Chapter 16

6 DEGREES OF DECAPTATION

a blog mystery adventure thing

Chapter 16: Blood on the Snow, Snow on the Ground, Ground on the Rock, etc...

"Are we there yet?" asked Saccharine, "this icy wind is not good for my skin, and it's giving me split ends."

"We're almost there," said Gaston LaFarge as he checked his notes and his map. The lost treasure of the Albanian Budgie was almost in his steely graspy grasping grasp. "Just over one more mountain."

"That's what you said three mountains ago," replied Saccharine.

"It's not my fault that Furious D has lousy handwriting," said LaFarge. "Though everyone knows that illegible handwriting is a sign of true genius."

"What?"

"Why did I say that?" asked LaFarge.

"He's narrating our scene again," said Saccharine.

"I hate it when he does that," said LaFarge. "He's such an asshole awesome genius. Dammit! Now he's rewriting my dialogue!"

"Let's keep going," said Saccharine, "maybe if we don't do anything interesting he'll go narrate someone else. Though I do wish he didn't write me wearing a miniskirt and a tube top in the Himalayas it's frikkin' freezing."

"I'm not complaining," said LaFarge.

When LaFarge regained consciousness he realized that Saccharine had taken his winter coat.

"I hate it when he departs from first person narration."

#

WHOMP!

GiGi stepped back from the heavy oak door of the abandoned Himalayan synagogue. Outside, our hero, the dashing, handsome swashbuckler, private eye and over all sex machine Furious D was battling for his life against a pack of enraged Yeti. GiGi was feeling a little guilty about forcing him outside to face certain death at the hands of semi-mythical beast men.

"I'm feeling a little guilty about forcing him outside to face certain death at the hands of semi-mythical beast men," said GiGi.

"I know," said Playful1, "I read the narration."

"Wait a minute," said GiGi. "If Furious D is outside getting a royal ass whupping, who is narrating this scene?"

Playful1 shrugged.

"Post modern fiction is pointlessly confusing," said GiGi. "I thought it was annoying enough when he was narrating LaFarge and Saccharine's scenes."

Suddenly the door burst open. The bar splitting into a thousand splinters.

"Furious D!" exclaimed my two sidekicks.

"Yeah it's me," I said, tossing the carcass of a dead Yeti at their feet. "The abominable snowmen are all dead."

"How did you beat them all?" asked Playful1.

"Kicking ass is my business," I replied, dragging in another carcass. "And business was mighty good tonight."

"Why are you bringing them in here?" asked GiGi.

"Yeti pelts make great carpeting," I answered. "Don't you know where shag carpeting comes from?"

"Now I wish I don't," said Playful1.

"Plus," I added, "they taste like a salty beef."

"Gross!"

"Don't be a baby."

"I'll be deciding who gets to be a baby tonight," said a voice behind me.

I spun around and saw my arch-foe Gaston LaFarge, his femme-fatale partner Saccharine, and an assortment of goons. All of them were pointing guns at us.

"So," said LaFarge. "Who'd have guessed that we'd both end up in the temple where the Albanian Budgie was hidden?"

GiGi raised her hand.

"I did," she said. "Furious D's a lazy writer. And I'm a big poopy-head. Oh very grown up Mr. Narrator."

"Well," I said to LaFarge, "what do we do next?"

"I'm leaning towards shooting you," said LaFarge. "Then taking the Budgie for myself."

Saccharine coughed.

"For me and Saccharine," he added.

"NOT SO FAST!" boomed a voice from the depths of the temple.

All of us looked into the shadows and gasped in surprise.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Chapter 15

6 DEGREES OF DECAPITATION

a blog adventure mystery thriller novel thingamabob

CHAPTER 15: MURDER AND MAYHEM IN THE MOUNTAINS OF MADNESS

"Was that really the cry of the Yeti?" asked Playful1.

"Yes," I answered.

"You're not shitting us?" asked GiGi.

"I shit you not," I said.

"I can't believe that we're lost in the Himalayas with a Yeti," said Playful1.

"Thanks for the recap," I said. "Now can we finish climbing this mountain? We have a villain to foil and treasure to find."

"I got nothing better to do," added GiGi with a shrug.

"Yeah," added Playful1. "According to Jim is in reruns anyway."

"Then let's go," I said, turning to come face to face with a fearsome looking Yeti. It looked down at me with fearsome eyes, and bared its mighty teeth. And let me tell you, an extra breath mint would have been really welcome at that moment.

"ROOOOAAAARRR!" bellowed the massive beast.

"Looking for a scrap, eh?" I said, setting my fists to 'anhialate.' "Come on girls and Chompy, there's only one of them, we can take him."

I turned to see only footprints where GiGi, Playful1 and Chompy stood, and they were heading away from me and the Yeti.

"Son of a..." I was about to say something nasty when the giant Yeti said something surprising.

"Friend?" muttered the Yeti, holding his hands out in peaceful supplication.

"Oh," I said, "you want me to be your friend?"

"Yes," grunted the Yeti, "and if you become my friend you can visit my website and see sexy webcam pics of all my hot friends for only $19.99 a month."

This was even worse than I thought. Luckily I had my climbing pistol.

BANG!

The Yeti-Spammer's brains painted a gooey red and pink streak across the normally pink snow. The hairy beast fell over like a big hairy tree and landed in the snow with a thud. I was just about to take a whiz on the dead creature for wasting my time with spam when a voice came from behind me.

"Need any help Furious?" asked GiGi from her hiding place, Chompy the Badger was also hiding in her sweater and was refusing to come out.

"Now you come to help," I said sarcastically.

"Are you okay?" asked Playful1.

"Yes," I said, "turned out to be a pr0n spammer yeti."

"Eeeew," said the girls.

"Can I have a moment of privacy," I said, "I need to make a last statement about our bogus friend here, and you're making me pee shy."

#

A minute later we were back on our trail heading for the lost Albanian Budgie. The wind was whipping us hard, forcing us to find shelter. I don't know where the wind got the whips, or how it was able to hold them, but that didn't matter. We needed to get indoors fast.

"There's a small abandoned temple over there," I said, pointing to the small abandoned temple in a fit of repetitive narration. We ran to the small stone building, and I slammed the heavy wooden door behind us. I heaved up a heavy wooden beam and used it to bar the door, so the wind or anything else couldn't open it without our permission.

"Wait a minute," said GiGi, "this isn't a Buddhist temple, it's a Jewish synagogue."

"Maybe that's why it's abandoned," I said. "Not enough of a congregation in the Himalayas. It's almost night, we should make camp here. Now who wants to share my sleeping bag?"

When I regained consciousness I decided that there were enough sleeping bags for everyone. I also noticed that GiGi and Playful1 had a campfire ready and were roasting marshmallows.

