Wabasso Triangle
Start Wreck: The Next Degeneration
It should not have happened, but one thing is certain: it did happen. Defying Relativity Theory, Sub-Prime Mortgage Rates and the Quantum Pasta Paradox, the Wabasso Triangle has struck the mother lode. Again.
Captain’s Log: It was Monday, Stardate 2027. Captain Pecan speaking:
Our decrepit Starship Bent Surprise was on routine patrol in Quadrant X17 when an urgent message came in from Galactic HQ. I immediately dropped the crossword – I’d been stuck on 17 Down all morning – and called the flight deck crew together for a mission briefing:
"Remember all that fuss a few years back about an idiot that was too nice to incarcerate, but too stupid to let out? The one they eventually exiled to a randomly-selected Delta planet on the edge of the galaxy?"
'You don’t mean… ?"
"Yep – Gary Shandling… "
" …and that’s our mission – his sentence is up, and we have to get him out of there before he does any more damage. The good news is, they sentenced him to our favorite comedy planet, Earth-Sol-3… "
"Wasn’t there another one?"
"Beats me how that dump ever made it to Delta classification – it’s illogical." My trusty sidekick Lieutenant Schlock joined in, "That planet is so retarded they still think SUVs are a good idea."
"Yes, Schlocky, they are primitive, but the rest of us have a sense of humor and we think they’re funny. Remember that we are bound by the Zambucini Protocol, and that prevents us from interfering with their culture. And that precludes explaining elementary physics, like why their ridiculous SUVs fall over on the highway. Not like the ‘72 Mustang. Now that was a real car… "
"Cool wheels." Schlock nodded.
"Anyway, there was another one and the other guy is a character you may remember – Mr Rogers. Apparently he’s moved into an influential position. We have to pull him out, too, before he spreads his crazy ideas. Maybe he’s a dictator or emperor or something. This was supposed to be a punishment and he thinks it's party time. Oh, and then we deliver a couple of pizzas in sector Q9 on our way home. Any questions?"
"Blurk, blurk, blurk – Blender on overload on deck three!" The siren sounded.
"Deck three again? Number Two, take a security patrol down there and find out what’s going on."
"On my way, Captain!" replied second-in-command Lieutenant Biker.
As Biker stood up to leave, Scotty rushed in with a tray, "I dinner think she’s gonna make it, Captain."
"Dinner?"
"Yeah – we’re out of broccoli."
"What the hell is ‘broccoli’?"
"It’s an Earth food, Captain – we are adjusting our diet to Earth-native to prepare for the landing. I was on my way to offer you another Earth delicacy when the alarm went off – here, try this."
"What’s this yucky red stuff? It looks like that latex paint they used in the deck nine bathrooms. Is this stuff safe, Scotty?"
"It’s an Earthside drink, Captain. It’s called 'V8'."
"V8? Oh, yeah? Tastes more like a Briggs and Stratton single-cylinder out of a lawn mower… “
"Oh, and sorry about the alarm in the galley – we’re trying to make a batch of pasta.” Scotty was always apologizing.
"Pasta?”
"It’s an Earth carbohydrate-source thingy… sort of."
"Scotty – why do I get the impression you’re off your noodle? Do you have any idea what you’re doing?"
"Er – not really, never cooked Earth food before, Captain."
"OK, as soon as we get within range, let’s beam up someone sensible. And straighten out deck three or you’re back on the engines, especially after that breakfast this morning, I don’t care what your di-lithium levels are… and don’t forget about the eight-track in my 455 – it ate my Sergio Mendes tape!"
Meanwhile, back on Earth: Anthony Chianti, Licensed Private Eye and Indian River Community Pasta Detective, reporting:
I was boldly going to my mailbox. Mission: to seek out intelligent correspondence. Mission Impossible. There was more junk mail every day – but what’s this? Kewl – it’s my package from the Month of the Book Club. The cover letter read: "We trust you enjoyed last book’s month, September. Soon it will be the first day of Lorna Doone and this book we bring you the fascinating month of October, by delicate orange-brown leaves… "
At that moment things went very wobbly. It felt like I turned into lime green jello and was miming along with Ravi Shankar, making horrible screeching noises and swinging my arms as I played the air sitar. It stopped. I blinked to find myself in a large room with a Scottish cook, which many of us consider an oxymoron.
