My Pet Crocodile, Chapter 2

When the mimes killed us all
 

        One day, I was in a store and the mimes killed us all. I saw a mime in an
invisible box and the mime picked up the box and put it over me. I tried to
pick it up but it was too windy so I had to stick my arms out and act like it
was windy so the mime wouldn’t kill us all. Then a robot called DZR-8 started
calling someone  in a tie-dyed shirt and he was dumb like a mime without the
costume. Than a girl named Mandy killed the robot and started to get it on
with the kid in the bright shirt. The girl worked there but from the way she
acted I wasn’t sure what she did, but it was probably illegal everywhere but
Nevada. Then my pet crocodile ate the robot and got infected with a
techno-organic virus so he could change into a robot but the toy companies
sued him for trademark infringement so he ate people in the stores including
this one chick the mime was gonna bag in like two seconds so the mimes started
to kill us all. Dr. Cow showed up in his Zoommaster 3000 and tried to shoot
the mimes with his sawed-off shotgun. When that didn’t work, we all piled into
the Zoommaster 3000 and drove off after swiping all of the reading material,
candy, and electronic equipment we could fit in the trunk, which really wasn’t
a lot, and let the mimes wreak silent, annoying havoc among the discount
buyers. I said that we should let the cheapskates die, but the mimes just
turned the coupon-clippers into more mimes, which is a fate worse than death.
So me, my pet Crocodile, and Dr. Cow (who hated milk) drove off after hearing
the bright-shirted kid scream bloody murder. Dr. Cow was a genius who built
weapons for a living and moonlighted as a pilot for Air Force 4, which carries
UN people. This is somehow related to the fact that Dr. Cow is wanted on 300
counts of murder. The mimes were really spreading now, and when we saw that
the cast and crew of Seinfeld had been mimed, we knew that it was time for
action. We knew that except for the tie-dyed kid and his chick, everyone but
us had been mimed, so we kidnapped them both so Dr. Cow could perform tests on
them. My pet crocodile didn’t like his techno-organic virus anymore, so Dr.
Cow used it to give himself powers over his inventions. We later met another
survivor, Kelly Elder, the world’s highest paid assassin. He was near-suicidal
after the Grizzlies had been mimed, so he joined up with us. When he found out
that the tie-dyed kid was alive, he sighed and sorta went insane. More insane
than usual, anyway. We soon discovered that the reason the two kids hadn’t
been infected was that the mimes looked down on them, and when that happens
you know you suck. We got some tie-dyed paint and put it in the nuclear
warheads of the world, and we launched them. Unfortunately, we forgot to take
the explosives out so we sunk quite a few continents. The tie-dyed paint
caused the mimes to have heart attacks, curing the world’s population. The
tie-dyed paint somehow affected the explosives, and quite a few people had
turned into tie-dyed freaks of nature. These abominations in the eyes of God
proceeded to win elections and we forced them to raise the continents that
we’d sunk by bribing them with various computer supplies. The salt water
brought them to their senses and washed the paint off, thus eliminating the
weird smell that had caused them to go insane in the first place. Remembering
nothing, they set off after us, blaming us for the ills of society. My pet
crocodile was still mad, and we let him eat the tie-dyed kid and Mandy.

