(Oi! The title's further down!)
#
“And that,” said Sabin, “is just
what I intend to do.”
Celes stared at him in amazement.
Her forest-green eyes blinked once.
“But are you sure that it's
possible?” she queried, pausing to brush aside a lock of her long red hair that
fell in front of her face. “You know how dangerous and cutthroat the industry
is. You'd be lucky to find an agent at all willing to sponsor you!”
Sabin turned his face towards her,
his Indian (EAST Indian, you schmucks; from India) features lighting up in a
smile. He sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck and fiddled with his
dreadlocked hair.
“Well, Celes, actually I was gonna
use you as my manager.”
She blinked twice this time, her
equivalent of suprise. Before she could even utter another word, Sabin launched
into his speech again, the one she had heard many, many times before.
“I will become known!” Sabin
whispered, eyes locked to the heavens, finger pointing upward into the distance
at nothing. “People will hear of me, and I shall surpass the one who came
before me! The one who stole my idea, MY idea! Soon, the world shall know...
soon, the world shall be graced with my talent and music!”
“Soon, the world will know the
wonder and power of.... Jichael Mackson!”
#
Rabid Uncle
Sheep
Because why the hell does a title ever have to make sense anyway?
a story by Ramon E. Duarte ([email protected])
#
Celes fell back with laughter, tears
in her eyes. She had heard this tirade many a time before, but now the sheer
wackiness of it came crashing down onto her.
“Sabin, dear,” she managed between
gasps of laughter. “You are SO full of shit!”
Sabin, the aspiring pop star, took
this remark as a slap to the face. However, with him, it was hard to tell
whether he was genuinely moved or not.
“Celeeeeeeeeeeeeees!!! You promised
you wouldn't laugh anymore at my truly wonderful idea! And that you would not
insult it anymore!” he turned his swivel chair around and faced the other side
of his bedroom, away from her. “I thought I could trust ya... but you're just
like everyone else!”
Celes sat up on the bed, tossed her
hair away from her face and rolled her eyes. “Sabin, you are such a retard. I'm
sorry that I laughed at you... but ya gotta understand, to people not as, eh, gifted
as you, this whole idea seems so... so... well, lame.”
Sabin slowly turned the swivel chair
around, his head down, dreadlocks hanging in front of his face. He slowly
looked upward until his gaze locked on Celes's pretty face. He was hoping that
this move would make him at least look cool. However, all it did was
incite another burst of laughter from his flame-haired partner, who fell back
against the bed again.
“Fine, fuck you then. I'm gonna make
it on my own!” he said, jumping to a stand off the swivel chair and marching
out of the room. He heard Celes jump off of the bed and run toward him before
he had even reached the doorknob.
“Aw, Sabin baby,” she crooned,
cradling his hand in hers. “I was just joking. You didn't think I was actually
serious, did ya?”
Sabin didn't need to turn around to
know that she was using her cutesy-face on him. He had no fucking idea why the
hell she talked to him using terms of endearment, or treated him like a loved
one on certain occasions. She wasn't in any way, shape, or form interested in
him, as far as he was concerned. He even tried putting the moves on her while
they were both drunk one day, and had promptly been ass-kicked and called a
greasy junkie-thin bastard. Well, he had to agree with the junkie-thin part,
anyway. Before, her seemingly-girlfriend-like attitude aroused and excited him.
Now, it just bothered him.
“No, I didn't actually think you
were serious.” Sabin retorted, turning around to face Celes. And sure enough,
her eyes were giving him that icky, sugar-coated look. “But I want you to take
me seriously, goddamnit. So what if my idea sounds crazy. You should be
supporting me in this, not making fun of me!”
Celes finally dropped the cutesy
act. “Okay, okay, fine. I won't make fun of you anymore. Let's go get something
to eat. Roland said he'd meet us at the mall, remember? He's got connections we
don't to the industry. Feel better now? Wanna kiss on it?”
Despite numerous failures, Sabin
actually still thought he had a chance with this dazzling broad. So he nodded,
and they both leaned in for the prize...
