Elvis wiped mashed tat…potatoes from his cellphone, “Security? There’s some yahoo tryin’ to sneak another band in here, bring them space alien gizmos of yours real quick!”
“No need, Elvis” Lt. Potente said, “Ruth Buzzi with an i, you know the purse wielding woman from early variety shows!!”
“Thank ya’, thank ya’ ver’ much,” muttered the Kang, “Now the joint’s fillin’ up faster than a Memphis Whore house, beggin’ you pardon, M’am” (with a nod to the young hooker), “Who’s this Merrick feller, and that must be the abonible snowman, but what is he doin’ with ya’ll?”
“No one knows, but we think he might be a secret double agent and may have hidden Ruth Buzzi here, in Mich…er…Atlantis!” the easily exciteable Lt. Potente declared then followed with; “Elvis, do you recognise this man?” pushing Merrick towards him.
“Why Joe, how ya’ doin’?” the Kang inquired, shaking Merrick’s hand,“Ah thought they flew you off to Venus in one of them alien do-hickies.”
Merrick replied, “Actually it was Uranus.”
Timmy rolled his eyes and said, “So now we’ve devolved to puns, have we?”
Timmy, seeing an opening in the action thanks to his lasikly cleared sight, pointed over Lt. “Pinhead” Potente’s shoulder, in an effort to distract the Glock wielder, and shouted, “Look, Russian paratroopers or a giant squid, I’m not sure which!!!”
Elvis squinted and said, “A squid, I think.”
The squid, shocked by the sudden glare of a slew of spotlights turned upon it, released a huge cloud of ink, while one of its tentacles smashed a hole in the terminal’s dome; then it squirted ferociously away, oblivious to the havoc caused by the icy black torrent of water gushing in.
Elvis immediantly scaled the dome, and began smearing mashed tate…potatoes on the rupture, smoothing it over with a slice of stiff bacon.
“Cobblers!” Timmy said at last.
“Cobbler goes good with bacon and mashed taters,” remarked Elvis as he put the final touches on his improptu patch.
Sam thought of warning Elvis about his cholesterol intake, but then realized the futility of it all.
A number of tiny gray creatures with oddly shaped eyes ran in, flew up to Elivs patch and began spraying a more permanent substance onthe breach.
Luckily for the readers, the narrator spared them the details of what, exactly, the “permanent” substance really was.
Amidst the confusion and construction, the 9mm Glock was wrestled away from the dimwitted and pinheaded Lt. Potente by the Gypsy, who now controlled the only firearm in the group.
“Except,” thought Jesus smugly, “I’ve got a more powerful firearm right here in my pants…and I know chust how to use it!”
The little gray aliens turned to face the motley crew, the leader crying, “Gort! Klatu birada nicto.”
“Say hello to my little, er, really BIG friend!” Jesus shouted.