Sunday Archive: Nacho Sasha and the Knights of St. John, part four
Nacho Sasha and the Knights of Saint John Part IV: Living in the Plastic Age
I turned to my hideously deformed manservant as 16th Century Satan screamed like the pansy, small-dicked, insane, evil tormentor of souls he was. “Shall we dance?”
My manservant giggled.
“I believe,” I told my manservant, putting my finger on his hideously deformed nose, “that tonight began with a little Faith.”
And I know all the games you play
Because I play them too…
“Oh, you gotta have faith!” I shouted.
Then I quickly sobered and pulled away from my manservant. “Madness!” I hissed. “George Michael hasn’t put that out yet. I have to watch myself, or else the timeline will be polluted forever.”
“Where in the hell am I?” 16th Century Satan, kneeling, grabbed the hem of the knee-length suede coat Texas Billionaire Oscar bin Laden sent to me as a “Thanksgiving gift.” By “Thanksgiving gift” I really mean “bribe to keep me silent about the nefarious plot to kidnap Gerald Ford.”
“New York!” I answered, gently prying his hands off of the coat.
My manservant scrawled something on a newspaper and handed it to 16th Century Satan.
Satan read aloud, “We’re living for the 90’s. We’re living in the Wild, Wild West…?”
“Tubular!” I patted my manservant on the back, “Let’s go score some big-haired chicks.”
16th Century Satan seemed nervous and confused as we stepped onto the porno version of Times Square. For me, I had Talking Heads in my brain even though Glenn Frey was on the speakers beside the army recruiting center. A hooker grabbed my arm and I spun away, laughing. I bought 16th Century Satan a pair of glacier glasses and I picked myself up a pair of those Michael Jackson gloves.
“What is on?” I asked my manservant.
He began to breakdance.
“Goddamn,” I muttered, “The fucking heat is on! It’s on the street!” I turned to 16th Century Satan, “What is the heat doing?”
“Um…” he gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes, “It is…on?”
“Goddamn! Caught up in the action, I was looking out for you.” I pointed to my manservant. “Tell me, can you feel it! Where is the heat?!”
16th Century Satan fell into the grove, “Holy Smokes! Is it on the street?”
“Give it to me!”
“So, anyway,” 16th Century Satan said, “This is certainly proof that you can travel in time, but what about your friends? They’re trapped on Rhodes in 1521.”
I cocked my head, “Friends?”
My manservant laughed.
“I have the time machine, I have medieval Satan, and I’m in 1985. That makes me the one with the penis. Who needs friends when you have a large penis?”
16th Century Satan took a few steps back, “So…you’re crazy. Can I go back to 1521, now?”
I raised a finger in front of my lips in the universal sign for ‘fuck off.’ “First,” I said, “we’re going to make contact with a friend of yours.”
“Yes!” I grinned devilishly.
16th Century Satan shrugged, “Right, who is he?”
“1985 Satan!” I squealed.
“Now, what do you want with two Satans?”
“You’re gonna help me destroy the planet and become Emperor of the Void.”
16th Century Satan was silent for a few moments. Then he muttered, under his breath, “Christ almighty…”
“You think I’m crazy? Right? Is that what you think? Right, right?”
“No, you’re fine.” 16th Century Satan replied, though a little too quickly.
“If you’re not careful, I’ll send you back to 1521.”
“But that’s what I –”
“Be silent you fool!” I shouted, then I leaned close and whispered. “I have the penis, remember? Remember… SPOCK!”
I whirled away and leaned against the armed forces recruiting kiosk. A man in a sergeant’s uniform turned slowly towards me and I gasped.
“El Diablo!” I shouted, stumbling backwards.
The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. He stepped outside and grabbed me by the shoulders, “Look here, you drug freak, I’ve had it up to here with this shit –” his stone-grey eyes looked over my shoulder towards 16th Century Satan and he paused. “By Christ’s tiny genitals! What in the name of Mary’s gaping vagina are you doing here?”
“That’s fantastically offensive!” 16th Century Satan replied. “Things have only gotten worse in the last 500 years. This is great.”
