My story has something I saw in another fic but I had the idea before I saw it, honest! p.s sorry it took me abit
Treehugger
Chapter 3 Ballad of Fangus Klot
Klot gave a raucous yawn. It was the day after Shmo was chased by Klot, and he amazingly felt well! He looked around. Their tent was a good size, about the size of an old school house classroom. Pa was sleeping in his cot, Pulse was asleep at the metal folding table, counting moolah deduction before falling asleep. Klot left his cot and grabbed for his hat. Weird, it’s usually under his cot. Where could it be? He looked around one more time. Nothing. Maybe outside? Sure enough, his hat was sitting on the ground. He smiled and grabbed it.
“Finally,” he murmured. “I kinda felt naked without . . . you?” He looked up to discover a Big Bro had rested the barrel of his Blitzpacker on his cranium.
“Fangus Klot,” it growled in a deep monotone voice (it had evidently gone through the speech several times). “You have been charged with attempt of killing the great, marvelous, supreme, overbearing, and shallow Shmo Minded. Surrender and we will only shoot you twice.”
Klot gave a small growl, “Yeah? You and what army?”
The Big Bro pointed behind him and said, “The Wolvark Army behind me.”
Klot looked around the especially meaty Slig and, sure enough, thousands of Wolvarks were there. “Dude,” he said, “you need to get off the steroids.”
“At least I don’t have rabies.”
“I don’t have . . .”
“Whatever. So, do we shoot you twice? Or, ‘til you stop twitching?”
Klot grimaced. It only he had his guns . . . “Hey,” he said, trying to look dejected, “can’t I say good-by to my family?”
The Slig shook its head. “What do you think Fangustan is, a democracy? You don’t get a last request!”
“How do you live with yourself?” Klot asked.
“After killing sixty other guys you stop feeling guilt.”
“You killed sixty people?”
“Mostly Jaywalkers.”
“Look, I have a few grand, I could . . .”
“How much?”
“One grand.”
“That all?”
“I’m a shepherd. What do you expect?”
“’Kay, you’ve got five minutes.”
He turned around towards the Wolvarks. “Sorry guys. We have to wait a few more minutes.”
The Wolvarks booed, made rude hand signals, and one threw down his gun and screamed “There goes my life! Thanks a lot jerks!” and ran off crying.
In the tent, Klot went to Pulse and roughly shook him. Pulse jumped and screamed, “Oh Lord, not the dress, not the dress! . . . oh . . . Klot . . . What’s wrong?”
Klot quickly whispered, “Pulse, Shmo’s goons are out for me. Get Pa and take the buggy. Drive as far as you can. I’ll hold them off.”
“Klot!” Pulse said, “You do care about us!”
“Look pea brain! I wasted ten years protecting this freak show and no stinking army is going to break my ten years of torture! Just wait for me to go berserk.” He went to his cot and grabbed his guns from underneath it. He walked outside with his guns behind his back.
“So,” the Bro said, “where’s da grand?”
“What grand?” Klot said innocently, slowly putting bullets in the chambers.
“Don’t play dumb! Give me the grand!”
Klot looked to his left, Pulse was just strapping Pa in the dune buggy. “We waited five minutes for this ?!!?” a Wolvark yelled. Another Wolvark ran off crying. Pa was strapped in.
“For the last time! Give me the moolah,” the Big Bro screamed.
Klot faced him and said “Sorry, no grand.” He quickly pointed the guns at the Bro’s chest. “But I do have some lead.” Everything seemed to slow down. The Wolvarks fumbled for their guns, Pulse revved up the buggy, Klot roared, and Pa started to yodel. And then the clouds parted.
Everyone looked up. For the first time in centuries, the clouds had parted, but instead of sunlight, a strange blue fire came down. Slowly, a disc the size of a coffee table descended to the ground. Everyone just stared at the disc. Suddenly, a blue hologram of a strange creature appeared on the disk. They had no idea who it was. The creature was a girl, a pretty girl, probably twelve.
“Hello,” she said sweetly with a door-to-door salesperson’s smile. “I’m Tiffany Tanner. I represent Starscrapers Demolition Company and the genus Homo Sapiens. We, you see, destroyed our own planet, what with global warming and all, so we humbly ask you to give us your land, Mr. Klot, and we’ll be on our way.”
Klot looked at the butt ugly (cretins!) Homowhatever. “I’m sorry sir, or whatever gender you may be, but I worked for a long time to keep this land and I’m not giving it up.”