"How's your head?" asked GiGi.

"Surprisingly resilient," I said, wondering how many brain cells were left. "I think I'll have one of those pre-made dinners."

Playful1 tossed a small plastic package and I took it over to the microwave oven. I was just about to ask where the microwave and the electricity to run it had come from when there was a heavy thud on the door.

"Furious D!" growled a voice from outside. Followed immediately by a chorus of other nasty animalistic voices. It sounded auditions for a boy band out there, but I knew what it was.

"It's the Yetis!" I said. "They've come for revenge for spoiling their friend spam-scam."

"How do they know your name?" asked Playful1.

"I think writing it in the snow next to their dead friend was a tactical error on my part," I said.

"What do we do?" said GiGi. "That door can't hold them out forever."

"They want me," I said. "I'll go out and face them. Maybe they'll spare you."

"Great idea," said the girls, and Chompy nodded.

"You know," I said, "it's tradition for you to try to stop me from making the ultimate sacrifice."

"We're not traditional people." said Playful1 opening the door.

The next thing I knew my butt was out in the cold snow, it was dark, the wind howled like a madman, and I was surrounded by angry, hungry eyes.

"Fine," I said, "if this is my doom, bring it on beeotch!"

TO BE CONTINUED...

Chapter 14

6 DEGREES OF DECAPITATION

a nonsensical blog-novel thingy that shouldn't offend anyone since the main character is the biggest idiot in the story... really...

CHAPTER 14: AN IDIOT ABROAD

I remember everything spinning, the story not making sense anymore, and then the plane George Lucas has kindly loaned us crashed for reasons too nonsensical to repeat.

"Are you okay?" I asked my companions GiGi and Playful1.

"I'm okay," said Playful1. "I landed on something bouncy... why does this plane of a bunch of inflatable Princess Leias?"

I shrugged and turned to GiGi.

"I'm okay," said GiGi, "my big hair cushioned the impact. Thank god for quadruple strength hairspray."

Chompy, my part-time partner in crime-busting and full time badger gave me a thumbs up. At least he wasn't talking anymore.

"I'm going to see what's outside," I said as my manly muscles forced open the hatch. I looked outside and saw a bunch of people staring at us. I turned back to my companions. "It looks like we crashed somewhere in India. I better handle talking to the natives."

I stepped out of the wreckage of the plane and held my hands up high. "Do not be afraid. I have come from the sky."

"Are you all right?" asked one of the natives.

"Yes," I said, "and I am glad you speak my language. I'm Furious D."

"I'm Avinash Sanjayaputrapetallan," answered the native.

"There's no way that could possibly pronounce that or spell it correctly ever again in the narration, so I will call you Bob," I said, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder.

"You crushed my Lexus," said the native I christened Bob, "and what the hell are you talking about?"

"Yes Bob," I said, "our flying machine crashed." Using the international language of hand gestures to explain our situation.

"I know your plane crashed," answered Bob, "you came in a tailspin like someone had wrecked your avionics, and then you crushed my new car. And why are you waving your hands like an idiot, are you all right?"

"We've lost count of the number of times he's been knocked on the head," said GiGi, coming up behind me.

"Relax," I told GiGi. "I have everything under control." I then turned back to Bob and said: "I know our ways and advanced technology seem strange and magical to you..."

"Who do I sue about my car?" asked Bob, "my iPod, my laptop, and my Blackberry were in there. I needed the laptop and the Blackberry for my meeting with Lockheed Martin, and your friend Furious is babbling like an idiot."

"Look for a guy named Gaston LaFarge," said Playful1, "he sabotaged our plane at the end of the last chapter."

"I thought that was Seamus?" asked GiGi.

"Same difference," said Playful1.

Chompy nodded.

"I think your friend might need a doctor," said Bob, pointing at me, "my wife's a neurosurgeon and from what she's told me, I think he's having some sort of episode."

"I am not having an episode," I said, "I'm having a chapter. This is a novel, not a TV show."

"I'm calling for an ambulance," said Bob, taking out a cell phone.

"I'm fine Bob," I declared, "so you can tell that purple octopus on your shoulder to stop dancing the marimba... why is the ground spinning?"

Then I passed out.

#

"Okay," said GiGi, opening the door to my padded cell. "I convinced the judge to let you go."

"Great," I said, my voice slightly muffled by the straight-jacket I was trying to wriggle out of. "How did you do it?"

"I wore a low cut top," said GiGi. "And I told him that you're not an obnoxious and ignorant lunatic, but a run of the mill idiot with multiple head injuries."

"Great story," I said.

"What story?" asked GiGi. "Anyway, we have to leave the country, Playful1 and Chompy are talking to a travel agent. Do you want me to help you get out of that straight jacket."

"No," I said as I finally slipped off the straight-jacket, "but you could snap my shoulder back into place. I appear to have dislocated it in my escape."

"Sure," said GiGi, taking my arm.

#

When I regained consciousness I was in the back of a rented red Range Rover running roughly over a road.

"He's finally awake," said Playful1.

"How's your shoulder?" asked GiGi.

"Fine," I said, hiding the pain behind a mask of stoic masculinity, and anyone who says that I was crying like a little girl is a damn dirty liar. "Where are we heading?"

"The Mumbai airport," said Playful1 who was driving the car. "I thought we have to go to China."

"We're still in India?" I asked.

"Yep," answered Playful1.

"Then we can use a shortcut to my shortcut," I said, "turn this car around. We have to go to Himalayas!"

"That's on the other side of a massive subcontinent," said GiGi. "It would take us days to drive there."

"Don't worry," I said, "I know a shortcut to the shortcut to my shortcut."

"Now you're making as much sense as the last chapter," said Playful1.

"Come on," I said, in a tone that was in no way whiny. "I've been made to look like a complete asshole so far this chapter, I need to be right about something or what's the point of this whole ego-trip."

"Fine," said Playful1, pulling a U-turn.

"Now turn left past the Bollywood musical number," I said, pointing to a side street.

#

One hour and fifteen minutes later we were at the base of the Himalayan Mountain range, and that included an hour shopping for gear at Wal-Mart's mountain climbing department. Most of that time looking for a snowsuit in hot-pink for GiGi.

"You do know that this is a heavily guarded border," said Playful1.

I shrugged as I zipped up my new mountaineering jacket. "Shouldn't be that hard."

"I guess after all we've done violating an international border is minor," said GiGi.

"Besides," I said, "we don't want the Budgie to fall into evil hands."

"Actually," said Playful1, "I'm sort of ambivalent on that issue. I mean I'd like to kick his ass for trying to kill us all those times, but Budgie wise, I don't really care."

