Is Your Refrigerator Running? Part I: Damn You Nicolas Cage:
“Scalpel,” I snapped, as Butt Face rummaged through our medical bag.
I wiped my brow of sweat as Butt Face offered me the cutting tool. My hands moved with precision. “Done” I said. “Scary Mike needs pliers”.
Butt Face needed to move faster. The patient was beginning to stir.
“He’s waking up!” I whispered harshly. “Where are those pliers?”
Butt Face finally delivered the tool, but time was running out. I thrust the pliers into the incision, and after a few seconds of digging I started pulling with all my might. *SQUISH!* I had his spleen.
“Look at that, Butt Face,” I yelled with excitement. “We got his spleen! That’s like, what, six hundred point?”
Butt Face nodded. It was our greatest game of “Operation” yet…until the patient woke up.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!” He cried, his voice filled with pain and confusion.
“Dammit” I murmured under my breath.
Now our points were forfeit. Butt Face nervously motioned towards the screaming patient.
“Well,” I sighed. “Let’s get this over with”.
Butt face handed me a screwdriver. “No, no, no” I said. “I need the hammer.”
Every medical kit needs a hammer.
The dying man’s screams turned to begging once he realized my intentions. “PLEASE!” he said. “D-D-DON’T KILL ME!”
Then, with a surprising amount of agility for someone who had just lost their spleen, he leapt off the kitchen table and made his way towards my front door.
Butt Face and I stayed put. We knew the door was locked.
I brought out the most soothing voice I could muster. “Larry, buddy, Scary Mike never wanted things to end this way. When we abducted you from that Best Buy store, we had every intention of bringing you back there, minus a few organs of course. Ha-ha. Problem is, you woke up during our game. This is all on you Larry”
“Please don’t kill me.” he repeated a second time.
I clenched the hammer tighter as my feet shuffled towards him. “See, we wanted to play this game called “Operation” but unfortunately we were missing the board.” Just a few more steps. “Butt Face and I were pretty upset until I thought ‘Hey, we got all these medical tools lying around. Let’s just get a real patient to play with!’ So we-“
“Please don’t kill me. I don’t want to die.”
I was in striking range.
“WE ALL HAVE TO DIE SOMETIME LARRY!” I raised the hammer above my head and sent it arching towards Larry’s screaming face!
“Just a small town girl
Living in a lonely world
She took the midnight train going anywhere”
I halted my swing. The phone was ringing.
My eyes glanced at Butt Face. “Don’t just stand there” I said. “Pick it up!”
Butt Face lifted the phone to his ear before handing the phone to me.
“Hold on a second Larry. Scary Mike needs to take this call.”
Larry only whimpered as I pulled the hammer away from his face.
“Hello,” I said “You've reached Scary Mike’s Murder Emporium and Grill. How can Scary Mike help you?”
“Hey Mike! How’s it going?”
"Son of a..." I muttered. It was Nicolas Cage.
“Me?” he said. “Well I’m just a prickly pear!”
Cage won an Oscar for that line. I'm serious.
“Scary Mike told you to STOP CALLING HIM. You’re a freaking psychopath, and I want nothing-”
Larry started screaming again. “HE”S GONNA KILL ME, SEND HELP!”
“Quiet Larry! Can’t you see that I’m on the phone?”
That shut him up.
“Now,” I said. “Where were we… ah yes, Scary Mike was telling you to PISS OFF.”
“So angry Mike, ha-ha. I thought we were friends?”
“We were friends, until you ate Scary Mike’s Nutter Butters! Scary Mike had one rule Cage, ONE RULE, and you broke-“
*CRASH*
“What the…” I turned around. Larry was gone, and my kitchen window was broken.
“God damn it Cage,” I seethed. “Your voice just scared Larry away. Are you satisfied now? Huh?”
“Mike, Mike, Mike,” he cooed. “I only called to ask you a question, out of concern really.”
He may have been the one asking questions but I had a feeling he already knew the answers.
“Fine,” I gave in. “What is it?”
Looking back, I can almost picture him at that moment, sitting at home, a shot of rubbing alcohol in hand, and a wicked grin on his smug, stupid face as he spoke the four words that would change my life forever.
