The return of the good doctor F

Doctor Farvo's laboratory was quite a lucrative base of operations after the fuel embargo of the 1980's had been lifted. The new trade laws and cheap export taxes had blown a hole to escape the financial woes of the previous years that was only rivaled by Moses parting the Red Sea (an event that had included the involvement of Dr. Farvo's great great great great great great great great great... whew... great great great greatgrand uncle, Festus Farvo). The psychedelic candy cock piece was an invention that's production had been halted by the lack of government funding. The original idea had come to the good doctor while serving his country in "the shit" (known to the civilians as "The war that we didn't want to be involved in but were too stoned to really overthrow the government... so we just made magazines"). The availability of LSD had improved the effectiveness of this candy colored protective garment. The side effects often varied with the user but usually showed a constant variable among those who chose to wear it. His methods and use of LSD in an undergarment were often questioned by those in the industry... but it was known by all in his laboratory that LSD was the only lubricant that could sustain the constant chaffing that occurred while wearing a candy thong.
The rights to this particular invention were soon purchased by a tycoon that had made his money in fried Spanish pies and had recently relocated to Miami after watching the first season of Crockett and Tubbs rip through the city in the television show Miami Vice. The high stress industry of transporting illegal drugs was brought to an all time high through an interest in pastel clothing and wearing shoes with no socks. With individuals no longer able to hide small amounts of drugs in their shoes (mainly due to not wearing socks), they needed a "t-bag" to carry their illegal goods from location to location before sitting down at the coffee table to watch the well kempt feathery hair of Don Johnson and the strange cool of his partner Philip Michael Thomas. Thus, Dr. Farvo's invention had found a great commodity of use. Soon the packaging of the "Candy Cod" had changed form.

The styles of Top Gun had soon streaked across the continent like the sonic boom fly-by that Maverick so loved to enlist before landing. Aviator sunglasses were packaged with the underwear so that all those that were "dealing" would know who was who and where their territory had ended. Vicious feuds exploded throughout the city streets... the gutters filled with blood, sweetened by sugary undergarments and ball sweat (Miami is quite humid after all).
Dr. Farvo had never intended to start a drug fueled gang war on the streets of Miami... but then again... Acid was a terrible drug... even though it was a fantastic undergarment lubricant.

shoe phone?! that's just crazy...

This wasn't Agent420's first deep cover operation. His first tour of duty had brought a younger and blonder version of the same hard-nosed government spy to various third world countries. Although the work was highly classified and the leads remained vague he had somehow managed to make a livable situation out of his environment. Selling Chiclets to American tourists didn't do much for his ego, afterall, he had been trained for 18 months in the underground lair of Agent00Bevan and knew how to kill a man with his pinky toe. His life now had a purpose... to serve the asinine details of a government that would never admit that he existed. Soon Agent420 grew tired of the Sun scorched puffy pink skin of these swollen American tourists. He was an American... living the life of a gypsy vagrant only made his Vulcan blood boil (a sensation he had not felt since the age of 14 while delivering goods for the infamous ORANGE-LILAC POT SMUGGLING RING). His requests for transfer were ignored for months. The Agent felt alone. His life in the field was not as glamorous as his mentor had said it would be. At the end of every steamy Puerto Rican afternoon he would sit within the small confines of his apartment and stare at his "shoe phone".... desperately waiting for the organization to make contact. "What the hell is the point of selling these damn bits of gum anyway?" he thought to himself, "They don't taste any different than the other colors and they flavor lasts for about 53 and 1/2 chews... hell, I wouldn't pay a quarter for this shit! Why can't I sell American gum like FRUIT STRIPE?!"

