You know that saying that women love? The one about how you dance is how you make love. Yeah, that’s a load of bullshit. Baruska Svobodová, star of the Prague State Opera Ballet, is a wonder to behold on stage. She moves with grace and fluidity, precision and passion. She makes love like a sputtering robot.
Worse, I’ve been bumming around Europe for months now and there’re only so many churches and bad cabarets you can see before your mind starts to hemorrhage. I’m tired of being immersed in the cutting edge of eighties fashion and having to listen to snotty waiters refusing to serve cheeseburgers. I never thought I’d say it, but I’m almost longing for prison. At least my fellow inmates were honest enough to try to kill me when I pissed them off. Here they just spit in your soup. Which is served cold.
Let’s be honest. I’m bored. I’m so bored that when I get an email with nothing more than an address in Rome, I bolt. I don’t trace where it came from. I don’t respond to make sure that it’s really intended for me. I don’t stop long enough for my memory to remind me that this is just glorified suicide.
There’s an ulterior motive. The pay off from my one mission juiced my con-game up so high I could convert Mohamed to Satanism. Hell, I managed to convince a cruise ship full of drunk, gay men to stop hitting on me for a month and a half. Just imagine what I could do, what I could become with a few more payments.
Unfortunately, to get the payments, I have to do the mission. Work is a sin that I haven’t committed since I was thirteen, but I’m finding the temptation too much to resist. I better not have to wear a paper hat.
My train arrives in Rome without derailing, so the Euros have at least one thing on us. I make my way to the harbor address without seeing a single Hooters sign, so maybe they have two.
When I finally arrive at my destination, I am greeted by the sight of a gorgeous private yacht. My mounting fear of undead rituals is replaced by the just as likely fear of being locked on another ship with over-sexed homosexuals. Then I recognize two of the individuals tending the lines.
I’d had a lot of time on my hands lately and had Googled both of my fellow Mexico survivors. There was a sad void of information on the blind love-child of Bruce Lee and Johnnie Cage, but there was a host of information on the good Dr. Adams. I had watched excerpts from his murder trial and had scrounged up all three cuts of his college porno, even finding the elusive extended director’s cut: “The Revenge of Doctor Coctopus”.
Needless to say that seeing him filled me with unanticipated joy. If old Doc Adams could survive these missions without even loosing body parts, then maybe the archeology thing had been a fluke. I noticed his complete lack of AK-47 and felt even safer. The guy who calls himself Blank (I didn’t ask him if he’d bothered to come up with a decent fake name yet) looked a lot more self assured than he used to, but I didn’t get suckered by the green contacts that hid his milky white eyes. He’s still as blind as my grandmother, and she’s dead.
There was another guy lurking on deck. He was obviously a martial artist and looked around with the wide-eyed excitement that can only be summoned by children, the sheltered, or the severely mentally handicapped. I was hoping for handicapped. If there’s one category the Special Olympics needs, it’s Kung Fu.
When I climb aboard, it becomes painfully clear that I’m supposed to help sail this fucking thing. I end up pulling ropes (Oh sorry, lines) and coiling the heavy bastards on deck. I swear if I have to swab the deck, scrub the bilge, or avast the hardies, I’m jumping overboard. We manage to make out of port without hitting anything and I try to console myself that no one has tried to force me to wear a paper hat.
We stop at one more port and pick up two more strays. One guy is holding a giant sniper rifle with the rock steady confidence of someone who has never been on the receiving end of a vampire charge. The other guy looks like the Uni-Bomber but without the cleanliness or snappy fashion sense. He actually tries to pass himself off as German but forgets to use an accent half the time. I know priests that are better liars. Actually, I know a lot of priest that are good liars…
Anyway, we set off again and I try to look busy without actually working. It isn’t long before our benefactor exits the cabin and introduces himself. He goes by the title of “The Director” and tells us that we’ve all become very experienced with these “games” (which I haven’t) and that our usual sponsor, “The Hittite (who I’ve never heard of) has sent us on very boring missions (which convinces me that this guy looking at the wrong resume). He goes on to talk about his show that is centered around taking a bunch of gullible saps and throwing them into deathtraps, for the amusement of his internet audience.
We can be the saps or we can hop over the side and take our chances in the middle of the fucking ocean.
I really want to jump over the side, but end up accepting his twisted little offer on the assumption that there are a lot of people here, and I should be able to out run some of them when the monsters attack. So, I accept when he hands me a camera and don’t bat an eye when it unfolds legs and climbs up my arm. I do react when the dirty little fucker digs its claws into my shoulder and grafts itself to my favorite brainstem. Thankfully, I manage not to scream like a three year old girl in front of a bunch of hard-asses, and in the case of the faux German, a possible serial killer.
