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Sitting in an easy chair in his apartment, Oliver slowly mixes his Coco Chunkies cereal, vaguely watching morning cartoons. Flipping through the channels, he takes another bite from his high fructose meal. Stopping at a particular channel, he sets the remote down and proceeds to finish his cereal. A light knock at the door breaks the moment, and an unsteady, high-pitched voice informs, “Paperboy.”
Reaching over the arm of his chair, Oliver draws the desert eagle from its holster draped across the fabric of the seat. Taking aim just below the peephole of his apartment’s wooden door, he delivers one round with a startling bang. There is a muffled thump on the other side of the door, and a slight ring as he sets his cereal bowl on the counter. He finishes washing out his dish and, placing it on the drying rack, walks out of his room, locking the door behind him. Picking up the morning paper, he raises his eyebrows at the headline: Man kills six injures none. Stepping nimbly over the late paperboy, Oliver gets on the elevator, ready to start his day.
Oliver springs out of the door to his apartment and heads down the sidewalk, Power bar in hand. Smiling to everyone on his way, he approaches an intersection. Glancing to the right, he notices that his friend, Nick Verbos, just happens to be standing right beside him.
“Hey Nick,” starts Oliver.
“Oliver! Fancy meeting you here,” Nick replies.
“Yeah what a coincidence."
“So,” Nick asks after a short pause, “You gonna finish that?”
“It’s not even open, so I haven’t started it yet,” says Oliver, “Hey, you can walk.”
Nick steps off the curb, attention directed towards the ‘Walk’ sign. Not two footfalls from the curb, the ‘Do Not Walk’ sign lights up.
“Hmm, better pick up the pace,” Nick mumbles. A white Toyota Camry blares its horn an inch from Nick’s face, giving him a clear warning of impending doom. The Camry crashes into Nick then screeches to a halt, sending him arching across the intersection. Time slows as the driver of a blue Dodge Ram 3500 locks eyes with a midair Nick before smashing into him at a right angle. A few hundred feet ahead, Nick finally rolls to a stop in the middle of the street.
Not ten minutes later, an ambulance skids into place directly on Nick’s hand, throwing open its rear doors, which hit him in the face, to let a stretcher roll out. The Ambulance pulls away, flying to the hospital.
Oliver, no longer feeling like going to the store and noting that the hospital is too far away to walk, heads back to his apartment for a ride.
Oliver stands in front of his door, looking back and forth along the hallway. Pulling out his gun, he fires a shot into the peephole. A thump is heard on the opposite side of the door as he opens it up. Pulling the would-be thief into the hallway, Oliver walks into his room, grabs his hotwiring utensils, and leaves.
*****
Leaned back as far as the seat will go, one arm out the window and one on the wheel, Big Baby Sweets cruises the streets that are his territory. Nodding at a recognized customer or passerby, he speeds up and down the streets in his 1967 Chevelle. After awhile, he pulls into the parking garage of his apartment building, gets out of his car, and struts over to the elevator, pressing the ‘up’ button with his cane. He gets in the elevator and, allowing Oliver to get out, he presses the ‘14’ button, also with his cane.
Oliver gets out of the elevator, taking another look at the pimp that just got on it. Why Big Baby Sweets would want to come in his apartment building is beyond him. Oliver sweeps the cars ahead for half a second before settling on a beautiful red 1967 Chevelle. After a minute of sparking and cutting, the engine roars to life, hotwired and ready to roll. He screams out of the garage and down the street.
*****
“He needs forty CC’s of…”
“I think it’s ruptured…”
“…Get him to…”
“…Not gonna make it…”
Voices swim around in Nick’s head as he lay on the operating table, vaguely entertaining thoughts of how he got here and how good a Power bar would be right now.
His eyes open now and it seems like one second ago he was at a corner with Oliver. But now he is laying on the soft, yet somehow rigid mattress of a hospital bed. Blinking his eyes weakly, he tries to take in the first picture of the world he’s seen since fourteen hours ago, only to be struck directly in the eye with a Koosh Ball.
“You’re awake!” yells a huge, bright blob of color that, by the terribly annoying voice, he can only conclude is Rosie O’Donnell. With her microphone attached to her collar, Double Triple Double Chicken Chilly Cheeseburger McBacon Sandwich in hand, and the floorboards creaking under her immense weight, Rosie O’Donnell is somehow broadcasting a show live from the hospital. Doing what any person in their right mind would do in this situation, Nick Verbose said the only thing he could think of.
“Ahhhhhhh!” he wails in agony.
“Don’t tire yourself, Nick,” commands Rosie, “I guess you're still in pain.”
