For those of you who enjoy continuity, this issue takes place quite a
while after UN #15, not too long before Pliable Lad #30, shortly after
System Crash #2, definitely after the Crisis of Infinite Sidekicks, a
long time after Electrocutioner`s Song, and almost certainly before
LOH #6.
Marmalade Dalek Productions Presents
------------------------------------
-* T H E L E G I O N O F O C C U L T H E R O E S *-
Issue Five
"The BritCom Horror"
By Paul Hardy
An ACRAPHOBE title
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
On the screen, a small red biplane looped and spun through
Miyazaki clouds, spitting fire at a blue American monoplane, duelling
over the Adriatic for no good reason other than honour. The room the
screen was in was dark, lit by only the television screen that the
duel took place on; the flickering light made momentary shadows and
reflected off the faces of the two women watching, and the gigantic
stuffed toy that towered in a corner of the room.
The American had the upper hand; the plane of the Italian pig
was bitten by fire and a tired engine wheezed to keep the biplane in
the air. His aircraft falling apart around him, the Crimson Pig
bitterly decided to make his way down to shelter in a cove.
A watch beeped. Kirsty frowned and looked at her wrist; one
pm. Time to make a phone call... or was it her turn? No, it was
Kirsty`s. "Going to have to stop it for a moment, I`m afraid..." said
Kirsty over the soundtrack.
Token Girl looked round and sighed. "What`s up?"
"Gotta make a phone call."
"Oh, right, yeah. Your mother."
"Take about, oh, half an hour..."
Token Girl unwound herself from the floor and stretched. "I`ll
get some lunch, then..."
"Um, if you`re going down, can you get me a sandwich?"
"Sure. Anything special?"
"If there`s any of Steak-and-Potatoes Man`s lamb left over
from last night, I`ll have that..."
"Okay. See you later..."
"See you." Token Girl left the room, and Kirsty paused the
video, just as the American fished a piece of red fuselage out of the
Adriatic. She got up from her chair and turned the light back on, then
grabbed the phone and made herself comfortable in the chair
again. Lifting the reciever, she typed in the number, an 081 dialling
code for somewhere in Chingford. A few seconds of ringing later, the
phone was picked up in London.
"Hello?"
"Mum! How`s things?"
"Oh, alright, thanks... I`ve had the gasmen in all day trying
to fix a leak in the pipe..."
"How did that happen?"
"Oh, god alone knows. They were nice about it though, and I
gave them a cup of tea and all. How are things in America?"
"Well... pretty quiet at the moment, though we actually went
on a mission a few days ago..."
"A mission? Was it dangerous?"
"No more than anything else. Green Trenchcoat sensed something
nasty going on in New England, and we went up to deal with it."
"Good lord! What happened? Were you hurt?"
"Nahh... you haven`t seen me when I change. It`d take an
airstrike to do me any damage. So anyway, it was, well, it was really
annoying. Turns out some supervillain just wanted something off us,
and lured us out there to get it. One of Andrew`s demon`s hands."
"Does this sort of thing happen often...?"
"It used to. These days... it`s more comedy than the horrible
stuff. Let`s talk about something else, okay?"
"Um, yes. Are you busy at the weekend?"
"Not really... let`s see... no, nothing happening then. Was
probably going to go to the pictures with Andrew, but it`s not like
we`d booked seats or anything."
"Well, if you don`t mind, I`d like you to come over and visit."
"Great! I`d love to!"
"And meet, er, your sister."
"Oh."
"I know you don`t want to, but you have to sometime. Kirsty`s
coming home for the weekend, and, well... you really should meet her,
you know."
"Mum, I... oh, hell. You know what it is. I don`t want to be
reminded of all the things I could have had. Things worked out better
for her..."
"You know, she`s actually a little jealous of you."
"Of me? How could she be jealous of me?!?"
"Well, look at yourself. Superpowers. Glamourous superhero
lifestyle-" There was a beeping.
"Hang on-" said Kirsty, fumbling to find the source of the
signal. She found it, soon enough; her LNH signal device. "Bugger."
She spoke into the device. "What is it?"
The calm voice of the Ultimate Ninja spoke back. "We need
you. Now. Be in the conference room in five minutes."
"Right." Kirsty deactivated the signal device.
"What is it?" asked her mother.
"Er, I`m being called. They want me downstairs for
something. I don`t know what. Look, I`ve got to go..."
"Kirsty! Take care of yourself."
Kirsty smiled. "I will, mum. See you."
"Bye."
"So..." said Andrew. "What do you think?"
"A demon`s hand..." said Occultism Kid. "Hard to guess what
they`d want with that..." He went to his bookshelf, and pulled down a
dusty, skinbound edition, and began leafing through it. "You see, the
problem is, well... a demon hand is powerful stuff. You can do a lot
of things with it."
"Shit."
"I can give you a list of spells, but it`d be as long as your
arm. And when you drain the blood out and use that as a spell element
as well, you get another long list."
"Can you make a guess?"
Occultism Kid shrugged. "It all depends on what else the mage
uses in the spell. It could be anything from transformation of an
animal to complete looniversal destruction."
"Not good."
"It`s probably something inbetween."
"Sherlock Holmes would be proud."
"Sorry I can`t help, but without more information..."
"They stole some of Cannon Fodder`s blood as well."
"Then it`s probably regenerative in some way. Still pretty
unspecific."
"Can`t you use a scrying spell or something?"
"I`d need something to work with. Something the mage used."
Andrew thought for a moment. "We didn`t bring anything
back... there wasn`t much to find. He covered things up pretty well."
"What about the corpses he animated?"
"We buried them. And after what Green Trenchcoat did to put
them at rest... I doubt you`d get much."
"Well, then. There`s nothing I can do to help. Sorry..."
"Thanks..."
"Look, it might not be something that you have to deal with,
you know? You may just have been guest-starring in someone else`s
series. In which case they`ll be the ones to solve the problem."
"Yeah, maybe. Well anyway. I`ll see you later."
"Right."
Andrew left Occultism Kid`s room and headed for the
lifts. This thing was really pissing him off; it wasn`t just the
feeling of being used. It was the look on the demon`s faces when he
summoned them. They were getting less and less cooperative, and this
didn`t help. Andrew headed back to his room to try and think about it
for a moment; facing endless rows of videotapes, he tried to fit the
two spell elements into some kind of pattern that made sense. There
wasn`t any. There were just too many possibilities. Bugger it. Andrew
turned on his monitor, and irritably checked for new mail. His face
fell.
===============================================================================
The Legion of Net.Heroes
is proud to announce
the marriage of
Pliable Lad and Tour Guide Girl
On Sunday, 18 Dec 1994
at the LNH chapel
RSVP by 15 Dec 1994
(800)336-7243
===============================================================================
"I don`t believe it... another wedding invitation... ALL I
EVER DO IS GO TO WEDDINGS!" Andrew grinned to himself, having thus
cheered himself up, and RSVP`ed. His signal device beeped.
"Demon Boy here. What`s up?"
"I`ve got a mission for you. Be in the conference room in five
minutes," said the Ultimate Ninja.
"On my way," said Andrew.
The screen was blank. The word processor idled, checking a few
things here and there to make sure it wasn`t falling apart, but there
wasn`t much to do otherwise. Vicky sat in front of the screen, and
tried to think of what to type.
Where was the best place to begin? Maybe she shouldn`t. Maybe
she should keep quiet, keep hiding...
No. She had to talk. Had to say it to someone. She was going
mad, stuck in her skull, and she needed someone to know. Maybe
Tourniquet wouldn`t understand. Maybe she would think Vicky was
stupid. Maybe she wouldn`t care. Maybe she`d just tell everyone and
they`d all start laughing and never stop. Maybe...
Vicky stopped thinking of maybes. She had to
start. Somewhere. the beginning. But where was the beginning? When she
was born? When her parents died? When she moved to America? When she
met Martin? When she was called by the Earth Spirit? When she told
Israishus? When she left her home plane to fight the shishirishni?
It could be anywhere. And there was so much of it. Wherever
she started, it was going to take ages. She stared again and tried to
think of a first line.
I was born in. No. That was no good.
You think I am Green Trenchcoat, but I am really. No.
Tourniquet, I`m sorry, I`m sorry. No.
I wish I was dead.
No.
Her signal device beeped; sighing, she turned away from the
screen, and changed her body into Green Trenchcoat`s. "Yes?" he replied.
"You`re needed. Be in the conference room in five minutes,"
said the Ultimate Ninja.
"I shall be there."
"Right," said the Ultimate Ninja, standing and leaning over
the conference table, "we`ve got a problem."
The LOH was seated at various of the chairs around the
conference table, intent and listening, though Andrew was catching up
with his lunch while he listened. A man in a trenchcoat, whom the
LOHers recognised from occasional meetingas as Drifter, stood by the
ninja.
"Three days ago, Bicycle Repair Lad went missing," said the
ninja.
"What?" said Andrew.
"Nobody noticed at first because, to be honest, he`s a very
minor character. When U-Force wanted some minor repairs on their
flight.thingy, though, they found that he wasn`t in the building, and
the last trace of him we have is three days ago.
"That in itself isn`t serious. Superheroes go missing all the
time, usually on miniseries of their own. However, earlier today, we
recieved this message from alt.comedy.british." The ninja picked up a
remote control and activated a viewscreen in the wall behind him.
At first, static. And then, a cut to black; and then a fade in
to a face. Bicycle Repair Lad. But different. Looking full of mad
comedy, insane with humour, barely able to control laughter.
