Without His Permission: A Story By Dusty
Footloose to the Future: The Adventure Begins
Chapter One: Kevin Bacon is Terrible
Kevin Bacon arose from his bed, terribly hungover and incredibly not good looking. Thankfully, he could remedy one of these. He slung on his tattered periwinkle bathrobe and stumbled into the mirror. His eyes were as red as the Tatooine sun. His hand was shaking visibly. He needed a fix.
(In the interest of the ladies, the graphic descriptions of drug use have been removed from this edition – ed.)
Temporarily satiated, Kevin moved on to his next mystery: What day was it? He looked at his 1982 LA Lakers calendar. Incidentally, this calendar was two years out-of-date and no help whatsoever. He turned on his ancient black-and-white that was left by the previous tenant. From the newscast he gleaned that today was a Tuesday, which meant that he had a job to do.
Kevin Bacon stumbled his skinny little ass down to the bus terminal and waited for Alamar, the night driver, to return. 15 minutes later, his bus pulled in. At least, he assumed it was his bus. There was something not quite right about it, but he could not quite put his cliché on it. In the interest of full disclosure, I will tell you what was different: On this particular day, Kevin Bacon’s transit bus was augmented with both an industrial air conditioning unit and a crude time-travel-enabling device. That is what was different about it. Now you know.
Still in a drugged-up haze, Kevin Bacon boarded his bus. Alamar commented that Kevin Bacon did not “look so good.” Mr. Bacon shot back with a stabbing, “go back to Iceland.” It was a formidable parry indeed. Alamar either didn’t hear him or didn’t care, though, and exited the bus. His hulking mass transit machine was colder than usual, but again, in his stuporific state, Kevin noticed nothing. He put the bus in gear and headed out to start his route.
It was a typical day for Kevin Bacon. Ever since Footloose tanked at the box office, he had been getting by with his route. The hours were long and the pay was terrible, but he got by. Somehow. There wasn’t a day that went by that didn’t see Kevin Bacon crying in his dark apartment, razor blade in hand, one captain and tap away from ending it all. All of today’s passengers were boring, much more successful people, whose eyes only showed pity and disgust at the sight of their long-chinned driver.
Two stops from the end of his route, the bus picked up a particularly hairy young man. Obviously trying to hide the fact that he looked like Chewbacca or a bigfoot, the man was wearing high school colors and a red ballcap. Kevin came from terrible genes, and was unable to grow any sort of facial hair. He envied this young man’s hirsuteness and wished to pet him tenderly.
He noticed that the windshield was beginning to cloud and had to fiddle with the bus’s climate controls to keep it transparent. He also began to notice his breath coming out in visible white puffs. This was the worst hangover ever.
Chapter Two: No, Really, He Sucks