Wheel! Of! FISH!

He'll be back. Oh, yes.

2002-09-17 - 4:14 p.m.

Soundtrack: "Secret Agent Man" by Smash Mouth

Threat for the Week: "Thirty-three means something that you don't even want to think about."

:: The Invisible known as Wheel went sprinting down the road, chanting a mantra of swiftness, luck, and grace. ::

Wheel: FRAG! SHIT! DAMN! FRAG! SHIT! DAMN!

:: Behind him, a spear of organic darkness hurtled through downtown traffic, consuming pedestrians, Volvos, and hot dog stands as it came after him. ::

Wheel: Reeeeeal fragging invisible, Wheel. Top-notch job.

:: Inside his head, a telepathic bone-fone rang and rang and rang. ::

Wheel: C'MON! I know you're not dead, you noodle-sucking bastard! If you were, I'd have your stereo!

:: Finally, a click that resounded in his head just as the seething, chittering mass behind hurled a flaming old lady through the shop window he was running in front of, missing him by inches. ::

Wheel: SHAZBOT! Hello?! Johnny? JOHNNY?!

"Hi, you haven't reached what isn't the answering machine of someone who's certainly not Johnny Chinaman. I can't answer the phone right now, because I'm fragging dead, so leave me alone. *BEEP!*"

Wheel: DAMN YOU, CHINAMAN!

:: Wheel reached into his pocket for the dragon pistol he had, in fact, gotten as a Guy Fawkes Day present from the Man of Mystery years ago, but it merely bleeped despondently when he aimed over his shoulder and pulled the trigger. ::

Wheel: FRAGGIN' ONE-SHOT CHINATOWN SPIRIT GUNS!

:: He hurled it aside, and swirled to face the blackness. His arms crossed, he reached deep into the lurid toucans-on-clematis pattern of his blood-and-brain spattered Kamehameha. With a liquid popping sound, he pulled two long-barreled Lugers shimmering with flowing Hawaiian patterns out of his own portable Dimension of Garishness. Depressing the triggers, he sent two blazing flows of brilliantly shimmering colors into the thing. They struck with a twang like the opening chords of "Margaritaville", and the extradimensional reptile bitch wrapped up in the cloak of disharmonics behind shrieked and folded up like an unholy waffle of darkness. His pursuer thus distracted, Wheel dived into an alleyway and over the top of a Dumpster, resting on the sacks of trash inside. Taking a deep, long breath, he steadied himself and then reached down to grab his lapels, pulling his Hawaiian shirt up and around him, covering him completely. It shimmered, shimmied, and finally made a smooth popping sound. Wheel had vanished. The seething lizard asssassin swirled back and forth, up and down the street, and gazed through every spectrum there was to speculate through, but she could not find him. With a screech of rage, she vanished. There was a muffled groan. ::

Wheel: Gah! I'm laying in month-old salsa!

:: With a sound like chimes borne on a sea breeze, Wheel twinkled back into being in the dumpster, raveling his Hawaiian mo'ocloth back into its normal open-shirt-shaped iteration. Wheel kissed the topmost buton. ::

Wheel: And people think I wear these things just for the fashion statement.

:: Time passed, and Wheel found himself at that same damnable little curry-slinging cafe where he had first met Johnny Chinaman. Muttering sullenly, he doused his shirt with cup after cup of club soda, trying to get the stains from various exploded heads and his brief time in the dumpster free of the cloth. Aside from a few contented gurgling from his shirt, the soda seemed to have no effect. In desperation, he started dousing it with other things and seemed to be making progress with a combination of chili oil, milk, and sea salt when the blank white badge he wore made a single brief chiming noise. He looked up to see Doc Oblivion himself come in from the sultry night air, snowflakes melting on his shoulders. Wheel raised a hand briefly in the sign of Dionysis and gestured to the open seats in his large booth at the back. ::

Wheel: A pleasure to see you again, my dear doctor. I can only assume from the fashionable touches of disintegrating precipitation on your epaulets and the lingering and pleasantly cajun scent of barbequed flesh that you've been having an interesting night.

Doc: Nothing out of the ordinary.

:: Curries arrived without either man ordering them. The tall waitress, her golden eyes gleaming, grinned down at the two men and handed six more plates of curries onto the table. ::

Wheel: We're not THAT hungry, miss. As much as I love your spiced goat curries, perhaps you'd better ...

:: With a racketing, clattering commotion, three bodies emerged from the swinging door to the kitchens, shrouded in steam. One, an elderly-looking bearded male quickly turned away from the rest and gestured over his shoulder, sending a flickering green ball of light which burst somewhere in the obscured reaches of the kitchen. His eyes lit up at the sight of the table set with curries. ::

Professor: Ah, spiced goat! CAPITAL!

:: The fellow chuckled merrily as the two women, whom Wheel and Doc now recognized as the Arcanologist and the Dame, sealed off the kitchen with a webwork of golden light. Irate gibbering came from the steamy reaches of the kitchen as the two ladies followed the Professor to the table and sat down, finding a curry in front of each of them. ::

Arcanologist: What are you jokers doing here?

Doc: I was just stopping by for a bite after taking care of some business abroad. What are all of YOU doing here?

Wheel: I needed to feed my shirt. But ...

:: Another voice rang out from a stool at the far end of the counter. ::

Eclipse: What are all of YOU doing here?

:: The Lady of the Waters stepped gracefully over to the increasingly crowded booth, spectral dolphins playing and leaping in the steam around her. She took a seat in front of another hot curry. ::

Eclipse: Honestly, I stop in for a brief chat with my Sikh informant and ... ooh, yellow pepper curry!

:: Wheel was becoming increasingly disturbed. He really enjoyed synchronicities up to a point. Beyond that point, he reached for his guns. A thought suddenly struck him sharply between the eyes. ::

Wheel: Say ... it's September the 17th ... didn't we all meet Johnny Chinaman here ... EXACTLY FIVE YEARS AGO TODAY?

Doc: No.

Wheel: Oh. Damn.

:: And who knows what happened next? ::