“No, I can’t feel a thing,” Nick corrects, “It’s just that you’re so horrid.”
Turning to the camera, Rosie drones, “He’s obviously a little delirious, but we’ve got to hand it to you Nick, you survived something that all the doctors in this hospital thought you’d die from.”
“What, meeting you?” asks Nick.
Pulling him close Rosie whispers, “Ok, listen up you little freak. You’re gonna play nice or I’m gonna step on your oxygen cord.”
“Hey, you gonna finish that?” asks Nick, the sandwich already entering his hand.
“No!” screams Rosie, grabbing it back, “I mean, yes! I’m going to finish that,” Shoving half of the sandwich into her gaping mouth, Rosie talks to the camera, food spraying on the lens: “And so the lucky boy awakens and has more vigor than the doctors predicted. This ends the show. Next week is Gary week, as we get to interview Gary Busey and Gary Coleman. Goodnight, everyone.”
As the cameras turn off and the cameramen motion that they are no longer on the air, Rosie turns an accusing glare on Nick. “Don’t you ever try and take food from Rosie again,” she threatens. “Rosie doesn’t forget people who try and cheat her.” At that moment, Nick made a conscious decision to steal her food whenever possible.
*****
Big Baby Sweets struts off the elevator and into the long hallway ahead. Seeing a slumped figure lying in front of a door, he rushes over to investigate, heart pumping fast, hoping it’s not whom he thinks it is.
It is.
Kneeling over the motionless form of his brother, he lifts his head up slightly, whispering gentle nothings into his deaf ear. Promising to give a proper burial after he is avenged, Big Baby Sweets turns to the first door he sees and politely knocks. An elderly woman answers the door.
“Yes? What can I help you with?” she asks.
“Who lives in that room there with the door with bullets holes in it? Can you hurry please, I ain’t got but a minute.” inquires Big Baby Sweets.
“Well, that’s Mr. Oliver.”
“Might you know where he be? And let this be between you an’ me.”
“He’s on his way to the hospital, why?”
“Oh, nothing, thanks for your assistance,” he says, loading his gun, “Glad you put up no resistance.”
*****
Smoke billows forth from the Fed Ex trunk’s exhaust pipe. It slowly rumbles into the parking garage of the apartment building, parking in an empty space. Getting out, Ryan Jameson secures the package under his arm and, checking his list, presses the ‘up’ arrow on the elevator.
Big Baby Sweets tenderly picks his deceased brother up and, slinging him over his shoulder, carries him to the waiting elevator.
Inside the cozy elevator, the sound of Ryan’s foot tapping on the tiled floor reverberates back and forth, almost drowning out the classy piano music playing quietly in the background. Every number lights up in turn, making a little dinging noise when one is lit up, stopping suddenly at the number ‘14’. “Hmm,” Ryan thinks to himself, “Time to share the space.”
The elevator doors slide open, revealing a ridiculously dressed pimp with a bloody corpse slung over his shoulder.
The elevator doors slide open, revealing a terrified Fed Ex deliveryman. Big Baby Sweets pushes his way into the elevator, despite Ryan’s attempts to close the doors on him. Backing Ryan up into the corner of the small box, Big Baby pulls out a pistol, aiming it at Ryan.
The old lady closes her door then, wondering why a pimp would be after Oliver. Such a nice boy; why does he keep getting mixed up in such trouble? Sitting down in her favorite chair and picking up her half-finished quilt, she begins to sew. A muffled bang jolts her upright, making her hand slip and prick herself in the finger with her needle. So caught up in her bleeding finger, the old woman fails to notice her pet iguana escaping out of the window.
Squiggly the Iguana makes his way along the windowsill, carefully placing his clawed feet so as to stay as far from the edge as possible. Soon, coming upon an open window, he crawls right in. Finding a paperboy lying dead on the floor, the iguana makes a split second decision. From this day forth, it will be a carnivore. Tired of romaine lettuce day in day out, Squiggly takes a bite out of the paperboy. It was good.
Standing innocently on the countertop of Oliver’s apartment, a plastic bottle of Sunny D begins to bubble. Having been in the direct sunlight all day combined with its already volatile nature causes this normal yet unhealthy orange drink to mutate into something new. The cap spirals off the top of the bottle, foam spraying in all directions. Finally it tips over, emptying its contents onto Squiggly and the paperboy. Unbeknownst to Squiggly, he seems a bit larger than he was before he came in.
*****
Cruising the streets in his newly acquired 1967 Chevelle, Oliver turns down Hospital Street on his way to see Nick. Passing the front of the hospital, a form exits the building that sends a chill down his spine. Slamming on the brakes and jumping out of the car, leaving it in the middle of the street, Oliver dashes towards Rosie O’Donnell.
