Title: Westbound, Leave the Motor Running 'Cause I'm on the Run (The
Insomniac, Pop-Culture Junkie Remix)
Author: Rebecca
Fandom: Askewniverse; Post-Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back
Pairing: Banky/Hooper
Rating: R for the usual suspects, plus one (Hooper and the inevitable
ethnic commentary).
Summary: Remix of Katie's "Westbound.." Hooper finds himself in the big,
scary suburbs on Banky's booty call. He meets some interesting characters
on the way over. Parody at it's most underslept.
Disclaimer: The story belongs to Katie. The characters belong to Warner
Brothers, Cartoon Network, Dark Horse, Joss Whedon, and, of course, the
Almighty Kev. The title belongs to the song by the group Lucky Boys Confusion.
Warning: First remix. Be gentle. Please, and if it's awful, I blame the
consistent supply of hair dye seeping through my scalp and into my brain.
Umm..I would try to justify putting slightly militant phrases in the mouth
of a seven-year-old girl. But why bother? I left what little morals and
excuses I had behind a dumpster at Motel 6. Also gratuitous meta-fic and
a little Carmen Llewellyn Lee to boot.
Notes: Yes ma'am, those are my real hair and clothes. And car. And dead
pan expression.

****************************************************************************

6:00pm

Hooper was just about to settle down with his bowl of popcorn and the
"What's Happenin'!!" DVDs he got from eBAY, when his pager emitted the
shrillest noise known to man. After searching the entire flat for
the device, it showed up in his left pocket. He flipped of the cover,
letting the message "24242422314," which decoded meant, "XXXBWM," Banky's
clever enigma for "Booty call. Bring White Minx."

Ever since he'd stumbled in on Kim - Alyssa's by far most adorable cast-
off still crashed at Hooper's place on occasion - bleaching her pubic
hair in the bathroom, the Johnny Cum Lately had become fascinated with
chemically lightening his own undercoat.

"I always thought dykes *shaved* their pubes?" the colorist pontificated
as Kim's equally light head bobbed at crotch level, one slim plastic-
gloved hand demonstrating how to apply the dye.

"No, *fags* are supposed to shave their pubes," Hooper corrected from
the bathroom doorway, "you know, the ones who at least *pretend* to care
about their partner's discomfort."

Hooper had ducked as a bunched up wash towel came barreling towards his
head.

"The word is 'bisexual,' Hoop. And why don't you go 'buy' me some dinner?"

Right. Just like he was supposed to leave the comfort of his own couch
in his own home and schlep all the way to Jersey for some complimentary
no-strings sex..oh, *and* he had to pick up his Not!boyfriend's beauty
products on the way.

Hooper was more than halfway back to his extra-buttered and Rerun when
the pager beeped a second time.

"1154221319." "ANDTLS." "..And Trojan Liquid Silk." Lube, capitalist-
style.

The comic auteur sighed - though not quite as heavily, and grabbed his
keys.

****************************************************************************

9:15pm

Hooper seldom ventured into New Jersey, and when he had to, he thought it
best to spend the least time there as possible. The only three radio
stations on the FM dial played Sinatra, Springsteen, or Bon Jovi on
a continuous loop. Elder residents of Asbury Park and along the shore
line were still fascinated by the "Jaws" phenomenon and consistently phoned
in to the one talk radio station to spin stories of sighting the "Great
White." (Where were the intolerant pill-popping gay bashers when you needed
to maintain your sanity?)

Luckily, there was a convenience store right off the expressway that
carried the essentials for his rather..*ahem* involved evening. With
any luck, he'd be in and out of the Garden State by tomorrow morning.

If he could find the exit, that is. He somehow managed to miss it almost
everytime, particularly traveling at night. Blame it on the constant
lane construction.

Hooper was pretty proud of his new ride. It was a snow white Cougar V6 with
a moon roof. It wasn't exactly the Fagmobile, but, even used, it was
expensive and that made Hoop feel good. He had a hard time explaining the
Bettie Page bumper sticker to his salon of nature's bachelors, but what the
hell? It had a get-up-and-go like you wouldn't believe. He cruised down the
road, trying to remember where he turned. He put the brakes on as traffic
suddenly slowed then came to a full stop .. in the middle of the exit lane.

Great.

Hooper sweated it out in the Cougar's cabin until he came close enough to
see what was going on.

