Smith & Jones

The Final Season

Episode 1

Yer 'Merican Now 

Part 1

The Sunblacker

The portal—because this is sci-fi, bitches; that's what "holes" are called here—opened up right in the middle of the astronomically busy Sol City Spaceport's interstellar-boarding area.

"C'lossal fuck-up," Kris said, stepping out into the spaceport wearing nothing but her smoking-hot booty shorts, tube top and platform shoes. Men stared. Women felt things. Children continued to amuse themselves with keys, detergent pods, and extremely small coloured pebbles.

"We were meant t' land 'n the big man's office," she continued. "So how'n fuck's firecrotch did this happen? Goodstone ain't gonna be happy 'bout this..."

"Tell me about it," Smith & Jones said, their British tones playing off each other like a classic Beatles toe-tapper. When they walked out of the portal, they didn't come out as two people; no, they came out as one person with two necks and, naturally, two heads.

The Jones head frowned, looking down at the grey pinstripe vest and grey pinstripe pantaloons. "These are my garments, but I'm afraid this body isn't. Oh, I've never felt so gassy."

"Watch your tongue, mate," said the Smith head, except he suddenly wasn't British anymore. He pronounced his Rs hard, and "mate" with his Yankee-doodle accent sounded about as natural as a wormhole made from actual worm. "What happened to my voice? My beautiful downtown-Abbey voice? That's a British locale, right?" Tears streaming down his stubbled cheeks, the Smith head looked to Kris. "Why can't I remember anything British, Kris! Who am I?"

She responded with a backhand, which had the intended effect of causing the whole Smith-Jones organism to topple sideways, comically plonking Jones' head into Smith's as the body crumpled to the floor.

"Ow!" they both said, as travellers stepped on them.

Kris stood over Smith & Jones, brandishing some kind of glowing, see-through pistol, striking fear into the hearts of everyone in the spaceport. "Smith, yer 'Merican now. Those're the rules. Git used to it, assclown. Jonesy, yer still a Brit, though, so keep on Brittin'."

"Jolly good," Jones said, sinking his bad teeth into a bit of spotted dick whilst licking kidney-pie particles from the dainty, translucent fingers of his other pudgy hand.

"If only guns could solve this goddamn fucking problem!" Smith pulled his trigger fingers at nothing but air, swearing under his breath and praising Jesus.

Helping Smith & Jones up, Kris put her gun away and glanced around the spaceport. Something was amiss, off—glitchy. It wasn't just Smith & Jones—the entire structure displayed abnormalities, from the way the walls seemed to bulge in random places, to the bathrooms being divided by gender—hell, even the writing style and pacing of the story itself.

"This shit ain't right," she said.

"Yeah," Smith replied. "Jonesy and I are sharing a pair of nuts. Mine. Why is that, Kris?"

"Naw, that's fucked-up but has a certain logic to it, if you think about it. This don't." She pointed at the nearby digital display, which showed a map of the spaceport.

Or it was meant to. For some strange reason the map actually showed a flickering diagram of the New York City subway system.

"NYC? My brother's hometown?" Jones asked, blurting out the words before he knew he was saying them. He blinked slowly. "Brother? Pshaw! I don't have a brother! This is all giving me a headpain."

"Glitches," Kris said, grabbing Smith & Jones by the tie. "Don't ya two butt-brothers git it? The multiverses're gittin' corrupted. 'S'why you two're sharin' a body! 'S'why the map shows New York! In this glitchy-ass m'verse, ya've gotta brother, Jonesy. In New York! It's all glitchin' out." Kris sighed, her ample bosom heaving to and fro. "Sheeyit, I wish H'ver were 'round fer this. Or even Boogaloo, the horny lil' bastard. They'd know what's what."

She sighed and then stopped.

"Say," Kris said, "you boys wuddn't happen t' have a cube 'n yer pocket, wouldya?"

It was like Smith had been triggered. His head spun around and around, five times, six, then stopped. His eyes were white and glassy, fluttering somewhere beyond his lids. He gasped for air, eyes still white, and the whole time Jones stared aghast at his best friend and now–Sharer of the Same Body.

Then Smith's eyes rolled back down and he said, "I always carry a spare power cube. Just in case. Emergencies." He reached into the pocket on his side of the shared body and removed a flashing, flickering, fragmented framework of energy and ideas. It looked like a floppy disk, except it glowed and hovered and its code was always visible.

Kris grabbed the power cube and smashed it against her tanned, muscular thigh.

The world flickered.