"There isn`t enough laughter in the net! But that`s going to
change! Today begins the removal of all humour into this one
newsgroup, the concentration of all that is funny to one single place!
And when that`s done, we`ll spread it out evenly, not blotchily as it
was before. Everyone will laugh and be merry! Hahahahahahahahaha!" The
picture was cut, to static.
"Drifter?" said the ninja. The man in the trenchcoat spoke.
"This was crossposted to every newsgroup. I don`t know if what
he claims is possible, but if it is- and travelling around the
newsgroups, I`ve seen stranger things than this- the Looniverse will
cease to exist. Being based upon comedic principles, it can`t
withstand being sucked dry of humor."
"So why not just send in some of the cosmically powered types
and stop him?" asked Andrew.
"It`s not that simple. Alt.comedy.british cannot be
crossposted to any longer. I`ve tried. But. This block on
crossposting is based upon the properties of the newsgroup; the
newsgroup can be entered, but only by the British."
"How do you know?" asked Kirsty.
"Ultimate Ninja sent Kid Kirby first, and he didn`t make it. I
was trying myself, and I... felt something strange about the portal. I
couldn`t pass through it. But I could tell who could."
"Ah," said Kirsty. "So it`s us or nobody, right?"
"That`s the situation, yes," said the ninja. "Your job is to
go in and stop Bicycle Repair Lad stealing all of the net`s humour,
and bring him back, if you can."
"Is it me, or is this all incredibly silly?" asked Andrew.
"Don`t even think about quoting Monty Python," said Kirsty.
Green Trenchcoat rose. "It does not matter if the mission is
ridiculous or not. The world that we have made our home is
threatened. We must defend it."
Andrew shrugged. "Fair enough," he said.
"How are we supposed to get there?" asked Kirsty.
"There is a net.thingy fuelled and waiting for you," said the
ninja.
"Right, then," said Andrew, finishing his lunch. "Might as
well get going..."
"Okay, so which control is which?" asked Andrew, seating
himself in the net.thingy`s control seat. Kirsty frowned.
"Oh, no. You`re not flying this thing. Move over."
"Why can`t I fly?"
"Remember what happened the last time you tried?"
"I thought we paid them compensation?"
"And the FAA revoked your provisional licence..."
"Okay, okay..." Grumbling, Andrew got out of the control seat
and took another. Green Trenchcoat, remaining silent, sat in a
passenger seat behind. Kirsty began looking over the controls.
"Great," she said. "Just when I really needed to be dealing
with Kirbytech... Andrew, call up the monitoring room and get somebody
to open up the landing bay doors while I start this thing up."
"Sure," said Andrew, activating his communicator whilst Kirsty
began to study the controls. "Hey, who`s on in the monitoring room?"
"Nobody but us heroes..." came back Multi-Tasking Man`s
voice. "You guys are heading for alt.comedy.british, huh?"
"It`s a dirty job, but somebody`s got to be silly."
"Well, good luck..."
"Yeah, thanks. I just wanted one thing..."
"Yeah?"
"Open the pod bay doors, HAL."
"What? Oh, yeah. Gotcha."
Above them, the doors to the outside sky began to open,
throwing cold winter sunlight down through the windscreen of the
net.thingy.
"Ready yet?" asked Andrew.
"Well... it all makes sense apart from one thing."
"What?"
"I can`t find the ignition! None of these controls turns the
damn thing on!"
Green Trenchcoat left his seat and came forward. "I believe
this is what you are looking for," he said, reaching under the control
panel and turning a key. A key with a furry dice keyring.
Andrew smiled at Kirsty as the motor coughed into life. Kirsty
narrowed her eyes and dared him to say anything. He simply smirked and
put his seatbelt on. Grimacing, Kirsty jumped the net.thingy into the
air, leaping it out of the landing bay and into the skies above the
LNHQ. She began to fiddle with the console.
"What are you doing?" asked Andrew. "We don`t seem to be going
anywhere..."
"I`m making the calculations for the crosspost. If we go too
soon, we could come out in alt.flame or bounce too close to a comp
newsgroup, and that`d end this trip real quick..."
Andrew thought about this for a few moments. "Wasn`t that
supposed to be my line?"
"I thought I`d beat you to it."
"Ah... right."
Kirsty made the final adjustments. "Okay. Hold tight. We`re on
our way."
"Looks like I picked a bad day to stop eating chocolate."
"Stop that!"
"What, not eating chocolate?"
"Quoting films!"
"But it`s fun!"
"I don`t care how much fun it is, it`s annoying me up to the
eyeballs!"
"Hey, don`t be a-" Andrew drew a square in the air.
"ARGH!" screamed Kirsty as she activated the crosspost drive.
The net.thingy vanished from looniversal skies.
"...Where are we?" asked Andrew, awakening from the short bout
of unconsciousness that the shaky crosspost had induced.
"Alt.comedy.british," replied Kirsty. "Looks pretty quiet..."
The net.thingy hovered over what looked like peaceful english
countryside, sometime in the middle of summer. Fields of ripe wheat
waved in golden ripples between hedgerows of stunning
biodiversity. Small roads wended their way, unhurried, between the
fields, underneath the odd tree that stood, ancient and untroubled, by
the roadside. A little way off, there stood some buildings that looked
as though they should be storing farm produce, though the actual farm
buildings themselves were nowhere to be seen.
"Maybe we should find a city..." said Andrew.
"No..." said Green Trenchcoat. "This place... is a
representation of a small portion of British comedy. We could roam it
forever and not find Bicycle Repair Lad. We need some way to get out."
"Hang on... got something on the scanners..." said
Kirsty. "Looks like... planes?"
"There!" said Andrew, pointing to the sky, where they could
see the sillhouettes of small aeroplanes buzzing about each other.
"Looks like one large one being attacked by several smaller
ones..."
There was an explosion amongst the sillhouettes.
"I believe that the larger one has suffered fatal damage,"
said Green Trenchcoat.
"It`s still in one piece... coming this way..." said Kirsty.
"Um, yeah... maybe we should move a bit?" suggested Andrew.
"No," said Green Trenchcoat. "It will crash half a mile from
this spot."
"What about the crew?" asked Andrew.
"They are already dead," said Green Trenchcoat.
They watched the fall of the aeroplane; it glided, smoke
trailing behind it, sloping down towards a field not a great distance
away from the net.thingy. It looked old, a design not used for fifty
years. And it bore markings that an older generation had come to
dread.
"That`s a swastika..." said Kirsty. "We`re in the middle of the
second world war!"
The bomber crashed into the field, turning end over end before
collapsing, upside down, in a heap of broken wings and fuselage. Then
the fuel exploded. The orange ball of flame rose into the air, turning
to smoke; the broken remains of the bomber burned, setting fire to the
wheat that it had landed in.
"Shit..." said Andrew.
"If the crew died, they died for a purpose," said Green
Trenchcoat. "They were hardly real to begin with."
"Yeah, I suppose..." said Andrew.
"If they had a purpose in dying, that means this whole scene
has a purpose. Which means that somebody might turn up who can help
us," said Kirsty.
"Good point," said Andrew. "Shall we go down there?"
"I must," said Green Trenchcoat. "It is early in the year to be
burning off stubble. The fire should be put out."
"Okay," said Kirsty. She flew the net.thingy closer to the
wreckage, and set it down a hundred yards away. The three heroes
disembarked, and walked up to the wreckage. They could see immolated
bodies through the broken glass of the cockpit; they looked
away. Green Trenchcoat extended a green energy over the wreckage and
wheat, and calmed the blaze.
"So what are we waiting for?" said Andrew.
"At a guess... that," said Kirsty, pointing at an army truck
that was approaching along one of the small roads. It rumbled and
shook, throwing the occupants of the uncovered rear about. It
approached the gate to the field, and, contrary to normal custom,
didn`t stop to open it before going through it. The LOHers heard
voices cursing at a distance, even though they were too far away to be
truly heard.
"You bloody fool, Private! What did they teach you at the Army
Driving School?"
"How to drive a car! I don`t know how to drive this bleedin`
thing!"
"Well use the brake pedal and let us out!"
"I am using the bloody brake pedal! It don`t bleedin` work!"
"You fool, that`s the clutch! You`ll wear out the gears!"
From the back of the truck came further dialogue:
"Sergeant Wilson! Why did we go through that gate?"
"I don`t know, lad..."
"I remember going through a gate like that when we were
fighting the fuzziewuzzies..."
"Gad save us! The bloody driver`s a lunatic!"
The truck began to swerve wildly across the field, and a
crunching of gears could be heard.
"I`ll have you up on a charge of vandalising army property!"
"Don`t blame me! It ain`t my fault!"
The Legion of Occult Heroes watched in bafflement. "Maybe we
should do something to stop them before they hurt themselves?"
suggested Kirsty.
"Allow me," said Green Trenchcoat. A burst of green energy
flowed from his hand, and stilled the engine of the truck.
"What was that?" said the driver of the truck.
"I don`t know, said the man sitting next to him. "You go and
find out."
"Why do I have to go?"
"Because I`m giving you an order, lad."
Grumbling, the driver got out of the truck, took a long rifle
from the cab and started to advance towards them. He was of medium
height, and looked distinctly untrustworthy. Maybe it was the thin
moustache. Maybe it was the rolled up cigarette. Maybe it was the
shrewd look that seemed to know everything about the local black
market. Maybe it was the fact that all three of the LOHers recognised
him.
"Oh, bloody hell," said Andrew. "Dad`s Army. Just what we
needed."
"Captain Mainwairing! It`s a bunch of civilians!"
"Right, then," said the captain, lifting himself carefully out
of the cab and putting his cap on. "Everyone out of the truck!"