Agent420's following mission would be a welcome change from his year tour of street vending. His bride to be was a double agent who's cover had been blown. She had worked for the "other side" during the decade known as the "Kellogg's Post Cold-War." Her cover had been as a Flamenco dancer... a prized position in the industry and much more glamorous than a street vendor selling small bits of gum to sunburned douches from Chicago. Agent420 had been lucky enough to read her dossier before the wedding had been announced. His wife had never made mention of being a dancer... and the secret was eating away at his insides.
"Should I tell her that I know her secret?" he pondered while stuffing his mouth with a sizeable crab cake. He watched his new wife in amazement. Her beauty seemed to stun the entire crowd... either that or the brownish toxic gas that had been pumped into the room.
"She's good," he said with a smile. But then he realized that the entire wedding party was out cold. The reception hall was silent, with an exception of his new wife's shoe's clacking against the cold hard linoleum.
"I wonder if she can cook?" he laughed. He threw a crab cake against the wall with a resounding squish and walked across the sea of bodies. The Agent grabbed his wife to be by the waist and began to follow her sultry Flamenco dance around the center of the room.
"Kiss me you boob," his new wife said as she looked into his eye.
"You want me to kiss your boob?" he asked. Their life as the ultimate husband and wife "spy team" had gotten off to a rocky start... but they would always have their love of crabcakes.

(congrats, you guys! I wish I were there. Love, Bev and CC)

parasites from plan 9...

The bowls decorating the edge of the bar had been filled with an unusually colorful substance. These glass and porcelain containers were usually filled to the brim with a urine stained assortment of nuts and crispy corn square "thingies." On this fateful night, the bowls had been switched. The bar patrons saw the change as something new and exciting... perhaps a different look at the same old bar scene. However, something more dastardly was afoot. These gooey little gummi bears that waited in clumps at the end of the bar had been tainted by something more loathsome than urine and grubby fingers. These "new treats" were the product of a secret laboratory somewhere off of the coast of Guatemala. Years had been spent on the perfect mixture of laxatives and living parasites. After many failures and losing a testicle to a motorcycle accident, Dr. Farvo had completed his maniacal task. The only obstacle left was getting grown men to eat gummi bears. "What better way than to ship the entire load to San Francisco?" he thought to himself, "They're fruity enough to eat gummi bears by the pound!" The trap had been set. Little did he know that months from now his two sons would end up at the very bar where his genetically designed gummi bears were being served. After the first dosage of the sugary substance they began to dance. Then there was an urge to run out and buy designer shirts at the "BR." By the end of the night Dr. Farvo's sons had been transformed to full-blown-gay. The mad doctor had no idea that his plan would hit so close to home. "I really didn't think this one out very far," he said. "To tell you the truth I really didn't even have a plan... but at least now my apartment will look fabulous."

Dr. Farvo didn't expect the adverse effects that these little gummi treats would have on women. The chemical reaction seemed to block the flow of estrogen to the brain and body, turning all of the women who had ingested these small colorful bits into Heavy Metal loving bi-sexuals. The reaction had also raised their sexual appetites to a level of ultimate destruction. Women began to writhe in their chairs and even go so far as to hump the legs of anyone wearing boots. Unfortunately, because of the heavy intake of tainted gummi bears, there were no longer any straight men in the room to satisfy these new insatiable desires. The Doctor had doomed the entire bar to a night of soon-to-be-forgotten "one-nighters," estranged orgies, and bad tastes left on palates that couldn't be washed away with any amount of White Castle burgers and Sprite. The alleyways filled with the echoed screams of Slayer and Judas Priest... though they did little to muffle the "first timer" howls that poured onto the streets. Eventually the Fire Department had to be called in to disperse the crawling mass of naked bodies rolling around on the bar room floor. There was a giddy laugh overheard just before the Brigade Chief cried out, "Turn the hose on 'em."

Most of the crowd had run screaming from the bar in the middle of the night, sopping wet, and missing their nice new designer shirts. Most were lucky to find a shoe that matched and crushed velvet jacket that didn't have vaseline stains. Others merely crawled into the dark spots of the alleyway and waited for the sun to rise. With the bleaching rays of sunlight screaming through the streets, sobriety had brought back the painful memories of the night before. It also probably didn't help that everyone that had been at the now infamous "Gummi Bear Massacre" was walking funny the following day. Dr. Farvo's sons were quite glad that they had only been gay for one night and even more glad that they had not been gay with each other. They promised never again to speak of the events of that night and often quaked in fear and regret every time one of them saw a bag full of gummi bears. Two months later the bar that held host to that fateful Saturday night burned down. A Starbucks was built on top of it. Dr. Farvo died two years later from dysentery.