Prologue Part I: The Not-so-stately Home of Edward D. Wood Jr.
"Eddie... what is this?" The platinum blonde asked, as she rifled through thirty typewritten pages. "Another rewrite? I thought you and the boys were starting the shoot on that flying saucer picture tomorrow?"
"We are honey. I'm just too wound up to sleep." He pressed the cherry of a dying Lucky Strike to the fresh one between his thin lips. "You know... this must...be how Orson Welles felt," he said, between puffs. " Just before making Citizen Kane. Standing on the precipice of greatness. That's just what I'm doing now."
"That's funny... because it looks to me like your getting ribbon ink and bourbon all over my good angora sweater. And what is this anyway? This isn't the movie your shooting... Bride of the Monster II?"
"No honey. Its a sequel. Criswell says that by the year 2000, people won't be seeing original movies anymore. They'll just see the same movie, continued over and over again. Besides, we still have that swell octopus from Republic Studios..."
"Eddie... darling..." She had her patient face on, the one usually reserved for two year olds and alcoholic transvestites. "Criswell is a crackpot. He also says that Ronald Reagan is going to be president one day. You can't be serious about this."
"You just don't understand genius is all." He retorted, pouring another five fingers of scotch.
Dolores puffed an exasperated sigh. She scanned the smeared, hastily typed text on the pages. "Superman is in it? I hate to break it to you, genius.. but that's a li-censed char-a-cht-er. That means money, darling... something in short supply around here, in case you haven't noticed."
Eddie counted to ten while swallowing the scotch. He gesticulated with the empty glass. "Not for long. Not once Grave Robbers hits the big screen. You know how the kids eat up these flying saucer stories. I mean it, hon.. this will be the film that makes Edward D. Wood Jr. a household name."
"Eddie, be reasonable..."
But her words were like the droning of so many flies. Like a man possessed, Ed crouched behind the Smith Corona. His fingers moved with unerring accuracy, falsies jiggling with each vehement carriage return. The keys began to lambently flash, electrons crackling beneath the hammers as they struck bold ink to unsuspecting paper. Little did Ed Wood realize that, in a universe closer than he dreamed, his words were transmuted into reality.
Prologue Part II: A Universe Closer Than He Dreamed
The Old Willows place had erupted into a roiling cauldron of nuclear death. Backlit by a seeming Hiroshima, a massive figure lumbered aimlessly. His plodding size 18s sank into the muck, only to be pulled forth yet again with a wet, gurgling schluuup. Again and again, the sound marked his progress, like a metronome slicing through margarine.
"No... like congealed lard... no, better yet..." Eddie breathed scotch and smoke. His nerves felt like they were on fire. But the scotch helped. The sweater helped more. "The sound of a thickening plop."
Lobo blinked, as the sound of his steps seemed to change mid-schlup. Dawn was breaking, and curdled red through the hanging sargassum and beards of moss at the edge of the swamp. Parting the dense foliage with a meaty, pale hand, he peered out at the wilds of... suburbia.
Prologue Part III: Suburbia
Lobo could not recall ever being so happy. He had a family, one that seemed to really care for him. When they needed him to do something, they simply asked... instead of laying into his back with a cat o' nine tails. (Though secretly, in his heart of hearts, he wished the one called June would do so now and again. He tried to be naughty now and again, but his efforts were always met with maple syrup kindness.
"Uh-oh. Lobo spill milk all over table."
The patriarch lowered his paper, chewing at the pipestem in his mouth. "Now Lobo... that's the second time now. I'm beginning to think these aren't accidents."
"Gee Dad. Lobo can't help being clumsy. He's just a big lug is all. Ain't that right, Lobo?"
"Yes. Lobo am lug. Am sorry." He hung his head, milk dribbling down a ladder of chins.
"Gosh Beav. You make excuses for him all the time. Its creepy and stuff."
"Your father's right, Beaver. Lobo needs to be more careful. Milk doesn't grow on trees, you know." She bent forward and began mopping the milk in a slow, circular motion. It was almost mesmerizing.
"Milk come from cow," Lobo announced sagely. His new suit made him feel smart.
Giving the bald behemoth a wink, June pressed a fresh glass into his hand, tracing his knuckle furtively. "Here. Oh and Lobo.. I may need your help again later. Do you think you can help me with the drapes again?"
"Lobo like help Joon," Lobo announced, his gaze boldly inappropriate. His hand lifted, slowly... when the world dissolved around him.
The house, the kids, the object of his burgeoning lust, all had dissolved like... like... something dissolving very quickly. He crashed to the floor hard, fingers clenching closed around the glass of pasteurized goodness.
Slowly he gained his feet, rising to an intimidating height. Blood, glass, and milk dripped from his right hand. "What have for people take Joon?" he bellowed, a spray of spittle leaving his thick lips.