If you’ve missed out so far, we find our two heroes Zac and Conor on their way to Australia to destroy the evil Ugg Boots once and for all, ridding the world of their horrid visage forever. A further summary can be found on part four (linked above) as well as links to the previous installments.

they're coming for you in your dreams

They were everywhere, the Uggs. Not with people attached to them, but just the horrible formless booties themselves, stomping all over Conor’s abdomen as if they operated by their own, horrifying volition. Suddenly Lady Gaga started playing, but not as if over speakers. It was everywhere, meaningless, inexplicable “Mah mah mah mah’s” resonating through Conor’s very veins. There were screens everywhere showing “Sex and the City,” “Bride Wars,” and every crappy parody by the guys that brought us “Scary Movie.” And then Murphy’s Law was brought to its most terrible apex: Carson Daly stood over him, making out with Jennifer Love Hewitt who, while speaking out of the side of her mouth as she continued to kiss the Skeletor-like fame monger, repeated over and over “I love you, Carson Daly and will never, ever love Conor.”

“Nooo! Nooo! Jennifer! Nooo!” Conor screamed, writhing as the Uggs began a full assault on his man-jewels. “Please Merciful God kill me now!” His world began to shake violently, and he felt as though God was going to answer his desperate plea. He felt his face jar side to side, as if it were being slapped, and then he was very wet and -

“Conor! Wake up man! You’re having a nightmare!” Zac screamed, shaking his friend by his shoulders. Conor sat up immediately, drenched in sweat.

“Where the hell am I? Where’s Jennifer? Jennifer!”

“Dude, dude, bro. Chill out. We’re in the back of a cargo plane on the way to Australia,” Zac said, placing a conciliatory hand on his friend’s arm.

Conor sat up, wiping his forehead. “So… That was all a dream? Jennifer hasn’t left me for Carson Douchely?”

“No man, not at all,” responded Zac, sitting down, his back against a large crate. “She’s at home with Giovannia, remember? You called her before we took off?”

“Yeah, yeah… A cargo plane? Why a cargo plane?” Asked Conor, standing up and looking around as he stretched.

“The only affordable flight I could get at such short notice was riding with a shipment of Snuggies into Sydney. Apparently Aussies love to look like retarded cult members.”

Conor’s face cleared of anxiety, coming again to a state of calm. “Right, I remember now… I guess I get a little amnesic after such terrible dreams. Who the hell is listening to Lady Gaga?”

“My bad dude,” Zac said, turning his portable cd-player off.

“Snuggies huh? Man, I hope these aren’t our next enemies…”

Zac laughed and shook his head. “Nah man, of course not. People have better sense than to… Well. I guess I shouldn’t speak so hastily. We are, of course, still battling Uggs.”

He was so very right. Snuggies, Uggs – they were two stones cut from the same ridiculous-looking quarry of irresponsibly poor taste. Luckily, the Snuggies only represented a passing As Seen on TV trend, not an international super-villain.

“So when do we land, did I forget that too?” Conor asked. Fatigued from the intense dream he had just had, he stood up and moved around, punching the air vigorously.

“No, you didn’t forget that part… I didn’t tell you why this was so affordable. We’re not really landing, exactly.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Zac looked at Conor apprehensively. “Look man, I know you’re afraid of heights. But you gotta remember this is for all mankind, alright? We’re saving the world.”

“Dude. No no no. You’d better be screwing with me.”

“I’m not. We’re jumping out of this plane and into the wild Australian outback,” Zac said, grinning stupidly and holding up two parachutes.

“Why in the hell are we doing that?!” his friend responded fearfully.

“Because…” Zac paused, changing his tone from consolation to reason. “That’s where we’ll be meeting with Hughgolas Jackman and The Council of Uggrond… If we’re going to end this evil forever, we’re going to need help.”

To be continued…

In an instant, they were surrounded.

When attacked by Fuggles, the first thing you notice is the awful sound of their sheep-like “bah”-ing. Legend has it that these young ladies once had souls, and wore footwear that did not harm others. But they had sold their innocence for the promise of sheepskin Uggs and, in a terrible irony their betrayal to the queen Fuggle, Lord Cathy Lee Gifford, rewarded them with nothing but a pair of Fuggs– fake uggs.

minions of the dark ugg

They flailed their arms like power ranger bad guys and threw grenades full of cucumber-melon body lotion. Totally unprepared, Conor and Zac were reduced to a child like state, huddling together and using Giovannia’s ample torso as a shield. Conor whimpered, “I just…forgot. How disgusting their sweatpants look tucked into those fuh, fuh, fuh– ” Conor’s voice trailed off, unable to pronounce that most terrible of “F” words, Fuggs.

