Misty made me pause over Hitler's body for a moment. "He is definitely not an alien named Mizo. He just looks like a dead person."

We boarded the tram, speeding back to the big military base beneath the winery.

"Misty, this is a bad idea," I said as I watched her steer. "In real life, defeating a big evil dictator like Hitler won't end a war. There are other generals that want to retain power, and they can be just as impossible to conquer as their commander. Take Himmler for example."

"Jessica," Misty said. "You just killed The Baroness. I think it's safe to say we've won."

"I don't know. I mean, we still haven't killed Destro."

"That will not be necessary," I heard a voice say.

I turned and saw a metal headed figure marching out from behind a half track.

"Although I disagree with some of your methods, I am glad to see you destroy Hitler. I always told him, `Look, man. I just want to conquer the world, I don't want to wipe out an entire race of people! What's more, you'll be eliminating a huge segment of your labor force!' But he didn't listen."

"Um, okay," I said. "But stay out of our way. We're kind of busy."

"You got me interested. What's the top secret plan?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret."

I paused. "All right, Misty. What now? Where's this talent we're supposed to pick up?"

"Wait," she said. "I must do something first. It'll only take a minute."

She picked up my baby, kissing it on the mouth.

"Misty," I said. "I know he's adorable, but you can't kiss my baby like that."

She pulled away. I guess, technically, I pulled away.

"Jessica, I know you don't want me in your body. Hell, I don't want me in your body. This place is depressing, and sharing boyfriends...ugh, that's just not happening."

I frowned. "So you're going to transfer your consciousness into my baby."

"Passion flower," Chad said. "You are talking to yourself."

"Misty isn't dead," I told him. "She's in my mind, and she's trying to take over Isosceles's body."

Chad looked genuinely puzzled. "Why must she take the baby? The two of you in one body is much intriguing, maybe a little sexy, yes?"

"Um, Misty disagrees," I said.

He frowned. "Oh."

"Misty, I love you, but you can't have my firstborn."

"How about your second?" she said. "Or third? You've certainly got enough to spare."

"Well..." I said. "I suppose that will be okay."

"Since your babies aren't here, let's get going."

"Do you have any orders?" Destro asked. "I'm used to taking orders. Things get messy when I try to conquer the world on my own."

I nodded. "The first step is to acknowledge that there's a problem." I cleared my throat. I wanted to tell the man to buy some nice shirts and slacks, because his outfit is a little tiresome to look at (in case you're wondering, I have a brother, so I know "The D" needs to go shopping) but other words came out.

"I need you to check on someone named Drew Deebes in Las Vegas. Make sure he's miserable, but don't beat him up or anything. He should be miserable already."

She told him the address.

Destro frowned. "Who is this? A president or a government leader?"

I laughed. "You're funny. It's too bad I'm not keen on the bald look."

I glanced at Chad. "Mostly."

"I am beginning to feel nauseous," Misty said. "Is it okay if I regurgitate using your stomach?"

I chuckled. "Let's go back to Cool World before I make you really sick."

"We still need to retrieve some local talent."

"So you just want me to check on a...guy," Destro said.

I shook my head. "Actually, put that one on the back burner for a moment. I have a list of people we, I mean, I need you to capture."

"Where is this list?" he asked.

I `ordered' him to show me the place where they kept Misty's weapons and other tools, then showed him the computer with all the requests.

"This is very vague," Destro said. "Kidnapping is easy, but only if I have names. I'm not a contest judge."

"Do you happen to have any talent around here at all?"

Nodding, he opened a steel door, allowing me to look in.

I saw a dark haired youth with a long nose and braids dangling from the sides of his face.

He had on a tennis headband, jewelry, a sports jersey and baggy pants, looking all tough like some serious hard core criminal, except he had no tattoos.

Next to him I saw his cell mate, a fat bearded guy, most probably some kind of backup musical support person. He had a red handkerchief tied around his head, a blue tank top, and baggy shorts. The fact that the tank top had Star Wars on it, and he was wearing socks with sandals didn't help matters. He was "gangster as an Easter bonnet hat."

"Ben Nafisky," Destro said. "He claims to be Israel's foremost gangsta rapper. Hitler wanted me to kill him, but the man makes me laugh."

"He'll do," Misty said. "But I'd also like for you to acquire a polka musician." She paused. "Check on Drew first. I think this so-called `rapper' should be adequate for the moment."

"Hey, mamacita!" the rapper called. "Let me out of this loco jail!"

I stared at him in confusion. "I thought you were Israeli."

"I am! I'm a quarter Orthodox Jew, a quarter black, a quarter Mexican, a quarter Cuban, and a quarter Indian."

I frowned. "You've got too many quarters in there."

He nodded. "I know! It's crazy, ain't it?"

Rolling my eyes, I said, "You know, Orthodox Jewish isn't a race. It's a sect."

"Oh. Well, you know what I mean."

This guy was as sketchy as the penciled in mustache on his upper lip.

"But you can rap."

"Can I rap!" And then he went into a complicated tongue twisting rap that sounded suspiciously like Spanish with a few Yiddish and French words thrown in.

"All right," I sighed. "Open this up."

Destro opened the door, and I iced both him and his backup.

"They probably could have cooperated," Chad said.

I shrugged. "That was Misty. Besides, I don't quite care for the music."

We carried them over to the portal, which was, even now, shrinking.

"That won't work," Misty said. "The portal goes to some military base. We need to go directly back to Master Blaster's jukebox."

"Fine. You're the one with the ideas."

She made me plug both spikes into the tricorder thing, and we were suddenly looking at a massive mortal that squeezed the other one out of existence. If I wanted, I could have driven a tank through Master Blaster's home.

"Nevada is a long drive from here," said Destro.

"Yeah. Sorry about that. But you've got cartoon helicopters and stuff. It should cut down on the commute time."

It was obvious he was displeased. "You know, it would be easier with the Spike."

"I know, but we need to put it in another device. I've seen your show. You can zip all over the world when you want to."

"What if I don't want to?"

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe educate people about Ghermanntown's products during wine tasting sessions?"

"You think I'd look good with a tie?"

It was then that I began to suspect he wasn't flying to Nevada. Oh well.

We carried our captives through the portal, bidding Destro farewell.

Once on the other side, I discovered Master Blaster had added a glowing decoration to his chair, and his cats, and my cat baby, were wearing orange prison jumpsuits.

"Misty," Master Blaster said. "Your team appears to have downsized."

"Actually, it's Jessica, and it's more like a reorganization."

He frowned. "I see. Did you at least get the Spike?"

"Yes."

He clapped his hands. "Excellent! Excellent! With these three Spikes in my possession, my jukebox can at last cross over into the real world, and capture even more musical slaves!"

"What! I thought the deal was you'd let us use your mirrors if we brought you musical slaves!"

Master Blaster narrowed his eyes. "Surely you didn't think I was doing all of this out of the goodness of my heart! I don't do pro bono work."

He cleared his throat. "Now give me the Spikes."

"No. We worked too hard to get them. You can go screw yourself."

"Cats..." Master Blaster said.

All of a sudden, all three of his feline minions pulled out guns, two real ones and a cartoon one. "Hand the Spikes over, or they'll shoot."

I laughed.

"Find something funny, noid?" he growled.

"No offense, but your cats don't have a very good track record, success-wise."

"That may be so," he said. "But while you were running after those Spikes, all four of my pets have spent hours practicing their marksmanship."

"Four?" I said.

My cat baby pulled out a pistol, aiming it at my head.