PART XX - A PYTHON and an ANACONDA SCALE to SCALE

Monty and Albert were shaped much like screws. Their internal organs had lost all coherence, and most resembled oatmeal. The chunky parts were probably bones.

In the center of the room was a large ball of scales. Two different patterns were visible, but other than that, it looked like a luggage maker's idea of a medicine ball. Now that they had killed off each other's masters, the battle royale was to begin. Albert's anaconda had just recovered from a nose bleed and was a little weak. Monty's python was getting old and had slipped a disc in the previous brawl.

The anaconda sniffed, getting blood flakes on his opponent. The python hissed in annoyance, and squeezed tighter, then winced. The anaconda grinned, then bit its adversary's tale.

Goldilocks screamed, and Monty's python had to think up another story, as the little girl was swallowed by the anaconda without any porridge. As the anaconda was distracted by his meal, the python weighed him on his calibrated scale. The calibration was off, due to age, but still, the anaconda came in over weight.

"I'll have to disqualify you. You're in a different category."

"So eat something yourself."

"Alright." Monty's python determined that Albert's anaconda was very tasty.

The Dark One read the prophecy over again and again, trying to find a loophole, or a wormhole, or a bullet hole. But there was nothing useful, except the bit of hamburger left on the napkin.

And time did its thing. It went around. And what comes around goes eastbound.

I've got it! You need laughing gas!

The Man who Always Walks North hit a building. Since that always is unbreakable, the building gave way.

Waiter? A tank of Nitrous Oxide for the little boy in blue!

Yah mon. The kiddie must have speed.

This drug culture thingee is everywhere! It has to stop. We must nail it at it's source. That's right! The United Way must be stopped. Those hippie drug lords are ruining our youth by posing as men of the cloth.

There're none so blind as those who will not pee.

Don't ask. Questions are the sign of a sloppy mind.

The Voice wore khakis!

Stop oratory beneviolence. Ban readings of the Scarlet Letter.

And while we're at it, how do we know we can trust you? You've been sitting here, reading the Plot, but no-one's cleared you for it. What are your sympathies, anyway. You're not a red-skinned-red-commie-red-daemon-worshipping drug fiend, are you?

Just checking.

Don't worry. ISO knows where we are, and they're coming with the rocket launchers. Everything's fine.

Don't touch that Dial. Soap is an Aphrodisiac.

PART XIX - Where the SEWERS FLOW

She just sat on her knees and stared into the darkness. The rain continued to fall and stream across the window like the blood of an Anaconda. Her spirits were shattered. The thunder crumbled from the ceiling. The one man she wanted was right there for twenty seconds and then he was gone. Her life was pitiful.

Raquel forced herself to stand. She wasn't sure if it was the insanity of existence or the fumes of hashish that made her head spin. She staggered to the window and leaned upon the sill.

Suddenly the door burst open and in stalked two women police officers, one with the largest busts of Caesar and Rousseau Raquel had ever seen. "Alright, where did that commie-daemon-worshipping drug dealer go!"

"Who?"

"Moon Runner Hendrix," the second said. "We can smell him."

"Oh, you mean..."

"Yes, the Indian snake in the grass. Where did he go?"

"I don't know. He came... And he left..."

"Don't give us that. Your eyes are so red, you probably smoked half of Turkey with him."

"I've been crying."

"A likely story. Book her, Fitz."

"Right, Rae-Ann." Lola "Shooting Pistols" Fitz pulled out her handcuffs, held them up to Raquel's head and squeezed. "It's ok, I don't keep it loaded."

Yanking Raquel's arms behind her, Lola pulled out her .45, wrapped it around Raquel's wrists and force fed her a shot of straight Bosco. Both cops pushed her into the back hatch of a motorcycle, with the two busts.

Upon arriving at the station, Raquel was finger printed, off-set printed, photo-copied, and put in a cell with Sven and his grunting bison. The officers sent in a report to ISO. ISO was amused.

"So," Sven asked, "You like my pet?"

"Mmmmmmmmmmrrrunnnnnh," grunted the bison.

Raquel slid down the wall. "This has not been my day."

"So what are you in for?"

"Smelling like dope and having red eyes. You?"

"Sodomy. Him too. By the way, could you reach up and grab my watch from the bunk?"

