Sally was lounging on her balcony, soaking up some rays when she first saw the zepplins. "What the...?" she muttered, standing up and peering into the distance with narrowed eyes, trying to see what was reflecting in the sun. Unbeknowest to her, she was glistening almost as much, which caused a great deal of confusion at first.

"What the...?" Henchman #44 asked, leaning forward in a manner dangerous for a man without a name. "Is someone signalling us?"

"I dunno," Henchman #23 said, not looking up from the Minesweeper game he was running in the lower right-hand corner of his screen, "you have the bino'cs. Is the flashing saying anything?"

"Yeah, it's telling me to make pudding," H-44 replied.

The Minesweeper game was paused as H-23 found something more interesting to play with. "Pudding," H-23 confirmed, looking doubtful. "One of our forward spies is telling you to make pudding."

"Well, they are using the Zuper Zecret Zcience Code," H-44 confirmed. "I mean, that can't be broken because it's a totally random code."

"Hey, 44, doesn't that bother you?" H-23 asked.

"What?"

"Well, beyond the asinine 'Z' sound we have to give everything, I mean the fact that we have a totally random code which is our primary form of communication," H-23 said.

H-44 thought for a moment. "No, not really," he said. "I mean, it works, right?"

"Dude, an operative just told you to make pudding," H-23 said, not unreasonably.

"With cherries."

"What?"

"He said, 'make pudding,' then 'butterscotch', then 'cherries.' I think bananas would be better with butterscotch though, don't you?" H-44 said, lowering the binoculars to look at H-23. "I mean cherries? Not only would they be too tart for butterscotch, but the colors! Ugh, vomit-inducing. It'd look horrible."

H-23 blinked a couple of times. "Dude, are you gay?"

H-44 blushed while glancing around the room with enough nervousness that everyone here, including the rather intelligent chair that currently cradled H-23's buttocks (and knew something about the joy of a man's ass itself) knew the single word mumbled out of the side of his mouth was a lie. "No."

"Look, it's ok, if you are," H-23 said unconvincingly, probably because everyone in the room heard his ass pucker, while the chair had the singular joy of feeling it. "I'm cool. I just wouldn't let it get around, ya know?"

"No, I'm not!" H-44 snapped - well, attempted to snap. He couldn't manage fake anger anymore than he could manage a lie. Huffily, he raised the binoculars again, finding the signal-

Screaming, he dropped the binoculars, grabbing at his eyes. "I'm blind!" he shrieked. "Oh, god, it was horrible!"

"We're under attack!" H-23 said, flipping a large mauve* button on his console and activating the Brain Upsetting Zuper Zonic (BUZZ) weapon. A high-pitched whine began to emit from the Zepplins, even as the flight crew's ear pieces began to fill with the comforting sound of Wolves in Nature, by the Phil Harmonica.

As the horrible buzz was downed out the calming howl of wolves in harmony with the Phil's brass section, H-23 snatched the binoculars and peered through them to see the first line of defense for New York City. Fortunately, his eyesight was much worse than H-44's, which saved him from blindness** at the sight of a naked Brawlzilla.

-----------------------------

*Such buttons are normally red. However, Dr. Boroz had strained the button industry's ability to produce red buttons, flips, switches, levers and pedals because of the production needs of his fleet. Indeed, later, the Congressional committee assigned to investige this attack, the Special United Congress Zepplin - Defense, Investigation and Current Knowledge (SUCZ-DICK) Committee, will cite that by failing to recognize the meaning of the lack of availablity of red buttons, the NSA majorly failed the intelligence community. That conclusion was later omitted in the SUCZ-DICK Committee's final report when the question of whether possible color-blindness on the part of all of the NSA's agents contributed to the lack of realization that red is a critical color to mad scientists.

**It failed to save him from years of therapy, however.

Sally got on her pants before doing her part to save the world. She wasn't entirely sure what she was doing; there was no ring, no buzzers, no rounds in which to prove herself, but she was gonna try her best. As her eufiber settled onto her frame (and prevented long-term institutionalization for H-23), she swung out of her window and began to climb her building.

She'd never tried this before, and it was astounding how much having four additional limbs aided climbing, especially when four of those limbs can extend to 6 meters in length and find purchase in the smallest of crevices. As she soared up the side of the building, Sally felt a smile crease her face. Who needs wings when you can do this?!

At the roof, she was forced to concede her stance; her tendrils could only climb if there was something to hold onto. So she sat down and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Jesus, these things are slow, she growled to herself, her legs swinging in the wind. Then the first of the buzzing reached her eyes, and Sally shook her head like a dog trying to dislodge a tick. "Ow," she muttered, then shook her head more. "God, that's an annoying noise! What is that*?"

People were starting to succumb to the noise; Brawlzilla ripped some of her hair out of her head and stuffed in her ears. "Better," she muttered, eying the closest zepplin and judging the distance. "Close enough."