Two fire engines and an ambulance glittered in the distance surrounded by a
fortress of orange and green road flares while two lanes of long suffering
automobiles sweated in the heat just off the exit ramp.

Settling back into his driver's chair, Hooper put a CD into the changer,
thinking the sounds of Long Beach and Compton would protect him from the
big, bad white man and the monotony of covering just under two miles in
just under two hours.

****************************************************************************

10:34pm

Halfway through the second revolution of the CD, Hoop put it in park and
hopped out - fed up and eager to see what was keeping him from his "noble
quest" of sex and self-improvement.

He tucked his nine-millimeter in his jacket's inner pocket. Banky couldn't
understand why Hooper kept it, especially after his "to thyne self be true"
speech, but the gun held some sentimental value. Plus, tiny black queers
need some protection in Bumfuck, New Jersey - road rage being only one of
several incidents of criminal behavior.

Hooper approached the scene, weaving in between the various cars, many of
which were already in park.

"Hey! What do you do with a gay black man in a strip club?!"

Startled, Hooper turned on his heal and double-backed to the large CAT
steamroller from which the voice had eminated.

"You put a twenty in his g-string," the briefs-sporting comic writer
reached up to high five the driver in the open cabin, "what's happening,
Trinke?"

"Not much, man. Hey, can you believe this traffic? It's making me
homesick for New York.

Hooper had first met Ollie Trinke ten years before in New York. Trinke's
PR group was representing Warrant, fresh off the success of "Cherry Pie"
and blissfully unaware of spandex metal's imminent demise. The band had
contacted Blitz Krieg, the comic publisher Hooper had interned at and
written serials for before moving on to publish _White Hating Coon_, in
the interest of producing their own comic book ala KISS and Rob Zombie.
Blitz Krieg sent Hooper to represent the company at a meeting with their
publicist, one Ollie Trinke. The deal had been finished before word one
(the group had arranged for the meeting to take place at their favorite
strip club, proceeded to get loaded, and try to kick Trinke and Hoop's
asses for making fun of the strippers), but Trinke and Hooper had been
friends ever since.

An employee of Highland County ever since the infamous "fresh prince"
incident had gotten him booted from the firm, Hooper still caught
sight of his old pal tooling down the main drive in "The Batmobile,"
much like he was now - only not so cheerful. Gertrude, Ollie's seven-
year-old daughter, was belted into the passenger side still dressed in
her school uniform, a Looney Tunes blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

"We've been waiting here for five hours. You'd think they'd give a
county employee some leeway."

"Yeah, I'm going to check this shit out. They better have a damn good
reason for making me late for my-" mindful of the fact that there was
a first grader a few feet away, Hoop replaced 'booty call' with,
"..appointment."

"*Appointment?*" the sly look was unmistakable and suggested the
little one's daddy wasn't usually so filtered. Hoop gave up.

"Fuck off. See you round the expressway, Trinke."

"Right, good to see you man. Say goodbye, Gertie."

"Daffy was a black man!" the precocious seven year old raised her hand
in a precociously empowered fist. Quelling his delight at her daddy's
obvious horror, Hoop slipped into his Hooper X militant drag, answering
her fist with one of his own.

"Right on, sister." With a finaly smirk, he turned on his heel and
continued toward the front of the line of cars.

Hooper wasn't actually as concerned with the hold up as he appeared to
be. Okay, he wanted to get where he was going as quickly as he could.
The boy from NYC wanted in and out of the suburban wasteland with as
haste as could be managed. Still he approached the scene with an
itemized list of the pre-concessions: a massive accident, an injured
party, perhaps a police pursuit. All of which were summarily dashed
as he came face to face with the action that was blocking the exit.

No accident. No injured persons in sight. Not so much as a speck of
FUZZ. Only a suit and tied white man who, protected by the barricade
of yellow police tape and orange traffic cones, reminded Hooper of
the pug from the Men in Black movies.

"Excuse me, but what the fuck is going on here?" All pre-concessions
were off. And the pencil-necked white boy seemed to know it as he
approached Hooper with a diplomatic, slightly-placating expression in
place.

"Sir, if you could just go back to your car, I promise everything is
under control."

"It's okay, Myers," Hooper and Pencil-Neck glanced up at the gruff tone.

