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Save Dick Dangerous, Save The WorldMay 25 '08 Write an essay on this topic.The Bottom Line Roger Foxby's taken over the world, there's an army of Dick Dangerouses on the loose and Cash In The Attic's on in five. The thrilling final instalment. The world is in peril folks, and if anyone is gonna save us in these frightening times of soaring fuel bills, deadly natural phenomena and the prospect of yet another sh*tty series of Big Brother it’s gonna be Dick Dangerous. Well I figure Doctor Who or that dog off the Churchill commercials might do it, but they’re both off f*ckin’ each other, so y’all gonna have to make do with the Double D. Last time we spoke I’d just discovered that my slightly useless nemesis, Roger Foxby, had managed to allow his evil younger self to break through from a parallel world and for once the world looked in more peril than just having to watch one of his “Home movies” again. “One Night in Foxby,” is not something none of us need to see, even for a bet. But first I had to work out exactly what Foxby was doing. Before we could do any a*s-whuppin’ I had to go home to my crib to mull things over with coffee and a muffin. We left 50 on the doorstep, which is where he pretty much sleeps now until I can persuade Rentokil that he‘s vermin. As soon as we get in the door of my living room, Bruce flops on the sofa and pulls out a can of my beer from whatever dark recess the f*cker hides ‘em in and cracks it open. “Hey Bruce,” I said, “Quit screwin’ around and help us save the world you f*ckin’ a-hole.” “No dramas Dick mate,” said Bruce slugging the beer, “I think better after a nice cold beverage.” When he says he thinks better that usually means he can remember the words to songs about f*ckin’ animals easier. “What’s on this English television?” said Dai in disgust as he flipped channel from a home improvements show to some kinda cookery programme with Nigella Lawson. “Man,” said M. “Nigella used to be a Milf. She’s seriously let herself go.” For some reason Nigella Lawson had put on seven stone and now resembled a pig in a dress. “And now,” said Nigella in a curiously deep voice, “Ainsley is going to help me beat the eggs.” The camera cut away to show Ainsley Harriot dressed in a leather costume with an egg beater inserted into his fly. “Hey Dick,” said Dai, “Isn’t that your English friend? The one who’s always tryin’ to get a bite of the leek, as we say in my village.” “Yeah, but in your village Dai, they also say that it ain’t rape if the sheep says ‘Baa.’” “It was added as a bye-law in 1875 by my Great Grandfather, and we commerate it every year.” “I think she’s quite pretty,” piped up Skittles. “That’s swell Skittles, but why don’t you just run along and play with the big red buses with 50.” I grabbed the channel changer from Bruce’s by now shaky mitt and preceded to flip through what TV had to offer. “… get out of my pub you common fool!” Foxby was yelling to the Other One whilst wearing a blonde wig and fake breasts. On ITV Roger Foxby and the Gimp were surprising Heidrich Kunstlieber in “Roger’s Saturday Takeaway” while on Channel 4, Roger had unearthed the Ark of the Covenent on Time Team, although it looked more like a children’s toy chest with “Arc of the Convent - NO GIRLS” written on it in felt pens. “And next week,” Foxby was saying, “We’ll be trying to find the Holy Grill.” “Don’t you mean Grail?” squeaked the Gimp. “Insubordination Professor Gimp. Ten lashes of the cat!” Gimp picked up a small dishevelled moggy and started to flagellate himself with it. “Great,” I said, “Another wonderful Foxby plan. It’ll do swell until someone comes along and tells him to put his pants back on.” “But he’s taken over every channel,” wailed M. “Well this is the end of your world. Maybe you’ll move your fat a*s off the sofa every once in a while,” I replied as I flicked channel to the news. Foxby was here again, and he looked pale and drawn as he sat hunched over the news-desk. “Well, looks like it’s another badly thought-through plan from the man who tried to take over the bins outside Tescos and got thwarted by a local cat.” I said. “And in further news, Boris Johnson, the new London