I'm writing you this letter because you are in grave danger. Some fucked up shit is about to go down.
My name is Copernicus Thunderbird. You don't know me, and you probably don't remember me peeing on your car, which is good because it happened several times. I didn't vote for you, and I don't pay taxes, and I live in a dumpster. These factors tend to exclude me from conversing with the upper echelon of local politicians in the community (partly because of the smell, but mostly because of "the crazy eye," which apparently is something I do quite frequently without realizing it). So if you don't recognize me right away when I'm sleeping on the courthouse steps or taking a dump in your neighbor's yard, well…I understand.
I am convinced that the Super Astronaut Death Lord is a twelve foot tall Hell's Angel Space Viking. He'll be belligerently drunk, and probably high on space coke. But overall I think you're a pretty good mayor, despite the fact that you never had an acting career prior to your current path in politics. When it comes to politics, I will only vote for actors from the movie Predator. Since you were not in that film, I have to question your level of personal experience in dealing with hostile alien life forms. I'm guessing you have none. This greatly concerns me.
Here's the deal: The Super Astronaut Deathlord is coming to destroy the city in five days. I know this because I have a special metal filling that picks up satellite messages from outer space. I call it my magic talking tooth. I knew a guy in the KGB that dealt in super secret spy dentistry. He's dead now. Got shived with a sharpened toothbrush. I don't like to talk about it.
A rendering of the Super Astronaut Deathlord's cornfield landing. Available for 10 bucks or a hot meal.
You might not believe in Super Astronaut Deathlord, but that doesn't matter. I didn't believe in ghosts until the day I was raped by one. I'm still in therapy for it. Ghost rape is very traumatic. And my therapist didn't even fucking believe me. Said it was all in my head. Well it wasn't. It was in my ass. It was horrible. My therapist said it wasn't real and that I was projecting, so I punched him in the face and gnawed off one of his ears. Now I'm in anger management. Well, I was, but then they kicked me out for being too angry.
None of that is important. FOCUS. I have attention dementia demons, and the Devil wants me to forget what I was saying. The Devil is always doing that. The Devil likes to crawl inside my head. Sometimes, when my hands become idle, he forces me to masturbate in public. Then I cut myself with broken glass as atonement. Afterwards I usually head over to the Dairy Queen and bleed on the counter until they give me some free ice cream and a hot dog to go away.
None of that matters. What matters is that there's going to be an alien invasion in five days. The legions of the Super Astronaut Deathlord are on their way to kill you and rape your wife. It doesn't matter that your wife is old and not at all hot. She's totally getting raped anyway.
And mark my words: there will be lasers. Do you have lasers? Because if not, I suggest you round some up immediately. Otherwise, you're fucked.
The historical district probably won't survive, and there's a good chance we may also lose K-Mart and the King Panda Chinese Buffet.Super Astronaut Deathlord plans to arrive via spaceship in the cornfields just north of the city on Tuesday, sometime around midnight. Though I have never seen him, I am convinced that he is a twelve foot tall Hell's Angel Space Viking. He'll be belligerently drunk, and probably high on space coke. In order to fight him, I will also need to be drunk and coked up. I should start immediately so that I have a five day head start on him. So I'm gonna need some serious drug money from you guys. I know you're good for it.
I'll also need a flying tank. I'm assuming you have at least one. And don't try to feed me any "Our flying tank is in the shop" bullshit. You want to see city hall in flames? Because I don't give a shit either way. I'll go live under a bridge with the trolls. I have friends. Troll friends.
The Super Astronaut Deathlord will arrive at the local downtown tavern shortly after midnight. He's going to start making trouble and harassing ladies. He's going to have three or four of his boys with him. They're going to break dishes and knock over some tables. They'll drop twenty dollars in the jukebox and play nothing but Napalm Death, and no one will be able to stop them.
I know this because my magic talking tooth knows this.
This is where my plan comes into action. I will enter the bar wearing my ceremonial battle armor, which consists of a tin foil helmet (for psychic defense), a black trash bag robe (protection from rain, spills, and bodily fluids), a bottle cap chain mail vest (+4 armor class), magic x-ray monster-vision glasses (self-explanatory), and an enchanted Hello Kitty raincoat (it's pink) with mysterious powers that I have yet to fully comprehend.
I'll start with projectile vomit. That's my usual opening move, and it generally works pretty well. After vomiting on the group, I'll run outside and hop in the flying tank to escape. While they're chasing me, I'll give you the signal to release Godzilla, or some other suitable giant radioactive monster that you keep underground in the event of alien invasions. Every county is required by intergalactic law to have at least one. But of course, I don't have to tell you that.
Godzilla, the savior of your city, Mr. Mayor.
Super Astronaut Deathlord has a space ship that turns into a samurai robot with laser swords. He will fight Godzilla in the center of town. Be warned: this will cause a great deal of destruction. The historical district probably won't survive, and there's a good chance we may also lose K-Mart and the King Panda Chinese Buffet.
I will crash the flying tank into a nearby school as a diversion. The impact will weaken me, so I will need to crack open the nearest A/C unit and huff the Freon out of it in order to recharge my powers.
Panda unemployment may increase 100% following the downtown conflict.
The next thing I will require is a trip to the store for a pack of smokes. Nothing fancy, just some Pall Malls or Dorals. So I'll need another five bucks on that. I'll use the change to get a snack. Maybe a Moon Pie and some Vienna sausages. I'll need some malt liquor while I'm there, so just go ahead and spot me ten dollars in advance.
Once I'm finished at the store, I'll go back to check on the fight. Most likely Godzilla will have defeated the Super Astronaut Deathlord samurai robot by that point, and I will report back to city hall to inform you of my triumph over the evil forces of space. You may then reward me with treasure from your secret vault.
Believe me, I've got your best interests at heart. So I suggest you go ahead and send me some money so that I can get started on saving the town from certain impending doom. If you don't want my help, you can go fuck yourself in Hell.
Copernicus Thunderbird, Homeless Lunatic Wizard