My Pet Crocodile, Chapter 3
Enter: Post-Al

        After all of the mimes threw out their backs lifting continents, there was a
severe back doctor shortage after they changed back.. When people started
becoming back doctors right and left, me, my pet crocodile, Elder, and Dr. Cow
were once again blamed for it, since we kinda sorta launched the nuclear
warheads that sunk the continents in the first place. We handled the stress
all right, except for Elder, who had curled up into a fetal position on the
floor of the Zoommaster 3000 and was clutching a rifle and giggling like a
schoolgirl. Dr. Cow threatened to rip off his arms and beat him with the
bloody stumps, but Elder just kept giggling until my crocodile threw up the
tie-dyed kid and Mandy, who had bumped his spleen on the way down and messed
up his equilibrium. Both were covered with various kinds of body fluid and
were screaming from the above-boiling-point temperature of my crocodile’s
stomach acid. They proceeded to jump out of the car and got asphalt burns, and
then Elder started screaming about something like “Make the bad man go away”
and “Find a happy place” and then I kicked him in the head until he was
twitching like a fish out of water. My crocodile bit his gun in half just to
be safe but the bullets exploded on the way down and he got really angry and
proceeded to knock Elder unconscious with his tail. When we got to Area 51,
which was kinda on the way to Venice Beach, where the female crocodiles were,
Dr. Cow built robots to fix everything. And everything needed to be fixed: the
roads were falling apart, the White House had been turned into a shooting
range, garbage was everywhere, all because everyone had become back doctors.
Dr. Cow built robots to replace the human workers, but only one really worked.
Post-Al, a mailman robot, armed with his Stamp Ax, (not to be confused with
the Stamp Acts in the Revolutionary War) and began delivering mail. For his
first mission, we sent him to a senior citizens home, where he delivered bills
from telemarketing scams and letters from greedy kids waiting for them to die.
This caused them to go over the edge, and some guy in a walker grabbed a
flame-thrower and started a riot. The mail programming caused Post-Al to go,
well, postal and he wrecked most of Southern California. On top of everything
else we had done, (the nukes, hijacking Air Force One, eating various
McDonald’s patrons, wrecking Pamida, and decapitating the President) this
caused the UN to declare war on us. After failing to calm down Post-Al, Dr.
Cow began serving vengeance with his Pail of Justice and Post-Al was subdued.
We all piled into the Zoommaster 3000, and with the death count up to four
digits, we drove off into the largest battle on American Soil since the
plotless Independence Day.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

My Pet Crocodile, Chapter 4
Night of the Sock Puppets

        By now, the military had decided that me, my pet crocodile, Dr. Cow, Elder,
and Post-Al must die. To accomplish this, they used the usual: tanks, fighter
jets, and a 200-foot tall Janet Reno. The first two were easy, the third was
nearly impossible, until Post-Al dropped a small island on her. That would
have been the end of it, but something unexpected happened: some of the people
my pet crocodile had eaten had been resurrected as stomach acid-hardened
titanium skeletons with a neurotic political mindset. They started campaigning
and won elections and took power. They would have left us alone, but Dr. Cow
decided to help Elder relax by throwing a party at the Pentagon. After gassing
the employees with some kind of brain relaxant, we proceeded to run around
listening to cool music and wrecking stuff. Post-Al got a little too much into
it, because he busted up the President’s funeral while listening to reggae
music, which really freaks him out. Angry, they mobilized… the sock puppets.
Hungering for yarn, they proceeded to eat all clothing in the area, until the
government realized that they had no way of controlling them. The sock puppets
soon invaded a weight loss camp, and that was when Dr. Cow knew that something
must be done. Me, my pet crocodile, and Elder captured some of them and
dropped them off at a modeling agency. This helped Elder to relax, but he was
still pretty psycho. Dr. Cow and Post-Al captured all 69,000 of the sock
puppets and gave them…treatments…which caused them to hunger for yarn no
longer. Elder was profoundly distraught at this, but the sad part is that my
pet crocodile got more of the models’ phone numbers than Elder did. Elder then
proceeded to run around bashing his head into the wall, and he calmed down by
hunting down all of the sock puppets, which Dr. Cow had released into the
wild. However, they would have died anyway because they needed fabric to stay
alive. The sock puppets ravaged Elder at first, but he soon developed a
telepathic bond with them and they would obey his commands. However, since all
69,000 of them couldn’t fit in the Zoommaster 3000, we had them attack the
skeletons but they couldn’t eat them anyway and that was when re realized they
had been dead for a while. Thus, we learned about Elder’s uncanny knack for
raising the dead. We ended up putting the sock puppets in Antarctica and Dr.
Cow genetically engineered them to eat snow. We made a fortune, putting the
snow shovel industry out of business. We used the money to buy Elder a date,
and when she saw him she gave the money back and committed herself to an
asylum. Dr. Cow tried to cheer up Elder by using the other few billion dollars
to build him new weapons. Post-Al got upgraded with even more violent
programming, and got a cosmic power converter. My pet crocodile got a new
Armani suit, with the rear cut out for his tail to be comfy. We couldn’t find
shoes built for crocodiles, so he went without. He also got some really cool
sunglasses, which made him look like an M.I.B. Dr. Cow treated the suit so
that it would be empowered by his atomic stomach acid and never rip or get
stained. The government of skeletons continued to seek our deaths.
 
