Sorry For The Delay...

~~~continued from where we left off~~~

"Guys! Guys, wake up!" I thought I heard Kip say.

Kip? KIP? Kip who'd been revealed to be a robot driven by the foul preschooler Petit? Why would I be hearing his voice, considering we were on an old movie set doing battle with dozens of past foes, next to the burning remains of a cushty Renault Espace?

As Clark, Michael and I dispatched villain after villainess, goon after goonette, henchmen after henchwoman, we all turned as we heard it again.

"C'mon now guys, time for breakfast!"

"How curious", I thought, and I could tell the others did too.

We all looked at each other. 

Roundhouse kicking Negative Charge across the room, Michael said, "You know (oof), even though we are (biff) incredibly skilled crimefighters (thwak), well versed in UnbelievaFu (clonk) and other forms of hand-to-hand (boiinngg) combat, including but not limited to capoeira (doof), tae kwon do (bosh) and the little-known Scottish art of Fookujimmi (crakk), doesn't this all seem remarkably easy?"

"Now that you (pow) mention it," replied Clark, "I was beginning to think I had just gotten (whammo) amazingly better at fighting, too."

"Chaps, I think it's time (blaff) we did something completely out of left field," I said, casually pummeling the punchable face of Mac Ramey as I did so. "Let's see what happens (kerbloop) if we stop fighting."

The others were incredulous, but quickly decided that they'd give it a try.

"On three, OK? One...two...two and a half...three!!"

We stood still and let our arms flop to our sides. As I suspected, everyone else stopped fighting too and stood around with puzzled looks on their faces. Suddenly we heard a voice.

"CUT!! CUT! Guys, what the hell are you doing?"

We looked across to a director's chair in which an incensed Henri Petit was sitting, wearing a beret and aviator pants and smoking with a very long cigarette holder. 

"You guys weren't supposed to stop! It's not meant to be like this! No fair! My film is ruined! Waaaah!!" he bawled. 

~~~GAME OVER~~~

"Wake up, you guys, come on!" yelled Kip. "You've been playing that game for weeks now!"

We felt a pair of hands removing something from our faces, revealing Kip, solid and definitely not a Petit-driven robot, in front of us.

Woozily, Clark was the first to speak. "What game? What are you talking about?"

"This one." Kip handed Clark a copy of our video game, which has now been made into a Virtual Reality version (only $69.99 in stores now, folks! Get'em while they're hot!).

"Lemme see that," snarled Michael, snatching the box away from Clark. "Hmmm. Well, I'll be goddamned. What level were we on?"

"Apparently, a custom level whereupon you can meet all previous foes and a few new ones, called "THE UNBELIEVABLES MEET TIE-PO AND THE TEETA VON DEESE TRIPLETS" Michael said, reading from the box. "Play as Michael, Clark or Jeff as they team up with an old enemy to defeat an army of old adversaries on a Hollywood backlot." Well, that's what happened, I guess. But the whole backstory of sitting around in the backyard, hearing the girls' voices, watching them drive away in a Renault Espace, meeting Tie-Po, being put in gunnysacks, dumped in a parking garage, picked up by that shrimp Petit and made to fight an onslaught of disguised stuntmen while he films it? To what end, might one ask?"

"You think that's bad," replied Kip. "It's lucky you didn't put it in Zombie mode."

We all three looked at each other. "ZOMBIE MODE?!"

We reached for the goggles...

