World War Gorch – An excerpt from Chapter 9: Arrival
…Like an elegant, finely-tailored Moe Howard, Paul F. Tompkins swiftly conked together the heads of Kamal and Johnny B. As the erstwhile phone pranksters slumped to the ground and out of consciousness, the dapper funnyman angrily readjusted his tie, not unlike James Bond after killing Red Grant aboard the Orient Express in
From Russia With Love.
Regaining his composure, Tompkins strode over to the Tall Bike rack outside the old Lady Foot Locker where Tom had tied up James.
“This is the guy who gave you so much trouble, Scharpling? You, sir, must be losing your touch. I bet he doesn’t even weigh 90 pounds. And he’s so pale, why, he’s almost translucent!”
Tom turned away from surveying the battle-damaged mall at Newbridge Commons for the rest of the Gorch’s mutant army. “He’s tougher than he looks, so keep your distance,” he barked. “And don’t listen to him, either. Any minute now, he’ll start crying…telling you his name is really Jeremy and how he didn’t mean to do this.”
In the distance, Tom could hear a strange thump-thumping sound. Peering through the smog and toxic gasses in the Newbridge skyline, he could just make out an oddly-shaped aircraft approaching. Was this friend…or foe? He had to assume the worst, that it could be any one of the remaining mutant invaders moving in for the next phase of the attack. He steeled himself for battle. Across from him, Tompkins hunkered down to get a good look at the Enemy of Tom who was propped up against the Tall Bike rack, his arms tied to the rack behind him by several silk Jerry Garcia ties, which Tom had found in a destroyed lean-to in an alley across the mall.
“I’ll say one thing, my good man. You were right about that preposterous wig!”
At that moment, James’ eyes flashed open, startling Tompkins.
“No…get away…” the pathetic creep wheezed, his voice a barely audible rasp, each word clearly a struggle through his crippling asthma. “You…don’t…understand…” he mewled pathetically in his trademark nasal whine. “Not…James…hurry…before…it…wakes…up.”
Tom shook his head, having heard this before. He was about to admonish Tompkins for letting himself get caught off guard, but he was cut-off by a sound that made his blood run cold. It was a horrifying, otherworldly voice that seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.
“YOU HAVE RESTRAINED THE HOST. BUT YOU HAVE NOT RESTRAINED JAMES.”
Tompkins fell back onto the ground in shock. “Oh my stars and garters! Did you hear that?!”
Tom had heard it, all right. But that’s not what really had him worried. Wheels turned in his head, and Tom suddenly came to a shocking revelation about James.
“His…his mouth didn’t move when he said that. Holy moley, LOOK OUT!”
But it was too late. As The Kid’s warning still hung in the noxious Newbridge air, the toupee launched itself from atop the head of the boy-creep they called James and slammed into Paul F. Tompkins, knocking the chic comedian to the ground. He tumbled across the garbage-strewn parking lot, wrestling with the hairpiece that now seemed to move under its own power.
Tom was stunned – he had seen some terrifying things in his days, but the horror of seeing this living toupee attack Tompkins was chilling on a new level – but he quickly shook it off. His 4’8” frame of pure muscle coiled into action as he prepared to spring to the rescue, but before he could leap into battle once more, a thick chain wrapped around his waist. Instantly, he was sent soaring through the air and smashing into the metal shutters of the Radio Hut.
A lesser man would have been knocked into unconsciousness, but Tom quickly vaulted from his back to his feet, landing in a defensive crouch. Before even turning to face this new assailant, he looked to see what had become of Tompkins and the Toupee, only to see the two of them continuing to thrash and struggle before their battle sent them smashing through the glass storefront window of Captain’s Donuts. Tom turned back to face his chain-wielding attacker, and his worst fears were instantly confirmed.
Seated atop his gleaming, spike-topped battle-scooter…The Gorch had arrived.
***
100 yards away, two reporters held their positions behind the shattered statue of Colonel Jessup in the Newbridge Commons Square. Marc Healy of the
Newbridge Herald-Times Republican-Herald had thrown down his pad and paper and taken up his camera to visually document the Gorch-led mutant invasion of Newbridge. Beside him was noted Friend of Tom and Newbridge historian Omar, who was uploading his latest dispatch on his Amazon Kindle.
Omar noticed Healy snapping photos of the fight, catching Tom doing a series of handspring cartwheels to narrowly avoid deadly chainshots from the Gorch.
“He’s moving so quickly…I’m amazed you’re getting those shots, Healy. Good work.”
“Oh, wow, thanks Omar,” said Healy, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It really means a lot to me to hear that from a renowned photojournalist like yourself.”
“Hey, come on, I was just saying that-”
“No, I’m serious, I’m sure you took award-winning photos of the rescue workers saving all those people when the roof collapsed at Maurice Kern’s Newbridge East last year, too.”
