“From this moment forward Dawg, we speak only in Earthling English. It is imperative our mission is successful, so we must be ready for anything.”
Zorg stretches his black elastic hood tightly over his large green scalp, secures his collar tight under his pointy grey chin, and clicks his eye shield and protective goggles firmly into place activating ultraviolet night vision. Sparks flicker wildly deep within the dark lenses in a spasmodic electromagnetic rhythm. He dusts down his skin-tight, leather-like alien commando engagement suit, systematically initiates an array of guerrilla gadgets and luminescent intelligence icons and conducts his final equipment check with the utmost precision.
“Always remember my embryonic egg brother, 717 years of evolutionary development theoretically provides us the superior intellect to outwit and outmaneuver the earthling elite at any hour, however do not underestimate the subtle seductions and unpredictable tendencies of the human mind. The deluded spirit offers many distractions and desires. Be alert my brother, enlighten the purist of the species and remain watchful … at all times.”
Dawg follows his brothers lead, activates goggles, pauses for 3.67 seconds to center his Terrestrial Chi and claps his heavily gloved 3 fingered hands together, “Lez hit it bruv, I ready spagetti!”
In a 3 fingered A-sign he knuckle-shuffles his leathery fingers across a lone infrared sensor protruding from the cockpit dashboard, synchronizes wrist-dash with UV Heat shields, and counts down…
…and in an instant the two vanish, sucked at high pressure through the check-valve airlocks beneath, hurtling them simultaneously into the pitch black vacuum of space.
The twin black clad pint-sized alien ninjas plummet through the Earths outer atmosphere as their podship dissolves out of site behind a murky dense dark-matter curtain, bending the passing light and thus blending it into the darkness of space. Safely parked in orbit in plain sight but invisible to the earthling eye it would go unnoticed for a later rendezvous.
Establishing velocity and angle of entry Zorg glides head first directly into an atmospheric wind torrent and transports effortlessly through the outer atmospheric currents, instinctively activating counter-heat ray for the fiery entry into the thicker lower atmosphere.
Dawg, surfing an atmospheric tube in, bails out with a spread-eagled suicide starfish breaking maneuver, telekinetically activating the heat ray to shield against the burn intensifying against his soft flesh. He leans forward and straightens out into entry position as his brothers words unscramble into consciousness telepathically as he freefalls-
- ‘I am still unconvinced by the authenticity of those Ghetto-slang tutorial implants you chose my brother. I foresee we will depend on our ability to communicate with the humans before the end. Remain acute to all things… now prepare yourself for entry’ -
Four flannelette-shirted, mullet-headed bogans drinking beer and smoking bongs in a tiny decrepit tinny somewhere on the river ‘whatever’, hazily observe two tiny black speck’s appear in the moonlit night sky falling to earth and disappearing into the dark ripples of the distant sea.
Dawg resurfaces from underneath the ocean surface in a splish of glee. “What a rush ay bro? Penetrated da planets prophylaptic well and proper!”
Snug and dry in his watertight skin-clad capsule, he kicks his heels together, igniting blasters and jets through the parting sea towards land… coasting along effortlessly on the wash of his brothers slipstream. Lights flicker on the horizon as the twins draw nearer, muffled sounds, muffled voices were detected in the distance, an ominous sensation of the lurking unknown hanging in the air. An electric guitar riff echoes across the surface of the lapping water.
The pair nod at each other in telepathic unison, flick off faceshields, activate sonar and duck-dive under the surface of the sea with a plink plonk. They carve through the sleeping underwater ecosystem undetected, their suits absorbing and recycling element particles from the H2O for subterranean oxygenation. Gardens of murky underwater seaweed loom to the left and right, shadows meander by in the distance, monitored astutely on Zorgs sonar from safe distance. Brim and flathead everywhere, biting.
As the twin submarine ninjas draw nearer to shore they dart suddenly into the darkness of the deep in a spiral stream of microbubbles. They take cover and temporary refuge underneath the partial remains of a suspiciously sunken V8 holden, successfuly evading the attentions of a passing hammerhead shark and her hungry entourage.
Zorg calculates the tinny’s distance and location safe from cover, and synchronizes his threat radar with his brothers. Silently the two underwater shadows glide unnoticed by the boat of beer guzzling burping bogans, stealthily evading the lines, leurs and skewered beach-worms wriggling for survival in the shifting currents. Slowly but surely they reach the darkened underside of a rusted moonlit suspension bridge and some shell encrusted stairs leading up to the earth above.
Beneath the outcrop of the slimy stone wall the twins emerge chameleon-crouched, silently and steadily from the splashing waves. They scurry up and across a small hill and grassy plain peppered with chilled-out families of nonchalant kangaroos, and proceed to strobe across the shrubs and fences into the geometrical landscape of the suburban neighborhood. The plastered stoners, tackles and stubbies in hand, float directly opposite entranced in the howls of the Aussie Rock belting out of a small radio… oblivious to the flickering ghost ninja shadows.
Marble bio-eyes’s dropped strategically along the path behind indicate the twins had escaped the attentions of any uninvited spies trailing them in the early morning mist. They take temporary refuge in the attic of the Big Womans Blouse Bar as scheduled, away from dawns prying eyes.