We get told about the scenario and how it has something to do with some crap that I don’t care about. We also get told that the clock is ticking and if we wait too long The Director will be dropping a neutron bomb on the island, which I do care about. The asshole.
We then notice said island, get told the clock is running, and pile in the wee little life boats. It’s a short trip and nobody gets eaten by sea monsters, so we’re off to a good start. When we get to shore, The Director’s yacht begins sailing into the sunset. It is a beautiful scene filled with rich colors and subtle shimmering reflections. The asshole.
About that time, Blank starts talking about invisible creatures and Adams backs him up. I think they’re both crazy, but fire off a few random shots to make them feel better. Nothing happens and we decide to get on with the inevitable. There’s a mountain in the center of the jungle-island that has a temple we need to raid. Along the way, Sniper-Boy and my self fire off a few random shots to keep the invisible ghost-rabbits at bay.
The jungle trek takes a while and as is traditional, it begins to rain and completely ruins my overpriced Ferragamos. Eventually, we find our mountain, which is really a cheesy looking hill in the center of a clearing. Then Blank and Adams inform us that there are thirty or so of their imaginary friends flying above the clearing. We come up with the genius idea that if we all run really fast to the middle, we’ll all be alright. Hell, there are six of us and I’m pretty sure that I can out run the serial killer and the guy toting the three mile long rifle, so we all ready, get set, and GO!
Have you ever been wrong before? I was. About the imaginary bird monsters. About my running prowess. I was especially wrong about how this game was going to be such a cake walk. Long story short, when I finally drag my slow ass to the cave entrance I’m bleeding from several not-so imaginary wounds along my back. I just got this damn suit.
The invisible sky rats left me alone long enough to take stock of things. The monk looked a lot less “Special Olympics” and a little more “road-kill”. Adams was laid out in front of these two statues with smoke coming off his clothes and Blank was jumping in between them screaming crap and dodging laser beams. It reminded me a lot of a disco.
After a few false starts, Blank finally figured out that you can pass between them if you keep your big mouth shut. He leads us inside and I’m right behind, trying to put as much distance between me and whatever the hell used my back to sharpen their claws. I try to think positive. Sure we’re trapped in the middle of the ocean on an island rigged with lethal traps by Jerry Springer’s favorite producer and have a clock counting down to neutron detonation, but at least we’re all out of the rain.
Then the floor drops out from under us and we plummet through total blackness. Into a lake. Fuck positive thinking.
I can’t see much but I can hear someone smash into the lake with a sound only two decibels below the last Transformers movie. It was loud.
It didn’t take a brain surgeon to realize that if there was something evil and hungry in the lake (and yes, there was something evil and hungry in the lake) that it was heading right for the thrashing noise factory. I took the better part of cowardice, and made a silent bee-line for the dimly lit shore.
Once again, I’m second to last to arrive. I need to add plyo to my work out. This is just sad. The monk is nowhere to be seen, but if the continued splashing noises are a clue, he’s found something to keep him occupied. I take out some of the food I brought along and toss it in the water. Judging by the ripples that swarm around it, I managed to draw a few away from our intrepid water warrior.
He eventually makes it to shore, but he has a face-hugger wrapped around his neck. Yes, those face-huggers. Sniper-guy doesn’t seem to watch a lot of movies. He wants to knife the acid-blooded monstrosity off our little Asian friend but Blank catches him and explains about the finer points of Sci-Fi fandom, Bugs Bunny Trivia, and how to find the elusive G-spot. Whatever, I was more concerned with all the skittering coming from the tunnel in front of us.
By the time all of the invincible warriors had pooled their mighty thews and vanquished the dread beast to whence it came (read; pried the fucking thing off the monk and threw it back in the lake) I was so jumpy that I’d almost wet my pants. We regrouped and tippy-toed our way through the tunnel to the next cavern.
The Director must have a lot more malice than imagination, because this place was crawling with aliens (yes, those aliens). One of them dropped out of nowhere and was about to rape Ted Kazinski’s stunt-double, when I decided that my entrails don’t need to be used as decorations. That means I ran. I’d say that I ran like a little girl, but I’m pretty sure they have a union and would sue me for drawing a comparison to my sorry attempt.
It seemed like I had started a brand new trend, and was shortly joined by Blank and Gun-guy. Gunnny got jumped by a second one, but there wasn’t a lot I could do to help. Let’s face it, I’m not Explosion-Man or The Incredible Knife-Boy. If your looking for Captain-Kill‘em-to-Death, you’ve dialed the wrong goddamn number. I’m Talky-Guy. I’m Shady McStealsyourshit. If you need someone to forge Bar Association documents and defend you in court, I can get a standing ovation from the judge, jury, and prosecutor. But if you need someone to arm-wrestle a movie monster for you, you’d better have a healthy Rolodex, ‘cause that ain’t my purview. So I kept my little ass a’ runnin’.