Drawing a deep breath, Brawlzilla held it for a second, her lungs straining as she infused it with quantum. Once she felt that it was full of her power, she released it in a scream**. The sonic waves soared out from her body in waves, attacking everything in the area.

The closest zepplin was the first to go down; Brawlzilla's scream twisted the frame and punctured the gasbag. With a moan that was unheard in the assault from the BUZZ and Brawlzilla, the zepplin slipped from the skies.

With a battleroar, Sally leapt forward, changing her size as she tumbled forward. Her tendrils grew with her, and their barbwire lengths wrapped around the falling zepplin, catching her and turning into the pivot on which the Brawlzilla-pendulum swung.

---------------------------

*It should be noted at this point in the story that a Ms. Fran Drescher was recently hired to record her laughter for several hours straight. Dr. Boroz thought he might have to remix the laughter for maximum annoyance, but after test subjects ate their own eardrums in an attempt to stop it, decided it was perfect.

**The word 'scream' is used loosely here. It should be understood by the reader that no language on Earth has the proper word for the sound Brawlzilla made. One small tribe in the Pacific comes close with the word 'hrislllsoseisl,' which means, 'the sound that kills Baby Jesus.' Of particular interest to anthropologists is that the tribe doesn't really know who Baby Jesus is. But the tribe is quite sure that this sound would kill him, or at least make him cry.

Zepplin Azzault Commander (First Clazz)* Zimmonz** blinked at the report in front of him, unsure what to make of it. The NY Azzault Team had been debriefed on all the defenders of New York City, but the one who just took out a zepplin was something new. "Could be a civilian, sir," Zepplin Azzault Azziztant Commander (First Clazz) Jone offered. The smaller man handed Zepplin Azzault Commander (First Clazz) Zimmonz another, much thicker report, adding, "I took the liberity of compiling a list of known civilians in the city before we launched, sir."

Zepplin Azzault Commander (First Clazz) Zimmonz gave Jone a grateful smile, stomping down that funny tingle in his gut that he got around the fine-featured, petite man. "Actually," he said sheepishly, "this is great, Jone, but could you run through it and give me suggestions on who it is? We're heading into battle, and I don't have time to preview. But this is a wonderful idea, Azziztant Commander."

Jone beamed happily, his teeth glinting between strangely enticing lips. "Thank you, Commander," he answered, a blush coloring his flawless, oddly creamy skin. "I'll give you an answer AZAP." The Zepplin Azzault Azziztant Commander (First Clazz) took the folder back and walked back to his station. Zimmonz tried not to watch, but the pert little backside in those tight pants were screwing with him. I need to get laid, yesterday, or maybe last month, Zimmonz groaned to himself, turning back to his screen.

"Sir? What can I do?" Zepplin Azzault Commander (Second Clazz) Morrizon asked, bouncing on his toes. "I'm ready to go! I'm ready to make the difference and score points for our fearless coach, Dr. Boroz! Just give me the word!"

Zimmonz barely restrained the glare that he wanted to shoot at his second-in-command. Morrizon was an idiot, but being the nephew of Azzault Commander (Gamma Clazz) Morrizon meant that he'd been assigned to this ship. Zimmonz had thus far dealt with him by keeping him far, far away from anything of import. But in the midst of an attack, he didn't have time for this. "Well, Morrizon, I don't have anything for you right now, no."

Morrizon's baby-blue eyes narrowed. "Sir, I've been talking to some of the other Zepplin Azzault Commanders (Second Clazz)," he began, his voice aiming for speculative and falling short at confused.

"And?" Zimmonz pressed when Morrizon didn't continue.

"Well, sir... I get the feeling that you've avoided giving me some of the same work as them," Morrizon said. "I don't know how to put this delicately..."

"I'm sure you'll manage."

"Well, sir, I think that we need to make some changes..."

"Really."

"Sure. I mean, I don't want to have to tell my uncle... well, you know..."

"Let's be clear, Morrizon."

"I don't want to tell my uncle that you've been going easy on me because we're friends."

Zimmonz took a second to ascertain that the manical laughter he was hearing was only in his own head. That did not apply to the soft snicker coming from Henchman #92. "Hmm... yes, I could see the issue there," Zimmonz said. "And I have just the thing."

As Morrizon's eyes lit up with glee, he almost shouted, "Sir! Thank you! Just name it!"

Zimmonz unholstered his sidearm, circumspectantly making sure that a round was chambered and the safety was off. "This is a very important weapon," Zimmonz said. "It's a... piztozar. Yeah, a piztozar, and I need you to guard it with your life. Over in that corner. Can you do that?"

"YES, SIR!" Morrizon squealed, taking the weapon from him. "Thank you, sir, I won't let you down!"

"I'm sure," Zimmonz said, shaking Morrizon's hand. "Good luck."

"Thanks!"

