Mission Ten: Walking the Talk

"So, I was thinking about making some paper sales here on Hacknor. Are you up for it, old man?"

"Old man? I tell you when I was fourteen we didn't need paper. The world was our burrito, and we made every minute of our lives count toward something. That's what it means to be an Intergalactic Gladiator, you know? Four hours in the gym every day and a confidentiality agreement. Yes, sir, lots of secrets in the gladiatoring business. I remember walking in on Ol' Tipper McDunn during his acne-cream application. Of course, back then acne had no cure. And why should it? Pimples are the signs of a stressed body. If you're not stressin', you ain't livin'."

I could tell this was going to be an exciting challenge.

"You know, back in my day this gladiator business was dangerous! There were no helmets or safety nets or steroids, and racism was still allowed. Those were the good ol' days and the first time I lost my brain."

"Well, that's nice," I replied trying to end the conversation. Unfortunately, I came to find that to be an impossibility with Bone Grinder.

"Sure thing, Skipper. I can tell you all about it," he went on. "It was a legendary matchup: me versus some other guy. I knocked his lights out. Then, in the darkness, he managed to hit me on the head with a newspaper or something. I could feel my brain shake loose, then the man threw cats at me. My allergies acted up and I went into a sneezing fit. Every sneeze caused a piece of my brain to fly out my nose. I don't much care for nose jobs. What do they need employment for anyway? Saving up for a larger septum? I say they can find employment on some other planet. Pluto is a disappointment!"

"That's a lovely story about your brain falling out your nose and all, but..."

"Oh, yeah, my brain. I had to get a transplant, you know. They were fresh out of usable brains, so I got an overgrown cauliflower. Some reports suggest they're even better at thinking than brains are!"

Bone Grinder continued talking to me about taco toppings, which I believe he was using as a metaphor for cleaning a windshield.

Since he was going to go on talking nonsense, I thought I might as well make the most of it. "Come on, Bone. Follow me."

"Sure, I'll follow you, but I ain't joining no cult. Three years ago I was attacked my Mormons. 'Bout lost my life, if it weren't for my accuracy with a salad fork...."

A long, long cab ride later, we arrived at Williams Arena where Ron Paul was having his counter-convention. Perfect, I thought. Bone Grinder will fit right in here. I patted Bone on the back and said, "Have fun, I'm going to the little boys' room."

"You damn pedophile!" he replied, "Not that there's anything wrong with it...." But before he could go of on a tangent, Ron Paul took the podium.

"Greetings my fellow patriots," he began. Bone Grinder turned away from me and listened to Paul go on. "We are here today because the Republican Party has failed us! They insist on legislating morality. No where in the Constitution does it say that we have to pay taxes, or that we can't murder each other, or that everyone is entitled to free health care. Hell, it doesn't even provide protection for minors from sexual predators!"

Boney G, as his Gangsta name would be, was entranced. I slowly snuck away as Ron Paul continued his Family No-Values speech.

A much shorter cab ride later I arrived at the Titty Twister.


And no, it wasn't for personal reasons. I was looking for someone. Someone who ate brains and loved having their titties twisted.

A couple of Mexican tough guys stopped me as I entered.

"Where you headin', Señor Glasses?" the short one asked.

"Inside. Are you going to stop me?"

"Me?" He laughed. "No. My friend Nacho will do that."

The caped gordo jumped out at me and annouced, "NachOooOoooocooOoOOooOOOO!"


I pulled my gun and shot him three times. As he fell onto the ground, the other guys stared at me. I pushed them out of the way and walked inside.

There, at the bar, I saw a suspicious-looking Ninja.


I walked up to the man and asked, "Have you seen a cross-dressing brain-eater around here?"

"Lolz, like no way silly!" he giggled. "What would I be doing in a strip bar?"

"You're right," I said and walked away. I was wrong, Sylar wasn't here, so my plans of sabotage were of no use.

As I headed to the exit, the Mexican tough guys came inside. "Hey! That Gringo killed Nacho!" They pointed at me.

The entire audience fell silent and stared at me. Then, the Mexican Ninja said, "Oh, nos! Not Nacho, my plump little wrestling buddy!" He ripped off his ninja-apparel to reveal his true identity.


"Get Mr. Glasses, lolz!" he ordered.

The booze-filled and angry Mexicans jumped from their seats and charged at me. I emptied my gun into the crowd and fought my way to the exit.

Where was an Intergalactic Gladiator when you needed one?

I ran all the way back to the convention with the muy angry mob chasing close behind.

"There is no freedom if we lock terrorists up without rights!" I could hear from inside. "They deserve to live the American Dream just like any other religious nut."

I kicked the door open and found Bone Grinder. "You've gotta do something! There's a mob heading this way. We're going to have to fight them!"

"I never met a mob I didn't kill, or for that matter wasn't a part of. The 60s was a good time for mobs. We used to start off with a game of Naked Twister, but one thing led to another and before we knew it we were out in force demanding the right to consensual dung battles."

Before Bone Grinder could finish his delightful story, Cheech and his gang burst in.

"Hey, what is the meaning of this?" Ron Paul asked from his podium.

The Mexican glared up at him. "Look muchachos, it's a pro-choicer."

This seemed to cause the mob to forget about me as they broke out in utter madness attacking all of the convention goers with machetes and sharpened taco shells.

"Hmmm....maybe they were right about that border fence after all," Ron Paul said as he ducked under the podium.

I looked at Bone Grinder and said, "Well, here's you're chance to be a real gladiator again!"

"Why the Hell are you still talking?" he asked. "There's a fight going on! Save the chit chat for later." And with that he let out a piercing battle cry as he flailed his bony appendages about, knocking Latinos and Libertarians alike unconscious.

I joined in on the fray.


It was a long and tough battle, but with Bone Grinder on our side, we had the upper hand. Soon, the borachos were racing back to their strip joint.

Ron Paul stood back up at the podium and motioned to Bone Grinder. "Come on up here. You saved this convention and protected our Constitution with your excessive violence. Let's hear a few words from our freedom fighter!"

Bone Grinder made his way up to the podium.

Oh, brother...

"Thank you," he began. "I don't fight freedom because it's easy. I fight freedom because my dad left when I was seven. I never drank any of that Sprite crap, though. I'm a 7-Up guy, always been one. Sometimes I drink water, but that's just because it's easily accessible. I had to build my own well once. It was during the drought of ought three. Vultures were disintegrating in mid-air from the heat. I got myself a stick and started digging. I almost made it to China, which is pretty good considering I wasn't on Earth at the time. But there was no reason I couldn't hold hands with the woman I loved. The church frowned on it, but that's their problem. I say, if you spend a buck seventy on a couple of burgers and the drive in, you're entitled to some hand action...."

A couple of days later, he finished and the challenge finally came to an end.