The soldiers on the back of the truck disembarked, rather
slowly because most of them looked as though they should be drawing
pensions rather than running around in uniforms, apart from one young
man who was obviously a little too young to be in the army. The oldest
couldn`t climb down himself, and had to be helped. The captain
surveyed his ragged soldiers with something approaching embarrassment,
and then started marching towards the LOHers.
"Well, what have we here, then?" Said the captain in a gruff,
businesslike voice as he stopped in front of the LOH. He noticed
Kirsty, and his eyes widened. "Er... would you like some clothes,
Miss?"
The young soldier was boggling. "You put yir eyes back in yir
head, laddie. Ah`ve seen better lasses than this`n," said an old Scot
to his left. Kirsty raised an eyebrow.
"We are... travellers from a distant land," said Green
Trenchcoat. "We seek the one called Bicycle Repair Lad."
"Hmph. Well, to be perfectly honest, I`ve no idea who you`re
talking about," said the captain.
"Sir," said the sergeant in a cultured but weary voice, "I
think you`ll find that these three match the descriptions of the spies
that we were warned about by telephone this morning."
"Ah. Well, in that case, we`ll have to arrest them. Won`t we,
Sergeant Wilson?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well, then. You`re under arrest. Private Pike!"
"Yes, Captain Mainwairing?" said the young soldier, nervously.
"Take them back to the truck under guard."
"Muh me?"
"They`re not armed, boy. You`ve got a good British rifle. You
can handle them."
"I doubt it," said Kirsty.
"Don`t even think about it," said Andrew to Private Pike. "We
have powers you wouldn`t believe."
"Captain Mainwairing says to take you back to the truck, so,
um, I`d better do what he says..."
"Not a chance," said Kirsty.
"I think perhaps we should go with them," said Green
Trenchcoat. "They can do little harm to us, and they may take us where
we need to be."
"You think so?" said Kirsty.
"Definitely," said Green Trenchcoat.
"Oh, well," said Andrew. "Lead on..."
To the annoyance of everyone else, Andrew began to hum the
theme tune, to which the soldiers joined in.
"Who do you think you are kidding, Mr. Hitler... When you
think old England`s done..."
The Home Guard unit of Warmington-On-Sea, after some muttering
and cursing at the truck, drove the LOHers to their barracks, which
was a church hall in near the town square. Green Trenchcoat
surreptitiously kept the old vehicle going for the length of the
journey, and Captain Mainwairing congratulated the somewhat surprised
driver on his newly found driving skills. Rounding the church, the
truck came to a halt before the wooden shack that was the church hall,
and unloaded the LOH and the, for want of a better word,
soldiers. Andrew, Kirsty and Green Trenchcoat were marched, almost
realistically, into the hall.
There was someone waiting. Another man in uniform. Captain
Mainwairing seemed to recognise him. So did the LOH.
"Ah, Colonel!" said Mainwairing, going up to him and shaking
his hand enthusiastically. "Glad to meet you at last, sir."
"Thank you, Captian," said the Colonel. "And who are these
fellows with you?"
"Oh... spies, sir. Found loitering near a crashed Jerry
bomber."
"Ah. Just the people I`ve been looking for. I`ll escort them
back to base, if you don`t mind."
"Oh, not at all, sir, not at all!"
The Colonel walked to face the LOH, stiffly. "Now,
then. You`ve been very naughty people. Very naughty
people... indeed. Come this way..."
Kirsty raised an eyebrow. Andrew shrugged, and looked to Green
Trenchcoat, who indicated that they should follow. They went outside
with the colonel, and he led them to a jeep, motioning them to get in,
and then briskly driving off.
Andrew looked at the Colonel querulously. "Where are we
going?" he asked. The Colonel looked back at him.
"Now that`s a question you`ll see answered in just a very few
seconds..." He pressed a button on the dashboard.
Time and space twisted.
It felt like having your body turned into a circle, and then
back into a body again.
The scenery changed.
"Don`t tell me what that was... I don`t want to know..." said
Kirsty, looking pale, shortly before leaning over the side and
throwing up.
"Ah, now, here we are..." said the Colonel, indicating the
building in front of them. "BBC Television Centre."
"Christ... it bloody is and all..." said Andrew. The jeep was
sitting, stationary, in front of the main gate of a certain large
building normally to be found in Shepherd`s Bush.
"This is it... the nexus of this plane..." whispered Green
Trenchcoat. Two cheerful looking men walked up to the gate, one
dressed in a very ill-fitting trenchcoat and trilby, and the other in
an ungainly tartan jacket and fur hat. Happily, they pressed two green
buttons on the gate mechanism, and the bar swung upwards. They marched
in.
"Thank you, Stephen," said the Colonel, starting up the jeep
once more and driving into the car park.
"Was that-" asked Kirsty.
"Only a Bit Of them," replied Andrew.
"This isn`t a good time for jokes, Andrew."
"I would`ve thought it`d be the best of times..."
"You know what I mean."
The Colonel parked the jeep close to the building. "Everybody
out, don`t you know," he said, and the LOH got out, still feeling
somewhat bewildered. "Right then," he said. "Into the audience hall, I
think."
The Colonel led them to the main door of the building, which
he pushed open and bade them enter.
The room they saw within could not strictly be said to be
within the building. It was far too... large. And well decorated. And
grandiose. And...
The Colonel strode into the hall, furious. "SILLY! TOO
DAMNABLY SILLY! I`ve warned this newsgroup before about being silly,
and if there`s any more of this sort of thing, I`m going to have to-"
A sixteen ton weight fell on him. John Cleese wore a dinner jacket and
sat at a desk to make an announcement.
"And now for something completely different."
And it was.
The sixteen ton weight crept along the floor, on painted legs,
eating cardboard cutouts of surprised announcers. The LOH,
superimposed upon a colourful background, had a sudden mad impulse to
run, but found themselves suddenly toppling unrealistically through an
invisible hole in the floor, through several miles of piping, and out
through the wrong end of a sewer into a wide ocean, where they were
subsequently used as floating fortresses by rubber chicken people
fighting a very pointless war about stuffing taxes, which turned out
to be instigated by the Ministry of very small men with very big heads
who enjoyed squeezing rocks in a mincing machine until five pound
notes came out, which the LOH found themselves using as flying carpets
until they accidentally encountered a squadron of flying noses which
shot them down with mucus attacks, leaving them falling through inky
darkness to a hard floor...
When the animation had finished, the three LOHers found
themselves to be back in the hall, somewhat dazed at the madness of
Gilliam, but generally unhurt. Time enough, I think, to describe the
hall.
Think big. Got that? Good. Think a bit bigger, since you can
manage big. Now imagine decoration. Lopsided, but distinctly
decorative, and springing from the diseased mind of a young expatriate
American. And people. All sorts of people, but only seven or eight
faces amongst them, and most of the women were rather clearly men in
drag, cooing incessantly about Whizzo Butter. And in the centre, a
throne. On a dais. With a painting of a foot suspended above it.
Naturally, they recognised the man in the throne.
"Bicycle Repair Lad!" cried Andrew. Bicycle Repair Lad was now
wearing a dinner jacket of an interesting green shade, and wore a
paper crown upon his head.
"Bicycle Repair Lad is gone... now there is only... THE KING
OF COMEDY!!!!!"
Andrew and Kirsty groaned. A bad cliche and a bad film
reference in one line. Things were really going downhill. Green
Trenchcoat stood forward and spoke.
"Your manipulation of the comedy on the Internet is
unnatural. Cease at once or face our wrath."
Bicycle Repair Lad laughed, then coughed and spluttered for a
few minutes, then started maniacally laughing again for a bit, and
finally calmed down, still unable to treat Green Trenchcoat`s threat
as anything other than hilarious. Kirsty fumed, shook her head, and
spoke.
"Look. All you`re doing is destroying places like racc!
Remember the Looniverse? The place you came from, right? You`re
sucking it dry! It`ll die, like our world did!"
"Oh, pull the other one!" said Bicycle Repair Lad. "Racc can
hang on for a bit without humour. Ask your writer. Ask the Omega
writers, go on, I dare you!"
"Will you cease your operation?" asked Green Trenchcoat in a
still, but edged voice.
"Never! Comedy is forever!"
"Then you leave me with no choice-" Green Trenchcoat raised a
hand, pointed at Bicycle Repair Lad. Green energy burst from his hand,
and flew towards the madman; splattering into carnations and court
orders as it got there.
"Bugger," said Andrew.
Bicycle Repair Lad laughed again for a bit. Then spoke to the
rest of the audience. "Well, then, everyone.... what shall we do with
them?" There was a clamour of replies.
"Hang `em! Smash those dirty red scum! I hate `em I hate `em I
hate `em!!!"
"Poke them... with the SOFT CUSHIONS!!!"
"Build a bridge out of them!"
"I mean, phwoor, eh, nudge nudge?"
"Use sarcasm."
"I wish to make a complaint."
"Anybody else for a round of quotes," muttered Kirsty, as a
man in a trenchcoat rushed up to BRL and made a quiet suggestion.
"Brilliant idea, Lemming!" exclaimed Bicycle Repair Lad. Gas
clouds started to rise around the LOHers.
"Don`t breathe it-" choked Green Trenchcoat. But it was too
late. One by one, they toppled to the floor, and everything faded to
black.
Kirsty`s eyes opened, muggily and slowly. She sat up, and
shook her head a little to get rid of the clouds that still made
perception foggy. She looked around. A room... a bedroom. She had been
lying on a bed. She got up; the furniture looked a little out of
date. Sort of... well, sixties. And was that... a lava lamp? Oh, no...
