THE DERANGED ADVENTURES OF FLASH GOMEZ IN THE 20TH CENTURY

THE DERANGED ADVENTURES OF FLASH GOMEZ IN THE 20TH CENTURY
The never-before-published final edit! New episodes on Mondays!

Monday, September 15, 2014

BRAINPAN FALLOUT: 23- GLOBAL DELIGHTS FOR FUN AND PROFIT




©Ernest Hogan 2014

"What?" I said reaching up for Vampiko's drum-tight implant-enhanced breasts.

She pulled them out of my reach. "Please. We're on soon. You'll smear my makeup."

"We're going on? Wait a minute." I looked around through the smoke, saw figures, human, saguaro, and other -- some with cellular phones, others with automatic weapons.  "Where are we?"

She giggled, not quite hiding her fangs with her dainty, white fingers with nails like red piranha teeth. "Don't you recognize it? This is my work. Global Delights."

"Oh yeah, the tittie bar." Some of the human figures were hard-bodied females, with almost nothing on.

"Why, Flash, you vulgar muchacho," a familiar voice said. "This place is far more than a mere tittie bar."

There he/she was. Lalaita. Doc Burnout's lover boy. All dolled up in a Kiss of the Spider Woman get-up that hid his male genitalia and gave full view of her brand-new breasts that were standing high and perky like fresh implants the size of bowling balls.

"My God," I found myself saying.

Lalaita purred and gave them a stereo squeeze with soft, well-manicured hands with knuckles that were just a little too big to pass for feminine. "Ay, you like my new chichonas?  They've already come in handy. They cop feels, but they never dream of looking inside."

The Krell chip made some connections too fast for me to follow. I was almost expecting Obeah X15's lady Califia Johnson to show up. But then that would be a bit much.

A phone rang. "No, she's not here. She's still in Nigeria."

I shuddered.

Vampiko pulled me to my feet. "Come, mon cher.  We have to go on stage."

"Here?  But I don't have any tits!"

She ran a delicate fingertip along the X-shaped scar on my face. "Yes, but you have something else, dear, something that a lot of people want."

Lalaita did a rapid-fire tongue-click. "You dos! This is no time for the getting romantic! We have work to do."

I could barely stand. They each took an arm and practically had to carry me, which took some doing since I'm a good head taller than both of them.

Music started -- corny Latin jazz to the plastic beat of Asian pop. The lights blinded me. The crowd growled like a hungry monster.

NEXT WEEK:  SHOWTIME ON THE UNDERNET 


Monday, September 8, 2014

BRAINPAN FALLOUT: 22- WE HAVE LIFTOFF




©Ernest Hogan 2014


We have liftoff -- Houston, Houston, do you read? Floating. Spaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaace Patrol! In the middle of Burnout's van -- You're ten thousand light years -- The light's so bright -- Seek out new life and new civilizations -- The space -- getting bigger, brighter. One small step for a man. All this information -- such a happy little chip! My mind is going, Dave. Cockroaches, Nigerians, Mayans, reptiles, saguaros, lots of saguaros, everywhere -- one thing, monsters, monsters from the id. Why dress like a saguaro anyway? We will control all that you see and hear. Got to ask them about it -- Can you hear me, Major Tom? I can't follow it all -- Your minds!  This is the Undernet. Your stupid, stupid minds! Brainpan fallout all over the place.

Fade to blinding white before I can lock into an old-fashioned Swinging Sixties style look-Ma-I'm-blowing-my-mind-again freeze frame scream.

Mom shakes her head and smiles as a beatifically as the Virgin of Guadalupe. Dad hands me a still-beating human heart. Obie and Doc argue over what to say to me. Califia sends another message from Nigeria, "Believe it all, but trust no one." Lalaita flashes his/her brand new, fresh-from-the-Columbian-mad-scientist's-lab breasts. Vampiko licks her lips, bares her fangs, and whispers, "I love you, Flash, to the year 2000 and beyond."

I got the impression that I was surrounded by saguaros, so what the hell, I asked, "Why do you wear those stupid saguaro suits?"

They all made a twittering, inhuman noise. I eventually recognized it as a peculiar kind of laugher.

"What's so funny?"

They conferred a while, then one said, "These are not suits. We are naked."

I tried to scream, but the blinding light dimmed down to a fuzzy near blackness.

