Morbulus Plays a Trick

By Richard Davidson

Ming Morbulus VII was in a funny mood this day. I remember it well.

“What are you doing?” I asked, as he snickered, and drooled just a bit, looking into a long eyepiece extending from a sinister looking machine.

“I have done it,” he giggled, “I have made an invincible man.”

“Invincible?” I asked, concerned for his sanity, “we all know that isn’t possible. How in Gormlon’s name could you make a man impervious to all things?”

“Look; look!” he cried, guiding my eye into the ornate and dangerous eyepiece, “see what I have done!”

“All I see are some little round things, with little bursts of color streaming through them like upward rain,” I answered, not at all sure of what I was seeing.

Morbulus tried to contain himself. He was literally shaking with glee.

“I have taken this subject; a 21st Century Earth Stoner, from a place called California, and I have treated his molecules with this energy-sustaining polymer that creates individual force fields for each, and blends together into an electronic fence that could easily withstand the heat of 21 suns.”

My question was obvious.

“So 22 suns would kill him?”

Morbulus looked as if he wanted to do violence to me. “I can’t say for sure,” he muttered, angrily, and spat on the floor.

I almost said, “well, there really can’t be any qualifiers in a word like ‘Invincible,’” but then thought better of it.

“21 Suns, huh?” I said, trying to sound as impressed as I probably should have been.

After a pause, I said, “so he could easily withstand say, machine gun fire?”

“Oh easily!” said Morbulus, a smile returning to his face.

“Battery acid?” I was starting to get on a roll.

“Wouldn’t even phase him.”

“How about laser pulse weapons?”

“There’s no such thing, and you know it,” said Morbulus, sighing, “you’ve obviously read too much science fiction.”

“What about...”

“Now stop it,” said an exasperated Morbulus, “I am not a mere scientist. I am a Science Artist, and I have produced a work that will be my masterpiece.”

“I didn’t know you were a Science Artist,” I responded in surprise, “to what school did you belong?”

“Well, I don’t belong to any school, of course,” he answered, deflecting to his own creativity, “but I am well-versed in the Deadly Humor School.”

“That was always my favorite,” I had to admit.

“Yes, well why wouldn’t it be?” Morbulus asked, in all sincerity, “after the rich tableaus created by Goh!-thar, our society owes them well.”

“Owes them well?” I asked, surprised again, “I’m not familiar with that saying..”

“Well, you should be.”

“So you’ve made an almost invincible Stoner,” I said, trying to get back on track, “now what?”

“Oh, don’t you see?” he grinned, wringing his hands together in lyrical agony, “he is my emissary; my warrior.”

He picked up a small box, with wires coming from it.

“Do you see this? Do you know what this is?”

I told him I couldn’t imagine.

“It’s a ‘Walkman.’ It’s a device that plays music, and the Stoner puts these into his ears, and now all other sound is drowned out by something called ‘Heavy Metal.’ It’s absolutely brilliant!”

I had to admit that it was very nearly beyond my comprehension!

“Yes, yes; I can see how it would be,” he responded a little too gleefully, “the Stoner will walk through history, and will listen to an endless loop of this music, never hearing what anyone says to him. He will be hungry, and desire food. Most who encounter him will try to kill him, and he will have no idea whatsoever how to deal with any of these peoples, or cultures.”

He started grinning maniacally. “The Stoner will be persistent, and will drive Kings mad! I will set him loose upon History with the casual gesture of a common Snowflorb.”

Picturing that made me laugh just a little. I always got a big kick out of Snowflorbs, and I’m sure you know why, as nearly anybody would.

“I have to confess I don’t actually understand what a Stoner is,” I had to confess.

“Say, you’ve been doing a lot of that lately,” noted Morbulus, “have you confused me for a Cantakarian Priest?”

I considered pointing out how rare it is that I actually do that, being far more likely to confuse people with citizens of mythological societies. Instead, I replied, “I don’t even know what the Cantakarian’s believe, or why they’re so grouchy.”

“A Stoner is a carbon-based lifeform, and derives its name from its habit of ingesting the smoke of indigenous plants,” said Morbulus, in his most boring and monotone voice.

“So it’s a religion?” I asked, innocently enough.

“Certainly not,” said Morbulus, arching his eyebrows like in that movie, “they appear to get into a trancelike state for no reason other than to paaarty!”

