Prioritize!

FOCUS
(The Priorities Epic)
Featuring The Biddaddy


John Methuselah Bronstein, known as Jack, was in the place. He was all up in there. He may not have mastered the Death and Dismemberment section of his life insurance policy, but he was definitely in the place.
On Friday, October 13, Jack decided to spend some time at Bunky Bedfellow’s Breakfast Nook.
Everybody was there.
Lenny “Mock” Mockowski shared a booth with his girlfriend Lana, and some mook from the Daily Herald.
Near the door, Grecian Formula Eddie had a game of solitaire going.
Waitress Twixie True ambled over to Jack’s table with purpose.
Jack could tell she was in no mood for his patented grab-ass.
So, after he ordered, Jack broke out with a 1987 model Sony Walkman personal audio cassette deal.
The tunes?
Don Henley’s greatest hits collection, Actual Miles.
But here’s a note about the Breakfast Nook.
Located adjacent to Wittgenstein Woods, the Nook had, over the years, witnessed more than one Biddaddy sighting.
The Biddaddy was dreaded by most folks.
The Biddaddy DREADED most folks.
So, naturally, he pursued somewhat anti-social hobbies.
During leisure time, Biddaddy tended to play pinball at Mock’s. Earthshaker was his favorite.
It bothered Biddaddy that it was such a hassle making the trip to Mock’s. He had to traverse Wittengenstein Woods, tunnel under the gas station, and hop over the Breakfast Nook, just to reach the door to Mock’s.
But there are sacrifices in life.
Even if your name is Biddaddy.
He grinned.
He bore it.
He bore his way through ‘gas station tunnel’ like his life depended on it.
And he whistled.
You could hear Biddaddy coming a mile away, because of the eerie freight train noise he made with his nose. It sounded like the beginning of the second movement of Sergei Prokofiev’s Sixth Symphony.
Biddaddy’s friends were few.
According to legend, the Biddaddy got himself kicked off the Special Olympics Advisory Committee, for embezzling funds with Steve-o. Locals vilified Biddaddy for ‘goofing on the developmentally challenged.’ The local Citizens’ Aciton Board subsequently printed dozens of posters, warning, “Biddaddy Is Not Special.”
The Biddaddy had few friends.
Jack was not one of them.
He didn’t scour the Daily Herald in search of stories about the Biddaddy.
He rarely hung around Mock’s for very long if Biddaddy was in town.
And on that misty morning, Biddaddy was the last thing on Jack’s mind. The Don Henley on his headphones sounded great. The Breakfast Cakes were delicious.
He noticed that Twixie the waitress was ‘making eyes’ at him.
But his mind was elsewhere.
“Maybe I should go over the facts again,” he said out loud. “If I can get Chuck Norris to un-retire, and play McClane in ‘Die Hard Five: Please Let Me Die,’ I’ll be SET. Bruce Willis is old HAT.”
“Hats OFF, Jack!” exclaimed Twixie. “Your thinking-out-loud just scared off another customer. Hats off.”
Jack grinned, “You’re a true friend, Twixie. Heh heh.”
Twixie shook her head in disbelief.
“Then again,” mused Jack. “Then again, Norris just isn’t that big an ass-kicker anymore. What happened to the ninjas? Even ‘Walker Texas RANGER’ is tougher than the eco-warrior sensitive-soul incarnation of Norris.”
Suddenly, the Biddaddy, from the tunnel, whistled.
Lights flickered.
Glass shattered.
Twixie hit the deck.
The sky turned green.
Determined to polish off his Critter Fritters, Jack tried to ignore the second, louder, whistle of the Biddaddy.
The third whistle leveled Bunky Bedfellow’s Breakfast Nook.
Surrounded by rubble, jack ripped off his headphones.
Acid rain fell.
Jack drew his .45, and shot the Walkman.
“Stupid thing played people’s ‘Dirty Laundry,’ he cursed.
Biddaddy, for his part, was still half a block away.
