The 2020 Event |The Main Event|

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Chapter 15.420
Uncle Chucky’s Magic Reefer

Higher Intelligence

“Awh, well thank you Chuck!” Sigmund squeals with delight, “You don’t have to call me Doctor though, I don’t like to tout my degrees around.”

“I kno–”

“All twenty-six of them.”

“…I know Sigmund, I paid your way through the universities.”

Most of the universities,” Sigmund corrects him. “I met you in the first one and I paid for that by myself.”

Chuck, after smoking a joint laced with a powdered Psilocybin Mushroom, says, “Yeah, with student loans I paid clear off after we started Cape! You’re being silly.”

“You’re both being obnoxious,” Jolon groans, disarming the conversation. “Chuck, you still never answered my question: why have we been sitting at this spot for the past however many hours?”

“Well, my purple-skinned friend,” says Chuck, feeling a case of the giggles bubbling up inside of him, “because we’ve been walking through this forest all day, and despite Tim’s fantabulous sense of direction through his own front, back and side yards, we still haven’t found your anomaly. When I told Sigmund that his brilliance knows no bounds, I was being sarcastic; I know how smart and inventive he is, and the fact that he hasn’t already built a device that’ll find the anomaly for us is about as asinine as Tim’s lack of whooping today. SO,” as he exhales his hit, “I actually did answer your question. All caught up now?”

“Jolon rolls his eyes,” and says your humanity is making me wish I never came into the forest with you in the first place. I surely could have gotten so much more done if I had just stayed in my invasion ship and worked remotely.

Chuck, Sigmund and Tim all trade sketched-out glances.

Then, breaking the silence, Tim says, “Yes, Jolon, we saw that you rolled your eyes… why narrate yourself?”

“Yeah forreal,” Chuck adds with an agitated snicker. “You’re acting like Sigmund was acting during breakfast yesterday, why do y’all higher intelligence types keep doing that shit? It’s annoying.”

Jolon casts an uneasy glance at Sigmund, then, “I’m… not sure. I didn’t mean to say that, I meant to say something else entirely.” He crouches down and sits cross-legged, rubbing his temples. “This has been the most dubious fucking week… all these synchronicities and unexplainable events… I’m very much looking forward to the weekend.”

I feel you on that Jolon, I think we’re all curious as to how this shitstorm’s going to wrap up. But, until then…

“There there, alien homie,” Chuck says as he pats Jolon on the back and offers him the joint. “Yeah that’s it, smoke Uncle Chucky’s Magic Reefer.”

Jolon takes half a hit of Uncle Chucky’s Magic Reefer and dives into a coughing fit the likes of which he hasn’t hacked out since he was training to become a Chairseat. “Fuck, Chuck the toke are you whatting? Potent some Cannabis have of the is this ever ! smoked most that I”

When Chuck gathers himself after rolling around in the dirt laughing, he flaunts, “That’s what we’ve been toking on all week, homie. I’ve had Sigmund burning this stuff for years, it’s that Cape Cookies. It’s kind of like Bigfoot Glue, but it’s that Cape Cookies.”

“Yeah, we’ve been smoking that strain for years now,” Sigmund boasts, “even Karen hits it every once and a while. The first time I tried it, I’ll admit it, it knocked me on my ass. But later that night I had the fabrication dream, so… worth it.”

Jolon hits Tim with the stoned face of a stone statue depicting the first human to ever smoke Cannabis, nonverbally asking him, ‘Fuck the what?’

Tim just nods, nonverbally explaining that, ‘While it’s quite high in potency, it’s not the most powerful Psychedelic I have access to, so, by comparison, it’s not all that impressive. Maybe I’ll show you the Grove one day.’

“Nah I doubt it, I’m getting right the fuck off this planet as soon as we wrap with these two humans,” Jolon says out loud without meaning to before feeling irritated over the fact that now his words are coming out right.

