Writings » The Power of the Dark Side

The Power of the Dark Side

By Cardboard Warmachine at 2007-10-25 | Comedy, Sci-Fi | Printable version

    "Governor Tarkin, I recognized your foul stench the moment you came on board," Gregory mused to himself, carefully untying the balloon that housed his latest achievement. He tipped the contents into his palm; a four inch plastic replica of Moff Tarkin, fresh "out of the box" as it were.
    After disposing of Tarkin's thoroughly used vessel, and placing the figure carefully back into it's vintage carrying case, Gregory wiped a large handful of petroleum jelly away from his backside with a square of toilet paper before pulling his pants back up around his waist. An aged piece of paper sat on the bathroom counter top, riddled with crossed out names; everyone from galactic star pilot, to lowly service droid, neatly listed in alphabetical order. Gregory produced a red ballpoint from his shirt pocket, clicked it a dozen or so times, and proceeded to scratch off one of the only names on the list that still remained untouched.
    "Welcome to the pantheon Governor Moff Tarkin. Your name shall forever be inscribed on the annals of history; no pun intended." Gregory shook with gleeful laughter before folding up the paper carefully and stuffing it behind the pen in his front shirt pocket. Now only one more triumph remained. Just one more figurine to make the perilous journey into the eye of madness; Boba Fett.
    He had been saving this one for last, as not only was he Gregory's favorite galactic bounty hunter, but it had been the wayward son of Jango Fett that had inspired him to embark on this curious errand in the first place. Something about Fett's unusual demise into the Sarlac pit, a sedentary monster that he had always thought looked remarkably like a great toothy rectum. Since that fateful re-watching of the final installment of the greatest story ever told, Gregory had been systematically locating, purchasing, and "assimilating" every original first edition figure he could get his hands on.
    He could still remember his first, eleven years ago, when his mother was still alive, and such activities were under a more scrutinous eye, one that forbade solitude, and all of the demons that it harbored. It was Admiral Ackbar, and he had not yet thought of using party balloons to protect his fragile innards. The whole process was awkward and uninspired, like a young teenager in the throes of attempted lovemaking for the first time. Gregory knew nothing of lovemaking; what he did know, was the perfect referential zinger to go along with Ackbar's perilous journey into the black.
    "It's a trap!" He warbled in his best impression of the fish-headed Admiral. Little did he know how true such a statement would ring, as he sat down on the rigid plastic statuette. This was a mistake he would not make again.
    And here he was, over a decade, and many canisters of petroleum jelly later, finally at the end of his quest. The road had been a bumpy one, as not everyone made it out alive. Just as a black hole was capable of crushing matter into a quantum singularity, so Gregory's black hole was similarly stubborn when it came to releasing the matter that was fed to it in tact. Balloons had burst, and heads had gone missing, only to resurface later; a grim totem adorning the head of some great "galactic slug."
    But practice made perfect, and after a time, it became as routine an activity as brushing his teeth, only stopping when his supply of figures ran dry. Gregory always considered the implications of such acts; perhaps there was some sort of world record that he would hold once he was finished, though he doubted that stuffing toys in your pooper would be something that the Guinness Book would welcome into their bizarre anthology. Though he often wondered what he would do when he was done, and had conquered all of the original cast. His online friends, the only people who, through anonymity could condone such an act, suggested moving on to the new trilogy, though Gregory always said that he could defecate out three better movies, and thought it would be quite hypocritical to do the very same thing in reverse.
    This would be his victory, no one else's. When his flame of life was gone from this world, he would look back, and feel a great sense of achievement, and a comfort in knowing that his legacy would live on, permanently encrusted upon hundreds of valuable collectors items which would undoubtedly move through the hands of geeks, collectors, and movie buffs alike, well into the future.
    "Hang on tight Mr. Fett," Gregory singsonged as he stretched the rim of a heavily lubricated festive red balloon, dropping the bounty hunter in like candy into a Christmas stocking, "welcome back to the Sarlac Pit."