Dry mesas reached for the sky; even taller towers of rock, each a great, painful looking spike, scraped menacingly at the blue skies. Even under the searing late-afternoon sun, there was just something... foreboding about it—how those thousand-foot-tall (at least) formations, with their bulbous, pumpkin-like tops, loomed en masse like an executed army, some sort of twisted, ancient warning sign of pikes with heads skewered upon them, as if to say, "Don't come this way."

Or, maybe it was actually the yellow signs along the roadside that pretty much said the same thing.

LOW LIGHT ADVISORY ZONE
Do not cross this boundary after 6:00PM or under low light conditions
Treacherous terrain and environmental phenomenon can pose dangerous conditions

Against all warning, though, the blacktop unfurled dutifully onward, winding its way across the crests of the ruddy canyons that lay at the feet of the forest of gargantuan stone spires, following a wavy, meandering path into the wilderness. There were occasional forks in the road, but they were barricaded by warning signs that read "ROAD CLOSED," or alternatively, "BRIDGE OUT," and piled-up with dirt mounds to prevent passage. Only one route seemed like it could still be traversed, but there was certainly no traffic on it.

...Save for one lone vehicle, perhaps as bold and adventurous as it was large. In fact, it looked like it could comfortably fit a family of thirteen, but in reality, it was much less than that.

Just enough for Power Mask, his companions, and a sizable wardrobe full of spare clothes nestled in the back. While the map was rather haphazardly spilled onto the dashboard, Tank never really spared a second glance at it, preferring to go with the flow while his favorite radio station echoed proudly through the barren landscape.

"And I chase Dawctor Pain down to the vely end off hees warlehouse base, and jost hwen eet seems he eez corlnered, hees asseestant Nurlse Woe cohms swinging in frlom behind sohm boxes, or sohmtheeng like that weeth thees giant syrlinge. So aye torn to him and say, thees ees whot aye say, aye say: 'Hyou arle torning eento a real pain, Dawctor Pain!'"

And he burst into raucous laughter, slapping lightly at his thigh before realizing he nearly driven himself and everybody else off a cliff and steering back to the road, chuckling to himself.

(OOC: This is the POWER VAN, folks. Enjoy your ride. http://img12.imageshack.us/img12/203/powervan.jpg)


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"Mako, child, don't eat things you find on the floor," Dr. Henshin chided quietly and distractedly as he buzzed up to the front of the van and hovered between the heroes' seats at the front.

The desert landscape reflected off of his thick-lensed eyewear for a few seconds while his eyes adjusted to the light. He'd actually been napping a little, too... Staying awake was becoming ever harder, what with his long hours spent in the lab the previous night.

"Oh! Is that our airport up ahead?"

Airport? He must have been using the term loosely. There was a weathered-looking brick control tower building, and a sizable hangar that looked like it had seen better days (maybe fifty years ago), but certainly no "airport"—not the kind with passengers bustling around, carts full of luggage, and so on, anyway. The structures, desolate and lonely on the desert landscape, were set on a large, level plot of land, with a lengthy packed-dirt airstrip. Some dry scrub and even drier grass clung around the building, but besides that, there was nothing living in sight.

The place didn't look completely derelict, though. It was clear enough from the general state of upkeep, as well as some fresh garbage in the can outside, that someone was there. If they actually dared to get out of the van when Tank stopped in the lot, they would be able to hear the noise of conversation, and a radio playing somewhere inside. The giant namesake pumpkin towers of Pumpkin Hill looming almost directly overhead probably did little to make it seem like Tank had chosen a nice place to fly out of, though, regardless of whether or not the place was inhabited by real, non-ghost people.

Doc made for the door almost as soon as they stopped, so morbidly curious and enthusiastic about their destination that it momentarily overcame his tiredness. "And here I thought flying coach would be character-building..."


OOC: Some rough reference images to give a general idea:
http://img137.imageshack.us/img137/6/sw ... ntrol3.jpg
http://img186.imageshack.us/img186/3759/hangar2.jpg

Someone had heard the approaching van and its passengers. The front door of the smallish, control-tower-topped building swung open, and with uncanny timing following the sheriff's single uttered word, out stepped the welcoming party.