 
 
 
 
 

My Pet Crocodile, Chapter 5
Kicking the Habit

        Me, my pet crocodile, Dr. Cow, Post-Al, and Elder went to Las Vegas, where
sock puppets kept the snow off the streets and reggae music abounded, causing
Post-Al to wreck most of downtown. The cops didn’t really care, after we
borrowed a casino and…compensated…them to protect it. There was a monorail
that went all over the city connecting the different casinos, so we used it to
make a fortune with Dr. Cow,  who, being a super-genius, proceeded to make
even more money. We put Post-Al on the monorail and set up every loudspeaker
we could find, playing reggae music twenty-four hours a day. Post-Al was very
happy, and he wrecked most of the government buildings, declaring various
women for himself. Being a robot, however, he could not express his true
feelings, so he just stamp-axed them to pieces for the most part. The military
was still pretty mad about what we’d done to Area 51, so they came and shot
artillery shells at us. One of them hit Post-Al, and reggae music resonated
infinitely in his head. We then turned off the music, because  the music was
now stuck in his head forever. The postal service was not happy either, so we
let them and the military duke it out to see who’d fight us. The post office
won, and we sicced Elder on them. Rather than have Post-Al kick the habit of
violence, we encouraged Elder’s habit  of being the greatest hitman ever.
Elder picked them off like flies while they were in straight lines, and
commandeered a mail truck while shouting “How does if feel to be waiting in
line now?!” Blood and junk mail flew everywhere, and Elder started dancing
around their corpses, chanting “Polly want a bunghole” and bashing his head
into walls with glee. Me and my pet crocodile tried to calm Elder down, but he
wouldn’t listen and my pet crocodile sunk his teeth into Elder’s torso. Elder
squirmed like a man stuck in a dark room with Michael Jackson. My pet
crocodile  let him go when Arab leader Mohammed Fat showed up. We were
supposed to call him Mo’Fat, so my pet crocodile continued his habit of
cannibalism and took his name literally. He was pretty fatty, and I didn’t
want my pet crocodile’s cholesterol to go up, so I got a bat and used Mo’Fat’s
skull as a pinata. I expected brains to fall out but none did, thus proving my
theory about him. He was indeed an idiot. He kept insulting himself until Dr.
Cow dropped a building on him and he thanked him for it. Not knowing what to
do, Dr. Cow let Post-Al take care of him. Post-Al knocked him into the
stratosphere, before Elder could get his hands on him. Elder, still twitching
and singing showtunes, was knocked unconscious by Dr. Cow’s Pail of Justice.
We let Post-Al wreck the rest of Las Vegas, which was an abomination in the
eyes of God anyway, and continued on. My pet crocodile met a girl named Zoey,
and she came with us. She was some kind of spokesmodel. Must’ve been his new
Armani suit.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

My Pet Crocodile, Chapter 6
The Press Conference From Hell

        Me, my pet crocodile, Dr. Cow, Elder, Post-Al, and Zoey decided to have a
press conference. Zoey, being a spokesmodel, said that the average American
person might be a little confused since  between the  six of us, we’ve been
involved with the President’s death, hijacked Air Force One, blown up Air
Force Four, destroyed a discount store, launch nuclear warheads filled with
tie-dyed paint (and forgot to take the explosives out) thus sinking several
continents, wrecked Las Vegas, broke into Area 51 and took U.F.O.s for
joyrides, created a race of tie-dyed freaks of nature and stomach
acid-hardened-to-titanium undead skeletons with an insane political mindset.
My pet crocodile had also eaten an uncountable number of people, but they all
deserved it. Starting a war between the post office and the military was on
the list too, but Elder had done most of that, and he was insane. Our press
conference was in the ruins of Las Vegas, where Zoey proceeded to answer
questions. “Just exactly what is your relationship with the crocodile in the
Armani suit?” was the first question, which she never really answered. The
death toll was a question too, but my pet crocodile ate the reporter before he
could finish asking it, so no one else did. Dr. Cow was questioned about Air
Force Four that he moonlighted as a pilot for, and he told us the whole sordid
story. It seems that Mo’Fat had tried his best pick-up line on some German
chick (I was undressing you with my eyes, but I’m having trouble with that
first button). She proceeded to throw him out of the door, which, at 30,000
feet isn’t such a good idea. All of the UN diplomats got sucked out of the
airplane, but Dr. Cow managed to save his Nintendo 64, which nearly bit the
dust too. Dr. Cow also pointed out that he never had a valid pilot’s license,
so it wasn’t his fault anyway. Many reporters also asked about Elder, who was
Public Enemy #1, and we said he was just psycho, so we were letting hang out
with us so he’d feel better. We also pointed out how useful he was during the
Post Office debacle, and he started spinning in circles singing songs from the
“Barney” TV show. We let him calm down by bashing his head into the nearest
wall, which was his favorite pastime. After that, he just stared at Zoey,
purring softly. At least, I think he was just purring. Dr. Cow signed some
autographs, and we left just before the undead skeletons showed up. My pet
crocodile ate the reporters that tried to sell us out, and we confiscated the
cameras because they were really molecular accelerators. All of the reporters
had been government agents, except for the tabloid people, which we left
alone. The agents became undead skeletons due to my pet crocodile’s nuclear
stomach acid, and he felt bad after that, due to Zoey being in a bad mood. Her
spokesmodel tactics hadn’t really saved the day, but we let her think they had
by showing her the tabloids, which we were all over. We all piled into the
Zoommaster 3000 and couldn’t decide where we were going to go, because
originally female crocodiles were our main goal, but Zoey had changed all
that. We decided to head for New York instead, to Dr. Cow’s subterranean
fortress beneath the UN.
 
