A true story written by Clinton Tyler Williams and Michael Joseph Wiley
"The Michael Wiley Experience - Part One"
And so begins the chronicles of Michael Wiley, the man born from the earth, the man who ate forty pirates, the man whose sheer awesome made heads fert, and then explode.
My name is Tyler Williams. Sixty years ago, I met this Michael Wiley on the beach of a dusty, post-war, bombed-out city. The city was in a bizarre state. The war had just ended, so many were still there, in hiding, sitting in the rubble, waiting for that last, lost bomber to come and destroy them. Waiting for that final soldier, the one who didn't know things had ended, to come and blow them into bloody puddles of mud.
I was meandering through this hell of twisted metal and smoking rubble, leaving my faint foot prints in the ash covered roads, when I finally saw what I had been seeking: the beach.
Bodies were strewn across it in reckless and random patterns, piled this way and that. I stepped carefully, trying not to disturb the dead, and waited for a moan, or a raspy whisper begging for water, or worse, a merciful death. I knew I was incapable of delivering both.
When I reached the surf, it was tainted maroon. I left my shoes on as I walked quickly over the compacted sand, past spent shell casings, loaded guns clogged with sand, dead soldiers, all of which had broken bones or missing limbs. I soon reached a part of the beach where the bodies were piled so thick, I couldn't help but step on a few. I felt sick as their bodies grew stiff beneath my thin shoes.
Something caught my eye.
In the midst of the rubble, the slain heroes, the spent weapons, was a patch of sand, unmarred by blood, fire, or debris. I hurried over to it, and stood at its center, looking at the destruction all around me. The ground began to writhe beneath my feet, and I quickly stepped away in terror.
What was beneath the sand, I wondered? A trapped soldier? Some undetonated bomb which I had just set off? Suddenly, a hand broke through the grit, and I immediately fell on my knees and pulled on it as hard as I could.
IT was unmoved. Another hand broke free of the sand, and soon a blonde-brown mop of hair could be seen. I stood back in shock, and slowly the truth dawned on me.
The earth itself was giving birth, to a man no less.
I knelt at the sand, and began whispering encouragement to the beach. "Push!", I told the sand. "Push harder!"
A little more of the man was pushing through the sand. I was worried for my safety. What would this earth-borne man be like, I wondered?
At this point, a man who had survived the bombing, siege, and attack of the city, saw me on the beach, unharmed, and yelling at the sand. He lifted his gun, and with a single shot, fell me. The bullet had whizzed past my forehead, digging a deep scar that would last a lifetime. In my unconsciousness, I had a vision. I discovered that this thing being born from the sands was to be named Michael Wiley, and that he would bring true balance to the world. I was to keep him safe, until he was wise and powerful enough to journey out on his own. Unfortunately, I had no idea how long that would be.
And with a final grunt and a groan Michael was free! He stood on his shaky legs, and peered around the world. I was in awe at this new life, which even at birth seemed to have more awesome than Wes Anderson and Obi-Wan Kenobi combined. The young Michael trotted off on his new legs, and within the first five minutes of his life, he had sex 3,547 times, ate forty pirates, and slapped the sun to stop global warming. I knew from that very moment that this new life, this tender young babe, would grow to be a force to be reckoned with. Reckoned, but not trifled.
I stood up, and looked for the man with the gun. He had moved down the beach, and was approaching us with incredible speed. He lifted the pistol again, and pointed it at Michael. I dove, trying to knock Michael out of the way, but I was suddenly propelled backwards. Michael had created a shield of Bitchin-ness around his body which deflected the bullets, killing the soldier instantly. I looked up with awe at the earth-borne man. Michael turned back to me, shrugged, and began walking off through the rubble of the smoking beach. I stood, grabbed my pack, and slowly followed.
"The Michael Wiley Experience - Part Two"
We had been walking for a day and a half. I was tired, because Michael could move somewhat faster than I usually did. Also, he rarely needed to stop and eat, whereas I liked to eat whenever I could. We had barely made it twenty miles, when we were attacked!
They came out of nowhere. Thousands streamed out of the hills, riding their massive lions and alpacas, screaming and wielding their bows and their axes. I was terrified, but I stood, ready to defend myself. Michael turned to me, and asked "Hey. What are those?"
I looked at him, trying to remain steady. "The infamous Indian Vikings, famed for their cruelty and ability to send out beams of suck at will."
As if on cue, one of the Vikings shot a beam at us. Michael activated his shield, and deflected it, but barely. Their was so much suck in the beam, that Michael was visibly weakened.
One of the Indian Vikings rode up to me, so I drop kicked him in the face, and jumped on his lion. Michael tried to activate his shield again, but failed. I saw one of the Indian Vikings readying another suck beam, when suddenly, there was a faint noise in the distance. I reared up my lion, and turned to face the noise, as did everyone else.
There sat a being, legendary for his quiet cunning and sarcastic wit. Some of the Indian Vikings were melted on the spot by the mere sight of him. Lions burst into flames. Luckily, though, I remained unscathed. For a moment all was silent as everyone tried to hear what the almighty Jim was saying.
And then like a flash, from the skies came George, flying like a greased bullet. His sequenced scarves flapped behind him, he lifted his red star-shaped sunglasses, and shot beams of pure Glamrock at the Indian Vikings. Suddenly all around me I heard David Bowie, mingled with the agonizing screams of a thousand dying Indian Vikings. Their lions scattered.
George landed next to us, and Jim wandered over eventually.
"I heard the savior of all things awesome was in need, so I brought Jim along so we could save him." George smiled, and then laughed, which shook his long, curly hair. I noticed a tattoo on his neck.
"You used to be a pirate!" I said.
"Yes, yes I did." George said darkly. "But nowadays I travel the world in my silver pants, trying to spread the ways of Glamrock to the poor and impoverished."
Michael nodded in approval of George and Jim. I offered them sandwiches, which they ate.
The ground began to quake. George adjusted his glasses, and Jim turned on his AM clock radio to calm his nerves. I adjusted my plaid coat, and Michael munched on his sandwich, trying to regain enough energy to turn his shield back on.
The beast that appeared on the horizon was terrible to behold. It rode inside of a giant, raised truck, blasting Blink 182 at high enough decimals to kill a cat, or maybe even two. The true terror, though, was the thing behind the wheel. With its dark sunglasses worn even on the most overcast of days, with its flat billed NY Yankees hat, its white t-shirt, its dark, ginormous shorts, and its over-stuffed shoes. I took a step back.
Michael, Jim, and George stood ready for conflict.
The truck stopped in front of us, and the creature jumped down off of it. I saw it pull out a gun, a Dumbfire 600, capable of shooting dumbrays with intensities of up to 400 gigasucks.
Jim was shot at first, and knocked onto his back. He struggled for a moment as he contemplated fighting back and then went out cold. I took the next shot, straight to the head. I went down with the theme to "Friends" playing in my head.
I have no idea what happened next, and no reliable sources, so I'll use the next best thing: Hear-say and rumors.