"We won't have a story if we don't go," I said.

An hour later we were halfway up Mount Fistinyerface, the nastiest peak in the whole mountain range. Then we heard something that made my blood congeal in terror.

"AAAAAARRROOOOOOGGGAAAAAHH!"

"What was that?" asked GiGi.

"That was the call of the Yeti," I answered.

"The Yeti!" said Playful1. "That's sound scary."

"You know what's scarier," I said, "that was a mating call."

TO BE CONTINUED....

Chapter 13

6 DEGREES OF DECAPITATION

a parody-adventure mystery blog-novel thing which has no connection to reality, good writing, or anything worthy of litigation.

CHAPTER 13: A SERIES OF INCONTINENT EVENTS, BY ORANGEY CRICKET

"A toast, to evil, Madame Saccarine," said Gaston LaFarge, large and in charge of his body again, as he clicked his champagne glass against hers.

"To evil," replied Madame Saccarine. "I hope that mutant rooster of yours doesn't make too much of a mess in my bordello."

"Once we have the budgie," said LaFarge as he adjusted the seat on his private jet en route to China, "you won't have to worry about roosters or their messes."

"What if Furious D somehow beats your cock?" asked Saccharine, having no idea of the humour embedded in the sentence.

"If he beats my cock," said LaFarge, "then he'll have to face some ninjas I hired to slice him into ribbons."

"You think of everything," said Saccharine.

"Well I think we were lucky to find each other on that dating web site," added LaFarge wistfully. "It's hard for a man like me to find a woman that is as interested in fisting as I am."

"Don't you mean fishing?" asked Saccharine.

"Yeah," said LaFarge, "I said 'fishing'that's it, just fishing."

"I just realized something," said Saccharine.

"What?"

"If Furious D is getting killed in Cannes," asked Saccharine, "then who is narrating this scene."

"Yeah," said LaFarge, looking around. "What the hell is going on here. You can't have a first person narrator describing scenes he's not in. It's not good writing in fact it's a complete load of---

#

"That was one hell of a fight," said GiGi as we stepped out of the rented limo onto the tarmac of the Cannes airport. George Lucas's plane was fuelled and waiting for us.

"Yep," I said while laconically brushing a piece of ninja cowl off my suit. "But I've been in wilder ones."

"I can't believe I punched so many ninjas," said Playful1, cleaning off her new ninja sword. "Catching those throwing stars out of the air was pretty cool."

"It's nothing for someone with cat-like reflexes like mine," I said modestly, "and they're called shuriken, if you want to be accurate."

"Aren't I silly," said Playful1, "tee-hee."

"Let's not forget Chompy," said GiGi, holding the sleeping badger in her arms. "He took out five of them. And if he hadn't gotten the one with the flamethrower, we'd all be toast."

"He always sleeps like a log after a good night of brawling and mauling," I said as we boarded the plane, "by the time he wakes up, we'll be in China."

"Don't you think that skipping a massive fight scene is a bit of a cheat?" asked GiGi.

"Fight scenes are a lot of work," I answered, "and it's late and I'm tired."

"We're all set for Beijing sir," announced the pilot over the intercom, "fasten your seatbelts."

#

"Wake up Furious!" screamed a woman's voice.

Tyra Banks stopped feeding me grapes and said. "Who's yelling, it's completely spoiling my horny."

I was just about to find out when I woke up...

"What's happening?" I asked, rubbing my sleepy eyes.

"The pilot bailed out while we were asleep," screamed GiGi, hysterical with fright. "We're somewhere over Asia, and we're gonna crash!"

"Again?" I asked. "Damn it!"

"The controls have been smashed," said Playful1. "And the parachutes are gone."

"Why did the pilot betray us?" I asked.

"Because I was never working for you?" said Seamus.

"Seamus?"

"That's right," said Seamus. "I took you up disguised as your pilot, then I bailed out, leaving you to die! Bwah-hah-hah-hah-hah!"

"Wait a minute," I said. "How can you be explaining this if you bailed out? And how the hell could you have disguised yourself as a pilot when you're just a mental abberation of a guy who is thousands of miles away and has no flying ability?"

"How do I know," said Seamus, "I didn't write this shit. Gotta go now, because apparently my presence here doesn't make any narrative sense."

And with that Seamus left, and with Seamus left any chance of this story making a lick of logical sense.

"We're all gonna die!" screamed GiGi.

Chompy slapped GiGi across the face and screamed: "Get yourself together!"

"Wait a minute," said GiGi, calming down, "Chompy doesn't talk, he's a badger."

"Great," I said, "I'm going to die and not only will it be a pointless death, but it will completely lack verisimilitude."

"What's very sill mill vanilli?" asked Playful1.

"Verisimilitude is..."

And then the plane crashed.

TO BE CONTINUED..

Chapter 12

6 Degrees of Decapitation

A hardboiled blog novel parody thingie that is a complete and total work of fiction, any real people mentioned here, are mentioned strictly for the purposes of parody, so don't sue.

CHAPTER 12: DEATH RIDES A CHICKEN

Where was I?

Oh yeah, a giant rooster had just locked its beak on my throat and was about to take my head off.

Lucky for me, I just happened to have a black belt in Karate.

I took the belt out of my pocket and wrapped it around the monstrous chicken's throat and pulled tight with all my mighty strength. The humongous rooster let go of my neck and started struggling.

"Oh my!" cried out GiGi. "He's choking the chicken!"

"A little help would be nice," I said as the giant rooster thrashed madly.

"We're the damsels in distress," answered Playful1, "and besides, I'm still annoyed that you implied that I'm some sort of crazy cat-lady in the last chapter."

"What about you?" I asked Chompy, but he was busy laying a severed thrashing on Marcel, brothel doorman and giant rooster handler. I wasn't going to call him rat-faced anymore, because he needed a face in order to be rat-faced.

It was then that I realized that I was going to have to defeat this piece of genetically engineered poultry all by myself.

It also happened to be the exact same time that I realised the rooster had leapt out the window and took me with it.

There are some that still speak of that night in Cannes, and of the high pitched and girlish scream that was heard as a window broke, but they're all damn dirty liars.

I let out a manly war cry as the giant rooster and I fell out the shattered window and plunged to what had to be our certain deaths. My mighty fists pounded the huge bird's head while he clawed at me with his wings, pecked at me with his beak, and battered me with his flapping wings.

We were going down, but we were both gonna make sure the other made it to hell first.

Damn, this had to be one long fall to use up all this narration.

Suddenly, the fall, and my narration of it ended with a meaty thud and a splat.

"Sacre merde!" screamed an onlooker, "ze tres grandes poulet and ze devilishly handsome man has crushed ze Americain filmmaker Michael Moore!"