 
 
 
 
 

My Pet Crocodile, Chapter 7
Can-Collecting in Venice Beach

        Me, my pet crocodile, his girlfriend spokesmodel Zoey, psychotic assassin
Elder, Dr. Cow, and his robot Post-Al took a helicopter to Venice Beach. There
weren’t any runways in Las Vegas since we’d pretty much destroyed it. When we
got to the beach, we met a black guy who had little legs with no knees, one
regular arm and one chicken-wing arm. His name was Winger, and he danced
around to reggae music for money. He recognized us from the tabloids and asked
us where we were going. We told him New York, and he asked if we could drop
him off in Jamaica. Oddly enough, no one else noticed us, because of all the
weird people in Venice Beach. We all piled into the Zoommaster 3000 and headed
for the nearest airport. On the way, we stopped at a place where a kid had
been hit by some French tourist who didn’t know how to drive. He was shouting
at the kid, who was in pain. Post-Al punched the guy in the shoulder and his
arm came off. He writhed on the ground in pain, until my pet crocodile ate him
and spit him out, probably because he tasted like a frog. We took the kid to a
hospital and they said that he had cancer and they had their funding cut by
some idiot suit. However, they were collecting cans for money and we
volunteered. I went to find the guy who had cut their funding and try to get
it back. My pet crocodile and Zoey went to south-central LA to collect cans,
Dr. Cow and Elder went to the grocery store, and Post-Al and Winger went to
the nearest military base. My pet crocodile and Zoey got involved in a gang
war and busted some caps until he had a hunger pang for human flesh. Since
they didn’t need their canned food when they were dead, they took shopping
carts from bag ladies and filled ‘em up. Meanwhile, Post-Al (with Winger on
his shoulder) proceeded to ransack the military base looking for canned goods.
Winger held off the infantry while dancing to the reggae music coming from
Post-Al. Post-Al threw missiles he’d ripped off from fighter jets at various
high-ranking officials until they emptied their pantries for us. Dr. Cow and
Elder launched a full scale attack at a grocery store, and when asked what
they were doing, Dr. Cow said “You have a choice: give us your canned food or
end up as it”. He must’ve thought Dr. Cow was kidding, because he had Elder
break his bones and grind them up and stuffed him in a can of pineapples.
Elder then ran around grabbing utensils and tried to make a pineapple cake and
said “Mmmm…human flesh” just like Homer Simpson. Dr. Cow stopped him but Elder
refused to take his chef’s hat off. The suit who had canceled the hospital’s
funding wasn’t sure if he should give the money back, but me and my bat made
him see things differently. We all regrouped at the ruins of the military
base, and we saw Winger dancing on top of a pile of vanquished soldiers. We
took all of the cans to the hospital and that, along with the money the suit
had agreed to give, raised the money for surgery for the little guy. We headed
for the airport again, and while en route, Dr. Cow got out his personal
message recorder, and said “Note to self: annihilate France”. But that was for
later, and New York was our next destination.
 
