Gojiro’s charges that Komodo was a “class-worshiping house mutant” who harbored serious and lamentable speciesist tendencies, which caused him to sling the same “presumptive Ptolemaic sludge” as the rest of his “rapacious former ilk.”
Now, however, Komodo was going too far. Claiming Pro Brooks, the inventor of the Heater itself, might be a key cog in a potential satisfaction of the Triple Ring Promise—it was enough to make the monster hurl the ’cano toward the Cloudcover like a rubberized snowcone. Except he didn’t. He collapsed on the floor instead. Maybe he was right in the beginning. Maybe it was all a joke. What else could it be? Talk about your high concept—what comedy could be blacker than Gojiro vs. Joseph Prometheus Brooks in the Valley of Decision ? The lizard’s mind reeled. No doubt about it, if he was to make another of those hideous movies, Gojiro vs. Joseph Prometheus Brooks in the Valley of Decision would be one heckuva comeback. “A perfect climax to my moth-eaten career.”
Yeah, the monster thought, chewing over the possibility. Beep that creep Shig, have him line up a meeting posthaste. Get Brooks on the reddest eye, touch him down on Corvair Bay Beach. Pitch a Cinzano umbrella in the cinderfield over by Melanoma Meadow, make it very nice and polite, skimmers on the heads of all the principals, seersucker suits, sprigs of mint in tall glasses, hammer out a humdinger of a deal. Then: Get ready to rumble!
Gojiro vs. Joseph Brooks. How long had the monster itched for that match-up? Prayed for it! How long had he snarled what he’d do to Brooks if he ever got him alone, without his B-29s and his white lights? No, forget conditions, ax the handicaps. Let him bring his fissions and fusions, his Super this, Super that. His every exponential pile, the whole militaryfuckingindustrial complex if he wants. Don’t matter. “Stick us in a steel cage, Texas Death, no time limit. I’ll meet him . . . mess with him!”
Gojiro vs. Joseph Prometheus Brooks in the Valley of Decision. What kind of heart of darkness trip would that be, meeting your maker with the cameras churning?
There was only one small hitch. “He’s dead! Brooks is dead!”
The monster’s hysteric laughter echoed through the ’cano. “The bastard’s dead!” he cackled like a more deranged Renfield. “Deader than doornails.” It must have been his hate that made him forget Brooks was dead, had been for twenty-five years. The kind of hate the reptile had, you couldn’t focus anything that intense on a rotting box of bones. “Ain’t no dead man gonna help us solve the Triple Ring Promise.”
Komodo leaned back in his chair, rubbed his chin. “That is so. Mr. Brooks is dead. He cannot help us. But this letter gives me an idea.”
“What kind of idea?” Gojiro felt a twinge in his belly. There was something funny about that letter in Komodo’s hands. Eerie. Was it the strange, lime-green stationery? The monster couldn’t put a finger on the feeling.
“I thought, perhaps, she can help us.”
“Who?”
“Why, Sheila Brooks.”
“What are you talking about? I thought you said Science was gonna save us. Sheila Brooks ain’t no scientist. She’s some sleazebag movie writer.”
“She is Mr. Brooks’s daughter.”
“Big deal. She probably wasn’t even born when all this started up.”
“Actually, my own true friend, that is not exactly so.” Komodo gave a quick smile and opened the thick book resting on his lap. The volume, Who’s Who in the Culture Industry , had just washed up on the shore beyond Past Due Point. It squished as Komodo turned the waterlogged pages. “The most recent edition—a very fascinating work. I was gratified to see entries under both of our names. Remarkably, our films appear to be very respected in certain critical circles, especially among the French. Why, right here a Mr. Jean-Pierre Camolli says—”
“Never mind!”
“Anyway, according to this book, Sheila
Now, however, Komodo was going too far. Claiming Pro Brooks, the inventor of the Heater itself, might be a key cog in a potential satisfaction of the Triple Ring Promise—it was enough to make the monster hurl the ’cano toward the Cloudcover like a rubberized snowcone. Except he didn’t. He collapsed on the floor instead. Maybe he was right in the beginning. Maybe it was all a joke. What else could it be? Talk about your high concept—what comedy could be blacker than Gojiro vs. Joseph Prometheus Brooks in the Valley of Decision ? The lizard’s mind reeled. No doubt about it, if he was to make another of those hideous movies, Gojiro vs. Joseph Prometheus Brooks in the Valley of Decision would be one heckuva comeback. “A perfect climax to my moth-eaten career.”
Yeah, the monster thought, chewing over the possibility. Beep that creep Shig, have him line up a meeting posthaste. Get Brooks on the reddest eye, touch him down on Corvair Bay Beach. Pitch a Cinzano umbrella in the cinderfield over by Melanoma Meadow, make it very nice and polite, skimmers on the heads of all the principals, seersucker suits, sprigs of mint in tall glasses, hammer out a humdinger of a deal. Then: Get ready to rumble!
Gojiro vs. Joseph Brooks. How long had the monster itched for that match-up? Prayed for it! How long had he snarled what he’d do to Brooks if he ever got him alone, without his B-29s and his white lights? No, forget conditions, ax the handicaps. Let him bring his fissions and fusions, his Super this, Super that. His every exponential pile, the whole militaryfuckingindustrial complex if he wants. Don’t matter. “Stick us in a steel cage, Texas Death, no time limit. I’ll meet him . . . mess with him!”
Gojiro vs. Joseph Prometheus Brooks in the Valley of Decision. What kind of heart of darkness trip would that be, meeting your maker with the cameras churning?
There was only one small hitch. “He’s dead! Brooks is dead!”
The monster’s hysteric laughter echoed through the ’cano. “The bastard’s dead!” he cackled like a more deranged Renfield. “Deader than doornails.” It must have been his hate that made him forget Brooks was dead, had been for twenty-five years. The kind of hate the reptile had, you couldn’t focus anything that intense on a rotting box of bones. “Ain’t no dead man gonna help us solve the Triple Ring Promise.”
Komodo leaned back in his chair, rubbed his chin. “That is so. Mr. Brooks is dead. He cannot help us. But this letter gives me an idea.”
“What kind of idea?” Gojiro felt a twinge in his belly. There was something funny about that letter in Komodo’s hands. Eerie. Was it the strange, lime-green stationery? The monster couldn’t put a finger on the feeling.
“I thought, perhaps, she can help us.”
“Who?”
“Why, Sheila Brooks.”
“What are you talking about? I thought you said Science was gonna save us. Sheila Brooks ain’t no scientist. She’s some sleazebag movie writer.”
“She is Mr. Brooks’s daughter.”
“Big deal. She probably wasn’t even born when all this started up.”
“Actually, my own true friend, that is not exactly so.” Komodo gave a quick smile and opened the thick book resting on his lap. The volume, Who’s Who in the Culture Industry , had just washed up on the shore beyond Past Due Point. It squished as Komodo turned the waterlogged pages. “The most recent edition—a very fascinating work. I was gratified to see entries under both of our names. Remarkably, our films appear to be very respected in certain critical circles, especially among the French. Why, right here a Mr. Jean-Pierre Camolli says—”
“Never mind!”
“Anyway, according to this book, Sheila
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