WELCOME TO HAUSER TOWN
ONLY THE WORTHY ARE WELCOME
To protect the indigenous wildlife, a tall fence ran the whole perimeter of East Randomtown Park.
VGRF pulled our ride to the front gate.
It was manned by a pack of gun toting local yokels.
There was George the Barber, who’d made his living providing men’s regular cuts for forty years. He was packing a pretty
The DiStefano Brothers – a pair of gun toting hoodlums even when East Randomtown wasn’t zombified
fierce looking shotgun.
The DiStefano Brothers, Carl and Billy, each carried a machete in one hand and a handgun in the other.
“Halt,” George said, shining a light into our car. “Who dares enter Fort Hauser?”
“It’s me George,” I said. “BQB. You’ve been my damn barber since I was a kid.”
“That gets you no special treatment here, nerd!” George replied. “State your business!”
“State my business?” I asked. “My friends and I want to come in and not get eaten by zombies!”
“Hold please,” George said.
The barber pulled out a walkie talkie and mumbled into it. A few seconds later, the voice on the other end clearly stated, “Send them in.”
Carl rolled the gate open.
“Proceed directly to the Rec Center,” George said. “Don’t dilly dally. Mayor Hauser is expecting you.”
“MAYOR Hauser?” I asked.
“Don’t make me repeat myself, poindexter,” George said.
We did as we were told. When we reached the rec center, we hopped out of the truck and found ourselves face to face with the infamous statue in question.
It was actually two statues set on one base. Both cast in bronze, the one on the left was of a young, chubby cheeked Doug Hauser doubled over, a pained expression on his face as the statue on the right, that of a young Don Johnson, delivered a punch to Hauser’s stomach.
On the base, a plaque read:
In Honor of Douglas Adams Houser
Thirty seconds getting the snot beaten out of you on the greatest crime drama of the 1980’s brought an infinite amount of glory to East Randomtown.
Duct taped to the side of Doug’s head was a red piece of paper that read:
OFFICIAL DECREE
This monument is to be destroyed immediately and replaced with a sculpture of Bookshelf Q. Battler.
Plaque to read, “In honor of Bookshelf Q. Battler, the East Randomtown resident whose ingenuity brought the eyes of 3.5 readers to his hallowed website.”
Signed,
Mayor Philbert T. Bramble
“We need to leave,” VGRF said. “This guy is going to shoot you in the head as soon as he sees you.”
“VGRF,” I said. “I’ve met him before. He came to my elementary school once and told us all about how Don Johnson left him pissing blood for a month. Sure, that probably wasn’t the best story for a bunch of little kids to hear, but still. Doug Hauser is East Randomtown’s favorite son. I don’t care what Bramble’s stupid decree says.”
I knocked on the glass door.
Doug’s voice came over the intercom.
“One moment. I’m coming.”
A minute later, the door opened and Doug walked out to greet us. He wore a dirty white undershirt, a pair of jeans and had a gun secured in a holster on his hip. He was in his early sixties, but despite a few wrinkles, a few extra pounds, and a receding hair line, he looked just like his statue.
He took one look at me, grinned, and gave me a big hug.
“Bookshelf Q. Battler. Thank God you found us.”
“Good to see you, Doug,” I said. “This is…”
“I know,” Doug said. “We’ve got a generator going and one of my guys rigged up a Wi-Fi hotspot. I’ve been monitoring your survivor’s journal. A pleasure to meet you, Video Game Rack Fighter. Bernie. Blandie. And this must be…”
Doug squatted down and gave Alien Jones the old once over. AJ was still in his incognito hipster disguise.
“Are you for real?” Doug asked.
“Are you?” Alien Jones replied.
“If it’s all the same,” I said. “We try to keep him on the down low. Sure, I talk about him on the blog but no one ever believes any of my posts are for real. If we could just tell everyone he’s my deformed kid with ADD, I’d appreciate it.”
“Of course,” Doug said. “Please, entre vous. Mi casa es su casa.”
At this point, Attorney Donnelly, Official Legal Counsel for the Bookshelf Battle Blog, advises me to state that at no time did Mr. Don Johnson, one of the greatest thespians in the history of the stage and/or screen, ever make Doug Hauser piss blood, nor did he beat him up or injure him in anyway. Any reference to Mr. Johnson and/or Miami Vice are purely for fictional and parody purposes only.
Bookshelf Battle 