While Conor sunk deeper into his X chromosone, Zac was steadying his nerves. He slapped his friend. “Get a hold of yourself. Take your head out of it and let your instincts kick in.” Zac closed his eyes and his nostrils flared as he seemed to savor the stench of battle. Then, in Wachowski Brother slow motion, he wheeled about Giovannia’s starboard side, caught a cucumber-melon grenade bare handed, and tossed it back into the unsuspecting face of its previous owner– a particularly gruesome Fuggle dressed in lime green sweat pants that said “pink” on the ass and a powder blue hoodie. The trick worked. She reeled back, clutching her eyes.

His confidence fortified, Zac unleashed a righteous and wrathful storm of uppercuts and charlie horses upon the mutant forces, teleporting all of them back to their hellish dimension– all but one. Zac rose up panting, a triumphant fist in the air, when out of nowhere the Queen Fuggle, Cathy Lee Gifford, struck him to the ground. Her fake tan made her entirely camouflaged against the hard clay of south Texas. Zac never saw her coming.

“You fool. You dare resist comfort?” She put a Fugged foot against his face and pressed hard.

“I can’t believe Regis tapped that…” Zac moaned from beneath the Fugg.

“QUIET! You dare stand against the tide of comfy footwear that also looks super cute?” She bent over, her orange face inches from his own. “They’re warm. Don’t you understand that? They’re warm.”

With upturned, glinting eyes, she sunk back and began to howl with laughter. “You can’t stop it. You will never stop it. NEVER! DO YOU HEAR ME!” Her laughter was like telling a baby sheep it was going to get an icecream cone if it came with you, and then bringing that baby sheep to a slaugtherhouse instead. It was that cruel.

And it began to stir something inside of Conor. Perhaps it was the fact that he was effectively lactose intolerant but in a fit of passion had ordered a three-cheese omelet with chocolate milk at Denny’s that morning. Perhaps it was the memory of that scene in “The Patriot” where Mel Gibson brutally hatchets to death a dozen British dandies. More likely it was the fact that his uncle Kevin had gotten drunk and dressed up as an Oompa Loompa for Halloween when Conor was a boy, barging into his room and giving him nightmares for months. Ever since then, he had hated Oompa Loompas. And nothing looked more like an Oompa Loompa to him now than this fake-tanned Fuggle before him.

He wheeled about Giovannia, surprised Cathy Lee Fuggle, and grabbed it by the throat.

“I need you to listen to me.” His voice was quiet. Distilled down into a clear, liquid hate.

“Do you like stories? Don’t answer that. I love stories, and I am going to end you. Then I am going to get on a plane and I am going to fly to Australia. I am going to walk, barefoot, up that cold, cold mountain, and I am going to bury every last memory of you and your kind. I’m going to bury you where you belong: with beanie babies, Tomagotchis, and even the Tickle-Me-till-it-bleeds-Elmo. Remember Pogs? Sure I do. Remember Uggs? No. No I don’t think I do.”

With that Conor took a step back and delivered an epic kick to the creature’s tummy, teleporting it back to its Power-Ranger-Bad-Guys-with-Flailing-Arms dimension.

Renewed by the glory, Zac stood up and began applauding, but Conor put a hushed finger to his own lips.
“Enough.” Conor said. “We’ve got a plane to catch.”

Conor smiled warmly, staring off into the distance as he basked in the triumphant knowledge of a villain, smote. And yet, despite the vivid memories he had of that bloody battle – memories which he relived on a daily basis with a proud half-smile, a head nod, and an imagined fist pound with Jesus and Lady Luck -  inside him an alarm was sounding ominously. Maybe he was ignoring it, or maybe it was being drowned out by the gleeful giggles of his relatively obese daughter as she ascended to dangerous heights on a swingset that could have the structural equivalent of a brain aneurysm at any moment. No matter what the agent, Conor had become deaf to the voice that was wailing inside him like an global warming protester, except less annoying and concerning a threat that was actually real.

“Conor, can you hear me?!” It pleaded desperately.

“Conor! Ugg boots have risen!”

He could hear the voice loud and clear in the back of his mind, almost as if it was behind him. Weird, he thought to himself, My inner monologues never sound that real.

