'Twas the FRIGHT Before Xmas, Part EIGHT.

'Twas the FRIGHT Before Xmas... or A Visit from AIN'T Nick is a serialized story.  You can start it from part one by clicking here, but since time is only a mental construct we impose on the universe in order to make sense of entropy feel free to just dive right in here.

I'm tired of recapping it, though.  If you're not going to read from the start,  why make it easy for you?  You make your own path in this life.

So here we go with the narrator!  Who is... um... apparently... DEAD.

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Heaven is probably not what you think it is.

It certainly wasn't what the narrator thought it would be.  As he sat up and spit out the pine needles and tried to ungum the sap from his hair, he looked around to see a peaceful, quiet landscape made up of clouds stretching off into the distance, where a bright blue sky formed the rim of the edge of the world.  Completing his circle, he saw a giant golden gate standing in front of him, rising up into the sky beyond the edges of his vision.  The gate stood in the middle of the cloudscape, unattached to any wall.  All around him were just clouds, on which he was standing, and which were kind of springy,  and the gate.

He took a tentative step and felt the cloud give a little underneath him.  He bounced a little, once, twice, carefully and then more boldly.  He jumped as high as he could, up up up and then fell on his back, flipping over onto his stomach.

This was nothing like what he'd imagined when he'd been attacked by that Xmas Tree, which had come crawling in through the window midway through the narration of the latest segment.   Back in Tuesday School, which had originally been held on Sunday until one day the leader of religion had said "Hey, why don't we move Sunday School to Tuesday since there's really nothing going on on Tuesdays," showing the kind of insight into the human condition that made him the leader of religion, a title he insisted on leaving in lower-case letters to show that he was just like the rest of us, a message he frequently recited in the speeches he made from the 12th of his 42 giant golden palaces that were built using contributions from people who liked that he was just one of the regular folks.

Back in Tuesday School, the narrator had learned that Heaven was just a giant bowling alley, only you didn't have to bowl if you didn't want to, you could go play the arcade games, and you always had just enough quarters to keep going and that one older guy who works at the gas station isn't there hogging Ms. Pac Man and sort of freaking you out.

He'd always believed that -- it seemed so peaceful and nice, and he liked Ms. Pac Man -- so while he was surprised to see that Heaven, if this was Heaven, was nothing like that, he was also pleased because Heaven seemed to be a fun place.   He bounced around and around the clouds, higher and lower, rolling and playing, and at one point he made it to the edge of the gate where, to his surprise, he saw the Xmas Tree that had killed him.

The tree was lounging against the gate, leaning rather awkwardly, as it was one of two kinds of sentient natural features that didn't have knees and people don't understand the importance of knees for lounging.  The narrator regarded the tree warily.

"What are you doing here?" he asked it.

"Beats me," the tree shrugged, a maneuver that is hard to pull off if you are a tree because your shoulders, if you are a tree, are where you would expect the knees to be.

"Are you going to kill me... again?" the narrator asked.

The tree seemed to consider this.

Finally, it answered:

"Don't see the point, really.  Already did it, once."

The narrator agreed that made sense.  The two stood awkwardly for a minute.

"Well," said the tree finally.  "Oughtn't you be getting on with it?"

"With what?" the narrator asked.

"With telling the story," the tree said.

"I still have to do that?"

"Who else will?" the tree asked.

"But I don't even have my outline," the narrator said.

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Other Sexy Cop looked up at the sky and shuddered.  That many BLOOP!s in a row was terrible.

She pressed some buttons on her car's inboard computer.  "Satellite view," she said.

SATELLITE VIEW UNAVAILABLE. the computer told her.

"Sky cam view," she told it.

ALSO UNAVAILABLE the computer screen read.

"Underground camera view," Other Sexy Cop sighed.  The screen instantly switched to show her a closeup of some dirt.

"I don't even know why we had those installed," Other Sexy Cop said to herself.

I DO NOT KNOW, EITHER, the computer screen told her.

