John Carpenter's Escape From Ricky Martin

By Rob Reuter

We KNOW the Statue of Liberty is in New York. We don't HAVE any good statues in Boston, all right?

Snake walked down Kneeland Street, through the shattered, deserted remains of Boston’s Chinatown. With every step, his .45’s thumped against his legs, and he felt another, smaller bump between them.

"You know the drill, Snake," General Cumstein had said, "You escaped from both New York and LA; you’ve done this before. Your job is to get into the Boston Federal Penal Colony and rescue the President from kidnappers.

"You have twenty-four hours to get him out safely. And if you’re thinking about escaping; if you’re not at the North Station extraction point this time tomorrow, well… the thermonuclear device we implanted in your scrotum goes off. You’ll be able to see your balls twinkling at night when they orbit by, and you can whimper about it in your new soprano voice."

Snake turned right on Beacon Street, when for the third time in ten minutes, he heard behind him the light clump of someone dragging a bad foot. Snake took a deep breath, whirled and pulled his guns.

"Don’t kill me, boss!" The little, dirty, weaselly man whined, his hands up. The man was a mess; his clothes were rags, he was missing fingers, his left leg appeared green and gangrenous, and his face was memorable for its absences: one eye and one ear. "I know you! You’re Snake! I bet you’re here for the President! I can help you!" he whined tremulously.

"Who the fuck are you?" Snake growled, while at the same time slightly lowering his guns.

The man looked suddenly downcast. "Don’t you know? Doesn’t anyone remember?" He began to sing in a choked voice, "Livin’ la vida loca… livin' la-"

"'Rueben Kincaiders?' Snake said incredulously, 'Rabid David Cassidy fans? What kind of prison is this?'"

Snake bolted forward and pistol-whipped the rat-man, opening him to the bone. He went down with a gout of blood and a squeal. "Are you Ricky Martin?" Snake hissed. The ruined man nodded mindlessly. Snake put the gun to Ricky’s forehead. "I should kill you right here, you fuck!"

"No! Please…" the little maggot cried, "I know where the President is! I know who has him!"

"Who’s got him?"

"The Rueben Kincaiders! Militant David Cassidy followers! They’ve got him in the Hancock Tower! I can take you there!"

"Rueben Kincaiders?" Snake said incredulously, "David Cassidy fans? What kind of prison is this?"

Ricky stared at him with his good eye and empty, infected socket. "You don’t know?" he asked, and Snake slowly shook his head. "This penal colony was founded in 2013 by President John Mellencamp to hold teen idols and one-hit wonders. He was watching VH1’s Behind the Music one night and became sick with rage that while Fab from Milli Vanilli still had a beachfront mansion, John Lee Hooker was probably living an a duplex in Shitsplat, Alabama.

"He started a blanket prosecution of all one-hit wonders and teen idols saying their – our – work was obscene, because bubblegum pop has no serious entertainment, artistic or educational value. The Supreme Court agreed unanimously, even that Coke-pubic hair dude. They clapped most of us in irons, and dropped us here. I managed to avoid getting caught, but they got me last year."

"Can you get me in? Do they trust you?" Snake asked.

"Not a chance, man. I wasn’t here fifteen minutes before David sent M.C. Hammer and Vanilla Ice to grab me. Hammer moves pretty good on that wooden leg; David cut it off because he didn’t want anyone to dance better than he does.

"I couldn’t believe it when they brought me to the Hancock Tower. David’s set himself up as king; he’s got a whole army. His brother Shaun’s vice president. Donnie Wahlburg’s the Secretary of War, just because he was the ‘tough’ New Kid. Kip Winger’s the Chief of Hair."

Reich Marshall David Cassidy, with his German Shepherd guard dog, "Rommel."
"Sorry I had your balls cut off, buddy."

"How can I get close to him?" Snake asked.

"You can’t. He’s got the cast of The Real World as his personal bodyguards."

"Which season of Real World?"

"All of them," Ricky moaned. "And if he gets a hold of you… When they brought me in, David told me that, in order to join the Rueben Kincaiders, I’d have to take Puck from the San Francisco Real World ‘Around the Real World.’ I swing that way anyway, but he’s got all those scabs… I’m pretty sure it’s leprosy.

"When I wouldn’t do what they wanted, Nuno Bettencourt from Extreme whipped me in the face with an E string, put out my eye. Tommy Tutone hit me seven times with a broken phone. Bobby McFerrin broke seven of my ribs with a pipe and recorded the sounds for some follow up to Don’t Worry, Be Happy. Chaka Kahn stuck a high heel up my ass, giggling the whole time.

"When I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, David sent out Gerardo-"

"Who?" Snake asked.

"You know, Rico Suave," Ricky said, and Snake nodded, wincing at the memory, "And Lou Diamond Philips. Lou told me that I was a disgrace to the Latin people, and Gerardo just kept nodding, giggling and drooling like some kind of moron.

"Then…" Ricky began, fresh tears oozing from his ruined face, "Then Lou ripped off my ear while humming La Bamba, and Gerardo… Gerardo cuh-cuh-cast-castr-castra…" Ricky couldn’t finish, sobs wracking his body.

"I’ve heard enough," Snake said quietly.

Ricky slowly pulled himself together. "Will you kill them, Snake? Will you take revenge on them for me?"

"Oh, I’ll kill ‘em," Snake said, "But not for you. Those maggots took away valuable radio and screen time from The Rolling Stones and Scorcese pictures, so they’ve got killing coming to them. But you…

"You’re just as guilty as the rest of them. Eight weeks at number one for that shiteating Vider Loker song that stayed locked in my brain for six months like Mad Cow disease."

Ricky turned white. "But… look what they did to-"

"For what you did to America, you got off light, motherfucker," Snake hissed, pulling and cocking his Colt. "I’m tired of fucking with you, douchebag. Say hello to God."

"NO!" Ricky shrieked, wetting his pants like an infant. The blast of Snake’s Colt broke the silence.

"One down," Snake mused, "I feel the collective IQ of America going up already." He turned west, and began toward the Hancock Tower.

Main Archive Table of Contents

August, 1999 Issue Table of Contents

Dead Kennedys   Fast Times   Secret of My Happiness

Month in Pictures   Blue Moon

Stupidity   George W. Bush   Escape From Ricky Martin

The American Jerk™ and all contents © 1999 - 2005 by Rob Reuter and Paul St. Fakename, Esq., © 2006 by Rob Reuter.