Men in Plaid

Men in Plaid.

We are the Men in Plaid.

We work above the system, beyond the system, and occasionally completely outside the system. Sometimes even on the dark side of the moon on a moonless night.

We are Earth’s first, last, and unfortunately only line of defense against uninvited and unwelcomed extraterrestrial asshole Inspectors.

May I query? I do ponder this for hours. Without consent doesn’t that make them truly extraterrestrial assholes. Be advised: Assholes flock together.

Have no fear of flocks of assholes. Us Men in Plaid are everywhere. We are nowhere. And yes, we know the suits are plaid and ugly. But after a blue pill, you forget all about us and all the assholes for a short while.

You already forgot you saw Men in Plaid in your neighborhood. We’re like leprechauns, but we didn’t dress as well, and we’re taller.

Some people think it’s the flashy thingy that wipes memories. Some people think it’s actually a radio beam wave thingy. But, you know, it’s a top secret thingy.

We just push the red button, and it rewrites the Matrix. Or maybe you take a plaid pill without knowing it…

Okay, anyway, anyway, the point is, you will forget you ever saw Men in Plaid in your neighborhood, or even reading about them on this page, because of the plaid-pill flashy thingy that we can’t talk about, because it’s a secret.

It just makes you forget you ever read this important document. Yes, this document did reveal all the secrets of the universe.

Do you remember the universe’s secrets? See? You had forgotten all those secrets. Too bad, because you could use them now. Not knowing the secrets of the universe is sad. It also proves this memory thingy had work on your memory.

Now let’s talk about the heroes of Men in Plaid, or hero types in general. Some people might think of them as being really stupid. However, we do love stupid cannon fodder, so very much.

We write ballads and make movies from dead hero stories. Agent A and Agent I are prime examples of two suckers ready to make the ultimate sacrifice for mankind. Therefore, they earn our utmost reverence and respect. These are brave community servants.

Throughout history, heroes have been recognized for courage above and beyond the call of duty, even at the risk of their own lives and credit scores.

Take the Men in Plaid dynamic duo and their outstanding clashing plaid suits. Just loud, neon, plaid, clashing suits. If it wasn’t for the funny red button controlling the mass media memory wipes, that would shock the global fashion markets.

There is an academic debate about if aliens gave the memory flashy thingy to us. The accidental red button pushing event is hotly debated among academics and scholars. Nobody can remember what had happened after someone’s butt accidentally pressed the red button at lasted for ten minutes.

However, we can never forget the assholes for long. The theory is assholes always remind us they’re assholes.

Agent A and Agent I entered the Chief’s office. The Chief briefed the young men, though one was much older… then they emerge from the chief’s office. The the chief called everyone’s attention.

“I have an announcement.” The rather fat and out of shape Chief said in a loud and clear voice. Looking like a true plaid figure of a man. “We got him. He’s downstairs in extra extra security detention cell. Wait for it… wait… We arrested The Great Assholeologist Zargon, Poisoner of Planets, Polluter of Galaxies, and Destroyer of Perfectly Good Neighborhoods.”

A coffee cup hit the floor and shattered.

Somebody carrying a lunch tray dropped the whole damn thing. Plates crashed. Glass broke. A fork bounced across the floor.

Nobody had to ask which Zargon.

But the Chief told them anyway. “Zargon. Poisoner of Planets. Polluter of Galaxies. Destroyer of Perfectly Good Neighborhoods. Contaminator of Interstellar Water Supplies. Ruiner of Otherwise Pleasant Civilizations. The only known being to have been permanently banned from seventeen solar systems, three dimensions, and one very nice restaurant at the edge of the universe. A creature so universally despised that entire species who had been at war for thousands of years once declared a temporary cease-fire just so they could agree that Zargon was, in fact, an asshole.”

Zargon, the Great Assholeologist, was incarcerated. He looked like something out of an H. P. Lovecraft novel, the kind of creature somebody might have dreamed up after eating bad seafood before going to bed. He was vaguely human in shape, but that was about as far as the resemblance went. Zargon was a monstrous purplish-gray alien with an enormous bulbous head, huge black eyes and eight thick tentacles surrounding a rubbery body that looked suspiciously like somebody had crossed a man with a gigantic octopus and then immediately regretted it.

Two tentacles curled beneath him, three sprawled over the sides of the chair, and the remaining tentacles wandered around as if they had independent criminal records.

Calling him an octopus man wasn’t scientifically accurate, but nobody in Men in Plaid actually gave a care. He looked like an octopus. He was apparently a man.

Octopus man.

Zargon sat alone in the center of the detention cell, looking remarkably comfortable for somebody permanently banned from seventeen solar systems, three dimensions, and one very nice restaurant at the edge of the universe.

Zargon moved before either agent could react. His tentacles exploded across the room, wrapping around Agent A and Agent I as his enormous black eyes seemed to widen until they swallowed the walls, the lights, and finally the entire detention cell.

The world twisted sideways. Purple lightning crawled across a green ocean beneath three moons while enormous birds with almost-human faces circled backward through the sky. A black sun opened above them, feathers became flames, flames became tentacles.

And everything faded to black.

The guards had rescued Agent A and Agent I from Zargon’s detention cell. Three hours later, the two Men in Plaid were still unconscious in neighboring hospital beds while the Chief sat nearby waiting for them to wake up.

Agent A moved first. His fingers twitched, his eyelids fluttered, and then his eyes slowly opened. For a few seconds he stared at the ceiling, confused. Then his eyes widened.

“Oh, my God.”

The Chief leaned forward. Agent I began to stir in the bed beside him.

“I saw the Assholeologist’s thoughts,” Agent A said. “I saw their plans.”

The Chief stared at him. “What did you see?”

Agent A slowly turned his head toward him, still shaken by the terrible secret Zargon had revealed.

“I saw they possess the secret formula for plaid paint. They only need level bubble bladders and 2×4 stretchers…”

The Chief stared at him while Agent A babbled on about birds and flaming feathers and upside-down houses and black suns.

Agent I’s eyes opened.

“Oh, my God.”

The Chief turned toward him.

“I saw… his thoughts,” Agent I moaned under his breath. “I saw what they’re planning to do.”

The Chief looked at Agent I and asked sarcastically, “Let me guess. They’re planning to discover the formula for checkered paint?”

“No. They’ve been here all along. For generations. They secretly guided us into the Oil Age. They gave us the formulas for plastics. They led us to the chemicals and fuels that poison the planet, and we thought we discovered all of it ourselves.”

Agent I struggled upright.

“They’ve been using us to change the chemistry of Earth. Our atmosphere is poisonous to them, so they’ve been getting us to change it into something they can breathe. And what makes this planet livable for them makes it deadly for us.”

The Chief stared at him.

“We’re terraforming Earth for the assholes.”

“Then how do we stop them?”

Agent I looked at the Chief.

“We get involved. We stop waiting for somebody else to fix it. We replace the Oil Age with green energy, and every one of us has a part in making that happen.”