George shot the beast with a Glamrock ray and it was barely phased. It leveled its gun at Michael, whose eyes grew wide in terror. His shield wouldn't
activate. The monster shot a dumbray at Michael, but George took the blow. Luckily, he was awesome enough to withstand it, and lay panting, but alive (this is important to the story), on the ground.
Michael stood, alone, frightened, and within the sights of the Dumbfire 600. The beast smiled, and tightened his grip on the trigger, when a beam of light fell from the skies. In this beam of light was Xanadu, the legendary dog of Colton. In a single move she peed and bit the beast. His gun fired into the air. Michael scooped up Jim and George, and threw them onto Xanadu's back. He mounted her shoulders, and as she escaped, she lifted me into her soft but dangerous jaws.
The chase across California was intense. The monster and his truck were closing the gap on Xanadu. Jim and George were disabled, I was mortally wounded, and Michael was powerless. Xanadu was getting tired by the time we neared the Mohave. The truck was at her heels. Michael wondered what would happen next. So did I.
In the desert, amidst the ancient stone and barren waste, was an oasis. Xanadu ran to it, full speed, anticipating a bath in cool, shady waters. she had, in her excitement, forgotten about the pursuing truck. Michael's eyes grew wide, knowing that in a few moments, exactly what would happen. Xanadu would stop, the truck would catch up, and they all might die before Michael completed his life's only purpose.
But suddenly, Michelle, George’s bitch, leaped out in front of the truck! No one could tell where she had come from! She stood proudly in the truck’s path, and when she opened up her mouth to speak, she was barreled over by the evil machine, dying instantly.
Michael was slightly perturbed.
As Xanadu ran past the first few palm trees, Michael used his incredible strength
to throw Jim, George and myself into a tree, so we would be out of the way. He leapt from Xanadu's broad back, turned, and faced the truck.
The truck drove faster and faster over the hardpan desert, and Michael stood alone, waiting to face what could be his doom.
"The Michael Wiley Experience - Part Three"
Michael stood alone, silhouetted against the hazy sand. The truck was almost upon him when, in a single swift motion, he tore a palm tree out of the ground and hit the truck as hard as he could, which made the truck explode in a giant fireball of pain and terror, leaving nothing but a spinning hubcap and a melted pair of sunglasses.
Slowly, George, Jim, and myself crawled out of the palms. Michael rested on his knees in the sand, panting. Xanadu rested in the shade.
The campfire burned low, Jim slept, George was sewing more sequence onto his pants. Michael and myself were staring at the low hills, where dark shapes were moving.
"What are those?" Michael asked.
"I don't really know," I answered, "Maybe some bros grieving for their lost brother, maybe rednecks poaching coyote."
"Will more bros come and attack us?" Michael asked.
"No, no. Most bros are just jerks. All talk. They suck. Balls. Hard."
"Huh. Okay."
The next morning, we set out across the hard pan. The sun bore down on our backs. I reached into my satchel and grabbed a sandwich. I offered more sandwiches to everyone else. They declined.
Trucks were spotted in the distance by George. "Hey, hey! Rednecks!"
Jim turned, and for a moment, looked nervous. George reached into his silver pants and drew forth his Glam Sword. Xanadu stopped walking.
The truck pulled up next to us, and immediately the drunken rednecks started shouting and mocking us.
"Hey, ya hippies! Cutch'er damn hair!"
"Heh, yeah! Cut it! Ha ha ha!"
Jim sat silently. Michael looked confused. I yelled back "Well, you guys, you guys are just dumb. Dumbos. Dumby McDumbersons!"
"What?" Said the fat one.
"I called you dumb. So there!" I shouted.
Then the skinny one started shooting. He missed, of course, being drunk and dumb...and more importantly, a redneck. George leapt up and, raising his sword of Glam, punched searing hole down into the hood of the truck, rendering it useless.
The skinny redneck shot George point blank, but, luckily, it bounced off one of his larger sequences. George raised the sword again, but didn't notice that the fat one had gotten out of the truck. The fat excuse of a man punched him in the back of the knee. George collapsed and fell on the ground.
Jim, seeing that George was pretty much worthless in a fight, ran to his aid, and karate chopped the fat redneck in the eye, which made his stupid fat gut blow up all over the skinny redneck, who was totally grossed out, but also a little turned on because he was so stupid.
The skinny redneck crawled out of his window, probably imagining that he was a NASCAR driver, when Jim grabbed his collar and threw him on the ground. George slowly stood up, and watched as Jim choked the redneck until his head exploded into a puddle of blood and beer. Cause he was full of beer. Because he was a redneck. Duh.
Jim and George walked back over to us. "What the fuck, guys! Here we are, getting shot at, almost getting killed by a pair of stinking rednecks, and you guys just sat on Xanadu, watching!"
"Hey!" I yelled back. "The only stinking power I have is a magic bag full of sandwiches. Thats all I got. Yeah. What good would I be? I'm practically just a cheerleader!"
"Yeah!" said Michael. "His power is really lame!"
"Fuck you guys." We all said at the same time.
"Whatever." We all said in unison.
We climbed back on Xanadu, and rode on through the desert, unaware of the danger that was now pursuing us.
Within a half an hour a dozen rednecks had caught up to us, shooting, shouting and drinking. We looked at them in mixed feelings of shock and anger. Soon they had us surrounded, and we stood, trapped.
"Hey, you fuggin' pussy liberals! You fuckers killed Jeb and Mack!"
"Yeah! Bastards!"
"Hey, they started shit with us!" I shouted.
"Quiet down, Tyler." George said. "We're gonna fight soon enough."
"Yeah, ya fat bastard!" Yelled a redneck.
"Yeah, that makes sense, after all, you are the epitome of fitness." Said Michael.
"Fuck that! Get 'em!" The rednecks charged wielding broken bottles and guns.
George blasted three with Glam beams, then drew the Glam Sword as they closed in. Michael punched one in the face and his fist burst out of the back of the redneck's head. I threw sandwiches at some. They ate them. Then died. They were poison sandwiches. Xanadu ate three rednecks sitting terrified in their truck. Then Jim stepped up.
Several of the rednecks stopped. "Hey, boy! Watchu gonna do!" They laughed. "Yeah, betcha his name is Tyrone or, or...Demond! Ha ha ha!"
Jim stared at the rednecks, hard, then charged. He ripped the radio antennae from one of their shitty cars, and stabbed one of them in the eye, then lifted the skewered redneck into the air and swung him into several more so hard that they disintegrated. Jim then pulled a bat out of one of their trucks and began randomly pummeling the rednecks about the knees and chest, leaving them broken, but alive, on the ground.
When the fight was over, there were bloody bodies laying about within the circle of trucks. Jim slowly got into one, and we all looked at him, confused.
"I gotta go do some stuff." He said quietly as he turned the engine on. He flipped on the AM radio, and drove off slowly. We watched him until dusk, the sound of Jim Rome’s voice growing faint in the distance. Then, we cleared the corpses and made camp within the circle of automobiles, and there, we waited for Jim's return.