I had to confess that I really didn’t have anything else to confess.

“They have a strange, almost sexual desire for such things as brownies; pizza; cookies; Mountain Dew...”

“I don’t know what any of those things are,” I admitted, dejectedly staring at my Weibbits.

“Say, are those new?” asked Morbulus, following my eyeline, “those are some nice Weibbits.”

“Thanks,” I said flatly.

“What do you call that color?” he asked, making me wonder when he had become a fashion designer.

“Plorb,” I replied briefly, showing a level of disinterest I had never known myself capable of until this one shining moment.

After a pause I said, “can I look upon him?”

“That’s ‘May I look upon him’” corrected Morbulus, who was funny about grammar and yeep.

“OK, may I?”

“Not yet. He’s still being programmed,” Morbulus answered matter-of-factly.

“And how does one program a Human Stoner Being?” I asked, still trying desperately to understand what such a thing was.

“A crew of Agmanian Battle Hypnotists are filling his head with long, meandering stories, that he will feel compelled to tell for no reason at all, further frustrating those with whom contact is come upon him. He will laugh in places where the story is not at all funny, and will constantly demand cadmium batteries,” explained Morbulus, and I wished so dearly that it made even a ptolmgren of sense, but alas, it did not.

“But in what way will he travel in Time, and in Space?” I asked, almost wondering why I dared ask such questions of a tyrannical goof like Morbulus.

“He will materialize, and dematerialize at random,” laughed Morbulus, at places and times throughout the history of the Universe.

“Well, I have a question,” I said, my head pounding slightly.

“Isn’t the Universe infinite?” I asked, innocently enough.

“That’s your question?” marveled Morbulus, “of course it is. Who doesn’t know that?”

“Well, OK, I have a series of questions,” I responded, a little aqua-faced at my error.

“That’s better,” said Morbulus.

"Isn't the realm of Time infinite, as well?" I continued.

"Boy, you sure ask easy questions," observed Morbulus.

"Well, it gets harder, I think," I said, scrunching my brow, and hearing something popping up there, "but if the Universe is infinite, and the realm of Time is infinite, and your Stoner Human being is appearing randomly at different places in Time and Space, isn't he going to land way the quaap out in the middle of nowhere, or in empty space just about every single time?"

Morbulus stopped, and smacked himself in the head much harder than he needed to in order to convince me I was onto something.

"You make a good point, my friend," he said glumly, "and take a great deal of fun out of this project that I have worked on for many years. I think I will have you killed for it."

"Now wait a minute!" I protested, "we could work out some kind of guidance system to take him to important times and places in history, and have him meet up with like, Marco Polo, or Gleethar the Hamfisted."

Morbulus looked very interested, and looked at me with intensity.

"And how would we do that?" he asked, almost breathlessly.

"I have no idea," I had to confess, and the timing was probably good for a confession because Morbulus called for his guards, but "guard" was really just a word for "paid sadist" here in this part of the Krebb.

The guards filled the room, just as the Agmanian Battle Hypnotists came out of the Wet Studio, and announced that the programming was complete.

"The piece is flawed," lamented Morbulus, "my beautiful Stoner will not spend much of his life tormenting uptight squares, like the legendary Pauly Shore, to whom we bow our heads. Nay, instead he would float like a greasy Oglek, suspended in the very depths of Time and Space for all eternity, or until the chemicals wear off, whichever comes first."

"So you will have us torture this man until his elbows bleed fire, and he begs for sweet death in every language of the five thousand tribes?" asked the head guard, slurping down a lizard.

Thinking quickly, I started a chant.

"Put the headphones on the Stoner Put the headphones on the Stoner..."

the Agmanian Battle Hypnotists, proud of their work, joined in

"Put the headphones on the Stoner Put the headphones on the Stoner Put the headphones on the Stoner when the drumbeat goes like this"

The guards couldn't help themselves, and chanted

"Pump up the Volume, Pump up the Volume, Pump up the Volume, Dance! Dance!"

"Oh, all right, we'll send him to my Uncle Phil's house," said Morbulus, to the applause of everyone in the room.

"It truly would have been the supreme event of Science Art to send this Stoner to Stonehenge and the Stone Age, and the Deepraks of Chopra to annoy and bewilder the greats of History, but I will settle for dropping by Uncle Phil's house once a Mary, and watching his frustration with a mighty grin."

