"Status Report, Number Two?" the Monarch commanded in his squeaky voice.
"The surprise birthday party for number 85 is still on schedule for 8:30," Dr. Mrs The Monarch read from a clipboard in a disturbingly deep voice. "Reports are that he still hasn't a clue. Also tonight's Movie Night feature will be "Sixteen Candles" starring Molly Ringwald and..."
"Not that kind of report!" the Monarch interrupted. "What's the status on the Cocoon? Is it ready for our next assault on the loathsome Dr. Venture?"
"No."
"No? What kind of an answer is that?" The Monarch demanded exasperatingly.
"It's concise and succinct," Dr. Mrs. the Monarch replied. "We're not combat-ready and won't be for two to six weeks."
"Two to six weeks? What are you doing, ordering parts off of Ebay?"
"We're using Craigslist these days."
"Why aren't we ready?" The Monarch clenched his hands against his head and kneaded his forehead.
"The last time we had to make repairs to the cocoon's engines we stole the parts from Sgt. Hatred's Hover Tank."
"I recall," the Monarch said. "He was on the verge of cutting my balls off because of that. Not our finest hour..."
"Unfortunately since Sgt. Hatred made up with his wife, Princess Tinyfeet the two of them have disappeared. Along with their Hover Tank."
"It's there someone else we can steal - borrow some parts from? What about Mr. Impossible?"
"Ducted turbo fan" for his flying car."
"Captain Sunshine?"
"Natural power of flight."
"Oh, right. What about - gah! - Dr. Venture. Surely he has some anti-grav stuff floating about. His father was always inventing stuff like that."
"Not a trace of anything "
"The X-1?"
"Plasma exhaust from its nuclear reactor."
"Rats!"
"There is the Rhodan Liberation Front in Japan that is using anti-grav generators to get their biological Rhodan monstrosity into the air. But it would take us as long to get over there, infiltrate their group and take the parts as it would be to wait for them to come via Craigslist."
"You've got to be shitting me!" The Monarch growled. "What about the Monarchmobile? Is it operational or in the middle of its." his voice turned snarky, "million mile overhaul?"
"Operational, sweety."
"Good. Then tonight we'll load it up with henchmen and HAVE MY REVENGE ON DR. VENTURE!"
"Not tonight, dear. The boys have been rather anxious to see tonight's movie."
"A movie!" The monarch screeched. "They would rather see Sixteen Candles than share in my revenge against Doctor Venture?" He leaped to his feet, shaking his fist at the ceiling. "What kind of minions do you call yourselves? Are you men or dog-faced, dress-wearing sissy-boys!" Panting heavily the Monarch fell back into his throne. Just in time to hear a falsetto voice call out, "You go girl!"
"I heard that!" the Monarch shouted, leaping out of his throne and clattering down the steps to the floor of the control room. "Who dares mock The Monarch?" he demanded. He swirled to face one of the henchmen sitting at a console. "Was it you?" he accused.
"No sir," the minion answered in an artificially deep voice. "I was monitoring the - uh - controls," he continued, hoping that the Monarch wouldn't notice the game of pong running in a small window on his monitor.
"Then it must have been you!" the Monarch pointed to another of the operators at the controls.
"No - " he squeaked before instantly lower his voice to a bass, "no, sir.. I was attending to my duties..."
"I know one of you was mocking and I won't rest until I find out who!" He continued pacing around the control room. Dr. Mrs the Monarch sighed and reached into a pocket built into her throne and brought out a file. Pulling off her gloves she started shaping and polishing her nails. It was going to be a long evening.
[]
"This sucks," Gary grumbled, squatting behind a large bush just inside the edges of the woods on the Venture's Compound. Hank Venture had come to him that afternoon to tell him of seeing Venturestein - his old buddy, Texas, rather - sneak into the Residence last night and steal some food out of the refrigerator. Hank had followed him to the edge of the woods at the back of the Compound. When Venturestein had gone on into the woods Hank decided he's seen enough and went back to whatever it was he was doing in the living room at 3 o'clock in the morning. Probably trying to watch porn on the scrambled skinamax channel.
