🚀 go-pugleaf

Motorcycles.  To some they are collectibles.  To others they are toys
to be ridden on the occasional sunny weekend day.  A small group
admires them from afar, always thinking "someday".  A larger group
owns them, rides them, and treats them like their best friends--often
treating them far better than they treat others, or even their dog.
An even larger group hates them, loathes them, tries to get them
banned from the road on a regular basis, and wishes that one day they
would all simultaneously spontaneously explode.  They would most
likely declare that day a national holiday.

It is this last group that most of us really loathe.  For they are the
same people who wish to tell us what to do, when to eat, where to
sleep, whom to sleep with, and just what we can or can't put into or
do with our bodies.  Some of us wonder just how pitiful and lacking
their own lives are that they feel the need to control ours.  Most of
us wish that one day they would all simultaneously spontaneously
explode, because we know we would declare that day a national holiday.

Ummm...errr...are you going anywhere with this?

Oh, sure fine--go ahead and interrupt my exposition.  *sigh* I suppose
that's what I get for hiring a discount narrator.  Of course I'm going
somewhere with this, that's why its called an exposition.  So do me a
favor and just keep reading the script, okay?

Okay, you're the boss.  Now, where was I...toys, no...dogs,
no...sleep, could use some actually, but no...holiday, ahhh that's
it...

Harley-Davidson.  To many, the name inspires visions of roaming free.
Riding the range.  Seeing where the deer and the antelope play.  Bill
Harley and the brothers Davidson were only out to have fun, spread
fun, and make a whole lot of money doing it.  In the spirit of this
fun (and the spirit of making money too), they began their longest
production run in 1957, the Sportster XL.  A sleek, beautiful road
machine, whose only purpose was to give pleasure and enjoyment to its
owner.

As for how they feel about the controversy over motorcycles, well
they're dead, so they probably don't care much at all.  However it was
this flagrant disregard for their fellow man which landed them in
Hell(tm) in the first place.  Once there, Satan T. Lucifer Jones put
them to work, and opened a new subsidiary of Hell(tm) known as Bill,
Bill, Walt, & Art's Garage and Towing.

You see, Satan had begun cataloguing more and more souls as
auto-egoists.  These are those people who feel that buying newer,
faster, sleeker, and more expensive cars is necessary to promote
themselves, their personalities, and their prowess.  It is because of
these people that car prices are going higher and higher, silly terms
like asphalt laminance (meaning concrete in your doors) were created,
and luxury sedans have come into existence.  The general upheaval
which these people cause in the lives of others is why they end up in
Hell(tm).

In all his limited wisdom, and infinite evil Satan had devised a new
torture for this growing group of souls.  When each one first came to
Hell(tm) he or she would be handed a set of car keys.  However, they
were not for a luxury sedan.

They started with a Dodge Dart.  As time marched on, they were given
an option, either a Pinto or a Gremlin. Then it was a Yugo, followed
by a Citation, followed by a Renault Alliance.  I'm sure you can see
the trend--each of these cars has been known to have been plagued with
almost legendary problems regarding operation of the vehicle.

To make a long story short (too late), the souls of auto-egoists were
cursed with eternal car trouble.

Well, someone needed to tow these cars, charge outrageous fees, hold
the car too many days, do unneeded work, etc.  In fact four someones
were needed, and that's where Bill, Bill, Walt, & Art's Garage and
Towing comes in.

For his eighteenth birthday Al Jones asked his father for a
motorcycle.  His father, being Satan, happened to have the four
greatest motorcycle designers and engineers of all time on his
payroll.  So he did what any purely evil major multiversal force would
do.  He forced Bill, Bill, Walt, & Art to design build his son Al a
brand new, one of a kind motorcycle free of charge.  What they came up
with was the Harley-Davidson Sportster XLII Special Limited Edition of
one.

Now you might be wondering why I've told you all of this.

Actually I am.

That's it, if you don't shut-up and keep reading, I'm going to fire
you.

