The REAL Moon-Landing Conspiracy

Recently declassified documents have revealed the true conspiracy surrounding the Apollo 11 mission: the moon landing really happened, but it was actually a top-secret operation by the Witness Protection Program. Astronauts Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins were in actuality Chicago mobsters "Lefty" Delvecchio, "Buzzo" Aldrini, and "Mr. Smiles." After the three testified in federal court against ruthless crimelord Giacomo "Medium Jim" Toscanini, it was thought that Earth's moon would be the only place outside Toscanini's reach. The operation was deemed a failure after the Eagle lunar lander was destroyed by a car bomb on July 21, 1969.

A Suit of Clothes

Francis Dennehy was due to return any day to County Kerrigan from school in Dublin, and the rumor was that while he had been away, he had become what was called a “fancy-lad.” It was said that he now went about in a suit of clothes rather than sodden rags, and that he ate vegetables rather than small stones he found in the road.

“A suit of clothes?” exclaimed Mary Kelly upon hearing the rumor. “Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing!”

“Clothes is things for fancy-men. Like Rudolph Valentino, or the Pope,” explained Ryan Carmody. He was the oldest and most knowledgeable. “When I was but a wee lad, me mother once took me down to County Clarke to see clothes.”

“I once saw a photograph of a man in clothes,” said Brendan O’Dwyer. 

“Oh, a photograph!” tittered Katie Fitzgerald. “And was it the Prince of Wales who showed ye it?”

“Well...it was a drawing of a photograph,” Brendan admitted. “Me brother Seamus saw it when he was away at war. When he came home, he drew it for me to show what it looked like.”

“And I suppose ’t was paper he drew it on, then?” Katie said mockingly.

“No,” Brendan said, “he scratched it onto the wall of our house, with — with his fingernail.” Actually, his brother had used a fork carved from the front leg-bone of a dog, but Brendan knew that he was already risking being ridiculed for putting on airs by mentioning that his house had walls — if he were to let on that his family owned a good dog-fork, he’d hear no end of it. “’T was a man who looked no different from any man here, except he had on a full suit of clothes. Shoes and all.”

“Shoes?!!” Katie shrieked, collapsing into peals of laughter. “As if ye’d know shoes t’ see them!”

“I do too know shoes,” Brendan asserted. “When I was but six years old, and fell into the drinking trench and halfway drowned, ’t was a fancy-man who pulled me out and sent me on me way. His feet were great and black and with no toes to them at-all — I thought it the worst case of gout I’d ever seen. But when I got home and told me da what I’d seen, he turned pale as a cloud. As if he’d seen Christ Jesus Himself. And he said to me: ‘Lad, those were shoes. As sure as I live and breathe, that man was wearing shoes.’”

At that everyone grew very quiet and grave.

****

But when Francis Dennehy arrived the next day, he was clad in rags that appeared no different from the ones he had been wearing when he left.

“A suit of clothes?!” said Francis with good-natured incredulity when he was told what had been said about him. “So I’m to be Rudolph Valentino, is that it?”

“And I suppose that ye ate no vegetables, as well,” said Ryan, trying and failing to conceal the disappointment in his voice.

“Surely not,” laughed Francis, “but I think I might know how that one got started. I wrote to Darragh Conlan to tell him that our biology class took a trip to a building where we’d have the chance to see vegetables with our very own eyes. There was a shelf there that had both a turnip and a radish on ’t.”

“Oh, do tell us what they looked like!” Mary pleaded. “Did they look like stones?”

“No, they were great red things,” said Francis. “Not like stones at-all.”

“And did ye get to touch them, as well?” asked Katie, her eyes shining.

“Ah...no,” said Francis. He looked down at his feet, his cheeks flushed. “No, we weren’t to touch them.”

But everyone rushed to assure him that it was perfectly all right.

The Prophecy

(A portal suddenly opens above a field, rending the night sky. A massive, hideous DEMON steps through it.)