She rushed to the window, and pulled up the blind.
A well tended lawn, amongst styled Italianate houses. A green
dome. A sandy beach. A stone boat. She knew this place.
There was a beeping from back within the room. Kirsty looked
round, and identified it as coming from a telephone, an old kind with
a dial, which had in the middle the number 16. She went over to it and
picked it up.
"Number Sixteen?" A man`s voice.
"No. My name`s Kirsty."
"Not any more, I`m afraid. You are now Number Sixteen, and a
member of our happy community-"
"Where are the others?"
"Questions are a burden to others, answers a prison for
oneself, my dear. Though in this case a short visit to the Green Dome
will suffice."
"Who are you?"
"Number Two. Be seeing you." The line went dead, and Kirsty
put the phone down, feeling very, very annoyed. She stomped in the
direction of the door, passing a mirror which caught her
attention. She wasn`t wearing the same clothes. White trousers. A
tight red sweater. And the makeup-! No. This was an affront to every
sensibility she had. She felt a not unreasonable urge to go to the
bathroom and at least get rid of the horrific cosmetics, but
remindered herself that she really ought to find out what the hell was
going on first. One thing, though. The circular badge with the penny
farthing and the number. That definitely had to go. She tossed it
aside, and headed for the door, which, to make matters worse, swung
open with an irritating hum as she got there.
The air outside was curiously warm; Kirsty remembered,
vaguely, that this was supposed to be somewhere in north Wales, but
the climate didn`t seem to suit that memory too well. As the sun shone
down upon the village, Kirsty made her way up in the direction of the
building that was topped with the green dome, wondering what to expect
inside. After climbing several flights of steps up to the building,
which overlooked the rest of the Village from a rather vertical hill,
she came to the entrance. The front door was painted white, and seemed
rather grander than other doors she had passed along the way. There
was a bell-pull beside it, which she tugged upon. The door swung open
automatically with that same hum. Behind it was an entrance hall,
quite ordinary looking, though somewhat out of date in it`s
furnishings. Looking up at her was a very small, stout, balding man
with no seeming expression, who was dressed as a butler. He indicated
that she should walk through the door at the other end of the entrance
hall.
The door led to a short corridor, which was markedly
different. She remembered it- she`d seen only a few episodes here and
thre, but this was one of the more common locations. At the end of the
bare, "futuristic" corridor, was an iron door which lifted up as she
passed through the doorway.
Beyond was a circular room, and Andrew and Green Trenchcoat
were there. Standing by a desk, upon which were three strange cordless
phones of differing colour. Andrew beamed upon seeing her and ran up
to hug her.
"Are you alright? What kept you?"
"I`m fine... gas must`ve gotten me worse. What`s this you`re
wearing...?"
"What`s this _you`re_ wearing?" They smiled and hugged
again. Andrew was wearing a striped sweater and white trousers, and
looked thoroughly ridiculous. Looking over his shoulder, Kirsty could
see that Green Trenchcoat had been dressed up in the rather more
distinctive black jacket with white piping that she remembered from
the episodes she`d seen.
"So what`s happening?" asked Kirsty, after she and Andrew had
finished hugging.
"Not a lot. I think they`ve been waiting for you to turn up."
"Indeed we have, Number Fifteen." Andrew and Kirsty turned to
face the voice, which was rising from the centre of the room, sitting
crosslegged in the circular chair and leafing through a file. Number
Two was wearing another of the black jackets that were so popular in
these parts, and seemed to be a middle aged man with receding grey
hair and a lean, incisive look about him. As the chair came to a halt,
he extended his legs down to a normal sitting position.
"Let`s see... numbers Fourteen, Fifteen and
Sixteen... persistent troublemakers and subversives... found red
handed in the middle of a plot to sabotage a legal
government... mercifully sent here for their own good. Breakfast?"
Green Trenchcoat looked levelly at Number Two. "Release us."
"Oh, no, we couldn`t do that... breakfast comes first, before
any discussion." Number Two took a long, handled stick from the chair,
and pressed a button on the desk before him with it. The door slid
open, and the butler pushed a tray through it, and down to rest
besides the desk. "Bacon and eggs?" asked Number Two. "Or flapjacks?
Or just toast?"
"It isn`t even breakfasttime," pointed out Andrew.
"You were unconscious for longer than you think, my boy."
"We`re not hungry," said Kirsty.
"As you wish," said Number Two, and beckoned the butler to
remove the tray, taking a piece of toast for himself before it
left. "You really should have, you know. Always best to start off in a
new place with a good meal in your stomach. Now, where was I...? Oh,
yes. Now... we know why you were trying to-"
"Shut. Up." hissed Kirsty. "We have no intention whatsoever of
staying here. I`ve seen this show. I know what this place is. And I
know it wasn`t designed to hold people like us. So let us go before we
rip your Village to pieces."
Number Two smiled, ironically. "My dear... you are quite
mistaken. Oh, this is the Village. In many important respects. But it
is also known as alt.tv.prisoner. And escape is quite impossible, if
you cannot crosspost. And you, sadly, cannot. So no matter how much
damage you do, you won`t be able to escape." He smiled again. "Now. We
know why you were trying to overthrow alt.comedy.british. We have no
interest in how you planned to do it. All we want... is your
cooperation. A little help, if you like."
Andrew smiled, and walked forward. "We will not be pushed,
filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed, or numbered. Our lives
are our own. And apart from the fact that I`ve always wanted to say
that, it`s true. We won`t work for you."
"Really," said Number Two, tersely. "You may change that
opinion. In time."
"I find that doubtful," said Green Trenchcoat.
"We will see," said Number Two. "You may leave now." The door
opened, and the butler stood by it. "Be seeing you."
"Not if we can help it," said Kirsty as the LOH exited.
"Well, then," said Andrew, blinking at the sun outside the
front door of Number Two`s residence. "What next?"
"Escape," said Green Trenchcoat.
"Obviously," said Kirsty. "But first, I could do with a cup of
tea. Where can we get one?"
"As far as I remember, there`s a cafe somewhere down there,"
said Andrew.
"Right," said Kirsty. They set off.
Some minutes later, the three net.heroes were seated around a
garden table, which sported a colourful umbrella sprouting from it`s
middle, and drinking cups of surprisingly good tea. Andrew had found a
map of the Village, and a copy of the Tally Ho, and was reading it for
laughs. "Number Six found gibbering and incoherent in the Stone
Boat... I knew it!"
Kirsty looked at Andrew with enough of a raised eyebrow to
make him stop. "Finished?"
"Uh, yeah," said Andrew, putting the single sheet aside.
"Right. Let`s hear some ideas about how we can get out of here."
"The question, it seems," said Green Trenchcoat, "is one of
crossposting. All we need do is find a way to crosspost."
"Well..." said Andrew, "I could try and summon something or
other that could take us to Hell. We could find our way back from
there."
"No thanks," said Kirsty. "Too dangerous."
"Yeah, true..." said Andrew. "I don`t have a lot of friends
there. Maybe we could get the Leviathan to move us?"
"No chance. That bastard wouldn`t lift a finger if it wasn`t
to his own advantage."
"How do we know it`s not?"
"He would already`ve said something."
"Yeah..." said Andrew, despondently.
"Perhaps we should approach this question from another
viewpoint," said Green Trenchcoat.
"Go on," said Kirsty.
"We are in the newsgroup alt.tv.prisoner, which, to all
intents and purposes, functions as a net.version of the Village."
"So?" said Andrew.
"We should find some way of getting out that is in keeping
with the style of this place."
Andrew grinned. "Got it. The helicopters. They bring people in
and out. All we need to do is hijack one and we`re on our way."
"We`d need to grab a pilot, too," said Kirsty.
"There should be little difficulty," said Green
Trenchcoat. "Between us, we can be threatening enough to ensure our
escape."
"Good," said Kirsty. "Next problem. What the hell do we do
once we get out of here? I mean, we can probably go straight back to
alt.comedy.british, but what do we do once we get there?"
"Ah. Good point," said Andrew.
"Simple assault will not suffice," said Green Trenchcoat. "We
need to be more subtle."
"Can we just stop the process? I mean, do we even know how
he`s doing it?" asked Andrew.
"No," said Kirsty, "not with everyone in a.c.b looking for
us. We need to get Bicycle Repair Lad out of there somehow- restore
him to his senses- what the hell-" There was a sudden, brief
breeze. Kirsty`s eyes opened wide, and the other two spun round to see
what she was looking at. By the table, a green circle of light was
expanding, until it was large enough for a man to step through. A man
did; a man wearing a trenchcoat. A man named Drifter.
"Yes!" exclaimed Drifter. "Found you. How did you end up here?"
"Slight misunderstanding with Bicycle Repair Lad. We tried to
stop him, but it didn`t do much good," said Andrew.
"How`s things outside?"
"Last couple of days have been mayhem. Alt.comedy.british is
cut off completely now. Not even Brits can get in. And all the
related newsgroups have been sucked in- Goons, Monty Python, Red
Dwarf- all gone."
"We`ve still got to get back there..." said Kirsty.
Andrew realised something. "Uh, hang on. Got an idea."
"What?" asked Kirsty.
"No foreigners are allowed in a.c.b, right?"
"Unless they made a great contribution to British comedy,"
said Drifter.
"Bicycle Repair Lad is American."
"WHAT?!?!?"
"He doesn`t like to admit it, but it`s true."
"I see," said Green Trenchcoat. "If we reveal his nationality
to the inhabitants of alt.comedy.british, they might abandon him?"