The former felt his normally jaded eye-brows eclipse the back of his head.

The gravelly-voiced guy stood at least two feet above Hooper with flesh
tones that, even in the dark, resembled that of a fire engine. His
furry dark muttonchops connected to a fall of dark hair pulled back to
a snug samurai ponytail. He was dressed in a long brown coat with black
leather utility belt and..was that a *tail* he saw behind him? Hooper
didn't necessarily notice that the man(?)'s right hand appeared to
carved out of stone. He *did* notice the squalling bond that his right
hand was holding off the ground by her bleached ringlets. The
caterwauling vixen was clad in a red satin slip dress and black Prada
stilettos as she continually struggled uselessly in the big man's
grasp. A true sight to behold, almost more so than the dude that held
her captive. Fay Wray twisiting in the wind and foaming at the mouth.
Enough to make the most loyal straight man so much as *glance* at the
other team.

"Found her in a storm drain. Tried to push me into the portal right
along with her. One step to the left would have found me in the seventh
layer of Hades. As it happened, I just wound up in an oil slick. I
think."

Pencil Neck squirmed at his partner's unfiltered invective while Hooper,
the object of concern, simply squinted at the big man's words. A hell
portal? In *New Jersey*? Weren't those things supposed to be more
strategically located?

"Guess you can't go home again, eh Glorificus?" The blond hissed,
spitting in the big man's face.

"I would have gotten away with it too, if it hadn't been for you
meddling hell-beasts!"

Before he could overhear any more infinitely entertaining information,
Hooper's view was blocked once more by Pencil Neck.

"Sir, the exit will be open shortly. Please return to your vehicle."

With pleasure, Hooper thought, turning to make his way back towards
his car. He hastened one last glance at Big Red, shaking his head.

"They never could get the tail right."

*********************************************************************************

10:45pm

Hooper was lost like a Mormon on the UPN. He was pretty sure when the road
turned to gravel and the buildings turned to corn. Hooper shuddered. He
wanted to ask for help at one of the farmhouses, maybe use their phone,
but the homes appeared to say, "We lynch Niggers here." Hoop took a rain
check on being tarred and feathered, and decided to drive until he
hit ocean. Whichever one it may be.

The music that was his refuge was now starting to make him paranoid. He
flipped off the stereo, and checked the rear view mirror for any vengeful
civil war veterans.

Hooper was driving on the old country road where every campfire tale took
place. It was the kind of road that city kids were secretly afraid of. In New
York, they are cocky and independent; but put an urbanite in the farm
domain and he will shit his pants. People fear what they do not know; thus
the urban legend. In rural and suburban areas, folks speak of gang
initiations with broken taillights, and giant sewer rats that eat babies.
In the metropolises, people discuss all-American babysitter escapades, and
misadventures at Makeout Point. As logic dictates, Hooper was terrified of
wide-open spaces.

Finally locating what looked like a suburban cul-de-sac, he made a sharp
right and turned into the neighborhood that was, by the looks of it, not
the jewel of the Jersey backwoods. A series of breadbox, clapboard split-
levels lined both sides of the street. Siding was missing on some of the
houses. Others were covered with graffiti. One house had a front door that
was so malformed and misshaped, it reminded Hooper of the front door to
Pee-Wee's playhouse. Taking that as a hint, he pulled up to the house
next door. The powder blue two-story (aside from being powder blue)looked
fairly normal.

Not anxious to leave the confines of the Cougar's cabin, Hooper was
relieved to find that the owner of the house seemed to be outside. Balding,
fat, and clad in a dirty wifebeater, gray sweatpants and teal thong flip
flops, he looked more like a refugee hiding out from the Springer cam than
a Klansman.

"Excuse me?"

Hooper probably should have suspected something was amiss when the guy
didn't so much as "walk" up to the car as he "waddled." Or had he jumped?
Either way, Hoop hadn't seen the dude put one flip flop in front of the
other. The matter was soon forgotten as the sleazy suburbanite, upon
seeing the driver of the slick automobile, opened his mouth to speak.

"Hey man! How you doin'? Hey, I loved Sly and the Family Stone. I saw
them play at Madison Square Garden years ago, freakin' awesome!"

Taking a deep breath and counting to ten, Hooper continued.

"Can you tell me how to get to Quick Stop?"

"Uh, you mind being a bit more specific, home boy? There's only about
freakin' fifty of 'em around here."