“Damn… so you’re gonna just leave without seeing my tower? That sucks Jolon, I was gonna give you and Jack a proper tour of the facilities tomorrow,” Chuck pouts.

“I… was not aware of that. You have more of this uh, this Cape Cookies growing there? Am I wrong in presuming that?” said with ulterior motives brewing under the surface.

“Totally dude, you can even take some for your alien friends. I have more seeds laying around than I have employees, which you’ll come to find out is really not saying much.”

So much for the ulterior motive. “Hm…” Jolon muses, seeing no reason why he should decline this human’s hospitality. “Well, that sounds like a better plan than I had. Are you coming too, Tim?”

Tim shrugs. “Don’t see why not.”

“Yay!” Chuck glees, jumping and clicking his heels together like a joyous British boy. “It’s settled then, us four incredibly powerful superbeings of awesomeness,and one lil’ crackaboi, will be in the Cape Enterprises tower all day tomorrow. I see no way for this to end tragically. Can’t wait!”

“Me either!” Sigmund says, busting a little groove. “I can finally give Jack that BioBot experience I wanted to give him, too. It’s not often I get to pop somebody’s cherry in any way, shape, or form, so it’ll be a nice change of pace.”

Speaking of changes of pace, the four cosmic crusaders finally get annoyed at all the mosquitoes for feasting on their various colors of blood and decide it’s high time they booked it back to the Monta residence. Thankfully, they don’t have to travel far because they’ve been hanging out at The Hillside Commons; when Sam didn’t join them on the expedition, they… well, just Chuck wanted to include him somehow, even in spirit. If Sam was aware of this fact, he’d be mighty appreciative.

But Sam’s not here, he’s still on his way home, so off they go.

Jackattack

Moments after the businessman, the scientist, the alien, and the bigfoot sneak into the Monta house through Jack’s window (as not to alert the couchbound Daisy), a couchbound Daisy looks out the front window and sees Sam and Jack pull into the driveway in her old Forge Engage. Wanting to surprise her kids at the door, she attempts to stand up and immediately falls down and lands on her nose with a bone-splitting crrrrrrack that splinters through her brittle hips. It seems the old girl’s body is no longer able to support her below-average mass, poor thing.

This is how Sam and Jack find their mother, sprawled out on the floor and crying in pain, trying to stand up but falling back down in defeat every single time. There’s nothing like a little familial tragedy to bring everyone together – Sam and Jack rush their mother to the hospital, putting an end to the argument they were having about Sam possibly becoming a cross country coach in the fall. A few x-rays and a second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth opinion later, the boys bring Daisy and her new wheelchair home, her head hanging heavy with the diagnosis of a broken hip as her boys carry her up the half-staircase into their living room.

“How am I supposed to run now? This… this can’t be happening to me,” she wails so loud the boys in the sub-basement can hear it. They pretend they don’t, not wanting to interfere with the matters of the mortals, but they definitely hear it.

“Running is how I deal with my life, it’s the only thing that keeps me from going totally out of my gourd!”

Daisy looks at Sam and shakes her head, as if to nonverbally say that she doesn’t want to end up like him. Then, she says, “Look at what happened to you after you stopped running, Sam. I don’t want that for me, I… what am I gonna do-hoo-hoooo?”

“It’s okay Mommy!” Jack says, trying to lighten the mood. “You can still come to my meet on Saturday, maybe seeing us kick the Gorgons’ asses will make you feel better!”

Mommy just shakes her head, as if Jack just broke Sam’s record for most idiotic shit to spew from one’s asshole of a mouth.

“Are you even running in Saturday’s meet, Jackson? You do know that it’s a championship, right? It’s not just going to be the Gorgons you’re running against. I’ve also gotten quite a few calls from Len– I mean, from your Coach Thenure this week. I know you’ve been missing school and, more importantly, practice. He’s no–”

“Mom,” Jack cuts in, embodying the phrase there’s a first time for everything, “Coach Thenure is not my track coach. Coach Coach is, and he told me that I’m definitely running. I’m one of the best on the team, they need me.”