So Texas was taking some food out into the woods. He was probably eating it there on the spot. You spend enough time in the wild, living from hand to mouth like he did and you just keep doing it that way because you don't remember that there was any other way of doing things. Still. the food could be for that so-called 8 foot tall walking tree he had been looking for when he'd stumbled over Texas. He had kind of forgotten about the ambulatory head of broccoli in the excitement of finding his old buddy from the Cocoon. He should have continued his surveillance even after finding Texas. Brock Sampson would have, and Gary tried to live his life according to what Brock Sampson would do.
He shifted off his heels for a moment balancing with his knees pressed to the cool, damp ground. He'd have ground-in dirt stains by morning, he thought, as if the needs of the laundry was more important than the needs of bodyguarding the Ventures.
He heard an irregular sounding shuffle, and sat up. In the faint star-light he could see Texas coming this way. He was holding something in his right hand while his left swung freely. OK, so Hank were right, Texas was bringing food out to the woods. He got back on his feet ready to follow after the zombiefied henchman as soon as he passed when unexpected his wrist communicator buzzed. He had it set to silent vibration though in the overwhelming silence of the night the vibrations on his skin sounded as loud as a bugle call.
The display showed he had a text message. He adjusted the controls to display the message. It was from his automated security grid. Something had just crossed over the fence onto the Venture grounds no more than two hundred yards away. Gary watched Texas stalk past him as he debated which was the more important security mission. While he really wanted to know - to prove - that Texas wasn't doing anything suspicious, that was something that would wait for another night. No one climbing over a fence in the middle of the night was ever up to any good. He would have to put a stop to whatever they were doing.
Standing up, he moved silently around the edge of the woods towards the spot the security system had indicated.
[]
"You had to be playing Pong at the time, didn't you!" number 63 complained.
"You were the one yelling out "You Go, Girl!" 71 objected.
"It wasn't me. I just have a guilty-looking face. I spent half my time in high school in detention because the teachers all thought I looked guilty." 63 was a lightly-built medium tall man who'd been trying to grow a moustache for as long as 71 could remember. Which, admittedly, was not that long, but then how long does it take to grow out a moustache.
"Thanks to you we don't get to go to 85's birthday party or see the movie. I was so looking forward to seeing Molly Ringwald's panties."
"Yeah. heh, heh, heh. I liked the bit where she got groped by her grandmother," 63 reminisced.
"I got groped by my grandmother once. It wasn't funny."
63 looked at his partner. "Dude, didn't she know you were a guy?"
"Oh, she knew. She just thought I was getting fat. ... with little girly boobs." 71 grumbled. "God, that was embarrassing. Cut her brake-line later." He chuckled at the memory "That taught the old hag to make fun of me!" 63 came over with a small map of the compound. He had his finger marking the spot where they had just crossed over the fence. "Are we really going to soap the Venture's windows?"
"I thought the Monarch said we were supposed to take a dump in their swimming pool?"
"I'd rather soap their windows. I'm not good at crapping on command."
"Sh-h-h-h. I think I hear someone coming. Let's split up. You head over that way. I'll play goat here in the open."
[]
Gary moved slowly through the dark. The moon was in its New Phase and shed little light. Still it only only a couple minutes for him to get to the fence breach. He was able to make out the sight of a man wearing large, cumbersome butterfly wings. He was peering as cautiously towards the main complex of building as Gary was at him.
When he had got within forty feet of the interloper Gary muttered, "Let's do this," and stood up. There was a snick as he pressed the releases that sent the knives strapped to his forearm into position projecting over his hands. "Don't move if you know what good for us!" he shouted as he strode from behind some bushes to confront the man.
"No, you don't move," a voice commanded from Gary's right. He cast a quick glance in that direction and saw a second minion of the Monarch's step out of the shadows. He had his dart-gun armed and aimed directly at Gary's torso. Damn! How could have have made such a rookie mistake as thinking that the Monarch hadn't sent in his spies in pairs.
"Drop your weapons," the man continued.
Gary considered his odds. The darts were laced with knock-out chemicals. Adrenalin would counter that for a few seconds. But could he kill these two men before he passed out? With an angry groan Gary pressed the button that retracted his knives then held up his hands. Unless the henchmen was one old enough to remember him as "General 21" there was a good chance that they didn't know about the knife/claw apparatus he wore.
