kill…

I shook the thoughts away. This was me we were talking about, not some census worker!

"This poor man," Moffitt continued, gesturing towards me, "has a message from 80sarcades! Let's hear what that scum sucking garbage maggot had to say before he ran away!"

With that, Sgt. Moffitt pumped her fist in the air to more cheers and applause. When the Kommandant was finished, she handed the megaphone over to my waiting hand. I unclenched my teeth and looked at the document in my hand before drawing in a deep breath.

Now, to throw these drooling wolves off track…

"I, 80sarcades, have fled the country..." I began.

The crowd booed; I continued on.

"At the invitation of Hugo Chavez, the illustrious and most honorable President of Venezuela, I have traveled to that country to take up permanent residence. There, I will join my newfound comrades in their valiant struggle against American imperialism-"

"Hey," a woman yelled. "I'm on 80sarcades' Facebook page. He's updated his photo!"

Oops.

"That's him!" she shrieked, pointing at me wildly. "THAT'S 80SARCADES!"

"GET HIM!" another voice screamed.

The crowd surged forward. Fortunately, I was able to avoid Sgt. Moffitt's less-than-friendly punch as I ducked back into the house. With a mighty heave, I slammed the door shut and secured it. The sounds of shattering glass echoed throughout the house as the mob began to break the surrounding windows.

Just then, one of the wood panels on top of the door exploded into pieces. Gathering my courage, I peered through the hole and watched Sgt. Moffitt's foot lash out and disintegrate another panel. Belatedly, I recalled that she was some sort of black belt.

At that moment, she saw me. Luckily, her crazed eyes telegraphed her next move. Her fist was already rearing back by the time my hand slammed on the red button next to the door.

Within two seconds, hidden steel panels dropped down to cover all of the exits and windows. My grin of relief was erased as the perfect outline of a steel fist suddenly protruded into the metal door along with the sound of a dull thud. My eyes stared at it in shock; to be honest, I've only seen that happen in cartoons!

So much for my comeuppance!

My wife thought I was mad when I had those steel panels installed, I thought. She didn't believe me when I told her we needed to keep out the bill collectors, in-laws, and other pests.

Well, who's laughing now?

I started to race upstairs and for the pot of bubbling oil I kept for just such an occasion. As I passed by the couch, I bumped it; the remote on top of the cushion fell to the floor and accidentally activated the TV. The local news channel was still on, this time with a helicopter showing a different view. Specifically, my house surrounded by mob ants:

"…apparently, the mob has cornered 80sarcades and is trying to force his surrender. The alleged Al-Qaeda advisor has been particularly hard to track down. Our sources indicate that he may have slipped back into the country from the Middle East several days ago. Jim, can you tell us what the current odds are?"

The picture changed to a split screen. One half showed the house - with the mob trying to break in - and the other showed a man sitting behind an anchor desk. He smiled into the camera, then quickly checked a list. "Sara," he said, "our current odds are actually pretty enticing. Right now, it's twelve hundred to one that he'll actually come through this intact, 650 to one that his remains will actually be identifiable, and 100 to one that he'll escape and run at least a hundred feet before the mob brings him down."

"These odds," he went on, "are brought to you by both Sam's Town and Lucky Jacks casinos. If you're 21 or over and would like to place a bet, call 1-866-WHACK-80S…"

I leveled the pistol at the TV and pulled the trigger. For some reason, blasting a hole through the screen was less than satisfying. To be honest, I'd rather have knocked that news chopper out of the sky. If only I hadn't traded my only Stinger missile to that group of Boy Scouts…

At that moment, I remembered that the cauldron of oil and its holder were gone. Several weeks ago, my Homeowners Association threatened me with a lawsuit in order to force its removal from the roof. With stunning clarity, my mind recalled the flowery language used in the original threatening letter.

Nonconducive to proper neighborhood relations, my bleep! Oh, wait…I can swear now…

With no other option, I raced for the armory. Hopefully, the M240 Bravo I kept there would be more than enough-

My right foot slipped on a toy belonging to my three year old. In an instant, my world went spinning just before I crashed to the floor.

At that moment, I blacked out.


The last cliffhanger! And you thought I would get beat up in this one! Bah! That's the next (and last) chapter.

As always, thank you for reading!

Next: Chapter 13 - As the Luck Turns…