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Captain Scotto and His Heroes To Be

Episode Fifteen

With resolute determination, I stepped out onto the front porch of my house. My cape billowed dramatically in the breeze. I imagined the exciting television dramatization that would someday be made of my heroic exploits, and paused to imagine how much more exciting this would all seem if the role of Captain Scotto were played by hunky yet sensitive Keanu Reeves. Oh sure, the dialogue would have to be smartened up some, that was clear, but still.

I leapt into the air and within moments I was sailing high above the clouds. The exhilarating thrill of flying hadn't really worn off. Before taking possession of the suit, the only flying I'd ever done had been in my dreams, and that was usually accompanied by vicious, killer clowns and a strange, warm, wet sensation that usually woke me up. Now, however, I could fly without being chased by clowns, and the warm, wet sensation was actually key to keeping me from freezing to death.

Moments later, I descended from the sky, landing atop a tall London skyscraper. I looked at the city below, remarking to myself that London was looking suspiciously like Albuquerque these days, before realizing to my chagrin that this actually was Albuquerque. And, just my luck, the Albuquerque Celebrity Wax Museum had only just last week melted down its own Michael Landon in order to make way for its much-hyped Olsen Twins Locked In Mortal Combat exhibit. I launched into the air once more, got a bit confused again, and landed just outside of Toronto. I paused just long enough to hurl a bunch of vague, ill-informed insults at the natives - a quaint people often referred to by anthropologists as "Canadians" - before taking to the skies once more.

This was taking a lot longer than I anticipated, and I began to fear that my buzz was wearing off. Fortunately, my utility belt had a secret stash of powdered DXM, Dramamine, and a delightful "designer drug" called 2-TC-special-G, which I got from a corrupt Mormon missionary named Carlo. Taking the three in combination was often referred to in the literature as a "stupidass-flip" for reasons I'm not particularly clear about. The resulting euphoria did nothing for my sense of direction, however, and in fact made asking for directions from the cops in Tijuana slightly problematic. I think they were giving me directions, anyway; they might simply have been admiring my lithe profile and dramatic, flowing cape (if by "admiring" you mean "pointing and laughing quite a bit").

Finally it occurred to me to actually make use of this incredible new technology called "maps" that I'd been meaning to check out for a while now. You really won't believe it: somehow, someone actually managed to, like, go out and draw really detailed pictures of, like, the entire planet. I don't really know who has the time to even do that kind of thing; maybe the government paid them to do it or maybe they were just really excited about, you know, drawing stuff, but at any rate, they work great for figuring out how to get places. Next thing you know, I'm in London! And they even have different styles of "maps," so for instance, they have maps of really big things like countries, and really small things like neighborhoods! It's so wack! Anyway, soon I arrived at my destination: Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum in London, where I was calmly informed that the Michael Landon wax statue was actually in their Las Vegas location and that a simple telephone call could have confirmed this small detail. Plus, I was informed that my cape was silly looking, but realistically, you don't take fashion hints from the British, let's be serious here.

By the time I got to Nevada, I was exhausted and needed a place to rest. Fortunately, brothels are legal in Nevada, and all I needed to do was lie there, which technically constitutes resting. And then of course, it just goes without saying you can't visit Vegas without stopping by to see Sigfried & Roy; however, I was turned away at the door when informed that there was some kind of policy about "no one in the audience can look sillier than the artists," at which point I reminded the asshole at the door that he was a big poopyhead and then finally, at long last, made my way to Tussaud's.

Now at that point, I came to the rather belated realization that these people were not going to be particularly thrilled about me just walking off with Michael Landon. I distracted them by setting Latoya Jackson on fire. When no one really bothered responding, I set Tom Brokaw on fire, and that got people running; in the hubbub, I lifted Michael Landon off the big plastic pole that was stuck right up his angelic wax ass and hauled him out the emergency exit. It occurred to me on my way out that I probably could have just set the Tom Brokaw statue on file instead of Tom himself, but you know, I was in a hurry.

Wrapping Michael Landon's arms around my neck, I leapt into the air once more, heading home with Michael Landon's beautiful flowing trusses rippling in the wind behind me. This was the Highway to Heaven indeed! Sailing into Seattle, I could see the horrid devastation that Dr. Ugly was wreaking, and moving in from the south were army units: tanks and helicopters and trucks, all heading to their doom unless we could act fast enough. I arrived at home to find Crank Boy and Laurel in the kitchen, with a rather impressive assortment of handguns, rifles, knives, ammunition, and mushrooms that Crank Boy had hurriedly collected from the University of Washington campus.

I propped Michael Landon against the wall for them to admire. Laurel's eyes grew wide in amazement.

"Yes, I know," I said smugly. "I have saved the day."

"I don't know how you think a BALD MICHAEL LANDON will save ANYTHING!" she exclaimed.

To my horror, I turned to discover that the beautiful, flowing, curly trusses that Michael Landon had possessed when we left Las Vegas had been shorn clear off his wax head by the incredible winds of our flight.

"They sure don't make wax Michael Landons like they used to," Crank Boy muttered.

"We don't have time for this," I growled, seizing an inspiration that could only come to one whose moniker included the title Captain. Charging into the living room, I seized the gorgeous blonde wig that had formerly adorned my beloved full size plaster cast of Tina Yothers. It wasn't black, curly, or even remotely appropriate, but it would have to do.

We spent the next half hour in deep preparation: Crank Boy and Laurel practicing with their new weapons by blowing huge holes in the kitchen walls, me practicing with Michael Landon in a grotesque but strangely compelling attempt to make him dance like a sex-crazed bonobo ape.

A showdown loomed large in our futures. As I danced, I munched those lovely fresh mushrooms as though this might be the last time I ever tasted such psychoactive bliss. If Dr. Ugly was going to get me, it wasn't going to be without a fight.

No, it was likely going to involve a fight, and then he would wind up getting me.



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