I clicked my heels together three times and said, "There's no place like home."

My eyes opened. I was on a couch that reeked of assorted bodily excretions, in a dim, smoke-filled room. 

"It worked," said a woman.

"Nothing like pure adrenalin in the carotid artery to wake a body up," said a man.

It was the blonde and the asian/native/hispanoid from the limo I rode in a millions of years ago this morning.

Vampiko flitted out of the smokey shadows, and said, "We're on soon, mon amour!"



Friday, September 5, 2014

CHICANONAUTICA FLIES ACROSS THE BORDER, 1928-STYLE



This time on Chicanonautica, over at La Bloga, I take a look at the narcotraficante pulp novel, Rex Lee On the Border Patrol by Thomson Burtis.

The book made this song go through my head:


It also reminded me of this narcorrido and pelicula :


And this radioactive paranoia flick that was based on a novel about heroin smuggling:


But then again:

Monday, September 1, 2014

BRAINPAN FALLOUT: 21- PARKING LOT TRAUMA




©Ernest Hogan 2014

Out in the parking lot, an unmarked helicopter was hovering over Doc Burnout's van, shining a spotlight on it, looking cornball sci-fi as all hell.

"Stay away from it!" screamed Obeah X15. "Looks like a trap!"

It looked  that way to me, too, only I wasn't the one in control of my brain at that particular moment. The Krell chip had detected the sweet electromagnetic signature of running computers, and had me zeroing in on full-out attack mode.

The rear hatch was open and waiting like the horizontally-hinged mandibles of a sacrifice-starved mechanical spider-goddess. I dived in like a willing partner in my own oblivion. The helicopter turned off its spotlight, and the doors slammed shut, leaving me in the cool, dim illumination of the monitor screens and light-emitting diodes of Doc's onboard information system.

The chip purred with delight.

I nearly snapped my neck trying to look at all the screens at once. So much information; so little time --- not to mention neurons.

The faint sound of Doc crying "Stop you thieves!" was drowned out by the roar of the van starting up. There was no driver. The dashboard displays flickered while the wheel and pedals worked themselves.

I didn't have time to wonder how it was possible. The damned chip had me bouncing around trying to absorb as much of the ambient information as possible. Between that and the shifting g-forces of the van's random trajectory, I was expecting to be bashed to a bloody pulp as my eyes and ears caught scattered bytes of precious information:

Do not attempt to adjust your input -- large cockroaches infest the White House and Congress -- all sources deny everything -- cover-up is suspected -- Pornography and viruses on the information highway -- organized crime to blame -- writer researching parallels between CIA mind-control technology and Haitian voodoo dies of drug overdose -- The Surgeon General warns that cerebral implants may be hazardous to your health -- Extinction of the saguaro cactus no longer considered imminent -- sightings in non-desert regions and urban areas -- Virtual reality has been found to have similar marijuana-like side-effects -- even after short term usage --  Law enforcement has discovered new plant-based drugs -- outlaw genetic engineering suspected -- we are controlling transmission --

Then the light leaking in through the windshield and portholes got a little brighter. Suddenly, there were no g-forces. I was floating. Weightless.  


Monday, August 25, 2014

BRAINPAN FALLOUT: 20- COCKROACHES AND BREASTS-IMPLANTS



©Ernest Hogan 2014

The caffeine from the iced-tea hadn't pulled me out of my stupor when Obeah X15 and Doc Burnout proceeded with a simultaneous overlapping info-dump that I couldn't have followed without the help of the Krell chip. Obie recapped his discovery of the conspiracy to make giant lizards while Doc kept switching from his tracking down the Kafka virus to his not being able to find his lover at Sky Harbor Airport in the morning.

All the while the Nigerian kept his eyes on us and typed into his laptop.

"I made a royal pest of myself, but there was no sign of her, the plane arrived from Bogota, but she wasn't there." Doc was getting incoherent.

"Wadiya mean 'she?'" Obie sneered.

"It what Lalaita likes to be called." I said.

"He's a guy! I don't care what kinda state-of-the-art artificial boobs he keeps going down to South American to get. Anyone with a weenie is he!" Obie ranted.

"So what about the Kafka virus?" I asked, trying to change the subject. "How could it possibly change people into cockroaches when they turn off their computers?"