“Who the hell are you?” the sergeant asked me.
“I’m Nacho Sasha, and I know that you’re 1985 Satan.”
“1985… What? And is he who I think he is?” 1985 Satan looked over my shoulder again.
“I’m 16th Century Satan.”
1985 Satan looked at me again. “What are you?”
“I’m Nacho! That’s my hideously deformed manservant.”
Satan’s eyes cut to the left. My hideously deformed manservant spit at his feet. “We’ve traveled in time with 16th Century Satan.”
1985 Satan, eyes still narrowed, murmured in my ear. “We’re going to a bar, and you’re going to tell me everything. Starting with who you are and why you brought my past self to Times Square.”
My manservant had a Dylan Thomas fixation so we went to the White Horse Tavern. While he sat in the famous stool, the two Satans and I sought out a quiet corner and ordered the usual chili-cheeseburger-death. I ordered “Coronas” and received a knowing look from the waiter. This was going to be a good talk.
“Okay,” 1985 Satan said, “So you write for some internet thing and your writing gets some old fruitcake to approach you with the time travel deal. Then you promptly betray the fruitcake and your oldest friend, kidnap my past self and travel back to the future.”
My manservant and I laughed.
“Back to the Future!” I shouted. I began tapping my manservant’s head, “Hello McFly!”
The Satans looked confused.
“Oh, it’ll come out in November. It’s a movie.”
1985 Satan stared blankly at me for a minute. Then he took one of the coronas from the waiter and knocked it back. “Okay,” he said once he had recovered, “So what do you want with me?”
“Total global domination. With the help of two Prince of Darknessessess.”
“But I thought you didn’t want to pollute the timeline?” 16th Century Satan said.
“Oh-ho, my Raspberry Beret. I don’t want to pollute the timeline. I want to improve it.”
“And how do you plan to do that?” A half-smile flicked on 1985’s Satan’s face.
“Imagine three crosses on a hill. Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.”
“He didn’t say that,” 16th Century Satan muttered.
“Now,” I continued, “Imagine one of you guys on that cross, saying those things.”
The two Satans looked at each other.
“It’s not possible, is it?” 16th Century Satan asked.
“Is it?” 1985 Satan asked.
“He’s crazy, right?”
“I mean, the powers that be won’t let it happen.”
“I concur.” 1985 Satan turned to me. “So tell me about the plan.”
“Easy enough,” I whipped out the time machine, “Let’s go back and discuss this in the right setting. What’s the actual date?”
“33 AD.” 1985 Satan said at the same time 16th century Satan said 24AD.
“Thirty-three.” 1985 Satan said, glaring at his past self.
I punched in the numbers. There was a whirring noise, then the machine spun out of my hands and landed on the table, a thin trail of smoke rising into the air.
1985 Satan leaned back and grinned. “White Horse Tavern, 33AD?”
A holographic projection of D’Artagnan appeared above the machine, standing about a foot high. “Help me Obi Wan,” it said, “Someone has stolen my time machine.”
“Yo fanboy,” 1985 Satan barked.
“As a security measure,” D’Artagnan’s hologram said, “This time machine will become useless by anyone who activates it besides myself. The computer is able to scan the user’s DNA. If it detects a foreign Human DNA, then the machine will shut down. This was your only trip, partner. Hope you like where you are, cause you’re gonna stay.”
There was a long moment of silence as rage seethed from my ankles to the roots of my hair.
Then 1985 Satan grinned malevolently. “Well, well,” he said, reaching for the time machine. He lifted the machine from the table and spun it around in his hands. “Three guesses on who does not have DNA.”
My manservant spit at 1985 Satan’s feet.
16th Century Satan was looking out the window. “That’s odd.”
“What’s odd?” 1985 Satan asked, grinning at me.
“I swear I just saw a knight –”
The door to the bar burst open and a fully armoured knight on horseback rode in. He lowered his sword towards our table.
“Which of you blackguards be Nacho Sasha?”
“Christ on a beanstalk!” I hissed through my teeth.
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