Situation Normal. Atmosphere Breathable. Brainstem Injected. Dialogue Engaged.
Sunday, October 05, 2014

The Zod Abides

There's a fella I wanna tell you about, a fella goes by the name o' Zod. Now, that's a name no self-respecting fella applies to himself, least not where I come from. But the Zod he is, was, and shall be. By his own choice no less. Sure, he's a peculiar cat, this Zod, and maybe that's why I found him so darned interestin'.

We happened upon the same bowling alley one night and found ourselves talking over a beer or three at the bar, a few seats apart. I was my usual self, cool as cucumber, soaking up the tacky ambiance and Elvis tunes.

Zod, on the other hand... Well, he was animated. Yessir, that's the word. This fella was gesticulating with his hands like an I-talian actor, muttering at the teevees, and occasionally hollering nonsense phrases like "kryptonite touchdown motherfuckers!" before slamming his fist on the bar top.
Because I'm Sam Elliot, and have no fear, I went ahead and ponied up right next to him, my curiosity piqued like a cat in a yarn factory.

"Say, fella, couldn't help but notice you hoppin' about like a Mexican jumping bean on Cinco De Mayo. What's your story, pard?"

Turns out, this Zod character had an awful lot to say.

"I do not belong here. Plain and simple. I used to crush galaxies within my fist. I used to immolate my adversaries with red laser beams issued forth from my divine eyeballs. I used to stomp about, unheeded, simultaneously shaming and defecating upon all those with the temerity to stand before me in challenge.

"But that was before. That was ago. Now I am humbled, a reduced god, naught but a face in the crowd. I am diminished."

Given all the givens, I couldn't let his storm o' words go by. I figured I'd just go ahead and ask.

"Mister, what in the blue fuck are you talkin' about?"

He answered. He struck me as a rather unkind fella.

"Fantasy football, you imbecile! The Thunderdome! I won! I won it first! I won it from the sixteenth draft slot! I won it when the commissioner ranked me fifteenth ahead of only one other team, that spammy illiterate jackhole Patrick Warner! I was the Emperor God!

"Since my glorious triumph, I've been Supermanned (editor's note: yes, I made a verb out of that) by the likes of Clarence and Ed! It's not right! It's fundamentally wrong! I belong atop the mountain of glory forevermore! In perpetuity!"

This weird lookin' dude in the glittery costume seemed like he might pop a blood vessel. I thought it best to lead him to a place of calm.

"I expect your last rodeo ain't yet run, Mr. Zod. Think you might get back at it?"

He looked at me like I was an ant for a moment, his eyes flashing anger like a roped steer. But then he mellowed a bit, settled his self down, and continued in a manner more appropriate to polite folk like you and I.

"Perhaps. Indeed, yes. These mewling babes are fresh to the arena. I can take them unawares while my superhuman powers recharge and my dominance slowly ascends. Newbies. Meat. Yes. This Emily Mayer, for instance. She has no idea what neighborhood she's wandered into. Jonathan Carroll? Give me a fucking break. He's public meat to be raped, chewed, and discarded by anyone with an erection and an appetite. And I have no respect for second year chump ass "silent partners" like Bryan Moore and Saeid Esmaeilian. All are chum to my shark. While the other, longstanding warriors deserve at least a modicum of respect, I must ignore that, for all must perish. So speaks Zod."

Dumbfounded, I beat my retreat. Before I could scamper all the way away, Zod yelled a question, audible to everyone in the goddamn bowling alley:

"Sam, know where I can get some cocaine here in El Paso?"
5:20 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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