"The Michael Wiley Experience - Part Four"
Jim returned the following morning, dragging a severed leg behind him. The morning sun rose behind him, his dreadlocks now had a golden hue, he looked remarkably epic. As we looked up at him with awe, he seemed to be of another world, he seemed older, wiser somehow, and with his golden hair he seemed even more powerful than he had once been. Remembering ourselves, George stood and waved to Jim. Michael ran out to meet him. I waited patiently for him to come back to the camp, as movement was not my forte.
When Jim finally sat down, he was quiet for a long, long time. Then, he told us an incredible story.
Jim drove for an hour and a half until he reached the redneck village. There he crashed the truck into the first building he saw, reached into the bed, and using only a two-foot long wrench, killed every redneck he saw until he imbedded it into the skull of a redneck infant and couldn't dislodge it. He then tore the limb from some corpse and finished the job, got into a new car, and drove back. Somewhere a bucket of golden paint fell on his head, and had dried, before he had a chance to wash it out.
This was disappointing.
We packed our few belongings and began traveling again after a few days rest.
We came to a great forest, its trees high and dark, with leaves so thick that sunlight rarely reached the ground. George used his Glam Sword to light the way, causing several small fires, which I put out with excess sandwiches those ungrateful bastards had steadily refused to eat.
We walked for hours and hours, unaware of time. We ate when we were hungry, slept when we were tired, until we finally came to a place where the road split.
"What now?" Everyone asked, turning to me.
"Huh? How should I know? Ask Mike!"
"I don't know. Lets go... Left."
"Why?" Asked George.
"Because, going left is always going better than right."
"That doesn't make any sense." I said.
"Whatever." Said Jim, and he started walking down the left hand path. We all followed.
Eventually we came upon a man, surrounded by tall, fair warriors. George addressed them.
"What the hell? Is he a prisoner?"
"Go, foreigner, this is not your concern!"
"Foreigner? Fuck that! They're not glam!"
"Glam?" Asked one of the elves.
"You've never heard of glam?" George shouted.
"Be gone, warrior!" Shouted another elf. "Be gone from our woods! You have no business here!"
"Fuck you, ass holes! If we wanna walk, we can walk. We're with the savior of awesome, for cryin' out loud!"
At the mention of Michael, the elves’ eyes grew wide. Several drew their swords. I reached into the sandwich bag, and grabbed a stale PB&J. Jim took a swig of wine and turned on his AM radio. George donned his glam glasses and drew the Glam Sword.
"One last warning!" Cried the lead elf.
That was when I threw the sandwich. It lodged in the elf leader's throat, killing him in an instant. The battle was joined.
We wasted the elves, leaving their bodies askew and mangled. We helped the man from the cage, who then began yelling at us.
"What the fuck, dudes! They were supposed to help me! You ass holes!" Then he got really quiet and intense, furrowing what little brow he had. "Seriously, though, what the fuck?"
"Protect you?" I screamed. "You were in a cage!"
"Yeah, a protection cage! PRO-TECT-SHUN cage! Safe cage!" The man lit a cigarette, and reached into his thick, leather coat to pull out a half-pint of Jack Daniels.
His coat was an oddity. The man was an oddity. He was thin, incredibly thin, like Iggy Pop after fasting for a month. He was constantly smoking or drinking, or both. He had dark hair, dirty pants, and a jacket too big for him covered in all kinds of protective charms and insignia.
"We thought we were saving you." Said Michael. "You can't be mad if we meant to help."
"Yeah!" I said. "Also, if we could beat those elves, then they obviously weren't very good protectors. You're better off with us, man!"
"Huh. Makes sense. Anyone got a light?" George lit his cigarette with a glam beam.
And so with this new addition, whose name was called Sean, we trekked on into the forest.
"So, who were they protecting you from? And why?" Michael asked.
"Well, I am the only person who knows the secret to eternal life. Unfortunately, I can only work it on elves, so elves are pretty much always fighting over me, and I refuse to give up my secret until the fighting ends."
"Why don't they just join each other and learn it together?" George asked.
"Elves are pretty gay. Like alligators, but they can talk." Sean answered.
"Totally." I said. I knew me and Sean would become good friends.
The day wore on in the woodlands, and as it did, we became increasingly aware that we were being followed (which may or may not have been due to a hole in my sandwich bag, luckily Sean was a qualified seamstress). This became expressively clear when several arrows landed among us. We began fleeing from our unseen foes.
"Ah!" I yelled.
"Fuckin shit!" Sean shouted.
We ran harder and faster, faster and harder. We could feel the elves closing in behind us. We could hear the arrows whistling by our heads, and then, in the distance, we could see the edge of the forest.
"The end!" Sean shouted. "The elves won't leave the woods! We just gotta make it to the end!" We ran faster, when suddenly, George tripped on his scarf, sending sequence shrapnel flying everywhere and spraining his ankle.
"Leave me!" He screamed.
"Never!" I cried, and I lifted him onto my shoulders with the help of Sean. However, the elves caught up to us, and we would have been caught, but George, while clinging to my back, beat off the elves, and kept me and Sean safe.
Michael, who was in the lead, suddenly stopped and turned to face the elves. "Run!" He cried to us. "Run, and I will stop them!"
Jim stood by Michael. "Uhhh...nnno."
"Jim, you have to. I can handle them, I can stop them, but you guys must go, because you will certainly be destroyed."
"We can't leave you here, you're the savior!" I intervened.
"And maybe this is where I, like saviors before me, sacrifice myself for my followers. You guys have to go on and keep the awesome going. Now run!"
"Uhhh...ok." muttered Jim.
Arrows landed all around them. Sean, George and I finally caught up to them. Sean heard Michael ordering us to run, and he saw Jim standing there, unmoved, and without thinking, he picked up Jim and carried him out of the forest. The last thing we saw was Michael, in a single swift motion, uproot a tree with each hand, and smash them together, creating a wave of sound easily exceeding Mach 94. We were hurled to the ground outside of the woods by the blast, panting on the ground.
We went back almost immediately to find Michael, but all we could find were mangled elven corpses, or, at least what we assumed were elves…Michael was gone. We searched for any sign of him, but all we found were his pants, and his belt. With no time to mourn, we buried this in the deep pits left by the trees he had uprooted, and traveled on, just the four of us, walking into the unknown.
"The Michael Wiley Experience - Part Five"
We marched up to the ancient building, Jim's golden dreadlocks shone brightly, George's Glam Sword glistened with the gleam of a thousand Marc Bolans, my bag of sandwiches hung at my side, a little rattier than it had been when I started this quest (mostly because of Sean‘s amateur patching jobs), and our new recruit, Sean, took a swig from his half pint of JD and then lit a cigarette.
We stood at the door, made of dark woods, and then Sean hammered on it with his fist. "Hey you bastards! We're here! Open up!"
The doors opened inward, and that was when all hell broke loose.