Demon: Yes, mortals, the prophecy has been fulfilled at last: the Beast of Zhar’zug’klll has come, to conquer your pitiful dimension. Let all humanity tremble before my might!

(The demon looks out over the field. The only people in evidence are two guys, ANDREW and KYLE, looking up at him. Kyle slurps from a Big Gulp cup.)

Kyle: Hey.

Demon: But...where is everybody? Where are my hordes of crimson-robed followers with the ten thousand infant sacrifices, ready to anoint my hooves with innocent blood and swear their undying fealty? Where is the Great Ziggurat of Skulls? Why have the preparations for my arrival not been made?

Andrew: Yeah, we don’t know anything about that.

Kyle: We were just walking back from the 7-11 when we saw those freaky lights in the sky, and decided to walk over and check it out.

Demon: Didn’t anyone listen to the prophecy?

Andrew: Uh...what prophecy was that, again?

Demon: Several of your Earth decades ago, I constructed avatars out of flesh and dispatched them to this dimension to spread my message. They were to be scribes—balladeers—their song instructing humanity in the steps necessary to ensure my reign and usher in the End of Days. The prophecy that foretold my arrival was known as “Mr. Jones,” by Counting Crows.

Andrew: Um...”Mr. Jones”? Are you...really?

Demon: So you ARE familiar with the prophecy?

Andrew: Well, like, I know the song, but...

Demon: I mean, if you know it, it should be pretty obvious. I don’t know why there’s not more people here—

Andrew: Are there, like, specific lyrics you can maybe point to as being about the Apocalypse? Because, I gotta say, I’m not really seeing it.

Demon: Well, it’s, you know, it’s the whole thing. It’s kind of a metaphor... Did—did nobody really pick up on this?

Kyle: No...no, I don’t think so.

Andrew: It did hit number one for a week or two, so it was a pretty big hit, if that makes you feel any better.

Kyle: And I think the lead singer was married to Kate Hudson for a few years, so he did okay for himself.

Demon: Kate—what?

Andrew: (to Kyle) No, that was the guy from the Black Crowes.

Kyle: Really? Are you sure?

Andrew: Pretty sure, yeah.

Kyle: I don’t even think I know the Black Crowes. Did they do that “one more night in Hollywood” song?

Andrew: No, dipshit, that was still Counting Crows. (to the demon) Hey, Mr. Demon, dude—was “Long December” ALSO an apocalyptic portent? Just curious.

Demon: I—I’m not familiar with that one—

Andrew: But—didn’t you just say that you created them to be your mouthpieces in this dimension?

Demon: Well, yes, but, I didn’t—after “Mr. Jones,” I didn’t really direct their careers. I guess they must have gone on to do their own thing afterwards—

Andrew: So, if they didn’t consult you on their other songs, isn’t it possible that they changed the lyrics to “Mr. Jones” without letting you know and got rid of the whole prophecy metaphor?

Demon: Well, yeah, I guess it’s POSSIBLE—

Kyle: So you never even listened to it?

Demon: No, it’s—it’s really hard to monitor events trans-dimensionally—it’s kind of why I created human avatars in the first place—

Kyle: Well, here, let me pull it up for you, maybe we can figure out what happened. (Kyle takes his smartphone out of his pocket.) Just let me open up my Pandora app... (Kyle taps a few buttons and music starts streaming from the phone.)

Demon: This—this doesn’t sound at all like what I wrote...

Kyle: Well, no, this is “Hanginaround.” But if we listen long enough, “Mr. Jones” should pop up eventually. ...Probably.

(The three listen to the music for several more minutes.)

Demon: Is—is there any way to speed this up at all...?

Andrew: (to Kyle) Dude, just download it for him.

Kyle: I’m not gonna spend 99 cents on that. You know how much I’ve been spending on gas this month, with driving to Laurie’s and back. I can’t be throwing a buck away on just anything.

