Pit Stop

I have other issues to deal with than pay attention to what you little people do. My girlfriend, who’s breasts I paid for and still own, decided to call it quits since I have no interest in procreating with anyone. Vile nasty things, babies. Snotty whiney creatures who lay around in their own filth. A bit like all of you. I’ve been spending my time looking for a new crumpet to invest a nice pair of boobies in, far more important than dealing with the lot of you.

Gyrobo: Nice try at things, I think

Petrelli: Nice effort, we all appreciated seeing your partner run. Perhaps Xavier should make more running challenges for her.

Bennett: I applaud your need to always enforce the rules, even when it’s really dumb to so.

Jan: Would you be interested in a newer nicer pair of breasts? Your transformations have shown me that you would look stunning with a new set. Call my assistant and we can get it set up. *wink*



So which of you losers won?


That would be Bennett, though it was a close finish.


So which of you losers failed, as you all eventually will?

That would be Gyrobo.


Cheers!
Simon

The Folly of Man 2.0

They will chant my name.

A throne of barbs and bones will await my coming.

Newborns will be named after me, as will streets and airports.

Turning to my left, I slid that most helpful, brand-new self-help book under the velvet armrest. Most hot-air balloons don’t even have seats, much less armrests and satellite television.

But Cory Doctorow is nothing if not 100% first class. The sealed walls of the passenger balloon were splattered with a smattering of aesthetic oddities: elegant caricatures of dashing, debonair dilettantes, hanging urns packed with ferns, empty suits of crystalline armor fresh off some extraterrestrial medieval battlefield. Behind it all, the wallpaper appeared to be tattooed on.

Four bodyguards stood silent at each porthole, spear-guns at the ready. “Captain” Cory always provided his guests with the best protection plundered Incan gold could buy; far from being a harmless balloon enthusiast, the blogger emeritus had recently turned to sky piracy, assembling a raucous gang of fearless daredevils and opportunists.

Many mountaintop towns hired mercenaries or trained their own citizens as archers, but the Doctorow Fleet’s nighttime raids and chainmailed balloon envelopes kept them the scourge of the Andes.

One of the guards caught me looking outside. “It belongs on a postcard, no?”

I nodded. “Where is the captain? We were supposed to discuss the small matter of payment…”

“We already reached an agreement,” my Canadian companion Puck said, lounging on a plush sofa to the far side of the cabin. Our spicy camerawoman Yvette Sumberland Jr. sat next to him, working on one of her Sudoku puzzle-books.

“I didn’t agree to anything. What did you pay them? Did you pay them in beads?! Oh God, my bead collection! Why?! Why?!”

“We agreed to help the High Evolutionary build the genome for Humanity 2.0,” Yvette plodded, plotting the spot of her next blot. “And put the DNA samples under a non-restrictive license, allowing redistribution and remixing.”

“Putting our genetic magic in the public domain?! Open-sorcery!”

Sighing, Puck handed me the map of the Antarctic region locals called “Savage Land.” Atlantea was highlighted in blue: the home of the High Evolutionary. Verily, Puck, Yvette and I would help the Evolutionary with his redesign of the human race. Having been present at the original design process untold thousands of years ago, I had some pretty keen insights into what needed improvement.

“Does the captain have any requests?” I asked the stationary strongman. Before he could answer, the phone by the heat nozzle rang. Central Nav must have found the red smoke plume that would lead us to the borders of Savage Land.

Laying back into the satin cushion they dared call a mere chair, I quickly dozed off to sleep.

To this day, I curse that decision.

***

When I woke up, I was chained to the ground with a sock in my mouth. There was a sweatband over my eyes, so I couldn’t see. It was hot and I was more thirsty than I can remember.

“Hello?”

“Puck?” I whispered, recognizing that obnoxiously odious overtone. “Can you move?” I gasped.

“Where are you?”

Something sharp dug into my side. Sweet Iguana of Tijuana! I was being carved up like a Christmas ham!

