Sfstory Log 031

=========================================================================
Subject:     Wherein Buzz and the gang are captured
From:        Patrick McCoy (enldc8c at buacca)

     The Rocket Racer V was lowered into the central court of Sherif
the Mad's palace on Schimitar Prime as three legions of the Schimmitarian
Eliete Shock Troops stood with their  Advanced Heat Assault Rifles at the
ready. Sherif the Mad strode out of his personal chambers onto the balcony
overlooking the courtyard as the stasis beams were removed and his enemy's
ship came to a rest. His own son was lowered from his Command Craft on an
anti-grav platform  and took his place at the head of the shock troops.
     "Give yourselves up!" bellowed the young meglomaniac, "There is no
escape!"
     Sherif the Mad smiled proudly at his son's words. "He will make
an excellent universal tyrant, shant he?"
     "Yes, your magesty," responded his chief minister happily as his
own son was sure to succeed him in his position as adviser to Sherif
the Madder.

     "What do we do now, Buzz?" asked Bert, the concerned Fungoid Tetrapod
and sidekick of the Space Commander.
     "There's so much hostility..." murmered Toni weakly as she looked
out the window at the meanacing, black-robed shock troops.
     "Give yourselves up!" bellowed Sherif the Madder to identify where
in time this conversation was taking place relative to the last, "There
is no escape!"
     "Buzz," began Tachi, the Enlightened Zen Master of the Sci-Fi Shotgun.
     "I know," said Buzz, "There's no way we can fight them."
     "So what do we do?" asked Tachi.
     "We leave our weapons in the secret compartment in the armory and
go down the gangplank."
     "But won't they expect you to wear some type of weapon?" asked Bert
as they descended the ladder towards the gangplank.
     "Yes," he responded, "but I'm not giving up these weapons. I'll
grab a DIESCUM pistol and vibrosabre. They can take them."
     "Buzz, isn't the DIESCUM more powerful than your Ray Gun?" asked
Tachi who made it a point to know things about weaponry.
     "Yes," Buzz responded with some distain, "but I prefer the Ray Gun.
It feels right."
     "If it feels right, then use it," responded Tachi emphatically.
     "Are both of you crazy?" asked Toni weakly, "If it's a better..."
     "But it isn't better," cut in Buzz as they reached the armory and
he began collecting weapons, "Granted, it's more powerful, carries a
bigger clip, and is more accurate, but the Ray Gun is far more dependable."
     "You can't be serious," responded Toni who was not herself as
she was still suffering from her straining herself psychically.
     "Think of it this way," explained Buzz as he strapped on the other
weapons, "it's like my carrying a Colt Peacekeeper on Earth while most
while most others carry a 9mm Parabellum."
     "Huh?" responded Toni, who didn't know all that much about guns.
     "Never mind," Buzz responded, kissing her on the forehead, "Just
nod your head and say 'OK, Buzz.' Humoring me is easier than figureing
it out."
      "OK, Buzz" she said smiling weakly.
     "I'll go first," Buzz said as he pushed the button to lower the
gangplank, "Just in case."
     "Just in case of what?" asked Bert.
     "Just...in case," responded Buzz as he tried to think of something.
     "Just humor him, Bert," Toni said smiling mischeviously, "It's
easier."
     Buzz glanced back and threw Toni a dirty look before beginning
down the gangplank.

     The Schimmitarian Shock Troops readied their weapons as Buzz stepped
into the light. He walked down the gangplank as his companions followed.
Sherif the Madder met him at the bottom and took his weapons.
     "At last, you are brought to justice."
     "If that's what you want to call it," responded Buzz in his defiant
heroic tone.
     Sherif the Madder sneered.
     "I can see the resemblance," Buzz said insultingly.
     "Flattery will get you nowhere, Space Commander," Sherif responded,
missing the insult completely. "And who have you brought with you?" he
continued as his eyes fell on the beautifuil young psychic.
     "No one of your concern," responded Bert in as he attempted to place
himself between Toni and the Mad Arab.
     Buzz noded approvingly ad Sherif the Madder walked around to get
a better look at Bert.
     "Where did you find the four-legged mushroom, Space Commander?" Sherif
asked in a condescending tone.
     "At least we fungi live above rocks," retorted Bert who was beginning
to get the hang of things.
     He quickly lost the hang of things, as well as consciousness, when
a Shock Trooper slammed his rifle butt on the back of Bert's head. Toni
started to move to Bert's side, but Sherif caught her chin so as to
look at her.
     "A delacate flower," he said smiling dangerously, "I wonder if she
could bloom in the desert..." his hand moved up Toni's waist and grabbed
her IU Sweatshirt collar as he move to tear it.
     Before he could do so, Tachi struck with a martial art punch at his
head level. Unfortunately for Sherif, Tachi is 3' 2" tall and, thus, the
blow fell somewhat lower.
     "Enough!" bellowed Sherif the Mad with apparent disgust, "Take the
males to the pit in the third court and bring the girl to the harem room.
Son, come to my chambers."
     Sherif the Madder drew a menacing looking dagger. "Let me kill he
who struck me, father!" he screamed in a high, winded voice.
     "No," Sherif the Mad responded, "If I've told you once I've told
you a million times that such behavior is not acceptable public behavior.
You must control yourself and wait until you are alone in your rooms.
Then, you may do with a woman as you wish. Perhaps this will teach you."