Rock.

That Rock. The white-hot-headed monkey who used to live in that desert, surely to Jack's disdain.

But how could this happen? Let's wind back the clock a minute or two.


***


Rock emerged from the kitchen with two soda cans in each hand. "Here'y'go," grunted the primate quietly as he plunked the mess down on the table, in front of the mismatched sofa and chairs, showing uncharacteristic hospitality. A stand that looked like it was intended for a TV held only a radio. Some of the furnishings in the place seemed to be missing; the concrete floors themselves were mostly covered with rugs and carpet scraps, whatever could be found to cozy the place up a little. But, the drinks were cold, so they had a working refrigerator, and the air was comfortable, despite the desert heat, so they had a working air conditioning. It was hard to ask for more.

"Thanks," chirped his guest in high-spirited reply, lunging forward off the couch to snatch up her cold, fizzy offering only to immediately rubber band back to her previous position. Like most other places she went, Jam's offensively red coloration didn't gel well with the mismatched drab most of the decor was comprised of, yet she seemed no less at home, and took in her surroundings with more interest than a second or perhaps third visit really warranted.

"Not that I'm not having a super time in your... air traffic control loft thing, here, but remind me again why we're like, waiting around for excess baggage to haul off with us... Is plane gas that expensive?"

"Yeah," he answered simply as he sat down. He thought about it a moment, then corrected himself. "No, actually, not really. We just need... a lot of it."

He popped the top on his own drink, and plopped down in his seat (an old lawn chair, of all things). "Kind of a gas guzzler, but, you know. Beggars, choosers..."

If any one in the group was left unfazed by the circumstances, you could almost be sure it was Caz-- same as would she be the only one not sitting down. "Maaaan," she spoke. "I just can't believe you have your own plane! Lotta people can't even afford a car, y'know? Or, two cars, maybe." A stray finger ran itself through her fluffed hair as she started at the hangar from a nearby window. "A plane's gotta be like, five cars, at least."

The pair of monkey's second guest of the evening sat himself on what looked like a bar stool, his hands resting between his legs. "Question," he stated. "We know anything about the 'excess baggage' coming with us? Just seems odd they'd all go looking for a flight to Westside unless they're another set of contenders."

Rock smirked surreptitiously at Caz. Either her assumptions about the plane were very right, or very wrong, but it was hard to tell which. He eventually turned attention to Ace's question instead, though, and answered, "Not a lot, but I was thinkin' the same." He took a swig of his drink. "The event doesn't start for a while, so it's too early for spectators to be traveling out. It's probably some hotshot boxer and his entourage, or somethin'. His name was ..."

He thought a moment, then with alarming recollection, regurgitated the entire name.

"Alfonso Luis Garcia Aguirre Martinez Jr."

He said it with the appropriate accent, too.

Save for a quirk of her brow, neither Rock's uncanny memory nor his imitation of a Latino vampire warranted much of a reaction from his pink contemporary. Instead, it was what he had confirmed that compelled her to leave her seat to meander to the window neighboring the excitable mole's.

"So we're basically transportin' competition," Jam said, rather than asked, frowning and dangling her still rather full soft drink by its rim beneath her folded arms. Then, with a devilishly crooked smirk, she turned about, set her drink back on the table with a parting slurp, and added with a sparking, crackling cracking of her knuckles, "Well, they're pullin' up, so if you got any last minute instructions for special hospitality, now's the time."

"We ain't crooks," scolded the white primate as he rose to head for the door. (He was still fighting off a grin at the very notion, but did not go back on his words.) "If they're payin', then I'm takin'em where they're payin' to go, regardless of who it is."

He swung the door open and stepped outside only to find himself facing Sheriff Jack and her posse.



And here we are now.



"Ffgnh irony" cursed the monkey inaudibly through behind teeth.

"Well," he reluctantly began his greeting, sighing his words in a nearly-bothered-but-fighting-to-stay-casual way, "if it isn't the ffffavoritest sheriff of mine in the whole wide world. What brings you all the way out here, Jackie?"