Zimmonz turned back to the battle. "This fifty-foot woman. Where is she?"

"Attacking the front lines," Henchman #47-B answered.

"Good. Arm the AAMs." A single shot rang out on the command room, followed by a thud. "Thank god. Jone, would you please retrieve my piztol? Careful, safety's off. Also, please note the first casulty on the Frozty Glare from the Wife*** as an accident." Zimmonz turned hard eyes forward to the battle. "Fun's over. We have a battle to win. Get on your A-game, people. And get a mizzile lock on that fifty-foot woman."

-----------------------
*Dr. Boroz didn't care for any of the established military titles, saying they sounded too "weak." In theory, this sounds fine, but Dr. Boroz can get a bit wordy. Additionally, as he was required to create more and more names, he ran out of titles and was phoning it in by the end. This damaged the moral of the janitoral staff, as they didn't appreciate being called 'Dirt Licker (First Clazz).'

**Personal name changes to match the naming structure of the organization are mandatory. As a result, unnecessary 'S's have been dropped across the orgianzation, resulting in a number of Cott's, Wilon's and Teven's.

***When you have a zepplin fleet numbering in the thousands in an organization that swaps all 'Z's for 'S's, you'll run out of good names, too.

Brawlzilla swung to the next zeppelin, her barbed-wire tendrils wrapping through the thin balloon and releasing the gasses that held the balloon aloft. Sadly, Dr. Boroz had compartmentalized the interiors of his balloons, reducing their gas loss from one tear. I'll just have to make the tear bigger then, Sally grunted to herself. With a grim smile, the young woman grabbed some framework in her hands, braced her feet on some lower girders, and pulled the two pieces apart. The balloon stretched then ripped, opening a tear down the length of the zeppelin. "Yeah!" Brawlzilla shouted, pumping a fist in victory.

A sudden roar sounded behind her, and Sally turned as the mizzile slammed into her. For a moment, her world was flame and pain and roaring; then the fire and smoke fell away and Brawlzilla opened her eyes. "Ten fingers, ten toes... everything seems to be here," she muttered. Then she glanced up at the smoldering ends of her stringy blonde hair. For a long moment, she considered the loss of her hair, then shrugged. "Close enough. It always looks like shit anyway."

It was time for a new ride; her zeppelin was dropping rapidly from the sky. But it was also passing out of range of one of her long-legged leaps. "Crap... how the fuck am I supposed to get up there?"

Her answer came in the form of a high-pitch whining roar and a figure shooting through the sky with a fiery tail. Oddly, a maniacal laughter could be heard trailing from it, and Brawlzilla squinted at the head of the form. "A fuckin' jet pack!?"* But it gave her an idea, and the 50-foot nova shrunk herself in preparation.



The man who was once known as Ted Raymond and was now H-9928852B** circled the falling blimp, trying to find the woman he had seen crawling around on the skin of the blimp. She had been so big that H-9928852B wasn’t sure how he could miss her, but she was no where in sight. With a giggle at nothing, the jetpack flier turned back, arcing a little lower on his turn.

A sudden weight on his meant that his arc was violently dropped several more feet, and he gave a little scream as he tried to angle his body up. Normally, he’d be concerned about what was clinging to him, but for now, he just didn’t want to die on the concrete and pavement below.

The jets kicked in a little harder, and despite the rather disturbing smell of over-heated flight suit curling in his nostrils, H-9928852B sighed with relief. Crisis One adverted, he turned his head to see what was riding him.

A monster from Hell itself stared down at him; red skin looked nearly burnt, while watery blue eyes glared at him ominously. Thick, chapped lips curled back into a sneer that make the thick, blocky chin look like a fleshy brick. The entire face was surrounded by a halo of straw-like blonde hair that ended in scorched, black tips less than an inch from her face. And it had boobs. “Hi.”

H-9928852B screamed and never saw the building approaching him. Nor did the horrible creature on his back help him, save to grab his shoulders and wrench them upward so that he slammed into the wall head- and chest-first.



“Damnit, now I want peanut butter and jelly,” Brawlzilla grumbled as she began to extract the pasty remains from the jetpack’s harness. Her tendrils held her in place on the wall, which was a shattered shadow of its previous state. Thankfully, the jetpack had survived the impact, what with the pilot absorbing the force of the impact.

“Now… how do I get this on?” Brawlzilla muttered as she started to figure out the webbing of straps and buckles.

----------------------------
*The reader is no doubt wondering about the connection between manaical laughter and jet packs. The reader should pause to consider the kind of personality associated with a person who would willingly strap a machine on their back that flings them through the air at high rates of speed using rocket fuel.
**There are a lot of people who have gone through the Quick Capability Kestrels-Dynamtic Evasion and Tricky Hardcore Airman (QCK-DETH Airman) Program, for obvious reasons. Hence, they were the first to expand into alpha-numeric Henchman Authorization Codes (HACs).