Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Mahandas Ghandi: Werewolf Puncher

This was recently sent to me by a friend who shall remain nameless (Laura). It actually looks fun and I would probably go see it given sufficient prodding:
Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter

This led to some internet detecting and I discovered this gem: Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter

Apparently this is some sort of ‘thing,’ wherein you take a historical figure and have them fight the forces of evil. It makes a weird sort of sense. Historical figures are to put it mildly, historical, and therefore more or less famous. Their names are readily recognizable and therefore make for free publicity. After all, no one would go see ‘Jason Janicki: Ninja Fighter,’ but ‘Genghis Khan: Ninja Fighter’ is an instant draw.

NOTE: Obviously, my immediate family would have to go see it. After all, I am the youngest, so if they have any hope of someone taking care of them when they get old, they have to humor me. Plus, I know where they live.

So, in order to cash in on what will probably become a trend, I’ve assembled a list of people, creatures, and actions so people (such as you) can make their own ‘X battles Y’ mash-ups. Simply pick one from each column and you’ve got a title you can use:

NOTE: Blogger hates columns, so use your imagination.

George Washington Armadillo Puncher
Thomas Jefferson Zombie Killer
Mohandas Gandhi Nazi Fighter
Anne Frank Werewolf Kicker
Margaret Thatcher Nerd Spooker
Ramses II Clown Strangler
George Patton World Smasher
Andrew Jackson Vampire Stabber
Mother Theresa Demon Hunter
Helen Keller Mummy Thrasher
Mary Shelley Dragon Tamer
Cleopatra Hamster Destroyer
Louis XIV Devil Crusher

Personally, I would totally see Anne Frank: Nazi Hunter. I have this mental image of a young girl wielding an iron bound book on a chain (like a meteor hammer – the ball on a long chain like the evil schoolgirl in Kill Bill used) beating the hell out of a lot of Nazis. I realize that Anne Frank died tragically and I have the utmost respect for her and her work, but I would still pay to see a fictionalized version of her beat the crap out of a lot of bad men.

Anyway, I’m sure you get the idea. And, obviously, should you make a multi-million dollar feature film using my title generator, I would appreciate a small gratuity, say 5% of gross. Or, you could just let me meet Olivia Wilde and have her pretend not to be horrified.


Tuesday, February 21, 2012

The Best Side: Part 7

The carnage was too terrible to describe.

Well, actually, it just a lot of dead guys with the occasional random limb thrown in. The walls were splashed red, which really clashed with the orange and purple décor. Ninjas and mimes were slumped or laying on every conceivable surface, some dying, some already dead, some doing their taxes.

There was still a spirited battle going on, as ninjas and mimes fought back and forth across the diner. A ninjas went down to an imaginary bat with nails in it. As he writhed on the floor, the mime went for the killing blow, only to be struck by 112 shurikens and a menu. Ninjas died with muted screams, as they clutched at their ragged wounds and wandered around, looking for a clear spot to fall down on. Mimes died silently, with many an exaggerated gesture or last attempt to get out of a box.

Only about a dozen were left on either side and they were panting. A ninja was catching his breath right by the door to the kitchen when I burst out. He caught three Kens in the kisser before he knew what was up. A mime with an imaginary shotgun ran by, trying to get a clear shot on the ninja with the shuriken launcher. The Kens were not kind to him either.

“What’s in that thing?” the Dame asked from behind me.

“I filled the Ken dolls with steel shot. What?” I said, with a quick glance over my shoulder. “I’m not stupid.”

“The jury’s still out on that.”

The fighting was now centered on the buffet, where the remaining clowns and mimes fought for honor and possibly, the last of the pepperoni pizza.

There were a dozen dead mimes around one of the ninjas, his shinobi katana gleaming with invisible mime blood. A mime stood near the salad bar, some twenty feet away, fallen ninjas and spilled dressing littering the floor around him.

