Superpalooza

by Reffster

Oscar looked at the portaloo. The portaloo looked at him. Or at least it seemed to look at him. Sitting in the moonlight, quietly steaming in its very own ever-expanding quagmire of unspeakableness, he could almost believe that it was leering smugly at him. Go on, tough boy, it seemed to say. Think you're man enough to brave a music festival portaloo? Is your bladder really that full? Are you really that hard-core?

The nine cups of Begyle Blonde he'd consumed assured him that he was. He took the biggest breath he could, gritted his teeth and made a run for it. Step, step, squelch, squelch, fumble with door, push door, realise it's a puller, pull door, enter, shut door, lock door, discover lock is broken, wedge foot against door, fumble with zip, unzip, release kraken and finally - sweet relief. Then the only question was whether he'd run out of breath or urine first.

He was just about to find out when the light came. The doorway was framed by an intense green light, the edges of the ceiling were outlined by it and even the interior of the toilet bowl shone with an unearthly chartreuse luminescence. Startled, Oscar took an inadvertent breath and was so shocked by its contents that he took another one.

His eyes crossed and he staggered. His lungs suggested another breath but his brain politely told them to sod off, as oxygen deprivation seemed a better option than whatever the contents of those last two breaths had been. Oscar unwedged his foot and was about to make a run for fresh(er) air when the pulse hit.

The light intensified and a wave of pure energy drove him to the floor. This was bad, but was made immeasurably worse by the structural breakdown of the portaloo itself. The walls split, the ceiling fragmented and the toilet bowl shattered. As the energy wave peaked, Oscar's body was awash with an indescribable cocktail of bodily wastes, toilet deodorant and a truly bewildering array of half-metabolised drugs, few of which were of the prescription variety.

Powered by the mysterious energy of the pulse, hitherto unknown chemical reactions fizzed and bubbled around and within Oscar. He twitched as rogue electrical signals flowed through his synapses and bizarre new substances fused with his body and altered his DNA. The energy wave only lasted a few seconds, but the effects were profound. Oscar would never be the same.

In the aftermath, a steady rain began to fall. Dazed, Oscar turned his face skywards, allowing the rain to wash it clean. After a few minutes of recovery, he unsteadily climbed to his feet and looked around.

The moon infused the rain clouds with a sullen grey light and as far as the eye could see dazed festival-goers were getting up off the ground. The multiple stages of the festival had gone dark and apart from the sound of the rain and the groans of the fallen, silence reigned.

But then, a single guitar chord cut through the night. A spotlight lanced up into the dark sky. Thousands of heads turned toward it and as one, seemingly without conscious volition, the masses began to move in that direction. More chords rang out and the festival-goers increased their pace.

Oscar found himself caught up in the movement of the crowd. Soon he could see that the spotlight emanated from a stage, seemingly the only one to still have power. Through the rain he could see there was a band on stage. The lead singer stepped forward, microphone in hand.

Well it's midnight, damn right, we're wound up too tight
I've got a fist full of whiskey, the bottle just bit me
Ooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhh
That shit makes me bat shit crazy
We've got no fear, no doubt, all in balls out

Not for the first time that night, Oscar's nose wrinkled in distaste. "Ah, crap. That's Nickelback."

A girl shuffling alongside him turned her glassy eyes in his direction. "Yes. We are indeed fortunate. They are truly the greatest band of all time."

Oscar chuckled and decided to play along. "Oh yeah, Nickelback are definitely the greatest. The greatest steaming pile of rancid aardvark crap, ever. I'd rather listen to gravel in a blender. Am I right?"

The girl stopped shuffling and turned to point at him. "An unbeliever!" she shrieked. "This one besmirches Nickelback, the greatest band in the history of the universe!"

Hundreds of heads turned in their direction. Oscar took a step back, as the girl advanced on him. "Kill! Kill the unbeliever!" Eyes blazing with hatred, she charged.

Wondering how much worse his night could get, Oscar sidestepped her ferocious attack, displaying an agility that was remarkably atypical for him. Thwarted, the girl clutched at empty air, slid on the wet ground and face-planted into the mud. His sense of triumph rapidly fading, Oscar bent over to see if she was OK, only to be hit from behind by a wave of furious festival-goers.

Lying in a muddy field, at the bottom of a pile of enraged Nickelback fans, Oscar realised he was finding out exactly how much worse his night could get. Calling on previously unknown reserves of strength, he burst out from the writhing pile, sending bodies tumbling in all directions. He made a break for it. Figures loomed out of the dark, arms reaching for him, but he shoulder charged his way through, sending attackers flying left and right.