“You ate him, didn’t you!” accuses Oliver, as a nine-car pileup occurs behind him, tearing the Chevelle to shreds.
“I ate him?” yells Rosie, “He tried to steal my sandwich! Do you really think I’m always that hungry?”
“You’re eating a sausage right now.”
“Shut up!” she huffs, sausage dripping from her mouth.
“It’s true,” adds a small child nearby, “My mom says that Rosie O’Donnell is so fat, when she got on a scale, it said ‘One at a time, please.’”
“You’re so fat, you’re taller lying down!” yells Oliver.
“You’re so fat, you went to the movies and sat next to everyone!” Nick says triumphantly, exiting the hospital on crutches.
“Stop it!” Rosie yells weakly, “Stop it!”
“You’re so fat, when you get in an elevator, it has to go down.” Oliver jokes, pointing at Rosie and laughing. Soon everyone joins in the laughing and pointing as Rosie’s face changes from a clay color to a full maroon. Giant rumbling footfalls can be heard in the background, coming closer with every step. Squiggly, the now giant iguana, rounds the bend and comes into full view just as Rosie fully enters her conniption fit.
“Oh my god!” the little child slowly states.
“It’s mammoth!” exclaims Oliver.
“Holy macaroni! Are you gonna finish that sausage?” asks Nick.
Trudging forward, the huge monster emits an earsplitting roar, shattering windshields and windows all the way down the block. Nick could barely hear Oliver scream, “Run!” over the din of car alarms and security sirens going off all at once.
Big Baby Sweets careens down the road, driving the stolen Fed Ex truck like a madman. Crashing into the side of the hospital, pinning Nick to the wall with 10,000 pounds of steel, Big Baby Sweets springs out of the truck, gun in hand.
“Now Imma shoot you for awhile,” says Big Baby, “No one gonna be shootin’ my brother an’ crimp on my style!”
Just as Oliver is pulling out his Desert Eagle from its holster, a giant foot comes crashing down an inch from Big Baby Sweets, sending him flying. His gun slides off the sidewalk into a sewer drain.
“Now how you gotta be doin that?” he yells, “I was about ta shoot that dirty rat.”
The towering monster offered no reply except to scoop up Big Baby Sweets and eat him.
“Hey, you ate my friend!” screamed Oliver.
“Dude, he was trying to kill you,” offers Nick.
“So?” asks Oliver as he flees the scene, Nick in hot pursuit. The beast seemed content to destroy the hospital rather than give chase.
Meanwhile, at a local McDonald’s, cowsuit wearing protesters prohibit a business suit wearing man from entering.
“Don’t you know you’re murdering cows just to supply yourself cheap, high calorie sustenance?” a protester asks viscously.
“Yes,” the businessman calmly states, “Yes I do.”
He then pushes past the startled protester and orders a number four with extra beef, if possible. The man was about halfway through his delicious sandwich when a tank rolled up to the doors of McDonald’s, stopping an inch from the protesters.
“Please leave,” a voice says on a loudspeaker.
“We’d rather not,” replies an angry protester.
“Ok then,” sighs the loudspeaker, “I really didn’t want to do this, but you leave me no choice.”
Oliver runs up to the McDonald’s, catching his breath. Hoping they still sell mini-doughnuts, he jumps over the flaming crater in the ground caked with cow-costume shavings and walks through the doors. Skidding to a halt, he looks from a guy in army camouflage to an empty tank outside, then back again. He does this a few more times before bolting out of the doors and up the tanks treads. Peeking inside he shouts, “Yes!” noticing the keys were left inside.
“Eehe,” grins Oliver as the massive engine of the tank barks noise out in all directions, its treads slowly pulling it along the road. Over the military radio, Oliver hears snippets of conversation, pinpointing where the giant is heading next.
“The monstrosity seems to be making its way to the stadium,” says one voice.
“…A path of destruction in its wake…” blurbs another.
“…Engaging target…Mayday, mayday!” another shouts.
“My god, it’s hideous,” says another.
And, finally, “Tank number 409a, why have you left the McDonald’s perimeter?”
“There are only a few things I would like better than to explode protesters with a tank,” Oliver answers, “And one of those things is to kill that huge, ugly creature once and for all.”
“Very well,” replies the voice on the radio.
Rolling down Rodeo with a tank, Oliver checks the coordinates one last time. On the tiny screen, Oliver sees the stadium in the distance. Crashing through a section of the brick wall ten feet from the arched entrance, the tank emerges fully into the stadium, ready to roll. As the shadow of the overhang on the stadium lifts slowly off the screen, Oliver sees the appallingly repulsive visage of his enemy. Taken aback by its sheer loathsome appearance, Oliver’s resolve begins to erode.