“Ow! Help, I’m being carved up like a Christmas goose. Or ham, either would work for this situation.”

Naturally, the sock in my mouth caused that entire sentence to sound like a protracted series of grunts and moans.

“Gee whiz, eh! I didn’t ask to hear your stump speech, I just wanted to know where you were!” Puck laughed, accompanied by a laughtrack. When did he get his own laughtrack?

A hand reached down and pulled my downtrodden face up to the light and lo! within seconds Puck snatched the sweatband from my eyes and popped the sock from my mandible.

“You stole my sock.”

I looked around, disoriented and frightened. We were in the cabin, but it didn’t feel like we were moving. “Have we crashed?”

“We just landed. The pirates are locking down the balloons so they can go hunt saber-toothed were-whales.”

“Were-whales?” I murmured. That sounded vaguely plausible. “Aren’t they those most excellent sea creatures that can swim at over 300 miles per hour, and jump over 400 feet in the air?”

“Aye, that they do. That they do. But they live on a steady diet of plankots and human blood, making them one of the rarest and most hunted, most persecuted were-mammals of Savage Land.”

Of all the things to blame on the plankot lobby, the decades-long decline of the were-whale is the most tragic.

“No use crying over spilled blood,” I sang sanguinely, slyly side-stepping the situation. Opening the now-unbolted exit panel, I set footcup down on the fertile, seasoned ground of Atlantea.

Behind us sat a grounded fleet of fortified hot-air balloons, waiting to take us back east. Ahead lay the Citadel of Science that haunted my dreams since the last time I was here — over 40 years in the future.

High up in the citadel’s highest tower, I spied a moving shadow. Could that silhouette be the Evolutionary, perchance? Mayhap, I should resolve this with but a question:

“You must be the High Evolutionary,” I blasted through my bullhorn at a man in a red metallic mask walking past a window in a bathrobe holding a cup of some hot liquid. I know it was hot because when I blasted my bullhorn at him, he dropped it on his feet and started screaming.

It’s too bad you can only make a first impression once. I’d have loved to do that a few more times.

***

“People, bring me solutions, not answers!” I threw another spate of design templates in the “later” pile.

Unlike all other rooms in the citadel, the planning room didn’t smell of overripe fruit and moldy flowers. The High Evolutionary was a peculiar man who seemed to lack any sense of taste or smell, decking his halls with boughs of… whatever they were, they had long since rotted away and never been cleaned up.

Herb had been an otherwise gracious host, offering us room, board and back massages. I declined all three and questioned his patriotism.

Could I be blamed? The designs he kept asking for were idiotic. Dog-people? Giraffe-people? Cyclopses and triclopses? It was all the same thing — just a slight modification to the human genome with features and doodads that already existed in some other species. There was nothing groundbreaking or controversial here. I’ve never been so disillusioned.

“Stop. We’re going in circles,” I said to the roomful of chromosome chroniclers, “what we need to do is follow Google’s Chrome team’s example. What did Google do when they designed Chrome? They took the needs of today’s modern web browser and modeled the structure of Chrome around that.”

“People aren’t web browsers,” Yvette bleated sheepishly.

“Typical Apple fangirl mumbo-jumbo! The principles are sound,” I tapped the chalkboard. “Find what the demands of modern society are on people and redesign based on that.”

“People have sedentary lifestyles nowadays,” Puck chuck-a-lucked. “They don’t need so much muscle mass.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“They wouldn’t need perfect eyesight, either. Nobody needs to hunt for their food in a society of preprocessed cheese and spam.”

“They’d also need a pouch to carry around tools…”

“And a third arm-like appendage to improve productivity! Like… a prehensile tail of the chest,” the High Evolutionary thundered, getting into the spirit of the season.

“And a box-shaped head so as to fit into any container,” I added. We quickly had a working proposal.

“I had a great time,” I told High Evolutionary Herb as I put on my green Lands’ End jacket. Pigs in a blanket, I looked stunning.