“Hah. I'd rather tongue a snake.”
she snapped, smiling, and moved her head away, grabbing his wrist. “C'mon, get
your arse oop. We gotta go.”
As Celes began to mouth him off for
laziness in her pseudo-Irish accent, Sabin wondered if it was wise to appoint
her as his future manager.
#
Sabin Saher had a dream. It was a
dream that was formed long ago, in the days of his youth. Seemed like almost a
hundred years ago, now. His dream was to become a pop star. Being raised on
David Bowie and Iggy Pop could do that to ya, most people said. But Sabin saw
it differently. He claimed that it was his destiny and birthright. The problem
was, someone beat him to the punch with the idea and the songs: Michael
Jackson, the black/white/white/black pop star. The one who had stolen Sabin's
idea right from under his nose, and later (our aspiring star claims) songs that
have been written.
The thief. The bastard. The guy who
had stolen the very name Sabin had intended to use. Now, that rat-fuck was
gonna pay...
“...ake up, shithead!” with a slap
on the head and harsh words, Sabin was jolted back into reality. Celes stood
beside him, wearing her signature Dead Kennedys' logoed jacket on her
shoulders. They were in the food court of the mall.
“Sorry, Celes.” Sabin apologized
with a wince. “Guess I dozed off somehow.”
She rolled her beautiful green eyes.
“Dozed off while walking? That's a new one, darling. With a habit like that,
how do ye think ya gonna make it big, ya gobshite?”
Sabin shook his head, trying not to
be annoyed by her fake accent. “Whatever. let's just get some food and wait for
Roland. I hate this fucking place.”
Sabin found a table and chairs as
Celes pranced about the almighty food-court for ten minutes before deciding on
a place to get food at. Sabin never ate here. Last time he did, the
cheese-on-a-stick from Hot-Dog-on-a-Stick made him puke everywhere and gave him
the screamin' shits for a whole day. That was two years ago. Sabin never
trusted mall food ever again.
Eventually, local sex symbol/punk goddess
Celes Chere returned with a Styrofoam plate full of Chinese food and a bottle
of water. She plunked these down on the table and sat across from Sabin, who
was cradling his head in his hands. He really hated this fucking place.
“Don't worry, honey,” she said,
waving her hand nonchalantly as she helped herself to her first helping of
Orange Sesame Chicken. “He'll be here soon, and we'll be outta here.”
“Mmph.” came the response. Sabin
ventured from his head-in-hands position to look around him. What came next was
to be expected.
“Look at them,” he said softly,
beginning in what was usually a long speech, full of emotion. “Milling about in
their designer clothing and sweatshop-manufactured shoes. People who live in a
country and society which offers this mall as an output for boredom and
despair, a place where you can buy to forget. A closed off, poisonous ecosystem
for the clones to hang out at.” each sentence was punctuated by sharp, swift
wavings of his hands. He also began to speak louder, and draw the attention of
other people. Celes just raised an eyebrow. She'd intervene if anything got out
of hand.
“Fools!” Sabin shouted, causing
several heads to turn. “Monotonous automatons! Children of the twenty-first
century! Hah! All of you make me SICK! Going off to buy your newest pair of
jeans? Or are you here to sample the exotic and disgusting tastes of the so
called food court?! Society led you to this, but it is not entirely to blame;
YOU are!”
“Uh, Sabin baby...” Celes's brow
furrowed in worrying after seeing more and more people look to the table where
they were sitting. Perhaps she'd have to intervene prematurely.
“Traitors to the process of free
thought!” Sabin cried out, jumping off of his chair to stand on the table, arms
spread akimbo. “Polluted clones of society! You shop in this mall. Why? Because
you are given no other FUCKING option!” at the utterance of the expletive, the
entire food court, including the workers, all looked toward the table. Celes
was shaking her head, and tried again to stop Sabin's tirade.
“Sabin, lover, you gotta stop--”
“Odious, unctuous, purveyors of
stupidity! FILTH!” Sabin screamed. It seemed as if the entire mall was focused
on this one table. “You think you can taunt me with your commercial pleasures?!
