Alcoholic Anthologies from the Club Invertebrate #8: Professor Frankowitz's Wild Ride by Denny Hill 2 (DashApostrophe@gmail.com) Copyright 1998, 2009, 2012 All rights reserved. *** Imagine if you will, a man in a crimson colored outfit - business suit, leather shoes, executioner's hood - running through filthy, trash-laden alleyways with a dagger in hand. Right behind him, one could see several eerily pale men with dyed red hair chasing him down. In a monster truck! They seem to be gaining on the man in the red suit, and it looks very well like they're going to grind the poor fellow up in just a few seconds to spare... (That should do for a 'cover', shouldn't it?) *** Notice: for those of you that are faint of heart, the following tale is not at all G-rated. It may include foul language, excessive violence, sexual innuendo, and other things that would get this story burned, were it in a printed form, by the more fanatical elements of every religion on earth. In other words, if these things offend you, you may want to stop reading now. (That should do for a 'disclaimer', shouldn't it?) *** Leaving the club's grounds, Professor Frankowitz saw one of his fellow members of the Club's secret Circles hop into his car. He began to go and ask for a ride, but then thought better of it, feeling silly that he was now without car in the first place. Continuing on his way, he then saw the spiffy DeLorean fly overhead. Really wishing he'd asked for a ride, Professor F started thinking about how convenient a flying car would actually be. Convenient, if you could avoid various New York obstacles, such as commercial aircraft, police and news helicopters, super-powered vigilantes, your typical alien invasion, whacked out super villains, and of course, the native pigeons. Still, it'd be fun. Continuing on for a bit, he cleared Central Park halfway home, and noticed that it was getting cooler out. Well, not cooler, per se, but... drier. The Professor instinctively drew his blade from his suit jacket, stopping when he heard the voice. "So, Mister Frankowitz, how's tricks? Or is that Doctor now?" "It's Professor, actually, but thanks anyway," Professor Frankowitz replied to the naked man on the street corner. Not that naked men were much of an oddity in the Big Apple, mind you, it's just that they're most often dirty - and are usually in the process of flashing a body. This guy was different. He was Professor Frankowitz's old pal Min, the Egyptian deity of male fertility. Of course, they'd only managed to become pals because Min didn't actively encourage any sort of priesthood; this made him lots less powerful than his fellows, but he still retains his immortality. Further, he had much more fun in general. "So, what brings you all the way to my city, you dirty old man?", the Professor asked his old friend, knowing that matters had to be very important to draw Min out of his rather... decadent home in Cairo. To which Min replied "Well, you've lost one of your agents. He's decided to move in to the House with us." Not that the Professor was at all surprised. Hansen was rather well known for his exceptionally ... creative personal life, and Alan had a good guess that the man couldn't have resisted Min's perverted 'family' for long. Not that he minded; Hansen was rather creepy in personality. Of course, that wasn't the issue at hand, and he knew it. "That's no big deal. You can keep him. I know that he made the choice himself. What I want to know is why you're really here? I mean, you didn't tell me when Cynthia 'moved in' two years ago. What's going on?" With that, Min motioned that they continue on towards the Scientific College of Frankology, looking over his shoulder every minute or so. "It's Set. He's finally got his thugs to stop fighting each other and the rest of the Ennead churches. They're all after you, now. Every one of 'em. And half of them are in town, likely tracking you down as we speak. I had to warn you, though, since you've helped me out in the past, especially during Set's last big fiasco." Professor Frankowitz then shook his old pal's hand (the right hand; he knew what the dirty old god did with the other), thanked him for the warning, and started running off towards the College. Rounding the last corner between him and home, he saw them. There were over a dozen of Set's cultists. And they were packing lots of gear. Seeing this, and noting that his College was currently on fire, Professor Frankowitz did something that he rarely ever does: he said a four letter word. Watching his College burn, again, Professor Frankowitz wondered what the Cult of Set cronies were going to do when the firemen showed up. After all, it is a bit hard to deny you lit a building on fire when you and twelve of your friends are throwing gasoline on it. Just then, one of them spotted him shrinking back towards the corner, and shot at him. Not that he shot with a gun, mind you, he just sort of pointed at the Professor and his hand exploded in a gust of smoke. Not quite rounding the corner in time, Professor F realized that he was still in