Lost episode 118 of The Brady Bunch?

[Badfellow]

The episode opens as usual with still footage of the Brady house, except this time the camera pans down the block toward the leering headlamps of a Chrysler station wagon swerving into mail boxes and garbage cans. A drunk and disheveled Greg Brady screeches into the driveway and inadvertently runs over Cindy's Polly Pissy-Pants doll. His locks are a mess, he has mistakenly ingested bath salts, and there's forensic evidence all over his Arrow Casual button-up shirt.

“Fuck, dad! She's dead! I killed her! Vote Nixon! She's dead! I didn't mean it, dad!”

The patriarch Micheal Brady calmly steps forth from the patio door into the driveway and back-hands his stepson across his snotty mouth.

“Have I taught you nothing?!” hisses the patriarch. “Do you want the neighbors to HEAR?!!!”

Micheal Brady pummels his drunken son Greg six ways from next Friday night while Jan watches from the shadows of the upstairs bedroom window, plotting her father's poison and that of the vapidly-heated, cheerleader slut sister asleep at her shoulder.

"Oliver is the devil!" screams Greg. "Oliver is the devil!"

Micheal Brady administers a company sedative. There is no room for error.

[Palinka (RIP)]

I might have bothered to watch that one.

[Badfellow]

Alice, all those lonely nights spent in face cream and watching TV, all those years of her life wasted waiting for Brady to slip. She had been someone once, top of her class at Lubyanka. She was sixteen when she killed a wolf with her bare hands while on a survival exercise in the Urals. She was allowed to train with the Spetsnaz, only the third female ever to earn the honor and was even made an instructor at the GRU academy by order of the Commissar-General before her deployment to the dark heart of the capitalist disease.

At 0300 every night, after the children were fast asleep, she would tune into a shortwave numbers station broadcasting from Cuba to receive her latest directives. TAKE NO ACTION, KEEP BRADY CLOSE became so repetitive a message that it droned at her in the dim, distant compartment of her dreams. She kept a silenced Makarov inside her pillow, and the secret hollow under the dresser contained the disassembled components of a sniper rifle as well as plastic explosives and a small device the size of a pen designed to fire 4.2mm poisonous pellets from a limited distance. Alice was ready.

Just waiting for Brady to slip.

Then the assignment would be complete and she could return to the Motherland.

There would be no more servitude to the elitist children with their sniveling, materialist dramas, the older ones already fully corrupted by pig-dog orgies of drugs and perverse carnal practices. There would be no more hell on earth California, no more nights of taking it rough from her handler Sam who was embedded deep cover at the butcher shop and sometimes delivered coded microfiche in the porkchops.

"My name is Alexa," she says to her own spectre image in the mirror. "My name is Alexa."

And so Alice waits.

[mistah willies]

"My name is Alexa," she says to her own spectre image in the mirror. "My name is Alexa."

And so Alice waits.

Fucking lost it reading this!


Hollywood, take note: This is the new wave. Wait, I mean, fuck Hollywood.


Punk bastard






Amen

[Patchez]

MDM Productions?

[Badfellow]

All copies of Episode 119 “The Trouble with Jan” were thought to be confiscated and destroyed by the “Tabla Rasa” branch of the Federal Communications Commission. However, a retro-archival copy of a relatively undamaged Panaflex film reel was recently discovered at a garage sale in Bent Penis, Kentucky and was transferred to digital format by unnamed parties.

Jan had always kept a soft spot in her heart for animals, strays, those who were somehow injured. When she was eight, she nursed a robin with a broken wing back to health only to watch it be slaughtered by the neighbors tabby upon release. Then it was stray kitties, puppies covered with mange and dumpster juice. Occasionally she brought home animals that has already perished. Roadkill. Jan was not a naive girl. But there was something just not quite right that was the trouble with Jan. “A few bricks short of a load,” was the analogy her therapist had used.

It was a balmy June evening, and minutes before her curfew Jan arrived back home where her freak-of-a-stepfather sat reading the paper in his chair while upstairs her mother attended to the injuries of yet another unreported domestic flogging.

“Who's this, Jan?”

“Oh, hey dad! This is Charlie, my new boyfriend. Isn't he just groovy? Where's Marsha? Just wait until she gets a load.”

“What's crackin, pops?” nods Charlie chewing a toothpick.