Andrew: You don’t have to spend anything. I’ve got a couple of free sites I use—

Kyle: Yeah, I’m not gonna do that. It’s taking money out of the artists’ pockets.

Andrew: You heard what he said! They’re demonic avatars! The whole band! You don’t owe them anything!

Kyle: Look, I—I just wouldn’t feel right about it, okay? (to the demon) Hey, Mr. Demon, sir, could you give me 99 cents so I can download this?

Demon: Excuse me?

Kyle: Well, we ARE doing this as a favor to you—it only seems fair that you should pay for it.

Demon: I...I don’t have any money.

Andrew: No money? How do you expect to conquer this whole dimension with no money?

Kyle: Yeah, you really should have thought this through better.

Demon: I DID think it through! If people had just listened to the prophecy—

Andrew: Look, maybe it would be best if you just came back later.

Demon: But—the portal to this dimension only opens once every ten thousand years—

Andrew: Well, maybe that would be for the best. Give you some time to get all the kinks worked out, and you can come back with a better plan next time.

Demon: I...I guess so...

(The demon steps back through the portal. As it closes around him, he suddenly looks back at the humans.)

Demon: WAIT! I REMEMBER NOW! IT WASN’T COUNTING CROWS AT ALL! IT WAS THE WALLFL--

(The portal seals shut. The two guys stare at the spot where it had been for a moment, then turn and begin walking away.)

Kyle: So you’re sure it was the guy from the Black Crowes, huh?

Andrew: Yeah. But I think the Counting Crows guy dated Christina Applegate and some other chicks.

Kyle: THAT’S right. I knew it was something like that.

La Calle del Sésamo

On Mexican "Sesame Street," Oscar the Grouch is known as El Garbáge, "the discarded one."


Children are careful never to refer to him by name.


(Two Mexican children are drawing in chalk on the sidewalk of Sesame Street when they notice that Oscar is nearby. Everyone speaks in Spanish with English subtitles. Oscar sounds like Javier Bardem.)


Oscar: Good afternoon, children.


Children: Run! It is He Whose Melancholy Is As Black As His Brows!

(The children drop their chalk and run away.)

Oscar: Yes, children, you may run from El Garbáge. But what you cannot run from is your coming entry into the world of adult responsibility. And as the carefree innocence of youth fades, the Worm of Despair shall burrow its way into your souls.

(Oscar turns and looks directly into the camera, grinning with sadistic glee, and we FREEZE-FRAME. Bright colors explode around him as his theme song plays--a horn-heavy mariachi number, with the singer howling with passionate Latin hatred:)

¡El Garbáge!
¡El Garbáge!
Te maldigo [I curse you]
¡El Garbáge!

BRUCE + CLARK = BROS 4 LIFE

Gotham City. Night. A group of crooks are attempting to break into a warehouse when Batman interrupts them.


Crook #1: Oh shit it’s Batman


Crook #2: I ain’t scared of him
Crook #2: Just some freak in a costume


The crook fires at Batman, but the bullets just bounce off his chest. Batman squeezes the barrel of the gun shut with his bare hands, then tosses the crook thousands of feet in the air, but flies up and catches him before he falls.


Batman: ARE YOU GOING TO BEHAVE


Crook #2: y—yes


Cut to: Batman landing in the alley behind the building, where he meets…BRUCE WAYNE. Batman takes off his mask to reveal: CLARK KENT. The two high-five and share a laugh.

*****

Green Lantern, his hair somewhat darker than normal, is doing battle with some criminals. One of them approaches him, carrying a strange yellow machine.


Crook: Green Lantern! I’ve heard your power ring has no effect on anything colored yellow! So prepare to be destroyed…by my YELLOW DEATH RAY!


Green Lantern: No that’s crap
Green Lantern: What kind of lame ass hero could lose to a primary color


Green Lantern crushes the machine.


Green Lantern: In fact I don’t even need this stupid ring


He takes off his ring and bounces it off the crook’s forehead.


