Warning: i doubt this'll be any good without any knowledge of the people involved, and if you do have knowledge of the people involved, you've most likely already read it.

Waddell's Tale: Pain, Love, Malice

Part I - Graven Slope of Doom

Today Chad Waddell decided to seize the world, much like his ancestors, the hyper-intelligent squirrels who formed the Illuminati, had. He put on his special World-Seizer pants and his special World-Seizer shoes but he couldn’t find his special World-Seizer shirt.

“Hmmm,” Waddell said to himself. He reached for the phone but discovered its battery dead. After a few pondering moments, Waddell stood, stretched mightily, knocking trinkets and symbols of past victories from his dresser top, and strolled into the kitchen, where his grandmother was folding sheets.

“I will now use the phone,” Waddell declared in a decidedly grandiose manner.

His grandmother looked up and smiled contentedly. She then returned to folding her sheets.

Waddell carefully lifted the phone and placed it next to his ear. He was stunned by the dial tone and jumped back, dropping the phone.

“You have to dial, dear,” his grandmother reminded him.

“Ahhh yes,” Waddell nodded knowingly. “When my star rises high above the Heavens, such necessities will be .... unnecessary.” Confused, Waddell bit his lip and stared off into space.

“Are you going to use the phone?” Waddell’s grandmother prompted him again.

“Verily!” Waddell shouted. He strode dominantly forward and plucked the phone from its angular swing. He jabbed it next to his ear and, shrieking, threw it against the wall. Hand clasped over his injured ear, Waddell staggered into the wall and, breathing heavily, fought back the tears that crept into his eyes.

“Why... does it BUZZ?” he demanded of his grandmother, lower lip aquiver.

“You left it off the hook too long, dear,” she gently reminded him. After a few moments, Waddell’s grandmother offered to dial for him.

“Yes. Dial for me. The phone ... the phone will obey you. Very good,” Waddell nodded. After a question, he responded, “The number? I know of its existence but I cannot define it.”

“The phone book is in that drawer over there,” Waddell’s grandmother gestured towards a drawer.

Waddell came to a halt before a drawer. He flexed each rippling arm once and then firmly encircled the drawer handle with his left hand. After a few test pulls, he yanked it with all his might, tearing it from its home and spilling its contents all over his feet.

Awed by this turn of events, Waddell could only stare at the adornments placed upon his feet. He shuddered slightly and finally gasped, “It’s almost as if ... I am wearing shoes of silverware.”

“It’s flatware,” Waddell’s grandmother pointed out.

Waddell lifted his gaze to hers. His eyes were wide-open, indicating an awe not often seen in the Valedictorian villain. “I am a man of metal. With my metal feet, I can stomp all my foes into jelly and feed them to their mothers on flame-scarred toast.”

Nodding, Waddell’s grandmother indicated the drawer that contained the phone book. Prepared, Waddell gently slid it out, revealing the object of his quest. Smiling, he plucked the phone book from its resting place, but, unused to the relatively weighty tome, Waddell lost his grip and the phone book went tumbling, pages akimbo, to the ground.

“Bah!” screeched Waddell. His grandmother carefully placed the phone on the counter and retrieved the phone book from the ground. She queried Waddell as to his desired call victim. “I seek a counsel with Sheridan Sheridan ... the last free man in America.”

After a few tense moment, Waddell’s grandmother found the Sheridans listed in the phone book. Listed in bold text with large, gaudy arrows pointing to it was the name Sheridan “Mr. Lova Lova” Sheridan. Three numbers were listed, one for each gender and a final line reserved exclusively for Waddell (who is a guy. i didn’t mean to imply his gender was up in the air. Actually, i was going for how tight the two are.).

“The number, grandmother, is 8,” Waddell halted. “8,” he continued after a lengthy pause. “8,” he added.

“The number is 855 - 1134,” Waddell’s grandmother kindly pointed out.

“No,” cried Waddell forcefully. “That is a trick, a ruse! They want ... they ... want ...”

Waddell’s grandmother dialed and handed the phone to Waddell. “Have fun talking to your friend,” she said helpfully and returned to folding sheets.

Waddell nodded darkly. “Yes, Sheridan Sheridan and I will consult. We will converse. And if he cannot help me ... I will yoke this world to my will topless!”

Next: Waddell uses the phone!

Part II - Forceful Détente

“Hello, you’ve reached Sheridan Sheridan’s secret number. This must be ‘Bad’ Chad Waddell, Killa McGrilla Extraordinaire,” stated a rather bored female voice.

Waddell nodded forcefully.

“Hello? Waddell?” asked the female voice.

Waddell frowned and nodded more forcefully.

“Waddell? Is this a prank?”

Waddell shook his head so hard he fell over.

“Oh, man, I remember this from last time. Waddell, I can’t see you. You have to talk into the phone,” the female voice stated explicitly.