“We had a really fun time,” Yvette agreed, shaking Herb’s hand with the camera strapped to her head. Puck grabbed his hat and poncho off the coat rack.

The door closed behind us. We sat on the porch for a few minutes, discussing various matters, such as good and bad restaurants and our families. Puck, it turned out, has five children. I didn’t know that about him. And Yvette was one of the recipients of the Pierre LePike Remedial Spike award in 2004 for her part in the massive, government-funded effort to photograph Santa Claus.

Well, that’s all well and good, but there was something that still stuck in my giggling craw.

“Puck, you can break steel with your superpowers, non?”

“No…” he trailed off, somehow not liking where I was certainly going with this line of questioning.

“We’re going to steal one of the balloons before Cory Doctorow and the sky pirates get back.”

They both stared at me like I’d grown a prehensile chest-arm. “What?” They asked simultaneously.

“Sadness! Sadness within my heart. My friends, my friends, we cannot allow this genetic code to fall into the hands of those were-whalers.”

My fear was palpable. As a concerned environmentalist, I simply could not allow these blogger barons, these blustery blagards, from blindly beaching those benevolent behemoths. It all came down to the wire. Did we have what it took to save Savage Land from the wrath of the sky pirates?

Smashing one of the balloons’ fuel tanks, I ran up to another. “Puck, roundhouse kick that widget! Yea o man of Canada!”

Cheering, we destroyed all but one of the hot-air balloons, which we seized in due time, after our victory dance o’er the frigid ice. On our flight back east, the band of pirates (now returning with a fresh were-whale — oh, the horror!) started firing their pathetic spear-guns at us.

Little it would avail them! What folly, their own plating now serving against them! Verily, I did chortle lightly into my diet Pepsi, spraying the sofa with a considerable amount of droplets.

“Do you wonder,” Puck asked as I stared out the porthole, “if it was wrong to leave them to their own devices? I daresay, those devils will be quick to revenge themselves on you.”

I removed my glasses thoughtfully. “They will hate, as is their way. But in these lands, they will fend for themselves. They will learn morals from battling the giant lizards and man-squids. Slowly but surely, they will repent. They will learn to live alongside the were-whale, and take its song to heart.”

Puck smiled at my sagely advice. He was wise to do so; I’ve personally written 35% of all fortune cookies.

And yes, perhaps one day Cory Doctorow and his fellow balloonists would accept the folly of their ways. But, as the great Roman poet Icicles wrote, it is harder to change one’s outlook than it is to change the diaper of a gorilla.

A Day of slapping, eating, puking, and boob jiggling.

Yielded, I can’t say I’m surprised. I did yield Jan on my last win, and Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. I should know; I’ve scorned quite a few in my time. However, this time it wasn’t my fault. Emma made me do it, and now were stuck waiting while everyone else rushed away to start the next task.

While waiting for our yield to expire, I sat lost in thought. Remembering the prior evening, a shiver ran down my spine. I had planned on making my way to the swanky hot tub the Marriot prides itself upon. I had visions of lovely ladies beckoning me to join them. Sadly, my dreams were ruined by the only other person in the hotel who felt like getting sexy in the hot, bubbling water. When I found him waiting for me, well…let’s just say I couldn’t have given the happy to anybody after that…I spent the rest of the evening waking from nightmares caused by the excessive hairy back of my hot tub friend.

After such a dismal night, I had hoped for a better morning; but it was no better. Having heard about the hot tub incident, the other contestants jeered and laughed at me, the B##$#ds. I continued to sulk about my misfortune until Emma showed up a half hour later and pulled me along to our waiting taxi. “Let’s move it Petrelli, and stop moping! It annoys me.” Ah, yes…that’s my Emma, ever the professional with her mind on business.