The Nigerian looked concerned.

"Yeah," said Obie. "It's plain impossible."

"How should I know?" Doc took a long sip of ice-tea. "I'm just reporting the data I've gathered."

Obie's smile got evil. "Hey, maybe Lalaita changed into a cockroach."

"You're so insensitive," said Doc.

The Krell chip shuffled some stuff and threw it into my brain. "Maybe there's an extra high level of peyote pollen in the desert air right now. We're all gang-hallucinating."

The Nigerian looked particularly worried about that, even though Doc and Obie blew it off, while I spotted a saguaro moving around the entrance to Monkey Ward in my peripheral vision.

"I've also been hearing rumors about a new drug on the streets," said Doc.

"Yeah, me too," said Obie. "Somekinda newfangled recombination of opium and coca -- could be bad news!"

With that the Nigerian's eyes got real big. He shut down his laptop, and before he could close the lid, changed into a king-sized cockroach. I got up, screamed and bolted a few nanoseconds before the crowd went berserk. Obie and Doc followed me through Miracle Mile to the nearest exit.

So did the saguaro.

Friday, August 22, 2014

CHICANONAUTICA FINDS NEOAZTECS AMONG US



We find Aztec culture alive and well in Siglo XXI at Chicanonautica, over at La Bloga:

There's Aztec regalia, dance and Nahuatl in the streets:


They're recharging their energy at Teotihuacán. (Which is actually, preAztec, but then if only had a dime for everytime I saw the Aztec Sun Stone identified as the "Mayan" calendar . . .)


And the Mexica Movement is going beyond Aztlán:


We all need to spend time at Nican Tlaca Univeristy:


It really is wonderful world:

Monday, August 18, 2014

BRAINPAN FALLOUT: 19- MULTICULTURAL MALL CRAWL




©Ernest Hogan 2014

Obeah X15 and Doc Burnout popped open the doors and ran for the main entrance of Christown.  I struggled in pain in slow motion, pulled the keys out of the ignition, got out and locked the doors, and followed.

The moon was full.  According to local folklore science fiction writers were hanging out in the corner JB's while other strange creatures homed in on the mall like iron filings to a magnet. If you listened carefully you might hear naked Wiccans practicing a ritual in nearby swimming pool.

I nearly bumped into a Mayan guy who was contemplating a spilled Slurpee between his sandaled feet. He looked at me from under his straw cowboy hat, gave a beatific grin and said, "Hasta luego," which means 'until we meet again.' He must have been another urban dreamwalker. I wished him "Buenos suerte."

The mall was packed. Anglos of every breed, Chicanos, Navajos, African Americanos, suntanned Asians, Mayans, Aztecs, Hindus, and assorted recombinations, were merrily milling about. Overweight security guards oversaw it all like walking Buddhas. Nobody noticed my stubbled and scarred head. Like Obie often said, "Christown is a happy medium among malls; people with walkie-talkies don't harass the people of color, and you don't get gangsters signing at you."

But I still couldn't find Obie and Doc. Had they ditched me? Then, the chip noticed a bookstore where a bespectacled black clerk was trying to close up and sent me lurching toward it.

Suddenly, someone grabbed my arm. It was Obie.

"What took you?" he said. "We were afraid we'd have to go back to van."

I stammered and held out the keys.

"Oh, thank goodness," Doc said as he grabbed them. "Did you lock?"

I shook my head.

"I tell you," Doc went on, "Phoenix is getting just as bad a L.A.!"

They pushed me to a table at Miracle Mile where three iced-teas were waiting for us.
"No walking saguaros. No big lizards. No giant cockroaches. I guess it's safe to talk here."

Maybe. There was a Nigerian at the next table looking straight at us typing into a laptop as some Fela Anikulapo-Kuti leaked out of his Walkman. He seemed to be taking notes on our conversation.


Monday, August 11, 2014

BRAINPAN FALLOUT: 18- THE FACE OF THINGS TO COME




©Ernest Hogan 2014

"Honest guys," I said, feeling my face, there was stubble, and some swelling, "you'd think you'd never seen a banged-up face before." Then I felt some scarring. "Uh-oh!"

I looked up into the rearview mirror. I almost screamed. The puffiness would eventually go away, but those two railroad-track-looking scars making a big "X" across my face made me permanent low-budget horror movie material. I shed a couple of tears that flowed along the scars when they hit them.