Other Sexy Cop chewed her lower lip in a sultry fashion while she pondered.  On the computer screen, the dirt suddenly shook.

She stared at the screen, wondering if it had been her imagination.  She leaned over in a pose that would have, if they had seen it, made the rest of the police force sad that the requested "Other Sexy Cop In Car Dash Cam" had been voted down by the legislature, which was not personally acquainted with Other Sexy Cop and her ability to lean in to a camera angle.

The dirt shook again.

"Enhance!" Other Sexy Cop said.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: PLEASE! IT IS XMAS EVE AND I REALLY MISS MY TURTLE.  HE'S ALL I'VE GOT.  I'M SO SO SORRY!

 ???? said the computer.

The dirt rumbled and shook again and then was replaced by something that looked like a monstrous toe, in extreme close-up.

Other Sexy Cop stared at the screen.

"So it's true..." she said.

She hit a series of buttons on the computer, which said

WHAT ARE YOU DOING THAT IS NOT PROTOCOL DOES THE LEGISLATURE KNOW ABOUT THIS

and her car transformed into a jet-winged rocket car with laser cannons mounted on the hood, as cool music blasted from the speakers.

"I'm coming for you, monsters," Other Sexy Cop said.  She patched into her radio.

"All patrols, tune in.  This is Commander Other Sexy Cop.  We've got a Code 1.  I repeat, a Code 1."

Back when the cops had first gotten together to form codes, they had listed, in the book, which emergencies they might expect to happen, from Worst/Most Important down to Easiest/Least Important.  At the very bottom of the list, which is top secret because most people do NOT have ANY idea just how many things can go wrong in  the world (CODE 653:  WORLD TURNS ITSELF INSIDE OUT), is this entry:

Code 374567293812: EVIL BUT VERY SEXY WOMAN COMMANDEERS SATELLITES TO TRANSMIT GENETIC CODES FOR CREATING GIANT MONSTERS VIA SATELLITE TO TROPICAL REGIONS OF THE WORLD, WHERE OCEANIC CURRENTS AND THE PREVALENCE OF MICROBIOTICS WILL ALLOW SAID CODES TO INSTANTLY EVOLVE INTO ACTUAL LIVING GIANT MONSTERS.

That entry had been put there because everyone knew that it would never, ever happen, because nobody ever anywhere had been able to figure out how to transmit DNA via electronic transmission, and nobody ever would.

CODE 1, on the other hand, was listed first because it was the WORST POSSIBLE thing people could imagine happening, when they made up the codes.  CODE 1 was:

CODE 1: SOME IDIOT LOSES HIS JOB AS A UFO MAKER, SPENDS HIS TIME TRYING TO CONVINCE HIS SUPERSEXY WIFE THAT HE STILL HAS A JOB, SOMEHOW MANAGES TO FIGURE OUT A WAY TO TRANSMIT DNA ELECTRONICALLY ONE DAY AND FIGURES HE WILL USE IT TO CREATE TOY PAPER MONSTERS THAT KIDS CAN DOWNLOAD AND PRINT, STOPS OFF FOR A DRINK OF OREO NOG ON THE WAY HOME, OVERDOES IT, GOES TO THE WRONG HOME, WHERE HE RUNS INTO THE IDENTICAL DUPLICATE OF THE WOMAN HIS WIFE WAS CLONED FROM, TELLS HER WHAT HE DID, PASSES OUT, LETS THE WOMAN GET HIS SECRET AND SHE USES IT TO CREATE A Code 374567293812.

"We've got a Code 1," Other Sexy Cop said into her radio again.

"Nick, what have you done?" she sighed to herself,and hit the rocket button to take off, pausing only a moment to tell the computer that, no, it could not change the radio station.  If you are a supersexy lady cop flying off to battle giant monsters in the tropical oceans in a rocket car, you are going to do it listening to classic rock.  That is just the way it is.  

