Muffin and Knob's Special Adventure

MUFFIN AND KNOB’S SPECIAL ADVENTURE

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  By William A. Patrick III

  Copyright © 2015 by William A. Patrick III.

  All rights reserved. Any similarity between persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

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  EARTHPHAT, THIRD PLANET FROM THE SUN, YEAR 2050

  FIVE YEARS AFTER NUCLEAR WORLD-WAR-IV

  CHAPTER 1

  A lone drop of sweat, vainly trying to provide relief from the heat, slowly made its way from her forelock to the waddle on her neck.

  “Watch it,” Knob screamed. She scolded her friend, Muffin, as they spiraled up the last few splintery ladder rungs to the eightieth floor of the East-Bay-Yacht-Club Slaughterhouse. Muffin had hit Knob’s heel with her cherry-glossed bottom lip. The smallish, mousy, 300-pound Muffin quickly apologized and vowed then and there to lose weight. The door in front of the two gals was nothing more than a large porthole with a cracked glass hanging on rusty hinges. In carefully scripted crayon it read: EBYC-Slutrhos. “…we must be very careful…” Knob breathed and then coughed up a green bean.

  Inside the EBYC-S it was dark and foreboding, much like David Hasselmof’s hair in a show called something like Might Rider, Knob mused. Then, to her astonishment, she noted a distinct lack of Yachts in the club. More like East-Bay-Spider-Web-Club, Knobby whispered to herself. Muffin thought she was being spoken to and burped,

  “…especially on Tuesdays, sir…”

  Both girls squeezed through the tight orifice and hopped ungracefully onto the slick, greasy, visitor landing.

  “I mean, blood and Jello pudding and body parts are all over the place… on the floor, even.” Knob’s voice quivered through a thick haze of ludes and orange duct tape. She stopped at the travel catwalk and vomited - never eat Lucky Charms before visiting a slaughterhouse - she reminded herself. “We don’t have to go in right away,” Knob told the shuddering, shivering Muffin, “if you need to take another huge dump… maybe do it before we go in…” Muffin, as always, just shrugged and coughed twenty times. A little bit of spittle hit Knob on her cheek, on which she whacked at furiously, like it was plutonium, which is was, at least to her.

  They made their way past rows of rotting, rickety coffins, red hots and dead groundhogs and up a long expanse of steps and onto the ninetieth floor launch-pad. The animals below, mired in the foot-thick chocolate, temporarily suspended their coitus endeavors to stare at them longingly. Knob stopped at the door and let rip a huge gas balloon that sent splatters through her mesh cargo pants and onto Muffin’s face.

  Knob paused before the entrance portal to the Alternate Universe, which was labeled ‘office’. She waved her hands and said, “Ab Bar Ra Cadaver”. As usual, nothing happened. “We have to go in, so…” she pushed the door open. The door, unlocked, opened. “…what… lords-to-be… WHAT... WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?”

  “…it’s a disgusting, vile heap of diseased cells - a horrid miscarriage of Mother Nature’s creation of… is that a… man?” Muffin mumbled.

  “…and it’s wearing a Howard Cossell like hair piece… IT’S HIDEOUS!!!” Knob shouted. “RUNNN…” Muff turned and crashed into the Alternate Universe door, which was stenciled on their side with the words ‘Abandoned Warehouse’. “Wait, Muffin!” Knob shouted. “I… THINK… THAT… THAT’S… LORD PLEBE…”

  “Of course it is, you idiots,” Lord Plebe stated. “My herpes simplex-5 decided to flare up and some joker put red dye in my anti-viral cream,” The Sloppy, sloppy, gooey ruby red-faced Lord Plebe said. “Now, down to business…” Muffin stood on one leg and Knob picked her nose. “We need true professionals for a Top Secret Mission.” The good Lord said. “But all we could come up with is you two asshats.”

  “Thank you Lord Feeble,” spewed an anxiously agitated Muffin. Knob elbowed the 300-pound girl in the ribs, or what she supposed were her ribs under those six inches of pulsing, flabby, human neoprene.

  The two gals stood in what looked like an abandoned Chunky-Cheese parlor. Rubbery balls, of every color of blue, red and green, littered the floor and Plebe’s desk, which looked surprisingly like a T.V. tray table. It was adorned with a rotary phone. Behind that, Knob saw, sat a faux-leather barc-o-lounger plastered with KLOS rainbow stickers. The room was dimly lit with a lone, flickering candle and sixteen 1000-watt strobe lights tied to the vaulted ceiling’s rafters by fraying bungie cords. Cobwebs danced all about and to their left, covering one entire wall, hung a giant poster of John Tess in a purple teddy. Knob shivered. This was a dangerous, sick, twisted, place, she mused. Next to the poster was a list of Tess’s greatest hits. No songs were on it but someone appeared to have imbibed the paper with a secret code drawn in blood, crocodile bile, or magic marker, Knob couldn’t tell which.