Crook: Ow!


Green Lantern flies away, carrying the crooks off to jail.


Back at Justice League Headquarters, Hal Jordan sits with his feet up drinking hot cocoa and reading Reader’s Digest. Batman and Superman pass by, smirking. Superman is holding a green domino mask behind his back.


Superman: *snicker* Hey, Hal *snicker*


Batman: *snicker* Yeah, hey *snicker*


Hal: (confused) Um…hi guys…

*****

Clark Kent, wearing Wonder Woman’s bustier and star-spangled panties, is beating up some crooks. Bruce Wayne watches with amusement.


Clark: Ooh, look at me, I’m Wonder Woman…I’m soooo sexy
Clark: My boobs are a victory for feminism


The real Wonder Woman suddenly arrives on the scene.


Wonder Woman: WHAT THE HELL IS THIS


Bruce: RUN


Bruce and Clark bolt from the scene, laughing hysterically.

*****

A meeting of criminals is interrupted by “Green Arrow,” carrying a quiver of arrows.

Crook #1: Whoa it’s GREEN ARROW


Crook #2: Is he still a thing


Green Arrow: I spend all day grooming my beard


Crook #1: Aren’t you supposed to have a bow or something


Green Arrow: Don’t need it


Green Arrow pulls an arrow from his quiver and throws it so hard it goes all the way through the crook’s shoulder.


Crook #1: Not cool man

*****

A woman leans out of the third-story window of her house, which is consumed in flames.


Woman: HELP
Woman: SOMEBODY


The “Flash” sprints into her front yard.


Flash: Is this a problem being fast would solve


Woman: Um
Woman: Not really


Flash: Oh
Flash: You should probably call somebody else then
Flash: maybe Superman
Flash: I hear he is good at stuff like this

*****

A giddy Batman holds up Aquaman’s costume for Superman, but Superman waves him off.


Superman: No
Superman: Too easy

*****

Batman sits on a couch at Justice League Headquarters, reading Maxim. Wonder Woman approaches him.


Wonder Woman: Don’t you have anything better to do than egg on that jackass?
Wonder Woman: Like solving crimes for instance


Batman: (not looking up) I have solved all the crimes
Batman: I am the world’s greatest detective


Wonder Woman: You couldn’t have solved ALL of—


Batman: All the crimes
Batman: Most of them were the Joker

*****

Superman arrives at the prison cell of a bald inmate.


Superman: What up Lex


Luthor: SUPERMAN!
Luthor: Why have you come here? Just to taunt me?


Superman: Yup
Superman: This place sucks
Superman: YOU suck


Luthor: They are getting rid of Taco Tuesdays
Luthor: Budget cuts

The Call of Cthulhu

Mr. Robert Jones sat alone in his vast but poorly-lit mansion in Spookysburg, R.I., reading the Prominent Citizen Gazette, when the telephone rang.


“Will you accept a collect call from Cthulhu?” said the speaker on the other end. The voice was mechanical and recorded-sounding, except for the last word, which sounded like a monkey choking to death on a human baby that was choking to death on the same monkey when the monkey was a baby (via time travel). Robert Jones was aghast: he had not become a prominent citizen by accepting a bunch of collect calls, not even from his kidnapped son. He answered, “No,” and hung up.


The phone immediately rang again. “Come on, bro,” said the cold, emotionless voice. “Accept the charges. You don’t know what it will be. It could turn out to be a live sex chat for all you know.”


“Everyone knows those chat lines are full of nothing but dudes,” Jones responded, and hung up again.


Hours later, the phone rang once more. “All right, you win,” said the speaker. “We can’t trick you into taking the call. You have to accept the call through your own free will—that’s how the rules of this thing work. And you’re clearly just too smart to fall for something like that. Would you agree that this is true?”


“Yes,” answered Mr. Jones. This response automatically caused the charges to be accepted, and upon hearing the call, Jones was driven instantly, permanently mad.