We're going off tonight
To kick out every light
Take anything we want
Drink everything in sight
We're going till the world stops turning
While we burn it to the ground tonight
Oh

Finding himself in relatively clear space and marvelling at his seemingly newfound super-strength, he turned to face his attackers, fists raised. But with Chad Kroeger really hitting his straps, the crowd appeared to have forgotten about him and were again moving en masse towards the stage. Oscar watched them shuffle past, shaking his head in bewilderment.

"You seem a little confused, young man."

Oscar turned around to find that standing in the shadows behind him was an elderly black man, wearing a suit and a fedora. Despite the darkness, he was also wearing sunglasses.

Oscar was relieved to find somebody who wasn't a homicidal maniac, or even worse, a Nickelback fan. "Confused? I've never met a single person who actually likes Nickelback in my whole life. Now I'm surrounded by them. At a music festival. For people who care about, you know - music. What the hell is going on?"

"That, my boy, is a long story. Take a walk with me and I'll explain. The name's George, by the way." They shook hands and Oscar introduced himself.

"Glad to meet you, Oscar. I'm glad to see at least one of you young people didn't get brain-fried."

They walked in silence for a few moments. "Oscar, do you know what funk is?"

Oscar blinked. "Sure. Funk is a type of music. You know - James Brown, Stevie Wonder, George Clin..." He stopped walking, as realisation dawned. "Hang on. I know you. You're George Clinton from Parliament. My dad used to play your records all the time when I was a kid."

"Guilty son, guilty. Clearly your daddy was a man of good taste. But you're wrong about funk. Sure, music is one manifestation. But it ain't what funk is."

"Huh?"

George tipped his fedora back and scratched his forehead. "Son, funk is the currency of the galaxy. It's what makes the universe go round. Funk is power. It's what everybody who's anybody wants. And some will do anything to get it."

Oscar suspected that George may have indulged in a few too many illicit substances back in the seventies, but was too polite to say so. "OK. So what's that got to do with Nickelback?"

George started walking again. "Son, the Earth is one of the galaxy's richest sources of funk. Nobody's ever figured out why, it just is. Folks come from all over to try to nab themselves a chunk of it. Turns out on Earth, the best way to do that is to shake your groove thang. Get a funky beat happening, get the crowd going wild and the funk just flows in. Raw power, there for the taking. You just need the talent."

Oscar smiled. "So you're telling me aliens come to Earth to play music? To get some funk?"

"Aw, hell yeah. I'm from Rigel. Most of Parliament are from Arcturus. The Beatles were from Betelgeuse, the Rolling Stones hail from Sirius. Except for Keith Richards."

"Where's he from?"

"Dartford. We ain't all aliens."

Despite himself, Oscar was intrigued. "So if the Rolling Stones only came to get some funk, why are they still here?"

"Same reason I'm still here, probably. You get to likin' Earth. The weather's good, the food's alright and the funk flows freely. And the Earth groupies - oh my. Some leave, though. Lennon, Cobain, Hendrix, to name just a few."

"But they're dead."

George cocked an eyebrow at him. "Are they?"

Oscar rubbed his eyes. "Look George, this is all really fascinating and it's been great to meet you but I'm gonna head for home. I had a bad experience with a portaloo and although the rain has helped, I still wouldn't mind a shower. Plus this festival isn't really catering to my tastes, anymore."

George put his hands on Oscar's shoulders. "Son, my aim is to get you out of here, safe and sound. But I'd sure appreciate if I could run some tests on you first. Might help me to save more folk from those Nickelback scuzzbags."

"What's wrong with Nickelback?" Even behind George's rain-streaked sunglasses, Oscar could sense the raised eyebrows. "OK, apart from the obvious stuff?"

"They're on the galaxy's most wanted list, that's what." George reached into his jacket and produced a credit card sized device, which he held up for Oscar to see. A tiny hologrammatic image of the Milky Way projected from the device, with the letters GP circling around it. "I freelance for the Galactic Police and I've been on Nickelback's tail for years. They're wanted for illegal funk acquisition."

"So you're telling me Nickelback are from outer space, too?"

"You got it. They hail from Alpha Scorpii, a real rough neck of the galaxy. High on scumbags but low on funk. That's why wannabes like Nickelback leave to try their luck elsewhere. And when their talent doesn't cut it, they use other means."

"Like what?"