"Get me to New York!" moaned the battered body of Michael Moore, "Cause I'll be damned if I get stuck in a public hospital!"

I rolled off of Michael Moore and sprung sprightly to my feet.

The massive rooster, a little battered also got up, and scratched the cobblestones in defiance.

"Bring it on," I said, "or are you chicken!"

The genetically gigantified rooster let out a sqwawk and charged. I leapt into the air and delivered a powerful roundhouse kick to its head. The enormous bird stumbled sideways across the street and ploughed through a gaggle of paparazzi gathered around a red carpet.

I didn't give the feathered bastard a chance to breath. I lunged at the rooster, punching and kicking like a man possessed. The rooster was tougher than I thought because he fought right back, and soon we were a jumble of feathers and fists rolling down the steeply sloping street towards the Mediterranean Ocean.

There was a splash and I suddenly found myself in dark water, wedged between to massive yachts. The only sign of my opponent was a few feathers floating in the water.

POW!

Who knew a giant rooster could be such a powerful swimmer.

I certainly didn't, or I wouldn't have let myself get literally punched out of the water by it.

I hit the wharf hard, and saw stars. Specifically the stars of Ocean's 13 all gathered around the dock.

"Yo dude," said Brad Pitt, "what are you doing?"

"Fighting a giant rooster," I answered. "Did anyone see where it went?"

"Is that it?" said George Clooney, pointing to a giant rooster reading a newspaper by a lightpole.

"That's not the one I'm fighting," I said. "Maybe you folks should go someplace safe, considering you Hollywood folks have very few practical skills."

"I know a good card trick," said Clooney, taking out a deck of cards. "Now pick a card... any card..."

Clooney attempted to fan out the cards, but only succeeded in spilling them on the dock.

"Don't worry," said Clooney summoning his butler to pick up the cards, "I'll get it right this time."

His butler arrived, but there was something odd about him. He seemed quite large for a butler, and had feathers.

"Look out!" I cried, but it was too late. The rooster leapt out of his butler's uniform and pecked George Clooney's head clean off.

I can still remember his last words: "Not the face! It's all I got!"

The rest of the cast screamed and ran for the big yacht. I got ready for a battle royale with cheese.

The giant rooster tossed George Clooney's carcass aside and looked at me with it's beady chicken eyes.

I stepped back to the edge of the dock. Behind me, the big yacht's engine roared to life, stirring up the water with its propellers.

I got into my fighting stance. The rooster stepped back.

Then it charged, it's bloodstained beak ready to carve me a new one.

I stepped to the side, spinning into another roundhouse kick, this time to the monstrosity's ample backside.

The giant rooster let out a sqwawk of terror and plunged into the churning waters and the spinning propeller blades. Blood and feathers bubbled to the surface. Not even Colonel Sanders could make anything useful out of that.

I turned from the battlefield, bloodied, battered, but victorious.

#

I found Chompy, GiGi and Playful1 in the bar of our hotel. Playful1 was on the courtesy phone.

"What do mean animal control took all of my cats?" asked Playful1 to the phone. "But what will I have for catapult practice?"

"You beat that rooster?" asked GiGi as I took a stool next to her.

"Yep. Let me buy the next round," I said, passing a credit card to the bartender. "Martinis for the ladies, a bottle of bourbon for me, and a banana daquiri for the badger."

"Oui oui Monsieur Clooney," said the bartender.

"Why do you have George Clooney's credit card?" asked Playful1, hanging up the phone.

"You have to read the rest of the chapter," I answered, not eager to repeat myself. "So, did you ladies just sit here drinking while I was fighting for my life?"

"Yep," the answered and Chompy nodded.

"Lovely," I said. "What about all we've been through?"

"LaFarge has the translation of the map," said Playful1, "that means he going to find the Budgie."

"What if I told you that the map has two routes to the Albanian Budgie," I said, "and that I told him the long way, while I memorized the shortcut?"

"Really?" asked the girls.

I nodded.

"All we have to do is go to China," I said.

"What about the ninjas?" asked GiGi.

"What ninjas?"

"The ones that just walked into the bar," said Playful1, pointing to an group of ninjas blocking every exit. Their swords were out, and all were staring at us with cold deadly eyes.

Why is everybody trying to kill me?

TO BE CONTINUED

Chapter 11-Creative Bankruptcy

6 DEGREES OF DECAPITATION

A blog-novel mystery-thriller adventure thang

CHAPTER 11: THE BACKSIDE OF DEATH

I hate days where I fall through a trap door into certain death.

I really hate days when I get stuck halfway through the trap door.

"Two words Furious D," said my mortal enemy Gaston LaFarge, "Slim-Fast."

"You're not exactly svelte yourself there LaFarge," I said, trying to hold onto what little was left of my dignity, and wondering why I would include this in a story I was writing.

"I have an excuse," said LaFarge defensively, "my other personality likes his carbs."

"Shut yer cake-hole," barked LaFarge's other personality, an Irishman named Seamus, who then clocked himself on the head with his own pistol. LaFarge went limp and almost fell on the floor, but straightened himself out.

"Now that Frenchy LaFarge is knocked out we can talk like civilized men. I'll make you a deal," said Seamus, now fully in charge.

"Wait a minute," I said, pulling myself out of the trapdoor. "How can you knock Lafarge out and stay conscious, you share the same head?"

"Oh," said Seamus, "like you really care about scientific accuracy in this story. Now let's talk deal."

"What kind of a deal?" I asked.

"One where you translate this map," said Seamus, pulling a scroll of ancient papyrus out of his coat pocket. "And then I let you and your friends GiGi and Playful1 go home."

"That's all?" I asked.

"Sure," said Seamus with a smile.

"Do what he says," said GiGi, surrounded by Seamus/LaFarge's leering gunmen. "I don't like the way they're staring at my chest. It's not that brainless drooling stare you do."

"I want to get home too," added Playful1. "I have a lot of cats that need feeding."

"You should listen to them," purred Saccharine as she slinked her way to Seamus/LaFarge's side. "The Budgie means nothing to you, so what harm could translating that last part of the map do you?"

"All right," I said, knowing when I've been licked, this time by a cocker spaniel named Defeat. "Let me see the map, a note pad, and a pen."

Seamus passed me the map while Saccharine passed me a notepad and a pen. A few quick notes later and the map was translated.

Seamus snatched the notepad from my hand and looked it over.

"This looks right," said Seamus. "I'd like to thank you Furious D. You're a credit to private dicks everywhere. Now it's time for you to die!"

"Hey," I said, "you said we had a deal!"

"Yeah," said Seamus with a shrug, "but the thing is, though LaFarge and I have very different personalities, we're both assholes."

