Gojiro
all—action is the louder thing. But now I have no choice. So listen up.”
    “What the hell is this?” Gojiro stormed. “That ain’t my voice. It’s . . .”
    Komodo swallowed hard but was silent.
    “It’s Shig! Putting on some crazy accent. Making me sound like a mush-mouthed Chinese waiter!”
    On the screen Gojiro’s picture kept talking. “Loyal zardpard fans, do you possess some wonderment why there have been no new exciting, ultrafantastic adventures of your favorite King of Monsters, Friend to Atoms lately? Could others of you, collectors of the very philosophic Gojiro Crystal Communications who have had much edification from numbers 1 through 89, say: why? Why, after 89: none other? Never 90? Never 91? 92? Well, I say to you it is not because I do not love you anymore, or that I am too much partying down with my swinging Radioactive Island joyboys and galpals. Actually I am in grave danger! It has been with great risk that I even send you this message.”
    “What is this crap? What’s he trying to pull?”
    “Shhh,” Komodo motioned, his attention on the screen.
    That voice Shig put into Gojiro’s mouth went on. “I have been placed into that most terrible spell by the evil zombie see-zombie do Opposer. Yes! That same pencilneck geekster I personally refried in that cool cooking adventure Gojiro vs. the Depthless Society Beast in the Achromatic Casino . Can you believe it, ’tile-o-files? That crumbum came back! He sneaked up on me when I was playing poker with my monster friends and used his Stultifying Art Ray on me. I had two aces looking up and two eights turned down too!
    “Zardpards! This ever-bad Opposer has caused me to fall into a deep trance. I cannot wake up. And I must. I must awake and give you the 90 Series! Listen now, this is the important thing: The 90 Series is everything! It is all that counts! I must reveal it to you so we all will be saved! It is the only way.
    “But there is trickiness. The 90 Series is a hidden thing. No one knows it except yours trulyest. Except I forgot. This evil ray has made it fly from me. You must help me remember! Only by hearing the 90 Series from my own lips will I be awakened. Help me to know what I know so I can tell you!
    “Yes, you , Timmy and Tommy, you Billy and Bernice, you Debbie and Dwayne! Only you can do it! But there is only one way to reach me. You must supplicate for the 90 Series through a Gojiro Crystal Contact Radio!”
    Then, in some real cheesy “trick” photography, a pair of what looked like plastic earmuffs appeared on the head of that phony Gojiro. “Save me! Save yourself!” the dubbed dummy implored. “Supplicate for the 90 Series! Get your Gojiro Crystal Contact Radio today! Only five dollars!”
    The screen went blank, and Shig, in his normal voice, said, “For your special Save Gojiro, Save Yourself offer, send five dollars, plus postage and shipping.” He gave a post office box number somewhere in Fiji.
    “Fuck,” Gojiro exhaled.
    * * *
    Resolutely paddling out to the seething Cloudcover, onward to their no-doubt-fateful meeting with Sheila Brooks, Gojiro now regarded the 90 Series as just another cinch in an ever-tightening noose around his neck. Not that he would call it a tremendous surprise. He’d been girding himself for some new gambit on Shig’s part.
    Gojiro’s growing apprehension that Shig followed a private agenda, some sort of master plan aimed at boxing him into some unknown yet horrific corner, commenced several years before during one of those beachcombing jaunts he and Komodo often took to pick through the flotjet flow.
    “Look at this,” the monster said, quizzically, eyeing the steady stream of lobby cards washing over his semisubmerged clawtoes. “These stills—ain’t they from Gojiro vs. Anti-Syncopators on the Street of Forgotten Cool ? Yeah—here’s a shot of me rescuing that stack of Chick Webb records from that Electronic Sampler Beast.”
    Komodo examined the

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