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...

Grigor Gorgrivich: Now It Can Be Told

Grigor, possibly reflecting on his ways while in the big house ...

Looking back, you have to give it up for world-class henchman Grigor Gorgrivich.

Over his "career", constant employer changes meant the dude had to be adaptable, willing and able to conform to the quirks and kinks of a different bad guy boss on the drop. That meant he had to switch gears often, sometimes weekly. That takes some doing.

Grigor and one of his many employers ...

Henchmen, by nature, are the work horses of the ne'er-do-well set. They're subject to demeaning, menial, sometimes back-breaking (literally) chores doled out by their bosses with little to no credit for their efforts.

And yet, through it all, he was the consummate professional.

Typical henchman stuff ...

As my colleagues Clark and Jeff have noted, it's a rough gig. And, given the many run ins we've had over the years with Grigor, how could we not show up at his farewell shindig? It's not as if something like that comes up often, you know.

So it was with honest, sincere wishes we three attended Grigor's event and celebrated his many and varied accomplishments along with his fellow coadjutants. (Note: The sad thing about the affair? While a majority of his fellow associates were present, not one of his past employer could be troubled to show up. What a bunch of uncaring bastards.)

And now that all is said and done, I'm able to divulge a little secret I've harbored over the years from everyone. Something I'm not ashamed to admit but was better left unsaid at the time. I thought it best to keep it on the downlow, even from my fellow Unbelievables.

Grigor Gorgrivich was a good friend of mine. And we shared a covert association outside our "work" as good guy / bad guy.
 

Jeff and Clark restrain Grigor

during one of his many confrontations with The Unbelievables

It was the aftermath of a rather brutal tussle involving The Unbelievables and a rather large contingent of henchmen, Grigor included. (I don't recall who he was working for at the time - his constant employer-switching leave me unaware who was calling the shots at the time.) The scene was a mess: Subordinates, helpers, aides, lackeys and body guards were piled up in a mound post-ass beating, complete with plenty of scrapes and bruises, the air hanging heavy with the sound of moans and groans. "Another fine job, gents," Clark commented. "Let's let the police handle the mop up details," Jeff offered. As they took off, I stayed back and sidled up to Grigor who was lying on the ground, beaten to a pulp, and I talked with him plainly as he lay prone on the ground:

"You know, Grigor, I like you. Enough to offer you this: This henchman thing? It isn't for everybody, as you can well see. But you? You're good at what you do. And I appreciate that, especially when it comes to your loyalty to your bosses, whoever that may be currently. I just wanted you to know that. See you in three to six months on good behavior."

I guess that little chat struck a cord because not a few weeks later I got a clandestine thank you card from the big galoot, which I'll admit was surprising.

That's when our furtive friendship blossomed outside our respective fields.

"Griggy" and I started getting together for little social events, just he and I. A beer at a quiet pub far outside of town, a bowling night here and there, a refreshing sauna where we chewed the fat and shared a laugh over our respective crafts. We secretly did a 4-day Disney World tour, an Atlantic City weekend and, once, a houseboat fishing trip down in Rosarito not too long ago. Good times, good times.

In the beginning, Griggy wasn't very good with his charms ...

... but with my help he came around.

(Hello, Ladies!)

You can see how this cooperative could lend to raised eyebrows among our respective colleagues, thus the reason our outings were kept closeted.  

A rare snapshot of Grigor and Michael on one of their getaways.

(I'm in disguise, on the right.) 

So it was with a special and personal undertaking I attended Grigor's going away party.

And I'll confess: I had to hold back a tear or two during the bash for Griggy. I knew his "retirement" meant the end of our clandestine ventures.

*sniff*