You think that you can tempt me with promises of product guarantees?!” at this,
Sabin undid his belt, zipper, and button. His pants fell to the table floor,
and he stood preaching in his shirt and boxers, his hands making obscene
gestures near his ah, area. “Well, SUCK it, bitch! Yeah, that's right!
Suck my foreign cock, you useless American mallrats! If it were up to me, Id--”
Fed up, Celes decided to take
action, to get Sabin's attention the only way possible.
“Oooh, baby!” she said breathlessly,
jumping up, placing herself right in front of Sabin. “I just LOVE it when you
talk like that! It just turns me ON!” her hands probed his skinny-ass body
quite thoroughly.
“But,” she continued, placing one
delicate finger on his lips, “You talk to much, baby... I want you to give me
what I really want...” her breath was hot on his ear. “Right here, right now,
baby...”
“Gha!” Sabin cried, shocked out of
his speech at last. He was in a daze, eyeing Celes from head to toe, and lunged
forth, grabbing her. The patience fuse within her began to fizzle, growing
shorter as she saw how horny he was for her, how the whole mall was looking at
them on the table, and the feeling of hardness against her thigh--
Boom.
“Get AWAY FROM ME, YOU STINKING,
GREASY, SKINNY-ASS SAD EXCUSE FOR A MAN, FUCKING LOSER!!!!” Celes screamed,
pushing Sabin away from her with such a force that he flew into the
Hot-Dog-on-a-Stick kiosk, slumping there as lemonade dripped down and soaked
into his clothes. Celes hopped off of the table and brushed herself off,
exhaling with relief. She could just give Sabin some Tylenol and later make up
a story that excluded his humiliating himself (and herself) in public. Just as
she was going to go and help her friend up, however, she bumped into a solid,
navy-blue mass. Looking up, Celes saw the massive chest and hardened face of a
mall security guard. She gulped.
Outside of the mall, one could see
the food court doors opening up, a massive hand grasping a pretty young redhead
and a pantless, dazed Indian, and then throwing them out of the mall with such
a force that they landed in a pile of wood chips in the parking lot several
yards away from the door. Brushing herself off, Celes stood up and gave the
finger to the guard, who was nowhere to be seen by now.
“Well, I hope you're happy with
yourself!” she snapped at Sabin, who had begun to figure out what had just
happened. He looked at her with a mixture of malevolence and confusion, and
then blurted out:
“Oi! Where the fuck are my pants?!”
The massive hand reappeared in the
mall doorway, and tossed a pair of black pants that landed directly on Sabin's
lemonade-soaked head.
“Great. Just great.” said Celes,
dusting wood chips from her jacket, and helping Sabin stand up so he could
re-pant himself. “We get kicked out, and now Roland won't find us. Just fucking
great.”
“Someone call my name?” came a
distinct “brotha” voice from behind a car nearby. From it emerged a tall
African-American lad wearing a sleeveless jersey and baggy blue jeans. His hair
was arranged in a 'fro, and a gold chain hung from my neck.
“I said, someone call my name? Cuz
ya call the name o' Roland Parliament, ya gotta either be askin' for an
ass-kickin' or ya need my help.”
#
Roland Parliament was trying to be,
for lack of a better term that won't offend people inadvertently, a true
“brotha.” And true to his innately British-sounding name, he himself was from
the Isles. Only, like Celes's habit of using a fake accent, he used one as
well. He tried to mask his cockney-British tone of voice by emulating the other
“brothas” (there we go again!). However, when he got tired of talking, or
distracted, his British accent showed up through his fake one.
As Celes had said earlier, Roland
had connections to the industry; the music industry, that is. And that
is what she had summoned him here for.
“Yo, wass 'appening?” came Roland's
greeting after he recognized Celes. “You be lookin' good these days, girl.”
Celes gave a smile and waved her
hand in that oh-it's-nothing gesture. “Yeah, yeah. Oi, listen oop. We gots
ourselves a job for ye. Ya see, mah friend 'ere 'as a plan--a good one, too. We
need yer help.”