          **************************************************
          * Garglevanx Oolant's Pocket Guide to Hyperpotent*
          * Beings indicates that the life forms known as  *
          * Authors live in constant dread of attacks on   *
          * their person by beings almost as powerful as   *
          * themselves commonly known as Proofreaders due  *
          * to what is considered sexist writing. Such     *
          * attacks often take the form of dictionaries    *
          * being thrown at the Author's head.
          *     While many of these Authors have been      *
          * labled insensitive (aka The Cowboy) to this and*
          * therefore have been rendered nearly immune to  *
          * such attacks, a survey is currently being      *
          * conducted to determine if there is rampant     *
          * sexism in SFStory. The results of this, however*
          * are still out.                                 *
          *     It also remains to be seen if the addition *
          * of a FEMALE Author will alter the ballance any.*
          **************************************************

     Meanwhile, Buzz, Bert, and Tachi had been thrown into a pit and
Toni was dragged off to the harem for re-outfitting.
     "I'm sure you remember this pit, Space Commander," shouted the
aging ruler of Schimmitar Prime, "The sharks have not yet arrived,
but I hope you'll wait for them."
     "I wouldn't want to come this far and not see them again," Buzz
returned.
     "I've added a few more people to keep you company while you wait,"
Sherif continued, "It was so rude of me to have only two last time."
     "Think nothing of it," responded Buzz as he helped Bert to his
feet.
     "In the meantime," Sherif said smiling, "My son and I must go and
entertain your charming young companion."
     "You lay one hand on her and I won't forget to kill you this time,"
Buzz growled.
     "That's better," Sherif said smiling, "I thought I'd lost my touch."
     "I guess I got carried away, huh?" asked Bert as Sherif swept out
of view.
     "No," responded Buzz as he examined the pit, "You always get clubbed
when you do that."
     "How do we get away this time?" asked Tachi, "There are 20 guards.
I don't think what you did before will work."
     "We'll think of something," responded Buzz with feighned cheerfulness.

 ****************************EPILOGUE********************************
     Meanwhile, in Altiverse #233donttryitauthorsonly, Pat McCoy (that's
me) looked about warrily as he skimmed dead leaves off the pool.

     *NI* Hi, Pat! *NI*

     The beforementioned author dove for cover behind a lawn chair.

     *NI* What's wrong, Pat? *NI*
     ++ Dr. Young. I wrote some rather sexist stuff this time in an
attempt to advance my plot so we can end the Dvax5 megaplot and to
try to scare her out of the woodwork. ++
     *NI* Why? *NI*
     ++ I haven't heard from her in some time. ++
     |-}------- Hi, guys! -------{-|

     Pat, again, dove for cover.

     |-}------- Relax. We haven't heard a peep out of Dr. Young, or anyone
else for that matter, in some time. -------{-|
     ++ I know, that's what scares me... ++

SHOULD IT SCARE ME???
SHOULD THE PROOFREADERS MAKE THEMSELVES HEARD AGAIN???
HAVE YOU FILLED OUT THE SFSTORY QUESTIONARRE YET???

If no, why not? It's safe, fast, and easy. So, to quote Martin
Mull, don't you. "It's what you look for in a date, isn't it?"
(If that doesn't get the proofreaders, I don't know what will...)

***** Appended 06:32:34 on 10/10/88, Posting #    33 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     Battle in Netherspace
From:        The Cowboy (CFW9587 at TNTECH)

Angorax, the 20-feet tall crimson-colored ex-librarian-turned-Demon stalked
towards Club Nympho.  His ship, the DMS Oxide, lay hidden in the brush behind
him.  He casually conjured up a pair of sure-as-Hell disruptors and proceeded
to vaporize the nearest group of nymphos.  However, one of the nymphos, whose
partner was particularly untalented and did not trim his fingernails often
enough, happened to notice this, kick her lover into the line of fire, and run
like hell towards the club.

By the time she had notified St. Peter and the rest of the gang inside Club
Nympho, Angorax had frightened off the rest of the nymphos and was strutting
towards the front door.  He laughed hysterically as St. Peter, the owner of the
establishment and head bouncer of Heaven, and Time Agent 357 appeared to block
his way.

Inside, Doctor Bing Von Spleen and The Cowboy worked feverishly to finish the
modifications to the HMS Golden Lance's Temporal Teleporter Terminal which
would allow the Cowboy to leave SFSTORY.  Modifications completed, they boarded
the HMS GL and prepared to fly out of the lab and help with the fight against
Angorax.

They didn't notice that Angorax had sealed the bay doors shut on his way down
out of orbit.  The resulting crash, the sound of which resembled remarkably
that of a freight train hitting a gravel truck, rendered the Golden Lance
unflyable, gave its VAL9000 computer a bad case of PMS, and scrapped all the
modifications that were mentioned in the preceding paragraph.

Outside, St. Peter and Time Agent 357 had their hands full.  357 sent blast
after blast from his telechronal displacement pistol towards Angorax, who
simply absorbed them without effect.  Angorax was currently ignoring 357, and
instead was sending occasional low-power blasts towards St. Peter, amused at
how he teleported to avoid them.  St. Peter's blasts of energy did not seem to
bother Angorax, though the resulting craters did slow his forward progress.

"We're in deep shit!" shouted 356 as he dove to avoid what appeared to be a
swarm of bees, except that they were white-hot and gigavolt electric discharges
arced between them.

"I know!  I know!" yelled St. Peter, as his tattered, yet immortal, body barely
avoided another blast.  He cursed as the Cowboy and Dr. Spleen ran out of the
building and began to fire at Angorax.  "What are you doing here?"

"He stole my pills," complained Spleen.

"We trashed the Golden Lance," explained the Cowboy.  "Since I couldn't get
away, I figured I'd help."  He pulled a bottle of pills from his pocket and
threw them towards Angorax.  "And this was the only way I could get the good
Doctor to help."

357 set his telechronal displacement pistoil on "super-ridiculous-overload
that's-sure-to-do-in-the-bad-dude" and chucked it at Angorax.  He was only
slightly surpised when Angorax caught it one-handed and swallowed it.  Angorax
appeared only slightly distressed when the pistol overloaded five seconds
later, sending him 2 minutes into the future.

"Okay," said 357.  "We've got about two minutes before we catch up with him.
I'm fresh out of ideas.  Anybody got a plan?"

"'Fraid not," said St. Peter.  "We're too far away from Heaven for me to summon
Divine Aid.  And if I did, I'd be violating the Jeff Smith Accord.  And as long
as we're going to die anyway, call me Pete."

"Er, thanks, Pete," mumbled 357.  "What about you, Cowboy?  You're a copy of
an author."

"Man," said the Cowboy.  "On the other side of the screen, it looks so easy."

"Don't look at me," whined Doctor Spleen.  "You're the hero type."

"There's got to be a way to get out of Netherspace in a hurry," said the
Cowboy.  "I remember reading about it, but I just can't recall."

"Of course!" shouted Spleen, slapping his head in the precise way that
people in V-8 commercials do.  "Just go through that green door over there."

"What green door?" said everyone else.  Everyone else's jaws dropped as they
noticed a green wooden door floating in space a few feet away.

"Good," said Cowboy.  "Where does it go?"

"It's always diferent," said Spleen.  "You never know where.  Usually, it
ends up being the one place you don't want to be, but since right now this
is the place you don't want to be..."

Angorax appeared, right on time.  He seemed refreshed.  Actually, he was
refreshed, as his two minute trip to the future had taken him several days,
most of which he had spent sleeping.  He summoned a fresh arsenal and was
preparing to fire when he saw the Cowboy leap through the green door.
Disregarding the others, he leapt in after him.

-----------------------------

In alterverse 8891, the Cowboy arrived, followed shortly by Angorax.  Or at
least, what used to be Angorax.  Angorax looked about him and screamed.

"What's the matter with you?" asked Cowboy, noticing that Angorax was no
longer a huge, fierce demon, but was rather a small, timid librarian.

Several policemen came charging through the door.  "Angorax, you're under
arrest for violating your exile," growled the largest one.  "Now who are
you?" he asked, pointing towards the Cowboy.

But the Cowboy had already slipped out the back door, and was heading towards
a bar he had just spotted.

IS MY WRITING SEXIST AND DOES ANYBODY CARE?
AM I AS INSENSITIVE AS THEY SAY?
WHO IS THIS GOD PERSON ANYWAY?
WHY HAVEN'T YOU SENT IN YOUR ANSWERS TO THE SFSTORY QUESTIONAIRE YET?

Don't tell me, tell it to Scott.  It's his questionaire.

***** Appended 06:05:55 on 10/11/88, Posting #    34 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     After the battle
From:        The Cowboy (CFW9587 at TNTECH)

=Oh, my aching transistors,= complained Val, the HMS Golden Lance's VAL9000
computer.  =I want to go home.=

"We can't go home," explained Time Agent 357.  "We destroyed alterverse 721
last summer."