“Yes,” said Waddell, “that was a bit of a test I’ve been preparing. Sheridan Sheridan has informed me of the difficulty he has with the staff on occasion. You did a very good job, young lady.”

“I’m older than you, freaknasty,” the young lady said. “Sheridan Sheridan will be right with you.”

Waddell stood nervously awaiting the first musical baritone strains of Sheridan Sheridan’s voice. He practiced a few tentative greetings, knowing full well the difficulty that was amusing the mighty, well- nigh omnipotent Sheridan.

“Hello,” resounded forcefully through the phone. Waddell could hear Sheridan Sheridan rolling his r’s, even in a word lacking them.

“Three guys walked into a bar. The fourth one ducked!” Waddell exclaimed, accidentally slurring his words to the point what he seemed to say was “free pie wok Tonto barley forth won cud.”

“Ha ha ha ha!” Sheridan bellowed. He dropped the phone and wrapped his arms around his torso and rolled around on the floor, guffawing loudly. After fifteen minutes, he returned the phone to his ear. “You are the funniest squeegee board I know, Mr. Wad, Dr. Dell, you know that? You rock the moat, my man, like the sock of mages. I am constantly just in awe waiting for what bumfoozling selection you’ll next bake.”

“Sheridan Sheridan, I need advice,” Waddell said after a few hesitant moments of silence.

“I’ll give you advice. I’ll pound it till your bat’s fed, cuz I know what’s that and that’s smut and what not to try to pass off as mutt, and when you talk to the Sherry man, the Sharin’ Sheridan, the Rampant Sharer of Bea’s fleas and Paul’s shawls, you get what you may pour, cuz I will say whatever bikes are fancy,” Sheridan Sheridan declared forcefully.

Waddell opened and closed his mouth repeatedly. He licked his lips and closed his eyes. He dropped the phone and swung his arms all around for it, finally connecting and lifting it back to his ear.

“-Dellman, Master of the Moon and Verse, you’re the poet that doesn’t grow it, the relegated throwback to soon to be misbegotten wonderlands,” Sheridan Sheridan concluded.

“My problem is this: I don’t have a shirt to wear,” Waddell revealed.

Silence greeted him.

“Well, I can’t help you,” Sheridan Sheridan finally said and hung up.

Stunned and numbed, Waddell couldn’t even maintain his grip on the phone. It slipped from his fingers and swung back and forth, striking him in the knees every time it swung close to him. He began slowly to sob, then collapsed in a heap on the kitchen floor and wept, tears streaming down his face.

Then, inspiration struck. Waddell could see the necessary materials assembled on the floor, and he scrabbled about gathering up glue and scissors and a JCPenney’s catalog. He swiped a sheet from the table where they sat folded and retreated into his room.

An hour and a half later, the door exploded outward, shaking the house with its impact against the wall. Clad in World-Seizer pants, World-Seizer shoes, and a new World-Seizer shirt hanging at odd angles off his body, Waddell entered the room. He looked upon his domain and saw that it was good. He looked upon himself in the mirror on the ceiling and saw that he looked good.

“Now,” said Waddell, a gleam of danger in his eye, “let’s get down to business.”

He exited stage right, then came back and grabbed his car keys. After a few minutes, Waddell once more entered his homestead and got his grandmother to drive him to school.

Next: Waddell’s Supporting Cast!

Part III - Meaningless Banter, Culminating in Arrival

The school stood like some huge monument to a long dead race of huge simians, the huge gaps between squat buildings obviously indicative of a brief tour of nature before entrance into a structure closed off that perception.

Standing at the approved point, the karmic nexus of the campus, were Waddell’s Triumvirate of the Globe, his generals in his war upon the world. Constituted of Brett ‘Killer Croc’ Blueroad, ‘Jolly’ Jerry Bingham, and Dirk Flimsy, they served as a last line of defense against the realities perpetrated upon their relatively diminutive leader.

Others cycled in and out of the nexus, but these three remained constant, organic statues in honor of the one feared holistically. Without guidance, they discussed those matters important to them.

“Last night, I slept maybe three hours,” declared Dirk.

“Bleah! I slumbered at best two, and the dog barked all night,” bellowed Brett.

Jerry shook his head and jocularly joked, “Sleep has nothing to do with what’s wrong with America.”

“Then what, perchancing you happen to actually know, is wrong with America?” Dirk demanded. He danced soulfully as he spoke.

“Communists have infiltrated the highest levels of our government. They conspire to keep all the other revolutionary sects out, which is why our government condemns militias and foreign terrorist sects,” Jerry nodded knowingly. “When the revolution comes, we’ll be first against the wall.”

“If somebody tries to push me against a wall, I’ll punch them in the nose,” threatened Brett.