A thousand giggly teenage girls rushed forth, wearing Ugz, even though it was at least 85 degrees. They had blinding highlights in their hair, not because of the tint or color, but because of the sheer unsightliness. Behind them were fat goth kids, writing bad poetry and yelling about vampires. We quickly set to work, wasting them as easily as we did the elves in the woods. With our confidence riding high off of the blood of our enemies, we stormed into the church, and saw that it held terrors far beyond what we would be able to withstand. There was a human sea of flat bills, there were Jocks everywhere, and the winners of American Idol seemed to be leading them. They marched towards the entrance, pushing us out into the open. This church would be our end, and with us, all things awesome would die.
But did we give up? Did we lay down our arms and surrender! No! Never! We fought on bravely! Sean pulled a knife from his pocket and fought one handed, drinking and smoking with the other hand. George's Glam Sword cleaved his enemies in twain, while his scarf flew proudly in the wind. Jim raised his thin hands and pummeled his enemies while burning them with scathing sarcasm. The American Karaoke captains tried to weaken our morale with their incessant singing, but I hurled my newly acquired Razor Sandwiches deep into their hearts.
And when that wave of foes was defeated, we four stood bravely and strode without hesitation into the ice-covered house of the lord, when suddenly, an army of security guards and McDonalds workers, both covering in grease, speaking incoherently, and being dicks about tedious, unimportant things filled the church.
It had a lot of doors…
Sean rushed in, brandishing his tiny knife, followed closely by the rest of us. We were surrounded, losing. We knew we would be dead in just a few moments. George's arm was cleaved off by a McDonalds worker's spatula. In return, George beat the person to death with his own severed limb, then tied the wound closed with his sequence scarf as a giant, wooden, Jesus looked on.
Sean's jacket was torn from his body, leaving him unprotected. A security guard punched him in the kidneys, and Sean fell to his knees. Jim's golden dreadlocks were smashed and dented by a leftover fat goth kid wielding a pew. My sandwich bag was torn from my body, and flung outside.
The doors slammed shut. Everything became quiet as Jesus stared at the carnage.
"Who are these, these four?"
"Demons of the dark lord!" The army shouted.
"No!" shouted George! "We are but men! Harbringers of awesome! Soldiers of rock! We have come to end you're dark reign!"
Jesus laughed. "Your savior is not with you! The one called Michael is gone, left in the woods! You will fail!"
"Then we go down fighting!" Screamed Sean. He stabbed a security guard.
"Whoa, Sean, not cool!" I said. "We're still talking."
"Oh." Sean put his knife in his pocket.
"But, I mean, since you did stab that guy..." I punched another security guard in the face, and the battle erupted again, however, now that Jesus was here, we were disarmed quickly. We were backed up against the door, arms linked, as our enemies slowly approached, savoring each moment of our suffering.
I pressed my back against the door, and, without warning, it was opened, and I stumbled backwards into the light of day, and there, standing proudly, hands on his hips, was Michael Wiley.
His rope belt was swaying in the breeze, his cut off corduroy pants hung above his skull and cross bone shoes. His scraggly beard itched him slightly, but he did not scratch! No! Why? Because he was Michael Mother Fuckin' Wiley, and he was there to rock.
He sent a beam of awesome out from his open palm, and sent dozens of guards and fast food workers flying. Jesus leapt out to the front of his army, and stood as proudly as Michael had.
"Kill these four! Leave Wiley to me!" Jesus removed his robe, revealing hundreds of scars. Jesus stood in his loin cloth, and then he and Michael joined each other in battle.
Lasers were flying left and right. Michael's green beams of rock and roll smashed and crashed all around the unholy savior, while Jesus’ red beams flew past Michael's hair, leaving the ends of it split and singed.
Jesus’ minions were fighting half heartedly, seeing someone as awesome as Michael, and the four of us, Jim, George, Sean, and I layed them down like wheat before a scythe.
But then Jesus fired a beam so big that Michael could not avoid it. Michael was struck down, and he fell on the cold, stone stairs in front of the church.
Jim saw Michael fall, and he watched as Jesus walked calmly up to him, to finish the job. Jesus’ minions fought with reckless abandon, seeing that they would surely win.
Jesus stood over Michael. "The forces of rock will never win over the forces of lame, because rock is dead. Soon rap will reign supreme over the earth, then, Christian rap will render all music obsolete, and when that happens..." Jesus laughed quietly, "I will reveal myself, and the world will end!"
Jesus raised his palms to fire a final laser at Michael, but then, out of no where, Jim jumped in the way.
"NOOOOO!" Jim screamed, as he absorbed the shock of the laser.
Jesus looked with shock at Jim, who lay there panting, bleeding, and close to death. Jesus turned back to Michael, and again, Jim was there, attacking Jesus with ferocity.
Jesus staggered backwards. "Unhand me!" He screamed.
"Die!" Jim shouted, and then his golden dreadlocks shone with the fire of a thousand suns, and purple lasers shot from his hand. Jesus was caught off guard, and was thrown backwards. Jim ran after him, as Michael tried to recuperate on the stairs.
Jesus fired intense lasers at Jim, and used his powers of flight to confuse and intimidate the golden haired warrior. Jim shot purple lasers with deadly accuracy, often times only missing Jesus by a matter of inches.
But then, Jesus fired a single beam, missing Jim by a mile, and too late Jim realized the beam's target. Michael lay defenseless, and once again, Jim leapt to defend his friend. The beam was too powerful for the weakened warrior, and Jim was killed…thrown smoking to the ground.
I saw Jesus stride over to the body of Michael, and I ran to his aid. As I did, I heard this.
"Wiley, join me! We would be unstoppable together! We could rule the world!"
Michael lay on the ground, broken, and he opened his mouth to speak.
"Jesus, I...Yes. I will..."
Jesus laughed. I felt my knees go weak, and as I fell, I saw my sandwich bag. I reached inside, and pulled out what I knew was the last sandwich, a roast beef. The bag had lost its magic. I threw the sandwich as hard as I could, and it flew down Michael's open throat.
On one knee, and with seemingly renewed vigor, Michael shouted "Yes, Jesus, I will join you, and to show my loyalty, allow me to partake in my first Holy Sacrament, your body and blood!" And in a single, swift motion, more singular and swift than any of the other motions in this story, Michael pounced on Jesus like a human slinky, his mouth opening so wide, that the lord himself was sucked into Michael’s gaping maw, and lost forever to the world of men.
With the aid of Michael we made quick work of our remaining enemies, and it wasn't until we stood, victorious, that Michael remembered Jim...
He ran quickly to his fallen comrade, and held Jim's head in his arms. "Jim..." He said. He couldn't speak. A single tear dropped from his eyes and mixed in with the dirt.
George raised his remaining fist to the sky and screamed in anger. Sean lit a smoke. I stood holding my sandwich bag awkwardly.
It was over. Finally.
We all went our separate ways after Jim's burial. Michael went on to teach the ways of awesome to future generations, while George went on, spreading on the word of Glam rock whilst people quickly forgot he had been in there presence at all. Sean went on to become a dinosaur hunter. I, myself opened a Deli called the magic bag, and every once in a while, I see one of those guys, and we talk about our adventure.
Good times. Good times.
