Dustin shuddered as he peeled bits of raw chicken off the arm of his jacket. It’s not as if any of the other band members loved being pelted with raw meat, but none of the others were vegetarians.
“It’s like they do it just to spite me,” he said to David, who still had feathers in his hair.
“They’re our evil doppelgangers,” David replied. “They don’t specifically hate you. They hate all of us. Makes me wish they’d never accidentally mutated from our blood samples that one time.”
“THIS makes you wish they’d never been mutated from our blood samples? THIS? Not the 800 other times we’ve had to fight them?” Dustin asked incredulously. “I don’t care if they loved us and bought us candy, I still wish they didn’t exist. They give me the creeps.”
Kenneth coughed sheepishly. It had been his trials of the Pants 4000 DNA testing kit/amp that accidentally created their wayward twins.
“At least we got a song out of it, guys,” he said. “A pretty kick-ass song.”
The band couldn’t argue with that. Risking their lives wasn’t always fun. Saving Oklahoma City from robot spiders and amorous pigs wasn’t easy. But at least they got some cool music out of the deal.
Aaron looked at his bandmates, perplexed.
“Wait, did you guys get hit by all those exploding chickens? Didn’t the velvet blankets shield you?”
Dustin removed a beak from his pocket and then pointed to his wedding ring. David and Kenneth did the same.
“We’re all married, dude, remember?” asked Dustin. “So, while you were hiding in bed with the Doppel-groupies, we were remaining faithful to our ladies and dodging raw chicken thighs. Where’d they go, anyway?”
The Doppel-groupies, like the Doppelgangers, had fled the scene once the poultry started popping. And with them went the secret location of Dr. Pants, their mentor and legal guardian, if the boasts in their ransom letter were true.
David wandered about with his cellphone up in the air, searching for a signal.
“Anyone know where those crazy bastards have left us this time?”
“Mmmm, probably southside,” said Kenneth, consulting his GPS. “Yep. South Penn. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
The men nodded silently. They would look for an exit. They would call for a ride. And then they would get some donuts.
(Written by Greg Elwell)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment