Hell Raiser

[jrhume]

It's been too serious around here lately.  Prepare to enter a realm of a fevered imagination; a place of snide remarks and foolish utterances; a hallucination with no basis in fact -- you hope.  Submitted for your approval.

*************************************************

Ch. 1 â “ Burger Madness

Slim wheeled his 1951 Hudson Hornet onto the main drag and stepped on the gas.  Assorted Hondas, undersized Impalas and other automotive riff-raff scattered at the throaty growl emitted by the 308 cubic inch, twin-H carbureted Super Six.  It was as if T-Rex had come to life in Lake City.  Ten miles over the speed limit, Slim cruised toward his destination, portable tape player oozing a stream of fifties rock and roll. 

Mothers huddled back with their children.  Old men shivered, but held their ground, seeing only the memories evoked by the muted snarl of the big six-cylinder mill.  No one was surprised that all the traffic lights showed green for the Hudson.

At Burger Town, Slim eased dead into the middle of two open spots.  To his left a phony Chrysler 300 whimpered as only a smarmy fuel-injected soprano can.  Rubber squealed on the right as a diminutive Mustang cringed and scooted sideways.  Slim killed the Super Six and silence reigned over Burger Town.

Candy smiled as she skated over to the big Hornet.  Nobody else waited on Slim.  She didn't carry an order book.  â Å“The usual, Mr. Slim?â ?

Candy wasn't too bright, but he liked the look of her.  A blonde bimbo in brief halter top and short-shorts seemed the only proper accompaniment to burger-fries-and-shake.  Chocolate shake, of course.  He nodded.  â Å“The usual.â ?  Even the Hudson sighed as Candy skated away.

Leonardo â Å“Lanceâ ? Weibe (Don't call him Leonardo!) eased his '35 Ford pickup over the slight rise leading into Burger Town.  The cherry red truck growled its flathead V-8, three-carb, ¾-race growl.  He feathered the throttle twice, blasting the street with a sharp-edged rap-rap.  A mauve Dodge Colt died of fright and a puce green VW Rabbit bolted around the nearest corner.  Lance shifted the Lincoln gearbox into low and idled around Burger Town, looking for Slim.

At the sight of the red pickup, the fake Chrysler 300 chugged and chirped out of the parking lot.  Lance pulled in beside Slim and got out.  The ersatz Mustang blew out both front tires and sagged blubbering to the pavement.

Lance slid onto the Hudson's mohair-covered front seat.  â Å“We ready to go?â ?

â Å“Ready as we'll ever be.  I just hope we can keep things quiet until we leave.  No sense giving the bad guys any warning.â ?

â Å“True.  I wish I knew why they grabbed Earl and Padraig.  It makes no sense.â ?

â Å“No ransom notes or anything?â ?

â Å“No, and ...â ?  Lance stopped speaking as a double-barreled, snub nosed handgun gripped in a scaly green claw appeared in the window beside Slim's head.

â Å“Be still, contemptible earthlings!â ? piped a voice.  â Å“Or I'll be forced to reduce your miserable hulks to bits of burned carbon.â ?

â Å“It's our old friend, Mukk,â ? said Slim.  â Å“Still up to your old tricks, eh, Mukk?â ?

The green Gridge nudged Slim's ample nose with the gun.  â Å“Keep it up, Slim-person.  Hive queen Schmukk would love to feed you to her grubs.â ?

At that moment Candy rounded the front of the Hudson carrying Slim's lunch.  She stopped short.  â Å“Eww,â ? she said.  â Å“Ugh!â ?  Then she recollected the cultural training provided by Burger Town, in its unflagging endeavor to extract money from people of all types, regardless of race, politics, religion, sexual orientation, or creed.

She frowned.  Serving burgers to a green, scaly thing wasn't a problem.  As for sex -- well, Candy had an open mind on that subject.  Politics she left to her Daddy and religion she only worried about at Christmas.  That left creed, a concept she'd never been able to get a handle on.  Shoving Mukk to one side, she clipped Slim's tray to the door window and whipped out her order book.  â Å“W-what can I get you, sir or madam?â ?

Mukk stumbled back.  â Å“Uh ... I ...â ?  Lance nipped around the Hudson and clotted the alien on the right sonic receptor, which, as any seasoned spacer will tell you, is the easiest way to render a Gridge unconscious. 

Lance scooped up the dropped blaster and handed it to Slim.  He took Candy by the arm and walked her back toward the building.  â Å“I don't think old Mukk is very hungry.â ?

She was still shaken from her first cultural diversity incident.  â Å“Did I do okay?â ?

â Å“You did fine.  Just fine.  Slim and I will see to Mr. Mukk.â ?  Lance handed her a ten.  â Å“Keep the change, courtesy of Slim.â ?  Candy went on her way.  She smiled at the bigger than usual tip.

It was the work of a few moments to stuff Mukk into the Hudson's cavernous trunk.  Lance slammed the lid and extended a hand to Slim.  â Å“You owe me a twenty.  I paid for your lunch.â ?

â Å“Twenty!â ? yelled Slim.  He counted on his fingers.  â Å“The burger and trappings come to seven bucks.  Let's see -- tax is -- uh, Hell!  I never tip her that much!â ?

â Å“That's why you've never gotten past the button that holds her halter top together.â ? 

Defeated, Slim handed over a twenty.  â Å“What do we do with Mukk?â ?

â Å“I don't know.  Someone has tumbled to our little operation.  I think we better make our move now.  Alert the others!  We'll leave at midnight!â ?

â Å“Midnight?  Tonight?â ?

Lance shrugged.  â Å“Sorry you can't have more time to work on Candy.  I'll go fuel the rig and see to the last of the supplies.â ?

â Å“Dang!  If I'd only known about the twenty dollar bill thing a little earlier ...â ?

Lance's red pickup roared down the main drag, scattering lesser automotive weenies left and right.  The big Hudson rumbled off in the other direction.  Slim took it easy.  A traffic stop was the last thing he needed right now.  Where should he unload the alien?  On impulse, he turned onto the beach road and stopped in front of a gay biker bar.  Mukk might like it there.

The Super Six rumbled with satisfaction.


(to be continued)

 

[Fishbone Jones]

You're right Jim, way too serious and quiet around here. Have at 'er. I off this week with little to occupy me, give me something to do! ;D

 

[jrhume]

Ch.2 -- Gathering Clods

The sign over the ornate wrought iron gate was overgrown with vines, as was the chain link fence stretching away on either side.  Brin stopped a good twenty feet from the rusty gate.  â Å“Are you sure this is the place?â ?

Franko consulted his hand drawn map.  â Å“Well, Lance's writing is somewhat akin to Sanskrit, but, yeah, I think this is the place.â ?  He squinted up at the sign.  â Å“I can barely make out the lettering.  M-A-L-A-I-S-E  M-A-N-, hell!  Malaise Manor!â ?

Brin laughed.  â Å“He told us the name represented an elite form of apathy.  This must be the place.  Is there a lock on the gate, eh?â ? 

With a clash and a creak, the twin halves of the gate began to swing open.  â Å“Someone's keeping an eye on things," said Franko.

â Å“Come into my parlor,â ? murmured Brin.  She gave Franko a sardonic glance and drove on through the gate.  â Å“Wake Monk.  This iron gate and overgrown shrubbery ought to warm the cockles of his Irish heart.â ?

â Å“Monk!â ? exclaimed Franko.  â Å“Wake up, man!  The British are coming â “ horse, foot and guns!  Get your claymore and your tin hat, eh!â ?

â Å“Sod off, you bleedin' twit,â ? mumbled Monk.  â Å“Me grandpa still has the family claymore and I think his helmet has gone for a flower pot.â ?  He looked around.  â Å“Are we there yet?  I need to get rid of that last pint.â ?

â Å“Irishmen!â ? exclaimed Franko, shaking his head.  â Å“Drinking and pissing!  No wonder the Brits always managed to nip around your ancestors.â ?

Monk paid no attention.  He whistled long and low.  â Å“Look at all the lovely shrubbery!â ?  A worried look crossed his cherubic face.  â Å“Are there snakes?â ?

â Å“Snakes and ill-tempered alligators,â ? explained Franko.  â Å“Watch where you piss!â ?

####

Lance stowed the fuel hose and turned to Fusilier, group linguist and jackleg mechanic.  â Å“We all set?â ?

â Å“I haven't put any weapons on board yet.  What shall we take?â ?

â Å“Take everything.  I'd hate like hell to find myself wanting a recoilless rifle, for instance, or a sawed-off shotgun and discover that we'd left them at home.â ?

â Å“Okay.  What about the nukes?â ?

â Å“Nah.  This is not an invasion.  Let's save those for a hostile takeover.â ?

Fusilier chuckled.  â Å“You checked the FTL thingmie?â ?

â Å“This afternoon.â ?  Lance surveyed the olive drab C-47.  â Å“I'll bet the Douglas folks never envisioned a Dakota with a pressure cabin, impulse engines and an interstellar drive.  Not to mention a flush toilet.â ?

â Å“Probably not.  But then, they likely never considered the possibility of things like rap music, personal computers, mini-skirts, and push-up bras, either.â ?

â Å“True.  Progress is an uncertain method of moving into the future, ain't it?â ?

An alarm buzzed.  Fusilier stepped into the line shack.  In a moment he stepped back out.  â Å“Someone's coming in the main gate.  Franko and Brin, I think.  Damn birds have crapped on the surveillance cameras again!â ?

â Å“Monk should be with them,â ? said Lance.  â Å“There's no way he could have gotten here on his own, so I had them fetch him.â ?

â Å“Well,â ? said Fusilier with a laugh, â Å“watch your back.  They'll get even for that!â ?

Fusilier answered another alarm.  â Å“Slim's coming in via the back gate.  Appears to be in a hurry.â ?

â Å“He's always in a hurry,â ? griped Lance.  â Å“A regular nervous Nellie.â ?

Fusilier checked his watch.  â Å“That just leaves Che and Wes.â ?

â Å“Yeah,â ? said Lance.  â Å“Let's hope they didn't get lost.â ?

####

Wes rotated the map left, then right.  â Å“Which way did you say was North?â ?

â Å“Gimme that damn thing!â ? barked hot pilot Che.  He snatched the map.  His vintage Beech 18 flew along placidly for all of seven or eight seconds, then began wandering off to the left.  Che grabbed the controls.  â Å“Fly for a minute, dammit!  I can't do two things at once!â ?

â Å“But ...â ?  Wes touched the control wheel as if it were a live cobra.  â Å“I can't fly.â ?

â Å“Just hold 'er straight and level,â ? ordered Che.  He glared at the map.  â Å“What the devil?  This ain't the right map!  Where's the other one?  The aviation map?â ?

â Å“How the hell should I know,â ? shouted Wes, turning sullen and shrill, as usual.  â Å“We don't use maps in Canada!  It's a capitalistic plot, this mapping things and ... ouch!â ?  He fell silent.

Che tucked his nightstick back next to his seat.  â Å“Just hand me that other map and be quiet!â ?

â Å“You Americans!â ? grumped Wes, this time in low tones.  â Å“If you can't come up with a good answer you just thump hell out of the closest thinking vertebrate!â ?

â Å“A few more outbursts and I'll turn you into an invertebrate,â ? muttered Che.  â Å“I'll also let you know when to start thinking.  Eh?â ?  He studied the map.  â Å“Here we are.  Time to start down.â ?

####

Slim parked his Hudson next to the line shack and got out carrying something.  â Å“Here,â ? he said to Lance, tossing his burden to the cracked pavement.  â Å“I've got a surprise for you.â ?

â Å“Ouch!â ? said the bundle.

â Å“Damn!â ? exclaimed Lance.  â Å“Is that who I think it is?â ?

â Å“Sure is.  Our assailant back at Burger Town wasn't Mukk at all.  It was our old pal Odious, done up in a semi-robotic disguise.  He lost control of his carryall when you thumped it.  I was all set to toss Mukk to some of the lads down at Mauve Biker and found Odi instead.â ?  Slim opened the bag and dumped out a four-legged, one-eyed creature.  The thing lay inert, tentacles akimbo. 

â Å“Odious Maximus,â ? said Lance, toeing the unresponsive alien.  â Å“As I live and breathe.  What did you do with the robot thingmie?â ?

â Å“It's in the car.  I didn't want to leave it lying around.â ?

Odi M. bolted for the shrubbery lining the parking area.  Slim watched as the little miscreant reached the end of his tether and snapped to a halt.  Fusilier walked over and picked him up.  â Å“What say, Odi?  Who are you working for these days?â ?

â Å“Never will I tell, loathsome earthling!â ?  Odi's voice most closely resembled the sound made by mating cats.  It was enough to cause temporary blindness in small animals, a circumstance his distant relatives had found useful in the day-to-day grubbing for sustenance.

â Å“I'll just toss him down the well,â ? said Slim.

â Å“No!â ? screeched Odi.  â Å“Don't be hasty!  Haste makes waste.â ?

Brin drove up.  She attempted to park her mini-van beside the Hudson, but the cowardly vehicle couldn't be made to approach the behemoth.  After several abortive attempts, she settled on parking at the edge of the scrub timber.  The van huddled next to a middle-size pine, shivering in terror. 

Franko waved Monk onward.  â Å“Swish the grass with your stick, Monk.  Drive away the snakes and other wildlife.  Brin and I will bring the bags.â ?

Monk sidled forward, swinging at the tall grass.  â Å“What do I do about the alligators?â ?

â Å“Nothing.  But we can probably escape while they finish you off.  Keep at it, lad!â ?

They arrived on the parking ramp just as Che and Wes touched down at the far end of the runway.  Everyone turned to watch the arrival.

â Å“Too bad they didn't have the gear down,â ? said Lance.

â Å“No big deal,â ? said Fusilier.  â Å“The Beech needed a new paint job anyway.â ?

A whoosh and dull boom reverberated across the small airfield.  Lance sighed.  â Å“So much for new paint.  That's going to attract the local cops!  We better get aboard.â ?

â Å“What shall I do with Odi?â ? asked Slim.  â Å“Toss him down the well?â ?

â Å“Nah.â ?  Lance pointed toward the Dakota.  â Å“Take him on board.  We'll let Wes work on him.â ?

â Å“Don't count on Wes,â ? said Brin.  â Å“They have a dandy fire going there.â ?  In the distance the blazing Beech careened off the runway and into a soggy area.  The fire went out.

â Å“They'll be all right,â ? said Lance.  â Å“The fire's out and there's only a few gators in that pond.â ?  The team began boarding their transport.

Slim stood under the C-47s left wing, watching for Wes and Che.  In the dim moonlight he saw two figures splashing through the swamp.  A faint yi-yi-yi-yi sound could be heard.  Chuckling, he headed for the ramp.  â Å“Better start talking, Odi,â ? he informed the alien.  â Å“Old Wes's not gonna be in a good mood when he gets here.â ?

â Å“I'm sworn not to reveal the schemes and plots, nor the names of the plotters!â ?

Slim took one of Odi's tentacles in hand.  â Å“These just grow right back when they've been yanked out by the roots, don't they?â ?

â Å“Still,â ? whined Odi, â Å“good citizens must report known crimes and criminals.â ?

When Che and Wes squished up to the C-47, Lance had the Pratt & Whitney radials running, the impulse engine warming up and the FTL drive on standby.

â Å“What kept you guys?â ? asked Fusilier as he helped them up the ramp.  Che sounded like a wheezing bilge pump.

â Å“Biology,â ? said Wes, climbing up behind Che.  â Å“We were discussing skeletal features and possible enhancements.â ?

Che collapsed in a troop seat.  He leaned over to Wes.  â Å“A gator ate my shoes!â ?  Shoving a dripping foot into Fusilier's face he repeated the phrase.  â Å“Gator ate my shoes!â ?  Dragging Wes and Fusilier closer together he whispered, â Å“Alligator shoes.â ?  Spittle dripped off his chin.  His eyes were huge and bulging.  â Å“Ate his own cousin!â ? 

A speaker crackled.  â Å“Fusilier!  Get those clowns into the pressure cabin!  Then close the hatch and make a final check on lashings.â ?

Minutes later Fusilier watched the drab Dakota taxi away from the parking area.



(tbc)

 

[jrhume]

Ch. 3 -- Transients in Space

The crew was midway through a third rendition of '99 Bottles of Beer in the Wall' before their vessel, the modified Dakota, Miserable Virgin coasted into clear space beyond Mars and the asteroid belt.  Lance turned on the seat belt sign and shut down the impulse drive.

â Å“Okay,â ? he said, â Å“we're in the open.  I think we will be able to avoid Jupiter.  Nervous laughter rippled through the crowded cabin.  â Å“Let's run through the checklist.â ?  He picked up a plastic coated card.  â Å“Gyrostabilizers.â ?

â Å“Gyrostabilizers?â ?  Monk glanced around.

â Å“You're supposed to say 'checked and set' or some such baloney.  Ballast tanks.â ?

â Å“Ballast tanks?â ?

Lance turned his card over.  â Å“Where the hell did you get this checklist?â ?

â Å“Um ... I got 'em at the Army-Navy surplus store,â ? whined Monk.  â Å“I didn't know we was going to read them.â ?

Lance tossed the useless card aside.  â Å“Well, we'll just have to do without.â ?  He turned around in his seat.  â Å“Strap in tight everyone.  Slim, toss Odi in a footlocker.â ?

â Å“Turn up the gravity,â ? said Slim.  â Å“Before I lose my  Burger Town Special.â ?

â Å“One gravity, Mr. Monk,â ? ordered Lance.  â Å“Cloaking device on, arm phasers.â ?

Monk hunted around on the instrument panel.  â Å“Jeez, do we have those?â ?

â Å“No, never mind.  I just like saying that.â ?  Lance grasped his control wheel and centered the panel-mounted gunsight on a distant star.  â Å“Are we ready?â ? 

Monk's hand hovered over the Big Red Button.  â Å“Shrubbery!â ? he yelled.

Dead silence filled the cabin, except for Odi sniveling inside his footlocker.

Lance shook his head.  â Å“Engage.â ?  Monk mashed the button.

The chrome-plated FTL drive enclosure lurched; a high-pitched ringing filled the cabin.  Smoke belched forth.  The ringing ended with a resounding bonkity-bonk. 

â Å“Damn Romulan junk!â ? exclaimed Lance.  He got up and trudged back to the drive unit.  Taking a battered hammer from an overhead rack he whack-whacked one corner of the enclosure.  He paused after three severe blows.  A steady whirring noise emanated from the drive.  Lance returned to his seat.  â Å“Try it now.â ?

A solid thunk! jarred the ship, followed by a faint whiff of swamp gas.  The fabric of space and time deformed with a scritch-scratch and a gurgle.  Slim burped and swore off Burger Town Specials.  Fuzzy red and blue lights appeared ahead.  The words, â Å“Eat at Borg'sâ ? came into focus and then disappeared.  â Å“Is that place any good?â ? asked Brin.  Another, louder thunk! announced their arrival back in normal space.

Lance fired up impulse power and headed in-system.  Monk fumbled through a security scan. 

â Å“Uh-oh ... we have company,â ? he announced.  â Å“Looks like a couple of battleships and a dozen or so cruisers.â ?