While Nook patrons and staff fled for cover, Jack calmly sipped a little coffee.
He sighed, “Anyway. There HAS to be a way. If I can fuse the environmentally-protective attitudes of Steven Seagal with Chuck Norris’ early shoot-first, shoot-later styled, it’ll be money in the BANK. It’ll be two great tasted in one candy bar! Heh heh. It’ll be—“
“I’M CALLIN’ YOU OUT, BRONSTEIN howled the Biddaddy in his unmistakably anachronistic voice.
Jack shrugged, “Godfrey Stonecroft. I had a hunch I hadn’t seen you for the last time.”
The Biddaddy roared, “That’s Godfrey Stonecroft BIDDADDY to YOU, peanut-head.”
Jack wasn’t scared.
But he did vacate the premises.
“Mock’s Pinball Emporium awaits,” he grinned.
He was on his way.
The master of the pragmatic sanction forgot all about Biddaddy, and he made his way to the foot of Owl Creek Hill.
Then the weird stuff started.
Frankenstein’s Monster stepped into view, smiling a disarmingly reassuring smile.
“Come on down,” said the monster. “The Doctor’s buying everyone beer. First come…first served. HA HA HA HA HA.”
Jack shouted, “You’re on, Frank!”
To Jack’s dismay, ominous black storm clouds appeared a mere ten feet above Frank’s head.
Jack thought, “Hmmm. Maybe I need to prioritize here. Is a beer with Frankenstein worth dying for? Hmmm.”
He drew his .45, and eyed the Monster suspiciously.
“Spit it out, Frank,” he said. “Who sent you?”
Frank grimaced, “It was…BIDDADDY.”
Jack wisely averted his eyes.
In those pre-9-11 days, there was a stiff penalty for those unwise enough to challenged the Biddaddy by uttering his name aloud.
Instant death.
And so, where Frank once stood, sat a pile of greenish-yellow avocado bean mush cake.
Moments later, Dr. Frankenstein HIMSELF appeared.
“Better think fast,” said Jack. “The Doc is sure to try to pin this one on me. And Hannibal Lecter fed my lawyer to the PIGS last week!”
Predictably, while Jack was thinking, Dr. Victor Frankenstein jumped out from behind a bush and took a swing at Jack.
Jack dodged a blow, and rewarded Victor with a ‘no-see-um’ uppercut.
The Doc hit the ground.
Jack said, “I should have known you were in cahoots with what’s-his-name. Now where is he, Doc?”
Doctor Frankenstein pointed toward the still-standing Sanskrit Public Library, and gasped, “He’s taken over the Adult Services wing, jack! It’s his LABORATORY now!”
Jack did a double-take.
“Excuse me, Doc,” he said, “Did you just say ‘luhBOARitoree’?”
Frankenstein smiled, “Yes! I did my homework!”
Jack growled, “Yeah, yeah. Beat it. This is no place for a surgeon.”
Frankenstein gathered up his sundry Gwen Stefani No Doubt mementos, and high-tailed it out of there.
“All right,” said Jack. “This is some pretty strange stuff. But I’m capable. I got bullets in my gun. I got BREAKFAST CAKE in my STOMACH. The hunt is on.”
And so, it was on to Sanskrit.
Able to withstand three Biddaddy Nose Blasts, Sanskrit Public Library was an architectural phenomenon.
Boasting a flying buttress exterior, and plenty of Butt Rest reclining chairs, Sanskrit was the place to be.
“’The Place To Be,’ huh?” said Jack as he studied the engraving on Sanskrit’s front door. “Well, now. I was already IN the PLACE, and now I’m in the place to BE. Go figure. Life is crazy. Neighborhood!”
Just to be obnoxious, Jack blasted away at the engraving until he ran out of bullets.
Kind of a bad move.
Elmer the Glaviano setter, guarding the library with his life, blind-sided Jack the second Jack stepped inside.
“Big mistake, jack!” barked Elmer. “Out of bullets…out of luck!”