"Or worse," grinned Kirsty.
"That sounds dangerously like a plan to me," said Drifter.
"Risky," said Andrew.
"Probably highly unlikely to succed," said Kirsty.
"Let`s do it," said Andrew.
"Absolutely," said Kirsty.
"How do we get there, though, if all the ways in are blocked
off?" said Andrew.
"I think, perhaps, if I send you through to one of the
subsumed groups, you`ll automatically be transferred to the
appropriate part of a.c.b," said Drifter.
"It sounds... feasible," said Green Trenchcoat.
"One thing, first," said Kirsty. "Our clothes. I really don`t
want to be seen wearing this stuff outside this newsgroup."
"Good point," agreed Andrew. "Damn good point."
Number Two was drinking coffee and worriedly reading a
report. He sighed, and picked up one of the more outlandish phones.
"I`m afraid that what we feared is true. Yes, sir. Completely
withdrawn. There seems to be some dreamlike state still at work in his
mind, but it`s nothing we can penetrate. Yes, completely lost, I`m
afraid. My predecessor went too far. Yes, sir, I will. I`ll do my
best." He put the phone back on the desk and drank some more
coffee. At which point the door exploded.
When Number Two opened his eyes once more, rubbing the side of
his head where it had hit the floor, he saw clouds of dust... and then
something, something he didn`t recognise, an animalistic form,
towering over him... the clouds cleared. He recognised it.
"You _fool_!" He spat. "This is _pointless_!"
Kirsty, in giant lizard form, grinned the grin of someone who
has far too many pointed teeth in one mouth. Her voice rumbled down at
him. "We`ve found a way out. _You_ are pointless." She reached down
with an arm as long as Number Two`s body, and lifted him up to her
face. "We want our clothes back. Now. Or do you want to be eaten?"
Number Two spluttered and tried to wriggle away from the claws
that were a little too close to his throat. "All... alright..." Kirsty
dropped him. He regained his feet, unsteadily, and picked up a lesser
phone. "Bring... bring the clothes of numbers Fourteen, Fifteen and
Sixteen to my residence. I _know_! Just do it!" He put the phone back
down again. "They`re on they`re way."
Kirsty grinned again, and Number Two shivered to see all the
rows of teeth. "How...?"
"I believe I can answer that question," said Drifter, stepping
forward.
"You...! But- you disappeared!"
"Left, merely. And I`ll be leaving again soon, and taking my
friends with me. I suspect your superiors will find this all very,
very interesting."
Three inmates, or possibly warders of the Village entered the
room, wheeling clothes dummies that looked like the LOHers into the
room, dummies that wore the clothes of the LOH. From nowhere, the
Beatles started playing "All You Need is Love."
"Excuse me," said Kirsty, dragging her clothes into the
chamber outside, where there was, at least, some small privacy. Green
Trenchcoat and Andrew changed quickly, and Kirsty returned shortly
after.
"Right," said Kirsty. "Shall we?"
"Any particular preference for newsgroup...?" asked Drifter.
"Oh... alt.fan.goons," said Andrew.
"Fair enough," said Drifter. A portal opened up. "Good luck,"
said Drifter.
"Thank you," said Green Trenchcoat, before stepping through
the portal.
"See you later," said Andrew. He and Kirsty left, and the
portal closed behind them.
Drifter turned to Number Two. He smiled, and saluted him in
the manner of the village. "Be seeing you." He turned and stepped into
another portal.
A phone on the desk began to ring.
"Rhubarb, rhubarb. Mutter, mutter. Spon."
The LOH found themselves to be in a large chamber which was
instantly recognisable.
"The House of Commons?" said Kirsty.
"Looks like it to me," said Andrew.
"What does this have to do with the Goon Show?" asked Green
Trenchcoat.
"Shh. Listen. We`ll find out."
A member of the house, ancient and frail, raised an order
paper. The speaker motioned her to speak.
"Mmm, mmm, what about the drains in East Acton?"
Another replied. "What about them?"
"When were... they, mmm, mmm, last taken up?"
"Mmmm, mmm... 1876..."
"Then.... isn`t it about time... they were taken up... again?"
"We can`t."
"Mmm, mmm, why not?"
"They haven`t been put back yet."
"It`s the Goon Show alright," said Andrew. At that point, a
dustbin entered the House, and crept along the famous floor until it
reached a despatch box. The lid was then flung off, and a small, round
Welsh man of lard leapt out.
"I come to warn you of a terrible disease! In Bradford, the
Lurgi is on the loose!" He cried.
"I resign!" shouted Eccles.
"Why?" asked Neddy.
"I dunno," said Eccles.
"Okay. I assume we`ve got to get to the centre again?" said Kirsty.
"Indeed," said Green Trenchcoat. "I believe that the best way
would simply be to shift to a comedy more oriented towards the present
day, where we will more easily be noticed and brought to Bicycle
Repair Lad`s attention. He will not be expecting us this time, and
will otherwise not notice our presence."
"Fine," said Kirsty. "Any ideas on how?"
"I believe I can move us into a different comedy, as long as
we keep the same setting."
"Go for it," said Andrew.
Green Trenchcoat raised a hand, and greenness momentarily
filled the air. Suddenly, the House was more realistic. The decibel
level jumped considerably.
"Order, order!" shouted the speaker. "I bring this house to
ORDER!!" The noise subsided. "The Leader of the Opposition." On the
right hand side of the House, a man on the front bench, after
muttering to a colleague, rose and advanced to the despatch box.
"Will the Prime Minister please tell this house why one and a
half million pounds was spent on a search and rescue mission last week
in Dartmoor, to rescue one Yorkshire Terrier? An enterprise which, as
we all know, was authorised directly from 10 Downing Street?" The
leader of the opposition sat down, and there were jeers from the
opposition benches as the Prime Minister stood up.
"You wouldn`t have wanted it to die, would you?" he said,
nervously.
"Not quite right," said Kirsty. "Try another one."
There was another short flash of green.
"That`s right!" said a flashily suited backbencher to a newly
installed tv camera, "You can win five thousand pounds in tomorrow`s
Sun by playing Maximiser Bingo! And remember: vote Conservative! You
wouldn`t get this under Labour!"
"Try another one," groaned Andrew. Another flash of green.
Al Pacino as Arthur Scargill strode into the house and made an
impassioned plea for miner`s wages to be raised.
"Are you doing this on purpose?" asked Kirsty. Green
Trenchcoat frowned and tried again.
John Major rose to the despatch box, but this was no ordinary
John Major. He was made of rubber, and completely grey.
"More like it," said Andrew.
"I would like the House to note that I have no personality
whatsoever," said the Prime Minister, before sitting down to a
resounding silence.
"He has noticed us," said Green Trenchcoat. "He is reaching
out-"
Space twisted, much as it had before on the Colonel`s jeep,
and when it put itself back together again, they were standing in
Bicycle Repair Lad`s throne room.
"So you made it back? Splendid, splendid! Now we can have some
more fun!" beamed Bicycle Repair Lad. "Now, what were some of the
other suggestions?"
"SOFT CUSHIONS!!!!"
"Yes! Definitely!" Three men in nice red uniforms approached
the LOH, manically grinning and clutching tastefully made and designed
cushions.
"Can I say something first?" asked Andrew.
"As long as it`s in English. I can`t stand those German
episodes..." said Bicycle Repair Lad.
"I just wanted to know if all your friends had found out yet
that you`re an American. That`s all."
Pandemonium. Bicycle Repair Lad`s face fell, and all his
followers screamed in anguish.
After all the running about had been done, the LOH were left
alone in a slowly degrading room, returning to it`s original bare
state, with the erstwhile ruler of alt.comedy.british.
"That was, um, easy," said Andrew. "Do you think it really
worked?"
"Yes..." said Green Trenchcoat. "I can sense normality
returning."
"Bit of an anticlimax," said Kirsty.
Andrew shrugged. "You have a silly adventure, it ends like
that. And this was pretty silly."
"What shall we do with him?" asked Kirsty, indicating BRL, who
was whimpering on the floor.
"Take him back with us. Find out why," said Andrew.
"I believe I can navigate us back to the net.thingy," said
Green Trenchcoat. "The terrain has become rather less restricted."
"Let`s get out of here," said Kirsty.
The net.thingy lowered, slowly, to its space in the landing
bay. Waiting were Ultimate Ninja, Drifter, Organic Lass and Doctor
Bad-Bedside-Manner, having already been informed of the
situation. Landing struts extended from the craft, and, with a small
clank, the net.thingy touched down. Doctor Bad-Bedside-Manner went to
the side of the bay, and brought the stretcher that was waiting there
over to the entrance of the net.thingy. The door opened.
Andrew and Green Trenchcoat lifted Bicycle Repair Lad down the
gangplank and onto the waiting stretcher; BRL was completely
unconscious. Kirsty followed, closing up the net.thingy. Doctor
Bad-Bedside-Manner checked over BRL with some esoteric and unlikely
scanning device.
"How is he?" asked Organic Lass.
"Comatose," said the Doctor. "Pity. I was hoping to get a
chance to use a straitjacket..."
"I take it the plan worked?" asked Drifter.
"Yeah," said Andrew. "As soon as the whole place deserted him,
he just collapsed. But he looks bad, you know?"
"He was a traitor," muttered Ultimate Ninja.
"Perhaps," said Drifter. "There may be more to it than that."
"Worrying," said Kirsty.
"Yeah... look, I`ve gotta go. I`m meeting Windrider to check
out some stuff on the Babylon 5 newsgroup. I`ll be in touch."
"Right. Thanks for the help," said Kirsty.