"Oh, all kinds of stuff. Money's no problem, so they buy up their own albums to boost their chart position, bribe radio stations to play their songs and hire the best producers to make their stuff sound half-reasonable. But you can only polish a turd so much. When the funk still don't come rolling in, they resort to pulling stunts like tonight's."

"You mean the energy pulse thing?"

George looked grim. "That's right, son. Mass brain-wave adjustment via electromagnetic pulse. Cutting edge stuff, but highly illegal. We suspected they'd perfected it but didn't have any proof - until tonight."

"So they made the crowd like them? To get more funk?"

"Yep. The more mindless zombies in the mosh-pit, the more the funk rolls in for them. They gettin' stronger every second. We need to stop 'em and soon."

Oscar shook his head in bewilderment. "Whoa, this is heavy. So why didn't the pulse work on me?"

They had arrived at a large pink bus. "That's a very good question. Step into my office here and we'll see if we can find out. Then maybe we can do something for those poor folk out there watching Nickelback and thinkin' they're having a good time."

Expecting a horror show of vinyl and seventies pastiche, Oscar was astonished to find that the inside of the bus looked more like the bridge of the Enterprise. George asked him to take a seat and began punching keys on a control panel. He gave a low whistle.

"Wow. Preliminary scans indicate that not only did the pulse not turn you into a Nickelback zombie, but that it actually tuned up your ass."

"Huh?"

"The energy combined with the cocktail of sludge you were lying in to somehow give you an upgrade. A big upgrade. Son, you now one of the powerpeople."

"I'm a powerperson?"

"No, son. Pay attention. You a powerpeople."

"Um, I don't think that's grammatically correct."

"My man, when you have funk, you don't need no grammar. And powereople got a whole lotta natural, inbuilt funk. There ain't but a handful of powerpeople in the galaxy and they only get there after years of training and genetic manipulation. You fell on your ass in a crapper while your DNA got fricasseed. You one lucky son-of-a-bitch."

A buzzing sound emerged from George's coat and he pulled out a cellphone. "What's that? You don't say? Ah, crap. OK, take him down and I'll be there in five." He put the phone away and turned to Oscar. "Son, this shit just got real. Turns out that Kroeger son-of-a-bitch aims to drain the crowd dry. I'm talking death by de-funkin'. We may just need your help."

****

Under the spotlights, Kroeger stood with arms upraised, drinking in the power. Raw funk was flowing into his genetically modified funk glands, filling his body with the kind of strength he'd only previously dreamed of. Finally, the stupid Earthlings appreciated his talent. He'd just had to turn 'em into borderline vegetables first.

He held the microphone to his lips. "How you doing out there?" he bellowed.

The enormous, pulsating crowd replied in perfect unison. "We are doing quite well, Mr Kroeger. Thank you for asking."

He frowned. "Are you ready to rock?"

"Yes indeed, Mr Kroeger. We are certainly prepared for the act of rocking."

He shrugged. As far as chants went, it wasn't very rock and roll but provided the funk kept rolling in, it didn't matter. These poor fools' minds would be mush soon anyway and it'd be time to move on to the next festival. The brain melting was an unfortunate side effect of total funk drainage, but there was a whole planet of other would-be fans out there.

He was about to launch into the next number when a thin voice penetrated the murmuring susurration of the crowd.

"I ain't ready to rock, you son-of-a-bitch. I'm ready to take yo sorry ass into custody!"

Kroeger knew that voice. He grinned as his funk-enhanced vision searched the crowd for its source. "Hey there, Clinton. Come to find out how a real band plays?"

He received a chuckle in reply. "A real band wouldn't need to use no mind control, Kroeger. You crossed the line, son. You going down."

"You ain't got the balls to take me down, old man. Or the funk."

"Maybe not," shouted Clinton. "But I reckon she might."

Kroeger caught the tiniest hint of movement on the edge of his awareness. Reacting with lightning speed, he stepped aside as a figure streaked through the space he'd occupied a fraction of a second before. The figure came to a stop several metres above and beyond the stage and hovered there for a few seconds. It was a young woman in a yellow and green jumpsuit. She regarded Kroeger silently before plummeting in to attack again.

Standing in the crowd beside Clinton, Oscar gaped at the spectacle. The other onlookers simply stood slack-jawed, waiting for the next song.

"Who is that?" he asked, watching in awe as the woman swooped around Kroeger, trading blows with the alien singer.

"That's my deputy," replied Clinton. "Young and full of spunk. This will be her first collar. Go get 'im, Lucille!"

"Isn't four on one a little unfair?"