“I sincerely doubt they’ll give you enough warning to punch them in the nose. Most likely it will be in the middle of the night and the wall won’t necessarily be included,” Jerry revealed. “Much more likely, they’ll shoot you like a dog in your bed.”

“Well, they can shoot me all they want,” Dirk dismissed Jerry, “but I won’t be there. Since my revelation regarding the whole karma-centric nature of small places, I’ve taken to sleeping nude in my closet. It fills me with this brimful of what I would call armontolado, which I can’t really explain to someone who hasn’t experienced it.”

“Hey man,” Brett said, “here comes the Queen of Clean, Maude Fenwick.”

Maude Fenwick strolled past the group.

“She’s a Communist, you know,” Jerry stated.

“What makes you say this?” Brett queried.

Jerry shook his head and said, “It’s all rather obvious if you would take a moment to ponder her position in this whole social cycle. She’s a cheerleader, one of the social higher-ups, and she doesn’t ever answer any questions in our Government class.”

“I don’t answer any questions in our Government class,” Dirk decided aloud. “I just feel that the whole spontaneous response to a question is an unneeded and unnecessary strain on my psyche, which we all know is very fragile especially now that I’ve been told I’m adopted-”

“You’re adopted?” Brett asked.

“No, but if I was, I would be upset about it,” Dirk continued, “and I am therefore preparing myself for such a revelation by not answering questions in Government. Instead, I draw pictures a lot. I find it to be a good release for the tension when Mr. Hemingway calls on me and I can’t answer the question.”

“People like you are ruining America,” Jerry related. “You just sit there and draw your pictures while the nation is plummeting downward into the abyss like an unstoppable subway train that’s fallen in a really deep hole.”

Dirk grimaced.

Brett whistled and yelled, “Look! It’s Sheridan Sheridan’s car!”

All three watched the vehicle’s passage. Jerry, somewhat tired of the current environment, hit Dirk, knocking Dirk to the ground.

“I’ll have you know that you’ve dealt my karma a vicious blow!” Dirk declared.

“I’ll be happy to deal it several more vicious blows,” Jerry said, and he began to kick Dirk. The two circled the sidewalk, Dirk scrambling desperately on the ground as Jerry followed, boot toes in flight. Brett watched the spectacle, giggling fiercely.

Suddenly, everything came to a halt. The three froze in place, their panorama undisturbed by any motion on their part.

“He’s here,” whispered Brett, his voice trailing off near the statement’s conclusion.

Dirk swooned and Jerry began to hyperventilate.

Around the corner, striding dominantly towards the group, was Chad ‘the Bad’ Waddell, pursued by a ferocious Doberman that kept biting his leg and making him yelp.

Next: The Dobie Triumphant, the World Doomed?

Part IV - a Segue

His name was Ross the Devil Dog. Among the other junkyard dogs, he’d been king of the hill, the leader of the pack, the dominatrix Extraordinaire. Everyone feared Ross the Devil Dog; the young punk kids who journeyed into the junkyard were swiftly relocated with snapping jaws and saliva-encrusted jowls. Various suburban businessmen who journeyed into the junkyard, searching for an exotic car part, often discovered their leg shredded and the eyes of Satan staring steadfastly into their own; the junkyard’s returning patrons knew to bring meat to appease the mighty Devil Dog.

Reality, however, refused to be subjugated to even Ross the Devil Dog’s will. Economic conditions forced the closing of the junkyard; the rusted metal hulks residing there disappeared, and not even the fierce, feral growls of Ross could drive back the shiny bulldozers that had come to decimate his home.

Agents of some dark government agency drove the remaining dogs off, shooting at them with drugged darts and tasers. Ross watched his people fall, and he charged into combat, ears flat against his head. He latched onto an arm and shook wildly, mangling the thick glove worn to protect the taser’s user. Foolishly, the agents fired their darts into Ross’s hide, but the narcotics contained within drove him into a frenzy, and soon, their number was decimated, the blight of the Devil Dog realized in its fullest potential.

However, the steel boot of progress had still stomped Ross’s home into the ground, and he left, journeying across the vast urban jungle, crossing the despairing city swamp, searching for a place to come to rest, a place to call home again.

In the small desert town of Berninoborough, Ross the Devil Dog discovered a large, violent fish, dwelling in a pond just outside town. The fish, a Byrlinxian of genus Grevionaskus, had exceeded its maximum size, feeding on townsfolk who wandered down to the pond to fish. Weighing in at 250 pounds, it crept up to the edge of the pond and began to gurgle, drawing Ross near enough to grab him with its gigantic mouth, but when it lunged, the Devil Dog grasped its lower lip and dragged it, fins flailing, onto the shore, where its great mass made it collapse in on itself.

Miles further, into the midwest, bears crossing the Canadian border massacred the livestock on a tiny farm near Lamesville. Since the bears possessed diplomatic immunity, the farmer couldn’t shoot them without sparking an international incident; Ross the Devil Dog obeyed no laws of man, however, and when he discovered the three bears in a clearing, celebrating their abuses of the already oppressed, Ross pushed a tree over onto them, forever ending their threat to the farmer’s livelihood.