Word of Mr. Jones’s condition spread rapidly through the town. The news raised in the minds of many townspeople a fearful question: Had Jones been driven so mad that he pooped himself? It had been known to happen. When it arrived a few days later, the terse headlines in the local weekly paper—

ROB’T JONES DRIVEN

MAD, POOPS SELF

_____________________

Creepy Phone Call

To Blame.

___________________

DID WE MENTION

THE POOP

—simply raised more troubling questions: Why were madmen the only ones allowed to sit around in their own poop all day? Think of all the time and effort that would save. It probably wouldn't be as bad as everybody made it sound. But, no, that sort of thing wasn't for the likes of Joe Sane: it was a luxury strictly reserved for the 1% (lunatics). What a rip. And people's faith in the basic underpinnings of society slowly began to disintegrate, which had been Cthulhu's plan all along.


But a further shock was still to come. When the police traced the calls to Jones's house, they discovered that TELEPHONES HAD NOT BEEN INVENTED YET.

The Johnnys, and Their Methods

The following has been compiled from a series of interviews with "enforcers" for a sub-branch of the New York City Mafia.

Subject A, age 42: My gimmick, f'r instance, is fireworks. Y'know, like, puttin' guys' eyes out with sparklers, taping cherry bombs inside their mouths--let me tell you, word got around pretty quick that nobody had better fuck with Johnny Fireworks.

Why fireworks? Hey, yo, a guy’s gotta have a gimmick, am I right? Unless you’re like Johnny No-Gimmick over here. Yo, that guy’s the craziest one of all, ‘cause there ain’t no predictin’ what he’ll do. He never does the same thing twice. That’s his gimmick.

I mean, just the other day, I had t’ listen to complaints from Johnny Chainsaw and Johnny Nunchucks and Irish Johnny Chainsaw about how Johnny No-Gimmick was rippin’ off their gimmicks. And I had t’ tell them, ‘Look, this is just how he operates. But he’ll only do it once. By next week, he’ll be on to some other gimmick, and then I’ll probably have to be hearin’ this same thing from Johnny Deadly Nightshade.’ And then there’s Johnny Peanut Allergy: every week, when we get a new contract to kill some squealer, we’re at the weekly status meeting, looking over the guy’s medical records, like always, and Johnny Peanut Allergy’s like, ‘Yo, does dis guy got a peanut allergy?’ ‘No, Johnny Peanut Allergy, sorry.’ And then the next week, we got another target: ‘What about dis guy? Does dis guy got a peanut allergy?’ ‘No, Johnny Peanut Allergy, just penicillin and strawberries.’ ‘You’d tell me if any of dese guys had peanut allergies, right?’ ‘Yes, Johnny Peanut Allergy, I promise! You don’t even have to be here all the time—we’ll call you!’ (sighs) But he don’t listen.

Subject B, age 25: D’you know dat one out of every two hundred and fifty Americans has a severe peanut allergy? And dat number is growing every day. So statistically, one o’ dese guys is eventually gonna take money from da wrong people, or see somethin’ he shouldn’t have, and when dat day comes, I’m gonna be like, (taps chest proudly) ‘Yo. I got dis.’

Subject A: An’ t’ tell you the truth, even dealin’ wit’ these mooks is better than talkin’ to Johnny Radon Exposure. That guy…

Subject C, age 76: Look, I don’t wanna say nothin’ bad about this generation, but…people these days ain’t got no patience. It seems like, when they put out a hit on a guy, nobody’s willing to wait thirty-five years for him to develop lung cancer from radon exposure anymore. I mean, every week somebody’s asking me about some contract of mine or another: ‘Is he dead yet? Is he dead yet?’ (frustrated) No! All right, no! Not yet! But do you have any idea of the damage that’s being done to his mitochondrial DNA? You can’t put a price tag on that! (shakes head sadly) I tell you, this business just hasn’t been the same since Johnny Gunshot showed up.