The dog bit Jack’s ankles until Jack was screaming for his Aunt Jerthansia.
Elmer chuckled, “WOOF. I notice that, when trouble strikes, your COCKY DEMEANOR and SMART-ASS WAYS dry up. WOOF.”
Jack writhed in pain.
Elmer snarled, “My boss is WAITIN’ for ya.”
“Then let’s not stand on CEREMONY.”
“WOOF,” growled Elmer. “So much for theatrics. Time to take care of business.”
Elmer worked Jack over in businesslike fashion.
At the completion of the ass-kicking, Elmer roared, “HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT, BITCH?!”
“I don’t like it at all,” sputtered Jack. “It’s even worse than Steven Seagal’s ‘Fire Down Below.’ How could he make such a travesty? They should make Seagal chop wood in ALASKA with Sarah PALIN for the next ten years!”
In a nightmare vision Jack knew from ‘Creepy’ magazine, Elmer’s tail became a deadly silver hammer.
Raising the hammer-tail, Elmer laughed, “Bang, bang!”
Staggering under the blow, Jack groaned, “Damn silver hammer,” and passed out.


FOCUS
The Revengination


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=124omFd5ioQ
Jack Bronstein recognized the music.
Regaining consciousness, he got the impression that the piece was being performed by a pack of humanoid Glaviano setter Clones.
Or maybe he was dreaming.
But it sure sounded like Patrick Cassidy’s eerie Vide Cor Meum number from the soundtrack to Hannibal.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nuVb51MGERY
Then, Jack became aware of another voice.
It sounded vaguely familiar.
He opened his eyes.
“Here I am, Jack,” grinned Library Boss Dice Dickman.
Dice snapped his fingers.
He intoned, “Hello!”
Dice even made that ‘eyeballs gesture,’ wherein he pointed to his eyes, so as to make Jack establish eye contact.
“I HATE that gesture!” screamed the barely-conscious Jack. “What’s goin’ ON here, Dice?”
Dice snapped his fingers, silencing the music.
Jack blinked.
Dice smiled, “Nevertheless. I switched to Camels this week. I really taste the difference!”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gCMzjJjuxQI
Jack shook his head.
Puffing on a cigarette, Dice asked, “Jack, have you assessed your priorities lately?”
“My PRIORITIES?” balked Jack. “HUH?”
“Prioritize, Jack,” Dice said calmly. “Take stock of what’s important—and what isn’t. You know? Prioritization.”
As prophesied by John Cougar Mellencamp, Jack scratched his head, and did his best ‘James Dean.’
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g8rnx4OR3io
“What do you say?” said Dice. “Thoughts? Ideas?”
Jack nodded, “Oh yeah. I got an idea. How about I PRIORITIZE my FOOT in your ass? Eh?”
Dice rolled his eyes.
He grabbed a microphones, and said, “Jack, priorities are part of life. We all need to re-assess them—every now and then.”
Jack began, “Well, I—“
“Prioritize!” interjected Dice. “Prioritize. It’s no wonder the Order of the Fat Guy wants to straighten you out.”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rrykk7E_2i0&feature=related
Jack chuckled.
“What’s so funny, Jack?”
“’Straighten me out.’ Ha. You don’t straighten me out, Dice. I straighten YOU out.”
Dice cracked, “Knock off the Moe Greene routine, Captain Mean. This ain’t Las Vegas.”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gV-H1YFNmkw
Dice continued, “Get ready, Jack. GET READY TO MEET THE BID-“
There was a flash of light.
A mushy Dice corpse fell to the floor.
Jack chuckled, “How do ya like that? Ultimate Evil hated Dice so much, he vaporized him after only ONE SYLLABLE of his NAME. How do you like THAT.”
“I like it just fine!” cackled an otherworldly, stiff-necked, genuine oakwood replica of film critic Leonard Maltin.
Jack screamed, “Oh, Jerthansia! What have they done to my magical dream?”