"Tie him up. 63," the man with the dart-gun commanded. "Looks like we have a little present for The Monarch. That traitor he's always going on about."
"Shoot him first," 63 said. "I'd rather deal with an unconscious 21. The old-timers... they're scared as hell about him."
"This tub of goo? I'd rather save the darts. And anyway he's not going anywhere."
"But-"
"Just do it!"
63 picked up a length of rope from out of his backpack and started across the open ground towards Gary. Gary was estimating how long it would take to drop his arms, extend his knifes, gut 63, grab his body and using it as a shield against the tranquilizer darts from the other minion.
He was still thinking when someone else lurched out of the woods.
"Butterflies!" Venturestein croaked. "Friend!" He threw himself on the man with the dart-gun, giving him a great, awkward bear-hug. "Go cocoon! home!"
"Oh, my god!" the man with the gun cried, trying to point his dart-gun at the patchwork man but the gun was already wedged between the two. He dropped the gun to get both arms in front of him to push Venturestein away, then sprinted towards the backpack that 63 had left on the ground.
After a stunned second, Gary threw down his arms, released the knives and leaps on 63. "21, please!" the man cried but one knife was already lodged in his heart. Gary yanked his knife out and turned towards the other henchman. He had pulled out a signal gun from the pack and was aiming it with very shaky hands at the lumbering zombie. His finger convulsed on the trigger, but he had forgot to release the safety. The gun didn't fire.
He had also forgotten Gary who was there a moment later swinging his knived hand in a great roundhouse blow. The henchman saw it coming and ducked under it, then started racing towards the woods. Gary followed with Venturestein brining up the rear, still calling out "Friend" "Cocoon."
Just within the first rows of trees the henchmen paused to take off the safety on his gun. A loud psst! erupted as the rocket-launched flare sprang from the gun. He was still aiming at Venturestein, but missed. The flare arced across the grass before slamming into the side of one of the manufacturing building and exploding in a shower of sparks. The man turned and raced farther into the gloomy woods.
Gary trudged on after him.
After a couple minutes the henchman was thoroughly lost, but his panic at seeing the mismatched and sewn together body of Venturestein had dissipated. It was obviously alive, he reasoned, and if it was alive, then it would definitely burn if hit with the second signal flare loaded in his gun. He was considering laying a trap for the other guy, the former henchman that the Monarch was always raving about. He had a knife stuck in his boot. In the dark he could easily catch the big guy unawares.
He was crouching behind some bushes when a voice asked, "are you plant-food?"
He spun around, knife in hand, heart in throat.
There was no one visible.
"Who's there?" he croaked.
"Just us trees," the voice replied. There was an odd quality to the voice, it sounded like one of those old arcade computer games, thin, artificial. Like that old guy in the wheelchair, the scientist.
"Don't move!" the henchman ordered. "I've got a gun!"
"Oh, we can't have that!" the voice said. "You could start a fire with one of those. We plant people don't like fires."
One of the dark shadows suddenly moved forward. It looked like a tree with a smooth trunk, maybe eight feet tall. The trunk suddenly bent over and the a large, palm-leaf like appendage reached out and dragged the signal gun from the henchman.
"There. Isn't that better. Now we're all armless. Get it? Armless? Because you don't have a gun and I don't have any arms?" the tree rustled its leaves.
The henchman didn't wait to hear more. He bolted back the way he came, running wildly in the dark, bouncing off unseen trees as he tried to escape from the woods.
And ended up running straight into Gary arms. His knife, actually. The henchman collapsed with a last gasp of breath. "The tree," he gasp, "talked!"
[]
Cleaning up after a hit was always the hardest. During the fighting you're running on adrenaline. Things fly by so fast you barely have time to react. And of course since its life or death you're totally focused on staying alive. But once all that's over... There's the bodies to pick up, blood to swab away, broken doors or windows to board up and all of that to be done while while suffering the reaction-fatigue post-combat.
Gary let the hanchmen who had run to his own death slip to the ground while he crouched, ready for another attack, for who he wasn't sure. When it was evident that nothing more was going to happen, Gary reached down the the corpse and slung it over his shoulder and made his way back to the edge of the woods and the security fence where he had left Texas and the other dead henchman. The dying words of the henchmen, about a tree that talked were stuffed into memory to be mulled over later. He had too many things right now to worry about. Though he wished he had had time to asked the dead man just what he meant by the tree talking.