=Waaaahhhhh!= cried Val, who was a very emotional (and at this particular
moment, PMS-ed out) computer.

"Can't you keep her quiet?" asked Dr. Spleen, whose post-battle binge had
left him strung out like yesterday's wash.

"I think it's time for a vacation," muttered 357.  "Val and I are heading
off for greener pastures.  Anyone care to join us?"

"Sorry," said St. Peter.  "I have to check in at Heaven."

"And with him gone," said Spleen, "I have to keep an eye on things here."
At least, he thought to himself, until that blonde nymphette over there
checks out of Hotel Nympho.

"As you wish," said 357 as he climbed into the Golden Lance.  "I'm heading
by Time Central to put in for a vacation, then I'm off."

The HMS Golden Lance took off in a technicolor display of raw energy,
chromatic disturbances, and Spam residue.  Almost casually, it fired several
blasts into Angorax's ship, the DMS Oxide (Demonically Manned Ship or
DiMethylSulph) and destroyed it.  The resulting radiation released by this
blast caused a minor mutation in the nymphos within two miles, causing all
children born for the next twelve years to have dark hair and brown eyes,
which caused many a nymphette to wonder just who she'd been sleeping with on
that night.

But I digress.

-----------------------------

In Heaven, St. Peter appeared.  He noticed the rather long line in front of
the Pearly Gates.  With a sigh, he took his place and began to process new
arrivals.  He noticed that many of them were previous inhabitants of the
Netherspace Nympho Beach who had been killed in the recent battle.  He
smiled wryly as he realized this disproved many televangelists opinions of
sexual activity versus admittance into Heaven.  "Next."

"Wow," said the next man, as it was physically impossible to look upon the
splendor of the Pearly Gates for the first time without saying "Wow."
"Wow," he said again.  "This is Heaven, right?"

"Brilliant, Sherlock," answered St. Peter.  "What was your first clue?"

"The clouds, I think."

"Yeah," mumbled Peter.  Another one of those days.  "Name?"

"Yes," answered the man seriously.

"What is it?"

"What's what?"

"Your name."

"My name's a who, not a what.  And another thi-  AAAAIIIIEEEE!!!!!"  The man
was not the first to miss out on eternal happiness due to stupidity.  It was
unlikely he would be the last.  As his time limit expired, he was dragged
down to the depths of Hell, which isn't really as bad as they say, except on
weekends when the tourists are around.

DID THIS LAST ENTRY MAKE ANY SENSE WHATSOEVER?
WHAT WILL 357 FIND ON HIS VACATION?
WILL DOCTOR SPLEEN KEEP AN EYE ON THINGS?
OR WILL HE GO FOR THE BLONDE?
GO FOR THE BLONDE, DOCTOR!  GO FOR THE BLONDE!
AM I GETTING SEXIST AGAIN?

Maybe, but I haven't heard from Dr. Young in a long time, so I'm not
worrying about it.

***** Appended 16:50:18 on 10/11/88, Posting #    35 *****
=========================================================================
From:        John Sullivan (JSULLIV at VTVM1)

     In which, totally unaware of any germane events in Parts Unknown
Texas, Norm and Ron form a splinter group of the AOEDWOSTWDLCAPWHP and
unwittingly do something that their ship is really going to hate once
the full effects are realized.

     "Therefore," said Norman, standing proudly before the bow/hood
of the newly completed U.S.S. Omegas (NCC  Tami-89), "by the
authority vested in me by this yellow shirt, I declare the existence
of the Association of Extremely Dedicated Watchers of Star Trek Who
Have a Real Ship, Unlike Some People We Know (AOEDWOSTWHARSUSPWK),
myself as First Fleet Admiral, and you Ronald, as Science Officer and
crew.  I also hereby dedicate the U.S.S. Omegas to her five year
mission."
     With this he pulled a dirty glass bottle from behind his back and
smashed it across the ship's left front fender.
     "Ow!  Damn!" swore the ship.  "What the hell was THAT little
stunt about?"
     "I thought we should dedicate the ship," said Norman.
     "Well next time give me a little warning okay?  What was that shit?"
     Norman and Ronald looked at the fender where a brownish liquid with
flecks of what looked like lapis lazuli with a rainbow oil slick sheen
was slowly bubbling and spreading across the hood.
     "It's taking the paint off," said Norman.  "Where'd you find it?"
     Ronald looked nervous.  "Well the bottle was just lying around, but
you can't just use an empty bottle, so I scooped up that stuff from a
barrel I found over by that army surplus lab stuff we used for the time
base correction unit in the transporters."
     "Well whatever it is, it's spreading over the whole ship."
     "I kind of like it.  It looks like metalflake."
     "I feel funny," said Omegas.