As Sabin buckled his belt back on
and dusted his pants off, hearing the last words in Celes's fake Irish accent,
he hoped that this would actually work out for him.
Roland scratched his chin. “Awright,
tell me what's goin' on.”
#
Several strange minutes later...
#
“Can you believe it?” Celes managed
to say after another fit of laughing. Roland was doing the same.
“I-I mean,” he succumbed to the
sheer humor of the situation. “I didn't think it was serious until your friend
here pointed it out.” his accent had slipped, and the original British one was
in full display now.
“Damnit, guys!” Sabin was sitting on
the curb several feet away from them, back turned toward them. “I told you not
to laugh! I'm serious about this!”
Celes rolled toward him and rubbed
his shoulders. “Aw, baby. We weren't laughing at you, we were laughing with
you!”
The age-old excuse had lost it's
traces of humor by now. Sabin lowered his head and let Celes knead his
shoulders, knowing that if he made a move on her he would promptly get his
ass--or rather, in her opinion, his arse--kicked so hard he'd kiss the moon.
“Right,” said Roland, forgetting to
use his fake accent. “I've got a contact in the industry. What he'll need from
you is a recording of you performing. A good quality recording, like one made
in a studio. I know someplace you can use. If you're ready, we can get this
done tonight.”
Sabin looked at his watch. 2:00 PM.
Sounded good enough to him. He was actually getting excited at the prospect of
recording himself in an actual studio.
“All right!” he yelled, leaping up.
Let us go! Not a moment to waste!”
Celes chuckled and brushed aside
more of her red-gold hair. “Sounds fun. I've never actually seen you live up to
your dream. Guess now's a good day!”
The three of them walked off into
the horizon past the mall, since, sadly, neither of them were lucky enough to
own a car.
#
In the mansion situated on some
strange island in the middle of nowhere, a man sat in a dark room on a dark
throne. In one pale white hand was a wine glass filled with a vintage shot, in
the other was a remote control. A button on the control was pressed, and the
scene that took place earlier with Sabin, Celes, and Roland played out again on
a large TV screen.
“Fool...” the man in the throne
whispered harshly. His pale white face was partly disguised by large, dark
sunglasses. His teeth were clenched. In broad daylight, this man could probably
blind someone badly. “Fool! Sabin, you have messed with the wrong person... and
you shall learn what it is like to defy me, the most powerful--”
“Sire!” rang a pre-pubescent voice.
A young lad of about ten or eleven dressed in tight black leather ran toward
the throne from a door in the side of the large, dark room.
“Sire! We have urgent news!”
The man in the throne turned his
pale head toward the boy messenger. As he did so, a child-sized primate wearing
a spike collar crawled up one arm of the throne, chattering uncontrollably.
With a few soothing words from his master, the ape crawled back down and shut
up.
“I told you not to disturb me while
I am musing to myself and about to take a sip of this precious, vintage Jackson
wine which we will eventually all have together when that monkey-boy will be mine...
didn't I?” the man hissed. The page boy shrunk back.
“Y-yes, but we have urgent news,
master!”
The man in the throne sighed,
pressing the stop button on the remote and setting it aside, drumming his
fingers on the arm of the large chair. “All right, I'll forgive you for now,
boy. But,” he added, his face twisted in an expression of malice, “if you
disturb me as such again, it's the whip for you! And the handcuffs attached to
the bedpost as well!”
The tightly leather-clad boy gulped,
and nodded. He was familiar with the treatment.
“Sir, we have reports that the boy
you are monitoring right now has contacted the insider to the Industry, and
will be recording his material tonight at this studio!” with that said, the
page boy handed his master a folded sheet of paper, which the man opened and
glanced over briefly before returning it to him.
“So, you have decided to finally
make your stand, haven't you, my dear Sabin?” the man hissed. He stood up from
the throne, clad in more leather and metalwork that the world had seen the
likes of in ages (not since they had released that little-known movie Cruising
starring Al Pacino several decades ago). He spread his arms apart, and from
some random orifice on his body retrieved a black leather whip, and cracked it
hard.