one piece, though he was now covered in this annoyingly pink dust. At which point the Cultists started up their trucks. The two vehicles, monster trucks on crack, were quickly filled up with Set's cronies, who started driving his general direction. Taking that as a hint, the Professor ran back the way he came, though he knew he couldn't make it to the Club in time. He rounded another corner and ducked into the refuse of a rather smelly alleyway. The trucks sped by, though he suddenly smelled a waft of fine perfume. Turning around, the Professor met the grinning gaze of Set himself, the image sent by some sort of magical effect or another (Alan could see the wavering about the feet). Laughing, the visage of the Egyptian God of Evil decided to gloat at the Professor. "Insolent Mortal, did you really think you could interfere with my plans for so long, and NOT get yourself killed? Your silly invisibility power is no longer a hindrance to my finding you, as you've become complacent and lazy. Tonight you DIE, Professor Frankowitz, and there's nothing you can do to stop it! Mu hu ha ha ha ha!" Trying to ignore the imperious image of Set, the Professor looked back onto the streets, only to find that the trucks were coming back his way. Guessing that Set was guiding them, somehow bypassing his theonic invisibility, he advanced into the alley to avoid the two trucks, as the monsters were too wide to enter it thanks to those tires. Those large, man-crushing tires, pumped-up enough to belong on the really BIG construction equipment. Not liking the mental image of being wedged between the thigh-sized treads, Professor F tried to make some distance between him and the Cultists, some of which had left their vehicles to chase him on foot. Thinking this no time for subtlety, Professor Frankowitz pulled his hood out from his pocket and put it on his head. Though he'd rather not use his offensive power until absolutely necessary, he knew this was not a time for personal preferences; in fact, he hadn't been in such danger in a very, very long time. And, though he hated to admit it, the danger made him feel alive. He hadn't felt this much fire pumping through his veins in over ten years. Maybe Set was right, maybe he had been resting on his laurels and the membership dues of the thousands of global Frankologists. Professor F decided that he was going to remedy that situation immediately. By then one of the Cultists had almost caught up with him, and cast a spell of binding at him. The magical bands roped around his feet, knocking him flat on his back as the evil priest began to reel him in. Assuming that no non-magical agency could cut the things, he instead threw his knife at his opponent. Striking him dead between the eyes, Professor Frankowitz managed to disrupt the spell that would have meant his eventual doom. Though he wanted to fight directly, there were simply too many of them to deal with just yet, so Professor Frankowitz retrieved his titanium blade and continued deeper into the alleys. After two or three minutes, Professor Frankowitz was utterly lost. He had swerved left and right through these filthy tunnels of brick and masonry, but he could still hear the sounds of pursuit behind him. He had Set to thank for that, as the annoying illusion of the God of Evil was still right behind him, and guiding his cronies to their quarry. "You cannot escape, insolent fool. My men can follow you anywhere you go, and more than half of them are still awaiting your exit from these roach-filled alleys. Why not simply give up now, and save yourself the hassle of a long, drawn out, and futile struggle. I promise to make your death swift and painless..." Professor Frankowitz, of course, knew better. He could imagine the fun Set had planned for him back in Egypt. Long, long years of fun, likely involving being hung up on tiny hooks from the ceiling, or maybe some sort of stretching machine. Maybe, just maybe, it involved some sort of unique payback on a Mythological scale. "Why don't you just shut up, Set. If you know you're going to beat me, why don't you just show up in person, or are you ... afraid to?" Expecting the taunts and insults to set off another round of mad rants, Professor Frankowitz was genuinely surprised when he was answered with silence. He stopped. The image of Set stopped right afterwards, ranting about how Professor F had finally tired, and was about to die. He thought about it for a few seconds, continuing on when he heard an increase in the volume of noise produced by his pursuers. However, he had an idea, now, about how Set was tracking him down. And he decided to make for the nearest body of water. Unfortunately, by now that was the Hudson River, which nobody in his right mind could sanely call water by any stretch of the term. Any river that could burn or almost be walked over wasn't really a river, when you get down to it. But, what choice did he have? He had his bearings, now, and he ran due west. Emerging from the maze of alleys, Professor Frankowitz spotted one of those juiced up monster trucks heading right down Eight Avenue towards him. Cursing his luck, he started to hide behind cars before realizing that they didn't really amount to cover against this machine. So, he braced himself, and when the truck bored down on him, he fired. Knowing that he had no choice, Professor Frankowitz blasted the custom built vehicle with his antideionic attack. This specific energy, of a type that could shred the life force of even the most powerful immortal beings, proved more than a match for the merely mortal truck. The thing blew up all around him. However, he wasn't touched by any of it. 