"No problem," grinned Drifter, stepping into a portal.
"Okay," said Organic Lass. "Let`s get him up to sickbay..."
She and Doctor Bad-Bedside-Manner wheeled Bicycle Repair Lad away.
"Well. Good job. All three of you," said Ultimate
Ninja. "Write up a report and get it to me sometime tomorrow."
"Er... by the way, what day is it?" asked Kirsty.
"You don`t know?" said the ninja
"Were rendered unconscious for a while before we woke up in
alt.tv.prisoner," said Green Trenchcoat. "I believe three days have
passed."
"Three _days_?!? Shit! Uh, look, I`ve gotta go. I promised my
mum I was going to visit this weekend, and, uh, it _is_ this weekend,
so..."
"Go on, get going..." said Andrew. "I`ll see you tomorrow, yeah?"
"Yeah," said Kirsty, giving him a kiss before running for the door.
"I have work to do," said the ninja. "I`ll let you know when
you`re needed again."
"Right," said Andrew. The ninja left. "So. Are we going to
find out what happened to Bicycle Repair Lad, or what?"
"I would like to help. But I have... other tasks to complete."
"Oh, well," sighed Andrew. "Have fun."
"I doubt it," said Green Trenchcoat. "But thank you." He
left. Andrew stood alone in the landing bay, and glanced at Bicycle
Repair Lad`s workshop. He walked over to it and peered inside. Nothing
unusual; parts and tools all over the place, as ever. He went in, and
took down a tin of biscuits; chocolate digestives, he found as he
opened the lid. He eat one, munching on the combination of biscuit and
chocolate; then closed the lid again, and took the biscuits with him
as he left the landing bay.
Vicky sat before the monitor again. It wasn`t going
anywhere. She wasn`t going anywhere. Neither was the cursor. She still
strained to think of somewhere to start. It was still a blank.
She stood up, frustrated, and turned away. How? Where? When?
Do something else. Make coffee. She filled a kettle from the sink in
her room, and set it boiling, filling a mug with granules and
coffeemate. Okay. Stop a moment. The problem is starting. Once you`ve
started, you can go on forever. No real point in starting at the
beginning. Just let it come as it occurs. Think. What`s the moment
that it all began?
Vicky knelt down, in her black dress, not caring about the
mud, by a little marker in the middle of a muddy lawn. The marker had
the names of her parents on it. Underneath the marker, underneath the
grass, was a little urn, filled with grey ash. She ran her finger over
the top of the marker. She raised her head and looked up. It was going
to rain again; the ground would get muddier. She would get
wet. Sprinkles began to fall. She looked back down at the marker. Not
really a headstone. She couldn`t afford a burial. No inheritance, no
money of her own; so a quiet little double cremation. And a plastic
marker, in a muddy lawn. She reached down and pulled the marker out of
the grass. And never returned.
No. That wasn`t when what she was now began; that was an
ending, not a beginning. No. It was this.
Net.ropolis Elevated Railway; never the best place to be under
any circumstances, but it beat walking, especially in this town, where
you weren`t likely to get mugged so much as mindwashed into attacking
some superhero. It was a popular way to travel, but you wouldn`t think
so, to hear the conversations on the train. Vicky was squashed in
between some enormous corporate type who used the worst aftershave
possible, and some obnoxious American woman who gabbled about husbands
and menopause and children and working at the rate of several thousand
words per minute. Oh, hell, she couldn`t fault them for being
American. It wasn`t their fault. Her fault, morelike, for taking that
transfer to head office when the office in Birmingham expanded. But
still, hardly anyone could have resisted; a new home in America, and
she didn`t even have to pay the airfare.
That guy, there... looking at her, again. Always on the same
train in the morning, though he seemed to take overtime a lot in the
evenings. Quite cute, really, but... nah. He couldn`t be interested in
her. Vicky remembered her last boyfriend, in Brum; he`d left her for a
barmaid with bigger tits. He was an arsehole; why did she never seem
to spot them until after they`d dumped her... oh, shit, forget about
it. Think about the deal the boss is trying to push through and needs
half a ton of copy written for.
The train stopped at the first of the business centre
stations, and almost a third of the passengers got out. He`s still
looking at me, noted Vicky. God, I hope he`s not a pervert or
something. At least he isn`t being shifty about it... actually, it`s
almost sweet, the way he looks embarrassed when I look back in his
direction... Oh shit, he`s coming up to me...
"Uh, hi..." Oh, great. "Um, I... well." Now he`s all red. "Can
I take you to dinner? Someplace?"
"You always talk to strange women on trains?" Vicky asked,
pointedly. He was surprised- by her accent? People usually
were. Brummie wasn`t something you heard every day in Net.ropolis,
even a watered down version like hers.
"Only when I fall in love with them." Now Vicky went red. What
was this? What was he trying to pull?
"Yeah, right..." said Vicky, as sarcastically as she could
manage, trying to cover it all up, noticing only too well the sudden
interest on the faces of other passengers.
"Oh, shit, I`m sorry, I shouldn`t have... ah, forget it, I-
shit." The best thing would be to ignore him. Yeah, that was
it. Ignore him. Oh, sod it...
"What`s your name?"
"Uh, Martin. Martin Delaware."
"Vicky Jennings." Vicky held out a hand, to shake, and he
did. "Give me your number, and... maybe." Well, it wouldn`t
hurt. Smiling embarrasedly, he reached for an inside pocket and pulled
out a card, which he gave to her. The train stopped again, and it was
Martin`s stop.
"Will you call?" he asked, worried.
"I`ll think about it," smiled Vicky, hardly believing that she
was playing this so cool. Mind you, he was so flustered that it wasn`t
hard to be a little more together. She looked at the card. Now, that
was a prestigious firm. Maybe she`d call him. Maybe.
Yes, that was the beginning. The kettle boiled, and Vicky
poured water into her mug. Placing it by the keyboard, she sat down
and began to write.
"So...?" asked Andrew.
"He`s withdrawn," said Organic Lass. "Massive psychological
shock, I`d imagine. Maybe the consequences of his actions suddenly
occured to him."
"No. He knew what he was doing."
"Then in that case, I don`t know."
"Can you bring him around?"
"Yes. I can stimulate his brain into consciousness- but there
might not be anything left in there to become conscious."
"Please. Do it."
Ori shrugged. "Okay." She concentrated her powers upon Bicycle
Repair Lad.
His eyes opened. He turned his head. "Bicycle Repair Lad?"
"An... Andrew?" he coughed. "What the bleedin` `ell am I doin`
`ere? Wot `appened?"
"You, uh, you almost destroyed the Looniverse. Remember?"
"You wot?" There was definite puzzlement on his face.
"Do you remember what happened in alt.comedy.british?"
His face was blank.
"He might have wiped the experience from the memory. Guilt,
and all that."
"Yeah, maybe. Look, I want to try something."
"Go on."
"We need Kid Kirby`s help."
Kirsty materialised in the front room. Something of an unusual
entrance, but it was definitely the fastest way there, and Renegade
Programmer (after a chocolate bribe) had been happy to operate the
transmat. Luckily, no one was there at the time, so no one jumped out
of their skin. Kirsty left the room and went to the other end of the
house, knocking on the kitchen door. "Hello?"
"Kirsty?" said her mother, rather surprised.
"Mum!" Kirsty ran through and embraced her mother.
"What happened to you? I thought something terrible... good
lord, what`s that makeup you`re wearing? I used to do that in about
1967!"
Kirsty smiled. "We were trapped in alt.tv.prisoner for a
while. They did the makeup, and I haven`t had time to get rid of
it..."
"Or to change! Look, there`s some clothes of your sister`s
upstairs that you can borrow, so nip up there and put them on- she`s
coming in ten minutes!"
"Okay, mum..." Kirsty went upstairs to change.
When she came down again, she smelt something good on the
stove. "What`s for lunch?"
"Chicken salad..."
"You`re roasting a whole chicken?"
"It`ll do for sandwiches tomorrow."
"Christ... chicken sandwiches. Haven`t had those since..."
Kirsty`s face fell, as she remembered the mother that had died. The
mother that lived stood silent, noticing the look on her face. "I
never really bothered to cook for myself. Just ate whatever was at the
cafeteria. Heh. Far too much cheesecake..."
"Doesn`t show, dear..." smiled her mother. The doorbell rang.
"I`ll get it," said her mother, walking past. Kirstys stood
and waited. So this was it; her double, at last. Her "sister", even.
"Hi, mum!" Came a familiar voice from the door.
"Kirsty! How are you?"
"Fine, the train was on time for once..." Hearing your own
voice. Brrr.
"Come to the kitchen- there`s someone I want you to meet."
"Is it... her?"
"Yes- don`t worry! She`s as nervous as you are!"
"Okay."
Her mother came back. Kirsty smiled nervously at her. And,
behind her, a mirror.
She looked younger, that was the first thing. Maybe that was
just imagination, though. Her hair was shorter, tied back; the face
was no different, that nervousness must have been on her own face. She
wore clothes that Kirsty remembered having worn before her mother
died- not the same ones, exactly, but that was the way she used to
dress, that jacket, that long skirt. Kirsty smiled at her,
weakly. "Hi..."
"Hi," replied her double. Sister. Whatever. What could she
say? What could she say to her?
"-When did you cut your hair?"
"Six months ago. I- well. Someone dumped me, and, uh, you
know. Sort of, well, symbolic, I suppose."
"Yeah... I nearly did it. When. When my mother..."
"That must have been terrible."
Kirsty smiled weakly. "It was. I didn`t... I couldn`t. Oh,
god, I hope it never happens to you."