Uh…also…
The End.
And so begins the chronicles of Michael Wiley, the man born from the earth, the man who ate forty pirates, the man whose sheer awesome made heads fert, and then explode.
My name is Tyler Williams. Sixty years ago, I met this Michael Wiley on the beach of a dusty, post-war, bombed-out city. The city was in a bizarre state. The war had just ended, so many were still there, in hiding, sitting in the rubble, waiting for that last, lost bomber to come and destroy them. Waiting for that final soldier, the one who didn't know things had ended, to come and blow them into bloody puddles of mud.
I was meandering through this hell of twisted metal and smoking rubble, leaving my faint foot prints in the ash covered roads, when I finally saw what I had been seeking: the beach.
Bodies were strewn across it in reckless and random patterns, piled this way and that. I stepped carefully, trying not to disturb the dead, and waited for a moan, or a raspy whisper begging for water, or worse, a merciful death. I knew I was incapable of delivering both.
When I reached the surf, it was tainted maroon. I left my shoes on as I walked quickly over the compacted sand, past spent shell casings, loaded guns clogged with sand, dead soldiers, all of which had broken bones or missing limbs. I soon reached a part of the beach where the bodies were piled so thick, I couldn't help but step on a few. I felt sick as their bodies grew stiff beneath my thin shoes.
Something caught my eye.
In the midst of the rubble, the slain heroes, the spent weapons, was a patch of sand, unmarred by blood, fire, or debris. I hurried over to it, and stood at its center, looking at the destruction all around me. The ground began to writhe beneath my feet, and I quickly stepped away in terror.
What was beneath the sand, I wondered? A trapped soldier? Some undetonated bomb which I had just set off? Suddenly, a hand broke through the grit, and I immediately fell on my knees and pulled on it as hard as I could.
IT was unmoved. Another hand broke free of the sand, and soon a blonde-brown mop of hair could be seen. I stood back in shock, and slowly the truth dawned on me.
The earth itself was giving birth, to a man no less.
I knelt at the sand, and began whispering encouragement to the beach. "Push!", I told the sand. "Push harder!"
A little more of the man was pushing through the sand. I was worried for my safety. What would this earth-borne man be like, I wondered?
At this point, a man who had survived the bombing, siege, and attack of the city, saw me on the beach, unharmed, and yelling at the sand. He lifted his gun, and with a single shot, fell me. The bullet had whizzed past my forehead, digging a deep scar that would last a lifetime. In my unconsciousness, I had a vision. I discovered that this thing being born from the sands was to be named Michael Wiley, and that he would bring true balance to the world. I was to keep him safe, until he was wise and powerful enough to journey out on his own. Unfortunately, I had no idea how long that would be.
And with a final grunt and a groan Michael was free! He stood on his shaky legs, and peered around the world. I was in awe at this new life, which even at birth seemed to have more awesome than Wes Anderson and Obi-Wan Kenobi combined. The young Michael trotted off on his new legs, and within the first five minutes of his life, he had sex 3,547 times, ate forty pirates, and slapped the sun to stop global warming. I knew from that very moment that this new life, this tender young babe, would grow to be a force to be reckoned with. Reckoned, but not trifled.
I stood up, and looked for the man with the gun. He had moved down the beach, and was approaching us with incredible speed. He lifted the pistol again, and pointed it at Michael. I dove, trying to knock Michael out of the way, but I was suddenly propelled backwards. Michael had created a shield of Bitchin-ness around his body which deflected the bullets, killing the soldier instantly. I looked up with awe at the earth-borne man. Michael turned back to me, shrugged, and began walking off through the rubble of the smoking beach. I stood, grabbed my pack, and slowly followed.
"The Michael Wiley Experience - Part Two"
We had been walking for a day and a half. I was tired, because Michael could move somewhat faster than I usually did. Also, he rarely needed to stop and eat, whereas I liked to eat whenever I could. We had barely made it twenty miles, when we were attacked!
They came out of nowhere. Thousands streamed out of the hills, riding their massive lions and alpacas, screaming and wielding their bows and their axes. I was terrified, but I stood, ready to defend myself. Michael turned to me, and asked "Hey. What are those?"
I looked at him, trying to remain steady. "The infamous Indian Vikings, famed for their cruelty and ability to send out beams of suck at will."
As if on cue, one of the Vikings shot a beam at us. Michael activated his shield, and deflected it, but barely. Their was so much suck in the beam, that Michael was visibly weakened.
One of the Indian Vikings rode up to me, so I drop kicked him in the face, and jumped on his lion. Michael tried to activate his shield again, but failed. I saw one of the Indian Vikings readying another suck beam, when suddenly, there was a faint noise in the distance. I reared up my lion, and turned to face the noise, as did everyone else.
There sat a being, legendary for his quiet cunning and sarcastic wit. Some of the Indian Vikings were melted on the spot by the mere sight of him. Lions burst into flames. Luckily, though, I remained unscathed. For a moment all was silent as everyone tried to hear what the almighty Jim was saying.
And then like a flash, from the skies came George, flying like a greased bullet. His sequenced scarves flapped behind him, he lifted his red star-shaped sunglasses, and shot beams of pure Glamrock at the Indian Vikings. Suddenly all around me I heard David Bowie, mingled with the agonizing screams of a thousand dying Indian Vikings. Their lions scattered.
George landed next to us, and Jim wandered over eventually.
"I heard the savior of all things awesome was in need, so I brought Jim along so we could save him." George smiled, and then laughed, which shook his long, curly hair. I noticed a tattoo on his neck.
"You used to be a pirate!" I said.
"Yes, yes I did." George said darkly. "But nowadays I travel the world in my silver pants, trying to spread the ways of Glamrock to the poor and impoverished."
Michael nodded in approval of George and Jim. I offered them sandwiches, which they ate.
The ground began to quake. George adjusted his glasses, and Jim turned on his AM clock radio to calm his nerves. I adjusted my plaid coat, and Michael munched on his sandwich, trying to regain enough energy to turn his shield back on.
The beast that appeared on the horizon was terrible to behold. It rode inside of a giant, raised truck, blasting Blink 182 at high enough decimals to kill a cat, or maybe even two. The true terror, though, was the thing behind the wheel. With its dark sunglasses worn even on the most overcast of days, with its flat billed NY Yankees hat, its white t-shirt, its dark, ginormous shorts, and its over-stuffed shoes. I took a step back.
Michael, Jim, and George stood ready for conflict.
The truck stopped in front of us, and the creature jumped down off of it. I saw it pull out a gun, a Dumbfire 600, capable of shooting dumbrays with intensities of up to 400 gigasucks.
Jim was shot at first, and knocked onto his back. He struggled for a moment as he contemplated fighting back and then went out cold. I took the next shot, straight to the head. I went down with the theme to "Friends" playing in my head.
I have no idea what happened next, and no reliable sources, so I'll use the next best thing: Hear-say and rumors.