Suddenly Conor’s head jerked and he stumbled forward, nearly falling down. “Hey! Douche. Listen to me.” It was the voice, now somewhat exasperated and aggressive. “This is for real. The One Ugg is glowing, and if it is united with the Dark Mini Skirt of the Harlot, a portal to hell will open up!”
“God? Is that you?” Conor asked, looking up.
“No you jackass, it’s me – Zac.”
Conor turned around, and there stood his curly haired comrade, his friend, his brother.
“Dude, you just missed the weirdest thing. I could hear my conscience, like audibly. Then it hit me in the back of the head! I wonder if I’m high? But without narcotics somehow?”
“You should never have reproduced,” Zac said, shaking his head. He was, of course, referring to Giovannia, Conor’s unexplainable, lardy 17 year old daughter who was born and raised in one year. He also had no wife or girlfriend. She was Conor’s little miracle. As if God sought to provide some kind of cosmic proof for Zac’s statement, behind them the chains of the swingset snapped, sending Giovannia’s mighty frame hurdling through the air. She landed on a nearby slide, destroying it almost entirely.
“Whoa, feel that? Little earthquake,” Conor said, continuously oblivious. “Giovannia!” he screamed over his shoulder, “Stop swinging and go get yourself a Twinkie out of the trunk.” He took her silence as an affirmation, when in reality it was unconsciousness. Zac shook his head, fighting off the urge to find another partner in the battle against this great monster. No one knows how to navigate this darkness better than him, he thought. And I definitely can’t do this alone.

“She’s something, isn’t she? A real peach,” Conor said, still not looking back at his now barely conscious, groaning daughter.
“Yeah. Right. Look man, we’ve got to talk. Uggs are back, and I mean big time. We thought we had killed them, but we didn’t. I think we’ve got to take the battle to their wretched, hellish birthing place. We have to go to Australia.”
“No… No, this can’t be… You mean, we’re going to Australia? With Hugh Jackman and Nicole Kidman?”
“Yes. Yes. Exactly.” Zac said, unwilling to fight the uphill battle that an explanation would be.
“Alright. Let’s go,” Conor said nonchalantly.
“What about Giovannia? You can’t just leave her there.”
“Oh, she’ll be alright. She’s a big girl.”
Zac held back his comment and patted his friend on the shoulder because, God help him, he just didn’t get it.

Just as they were about to turn around to leave, there was an explosion, knocking them both to the ground. Zac’s Prius had blown up, but this wasn’t some freak hybrid battery accident…

They were under attack.

To be continued…

But deep in the darkness, the hateful heart beats on. The beast was wounded, but still its veins coursed with ink-black blood. While we sat licking ice cream cones and riding merri-go-rounds through the summer months, fattening ourselves on a deluded sense of safety, the monster regained itself. Pound for pound, it consumed the earth’s waste, gorging itself on Smirnoff Ice, Panera gourmet sandwiches, and crap from horses, in order to ascend once more…

It is November. A cold day, even for Texas. The romantics walking around in light fall jackets must bow to winter now. Their dream of some Indian summer long forgotten. Conor stands proudly beside that swing set he remembers now as if from another lifetime. His hands are in his pockets, he watches his daughter swing. 

“Daddy, Daddy! Watch me!” she sings, rising higher.

Beautiful Giovannia, he thinks, smiling at her. He is most proud of the sneakers on her feet, proof that he’s raised a fighter. Not this one, not on my watch.

How he’s fathered and raised a 17-year-old girl in just under a year he doesn’t question, nor why a 17-year-old girl would go to the park with her father and demand he watch her swing. Such things are of no importance to him in this hopeful moment.

Giovannia swings higher, shaking the swingset’s entire frame, far too old and overweight to be swinging on a child’s swingset. The sun is setting over the distant hill. A sheep bleats ominously in the distance. Conor does not know it is being butchered for its fur, made into boots to be worn by a hung-over 19-year-old girl in a hoody and sweatpants that say “Pink” on the ass. He is sure those days are gone.

Miles away, Zac hurtles towards Texas in his Toyota Prius, getting un-American gas mileage, calling Conor’s cell over and over again to no avail. In the meantime, he tries to reason with himself:

Calm down, Zac. Remember what we said in the early days of Le Resistance D’Ugg: “Ugg is only the first half of the word ugly.” And verily it was branded long ago with that most guttural of auditory rejections: “ug.” Not even a word, but rather a sound made upon looking at horrific road kill: “Ugh. That’s disgusting.” Or upon hearing a particularly loathsome person is joining your friends on yet another outing: “Ugh. Not her again. I wish that skank would just die.”

And Zac did wish that skank would just die. But it wouldn’t. It had been born from filth once more. They would have to return the One Ugg– the One pair tied together by its horrid faux-fur tastles and draped heavily about Zac’s neck, to the firey mountain in Australia from whence it came. Zac remembered his conversation only hours before with James Gandalfino, actor turned surfer turned fashion designer:

I wish the Ugg had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened!

So do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.