My First Novel, Chapters 9-12
Nader sat in his cave waiting for any of the Nader’s Raiders to respond. It had been a while, but the fight had never ended. He just lost touch.
Scattered across the world, they were an elite group of operatives who sought to dismantle the iron grip corporatized greed held on the good folks. Some got bought off. Some saw the fight as foolish, an attempt to hide our own human nature from us. And some were just tired, internally admitting defeat while going through the motions until they came to a stop. But some, a couple, a handful, a smattering, who really knew, some were still out there. In the wilderness. Nader set out the call and patiently waited. Deep down he was nervous. Nervous that one of his Raider’s would respond. What would he say? Where was the world they strived to create with their goodwill, perserverance, and hard work? It was there, Ralph conceded to himself, mixed in with the other stuff. Mixed in with the crap. Ralph went to pick a booger and thought that he might be seen. Maybe back in the day when the Raiders were here. Not anymore. Ralph went in with the pick.
The Nader’s Raider phone flashed a bright red.
Nader removed his finger from his nose, flicking a particularly dry and crusty booger into the shadows. He slapped down the speaker phone button.
“Access code,” Nader ordered.
“Alpha Tango Foxtrot Sigma.” The voice that scrawled out the esoteric letters was that of Dan Aykroyd, Elwood Blues himself.
It had been a long time. But an invasion of alien robots had a way of smoothing out old wrinkles.
“I have the BluesJet at your command, Ralph. Where should we start with these Aliens?”
“Ignore the alien robots.”
“Ignore the alien robots?”
“Look, I saw you on Larry King, Dan. I know you love this stuff, but we have to find Biden.”
“Has he been kidnapped?”
“Worse,” Nader said, donning his cape and metal helmet, “He’s on vacation.”
Secretary of State Hillary Clinton shot above the Pacific in her Secretary of State Underwater Car that she had just transformed into a miniature jet. Flying saucers were ripping out of the water and zooming away in all directions like a hornet’s nest tossed into a campfire. She was running low on gas and needed to stop soon. She knew of only one place to go, Harlem. Her husband’s office building had a vast underground complex built for events such as these. But unless there was a gas station around, she was going to have to find a motel. In the middle of the Pacific. As her demise seemed imminent her multi-dimensional deity gave her the comfort of being surrounded by friends and various dimensions of herself. Gallows humor crept in, “Maybe I’ll find that Lost Island.”
Whatever the validity of prayer, Clinton’s transformed underwater car spurted out of gas and plunged into the water, floating just a mile or so away from a small patch of land. Hillary popped the hatch, extended an emergency paddle from under the seat, and started working at the calm waters to take her closer to this speck of sand and trees bobbing on the horizon.
That guy who played Rubin Kincaid on the Partridge Family felt his beeper go off. He hadn’t heard anything on it in… too many years. He had fallen asleep and forgotten about the world. He stared at the beeper. It had been so long. He didn’t even know what it was for. Was he supposed to call someone? Why couldn’t they just dial him up on the cell? And what was his name? The only thing he could remember was that he was the guy who played Rubin Kincaid on the Partridge Family. He had no idea of who he was or how he got to… an old gas station in the middle of nowhere…
What he did know was that he needed a change of underwear and socks. It was just too damn hot.
That guy who played Rubin Kincaid got up from his rocking chair. He was about to go inside to see where his socks and underwear were when a ’92 Honda Civic pulled up, dragging some sort of alien robot underneath it.
“Hey, it’s that guy who played Rubin Kincaid!” McCain squinted to make sure he was seeing all right.
“Oh yeah, from the Partridge Family!” Brad Pitt responded.
Kincaid smiled and nodded. For some reason he felt insecure telling Brad Pitt and John McCain about being lost in a fugue.
Nobody said anything for a couple moments as the beeper continued to buzz.
“Kincaid!” McCain said, biting the end off a Tiger Milk bar, “Turn off that damn beeper. I need you to replace my timing belt and fix the brakes on this heap.”
“The mechanic’s off today.” Kincaid said.
“Well, then it’s gotta be you, me, and the princess,” McCain gestured towards Pitt.
“Come on, man.” Pitt whined.
Hillary paddled her floating underwater car to shore. She couldn’t get up on the sand so she ditched it and swam to the beach, grabbing a few things. She hated to part with the car, but what else could she do? In the back of her head she had hoped it would just float there and she could figure a way to tether it later.
The island looked deserted, except for something that looked like a door hidden in some rocks.
The door immediately opened with a mechanical hum. Sarah Palin ran out.
Out of all the Islands, Clinton thought, why this one.
“Hillary!” the former Governor yelled, “We need your help!”
“I think I fit the other part of that description.” Ron Paul emerged from the door.
“What are Ron Paul and Sarah Palin doing on an Island in the Pacific?”
“Having a Tea Party rally.” Palin said, deadpan.
Hillary raised her eyebrows.
“She’s joking,” Paul exclaimed, “we were, coincidentally, on the same plane. It crashed. We washed up to shore and found this secret base thing.”
“What?” Hillary, “That’s crazy.”
“It gets crazier,” a Middle Eastern voice laced with a British inflection murmured from the doorway. An old man walked out.
“Saddam Hussein!” Clinton gasped. “I thought we killed you!”
“You did,” the old man said, “quite embarassingly I might add.”