Smith & Jones stood in the spaceport in their two separate bodies. They high-fived one another and hugged until people started to complain. And then people stopped complaining. Not because they were good people who just wanted two people to be happy, no. But because of the city-sized ship crawling across that vast expanse of space outside. Weirder still was the Statue of Liberty jutting out the ship's rear end.

And it was all headed for the Sun.

***

They took the Evilstar, owned by Dr. Evilstien Goodstone—apparently their boss and the Director of International Incorporated, a multiverses-wide megacorporation dedicated to eradicating glitches big or small (but mostly the big ones).

Evilstien was tall, thin, had yellow teeth, wore thick black glasses, and liked to laugh a lot, which he did for no apparent reason as he piloted the craft towards the behemoth ship headed to the Sun. He also had the habit of lightly spanking Smith on the buttcheeks as he passed him, which, given the unique, cramped E-shaped design of the ship, was often.

Jones didn't particularly appreciate the gestures. It was uncouth, and Smith was too polite to tell him off. But that part of their lives was in the past— Wait. What part of their lives? Jones could barely remember his life before the portal. How long had they been working the Loop, anyway? Taking out glitches for something close to thirty-odd years now, he would say.

Looking around the ship, Jones felt an odd but unmistakable sense that this was not their true existence. There was more out there, somewhere, somewhen, and one day he and Smith and Kris—and possibly even Evilstien, the weird bastard—would find out how to get there.

"Entering warp phase now, ehehehehehehahaha," Evilstien said, flicking switches, pressing buttons and spanking one pair of buttcheeks in particular. "The Sunblacker isn't escaping this time! Ehaha."

The E-shaped ship rumbled and shook. Stars rushed past the windscreen. The Sunblacker was both the name of the massive ship and of the egomaniac who controlled it. According to Evilstien, The Sunblacker had originally gone by the name "Rick" before disappearing for a couple years. He'd come back to light with a spooky viral video, a fancy new self-appointed nickname, and of course a publically available manifesto.

Enter the Sunblacker. One mission: Blot out the Sun. Why?

"He thinks it will bring his friends back," Evilstien said, snorting and rolling his eyes uncontrollably.

"What a tool," said Kris. "We're gittin' real close. Can ya dock us right up to the cockpit on that thing?"

"I can dock you in any cockpit you like, ehehehehehehmhm." Evilstien flipped more buttons and jerked the steering wheel ever so slightly, causing the Evilstar to launch out of warp phase at an angle, slingshotting towards the cockpit at the front of the ship.

They could see streets and cars and buildings and people along the ship's hull, unaware of where they were headed and why. Obviously had some type of simulated gravity in place. Too bad, so sad. They'd given up their lives to follow the Sunblacker and his dumb-shit dogma.

The Evilstar landed on the Sunblacker's cockpit as they neared the Sun itself. It was a great red-yellow inferno blazing away, doing all kinds of fiery stuff. The ship's windows went on a dimmer.

Rick stood inside the cockpit of his massive ship, mouth agape like he was ready to suck on something sweet, maybe a sucker. He wore long black robes adorned with hand-stitched flowers and rainbows. He had black hair with the always-stylish blond tips.

Kris was the first one out. She didn't even wear a spacesuit, exiting the Evilstar and entering the Sunblacker by blasting through the windshields of each.

"Nice hair," she told Rick, pointing her pistol in his face. "You'll look good as a redhead."

Rick sneered, then he snivelled, then he sniffed, and finally he sneezed. Then he said, "I sucked cock for you! I mean, I totes would have done it anyway, but y'know, the guy was pretty primitive. His thing smelled like vinegar."

"Wow, ya did?" She looked at Smith & Jones. "Do y'all remember that?"

They shook their heads.

"Huh. What a pickle we're in, Ricky boy." Kris paced left and right, waving the gun wildly. Rick the prick was defenceless. "Ya say we're best friends—"

"We are. We, like, go way back!"

"None o' us remember ya!" She aimed the gun at him.

His eye flickered.

"Kris!" Evilstien shouted from the Evilstar. "No! Ehahahahahahmm!"

She pulled the trigger.

Part 2

The Smith & Jones Show

Cenobite Jack panned his camera-eye left and right, showing the viewers the majestic gold-pink-orange sunset visible on both sides of the SS Shithawk, the biggest ship to ever plow through the disgusting, garbage- and corpse-strewn English Channel.