She quickly negotiated with the cabbie, and we arrived at the airport faster than I could have flown us there. Once there we, again, were able to quickly find passage on a commuter plane. The pilot was willing to forego a few government regulations to get us into the air quickly and perhaps help us regain some lost time. Emma was a little skeptical at first, because the plane had a few missing seats; but once in the air she seemed to relax. I was a little disappointed because we were the only people on the plane. It seemed my hopes of joining the Mile High Club were slipping away, yet again. Of course, there was always the possibility Emma might be willing…

“Aaahhhhh!!!! My Emma had grabbed and pulled my chest hair. “Why did you do that?!”

“I can read your simple mind. Now stop, before I make you slap yourself.” She stared at me for a second and then…

“Aaahhh!!! I wasn’t thinking anything!!!” I don’t know what hurts more, my face or the palm of my hand.

She giggled and said, “I know.”

After that, we didn’t talk for the rest of the plane ride. I’m not angry with her. I know how difficult it must be to deny her growing feelings of attraction. It’s almost predictable that she would lash out with some sort of violence.

Anyway, we landed with a few bumps and went straight for the hot air balloons. I was careful this time to keep my mind off the Mile High Club, just in case she decided to make me jump out of our floating transportation. By the time we made it to the ‘savage land’ and followed the trail to Zarhan, I was ready to give up on the contest for a nice soft bed and a warm body…or vice versa.

Emma took the map and reviewed it. “You’re going to make an idiot out of yourself to matter what we choose, so I’m letting you decide.”

It wasn’t the flattery I’m accustomed to, but I overlooked it. “I choose scene. I could use some Botor. Did you notice the gimp Jan confused with me? A Botor treatment is what the Doctor ordered.”

Emma looked at me with a raised brow. “Don’t you mean…Boto..nevermind, ... scene it is. Let’s go.”

Once we arrived, we wasted no time in trying to decide which games to play with the tree people. Instead we went with Hot Wheel’s suggestions. I agreed to start off by joining the guarnolope pie eating contest. I have no idea what a guarnolope might be, but the food was absolutely disgusting. Seeing that I was unlikely to make it through, Emma promised to give me the night of my life if I could win this contest. It’s almost needless to say, but I am now the guarnolope pie champion. The tree people were quite impressed and offered to let me rest before the next competition, but Emma insisted we hurry to make up time.

The next event was dinosaur-back racing. I was so sick to my stomach; I didn’t have time to feel afraid. I climbed onto the closest T-Rex. However, I kept doubling over with stomach pain. Finally, Emma jumped onto the T-Rex with me to keep me from falling off. It’s a good thing she did because his muzzle broke half way through the race and if it weren’t for her telepathic abilities controlling the beast, it would have killed me. As it were, she kept the T-Rex from eating me, kept me from falling off, and somehow scared the beast into running fast enough to win the race.

With two tasks down, I should have been feeling lucky but the guarnolope pie caught up with me so Emma had to handle the last task on her own. Giant Mosquito Catching, it didn’t sound like fun to me. However, as soon as Emma spotted one she began to run toward it. In that moment, all my suffering was rewarded. I would describe to you the sight of Emma running, but…well…she would hurt me. I know that you guys can imagine it though. It was sweet…very sweet. In the span of a few moments she crossed the field and grabbed onto one incredibly large mosquito. It struggled for a few seconds before lying peacefully at her feet… It was sort of anti-climatic; after the running and boob jiggling, winning was sort of *meh*…

Given everything I had been through, it wasn’t too surprising that I slept all the way back to the pitstop. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to lie down. My stomach is still arguing with me. Guarnolope in the opposite direction…isn’t a good thing, and I have to get my rest so I can collect my reward from Emma. Yowza!

Mission Seven: A Family Tale

"Greetings, Mr. Bennet and Mr. Summers," one of the so-called Tree People greeted us.

"Please," I responded humbly, "Call him Scott."

"I am Palín, no relation," he said, "of the Tree People."

I sensed a trap. "Funny," I said coolly. "You don't look like a tree."

"Well, we're not trees," Palín explained, "we're people of the trees."

"So, why don't you just go with that?"

"Tree People is more marketable," he replied. "So, ready for the games?" he asked putting an arm around Scott and leading us up the treetop pathway.