Daisy scoffs, shaking her head as she reaches around the back of her wheelchair to unlock the wheels. “I don’t know, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it. Not like this. I can’t… I can’t even drive, ho–”

“I can drive us there, mom,” Sam cuts in, embodying the phrase practice makes perfect and adding with timing to the end of it. “His track coach wanted me to go too, he wants to talk to me about the possibility of signing on as a cross country coach next year.”

It’s too late though, Daisy’s already wheeling herself down the hallway, the hallway that, because she’s sat so low in her wheelchair that she can’t reach the light switch, is darker than the cloud in her head. Could this be the end of the road for Daisy? Will her feet never beat the pavement again? She has to beat something to deal with the leftover emotional trauma from being raised by her Dad; if she can’t beat her own body against the forces of the Universe, then what will she beat? It’s a shame she still feels that man’s icy grasp over her emotional state, a shame indeed, but she still feels it all the same. She just has to constantly distract herself from it, it is what it is.

Or is it? Jack runs to his bedroom and dives feet-first down the Dirt Eater Mk I’s chute. If he was an Olympic diver he would get triple zeroes, but he sticks the landing and is happily welcomed by the inhabitant of the underground bunker.

“Heyyy, Jackattack! I–”

“NO! Only Coach calls me that.”

Chuck wonders who the fuck Coach is, but then his attention is drawn back to the present moment.

“…but shut up. I need your help, Chuck.”

“Oh, word?” ‘I can be useful!’ “What’s good, little dude?”

“You injected Tiny Tim with something after you almost killed him the other day, right? Some kind of healing potion or whatever?”

Chuck looks around the room to laugh with everybody about Jack’s use of the archaic term potion, but nobody else heard it. They’re all very busy inside the TV ganging up on a rubbery anime character who wears a straw hat.

“Yeah, it’s not really a potion buh–”

“I need it! For my Mom! She has a broken hip and I want her to go to my meet on Saturday!”

“What the fuck is a meet? Don’t you mean meeting?”

“No! Give me the serum!”

“Oh, now you call it a serum. I don’t know man, I–”

“TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE!!”

Upstairs, both Sam and Daisy can hear Jack having a one-sided screaming competition, and they share a concerned look. While their feelings of concern are mutual, the inspirations behind them are very different; Sam is afraid that Daisy is about to find out that he and Jack have been keeping stowaways in their underground bunker that she doesn’t know about, and Daisy is afraid that Jack caught Sam’s schizophrenia from spending too much time interacting with him. Schizophrenia is contagious, after all, according to Daisy and her total lack of knowledge in the realm of psychology. Man, it’s a good thing that humans haven’t yet evolved to the point where they can read each other’s minds like the Zeroc and Quatchfut can.

“NO, IT’S LITERALLY NOT!” Chuck says in an extremely quiet and calm voice, as to not attract the attention of the humans up above. “It’s an instant healer of sorts, it works in seconds as soon as it’s injected. She could literally die and it would still fix her. Listen, what time is your thing on Friday?”

“I SAID SATURDAY!!!!” Jack hollers, his voice approaching pre-pubescent levels of shrillitude.

“Oh, thank goodness! Because we have plans for you tomorrow and it would suh–”

“CHUCK! THE SERUM!”

“I have a better plan – I’ll just give it to your dad to bring when… fuck, now that’s something I didn’t mean to say.”

Jack gets a flummoxed look on his face as his stomach starts to somersault. “You… you know my dad? Why?”

“Uhhh…” Chuck says, looking back at the bigscreen to see that the stretchy pirate had clobbered all but Tiny Tim. “Oh check it out, Tim’s about to do some mystical fireball shit.”

