Now Bad Mother Fucker, that man is a fool sometimes. I know he's got my back, and there's no gun-toting, alcoholic, hallucinating psycho I'd rather have laying down ground-fire at the South African mafiosa while I hijack one of their unlicensed tobacco caravans than ol 'Bad Mother himself. But he's never been known for his cool head, you know, and this time he's got his facts all wrong. Dig it, this is how it REALLY happened:

***

The BadAssMobile sat on the shoulder of the empty, desert highway, its hood up like a split lip, steam hissing from its cracked radiator. The dry, moonlit night captured everything in silver and grey shadows.

"If that was a rabbit," Superbad said, leaning to look at the dented grill, "Then we must be near a nuclear power plant Bad Mother. That thing easy was a hundred and fifteen pounds." SuperBad stretched in the cool, desert night. "We're gonna be stuck here tonight."

Bad Mother guzzled the last of his Jack D. His black silk shirt reflected moonlight in tiny pools, the bourbon spilling down his stubbly chin. "Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward," he mumbled, and damn near passed out.

They both drew their guns fast and with great anger, levelling them at each other.

"Damnit, what did I say about quoting the Book of Job!?"

"AH KIHH YEW!"

Their fingers half-pulling back the triggers, they both swung their guns to true north where a stout, broad-shouldered figure stepped out of the darkness.

The old Navajo was unperturbed at the Bads' deadly barrels training to him. His ancient eyes were unconcerned with this dangerous situation, and although he seemed to instinctively know that the Bads woulda emptied a half a clip into him each, just to watch the laws of physics at work, he did not waver or show any fear. He raised one, thin, leathery hand and spoke:

"This is not a good night to be out, for old things are in the land tonight. The graves have given up their dead, the earth is giving back its old husks. Things wander in shadow tonight, things that gnaw and gnash at your soul, that tear your flesh from your bones, that tear your eyes from their sockets and send them screaming to Hell. Old spirits and bad demons are afoot here this evening, and those that wander alone will surely die in terrible pain."

After a quiet moment, Superbad and Bad Mother holstered their guns.

***

Hours later, his chill breath steaming in the frozen night, Superbad leapt over Tombstones in the dilapidated cemetery. "Damn Bad Mother," he cursed, "he all forgets he gotta return that copy of 'Rashomon' to the video shop, and here I am left to wander in the stupid fricking desert with all these evil demons running around all a-" he cut off as he looked up. He reached for his Walther, never taking his eyes off the distance.

Five figures stood by a weird, psychedelic, green van. Superbad approached them slowly and heard the short woman, bespectacled and bob-haired, shout out "Someone's coming, through the graveyard!"

The tall, blonde man exclaimed "It must be Smithers, the caretaker!"

"Yoiks!"

Superbad put his piece in the bulbuous nose of the green-shirted hippy. "What the Hell? Yoiks? You damn freak, you smell like Tommy Chong's backyard! Gaddam Hippy." Superbad released his tense grip on the trigger and lowered his gun. The hippy's brown pants showed a spreading pool of wet fright around his zipper.

SuperBad holstered the gun and checked the redhead from oversized head to undersized toe. "You got a pretty smile, woman. I bet it would look better wrapped around m - what the hell?" Superbad finally noticed the enormous, misshapen dog. "Gaddam!" he pulled his glock, "I got it, no one freak!"

"Ey, Ruck Roo, roo ron rof a ritch, ri rick rour rorry rass rith ry RUNG-FU!" The dog eerily stood up on his hind legs. Its breath was fetid and reeked of death.

"I'll kill you with my bare hands just for the hassle from the ASPCA!" SuperBad swung a haymaker to the creature's misshapen snout. The burly, blonde cracker stepped up.

"Hey now, hey now, this is no time to fight Now you're obviously not Smithers, the caretaker, so you must be the other fellow we're expecting: Don Knotts!"

Superbad's eyes narrowed, "Yeah, and I'll you for the ASPCA hassle, too, you horse-hung piece'a..."

The redhead chimed in "Maybe he's Sonny Bono!"

Before SuperBad could kill every single one of them, soulless, derivative 70's bubblegum pop music began to fill in the silences behind them. "It's the Phantom of the Graveyard!" shouted the short, brown-haired Lesbo, "Let's go gang!"

With that, the bizarre gang of five began to chase a shadowy figure in the distance. SuperBad was with them, "I'm not letting you outta my sight til I bury your sad-ass bodies! Hey, didn't we already pass this piece of scenery?"

Within moments, the Phantom figure was wrapped in rope, and stood before the five, Superbad, and a mysteriously appearing police force. "Now to see who the Phantom really is!" said the redhead as she pulled his rubber mask off.

"It's Smithers, the caretaker!" shouted the blonde idiot. "But wait, there's another mask!"

They pulled it from him as the hippy cried out "Zoiks, it's that spooky old Indian!"

SuperBad levelled his glock and fired once, right into the rubber Indian mask of the Phantom. "Screw this noise, I did it! I'll do it again. I dunno what it was, but I'll find it out and do it all over all of you again and again, you damn meddling kids." And he fired again, and again, and again...

***

Five hours later, the morning sun shone in her blood-red hair as the wind whipped it madly through the window of the BadAssMobile, shooting through the Nevada desert at a hundred and twenty miles an hour. She stirred sleepily in the passenger seat, her purple dress crumpled in her lap. Her green eyes fluttered: "Superbad, baby, can't we stop and do it again?"

"Damn," he spoke in a quiet voice while he drew on an ebony black cigarino, "Why bother stopping? Hey Bad Mother, how are you back there?"

Bad Mother sat up from under his pile of empty bottles and the naked, exhausted, brown-haired girl. "Trick or Treat, man. Hallowe'en's my favorite holiday."

"It's Hallowe'en?" SuperBad asked, as the BadAssMobile sped into the sunset.