Scott sighed unenthusiastically.

"Aw, what's the matter there, tiger?" Palín said stopping. He grabbed Scott hard around his bicep and said, "Cheer up. You were made for these games."

I explained how Scott had been upset because he was looking forward to the other detour challenge. "I want to be mutated into looking good in sweaters," he had whined. "Winter's approaching."

Fortunately, I'm the brains of this team, so when it comes down to the decision making, I get final say. The other option was a joke. Evolution? My home school biology book says no. And besides, where would I come up with ideas for evolutionary advantages that would be original? I don't want people to think I'm just ripping off some silly comic book.

So, that's how I ended up locked in a kitchen ducking behind the counter with a pen and shield in hand as two velociraptors chugged some lager.


"I don't get the point of this game," I whispered to myself.

"You just have to stop them from drinking," a voice said, "and don't die."

"Wh-where are you? Who are you?"

"It's me, Palín," he answered. "We wired you with an audio transmitter. It makes it more entertaining for the audience if we can hear your screams." In the background I heard cheering.

I peeked back around at the velociraptors. They were still lapping up the lager. I stood up and said, "I'm going to need to see some ID." Then approached the beasts.

They watched as I walked toward them. I had my shield raised, ready to push off an attack. Once in range, I kicked the glass of lager across the kitchen.

"Did I win?" I asked as one of the raptors jumped on me, knocking me to the ground. His enormous weight held me down. I lifted the pen up as high as I could and poked at its ankle.

The other raptor seemed to watch gleefully, until it was suddenly struck by a tranquilizer dart and fell to the ground unconscious.

The raptor standing on me soon followed.

I rose to my feet and saw Palín with two bamboo-wielding Tree People. "Yeah, you won," he said. "Nice job."

Palín took me back to where Scott was waiting.

"The next game requires you to swing across to that tree over there," he pointed, "using only your tail. No hands. First one there wins."

"Okay," Scott said approaching the starting line.

"Wait," I stopped him. "He said using only your tail."

"I know," Scott replied. "I'm not deaf."

"But...you don't have a tail."

"What?" he asked shocked. "Of course I do!"

I was quite confused. "Why do you have a tail?" I asked.

"Why wouldn't I?" he shot back.

"Um, well, humans don't have tails," I explained confoundedly.

"They don't?" he asked, then proceeded to pat me on the behind. "You mean...you don't have one?"

"No," I answered, "I don't."

Scott pulled a tail from out of his pants and asked, "So why do I have one?"

"How should I know? Just swing to that tree over there and be quick about it!"

"Fine."


But quick he wasn't. "Nice job, sport," Palín said as Scott returned. "I think you may have set a record. A record for optic blasting the competition, that is. You took a long time, but you're the only one that finished the race. You win. One more game to go...."

"Wait," Scott said. "I need to call my father."

"Hello?" I heard his father answer over the speaker phone.

"Hey, Daddy. It's me, Scott."

"That's Major Daddy, boy."

"Sorry, Major Daddy...I was wondering, um...did you know I had a tail?"

"Of course," Major Summers replied, "Why do you think I threw you out of an airplane as a boy?"

"Because we were attacked," Scott said.

His father corrected him. "No, boy. I found out that your mother was having an affair with a Tree Person, Pal-something or other. Hence your tail. I'm a good guy, a strong man, but I mean, come on...you had a tail. And you weren't even mine. Anyone would have done the same in my position."

"But what about Alex? You threw him out too."

"Yeah," Scott's father explained, "he was just ugly."

Scott was speechless. He stood there not saying a word.

So, his father hung up.

"Nice job!" Palín said coming closer. "I just overheard your conversation, and you just won the third game: Discover a family secret."

As we headed back, I thought it seemed suspicious how we managed to win all our games. I was rescued from the raptors just in time. Scott somehow wasn't disqualified for optic blasting away the competition. And that last game...well, I don't even know if that was a real game.

But the important thing is, we won. And a suspicious win is still a win.

