Friday, March 04, 2011


The future...

Fire rained down on the city of Burbank as the alien warships continued to hammer the human race out of existence. Skyscrapers tumbled like houses made of cards as bombs fell. Huge Dropships deposited scaly shocktroops at an alarming rate, outnumbering the city's residents 10 to 1. The reptilian hordes swarmed over the Valley, indiscriminately slaughtering and eating any and all of the poor human beings that were foolish enough to get in their way. It had been 3 days since the ships appeared in countless locations around the world, with no word as to what they wanted or why they were here. All the confused people of earth knew was that the aliens were here to stay. And they were winning.

The irony of seeing of a real alien invasion over the skies of a city known for producing countless imitations was not lost on Carlos. Irony was something he was used to. It had been 10 years since he had disappeared. Friends, family, total strangers were all convinced he must be dead. After the tweets, the rants, the interviews on all the networks, the public lost interest. The show he used to be a part of continued without him. The ratings barely hiccuped as it went on for another half decade, while the instigator of all the chaos drifted out of favor, becoming a sad, half-remembered punchline. With his revenue stream cut off and his erratic behavior no longer charming in the court of public opinion, Carlos lost the favor of the goddesses and the yes-men and found himself alone and lost on the streets of broken dreams. Tiger blood and adonis DNA lost their mystique just like all the other fad catchphrases of the pop culture past. Uninsurable, unintelligible, and unwanted, celebrity Charlie Sheen became regular citizen Carlos Estevez and, like everyone else in the real world, became invisible. It had been a decade since anyone had seen or heard from him. But from his cardboard bunker near the 3rd Street Promanade in Santa Monica, Carlos watched the alien warships being to vaporize the Pacific Ocean. It was then and there he knew he had to do something. And for all those who doubted him in the past, he was going to show the entire world how wrong they had been about him. This was his time. Redemption. Vindication. Hollywood loves a comeback, and it was about to get the biggest one of all.

Carlos stepped out of his cardboard box and stood alone on the beach. All the freaks and tourists that used to populate the beaches of L.A. were long gone, eaten or disintegrated by the aliens. But none of that mattered now. Carlos knew what he had to do. His entire life had been building to this moment. He looked much older than 55, all haggard and worn, with missing teeth and a bad combover, the result of a lifetime of living in overtime. But today there was a spark in his eyes, a spark not seen since the days of Lucas. Or maybe Hot Shots: Part Deux. He was pretty good in that one, too. Whichever role it was, Carlos felt like a young overprivileged superstar again. He gazed out across the water at the giant alien warship sucking the planet dry. Something on board the mile-long deathship must have spotted the lone human standing on the shore because all its gun batteries suddenly pointed themselves right at him. Carlos smiled. "That's battle-tested bayonets, bro," he said to himself. "Let's see how you assholes stand up against my Vatican Assassin Warlock fire-breathing fists!" Carlos clinched his fists tight, pointing them at the alien warship. He was no longer Carlos Estevez. He was Charlie Fucking Sheen. He was special and was tired of the world not seeing it. It was time to teach these alien motherfuckers a lesson.

The aliens opened fire. And because Charlie Sheen was bi-polar and not bi-winning, his superpowers were all in his head, so he was snuffed out like a candle, blowing out in a tiny puff of smoke. The aliens resumed their conquest of the earth and eventually wound up enslaving humanity. All except John Stamos, who escaped to Mars with a group of rock stars in a stolen alien spaceship.

Again, irony.

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