  It read:

  milk

  beans

  Comett

  toilet paperr (the kind with hundred dollar bills printed on it)

  ramenn

  hot dogs

  hemorrhoid stuff

  Popovy vodka

  twinkies

  Spamm

  healthy things

  purple

  beano

  room deodorizerr

  bed-bug spray

  Knob was still staring at the list, especially at the way Spamm was spelled with two ‘M’s’, when she realized that Plebe was spewing words out of his pie-hole. “We’re sending you two to the distant planet of Crack-Cake,” The Lord said, he was nine-feet tall but looked much, much shorter. At the mention of the forbidden planet Muffin shrieked, Knob farted and Plebe did a two-step.

  “Surly you don’t mean, “THE Crack-Cake… the planet, I mean…” Knob hissed. It was a whispered shout loud enough to shake the Tess poster but quiet enough to be only heard by the trio in the dusty office and those that lounged outside. One of the 1000-watt strobe lamps swayed heavily on its bungie cord and then burned out. Knob took that to be something of a bad-to-medium omen.

  “Shirley isn’t on Crack-Cake any more,” Lord Plebe said. “Only Buregeun and Honk still reside there, but they’re dead.”

  “As you know,” Lord Plebe said after hesitating a moment. He then spent a moment conscious of his full purpose with his plan and intent, so he continued, “Crack-Cake is a dangerous place, full of wild animals and… Germans.” Both girls, after hearing the perils of their mission, stood motionless and completely silent.

  Uncomfortable, Lord Plebe coughed twice. After seeing the girls transfixed in one place and not moving or speaking, he coughed again. “Silence is Golden,” he muttered, not knowing what else to say.

  “But duct-tape is Silver,” Knob added.

  “And I have a Bronze Ball-gag…” Croaked Muffin. The others, after a moment, stared disapprovingly at the rotund gal.

  “Well, enough about the Olympics,” Lord Plebe said. Knob wavered, Muffin hiccupped and Plebe executed a deep-knee bend. “But you guys should be fine with your survival prowess and your…” Plebe glanced at Muffin, “girth...” Knob burped, Muffin tripped and Plebe bowed a howdy-do. “This will take all the skill, daring and luck you two can muster,” the Lord said, “and you’ll probably have to reuse any toilet paper that’s not stained.” At this Knob wheezed, Muffin sneezed and Plebe executed a near perfect Hitler salute. “But first,” Plebe grunted, “your suicide… ahhh… I mean, REGULAR mission…” Knob shuddered, Muffin jolted and Plebe blew a raspberry.

  The great Lord slid an envelope towards the girls. “I thought about sending professionals, you know… sharp shooters, or at least a guy who can solve a Rubic’s Cube in under six hours by pealing off the stickers…” Lord Plebe began, “but no one
would take my calls, after, you know, what happened to Buregeun and Honk…” Plebe coughed a stage cough, then coughed several real coughs. “Your mission is Top Secret so I won’t go into details but I will tell you this… you are to get the Germans’ to sign this treaty - it’s a contract, really. The Krauts have a hidden reservoir of vast supplies of Marzipan - we need to procure ample quantities of the stuff. Earthphat’s very existence depends on it!”

  “We’re on a mission to save the planet!?” Muffin shouted. The girl was both beamingly proud and mystified.

  “Shhh,” Plebe whispered. “Ears are everywhere - most beings actually have at least two…” the lord said.

  “But what do you need the…” Knob stuttered. “Marts stuff…”

  “Marzipan,” Plebe interrupted. “…it’s a sweet, sickly stuff made of honey and almond paste. It kills the roaches,” said Plebe.

  “But I didn’t know that stuff was even toxic….” Knob said.

  “It’s not, spittoon-mouth - it’s harmless if not gag inspiring.” The lord lit a clove cigarette and coughed for real for a full six minutes. He then took an elegant drag on the cigarette which had long gone out. “The roaches love the stuff so much that they eat it until their little tummies burst. Ever since they survived that nuke war they’ve been just impossible…” Lord took another drag off the now dead cigarette. He gave Knob a six page contract so heavily stamped with the words ‘Top Secret’ that it was