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!

Continued Mysteriousness ...

One thing Jeff said Monday: 

"This investigation is ongoing, so we'll clue you in as the week progresses."

When the work at hand pertains to the lady fans (Hello, Ladies!) in reality it ceases to become an "investigation" and, instead, morphs into a pleasurable task. All part of being an Unbelievable, you understand. (Just wanted to clear that up in case there was any confusion.)

Anyway, the matter of the moment ...

"Can I see that card?" Jeff asked Clark as he walked back toward us from the fence line. Clark handed him the proffered post and scanned it with interest. "Dibs on the paisley printed lass!" he exclaimed.

I snatched the piece out of his hand and looked at it. "Oooooooooooh ... pockets!" I noted cooingly. "Clark, the pageboy-haircutted, begloved gal looks right up your alley, don't you think?"

"Guys, guys, guys" Clark huffed. "Don't you think you're getting ahead of yourselves? We don't even know who these dames are ... if indeed they ARE women. Some digging needs to be done. But ... yeah ... if there's a date to be worked out of this situation, I'm partial to Pageboy!"

All of us cracked another beer open and retired to the Unbelieva-Base to do some research and see what we could see about who these lovely, mysterious fans might be.

We were in the midst of coming up with ideas about what we could do if the situation turned into an actual date when the phone rang.

"Make no further contact with the mysterious ladies who came by earlier this evening" a voice commanded at us over the speakerphone. A click of disconnection ended the call.

Jeff stated out loud what all of us were thinking: "Well that was dumb. Everyone and his brother knows we have counter-intelligence measures planted on the phone lines ..."

At the flick of a button, we discovered the source of the call which, we admit, raised our eyebrows ... 
 

Hello, Mystery Ladies

The other night we were just kicking back in the backyard, just shooting the breeze after a successful day's Unbelievable-ness, when we heard the all-too-familiar sound of female chatter and giggling from beyond the perimeter fence.

Of course, we Unbelievables are used to female attention - when you are a trio of handsome, witty, crimefighting playboys, getting mobbed by lady fans (Hello, ladies!!!) desperate for an autograph, a selfie, a lock of your hair, a peck on the cheek, a full-on snog or a piece of your clothing, becomes as workaday as, say, putting on a shirt. 

We sent Clark to the fenceline to investigate the cooing and tittering sounds. Mainly because he happened to be standing up at the time, having just gone to grab himself another King Prawn skewer from the BBQ. (Not that I'm surprised - those suckers, marinated in coconut and lime as they were, were outstanding.) Michael and myself, meanwhile, were stretched out on our sunloungers with an ice cold cerveza in hand, reflecting on the day's events. We'd taken on a security gig at a top fashion shoot for some foxy wenches (sorry, models), a world-class photog and crew at a top-secret location. It was our job to make sure nobody got IN or OUT of the location lest the super-secret new fashions were leaked to the knockoff merchants selling it at rock bottom prices in your local flea market.

It's all zigzags and knee socks this autumn. (Not actually the photo shoot we were at).

Clark begrudgingly ambled towards the fenceline where the ladylike giggles and sighs could still be heard.

"HELLO??" he cried. "CAN WE HELP YOU!?"

I distinctly heard a lady's voice say, "Ooh, it's Clark - the strong one!", and then another say, "Ooh, I just LOVE it when he kicks Henri Petit out of a window!"

What happened next, we're not sure. Firstly, after Michael and I had had a good chuckle at what we were hearing, we looked up to see Clark reaching the fenceline, peering through the slats and then the sound of high-heeled shoes running, car doors opening and closing, a car slamming into gear and wheels spinning, tires squealing and they were gone. So fast was their exit that Clark didn't even see a license plate. He vaguely saw the outline of the vehicle which he said was either a Renault Espace or a Lamborghini Countach, but he couldn't be too sure. 

Either this...

or this. 

I saw him bend down and pick something up, then bring it over to show us. Here's what he had found - a card with this image on one side...

and on the reverse, a handwritten "See you later boys!"