A legion of moles threatened to overwhelm the village of Grosnit, digging the very foundations from beneath the tiny buildings. Upon learning of this insidious plot, Ross the Devil Dog began to dig with all his might, and soon, he had created a pit to the very center of the earth. Then, Ross chased all the moles from their holes into the abyss, his bulk redistributing the earth to support the people above, much as an arched bridge would, as he crawled through the tunnels. Rejoicing ensued, but Ross the Devil Dog had already moved on.

With many miles under his belt, Ross came to a crossroads, lit only by the faint wisps of moonlight drifting between the clouds. Here, he sensed, would be his greatest test, and indeed it was, as a UFO plummeted from the heavens above and slammed into the ground, blasting the earth of all traces of life for miles in every direction, except the vigilant Devil Dog, who remained untouched by the alien pestilence and stared, patiently, at the glowing craft. A door slid open, and the virile perpetrators were emitted, each shaped like a tree trunk with two knobs on each end. They strutted forward haughtily and spoke to Satan’s hound.

“You will no longer be in our way,” they said, their voices reverberating across the dark landscape. “Remove yourself.”

Rather than award the galactic scum a reply, Ross lunged into them, snapping them in two with his mouth and shattering them into splinters with one stroke of his mighty paws. Soon, the alien invasion force lay decimated around the canine, their lofty dreams torn from the sky and gutted, spilling black innards onto the floor of Fate.

Ross the Devil Dog wandered away, believing his purpose in life was complete. He was wrong, however, and would soon discover that all his accomplishments had simply been tests, preparation for the greatest struggle of all. He got a whiff of this lofty goal when a doberman, calling himself Balkie after the beloved “Perfect Strangers” character, revealed his own quest, to stop the fast-rising star of Waddell into the brilliant sky of legend.

Ross turned his steps towards Burkburnett, wondering if his chance encounter with Balkie digging through a toppled dumpster had any cosmic meaning; meanwhile, his one-time companion had forcefully attached himself to Waddell’s leg on the campus of Burkburnett High School.

Brett beat the excited doberman off with his fist, pummeling the unfortunate dog into submission and then placing him carefully in the library, where wild animals were free to live as though in nature.

“Thanks,” said Waddell, measuring his tone. His pants were shredded and he knew he would need a new pair of properly ordained World-Seizer trousers. Immediately, he decided Dirk’s pants were properly ordained and pulled them off his unconscious comrade. “Now, my friends, we have to talk.”

And Waddell revealed his evil machinations, and they all laughed, except for Dirk who was pantsless and passed out, and Brett halted prematurely when a bug flew into his throat.

Next: Phase One, in a way, unless i get side-tracked again

Part V: Failure’s Cold, Biting Malice

Soon, the five students were busy in the Home Economics room, cooking fiendishly, and laughing all the while.

After a few minutes of this, Waddell crawled onto the counter and stood, a domineering monument to the coming revolution, the irrefutable World Order in Waiting.

“Comrades!” Waddell declared, and then stopped. “Are we Communists?”

“No,” Sheridan Sheridan said, “we’re capitalist swine, the fine dining, liquor-discerning denizens of the sporous convolution, the rollicking roadies of Waddell’s Hellish handiwork.”

“Then what should I call all of us?” Waddell asked his verbalicious companion.

Sheridan paused and thought, his eyes flicking over the others. “We need a term that carries the clout of the bout, the power of the flower, a firm term, dancing and lolly-gagging and eating picnics. Maybe something along the lines of ... twerps.”

“Twerps!” Waddell declared, “In the best interest of the revolution, and considering the fact that soon you will be my slaves like everyone else, I have undertaken the writing of a poem, to commemorate my rise ... to power!”

The Stud Student cleared his throat and began to recite:

“Woe to today’s powers,
And woe to today’s dregs,
Death falls from my towers,
Death spreads in my eggs,
Evil breeds and it swells,
Love weeps softly and begs,
Life sounds its death knells.

“Now Chad has come.
Watch them all run.
Fleeing from me.
I’m bad as can be ...”

Jerry removed the first batch of Waddell’s fiendish brownies and placed them on a table. He placed the tray on a table and stared at them thoughtfully.

“What, exactly, do these brownies do?” he finally asked.

Waddell tilted his head, searching for an answer to the question. No answer came, so he tilted further, hoping to jar something; unfortunately, he tilted too far and fell off the counter.

Sheridan Sheridan licked his lips and revealed the source of his recipe: “I got it off the Internet. It didn’t really specify what sort of mystic properties one could suspect the brownies to be in possession of.”