Following the end of Hellraiser III: Hell on Earth, Jack hadn't the slightest inkling where his life was going next. Aimlessly, he'd worked a number of dead-end jobs: paperboy (except he was forty years shy of being a boy), milkman (except people seemed to think he was a pervert), pervert (except business was rather limited, since people with a camera-eye fetish were rather hard to come by), and he'd even served as the mayor of a small town in Canada for a few years. He'd been ousted after a scandal involving lens cleaner, a tube of super-glue and his scabby, erect penis.

And then he'd signed on with The Smith & Jones Show crew, who—after suffering a series of mass-quittings by people no longer "into" filming—were in dire need of cameramen who could make operating a camera their sole aim in life. Cenobite Jack, with a camera built into his head operated by his optic nerves and brain, was uniquely qualified. He'd been with them ever since.

People seemed to think demons from Hell were all evil, were all bad guys. But Cenobite Jack was actually quite sensitive. When he wasn't filming with the boys, he could be found fingerpainting with the blood of virgins—just kidding. He used environmentally friendly acrylic paints and he liked to fingerpaint tormented landscapes to remind him of home. He donated to animal-rescue charities, and had even just recently turned down a job to pretend to be an evil, violent left-wing protester at one of President Donald Trump's rallies. When he'd seen some of his fellow out-of-work Cenobites flaying a racist hick with bad teeth and an addiction to crystal meth, he'd cringed, turned off the TV and wept for five solid minutes.

Sighing, Cenobite Jack turned the camera back onto Smith & Jones.

Smith was sitting in one chair on the ship's prow. Jones sat in Smith's lap, in yet another attempt at cutting production costs—or, more accurately, in yet another attempt at keeping Jones' paycheque fatter than it had any business being. To their left were two other chairs, empty and waiting to receive the pair of asses belonging to this episode's guests.

"Good evening, folks," Smith said, smiling a bit too much than was comfortable. "Today we've got two actors from MadMikeMarsbergen's works joining us. You may better know MadMike by his former name, PhonerionBallznevsky." He giggled when the teleprompter told him to do so. "But that's just a mouthful."

Jones slapped him across the cheek. "You know what else is a mouthful, you slimy little bag of shit? My dong playing tonsil hockey with the back of your throat!"

Smith's lower lip quivered and he looked about ready to cry. "Wh— What? Jones? Why?"

Covering his mouth with one hand, Jones whispered, "I'm only kidding, Smithy. It's a new style I'm trying out. You can play the nice one and I'll play the mean one. It'll be fun. Maybe our ratings will go up. I hear we're even in the running to get a Watty this year! That and a buck could get us a piss-flavoured snowcone!"

"Well, okay—" Smith reeled as Jones backhanded him.

"That's what your sister said last night, when I was doin' your mom!"

There was an awkward moment of silence where neither knew what to do next.

"Continue," Jones said, nodding encouragingly.

"Umm, okay... As I was saying," Smith continued, "joining us are— Hey, ow!"

Jones had Smith by the ears, tugging on them until they looked about ready to rip off.

"Cut! Cut!" shout Kris, director of The Smith & Jones Show, from behind Cenobite Jack. "Jones, ditch the shitty character and just be yourself, or I won't let you blow it on my face anymore."

Lighting up a cigarette dipped in piss—Jones' signature blend—Jones shrugged and puffed away. At least he'd gotten in a little abuse of his co-star before being told off. Though they seemed buddy-buddy on their other, more successful show—Smith & Jones: Across the Genre-Verse—in reality the two rarely if ever got along. When Christmas came, neither sent cards to the other. When Smith had his seventh wife cheat on him, divorce him and walk away with half his money, Jones had been the one banging and coaching her (like all the others). The good relations of their characters on Genre-Verse was a testament to their spot-on acting. After all, both had been classically trained in Shakespearean theatre.

"Bring in the guests already!" Kris shouted offstage to H'ver and Boogaloo, the show's two fluffers. She turned back to the titular duo. "Smith, get that snivelling look off your face, or I won't let you put it up my ass anymore."

Smith, with something worth fighting for now on the line, turned his frown upside-down. "Righty-oh!"

"And both of you better get along," she said, "or I won't let you two tag-team shag me and slap your hands together over my head anymore."

Smith & Jones shared a unifying look, one that said cooperation—despite any bad blood between the two—was now essential.

H'ver rolled and Boogaloo pranced across the ship's deck. The two guests following them were the actors who portrayed Atom, from Atom Is an Alien, and Mike Mars, from To Live and Die for T.K.

"Ready?" Kris shouted. When she saw everyone nod, she screamed: "ACTION!"