“Shut UP, jamoke!” laughed Maltin. “Ha ha ha. Remember Jean-Claude Van Damme’s thrilling performance as ‘Chance’ in 1993’s Hard Target?”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pCTNP46Wq3o
Jack said, “I remember John Woo used to be a good DIRECTOR, pal.”
“Ha ha ha,” chuckled Maltin. “Indeed! Hard Target was Woo’s first American film. Ha ha ha. Hard Target was all up in there. Ha ha ha. Lance Henriksen turned in an outstandingly villainous performance as Van Demme’s nemesis, Fouchon. Ha ha ha. Outwardly a respectable businessman, Fouchon was, in reality, a psychopath. A psychopath who arranged hunting safaris. Hunting safaris for people who wanted to kill the most dangerous game of all—man.”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uw2v2N-RJVg&feature=related
Jack yawned, “And…?”
Maltin yelled, “And he forgot to PRIORITIZE! Jamoke!”
Lance Henriksen himself walked around the corner.
Crossbow-enhanced, Lance blew the wooden Maltin to smithereens.
“Good job, Lance!”
Lance wiped the gunpowder off of his smoking jacket, and he grinned, “Let’s hunt some Fat Guy.”
“That reminds me, Lance,” said Jack. “I have a GREAT idea for a screenplay.”
Lance rolled his eyes.
“What is with everybody and the SCREENPLAYS?” he lamented.
Jack grinned, “I got it all figured out. My next motion picture will be called Re-Assess My Priorities, My Ass: The Hardest Target Of Them All. It’ll have spies, lies, and killer Fat Guys.”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HL3BYMYi1kw
Lance squinted, “Excuse me, Jack is this real life, or is it a movie?”
Mirthfully, Jack flipped a shiny, silver coin, and called it ‘tails.’
“There you have it, Lance,” grinned Jack. “It’s a movie.”
Lance tossed his cigar into the adjacent boiler room, and he said, “Then FORGET it. I HATE libraries.”
Lance stormed away.
“Fine,” Jack said to the air. “Leave ME holding the BAG.”
“JAG-bag, more like,” joked legendary Hollywood tough guy, Charles Bronson.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vzhKHNgBAZ4
Before Jack could speak, Bronson gave him ten punches in the stomach, and dumped some rancid potato salad on his head.
Just to get the ball rolling.
“Evil is like rancid potato salad,” Charles laughed. “It’s even worse when you’re at the library.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XS2YMu56vC0&feature=related
Jack whimpered and doubled over.
Vigilante man slapped him in the face until the potato salad was rancid AND runny.
“How does it taste?” laughed Charles.
Jack gasped, “Bronson, what are you doing? I thought you were one of the good guys!”
“You’re a smart one, Jack. Figure it out.”
Wincing under another punch, Jack managed to land an uppercut.
“Did the Fat Guys pay you off?” he gasped.
“Fat Guys,” scoffed Charles. “I ate the Fat Guys for DINNER last night, Jack. With some fava beans…and a COKE.”
Shedding the Charles Buchinsky disguise, Ultimate Evil, a.k.a. Godfrey Stonecroft Biddaddy, smiled, “Its like this, Jack. Disguise or no disguise, you can consider your ass BEATEN. USELESS to RESIST, and whatnot!”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h6sj89xgnl4
The end appeared to be very near.
“No way are you my father,” grunted Jack. “My dad is a rabbi. His name isn’t even Godfrey!”
Biddaddy replied, “I refer you to the original Shakespeare, son. There are more things on heaven on earth than you can shake a STICK at. Consider your next move very carefully. Patricide is no laughing matter.”
Jack went for broke.
He grabbed Biddaddy’s crossbow by the trigger, and flipped it around a la Steven Seagal in On Deadly Ground (1994).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2yVoHp1dUvg
Jack managed to squeeze off six shots, but they barely left a dent.
Biddaddy regained control of the crossbow, and he grinned an evil grin.