Tiffany wore her cheesy smile for another minute. Then as quickly as a Stunkz poots, her face was red and she seemed to be trying to keep her cool. “I’m sorry,” she said, teeth grinding nosily, “but the sound receptors must be acting up again. I thought you turned down my MORE than generous offer.”
“Well sorry, but I did say no,” Klot said.
Tiffany lost it. “You listen here you neanderthalic knuckle dragging, pooslinger! You are going to give us this heap of sod or . . .”
“Wait a scaly scrab minute!” The Big Bro’s steroid induced brain had finally grasped the meaning of the conversation. “Why ya asking the herder? This land is legal property of Shmo Mind . . . huh?” A mouse-sized tuning fork-shaped object popped up from a slot on the disc’s side. “What’s this?” he asked in mock fear. A small blue electric pulse wriggled between the prongs. “Ooooooo you’re to shock me? Ha ha ha! Oh, you’re sooo mean! You little . . .” Suddenly, a blue lightening bolt zapped from between the prongs and hit the Big Bro right in the chest and kept going in ‘til it was on the other side of the army. The Big Bro just stood there, then suddenly crumbled into ash leaving only a pile of ash. Klot and Pulse watched, dumbfounded, as a large hole appeared in the Wolvark ranks. The Wolvarks could only stare at the ashes of their not so dearly departed comrade, not noticing a second object, same as the first, but the size of a Clakker, rise from the disc and fire a larger blast. The blast quickly obliterated the army.
“See that?” Tiff growled, pointing at the ashes. “We use this to kill pests! If you don’t give us this field, you pea brained cockroach, you’ll feel the wrath of an egotistical human empire!”
“Klot pointed his chest burster at the disk and said, “I’m done talking.” With a quick shot the disk exploded. “For such a great race you make pretty crummy stuff.”
Meanwhile, Shmo was also getting a visit from the Homowhatevers. He was peacefully lying in bed listening to his soothing Gabbit songs CD (our equivalent to a whale song CD) when a disc whirred through his window. Shmo screamed, wet himself, dumped a load, and fainted. (A 4.5 on the freactor scale.) The disc took out some smelling salts and waved them in front of his face. When Shmo woke up the hologram started up. This one was a boy with a similarity to Tiffany though a bit fatter.
“Okay,” he said, “let’s get this over with. I’m Tim, a representative of the human race, blah, blah, blah. Screwed up our planet, blah, blah. Give us your country or fry!”
Shmo, being one who does not think diplomatically, screamed, “Screw you, jerk! I ain’t giving up Fangustan! I sweated and made other people toil for this country and I ain’t givin’ it to a butt ugly walking cesspool.”
The boy sighed and rubbed his temples. “’Kay,” he said, “hold still.” Once again the rat killer raised slowly from the disc, started to change, then suddenly combusted. “Oh man! Tiff is going to kill me! Fine. But mark my words Shmo Minded. You will die!”
“Whatever,” Shmo said impatiently, getting back to bed. “I have hundreds of escape routes. I’ll get out of here before you can scratch your . . .”
“We destroyed your jet . . . ,” Tim said, examining a large zit on his forehead.
“Huh?” Shmo grumbled.
“We blew up your jet. . . ”
“Well, I still have the . . .”
“And, the submersible . . .”
“Well . . .”
“And, the Zeppelin . . . ”
“Uh . . .”
“And, the fuzzle motique go cart.”
“Chicken Teriyaki!”
“And the pink tricyc . . . wait . . . What? Actually I don’t want to know. Point is, you’re dead unless you give us Fangustan.”
“You knew about my three-wheeler?” Shmo inquired.
“Oh, we know a lot about you Shmo Lee Minded,” Tim said, popping the zit. “Your alias is Dumb-a-dumb Crackers, you have an affinity for corn, you won Fangustan in a game of cards with the Fangus Clan elders, you Mother’s maiden name is Scrab Vittles, and your shoe size in a foot and two centimeters.”
Shmo just stared, mouth agape, then wheezed, “But how?”
Tim smiled and cackled, “We see and know all Shmo . . . and, your webpage helped.”
Shmo gave a look of sheer confusion. “I have a webpage?”
Tim yawned and muttered, “Yeah, didn’t you know? It’s on
www.dumbdictators.com. It was written by Nigel Duuuude.” Shmo swore and made a mental note: Find Nigel Duuuude. Nigel was sort of competent, he could track him down. “Last chance Shmo,” Tim said. “Give up!”
“No!” Shmo screamed.
