From the Dead of Night, a Beacon

FROM THE DEAD OF NIGHT, A BEACON

a very special
AMERICA'S WORST NITEMATE
crossover event

Our story begins in the pitch-black darkness of late November, 1986:


"So like I was saying, there's so much more to me than the AWE Striker, you know, guys?" Crankcase half-stated, half-asked, sighing to punctuate the end of his tirade.

"Huh? Yeah, right, right. So, let me ask you something. What's the steering like on this baby?" asked Grand Slam, peering out at his companion from behind a thick protective visor that covered his eyes and no other part of his face.

"Well, it's -- hey!" Crankcase yelled, rapping the Laser Artillery Soldier on the ear (well, the helmet over the ear).

Meanwhile, Navy SEAL and native Hawaiian Torpedo shook his head in disgust. "All I wanted was a ride to the training pool..."

ELSEWHERE:



"Clutch, slow down!" shouted Scarlett, grabbing frantically onto the VAMPs' rollbar in the hopes of some sort of safety gained from the act.

"No way, baby," Clutch grunted from beneath his massive beard, which contained more red-blooded American history in its tangled locks than the Museum of American History. "Mama Steinberg's baby boy don't slow down for nothin'. NOTHIN'!"

"VROOM VROM!" went the VAMP as they sped along. Every now and then Clutch would adjust his rearview mirror to stare at Scarlett's armored cleavage. Then, the redheaded Southern girl would karate-chop his throat and, after a coughing fit, he would resume driving "maturely."



Grand Slam clasped his head in his hands and groaned. "I'm just saying, why drive this piece of crap when you could be a hero at POLE POSITION? It's the wave of the future, man! Trust me - I got my degree from DeVry!"

"You nerdy faggot son of a bitch," Crankcase shouted, trying his best to both drive competently and lean over towards his passenger. "I oughta tear your stick shift out and slap you silly with it. Don't nobody talk bad about my--"

"Crankcase, you dick!" shouted Torpedo, waving his harpoon gun furiously in the direction of an oncoming VAMP. Unfortunately, his voice was muffled by his official SEAL facemask, so what he shouted came out as "CRUMGAFE, BOO BIG!"

"Scarlett, baby, I'll do things to you that Snake Eyes can't. Like whisper in your ear. Or make totally wicked faces as I romantically hump you all night long," Clutch said in a soft voice. To prove his point, he bit his lower lip, closed his eyes, and began pantomiming the act of humping his steering wheel. "Just like that, girl. Aww, yeah."

Scarlett tried to point at an AWE Striker tearing down the road in the opposite direction. "Clutch, get off it!" she screamed. However, because Clutch was blasting the New Jersey state anthem ("Wanted Dead or Alive" by Bon Jovi), all he heard was "Clutch, get off!" Which he did.

Just as he climaxed...

KAZAAM!!!



"OH SHIIiiiiiiii....!" Torpedo wailed, flipping in his flippers head over heels.

"Goddamnit!" Crankcase called out.

Grand Slam said nothing, his head beating against the pavement with a wet thud as his helmet soard through the air before rolling to a slow stop.

"Aiiiee!" Scarlett shrieked.

Clutch said nothing, instead pinching his left nipple and sticking his tongue out, his eyes still closed.

However, when he opened his eyes, Clutch realized what had happened. "I've done it again," he whispered. "Not again...!"

Remembering his terrible past (See America's Worst Nitemate tie-in "Among Us Rides a Mean Machine" - Ed.), Clutch deftly swerved the VAMP around and stomped his foot to the floor. The vehicle's wheels screeched and smoke came out from beneath the carriage.



"I'm getting the hell off!" said Scarlett.

"Oh, no!" Clutch said. "We're in this together now!"

Grand Slam, meanwhile, burbled up blood beneath the AWE Striker.

Crankcase did his best to climb up, though he noted, "I can't...can't feel my legs! Goddamn you!"

Torpedo, having the most sense of any of them (because he's a fucking Navy SEAL, duh! Keith David, help me out here.), began racing after the VAMP in his best T-1000 impression.

The VAMP sped off into the night.

LATER:



"So what do you think, baby? You like this package? Check out the size of my gun. I can totally take you for a memorable ride. Also, my penis is available for some sex." Clutch lounged on the hood of the VAMP, the blood splatter from his victims barely noticeable beneath his body.

"Why, Leonard "Lance 'Clutch' Steinberg" Steinbergenstein, I never!" Scarlett stomped her foot on the ground and sighed. "If only women could resist assholes such as you! Hmmph! Let me at least pretend to be uninterested, why I declare!"

But then...!



"CLUTCH, I'M GOING TO CASTRATE YOU!" the shout came from beneath the VAMP ... or did it? It did! It was Torpedo, master of disguise and car-disguise! "Hold it right there!"

Clutch was so frightened he spun around and almost slid off the hood of the VAMP, partially because it was so bloody from the terrible accident he had caused.



After Scarlett fainted, Torpedo grabbed Clutch by the ankle and dragged him into his clutches. "I have this great idea for a 'mixed martial art' that I can turn into prime television entertainment. Let me show you some of the things I plan to market in two decades. And if you steal my idea...I'll do them again! BLAKAOW!" he screamed, and dropped Clutch straight onto his knee, instantly paralyzing him.

"Also," Torpedo added, "the AWE Striker is totally cooler than the VAMP."

When that happened, Clutch somehow leapt to his feet and cold-cocked the SEAL with a dragon uppercut.



"Fuuuuuuuuck YOU!" he shouted as he spun around and connected his fist with his enemy's jaw, knocking Torpedo out of his fins. "A man's wheels are more important to him than his balls. AND I LOVES MY BALLS!"

Defeated, the SEAL slumped to the ground and Clutch urinated on him. "Ahhhhh," he sighed contentedly.

Then, the VAMP driver hauled Scarlett, who had just begun to stir, over his shoulder and started running to his vehicle.



"Come on, toots, I'm about to nail you in the backseat," he whispered.

"But, Clutch," Scarlett said, her face betraying her confusion. "The VAMP doesn't have a backseat!"

"Who's talkin' about the VAMP?" he asked, grinning. Then he winked at the camera and gave a thumbs-up, just like all complete asshole greaseball Jersey guidos do when they've managed the miracle of landing even a semi-conscious woman.

THE END?

NO!
to be continued in
AMERICA'S WORST NITEMATE: RED (GOLD EDITION)
in stores next month!