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"Nick, what have you done?" said another voice behind him, as Nick turned to look from the mysterious figure he'd been looking at to see who was talking now.

He saw the couch, standing there in the doorway, wedged onto the stairs.

"You? You can talk?"

"All couches can talk," the couch told him.

"That's true," the shadowy figure said from the other side of the room.

"Nick, what have you done?" the couch asked him again.

"Isn't it obvious?" the shadowy figure said.

"It is," the couch said.

"It is?" Nick asked.

"You'd better get on," the couch told him.

Nick sat on the couch, looking over at the shadowy figure, which said: "Hang on."

"Okay," Nick said, and the couch suddenly converted into a jet-winged rocket couch with laser cannons on each arm.

"I had no idea..." Nick asked.

"Other Sexy Cop ordered the modifications for you," the couch told him.  "It was supposed to be an Xmas surprise."

"Wait," Nick said, and he leaned over to grab his iPod.

"Classic rock?" asked the shadowy figure.

"You bet," Nick said.

The couch blasted off.

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"Nick, what have you DONE!" said one of the Nicks to the other in the holding cell.  The other Nick looked at the one who'd talked.

"I didn't do ANYTHING!" the second Nick said. "You're the one who wrote the poem."

"DID NOT!" the first Nick said.

"Break it up, you two!" said a third Nick.  "Aren't we in enough trouble without all this Intra-Nick fighting?  We've got to figure out how we're going to get out of this."

"There's no way to get out of it," said a fourth Nick.  Three other Nicks agreed.  All day long, more and more Nicks had been being brought in, as various Riot Police squads hunted them down throughout the city, finding Nicks in nooks and corners, standing at the mall, playing air hockey against a particularly skilled raccoon and other places they totally expected to see him.  There were over 200 Nicks in custody now, five or six to a cell, as the authorities stood in the hallway attempting to sort out what to do.

"We can't charge them all with poetry," the captain said.

"Why not? They're all Nick," said a patrol officer.

"I say we find them all guilty and blast them off into space, as required.  Let someone else sort this out."

"In space?" the captain asked.

"Yes," said the man who'd spoken.  "Why?"

"Let someone... in space... sort them all out," the captain said, slowly.

"Uh huh," the man said, nodding earnestly.

"Who... exactly... in space is going to determine which, if any, of them, wrote the poem?" the captain asked.

The man considered.

"Aliens?" he said.

The police all looked at each other.

"Good enough for me," the captain said, and hit the button that would, when it counted down to 1 from 10, launch all the Nicks into outer space, the prescribed punishment for creating poetry.

"10!" blasted through the loudspeaker.

""All patrols, tune in.  This is Commander Other Sexy Cop.  We've got a Code 1.  I repeat, a Code 1." came over the loudspeaker.

The men all looked at each other for a second,  and then the captain said "Let's go! It's rocket car time!"

"9!" blasted through the loudspeaker, and then the classic rock started.

Frankie crept out into the hallway and wondered how he could help.  It seemed to him that if you're going to make someone the cover of the book, and then introduce them in dramatic style, and give them a name, that someone should have a major role in the story,  but he was darned if he could figure out what a tiny sentient living paper doll Frankenstein could do to fix this one.

"8!" said the loudspeaker, just before some Led Zeppelin started.

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Sexy Cop blasted her rocket up higher into the atmosphere, towards the relative safety of near space, as she watched the nearly-dozen giant creatures she had created, monsters that were visible from space, work their way from the tropical oceans towards the nearest large city.   All around the world, she saw on her monitors, the special control stations she'd built and manned with two-men teams were gearing up, beaming control rays towards the giant monsters.

All except one...


She frowned at her monitor.

"Gene.  Get station ten on the radio."

There was no answer.  Sexy Cop looked over her shoulder, her eyes inadvertently giving a come-hither look.  She just couldn't help it.

Gene was holding a candy-cane raygun which you would remember is a thing if you had read the first-ever Nick and Other Sexy Cop adventure, pointing it at Sexy Cop.