"With us today are Atom and Levi Yehuda Stienstein, who you might remember from two of MadMikeMarsbergen's more comedic works, Atom Is an Alien and To Live and Die for T.K., respectively." Smith looked to the pair sitting in the two chairs.

In one chair: what looked to be an olive-green sausage-shaped thing, like a turd shat from a Canada goose, but without the grass. It didn't have a visible mouth or eyes.

In the other chair: a respectable-looking fellow wearing a tuxedo, his slicked-back hair making him look like someone who might've been wealthy in the '80s, before the cocaine habit ate away at his money and nose.

"Let's get right into it," Jones said, tamping out his cigarette in the ashtray beside the chair he shared with Smith. "Are you two fucking each other? You look like you're fucking each other."

"Yeah, we are pretty gay for each other," Atom admitted in his dry, nasally voice.

"We've actually been dating for about—" Levi looked at Atom. "—four, five years now, Atom, honey?"

"Getting close to five, baby-bell."

Jones was speechless. He'd simply been making a vulgar joke in an attempt at cutting the tension, as he was wont to do. "How do you... y'know... do it?"

"He greases me up and shoves me up his ass," Atom said. "It's a mutually pleasurable experience."

"That's right," Levi said, stroking Atom.

"Ooooh... You're turnin' me on, babe. Can you fit me up there without anyone seeing?"

"Moving on," Smith said quickly, eyeing the teleprompter. "What was it like working with MadMikeMarsbergen? Is he as funny in real life?"

"No. He made zero jokes as far as I could tell. One or two of his comments might've been intended to be funny, but the delivery flat-out sucked so I didn't laugh. Didn't want to encourage him."

"He killed me off in the prologue," Levi lamented. "But it was great fun being a drugged-up, womanizing psychotic."

"Levi, I notice you speak with an English accent," Smith said. "How did you learn the Canadian accent you used in To Live and Die for T.K.?"

"I lived with MadMikeMarsbergen for a short period of time, tried to mimic his speech and such. Lots of people think Mike Mars is based on MadMikeMarsbergen himself, but the character is actually nothing like him."

"Atom, do you stay in contact with the actors who played Pat and James, or even Damien?"

"No. I'm pretty sure Damien murdered them both with a rusty pickaxe and then jumped in front of a bus. I never liked any of them, anyway. They bullied me and shoved me up their asses. It wasn't a mutually pleasurable experience"

"That's... tragic. Did you really go back to your home planet at the end of Atom Is an Alien?"

"Nope. Wasn't in the budget. That part when you see my ship flying off— It was actually a baseball we spray-painted silver-green and some guy on the crew who used to pitch in the minors whipped it into the air. I'm not too concerned about going back home, anyway. I've got Levi now."

Levi bent over and kissed Atom. "You're sweet, Atom."

"You're sweeter, honey-pot."

***

"Nice work today," Kris said to Smith & Jones. They were sitting inside some dirty English pub, getting wicked-drunk so they could be nicely hungover for tomorrow's episode of Smith & Jones: Across the Genre-Verse. It was the only way to deal with this bullshit. This grind. This endless monotony. The hell that was their life now.

H'ver was out collecting donations for his phony Mormon charity. He wanted to save up enough cash to buy himself a female "Housewife's Dream."

Boogaloo was whoring himself out to lonely strangers, trying failingly to solve a deep-seated psychological problem without scrounging up the cash to pay a psychologist.

Cenobite Jack was sitting in his motel room, staring down the barrel of a gun, telling himself tonight would be the night to end all nights.

"You two worked well for a change," Kris said. "Was almost like you both were acting in a Genre-Verse episode."

"There was a lot on the line," said Smith.

"Those three-ways are the best part of my day," said Jones.

"Maybe tonight we won't use condoms," she told them, hating herself as the words came tumbling out of her alcohol-stinking mouth.

Kris fell off the barstool, picked herself up and shrugged away any attempts at consolation. She stumbled out into the cold, wet London night. A hard rain blistered her face. Her two men followed behind her like dogs, trailing in her direction, as they always did. Maybe one day she'd get married and have kids. Yeah, right. Maybe one day she'd give her dad a call and tell him she loved him, that she wasn't mad at him anymore for beating her and Mom when they were all younger. Now that Mom was dead, Dad was all she had left in the way of family. Maybe one day she'd work up the nerve to write that script she had sitting in her brain; direct it, too. Do something in her life she could be proud of. Maybe one day.

Maybe.