My apartment! The solitary quonset of humor where I crafted America's worst Photoshop, then unleashed it upon her enemies like sizzling science-napalm or regular old bukkake. That fiend! That fiendish fiend! That fiendy fiendish fiending fiend! My personal quarters were now in the cursedly long fingernails of The Red Fang. But it didn't matter. I still had my phone-with-computer-inside. So long as that was in hand, I need brook no delay in making fun of Usher's latest single, which does for music what puppies do for newspaper. Ha! I made a note on the wondrous device to make more shit jokes later.
"I'm afraid it's all legal and above board, Doc," said the government dude whose name I had forgotten because he wasn't a hot chick. "He made your landlord a better offer. You'll have to find new digs. Oh, and we're quietly firing you. The Department of Government would look ridiculous employing a homeless man unless he had a great haircut."
With no time to lose, I leapt five stories out the window and landed in the backseat of my totally sweet convertible limousine. My trusty manservant, Dog, was already in the driver's seat.
"Quickly, Dog!" I shouted stylishly, "Drive to the secret headquarters on the hidden isle of Manhattan!" There I would find my five most trusted aides, each of whom was top in his field but had nothing better to do than serve my needs.
There was Chunk, who had a real name but looked like an ape and therefore didn't deserve our respect; Porkchops, so-called because we fucking wanted to call him that; Benny, who did fistfuls of bennies all day; Long John, who had a small penis we all liked to stare at on Thursday evenings, and Little John, who had a fairly normal-sized penis that wasn't much to look at.
I've said it before, I'll say it again: Warner Bros. owns everything.
I won't lie--each man is completely useless
A whooping siren behind me shook me out of my pleasant ruminations on genitalia. A constable was following the vehicle.
I soon found myself the recipient of a ticket for seatbeltless riding, with fines extremely dear. Such a censure stung, though I could easily afford it, being several times over a self-made millionaire who never fails to please a woman no matter what you hear. The officer was unswayed by my explanation that the vehicle was constructed to safely withstand even the Hate-Lasers used by the mysterious Falcon-Men of Pokolopopo, the aerial city cursed to circle the Pacific until it found its keys.
Dammit, the stop had cost us precious time! I resolved to deduct the ticket's cost from my donations to the city's Orphan Reliquary.
Why are you harassing me when there's an article on police myths that needs you?
"Dog," I murmured fondly with a hint of paprika, "You had better to engage the car's diamond-plated tire shells and speed up to 89--no, 88 miles per hour."
"Master, why?" he hooted with submissive foreign excitement, "Is your loyal servant going back to the future again?"
Ordinarily I wouldn't have permitted such questions of my motives, but I was amused by Dog's superstitious fear of hurling oneself bodily into the time stream. "No, Dog," I murmured reassuringly, "Eighty-eight miles is precisely the speed necessary..."
I paused for dramatic effect and to let the author finish his sandwich.
"...to escape the agents of M.A.D. following us."
Just once I'd like to return from a fugue state without a corpse at my feet