"I can't let you do this," he said.

"It's done," she told him,  and pursed her lips. "You can't stop it.  Even killing me won't do that.  The monsters are on their way to the cities, and unless I give them the command to stop, they will simply begin destroying everything in their path."

"I'll shoot you."

"Weren't you listening to me?"

Gene had not been.  She'd pursed her lips, after all, and the glint in her eye had somehow reflected off the smooth skin of the top of her breasts.

"Besides," Sexy Cop purred, moving closer to him, "You've been in on this since the start.  You're up to your hips in it," and as she said that she put one soft, sexy hand on Gene's hip, causing him to flush.  "Don't you want to see how things... turn out?" Sexy Cop added, and flicked open a button on her shirt to reveal her bra.

Gene pointed the candy cane at her.

"I don't want to hurt people," he said.  "I've changed my mind."

Sexy Cop leaned in to his face, her lips almost touching his.

"Change it again..." she breathed.

Gene dropped the candy cane and started kissing her passionately.  After a moment, they broke, already sweaty.

"What was that all about?" Sexy Cop asked.

"That's just the part of every story where the bad guy's henchman rethinks his priorities and tries to stop the entire plan from happening," Gene said.  "It's supposed to be in every single story.  Do you have any idea what happens if you leave it out?"

AUTHOR'S NOTE:  I MISS HIM SO MUCH.

"Get over here," said Sexy Cop, and she laid back on a couch that had been built into the rocket ship's cabin for just that purpose.  She dropped her bra on the floor.  "We've got some time."

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"YOU are Templeton Freeney?" the first man asked.

"There's no time for that!" yelled Templeton back.  Then: "You didn't even KNOW MY NAME?  We've been on that island for weeks cooped up in that little room."

The monster's eyes tracked back and forth from them.

"You're going to bring that up NOW?" asked the first man.  "Besides, I don't even think you know my name!"

"Of course I do! It's..." the monster threw Templeton into its mouth and swallowed him.  Two of its eyes regarded the first man as the third eye looked over at the beach it was headed for.

"Um... hi?" the first man said.

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The monsters simultaneously attacked in 10 different major cities:  New York was besieged by a two-mile tall OctoPhant, a creature that is a cross between an octopus and an elephant only with many, many, more teeth than one would ordinarily need for that purpose.  Los Angeles was hit by a Flying Squirrel, which doesn't sound too bad except that this Flying Squirrel had a four-mile wide wingspan and was made of electricity.

Moscow, which wasn't even near a beach, somehow was set upon by a VelociSpider, its eight legs towering far above Red Square as people ran in terror and regretted ever listening to Russian rock and roll in a crisis.

"Мы должны были слушать рок американский классик!" some said.

To which others replied:

"Это правда! Даже рок большим Борис Гребенщиков не может сравниться с американской классикой рока, как Питер Фрэмптон или крем, когда дело доходит до борьбы с гигантскими монстрами, хотя" Radio Silence "была действительно недооцененный песня".

Only they were screaming it.

In London, a one-eyed Cyclops made entirely of cheese knocked down Big Ben,  Buckingham Palace, and other things you can find about London if you Google it but don't really read the results.  Paris sent the army out to fight against the Giant Foot Of Doom.  A forty-mile long Python, bright orange and smiling hideously, moved into whatever city is a big one in India.  Melbourne, which had expected a giant Koala, got a Poisonous Duckbilled Platypus instead, only it was covered in scales, also, and had wings like a dragon.  Rio got the Koala.

And in Fleming-Neon, Kentucky, a giant, pure-white lizard that stretched a hundred miles tall and breathed fire and roared like a jet airliner getting sucked into a black hole stomped over the mountains to a small town where the only major business, a dive bar run by a man in a bathrobe, had been closed for several years.

"I'll show you bastards," Sexy Cop growled at the monitor showing that last one, before turning back to Gene.

CLICK HERE TO GO TO PART NINE.

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