More Twists And Turns Than You Can Shake A Stick At

~~~moving on swiftly (we hope)~~~

The Renault stopped abruptly and Petit turned in his seat to face us, saying "So, Unbelie--", promptly falling out of his booster seat, dropping his ciggy, saying "shit" a few times, retrieving the still-burning smoke, realising the carpet was on fire, stamping it out and clambering back up into his seat, huffing and puffing to catch his breath, then finally spluttering, "So... Un... believables *cough*"

"Spit it out, you insufferable toe-rag," growled Clark, "before I defenestrate you again!"

That clearly rattled Petit and his eyes glowed with anger. Or did they? No, they didn't. It was merely the reflection of the roaring fire that was now raging on the floorboards where he had previously dropped his lit fag-end. 

We scrambled for the doors and each of us grabbed one of the TVD girls and bailed from the vehicle, gallantly rescuing them from the rapidly escalating conflagration.

"WAIT! WHAT ABOUT ME!!!" screamed the nasty toddler-like git.

"Shall we rescue him?" I asked the others.

"I suppose we have to if we want to find out what is going on," Michael replied, "although there's no immediate hurry."

"I CAN HEAR YOU!!! GET ME OUT OF HERE!!" wailed Petit, so we resignedly went over and opened the door.

"Wait, the door was unlocked the whole time, you tiny freak! Was that some kind of trick?" I gasped incredulously.

"Well, normally I'd say yes, Unbelieva-goons, but sadly it pains me to say that I just couldn't reach the handle. You guys just don't know what it's like to be me, you know, it's hard, it really gets me down someti--"

His pitiful speech was abruptly stopped by the van exploding (as these things are apt to do, especially in movies, which was somewhat ironic considering we were standing in what appeared to be an abandoned movie set).

"Well, that's our ride gone" said Clark.

Thus far the TVD's hadn't uttered a peep, but just at that moment one of them said, "Sorry guys..."

We heard the familiar sound of a gun being cocked and turned slowly to see the girls pointing weaponry at us.

From behind them we saw the doors of all the fake buildings opening and the familiar figures of many of our nemeses spilling from them - Sam Snow, Little Debbie, Negative Charge, The Double "D" Dames, to name a few -  all led by Tie-Po and Mac Ramey. All of them armed, and looking more than a little menacing.

What was the meaning of all this? Why were we at an old movie studio surrounded by villains? What did they want? How are we going to get home mow? How did we get out of this alive? (Because we did, you know. That's how come I'm able to write this. So there!).

Well you may ask. Fear not though, for more will be revealed on Friday!

~~~continuing on with all the continuation and stuff~~~

It seems that things are not as they seem

~~~still more continuation~~~

"Eww!" - my reaction upon seeing this...

"Ooh!" - my reaction upon seeing this...

My repulsion to the idea of being stuck in a car with the repulsive Henri Petit was repelled by the prospect of being in the back of a car with the mysterious-but-undoubtedly lovely Teeta Von Deese Triplets. "Shotgun! In the middle, on the hump! I called it!", I shouted as I climbed inside. "Shotgun is not in the back, it's passenger side in the front", Michael said. "Also, you can't call in the middle, on the hump. That's the worst spot in any car", Jeff added. I nodded my head toward Petit in the driver's seat and they both yelled, "Not Shotgun!" as they jumped into seats on the middle bench. "So I'm in the front by myself then? That's just great", muttered Petit. He put the car in drive and headed for the exit as we hurled insults at him.

"Hey, where's your car seat?"
"Yeah, how can you even reach the pedals? Is there an even uglier man-baby on the floorboard up there?"
"Can you at least put out the cigarette, you malodorous doink?"

None of us had asked where we were going or why. Personally, I didn't care, being as I was surrounded by three lovelies who weren't saying a word and didn't have to. But once we actually rolled out on to the street that was as empty and abandoned as the garage, Michael finally said, "where are you taking us, Petit?" The stinky tot answered, "If you remember, Tie-Po said he wanted to introduce chaos to the world, a place 'where up is down, hot is cold, foes are friends and everything happens whenever it wants to'. Now where could that happen, hmmmm?"
"Your mom's house!", I offered, which was greeted with high fives from Michael and Jeff. Michael said, "I think we can figure this out without involving the vile runt." Jeff said, "I think I already have; the answer is a movie set! A made-up fictional world where the creators make up all the rules! All these buildings are false fronts, sets for scenes from stories to be filmed!"
"Well done, Unbelievables", Petit said condescendingly. "And I am not a ru--"
"SHUT UP!", we yelled in unision.

So okay, we were on some vacant Hollywood back lot. But where were we going and what would happen next and how was I supposed to concentrate on any of that while getting all snuggly-wuggly with the TVD Triplets?

Answers to be revealed at some point soon!