"Nah, Chad's the only one she needs to worry about. The rest of the band are just mindless automatons. Kroeger's not about to share his funk."

Lucille swooped again, landing a full-blooded punch to Kroeger's face. He staggered but shot out an arm as she soared away, catching the deputy by the ankle and slamming her down onto the stage.

"Um, should we be helping or something?" asked Oscar, anxiously.

"Yeah, I reckon it might be time." Clinton drew what looked like high-tech sawn-off shotgun from his jacket and then touched the side of his sunglasses. With hissing sound they transformed into a full face-mask and his clothing morphed into a suit of interlocking armour. "Stay here unless it looks like we need your help."

"How could I help?"

"Oscar, a great man named Marcus Aurelius once said, "Let not your mind run on what you lack as much as on what you have already.""

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Beats me. But you a powerpeople. You'll figure it out." And with that, he launched himself towards the stage, flames blasting from the soles of his patent leather shoes.

Seeing him coming, Kroeger spun around like a hammer thrower and hurled Lucille at Clinton's advancing figure. The old singer swerved but his deputy caught him a glancing blow and he tumbled to the stage, while Lucille went cartwheeling off into the night, limbs flapping like a rag-doll's.

With remarkable agility, Clinton rolled once and regained his feet, pointing his weapon squarely at Kroeger's face. "You better pray that young lady ain't hurt bad, you piece of shit. You have the right to remain silent and you better take it, if you know what's good for yo punk ass."

Kroeger roared with laughter. "You don't get it, old man. You have no idea of the level of funk I've unleashed tonight. I'm draining these people dry. Every ounce of funk they have is funnelling into me. I've always known I'm the greatest that ever was. Soon the whole galaxy will know it."

He gestured at Clinton's gun and the weapon flew from his grasp and into the night. He then pointed at Clinton and with a slight circling motion of his finger the old singer was lifted off the ground, spun upside down and after hanging motionless for a second or two, slammed down onto his head. He lay on the stage, twitching feebly.

"Wow, Mr Kroeger. That was truly awesome. You are my hero. You genuinely are the greatest living entity of all time."

Kroeger spun around to find a young man walking towards him. He briefly wondered how he had gotten on stage, but decided to let it slide, given the newcomer's obvious good taste.

"Hey there, my man. I'm guessing you'd like an autograph?"

"I sure would," replied Oscar, walking past Clinton's prone figure.

"What the hell are you doin'?" hissed the old singer.

"I'm actin' bro. I'm puttin' on my De Niro right now," Oscar whispered back

"You should get your ass outa here. I ain't never seen this telekinesis shit before." But Oscar was already past him and approaching Kroeger.

"Mr Kroeger, do you know what my very favourite part of every Nickelback song is?"

"Tell me, man."

"The bit just after it ends. Because that instant represents the longest possible time before I have to listen to another one of your lyrically inept, formulaic, rock-by-numbers, ear-bleeding abominations."

Kroeger's smile faded as the words sank in. "You know, now that I'm the most powerful being on the planet, I think I'll start a zero-tolerance policy for critics. You're dead."

"Oh, but I only believe in constructive criticism. And there's only one tip that could possibly make your music better - stop making it. Do the world a favour, asshole."

Snarling in rage, Kroeger leapt to the attack. Telekinesis wouldn't be satisfying enough; he wanted to physically rip this punk apart.

Oscar leapt forward as well, taking his opponent by surprise. Just as Kroeger's arms closed around him, he focused every ounce of his energy into a pinpoint punch right to the singer's throat.

A wave of energy radiated out from the point of impact and Kroeger released him, staggering away and clutching his neck. He stared wild-eyed at Oscar, his lips moving soundlessly. Finally, his voice emerged as a high-pitched squawk. "What have you done? My voice! My beautiful voice!"

"Don't worry. You can always audition for the Chipmunks."

Kroeger's eyes blazed with hatred. "You haven't seen the last of me," he squeaked, before launching off the stage and disappearing into the darkness.

Clinton walked unsteadily over to Oscar and slapped him on the back. "Well done, boy. Now, we gotta do something about these poor people." He gestured at the crowd, still standing in a zombie-like trance.

"What can we do?"

"Son, they need a funk injection. I'm too winded to give it to 'em, so it's up to you."

"Me? But I can't sing!"

"Boy, all powerpeople can sing. And these Nickelback leftovers can back you up."

Oscar thought. "Um. How about if I do Give Up the Funk?"

Clinton grinned. "Son, you read my mind. Hit it."