“Go, my loyal servant!” he cried to
the page boy, who hurried out of the room. “Go, and give those three a taste of
doom! For they shall soon know the pain and suffering involved with all those
who dare fuck with me.... Michael Jackson!”
#
Sabin glanced at his watch. 6:00 PM.
After eating at a not-so fancy eating establishment, and letting Celes change
into a new pair of clothes she had bought a day ago (Sabin would never really
understand her whims), the two of the plus Roland, their insider, had started
the long trek to downtown. Sabin had no money for a taxi, and Celes hated the
city bus. Roland had no car either. So, they walked. And a long walk it was,
for Sabin could have sworn it had been 3:00 PM when they had left.
“My feet are fokkin' killin' me!”
complained the beautiful Celes in her Irish accent that wasn't real. She was
wearing the same Dead Kennedys' jacket she had been wearing earlier, but had
changed into a blue tube-top and a black vinyl miniskirt, along with ruby-red
high heels that would be perfectly at home in that old movie starring Judy
Garland. She wore no makeup--she needed none.
“We be almost dere.” said Roland in
his own accent that wasn't real. “We jus' cut thru this parking lot here, and
shit, we're there in no time!”
Sabin nodded. He hadn't changed his
clothes, so now he smelled of lemonade. He thought that the sky seemed to be
darker than it usually was at this time. Out of a stereo somewhere nearby was
blaring the theme to the old TV show Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Perfect.
It couldn't get any weirder than this.
“What did ya say, honey?” Celes
murmured, wrapping herself around Sabin's arm.
He shook his head. “I said it
couldn't get any weirder than this.”
She chuckled. “You talk too much,
baby...” Sabin decided not to take her seriously. She always did this, anyway.
Why me, he thought.
“That building ahead's the one we're
headin' to.” stated Roland, pointing ahead. “Once we there, I'll let the boys
know you're here fo--HOLY SHIT!” the latter phrase was exclaimed in his innate
British tongue.
The air before the three had begun
to crackle with black lightning. Celes, Sabin, and Roland jumped back abruptly.
A hole was torn in space, and out of this hole popped a young boy of ten or
eleven dressed in tight black leather that revealed the curves of his
pre-pubescent body. Roland grimaced; Celes gawked; Sabin laughed out loud
despite the strange circumstances. Instantly after this, however, he screamed
in a high falsetto tone. Now a little bondage prince of darkness appeared
before them out of midair? Things were becoming really freaky...
“I have come for the one named
Sabin,” said the boy in a high pitched voice, revealing a small black leather
whip from behind of him. He held the whip at ready, and waited patiently for an
answer. What he got instead was three silent faces regarding him with horror
(Roland), mild arousing interest (Celes), and complete confusion (Sabin).
“Ah, aren't ya a little young for
dis S&M shit, boy?” Roland queried, one eyebrow raised, tilting his afroed
head just a bit.
“Fucking kids today...” muttered
Sabin, trying to forget that this weird kid had come looking for him.
“I dunno, seeing his curvy little
pre-teen bod kinda turns me on...” came the voice of Celes, who was regarding
the youth with a little more than general interest. This evoked a loud “ugh”
from both Sabin and Roland.
The boy's eyes were unreadable from
behind the dark sunglasses that he wore.
“I grow impatient,” said the kid.
“Fine. If you will not bring me the one named Sabin, I shall take him from you
by force!” With that said, the strange lad cracked his whip twice with rapid,
swift movements.
“Makishim.” he said in a low,
menacing whisper. “Monster summons!”
Suddenly, another hole was torn in
the sky. Emerging from it was a creature that resembled a large, flying,
inflatable fish. In fact, it WAS a large, flying, inflatable fish. The creature
made some strange, warbling noises before it floated down next to the kid.
“Go, Fishman!” screamed the boy, one
hand on his hip, the other holding the whip and pointing toward the three.
“Attack them, and bring me the one named Sabin back alive!”
The large, flying, inflatable fish
warbled once, and then began to fly towards the three with a great amount of
speed. Before they could react, the fish soared past them with such speed that
the wind brought about by its passing knocked Roland against a streetlight
pole.