“Is your refrigerator running?”
Cage’s words hit me like a like a freight train. He didn't wait for my response.
“Well, you better go catch it!” he cackled, followed by a string of ferocious laughter.
As I hung up the phone, my eyes frantically searched the room without success. My fridge was gone. This was bad, real bad. You see friends, my refrigerator was no ordinary kitchen appliance. It was a killer.
Is Your Refrigerator Running? Part II: The Chase:
If You Give a Fridge Some Meat Chunks
A poem by Scary Mike
If you give a fridge some meat chunks, it’ll acquire a taste for human flesh.
When it acquires a taste for human flesh, it’ll probably ask you to satisfy its hunger.
When you satisfy its hunger, it’ll ask you for a napkin.
When it asks you for a napkin, you will probably start to question your sanity.
(I mean, come on. You've been through some weird stuff before, but you've never taken requests from inanimate objects. That’s just silly.)
When you start to question your sanity, you will decide to quit satisfying the fridge’s hunger.
When you no longer satisfy its hunger, it’ll leave your house in search of food.
When it leaves your house in search of food, it’ll go on a murderous rampage.
When your fridge goes on a murderous rampage, you and your loyal companion Butt Face, must travel the globe in search of it.
“Hurry up Butt Face. We have to go!” I shouted from my door way.
In the hours since Nicolas Cage’s phone call, Butt Face and I had managed to pack up most of our things. We didn't know where we were going, but we knew that we couldn't stay here. My fridge was out there… feeding. I don’t have a problem with eating people per se… but my fridge was, well, MINE. I have always been able to avoid incarceration for my "crimes" with a combination, of stealth, cunning, and Kung Fu badassery, but "The Man" would surely come after me once they connected me to my rouge fridge.
Badassery: The word of the day. Everyday.
I yelled a second time. "Hurry up!"
Butt Face started to yelp from the kitchen.
"Well," I thought. "Better see what's going on."
I walked through the doorway to find Butt Face holding a note. The Fridge must have left it here before he vanished. I pulled out my reading glasses and examined it.
Dear Scary Mike
Screw you. You used to be cool.
I am traveling to Chicago to find some food.
I dare you to try and stop me.
Go screw yourself,
Sincerely, Mr. Frosty
The note raised more questions than answers. Like, "How does a refrigerator write a letter without any hands?" or "How does a kitchen appliance manage to travel anywhere without suspicion?" or the most glaring question of all, "Why is the fridge a 'Mr.'?" Do refrigerators have genitals? I for one, can't recall my fridge ever sporting a stiffy... although I've never really checked before... which means that there COULD be some hidden genitalia somewhere.
Google Images was surprisingly unhelpful.
Then again, wouldn't that imply that the fridge's designers purposeful added hidden genitals to their product? If so, what’s their game? Do they get off on the thought of fridge on fridge action? Do the fridges have nasty butt sex with each other and pump out fridge babies? These questions gnawed at my psyche but they would have to remain unanswered. I had to buy some plane tickets.
That night, Butt Face and I finished packing our bags and headed to the airport. Getting through security was a nightmare... but we managed to pull it off. (I managed to fit Butt Face into a ridiculously large trench coat.) When our flight landed at O’Hare Airport, the sun was beginning to rise. I grabbed our things, saddled up Butt Face and headed out on the town. (Rental cars are for assholes who don't own a human centipede.)
Our first day was pretty uneventful. I decided to question the locals to see if they were aware of any particularly strange murders that had occurred recently, but they always responded with screams and pleas for help. (I know my handsome good looks can be intimidating, but there's no need for hysterics people.) I also stabbed a homeless guy, and fashioned his scalp into a piece of headgear. It was just one of those things.
Anyway, the action really started to pick up by nightfall. Butt Face and I were travelling along Michigan Ave in search of the "Chanel Boutique". I reasoned that Mr. Frosty, being a douche, would frequent douchey places. Unfortunately, the sudden sound of police sirens ensured that I would never be able to prove my hypothesis.