They were both exhausted and wounded, but they fought on, their strikes and punches still strong and true. These men fought not for pride or riches, but because in their cold, dark worlds, there was nothing else they could do. They were also really stoked for the new Hobbit movie.

They suddenly noticed each other: ninja and mime. Two men with vastly different fashion sense, but experts in their own deadly art.

“Oh!” I said, as the two ninjas went after the mime and a pair of mimes tried to outflank the ninja. The attackers went down in a frenzy of swordplay and imaginary baguette work and now the two masters were the last ones standing.

“’Oh!’ what?” asked the Dame.

The ninja and mime eyed each other. The ninja brought up his sword in a salute, which the mime returned.

“I just figured it out,” I said, as the last ninja and mime began to circle. “We’re not the ones in the John Woo movie. They are.”


“Two men, both badasses, from different worlds develop mutual understanding and respect, yadda yadda.”

“Oh, I get it,” said the Dame, stepping forward to stand by me. On cue, the doves flew out of the kitchen in slow motion, curving gracefully between the two foes as they still circled. “What normally happens at the end of a John Woo movie?”

“I honestly haven’t seen that many,” I said, laying my flail across my shoulder. “But I think the heroes tend to die a lot.”

“Then that makes it easy.” The Dame walked forward, her heels squishing on the now soaked carpeting. Both the ninja and mime turned towards her as she approached.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” the Dame said. The ninja and mime glanced at each other and shrugged.

At which point, the Dame double-tapped them both.

“I can’t decide,” I said after a moment. “Whether or not that was really mean.”

The Dame blew the smoke from the barrel of her .38. “Who am I to argue with John Woo?”

“You have a point.”

“So,” she said, as she stepped over a body. “Do we have a deal?”

“Well, everyone who knows where I am is dead, so I guess you didn’t blow my cover.”
I took a deep breath, which was a bad idea in a room full of dead people and spilled pizza. “How about this,” I finally said. “Can you hole up for a week? Give me some time to come up with a plan?”

“I think I can manage.”

I held out my hand. “Then we have a deal.” She stepped forward to shake. “On one condition,” I said. Her eyebrow raised. “No poisoning, shooting, or knocking me unconscious.”

“That’s three conditions.”

“Take it or leave it.”


We shook and then made our way towards the front door.

“Come find me in a week,” I said, holding the door open for her.

“Bet on it,” she replied, stepping out into the cold Oregon winter and turning right.

I followed her out and then turned left, pulling my coat collar up against the crisp air. “Looks like things are going to get interesting,” I said, as I neared my pickup.

Something hit me in the head as I pulled my keys from my pocket and as the world went dark, I heard a distant voice say, “The Montebank says ‘hi.’”

Le Fin

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

The Best Side: Part 6

“What?” I said. “You don’t like it?” In my hand was a flail made out of three headless Ken dolls joined by chains to a door handle from a ’88 Subaru.

“Stupid is the word that comes to mind,” she replied. “I’m going out the back door. Good luck with that” she made a gesture at the flail. “Thing.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” I said, swinging my flail in a little circle. It made a whistling noise that sounded exactly like a load of ape poop being flung out of a trebuchet.

The Dame ignored me and walked quickly towards the back door, her heels clicking on the tiled floor. She stepped over a reanimated chicken and in two more steps was at the door. “Y’know,” she said, pausing with her hand on the knob. “I really thought you could help. Sorry about the ninja thing.”

“No worries,” I said. I whacked my flail against the stainless steel counter. It made an amazingly satisfying thud and left three disturbingly Ken-shaped dents.

“You’re not going to stop me?”


“Seriously?” She turned, hands on her hips. “You’re just going to let me walk out alone to face unknown peril by myself. And here I thought we had something.”

“Everytime we’ve met I ended up unconscious and/or shot. That’s not really a stable base for a relationship. Besides, we might meet again. I’m only 50% certain that door is trapped.”


“Yep.” I zipped up my fly, as I had previously forgotten to do so. “Like I said, we did that last time. If I were a ninja or a mime, I’d put a claymore or four on the next back door.”