"Damn," I said. "What are you going to do, shoot me?"

"Nothing that banal," said Seamus, "I have a fate for you and your friends that is very suitable. When I saw it, it reminded me of you."

Saccharine hit a button on her desk, and a bookshelf slid apart, revealing the rat face doorman and...

"Sweet Zombie Monkey-nuts," said GiGi in stunned awe. "That has to be the biggest cock I've ever seen!"

"I've never seen a cock that big!" exclaimed Playful1.

"I've seen bigger," I said nonchalantly.

"It the largest and most vicious genetically engineered fighting rooster the world has ever seen," said Seamus, affectionately stroking his mighty cock. "It can tear apart a Volkswagen with its beak, plus it allows us to use a lot of double entendres for cheap laughs."

"So you got a big chicken," I said, not falling for the old double entendre trap.

"I'd love to stay and watch my giant cock peck you to death," said Seamus, "but Madam Saccharine and I have a date with another bird. A certain Albanian Budgie to be exact."

With that Seamus/LaFarge and his goons left. Leaving me, Playful1, and GiGi alone with the giant mutant monster chicken and his handler, the rat faced doorman.

"So this is your real specialty," I asked rat-face, "handling other men's cocks?"

"My name iz Marcel," declared the doorman. "And I'm sick of you calling me rat-face in the narration! Go get him!"

Marcel let go of the giant rooster's leash and the beast lunged at me, it's beak snapping like a giant snapping thing.

"We're doomed!" declared Playful1. "Doomed as doomed can be! I'll never see all 27 of my cats again!"

"Don't worry," I said, "we have a secret weapon hidden in GiGi's bra! CHOMPY! Get the cock!"

Chompy, my loyal badger friend leapt from the depths of GiGi's cleavage and went right for his target like a meat seeking missile.

Marcel's rat-face convulsed in pain as he screamed a high falsetto.

"Wrong co-" I was about to say, when I felt a giant rooster beak close on my neck.

The damn thing got me.

I was a goner for sure.

TO BE CONTINUED....?

Chapter 10

6 DEGREES OF DECAPITATION

A satirical blog-parody thing that is in no way connected to or endorsed by anything or anyone real nor is it actually connected to any actual quality. So don't sue, cause I got nuttin.

CHAPTER 10: DEADLY DANCE OF THE CANNES CAN

When life tosses you lemons, you make lemonade.

When life tosses you a machine gun toting maniac in the middle of the Cannes International Film Festival, you make punch.

POW!

I gave the maniac one of my patented left hooks, then a right cross, then a hot cross bun, followed by my personal favourite, the bag tag. Our assailant fell like a sack of boiled meat under the onslaught of my furious fighting fists.

"Die scumbag!" I bellowed loud enough to drown out the roar of the private jets overhead.

"Furious!" screamed GiGi, her Dolly Parton disguise jiggling like mad. "That's not a killer!"

"It's Sylvester Stallone," added Playful1, ruining the almost perfect illusion of her Willie Nelson disguise, "he's just doing a publicity stunt for Rambo IV."

Chompy, disguised as Courtney Love for reasons that make sense only the snake pit of his little badger mind nodded.

I paused and looked down at the man I had been so vigorously pounding. Beneath the blood and the bruising it really was Sylvester Stallone.

"You really are Sylvester Stallone," I said in repetitive amazement.

Stallone nodded.

"Die scumbag!" I bellowed as my fists resumed their bloody work. "This one's for Rhinestone! This one's for Cobra, and this one's for..."

#

One hour, twelve cops, an escape from a paddy wagon, and a car chase ending in a twenty vehicle pile-up later we were at the Lucasfilm suite at Les Auberge Expensif. We had been forced to ditch our disguises, what with arrest warrants out for Julio Iglesias, Dolly Parton, Willie Nelson, and Courtney Love. The French reputation for tolerance apparently ends at assault, resisting arrest, unlawful escape, reckless driving, and destruction of property.

What a bunch of prudes. Getting so you can't have any fun.

"What a day," said GiGi, as she flopped down on the couch upholstered in imported Jawa leather.

"Totally," said Playful1 rubbing the rash her Willie Nelson disguise left on her chin. "I'm calling room service for something for this rash. Damn cheap disguises."

Chompy just grumbled and waddled over to the mini-bar. I didn't mind, unlike a lot of other badgers, Chompy was decidedly less psychotic when drunk.

"Yeah," I said sitting in an easy chair. "I've been running around like a maniac since this whole business got started, I haven't even had a chance to read my mail."

That reminded me.

I still had that letter in my jacket pocket. The pink envelope with the mysterious floral scent.

Since we had some time to kill before we went after the next piece of the map, needing the cloak of darkness, I decided to read it.

I pulled out the envelope and opened it. Out flopped a small business card....

...and the next piece of the map.

I had the damn thing on me the whole time.

I picked up the business card, it read:

Saccharine's Shack de Sugar

227 Rue De Julianee

Cannes, France.

And it also happened to be the very same address the map was pointing too.

Someone was playing a game that was either extremely intricate, or extremely stupid. I had to find out, and the next piece of the puzzle was at Saccharine's Sack De Sugar.

I knew about the place and it's reputation. It wasn't the sort of place you take two, relatively, innocent and naive Americans like GiGi and Playful1 to without some careful diplomacy.

"So," I said in my most diplomatic tone, "who wants to go with me to a whorehouse tonight?"

When I regained consciousness I explained the piece of the map and the business card and managed to make them understand that it was purely for solving this mystery. And any services I may procure while there with George Lucas's credit card, will be purely for investigative reasons.

I still don't know where GiGi got the frying pan from.

#

It was close to midnight before the heat on the streets cooled down enough to make it safe for us to head down to the Rue De Julianee, which was lined with ornately decorated clubhouses for the rich and decadent, and the richly decadent, and some even served those rich Decadent chocolate chip cookies you get in Canada...

...But I digress.

I gave the door to the Shack De Sugar the secret knock, and when I got the 'two-bits' response, a small peephole slid open.

I flashed the beady little eyes my new wallet and the door opened.

"Welcome Monsieur Stallone," said the doorman, a rat-like fellow with a pencil moustache who smelled of clove cigarettes and old spice, and I'm not talking about the cologne.

"Did you steal Stallone's wallet?" asked Playful1.

"Let's just say that I collected reparations for for too many bad movies," I answered. "Plus, I'm a bit of a klepto. How's Chompy doing?" I asked GiGi.

"I think he's enjoying his stay a little more than a badger should," she answered, adjusting her bra to handle the extra weight of a slightly robust badger.

I turned to the rat-like door man.