'It' being the remains of the vehicle and it's five or so occupants. He counted at least nine distinct boots falling to the ground amidst the twisted metal. It never ceased to amaze him how smoking boots always seemed to survive the utter destruction of their owners, no matter how devastating the attack. It was just one of those things. Of course, this gave Professor Frankowitz another idea. He hailed a taxi (present even through this mayhem, as New York cabbies are used to all sorts of strange super-human activity) and had it drive back to 57th Street, where he'd originally ducked into those impromptu urinals that people tended to call alleys in Manhattan. Of course, the lone Cultist manning the second truck was alerted to his presence by the image of Set, but that didn't stop Professor Frankowitz from rushing the sinister young lady and cleaning her clock before she could get off a spell. Before the others could catch up to him, he decided to take a look at the high tech gear she was sporting there... And, of course, grab the truck's keys. While he rolled the unconscious minion of Set, Professor Frankowitz realized that he hadn't paid his cabbie for the ride. That, of course, was because the man was now screaming at him. Though he may have deserved it, Professor Frankowitz didn't want the cab driver to get dead on account of his little spat with Set. He paid the man. And doubled the fee as a tip. Then, kicking the young cultist in her bits, the Professor vigorously frisked her up and down, finding an extremely expensive headset; in fact, it looked almost too advanced for regular folk to be carrying about. Even if they were out to conquer the world with their insanely Evil dogma. He also found some sort of blaster pistol, and a book of Set's latest scriptures (which he pocketed for later research). Tying up his new friend, Professor Frankowitz hopped into the truck (a heroic undertaking without a ladder, I assure you) and inspected the glove compartment. He found pictures and news clippings about himself. Cursing his fan club, the Professor started up the truck and backed up slowly. He had Plans for the remaining Cultists (those he hadn't knifed, beat up, tied up, or otherwise caused to have a bad day), even if Set's wavering image wasn't happy about it. "Slay one minion or one thousand, you will still die by my hands, fool!" The Professor uttered another four letter word, though it was in a colorful sentence that started with "Shut the" and ended with "Up". When he spotted the first two Cultists emerging from the alleys, he floored the monstrous truck, grinding up the two spellcasters before they knew what hit them. Who needed a flying car, when you could simply drive through things with a really big truck!?! Cackling with manic glee, Professor F continued on at breakneck speed, making for the Hudson River docks before any other cultists could manage to catch up with him. "These paltry tricks will not save you in the end, maggot", Set proclaimed. "I will still kill you, though now you have earned yourself a very, very slow death." "Whatever", the Professor replied, barreling through two more red lights, an act that invariably drew forth two squad cars in pursuit. He was really glad that he was wearing gloves; as such, he would not be leaving any finger prints on this truck or the knife he'd have to ditch once he hit the river. This would leave the blame for all this mayhem solely in the hands of the surviving cultists, one of which he'd conveniently left alive back on 57th. cackling some more, Professor Frankowitz slammed the behemoth of a truck clean into the city docks, racing past several warehouses full of confused workers. All of which, of course, ran out after him, knowing what was coming. Suddenly, Set's logic caught up to the Professor's, at which point he started bellowing again. "No! You fool! You can't go into the water! You'll ruin everything!!! Noooooo!" Cackling a third time, the Professor flew off the remaining dock and splashed down in the Hudson River. Of course, the truck couldn't sink right away, what with those gigantic tires. Upon impact, however, it did flip over, and the cab rapidly filled with 'water'. Breathing in deep, Professor Frankowitz waited for the cab to fill completely, at which point he kicked his way out the passenger side window, and began swimming for New Jersey. At night, on the far side of the slowly sinking truck, nobody could guess that the driver had survived this 'accident'... Taking great pains