Darth Cucaracha

Gregory awoke, finding that he had been transformed into a giant cockroach. Evidence of the night’s revels still littered his friend Ben’s small apartment, discarded plates, empty cans, and novelty lightsabers. As May the Fourth became Cinco de Mayo, the black bug-eyed custom Vader mask on his head hadn’t loosed its grip even slightly.

Memories of the night before punctured his hangover. Ben, who worked in aerospace engineering, explained how the prototype mask had a battery that could last for days. The voice changer “still needed work,” and using it to scuba dive was a two-person operation. “It’s like the real thing. You could even use this in space!”

Gregory turned his head, scanning the room through the two small fish-eye lenses stuck in night-vision mode. The early morning gloom was replaced by a static-filled landscape of neon-green outlines. His loud breathing sounded mechanical through the HEPA-rated air filters in the mask, and he was desperately thirsty.

Making his way to the bathroom, He removed the outer shell from the mask, the bell-shaped protective layer, leaving only the perfectly glossy black dome encapsulating his entire head. This gave him access to the night-vision’s control knobs at his temples. He switched the feature off, relieved as the green overlay blinding him to the world gave way to fish-eyed distortion.

He looked in the mirror, and La Cucaracha stared back at him. A cockroach missing two legs, clad only in tighty whities, socks, and a broad black cape. Pulling a silly straw from a half-drunk margarita on the bathroom sink, he threaded it past his neck to his mouth inside the helmet. Dumping the wicked concoction, he siphoned water up through each silly loop of the straw, impatient and in desperate need. His anger rose along a similar path, striking now in all directions before finally arriving at himself.

He had to find Ben and get this thing off. It had a screw lock on the back, but where was everybody? Oh no. The bar crawl. Oh no! The trade show!  

Gregory scrambled, looking for his pants, badge, and shirt. He didn’t hear the banging at the front door. He put one leg into a pair of jeans, which promptly got stuck. They were Ben’s and a few sizes too small. One of the partygoers must have accidentally taken his. Along with his wallet, driver’s license, and company access card…

As he considered his predicament, his assistant Abagail entered through the unlocked door. He quickly wrapped the cape around himself, blushing despite the full-face cowling.

“You’re late! We already set up the booth, but we need you on stage in fifteen minutes! I’m double parked outside, we need to go!” Abagail tilted her head, seeming to notice he was dressed like some sort of budget superhero. She waved a hand dismissively. “I don’t even want to know.”

Gregory tried to say, “May the Fourth be with you!” but it came out as garbled mechanical static. He shrugged, raising his hands conciliatorily, which unfortunately unconcealed his mostly naked self. Abagail put a hand to her mouth.

“Oh, HR is going to have a fit. I’m taking mental notes here. This is the last straw, Gregory.”

Sheepishly, Gregory held up his silly straw, hoping she’d get the joke, his cape flapping limply.

Abagail shook her head and stormed out of the apartment. A moment later, the front door of the building slammed shut.

Gregory returned to the couch where he’d spent the night. He dug around in the cushions. He still had ten minutes to fix this, get cleaned up. He texted Ben, but it showed up as unread.

This trade show was everything to his small company. They were sunk if they didn’t get orders for the upcoming snow season, and people depended on him. Gregory wished he had some big boy pants to pull up, but he settled for his shoes. He grabbed Ben’s car keys and sprinted out the door. If the naked cowboy could do it, he could too.

He drove directly to the loading dock, sneaking in through one of the open bay doors. Sticking to the shadows, he felt like Batman as he crept toward the back of the stage. Gregory entered from backstage, his snow equipment arrayed before him, an audience of hundreds of customers watching.

It was now or never. Gregory wordlessly greeted the audience, who gasped, then did his best robot dance. He knew these machines by heart, demonstrating all the features visually. He’d gone through these motions hundreds of times.

Murmurs rose in the audience.

Gregory finished his performance and ran to the dock to retrieve Ben’s car before it got towed. As he sat in the driver’s seat, something poked his right butt cheek. The key to the mask!

He rushed it back to Abagail, now talking with some distributors. He pointed at the key and showed her the latch in the back of the mask. She understood, releasing it for him. Fresh air welcomed the cockroach back into the human world.

“How bold to be so vulnerable,” one distributor said.

“I know, usually I sleep through these!” said another.

“He really flipped the narrative of the booth babe.”

Abagail whispered in his ear, “We’re selling out. Whatever this was, they loved it, but please run this stuff by me next time. I had half a mind to file a harassment complaint.”

Gregory nodded apologetically, then greeted his customers as “Daft Spunk” videos began to go viral.