Their mother smiled. "I hope so too. I`d rather stay alive
for a bit, I think." The two Kirstys smiled, grinning almost.
"We`ve got a lot to talk about, haven`t we?" said Kirsty.
"Yeah," said her double. No, her sister. "But, you know what?"
"What?"
"I could do with a cup of tea."
"Good idea."
"Look, wot`s this all about, guv?"
"Don`t worry about it. Just put the helmet on, okay?"
Bicycle Repair Lad shrugged, and placed the Kirbytech helmet
on his head.
"So...?" said Andrew to Kid Kirby.
"Give it a few moments," replied the Kirbian. "Hypnosis is
never instantaneous." A few moments passed. A light flashed on a
complex console. "...Ah."
"What?"
"Someone has been here before us. Some evil force has already
toyed with this hero`s mind, enslaving him to it`s will."
"Any idea who?"
"I`m afraid not."
"Well... at least he`s innocent."
"Yes. It is good that it is so."
"Innocent of what, guv?"
Andrew sighed. "Look, have a biscuit, come down to the
cafeteria, and I`ll explain..."
Vicky pressed "s" on the keyboard, and a message was sent. It
had taken two days; but it was done. The story. How she came to
be. Everything. Sent straight to Tourniquet.
She breathed deeply. Such an intense thing, writing... she was
exhausted, but... felt lighter, somehow. Worried, still, about what
Tourniquet would think, but. It felt better. What now?
She could go and see Tourniquet... no. Better leave it for a
bit. She didn`t want to press her, seem to eager... Tourniquet was
doing her a favour. She might not if Vicky seemed to anxious, too
annoying.
So... why not go out? It occured to Vicky that, apart from
missions and the warehouse, she hadn`t been outside for weeks. Yes,
change into Green Trenchcoat and fly about town a bit. Head into the
country, even. Yes. Definitely a good idea.
The receptionist was definitely surprised when Green
Trenchcoat strode, almost sheerfully, through the front door, saying
that he would be back later, and then leaping into the air. The air
was relatively clean, though he began to think about maybe starting a
campaign to get it cleaned up a little; the city lay below, a grid
laid upon the clean earth, thrown down by machines and men... yes, the
countryside would be better. Green Trenchcoat flew out, beyond the
city limits, over farmland and wooded patches
He decided to land and get something to eat. There was an
orchard below; apples, he sensed. An apple or two would taste nice. He
glided down amongst the straight rows of trees, plucking an apple from
the branches as he did so, and tasting it; delicious.
He touched the earth. And everything went black.
Dropping the apple, he spun round to see where this blackness
could be coming from. Nothing could be seen, anywhere. And then a
voice behind.
"Green Trenchcoat. My greetings to you." He turned to see.
Acton Lord.
"End these illusions, villian. Now."
"Please... do not be alarmed. I do not wish to hurt you, or
anyone you hold dear. I have another purpose."
"I care not for your purposes."
"For this, you should. Survival, Green Trenchcoat. Survival."
"You fear death? Speak to a priest."
"I fear a death so terrible it would kill us all. You know it
well."
And they were standing in the ruins of Net.ropolis. Another
Net.ropolis. Dead bodies, undecaying, lay in the streets.
"This world is already dead," said Green Trenchcoat.
"But mine yet lives. And I would prefer that it remain that
way."
"Your world is in no danger."
"I fear that you are wrong. We live at the whim of creators,
dabblers making us for their amusement. Children! And who knows when
they will give up their toys?"
"Writers are more responsible than you think."
"Perhaps. But the world they live in may not be. It only takes
something small for them to cease their tales. And we are gone,
forever."
"It cannot happen again. It cannot!"
"And I intend to see that it shall not! I have been monitoring
the newsgroups. There are dangers, of many kinds. Would you prefer to
live always at the whim of a creator? Or to exist free, and know that
you cannot be so carelessly murdered?"
"There is... there is some scheme in this."
"My counterpart on your world died. I... I must admit that I
do not wish to suffer the same fate."
"No. You tell the truth, at least there."
"I need your help."
"I do not trust you."
"You need not. You can search my heart. I am a villain... but
not a suicidal one. And you... you are immune from my power. The earth
spirit is too strong to corrupt."
"What... do you intend?"
"To distance our world from theirs. But I need your help to
give ours the spark of life that will let us live free from our
makers."
"...Perhaps."
"Come to Andale Atoll, if you wish. There are no traps." The
hologram of Acton Lord walked forward, and spoke with sincerity. "I do
not wish this world to die."
And then it all vanished.
Green Trenchcoat considered. Yes... this world could end, as
his own had. Acton Lord was right, in that respect. And he wanted to
stop it? Good. At least someone took the responsibility. But Acton
Lord.... No. Green Trenchcoat didn`t trust him. But it could work.
And his own writer? Pain... pain was all he had ever
caused. It would be better to live without him.
Green Trenchcoat flew once more. To the sea.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
CREDITS:
Written by Paul Hardy
Green Trenchcoat, Leviathan Lass and Demon Boy created by Paul Hardy.
Token Girl created by Lady Johanna Constantine (Tara O`Shea)
Ultimate Ninja created by wReam (Raymond Bingham)
Occultism Kid created by Josh Geurink
Bicycle Repair Lad created by HC61@lafibm.lafayette.edu
Drifter created by David Anastasion
(permission to use given by Eagle (Russ Allbery))
Organic Lass created by Rebecca Drayer
Doctor Bad-Bedside-Manner created by Tick (Peter Milan)
Kid Kirby created by H. Jameel al Khafiz
Acton Lord created by Dave Van Domelen
All characters are copyright and TM their creators.
THANKS TO
Dave, for coming up with the crossover.
Eagle & Badger, for kind mentions.
(And what exactly is this about CAW #3, Badger...?)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
BRITCOM REFERENCE GUIDE
For those of you who didn`t spot all the references in this issue,
here`s a guide which may (or may not) make things a little clearer.
Dad`s Army was a series about a unit of the wartime Home Guard, which
ran for several years in the seventies. The Home Guard was infamous
for being composed of those who were too old, too young, or too shifty
to actually be sent to the war. And Mainwairing is prronounced
Mannering.
Episode Guide (via gopher): sunsite.doc.ic.ac.uk:70/0/public/media/tv/collecti
ons/tardis/uk/comedy/DadsArmy
Bicycle Repair Lad and the minions in the throne room are, of course,
from Monty Python, as is the Colonel. Go to alt.fan.monty-python if
you want to trade in your sanity for some soft cushions.
A home page: http://www.iia.org/~rosenr1/python/
FAQ: /pub/cathouse/humor/british.humour/monty.python/monty.python.faq
The two ill-dressed gentlemen who open the gate of the BBC Television
Centre are Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie, and this scene is nabbed
verbatim from the title sequence of the second series of A Bit of Fry
and Laurie, which was their sketch-based series for the BBC which ran
for three series.
The Prisoner isn`t a comedy (well, not much, anyway), but what the
hell, I like it and I decided to put it in. If you ever get the chance
to visit Portmeirion, where it was filmed, do so, `cos it`s a great
place. More information can be found on alt.tv.prisoner.
FAQ: sunsite.doc.ic.ac.uk:70/0/public/media/tv/collection
s/tardis/uk/drama/PrisonerThe/ThePrisoner.FAQ
The Goon Show was a BBC radio series in the fifties, starring Peter
Sellers, Spike Milligan and Harry Secombe, and was thoroughly
insane. Monty Python later built upon this insanity. For more
information, check out alt.fan.goons.
The FAQ is apparently called the YAQ. A cursory check didn`t find out
where it was stored, but there are rumours of an Australian site
called "Minnie"- which claimed, upon interrogation, that it didn`t exist.
The next scene is from Yes, Prime Minister, a gentle political comedy
of the seventies and eighties starring Paul Eddington as the Right
Honourable Jim Hacker, who becomes Prime Minister by a fluke, and
spends most of his term duelling with the Civil Service, who, not
having to get elected, are the ones who really run things.
Episode Guide (via gopher):sunsite.doc.ic.ac.uk:70/0/public/media/tv/collection
s/tardis/uk/comedy/YesMinister
And then, of course, Rik Mayall in The New Statesman, a truly abusive
and chaotic political show about the most unashamedly, underhandedly
right wing backbencher of them all, Alan B`Stard. In this scene, TV
cameras have just been installed into the House of Commons for the
first time, and B`Stard is taking full advantage of the sudden extra
publicity.
Next is a rather less obvious bit- an episode of The Comic Strip,
called Strike!, in which a playwright writes a screenplay for
Hollywood about the 1984 miner`s strike, which Hollywood turns into an
action movie starring Al Pacino as the union leader, Arthur
Scargill. It gets sillier...
And at the last, Spitting Image, the topical satire programme which
uses latex puppets of ridiculous design to lampoon popular
figures. The comedy is a bit hit and miss, but when it hits, it`s
brilliant.
I think that`s everything. Sorry I couldn`t find more links to
net.stuff (technology defeats me once more :). If you want to find
out more about British comedy, or just happen to have a lot of spare
time on your hands, read alt.comedy.british or look up the BritComedy
Digest at:
WWW: http://www.ora.com.8080/johnl/e-zine-list/zines/britcomedy-digest.html
Gopher: gopher.etext.org: /pub/Zines/BritComedy/
FTP: cathouse.org: /pub/cathouse/humor/british.humour/britcomedy.digest/
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-PENTAGRAMS-
-At the time of writing, I have a cold, I`m knackered, I feel
bloody horrible, and I`ve got to go home to a chilly seaside town in
the middle of Nowhere, Essex in a couple of days... take pity on me! :-)
-But at least I`m getting nice warm feelings from the mailbag
on #4...