~~~again with the continuation~~~

Another Unlikely Turn Of Events

~~~continued yet again~~~


If there's one thing that irritates me more than anything else, it is not knowning what in the Sam Hill is going on. I like to be focused and in control and aware of everything at all times. So sitting there with Michael and Clark, scratching our noggins and wondering where we were, why we were there, and having just been told a load of complete nonsense by some cheap illusionist typewriter-headed hack called Tie-Po was sufficient to cause me to have a near meltdown.

Especially since we knew were going to have to find and join forces with that irritating chain-smoking toddler Henri Petit to fight against the situation that we currently found ourselves in.

But where were we? That was the first item on the agenda. Looking around, it appeared to be an abandoned parking garage. 

"How incredibly Streets of San Francisco" remarked Michael. "It was always an abandoned warehouse or an abandoned parking garage."

"Well, in that case we need to find an exit and look for the nearest pile of cardboard boxes on the street and wait for the squad car to smash into them!" said Clark flippantly.

"Actually, that's not the worst idea I've ever heard" I replied.

Time passes slowly when you're looking for an exit door and none is to be found. We had been looking for a good fifteen minutes when suddenly we heard the familiar sound of squealing tires.

We spun around to see a red Renault Espace heading towards us.

Not unlike this one.

It pulled up alongside and the doors opened. Who do you think the driver was?

"Hop in, mes amis!"

And who was in the back?

~~~to be continued yet again some more~~~

Our story this time so far, or something like it...

The last I remember as I slipped into unconsciousness was muffled grunts from Jeff and Clark. I could only assume they were experiencing my same fate ...
~~~ to be continued ~~~

~~~ currently being continued ~~~

Michael surmised correctly; we were indeed experiencing the same fate, a fate unlike any of us had experienced before. I was completely disoriented. I thought the business with the Teeta Von Deese Triplets happened just the other day but apparently several weeks had passed. I also thought Kip The Mail Boy had been exposed as a fraud and taken out of the picture months ago. I had no concept whatsoever of time and space. I tentatively poked a finger in the direction of Jeff's eye. He said, "Ow!". Or did he? I had no way to tell! "That's my eye, you idiot!", he yelled. But still.
Then I noticed a pair of military style boots near my face and a voice coming from above them, from the body with feet put inside of them, leading me to reason that I was lying on the floor. I looked and saw an odd-looking character with a typewriter for a head...

"Welcome, undoubtedly confused Unbelievables. My name is Tie-Po, and I am the Count of Continuity. For years, I have ruled writers with strict rules of order in storytelling where events occurred in a logical sequence dictated by the constraints of time. But these restrictions have driven me mad. I mean, look at me. I have a damn typewriter for a head! And now, I am on a mission to induce unchecked chaos into society, beginning with you, The Unbelievables. Welcome to a world where up is down, hot is cold, foes are friends and everything happens whenever it wants to. Or not! There are no rules!! HA HA HA HA HA HA!"

With that he disappeared in an unnecessarily theatrical burst of smoke and the three of us looked at each other, knowing very little about our situation except for one thing: if we were going to restore order and get out of this alive, we would have no choice but to team up with Henri Petit.