The Dame glanced at the door, an eyebrow raised. “That does make a certain sense.”

“So today,” I said. “This nerd’s going out the front.”

“With a flail made out of Ken dolls.”

I grinned. “It’s all about the style.” I walked over to the door to the dining room, flail in my right hand, my left ready to push the door open. “You coming?” I asked, without turning around.

There was a clicking of heels and then the click of a hammer being pulled back. This was followed by the rapid clicking of one of those ball banging thingies people put on their desks, but that’s immaterial.

“On three?” the Dame asked, from close behind.

“How ‘bout one?” I said, as I pushed through the door and leapt into the room.

Next: Le Fin.

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

The Best Side: Part 5

“I hope it’s a good secret,” the Dame said. “As in ‘fully automatic with lots of ammo.’”


An eyebrow went up. “I’m intrigued.” There was a slight pause. “What are you grinning about?”

“Well,” I began. “It’s just that you’re the first woman to be intrigued by something in my pants in a long time.”

The Dame rubbed her temple and sighed. “If we weren’t in danger, I’d shoot you.”

“Well, that’s nice to know,” I said. “As our friends are getting ready to rumble.”

The Dame looked left and right. The mimes were already up and pretending that a wind was pushing them towards the buffet, while the ninjas were flourishing their shinobi katana and adjusting their masks.

The Dame started to rise, her .38 clutched tightly in her right hand. “I thought you said they had to go potty first.”

“Well,” I began, as I stood and walked around to her side of the table. “Ninjas never go potty and the mimes just pretended they did.”

“Ninjas don’t go potty?” she asked, her eyes darting back and forth between the mimes and ninjas.

“Have you ever seen a ninja in a bathroom?”

“No.” She glanced over at me, as I held out my hand. “What are you doing?”

“Getting us out of the decapitation zone.”

On cue, the music, a reggae version of ‘Better Be Home Soon,’ the 1988 Crowded House single ended and a metal version of ‘Eidelweisse’ commenced.

I took the Dame’s hand and despite my stiff leg, waltzed her out of the dining room and into the kitchen. We went right by the mimes, one of whom stepped back and let us pass.

I let go after a last twirl and glanced around. Iggy’s kitchen was empty, save for the usual assortment of stoves, pots, goat heads, wind instruments, and rusty bone saws.

The Dame was staring at me. “What the hell just happened?” she finally asked.
“I got us out of there,” I said, as I opened a cupboard at random. It made the Wilhelm Scream, so I opened and shut it a couple times, until the Dame cocked her pistol by my head.

“First,” she began. “Stop that. Second, why the hell didn’t they try to kill us?”

“It would be rude to attack someone waltzing,” I said, as I pawed through the chainsaw drawer. “Oh, it’s fine to gut somebody during a foxtrot, but never a waltz.”

The Dame stared at me, her arms folded. One of the doves landed on her shoulder, but she didn’t appear to notice. “Your world,” she finally said, “is just weird.”


“That wasn’t a compliment. And what are you looking for?”

“Nothing, really,” I replied, shutting a drawer full of glass eyes. “I was just waiting for the numbers to thin out there.”

“Can’t we just leave through the back door?” she asked, pointing at the back door.

“Nah, we did that last time.” I undid my belt and started to unzip my pants.

“What the hell are you doing?” the Dame almost shrieked, spinning around.

“Getting out my secret,” I said. There was a clang as a crowbar fell to the kitchen floor.

The Dame glanced over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “A crowbar?"

“That’s not it.” I said. “That’s just in case I find any crates or headcrabs.” A set of jumper cables joined the crowbar on the floor. “I always carry some,” I explained. “And here we go.”

The Dame stared, as did the dove, which pooped on her shoulder. The Dame didn’t notice.

“I take it back,” she finally said. “You’re not clever or stupid. You’re just nuts.”

Next: Part 6