"Too bad." Burnout shook his head. "You were such a cutie."

"You ain't gonna be able to pass for Anglo any more, blue eyes," said Obie as he touched the tiny "x's" scratched onto his cheekbones. "You make me look like a timid dilettante in scarification."

"I'm doomed," I whined. "Vampiko will hate this."

"Don't be so sure, Flash." Obie smirked. "Vampiko likes the spooky stuff." He then smiled in a way that made me want to punch him.

Burnout leaned back and looked me over. "It does give you a sort of ultra-butch appeal."

I groaned. "So what do we do now?"

"They still may be tracking us," said Burnout. "I can't tell with my electronics shut down."

Obie looked out over the steering wheel. "Well, I don't see any ambulatory saguaros or shark-faced missiles following us."

"They could still be watching us," Burnout said. "For all we know they have spy satellites."

Obie then made a screeching, controlled-drift left-turn.

"Who the hell are 'they?'" I asked once I got a grip on a panel full of cold hardware.

"Who knows?" Obie made a sudden stop for a red light. "Mayan revolutionaries?  Televoodooists? The reptile conspiracy? You should see the messages my lady Califia has been sending from Nigeria. Maybe there's just been a heavy peyote-pollen count in Phoenix lately!"

The light turned green. Obie sent the van lurching ahead, and me tumbling backwards.

A huge lizard was clinging to the windows on the rear hatch.  It's long tongue flicked out, then it lost its grip and fell away.

"Did you see that?"  I asked.

"Hell, yes," said Obie, who made a few quick turns then brought us a screeching halt. "Let's get out of this thing -- pronto!"



Friday, August 8, 2014

CHICANONAUTICA TELLS HOW I BECAME A SUCCESSFUL CHICANO WRITER


How did I become one of the most successful Chicano writers of my generation? I tell in the latest Chicanonautica, over at La Bloga.

You gotta be persistent:


And the right equipment helps:



Some of are just plain born that way:


And it's really great when we get paid:

Monday, August 4, 2014

BRAINPAN FALLOUT: 17- THE REPTILE CONSPIRACY




©Ernest Hogan 2014

"I have you covered," the saguaro said shaking the TEK-9, just in case we hadn't noticed it. A cellular phone then grew out of its other arm as it said, "Send a mobile unit to . . ."

Then a huge lizard -- it looked like a monitor, but was the size of a Doberman pincher -- leaped off the Alien Penis, onto the saguaro.

The saguaro went, "AIIEEEEEE!" like in a comic book.

Before any of us could breathe sighs of relief, the hiss of several more big lizards made us look around. They were coming at us, their shadows growing longer as the sun set.

Doc, Obie and I fell over each other as we scrambled back into the van.

"Gimme the keys," said Obie, who was in the driver's seat.

"No," said Doc,"you can't drive my van!"

A lizard clawed its way into the rear hatch. I kicked it in the jaw and screamed, "SOMEBODY drive!  Now!"

Doc pouted, swallowed a squeak, and handed the keys to Obie, who had us jolting across the lawn in record time. The lizard let go of the rear bumper. I grabbed a cabinet that held some sophisticated electronics before I could be ejected.

"What's with all these oversized lizards?" I screamed as we bounced over the curb, into the street.

"It's the reptile conspiracy," said Obie, doing his best Malcolm X.

Doc rolled his eyes.

"Like I always said," Obie went on, "it's televoodooizing time here in the final act of the 20th century.  People all over the world are force-feeding lizards with protein-rich reptile chow spiked with stuff like pituitary gland of pit bulls in an attempt to get the critters to reach their as yet unrealized maximum capacity. I've been investigating it, and it's getting heavy. I got some video off a satellite feed from Indonesia of these Komodo dragons that looked like Godzilla."

"What?" I said.  The bandages were now all swinging loose about my head.

"It's an experiment in chaos ecology and the revival of reptile-friendly religions," Obie said, stopping for a red light.

"Well," Doc said with his characteristic limp-wristed hand-swish, "if you boys think you've had a rough day . . ."

The bandages were just about ready to let go.  I couldn't wait.  I took hold and ripped them off all at once.  It only hurt a little bit.

Doc and Obie looked back at me and screamed.