Jack, a sixteen-year-old boy who’s greatest strength is weighing so little that he runs faster than everybody else by default, grabs Chuck, the eccentric multi-trillionaire who has the capability to, paraphrase, wipe his ass with the Milky Way Galaxy, by the hairs of

his chinny-chin-goatee and forces the god in human form to explain himself.

Surprisingly enough, this works – Chuck tells Jack that ever since he coincidentally met Daisy roughly twentyish years ago in a car crash, he’s been sending her massive sponsorship checks that are disguised as the child support his dad delivers on the twenty-fifth of every month.

“What? What the… how much is it? Like, how much money do you give us?”

“Oh it’s not that much, I don’t think,” as Chuck frees his facial hairs from Jack’s bony grasp. “When I said massive a second ago I was being kinda hyperbolic… maybe, I don’t know… a couple mil per year? Or maybe per month? Something like that, I don’t really pay attention to the numbers.”

Jack is so speechless that he doesn’t even cut Chuck off. When the room stops spinning, “A… a couple… million? Then… why the fuck are we so poor ??

Chuck shrugs over this mortal-level quandary. “I don’t know man, maybe your mom stashes the majority of it away each month in an overseas bank account or something. Like, for you and Sam to get when she kicks the bucket or whatever. Look, I didn’t even have a mom, not a real one. There was… I had a stepmom, sort of, but she’s… she uh… look, the important thing is, money doesn’t matter. You have a mom that loves you, be happy about that.”

“…Fuck you. Give me the fucking serum and get the fuck out from under my house.”

“Hm?” Chuck asks, not really paying attention after dropping his knowledge bomb.

“GIVE ME THE GODDAMNED FUCKING SERUM AND GET OUT CHUCK! I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!”

“The fuck?” Well that got his attention. “This seems like a gross overreaction bud, I–”

“We’re not buds, Chuck, we’re not even fucking friends! I don’t know you man, you’re just… you’re, you’re fuckin’… you’re a twisted fucking psychopath! You deserve to be assassinated, you know that?!”

“I mean… no?”

“When we met, the first thing you did was threaten me! You’re fucking nuts! You just fucking do drugs all day and fucking scare or pay other humans into doing whatever you say, you’re the biggest fucking asshole I’ve ever met! Just give me the healing serum and get this fucking bunker out from under my house. You’re done man, I’m fucking over this entire stupid thing.”

Chuck goes silent, withdrawing far into the dark recesses of his rapidly pacing mind. What should our man do? That was so beyond disrespectful, but… it’s kind of true though, isn’t it? Chuck’s been a complete and total asshole this entire time, for his entire life, really. He’s only ever bossed or been bossed around; dude never had any friends as a kid so he never learned how to properly interact with humans. The entire first half of his life was just… it was all torment, and up until this point, Chuck’s rationalized his tribulations as a sign of him being the chosen one, so to speak. I mean, why else would he be so idiotically, unbelievably successful in life? The weed god on the mountain even said that he was a main character in a story somewhere… or… oh fuck, was Chuck the one that said that? Was that even a trip or was that a memory? Has Chuck single-handedly been the cause of all his problems since the day he was born into this Universe?

Come to think of it, was Chuck even born into this Universe? Everything is pretty foggy up until Alvey called me last Sunday… is my entire fucking life a lie?’

Chuck raises a middle finger at Jack, the finger transforming into a syringe filled with glowing purple fluid. He then snaps the syringe-finger off and drops it on the floor, watching out of the corner of his eye as Jack falls to catch it before it lands plunger-first and squirts its filling all over the place.

Without another word Jack scurries up the ladder and Chuck is alone, sitting in his bunker watching while his… while these three beings that got dragged into his fucked-up joke of a life play inside of a video game without him. He silently rolls up a joint with one of the stashes of Cannabis he keeps in the couch and sparks it, smoking the happystick very leisurely, the smoke rising in a slow crawl into oblivion until Chuck passes out from the resulting headache.