Now, it should be no surprise to you, dear reader, that a chase is about to begin. Personally, I believe that all chase scenes (whether they be in film, TV, or literature) are incomplete without some kick ass action music. So at this point, I want you to start mentally playing your "Action song". Yes, I'm talking about YOUR Action song. Everyone has that one bitchin song that they play, literally, or in their head, when they're about to do something really freakin cool. This chase fits that description nicely. Now, a small number of you are probably saying "But Scary Mike, I DON"T HAVE A 'SONG'!" Well you're in luck! I provided one for you below.
Back to the story...
*WEEEUUU WEEEUUU*
Two patrol vehicles started to approach. They probably saw me take a turn earlier without signaling. It's always the little things that get you.
One of them dropped their window and pulled out a megaphone. "Stop what you're doing and pull over immediately!"
I wasn't going to let them haul my scary ass off to jail.
"YAHHH BUTT FACE!" I roared, as my hands whipped the reigns. "HYAHHH!"
Butt Face ran like a bat out of hell while the two patrol cars made chase. I could hear the wail of more police sirens as we turned off of the street. I needed an out, fast. Butt Face narrowly missed two cars as I searched though my luggage bag. There they were. Rocks, my ranged weapon of choice. I quickly armed myself as one of the patrol cars veered beside us. (Only ass hats use guns.) I started chucking rocks like nobody's business, but my attacks were fruitless. Their cars were rock proof. Worse yet, Butt Face was losing steam.
"DANGIT BUTT FACE!" I screamed. "DON'T DIE ON ME NOW!"
15 vehicles must have been following me by this point. I was running out of rocks... and options. My hands frantically searched through my bag for more stones, but they found something smooth and cylindrical instead. A pipe bomb.
"This will do" I muttered as I armed the explosive.
I just had to think of something cool to say when I throw it.
"Bomb voyage?"
"Suck my pipe?"
"Have a blast?"
"I'm going to explode all over you guys!" I yelled as the armed explosive was sent careening through the air.
Nailed it.
The police cars behind me slammed on their breaks as the bomb bounced off the pavement, once, twice, and then... nothing. It was a dud.
"Really?"
I looked forward again to find that our path was now blocked by a police barricade. We were trapped.
I brought Butt Face to a swift stop, and jumped off of his back. I needed one last word with him before the cops took me away.
"Run Butt Face," I said. "Run as far as your many arms and legs can take you. They… they would do terrible things to you in prison."
He just stared at me with terrified eyes.
"Always remember that Scary Mike loves you."
I exchanged one final teary glance with my loyal companion before he scurried away into the darkness.
When I turned around, I was greeted by a small army of policemen, their guns aimed at me.
My Kung Fu badassery couldn't save me now.
Is Your Refrigerator Running? Part III: The Interrogation:
For days, I had been moved around constantly, sometimes by truck, sometimes on foot but I was always hooded. I had started to grow accustomed to the blind darkness that accompanied my travels and the light was overpowering when the hood was finally removed. As my eyes adjusted, I began to survey my surroundings. The room was cramped, with just enough space for a small table and a couple of chairs. The smell of mold and decay filled my nostrils. Other than the hum of a single dim ceiling lamp, everything was silent. Looking forward, I found myself face to face with my new host. He looked like the consummate professional, confident, neat, and powerful. Yet I could still sense some unease under his sleek suit. Later, I would come to know him as Agent Carmichael of the NSA. Now, he was just the latest in a long line of interrogators.
The agent studied me closely. "Hello Mike."
"Hello," I replied back casually.
Carmichael smiled. "Now that we've exchanged pleasantries, let's talk about that terrorist attack you were a part of. I'd like to talk about that."
I didn't answer.
The NSA had been grilling me for days under the assumption that I was an accessory to some failed terrorist plot involving a pipe bomb, but I wasn't in the mood to correct them. Despite all of their best efforts, I was having fun.
Carmichael dropped his smile. "Maybe I'm not approaching this correctly," he said, "TELL ME EVERYTHING, AND I MEAN EVERYTHING, ABOUT YOUR INVOLVEMENT IN THE CHICAGO TERROR PLOT!"