"DO *NOT* TALK TO THIS MAN! THIS MAN IS AN UNDERCOVER OPERATIVE FOR THE
C.I.A.!"

Glancing at the booming voice that had followed the slammed misshaped
door from the next house, Hooper wondered for the first time if perhaps
the long hours on the road had affected his perception. Because what was
obviously a tall, obnoxious white man (who proceeded to "jump/waddle" out
to the car) bore a striking resemblance to a large fast-food drink
container with a pink straw sticking out of his head.

White Boy was soon followed by was what, Hooper was certain, pre-highway
hypnosis, was in actuality a person who suffered from dwarfism but, in
his current frame of mind, resembled a three feet high wad of uncooked
beef. With a voice that reminded him of the alien from "Lilo and Stitch."
Who didn't waddle OR jump, but *rolled* out to join the party by the
car.

"really? shoot carl, you never told us that. we been neighbors how long
now?"

MeatDwarf was soon followed by what, pre-highway hypnosis, pre-urban
panic, was obviously a very pissed off black man with prominent eye-brows
and matching beard but, again at *this* *particular* *MOMENT* resembled
a large floating box of french fries with a stern expression.

Oh, hell no. The long hours on the road had *definetly* affected his
perception. Pinching the bridge of his nose. Hooper closed his eyes
and began to count backwards from a hundred.

"Shake, what the hell are you talking about?"

87..86..85..84..that had been the black man's *year*, Hooper thought
absently. "Purple Rain" *and* Vanessa's Miss America crown.

"HE IS AN UNDERCOVER OPERATIVE INVESTIGATING..THE..THE RECENT UPRISING
OF ANTI-GOVERNMENT ACTIVITY IN SUBURBAN STORM DRAINS. I READ IT IN THE
NEW YORK TIMES."

39..38..37..why did that number sound familiar?

"This is a menu from Denny's, Shake!"

A-B-C-D-E-F-G..did H come next?

"Hey man! I was down there looking for Lisa! She freakin' accidentally
flushed her freakin' diaphragm, fry man! Do you know how much one of
those freakin' things cost?! What the hell are you people tryin' to do
to me?!?!"

"hey. if carl's a hitman for the dmv, maybe he can take care of those
parking tickets for you, master shake."

"*What* parking tickets? We don't even have a car!"

"well not no more. not since shake crashed into that dance club. naked
dancing, too. that one lady sure was sore at you for crashing into the
mud pit."

"WELL I DON'T UNDERSTAND *WHY*. SHE WON FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS FOR CRYING
OUT LOUD!"

In a vacuum filled with outraged cries, the final cry came from the
lost man who had just rediscovered the alphabet.

"Oh, that does it. That fucking *DOES IT!*"

With those words a broad clash of lightning filled the sky..

**************************************************************************

10:57pm

Hooper and the Cougar were on the side of the road under an overpass.
Breathing in the damp night air, he held a 1'x 2' picket sign over his
shoulder reading "AUTHOR UNFAIR TO MISAPPROPRIATED CHARACTERS" in broad
red letters.

He was contemplating pleading his case in a more populated area when a
bright red Vespa pulled up beside him.

Some hair-dos, Hooper thought as the driver removed her helmet and set
it on the bitch seat, should really be a crime.

Silver tips brushed the girl's shoulders while the crown had been dyed a
deep blood red. The intermittent strands hung in deep black waves, a
plastic cylinder (a thermometer?) tucked behind her left ear. Two half-
slips - one white, one off-white - had been stitched together below the
elastic to form her skirt while her lavender tank top assured Hooper that
"Faeries Are Real" (shit, *he* could have told her that.) Below her skirt
was a pair of thin black fishnets and impeccably polished army boots. A
British Union Jack shoulder bag, slung over one bony shoulder, bounced
violently against her hip as she casually swaggered up to Hooper.

"Hmmm. Someone's been splashing out at Goodwill."

"If this is about the car, I only said you could borrow it. I expect it
back before I have to go to school."

"Like you ever even make it to class."

It might have been a breeze, but Hooper thought he saw a slight ripple
across the author's varying expressions of Dead-Pan as she slipped off
her bag and set it on the ground next to her.

"Okay, I'll bite. What's your problem?"