“Consider this, John Methuselah,” he said, “What if this really IS just a movie? Seems to me, you better make sure you’re on the right side of the MIRROR.”
Jack quipped, “Mirror has two faces, pops.”
Whistling with rage, Biddaddy roared, “DON’T CALL ME POPS!!!”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MdemGogeve4
“Schnapps?” said Jack.
Biddaddy frowned, “Enough. I have had it with your gamesmanship, contumely, and smart-ass-hood. Now there are two ways out of this glorified Mardi Gras graveyard, son. The stairs…and the window. Well?”
Jack shrugged, “Easy enough,” and hurtled out the window into the next dimension.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CHMTeXJluCo
Left to his own devices, Ultimate Evil lamented, “This is a bit anti-climactic. I WAS about to hand that ingrate the keys to the city—and beyond. Looks like it’s back to the drawing board. Or maybe just the 3DBB.”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=boC1KL-lFtY

it all began with Seinfeld's Jack Klompus

THE LEGEND OF STEINFELD’S CASINO

Fat Guy couldn’t wait to get home.
He had just put in some quality minutes at Mock’s Pinball Emporium. And he HATED to walk away from a game of Centipede.
But he couldn’t WAIT to get HOME.
Why?
Two words.
Lemon sherbet.
Got it?
Turning the corner onto Bojax Avenue, Fatty bumped into neighborhood postal type, Carl ‘Zagnut’ Carlson.
Zagnut was thrilled.
“FATTY!” boomed Zagnut, in his anachronistic baritone. “How the hell are ya?”
Zagnut may have weighed a mere 200 pounds to Fat Guy’s 300, but let’s not entertain any illusions about the size of the ensuing hug.
Rest assured—it was one big-ass hug.
Fatty smiled, “So, how’s the mail business?”
Zagnut shrugged, “Same old, SAME old. Who cares? Let’s get a beer!”
Fatty politely declined.
“No thanks, Zaggy,” he said. “I got a sweet bowl of lemon SHERBET waitin’ for me back at my DIGS. So, there you have it. Taste the freedom, Zagnut!”
“I don’t get this,” said Zagnut. “Remember when they named Fat Free Fat Guy the Worst Fat Guy Ever?”
Fatty nodded.
Zagnut yelled, “They should have given that award to you!!!”
Fatty went pale.
Zagnut concluded, “And you can TAKE that lemon SHERBET, and you can SHOVE it—“
Suddenly, famous comedian type Jerry Steinfeld popped around the corner.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” smiled Steinfeld.
Fatty squinted, “What gives?”
“Yeah,” said Zaggy. “Fat Guy has a point. What ARE you doing here?”
Steinfeld said, “Been to Las Vegas lately?”
“I haven’t been to Vegas in years,” said Zaggy.
Fatty nodded, “Me neither.”
“Right,” grinned Steinfeld. “And why would you? WHY WOULD YOU GO TO VEGAS? You wouldn’t. And I’ll TELL you why.”
Fatty chuckled, “You’ll tell us why NOT, you mean, Jerry.”
Zaggy rolled h is eyes.
Jerry shook his head.
“Why NOT,” said a smug, self-satisfied Fatty.
Jerry remarked, “Fatty, you’re a real SMUG-not, aren’t you?”
Fatty nodded smugly.
Jerry announced, “Here’s the ‘why’ part, gentlemen. HERE’S WHY. All the action is HERE. Right here in Atlantic City.”
Zaggy screwed up his eyes.
Fatty began, “But, we’re not—“
“Stow it, Fatty!” grinned Steinfeld. “All the action’s right here at Steinfeld’s Casino. Here’s what we got.”
In awe, Zaggy gasped, “SHARE us what you got.”
Fatty nodded smugly.
“HERE’S WHAT WE GOT,” beamed Steinfeld. “Hottest slots. Biggest pay-outs. Plus? Plus, a free gift. A pen. A pen from space. A PEN THAT WRITES UPSIDE DOWN. SHOVE THAT IN YOUR POCKET, PAL.”