Part LXXXVII - Follow the Bouncing Plot!

  A field of green energy flooded the quarterdeck of the USS Unlimited Inc., and suddenly half a dozen Generation Xers were lounging around, rolling their eyes and looking at their watches. 

  "Captain," screamed Barry, "The Bored have invaded the ship!"

  "I can see that, Barry."  Captain Poopdeck turned to the invaders.  "Greetings, I am Captain..."

  "Heard it!" said one of the Bored. 

  Ed said, "Excuse me, I think you've lost another sock." 

  "What, again?" The guard leaned over the rotating socks that produced the Static Field. 

  Ed grabbed the man's hair and shoved his face into the socks.

  The guard screamed.  His last words were, "Why couldn't we use clean socks?!"  Then he was gone. 

  Ed used the body as a bridge to escape the cell. 

  He was free again... the meanest mercenary in the known multiverse. 

  "Hmmm... What to do now..." He looked around and glanced to the ceiling.  Searched around the floor and through the desk.  

  "Hmm...  Nope, no Slinky." 

  "So," Amber asked, "Where to now?"

  "I vote for the main entrance," said Roger.  "It's the only place I know how to get around from.  Sorta."

  "What do you mean I get around?" screamed Lickin' Linda looking square at Lawrence the arabian.

  "Well, you just seem to have been everywhere..."

  "Well, okay then."  Linda still didn't seem convinced. 

  "And you've known so many neat people..."

  "Whaddaya mean, known?!" 

  "Not biblical, I swear, not biblical!" 

  "Heathen!" screamed Reverend Rhombus. 

  "I'm sorry Reverend, but this choking thing is starting to smother me a bit."

  "Those who cannot suffer for the Lord do not deserve life!"  Rhombus snatched up Nick's noose and gave forth a great tug. 

  In a squeekier voice than normal, Nick uttered, "This is ruining my chances at an acting career,"  then he keeled over.

  "You're not likely to become a baritone, either, Kimo Sabe."

  "Yeah, yeah, everyone's a critic," said Roger.  "But at least I don't keep bouncing around like some goddamn network correspondent." 

  "But I don't correspond, Kimo Sabe.  I mismatch, and I don't keep in touch." 

  "Thank God for small mercies," said Amber. 

  "Please!" screamed Achmed, "have mercy!!" 

  "I'm sorry," said Skippy, "but I gotta sit somewhere."  He sat down on the subway. 

  Achmed keeled over, dead. 

  "He's dead, Tim!" 

  "What, are you back," asked Captain Poopdeck. 

  One of the Bored turned to his companions.  "Jeeze, this is real bad.  Now they can't even keep the different series separated." 

  "Ya gotta keep'em separated!" rapped Music Man.  Raquel slugged him. 

  Poopdeck's miscommunicator tweeted like a lark. Smacking his chest, nothing happened... He smacked again... and again.

  "Ahhh... Sir?"

  The miscommunicator tweeted again - this time like a canary.

  "What is it Ensignia Brown?" thrusted Poopdeck.

  The miscommunicator tweeted like an Australian Great Awk. 

  "Ahhh... It's on the left side of your chest sir..."

  "Oh,  thank you ensignia.  That will be all."

  "Man this show's gone down hill," said a Bored Gen Xer.

  "How could you tell?" 

  The miscommunicator screeched like a Macaw.

  Captain Poopdeck slapped the miscommunicator, "Poopdeck Responding!"

  ~Oh... I was calling the Captain...~

  "This IS Captain Poopdeck!!!"

  ~Sorry Captain - we should really rename that deck... This is Doctor Heavenly Brushtroke~

  "Yes, Heavenly, I know who you are."

  ~I have something interesting to report about those X-Rays on Ed.~

  "Interesting?" asked a Bored.  "Puhl-eeeze!" 

  "Go on Heavenly... Just ignore the Bored."

  The Gen Xer sat up.  "Y'know, it's apathetic people like you that make this crud the way it is." 

  Poopdeck looked at him.  "Yeah, whatever."

  ~It turns out he's not human~

  "Not human, Heavenly?" gasped Poopdeck

  ~No I am human - Ed isn't.~

  "Yes, I understand.  What is he then?.."

  ~Based on my best assumptions, he seems to be a conglomeration of about 3687 weaponry parts, 487 types of explosives and approximately 97 types of munitions.~

  "Anything else?"

  ~Oh yes!  I almost forgot.  He's escaped.~

  "Shit. Poopdeck out!"

  The Bored perked up.  "Hey, he swore!" 

  Poopdeck turned to Mr Woof.  "Why was I not informed earlier?" 

  "I don't know... Did you have an obsession with ignorance?" 

  "I meant..!  Never mind!  Back to your post!" 

  Woof shrugged and left to find a lamp post.

  "Hey, what's this lamp post doing here?" asked Bob the Quantum Mechanic. 

  "I dunno," said Niels, "throw it there with the rest of the junk." 

  Bob shrugged and tossed the lamp post over with the Ark of the Covenant and Jimmy Hoffa's body. 

  "Hmmm.... Where is it already?" 

  "Is what?" 

  The Dark One rolled his eyes, although no one in the room could tell.  "I left the Gem of Karnath on Mars, but it seems to have moved." 

  "You lost the GEM OF KARNATH?!  You EEdiot!" 

  "Don't call me that."

  "Well, you are a snivelling brat!"

  "That doesn't mean you have to call me that."  replied Nameless Jr.

  "Okay, it's not mandatory.  What's your point?" 

  "Five Billion eight hundred and seven to three.  What's yours?" asked KDAmery. 

  "Statement preceeding a question - my point!" CWBorysowich replied.

  "Not the score - your point!" screamed the GEM.

  "Must you be that emphatic?" 

  "Yes, why?!" 

  "As I said," Pheonix replied in a tired voice, "I was looking forward to hearing out of both ears for most of my life." 

  A man looked up, tried to focus, and screamed, "My eyeballs are still flickering and man is it hot!" 

  KDAmery looked at the plot.  Yep.  Almost purèed. 

  Two 747 aircraft collide over the Pacific Ocean, splashing down with a thunderous wave that taught a few people in Hawaii how to tread water.  A group of sharks a couple of hundred miles away turned in the direction of the disturbance. 

  "Oh SHIT!  They must be back!" thought the sharks, "Nahhhhh..."

  The sharks turned back to devour what was left of Amelia Airhead.

  Killjoy glared.  "Do ya feel lucky?  Well, do ya, trunk?" 

  The steamer didn't have much to say.  It still wouldn't close with his Barry Manilow collection, though. 

  "I tolja you'd have to leave out the Teddy Bear numnuttz,"  snickered Karl.

  "This from a man who thinks the best way to pack for a trip is press and fold." 

  "That's only when I hafta pack my muddah."

  Wendle was in shock.  He was in Nebraska. 

  "Where the heck am I?"

  Two brothers who were fondling the pigs looked up and saw Wendle.

  "Man, Zeke, they got some nice pigs here in Key West!"

  "Well, I'll say, Billy Bob Boone."

  Zeke, with a sudden turn on, unzipped and ingratiated the pig.

  Free your smelt.  It's the right thing to do, and a hasty way to chew it. 

  Man, doesn't the Plot have a cool soundtrack? 

  Madness is mandatory - in 37 of 50 states.

  Okay, but ya gotta admit, it's got a great sandtrap. 

  Nuttiness is necessary - although the timing is optional. 

  If nothing else, it's a nice handslap.

  Craziness is casual - Please dress appropriately

  For breakfast, I'd recommend the flapjacks. 

  Dementia is deplorable, but only in laboratory ceolocanths. 

  This day is gonna be for the crapstacks.

  Insanity is insatiable - You just can't get enough!

  In other news, pay now, buy later.  You have nothing to lose but your remains.  Workers of the world, clench tight!  Big business is cumming. 

  Flooding strikes Wallstreet!

  Flooding goes on strike, demands fewer repairs to levees and dams. 

  Works Department officials not giving floods any breaks.

  Have you hugged a hurricane today? 

  Make sure your microwave is not at large - or too large.

  Send money now!  Only you can relieve the stress on poor, overworked parachutes!  How would you like to have to support everyone you meet?  Not to mention that they're all trying to jump out of planes.  Is it any wonder these poor things are so frazzled?  Would you use a frazzled `chute?  I thought not.  Send money now, and perhaps some of these parachutes can get the counselling they need. 

  "So tell me about your tailor..." 

  Cash donations to help your government reduce spending will be graciously accepted.

  Pledge now to aid the sufferers of donor fatigue! 

  Cash donations to help your government reduce spending will be graciously forwarded to your neighbours.

  Pledge now to aid the sufferers of door owner fatigue! 

  Doors Slammed for  lacking ease of use.

  Bodies slammed for lacking ease of use....  Well, alright, I made that one up. 

  Yes Sir!  You too could be here today and gone tomorrow.  Come on down to one of our showrooms where we'll test a really big laser beam on a portion of your skull.  Don't be afraid now.  None of those stories about overpower and out of control mirrors are true.  Our techniques have been practically perfected!  Don't delay! We cure smoking - Obesity - Bad Attitudes - Hair Loss - Hair Gain - Blindness - Heart Defects - Aging - Most Terminal & Chronic Diseases.  So come on down for your free sample, or call us at 1-800-2VAPOUR.

  Hi, Chucky Manson here, proprietor of KKKMart, where our prices are going Helter Skelter in response to my good friend's birthday - Martin Luther King Jr!  We're hacking and slashing prices all over the store!  We’re Burning up our costs!  This is the brightest white sale ever!  We're even crossing out the stickers! 

  Tired of rampant consumerism?  Call today, and receive your sale censor at earliest convenience...

  ACT NOW!  BUY TODAY!  DON'T DELAY!  QUANTITIES LIMITED! NEW & IMPROVED!  BIGGER & LONGER!  FRESHENS YOUR WHOLE LIFE!  MAKES ENEMIES INTO FRIENDS!  SEATING IS LIMITED!  387% MORE CONTENT!  987% EXPANDED WASHROOM SPACE! COMFIER SEATS!  LOTSA BOOZE!  GET IN ON OUR COURSE ABOUT SOFTSELL ADVERTISING IN THE 21ST CENTURY!

  Choose for Choice!  Open Options is a program that allows you to do whatever the hell you feel like!  Hell, you don't even have to pay us! 

  Ed hit Poopdeck.

  "Phew!  No wonder they call this the poopdeck... Yikes this place stinks!"

  "Oh, wow, some guy just hit Poopdeck and knocked him silly!  [Yawn]." 

  Ed turned to the Bored.  "My is that a load of ennui." 

  "Usedta be, but I can't be bothered to maintain it." 

  "Uh huh.  You be bothered to do... anything?" 

  "Nah.  Done it all already." 

  "Sure." 

  "C'mon, man," said another Gen Xer, "let's find something interesting to do." 

  "Like what?" 

  "Well... we could go for a drink." 

  "[Yawn]." 

  "Hey!" said Ed.  "I know just the place!" 

  "Dahh, We've probably been there already.  We've been fuckin everywhere, man.  Nothing exciting. Nada.  I might as well sleep for thirty years and hope like hell."

  "Oh really?  Well, there's this drink there that foams, chuckles, and keeps a constant temperature of 271degrees.  And that's just the water." 

  The Bored turned around.  "Really?" 

  With their curiosity now piqued, all of the Bored fizzled back to their ships and zoomed to the earthbound pleasures of "My Daddy's Dead Bar and Rope Factory" at the Burning Sands Hotel.

  "Thanks Ed," splurted Captain Poopdeck regaining his wind and his senses.

  "Ahh, they'll be back soon enough. My Daddy's Dead Bar and Toxin Refinery will probably only keep them interested for a millionth of a picosecond."

  "Still, they're not scheduled back for another three episodes." 

  "Great," asked Amber.  "You mean I have to wait three weeks to get my car back?" 

  "Looks that way," said Roger. 

  "This collapsing of your house is confusing, Kimo Sabe." 

  "Yeah, so's your shirt.  What's yer point?" 

  "The shirt is a relic from my forefathers..."

  "Wow, you had four fathers!" blinked Amber.

  Moon Runner paused, then said, "Yes, but then the acid wore off.  Anyway, hadn't we best find the others?" 

  "You mean there are OTHERS??!!" 

  "Of course," said Voice.  "There's the JEWEL OF ARNESDOR, the STONE OF BYZALIZZ, the ROCK OF RUCKRHAAATTS, and the CRYSTAL OF CORONER"

  "There is?"

  "Oh yes, and much more evil than the GEM."

  "They are?"

  "Close your mouth, you're drooling."

  The lights shorted out again. 

  "Shit!" thundered Dark One.

  "Do I have to?" asked George Washington.  "I finally got this deck cleaned." 

  "The Deck.... Hit the Deck.... Hit the Poopdeck!"

                Two Miami Dolphins Nose Tackles rushed in from the Supercharged-Nitro Lifters and took Poopdeck to the floor, knocking the wind and senses out of him again.          

Part LXXXVI - Ms. Petunia Vickers is Shocked, Stunned, Appalled, and then Promptly Released on an Unsuspecting World.

Still glossy eyed, she couldn't believe the things she had seen and now... where was she?

It was a beautiful summer day, or would have been, had there been any vegetation visible anywhere. Even some mould would have cheered things up, a little. Just a little, mind. Ms. Vickers was not what one might call a fungus fan.

Beyond the lack of vegetation, there was a complete void of water or any fluid as far as the eye could see. Not even a comforting mirage.

There was, however, a pretty snazzy radio sitting on a rock nearby.

"Hmmmm, let's see what's playing." She reached for the power button.

Forty billion volts coursed through her body, and Ms. Vickers discovered two things: there was a short in the radio, and this world, wherever it was, used a positively ridiculous amount of current.

The blast sent her flying back into a pile of dirt. She lay there, stunned, feeling parts of her body float away on the breeze. It wasn't nearly as unpleasant as she had expected, all things considered.

A few more lightning bolts from the radio and a station kicked in. A band, in some parts of the galaxy known as GWAR, but in this part of universe was really known as GAWR. "Filthy Flow" wafted out of the giga-watt mono speaker - a little light on bass - and the lyrics appalled Ms. Vickers. "I am dirt/ And dirt is me/ Never felt so goddamn filthy."

"My God, what atrocious manners!" she exclaimed, climbing up from the ground. She brushed herself off. "Dear God, look at me!"

KDAmery turned to CWBorysowich. "Do you hear someone calling us?"

"Keep quiet, maybe they'll go away."

Ms. Vickers was covered in ashes - which used to be her clothes - and dirt - which used to be who knows what. Had she been able to take the whole scene in, she would have noted that her hair was standing up like a porcupine's quills, and that her skin looked like an overdone hotdog, but someone was merciful enough not to leave a mirror lying around.

CWBorysowich turned to KDAmery. "When did we become merciful?"

"Did we do that? Geeze, must be slipping... I know, when they come asking, we'll plead negligence."

"I don't know... He helped us out of that kiddie porn thing in Ohio..."

"Not with negligence... ah, skip it."

"Sorry... I don't skip... I don't dance... I don't go near people who do..."

KDAmery looked at his partner. "Fine. Git outta here."

The sun faded as what Petunia hoped were clouds drifted in. She looked down at the parched land and cracks all around her. The clouds soon consumed the entire sky. A drop hit her cheek and as the rain came down, all of the cracks became little mouths opening for a drink from the sky. Suddenly, a great deluge fell upon the earth... or wherever... and the ground greedily sucked it in, quenching the thirst of all the cute little seeds some moron had left lying there.

Then the water hit the short circuit.

The entire electrical supply of the planet discharged into the ground, supercharging the growth cycle of the plants. Grass, flowers, shrubs, and trees erupted from the ground like one of those bad lawn mower commercials.

In the midst of it all sat Ms. Vickers.

"Well, I daresay that is an improvement."

A tree looked at her. "Jesus Christ! Nobody warned me about... that!"

As all of the high strung vegetation focused their shock on the vision of Ms. Petunia Vickers, they all promptly died and became a brown smelly rotting heap. Ms. Vickers then vanished from the planet. And if it wasn't for that episode, and had Petunia been swept away just a moment sooner, there could have been another planet hurtling toward catastrophe much like ours.

Part LXXXV - To Reluctantly Go Where No Authors Have Gone Before

"Well," said KDAmery. "Should we go in there?"

"Yeah right! You go in first and if no body parts are thrown out I'll follow you."

"Hey, relax, I've got my remote."

"Yeah I've got my remote too, but don't forget that this house separated from the universe without us touching the remotes."

"Goddamnit, did you have to remind me?! Jeeze, wants me to go first then gives me the Willies..."

"O.K. here's the deal: we both open the door and stand back - once we have an idea of what's inside, then we'll go in."

"This sounds disturbingly like Wolf or Doom™."

"Hey if it barks we run - if it kills us then it won't matter."

"Okay. One suggestion... that career in counselling? I'd skip it."

"Well, that’s the end of the session - here's my bill for $587 and 32 cents. Have a nice day and try to remember not to focus on your financial troubles..."

"Great. I'm going into a novel We're writing that's gone haywire and he's got delusions of usefulness."

"It's not a delusion - I'm acting."

"At least Keanu Reeves won't be unemployed..."

"So, are we going to open this door or what? Of course we could just leave it for some other author that dares to enter it."

"Sadist. Who could handle this thing?"

"Masochist! Why should we have to?"

"Oh yeah, I forgot I was dealing with the centre of the universe."

"Alright, let's get it over with - it'll probably be nothing but a couple of old sweat socks and a basketball from the 1964 Knicks games."

"Do you know something I don't?"

"Probably, but I wasn't going to go through the checklist now."

"Wonderful, he's keeping secrets again. Oh well, here goes." KDAmery opened the door and pointed his remote.

Rob Smith was standing in the doorway.

"Oh myself KDA - He's wearing an old Don Johnson suit..."

"Y'know, this could be kinda fun..."

"Oh shit," said Rob.

Part LXXXIV - The Case of The Back From The Dead And Gone Again Lieutenant

"Georgie, are the twist engines recurled yet?"

~No, Captain,~ came the disembodied reply. ~We seem to have a super-space reinforcement wave surrounding the engines keeping them from recurling.~

"Meaning..."

~We're going to have straight engines for a while yet.~

"Wonderful," said Captain Poopdeck. "Even in space we get homophobia. Where is Commander Biker?"

"Checking for where-when anomalies in the crew's quarters with Counsellor Boy-Toy," said Mister Woof.

"As I was saying..."

"Sir! There's a Twist-Yard distortion off the port bow!" screamed Lieutenant Traptin Tar.

"On window. Wait a minute! You're dead!"

Lieutenant Tar's face froze. She frantically grabbed her wrist. "You're right! I can't find a pulse!" She keeled over.

Boner ran over to her. "She's dead, Tim!"

Captain Poopdeck smacked him. "You twit, you're not in Star Trip the Tenth Iteration! And zip up your pants."

"Oops, sorry, got off on the wrong set." Boner stepped into the Super-Charged Lifter and was lifted away at super speed.

Poopdeck punched his chest miscommunicator. "Ouch! Doctor Brushstroke, Lieutenant Tar is dead!"

~Captain, you have to learn to let go...~

"No, I mean she's dead here, on the overpass."

~What!?~

"I was hoping you could explain it to me."

~I'm on my way.~

"Make it just like that."

Ensign Rowboat at the tiller turned to Barry, who was sitting beside her at the Shops Terminal, and asked, "I thought it was Commander Biker who got trapped in tar?"

"What, did his Harley spring a leak again?! Oh my, Georgie is not going to be pleased about that! No sir!"

"Don't call me `Sir,' Sir, you out rank me."

"I'm sorry, but I've just been overcome by the repetitiveness of it all."

"Again?"

"Captain!" barked Mister Woof, "The disturbance Lieutenant Tar noticed has gained in strength by three million percent!"

"On window!"

Off the port bow a twisting of the where-when fabric (which was corduroy at that particular location) could be seen by all with eyes in their heads and a working visual cortex. The twisting increased until a square-rigged ship emerged.

"Dear God!" exclaimed Barry. "It's the Bored!"

"Wonderful," said Poopdeck. "I've already heard the phrase, `yeah, whatever,' enough to last me twenty lifetimes."

PART LXXXIII - Granite Dust Ain't No Deli Sandwich

Lickin' Linda Lovelace was attacked by Exhaustion.