I wasn't buying the tough guy routine. "Can you guys turn on a fan or something? It smells like shit in here."
"Look," he said "I know you've been enjoying yourself these past few days, with your 'cute' speaking gimmicks and your little pranks, but you need to understand something," He let the last two words hang in the air, "there WERE other plotters involved in that attack and my orders are to identify them by any means necessary. Do you understand? We will make you...
He went on and on like that for what seemed like ages, but I wasn't really listening.
"Did you guys happen to find a human centipede recently? One that goes by Butt Face?"
Carmichael stopped mid-sentence. His stern deposition was broken for the briefest of moments.
"No"
That was good news. "Well," I said "That's unfortunate..."
He looked like he was going to ask a follow up question, probably something along the lines of "What the hell?" but he quickly returned to the whole "Terrorist plot" thing..
As the questioning continued and the hours passed, I was becoming increasingly bored. Finally, I gave in.
"Look," I said, "Scary Mike will tell you everything. Just... just stop talking."
Carmichael's quickly pulled out a notebook and pen. His facial expression was more "Boy excitedly waiting for story time" than "Government agent about to uncover terrorist plot".
"Alright," I said, "So this whole thing started when Nicolas Cage called me on the phone about my missing fridge."
"Your missing fridge?"
"Yeah, it had developed a taste for human flesh and it got super pissed because-"
"You're telling me that this fridge eats people?"
"Yeah, its name is Mr. Frosty-"
"Mr. Frosty?"
"Yeah, which is weird because Scary Mike is pretty sure refrigerators don't have genitals. What do you think?"
Carmichael sat there for a few moments, glaring at me, before calmly setting down his pen and exiting the room. Some people just can't handle the truth. I had barely begun to enjoy my hard earned silence before two burly guys rushed in. They threw a hood back over my head, delivered a few swift kicks to my stomach, and carried me out of the room.
When the hood was removed, I was in a new room, one that was somehow even shittier than the last one. I also found myself strapped to a stiff board, a water board to be exact.
Google Images was a bit off on this one.
Once I understood their plan, I couldn't help but laugh. Water boarding (on both the giving and receiving end) is one of my favorite hobbies! This was going to fun!
Carmichael stepped into my field of vision. He had traded in his sharp suit for a t-shirt and khakis.
"Is that business casual?" I asked.
He answered with a punch to my face.
"Now," he said while examining his fist, "I'll give you one last chance to speak up before we start."
I couldn't hold back my enthusiasm. "Hell no. Let's do it!"
Carmichael turned to his two associates. "Ready the water board."
Hearing those words brought on another fit of laughter. These guys were idiots.
Both of the men hesitated.
"Why the hell is he laughing?" one of them whispered.
"I... I don't know" whispered the other, "but it's kind of weirding me out a bit."
The mix of anger and confusion on Carmichael's face made me laugh even harder. "At my side. NOW!" he growled.
As the two men approached me, they were suddenly thrown to the ground with terrific force as an explosion rocked the wall behind me. The blast gave me sensory overload and everything seemed to play out in slow motion. Shots rang through the air and Carmichael's twos goons were dead before they could even fire their weapons. Carmichael himself, returned fire before leaping through a doorway seemingly unscathed. I saw a man in combat armor chase after him. It was all over in seconds.
Still in a daze, I was removed from my restraints by another man in combat gear.
"Who... who are you?" I managed to ask him.
"I," he said, pausing for dramatic effect as he removed his head gear, "am Steve Buscemi, leader of the Buscemi Bad Asses. We're getting you out of here."
Steve Buscemi: Otherwise known as "That creepy guy" in every move you've ever seen.
"Cool," I said.
"Now," he said, "you're going to need to put this hood on, OK?"
"Don't worry," I said, "Scary Mike is used to it by now."
Buscemi nodded as he and his men hauled me away.
"One last thing before you hood me," I said.
"What?"
"Scary Mike was having a pretty good time until your "Bad Asses" showed up. Why did you guys come here?"
"Because," he said, "We can't kill Mr. Frosty without you."