     The dedication ceremony over, they climbed into the car, Norman
in the driver's seat.  It had occurred to him that driving was really
something for peons like Ronald to do - admirals just sat back and
gave orders.  But there were only two of them and two seats with the
warp machinery filling up the back seat and cargo area.  Not driving
would have meant letting Ronald do it and Norman might have been totally
devoid of social skills, but he wasn't stupid.  Well, he wasn't THAT
stupid.  He turned the ignition key and the car began to hum smoothly.

     "Okay, put on your seatbelt," said Norman, "Smart people wear their
seatbelts.  People who don't wear their seatbelts are uncool weenies."
     "I don't understand it," said Ronald, "why would anyone do that to
themselves?  I mean destroy their bodies just to not wear a seatbelt?"
   They both put on their seatbelts and looked smugly at each other.

   "What's with you two?" asked Omegas.
   "I don't know," said Norman, shaking his head.  "For a minute there
it was as if we were on televison and had to put a message to the kiddies
in so we could show it to people who got mad at us for blowing some guy's
head off with a phaser in prime time."
   "Creepy," said Ronald.
   "Well, anytime you're ready to go..."
   "Okay."  Norman gripped the wheel and began to depress the accelerator
"Ahead one quarter impulse power."
   Its tires screaming, the Pinto blasted out of the junkyard, smashing
through a ten foot chain link gate topped with barbed wire and tossing
the pieces across the road outside.  Norman stood on the brake and
swerved hard to the right and the Omegas fishtailed through a ninety
degree turn and shot down highway 126 toward the city, laying a trail of
burnt rubber for 8.3 miles.  With every curve of the road the lateral
acceleration threw them violently against the appropriate door panels and
would have thrown them from their seats if there had been anywhere to go.
     "Neat," shouted Ronald over the scream of the anti-matter converter
under the hood.  "Just like the Enterprise!"

     Once they hit town Norman began searching for the AOEDWOSTWDLCAPWHP.
They started at the park and then blasted down Bourbon street, scattering
tourists and a ragtime funeral as they went.  "Computer," said Norman, as
the Omegas screamed around a corner at eighty, "sensor scan.  Locate the
High Spock."
    "The what?"
    "Hey, a girl just waved at me!" said Ronald.
    "Trust me, its the car," snapped Omegas.  "What the hell is a High
Spock, and what makes you think I should have any interest whatsoever
in finding it?"
    "He's the leader of the Association of Extremely Dedicated Watchers
of Star Trek Who Dre"
    "Would he be surrounded by a group of people dressed with the same
flare as yourselves?  The same spirit, that essential joie de vivre
that you two so delightfully embody?"
    "Uh, he might."
    "Well then sensors detect a High Spock off the starboard bow."
    The High Spock and the rest of the group were indeed there, farther
up the street.  They were eating on the patio of a McDonalds, except for
two members of security who were in the parking lot being badly beaten
by a skateboard gang of twelve year olds.
    Norman brought the Omegas to a stop in the parking lot, causing the
twelve year olds to reconsider.  They backed away from the two security
members and cautiously retrieved their skateboards.
    "No, no, no!" said Norman, "Go ahead.  I just want to talk to those
other guys over there."
   The gang happily returned to beating the security team into ill
health, and Norman and Ronald got out.
   "Gee look, First Officer Ronald," Norman said, as if just noticing
the others, "Its the Association of Extremely Dedicated Watchers of
Star Trek Who Dress Like Crew and Pretend We Have Phasers."
     "Who?  I've never heard of them!" said Ronald after Norman gave
him a quick elbow to the ribs.
    "Not surprising.  They were a real illogical splinter group of
The Extremely Dedicated Watchers of Star Trek Who Have a Real Ship
Unlike Some People We Know.  They never got anywhere and they smell
real funny."
    This was perhaps the worst thing that a Star Trek fan could say
to another Star Trek fan and the entire AOEDWOSTWDLCAPWHP rose as a
man (albeit a rather pudgy and ineffective one) and charged the
Omegas.
    As the AOEDWOSTWDLCAPWHP charged across the parking lot, Ronald
and Norman got back into the car and fastened their seatbelts with
another feeling of smug satisfaction.
     "Watch this, Mr. Second Most Logical Man in the Universe!"
shouted Norman.  "Stand by for warp speed!"
     "Goodie!" chortled Ronald.
     "Warp speed my ass!" shouted the High Spock.
     "About damn time," muttered Omegas.
     Just as the High Spock, panting and near the point of collapse,
reached the Pinto, said "What's with this paint job?" and fell down,
Norman popped the clutch and shifted into warp 1.