"*My* problem? My problem is that my gay ass is being held hostage in
this ludicrous story by a pop-head, half-stoned college student! Meatwad,
Becca? *Meatwad?!*"

Rebecca sighed and ran a green-nailed hand through her hair.

"Hellboy I could live with. That's comics. You're speaking my language
there. Do you think my ass is up late enough to watch Adult Swim?"

"I'll bypass the obvious sexual joke and say no?" Rebecca slipped her
nicotine inhaler from behind her ear and began absently chewing on it.

"You're not an insomniac. That's a good thing."

"I'm pissed off is what I am! And on strike," he pointed to the sign,
"in case you failed to notice."

"Come on, man. The deadline was yesterday. Do you have any idea how much
Charles is going to kill my ass?"

"Well, maybe you should have stayed at home and came up with something
creative instead of going to see the stupid Harry Potter movie for the
seventh time in a row!"

The author brought the inhaler down from her lips, her expression
running through a myriad of thoughtful blank poses before finally
settling on Triumphant!blank.

"Dude, you *know* you dig the Rickman."

"Do not," Hooper replied flatly, bringing the sign down to rest against
his shoulder.

"You know you *so* dig the Rickman."

"Well..maybe in that office building with Bruce Willis. And the western
with the NRA guy. *And* that Greek tragedy meets reperatory theater
piece he did with Hugh Grant and Skeet Ulrich's wife."

"That's one of my favorites." she smiled blankly, which seemed to get
Hooper's dander up a second time.

"Well, if you love him so much, why didn't you trap *him* in your acid
trip of a story?!"

"There's only one scene left and then the story's over, you can bang
Banky 'till Tuesday for all I care."

"One more scene?"

The Rickmaniac held up one ringed finger.

"No more talking food products?"

"None."

"No more safe rubber-stamped one-note Ben Affleck characters?"

"Nary a one to be found."

"Well it's about damn time!" he thrust the sign into her copiously
unstartled hands and headed back to the Cougar, "and you better not
be shitting me!"

He was already in drive and going 50 in a 30 zone before she could
manage a soft-spoken reply:

"You'll bring the car back before August. Right?"

********************************************************************************

11:27pm

Hooper decided that Rebecca needed to get out more. And get more sleep.
And that maybe he should've asked her for directions before leaving her
on the side of the road with her little toy motorbike.

He found a black person he could ask directions and was off once more. He
turned on Truxel, and cozied into Quick Stop, making a mental note to drop
by Mobile on his way to Bank's apartment. The Cougar was fly, but it went
through gas like it was going out of style.

With a relieaved sight, Hoop popped inside, taking in the refreshing
luminance of fluorescent lighting, the gracious hum of the freezer,
the near empty Hostess display (Clerk-with-Hat had moved on from
beef jerky). The familiarity was a welcome infusion on the grandest
scale as he located the right aisle and darted across it in search
of his quarry. Scanning the contents of the aisle, he overheard the
two of the clerks that ran the store sparring back and forth.

"Do you know what's going on?"

"Maybe it's another drill."

"What was that?"

"That's nothing. Say, have you seen the latest XP-38 model? Tack-EEE."

Hooper stopped dead in his tracks as he turned the corner to approach the counter. Instead of
Clerk With Beard or Clerk With Hat or even Creepy Clerk with Neo-Nazi Haircut, he found himself
face to face with a pair of (presumed) guys clad in full head-to-toe white body armor and
matching helmets. They looked, he thought, like a pair of bleached lobsters.

"Will that be all for you today?" Clerk At Register's voice came out in a tinny rasp, as though
his helmet contained a built in voice box.

Hooper nodded silently as the clerk's gloved hands punched in the items on the register.

"That'll be ten-seventeen."

******************************************************************************

11:49pm

Hooper pressed the button marked "EDWARDS, B." in blue Sharpie.

"It's me," he drolled into the intercom. The door kicked back and Hoop
entered.

Hoop lumbered up to the second floor, dragging his heels. He knocked
half-heartedly on Banky's door. It swung open, Banky standing in the
frame.

"Where've you been?" he asked, returning inside.

Hooper followed, dropping his jacket on the couch. "Believe me. You don't
want to know."

*******************************************************************************
A/N: The New Jersey residents are as follows:
Jersey Girl
Hellboy
Aqua Teen Hunger Force
Trooper Clerks