“Roland!” Celes cried out, but was
cut off short by Sabin being knocked into her forcefully, knocking the wind out
of her as they both collapsed in a heap. Celes wasn't feeling too well. Sabin,
on the other hand, was getting quite a nice view of her white cotton panties
through the bottom of her miniskirt, which was where his gaze was locked.
“SABIN!” Celes yelled at him through
clenched teeth when she figured out what he was doing, and promptly slapped him
hard on the side of the face.
The boy held out his whip-holding
hand. “Fishman! It is HE who is the one we seek!” he cried, pointing at Sabin
(who was still enjoying his view). “Abduct him immediately!”
The large, flying, inflatable fish
warbled, and rushed toward Sabin. A pink fishnet was spat out of the creature's
mouth, and he was caught in it.
“On second thought, abduct all of
them.” the leather boy spoke lazily. “We can't let anyone else know of the
masters ambitions.” and with that, Fishman the large, flying, inflatable fish
spewed out pink fishnets to capture Celes and Roland, and then it, along with
its prizes and the boy, jumped back into the holes in the air and vanished,
along with any trace that they had been there.
#
“Master, they are all here, I have
captured them all for you.” said the boy, who was now in the dark throne room
which housed Michael Jackson. His sire, who was sitting in the throne with the
glass one untouched wine in one hand and the whip in another, looked genuinely
pleased.
“Good boy...” said the extremely
leather and metal clad pop star. “Now leave us.” and with that, he cracked the
whip at the boy's behind, which sent him scurrying out of the room with a yelp,
leaving Sabin, Celes, and Roland on a heap on the floor, their arms tied behind
them by ropes.
The Pale Lord of Pop stood up from
his throne, and downed the glass of vintage Jackson wine in one gulp, tossing
the discarded vessel aside where it shattered into many pieces. The metal
handcuffs, keychain rings, zippers, and various other devices all chimed as he
walked down a set of steps that separated his throne from the floor. His hands
raised up in a type of prayer gesture, and instantly Sabin found himself thrown
before his arch nemesis. Celes and Roland, on the other hand, found themselves
somehow tied to enormous stakes with only their undergarments as clothing.
“So... Sabin Saher, is it not?”
Michael Jackson hissed, fondling the whip in both of his pale white hands.
“You, the one who would defy my claim to the music industry. You who--”
“Thief,” Sabin tossed his dreadlocks
out of his face. “you sure have the nerve to talk. YOU stole what was
rightfully mine, YOU stole the legacy!”
The King of Popular Music simply shrugged.
“It was mine for the taking. I feel no remorse. I simply plucked the ripe idea
before you could get your hands on it.”
Sabin stood up, placing his hands on
his hips. “Oh really? No remorse? Then how about inferiority? You know I could
do a better job than you.”
At this suggestion, Michael Jackson
seemed to turn a paler shade of white, if that was at all possible. Sabin saw
in this an opening in the man's defenses, and took it.
“I really could do better than you,
you know.” he started, watching as his rival seethed in anger.
“You let him have it, Sabin!” cried
out Roland in his original British accent.
“Kick 'is arse fer me, lover!” cried
out Celes in her fake accent.
Sabin spared her a glance, then
quickly turned away. If he looked at her in the state of dress (rather,
undress) that she was in, he would literally not be able to contain himself any
longer.
“It's true,” continued Sabin, the
aspiring pop star. “you stole from me because you couldn't stand to see me do
better than you, you pale fuck!”
“I am more popular across the world
than any other artist,” MJ growled. “you could not bring down MY legacy with
your idiotic banter. No one fucks with Michael Jackson!”
“Wrong!” lashed out Sabin. “I shall
fuck with you! For I am better than you.... I am Jichael Mackson!”
Michael Jackson seemed to falter in
his faith in himself. But then a wicked idea crept into his mind. “We shall
see..” he said softly. Then he cracked his whip toward a remote control that
was sitting on the arm of his throne, and familiar background music filled the
dark room. A disco ball lit up on the ceiling, and flashing neon lights covered
the walls in their glow.