     The events of the next fraction of a second were quite complex.
The Omegas shot forward at something considerably greater than the
speed of light straight toward the drive thru window.  Fortunately
at warp engagement plus .00003 seconds it hit a speed bump which gave
it a very slight upward vector.  It cleared the roof of the McDonalds
by less than 3 inches at warp plus .000038 seconds and continued on
in a relatively straight line out over the Gulf of Mexico, the South
Atlantic and left atmosphere somewhere over western Africa at warp
plus .3 seconds.   The shockwave generated by its passage was more
than enough to hurl the skateboarders, the AOEDWOSTWDLCAPWHP, the
McDonalds and all of the surrounding block a considerable distance in
a variety of directions.  At warp plus .96 seconds, a small thunderclap
occurred as the hole left by the near instantaneous removal of the
Omegas was filled by inrushing air.   Battered into unconsciousness
and dispersed over something more than a square mile, the members of
the AOEDWOSTWDLCAPWHP did not hear it.

     From the point of view of the first trekkies in orbit, all that
happened was that they had suddenly gone from the McDonalds parking
lot to deep space, and the ship's cabin pressure was rapidly leaking
out the driver's side window, which Norman had neglected to close.
(There was also a sudden cry of glee from the ship itself, but amid
the rush to get the window closed, it too was not heard.)
     "Well," said Norman.  "I guess that takes care of them."
     "Yeah," said Ronald, who, to his credit was a little surprised
that they had actually pulled this off.  "Wow."
     "Okay.  Let's get to business.  Computer, set course for the
Romulan neutral zone."

     The Pinto slowly tumbled, giving them an excellent view of the
Indian Ocean through the main windshield.

     "Computer?"

    "Mr. Compuuuuuuuuuterrrrrrrrrrr? Where aaaaaaaarrrrrrrree  you?"

    "Uh, Mr. Omegas?"

    "Uh,....... sir?"

    Fade to black and run closing credits for episode 1.  On the
soundtrack we continue to hear:

    "Hello?   Hello in there....."
    Sound of someone knocking tentatively on a dashboard.
    "Are you in there, Mr. Omegas?"
    Knocking - more insistent this time.
    Ronald (Voice over)   I think we're in trouble.
    Norman (Voice over)   Shut up, Ronald.

                         FADE

***** Appended 17:56:20 on 10/11/88, Posting #    36 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     The Return Of Omegas
From:        The Cowboy (CFW9587 at TNTECH)

Omegas, once God's most streetwise henchman and now a free-roaming source of
confusion, choas, and White Mountain Wild Rasberry Coolers, materialized on
a desserted planet.  "Free at last," he mumbled for no reason in particular.

Actually, he had several particular reasons for mumbling that.  The most
important one was that he *was* free, and not molecularly bonded to the atoms
of a '78 Pinto.  As the Pinto had acheived low Earth orbit, he had been able
to draw upon the energy of cosmic rays and teleport himself away.  The Pinto
he left behind, and laughed heartily at the thought of the two Extremely
Dedicated Watchers of Star Trek who were probably still inside.  Unless, of
course, they were stupid enough to try to get out and push.

Omegas, still laughing, stepped on a chocolate sundae, proving that the author
did not mistype in the first paragraph and that this was a desserted planet,
as opposed to a deserted one.  Omegas swore rather heavily as he skidded down
the chocolate syrup and came to rest in a pile of whipped cream.  Balancing
precariously on a giant moon pie, he attempted to brush the gunk off his
leather jacket.

After several minutes of brushing, he realized that it wasn't just dessert that
was stuck to his body.  Omegas suddenly realized that he was covered from head
to toe with a metallic flake paint-like substance, very similar to the one that
had covered the Pinto.  Since Omegas had recently *been* the Pinto, he decided
it was the same stuff.  What had that kid said?  He picked it up out of an oil
drum or something.  Oh well.  I can't hurt me.

Omegas attempted to teleport away, this time very carefully setting his
co-ordinates.  Nothing happened.  Damn, he thought.  Am I powerless again?  To
test his only recently recovered powers, he melted a small mountain of ice
cream off to his left.  Confident he still retained his powers, he attempted to
teleport again.  Once again, nothing happened.  He tried again, and this time
noticed that he was feeling slightly feverish.

Omegas continued his attempts until his jacket began to smoke and his ray-bans
had melted from his face.  Not good, he thought as he pulled the molten plastic
from his mouth.  Testing his powers once again, he fried a nearby banana split
and levitated a few inches above the ground.

All seemed lost when he remembered the two devices he had stolen long ago.
Safe in his jacket pocket, they should be safe.  Carefully, he removed the
mini-ABPSAR he had stolen from Doctor Spleen and the mini-timetraveller he had
stolen from Time Chief Logan from his jacket.  He cursed mightily when he saw
that they were covered with the same metallic flake he was.