Part XVIII - What are We Gonna Do Now?

The Wanderer sat on the curb, head in hands. Behind him was KKK-Mart, where every day is a white sale. Edward D. Head stood over him, saying, "They've got a good price on sheets. What's wrong?"

"Do you realize how hard it is to find a good travelling mattress with a triangular head section? Get real, Ed. What's the D. stand for again?"

"I'd rather not say. So what are we gonna do now?"

"Dunno."

"We could go look at sheets."

"Yeah, white sheets, loads of fun Ed."

"They have different sizes..."

The Wanderer twirled his finger.

"That's right, not only do I have different sizes, but different shapes, and even different shades! Step right in, folks, and I'll take your black mood away in no time!"

Ed looked up. A man with scraggly hair going in more directions than a compass knew how to point was standing in the door of the store, waving and grinning.

"Who're you?" Ed asked.

"C. Manson, proprietor, but you can call me Chucky. Now, what kinda sheets were you looking for?"

The Wanderer looked at him closely. "Aren't you supposed to be in jail?"

"Yeah but I told the Parole Board that I would vote for Dan Quayle in a presidential election, so they released me because they felt that prison was having an ill effect on my mind."

"Uh huh."

"Yes, that's true, now just step this way..."

"Sorry, we gotta go."

The Wanderer got up and dragged Ed away, ignoring the ravings of Chucky. They crossed town, and stopped outside a Dodge dealership.

"Now what?"

"Say, do you guys need a car?"

"Who're you?"

"Francois Mitterand. I'll talk to anybody, and I'll even sell you a car! Now, what price range..?"

"Five cents?" The Wanderer said.

"Oops, not enough. Say, you guys are pretty hard up, not being able to afford my cars. Why, I'll bet any car on this lot that the next person to come by can afford any one of these fine beauties..."

"Shake on that?"

"Sure..."

After shaking, the Wanderer called to a wino across the street, "Hey, can you afford any of these cars?"

"Nope."

After a long argument, and some threats, the Wanderer and Ed drove off in a black Stealth RT, with Ed's cello case in the trunk.

PART XVII - KDA and CWB on the Merits of Childhood

"Without it, we'd be too big to be born."

"No, I tend to disagree, KDAMERY, There are some definite possibilities in the human species for external cultivation of the unborn child and even the development of large eggs for the simple purpose of extending the gestation period of a typical child by approximately 25 years."

"What, sort of like vegetable gardens?"

"No it's much more complex than the simple burying of cellulose. It involves the removal of the unborn child from the mother or even a DNA restructuring of the Human species to evolve a more complex birth process that involves the excretion of a large calcium bubble that has a long extension umbilical cord that will link to the natural mother and allow the full gestation of the foetus for 25 years."

"Uh huh. (Wordy SOB ain'tcha?) First, aren't all these extended umbilical chords going to get tangled? Second, think of all the toys we wouldn't get to play with?"

"Well this would require a small rule of equidistant zones between multiple mothers that are gestating in this manner. The other advantage is that instead of wasting time with LEGO and dolls, the newborn will be able to jump directly into executive level toys, such as stress management objects and cars. This will bring a more advanced level to the intelligence and co-ordination of our society."

"You want to teach kids to be intelligent and coordinated in BMWs and with Uzis? Get real! Besides, imagine trying to toilet train a linebacker! There is a distinct advantage to having small children as opposed to adults; changing a diaper is much easier."

"Well, I only know of two or three toilet trained linebackers to start with, so that problem won't be any worse than it is now. As for BMWs and Uzis, I think you are taking the two concepts a little too far, the shell will allow for all the proper internal training of the child in it's 5-25 year cycles through audio and projection image stimulation."

"So, basically, you're not getting rid of childhood, you're just putting it in a personal isolation bubble. Kinda anti-social, dontcha think?"

"Just think it'll keep the little buggers off the street and lower the level of vandalism in the suburbs."

"Who'll care? We'll all be in these fucking bubbles."

"We won't all be in the bubbles. You leave the bubble at around age 25 when you have completed the training stage of your gestation period and you become an active part of society immediately."

"Holy run on sentence, Sacman. This I gotta see: a society of people who've never seen anyone else before. Sounds exciting (provided I get to wear kevlar...)"