George shot the beast with a Glamrock ray and it was barely phased. It leveled its gun at Michael, whose eyes grew wide in terror. His shield wouldn't
activate. The monster shot a dumbray at Michael, but George took the blow. Luckily, he was awesome enough to withstand it, and lay panting, but alive (this is important to the story), on the ground.
Michael stood, alone, frightened, and within the sights of the Dumbfire 600. The beast smiled, and tightened his grip on the trigger, when a beam of light fell from the skies. In this beam of light was Xanadu, the legendary dog of Colton. In a single move she peed and bit the beast. His gun fired into the air. Michael scooped up Jim and George, and threw them onto Xanadu's back. He mounted her shoulders, and as she escaped, she lifted me into her soft but dangerous jaws.
The chase across California was intense. The monster and his truck were closing the gap on Xanadu. Jim and George were disabled, I was mortally wounded, and Michael was powerless. Xanadu was getting tired by the time we neared the Mohave. The truck was at her heels. Michael wondered what would happen next. So did I.
In the desert, amidst the ancient stone and barren waste, was an oasis. Xanadu ran to it, full speed, anticipating a bath in cool, shady waters. she had, in her excitement, forgotten about the pursuing truck. Michael's eyes grew wide, knowing that in a few moments, exactly what would happen. Xanadu would stop, the truck would catch up, and they all might die before Michael completed his life's only purpose.
But suddenly, Michelle, George’s bitch, leaped out in front of the truck! No one could tell where she had come from! She stood proudly in the truck’s path, and when she opened up her mouth to speak, she was barreled over by the evil machine, dying instantly.
Michael was slightly perturbed.
As Xanadu ran past the first few palm trees, Michael used his incredible strength
to throw Jim, George and myself into a tree, so we would be out of the way. He leapt from Xanadu's broad back, turned, and faced the truck.
The truck drove faster and faster over the hardpan desert, and Michael stood alone, waiting to face what could be his doom.
"The Michael Wiley Experience - Part Three"
Michael stood alone, silhouetted against the hazy sand. The truck was almost upon him when, in a single swift motion, he tore a palm tree out of the ground and hit the truck as hard as he could, which made the truck explode in a giant fireball of pain and terror, leaving nothing but a spinning hubcap and a melted pair of sunglasses.
Slowly, George, Jim, and myself crawled out of the palms. Michael rested on his knees in the sand, panting. Xanadu rested in the shade.
The campfire burned low, Jim slept, George was sewing more sequence onto his pants. Michael and myself were staring at the low hills, where dark shapes were moving.
"What are those?" Michael asked.
"I don't really know," I answered, "Maybe some bros grieving for their lost brother, maybe rednecks poaching coyote."
"Will more bros come and attack us?" Michael asked.
"No, no. Most bros are just jerks. All talk. They suck. Balls. Hard."
"Huh. Okay."
The next morning, we set out across the hard pan. The sun bore down on our backs. I reached into my satchel and grabbed a sandwich. I offered more sandwiches to everyone else. They declined.
Trucks were spotted in the distance by George. "Hey, hey! Rednecks!"
Jim turned, and for a moment, looked nervous. George reached into his silver pants and drew forth his Glam Sword. Xanadu stopped walking.
The truck pulled up next to us, and immediately the drunken rednecks started shouting and mocking us.
"Hey, ya hippies! Cutch'er damn hair!"
"Heh, yeah! Cut it! Ha ha ha!"
Jim sat silently. Michael looked confused. I yelled back "Well, you guys, you guys are just dumb. Dumbos. Dumby McDumbersons!"
"What?" Said the fat one.
"I called you dumb. So there!" I shouted.
Then the skinny one started shooting. He missed, of course, being drunk and dumb...and more importantly, a redneck. George leapt up and, raising his sword of Glam, punched searing hole down into the hood of the truck, rendering it useless.
The skinny redneck shot George point blank, but, luckily, it bounced off one of his larger sequences. George raised the sword again, but didn't notice that the fat one had gotten out of the truck. The fat excuse of a man punched him in the back of the knee. George collapsed and fell on the ground.
Jim, seeing that George was pretty much worthless in a fight, ran to his aid, and karate chopped the fat redneck in the eye, which made his stupid fat gut blow up all over the skinny redneck, who was totally grossed out, but also a little turned on because he was so stupid.
The skinny redneck crawled out of his window, probably imagining that he was a NASCAR driver, when Jim grabbed his collar and threw him on the ground. George slowly stood up, and watched as Jim choked the redneck until his head exploded into a puddle of blood and beer. Cause he was full of beer. Because he was a redneck. Duh.
Jim and George walked back over to us. "What the fuck, guys! Here we are, getting shot at, almost getting killed by a pair of stinking rednecks, and you guys just sat on Xanadu, watching!"
"Hey!" I yelled back. "The only stinking power I have is a magic bag full of sandwiches. Thats all I got. Yeah. What good would I be? I'm practically just a cheerleader!"
"Yeah!" said Michael. "His power is really lame!"
"Fuck you guys." We all said at the same time.
"Whatever." We all said in unison.
We climbed back on Xanadu, and rode on through the desert, unaware of the danger that was now pursuing us.
Within a half an hour a dozen rednecks had caught up to us, shooting, shouting and drinking. We looked at them in mixed feelings of shock and anger. Soon they had us surrounded, and we stood, trapped.
"Hey, you fuggin' pussy liberals! You fuckers killed Jeb and Mack!"
"Yeah! Bastards!"
"Hey, they started shit with us!" I shouted.
"Quiet down, Tyler." George said. "We're gonna fight soon enough."
"Yeah, ya fat bastard!" Yelled a redneck.
"Yeah, that makes sense, after all, you are the epitome of fitness." Said Michael.
"Fuck that! Get 'em!" The rednecks charged wielding broken bottles and guns.
George blasted three with Glam beams, then drew the Glam Sword as they closed in. Michael punched one in the face and his fist burst out of the back of the redneck's head. I threw sandwiches at some. They ate them. Then died. They were poison sandwiches. Xanadu ate three rednecks sitting terrified in their truck. Then Jim stepped up.
Several of the rednecks stopped. "Hey, boy! Watchu gonna do!" They laughed. "Yeah, betcha his name is Tyrone or, or...Demond! Ha ha ha!"
Jim stared at the rednecks, hard, then charged. He ripped the radio antennae from one of their shitty cars, and stabbed one of them in the eye, then lifted the skewered redneck into the air and swung him into several more so hard that they disintegrated. Jim then pulled a bat out of one of their trucks and began randomly pummeling the rednecks about the knees and chest, leaving them broken, but alive, on the ground.
When the fight was over, there were bloody bodies laying about within the circle of trucks. Jim slowly got into one, and we all looked at him, confused.
"I gotta go do some stuff." He said quietly as he turned the engine on. He flipped on the AM radio, and drove off slowly. We watched him until dusk, the sound of Jim Rome’s voice growing faint in the distance. Then, we cleared the corpses and made camp within the circle of automobiles, and there, we waited for Jim's return.