Oliver tells himself, “I must do this, the world will be spared so much death, so much destruction. It must be done.”
The horrid beast swipes the tank with its hand, lifting the tank off the ground and smashing it into a wall. Crumbling cement, pipes and gray powder emanate from the crater made by the ten-ton projectile. Oliver groggily gets to his feet, easily twenty feet from the tank. Looking the creature dead in the eyes, he pulls out his Desert Eagle and shoots at a massive light pole. His aim is perfect, and the pole is shorn in half, teetering inwards and finally crashing into the stadium, narrowly avoided by his opponent. That bought him the time he needed, however, and he slams the tank hatch closed, noticing the gargantuan slab of concrete the creature is hoisting. The creature braces itself for the throw while Oliver hurries with the controls, sweat dripping past his eyes.
“Ha!” yells Oliver, “You will not beat me so easily! You are going down, you inhuman monster!” Oliver gives the thing one last look, slamming his thumb down on the red button with crossbones, blasting the missile from the barrel of his tank. The shell careens through the air, making a whistling noise and leaving a yellow streak in its wake. The thing’s eyes widen slightly as the shell strikes it in the chest, pausing momentarily. There is a blinding flash of searing white light, then a silent explosion, sending smoking pieces of debris sailing through the air.
After a fraction of a second, the sound kicks in, deafening Oliver and rattling the tank’s hull. A shock wave of force speeds from the center of the blast, kicking up dirt and seats in the process, only to be blown out of the main exits of the stadium, creating huge dust clouds in the streets. The immense blast can be seen up to a mile away, and heard by everyone in the city. As the smoke clears and the stone in the crater cools from its molten state, the limp, lifeless body of Rosie O’Donnell lays at the very bottom.
“Tank 409a, what is your condition, over.”
After a pause, “Tank 409a, what’s your status, over.”
“Wow,” Oliver says, triumphant, “She really is taller lying down.”
A celebratory cheer sounds all over the city as news shows covering the incident begin giving recaps and slow motion accounts of the titanic battle. All cameras pan over Rosie’s dead body, the giant iguana never mentioned or noticed.
“Yes, Rosie O’Donnell, who has terrorized the city since she destroyed a hospital, has been slain today by a one Oliver Twist,” states Linda Lindowski of Channel 6 News. “Here is the Mayor giving Oliver the key to the city,” she informs, “ and here he is endorsing Sergeant Hamington’s Ham-Flavored Ham Wraps.”
Later, at Won Ton Louie’s Chinese Restaurant, located directly above seven consecutive floors of Jagged Metal Shards inc. and three floors of Open Vats of Acid co., Oliver walks through the door, meeting his dinner guests. He takes off his jacket, the key to the city clearly portrayed on a gold chain around his neck. Sitting down at the table, they introduce themselves.
“Hey Nick, how’s it going?” he asks.
“As good as to be expected,” Nick replies, trying to use his chopsticks while wearing a full-body cast.
“Hello, I’m Linda Lindowski, Channel 6 News,” says one woman at the table.
“I’m Mayor Long,” says a man across the table.
“I’m former president Gerald Ford,” says another.
“I’m Ray Jay Johnson,” says another man, “You can call me Ray, or you can call me Jay, or you can call me Ray Jay, but you don’t has to call me Johnson.”
“Well, thank you all for coming,” starts Oliver, “I really appreciate you doing all this for me, but all I did was act out every red blooded American’s dream.” There are nods of agreement at this and, all in all, the dinner went off without a hitch.
Ending the meal, each got their respective fortune cookies.
Linda Lindowski looked hers over and stashed it away, already thinking of a story to do on fortune cookies, which became a regular segment on the show, earning her money and fame.
Mayor Long opened his fortune cookie to find a grocery list. Not knowing how to take it, he ordered the restaurant demolished.
Gerald Ford opened his and immediately fell over, breaking his arm. He later recovered, and The Artist Formerly Known As Prince Who Is Now Known As Prince signed his cast.
Ray Jay Johnson opened his to find written on the paper: You are not funny. He immediately jumped out of the ten-story window to his death.
Nick opened his, reading the message contained within: You will die horribly. Laughing at the absurdity of his fortune, he never heard the floorboards cracking underneath his full-body cast’s weight.
Oliver stared at his small piece of white paper, confused as to why his would be blank. Deciding to make the best of the situation, he writes, "You will win the lottery." Sure enough, a week later, he wins The Lottery, only it isn’t quite the kind of lottery he thought it would be. That, however, is another story.
Return to the others.