“This should be a familiar tune to
you... MY song, not yours. He who makes the song famous is the one who
rightfully owns it. It's Bille Jean... do you remember this song,
Sabin?”
Sabin Saher instantly nodded. “I
wrote it, of course I remember it.”
MJ grinned, baring his too-white
teeth in a sick display of triumph. “Good. You remember. Now, let's just see if
you can walk the walk. You versus me, choreographing this song, capiche?
Then we'll see who is the real Lord of all Pop!”
Instantly, Michael Jackson's outfit
changed to the one he had been wearing in the music video for the very song
many years ago. He began swiftly, moving through the moves, singing the lyrics
perfectly. One would have almost thought that it was the old MJ there in the
room... except for the incredibly pale skin, that is.
The song ended, and Michael Jackson
stood upright in triumph. Approval from the tied-to-stake Celes and Roland
confirmed it.
Roland: “Good Lord, he's fucking
good!”
Celes: “Damn... I forgotten how hot
he could be back then....”
Michael snapped his fingers, and he
was back in his leather and metal outfit he was so accustomed to wearing. He gestured
toward Sabin, leering.
“Your turn.”
Sabin was not intimidated. It was
now or never. This was the moment, the time when he would surpass this faker!
If he could just remember how he planned it...
“...shit! I forgot!”
#
Michael Jackson cackled with glee,
an horrid little sound, and lashed at Sabin with his whip. It slashed a long
gash in his face, but he did not cry out in pain. Another long gash etched
itself in his face, then on his arm.
“Like I said,” the Fruity King of
Pop exclaimed. “You are no match for me! No one fucks with me, NO ONE!” the
whip was poised for another lashing. “Say goodbye to your pathetic friends....
I think I'll start with this cute little number here.”
As if by magic (which it probably
was, this story wouldn't make sense without it), Celes Chere appeared within
the arms of Michael Jackson. He grasped her by the waist, slipping a pale hand
down the back of her panties.
“What do ya say I have a bit of fun
with her before I go, yes?”
Sabin retorted. “NO!” he rushed
toward the two, but was thrown back by a kind of aura around the Pop Star. The
aura of success, the aura of winning.
Celes flinched when Michael grasped
her face in his hand. “I thought you only went for little boys and monkeys...”
Michael gave her a thoughtful look,
then an angry one. “Er... Shut up, that's beside the point!” He continued to
caress her body with his filthy pale hands.
Sabin could not take it any longer.
He had been beaten before he even started, and now his enemy had in his arms
the only girl Sabin had ever fallen for... despite the numerous times she
teased and beat him shitless, that is. He screamed, a scream that echoed
throughout the dark room lit only by neon and disco-ball lighting.
Suddenly, an aura began to form
around Sabin. The aura enveloped him fully, changing what he wore, giving him
strength. An aura brought about by his turbulent emotions. His hidden potential
was finally unlocked. As the aura dissipated, Michael Jackson could see that
the person who he had stolen the musical legacy from was now decked out in the
attire of a true pop star. The clothing was indescribable (also since the
author is shit-tired of typing, he will not explain it) and wonderful.
Jichael Mackson snapped his fingers,
and the music to Billie Jean started up again. He started on the moves,
opposite of Michael Jackson's yet surpassing the original. And with the moves,
he sang, a sweeter sound than.. than.. er...
Billie Jean's not my lover, she's
just a girl... who claims that I am the one! But, the kid is not my son...
Needless to say, the sheer power and
wonder of the song blew Michael Jackson away. Celes escaped from his grasp, and
he was thrown against one of the neon lightings on the wall.
Jichael Mackson completed the song,
and walked toward Michael, still in the indescribable, wonderful attire of a
true pop star. Celes threw herself into his arms, whispering sweet nothings
into his ear that he did not hear at the moment. He was focused on the crumpled
form of Michael.
“You have lost,” Jichael Mackson
said. “And do you know why?” the true Lord of Popular Music form shifted, and
now Jichael Mackson was once again Sabin Saher, the Indian aspiring pop star.