Russ Allbery:
-------------
Wow....
It's taking me a few minutes to pull out of that one.
And here I was upset that I left my backpack somewhere so I couldn't read
Robert Jordon's Eye of the World tonight, so I decided to go ahead and read
LOH #4.
And it was better.
That went straight into the file of stuff I read when I need inspiration for
a story. It seems like all I'm writing to you is fan mail 8-). I'm running
out of compliments.
LOH #4 is the kind of story I want to be able to write. The themes are
sweeping, the power levels are in many cases cosmic, and yet it's
fundamentally a story about people. Life, and the way we choose to live it.
I am extremely impressed. Your handling of the writers was very well done.
It occurred to me for a moment that a religious takeover is probably one of
the less likely things that could happen, but it has the advantage of
simplicity in a place where you don't want a digression, and the story is
told so well that I forgot any objections again quickly. Your way of
portraying the relationship between the Net and the stories fits in very
well with the way that I've always envisioned it.
And yet again, you caught me by surprise. It seems like I can often
second-guess many of the stories, but I've never been able to do that with
LOH; the plot keeps taking twists that I never would have expected. The
Dvandom Stranger as the last life was not what I was expecting, nor was I
expecting the loss of the writers to be the cause of the universe's death.
The ending was well-handled...the only thing I went away wishing I knew was
how the fire was kindled (perhaps I missed something...I sort of assumed
Andrew would be able to do it).
-In the HTW for Particle Man, one of the TMBG powers is listed as:
I`ve Got a Match- as yet unspecified flame powers.
-Which was rather handy, really...
Again, the relationship between Andrew and Kirsty is fantastic. The realism
and depth of characterization is truly impressive. You hit every character
perfectly, especially Occultism Kid...with the possible exception of
Sig.Lad. I don't think he would react quite that strongly to Acton Lord; of
course, dvandom would be able to give you more concrete feedback on that.
...
Beyond that, it's an awesome story. The ideas, and the depth to which you
explore them all, was fantastic. I'm going to have to send LOH to various
friends of mine who I've been sending the stuff I write to. I'm anxiously
awaiting the next one.
Wow...writing better than most published paperbacks, piped into my computer
for free. The Net is incredible.
-(Paul embarrassedly wanders off to the bar to buy Eagle a pint...)
H. Jameel al Khafiz:
--------------------
This is good. Damned good. Hell, it may be one of the best stories
I've ever read. You handled Person perfectly.
You must get straight A's on your writing assignments if they're
anywhere near as good as what you've been doing for the LOH.
-If only. Mind you, I`ve shown my LOH stuff to my Creative
Writing tutor (Steve Attridge), and he seems to like it, though he was
terminally confused by bits of it and managed to consume the best part
of a bottle of whisky in the process...
Dave Van Domelen:
-----------------
LOH #4 has inspired me, and perhaps as importantly, inspired Acton Lord.
-And, by turns, inspired me again.
Just another attempt to get you to stop using it's when its should be
used. It gets a bit annoying after a while.
it's = contraction of it is
its = every other case
-Guilty as charged. I humbly apologise and swear to try and
get it write in future (I dunno, the state education system... :)
David Goldfarb:
---------------
I'd been meaning to write before, but hadn't gotten to it until
now..._LOH_ is a great series. You have good characterization, very
nice prose (something often lacking in LNH fiction), and compelling
plots. This latest arc with the death of the LOH's home world has been
very powerful. Please keep writing!
-No fear... but in case the horrors of finals catch up with me
(and by finals, I mean the final exams of my degree), I promise that
the story will be continued, and eventually concluded- there may be
gaps, but there`ll be something after them.
Jeff McCoskey:
--------------
I'm having no luck coming up with a sufficiently exuberant
exclamation. I'm put in mind of the American anti-perspirant Secret:
"Strong enough for a man, but made for a Woman!" Of course, I mean
that in the most flattering sense.
Length or no, your stuff is consistantly excellent. I'm hoping the
xover you allude to is the PULP one (I remember you gearing up for
that way backround Sep-time). Assuming they still fit into your
plans, you've got me looking forward to the 'Hardy' treatment.
Congrats on the Acri-est of phobes. At your disposal, JJMcC
-I`ll be PULPing in about #7 or #8, I hope. All depends how
much coursework I do next term... :)
Chris Gumprich:
---------------
No wonder it took you so long to get it written. That was
DAMNED depressing!
Can't really think of anything else to say. Amazing. Incredible.
Uncanny. Spectacular.
No wonder your characters hate you...
Chris, who couldn't possibly think of something amusing after reading
this. . .
-Neither could I. LOH #4 took a hell of a long time to write,
and afterwards I just felt tired, miserable and pissed off. I didn`t
originally intend to have Andrew and Kirsty react so badly to me; it
just came out as I was writing.
Tick:
-----
Sheesh. Considering that I hang out with Badger all the time, I thought
I knew from dark.
But _that_ was some dark shit.
That was pitch black, in fact.
Sick and twisted. I like it.
-I can make it even darker, if you like... (trust me. You
don`t want this.)
Saxon Brenton:
--------------
Oh happy days, the fourth issue of LOH is out!
The story was thoroughly engrossing, not just because of the
characterisation (which remains solid) but also for the morbidly
fascinating horror of the situation, which was well handled,
especially in the description and pacing departments. I found myself
wondering: where is everybody, how did each character meet his/her/its
(are there any its in the LNH? Does Obscure Trivia Lad count?)
death. Ghoulish, I know, but I suppose that's the result of being so
involved with the characters - they're your friends, and you have to
*know*.
I'd better try to break this down into its separate posts...
-Sorry I can`t print any more of Saxon`s mail- it goes on for
ages, but it`s bloody wonderful. Being an English student myself, I
take the LNH far too seriously as well... but then, we`re in on quite
a new way of writing stories, and what we do now may influence forms
of writing for generations to come. I`m not kidding. (I`m just
pretentious :)
Mongoose:
---------
(Description of Net.ropolis burning deleted)
Wow. Destructive. A *wonderful* text portrayal.
Another good story, though #2 was still my fave. I'm still a bit
confused overprecisely how the Looniverse related to the LOHverse (for
lack of a better name); and what exactly was the situation with the
writers. Then again, the story has enough emotional impact *without*
every mystery being explained, and sometimes mysteries are a good
thing...
-I didn`t really intend any mystery... think of it like this:
The Looniverse is "below" our universe, and the LOHverse is "below a
universe that is parallel to ours. Mind you, since I created that
parallel universe, that makes it "below" ours as well... oh dear, this
is where it starts to get complicated...
Nick Gibbins:
-------------
Phew! (he said, having waded through reams of stuff)
Comments:
Excellent - I'm damned impressed...just how much of this stuff is
there out there, and where can I get it from? (bearing in mind that I
cannot read any alt groups, of course)
[brief pause as I move to my news window and check to see whether or
not I can read rec.arts.comics.creative...I can! Oh frabjous day,
etc...]
I've only got one or two small comments. There seems to be a certain
similarity between the Kirsty of LOH and the Kirsty that we know and
love...is Kirsty aware of this?
[another pause as I look at the headers of the mail]
...or should I say, was Kirsty aware of this before you mailed her the
whole 1600+ lines?
-I think so... she may have forgotten about it by now...
The other major character: Andrew. I believe that this is what is
known in fandom as a 'Maryjane' ("a character which is strangely like
the author(ess), expect that s/he is an extrovert rather than
introvert, 3 inches taller and has never suffered from acne" was I
believe how Maryjanes are described in the 'Newcomers Guide to Filk')
-Well, he`s partially me... and Kirsty is partially me, as
well. And, strangely enough, what Vicky is going through is based on
some things (not _quite_ the same things :) I`ve been through. But
there is the temptation to create an idealised version of yourself as
a WC... the problem with this is that Andrew is the least interesting
of the three characters...
---
-As far as I can tell, this is the title that gets the most
response from the readership (though I do cheat a little with the
preview issues). Thanks to everyone; you`re the reason I keep doing
this stuff. Oh, the egotism... :)
-Oh, yeah, raccies... Well, if Chris Gumprich gets passed
over, I`ll be bloody annoyed. And Tick deserves something for Decibel
Dude and Vigilante Guy. And Mea does for Alt.Ter.Net.Tives. And Saxon
for Limp-Asparagus Lad. And Jaelle for Writers Block Woman. And Jeff
for PULP. And Badger for... hm, maybe that list is a _bit_ long... :)
And a whole bunch of other people my fuzzy brain has misplaced at the
moment... hell, everthing on racc deserves an award... you`re all
bloody mad, the lot of you... And Mario: Don`t despair! That`s _my_
job! :)
-Be seeing you!
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Next issue:
-----------
Oh, er, um... Badger? I think it`s time for that crossover thingy...
Other Stuff:
------------
Still waiting to get hold of the damn hardcopy of The Barnstable
Incident, so the TEB won`t be `till after christmas.
Motorway Madness might get plotted in more detail over xmas. Actually,
I`ve always wanted to do a detective story, so this will probably be
it.
Green Trenchcoat One-Shot: Wanna know what Vicky wrote in that message
to Tourniquet? Hopefully, I`ll be able to write the complete text by
the time I get back...
Malcolm Barnstable/LOH special: On hold `till I get back, I`m afraid.
--
And these are the words of a supposedly literate student of
English Literature at the University of Warwick...
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Paul Hardy - Despair - enubf@csv.warwick.ac.uk
