PART XXII - GRANNY BEAT A. J. FOYT

Muriel skidded her Monte Carlo SS to a stop. "Dusted that fucker. Teach him to race an old lady."

Sitting at the red light, she revved the 450 cubic inch two stroke V8 with competition headers, radical cams, and high compression pistons. The roars could be heard in Connecticut as blue smoke filled the intersection. The Nameless One Jr. turned around in his seat. "Grandma, you're burning oil."

"So what else is new, junior? Let's go pick up some ice cream." Muriel floored the accelerator and ripped the pavement off the ground. The car jumped thirty feet and shattered windows all through the county. A traffic cop pointed his radar gun at her, but failed to get a reading. The SS was at Baskin Robbins in half a minute.

They both got out of the car and noticed that the Baskin Robins had been flattened. "Gosh, lose more ice cream stands that way!"

Blazing home, they arrived at the brick house. Jenny was out mooing in the back yard. "We keep telling her she's not a cow, but we need the eggs."

"Grandma, do you know that... yesterday... I was out, and I stopped this man... he was on a boat... and he wanted to shoot... he had these big guns... and New Orleans was going to be flattened... did you know that?"

"Yes, you told me. Go get your father back from Mars, alright?"

"Ok, but I heard on the radio... In my room... That there was going to be a big solar storm today... And it was going to affect the symbiotic relationships between ferrets and bugle birds... did you know that?"

"Caught wind of it... Now go get your father before his dinner gets cold."

"You want me to go now?"

"Yes."

"How much ya pay me?"

"How about I don't put you back in diapers?"

"Ok."

Once the tyke had left for Mars, Muriel loaded her rail gun and went out to hunt NRA members for lunch.

PART XXI - BURLAP! I NEED BURLAP!

A rag tag group of people gathered outside the Addiction Research Foundation to meet a small group of perplexed scientists.

"You are addicted to what?"

"Burlap, man, I need musty burlap! Got any?"

"Yeah," said a second addict, "the older the better."

"It would seem that they are addicted to burlap."

"Not just burlap," said the lead scientist. "Musty burlap!"

"How do you take this stuff?"

"We inject it."

"How? Burlap is a solid."

"Yeah, well, we find a sewing machine helps..."

The addict then rolled up a sleeve, "See the tracks?"

As scientists observed, they saw a thread of burlap sewn into his artery using several different stitches.

"It was a Kenmore."

Sid the burlap pusher joined this crowd and opened his trench coat, saying, "Wanna buy a potato sack? Carefully aged in a damp basement, get'em right here..."

The lead scientist asked the second, "Is this illegal?"

"I doubt it. Hospitals sew people's arms up all the time. If they want to do it on their own..."

One addict staggered up to Sid. "I need somethin big, dude. Got anything stronger?"

Looking about furtively, Sid said, "I can getcha a square inch of artist's canvas."

The addict's eyes widened. "How much?"

"Grand."

The lead scientist was shocked. "What is this, a designer drug?"

"Naw, graphic design shit doesn't getcha nearly as high. What we need's the really fine stuff."

"You mean with bleach and everythin'?"

"Yeah, but after a few doses, you have to change to another artery."

Two addicts in the back were admiring the work of their embroidery machines. A third, obviously jealous, glanced away pretending it was nothing.

A Rolls Royce drove up. Sid turned to the driver and said, "Go to the usual spot. The sail cloth's where it was last time." The driver handed out a briefcase. Sid glanced inside and smiled at the stacks of thousand dollar bills.

One scientist passed out on the sidewalk at the sight of the money.

"Get up Emerson! God, how have we missed this for so long?"

"A friend of mine said he was into nylon, but I didn't believe him..."

Sid turned. "Nylon's pocket change. It's no more effective than a cigarette or a cup of coffee. Rayon, on the other hand, is much better. But for max effect, nothing, not even sailcloth, beats Kevlar. High tech wins again."

"By the way, what's yer price on fibre glass?"

"30 thou an ounce, why?"

"Fuck, I could buy a Vette for that kinda cash..."

Sid's eyes widened. "Don't tell them that! The surplus'll kill me!"

Suddenly, a large black car screeched up. Out stepped... The Secret Assassin. "I got half a ton of carbon fibre. Twenty grand a gram." The crowd surged all over the car.

The scientists retreated into the main ARF building and proceeded to bolt the doors, just as a guy with a roll of Dacron on his left shoulder approached the swarm.

The lead scientist said, "Quick, what do we do?"

"Corner the market on sack cloth?"

"Polyester?"

"Experiment with vinyl?"

"Naw, vinyl's dead. How about digital disks?"

"We're looking for material, not music, you TWIT!"

"Aren't we supposed to help these people recover, not push new substances on them?"

"It's all in the name of science. We supply them, study them, then we know how to treat them."

"Got it! I'll get the cotton sutures!"

"Oh God! When the authorities catch on and illegalize materials, kids'll slit their wrists and get high on the stitches!"

"Outlaw materials? What'll we wear?"

The scientists looked at each other. "Where are the nurses?!"

The quiet scientist eyed a spool of thread nestled in his pocket protector.

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.