I barely had time to let the body lotion seep into my chaffed skin (that armor last week was a little rough on my pores) when the announcement came through for our next challenge.
Wipe out a bunch of harmless Monkeyboys. No problem there. Those things are annoying. I mean really, really annoying. Most of the other contestants were in total agreement. Henchman was practically giddy as he oiled up his weapons.
"Save the cheerleader!" someone shouted. We all turned around. It was Noah.
"There is no cheerleader here, Mr. Bennet," I pointed out.
"No, no. That's the new slogan for our team," he explained.
"Very stirring," I lied.
As the others made for their respective strike zones, I considered my options. The actual task was to press a button in the midst of an ever growing hoard of Monkeyboys before they took over the world. The only problem is that my powers are psionic and due to their lack of higher brain function, those little freaks are mostly immune. Clearly I would need to get creative.
I slipped into my combat more hoverchair and hitched a ride on a shuttle to the Gladiator's retirement home. Fortunately I had arrived at 11:15, just as the morning mimosa drinking contest was getting under way. My old friend Bone Crusher was just downing his first glass.
"Excuse me," I said in a loud voice, announcing my presence. All the old geezers grumbled as they turned to look at me. "Are there any warriors here?"
They looked around at one another, their blood shot eyes straining in confusion for a few minutes. And then, all at once, eight wrinkly, flabby old arms that had once been strong and proud shot up into the air.
"And is there anyone here who hates Monkeyboys?" I asked.
Their arms shot up again, this time in a creaky instant, accompanied with shouts of, "You bet we do, sonny!"
"And who here would like to spend this fine morning on the field of honor, laying waste to every Monkeyboy in sight?"
"RAH! RAH! RAH!" they all shouted at the top of their decaying, half-collapsed lungs.
I lead my team of warriors back to my assigned Monkeyboy infested zone. The little buggers were everywhere, chattering away inanely about the weather and presidental politics. Distributing the cache of M41A Pulse Rifles I had Hudson bring over to us (and then wiping his memory, of course), I set the retired gladiators to the task.
With mucho gusto they charged into the swarm of Monekyboys. Fur and bananas were flying in all directions. Through the ensuing confusion, I managed to steer my hoverchair to the heart of the great cloning doohickey (a scientific term Hank McCoy taught me) that was popping out Monkeyboys left and right.
"Hey bubba! What you playin' at?" a newly formed one asked me.
"Oh, nothing you'd be interested in," I answered casually, gliding up to the control panel. I flipped open the plastic cover and started to reach for the button.
"Hey now, I don't think you want to be pressin' that, no sir, no how," the oversize rodent protested.
I nodded politely and pressed the button. A loud hum I hadn't been aware of died down and the machine sputtered to a halt, a lone fez falling out of the exit chamber.