Paper Towel Magnate

Mant Delorean sits in his spacious office, reading the Wall Street Journal. He is a burly tree-trunk of a man, standing six-foot-seven with a chest as round as a barrel. Strawberry milk drips from his bushy mustache, forming a tiny puddle on the surface of his massive elephant's-ear desk. Without taking his eyes off the paper, Delorean wipes his 'stache with a paper towel, and then towels up the puddles. Suddenly Delorean looks shocked; something he's seen in the paper has alarmed him. He lays the paper down on the desk, stares ahead ominously, and then closes his eye.

It's Saigon, 1936, and the Mongol Viet-Klan are threatening the Palace of Incorrect Dreams. Delorean and his faithful man-servant Wetherbee are watching the Superbowl in the Imperator's personal water closet. The Des Moines Myrmidons have just taken a 13 stroke lead over the Kinston In-Laws. The mood is so tense that Wetherbee can barely keep his tires from rotating.

Suddenly the Imperator's oafish daughter Unitil crashes stomach-first through the holo-converter. The signal is disrupted, the gamefeed lost, and the Superbowl becomes a mystery to Delorean and Wetherbee. Unitil struggles to pull herself upright while stammering about the Mongols. Mant Delorean cuts her off mid-sentence, and pledges to supply his friend and patron the Imperator with whatever amount of sickening violence necessary to stave off Jefferson Davis Khan and his rampaging mob of blood-starved Mongols. Delorean grabs his trusty catapault and charges out of the water closet, towards the frontline of the epic battle. Wetherbee recalls his reconnaissance module and waits for its return. Unitil asks him to braid her knee-hair.

Meanwhile Mant Delorean places his catapault at the center of the Palace's balustrade. He loads it up with maple syrup and aims it at the nearest Mongol. Although it should have been a direct hit the syrup somehow misses the Mongol by the slimmest of fractions! Delorean remembers that the Mongols possess the secret of deliberate fuzziness, and that they don't actually exist in any single spot at any given time, thus aiming at them is entirely useless and impossible. Delorean stops and solemnly intones a spell of general aimlessness upon his catapault and the sacred maple syrup that makes its most effective weapon, and then lets fly again with load after load. Direct hit after hit! The spell of aimlessness works, and the sticky syrup oozes throughout the ravenous horde.

Battles are not won with syrup alone, however. Delorean sets the catapault to auto-fire and swings down the tentacle-pole to join the Imperator and his finest frighting force on the plateau below. The 579th Frighting Fusiliers are the last of that mighty rank to still stand; as the Imperator's personal guardians since his ascent to the stone in epochs past, the Frightin' 579 has become the most storied legion in the Free Belgian East Vietnam. Their fear guns and scaramilitary training have prevented many a costly battle. Even they, though, are struggling against the Mongol Viet-Klan. Gradually, one by one, their number decreases, as the Mongol parabola closes in tighter upon the Palace of Incorrect Dreams.

The Imperator does not depend solely on the heroics of others, howsoever. With his frogurt-blade the ancient morelord can convert the most crazed of foes into a cup of delicious, sentient frozen yogurt. Countless are the villains who have perished between the lips of the Imperator's beautiful wife-mother Trixie. With his scimitar in hand, his back against his loyal captain of the guard, and his mind assuaged by the presence of the redoubtable mercenary Mant Delorean, the Imperator remains confident despite the seemingly overwhelming odds.

Almost immediately upon leaping into the fray, Delorean has helped turn this battle's tide. His subhuman fury enables him to tear through dozens of enemies at a time. Within minutes the almost failed defense has turned into an outright rout, as the Viet-Klan begin to flee back over the Intratemperance Valley towards their own domain. Mant Delorean gives chase after them, picking Mongols off one by one. Delorean can almost smell the musky stench of total victory as he gets ever closer to Davis Khan. His charging form stands mere furlongs away from the Dragon Standard when suddenly a superpowerful blast of deconcentrated air, that substance most damaging to the form and physique of the almost superpowerful Delorean, blasts the hero right in the back of the head. Delorean collapses into a heap on the valley floor, barely conscious. A scrum of Mongol Klansman swiftly scoop up our fallen hero and bears him aloft to the Dragon Standard.

Beneath that sinister marker of his own illimitable evil, Jefferson Davis Khan, general and President of the Mongol Viet-Klan, laughs imperiously at the crumpled form of Mant Delorean. He commands his lackeys to submerge Delorean' body in a chamber of deconcentrated air, stipulating that his head must remain above the air so that he does not die too quickly. As Delorean comes to, realizing his plight, he calls for Khan to unveil his plan, and explain how he was able to fell the mighty Delorean. Davis Khan reveals slyly how he learned about Delorean's weakness from none other than Wetherbee, Delorean's own faithful manservant. Wetherbee rolls into view, with a malevolent look upon his chrome grill. Delorean recoils in shock, and horror.

What will happen next to the intergalactic bounty hunter and man of virtue Mant Delorean? Did his faithful metallic manservant Wetherbee really double-cross him? What fiendish designs darken the mind of the evil Jefferson Davis Khan? Keep watching this website for these answers and more!