"Okay Willard," I said flashing one of Stallone's hundred Euro bills, "I want to speak to the management. I want to speak to Madame Saccharine."

"It will take more than a hundred to open her door," sneered the doorman with contempt.

"How about I toss in an extra---FIVE!" I said just as I delivered a short sharp jab to his gut.

The punch must have sloshed around a lot of wine and escargot, because he went down on his knees.

"I'm sick and tired of getting the run around," I said. "Now you can take the hundred, and tell Madame Saccharine that Furious D is here to see her about a bird, or I could pay you another twenty."

The doorman did the math and then followed in the great tradition of the French nation.

He surrendered.

#

"You gave poor Pierre a nasty shock," purred Saccharine as she languidly lounged on a sofa in her office shaped like a heart. Her lips were poutier than a teenager on an Emo bender, and wore an outfit so tight it left just enough to the imagination.

She was undressing me with her eyes, which was a pretty slick trick, but I had to stop her before she revealed my official Spider-Man underpants.

"First business," I said, shooing her eyes away and zipping up my fly, "then funtime."

"We're here too," said GiGi, pointing to herself and Playful1.

"There's plenty of me to go around." I said.

When I regained consciousness, I decided to skip talking funtime for now, because it was giving me a frying pan sized headache, and stick to business.

"You seek ze Albanian Budgie," said Saccharine passing me an icepack for my head.

"Yeah," I answered. "Someone sent me a part of the map, that tells me the next part of the map is right here."

"I'm afraid that I sent you that map," answered Saccharine.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because I made her do it," said a voice I didn't expect to hear.

I turned around and came face to face with....

GASTON LAFARGE

Notorious dealer in weapons, antiquities, antique weapons, and weapon shaped antiquities.

"Aren't you supposed to be dead?" I asked.

"Well Monsieour D," said LaFarge with a Gallic sneer, "when you shoot a man three times in the head, stab him in the chest, set him on fire and throw him off a high bridge, you better make sure he's dead."

"I thought I did," I said. "So you were behind all this."

A dozen goons stomped into the room, their pistols drawn, GiGi, Playful1, Saccharine, and myself all put up our hands.

"Yes," answered LaFarge.

"But why were you trying to kill me and make me find the Albanian Budgie at the same time?" I asked. "I mean, you can do one, or the other, but you've been trying to do both."

"I have a multiple personality disorder," answered LaFarge, drawing a menacing looking pistol of his own.

"No he doesn't," said LaFarge with a decidedly Irish accent, "it's not a bloody disorder. I'm the only one will to talk reason. Hi, me name's Seamus."

"Shut up Seamus," said LaFarge, to himself.

"You shut yer cake-hole froggy," replied Seamus, to himself. "D's the only one who can interpret all the pieces of the map. We need him to find the budgie."

"But I want to kill him you bog trodding potato boiler!"

"Find Budgie, then kill you cigarette sucking surrender monkey!"

I was just about to suggest that we leave to let Gaston and Seamus work this out, but I heard a click, and then felt the floor beneath me disappear.

It was a trap door, and I was falling fast...

TO BE CONTINUED!

Chapter 9

6 Degrees of Decapitation

A Mystery/Thriller/Adventure thing that is a complete work of baldfaced fiction, especially the parts involving real people, so don't sue me, cause I got nothing.

CHAPTER 9: FILM FESTIVAL OF DOOM!

"Hell no," I said.

"Shouldn't we do something about George Lucas before we go to Cannes?" asked Playful1.

I looked down, lying at my feet was George Lucas, the mind control device Chompy disabled in Chapter 8 still clamped on his neck.

"Do I have to?" I asked in a tone that cannot be described in any way as 'whiny' and anyone who tells you otherwise is a damnable liar.

"That would be the right thing to do," added GiGi, Chompy nodded in agreement.

"Et tu Chompy?" I asked, "You used to be amoral about stuff, what happened?"

Chompy shrugged.

"Fine," I said, "I'll take off the mind control device, since I'm suddenly no longer allowed to leave him a vegetable. I need a set of screwdrivers, a wire cutter, and a hacksaw."

"Coming up," said GiGi reaching into her bra.

"Now," I said, "this is a very delicate operation, but luckily I have the hands of a surgeon." I reached into my pockets and took out the hands, which I had won in a game of Saudi Hold'Em Poker from a heart surgeon from Lubbock Texas and placed them under George Lucas's head to prop it up.

#

"That was an incredible feat you did," said Playful1 sipping on a martini in her seat in the Lucasfilm Company jet.

"Nothing a man of my brilliance, and modesty couldn't accomplish," I replied, leaning back in my plush seat. "I was a little worried when his head fell off, but... oh, you know the rest of the story."

"Nice of him to lend us his company jet to take us to the Cannes Film Festival," said GiGi, doing her part in the cause of plot exposition.

"All part of his penance for creating Jar-Jar Binks. Plus I have the keys to the Lucasfilm luxury hotel suite," I said, jingling the keys in victory.

"He gave you those too?" asked Playful1.

"Yeah," I replied, "he gave them to me...."

"Are those his house and car keys too?" asked GiGi.

"Enough talk about keys," I said, sticking the evidence, I mean keys, back in my pocket. "The people who used a mind control device on George Lucas and framed me, are deadly and powerful. If we are going to beat them to the Albanian Budgie we're going to have to be clever. We need clever, nay, brilliant disguises."

"I got just the thing," said GiGi, pulling a case, much to the surprise of everyone, from beneath her seat. It was marked: Professor Paparazzi's Celebrity Disguise Kits.

"It's what the paparazzi use to fake pictures of celebrities doing stupid things," said GiGi.

"How come you have it?" I asked.

"I do have a life outside of this story," answered GiGi, "plus I got it at a yard sale, since there's never a shortage of celebrities doing stupid things it's never been used."

"Let's get to work."

#

"Well," I said, adjusting the tie on my tuxedo, which was part of my Julio Iglesias disguise, "don't I look smooth."

"Yee-hah!" said GiGi, looking like puberty had been inordinately generous in her white sequined Dolly Parton disguise.

"I see you're getting into character," I said.

"What character?" asked GiGi.

"Why do I have to be Willie Nelson?" asked Playful1.

"You drew the short straw," I answered. "Besides, you're too sober to pull off the Lindsay Lohan disguise."

"Couldn't I have been Courtney Love?" asked Playful1.

"For some reason Chompy called dibs on that," I answered. "And I don't want to know why, so I'm not going to challenge him on that."

#

We stepped off the plane and into the blinding glare of the Mediterranean sun.

At one time Cannes was a sleepy little coastal town described as the unshaven armpit of France in its own travel brochures. Then they rewrote those brochures and started the film festival hoping some movie glamour would rub off on the town.

