Mr. Bennet: Pepped and Ready

You know what they say, the third time's a charm. I didn't win the first two Last Gladiator Standing competitions, but they were rigged, I tell you. I only lost the first one because I wasn't invited to compete. Then, I lost the second because Dark Jedi Kriss knew she couldn't win against me in the final two. But this time, I'm going to win.

How do I know? Simple, I'm now a staple of blog reality shows, and we in the paper business know the importance of staples. I recently won Sylar's Bachelor, and with it, I ate George Clooney's brain and now have the power of super stardom. It'll be just like Rob & Amber going on to the Amazing Race after kicking tropical butt on Survivor.

"What do you mean they lost the Amazing Race?" I threw a stapler at my publicist.

"Ow, I just mean that they came in second," he replied. The stapler that had struck him suddenly grew insect-like legs and scurried away.

"So are you saying fame doesn't win you reality shows?"

"Only American Idol, the rest require talent and skill." Then, my publicist was no longer my publicist. I mean, he was, but it was like he was my mom as well.

"Mom?"

"Oh, shut it, Noah. Get that loofa and have at my back," my publicist/mom shouted.

"We don't have time for your hygiene, besides you're still dead, remember? Ask Jesus to wash your back."

"You mean Buddha?"

Then, John Lennon walked up to me, placed a hand on my shoulder and said, "Mr. Bennet, you can't win this one with fame alone. You have to be the ball."

"But I'm famous, George Clooney famous!" I protested.

"So was he once," Lennon said before flying away on a yellow submarine.

This definitely threw a wrench into my plans.

"Mr. Bennet," I heard a voice calling out. "Mr. Bennet?"

I opened my eyes to find myself lying on the ground with an incredible pain in my head. "What happened?" I asked.

My publicist helped me up and explained that a wrench had come flying out of the tool shed and struck me on the head. Apparently, I had passed out.

"That lunatic," he said pointing at a familiar figure telekinetically floating out of the tool shed with a rusty hubcap.

The dark silhouette gleefully shouted, "Yay! A blunt instrument!" as it disappeared into the shadows.

My publicist continued, "he was tossing things out of the shed like a gynecologist in a baby-delivering marathon."

"Smells like sabotage," I said. My consciousness had returned, and I could see clearly now the rain is gone. His plan to accidentally render me unconscious with a flying wrench had backfired. During my sublime journey through the depths of my subconscious, I was able to plot and plan how I would win this contest....



One injection of Leech blood would easily de-power all of my competition here. Then, I can simply shoot them without fear of lightsaber ricochet.

Jon walked in as I was nearing completion of the harvesting phase. Kegs of Leech goo were stacked behind me. "Um, Mr. B...just so you know, there's no shooting other contestants."

"What?? And you call this a reality show!"

"Sorry, but you wouldn't believe the insurance rates on Hacknor."

"Crap! Is that where we are again?"

"You betcha," he said and left the room.

Well, just because I couldn't shoot them didn't mean I couldn't de-power them. That alone would give me a great advantage. I only needed a way to get The Cure into them without them realizing it. And if there's anyone that knows how to trick the masses into consuming large quantities of harmful liquids, it's Starbucks!

I bought a beverage for each contestant. A few tablespoons of Leech goo added to this caffeine blast should do the trick. After charging the insane amount to my credit card, I returned to my room to find it kegless. "What happened to all the Leech goo?" I asked The Haitian, my trusted (though often inadequate) sidekick.

"An officer of the Republican Navy confiscated it. Apparently alcohol is in violation of Order 12 Section 7 Subsection B of the Galactic Code."

"But it's not alcohol, it's Leech goo!"

"Please," he asked, "stop saying Leech goo."

"Now what do I do with all this coffee?"

"Perhaps you could give it to the fellow contestants, uncontaminated with The Cure, as a sign of good faith?"

"No way! This stuff cost me a fortune. I'm drinking it all...ooh, hot hot!"

As I finished the last drop, Henchman came into my room. "Get out here, Jon's going to address the contestants."

We all gathered around Jon who was holding a mic as he spoke about the rules and formalities of the competition. He greeted people and introduced them. Honestly, I don't know what all he was saying. For some reason, I found it hard to concentrate. Or maybe he was just a terrible speaker. I thought I should help him out.

I jumped up on stage and took the mic from him. "So, yeah, we're here again competing and it's a lot of fun and I'm probably going to win and have you ever noticed how some people are left handed, but I never expected to win Sylar's Bachelor, I'm not even gay, but if I were, napkins are useful if you ever spill anything, and so we don't need to shoot each other, not my rules, Jon made 'em up."

"Um, Mr. B," Jon grabbed me by the shoulder. "Perhaps you should sit down. You're starting to twitch."

"Hold on, Jonny. Ha! Jonny....that's a good one, sounds like Johnny...or it is Johnny! Now that's something, but where was I? Oh yeah! The cake. There's going to be cake, right, Jon? Jonny! Haha!" I started doing jumping jacks because it felt like the right thing to do. My stomach soon disagreed. As the hot liquid splashed around inside me, I began to feel very nauseated.

"I thought I got all the alcohol out of his room," Oneida spoke up, "but I guess I wasn't thorough enough."

"Alcohol! Never! I'm a teetotaler..totally into tea," I replied before falling off the stage and passing out.



"Ah, you're awake," Jon said. He walked up to me and examined my IV, then thumped it. "I'm not a doctor, but I've seen plenty in action to know that thumping an IV helps recovery by twelve percent."

"Where are my clothes?" I asked.

"Oh, that was Sylar's idea. Apparently nakedness improves recovery by forty-seven percent!"

"Did someone shave my buttocks?"

"Eighteen percent! And now you're aerodynamic."