MTB: When Parallel Planets Collide, Chapter Three

Okay, so let me see what I can remember from my experiences with that bastardized ALF-dude. Um, let me think… let-me-think-let-me-think-let-me-think-let-me-think-let-me-think-let-me-think-let-me-got it! So we made it to Cyrus’s concert in Washington, D.C., and we got there in good time. From what I remember, we touched down, and we dusted ourselves off. You know, things like that.

“You owe me, you bastard!” I said to Mandrake in a scathing manner.

“The debt is already paid,” he assured me.

“What debt?” I asked him, still very much upset at him. And by the way, in case you people are wondering, I had every right to be.

“The debt is the trip to the White House, Flint. I know for sure that I don’t owe you any more than that.”

“Okay, you know what?” I concluded, giving up on my quest to prove the point. “Let’s just pretend that this shit never happened, alright?”

“Agreed.”

“Oh, and by the way,” I ordered, “If there’s anyone that has to do the talking, it’s me. You just let me handle this, alright?”

“Right. I won’t say a word.”

So as the ticket master spotted us at the gate, he knew what he had to do, and that was his job.

“Hey, guys,” the ticket master greeted, “I heard you wanted to see Cyrus’s show. It’s five bucks a ticket if you want in, and—“

“I’ll take ten!” I shouted, giving him a fifty.

“Yeah, but there’s only two of you. Where’s the other eight?”

“They went to the restroom at the rest area a few miles down.”

“Oh.”

“You keep the change, sir,” I said, shaking the ticket master’s hand as the both of us went inside. Mandrake, of course, followed behind.

Okay, so there were a good quarter-million people surrounding the nation’s capitol for the concert, right? I mean, what the hell were the proceeds going to, a Victory Junction gang? That’s like one-and-a-quarter million dollars right there, not counting the tax! I’ve scammed for a whole lot more than that! *clears throat* Anyway, the both of us made our way through the sea of people and took our seats. Mandrake sat down first, followed by myself. Hopefully, this would make all those music-loving fuckers happy, right?

“Alright,” I conjured, playing dumb like always, “So why are we here again?”

“To see the father of your best friend and the Williams’ Syndrome Symphony perform. You know why you’re here.”

Mandrake wasn’t about to be fooled by my tricks. He knew what I was talking about. I just thought that I could get away with it by dicking around. So anyway, why the hell were all these people here? Well, let’s just say that they were here for a concert and the inauguration of yet another immigrant president. So, this Cyrus guy makes his entrance and everyone cheers him, and for what? Him and that bitch, Elizabeth— the same woman that haunts me every day in my sleep, why I don’t know— co-founded a group of one-hundred musicians each with the same disease and they get international fame for it? Bitch, please! I’ve seen better. So, just like any other musical leader would, he turns to his army of musicians, raises his wife’s baton, and begins to lead the group in what I’m pretty sure was a stirring symphonic metal arrangement of Swedish extreme Viking metal band Bathory’s ‘Nordland’. I mean, sure, you’ve got your guitars and your strings and your brass and your winds and all, but anybody in this day and age can make a sound like that with the right technology! It’s nothing new! Sorry about that, guys, it was me ranting again. Expect a lot of this out of me while I continue telling you this story. So anyway, this symphonic metal arrangement of an already awesome nine-and-a-half minute song really captivated the crowd. Hell, I’ll admit to you now that I thought it was good, too. So, when all that was done, Mandrake just flew into the air like a phoenix rising from the ashes— and he did this out of the blue without me even knowing! I looked left and right, but I couldn’t see him.

“Son of a bitch,” I cursed to myself, “Now where did that bastard go?”

And that’s when I looked up to see a figure shrouded in black. It definitely had to be…

“Mandrake.”

…Mandrake. So, at that moment, I spread my wings, taking off after him; and just as I went into flight, another figure in black mysteriously appears. Who or what that figure actually was wasn’t any of my business at the time, but I’ll assume it was another alien.

“What the hell is going on here?” I asked, looking at the strange interaction the two made to each other. No, they didn’t even bother looking at me. They just kept right on with their little game—and I’m not quite sure it was even that.

“Nevik,” Mandrake said to the other alien, “If you want me to lead your people, then count me out of it. You and the family deserted me a lot time ago, and I forgive only you for it, but not them. Their holocaust was my struggle.”

“Ekardnam, you must take that step forward. It is time.”

“Okay, enough of this Dragon-Ball Z shit!” I hollered, trying to grab their attention. “Get to the fighting!” The two just simply ignored me without a care in the world, pretending I wasn’t there.

“No, father. Go.”

“Ekardnam—“

“I SAID GO!” Mandrake screamed, looking to punch him in the heart. And just as he was about to do so, the other alien alluded him, vanishing into thin air. Okay, you know what? Just for the hell of it, I’ll assume the other alien was a bastard, too.

But, anyway, Mandrake just looked into what space used to occupy the other alien’s figure, and his raised his eyebrows and his eyes, mouth slightly agape.

“Mandrake, you never told me what the hell was going on!” I shouted, prompting him to look at me with the same facial gesture, a pair of raised eyebrows and widened eyes and an open mouth. I took that as a threat.

“What?” I asked him, wanting an answer to what I thought was strange behavior.

“You saw the whole thing, didn’t you?” he asked me back.

“Oh, so now you’re blaming me?”

“I wasn’t blaming you, Flint. I was asking you a question.”

“Well, if that’s the case, then yes.”

“Fair enough,” Mandrake concluded. “Let’s just leave this area and pretend nothing happened.”

“Yeah,” I retorted, “How about we do that? It would be a hell of a way to go.”

“You follow me this time, okay?”

“Whatever.

And the both of us just headed off, pretending none of this had ever happened.