mayor…” Fortunately M. flicked channels to show Gimp, Roger and Other One running round a forest in day-glo costumes. “And then Iggly-Puff, at least I think that’s his name, gives er… Choad Toad a jolly good seeing to.” “Boris Johnson got elected mayor of London! We gotta stop Foxby now!” I yelled. “Too right,” said M. “Cash In The Attic’s back on, and I don’t wanna see him trying to sell his collection of illegal Victorian d*ldos.” Only the machinations of Foxby’s evil-self could persuade the populace of London to vote in Boris Johnson, a man whose initials aren’t even as funny as his attempts at governance. For a summit there was only one place we could go, especially seeing as Bruce had downed several cans of lager and had peed in the corner of the living room, and that was Golder’s Green KFC. Our next shock came as we stood outside the slightly faded building and looked at the sign: where the benevolent form of Colonel Sanders used to smile down on us with the promise of tasty chicken and an early, horrible, death. “Oh look,” said Skittles, “They opened a new restaurant!” “Kentucky Foxby Chicken? Just remember not to ask for mayo.” We sauntered in under the slightly queasy gaze of Roger Foxby’s physiognomy, which presumably had scared even the hard-core children of the Mean Streets of Finchley away seeing as the place was deserted. Usually it’s full of all the white trash kids out for their nutritional Sunday lunch. Behind the counter the Member, or whatever the hell they call till monkeys in fast-food chains now, was busily makin’ fries with his back to us. “What the b*ggerin’ hell is all this food?” slurred Bruce. “I don’t even know what a Gimp burger is, but I’m pretty sure I read in a quality newspaper that it once had sexual relations with a kangaroo in a billabong. No less.” “Well Foxby’s Sausage Surprise is off the menu as far as I’m concerned,” I said. “Can I have a Foxby Turkey Twister kid‘s meal?” asked Skittles. “I want to start collecting Roger Foxby toys!” “Sure thing Skittles, that’s the only thing that sounds normal.” “Actually,” said M, “The tagline says, ‘Your Kids will Twist and Shout with Roger’s Twister in their Mouth.’” Finally, after not attending to us at all, the spotty little a*shole who was workin’ as the till jockey turned round and his hollow little eyes bulged. Fumbling for the bottom of the counter he tripped a switch and all of a sudden there was a wailing siren and four masked men smashed through the windows brandishing AK-47s. Removing their masks we all jumped back. “Motherf*cker!” I yelled. “Crickey Dick,” said Bruce dropping the bottle of Bud he’d be swilling, “I’m seein’ double and I’ve only drunk 10 beers!” There in front of me was a dude who was… well… me. “Yeah boys,” said the Dick-clone, “Y’all under arrest. I’m Dick f*ckin’ Dangerous!” “So’m I!” yelled one of the other dudes. “And me,” said another. “I’m not…” said the last guy who’d kept his mask and hoodie on. “But you all look like me, doesn’t that make me like your leader or some sh*t?” I felt I had a point here. “No way man,” said the Dick clone, “You’re like a blueprint, but we are solid Dick Dangerous perfection. Well, apart from him…” He jerked his head towards the clone who was desperately trying not to be noticed. “We were specially created by Lord Foxby to defeat you.” “Well,” I said, “It’s well known I’m my own worst enemy, and there ain’t no one does it like Dick Dangerous does it, so I guess you fellas are gonna win this one.” “Damn straight!” said the Dick-clone. “But what about us?” said M, “We can help you fight!” “What about you? Skittles just went pee-pee in his pants, you’re so fat you get wheezy just pullin’ back your fist to punch someone and Bruce collapsed in a small heap about half a minute ago. Let’s face it buddy, we’re up a certain well-known polluted waterway without any visible means of propulsion.” “Well what about Dai?” “Dude, seriously, I once caught Dai jerking off over a picture of a root vegetable. The guy is so deranged he thinks Swansea is worth dying for.” “Don’t worry Dick,” said Dai, “I too often have conversations with myself. I’m usually telling myself to go and burn English.” “See?” “Well,” said the Dick-clone, “Seems