The leaders of the World Order in Waiting gathered around the table and stared rather unhappily at the brownies. In the distance, a werewolf howled, and next door, a large crustacean was flipping unhappily through the school’s limited cable channels.

“I know!” declared Brett, ever helpful with the practical solutions. “Someone will eat a brownie and see what happens.”

“It’ll have to be the least important person here,” Jerry stated simply. “I am wise beyond my years, Waddell. I know the ins and outs of the world, and I can identify friend, foe, or fellow fedora-fetishist.”

Brett quickly pointed out his role in determining the proper resolution of the brownie problem.

“Well, I, being a beautiful beautiful man, cannot be smitten nor bitten by some flaky brownie cake,” Sheridan Sheridan voiced loudly. “To squander an individual with my talents would be a vicious waste, so don’t make haste, when you pick the one to taste.”

“When did you start rhyming everything?” Dirk asked simply.

“What sort of brownie-eating fool would come up with such a stupid question?” Sheridan quickly responded.

Waddell nodded, as he reached his conclusion. “I know what must be done. Dirk, you are sacrificing yourself exclusively for my benefit ... be proud.”

Dirk stared dumbly at those assembled around him. The large crustacean burst into the room and began to sing “Yesterday”, but no one noticed.

“Eat a brownie, man,” Brett cooed soothingly. “You likums the brownies.”

“You’re obviously some sort of filthy, filthy agent against us,” Jerry vehemently snarled. “Waddell’s foes have managed to infiltrate us with a simpleton, a roving nutjob, with barely a brain stem to his name. I should have denounced you sooner, you blithering, foolish freak.”

Dirk backed away from the fiendish brownies, but the lobster clubbed him in the back of the head, knocking him to his knees. Dirk spun and gaped at the massive crustacean, its claws raised in fury, its many eyes spinning wildly in their sockets.

“That’s never good,” Flimsy observed poignantly and passed out.

Waddell leaped across the room and bludgeoned Dirk to make sure he would remain unconscious. Then, he shoved a brownie into the unconscious lad’s mouth and stared pointedly at him.

The others gathered around the scene of the spectacle and watched.

The mighty crustacean, after awhile, wandered back into the other room and began to watch television again.

After half an hour, the four members of Waddell’s crew discovered the kitchen had caught fire. Waddell manned the sink, desperately pouring glass after glass of water, while Jerry and Brett threw the liquid into the throbbing flames, but to no avail. They fled, relocating the site of their revolution in a mad rush.

Outside, Brett suddenly cried, “Crap! We forgot Dirk! Now we’ll never know what those brownies do!”

“No, guys, I’m fine,” Dirk’s voice swam out of the burning building. Every head turned to watch as the building, weakened by fire, collapsed.

Brett repeated his prior sentiment, “Crap! Dirk’s dead under the rubble! Now we’ll never know what the brownies do!”

The voice appeared again. “Fellas, it’s all good. I’m muy fantastique.” A small, compact armadillo waddled out of the wreckage, shrugging off bits of plaster and asbestos. “Guys!” it said with Dirk’s voice, “Look! I’m some weird sort of turtle!”

A huge, evil grin spread over Waddell’s face like some malignant growth, smiting the handsomer aspects of his countenance.

“I will rule this world!” he howled madly. “For when everyone else is an armadillo, biped Waddell will stand tall above them, forcing his will upon all the occupants of this world!”

“That’s a terribly good idea,” Sheridan admitted, “but armadillos, they’re passé and played and gutted like last month’s Thanksgiving turkey. What you need is a plan to assert your dominance and keep people people, because we’re all everyday people, and people can’t help being people when they’re armadillos.”

“Oh yeah,” Waddell answered, somewhat confused. “I see what you’re getting at.”

Next: Maybe something having to do with saltines.... or not.

Part VI- Realization/Consolidation!

The fire spread quickly and hungrily, leaping about with glee and nimbly dodging the uninspired efforts made to douse it. Soon, Burkburnett was flat and black and viable for the title of “Noncity”.

“Crap,” said Waddell, “that got out of hand.”

“Sometimes, when the conflagration swells, it’s best to just back up the skags and get the wreck outta lodge,” Sheridan Sheridan wisely announced.

Maude Fenwick walked by.

“Hi Maude,” Brett said, acknowledging her presence.

Maude stopped short and said, “Hey. Isn’t that Waddell kid the new leader of the world?”

“Ruler of the world? Well, yes, I will concede my plot to overtake all existence to you, but I am, admittedly, rather far from achieving my goal,” Waddell stated.

Maude shook her head. “No, I saw a special report on the news. Matt Lauer, famous Today anchor, seemed a bit shaken up as he read that the UN convened in Washington and issued a statement that, since you couldn’t be stopped, you were now emperor of the entire world. You’re Caesar, baby.” After this revelation, Maude wandered away.

Waddell’s jaw dropped at the news; he stared in awe upon the messenger, but then realized the irrefutable inanity of anyone opposing him.