"Lawrence, Lawrence, get this madman off me!"

Lawrence rolled his eyes individually down an alley and kicked the interloper's brains out. They ended up in the delicatessen mentioned last part. Not to be anti-semitic, of course; just disgusting. Thought you'd like to know. But we digress, eh?

"Sandwich?" offered Linda.

"No - sand in my eye."

"You picked a fine alley to roll them in with all the garbage back there. I can't believe the wasted food in these places."

"BELIEVE!!!" screamed Jerry Rhombus from an overhead television. "You too can be one of the chosen millions to be raped and pillaged by our ministry. Remember that our God is publicly funded and can't exist without out your generous financial and rhetorical support."

[ELLIPSIS'S INSERTION: THAT GOD IS PUBLIC DOMAIN.]

"God, somebody change the damn Chanel," said Linda, "My nostrils are killing me."

"ATCHOOOOOO" sneezed Lawrence.

"BLESS YOU!! My children of the future will be the most prosperous in our mutually beneficial afterlife..."

"Change the fucking channel!" Screamed a man at the back of the deli as a tomato and bacon sandwich hit the monitor.

The sandwich dropped on Lawrence's head and the channel changed.

"Ohhhhh Ambra... Mmmmm yeah baby"

"My god Linda they have cable."

Linda and Lawrence glanced at the group of children sitting cross-legged on the floor with their eyes glued to the screen.

"UH... UH... Do you like taking me that way John?"

"Ohhh YES Ambra YES!"

"Fine," cut in a man in a suit," will that be SX, DX, or clock doubled?"

"Fuckin' commercials," said an anonymous man in the back.

"Is there anything out there that can make a good story these days?!?"

The New Messiah shook his head. Nothing came out. `I know who can,' he thought, `but they won't help me. They keep writing this stupid plot.'

CWBorysowich looked at his partner and asked, "I did?"

"Did what?"

"Looked at you?"

"When?"

"Before."

"Statement, my point."

"Got a life?" asked CWB.

"What kind?"

"Recently?"

"How recent?"

"In the wake of your ancestors or have you still got that conscience?"

"Nonsense,"said KDA," point to me. My serve: where's the Old Messiah?"

"Isn't he at your place?"

"When did he go there?"

"Didn't you take him?"

"Did somebody tell you that?"

"That you took him like Ambra?"

"Who?"

"You don't know Ambra?"

"Should I?"

"Do you have her number?"

"On me?"

"What's on you?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Didn't you mention it?"

"Wasn't that in passing?"

"What did you pass?"

"Do you know someone who's interested?"

"Should somebody be?"

"Shouldn't that be the principal of the thing?"

"When did you get principals?"

"What, did I leave a school lying around?"

"Lie in school often?"

"How would they notice?"

"Did you post a notice to tell them?"

"Would they have read it?"

"Can they even read?"

"Can they read cans?"

"You were going to post a can?"

"Would Canada Post take a can?"

"Do you have a can they want?"

"Do they have to go?"

"Who's leaving?"

"Did a door open?"

"You didn't jam it?"

"What flavour?"

"Are raspberries in season?"

"Are the seasons changing?"

"When will you ever change?"

"When will you ever stabilise?"

"Have you stabilised already?"

"Stabilised what?"

"Can't you stabilize anything?"

"Why are you so critical?"

"Wasn't your father a critic?"

"Wasn't family supposed to be off limits?"

"Your family went out of bounds?"

"Didn't you tie them up right?"

"Don't you have the rope?"

"How often?"

"Are you tired of this?"

"Do you want to give up?"

"With two points already, can't you give up?"

"But is any lead sufficient?"

"Wouldn't you still win?"

"Is winning the point?"

"Are you expecting a point with that stupid question?"

"Derrogatory, match point. Good game."

"You thought so?"

"Are we going to go through all this again?"

"Didn't you already get match point?"

"Then why are you asking more questions?"

"Weren't you asking the questions?"

"Which particular questions?"

"Are you denying the questions?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Are you paranoid?"

"Wouldn't you be?"

"Since this isn't for a point, why should I be?"

"If this is pointless, why are we doing it?"

"You haven't done pointless things before?"

"When?"

"Anytime before?"

"Before time?"

"Do you think it possible?"

"Is anything impossible?"

"Even if everything is possible, is it not pointless?"

"Doesn't that depend on the score?"

"Can we stop if this doesn't affect the score anymore?"

"Do you think we can?"

"Is it a matter of belief?"

"What does Rev. Rhombus say?"

"BELIEVE!!!!"

"That was a great show Rev.!" squeaked Nick the noose.

"IT WAS, WASN'T IT?" bellowed the Reverend.

"Uh, sir, we're off the air."

"OH! Sorry, boys, got carried away."

`Try harder,' thought the observer.

"How much did we raise today boys?"

"8.6 billion dollars, sir." screeched one of the other members of the congregation.

"Ahh, an amount even Sturmgosse would be proud of..."

PART LXXXII - Particle Physics would be cool if it was bigger!

"I can't see it!!!"

"Bring over that flashlight Beepo."

"This one?"

"Uhh, Yeah Rudolf will do - how did we end up with a reindeer?"

"There it is over there... Bring the nose in a little closer... I think I know what it is... Justa little closer... And a bit closer... A bit OH SHIT!!"

"Way to go Bob - you lost the reindeer in that vortex."

"I almost had it."

"What - what did you almost have?" inquisitioned Beepo.

"Get these Spanish priests out of my face, you clown. I almost had the real forged signature of DaVinci."

"God Damn it Bob," Neils glanced apologetically to the Spanish Priests, "We're out one reindeer because of a friggin signature. Have you lost touch with surreality? If we don't clean up this clump of disjointed time and space, it will tear apart the fabric of my patch work quilt."

"So buy an electric blanket. Anyway, Santa can fly in and rescue the damn reindeer. I asked for a flashlight, anyway. You guys have no sense of proportion."

"Hey I've got no depth perception either," piped in Beepo.

"How can I forget. I still haven't fixed that hot water heater yet," protested Neils.

Bob looked at Neils, then at Beepo, then back at Neils. He shook his head.

"Anyway, I want an Adam smasher set up here right away."

"Don't you mean an atom smasher?"

"If I did, I would have said so."

Beepo started shaking. "But... but Adam is my friend!"

"He's road kill! Pulverise the sucker so I can fix my tools."

Niels looked at Bob, then Beepo, and shook his head.

"You guys are weird."

"Big news coming from a guy in a jockey outfit."

At this point, KDAmery walked into the scene and faced the camera. "As you can see, our quantum mechanics are getting on each others nerves. It was sort of inevitable, when you think about it. I mean, the space time continuum looks like refuse from a delicatessen, and Beepo's chugging Minute Maid by the litre under high pressure. Only a matter of time (puns intended) before a muon wrench gets stuffed in the works. We'd love to show you the rest of this, but hey, we're perverse. Catch ya later."

PART LXXXI - Evrythin's Basicly OK, Eh? Pt. II

Back of a bar, sometime before closing. The CD changer was skipping over ultimately forgettable tunes, and the ceiling fans stuttered. A bar tender cleaned glasses he had cleaned half a dozen times already. Sitting in the back, nursing an hours old drink on the brink of death. Hang in there. We all have to die, but hang in there as long as you can.

He started to speak. No one listening.

"Y'know, evrythin's still basicly OK, y'no? It is, really, see if it ain't. I mean, sure, the universe jus' collapsed into a tool shed, but it's, like, no big deal, cus its a small world anyway. `Sides, we should all try'n get closer, anyway, right?

"Ain'tchoo listenin?

"I mean, shit man, its not like machines have taken over or nuthin. They're not that good yet, y'no? I mean, shit, if engineers're so fuckin brilliant, why do we need technicians?"

Yopu the barmaid came by and asked, "You finished with that?"

He clutched the glass. "Don'tchoo try'n take'im b'fore his time! Don'tchoo try it!"

"Sorry." She backed off.

"I mean, hell, he ain't dead yet." Takes a sip. The drink is on life support now. A strong breeze could evaporate the last of the alcohol. Our narrator doesn't want to hear this.

"It's OK. Evrythin's OK, y'no, cus the frogs 'n toads 'n salamanders are in charge. Amphibian government, man, its great fer the rainy season in Peru, right? Right. Not that we wanna discriminalate 'gainst the left. They's just misGuidoed, man, it's not like they're tryna drive us inta the ground're nuthin, cept in Ontario. 'Sides, evryone needs two sides. Otherwise we'd all fall over, y'no?

"I mean, rock'n roll'll never die, cus a sax players the president. It's cool.

"Basicly OK."

He takes another sip, notices the drink has bit the dust. Throws the glass into the mirror behind the bar.

"Nothin's OK anymore!"

PART LXXX - PLASTIC PEOPLE

Our Shrink sat in his office. Stella the Mannequin from Macy's lay on his couch staring at the ceiling with her arms outstretched in an unnatural pose.

"So what do you think of the Cleveland Indians this year?"

The Mannequin lay on the couch without moving.

"Do you still think that your sister is dead?"

The mannequin rolled off of the couch and thudded on the floor causing an arm to fall off. Our Shrink's secretary ran into the office, excused herself and entered the office to join the Shrink and the broken mannequin.

"Is she going to be OK Doctor?"

"No...I'm afraid she's a mannequin depressive."

A large, scruffy man with a tangled beard and a tattered bandana lounged against a Marshall Stack, painstakingly sewing a thread of Mylar up his left forearm. He thought the dragon's back scales were coming along nicely, despite the discolouration from the dirty needle he'd used the previous week. When he came to the end of the spool, he looked at his watch.

"Damnit, where is that hippie?! Sound check's almost over!"

"Hey, frogbreath! There's some mean bitch out front lookin' for ya!"

"Wha's she look like?"

"She's wearin' these robes and shit. Looks real good in sandals."

"Oh cripes, it's the missus. Look, stall her, man."

"Where ya goin?"

"Anywhere but here." Zeus ducked under the stage and beat feet, cursing whenever he banged his head on a support.

Headlines in the Metropolitan Monomaniac's entertainment section: "Hendrix misses another appearance," and, "Stage blown away by angry fan."

Zeus narrowly escaped the light show. Hospitals were flooded with the casualties. Never get in the way of a goddess during PMS. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, ha! Whoever said that never pissed off Hera.

"Shit, now I gotta think up another disguise."

Zeus sat on the outskirts of Memphis with his pet salamander Tonka.

"So, whaddaya think?"

"Look, the roadie thing's still cool. You just gotta stay around other roadies and keep a low profile."

"Oh, yeah. News flash, slime ball, I just did that and Cleveland Auditorium got flambe'ed."

"Uh huh. You think getting that girl pregnant with twin lambs was keeping a low profile?"

"Hey, I was disguised as a bison..."

"No no no no no. No raping, pillaging, or even stock fraud. Stick to the recreational embroidery, and let the chicks come to you. C'mon, you know how Hera is about family values."

"Hmmm, ya got a point. But that takes half the fun away."

"It doesn't have to. Change into some hot-bod and the groupie girls'll be all over ya. Hell, if ya grow yer hair long and dye it three colours, they'll think you're a musician."

"That or a friend of Kyle's. And can we come up with something a bit sportier for my schtick?"

"Like?"

"I don't know - something the gals would want to hear about."

"Like, `Makeup Artist?'"

"Naah, Hera would pick up on that one in a pico-second."

"Okay, handle the FX."

"Too obvious."

"Hey, if you wanna get babe attention, you're going to get her attention. Deal with it."

"Yeah, but I don't wanna get Hera's attention. She's on that Permanent Menstrual Syndrome and I'm supposed to be laying low remember?"

"Then why're ya asking for a babe-getter image? You know that's like blood in a shark tank."

"Good point. Maybe I should just make myself look like Zeke."

"Who?"

"We're looking for Zeke," said one of the sisters at the front of the procession.

"What for? He's just a senile old man. How can he live in this mine?"

The Sisters of Merciless Food entered the room that used to be Zeke's sitting room. The old fire pit was empty, not touched for possibly months.

"Where could he have gone?" asked the short sister.

The rocks awoke.

"I dunno," said the sister in charge. "Maybe he's in the old man's room."

"Well he'd better hurry back. Our hedgehog casserole is getting cold, and the yak fat is curdling."

The rocks would have salivated, had that been their style.

"Yeah, and our poison ivy salad is going limp."

"Like the boys in Jonseytown?"

"Kinda."

"Why don't we just come back another time. This place is really spooky. Besides, I want to get back and have some more of that Leek Jelly we made."

The rocks pounced. They started to chew, but then the taste of the casserole hit. In an instant, the Sisters of Merciless Food had been ejected in a spontaneous volcanic eruption, their remains scattered over the parking lot of Chez Quickies: poetic justice for a bunch of undergraduate chefs that considered making chocolate chip & ginseng rolls.

From here for the next bit we're editing on CWBorysowich's BIG screen TV, which is large on size and small on resolution. So if the plot seems over blown and under-focused, that's why.

Time is a conspiracy of the watchmakers (go figure).

If we can have TV for the blind, why can't we have stereo for the deaf?

"You been listening to pop radio? We already do."

Where did all the clowns go?

Never mind clowns, here come the Cleveland Browns!

Next hit movie: The Violence of the Shams.

All of the French maids at Chez Quickies came out in force to clean up the parking lot before their president, Francois Mitterand, stopped in for a visit. He liked the job they did, and sold them all cars with faulty wiring. A month later came the biggest case of tragic spontaneous explosions ever known, and there were no maids left to clean it up, either.

Hey, you didn't think we could have the Plot to End ALL Plots without a few fatalities, didja?

Speaking of which, you should all realize that, when this monstrosity is finished, there will be no more plots. Ever. No stories, conspiracies, schemes, or intelligence work. So enjoy this stuff while it lasts.

And, when we're done, we're going to convert it into a microdot. That way, you won't have to read this gigantic thing. It'll look like this: .

PART LXXIX - There is an Accident on the Highway of Life

The unfortunate subject of this case study has, until very recently, led a hopelessly normal life. This all changed last Thursday, when he went to lunch at Butterworth's, on the ninetieth floor of the Rockefeller building. He was preoccupied with the effects of a new tax upon his hobby of collecting rare stamps in holograph when he tripped on the strap of a woman's handbag, crashing into a table and spilling wine on the surprised patrons. All would have been fine, except Jinxy D. Axi Dent-Prone, our subject, made the mistake of apologizing for the way one woman's dress allowed her no modesty when wet. Her husband took offense and struck Jinxy in the jaw, knocking him onto a desert cart. The cart rolled through the swinging doors into the kitchen where he was dumped into the garbage chute and slid down 5 floors. Upon dropping into the garbage elevator, he promptly attempted to find an escape route. He managed to force the doors open and staggered out into a freshly cleaned office area. A VP took one look at him and the smell made him heave his lunch consisting of oysters and yogurt on Jinxy's shoes. Jinxy then made a run for it into an area that was under renovation and he fell three floors into a pile of insulation.

A workman nearby flicked away a cigarette butt, which landed on Jinxy and scorched a small, round welt on his forearm. Jinxy flung himself off the insulation in pain. He ran through an open door while searching for a First Aid kit, and slipped on a puddle of lubricant. As he reached the end of the hall (thinking that he really should find out what kind of lubricant this was and use it in his car), a workman opened a door leading into an air shaft. Dent-Prone slid into him; our subject's jacket caught on a pipe, which saved him from falling eighty four stories to his death in the sub-basement, as the workman did. Jinxy did slide down another four floors before he caught on another pipe. His jacket ripped, and he fell to a landing one floor below. Jinxy limped out of the service shaft towards the elevator, thinking of the implications this afternoon had for his clothing budget. Thus preoccupied, he did not notice the elevator malfunction, which caused it to stop one floor below his own. As he stepped in, it started upwards; Dent-Prone was whisked up thirteen floors on the roof of the elevator. It stopped at the penthouse office of Stürmgosse Smith before plummeting to the ground floor for Mr. Smith's trip to the masseuse. Jinxy climbed through the emergency hatch as a beautiful young woman entered. He was unsure how to answer to her question, "What are you doing?"

"Uh, I'm here to fix the drapes."

"We have blinds."

"That's okay, I'll make the bill out in braille."

The elevator then malfunctioned again, flying up to the penthouse. As a result, Jinxy fell from the elevator ceiling, and the young woman received serious bruising to her inner thighs (rape charges are pending.) The elevator then ceased functioning altogether, and has taken to dispersing pacifist literature to smart bombs.

The woman ran from the elevator screaming profanities. Jinxy left as well, looking for an unobtrusive way to get out of this place. Walking down a narrow corridor, he entered one of the rooms and was promptly hit in the eye with a rubber band.

"Collateral damage!" screamed The Manual "Kant," aiming another elastic at Johnny Dint, who had just pegged off David Wont. Covering his eye with his hand, Jinxy ducked back out into the hall and was smashed in the head by the mail cart, which pushed him across the building. He was dropped into a trolley which carried him down to the mail room on the third floor. A conveyor belt pulled him up and he landed on the desk of one of the sorters who pushed him to the floor.

"This is a restricted area, sir!" the sorter yelled.

"Yeah yeah, and I'm only PG." Jinxy dragged himself out of the room and walked through the door across the way. It was the stairs. Jinxy caught his breath a moment while staring down them when a man came barreling through, knocking him flat. Jinxy was flung into the spiral stair well and proceeded to tumble to the lobby. Two large security guards, standing at the bottom, lost control of their coffee and donuts when he plowed into their ankles. "Watch where you're rollin', asshole!" they growled as they threw Jinxy out onto the sidewalk where his left hand met the bottom of some woman's spike high heeled shoe.

While he lay on the ground dazed, Lassie, the imaginary dog (now deceased) came along and urinated on his face, which snapped him back to reality. He picked himself off the ground and crawled into a cab. Jinxy told the cab to take him to his apartment in the center of town.

The driver considered it odd that Jinxy addressed the car directly, but decided not mention it.

Once they arrived on his street, Jinxy realized that there was no money in his pockets. "Is it alright if I run upstairs and get some cash?"

The cabbie turned and said, "What?"

"Look out!"

"What?"

The driver turned back to the road in time to widen his eyes at the chemical truck backing out in front of him. The vehicles collided, spilling an unidentified radioactive substance all over the street as the taxi skidded into a fire hydrant. A gyser exploded under the car, flipping it over and drowning the driver. Jinxy floated out of the cab, thinking, 'At least I don't have to pay for the ride!' The water carried him into an open storm sewer, which carried him ten miles through some now radioactive sludge to the river outside of town. Immediately after surfacing, Jinxy was hit on the head by The Good Ship Hash Pipe, piloted by Gordie Leadfoot.

He awoke on shore to find a three hundred pound woman who had fallen in love with him at first sight giving him mouth to mouth. Jinxy took one look at her and screamed, shattering both her eardrums and attracting the attention of two cops. Being unable to get any coherent answers out of either of them, the cops tried to haul Jinxy and the fat woman off to the station. The woman went berserk and killed both cops with a bear hug.

In the confusion, Jinxy wandered off, suffering from amnesia. He now thought he was a Neo-nazi torture warden about to put a whole city to it's death. Contriving individual tortures for each person in the populous took him fifteen seconds (Jinxy, in his new identity of Uber Storm Fuhrer Gerhardt Von Gruesome, had the imagination of three deities, if nothing else).

A piece of bubble gum got stuck on Jinxy's shoe, tripping him into a newspaper box. Having discovered the necessary materials for his first torture, J. picked the colour comics out of the box and snatched up a nearby skateboard. Skating down the street, he spied his first victim. Before he could administer a lethal paper cut, however, a wheel from a 747 fell from the sky and struck the back of the skateboard, catapulting Jinxy 35 feet in the air and landing him in an open dumpster seconds before a garbage truck came to empty it.

Tumbling into the truck's dark chamber, J. was then compacted into several cubic meters of rotting restaurant garbage. Hours later, sandwiched amongst rotting tangerines and green Limburger cheese, the truck launched it's contents into the local dump. Jinxy crawled out and scared the two attendants to death. Climbing over their bodies, he wondered who he was. Oh yes, William T. Rockefeller, richest man on earth. He made a deranged beeline for the Rockefeller building, intending to take possession back from his simpering sister and buy up Ravensgate.

When he fought his way into the boardroom past security and secretary, five board members passed out, one crashing through a window and plummeting to her death 90 floors below. A cool summer breeze lightly rustled the papers on the table and flattened the remaining twenty board members to the back wall, who applauded the death of Rockefeller's simpering sister. Jinxy was about to sit down when the T2001 walked in and had a slight malfunction, which caused the shootings of the remaining board members and several wall panels before it shorted out completely. Crawling out from under the table, Jinxy heard a large crash echo from below the open window. The building started to shake. Looking down from the window, J. saw three bus loads of Japanese tourists crashed into the lobby by their Chinese drivers. Subsequently, the building's base started to crumble (there's Italian building for ya)..

Jinxy fell out the broken window only to land on a misdirected hang glider. This would not have saved him either if it weren't for the strong updraft caused by the burning buses, which got the hang glider safely to the roof of a shorter building. Stepping off the hang glider, Jinxy walked over a skylight and fell into the Ramada Inn's indoor swimming pool. The water instantly turned an indescribable grey-brown colour (the Ramada is suing, claiming that the pool has to be replaced entirely), and two swimmers lapsed into comas from toxic shock syndrome. Slipping into the men's change room, Jinxy discovered the showers had been filled with purple dye by some juvenile prankster at the practical joke convention being held in the hotel.

J. wandered out of the shower after getting dressed and into the hotel lobby only to have a baseball bat meet his head from a crazed junkie that had decided to hijack the lobby.

"Take this lobby to Cuba!" the junkie screamed as a SWAT team swatted him.

When he regained consciousness, J. found himself in one of the hotel rooms in bed with a Cocker spaniel and a marriage license sitting on the night stand to Fifi. There was a pounding on the door. "Open up! Police!" The door burst open and in rushed the LAPD and other assorted racist scum, along with the SPCA and a noose borrowed from Our Brothers of Perpetual Strangulation.

Thinking quickly for a change, J. threw the dog at the lynch mob, causing a total of thirteen near-fatal concussions. However, this attracted the attention of the Goddess of Spaniels, who became so incensed that she grabbed a statue of J. (which, much like a voodoo doll, contained his soul) and stepped on it. Now very short and very wide, J. waddled out of the room into the arms of Lickin Linda Lovelace the... pocket mortician(?), who immediately broke his arm by riding on it with Lawrence the Arabian. Waddling as fast as he could to escape, J. failed to notice an open man hole (in a hotel?), and he fell into a mess of over-ripe banana peels. Squishing his way out, J. was subsequently punted into another time zone by a passing subway.

And then Ravensgate collapsed in on itself, and Jinxy's day took a turn for the worse.

Part LXXIII - IS THAT a GRAY ELEPHANT FROM DENMARK?

"Hmmm... Amino Acids... Poly Peptides... DNA... A smidgeon of guacamole... And... Now where did that damn alligator go?"

Dr. Albert L. was hunched over his checker board and had almost made a stunning discovery, except for the fact that L. wasn't really a doctor. He'd received his degree from a mail order contest and had no background in any academic pursuit. Just the same, L. was an inventor. He had created such great gadgets as the Cordless Extension Cord, the Newspaper Hash Pipe, the Beeper for Lonely People (it beeps periodically for no reason), the Expanded Disc, Door Bell for the Dead, the Magnetic Floppy Disk Holder, the Wine Heater, the Exploding Safe, the Solar Powered Flood Lamp, the Solar Powered Flood, and the Aquatic Sodium Dispenser (a great kick at pool parties).

Just now, he was trying to recreate Life's Sidekick. This had bothered him for a long time. Every great hero had a sidekick, right? Well, since life itself was the hero of the modern existentialist novel (according to the back of a pizza box he'd read in the fifties), then life had to have a sidekick. Simple, really. So where was this guy? Albert had thought for a long time about this, and eventually concluded that the poor schmoe had been run over by a cement mixer. It was terribly sad, kind of like a Sartre novel. [Really, folks, this is sad. You'd better start crying. Authors] But it didn't have to be, as long as scientists were willing to rescue great literature.

He looked about. The tracks seemed to indicate the alligator was travelling in a westerly direction. That would put it on a vector for Victor's pool.

That could get messy if Victor's kids were there.

A loud knock was heard at the door. Albert turned to face the direction of his front door. He waited, and while he waited, he thought. Then the knock came again and shattered his thoughts completely. He may never think again.

Albert went to the front door and opened it. The knock at the side door came again. L. closed the front door and shot the half dozen bolts and latches with a pea shooter. Going to the side door, L. opened it to reveal a soaking wet Victor missing one arm and dragging one of his legs.

"Can I help you?"

"Are you really a doctor?"

"No, weren't you reading along?"

"No, I was too busy being eaten alive. Is that your alligator?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." Victor collapsed. A real doctor would have called it shock and blood loss, but Albert just thought he was being polite.

"Well, I guess I know where the alligator is." And with that, L. set out to retrieve his life long pet. On the way to Victor's yard, L. regained his thought. [This is terribly sad folks. You'd better be crying. Auts]

`Are scientists to save literature - would they be the ones to defend the will of free speech - o the devastation that would occur as the rift between the different scientists would mount to a galactic war over Steinbeck and his little wizards...'

As L. entered Victor's yard, the devastation was immense. Entire trees were uprooted, body parts from Victor's children were strewn all over the back lawn and floating in the pool, and vultures flew in triangular patterns overhead. Victor's wife lay half eaten with no clothing on; obviously raped by the alligator. But no sign of his life long pet. L. searched for some clues. After several hours, he noticed a large hole in the fence that led into the set for Dallas.

This might have caused a stir, except that Dallas had been cancelled long before, so the city had no where to be. Such being the case, the set was empty, save the twenty foot reptile dozing and burping along the south wall, where the sun was. Albert ran forward to embrace his pet.

Fortunately for him, alligators digest slowly, so the beast wouldn't be hungry again for about a month. Getting it back home was going to be a problem, though; usually, he tempted it with a girl scout.

"Herman? Can we go home now?"

The alligator opened one eye. "You can, if you think you can."

Albert thought about this for a while, and eventually said, "Huh?"

"Do you have the physical ability to go home?" Asked the alligator.

"I think so."

"Is there anything keeping you here?"

"You."

"Why?"

"I want you home."

"Why?"

"Because you're my pet."

"Define `pet'."

"Uh... what is this an exam?"

The alligator rolled its eye. "I think, therefore, you're not."

Albert disappeared, at least from that vicinity.

Don't tap dance.

Turning on the TV, Stevie flipped through the channels. After a while, his back was sore, so he stopped performing acrobatics and used the remote instead. On CBC was an evening at the Vancouver pops, where the Flatulent Fellows were preparing to perform the Hallelujah Chorus. The commentators, Jimmy and Reg, were veterans to this type of music and opened the show.

"So, Jimmy, what does it take to be an alto tenor in this field?"

"Well Reg, the secret is rectal shaping. You need a precise form that will produce the correct resonance. Stance is important too; you have to stand with a perfect thirty three degree angle between your thighs and your abdomen. Sopranos, like Suzy there, can stand nearly vertical, although some conductors do like a bit of curve to the buttocks..."

Stevie sat in rapt attention to the artistry of Suzy's stance.

"... and baritones like Big Ed generally have to go with a forty to fifty degree angle. But the alto tenor needs the contortion to the sounding chamber. I'll tell ya, some of the things my conductor had to do, well, they don't bear repeating in polite company."

"Speaking of repeating, it looks like we're about to begin."

The camera panned out over the crowd, showing hundreds of people dressed in tuxedos and evening gowns waiting with anticipation for this unique musical event. As the camera focused on the stage, the curtain rose to show a line of men and women standing with their backs to the audience. The curtain disappeared above, and the chorus dropped their drawers to the gasps of the audience. Little did they know how much gasping they might be doing that night, especially in the first few rows. The musicians assumed their positions for the best pitch and resonance. The conductor, who was the only person on stage facing the audience, rapped his rectal thermometer on the podium, and you could see the cheeks tense.

"This is it Reg," whispered Jimmy.

Stevie wasn't sure whether to hold his breath or giggle. When the camera panned over the soprano section, though, he wished he was taping this.

As the conductor began to wave and the Chorus entered its beginning chords, the lead baritone began to tremble, to shake with his own private earthquake. Reg said, "Wait a minute, Jimmy, what's going on with Big Ed?"

"Looks like constipation has struck the star of this group, Reg."

"If so... wait a minute, I don't think that's it. He's trying to clench, not push!"

"My God! The special diet of beans and onions must have backfired!"

"If not, then it certainly looks like it's about to!"

The first row of spectators was stirring, but their artistic appreciation impeded panic, to their eternal dismay, not to mention their dry cleaner's. With a mighty cry and a huge, flatulent boom, Big Ed exploded over the audience. Reliable witnesses said some of the chunks flew more than ten rows back.

Stevie thought the whole thing looked like a chocolate twelve gauge going off. Those closer insisted it was more fried onion than chocolate.

Amidst screaming, running, regurgitation, and the disgusted drawing of hundreds of handkerchiefs, the rest of the orchestra launched into the Halleluja Chorus.

Don't polka.

"You farted didn't you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You farted!"

"I did not!" exclaimed the Voice.

"Nobody else is here except me and I didn't fart," claimed the Dark One.

"Well, you're right about who's here. Just exactly how is nonexistence supposed to be flatulent?"

"I don't know, but somebody or something cut the cheese in here!"

"Then maybe you should look for an intruder rather than talk to the air."

"He'd have to be invisible not to see him in this room, damnit!"

"So?"

"Not great cover for an invisible guy if he farts upon entering the room."

"Not everyone has perfect bowel control, do they?"

Then the Dark One fell to the floor as he was hit with a right cross from the air.

"You see. There you were, arguing about flatulence when you could have been looking for the invisible cheese cutter."

"What the..." and Dark One doubled up in pain as he was given a sharp blow to the groin.

"Looks like your invisible farter fights dirty, too," said Voice.

Dark One pulled a pellet from his pocket and threw it into the air. The pellet struck a substance and exploded paint on the being that had entered the room.

"Hmm," said Voice, "he seems to be short and has a chicken on his head."

"No, it's a turkey..." The splotch in mid-air leapt at the Dark One and body checked him into his A.C. Gilbert chemistry set. That made him mad.

Dark One grabbed the turkey-head and put him into a full pike with a half-nelson. When they surfaced from the dive, Dark One said, "Who are you?!"

"How the hell are we swimming in the floor?" asked turkey head.

"I'm the Dark One, moron, I can manipulate reality."

"Oooh..."

Voice was conspicuously silent.

"Now, who the hell are you?"

"I'm Double Six Seven, ISO's top fifty agent."

"ISO's... You idiot! You work for me!"

"Uh, yes and no."

"What!?!"

Don't tango topless.

Wendle couldn't believe it. He was in New Jersey.

Don't Fox Trot Furless.

Wendle tensed. His hair stood on end. This couldn't be happening. Maybe it was the fact that he had left the oven on in Key West, or it could have been a sudden movement of a bag of cocaine that was hidden in his rectum, or maybe it was the potential confusion of the millions of people that would have been totally convinced that New Jersey was now Key West - not to mention the hundreds of people on the southern tip of Florida that would have no clue of where they were.

"Oh well."

Don't Disco. Ever.

"You've got to stop living your life in the past!" screamed CWBorysowich.

"True, but that doesn't change the fact that this is a past tense monstrosity."

Don't... oh, fuck it.

Notice to Orchestra Members: Keep Off The Brass.

Really. Fuck it, I don't want to hear anything more about dancing.

The road stretched on forever... or at least as far as the next convenience store, which was close enough. Wanderer looked both ways.

"This is fucking GREAT!"

He stopped. Ahead was a shape, a shape he dreaded more than the most prolonged cold water enema. It walked towards him, spreading its evil influence around like a cloud - a cirrus cloud, all wispy and innocent looking until it drops a ton of sleet on you. He beheld... the Meanest Hobo in the Cosmos.

I mean it, you mention dancing again and I'm outta here!

Notice to Politicians: Keep Off The Middle Class.

Okay, good so far, but I warn you, one word and I'm history.

Notice to Quarterbacks: Keep Off The Pass.

Ahh... It's great to be away from that dance crap.

Notice to Insulators: Keep Off The Fiberglass.

Alright, alright, you can headbang if you want. But no dancing!!

And they fell into a tight blue dress, spiraling into Dulles Tower we copy, you copy, and we sue you you slimy creature screaming at a Serbian in a hole, but that's okay, because even syckos need to breathe, unless they're in bed, so never leave the VCR on your mantle, because they hate it up there, anyway, when I was five the world was alive, now I'm not sure anymore, when I was six we played for tricks, but I'm not secure anymore, when the universe fell we all got bruises and went home early to eat chocolate milk and drink the blender, it tasted yummy, two, you know splat?

Notice to Sailors: Keep Off The Compass

Listen. I know you're out there. You guys are spying on me all the time and, frankly, I'm sick of it! Can't a guy peel his Kiwis with some kind of privacy, huh? I can't take it anymore! Eyes everywhere. Keyholes, knotholes, and every little crack they can find. It's driving me INSANE!!!

I'm still drawing my conclusions on our last subject - paranoia jumps to mind, but I think there is something more.

What, a kiwi conspiracy?

Moon Runner looked up. "Get this noose out of my face, Kimo Sabe."

"Sorry," said Beepo.

"Are you alright?" asked Bob.

"Considering I was just on the moon, I suppose so. I'm not dead, right?"

"No."

"Then why is there a Host of Angels over your shoulder?"

The New Messiah loved his new buddies. Not that there was anything wrong with that.

Notice to Fondlers: Keep Off The ***.