Part I, wherein Tigh mumbles Janice Joplin covers and Gaeta explodes, can be read
here.
After the Cylon attack fizzled out pointlessly without explanation, the newly Dylonized Saul Tigh wandered into Admiral Adama’s quarters. He was singing a song he’d known since childhood, something about a magic dragon who liked rings and sealing wax. “Now I’m some frakkin’ skinjob jukebox,” he snarled to himself. It was a snarly snarl – and the other fancy stuff in the song did nothing to change that.
“Tigh, my oldest and dearest frfdgre!” Adama mumbled upon seeing his oldest and dearest frfdgre. “Come in and sjdtf down.”
“Bill, I have a confession to make,” Tigh snarled. “I’m not the man you thought I was.”
Adama burned slowly – so slowly you could feel your navel sinking into your groin. That’s how frakkin’ slow it was.
“I don’t understand,” Adama mumbled.
“My name is not Saul Tigh,” Saul Tigh said, ignoring the irony of being labeled with a name that he’d just denied. But it was ironic on levels layered with a meaning so thick you could cut it with the rusty glowing spine of a Cylon daggit having sex with a waffle iron.
Anyway, Adama didn’t say anything. His eyes narrowed imperceptibly, though, which is the sign of darn good acting.
“From now on, you must call me – Jackie Paper,” Saul Tigh said. But if he was truly Jackie Paper, the narration hadn’t picked up on it yet.
“Yeah, fine,” Adama mumbled. “Nice weather we’re having, huh?”
“What the frak are you talking anout?” Jackie Paper snarled, narration be damned. “There’s no weather on this ship.”
“But I’m not on this ship,” Adama mumbled. “I’m projecting. I’m on the stepping stones in a pedgsh, where the wind blows softly and thew vedferds jystdnhf on the alkhd.”
Jackie/Saul snarled. “What the frak is this “projecting” felgercarb?”
“Felger-what?” Lee Adama asked. He had just walked in the door. Osmodiar, the invisible Starbuck-looking lady, was flying around in a viper right behind him, but only Lee could see her. Which was surprising, because the huge viper she was flying in really took up a lot of space, especially with a red cocktail dress draped all over it.
“Felgercarb is a word from Cylons past,” Osmodiar/Starbuck sneered. “All this has happened before, and all this probably won’t happen again unless the ratings go above 1.4.”
“What?” Lee yelled.
“Why the frak are you shouting?” Paper/Tigh snarled.
“What?” Lee yelled again. “I can’t hear you over the viper engine.”
“What viper engine?”
And suddenly, she was gone. Just like that. All mysterious and crap. Like a magic dragon who lived by a sea.
“She’s gone,” Lee said. “Just like that. Poof.”
“Puff,” Saul Paper corrected him snarlingly. “And ‘Poof’ is derogatory slang for a homosexual in the UK.”
“What’s the UK?” Lee asked. Saul Tigh/Jackie Paper didn’t know how he knew that. But he dared not say anything – he’d already snarled too much.
“Would you two just frakkin’ shut up for one minute!” Adama mumbled loudly. “Can’t you see – you’re both Cylons.”
They both gasped. Saul/Paper gasped knowingly; Lee gasped unknowingly. But to the untrained ear, both gasped sounded pretty much the same.
“How can I be a Cylon?” Lee said. “Unless…”
“Unless I’m a Cylon,” Adama said. “And I am. I have been from the start.” Adama fell asleep at this point, but no one noticed. Now that’s darn fine acting. DARN fine.
“How can you be a Cylon?” Someone snarled this question, but you’ll have to guess who.
“What do you mean?” the sleeping Adama answered, making the show even harder to watch.
“Well, the skinjobs evolved from their chrome frames, and the toaster models didn’t come off the assembly line until well after you were born. So there’s no way you could possibly be a Cylon – and neither could Tigh.” (See, it was LEE asking the snarly questions. I bet you thought it was Tigh, the usual snarler, didn’t you? I’m pretty good at misleading the audience.)
Adama thought for a moment. He was also snoring, but so imperceptibly, you could hear a pin break wind. Then he spoke.
“Time travel,” Adama answered mumblingly. “And genetic twizzling.”
“Genetic whatnow?” Tigh asked, without even the trace of a snarl.
“Twizzling,” Adama answered. “It’s very complicated.”
“Sounds stupid,” Lee said.
“No, it doesn’t,” Adama said. “And if you think so, you must be stupid.”
“Huh?” Lee said.
“He’s right, dammit,” Tigh snarled, defending his fellow Cylon. “This is the best frakkin’ show on television. If you don’t get it, it means you’re stupid. That’s the frakkin truth.” He then twizzled his jeans. Everyone tried not to notice.
Meanwhile and elsewhere, Hotdog started hearing the chorus from “I’m Henry the Eighth I Am.” But it was in the WRONG KEY…
TO BE CONTINUED…