“They would never succeed, so they just gave up,” he said, still a bit numbed by the success of his endeavors.

The five companions stood there, staring lazily into the sun.

Then, Dirk spoke up. “Actually, Waddell, I have to tell you that I was going into this against you and I now have to stop your rule right here and now.”

“You? You think you can stop the master of the world?” Waddell began to laugh heartily. Dirk trotted over on his armadillo feet, covering five feet in less than three minutes, and bounced off Waddell’s shoe. After a few moments, Dirk rushed his foe again, accomplishing exactly the same thing.

Brett picked Dirk up and hurled him away into tall grass, which entangled the armadillo, reducing his already nonexistent threat to an even greater nil.

“Let’s go take control,” Waddell said, and he and his cronies set out for Washington. After awhile, Jerry realized that walking would take a long time, so they boarded a plane, which then crashed into the Washington monument.

Waddell saw his followers scattered around the gigantic structure. He noticed Brett crawling swiftly towards him.

“What dedication, to dash over and examine your ruler’s health!” Waddell grandly declared.

“I’m afraid not,” Brett pulled himself to his feet, staring Waddell down. “You see, since the fall of the Soviet Union, the KGB has been run out of my basement, and they hand-picked me to bring you down. Russia will have capitalism only on its own terms!”

“That’s not a terribly good reason,” Waddell kindly indicated.

Brett exhaled sharply. “We’re not terribly bright. But now, I am afraid that I must break you.”

Shots rang out suddenly, surprising Waddell and forcefully removing Brett from the playing field.

Jerry held the smoking pistols in his hands, his eyes ablaze with fury.

“Your minions will protect you no longer, Waddell!” he screeched, and his form swelled and pulsed, and soon, a bronzed deity stood in his place. “I have hidden among mortals for many years, waiting for the Ragnarok harbinger, the man who would make the world his. I have waited and I have waited and...”

“And?’ Waddell prompted his enemy.

“Sorry. Anyway, I am the great Norse deity Odin, come with blazing firearms to slay you, and halt the destruction of my people by the tragic event only you can cause!” Jerry/Odin howled, his voice resounding powerfully across the countryside. He raised his weapons and began to squeeze the triggers when, suddenly, the Washington monument fell on him.

Sheridan Sheridan nodded slowly and began to dance. He revealed his identity to the tune of the Beatles’ song “Yesterday”:

“So you see,
None of us are what we claim to be,
And there’s not much you can do to me
Cuz I’m the one called
Sher-i-dan.”

“No secret identity?” Waddell asked for confirmation.

“When you’re the Sheridan man, you’re like a Trane, man,” and Sheridan leapt across the gulf between them, landing solidly on Waddell’s toes. “Nothing stops you.”

Waddell squealed and tried to step backwards, shifting his weight away from Sheridan. His toes, still trapped beneath the huge mass of manhood known as Sheridan, refused to budge, causing Waddell to fall, landing solidly on the ground.

“Now, you must know why we talked all those years, why the support you needed was the support you got. Coattails were made for riding, and I’m on my way to world dominatrix!” Sheridan grinned hideously.

“Are you sure you’re not somebody else?” Waddell asked again.

Sheridan looked confused.

“I was, quite frankly, a bit disappointed by the turn-out,” the resting emperor of the world revealed.

“An armadillo, some KGB spook, and Odin. Not terribly impressive, I concur, but that’s because Sheridan’s on the case and Sheridan’s carrying mace,” Sheridan chronicled.

Waddell frowned.

“What’s your problem, besides your impending death and ensuing fall from grace?” Sheridan queried.

Waddell shook his head. “It’s stupid.”

“No, I really want to know. What’s wrong, Mr. Rub a Dub Dell?”

“The whole time we’ve been speaking,” Waddell paused for dramatic effect, “I’ve been concentrating on setting you on fire with my mind.”

“And this travesty upsets you how?”

“Well, when you’re Waddell, which you aren’t, you sometimes forget that the proper solutions are often the most obvious!’ Waddell leaped heroically to his feet, forgetting his toes were trapped, and just as quickly returned to his position on the ground.

“What was that about?” Sheridan seemed to be approaching bored. He reached into his coat pocket and removed a fork. “Oh dear. I meant for this to be a very large knife.”

“Do you plan on killing me with several hundred puncture wounds now?” Waddell questioned his seemingly inevitable fate.

“Dell, Dell, Dell, I don’t want you dead and potting, fixing up your garden where the roses grow. I want you incapacitated, removed unfavorably from the level playing field of life,” Sheridan smiled and, without warning, a meteorite smote him.

Waddell stood and contemplated how best to begin his dominion over the world.

 Next: Request Day; the Conclusion of Waddell’s Tale. Bitter battle begets bitter blather.

Part VII- Seize the World, Seize your Death!