"At least, we shall be besties!"

~~~ to be continued again some more ~~~

Overconfidence: It'll Getcha Every Time

As it turned out, the entire Teeta Von Teese Triplet conundrum, such that it was, was a bust. We didn't hear hide nor hair of them again.

No calls, no surprise visits, nothing.

 

The Klumpmaster Flash Twins and the so-called Teeta Von Deese Triplets: Nothing ever came of them in the weeks that followed ...

Knowing the Klumpmaster Flash Twins as we do, we chalked up the phone call from them - not to mention that visit from the Teeta Von Teese Triplets, if indeed and in fact that's who they were and not some fabricated monkey business concocted by the Twins for reasons unknown - as a sad attempt on their part to make us jumpy. Which simply doesn't work. (You've read about our adventures time and again; do we seem prone to jumpiness? That's what I thought you'd say ...)

Weeks passed without a hint of contact from Greta, Gerta or "the triplets." We'd put all of them out of our minds.

Then, the other night while we were kicking it in the backyard, shooting the breeze after yet another successful day's Unbelievable-ness (where have you heard THAT before?!?), there was a knock at the door. (We "heard" it from the backyard because of our ingenious and patented infra-red, acoustic-sensitive, fail-safe Unbelievable front door monitor™.)

"Kip!" Clark yelled. "Make yourself useful for a change and get that!"

Minutes passed by while we continued our kick backery. "Whatever happened to Kip?" Jeff asked casually.

Just then, he appeared in a doorway. He stood there, looking at the three of us.

"Well? Who was at the door?" I asked.

Then? He keeled over, face first, in a spectacular face plant right onto the grass.

All three of us jumped up and ran over to him ...

... and that's when everything happened.

As we leaned over Kip trying to determine what had happened to him, I was accosted from behind. I caught a hint of perfume as what I assumed was a gunny-sack was tossed over my head. Just as quickly some type of restraint wrapped around me to prevent fighting back and my nose and mouth were smothered with something that forced me to breathe in a noxious, debilitating gas, replacing the perfumey scent I'd detected a moment before.

This very well could have been our fate that evening ...

... but we were bagged and gassed ... so we hadn't a clue at the time ...

The last I remember as I slipped into unconsciousness was muffled grunts from Jeff and Clark. I could only assume they were experiencing my same fate ...

~~~ to be continued ~~~

Ladies? Maybe. Mysterious? Definitely!

The voice had a familiar-yet-ethereally alien quality to it. That's because it wasn't one voice, it was two! Blended in such perfect pitch and harmony as to seem like the vocal intonations of a single individual. But no. It was the twin vociferations of none other than...

THE KLUMPMASTER FLASH TWINS!

Dunh-dun-DUUUUNNNHHH!!!

That's right, Greta and Gerta, two of our deadliest foes had given us a ringy-dingy. But for what possible nefarious purpose? We hit the ol' redial, put the call on video mode and this is what came up:

Gyah!

We batted the receiver around like a hot potato, which eventually landed in Jeff's hands.
"Oh. Hi. My, you two look...matronly", he said.
"Mature!", Michael blurted. "He meant you both look really mature."
I said, "When did you turn into a pair of old broads?" and Jeff and Michael both cuffed me upside the head. "I mean, what do you want?", I said recovering as gracefully as possible.

One of them cleared her throat and said, "Yes, well, um, we are semi-retired from activities that expand beyond what might be considered traditionally 'legal'." "But we are proud of our legacy as the femme fatales who posed the greatest threat to the vaunted Unbelievables", the other one said, creepily completing her sister's sentence.
"And we don't want that legacy tainted in any way..."
"...by carpetbagging interlopers.
"Specifically, the girls you saw tonight..."
"...the Tita Von Deese Triplets."

L to R: names as yet unknown

"For starters, there are three of them..."
"...while we were able to vex you with only the two of us..."
"...which seems inherently unfair."
"Also, they're ugly."
Michael said, "Not sure we agree with all of what you said..."
Jeff interjected, "Or any of it."
And I finished with, "But what's their plan?"
One or the other or both replied, "Oh, we don't know. We're only aware of their existence and that they have designs on taking the three of you out of the picture, something we were never able to do. Yet. We want them off our turf, namely the turf that is you."
With that, they hung up. So we don't know what manner of mischief these three have planned, but it would appear we have a new threat to be mindful of, a threat that will probably make themselves known in the near future!