Steed fiddled the note in his sweaty stubby fingers, as he assertively
walked the three blocks from the bus stop to Bradbury Street.
The words of that odd note he had long since memorized.
Steed, the time has come for the ultimate showdown. I hereby challenge
you to a duel in the finest Platinum-Notion tradition. Meet me
and my modern Knight on the corner of Bradbury and Kubrick Street
just as the sun is fading for the night, on the next Friday the
thirteenth. If you win, you will forever earn not only my respect,
but notoriety and fame that no amount of money could ever buy."
had been signed in Platinum ink by the extraordinary well manicured
hand of none other than the genius Phil House himself.
also carried with him as he trudged along, as was his custom,
a large brown paper carrier bag. He wasn't foolish; he had come
Having spent the last few weeks buying various
things from the incredibly vast, and frequently weird, internet
marketplace known as G-bay to fully armor himself. Trevor had
even brought an authentic replica of a Samurai sword
to discover, to his chagrin, that it wasn't even made of metal,
but of poorly assembled paper mache that had been simply painted
in metallic paint
The first and indeed only time he used
it, he directed it with a frenzied flurry at an audacious fly
that had made the unfortunate decision to land on the end of his
spoon, which was immersed in his bowl of morning cornflakes. The
sword had disintegrated into ten thousand pieces upon impact,
and the fly was left only with a slight, albeit annoying, headache
and a strange story to share over the next pile of dog poop he
encountered. However, other G-Bay purchases he had acquired were
going to be of more value, he reasoned as he plodded along. Trevor
had managed to outbid similarly sad people with no life on a slightly
used man's bullet proof vest, brought from a widow's estate
in Oregon. Apart from the rather ghastly blood stain in the back
of it, the vest appeared to be in perfect condition
widow also had on auction several other interesting pieces that
caught Trevor's attention including a handgun that she vehemently
claimed had only been fired once and a pile of love letters written
out in pink handwriting by some young and very talented young
female author named Shauna that she had apparently found in her
husband's desk drawer. Trevor was unfortunately outbid on the
letters by sometime who had the G-bay identity of BigJorge, who
made a last moment sniper bid and beat him by a quarter. However,
he was far more successful bidding on offer a hand held catapult,
perhaps spurred on by some story his grandmother had told him
as a wee child.
contained in his trusted brown bag was a Barry Man-im-low's greatest
hits loaded into his J-pod, which had long been made illegal as
being far too terrifying and dangerous. Apparently the pitch of
Barry's voice had caused a lot of psychological scarring in government
thinking out of the box, considered the classic and thrilling
story of a robot called Blake, (I am sure that you have heard
) In particular he recalled the seventh in the series,
aptly called Blake's seventh. Blake was a death robot of incredible
proportions, yet he had major flaw, an Achilles heel of near epic
proportions. As he re-read it on his lap-top he called Orac, a
country-rap version of Styx's Mr. Roboto came over the radio.
How doubly appropriate he had thought
Blake's flaw was really very silly, you see. Blake was particularly
partial to poetry. Apparently there had been a lot of poetry reading
when the robot was being made, and somehow the robot learned to
associate poetry with his creation
and simply would lie
on the ground completely still and go into some sort of deep thought
cosmic state, and his eyes would glaze over.
Trevor had placed a volume of his favorite poet Fifi Saysmore
in the bag.
that wasn't enough (and by Jove, don't you think it should be?),
Trevor also concealed in that bag a jar of mayonnaise that he
had left at room temperature for several weeks, and was now a
rather fetching green color, which matched nicely Trevor's rear
finally, apart from a rather tasty lunch he had picked up earlier
that morning, Trevor also had Harry Dagwood's latest short story
Trevor, quite reasonably, I feel, figured the sharpness of Mr.
Dagwood's incomparable wit and pointed dialogue would be useful
if he ever had to do any hand to hand combat.
he made his way within a block of the chosen meeting place, Trevor
harked back to that morning. It was six hours ago when he had
contemplated what he was going to do when he arrived. It was when
he was feeding his rabbitLoganin his back yard run.
In Logan's run Trevor always got strange ideas, most of them wondering
if the world he knew was merely an illusion and if anything more
interesting lay beyond
He also had considered long and hard
that he was going to have to face fear directly on if he had any
chance of defeating his opponent. What was most alarming was that
he had no idea of what sort of opponent he was actually going
to be facing. All sorts of mechanical warriors played through
many inspired by some particularly inventive and
brilliant ones he had found and eagerly read on the internet website
run by the very folks now challenging him into combatPlatinum-Notion..
he approached, he saw that all the usual Platinum-Notion bandits
I really do not have to tell you the names,
do I? If you hadn't read about Trevor's far more thrilling adventures,
you surely would not be reading this. And repeating and describing
all those characters would be a horrible waste of literature real
estate, and I do like to be succinct and brief in my storytelling.
Cut to the chase, so to speak, and not ramble on mindlessly saying
stuff that completely has no bearing on the story at hand.
he saw it, looming at least forty feet high into the overcast
All shiny and menancing. As Trevor approached,
wondering why he simply did not turn and run, the Platinum-Notion
folks, you know the ones whose names I am not going to repeat,
began to loop hands, and as Trevor walked nervously past, they
created a circle about him and began cheering and hooting.
not one to waste time, quickly delved into his brown paper bag
what happens next might seem a little silly, even for the not
particularly bright Trevor Steed. For at that very moment Trevor
was overcome with hunger
fear apparently spurring quite
an appetite. Always being prepared, he once more dipped into his
brown paper bag of goodies and promptly pulled out a Styrofoam
container with the name Peggy on it. As all those Platinum-Notion
folks, whose names I am not going to mention, looked on in bewilderment
and the robot watched cautiously, Trevor opened the container.
Inside were a dozen of Peggy's extra special, incredibly hot,
I dare you sucker to eat me, Buffalo wings
You know, the
lunch I had mentioned Trevor picking up earlier, and thought would
have no relevance to the story. Furthermore, there was extra sauceloads
of the stuff; Trevor always made a point for asking for extra
sauce, as he figured that is what essentially made a good wing
robot's patience at this point was, by all accounts, running thin
and there was a rustling noise, a bit like how I would imagine
a really large blender full of steel ball bearings tossed with
some Madagascar flying cockroaches would make.
dripped some of the potent sauce
which landed directly on
the homologized electronified reinforced tungsten and steel composite
that Trevor suspected the robot's foot was made of
however, was no match for the sauce, which promptly burnt a hole
suppose, if I felt so inclined, I could describe the following
scene with remarkable clarity, elaborating with flowery adjectives
and poignant word choice precisely how the proceeding scene played
out. If that is what you were expecting at this point, then I
am afraid you have grossly overestimated my abilities. And besides,
it is not as if this story is going to be appearing in any anthologies
or anything, now is it?
I shall jump forward two minutes and eighteen seconds.
after admittedly with much reluctance, had by finding a divine
purpose in the catapult hurled ten Buffalo wings in quick succession
at the giant metallic warrior. Holes were now all over the machine
where the offending chicken parts generously coated in the potent
sauce had landed
This sent the death robot into some sort
of crazed state, and he began to lunge at the Platinum-Notion
writers with Dagstinian force.
the ending is a bit anticlimactic, but staying faithful to truthinessone
really couldn't make this kind of stuff up, after allhere
is what really transpired. As Trevor looked on the scene in front
of him with a mixture of amazement and relief, he realized that
he was still hungry and simply, without anyone noticing, headed
for the nearest Peggy's Dynamite Wing Shop