“It's cuz you changed from a
mildly-good black pop singer to some pasty white fruit--”
“It's a skin disease,” Michael
Jackson explained.
Sabin waved this correction off.
“Fine, skin disease, then. Anyway...” he continued his speech.
”...who made significantly worse
music and started to molest little children and also your pet monkey, Bubbles!”
“Chimp,” corrected MJ.
Sabin seethed. “Okay, chimp.
ANYWAY...” he continued his tirade.
“It's cuz you thought that since you
took my idea from me, you thought that you could monopolize off of it! Thief!
Coward! I have taken back what is rightfully mine, and now I have surpassed you!”
Sabin left the crumpled form of
Michael Jackson on the floor where it lay, and for the first time in his life,
enjoyed a long, full, enticing, all-the-way, tongue included kiss from Celes.
And why not? It was about damn time, anyway. The two were so absorbed in the
act that they didn't see the crumpled form on the floor rise up, whip out of
nowhere a long, wicked-looking knife, and rush toward them.
#
Roland Parliament, in the mean time,
had somehow freed himself from the stake that he was tied to (don't ask how, it
just happens in these stories). The room was so damned dark, and Roland really
wanted to know if the sun was up or not. Oblivious of the whole battle between
Michael Jackson and Jichael Mackson that had took place moments earlier, or how
the defeated star was rushing towards his friends with a knife, Roland felt
around the wall for a light switch, and flicked it.
“Gaaaaaaaahhh!” came a cry from
behind Sabin and Celes, still locked in that kiss, hands beginning to explore
each other. Michael Jackson clutched at his face, and a white smoke arose from
him.
Roland did not seem to hear it. He
was worried about a gig he was supposed to be at tomorrow and a girl he was
supposed to meet tonight. He found the devices to open the window shades, and
he activate them. Bright, beautiful sunlight streamed into the dark room.
“AAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH!” came the scream.
Celes and Sabin were oblivious to it or simply did not care. Roland was too
caught up in basking in the sunlight to even hear.
“I'M MELTING!!!! OH, MERCILESS FUCK!
I'M FUCKING MELTING!!! AAAAAAGGGGHHHHH!!!”
And sure enough, Michael Jackson's
body WAS melting at a rapid rate. Perhaps living in the darkness for so long
rendered his body weak against light. perhaps the operation which changed his
skin color from dark brown to pale white involved certain chemicals that
reacted to light. Perhaps he had recieved some strange, anti-light disease from
fooling around too much with his monkey and with little boys. Or none of them.
Or all of them. It did not matter any longer, for now what had once been
Michael Jackson was now a puddle of pasty-white liquid that ate into the floor
and vanished.
“Oi, luv, wha wuzzat fokkin racket?”
whispered Celes, finally breaking away from Sabin, her fake Irish accent once
again is use.
Sabin shrugged his shoulders. “Beats
me. Oi, Roland! You all right?”
Roland, who had finished his
sun-bath, nodded vigorously and smiled. “Hell yeah! Shit, brotha! Let's get the
fuck outta here, eh?” the “brotha” accent was back in full force.
And so, the three of them left the
room, and then the island, making it back to the city where they had come from.
How they made it back there was uncertain (or maybe due to the author's lack of
patience to explain), but there was a new star in the pop industry now: Jichael
Mackson.
#
Some people claim to still see a
leather-clad, whip-bearing boy, a spike collar-wearing chimp, and a large,
flying, inflatable fish hanging around the strange island, running a shop that
sells Michael Jackson memorabilia.
#
Sabin and Celes finally hooked up,
and now, he gets more sex than ever. Yay.
Roland Parlaiment is now the agent,
manager, distributor, and sales officer of his very own succesful indie record
company, Fishman Recordings. He released some of Jichael Mackson's early
recordings on vinyl, and now they are collector's items. He still feigns a
homeboy accent.
#
Story's over, folks. Time to go
home.
#
Or have the melted remains of
Michael Jackson become a sentient force to be reckoned with, seeking revenge
against Sabin for becoming Jichael Mackson?
#
Who knows, and who gives a shit?
Have fun, kids.
FIN