Jan the Intergalactic Aviator: You say you want an evolution?

“Welcome to my citadel,” the High Evolutionary gestured from his position at the door towards the inside of his fortress. “Here is where the magic happens. Well not magic, of course. It’s science -- super science.”

I stepped in and was immediately awed by the sight before me. Giant computers, tanks full of bubbling liquid, and all kinds of laboratory equipment filled the place. He even had one of those two antenna things with the electrodes where the zap of electricity would work its way up just like in the old movies.

“Wow,” I whistled. “Unbelievable.”

“And you are Jan O’Mega, also known as Jan the Intergalactic Aviator.” He placed a comforting, almost paternal, hand on my shoulder. “In you I can see so much potential. You may not be the pinnacle of human evolution but you are certainly on your way there.”

“Aw, I bet you say that to all the ladies,” I replied a little sheepishly.

“Question: do you not have a partner?” I was expecting a duo this evening.”

“Do not get me started on that guy,” I replied back in a huff. “Unus the Untouchable? Untouchable is right. Oh he was disgusting, he smelled like he hadn’t showered in weeks and those red long johns that he wears are all grimy and filthy. I tell you, it wasn’t that personal force field of his that kept me repulsed.”

“So where is he?” the High Evolutionary asked.

“Weirdest thing,” I said. “We were riding in the balloon together and he fell out.”

“Fell out?” the scientist repeated with a surprised gasp.

“Yeah, fell out,” I confirmed. “Right over an active volcano, too. I guess he’ll be OK because of his force field and all, but I don’t know how far underground he went. Who knows if we’ll ever see him again.”

“Well no matter,” the mad geneticist smiled. I think he smiled. He’s got that armored face plate thing you know. “You are the one I am interested in. Very interested.”

“Uh yeah,” I said kind of wary. “So, what’s the plan here Doc? I’m not much of a scientist, but I’ll assist you however I can.” I guess.

“Let me show you my latest invention,” he ushered me into another, giant sprawling laboratory. “Here is my new Genetic Improvement and Mutation Personal Simulator.”

“You know that spells out GIMPS, right?”

“What?”

“The name of your machine. As an acronym, it makes GIMPS,” I said.

“No it doesn’t.”

“Yeah,” I insisted. “G-I-M-P-S, GIMPS.”

“But there is an A in there,” he replied. “GIAMPS.”

“GIAMPS?” I repeated. “You don’t count the A and even if you did, what the heck is a GIAMPS?”

“Well no matter,” he replied gruffly. “I can rename the device later. Perhaps something more cool to your liking.”

“I’m just saying,” I shrugged.

“Anyhow,” he growled, and then composed himself. “This machine is designed to simulate the genetic improvements that I can make on a volunteer before the actual modifications are implemented permanently. If you would please step into the chamber, we can begin our work.”

“This won’t hurt will it?” I asked.

“Of course not,” he answered. “I am a scientist, a highly evolved scientist.”

I stepped in and felt the energies surround me. They bathed me and penetrated my body; I could feel my body changing, like on a genetic level. I suddenly felt unable to stand on my feet, I swayed back and forth until a flopped to the ground like a fish – or a mermaid.


“Fact: over Seventy percent of the Earth is covered with water,” the High Evolutionary lectured. “And that is not counting the ice at the poles. With the ozone layer depleting, the water levels will rise so high that the perfectly evolved human will need to exist in the water.”

“I don’t think this will work so well,” I replied. “People will still need to stand, whether it’s on land or inside high rises above the seas or inside mighty zeppelins, floating above the Earth like giant, bloated kings.”

“Perhaps you are correct, Jan O’Mega. Perhaps you are right.”

“Although I would have loved to have this thing a couple of challenges ago,” I swished my tail back and forth. I felt the energies flow into me again. My mermaidish tail sloughed its scales and split into two, then split again and again forming long, sinewy tentacles.


“Tentacles,” the geneticist stated.

“Ew, no.”