I instinctively knew something was wrong, but they reckoned without years of undercover Pasta Detective experience – there was no mailbox around here. This can mean only one thing – The Wabasso Triangle had struck again!
As you know, inside The Wabasso Triangle, the four primary particles of matter: glue, pasta, crayons and underwear, all combine under pressure to form a Late Bronze-Age paper-doily proton placemat, and right now yours truly was part of this cosmic table setting. Either that, or I had accidentally wandered onto Paramount Studio’s Soundstage Seven. Something was wrong somewhere, and for once it wasn’t that loony Detective Inspector "Raving" Ravioli of the Serious Pasta Crimes Squad standing in my aura adjusting his halitosis.
In walked a six-foot pointy-eared pixie with bad hair. "Welcome aboard, Chianti – we found you in the Yellow Pages – it said we should mention that. You will be assisting Scotty here. By the way – what do you drive?"
"Er… Testudo, Buick Testudo, the ‘76."
"Pity – the ’69 was my favorite… those were the days – 400 cubes, 400 horses and 400 fins… "
Schlock showed me around for a while, then handed me over to Scotty. As soon as we were alone, a nervous Scotty pulled me to one side:
"You have to help me – these guys are control freaks. Unless I deliver something edible for dinner they’ll send me back to the engine room. They only put up with me because I keep their muscle cars running. I’m an engineer, not a cook, but too much di-lithium exposure will fry my brains… "
"It will? How could you tell? I mean, er, no problem – what’s the menu?"
"Normally Monday would be Compound M over Organo-substrate, which in Earth terms would be sort-of pond scum on bread pudding, but starting today we’re going ethnic with portabella and broccoli fettuccini… "
Pond scum on bread pudding? And he’s worried about di-lithium? Now I know why there are no Scottish restaurants… We turned a corner into a large steamy kitchen. It didn’t take long to find out where he was going wrong – soggy pasta, no garlic and tasteless generic olive oil. I had him straightened out in no time flat, and dinner was ready just as we arrived in Low Earth Orbit.
I was guest of honor and the food was a big hit. During the cheese course I introduced the crew to Earth on a large monitor, "That area over there is called China, heavily populated, and Mandarin is the most widely-spoken language on Earth… "
"You mean… those little tangerine things speak to each other? Open hailing frequencies… get me an orange on the line… " Captain Pecan was a hoot after a couple of bottles, even if he did opt for a rather immature Liebfraumilch to accompany his main course, the Philistine.
"Blurk, blurk, blurk – Toaster on overload on deck three… !"
The crew rushed off, led by a furious Captain Pecan.
"We’d better get you back – there’s going to be a lynching, and you’re already guilty by association… " I turned around to see who was talking and find a cute technical assistant.
"Association? But they wouldn’t let me join… " I stopped mid-sentence. White-faced but pretty, she looked very curvy in her blue skinny-rib top and revealing skort. I moved in to study the suspect – undercover Pasta Detectives are trained to be observant. Her eyes were set to stun, and, despite her ridiculously pointy 1964 nose-cone bra, she obviously had another couple of outstanding features.
"Hi, I’m Commander Date. Follow me. And hurry!"
"Date? Hey, beautiful, why don’t you come back with me?" I poured on the charm as she fiddled with the transporter beam controls. "Er, Date… Florida’s great this time of year… " She looked like she could do with some sunshine.
"Not this time, Romeo… " She barked. Date was all sweetness and light, with just a touch of fluorescent aspartame.
"How about your phone numb, numb, numb…?" The wobbles kicked in and kicked me to nowhere – I haven’t felt so lost since the 20 year reunion at Amnesiac’s Anonymous. An hour later I materialized, safe and sound, four feet in the air and landed with a painful thud astride the mailbox. If she weren’t so cute I’d think she did that on purpose…
Roll credits:
Well, illogical but true, and it can only have happened here…
That’s about it for this month’s update from the Wabasso Triangle.
Anthony Chianti, Indian River and Intergalactic Community Pasta Detective, signing off. Bed 350, Men’s Surgical Ward, Indian River Memorial Hospital.
© 2002 Pastarology