I'm not it was glamour, but there was certainly something in the air, smelling vaguely of cigarrettes, car exhaust, suntan lotion, overpriced food and drink, pretension, and above all, money.

It was the smell of Hollywood.

"Julio!" screamed a woman in oversized sunglasses and and an overpriced designer dress. "Won't you introduce me to your Willie?"

"What?" I asked, having never been propositioned like this in any situation outside of my brief career as Lance Goodthrust, porn star.

"Willie Nelson," said the Lady, "Oh you must all sing for us!"

Suddenly we were surrounded by a gaggle of international celebrities, press, and hangers-on. Our disguises were a little too good.

"Okay," I said, clearing my throat, preparing to wow them with my dulcet tones.

To all ze girls I've loved before....

Who travelled in and out my door...

It's to you I give my thanks...

Even to the skanks...

Who are why when I pee I get sore...

The crowd cheered. It was working.

"Nooo!" screamed a voice from the crowd.

The crowd parted revealing a burly man with a machine gun.

"You're all a bunch of fakes!" declared the man with the machine gun. "And for that you must die!"

TO BE CONTINUED....

Chapter 8

6 DEGREES OF DECAPITATION

A Thriller/Adventure/Parody/Satire Thing that I'm just pulling outta my ass so don't sue me for libel if you're in it, because I got nuthin' and it's all a joke anyways...

CHAPTER 8

FURIOUS D & THE WATTLE OF DOOM

"Wake up D!" said a voice in the distance, but I ignored, being too busy frolicking through green forests with a variety of female elves from the Lord of the Rings.

"Wake up!" said the voice again.

"Buzz off," I said, because Cate Blanchett as Galadriel had broken out a bottle of schnapps.

Then I felt a hand slap my face.

The green fields of Lothlorien disappeared, replaced by what could only be the dungeon beneath Industrial Light and Magic.

"You know," I said to GiGi, "you could have just shook me."

"Slapping's more fun," answered GiGi, "I have a latent dominatrix streak."

"It's not that latent," I said, then I looked around the dungeon, and I was very surprised. There was my one-time sidekick Playful1, and the supposedly dead John Travolta and Tom Green.

"Hey Furious," said Playful1, "I must say that your rescues leave something to be desired."

"I came to get you didn't I?" I asked.

"But you're a prisoner now too," replied Playful1.

"It's all part of my plan," I said.

"What's the next part of your plan?" asked Playful1.

"I haven't gone that far yet in the formulating," I answered. I then turned to face Travolta and Green.

"Aren't you two supposed to be dead?" I asked.

The two actors shook their heads, which, though empty, were still attached to their bodies.

"We were kidnapped by guys in Storm trooper outfits while you were knocked out and replaced with animatronic doubles," answered Tom Green.

"What an intricate and utterly pointless plan."

"Yeah," said Travolta. "I'm sorry my mini-bar knocked you out, but you set off the Kirstie Alley trap."

"So that's what that was," I said, rubbing my sore noggin which has taken one hell of a flogging lately. "How do we get out of here?"

"Hmmm," said a gruff voice from the shadows in the far corner, "escape no from here."

"What?"

"It's the crazy guy," said Playful1.

A figure emerged from the shadows, his eyes were crazed, his hair disheveled and there was a Yoda puppet on his left hand.

"Mark Hamill?" I said in amazement.

"Yeah," said Hamill in his normal voice, "I've been trapped down here for years. For years I was down here alone, with no one to talk to but this Yoda puppet-"

"Hmm," said Hamill through the Yoda puppet, "Go off his nut he did. Too much jerkin' his gherkin."

"Shut up Yoda," said Hamill. "I don't need you anymore, I have real people to talk to now. You are real, aren't you?"

"Yes," I said.

"That's good," said Hamill, "because I ate some mold off the walls one day and spent a month talking to the Teletubbies."

"Are those real?" asked Yoda, pointing to GiGi's chest.

GiGi punched Hamill in the face.

"He said it," pleaded Hamill pointing to the puppet.

"Hmm," said the Yoda puppet, "escape we could, but big wussy Hamill is."

"What?" I asked.

"Sorry," said Mark Hamill, "but Yoda here is crazy, he thinks I can do all that crazy Jedi shit. But I'm just a goddamn actor!"

"Explain," I said.

Mark Hamill pointed to the heavy steel door at the far end of the cell.

"Yoda thinks I can open that door with my Jedi powers," said Hamill, "but I'm just a goddamn actor! AN ACTOR!"

"Calm down," I said. "Have you actually tried it?"

"What?"

"Hmmm, tried he has not," said Yoda.

"Why not try it now?" I asked.

"Okay," said Hamill holding his hand out towards the door. His face crunched up with concentration.

"Do you think this will work?" asked GiGi.

I shook my head.

"It should shut him up for a while," I said. "And that will give me time to think."

Suddenly the door clanked.

"What the hell?" said Playful1, "It's working. It's actually working!"

"I'm really a Jedi!" screamed Mark Hamill.

"Hmmm," said Yoda, "great powers chronic masturbation bestows."

The door swung open with the creak of unoiled hinges.

"CHOMPY!" I declared as my long-time buddy waddled into the cell, the keys to the steel door locked in his teeth. I thought he had been blown up with GiGi's car, but there he was, a little singed around the edges, but otherwise healthy.

"I'm not a Jedi," said Mark Hamill.

"Screw Jedi," said Yoda, "the fucking door is finally fucking open!"

"Let's go," I said as I went out into the hall.

#

The vast underground complex beneath ILM was a maze, wrapped inside a labyrinth, lodged in the rich nougat center of a... I don't know any other synonyms for 'maze.'

Anyhoo...

Tom Green and John Travolta bolted off in their own direction, mostly because they fulfilled their part in the story, leaving me, GiGi, Playful1, Mark Hamill and the Yoda puppet.

"I need to find a place called Room 1313," I asked Hamill.

"That way down it is," said Yoda, nodding his head.

"Is that where the 3rd part of the map is hidden?" asked Playful1.

"How did you know about the maps?"

"I read the other chapters while I was locked up."

I opened the door to Room 1313 and went in.

Room 1313 was a long narrow chamber with a pedestal at the far end. On the top of the pedestal was what I was looking for, the early draft of the second Star Wars trilogy that didn't suck.

I carefully approached the pedestal. It had to be a trap. These sorts of things are always traps. I needed something the same weight as the massive script to trick the trap.

"I need about a 1000 manuscript pages," I said.

"I can help you," said GiGi reaching into her ample cleavage and pulling out a massive collection of paper. "It's my novel, it's taken me ten years."

"I'm a slow reader myself," said Playful1.