The nomad ninjas had arrived safely, but more importantly undetected.
Dawg sponges his commando scuba suit dry, activates his ruff-rider speedsuit with the shake of tiny leather strapped green buttock, and commences preparation for re-engagement of the urban Earth.
“Check Sonar, check!
Xray, Night, Ultraviolet and Infrared vision, check!
Flame thrower, check!
Heel Blasters, check!
Wrist CPU and Dash, check!
Frequency transmitter, check,
Distorter/pan/echo/flange and wah wah, check!
Mind bender belt, check
ET Uzi, check
H2O, CO2 and H2O Canisters, intact
Shields and Rays, intact
Visor and Goggles, intact
Chest straps, and Nipple clamps, intact
Underpants and Jockstrap, intact!
Zorg closely analyzes the bulbous blue veins protruding from his brothers eye-balls. He had considered the effects and potential risk space madness may have on the mission, and decided it was necessary to regroup, and re-center his terrestrial chi. It was after all Dawgs first breaths of real planetary air, produced by the indigenous flora of a balanced biosystem, and would feel thick and heavy in his small fragile lungs. Always a shock to the system of those born and bred on liquid or compressed oxygen.
He instinctively squints his eyes against the powerful UV rays of the bright morning sun as it casts it’s warm glare across the exposed land, piercing his underdeveloped virgin retina with its needle sharp molten-tip javelin. Pretty heavy shit for a naked and exposed pink frontal lobe and pubescent optical nerve.
The body would require a rinseout of the lungs, diaphragm and aural cavities. Not a pleasant experience but a necessary one, and the only tried and trusted cosmic-emesis that successfully expels 99% of all gastric secretions and anaerobic bacteria from the body. Thought would never again be cast to the abysmal 1% of pathetic rejects who would inevitably fall to the unforgiving clutches of aspiration pneumonia. The sacrifice necessary for the future survival of the space travelling genetic elite for generations to come.
Zorg places his elongated fingers and fluorescent glowing orange palms across his twin brother’s scull, scrunches his eyes closed in concentration, inhales deeply, farts, and…
Dawg had entered his first coma-horizon, the deactivation of his subconscious lobe, the frazzled mind-altering adjustment to the 6th dimension. The journey is dark and often haunts and infects its graduates for the decades ensuing, but it’s the only tried and trusted treatment for complete bio-integration with the alien environment.
With his brother deep in hypnosleep for the next 15 minutes 23.4 seconds, Zorg hacks into a local wireless internet network for mission clues and leads. Stock exchange equations, mainstream news broadcasts, public forums, weather, science and literature, he downloads the lot in a single zip file to his wristdash.
Barnyard animals bleat beneath the pink bats and timber ceiling below, followed in turn by cackles of laughter and volleys of rapturous cheers.
“I must export these figures to Dawg, for it is authentic insight into the psychologies of the natives of this planet.” Through an elongated middle finger over his brothers shiny green head and a swipe of his wrist-dash he exports the data into the unguarded unconscious mind of his twin brother, effectively barging into his evolving wet dream!
Statistically it was an effective time management strategy however on occasions there were adverse effects. The blending and metamorphosing of images and faces in his celestial consciousness could have side effects, including fragmented or overlapping states of perception. The unconscious pilot ultimately loosing it completely, would then fall unaware into a non-manageable chaotic state of polar psychosis before he even awoke from his sensuous slumber. It was bad news for getting stuff done. Not to mention the psychic insomnia that could also paralyze the afflicted victim psychologically afterwards… the same fate accused of the 2 insurgent predecessors who still currently remained MIA somewhere on Earth.*
*Locating the Rogue Rangers was a secondary objective Zorg did not wish to embark on till the completion of their first mission. He feared the distraction of meeting the two distant cousins from back in the hood Ezykiel of the Andromedan outskirts, may present new obstacles and subsequent delays to their mission, as they had no clue whatsoever who these Rangers were … or what their gig was on Earth.
Dawg awakens from his coma bang on time all gangsta, and hits hits N2O with a blast! “Boh!”
Immediately he vigorously begins decoding and decrypting the files meticulously emblazoned on his brainstem, pressing his long gangly fingers against his semi-aroused little nugget as he went… dwelling momentarily on the surreal yet strangely sensual images from his dream. He peruses the facts and figures as they systematically file themselves alphabetically into his CPU memory bank and then meditates on the mysterious conundrum of mankind… the source of the unknown primitive forces that bred such a gluttonous mutant race of hybrids on such an emotional self devouring little planet, and the unknown path of their unforseen destinies which lay ahead.
Zorg reopens the detailed files and streaming coordinates of the mission Primary targets, and ‘Mothers of the New Age’, Venus Bizwald and Violet Mars as scheduled. He checks and crosschecks the suspected target locations, birthdates, dna strands, rfd codes, genetic imprints, retinas, tattoos and piercings via all mainstream media channels, google and youtube all without an iota of a clue.
The girls were off the hook, and totally off the charts.
A Pint Sized Insurgency is Copyrite protected
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