Texas was bent over the other henchman, 63, shaking him, as if trying to wake up a sleeping man. He looked up when he heard Gary's approach. "Him hurt," Texas said. "Bad heart. Need new one. Get one from doctor-fella."
Gary had stuck him in the heart when they had fought. He supposed that a heart cut in half by an eight inch knife blade might be described as 'bad.' But where do you find a spare heart in this vicinity? Then Gary realized that the corpse he was carrying had a good heart. He had been gored in the stomach and bleed out there. One good heart, one good body made for one new Venturestein. Maybe one that hadn't suffered as much brain damage as Texas. But while Gary didn't believe in Heaven he certainly believed in hell, and bringing 63 back to life would be the very definition of hell.
"No, he said. "The dead deserve to stay dead."
"Venturestein dead," the patchwork creature disputed.
"Only a little," Gary replied. "These guys are all the way dead. Pick him up and carrying him to the X-13's garage."
"Go Cocoon?" Texas asked eagerly. That was where Gary was going but he didn't like the eager tone in Texas's voice. Besides he was pretty sure that the instant the Monarch saw Venturestein he'd destroy it. As much as Gary didn't think creating living creatures from the odds and news of dead henchmen was right, moral or ethical, he also felt that once living, such creatures had as much to continue living as anyone else.
He dropped his body to the floor of the X-13's garage as he looked around for a tarp to spread around on the back seat, then loaded the two bodies inside. It would have been easier to drop them into the truck of the car but it had a nuclear reactor there.
He paused to give Venturestein a looking over. "Are you alright?" he asked. "Did you get hurt?"
The creature shrugged. "Venturestein don't feel much."
The tactile nervous system was one of the things Dr. Venture had not been able to re-connect when he had resurrected Venturestein. The creature could feel enough to pick up and hold things without crushing them but wouldn't feel someone tapping on the back. Since he hadn't see blood dripping anywhere he had to assume that his old buddy, Texas was OK. "Go up to the house," he said. "Go to bed. We'll talk about this tomorrow."
"Go see friend."
"These were never your friends."
Venturestein waved a dismissive hand. "Friend."
"Go to bed. I don't like people wandering around in the middle of the night." Without another word the monster turned and walked out of the garage. Gary got into the driver's seat and turned on the car, waiting 30 seconds for the steam to get up to operational levels. Backing out of the garage, he set off for where he'd last located the Cocoon. He was going to leave a little present on the Monarch's doorstep, and of course, force the Monarch to be responsible for the burial of his two henchmen. The alternative was to call up the police and explain that these were a couple of John Does who had crossed over into the Venture grounds and got killed messing with stuff there. And having the county pick up the tab for burying the guys. Besides the need to bribe the cops to buy such an improbably story, Gary preferred sticking the bill on the Monarch. They were his men, they died on his business. He should be the one to bury them.
[]
The Monarch was sitting at the head of the large break-room, a plate of chocolate cake in his hand. 85 was sitting off to the side being feted by the other minions. The cake was good but the Monarch was still counting the seconds before he could escape from this birthday party. He had schemes to scheme, plans to lay out, not celebrate some annoying minions ability to survive another year.
He looked up in annoyance as one of the minions from the control room entered the room and worked his way through to the crowd towards him. The Monarch disdained personal communicators, whether pagers, cell phones, blackberries or wrist-bands.
The minion came on and whispered in his ear.
"What do you mean, I have a package delivery? Just go out and get it."
The minion bent over and whispered again in the Monarch's ear.
"So you got the package? Why bother coming to me. Can't you see I'm in the middle of something."
The man bent over a third time.
"63 and 71!" Why didn't you just say that in the first place. "Blast that 21! Come my queen," he directed to Dr. Mrs. The Monarch, who was sitting neat him. "We have a funeral to prepare for."
"Who's?" she asked.
"I'd love to say 21's but I'm afraid it two of our men. And he just left them on our doorstep for us to deal with!"
The crowd parted as the Monarch swept from the room, followed by his wife. As they left the room conversation started up but it was hushed, subdued. The celebration of 85's luck had turned into a wake for the lack of same for two of their fellows.