Fine, be that way...

Well, besides the fact that I couldn't help myself, it also brings us
to said motorcycle.  For it was at this very instant that Al, after
narrowly escaping from his father's office, appeared in the parking
garage of the Hell Inc. Multiversal Headquarters Building located in
the center of 666NASTYNASTYNASTY, next to said motorcycle, and excused
himself.

*pop* "Excuuuse Meee!!!"

He hopped onto the seat of the motorcycle and the engine roared to
life being keyed by his unique aural pattern.  He turned the bike
around, and headed for the exit of the parking garage, as quickly as
he could.

*vvvaaa-vvvrrroooooommm*

Oh, and for the record, Al preferred to refer to said motorcycle as
the Harley-Davidson Sportster from Hell(tm).

                              SPURNED #3
                     "Unlike Father, Unlike Son"
                                Part 3
                        "Bat out of Hell(tm)"
                 by Todd D. Perlmutter (Media Child)

         "It is easy to go down into Hell; night and day, the
          gates of dark Death stand wide; but to climb back
           again, to retrace one's steps to the upper air--
                     there's the rub, the task."
                            Virgil, Aenid

The flashing swirl of colors (plaid too) died down, allowing Swatches'
other...ummm...assets to come into view.

Handing the now most remarkably raimented woman who stood between her
and her brother an envelope, Swatches said, "Here, there's $1000 in
there.  That should be plenty to get you where you want to go.  Don't
look back, we won't be far behind."

Not really knowing how to express her thanks the woman simply nodded,
smiled, and ran off through the front door of Kernel Fong Junior's
Down Home Southern Delights, after opening it first, of course.

They didn't mind though.  Their Fashion Sense told them that she was
comfortably clothed, and that was all that really mattered.

"Whew!  That's the last of them, "  said Stitches.  "We'd best be
going now."

"I hope Al's all right."  Swatches said while exiting the restaurant
(through the front door).

"Don't worry he'll be fine."  Stitches said walking after her, and
closing the door behind him.

"What'll we do in the meantime?"

"He said he'll meet us at the store later, so that's where we'll
go..."  he said noticing the display in the window of the comic book
store across the street, "...but first let's go buy some more
'Spoonman:  the Mixing' game cards.  I still need the 'Great and
Mighty Chili Ladle'"

"Cool. Maybe I'll get another 'Wooden Spoon of Doom'"

*****

Ernest Zane Riter wasn't just a three time looser, it was something
more like twenty-three.  And yet they were letting him go once again.
If only he was capable of something larger than petty theft, then
maybe they'd keep him longer.  Let him live off the tax payers dollars
for a few years, maybe even finish his literature degree from in
prison with their money.

He turned to the two officers escorting him outside of the Lexington,
MA Police Station and asked, "Are you sure I can't stay a little
longer?"

"Nope, no can do." one of them answered.

"Why not?  I'm just going to do it again, and get caught all over
again."

"Because, " said the other officer, "the Author needs you for a plot
line."

"Oh.  Well, thanks.  Be seein' ya." he said to them while wandering
off toward the municipal parking lot located in the middle of
Lexington Center.

"Don't bet on it." one of the officers said while they headed back
into the building.

Ernest thought for a moment about how knowledgeable those two officers
were about story.  Decided it really didn't matter all that much, and
gave the mental equivalent of a shrug.  He then proceeded to steal a
bicycle from the bicycle rack in the parking lot, and head down Mass.
Ave. toward Arlington.

*****

*vvvaaa-vvvrrroooooommm*

Ah, the exit to the parking garage was just up ahead.  So far so good.
Al figured that once he made it out into the open then they'd attack.
He was wrong.

As he drove through the exit gate, the gate arm raised up normally.
Then, just as he was underneath it, it game crashing down on top of
him in the shape of a giant scaly fist--pinning him to the floor.  He
watched his bike continue across the street, hit the sidewalk at a bad
angle, and fall over on its side.