 
 
 
 
 

My Pet Crocodile, Chapter 8
Layover in DC

        Me, my pet crocodile, his spokesmodel girlfriend Zoey, Elder, Dr. Cow,  his
robot Post-Al, and Winger landed the helicopter we had borrowed from the
military at the airport and bought tickets using a little of the money we’d
made with the sock puppets. Unfortunately, we got stuck in Washington DC
during our layover there, and Elder started getting even more psychotic than
usual, probably because he was Public Enemy #1. Of course, with a humanoid
crocodile, the world’s greatest assassin, a genius in a cow exo-skeleton, and
a giant mailman robot on a plane, we were bound to draw a little attention.
However, we had brought the Zoommaster 3000 with us, and all of our weapons
were inside. How Dr. Cow got past the metal detector, I’ll never know.
Thankfully, he hid my bat in his suit when I had to go through it. Winger
agreed with Elder, and said that we should try to get the Zoommaster 3000 and
drive the rest of the way. Winger was now dressed in combat fatigues, and
looked like he was 3 feet instead of  2 Zoey…distracted…the guards and we got
the car out. We hid it in an abandoned hanger and went to the duty-free shop
to get supplies. Elder kept mumbling “I like to stop at the duty-free shop”
until someone recognized him from the giant “Wanted” banner on the ceiling. To
cover our escape, Dr. Cow hit the fire alarm, but one of those stupid little
carts with firemen arrived and blasted my pet crocodile and Zoey with
fire-extinguishing foam. Dr. Cow and Post-Al attacked them, but the military
arrived, still mad about the party we’d thrown at the Pentagon.  Dr. Cow
tossed me my bat, and I headed for the White House. Once there, I broke
President Hillary’s legs and kicked her out the window onto Pennsylvania
Avenue, where she was run down by opportunistic motorists. Before I knew it,
the Secret Service had surrounded me, and I was in big trouble. They all fired
simultaneously, and I would’ve been killed except Winger saved me at the last
second. Dr. Cow and Post-Al made short work of the military, and Elder had
disapeared. My pet crocodile and Zoey smelled weird but were all right.
Unfortunately, Hillary had lived and though she couldn’t stop us from taking
over the White House, she could attack something else…the sock puppets. She
tried for a while, but since they were already dead, she couldn’t do much
damage. Elder had learned of this, due to his telepathic bond with them. He
could still control them, since he had raised them from the dead in the first
place. He called them to him, and they set up a perimeter around the White
House. My pet crocodile and Zoey slept in the Lincoln bedroom, and Dr. Cow got
the Oval Office. Elder had joined back up with us, and he and Post-Al started
wrecking the lower levels of the White House, hoping to find more UFOs. Aside
from a whole bunch of files used for blackmailing people, it was pretty dull
down there. We released all the files we found, causing anarchy on a mass
scale. We stayed there about a week, and one day Winger stumbled upon a tunnel
that let to a large, dark room. We joined him in investigating, and were
astonished to see Dr. Cow archenemy, Pimp Daddy Bill, in all his motorized
wheelchair glory. In full 70’s gear, he condemned our actions and introduced
us to the true ruling force of the world-The council of evil monkeys.
 
 
 