Who are these mystery women (If indeed, they ARE women)? And what do they want?

This investigation is ongoing, so we'll clue you in as the week progresses.

Really ... It's A Super Power

I don't know what kind of 3rd-rate miniature golf establishments some of those "Why don't you really commit to the concept and develop super abilities, wear super costumes, have super secret identities and fight super battles" yahoos are employed by but, by my reckoning, each and every one of The Unbelievables has a real super power. Real ... not made up, internally-fabricated, "if wishes were fishes" super powers. At least I do.

I riff a lot about not wearing pants. But, believe me, it's not just a whim ... a preference ... a way of life. It's a genuine, life-saving, crime-fighting ability you have to be comfortable with in order to implement in public. A genuine, persuasive power.

And I've got it down, folks.

Batman? Nope.

The Avengers? Overbearing.

The X-Men? Who needs'em?

Caught in a precarious situation, sometimes life or death, let me tell you: All you need do is drop your pants then watch criminal element flee, as fast and as far away as possible. No ne'er-do-well would be caught dead in my trouserless presence.

And let me tell you: It takes steely resolve in to stand there in such a manner for all to see.

Yeah. We can fly. Our garb is already spectacular. And we're proud of our identities, no need for secrecy.

But pantslessness? Well ... it ain't my Kryptonite, Bubba.

It's just plain up super.

*drops mike, walks off stage*

The Opposite Of Super

Sure, we're heroes. Not your average, everyday heroes, for sure. We're not firefighters, doctors, nurses, teachers, EMTs or cops. Our heroing is a different kind of heroing. We apprehend the worst kind of bad guys, the ones that are on a different echelon of bad. So we really don't need to be superheroes. Superheroes are the stuff of fiction, and we are most definitely, really really real. 

Besides, we've met a few self-styled superheroes in our many and varied travels, and let me tell you, there are a lot of them that are, how shall we say....LAME. For example...

PastaPuss of Hackensack, NJ. Able to track down Italian food at a distance of 3km.

Intestinal Gal from Tahlequah, OK. Superpower? We're not sure...

The Gurner. She was a beauty school dropout.

Robo-Kid. A few broken old toys and two shuttlecocks taped together does not a superhero make.

The Bag Ladies from Cut And Shoot, TX. Lovely legs but shame about their faces.

Super-antihero (Supervillain?) The Naked Executioner supposedly kept the heads of her victims and swapped them on a mannequin depending on her mood. When we busted her (see what I did there? Bust? Geddit? No? OK.) the heads were discovered to be wax. All she was guilty of was chopping the heads off of Madame Tussaud's figures.

Les Bicycleurs Avec Claude, French nonsensical non-super non-heroes. 

Although Galaxy Girl from Coupon, PA did not possess any superpowers, she is responsible for the invention of deely-boppers.

The Naked Grandparents. Not super, just Michael's grandparents.

A satellite receiver taped to her head, Goonhilly Girl from Goonhilly in the UK was sadly not able to receive any extraterrestrial  signals, and was therefore quite un-super.

Not sure who this is, but they were easy to spot.

Ozzy Osbourne occasionally dressed as a Victorian blind woman and pretended to be some kind of psychic. Who the others are is anyone's guess.

Granny Pretzel. Sorry Granny, but there is no way you can be a super-anything in this get-up.

Mr. Spikey Bikey didn't get anywhere very fast, and sadly all he ended up doing was killing a few hapless woodland creatures. Not super.

You've heard of the Pied Piper of Hamelin? This is the Penguin Kid of Chicken, AK.

In Experiment, GA, there is a local enclave of mattress cleaners known as Super-Kleen Mattress Inc. Among the services they offer is getting bloodstains out of mattresses, and it is for this reason only that we have them on our radar.

However, if I could pick a superhero to be, I'd choose Wolverine, because METAL BLADES STICKING OUT OF YOUR HANDS! HOW COOL IS THAT????

Sorry, what's Photoshop??