Monday, March 19, 2012

These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Urban Warfare

It came from out in the street. Most folks did not know 'bout this place. That why they call in 'The Hideout, or The Hide-away.' Texacos  got 'nother official townhouse little ways off. Lot a rich folks do it like that. Dumb kitchen gal come runnin' out. But when she sees nobody bleedin' they guts all over the floor she seem a little bit relieved. Guess she 'spectin' a clean it up.


Zeke pull a gun. He go over and peek through them fancy lace panels they got blockin' out them 'sidelights' by the door. Then he say - Trucks! They got  trucks all up and down the street!


Bart run over to see too. Bunch a raggedy goomers jump out. Most of 'em totin' them cheap, Mars made 'hot shots.' You know, them energy shooters. Sort a like a ray gun, 'cept it come out in a line a hot, little spit bubbles.


Then Bart say - It the M.I.R.! It the M.I.R.! Communiss'! Communiss!............... Women folk start screamin' an' twistin' they diamond rings 'round, as if communiss' ain't never learned how to rotate no finger ring. 'Sides they prob'ly all gone go 'gook' down that basement after M.I.R. goomers shoot 'em up anyway.


Zeb yell - Safe Room, downstairs NOW! ........ Them what knows the place start runnin'. Them what don't know pick up the rear. Soon ev'rybody 'hunker in the bunker.' as Bart used to say. But back then it was only a game. Zeb and Alec were partial to playin' war. They 'tend this place is headquarters. Kind a what Hitler would a had if he didn't 'gook' off off all them Jewish scientists and they chillun'. Bunker got nuclear fussion, electro-pulse power, all kind a lazer gadgets, fancy communication devices, freezers (nuclear powered) fill up with frozen pizza (not the shitty kind) and gourmet, genuine Mrs. Paul's fish stick, made from genuine stick-shape fish. Not to mention all the bestest, scented, pastel ass wipes this side a the ass-teroid belt. Miss Sissie kind a fussy on certain thing. That why the hardwood floors so nice.


So there they be. Sixty five feet under ground, sealed behind sixteen feet a titanium, with fool-proof water and ventilation system. Kitchen all fill up wit' genuine twenty first century 'food court' delicacies. Bedrooms filled with clean underwear and brassieres....... When Zeb say - Sweetie-Pie! Where my Sweetie-Pie!? .........'Cause she kinda got partially trampled in the stampede, 'specially when she crouch down a pick up her new, special-made head-crown. So she ain't never made it to the 'safe place.'


Miz India jus' throw back her head and start laughin' and laughin'. Then she go - Sweetie-Pie! Sweetie-Pie...just like some screechy-voice, old witch would say it. 


But nobody pay her any mind. They already pickin' out bedrooms.


An' when that Mars Is Red brigade smash down the townhouse door, Sweetie-Pie right there to greet 'em.  Pimple face bastid go - Which one are you, bitch!?...... Sweetie-Pie think fas'. She go - I the maid. Come on. I show you where they keep all the good stuff.


So they run upstairs to loot all them Rolex watches and satin jockey shorts. Then she take 'em in the kitchen for challah-bread french toast (hootchie gals all know how to make that) and big, ole glasses a TANG


You know, war is sloppy bidniss. An' now we got 'nother contingent a deal wit'.


Funny how Stinker Jones steer 'em all right over to the doorsteps a his bestest 'frienemies.'


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