"The Michael Wiley Experience - Part Four"
Jim returned the following morning, dragging a severed leg behind him. The morning sun rose behind him, his dreadlocks now had a golden hue, he looked remarkably epic. As we looked up at him with awe, he seemed to be of another world, he seemed older, wiser somehow, and with his golden hair he seemed even more powerful than he had once been. Remembering ourselves, George stood and waved to Jim. Michael ran out to meet him. I waited patiently for him to come back to the camp, as movement was not my forte.
When Jim finally sat down, he was quiet for a long, long time. Then, he told us an incredible story.
Jim drove for an hour and a half until he reached the redneck village. There he crashed the truck into the first building he saw, reached into the bed, and using only a two-foot long wrench, killed every redneck he saw until he imbedded it into the skull of a redneck infant and couldn't dislodge it. He then tore the limb from some corpse and finished the job, got into a new car, and drove back. Somewhere a bucket of golden paint fell on his head, and had dried, before he had a chance to wash it out.
This was disappointing.
We packed our few belongings and began traveling again after a few days rest.
We came to a great forest, its trees high and dark, with leaves so thick that sunlight rarely reached the ground. George used his Glam Sword to light the way, causing several small fires, which I put out with excess sandwiches those ungrateful bastards had steadily refused to eat.
We walked for hours and hours, unaware of time. We ate when we were hungry, slept when we were tired, until we finally came to a place where the road split.
"What now?" Everyone asked, turning to me.
"Huh? How should I know? Ask Mike!"
"I don't know. Lets go... Left."
"Why?" Asked George.
"Because, going left is always going better than right."
"That doesn't make any sense." I said.
"Whatever." Said Jim, and he started walking down the left hand path. We all followed.
Eventually we came upon a man, surrounded by tall, fair warriors. George addressed them.
"What the hell? Is he a prisoner?"
"Go, foreigner, this is not your concern!"
"Foreigner? Fuck that! They're not glam!"
"Glam?" Asked one of the elves.
"You've never heard of glam?" George shouted.
"Be gone, warrior!" Shouted another elf. "Be gone from our woods! You have no business here!"
"Fuck you, ass holes! If we wanna walk, we can walk. We're with the savior of awesome, for cryin' out loud!"
At the mention of Michael, the elves’ eyes grew wide. Several drew their swords. I reached into the sandwich bag, and grabbed a stale PB&J. Jim took a swig of wine and turned on his AM radio. George donned his glam glasses and drew the Glam Sword.
"One last warning!" Cried the lead elf.
That was when I threw the sandwich. It lodged in the elf leader's throat, killing him in an instant. The battle was joined.
We wasted the elves, leaving their bodies askew and mangled. We helped the man from the cage, who then began yelling at us.
"What the fuck, dudes! They were supposed to help me! You ass holes!" Then he got really quiet and intense, furrowing what little brow he had. "Seriously, though, what the fuck?"
"Protect you?" I screamed. "You were in a cage!"
"Yeah, a protection cage! PRO-TECT-SHUN cage! Safe cage!" The man lit a cigarette, and reached into his thick, leather coat to pull out a half-pint of Jack Daniels.
His coat was an oddity. The man was an oddity. He was thin, incredibly thin, like Iggy Pop after fasting for a month. He was constantly smoking or drinking, or both. He had dark hair, dirty pants, and a jacket too big for him covered in all kinds of protective charms and insignia.
"We thought we were saving you." Said Michael. "You can't be mad if we meant to help."
"Yeah!" I said. "Also, if we could beat those elves, then they obviously weren't very good protectors. You're better off with us, man!"
"Huh. Makes sense. Anyone got a light?" George lit his cigarette with a glam beam.
And so with this new addition, whose name was called Sean, we trekked on into the forest.
"So, who were they protecting you from? And why?" Michael asked.
"Well, I am the only person who knows the secret to eternal life. Unfortunately, I can only work it on elves, so elves are pretty much always fighting over me, and I refuse to give up my secret until the fighting ends."
"Why don't they just join each other and learn it together?" George asked.
"Elves are pretty gay. Like alligators, but they can talk." Sean answered.
"Totally." I said. I knew me and Sean would become good friends.
The day wore on in the woodlands, and as it did, we became increasingly aware that we were being followed (which may or may not have been due to a hole in my sandwich bag, luckily Sean was a qualified seamstress). This became expressively clear when several arrows landed among us. We began fleeing from our unseen foes.
"Ah!" I yelled.
"Fuckin shit!" Sean shouted.
We ran harder and faster, faster and harder. We could feel the elves closing in behind us. We could hear the arrows whistling by our heads, and then, in the distance, we could see the edge of the forest.
"The end!" Sean shouted. "The elves won't leave the woods! We just gotta make it to the end!" We ran faster, when suddenly, George tripped on his scarf, sending sequence shrapnel flying everywhere and spraining his ankle.
"Leave me!" He screamed.
"Never!" I cried, and I lifted him onto my shoulders with the help of Sean. However, the elves caught up to us, and we would have been caught, but George, while clinging to my back, beat off the elves, and kept me and Sean safe.
Michael, who was in the lead, suddenly stopped and turned to face the elves. "Run!" He cried to us. "Run, and I will stop them!"
Jim stood by Michael. "Uhhh...nnno."
"Jim, you have to. I can handle them, I can stop them, but you guys must go, because you will certainly be destroyed."
"We can't leave you here, you're the savior!" I intervened.
"And maybe this is where I, like saviors before me, sacrifice myself for my followers. You guys have to go on and keep the awesome going. Now run!"
"Uhhh...ok." muttered Jim.
Arrows landed all around them. Sean, George and I finally caught up to them. Sean heard Michael ordering us to run, and he saw Jim standing there, unmoved, and without thinking, he picked up Jim and carried him out of the forest. The last thing we saw was Michael, in a single swift motion, uproot a tree with each hand, and smash them together, creating a wave of sound easily exceeding Mach 94. We were hurled to the ground outside of the woods by the blast, panting on the ground.
We went back almost immediately to find Michael, but all we could find were mangled elven corpses, or, at least what we assumed were elves…Michael was gone. We searched for any sign of him, but all we found were his pants, and his belt. With no time to mourn, we buried this in the deep pits left by the trees he had uprooted, and traveled on, just the four of us, walking into the unknown.
"The Michael Wiley Experience - Part Five"
We marched up to the ancient building, Jim's golden dreadlocks shone brightly, George's Glam Sword glistened with the gleam of a thousand Marc Bolans, my bag of sandwiches hung at my side, a little rattier than it had been when I started this quest (mostly because of Sean‘s amateur patching jobs), and our new recruit, Sean, took a swig from his half pint of JD and then lit a cigarette.
We stood at the door, made of dark woods, and then Sean hammered on it with his fist. "Hey you bastards! We're here! Open up!"
The doors opened inward, and that was when all hell broke loose.