Wes raised his hand.  â Å“Um ... I move we leave Earl and Padraig alone.  Wouldn't want to interfere with any escape plans they may already have in progress.â ?

Che looked thoughtful.  A thunderous fart ended that.  â Å“You know,â ? he mused, as the echoes faded.  â Å“I'm not really that close to either of them.â ?

â Å“Earl owes me money,â ? objected Slim.  â Å“Besides, we did say we'd help them.â ?

â Å“I had my fingers crossed,â ? said Franko. 

â Å“I lied,â ? admitted Wes.

â Å“Hang on!  Wait a minute!,â ? exclaimed Lance.  â Å“Monk had the scanner set to fricassee!  There's nothing but an old, worn out freighter docked at the moonlet.â ?

â Å“Onward!â ? cried Franko.

â Å“To the rescue!â ? shouted Brin.

â Å“I'd still rather just sneak home and make up fierce stories,â ? muttered Wes.

No one paid any attention.  Lance angled for a side entrance to the once abandoned mining asteroid.  â Å“We'll just pop in the back way,â ? he explained to the jubilant rescuers.  â Å“Surprise the vile Vagrants and whisk Earl and Padraig out of their grasp.â ?

â Å“Sounds heroic,â ? said Slim.  â Å“What, exactly, do these Vagrants look like?â ?  He worked the manly sounding action on his Zero-Recoil Colt Automatic.  â Å“I wouldn't want to shoot Padraig or Earl by mistake.â ?

â Å“No problem,â ? Lance assured him.  â Å“Vagrants aren't that ugly.â ?  When the polite laughter died down, he continued.  â Å“Vagrants are about three meters tall and two meters wide.  They have three legs and four arms, with a brain case enclosed in a solid sphere of bone in their chest.â ?

Other than a little whimpering, his description was met with dead silence.  The pungent odor of urine wafted through the cabin.

Miserable Virgin docked with the moonlet.  Odi sniveled.  Lance punched buttons.  â Å“The access tube will be aired up in a few seconds.â ?  He surveyed his eager crew.  â Å“Who's going first?â ?


Ch. 4 -- Tunnel Rats

They were strung out along the corridor, Wes leading.  He kept hanging back, trying to let someone else take point, but -- alas! -- there were no takers.  The tunnel walls were lined with long narrow tubs, each filled with a soft blue-green algae.  Che shoved Wes forward for the fifteenth time.  â Å“Come on, get the lead out!â ?

This time Wes moved forward at least half a meter and peeked around the corner.  He lunged back, almost knocking Che and Franko down.  â Å“It's one of the Vagrants!â ? he squealed.

Lance came up from the rear.  â Å“What's up?â ? he boomed.

A frantic chorus of, â Å“Ssssssshhhh!â ? stilled him.  Wes motioned toward the bend in the tunnel.  â Å“It's one of them!â ? he hissed.  â Å“One of the Vagrants!â ?

â Å“Is that all?â ?  Whistling, Lance strode forward and disappeared around the corner.

â Å“Well,â ? muttered Franko.  â Å“That's the last we'll see of him.â ?

â Å“Come on,â ? urged Brin, starting back toward the Miserable Virgin. â Å“We'll have a nice wake for him after we get out of here.â ?

â Å“Yeah,â ? agreed Che.  â Å“I know where he keeps his whiskey.â ?

Lance stepped back around the corner.  â Å“Come on, you guys.  Say hello to Wart.â ?

Exchanging guilty glances, the group edged forward.  Lance stood conversing with a gigantic alien.    Vagrant speech sounded like boulders thumping around in a huge, hollow barrel.  Two questing arms groped along the algae tubs.  One such member hung in the air near Lance and the fourth one was stretched out toward the approaching gaggle of humans.  Wart was on gardening duty.  Above the massive body perched a tiny, incongruous head on a slender neck.  Bulbous eyes were mounted on either side of the head with a gaping mouth between and below them.

â Å“No teeth,â ? muttered Brin with relief.

â Å“That thing's big enough to smash us to an easily digestible pulp,â ? noted Wes.

Che eased up to Lance, keeping a wary eye on the looming Vagrant.  â Å“Dammit,â ? he hissed, â Å“you had us spooked back on the plane!  Is this thing dangerous at all?â ?

â Å“Why, Che, I'm surprised!  All I did was describe him.â ?  Lance patted one of Wart's arms.  â Å“These guys are only dangerous to algae.â ?  An arm delivered a load of algae to the creature's mouth and Wart began chewing, accompanied by a deep, meditative rumble.

â Å“Come on,â ? said Lance.  â Å“We won't get anything out of him while he's eating.â ?  The group sidled around the hulking alien.

â Å“What did he have to say?â ? asked Che.  â Å“You seemed on good terms with him.â ?

â Å“Oh, I knew Wart when he was a mere stripling.  Back when he was scrubbing dishes in the Emperor's palace for his daily ton of algae.  That was on Garbeck Three.â ?

Che frowned.  As usual, Lance raised new mysteries without really answering any questions.  â Å“So, what else can we expect in this place?â ?

â Å“Some of Wart's cousins.  Leave them be.  They bought this clapped out mine to use as an algae farm.  Try not to damage any of the tubs.â ?

â Å“Why are they holding Earl and Padraig?â ?

â Å“They're not,â ? said Lance.  â Å“Infanteer and his band of thugs are holding them.â ?

Wes slumped down against a tunnel wall.  â Å“Infanteer!  I thought we were going to shoot it out with a bunch of slimy aliens!â ?

â Å“We had to leave too fast for a detailed briefing,â ? said Lance, â Å“but forget about aliens.  Most of them are pretty harmless.  Some are like Odious -- lot's of talk and big plans, but really just badly dressed, low paid menials.  To get really, really nasty you have to bring in humans.â ?

Franko frowned.  â Å“You mean there's no alien arch-enemies, waiting to snatch our women, invade our planet and mutate harmless insects into ravenous monsters?â ?

â Å“I've heard of some like that, but they're at least two galaxies down the street.â ?

â Å“Let them stay there,â ? sniffed Brin.  â Å“I'm not in the mood to be carried off.â ?

â Å“What now?â ? asked Che.  â Å“Where are Padraig and Earl being held?â ?

â Å“Wart would have taken until next week to relate that to us,â ? said Lance.  â Å“But I figure Infanteer and his gang must be holed up in the old tourist accommodation area near where that broken-down freighter was docked.  We'll just nip up there, surprise the pirates and grab the hostages.â ?

â Å“I'll go back and let the others know the plan,â ? murmured Wes, turning to leave.