“Look, I’m only trying to say that your photos are great.”
“Oh, thank god you said that, here I was taking photos trying to document this national story of a city under siege by a mutant army because I thought it was my job as a reporter, but now I realize that I should have been doing this all along on the off chance of getting a compliment from a guy with a blog.”
Editor’s Note: To read more, see “World War Gorch: Frontline” on sale now.***
Tom continued his acrobatic series of feints, dodges and flips, staying one step ahead of the marauding Gorch. He looked for an opening, to launch a counter-attack.
Just two weeks ago, Tom had mentioned on the air that, if he wanted to, he could win a UFC Championship Belt if he trained for a month. A mere six days later, he had sparred with UFC Light Heavyweight Champion Quinton “Rampage” Jackson and made the mixed martial arts master tap out. Tom had proven his point and hadn’t felt the need to press the issue further. Right now, if the Gorch had been on foot, it would be a simple matter to duck under one of his chainshots and, with Harfouche-ian skill, easily restrain the Gorch with a double-leg takedown.
But alas, the Gorch was still seated on his accursed War Rascal, a gleaming perversion of an adult mobility scooter, festooned with spikes from every angle that prevented a direct assault. As long as he remained mounted on the War Rascal, there was no easy way to take the fight to the Gorch. And, as if to add insult, The Gorch had mounted a trophy to the front of his battle scooter: a copy of Yellow Dog Records YD 031 – better known as
The Beatles Complete Christmas Collection 1963-1969 – a prize Tom had long been seeking.
Tom was caught off guard eyeing the Beatle Bootleg, no doubt Gorch’s intent, and he paid for it a second later when the Gorch nailed him with a mighty blow of his chain.
Fighting the pain and shock of the blow, Tom backflipped out of the way of a follow-up shot from the Gorch that would surely have incapacitated him. He continued to back up, putting himself temporarily out of chain range, and reached into his pocket to take out his AskJeeves Phone.
While the Gorch advanced, Tom desperately flipped open the AskJeeves Phone, frantically trying to decide who he could call for help, but before he could call anyone, the phone began playing
Porcupine Pie, signaling an incoming call. Tom stabbed the Answer button with his finger and shouted to the caller to get help, only for the caller to cut him off:
“SHUT UP FOOL! SHUT UP FOOL! SHUT UP FOOL!” the caller yelled.
At that instant, the Gorch smashed the AskJeeves phone with his chain, and quickly struck again, clobbering the dumbfounded Lord of Living Lightning. He struck once more, knocking Tom to the ground.
“Ya thought ya could barge me?” Gorch bellowed, cracking Tom again with the chain. “Ya thought ya could send me away forever?” Crack! Another shot with the chain. “Ya thought The Gorch wouldn’t get some pals and come back for ya?” The Gorch’s War Rascal rumbled across the asphalt, its oversized spiked wheels crushing vials of Blue and Tom’s oversized sunglasses as Gorch moved in for the kill.
Tom struggled, and in agony, he was unable to get to his feet. He looked up and locked eyes with The Gorch.
“I think,” The Kid said, pausing to defiantly wipe blood from his mouth. “You should go shop for a coffin.”
Enraged, The Gorch swung his chain at full force at Tom with a blow that would surely kill El Goodo. But instead of the sound of chain crunching skull, there was only the dull thunk of pressed cardboard.
The Gorch roared in anger, seeing what had stopped the fatal chainshot from reaching its mark.
“ABBABOX!” Tom shouted. “You came back!”
The Gorch swung once more, but this time, he chain was caught in mid-air by a delicate but powerful hand, sparing Tom and ABBABox from another deadly blow.
“And ABBABox didn’t come alone,” said the newcomer.
Tom looked up into the smiling, bearded face of Benny Andersson. In the distance, he could see Bjorn, Frieda and the radiant Agnetha exiting the ABBACopter, the fantastic airship ABBA fans around the world knew well from the cover of the band’s album
Arrival.
ABBA had responded to Tom’s distress calls. The balance in the war against The Gorch and his Mutant Army had just shifted in favor of The Good Guys.
***
Meanwhile, inside Captain’s Donuts, Paul F. Tompkins was sprawled in a heap of shattered glass and overturned tables and chairs. His breathing was shallow, and Tompkins appeared to be unconscious.
But something else was stirring inside the darkened Donut depository. Still animated with unknown demonic force, The Toupee inched up to Tompkins’ prone form and slid across his head. The hideous hairpiece affixed itself atop PFT’s own mane, its foul wig glue holding it in place.
Seconds later, Tompkins’ eyes snapped open, now glassy and unfocused. He sat up stiffly, opened his mouth and, in a ghoulish, robotic voice, said:
“I…got…James’d.”
END CHAPTER 9