"Dude, why don't you just use this map?" asked the Stoner, pointing to a map of Time and Space coordinates on the side bleghm.

"Oh, why didn't I think of that?" retorted Morbulus sarcastically, "and just how am I going to focus energy into patterns that make you follow a timeline that would show creativity and depth, and portray an honest expression of humanity while causing cranial aneurysms?"

"Dude, my Pacer has GPS," said the Stoner, already showing his wisdom.

"I know not of any such thing as GPS," spat Morbulus, always anxious when people just said letters instead of words, "I have invested much of my soul into playing with your life as if you are my pet, and do not recommend you trifle with me at such a time."

"Hey man, like, a GPS is a Global Positioning Satellite."

"And this will help you navigate the Universe how?" asked an ever more impatient Morbulus.

"Of course!" shrieked Captain Anderson of the Agmanian Battle Hypnotists, "we can modify the GPS tracking rectifier with Lygmaninum; cross-reference it with the library of Ancient Literature and that map; and program the entire journey into his mind."

"See?" asked the Stoner, "that's the power of positive thinking there." He smiled, and folded his arms.

"Of course, we'll have to scoop out a large portion of his brain to fit that inside his skull," explained Captain Anderson, "and we'll have to saw away a good portion of skull, and remove several vertebrae to insert the tracking rods, but it should be relatively painless."

"That's a relief," said a very nervous Stoner.

"Painless for us," explained Captain Anderson, "for you it will be a long, agonizing nightmare of intense suffering, that will sear through your flesh and nervous system like a plague of flesh eating fire beetles."

"That's horrible," said the Stoner, shaking a little, "what are you going to use?"

"Probably these flesh eating fire beetles, of course," said Anderson, holding up a glowing jar.

"Dude, couldn't you just put the modified GPS in my Walkman, and hook it up to my brain remotely?" begged the Stoner.

"If we did that," answered Captain Anderson, "you'd only be able to listen to one CD, over and over, for the rest of Time."

"Guns 'n Roses!" said the Stoner, who had already made his choice.

"That was quick," responded Morbulus, "a little too quick."

"Appetite for Destruction, Mr. Man," explained the Stoner, wondering how this guy could be so stupid.

The Agmanian Battle Hypnotists talked amongst themselves for a minute or two.

"I think we could do it, but we'll need help with the Central Hooooom," said Captain Anderson, "you're a scientist..."

"I am NOT a scientist," pouted Morbulus, "I am a Science Artist, and besides, there's no such thing as a Central Hooooom."

"There isn't?"

"No."

"Well, what if we make one?" asked the persistent Captain of the Agmanian Battle Hypnotists.

"We could, but I don't have the first notion of what one is," said Morbulus, in disgust, "scoop out the Stoner's brain, and be done with it. And while you're at it, make it so he's stuck with that Guns 'n Roses CD for the rest of Time, like he requested."

"Man, is there any way I can get out of this?" asked the Stoner, looking a bit pale.

"If you can kill all these guards, I can take care of Morbulus," I said, indicating the twelve men who were armed to the teeth, and ugly.

"You can not," protested Morbulus, "guards! Kill yourselves at once!" he commanded, and with a sick look on their faces, all twelve plunged daggers into their Freemlons, and fell to the floor with little moans.

"That's amazing," I said to Morbulus, "are those guys stupid, or what?"

"WERE those guys stupid, or what," Morbulus corrected me, as he was prone to do, "now just HOW are you planning to 'take care of me?'"

"Easy," I said, putting the headphones over his ears, and cranking up "Welcome to the Jungle."

"What has happened?" Morbulus shouted, reeling back and forth with his hands over his ears, "I have gone insane! I am hearing the cries of the dead screaming through my brain!"

"Far out," said the Stoner, "do you mean to tell me this evil genius, who invents all kinds of advanced devices and has guards so loyal they kill themselves on his command doesn't know what Metal is?"

"He's never heard music at all," I answered, laughing at the faces Morbulus was making, and the sounds coming out of his mouth.

"Well, what do we do now?" asked the Stoner, as I made my way towards the door.

"I'm getting the Pleeb out of here," I said over my shoulder, "and if I were you, I'd try to get those Agmanian Battle Hypnotists to help scoop out his brain."

Talkback: Post Reply | View replies (0)