â Å“I have a better idea,â ? said Lance.  He dragged Wes back.  â Å“You'll go with Franko to spy out the area and report back.  Brin will fetch Slim and Monk.â ?  Pausing only to give Wes a meaningful hand gesture, Brin headed back to the ship.

It took a few minutes of dire threats to get the Wes and Franko on their way.  Che and Lance watched them climb out of sight.

â Å“Come on,â ? said Lance.  â Å“Let's get back to the ship.â ?

â Å“But ... aren't we going to follow our scouts and take out the bad guys?â ?

â Å“Che, what will happen when those two find Infanteer's thugs?â ?

â Å“Um ... we'll have four hostages to rescue?â ?

â Å“Correct.  I need them to draw Infanteer's attention.â ?

Che nodded.  â Å“So we can attack from the other way!  Great!â ?

â Å“No.  Not exactly.â ?  Lance patted Che on the shoulder.  â Å“I know how much you enjoy slaughter and mayhem, but we may be able to pull this off without bloodshed.â ?

â Å“Darn!â ? exclaimed a crestfallen Che as he followed Lance back down the tunnel.


(tbc)

 

[jrhume]

Ch. 5 â “ Infanteer's Pirates

Infanteer paced to and fro, fro and to.  He grabbed Wes by the shirt front and gave him a vicious shake.  The effect was spoiled when Wes's shirt tore apart.  One button smacked the pirate chief in the eye.  He reeled back.  â Å“Ach, I'm hit!  Guards!  Guards!â ?

A burly one-eyed guard menaced Wes with a short-barreled demi-blaster.  â Å“Move a muscle,â ? he squeaked, â Å“and I'll splatter yer guts ... er ...â ?  He turned to a hulking comrade.  â Å“I guess that's where I should say 'brains' and not 'guts', eh, Wilton?  Since I'm pointin' it at his head?â ?

His companion sighed.  â Å“You ain't never gonna get the hang of this, are you Freddy?  Just make sure they don't move.  An' don't call me Wilton in front of victims.â ?

â Å“Oh, yeah.â ?  Freddy blushed.  â Å“I keep forgettin', uh, Fang.â ?

Infanteer minced back, still rubbing at his eye.  He jabbed Wes.  â Å“Ach.  Lucky you are I wasn't injured in attack on my person!â ?

â Å“It wasn't me!â ? exclaimed Wes.  â Å“It was my shirt!â ?

â Å“Stories!  Lies!,â ? raved Infanteer.  â Å“Now tell me what was your mission!â ?

â Å“Mission?â ?  Wes glanced at Franko.  â Å“We were just exploring.  Right Franko?â ?

Infanteer waved away Wes's transparent lies.  â Å“I know you are spy!  All corridors we have covered!â ?  He shoved Wes down with the others, paced for a moment, then stopped.  â Å“But, are you trickster?  Fake decoy?  Make me look wrong way?â ?

Freddy, hulking-guard-in-training, glanced up at the stairways leading down from the dock.  â Å“The elevators locked down, boss.  They'd have to come down the stairs.â ?

Infanteer nodded.  â Å“Ja!  We wipe them out.  Splatter their guts.â ?  A look of childlike desire crossed his face.  â Å“I hope that way they come!â ? 

Franko turned his head away.  He hadn't seen that look since the day his half-brother stole his adopted sister's ice cream cone.  Lance better have something up his sleeve.  Franko tried to look on the bright side, but it was difficult, lying as he was, all trussed up with sticky gray duct tape.  Infanteer and the guards wandered off, discussing professional bad-guy topics.

â Å“Fat lot of good you were!â ? hissed Padraig.  He and Earl were similarly bound.

â Å“Yeah,â ? snarled Earl.  â Å“Waltzing in here like a couple of tourists!â ?

â Å“Well ...â ? Franko tried to think of a comeback.

Wes filled in.  â Å“Tourists!  Waltzing?â ?  He spluttered with rage.  â Å“I can't waltz!â ?

â Å“Yeah!â ? added Franko, hitting his stride at last.  â Å“If you guys are so smart, why ain't you gotten loose and busted out?â ?

The shot irked Padraig.  Struggling to remain calm, he whispered, â Å“You ever tried to get duct tape off your skin?  It smarts!â ?

Earl shook his head.  â Å“Forget it, Padraig.  Let the boy wonders figure out a way to break us all outta here.â ?

â Å“Well,â ? sniveled Wes.  â Å“Well ... see if we don't!  And when I do, I'll come over there and -- and ...â ?  He ran down there, since he had no clue about dealing with the duct tape nor any idea of what he might do to Earl if he were free. 

â Å“Oh, yeah!â ? said Padraig.

â Å“You and whose army?â ? added Earl.

Having exhausted their respective store of insults, the trussed heroes lay quiet, pondering their situation.  Except for Franko.  He tried to think of a better response to the 'tourist' crack.

At that moment all the lights in the docking area went out.  Excited shouts filled the air, followed by thuds and shouting.  Franko felt a gentle nudge.  Cold metal touched his hands.  He felt the tape loosen.  â Å“Sssst!â ? whispered a voice.  â Å“It's me, Odi.  The tape is cut.  Pull it off your hands and legs.  I'll free the others.â ?  He padded away.

Franko began pulling at the tape and wished he hadn't.  â Å“Ouch -- ouch -- ouch!â ?  It felt as if every piece of hair on his wrists were tearing loose.  Small pain noises came from all the others.  It was very good duct tape.

â Å“This way,â ? said Odi, in a low voice.  â Å“Hands to the shoulder of the man to your front.  I'll lead.  Padraig, hold this psuedopod.  And don't squeeze, dammit!â ?

They moved off.  The only sound came when Earl snarled, â Å“On my shoulder, Wes!â ?  The others snickered even as they made their way through the dark. 

â Å“It was an honest mistake,â ? murmured Wes.


Ch. 6 -- The Plot Sickens

It was like a family reunion.  Jovian Pale Ale flowed freely as the rescue team crowded around the released hostages.  Lance stood to one side, questioning Padraig.  Infanteer and his lads were locked below stairs.

â Å“None of this makes much sense,â ? said Lance.  â Å“Why did Infanteer and his nefarious outlaws want with you two?  There were no ransom demands.â ?

â Å“Dang you!â ? exclaimed Padraig.  â Å“I always wanted to use the word 'nefarious' in a sentence.  Now you've beat me to it!â ?

Lance grinned.  â Å“Never mind.  I'll leave any further four-syllable stuff to you.â ?

â Å“Well.  Okay.â ?  Padraig scuffed the dingy dock surface with his dirty boot.  â Å“Infanteer bragged that we were bait.  Bait in some fantastic scheme of his.â ?

â Å“Bait for who?  Me?  Slim?  Franko?â ?  Both men fell to laughing.  The thought of Infanteer needing an elaborate plot to get Franko anywhere was pretty damn funny.  He was known to go anywhere, anytime on the bare promise of a beer.

Recovering himself, Padraig wiped the tears from his eyes.  â Å“No, none of the usual suspects.  He said the trap was for Brin.â ?

â Å“Hmm,â ? mused Lance.  â Å“Odi!  Get over here!â ?

The sawed-off little miscreant trotted on over, one psuedopod wrapped around a cold bottle Oort Lite.  â Å“Whazzup, Boss?â ?

â Å“Don't 'boss' me, you little weasel!  You claimed to be working for Infanteer in this.  Who is Infanteer working for and why?â ?

â Å“Jeez, Boss.â ?  Odi hung his head.  â Å“I'm just a low-class menial.  Besides, you never asked about Infanteer's employer.â ?

â Å“I told you to tell me everything!â ? roared Lance, reaching for the little rotter's neck.

â Å“Not so fast, Lance!â ? boomed a new voice.  Everyone whirled toward a darkened access tunnel.  Wes and Franko tripped and fell.  Pirouettes were never their style. 

A two-meter tall green lizard in a snazzy red silk dress stepped out of the tunnel, flanked by six other burly greenies carrying a fearsome array of weaponry.  â Å“Hands up, gregarious grub bait!â ? snarled one impressive specimen decked out in a grass skirt and jeweled blue vest.  He bore a large double-barrel blast rifle.

â Å“Queen Schmukk!â ? exclaimed Lance, raising his arms in honor of the blast rifle.  â Å“You guys just come from a costume party?â ?

â Å“Indeed,â ? said the queen.  â Å“Word of your devious deviations reached us during a party given for the new Balgruddian ambassador.  We didn't even stop to pack a lunch.â ?

â Å“You must be starved,â ? exclaimed Brin.  â Å“Can I get you something?â ?  She shoved the large brute's blaster aside and stepped closer to the queen.  â Å“What a lovely dress!  Where did you get it?  Bloomingdales?â ?

â Å“Thank you so much,â ? simpered the queen.  â Å“I hadn't expected to run into a civilized person hanging out with these vile varlets.â ?  She swirled the dress a bit.  â Å“It's a Von Gargle knock-off.  I got it on sale.  Isn't it divine?â ?

Before Brin or anyone else could comment on the divinity of the dress, a new voice rang out.  â Å“No so fast!  Everyone freeze!  Hands in the air!  You green Gridges drop your weapons!â ?  Nothing more was heard for a few moments as the lizard lad's blasters, swords and fish spears crashed to the deck.

â Å“My arms are getting tired,â ? muttered Lance.  â Å“Who is it this time?â ?

A tall golden-skinned man stepped from the tunnel, flanked by five armed men of similar appearance.  â Å“Ooooo,â ? whispered Schmukk.  â Å“What lovelies!  If only I weren't cold-blooded!â ?

â Å“Would someone care to let me know what the hell is going on!â ? shouted Lance.  Muttered agreement broke out among the assembled humans and lizards.

â Å“Fear not!â ? boomed the leader of the golden men.  â Å“I am Goldie, King of the Golden Horde.  We do not want your folding money, credit cards, Mickey Mouse watches, or even your miserable lives!â ?  He strode forward.  The lizards shrank back on either side.  Going to one knee before Brin, he said, â Å“We have come for you, madam.  To be my queen and rule the Golden Horde from the purple towers of Castle Fabulous to the shores of the Astonishing Ocean.â ?

Stunned silence met this announcement.  No one spoke for several seconds.  â Å“My arms are getting damn tired,â ? moaned Che, breaking the spell.

â Å“Lower your arms,â ? said Goldie.  â Å“Be at peace.  I believe there is beer for all.  He frowned.  â Å“But all we've got is cheap Martian Red.â ? 

â Å“Barf city,â ? muttered Slim.  â Å“Is there any single malt scotch?â ?

Lance handed over a silver flask.  "Try this.  I made it myself."  He eyed the gold skinned intruders.  "Now we know who Infanteer was working for."

Slim sampled the homebrew.  For several seconds, he couldn't speak.  "Man!" he managed to squeak.  "That's good!"  Recovering further, he added, "But why involve that old pirate?"

The golden king heard his question.  "Politics.  We often employ Infanteer for deniability and obfuscation.  And to make sure no word gets back to our women."

Brin tugged at Goldie's sleeve.  â Å“Tell me about this queen business.â ?

â Å“We need a queen.  All the suitable candidates on Goldstone have refused my offers.  So we have scoured the galaxy for queen material.  You have been referred to in official documents as 'Snow Queen' and 'Polar Queen'.  Experience is a big factor, as any employer will tell you.â ?

â Å“Um ...â ?  Lance started to mention that those 'official' documents were really just fictional tales, written on a whim for the entertainment of various hangers-on and stooges.  Brin trod on his foot.

Taking Goldie's arm, she led the king toward a handy couch.  â Å“Describe my duties.  What about fringe benefits?  How long is the work week?  Is there a dental plan?â ?


(tbc)

You heard it here first!  Infanteer speaks with a fake German accent! 
Try finding news like that on MSNBC or CBC. 

 

[armyrules]

That is great Jim thanx for posting

 

[jrhume]

Ch. 7 -- Incursions

Fusilier strolled out of the hangar.  Whoever was trying to drive up onto the parking area wasn't having much luck.  Their gray sedan refused to approach Slim's Hudson.  Finally, the driver gave up and parked on the grass at the bottom of the drive.  Two men got out and began trudging toward Fusilier.  The Hudson was proving to be a better watchdog than a watchdog. 

Behind him, in the open hangar bay, stood a saucer-shaped craft with the main access hood open.  He had been tuning the fusion power unit when the commotion started.  Three lumpy Nudniks waited impatiently beside the saucer.  Fusilier lit a cigar and watched the two suits walk up the drive.

â Å“What can I do for you gentlemen?â ? he asked, when they got close enough.

One held up an ID badge.  Both stared at the Nudniks and the saucer.  â Å“I ... ah,â ? mumbled the badge-man, â Å“that is -- we're from the FAA and we're here about that, um, wreck over beside the runway.â ?  He motioned toward Che's semi-demolished Beech.

Fusilier squinted to read the ID badge.  â Å“Well, Mr. Drudge,  I figured you might be guv'mint dicks, so I brought the papers with me.â ?  He held out a sheaf of forms.  â Å“Mr. Che had to leave suddenly on business, but he completed the appropriate paperwork before he left.â ?  In actual fact, Lance kept a selection of completed forms on hand.  Fusilier had selected the correct ones and filled out a few empty sections.

Drudge began to examine the forms.  His partner couldn't tear his eyes off the three aliens in the hangar.  Tugging at Fusilier's stained coveralls, he whispered, â Å“Who are those creatures?  And what kind of aircraft is that?â ?

Taking the toothpick from his mouth, Fusilier spat to one side and laughed.  â Å“Creatures?  Aircraft?â ?  He laughed again.  â Å“That's my son's science project.  And be careful how you refer to those folks.  They're visitors from Nudnik,â ? he stated truthfully.  Then he lied. â Å“That's a small country near Tibet.  But, then I'm sure you officers already know where Nudnik is.â ?

â Å“Oh, sure.  Nudnik.â ?  The man blushed, certain he had narrowly avoided a Cultural Diversity Incident.  â Å“How do the forms look, Drudge?â ? he stammered.

â Å“Fine -- fine,â ? replied Drudge, entranced by the lovely forms.  â Å“They're all here, just like the last time we came out.â ?  He turned the pages with reverent care.  â Å“Notice of Intent to File an Aircraft Accident Report.  Intent to File an Aircraft Accident Report.  Aircraft Accident Report.  That one's in nine copies, exactly as required.  Um -- let's see.  Yes, even the Notice of Having Filed an Aircraft Accident Report.  Along with the EPA paperwork, of course.â ?  His manner indicated that he could give a hoot about the EPA and its forms.

â Å“What about the Pilot's Statement of Certifiable Reasons for Crashing?â ?

â Å“It's here,â ? replied Drudge, overcome with emotion.  â Å“Let's go.  I must take these lovely forms back to the office and file them with the artistic care they deserve.â ?  There were tears flowing down his cheeks as his partner led him back to their sedan.

â Å“You're welcome to examine the wreck,â ? called Fusilier.

â Å“No need -- no need,â ? answered Drudge's partner.  â Å“Not with forms like these.â ?

No sooner had the two enthralled FAA clowns left than another sedan jerked into position at the bottom of the drive.  Fusilier frowned, pulled out his remote and closed the hangar door.  These guys looked like cops.  Probably FBI, Fusilier decided.  If so, the aliens and the saucer wouldn't be a problem.  But, there was always the possibility they were INS.

Both men flashed badges.  One identified himself as agent Zermansk, INS.  The other appeared to be one Billy Grossman, Junior Ace Detective.  Fusilier turned the Junior Ace badge around.  â Å“How long you been a JA Detective, Billy?  The man purpled.  â Å“Damn that kid of mine!  I'm gonna go straight home and kill that little ...â ? 

Struggling to recover himself, Bill Grossman, senior, showed Fusilier his driver's license, then growled, â Å“We heard that some illegal aliens have been flown into this strip from Canada.â ?

â Å“Canadians?â ? laughed Fusilier.  â Å“Flying here on a little, bitty plane?  Why would they do that when any airline will bring them here legally?  I think most of Canada lives in Florida during the winter.  Last I knew, only convicted felons had to stay north during the winter.â ?

Zermansk nodded.  â Å“That's true.  We figure its the felons -- escaping to Florida.â ?

â Å“Ah,â ? said Fusilier.  â Å“I see what you mean.  The felons might have contracted with various unscrupulous individuals to fly them down here.â ?

â Å“You got it,â ? agreed Grossman.  â Å“We need to examine the wreck.â ?  He flipped open a notebook.  â Å“We have reason to suspect this Mr. Che of illegal activities.â ?

â Å“I'm sure you have,â ? agreed Fusilier.  â Å“He's a friend of mine and I wouldn't trust him alone with my whiskey, my woman, or an anvil for that matter -- much less an innocent Canadian felon.â ?

â Å“Okay,â ? said Zermansk.  â Å“We'll just have a little look-see at the plane.â ?

â Å“Be my guest,â ? said Fusilier.  He frowned.  â Å“How will you know?â ?

â Å“Know what?â ? asked Grossman.

â Å“How will you know if an innocent Canadian felon has been aboard?â ?

Zermansk grinned and held up a small device.  â Å“We use the 'eh?' detector.  There's always a lot of extra 'ehs' lying around wherever Canadians have been.â ?

â Å“Well, sure,â ? said Fusilier.  â Å“But how do you tell an regular innocent Canadian from an innocent Canadian felon?â ?

â Å“Simple.â ? explained Grossman.  â Å“We look for Kebecker word fragments.â ?

Now Fusilier was really confused.  â Å“What do Kebeckers have to do with anything?â ?

â Å“Well, that's a good question,â ? mused Grossman.  â Å“To an outsider, Kebeckers are pretty much irrelevant.  But the western Canucks assure us that all the criminals in Canada are Kebeckers.  Who are we to question our English-speaking cousins?â ?

â Å“True,â ? agreed Fusilier.  â Å“So you just look for French fragments?â ?

â Å“Right,â ? said Zermansk.  He snickered.  â Å“Loose frags, sink frogs.â ?  Laughing, the two agents headed for the swamp and the wrecked Beech.

Fusilier opened the hangar door and strolled over to finish the tune-up.  â Å“Any problem?â ? asked one of the Nudniks.

â Å“None at all.  Just minor bureaucrats.  The alligators will take care of them.â ?

â Å“Ah, yes.â ?  The Nudnik moved his grasping appendages in a Gesture of Universal Understanding.  â Å“At home we usually just vaporize them.â ?

â Å“I know,â ? murmured Fusilier, concentrating on the fusion perambulator adjustments.  â Å“We're more civilized than you are.  Alligators need to eat.  It's natural and more ... harmonious.â ?

â Å“I suppose,â ? agreed the Nudnik.  He mimed blasting a minor bureaucrat to atoms.  â Å“But not nearly as satisfying, I'll warrant.â ?

Fusilier listened to the sudden cries from the direction of the wreck.  Alligator roars drowned out the shrill shrieks.  A few splashes and silence returned.  â Å“You might be surprised.  Besides, we get good money for those nice gray sedans.â ?


Ch. 8 -- Plotters, Plots, and Bilge

The puce phone jangled, jarring Monk awake.  Lance frowned.  â Å“Who the hell ...?â ?  He picked it up.  â Å“Slim's bordello.  Fusilier?  Damn it!  Do you know how much these sub-space calls cost?  Okay -- okay.â ?  He listened for a long time.  â Å“What does the UN have to say?  The hell!  Always with the legal bull crap!  Okay.  I'll see what can be done.  Talk to you later.â ?

â Å“Whuzzup?â ? asked Monk.  â Å“Did the gators break out again?â ?

Lance shook his head.  â Å“No.  They know better now.  Too many of 'em ended up as shoes after that last episode.â ?  He keyed the intercom.  â Å“Slim, send Brin, Franko and Wes up front, will you?â ?

When the three Canucks had crowded up behind the cockpit, Lance gave them the bad news.  â Å“Seems as if the Nudniks have decided to invade Canada.  An invasion fleet is on its way.â ?

â Å“What!â ? exclaimed Wes.  â Å“They can't do that!  Canada's, like, you know, a free country -- or something.â ?

â Å“If they trample my garden, there'll be trouble,â ? muttered Brin.

Lance held up a hand to still the chatter.  â Å“Fusilier contacted the UN Anti-Alien Invasion Quick Reaction Force.â ?

â Å“Oh, well then,â ? said Franko, â Å“everything's all right.  Right?â ?

â Å“Not all right,â ? said Lance.  â Å“The UN says they can't act.  Seems Canada is completely empty.  Even the polar bears have moved south for the winter.â ?

â Å“But that can't be right!â ? spluttered Brin.  â Å“We left a bunch of criminal felons up there!  They are supposed to keep the riff-raff out!â ?

Lance shrugged.  â Å“I guess they scamped the job and infiltrated south.  The UN says the alien invasion force won't be considered invaders, but as squatters.  The most they can do is present the invasion -- I mean, squatting -- force leader with a stiff note expressing extreme dislike for their tactics and warning of possible consequences.â ?

â Å“Oh, no!â ? moaned Franko.  â Å“I just painted my place!  Money down the drain, eh?â ?  He frowned.  â Å“I should have spent that money on new hard drives!â ?

Brin waved him to silence. â Å“Pish-tush!  I'll bet Lance has something up his sleeve.â ?

â Å“Yeah,â ? agreed Wes.  â Å“Other than his arm, I mean.â ?

â Å“Well ...â ?  Lance reached for the sub-space phone.  â Å“The Golden Horde guys won't help.  Not after Brin spurned their offer.â ?

â Å“Dammit!â ? exclaimed Brin.  â Å“I don't care how many heavily muscled bronze studs and diamond tiaras they offer, I'm not interested in being tossed into a volcano after a year.  Jeez, it's no wonder their own women have all given them the brush-off!â ?

â Å“Can't say as I blame you,â ? agreed Lance.  â Å“Still, a simple 'no' would have sufficed.  You didn't have to break Goldie's kneecap and splatter his teeth onto the floor.  No way I can call and ask for help now.â ?

â Å“All right!  So I got a little carried away!â ?  Brin thought for a moment.  â Å“What about Schmukk and her greenies?â ?

â Å“No good.  She's on tour.  Showing off that new dress.â ?

â Å“Well, what can we do?â ?

Lance dialed a number.  â Å“I have an idea.  I'll see if Infanteer is over his snit.â ?

â Å“Infanteer?â ?  Wes was shocked.  â Å“That pirate?â ?

â Å“Ah, Infanteer's okay,â ? replied Lance.  â Å“Pirating is sort of a hobby for him.  At heart, he's really a nasty, Teutonic, overbearing despot.  He'll make a good cop.â ?

â Å“Cop?â ? asked Franko.  â Å“You don't mean ...?â ?

â Å“Yep.  I'll send Infanteer to lead the Galactic Robot Police Squad.  I'm sure the Nudnik Fleet has overlooked a few Galactic Prime Ordinances in their enthusiasm.â ?

####

Grand Commander G'glug stood bathed in skin-cooling body fluids.  His entire fleet hung motionless near the Third Spiral Underarm, surrounded by Galactic Robot Police Cruisers.  The airlock opened, admitting a horde of blue-painted, robotic cops.  The metal monsters rolled forward on silent wheels, followed by a runty little human in a dark uniform.

â Å“General-Lieutenant of Police, Infanteer!â ? boomed one of the robots.  â Å“Stand to attention!â ?  The assembled Nudnik officers snapped to a semblance of military rigidity.

Infanteer strolled into the command module, a characteristic sneer gracing his face.  â Å“At ease,â ? he murmured after a suitable interval.

A robot porter carrying a 1959 Ford Edsel front bumper rolled into position.  Infanteer placed one highly polished boot on the bumper and whipped out his citation book.  He flourished a machined steel pen.  â Å“Ach.  Somewhere you are going in a hurry?  Present trip tickets, invasion license and Environmental Kludge Permit. Schnell!â ?

G'glug sagged to the deck.  Licenses.  Permits.  Trip tickets.  His skin turned a vapid shade of green.  Punitive Expeditions weren't like they used to be.

####

The Dakota coasted past a garish neon sign.  â Å“Dang,â ? murmured Lance.  â Å“They've put up a new sign.â ?

Slim peered out at the huge, blinking array.  â Å“And an ugly thingmie it is, too.â ?

â Å“Yeah,â ? sighed Lance.  â Å“The old one was more artistic, even if I do say so myself.â ?

Blink-blink went the sign.  The words 'END OF THE UNIVERSE' were emblazoned in huge red letters across the top.  Under that, in smaller, green text appeared the warning, 'PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK'.

â Å“Jeez,â ? said Lance.  â Å“This really takes me back.â ?

â Å“How far back?â ? asked Brin.

â Å“Oh ... let's see,â ? mused Lance.  â Å“It was after the Big Bang ...â ?


End

 

[Fishbone Jones]

Jim,

As usual, well done once more! 8)

 

[Lance Wiebe]

I don't know how you do it!

Great work!

 

[zerhash]

OMG did you write all this....

 

[armyrules]

Geez Jim great job got anymore for us?

 

[Fishbone Jones]

Guys,

Old Guy (Jim Hume) is a regular poster here. He graces us with his entertaining prose on a regular basis. You can visit his web site http://www.jrhume.com/index.html or do a search here for more stories.

 

[armyrules]

thanx for the link recceguy will be sure to check it out

 

[jrhume]

"Graces us with entertaining prose . . ."

Well, I've reached a new level.  I generally aim for slapstick, low brow humor.

"Entertaining prose". 

Something for the business card, eh?

For those checking out my web page, I haven't changed the story and poetry for a couple of months and may be changing to a different host -- although the web address should remain the same.

Cheers!

JR