to me like this is the point where your story comes to an end. Prepare for the biggest a*s-whuppin’ of your life Dick.” “Ain’t shooting me gonna be like jerkin’ off over a picture of yourself?” “Hell yeah boy!” He hoisted the AK and pointed the barrel at us (Although where the AK-47 is concerned I’d be more worried about everyone within a two mile radius). It was then I noticed the top of his head. “Erm… dude, is that a widow’s peak?” The Dick-clone paused. “Hey, now don’t come none of that sh*t with me…” “Seriously,” I continued, “You got the whole Nick Cave goin’ on up there. You’re gonna be auditioning for Dracula in a coupla years.” The Dick clone began to shake, which actually enhanced his chances of hitting me with the AK. “No… no… the infection can’t spread…” “Infection?” said M. “It started with him,” said the first Dick clone, pointing at the dude who was now crouching under one of the tables, “The first of the army of Dick Dangerous. We’re a later series, we should be immune!” “Well my hair does have regenerative powers which I imbibed when I was livin’ in Bali as a Shaman.” “You were a Shaman?” asked M. “Actually no. I just used to shuffle around in a pair of sandles and I had a big-a*s beard, but it meant I got laid more if I told ‘em it was my sex magik. All the hippy herbs I used to wash with left my hair with the curious ability to regrow itself.” “D’you reckon Sylar would wanna eat your brain and steal your power?” asked M. “Either that or go the full Stipe if you know what I’m sayin’.” By now the Dick clone was in tears as tufts of his hair began to spontaneously drop onto the floor. “Argh! My hair, my beautiful hair!” Grabbing the insensible Bruce from the floor we ran from the KFC as Foxby’s shock troops committed mass-suicide by blowing apart the whole joint. “What a waste!” I yelled, “They were dicks, but they were Dangerous!” “And where am I going to get quality fried chicken now?” said M shakin’. “Okay crew,” I said, “Now we’ve defeated the army of Dick Dangerous, let’s go stop Foxby once and for all.” Skittles put up his hand. “Now KFC’s been blown up, can we get pizza?” “Jeez Skittles, there’s more important things goin’ on here than fast-food.” __________________________________ Ten minutes later and we pulled up in the Dangermobile outside Foxby’s lair, a stack of pizzas cooling on the parcel-shelf. “Okay,” I said turning to the others, all except Bruce who was slumped in the front murmuring a song about doin’ things to wombats in his stupor, “We might have stopped off for pizza and the new Indiana Jones movie, but we ain’t eating until we’ve saved the world. Is that clear?” “I may already have had a slice,” said Dai, “My cheese and leek pizza was just too tempting.” “Jeez Dai… Look, let’s just go sort out Foxby then we’ll go get some onion rings or whatever.” So saying we jumped out the car and headed into the bunker-like building which was obviously the HQ of Foxby as he’d strung a banner over the entrance which read, “No Girls.” As we walked in the place seemed to be in disarray - The Other One was seated behind a desk with microscopes strewn over it and a lot of seemingly complicated charts, while Gimp had donned a lab-coat with a flap cut out of the a*s. Roger Foxby senior was stood in the middle with his trousers round his ankles and a naval hat on, saluting, which was pretty much standard for him, but Foxby junior was nowhere to be seen. “What the hell is going on here?” I said as Gimp ran around shrieking. “I AM DOCTOR DONG!” he yelled, “I HAVE BREWED MY LOVE JUICE!” Foxby was whistling a sea shanty about doing things with sailors. The Other One looked up from the microscope. “Oh, I wondered how long it would be before you showed up. I’d offer you tea, but Gimp’s been using the cup for samples, and I’m not sure what he’s been sampling.” There was a crash as the Gimp collided with a table, turning it over. “Okay, you three have some explaining to do,” I said as we poured Bruce into a sofa and pulled his hand back out his pants. M slumped down next to him while Skittles desperately tried to avoid Gimp who was now trying to grope him. Dai simply looked on in his uniquely unfocussed way. “Firstly, what the hell is Roger