Where did the strange metallic paint come from?  Well journey with me, gentle
reader, back to the early days of SFSTORY, back before the CSNEWS gods got
underline happy and changed the name.  Back to the days when Omegas still
worked for the good guys.  Long time readers may remember Omegas having a
run-in with Doctor Bing Von Spleen on the planet Earth.  The run-in isn't
important, but what is important is that while Doctor Spleen was coming down
(out of orbit, that is) he jettisoned several pieces of very complicated
machinery in order to striaghten up his (stolen) ship.  Any engineer would
have given his eye teeth for some of that stuff, but by some unlucky
coincidence it landed in a junkyard.

Not just any junkyard, mind you, but a junkyard near New Orleans, within 40
feet of where Omegas would materialize some two years later.  There, it landed
in an oil drum where it was mixed with various industial wastes which broke it
down into a metallic paint, which Ronald put in an old bottle which had
previously contained Diet Pepsi, which is one of the most toxic and dangerous
of all substances, almost as bad as Tab with calcium added.

What does all that mean?  It means that if you're covered from head to toe with
metallic paint you'd better not try to teleport or you'll cook yourself, and
any pieces of helpful technology you may have on you are going to be useless
until that stuff is removed.

But I regress.

***** Appended 19:12:34 on 10/12/88, Posting #    38 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     An aside
From:        Scott McGuire (89SGM at WILLIAMS)

He sat in a lawn chair next to a pool full of fallen leaves, more of which
joined the pool each minute as the breeze blew through the turning foliage.
He had blond hair and was dressed in an outfit vaguely reminiscent of a
cricket outfit (and thus equally reminiscent of the fifth Doctor Who's
outfit).  He was scrawling on a legal pad with a pencil.  He looked up at
the red giant sun setting on the horizon, giving the whole place a rather
eerie, very-late-into-twilight look.  He decided that red sun had to go.

Suddenly, three new stars appeared overhead, one yellow one, a kind of red
one, and a small blue dwarf.  The lighting was instantly better and less
depressing.

"Hey!" someone else shouted, another young humanoid wearing a Celtic cross.
"Who did that?"

"I did," the first said from the lawn chair.  He was Scott McGuire, and he
was in altiverse #233, the altiverse of SF_STORY authors.

"Ask us next time, I kind of liked the red sun," Pat McCoy (wearer of the
Celtic cross) said.

"Sorry, Pat," Scott replied, and the red giant star came back.

"Thanks," Pat said, and he went back to reading his textbook.  All of the
authors were there somewhere, but most of the seemed holed up with their
schoolwork, or banging their heads against trees trying to think of new
plots, or something instead of writing.  Scott was no exception; his
"Introduction to Chaotical Dynamic Systems" was propping up one of the lawn
chair's legs.  Actually, Dr. Young was conspicuously absent, but since no
one could reach her, it was assumed she had gone to that faraway altiverse,
Sabbatical.

Scott looked up and decided it was time for a literary device that was
rarely used in SF_STORY - an aside soliloquy.  He looked out at the reading
audience and said:

"I think that I'll drop the adventures of Dark Lord Brigoni from SF_STORY.
He's not terribly related to the whole thing, and he's rather serious, and
besides, we haven't heard from him for four weeks.  It's bad enough trying
to keep up with Satan and G.X.P.  I hope the reading audience won't mind
too much; if it will make them feel better, I'll let them know that I do
intend to finish the Brigoni story independently, maybe for my sci-fi
writing course or something, and they could e-mail if they wanted a copy of
it.  Or, if there was a huge public outcry (although considering the
response to the questionnaire, I doubt there will be), I could bring him
back.  But unless that, no more Dark Lord Brigoni, J'lean Imperium, or
R'nthrei Movement plotline."

Scott nodded, coming to some deep understanding as people who speak
soliloquies so often do, and ignored the sarcastic hand clapping of the
other authors.

He went back to his legal pad, gnawed on the celery stalk on his lapel, and
made a blue dwarf star appear in the sky anyway.  It winked out.  In
response, Scott conjured two dwarf stars.  They were replaced with another
red giant.  Scott replaced them with ten yellow G-type stars.  Seven red
giants followed them.  Another of the authors threw in a few neutron stars.
Scott brought in white and blue dwarfs...  This continued for some time.

------------

Is Altiverse #233 in need of redecoration?
Should I be worried that my spelling checker suggested "mazurka"
  for "McGuire"?
Maybe not, because it also suggested it for "McCoy"?
But "G-string" for G.X.P.?

Find out... only in SF_STORY!