Renegade journalist Eclipse Winky, Lord of the Seventh Sacrament of Sparta, stood at the edge of the capital of the world, Suburbia Waddellion. Behind him, the road twisted into Los Waddeles, and from there, highways ran in every direction, into New Waddell and Waddellapolis and Waddetroit. Every building over three stories had been torn down, so that Waddell Tower’s impressive seventy-story span would dominate the landscape in every direction for miles.

Helicopters circled it perpetually, scanning the surrounding area for weapons in case of attack, although the last assassination attempt had died with Sheridan Sheridan seventeen years ago.

The city the tower rested in contained all the higher-ups of the government, the people Waddell kept close to him because he trusted them. Several were insane, driven there merely by their proximity to the greatest intellect the world had ever known.

Winky paused and looked around the edge of the town. An electrical field shimmered, but the renegade journalist had enough contacts to devise a solution to an otherwise major problem. He stepped through, his metabolism shifting briefly into a vegetable state so that the electrons would slide around his square cell walls. He momentarily felt a twinge of pain at the base of his neck, but knew it was only his spinal column snapping out of and into place, and continued to move forward.

An old man sprawled on the ground saw Winky approaching and began to shriek, over and over, “Pull the string! Pull the string!”

The call swirled through the streets, and soon, all the neighborhood had taken it up.

Perturbed, Winky continued his lonely march, approaching the structure marking the home of the world’s emperor. Sweat beaded on Winky’s brow as he arrived at the entryway.

“Yes?” the guard asked him.

“I am the journalist, sent by ‘Propaganda News Waddell Edition’ out in Timbuktwaddell,” Winky lied. The real journalist had been waylaid in a tanning booth and remained there, until Lord Winky accomplished his task.

“ID?” the guard asked.

Winky recoiled. “Sir! I am a good Christian!”

“ID?” the guard pressed.

Winky presented his thumb. The guard pressed it against a pad and saw that the prints didn’t match what he’d been told to expect. He looked up, firmly grasped Winky’s arm, and reached for a nearby taser.

Winky cleared his head. He began to weave a litany, using his genetically augmented voice to mesmerize the guard: “Beware .. Beware the big green dragon that sits on your doorstep. He eats little boys. Puppy duck tails ... big fat snails. Beware ... Take care .. Beware...”

The guard passed out, freeing Winky. He made his way into the building, recalling the schematic he’d spent weeks memorizing. After a few tense minutes, Winky entered the lavish apartment of Waddell.

“Greetings, Lord Winky of the Seventh Spartan Sacrament,” Waddell smiled pleasantly. “I have been expecting you. Your rebellion doesn’t seem to possess one bit of intelligence.”

“We will smite you! Freedom will be re-instated!” Winky declared. “I have in my pocket-”

“I have in the shadows a woman known for her own murderous intentions,” Waddell waved one soft hand. From the shadows emerged the desert princess Sara Jean, the Wandering Nomad, cast out of her tribe for accidentally killing all of its members. “And over there hiding in the curtains is my viciously protective sidekick.”

The sidekick, standing at a whopping four feet, burst out, carrying a large club, screaming insanely. He danced around, prancing about the room like a loon, then smashed some tables and waltzed up to Winky.

“You-eye? Oh dey, they sent you? You nothing, my man, nothing but a big ole newspaper columnist with views wildly askew and hair in your eyes!” the tiny man decided. He clubbed himself and fell down, but was just as quickly on his feet. “This club, it’s defective, man, straight out-eye defective.”

Waddell lounged in a giant bean bag, built exclusively for his pleasure.

“Where is your Rebellion, now?” he asked. “Oh wait.” Waddell lazily gestured toward a television across the room. It flicked on, showing a small force of people, lead by a dog, slowly approaching Suburbia Waddellion. “Too bad they are walking into a trap!”

Winky licked his lips.

The sidekick saw his tension and whacked him in the knees with the club. He leaned in close to the journalist and said, “Watch this! Lil Bennie Frank gonna whack de big man, take it all over, and you-eye get a front row seat!”

Sara Jean observed this scene without a flicker of emotion.

Waddell grinned as the helicopters circling his tower sped towards the compromised rebel force. The troops began to scatter, but the dog marched forward. It watched the copters carefully, then launched itself into the air, latched onto one with its teeth, and hurled it into another. Both crashed to the ground, bleeding fire and smoke.

The dog landed and repeated its former action. It twisted this way and that, dodging the bullets and artillery, decimating the copters’ ranks even as the copters mowed one another down trying to stop it.

“That’s a helluva dog,” Waddell observed quietly.

Soon, the air force’s only remains lay scattered about the ground, huge smoking chunks of metal monuments to the dog’s skill and agility. The rebel force gathered again and charged the city. The electrical field wavered briefly and let them all through.