doing there, although that’s probably background Foxby idiocy and secondly, what’s with the microscopes?” “Well,” said Other One, “I’ve just been analysing the DNA from the army of Dick Dangerous and it would appear they’ve all inherited a mutated male-pattern baldness gene which is causing their hair to simultaneously fall out, very rapidly. Roger… I mean the younger Roger, was furious and then left when Gimp insisted he needed spanking. So they blamed me naturally, and then let me out of the corner to set me to work trying to sort things out. But then Roger had to go and film the Apprentice, and he got into trouble with the Gimp because he decided to fire him after Gimp failed the task of presenting to a group of Chinese businessmen.” I figured I could guess what he’d presented to them. “Young Roger was apoplectic because he didn’t want to start a war with the Chinese until next week; he’s still working on his killer laser spheres because Gimp started humping his Dark Energy machine until the lever fell off. And trying to control the population through taking over the whole of television hasn’t worked because it’s taken too long to film all the programmes, which is what‘s made Roger act strange. Well, stranger than usual anyway.” “Does that mean Cash in the Attic’s going to be back on?” piped up M. “Well we managed to take over all the shows except one: Derren Brown. Gimp asked him from a treat.” “That’s brave,” I said, “Derren Brown can make you Do Things.” I’ve always hoped Bruce’ll go on Derren Brown and wake up next to him the next morning so Derren can turn round and say, “Trick or Treat?” “Ah Dangerous…” said Foxby dreamily from the middle of the room, “I believe you’re just in time for a bite of tiffin.” “Can I be tiffin?” asked the Gimp. “You know this is something of a rum deal Dangerous. I have all these rather spiffing plans, and they always seem to go wrong, no matter what. I wonder why?” “Because they’re stupid Roger?” “Ah… now this all very embarrassing, but I’ve had my lawyers check through the paperwork and such-like that I don’t understand, and apparently I actually own you.” “Roger, you couldn’t afford to buy me with cash, a sub-prime mortgage or even if you sucked off your banker.” “The Other One’s the banker!” screamed Gimp as he lunged at Skittles again. “Mmmm… said Roger, adjusting his pants, “We were playing Monopoly I suppose.” “So where’s little Lord Smell then?” I was scared because of all of Foxby’s merry men, his younger self was by far the most formidable. He’d succeeded in sending Ginge over the edge, he’d sent us into another universe and even managed to blow us up. In fact I was confused as to what had actually turned him into Roger Foxby originally. “He’s behind you Dick,” said Dai. “Dai, you’re not still in panto season in Cardiff are you? I hear you guys do a version of Jack and the Beanstalk where Simple Simon f*cks the golden goose.” “Ah, so you saw my production! I wasn’t referring to that, I was referring to the fact that he’s stood right behind you.” Suddenly I realised the smell wasn’t my feet and turned round to be confronted by the 14 year old visage of Roger Foxby junior. “So,” said Foxby’s younger self, “We meet again Dick Dangerous. The circle is complete and now I have you in my clutches!” “You can clutch me!” said the Gimp happily from where he was f*ckin Skittle’s leg. “Silence!” roared young Foxby. The elder Roger now put up his hand. “Permission to put my pants back on sir.” “I didn’t tell you to take them off you idiot. Yes Dangerous, the circle is… damnation, I can’t remember the word… er… round.” His face contorted as he tried desperately to find the words. “The circle is round?” I said, “What are you talking about?” “Mock me all you want Dangerous!” yelled junior Foxby, “But now the world is mine, my army of Dick Dangerous will march across the world in triumph!” “Actually,” said Roger, “They’re all hiding in the shed because their hair fell out…” “What!” screamed Foxby junior, “What have you done you dribbling idiot? Why can’t you do anything right you… you…” Again he struggled for words. “Common fool!” “That’s exactly what I’d have said,” said Roger. “No!” screamed Junior Foxby, “I would