Chapter 14

“Damn,” said Wolverine, emerging from Spiderman’s bathroom, “that was a good orgasm!”
“Oh, Wolverine! When will you ever learn?” laughed Spiderman. “So, are we gonna track down Mr. Crazy or what?”
“Yeah, we really should get right on that…why don’t you call up Nigger Jim and see if he’s heard anything?” suggested Wolverine.
“Sounds like a plan!” With that, Spiderman reached over and grab his famous Spiderman-shaped phone. As he was about to dial up Jim, he hesitated, staring at the phone blankly.
“Is something wrong?” asked Wolverine.
“Well…it’s just, I was thinking that…the last person I called on this phone was…Jerry.”
“Jerry Seinfeld?”
“Yes.”
“Spiderman, I know it’s hard to be you right now…but stay strong, man, stay strong.”
“Well…okay.” Spiderman heaved a deep sigh, and dialed up Nigger Jim, mumbling the numbers he pressed as he did so. “6, 4, 4, 4, 3, 7…9……it’s ringing!”
“Hellewwwww?” said the voice of Jim on the other end of the line.
“NJ! It’s Spiderman, whattup broham?”
“Why, howdy, massa Spiderman! I jes’ be sweepin’ up mah shack, and yousself?”
“Oh, I’m eating a sandwich.”
“Glory be!” exclaimed Nigger Jim. “Get down witcho bad selfis. Well I say, well I say, anyways, Spidermans…I, uh, I reckon I dun heard about yo pals Jerry thurr…condoleeasinces, suh.”
“Yeah…thanks, thanks. I’ve been taking it pretty hard, but I’m hangin’ in there.”
“Well dats good to heeya…I reckon iz jes’ as impotient ta remembas dat we’sa all gonna die one these days.”
“Yes, death is inevitable…it’s just…I mean, don't you sometimes wish that you could just get cybernetic implants to make you invincible so that you could live forever?”
“Dat's fo sho; Nigga Jim bees thinkins 'bout dat shit alllll da time. Sometime dat dun gone make him heap big depress an' shit. But he be knowin' dat da only ways dat one gonna bees dealin' wit' deat' in a healthable way, yo, it bees comins ta gripsa wit da inventizzlazippities of its. An' dat, shit, when Jim realizezes dat, he be feelin' hellafied betta-style o whateva.”
“Those are powerful words, Jim, but I must admit…there’s only one thing that would make me, and remember that we're talking about me, feel better right now.”
“And dat bees ruh-lizizazizin' yos dream of catchin' da notoriest Mista Cuh-rayzay?”
“Exactly.”
“Well I say, well I say, suh, today you’sa luckiern’a thanna ol’ scat cat! I reckon I jes’ mighta hearda 'bout summa sorta shady dealinses down at the oooool’ blimp boneyard.”
”The place where they put all the worn-out and decommissioned blimps?”
“Yes’m, I reckonsizza that bees da ones.”
“Hey, cool, thanks for the tip, Nigger Jim…and Jim…thanks for listening, man.”
“Well, it beez my pleaxuxa, suh.”
“Okay, gotta go…have a cool day!”
“Word.” And with that, the phone conversation had ended. Spiderman leaned back into his famous Spiderman-brand lawn chair and began to meditate on the phenomenon of death.
“Don’t we all die a little each time we hang up the phone?” he thought to himself, “Where do the words go, when there isn’t a face to hear them? Why must everything die? Is death really the end? Do people who die come back as babies?” His mind raced with musings on the astounding mysteries of the sweet hereafter.
“Um…so what did he say?” asked Wolverine after a long, awkward silence.
“Oh, Nigger Jim? Nothing much…” replied Spiderman dreamily, “The more I think about it, the more I wonder…did he really say anything at all? Did he say everything? These are the questions which torment every aspect of my tortured existence.”
“I know what you mean,” cajoled Wolverine. “Do you ever wonder why there are so many questions, but so few answers? It’s like, if there is a God, what if he’s a jerk? What if God isn’t the Mozart of the universe…what if he’s, like, the Milli Vanilli of the universe?”
“There’s only one Milli Vanilli around here…and it’s Ashlee Simpson!” sassed Spiderman.
“Oh, snap! I don't know who that is, but the tone of voice you used when you said that sure doesn't make them seem very great!” exclaimed Wolverine. After a few more minutes of polite conversation, the guys decided to head on over to the blimp boneyard amd see what was up.
“Okay here we are at the blimp boneyard,” whispered Spiderman, “I don’t see much except for a bunch of old blimps.”
“But old blimps have lots of old secrets,” noted Wolverine.
“Good point. Keep your eyes peeled for anything suspicious…and stay alert, I’ve got a spider-hunch that if there’s any trouble brewing, Mr. Crazy has something to do with it.”
“Fucking Mr. Crazy…if I ever see that bub again, you can bet he’ll be sucking on these,” growled Wolverine, shooting his claws out of his arm and into the crisp, morning air.
“Yeah, well we’ll worry about chopping up his head when we find him. For now you just keep those blades at the ready, and also, since you’ve got super smelling ability, use that,” said Spiderman.
“Good idea.” Logan - that’s Wolverine - paused to sniff the around in the air and he was like, “Smells like somebody's up to no good. Also, it smells like…Goodwill?”
“Damn, I knew it. Mr. Crazy must be here somewhere.” The superheroes began to run around frantically, kicking over old blimp parts in a desperate attempt to find any sign of Mr. Crazy. They wore themselves out really quickly by doing that and had to take a breather and so they sat down on big piece of metal and started to pass a flask back and forth.
“Man, Mr. Crazy might not be such a bad guy,” gasped Spiderman, panting for breath, “Maybe it’s possible that the power of the jacket simply drove him mad.”
“No way,” said Wolverine, fanning himself off with a scrap of pressed tin. “I think that Mr. Crazy is a mutant, and the jacket is just an extension of his mutant energy.”
“Oh, you think everybody’s a mutant!” sassed Spiderman.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Wolverine, “Whatever. The point is…Jerry Seinfeld is dead, and somebody has to pay. And it’s not gonna be federal government.”
“Good point, my friend,” responded Spiderman. “Damn, I wish Charles Johnson was here.” The moment these words left Spiderman’s lips, a flash of blinding light appeared, and with it came a wacky fat man in a beige suit. Also, he had a green moustache and short blonde hair and glasses. “What the fuck?” exclaimed Spiderman.
“Oh, hello, Spiderman and Wolverine!”
“Who the fuck are you?” asked Wolverine.
“Why…I’m Charles Johnson! Did you not wish for me?”
“He’s not Charles Johnson…I’m sure of it,” asserted Spiderman.
“I assure you in the opposite direction: it really is me! You see…oh, I don’t have time to explain, boys! You’re in great peril and you need my help!”
“I think…I believe him,” moaned Wolverine, letting his claws slide back into his arms.
“What? Why should we trust this lying sack of crap?” yelled Spiderman.
“Because…it’s his eyes…they’re just like…Chuck, is that really you?” asked Wolverine, his voice full of wonderment.
“Yes! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! Now follow me; we haven’t a moment to lose!”