not to accidentally drink any of the Hudson River goop, Professor Frankowitz removed all of his clothes as he made the long swim to New Jersey. He could still hear Set's voice wailing threats at him, though they were decreasing in volume as the current of the 'water' slowly washed away the magic pink powder. The Professor couldn't help but laugh at that. He was rather impressed by the Cult of Set's craftiness; well, he was surprised that they didn't think of this little scheme about ten years ago. Magic powder that Set could follow, since the powder itself was not invisible to deionic powers like the man himself. Once he'd stripped down to his underwear, Professor Frankowitz could no longer hear the angry cries of Set. As such, he began to concentrate on the long swim to relative safety. His wallet had been tainted by the magic powder, but his credit cards weren't, so the Professor stuffed them in the only place he could, and swam on. Arriving in Jersey parallel to the Holland Tunnel, Hans began to work on hailing a cab, though he ultimately failed. Even in New York City, the cabbies tend to be reluctant about picking up dripping wet customers in their underwear. Where was Min when he needed him; at least they'd both be naked, and that was preferable to his current, lone status. Tired of waving at cabs, the Professor simply started walking towards the nearest mini-mall. He eventually found a store that was open, though it was of a rather ... questionable fashion sense. Picking the most palatable clothing, the Professor left wearing a red Spandex ™ body suit, serious boots, and a smooth leather jacket. He'd have picked something else, but everything else was covered in studs, spikes, or was a pair of chaps. Now able to easily catch a cab, he hailed one and made his way back to Manhattan proper. He knew he couldn't make for the Scientific College of Frankology, since it was likely gutted by the fire, so the Professor simply made for a hotel - well, a hotel that was sure to have a hot tub and enough soap for a dozen baths. About an hour later, the Professor was resting in the hot tub, allowing the bubbles to slowly eat away at the carcinogenic goop he'd been dunked in, and reading the soggy remains of that book of scriptures that he'd liberated from that Cultist (one of the reasons the swim took so long was that he was carrying the purloined book 'n' headset in one hand). Hey, you don't think that Professor Frankowitz stuffed his credit cards down his underwear, do you?!? They went in the book! Anyway, his readings verified his worst fears: the Cult of Set had actually become unified in its purpose, the goal of which was the utter destruction of both him and Frankology in general. Sure, the other churches of the Ennead would take advantage of the Cult's distraction, but this was still serious trouble. Not that this was all, of course. Why had the Cult suddenly taken to using ... stuff? He'd lost that blaster in the river along with his clothes, but the Cultists never used tech before this, much less very advanced tech. They always relied upon their magical powers, and their magical powers alone. Well, at least he had that headset. He could assuredly get somebody in the Club to break it down and see how it worked. Normally, he wouldn't care about such things; however, the thing looked positively alien in design, which was a very, very bad thing. Could the Cult of Set be working with extra-terrestrials? He wished he had a cigar. It wouldn't make things any better, but at least he'd feel okay, if only for a little while... *** "That's really weird," said the Devil-blasted Man. "In all of my own scuffles with those fellows back in The Day, those Set clowns were never so coordinated. Or aggressive. Used to just be a bunch of skin-dyed jerkoffs with knives, and you could deal with 'em with a trusty revolver." Professor Frankowitz nodded. "I know, right? Until they threw the book at me there in New York, my experience was the same. Luckily a lot of my Frankologists are good with technology... they're working on some Surprises for our mutual friends, it ought to make for a good time." As the two mutual haters of Set paused, Morris took the opportunity to pass each of them a beer - and a cigar to the Professor. Cuban, even. Professor Frankowitz then grinned a wide, happy grin, stroking his goatee as he inhaled deeply on the cigar once the Devil-blasted Man lit it for him. "Ah, thank you again, my friend. Make sure you drop in to the College if you ever make your way back to Manhattan - it's usually being rebuilt all the time but we'd gladly make you at home any time, whether or not you do any work for us on the side. Men like us, we should stick together after all, hey?" The Devil-blasted Man merely nodded at this, before taking a long, deep drink of his beer. *** (something something something) (That should do for a 'preview', shouldn't it?) *** Alcoholic Anthologies from the Club Invertebrate #8: Professor Frankowitz's Wild Ride by Denny Hill 2 (DashApostrophe@gmail.com) Copyright 1998, 2009, 2012 All rights reserved.