“Right then, see ya.” The disc floated up as Tim vanished. Shmo just watched as the disc zoomed out his window and blew up.
“Yeah, what can you do?!” he shouted.
Klot was having a lovely dream where he was rich and famous. Ladies from all over the continent flocked just to see him. Pa was in a nursing home, Pulse was in college, and he had sold all of the Kileeps to a meat processing plant. Then that racket had to start up. Klot jolted awake to the sound of baa-ing roars and large explosions. No doubt some stupid kids from the new reservation were setting off fireworks nearby. Klot, getting off his cot and cussing, walked outside the tent. “Listen, you snot-nosed brats!” he screamed. “I know reservation life can be a bore but there’s no reason to . . .” Klot gasped. All around him Kileeps ro-aared as fiery missiles rained from the nighttime sky. Klot was mesmerized, looking up he saw that the missiles seemed aimed at this specific spot and dodged a shrieking bomb.
Klot quickly got up and dashed for the tent. Inside, he quickly grabbed his guns and hat, trying not to trip in the dark or puke at the stench of burnt Kileep. Guns loaded and hat on, Klot rushed towards his brother. Pulse was already awake. “What’s all of the commotion about? Are more goons here for cash?”
“I wish, Pulse. The Homowhatevers are raining missiles from the sky,” Klot gasped.
Pulse went pale, “I’ll wake Pa!”
“He’ll just slow us down.”
“I’m not leaving him!!!”
“Alright, alright! I’ll start the buggy, you wake the old fart!” Klot rushed off, going back around the tent to where he last parked the buggy . . Just in time to see a missile nuke the buggy. “No! Not the buggy! Oh Odd, why the buggy?!”
Meanwhile, Pulse was having difficulty with Pa. “Pa, please, we can just sneak out by lifting the tarp,” Pulse begged.
“But, I want to see the fireworks!” Pa wailed.
“Pa, please, we need to go,” Pulse said quietly, gently grabbing Pa’s arm.
“No! I’m going to see the fireworks!” Pa yanked his arm away and dashed out the tent.
“Pa!!! Nooooooo!!!!!!!!”
After mourning his buggy, Klot jogged back to the front of the tent. When he reached it he dodged a dashing Pa who stopped and stood still a few feet away watching a missile fall straight at him. “Perdy,” Pa whispered as Klot and Pulse watched the missile explode on his head.
“Well, hell, there goes my inheritance,” Klot said.
“Pa?” Pulse whispered and walked to the spot where Pa had stood.
Klot heard an explosion close by and turned to see the tent in flames. “Pulse, I think it’s time to run,” Klot said.
“Not without Pa.”
“Pulse, Pa is dead.”
“No he’s not! He just wandered off again!”
“Pulse, come on!”
“Nooooo!!”
Klot grabbed Pulse, but he just wriggled out of his grasp. “Sorry Pulse but this is for your own good,” Klot said and hit Pulse over the head with the butt of his gun. He swung Pulse over his shoulder and dashed off into the nigh, flanked by three Kileeps on each side, the bombs only moments behind.
Wait, this ain’t no toilet! Shmo opened his eyes, indeed, it was not a toilet but a large bush. Shmo, every night at one o’clock, had a servant lead him to a toilet. This time he had been lead 26 miles from his mansion to pee on a bush. He surveyed his surroundings, searching for the perpetrator of this most heinous crime. “Nigel!!!!!” Shmo yelled, his eye starting to twitch.
Nigel turned around, pants stopping with a reluctant screech. “Hey boss dude,” he said. “You getting some brew in town too?”
Shmo’s eye stopped twitching, can’t say his legs didn’t start shaking, “You dumb scum bum!” he screeched. “When you get back home you’ll feel the pain of fifteen Slegs boring into your fat, ugly, . . .” Shmo stopped screaming and looked at what appeared to be an amazing comet arcing over their heads. “Pretty,” Shmo gurgled, looking like an entranced babe.
“Those darn comets are prettier every year,” Nigel whispered.
The comet continued its arc, seeming to get bigger until it was big enough that even Shmo could scream, “That’s an Odd darned missile!!” The missile shrieked and hit Shmo’s mansion scattering debris and body parts everywhere.
If Glukkons had tear ducts Shmo would’ve cried. Nigel turned to the open-mouthed Shmo. Staring at Shmo, the alcoholic Slig could only say one thing. “Duuuude! That was aaaawesoooome!”
The Brutal Ballad of Fangus Klot
nice name)
I'll try to get the next chapter up soon.