My Pet Crocodile, Chapter 9
The Return of Pimp Daddy Bill

        In an underground meeting room, me, my pet crocodile, Dr. Cow, Post-Al,
Winger, Elder, and Zoey were surrounded by evil monkey conspirators. Their
enforcer, Pimp Daddy Bill, was charging us in all his mechanized wheelchair
glory. His nemesis, Dr. Cow, let loose with his Pail of Justice. “Surrender or
be mimed!” shouted Pimp Daddy Bill, to which Dr. Cow replied “Not as long as
you’re working for The Man, you self-serving bunghole!”. Meanwhile, the
monkeys had started to come towards us, and my pet crocodile consumed as many
as he could, while Post-Al decapitated them with his Stamp Ax. Elder had
already gotten out his assault rifle and was tossing grenades at the mindless
monkey hordes. Me and my bat showed them the errors of their ways, and Zoey
and Winger had started tying their tails together so they couldn’t go
anywhere. Elder put his chef’s hat on again, which still couldn’t make him
look as cool as Winger in his combat fatigues. Winger had taken out a few
hundred monkeys by now, and Elder had started impaling monkeys with the sword
Dr. Cow had made for him. The battle between Dr. Cow and Pimp Daddy Bill raged
on, leaving the confines of the monkeys’ hideout and heading into Washington
DC. “You goin’ down!!” was often heard from Pimp Daddy Bill, as Dr. Cow dodged
his attacks and sent him flying into the Potomac River. Post-Al’s level of
violence was increasing exponentially, and the reggae music was getting louder
and louder in his head. Elder started shouting something about “Spank the
monkey” but we ignored him. The White House, still empty after we’d kicked
everybody out, was the new site of the battle against Pimp Daddy Bill, as Dr.
Cow used his power of flight to drop Pimp Daddy Bill from 40,000 feet, leaving
a polyester stain on the sidewalk. His uncanny 70’s powers were already
mending his liquified bones, so Dr. Cow raced off to help me and the others
with the monkeys. Post-Al, covered in monkey blood, was sitting quietly in the
corner making bizarre noises that we really hoped were mechanical. The monkeys
were mostly dead, but some had escaped to conspire another day. Pimp Daddy
Bill had taken his disco records and gone home, but we had Post-Al wreck it
before he got there. Elder was mumbling about how the Washington Monument was
a giant phallic symbol, and Zoey backhanded him into oblivion. After pawning
off all the stuff at the White House, we started to look for the missing sock
puppets. They had been gone ever since Pimp Daddy Bill had found out his home
had been destroyed, and we found a ransom note taped on the body of a deceased
Al Gore with wheelchair tire treads all over him. Right when we found it, the
authorities burst in and we had been framed for murder. Due to the fact that
we were responsible for the deaths of Bill Clinton, the passengers of Air
Force Four, various Las Vegas gamblers, and everyone my pet crocodile and sock
puppets had eaten, they didn’t believe us.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

My Pet Crocodile, Chapter 10
Shafted by The Man Once Again

        Me, my pet crocodile, Dr. Cow, Post-Al, Elder, Zoey, and Winger proceeded to
try to convince the authorities that we hadn’t killed Al Gore by wrecking most
of Washington DC in a fight with them that caused even more property damage
then when Dr. Cow had fought Pimp Daddy Bill. We’d managed to have kept Elder
away from the authorities, seeing as how he was Public Enemy #1, but he
climbed up a flagpole and started sniping various government officials. Dr.
Cow didn’t really care, but Post-Al started complaining that Elder was having
all the fun. Winger sat on Post-Al’s shoulder and commanded him to wreck the
Pentagon again, but Dr. Cow raided it for weapons and spare parts first. After
Elder got done decapitating people, we let him drive around in a tank we’d
found and he proceeded to kill even more people. Dr. Cow decided that we’d had
enough fun, so he kicked the crap out of all of us, except for my pet
crocodile and Zoey, his spokesmodel girlfriend. They’d disappeared about
twenty minutes ago, and I wasn’t asking any questions. Once I promised to be
good, Dr. Cow gave me back my bat. Winger wasn’t too happy, and he put a curse
on Dr. Cow, but it backfired and women from all around the globe started
congregating around both of them. Dr. Cow’s Pail of Justice cleared their
minds for the most part, but Winger had more trouble with them. Luckily,
Post-Al didn’t want to lose his best friend, so he gave the women what could
be called reverse cosmetic surgery. Looking like abominations in the eyes of
God, they hid themselves in the sewers and quietly swore revenge. Eluding the
authorities, we all piled into the Zoommaster 3000 to try to find out who had
framed us. Our first stop was the lair of Pimp Daddy Bill, whose wheelchair
had left tread marks all over Al Gore’s corpse. We suspected the evil monkeys
were behind it, or at least the undead stomach acid-hardened titanium
skeletons with a political bent, but he wouldn’t tell us anything. Dr. Cow
deduced that since Pimp Daddy Bill and Gore were both agents of The Man, one
wouldn’t kill the other. However, Pimp Daddy Bill was furious at us, because
Winger’s curse had caused him to lose his Pimp Daddy status.
Winger...fixed...him, and he was surrounded by his harem once again. He then
tried to kill all of us, so we couldn’t do it again. Dr. Cow was prepared for
this, however, and had me bash his skull in with my bat. Unfortunately, his
uncanny 70’s powers healed him, and he escaped in a swarm of evil monkeys.
Hounded by both sides of the law, we drove to New York and hid out under the
UN.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