The man Jan brought home was at least in his middle twenties. Ratty jeans and a tattered denim jacket slunk from his lanky, vagabond frame. His beard was matted. His eyes were the kind of wild reserved for the pages of National Geographic, and if Micheal Brady wasn't mistaken, the gentleman had what appeared to be a swastika tattooed in crude prison ink in the center of his forehead. One of his filthy palms was cupping Jan's ass as she smiled dreamily.

“Oh, not much is 'crackin' Charlie. How about yourself?”

“Man, I dropped that blotter and you coulda swore the Jews were comin' out of the desert on dune buggies with machine guns. Now, if God is one and Jesus is two, what's that make The Beatles? And don't give me any of your antidisestablishmentarianistic jive either or I'll cut you real good, dig brother?”

Charlie had a switchblade, a cheap Tijuana tourists special with a tin edge and plastic liners. Something he wouldn't even use to clean his fingernails, thought Brady.

“Sure,” smiled Brady. “I dig alright.”

Micheal Brady already had multiple countermeasures in place for such scenarios, one of which was a suppressed Sterling submachine gun in a custom, Langley-built weapons locker concealed within his Lay-Z-Boy recliner. He elected to bypass the gun, and instead he disarmed Charlie with a simple combination of an arm-lock and a thumb jabbed authoritatively into the pressure point just below Charlie's malodorous armpit. Psycho or not, the punk folded and broke like a cheap sheet of Chinese aluminum onto the floor. He scampered out the front door hissing death threats and ranting riptitiously into the night.

“Daddy!” bawled Jan. “It's not fair! Why do you always have to ruin it with all my boyfriends!”

Micheal Brady administered yet another company sedative to one of his “children”, noting he must put in a requisition form as the stock is running low.

[mistah willies]

He scampered out the front door hissing death threats and ranting riptitiously into the night...

I think that is highly quotable.

[oettinger]

This is great stuff. Next drink is on me!

[Badfellow]

0100 hours over the Caspian Sea.

It was a standard company HALO insertion. In the moonless dark and shrieking wind, a lone man equipped with supplemental oxygen glided in free fall over the border into Kazakhstan. As the altimeter on his wrist hit precisely fifteen-hundred, he jerked the ripcord and touched down soon after undetected upon the hardpan of Soviet soil. He buried the chute in the rocks, and donning his infrared goggles he made for the barren bulge of hill country lying to the east.

“Richard Nixon has an immense penis!”

“Nikita Khrushchev also has an immense penis,” he replied.

Their identities having been established, Brady came forward from the craggy shadows to meet his bearded Kazakh contact. Mukhtar was a short, sturdy, bow-legged type dressed in traditional shepherd robes and armed with a lovingly worn Kalashnikov rifle. His eyes hinted of eastern Asia and the ghosts of khanates long deceased over the steppes. Brady handed him a pack of Marlboro filtered and they shared a smoke under cover as he changed from his jumpsuit into more appropriate garb.

“It is some days travel to the Cosmodrome,” explained Mukhtar in passable English. “We are best to go over land and avoid roads. Roads are many checkpoints.”

“You have horses?”

“Yes,” smiled Mukhtar knowingly. “Fast horses. Tonight we stay in safe place.”

“The launch is scheduled for Thursday,” reminded Brady. “We need to be there by Thursday.”

“Yes,” agreed Mukhtar gravely. “We must be moving.”

An hour later the they arrived to a walled and gated compound, or rather a series of them forming a sort of village at a place where a well had been drilled by Soviet engineers after the October Revolution. There was electricity, but most of the lighting was by lamp. Goats perambulated over the arid dirt. At the center of the settlement was a public sort of place like a teahouse, where too there was served copious doses of vile, oily Soviet vodka. The stink of the place was overbearingly masculine, smoky, ready to ignite on fumes of liquor. There were perhaps a half dozen men gathered around a table engaged illegally in a game of cards with drifts of rubles sifting back and forth between hands. They were boisterous and animated, and they were very drunk. A collection of old militsiya rifles dating from the Great Patriotic War sat propped against the nearest wall.

Brady downed a shot of acrid vodka and broke away from his contact. He thought he recognized the voice of one of them, a somewhat nasally voice made squeaky by recent adjustments to puberty, a voice that was very distinctly and very dangerously American. Brady strode to the table to confront the speaker.

“Peter?”

“Oh, hey dad. What are you doing here?”