"Sacman?!? Is he here? I've gotta hide that roll of velvet. Anyway, they will see other people in their training stage through projections."

"Uh huh. So we're talking a VR bubble, right?"

"Something like that, yes."

"Okay. Why?"

"Again, it comes down to keeping those little buggers off the streets... Yes I know they're out there creeping around in the darkness throwing people's garbage into the streets and bending antennas on cars. They get mixed up in fabric and all sorts of other substances and smoke. They are ruining this nation and I WON'T STAND FOR IT!!!"

"Oh great, a Supreme Being has lost it, folks. Dive for cover."

CWBorysowich continued into the advanced stages of a nervous breakdown.

KDAmery watched for a while, then decided to pop out for some fresh air and a psycho killer or twelve. On his way out, he said, "There is one advantage to his idea. Maybe that way we could get those jobs we have to have previous experience for. Or maybe not."

PART XVI - Naval Manoeuvres on the Mississippi

The USS Iowa opened fire on New Orleans. George Washington looked on with pride as yet another jazz bar bit the dust. Now he was aiming toward the French Quarter and shuffled his hands in glee as he watched the reloading of the cruise missiles.

"If Sigi Freud could only see these babies," he mused, watching a Tomahawk streak into the night, bent on destroying some over-cultured frogs. "Size and potency aplenty here."

Unknown to George, a rowboat crept closer to his ship. In it was the Nameless One Jr, hell bent and determined to stop this nuttiness. Reaching the hull, he reached down and pulled the plug from the bottom. The Iowa took on water and sank to the bottom, leaving the deck a mere two inches above the surface.

"My my," George said, "I think we've lost altitude."

The waves lapped onto the deck, and George stood up on a stool to keep his feet from getting wet, and realized it was a sample for the medical lab.

"Oh sh.. Never mind. Somebody start the pumps!"

"All the motors are flooded sire!" reported one of the deck hands, who then shovelled the stool down the medical shaft.

Meanwhile, The Nameless One Jr proceeded to plug the main guns with chewing gum, and distributed pacifist literature to the electronic brains of the cruise missiles, who saw the error of their ways and repented.

George sidled over to the Nameless One Jr. "Umn, excuse me..."

"Are you the leader?" asked Nameless, pulling up a pair of diapers.

"Well of course I am! Look at my hat!"

Drawing his cardboard sword, Nameless pointed it in George's direction and said, "My daddy taught me to duel, you know."

"At least let me draw my weapon. Er... Can I borrow some stationary?"

"Certainly." Nameless pulled a pad out of his diaper and handed it to George.

George drew an ICBM hurriedly. "How's that?"

"Mmm, the rivets are wrong. Try again."

As George sketched madly, the boy watched.

"I have a friend... At school... He said he would draw a weapon to Hildy... This girl in my class..... And he reached into his pants and you know what he pulled out?"

"A howitzer?"

"Close... It was long and pink and..."

"Stop it, you're exciting me."

"Can we go inside and eat?"

"No."

"But why?"

"You've flooded my galley!"

"Can we eat out here?"

"There's no food out here, unless you eat bullets."

"Bullets! My favourite!" And the young boy began chomping away on some two ton shells.

"Okay, I drew my weapon."

"Shading's wrong."

"Oh. Is this better?"

"My sister... She's one and a half... She can draw better..."

"Shut up, Picasso."

"Don't call me names! I met Picasso once..."

"I highly doubt that."

"He was very tall... And had a brush and... And a circular piece of wood... He did..."

"Uh huh." George was still drawing his ICBM.

"Yeah, and his daughter... Her nose was in her ear... You know that?"

"Ah hah! Now I've got you! Here's my ICBM!"

A missile flew down towards Nameless One Jr, but the boy pulled out a card, and an X-Wing Fighter blew the missile up.

"What was that?" George asked.

"Star Wars."

"Oh nonsense child, that's only in a lab!"

"My daddy says... He says that camels are used by the Egyptians for carrying beer... Across the desert... Cuz they have big tanks... And you know that's why the aliens... from that planet way up there... Come down here and... And steal them..."

"Your daddy is full of it!"

"I'll... I'll... I'll tell him you said that!"

Then the Nameless One Jr jumped over the railing into his row boat and stroked off.

"What a strange kid. Are the pumps working yet?"