I took the manuscript and carefully nudged George Lucas' script aside and left GiGi's book in its place.

"Easy peasy, slightly sleazy," I said in victory.

I spoke too soon.

The back wall opened up, revealing a massive ball of unsold Jar-Jar Binks merchandise and it was rolling right at us.

"RUN!"

GiGi, Playful1, Chompy and myself turned tail and ran. But Mark Hamill wasn't fast enough and disappeared beneath the ball's hulking weight.

"Remember me as a sex machine," called out Hamill as the ball squished him like a ketchup packet.

We ran, and ran, the ball so hot on our tails, that I swear I could smell burnt tail hair.

"That door!" I said pointing to an open door.

The four of us dived through the door and landed hard on a bed of grass.

"So," said a voice, "you have retrieved the third part of the map."

I looked up.

"George Lucas?"

"Yes," said Lucas. "I was behind it all."

"Somehow I don't believe it," I said, studying the billionaire filmmaker's throat very carefully. "Chompy! Sick the wattle!"

Chompy the Badger leaped at Lucas and sunk his teeth into the wattle that jiggled around his neck.

There was a horrible ripping sound as the wattle came off, revealing that it was nothing more than silicone and latex.

George Lucas moaned and fell over.

"What the hell just happened?" asked GiGi.

I turned over the unconscious billionaire and revealed a strange mechanical apparatus locked on George Lucas' neck.

"Is that a Omnitech mind control clamp?" asked Playful1.

"You've seen them before?" I asked.

"Nope," said Playful1. "I'm just good at guessing."

"And stealing other people's gags too," I added. "You're right. Someone has been controlling George Lucas, and through him, his vast empire. Someone evil."

"But who?" asked GiGi.

"I have a theory," I replied, "and if it's true, then god help us all."

"At least we have the map," said Playful1. "Where's the next part?"

I looked at the map.

"Looks like we're going to the Cannes Film Festival."

"France!" said GiGi, "Does that mean I can stop shaving?"

"Hell no!"

Chapter 7

6 DEGREES OF DECAPITATION

A Thriller Parody-Sorta-Satire-Like-Thing

CHAPTER 7: HOLY SITH!

"What's that sound?" asked GiGi VaVoom, globe-trotting archaeologist and part time refugee from the shelter for stray sex-kittens. It had been a couple of hours since we left the City of Angels and the Suburbs of Hobgoblins and were heading north for the 3rd piece of the puzzle when we heard that noise.

I sat up in the passenger seat. It wasn't Chompy the Badger snoring, he was wide awake, and his snoring was more akin to a sawmill with rusty equipment run by the souls of damned American Idol rejects than the high pitched nasal sound we were hearing.

"Turn off the CD player," I said, partially hoping to hear the sound clearer, but also because I was creeped out by a grown woman listening to so much N'Synch. I could hear the sound clearer, in fact, I could make out words:

"I don't like these grapes."

"The weather's too hot."

"It's too sunny."

"Those trees are ugly."

"The wind is mussing my hair."

"I know what that noise is," I said, "we just entered Whine Country. Skywalker Ranch can't be that far."

Chompy gave that psychotic smile of his. He was itching to give some folks there a piece of his mind, preferably while biting a piece of them. So I calmly negotiated with Chompy to not go on one of his mad mauling sprees since we were on a mission to recover the lost treasure of the Albanian Budgie, rescue former sidekick Playful1 from kidnappers and clear my name of the numerous and sundry crimes that I didn't actually committ.

Of course by 'negotiated' I mean 'smacked Chompy on the back of his head with a cricket bat,' 'til he agreed to play nice until we got the job done. Then he could maul to his heart's content.

#

WELCOME TO SKYWALKER RANCH said the sign.

ALL TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT said a larger sign above it.

I aimed GiGi's binoculars down to the compound's main gate and zoomed in. Two security guards, fittingly dressed like Storm Troopers were at the main gate. Their guns looked like more than the usual special effect, so storming the gate was out of the question.

I was going to have to be subtle.

"Furious," asked GiGi.

"Yeah."

"It's about my binoculars."

"You can have them back in a minute," I said, "I'm busy checking out the lay of the land."

"Could you at least take the strap off my neck," said GiGi between gasps for air.

"Fine," I said, wasting time untangling it. "The security here is tighter than the arse-hole of a bug. We need a plan."

"Where is the next part of the map specifically?" asked GiGi.

"It's in a secret chamber called the Secret Chamber of Secret Stuff," I answered, "and the last part of the map is printed on the back page of the draft of the script for Attack of the Clones that didn't suck."

"How do we get in?" asked GiGi.

"We need a diversion to keep the guards occuppied then we can sneak in," I said, "and I have just the plan. Do you have a blackberry?"

GiGi nodded a pulled one out of her considerable decolletage.

"Is there anything you don't keep down there?" I asked.

"Just take your blackberry."

I typed out a quick e-mail and hit send.

"What did you do?" asked GiGi.

"Get in the car," I said, "this should only take a few minutes and we should be ready."

"Ready for what?"

Suddenly a massive horde of angry geeks came over the hills howling in nerd rage.

"I just leaked out plans for a Jar-Jar Binks movie," I answered, slipping into the driver's seat.

"Now what?" asked GiGi as I gunned the engine.

"While the guards are distracted with the angry geek horde, we'll sneak in with the silent subtlety of a silently subtle ninja," I answered, putting the petal to metal, rocketing down the hill and into the chain-link fence.

Sparks flew as we tore through the fence. GiGi screamed.

"Was that fence electrified?"

"Yeah," I answered, "but that's nothing compared to the minefield."

BOOM went a landmine directly behind us.

"You call this subtle?"

"It's as subtle as I get," I answered.

"We'll get blown up!"

"The key is keep a constant speed over 50 MPH," I explained, as another mine went off, raining dirt on the roof of the car. "That way the mines will explode behind us. I learned that when I was smuggling refugees out of East Germany. I also learned to have air holes in the hiding places, or things will get messy."

BOOM!

More dirt rained onto the roof of GiGi's car.

I spun the car out over some more mines and onto the relatively mine free main road through the compound.

"Easy as pie," I said.

Then the car's windows shattered in a flurry of blaster fire.

GiGi and I dove out of the car, just as it burst into a ball of flame.

"CHOMPY!" I cried out, seeing no sign of my furry, psychotic little friend.

I realized that I had no time to grieve when I felt the barrel of a blaster pressed into my back.

"Furious D," said a Lucasfilm Stormtrooper, "put your hands up, you are now our prisoner."

I put my hands up.

Then I felt the butt of a blaster rifle hit me on the head.

Then I felt pavement on my face.

Then I felt nothing.

Sometimes life sucks.