“Where was I going,” you ask? Did I not mention the corridor filled with flame, we had spied across the way? Well, now you know. Happy? Me neither. Against all odds, every last miserable, idiot one of us made it, even the scary woodsman that I kept expecting to pull out and axe and make with the dismemberment. The aliens hemmed us in but were gracious enough not to close..
This gave us our first real opportunity to catch our breaths and talk about our feelings. We made comments like; “I’m feeling like I’m flammable,” and “I really don’t feel like running down a corridor of incediatory death.” I may have even added; “I feel like it was a silly decision to stop having sex with a European ballerina so I could get dumped in a pit between a Xenomorph and a Hell’s Kitchen.” Alas, hindsight.
The monk decides he’ll brave the corridor of randomly fire-spitting nozzles and do it with style. I shit you not, he made the whole trip doing handstands and back-flips. No one else decided they needed to be such a freaking show off and we all ran the gauntlet with varying degrees of success.
I made it half way before a random blast lit my arm on fire. Holy-Mary-Mother-of-Zombie-Jesus, that hurt. I stumbled out of the fire filled corridor and saw, you guessed it kids, more fire! That’s right, a solid sheet of flame just begging for victims. I’d like to see Monk-Man do a hand spring through this. Speaking of overcooked companions, Adams looked like Freddie Kruger’s homely older brother. I guess I should quit bitching about my medium-rare left hand.
The powers-that-be weren’t kind enough to provide a thermostat, so I had to get clever. I hated to do it, but I pulled my custom made attaché case out of my backpack and opened it. The interior held a state of the art computer, scanner, printer and satellite hookup. Hidden in the paneling were plates that duplicated the stamp of a notary public from every state and territory in the US. I flipped it over, slid it on top of the nozzles, and jumped through the gap in the blaze. I made it unscathed, my beloved case, alas, exploded.
The others followed behind, each getting a little more injured, and we turned to face the latest in a long line of evil things that I didn’t see coming when I rolled out of bed this morning. It was an empty shaft with two ropes suspended. At this point we had all kinds of options. We could climb up the ropes into the darkness and die, slide down the ropes into the darkness and die, or stay right where we were. And die.
We did the only sane thing we could think of, let the blind man decide. Blank settled on down, so we jerry-rigged a cloth harness for Adams, who was looking crispier by the minute, and tried our collective hand at spelunking.
This is where things get stupid. Up till now they’ve been unoriginal and heinous, but this little segment was dreamed up by some crack-baby that didn’t get held enough or something. We just start to make our way down when it starts raining midgets. Not. Kidding.
As they pass, each one tries to hit us with a pipe before splatting onto the ground below. Luckily we all make it down and through the door at the bottom.
Cue the Indiana Jones music. We walk into the opening scene of “The Raiders of the Lost Arch”, complete with cobweb filled corridor, pressure activated dart-launchers and an ugly golden head on a pedestal. I swear, if we don’t make it out of here alive, I’ll take solace in the fact that James Cameron and George Lucas were going to kick the hell out of The Director in court. I don’t care if you are a Harbinger, nobody screws with Spielberg and gets away with it.
The monk is dead set on proving how suicidal he is. He sets out across the “safe” tiles and gets to the idol, where he makes like a Compton jewelry thief and does a smash’n grab. He then hauls ass back to the corridor while the ceiling collapses and arrows fly. He almost makes it. The very last arrow nocks him to the ground like a 150 pound sack of “What the hell were you thinking?”
Gunny the gun-guy grabs him and we all start do our road-runner impressions. The exit is just as much of a rip-off as the entrance, but we survive the pit trap, descending wall, and collapsing tunnel. The only thing left to do is jump fifty feet down into the ocean. I make like Gimli and get tossed out of the cave but miss the blue watery parts, and hit the gray rocky things. It turns out to be an almost lethal wound, but that’s a whole hell of a lot better than just lethal. If you don’t believe me feel free to give yourself a fully lethal wound and we’ll compare notes.
The Director’s yacht is waiting for us and every crippled, bludgeoned, burned, cranky one of us makes it on to the deck in one state of unconsciousness or another. The Director begins quizzing us on which parts were too easy and needed to be vamped up. I tried to tell him to do the world a favor and shove that neutron bomb up his ass, but I was just too tired to form the words.
That may have been for the best.