never say things like you because I am so much more! I’m the competent one. I have even taken on a new name for myself and have learned to absorb people’s powers through their pants… I mean brains.” Roger’s younger self was beginning to rant alarmingly, and I’d noticed his hand was beginning to drift towards his underwear. “Okay buckaroo, what’s this new name of yours?” Foxby junior glared at me, eyes narrowing then said slowly, looking down at his watch, “My… name… is… Casio Digital!” “You’re an idiot!” I said, “This is brilliant, you’re actually just as bat-sh*t stupid as Colonel Bumalot over there.” “Who sir,” said Roger, “Me? Well it’s a funny thing because I do remember being fourteen myself.” “Silence!” yelled Foxby junior, but Roger was beginning to reminisce. “Yes, one day I was a bally bona fide evil genius, working out how to conquer the world and then one day, almost overnight, I realised that girls smell funny, couldn’t get bally evil-sounding words out and found that my todger kept falling out of my trousers on odd occasions. Usually in the boys shower after rugger.” “No!” junior Foxby snapped, “It’s not true. I have done everything I can to avoid coming on you!” He clapped a hand to his mouth. “What is happening to me?” “Basically,” said M who had hitherto been flicking channels idly trying to ignore us, “Roger carries a gene which inhibits his ability to behave in a socially acceptable way and leads to him dropping his pants and generally being useless. Up until adolescence the gene isn’t activated but once his balls dropped, so did his IQ. And seeing as you’re genetically identical, the same thing’s happening to you.” “Was that one off Doctor Who as well M?” I asked. “Nah, that was on Heroes.” “It can’t be!” shouted Foxby junior, “I’m going to be the most powerful, the most impotent…” “Jeez, why don’t you go masturbate furiously over a picture of Tom Cruise hot-rod?” Foxby junior’s face contorted and he screamed, “Insubordination! Gimp, why didn’t you hide those pictures?” It was then I noticed that he was beginning to fade slightly. “Dude,” I said, “You’re turning invisible.” “It’s a power I absorbed!” shrieked Foxby junior insanely, “I am the great Casio Digital! Fear me!” “I think that might have been Gimp actually,” said Roger happily. “You remember that paradox machine thingum that you said I wasn’t allowed to touch. Well you didn’t include Gimp with that, and we were playing hunt the sausage and he decided to hide his inside it. We managed to wipe it down before you came back but it’s been making a humming noise. Curious really, it’s been getting louder and louder.” There was a slight smirk on Foxby’s face because at long last he’d found someone he could outwit, even if it was a 14 year old version of himself. “What? NO! Without that paradox I can’t interfere with people in the future! GIMP! Thrash yourself soundly!” yelled young Foxby as he faded into oblivion. “Do I have to carry out that last order?” asked Gimp hopefully. “Way to go Roger, you just managed to save the world. I reckon on the Hero scale you’re about on a par with that kid who talks to computers.” “Hero?” said Roger, “I am no hero Dangerous, I am pure evil and all that kind of rum stuff.” He moved his hands around in his pockets and grunted to himself. “To prove it, and I didn’t mention this before, I have managed to find the cup of life itself. Behold my army of Darkness will fill the land, for I hold the Holy Grail!” “Roger, that’s an egg-cup.” “Well I should imagine that Buddha or whoever the bally chap was had an egg out of it at some point don’tcha know.” I put him out of his misery by hitting him over the head. “Well,” said M. “Roger’s been defeated again, the world’s been saved and my pizza’s getting cold.” We walked out to the Dangermobile to find 50 Cent in the driver’s seat munching on my pepperoni (And I don’t intend any entendre in that statement). “Oh man, 50’s eaten all the pizzas. Motherf*cker.” “That’s okay man,” I said as we got in and booted 50 out the passenger door, “I got something else to eat.” “What’s that then?” “Your Mom.” Thanks, I’m Dick Dangerous, available at all quality retailers.  |
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