My Pet Crocodile, Chapter 11
Hell is a Place called the North Pole

        While hiding out under the UN, me, my pet crocodile, Dr. Cow, Post-Al, Elder,
Winger, and Zoey reviewed the list of people who had the motive and means to
frame us. The list was pretty short, and Pimp Daddy Bill was at the top of it.
We started interrogating people who might know, like Charlie Gibson and Maria
Shriver. We disemboweled their pets, strung up their children in swings, and
went on shopping sprees with their credit cards. While ransacking a local
mall, Elder started picking off ditzy mall chicks at 300 paces and he wandered
into a kitchen supply store while escaping from the mall police. Wearing his
chef hat, he proceeded to show everyone the finer points of making soup with
an assault rifle. Winger helped him, but he fell into the giant bowl of salad
and gave an old lady a heart attack when she mistook him for a rotting celery
stalk. He was very traumatized, and chose to go to a ice cream parlor, only to
be jumped by the reverse-cosmetic surgery-inflicted women from before. My pet
crocodile and Zoey didn't notice, because their mattress-testing antics were
entertaining the security guards. Dr. Cow and Post-Al had turned Radio Shack
into a free-for-all bloodfest when a clerk asked Dr. Cow if he wanted to
purchase a copy of "Gittin jiggy wit' it", because Dr. Cow misunderstood the
name, and thought he already had the market of artificial pleasuring covered
in more ways than one. After  releasing unsold Beast Wars Transformers from
their plastic prisons, Post-Al fought off a horde of the uglo-women who had
captured Winger. Winger thanked him, because they liked it rough, and had
become obsessed with Winger ever since he'd fixed the voodoo spell so they
liked him instead of Dr. Cow. He boarded the nearest plane to Jamaica, where
he could engage in free love aplenty. Not missing him, Zoey continued
her...run-ins...with my pet crocodile, and would have broken several
unmentionable records, but the true benefactor of our recent problems was
revealed as The Man himself--Santa Claus! If Elder hadn't had a sudden craving
for women in elf costumes we never would've known the truth, but he had
discovered Santa hiding out behind the women's dressing room in the process.
Santa dispensed with Post-Al by stuffing him into his bottomless present sack,
and skittered off. Dr. Cow's Pail of Justice floored several females in elf
costumes, whom Elder was...gentle...with as he helped them up. Santa made good
his escape, and we tracked him to the North Pole, where we encountered Santa's
right-hand woman--best friend of DZR-8, Air Icamooring! She pounced on me, and
used my bat for something unmentionable, but Dr. Cow and Santa faced off, the
fate of the free-but-idiotic world hanging in the balance. Dr. Cow didn't
really care, but figured that if Santa could pull presents out, supermodels
could be in there, too. Santa got the upper hand after he used what he called
a "vibrator" on Dr.Cow, but Dr. Cow remote-controlled the Zoommaster 3000 and
turned Santa into roadkill. However, Santa grabbed onto the wheelbase for dear
life, and was flung into several rows of Monica Lewinsky cigar-activated
dolls. Before he could get back up, he was attacked by one of his own--a
reindeer he'd tried to kill half-a-century ago--Paco! Yes, Paco, the Spanish
reindeer, wasn't politically correct enough, and was replaced by Rudolph. He
was also a pyromaniac, and quickly set fire to Santa's innards. Santa ran
around, his digestive track quickly turning into second-hand smoke--until Pimp
Daddy Bill arrived, seeing the photo op. I mashed his gums, sinuses, and
mostly artificial brain cells to paste with my bat, and then Dr. Cow shot Air
with a hormonal-boost, and the armored wheelchair was the only thing keeping
her from...contact...with Bill. He ran towards the bag, and opened it up,
hoping to find the suit John Travolta wore in Saturday Night Fever, only to
free Post-Al! Post-Al dropped him down an elevator shaft, screaming "Now you
know how it feels to be shafted by The Man!" Bill's peace sign
boomerang/grappling hook saved him, but Zoey used the skills she'd picked up
from "Amazonian Mating Rituals 101" to distract/incapacitate him. As the
battle raged, Santa made a lunge for an all-powerful M&M dispenser, as my pet
crocodile did the same...