“Dear me,” Waddell sat up. He scanned the room and fixed his eyes on Sara Jean. “Go take care of them, will you?”

Silently, she departed.

Waddell’s security forces slammed into the rebel’s halfway to the Tower. They were beaten back, primarily because of the snapping jaws and hard-as-steel paws of the dog in the lead.

“I’m going down like the Titanic,” Waddell yelped, wiping sweat off his brow.

“You-eye going down all de way!” Lil Bennie Frank screeched as he hurled himself at his leader.

Waddell pressed a button on his belt and Lil Bennie Frank exploded.

Winky smiled weakly at the scene. The club skidded across the floor and landed next to him. Trembling, he picked it up.

Sara Jean stood face-to-face with the rebel force, as shown by the monitors. The cameras were confused by the lightning quick dog and kept panning, attempting to keep track of it, but failing.

“I knew this day would come,” Waddell told his prisoner. “And so I took protective measures.”

He pressed a second button on his belt. From the deepest, darkest depths of Waddell Tower, legions of clones of Sheridan Sheridan poured out, coating the landscape.

“They are all loyal to me!” Waddell shrieked defiantly. “They will fight and they will die for me! I am the one! Stronger than you all!”

Winky lunged at Waddell, the club in mid-swing. Waddell frowned rather unhappily and ducked; Winky crashed through a window, fell seventy stories, and landed on Sara Jean as she was about to strike the rebel force.

The Sheridans streamed towards the dog and its minions; the dog leapt into their midst, tearing them apart by the gross, and soon, they were in a full retreat across the plain, towards the hopefully dog-free outskirts of Suburbia Waddellion.

“Perhaps not die,” Waddell corrected himself. He began to throw furniture out his window, squashing the members of the rebel force. Only the dog managed to entered the building. As it progressed up the floors, Waddell could see the various defense mechanisms installed to protect him blink and die on the control panel next to his bean bag.

The door exploded inward, revealing a growling, malevolent canine, saliva coating its mouth.

“Hello,” Waddell squeaked.

The dog continued to growl. Behind it, a large blue druid gestured at the dog and said helpfully, “His name is Ross the Devil Dog.” before darting away into the inky blackness of the now powerless Waddell Tower.

“Ross,” Waddell said. “I think we can be friends.”

Ross growled some more.

“Devil Dog,” Waddell whistled. “Man, what an unfortunate moniker. I used to know a guy-”

Ross advanced slowly, growling louder and louder, until his voice crashed across the room, shattering glass and making the carpet spontaneously combust.

Waddell grabbed a sleeping armadillo from his bean bag and threw it at Ross, praying it would be enough.

“Hey, what’s up? This isn’t cool-” the armadillo said before it disappeared into the hellish gaping abyss of Ross’s mouth, forever silenced.

Waddell bit his lip, searching his room for a means of escape. Finally, he realized what he had to do.

“Bad dog!” Waddell screamed, lunging at Ross. Ross responded by tearing Waddell’s leg off.

Hopping away desperately on one leg, Waddell plunged his hands into the seam of the bean bag and burst it open. The beans spread out of the floor, quickly evacuating the bag, as Waddell dragged it over to the window and threw himself out, fashioning a makeshift hang glider from his now empty bean bag.

Ross threw himself at Waddell, landed squarely on the beans, and shot out the window, abandoned in the wide open nothing. Behind him, a sudden gust of wind made the Tower collapse in on itself, smashing a good portion of Suburbia Waddellion as it went.

Waddell crashed to the ground outside of town. He pulled himself up on one leg and began to hop hurriedly towards Los Waddeles, wondering how much blood he could lose before passing out. He stopped and fashioned a tourniquet.

Abraham Lincoln and Jerry Garcia stopped and asked Waddell for directions. He told them to screw off because he was busy. Offended, the two legends began to hit Waddell in the head with wiffle bats. Finally, Waddell managed to drive them away with a rolled up copy of “Martha Stewart’s Living” magazine.

He stood and hobbled towards the distant city. Over the gulf, a voice called out to him.

“What?” Waddell said.

“I said, you’re bleeding on my carpet,” the angry voice said.

“Who are you?” Waddell asked. He was fading in and out of consciousness.

“Your grandmother, dunce,” said Waddell’s grandmother.

“What are you doing here?” Waddell squinted his eyes, but still didn’t see his grandmother.

“I live here,” she said.

“Then... it was all a dream!” Waddell smiled gleefully.

“No, you’re dead. I’m just here to welcome you to the Afterlife,” said Waddell’s grandmother. “It really couldn’t end any other way, could it?”

“I guess not,” Waddell said, disappointed. “When it’s all said and done, the whole thing was pretty much a let-down.”

“Which conveniently brings us to the moral of our tale,” Waddell’s grandmother said. In unison, they spoke:

 “Never blend a ploy to sue a ban’s gob.”

Finis.