“Very well.” I felt the almost pseudopod-like tentacles reform and solidified into legs again. I then felt something sprout from my back. I looked and giant, feathery wings stretched out from my shoulder blades.

“Wings?”

“Perhaps winged flight would be better,” the High Evolutionary surmised. “With urban overcrowding and the ever increasing need to burn fossil fuels, soaring high with one’s own wings would be for a true, highly evolved human.”

“This might work,” I said as I looked at my right wing furling and unfurling. “I do like them, but they do feel a little cumbersome. I assume you can genetically get rid of acrophobia as well, right?”

“Perhaps, Jan O’Mega, perhaps. Perhaps, however, the key to reaching the fullest of human potential lies gaining the abilities of another animal.”

The wings shriveled up and were reabsorbed by my body as I felt a certain warmth tingle over my skin. Warmth, like a layer of fur.

“I’m a werecat?” I looked at my claws. They made one of those metallic glistening sounds like in the movies. “Cool.”

“Ah yes, much like the hero Tigra,” the High Evolutionary sighed wistfully . “I could have created her instead of some odd Cat People magic. Too bad.”

He flipped the switches again and I felt my body change once more. The fur quickly disappeared


“In the movie the Fifth Element. Leeloo represents the genetic perfection,” the High Evolutionary stated. “Perhaps that is the direction that we shall go.”

“You saw the Fifth Element?” I asked.

“Of course, I have Netflix,” he replied. “I’m not always working on my experiments, you know.”

“Yeah, but how do you get mail down here? How does a mailman get through the Savage Land?”

“A highly evolved mailman can.”

“Yeah, OK,” I said. “I don’t know about making this experiment based on a character from a movie.”

“Are you sure? Perhaps the peak of human genetics could be found in an undead creature of the night.”


“I can’t even move in this thing,” I muttered acidly as the leather on my arms and legs made squeaky noises. “Try again, High.”

“Very well.” He threw some switches again. I felt normal. Almost normal. “A highly evolved woman should look awesome in a sweater.”

“What? All this genetic manipulation so I could look good in a sweater?” I looked down then spread my arms out. “Well, I do look good. But still… Hey, wait a minute, you’ve been making me up to for some kind of weirdo sex thing, haven’t you?”

“What? No I wasn’t,” he answered quickly.

“Oh yeah, I got you figured out now.” I ticked off the altered forms on my finger. “Mermaid, creepy tentacle thing, angel, furry cat thing, Leeloo, leather dom, that sweater thing. You’re getting your kicks off on this aren’t you?”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied defensively. “I wouldn’t do something like that, I’m highly evolved.”

I crossed my arms and stared at him.

“Oh all right, you got me there,” he admitted. “It’s just so lonely down here. What’s a highly evolved guy to do, heh heh, right?”

“Please,” I rolled my eyes. “You men are all alike. All women are are objects of your desire.”

“All right all right, I’ll make a deal with you. If you go through one more form for me, I’ll give you a pass on this detour and personally fly you to Ka-Zar’s base in my hovercar.”

“Just one more? Ok, what is it? I’m not going to have huge breasts sticking out of my back am I? Or turn some kind of cow woman. I refuse to be turned into a cow woman.”

“Sexy librarian.”

“Sexy librarian? Of all the crazy and creepy fetishes you could have…”

“Well I am highly evolved,” he answered. “I have highly evolved sexual desires as well. I like the thinking man’s sex symbol.”

“Oh fine,” I said exasperatedly.

Jan the Intergalactic Aviator: Ooops

Oh silly me, I made the Yield on Petrelli but I accidentally posted a picture of Hank Azaria.

I guess I mixed up the tall guy with the dark hair and the funny voices with the tall guy with dark hair and a funny voice.

Nathan Petrelli, you're still Yielded.

Jan the Intergalactic Aviator: Yield

Short and sweet, my friends.

Gyrobo, you're getting the Yield.

Just kidding, I like you too much.

Nathan Petrelli, you get the Yield, that will give you a little extra time to warm up your nipples.