A squad of 10 of Hell(tm)'s Elite troopers gathered between Al and his
bike, and another 10 between Al and the rest of the parking garage.

This sucked, a morph demon--there weren't many of those around.  The
procedure to make them was only successful less than one percent of
the time.  And even then only one percent of one percent of those had
enough intelligence left to maintain a coherent form.  The
rest...well...you were wondering what the hell yurt was weren't you
(besides a type of hut used by natives of Siberia and northern Asia).

Generally speaking morphs were enforcers and covert agents (for
hostile takeovers and such), and this one was enforcing quite nicely,
thank you.

Al's arms were more or less free, so he attempted to free himself from
underneath the demon's hand.  Ordinarily this would have worked--Al
was stronger than most demons.  However this morph was quite skilled
with his shapeshifting abilities.  The more Al pushed against the huge
hand, the further his arms sunk in, until he was up to his elbows in
demon.

Then, the morph began changing shape to its base form, that of a 9
foot tall red scaled demon.  It was holding Al by his arms in its
outstretched fist.

In a voice which sounded like rusty nails on sandpaper, the demon
snarled, "Ha puny one, your capture was too simple.  I thought you'd
put up more of a fight."

Al began taking short quick breaths, feeling a minor torrent build in
his gut from what was left of the soda he had had earlier.

"Ummm...are you okay.  You seem to be hyperventilating.  Can I get you
a paper bag?" rasped the demon, genuinely concerned.

"Thanks ugly, but I'm just getting ready to do this." Al spat.

Al swung his legs back and then forward, wrapping them around the
demon's arm, and let go with *aahhuurrpp*.  Al disappeared along with
a significant portion of the demon's hand and arm.

"AAAAOOOOWWWWAAAARRRRLLLL!!!!" the demon let out a truly inhuman
scream (what more would you expect from a demon), as gray-green, oozy
stuff started poring out of his wound.  It collapsed to the ground,
and one of the Elite thinking fast started cauterizing the wound with
his hellfire gun.

Al reappeared across the street near his bike, wrapped around the
demon's missing parts.  He managed to heave the hand and arm at the
Elite troopers.  It chose that particular moment to discorporate,
covering several of the Elite in gray-green-red oozy stuff.

Whirling around they went to fire at him and his bike, only to
discover that their guns had been jammed by the gray-green-red oozy
stuff.  The guns simultaneously blew up consuming the troopers and
collapsing the exit to the parking garage.

*BA-WHOM*

Al stood up and brushed himself off.  He was unscathed--being mostly
immune to the effects of hellfire does that to you.  It was another
one of those little things he had kept from his father.  He then stood
his bike up and hopped on to it.  It started, and he headed off in the
direction of the back entrance to his restaurant.

*****

Satan's office had converted rather quickly from a performance stage
to a war room of sorts.  There was tracking and surveillance equipment
strewn about the room.  He watched as 20 small blips, and one larger
one disappeared off the main monitor.

"Hell(tm) and damnation!!!  That was one of my best morph demons.
Charon!!!" bellowed the evil one with the nasty smelling toe jam.

A rather gaunt looking fellow wearing a maroon uniform with gold
piping, a matching hat, and a coin changer on his belt walked up and
said while saluting, "Yes sir!"

"I want you to go to the Hack and Phlegm Pits, retrieve two soma
demons, and release them topside.  Tell them that if my son makes it
up there I want them to kill him."

Releasing the salute, Charon once more said, "Yes sir!"  He then stood
there holding out his hand.

"What is it?!?!?"

"That'll be $3.50, in change please."

"Dowh!" Satan said while hitting himself on the forehead.  He reached
into his pocket, pulled out a handful of coins, and somehow managed to
make exact change with 11 quarters, 6 dimes, 2 nickels, and 5 pennies.
Charon sauntered off.

In sheer frustration Satan looked down quickly at his command console
and hit the big red button marked "Release the Dogs".

*****

CONTINUED IN PART 2 IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING