Part V - The Play is the Thing!

As the Music Man sat watching one of the new Billy Bob Shakespeare plays with a sheepish grimace on his face at the orchestra's rendition of "So You Bought A Cadillac," he saw the light come up on Prospero's cell, and the violent entrance of Lickin' Linda Lovelace the... Thespian? with her opening lines:

"If by your bulging part, my fiercest father, you have put the wild waters in his roar, play them. The fly, it seems, would purr down stinking itch, But the sea, mounting the welkin's cheeks, splashes the fire out..."

The curtain dropped from its tracks, giving Moon Runner Hendrix a bruise and carpet burn on his forehead. Moon Runner had teleported into the theatre and inadvertently been mistaken for the lead in the play. Using the distraction of the falling curtain, he ran for the seats and jumped to the first row, giving Music Man a really close shave.

"Excuse me, Kimo-Sabe. I have no quarrel with you or your future children."

"No problem, thank God. Lets get out of here before the orchestra insults me further."

"Very well. How do you feel about Tahiti?"

"Sounds cool."

Moon Runner moved his arms in an irreproducible gesture, and the two found themselves on a sunlit beach.

"Actually, it's kinda hot. You know," Music Man said, "I could get to like hangin' with you."

"Cool. Drink?"

"Periodically. That looks like a bar over there. My treat. How do you suppose that girl got to be in that play?"

"Blew off Billy Bob or the director or someone, would be my guess, Kimo-Sabe." Turning to the barkeep, Moon Runner asked, "Do you know a drink called the Thunderbird?"

The bartender nodded and passed an Old Milwaukee Beer to Music Man. Opening his brew, Music Man said, "It just doesn't git any better dan dis!"

... Upon which a whole whack of Aussie surfin' babes invaded the beach with semi-automatic weapons issued by Cuba.

Moon Runner downed his drink and said, "Shall we make like Cross Town Traffic, kimo sabe?"

"Sure, anytime."

Back in the theatre, amidst the uproar and rioting animal tamers, a disembodied Voice could be heard chuckling around the mangled remains of the curtain track. No one was present to hear it.

{So did it really chuckle?}

PART IV - The Weigh In

The Holy Ghost adjusted the scale. "Even weights. This'll be a close match, boys."

The Old Messiah and the New Messiah glared into each other's eyes. "Goood."

They went into their dressing rooms. The New Messiah started flipping through last year's criminal code from Follicle, New Jersey.

"Hey, no lex before a fight!" said his trainer, and the Newfie put away the book.

The Old Messiah looked out the window and saw the flashing sign of a Seven Eleven^TM store with a broken switch. A sudden yearning for a package of Big League Chew^TM took over his soul, proving that even Messiahs are vulnerable to possession.

Part III - Four Anti-Semitics, Three Convenience Stores, Two Disciples and a Pict in a Pear Tree.

Oliver North, his Lawyer, Ma Bell, and Pa Bell all said, "I hate bagels!" at the same instant, though separated by vast distances, thus setting some sort of record. Guinness was not amused.

Oliver North and his Lawyer stood in Beckers^TM saying, "No further comment!" to a raving Pict named Hafenvlaader.

The store owner screamed, "Yoo Lackies gut oot of my stoore!" Hafenvlaader owned this store as well as Elvis Schtuckerman's house of warped tunage, but we can visit that later.

Ma and Pa Bell were trying to heist a Mac's Milk^TM store in Westbury, Connecticut, for selling bagels in a hick town. Otherwise, they have very little to do with the story.

At that precise moment, Judas Iscariot MCMLXXIII and Dr. Skuppernung, the mad eastern Gemmologist, were sitting in a little known German restaurant in little Laos on the west side barrio and felt this unusual event occur. "Kvick!" Skuppernung said. "Ve must tell ze New Messiah!"

"Yeah, yeah, let me order first, will ya?"

A young waiter named Vladimir Jones (He's a combination of Reggae singer, waiter, and line backer, but if nothing else he's a black Russian) approached their table and asked for their order. The two disciples noted Vlad's dark complexion, but suppressed their overwhelming desire to start the Local KKK Kabinet meetings just yet. Besides, they had already cleaned house at KKKmart's white sale.

"Can I Take y'order, mahn?"

"Yeah, I'll have the Hyena sauerkraut with Mexican rice platter and a killer Kool-Aid," replied Isie in a superior tone.

"Giff me de Oysters und Yogurt, pleez."

"Yah mon, right away." Vlad left in a swirl of dreads.

"Has de dress cote relaxed 'ere or vat?"

"Sure, sure, put a cork in it, Doc. Ya talk too much."

"Humpff."

They sat in silence for a moment and Isie thought about the thermodynamics of his muffler while Doc considered the possible permutations of their bar maid naked in chains with whipped cream applied to all the right places. As time passed and his little daydream continued, he applied more whipped cream and more until the bar maid was completely enveloped in whipped cream except for her hands and feet which were now flailing from suffocation under the heap of whipped cream. Then his vision faded as Vlad arrived with a tray.

"'Ere's yo food, gentlemahn," drawled Vlad as one of his dreads dangled in the rice. He dropped the plates and disappeared back into the kitchen before Doc could ask for ketchup.

Turning to the bar, he signalled the waitress. "Exkoose me. Cudt I haff..?"

"You have a problem, sir?"

"Yes, I..."

"You think you got problems? Look at me! I'm fifty seven years old and trying to make a living as a bar maid! And if that wasn't enough, when I was fourteen I was raped by a runaway bison!"

"I'm sorry..."

"Sorry doesn't cut it, pal! Where were you and your sorries when I was giving birth to twin lambs!.."

Isie and Doc both flashed looks of `I've heard this all before' and started digging into the food after Doc had removed some strands of cotton from his teeth.

Doc returned to the sanctity of his whipped cream imaginings, but the giant lump of whipped cream was still now. She was dead. Returning to reality, Doc would have nothing more to do with the bar maid – She was dead to him in life now too. Doc made a mental note to have a visit with his therapist as he started to imagine the body of his therapist naked and in chains. He started to apply the whipped cream. More and more whipped cream got added. Doc amended his mental note to find a new therapist as his previous therapist was now dead to him.

Meanwhile, outside the restaurant, Hafenvlaader hoisted a sniper rifle into his pear tree and took aim at Judas. "Hold still, you imperialist Christian..."

A wind started to stir and Hafenvlaader along with his pear tree were sucked into the funnel of a space warp. Isie never knew how close to death he had come, which was just as well, considering his heart condition.

Part II - Seven Wishes and a Posy for Eric

The Dark One watched with trepidation as Moon Runner foiled the ISO attempt at capture. "Hmmm, the prophecy grows nearer. I've got to get that Indian and wipe him clean off the universe..."

The Dark One then eyed a small ring on his left pinkie (The Dark One was just that way - not that there's anything wrong with... yeah, whatever), and rubbed the inset gem three times with a hank of fur from Fluffy the furless cat. A puff of smoke erupted in front of him, clearing to reveal The Ring of Tuth the Whacko.

Grinning evilly as only a living Shadow can, he said, "Whomsoever shall find this ring will be my ultimate tool!" So saying, he cast the ring into the world.

It landed in a jewellery shop on west 43rd and Erb st. in Kitchener, Ontario. It was bought later that afternoon by Eric, the German gibbering wimp. Eric had sworn to make Lovely Lumpy Linda Lonely his wife from the day he first laid eyes, and a few other parts of his anatomy, on her. The only trouble was getting her away from Mother Superiority Complex at the Convent for Sexually Impossible Women who Only Moan for Credit.

Leaving the jewellery shop, Eric stumbled, landing in a pile of garbage and used needles. He lay on the ground for quite a while. His energy was spent.

The ring pulsated in it's box. It wanted a host.

Eric loved Linda - she was his life force. His mother had given him life, but Linda was a reason to live. Her mere existence drove him to go on. Eric pulled himself out of the garbage to continue to his beloved. {We could make some neo-philosophical point about life being a struggle from the muck, but... nah.}

Eric marched over to the Convent as fast as his two inch stride could carry him. People watching him thought he looked like a low budget silly movie character being shot freeze frame. Three hours was all it took him to cover the half block distance between himself and his beloved. Still trying to pull his lederhosen up, he knocked on the door, only to be answered by Mother Superiority Complex. She scowled at him with a superior air and swiftly kicked his groin. He dropped the leg-wear just before dropping to the sidewalk.

He had to get to Linda. Gathering some semblance of functionality, Eric crawled around to the back of the convent. Calling to Linda, he climbed the maple trellis. A window flew open above, dropping three potted plants on his head, nearly knocking him unconscious and probably causing a pair of concussions - it's impossible to tell, since he was examined by Dr. L.

"Eric... Eric... Where for art thou Eric?"

"Down here! You got any Advil?"

Eric edged up to her window, and put the ring on her sill as the roar of a chain saw echoed below.

"Oh... What might this be?" Linda asked in a high pitched squeal. With a sausage like hand she took the ring...

... As the trellis collapsed under the ministrations of Bob Vilah and his chain saw. "Hold these," Bob said, and handed Eric the splinters of his erstwhile support. "And next week, we'll look at putting a new drainage pipe through the neighbour's basement."

Linda put on the ring. "It's beautiful... OHHHH!"

The ring's evil seeped into Linda's soul, sorta like ground water contamination. Her mind was so innocent - so open. It would have made an excellent twenty-four hour convenience store.

The Dark One smiled, a brilliantly sunny smile.

Part I – Where Everyone Starts

{Another Author's Note: Everyone doesn't really start here. I mean, come on, folks. You looked at the character list, right? Let me tell ya, bud, trying to fit all those people into one narrative is bad enough. You want us to put them all into one part? Hah! You'll see that right around the time you see Michael Jackson as President - maybe not even then. I repeat, not everyone starts here. We just had a hard time coming up with a good section title, so this was our compromise position. If you don't like it, sue us, assuming you can actually deliver a subpoena. We regret any inconvenience, etc, etc, et al. Enjoy the rest of the plot.

KDAmery.}

{Still Another Author's Note: It's not to say that our audience has lost the physical capability to deliver a subpoena, though they might after reading this book, but that our audience may never be able to find us. So, if you took that statement the wrong way - sue us!

CWBorysowich.}

{The Last Silly Author's Note: I can't believe you're sucking up to a non-existent audience.

KDAmery.}

Moon Runner Hendrix sat at the bar of The Roach Motel, rolling a joint of Colombian Red. Paisley sat across from him, dipping her fingers in the remains of a drink and watching the water drip back into the glass.

"Want a hit?" asked Moon Runner.

"No thanks, I hate violence."

Moon Runner lit the joint, keeping his eye on her chest. As he inhaled, he thought that, sometimes, the world could be a very good place.

A man in khakis and sunglasses sat at one of the tables in the bar. He watched the pair with a bored demeanour.

Harry, owner and operator of The Roach Motel, also watched them from down the bar. ISO had told Harry about Moon Runner's activities, how he was a Daemon Cultist, drug runner, and communist. Harry believed that like he believed budget estimates. Besides, he had larger troubles; Moon Runner might score with Paisley. Harry hated him for this, because Harry thought Paisley was the living incarnation of love itself, the heiress to the tradition of Venus and Marilyn Monroe. It didn't help that her father, Stormin Normin, would blow his head clean off if anything his person had contact with in the last twenty years ever came into contact with her. This even included air molecules; thus Harry was taking a big chance just being in the same room with Paisley. Even so, Harry refused to let Moon Runner go between thighs he would never see. That wouldn't do, no way. He signalled ISO to move in.

The Secret Assassin burst through the basement door. "Freeze you red-skinned-red-commie-red-daemon-worshipping-drug-fiend!" A gattling gun the size of an El Dorado hung taut in his hands, and Paisley stared in amazement. The man in khakis raised an ironic eyebrow.

But Moon Runner was a fast fuck when stoned. "Excuse me, while I kiss the sky, Kimo-Sabe," and he disappeared.

Paisley blinked. She could have sworn that someone had been sitting in front of her a second before. Moon Unit or somebody, right? Maybe he got up when that guy with the big gun burst in. Paisley hated guns; they promoted violence. She turned and saw Harry sitting in the corner. Flashing a scowl, she ran towards the door. The door swung open and she landed in the arms of a woman. "Whoa, girl," the new comer said. "What's the hurry?"

"I want to get away from Harry."

Lickin' Linda Lovelace the lesbian said, "Come with me, I've got a van with tinted windows..."

The Secret Assassin blinked twice and said, "Fuck me, how'd he do dat? Harry, whatch yoo bin feedin dese ijits, anyway?"

"Dunno, man, he does that a lot."

"Well warn a guy, wouldja?"

"Sorry man, you mean it wasn't in his dossier?"

"Do bears travel warped speed?"

Just then a fizzling image appeared in the middle of the room and materialized as Smokey the Bear. Leaving his freeze frame position, he glanced around the room.

"Can anyone tell me where Yellowstone is?"

"Sure", Harry said, "go outside and make a left, then follow the smoke. You can't miss it. By the way Ed, how come we're talkin' like hoods?"

"You idiot!" The Secret Assassin screamed. "You just compromised my cover!" He opened fire and annihilated everything in the bar, except Smokey, who zapped up REAL quick.

Harry made a narrow escape through a closed window with fifty bullets in his knees. The left knee won 27 to 23 (hey, we're keeping score). The secret assassin vanished into the shadows from which he had appeared.

The casual observer was not to be found in the wreckage.