A thousand giggly teenage girls rushed forth, wearing Ugz, even though it was at least 85 degrees. They had blinding highlights in their hair, not because of the tint or color, but because of the sheer unsightliness. Behind them were fat goth kids, writing bad poetry and yelling about vampires. We quickly set to work, wasting them as easily as we did the elves in the woods. With our confidence riding high off of the blood of our enemies, we stormed into the church, and saw that it held terrors far beyond what we would be able to withstand. There was a human sea of flat bills, there were Jocks everywhere, and the winners of American Idol seemed to be leading them. They marched towards the entrance, pushing us out into the open. This church would be our end, and with us, all things awesome would die.
But did we give up? Did we lay down our arms and surrender! No! Never! We fought on bravely! Sean pulled a knife from his pocket and fought one handed, drinking and smoking with the other hand. George's Glam Sword cleaved his enemies in twain, while his scarf flew proudly in the wind. Jim raised his thin hands and pummeled his enemies while burning them with scathing sarcasm. The American Karaoke captains tried to weaken our morale with their incessant singing, but I hurled my newly acquired Razor Sandwiches deep into their hearts.
And when that wave of foes was defeated, we four stood bravely and strode without hesitation into the ice-covered house of the lord, when suddenly, an army of security guards and McDonalds workers, both covering in grease, speaking incoherently, and being dicks about tedious, unimportant things filled the church.
It had a lot of doors…
Sean rushed in, brandishing his tiny knife, followed closely by the rest of us. We were surrounded, losing. We knew we would be dead in just a few moments. George's arm was cleaved off by a McDonalds worker's spatula. In return, George beat the person to death with his own severed limb, then tied the wound closed with his sequence scarf as a giant, wooden, Jesus looked on.
Sean's jacket was torn from his body, leaving him unprotected. A security guard punched him in the kidneys, and Sean fell to his knees. Jim's golden dreadlocks were smashed and dented by a leftover fat goth kid wielding a pew. My sandwich bag was torn from my body, and flung outside.
The doors slammed shut. Everything became quiet as Jesus stared at the carnage.
"Who are these, these four?"
"Demons of the dark lord!" The army shouted.
"No!" shouted George! "We are but men! Harbringers of awesome! Soldiers of rock! We have come to end you're dark reign!"
Jesus laughed. "Your savior is not with you! The one called Michael is gone, left in the woods! You will fail!"
"Then we go down fighting!" Screamed Sean. He stabbed a security guard.
"Whoa, Sean, not cool!" I said. "We're still talking."
"Oh." Sean put his knife in his pocket.
"But, I mean, since you did stab that guy..." I punched another security guard in the face, and the battle erupted again, however, now that Jesus was here, we were disarmed quickly. We were backed up against the door, arms linked, as our enemies slowly approached, savoring each moment of our suffering.
I pressed my back against the door, and, without warning, it was opened, and I stumbled backwards into the light of day, and there, standing proudly, hands on his hips, was Michael Wiley.
His rope belt was swaying in the breeze, his cut off corduroy pants hung above his skull and cross bone shoes. His scraggly beard itched him slightly, but he did not scratch! No! Why? Because he was Michael Mother Fuckin' Wiley, and he was there to rock.
He sent a beam of awesome out from his open palm, and sent dozens of guards and fast food workers flying. Jesus leapt out to the front of his army, and stood as proudly as Michael had.
"Kill these four! Leave Wiley to me!" Jesus removed his robe, revealing hundreds of scars. Jesus stood in his loin cloth, and then he and Michael joined each other in battle.
Lasers were flying left and right. Michael's green beams of rock and roll smashed and crashed all around the unholy savior, while Jesus’ red beams flew past Michael's hair, leaving the ends of it split and singed.
Jesus’ minions were fighting half heartedly, seeing someone as awesome as Michael, and the four of us, Jim, George, Sean, and I layed them down like wheat before a scythe.
But then Jesus fired a beam so big that Michael could not avoid it. Michael was struck down, and he fell on the cold, stone stairs in front of the church.
Jim saw Michael fall, and he watched as Jesus walked calmly up to him, to finish the job. Jesus’ minions fought with reckless abandon, seeing that they would surely win.
Jesus stood over Michael. "The forces of rock will never win over the forces of lame, because rock is dead. Soon rap will reign supreme over the earth, then, Christian rap will render all music obsolete, and when that happens..." Jesus laughed quietly, "I will reveal myself, and the world will end!"
Jesus raised his palms to fire a final laser at Michael, but then, out of no where, Jim jumped in the way.
"NOOOOO!" Jim screamed, as he absorbed the shock of the laser.
Jesus looked with shock at Jim, who lay there panting, bleeding, and close to death. Jesus turned back to Michael, and again, Jim was there, attacking Jesus with ferocity.
Jesus staggered backwards. "Unhand me!" He screamed.
"Die!" Jim shouted, and then his golden dreadlocks shone with the fire of a thousand suns, and purple lasers shot from his hand. Jesus was caught off guard, and was thrown backwards. Jim ran after him, as Michael tried to recuperate on the stairs.
Jesus fired intense lasers at Jim, and used his powers of flight to confuse and intimidate the golden haired warrior. Jim shot purple lasers with deadly accuracy, often times only missing Jesus by a matter of inches.
But then, Jesus fired a single beam, missing Jim by a mile, and too late Jim realized the beam's target. Michael lay defenseless, and once again, Jim leapt to defend his friend. The beam was too powerful for the weakened warrior, and Jim was killed…thrown smoking to the ground.
I saw Jesus stride over to the body of Michael, and I ran to his aid. As I did, I heard this.
"Wiley, join me! We would be unstoppable together! We could rule the world!"
Michael lay on the ground, broken, and he opened his mouth to speak.
"Jesus, I...Yes. I will..."
Jesus laughed. I felt my knees go weak, and as I fell, I saw my sandwich bag. I reached inside, and pulled out what I knew was the last sandwich, a roast beef. The bag had lost its magic. I threw the sandwich as hard as I could, and it flew down Michael's open throat.
On one knee, and with seemingly renewed vigor, Michael shouted "Yes, Jesus, I will join you, and to show my loyalty, allow me to partake in my first Holy Sacrament, your body and blood!" And in a single, swift motion, more singular and swift than any of the other motions in this story, Michael pounced on Jesus like a human slinky, his mouth opening so wide, that the lord himself was sucked into Michael’s gaping maw, and lost forever to the world of men.
With the aid of Michael we made quick work of our remaining enemies, and it wasn't until we stood, victorious, that Michael remembered Jim...
He ran quickly to his fallen comrade, and held Jim's head in his arms. "Jim..." He said. He couldn't speak. A single tear dropped from his eyes and mixed in with the dirt.
George raised his remaining fist to the sky and screamed in anger. Sean lit a smoke. I stood holding my sandwich bag awkwardly.
It was over. Finally.
We all went our separate ways after Jim's burial. Michael went on to teach the ways of awesome to future generations, while George went on, spreading on the word of Glam rock whilst people quickly forgot he had been in there presence at all. Sean went on to become a dinosaur hunter. I, myself opened a Deli called the magic bag, and every once in a while, I see one of those guys, and we talk about our adventure.
Good times. Good times.
Uh…also…
The End.
posted by Mean Mr. Michael at 2:56 PM
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