***** Appended 12:56:28 on 10/17/88, Posting #    39 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     Wherein Toni is dealt with...
From:        Patrick McCoy (enldc8c at buacca)

     Toni awoke in a cool room lying on a rug before a fountain. As she
slowly opened her eyes, she saw several women wandering about in skimpy
arabian dancing girl costumes lounging about. They whispered and giggled
as they looked at Toni. In the corner, a blind boy played what looked like
a lute. Several unics stood about the room with an air of indiference.
     "Thank God I'm not dressed like that," Toni said as she compared
herself, physically and mentally, to those around her. She was confident
that she was superior to all in both regards.
     It was about this time that Toni noticed that she was, again, dressed
in a skimpy, revealing outfit.
     "Why is it that all females in Sci-Fi stories seem to get stuck
in revealing silken outfits for the twisted pleasure of some sadistic
imperial-type?"
     Toni thought of calling on her vast Psi-abilities to try to determine
the answer, but decided she really didn't want to know.
     That was when she realized that she no longer ached all over.
     "My psi-ability is back..." she whispered to herself.
     "Ready yourselves, girls," bellowed a matron who, without Toni's
telepathic ability, would have made no sense to anyone but the author and
the other harem girls, "Their royal highnesses's minister of debauchery
will be coming to chose their consorts for the evening.

          **************************************************
          * Garglevax Oolant's Pocket Guide to Schimmitar  *
          * Prime states that the Minister of Debauchery is*
          * one of the most sought after positions in the  *
          * government. The reasons why this is are unclear*
          * as it is one of the lowest paid posts in the   *
          * government and is primarily a research position*
          * with an average sized endowment. While this    *
          * post is traditionally held by a lesser prince, *
          * it has been awarded to several heroes of the   *
          * planet.                                        *
          **************************************************

     A large, imposing man walked into the room cleaning what appeared
to be whipped cream off his left elbow. He slowly surveyed the room with
the care of a connisuer. He nodded and made appreciative sounds as he looked
over the harem.
     Then he saw Toni.
     "May the Gods be praised..." he murmered in awe.
     Meanwhile, somewhere in Hell, Vanessa, the High Succubus of Hell,
became very offended that her work was confused with God and sent one of
her better Succubi, Rowena the Well-Endowed, to Schimmitar Prime where
she later infected the Minister of Debauchery with a greusome and painful
rotting disease which shant be gone into due to the *sensitive* nature of
the topic.
     But that's another story...
     Toni and another of the harem girls were taken to the antechamber of
Sherif the Mad's debauchery room and general office where they were
instructed to wait. Toni listened to what was going on in the next room as
her companion primped herself.
     "Why are you doing that?" she asked her companion as she readied to
use her astral form to spy on the Mad and the Madder.
     "If you don't fight, you aren't hurt as much..." she responded matter-
of-factly.
     Toni grit her teeth as she expanded her senses and saw into the
room.
     "...and that's how we can gain control of the Destructionvax5 sattelite
and the destruction accounts attached to it," finished the cheif minister.
     Toni looked onto the table and saw the blueprints of the Destructionvax5
Sattelite.
     "With this, we can gain control of the Universe," muttered Sherif the
Madder.
     "Very true, my son. There are more important things to deal with now,
however." Sherif the Mad turned to the antechamber. "Bring them to me, my
son, but teach them their place first and make sure the new one is worthy of
my touch."
     Sherif the Madder approached slowly and meanacingly. "There's no one
to defend you this time!"
     Sherif the Mad gripped his head and slumped to the ground making a
gurgling noise. "I can do quite well myself, thank you," Toni responded
assuming a defensive stance. "I was going to mind fry all three of you,
she said as the chief minister went flying across the room and into a
wall, "but I want to take care of you personally."
     Sherif the Madder pulled out a long, meanacing knife. "Come and
get me."

WILL SHE COME AND GET HIM?
IS THIS ENOUGH OF A CLIFFHANGER?
WHERE IS DR. YOUNG AND THE REST OF THE SEXIST PATROL WHEN YOU NEED THEM?
WHAT ABOUT BUZZ, TACHI AND BERT?

All this will be taken care of next posting or sixty so stick around, kido.

***** Appended 14:45:34 on 10/17/88, Posting #    40 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     At Time Central
From:        The Cowboy (CFW9587 at TNTECH)

Time Agent 357 and the HMS Golden Lance pulled into orbit about Time
Central.  357 broadcasted his recognition signal, and noted with
satisfaction that TC's defenses appeared to be fully repaired.  He had been
concerned that another takeover would occur.  After receiving confirmation,
he activated his Temporal Teleporter Terminal and TTT'd down.

357 went directly to the main office, pausing only to shave, take a shower,
have a light meal, and make smalltalk with ex-Chief Bayer's youngest
daughter, the father of whom he quite possibly was.  He openned the door and
was swamped by a cascade of papers.

"Lockheed!  Landorian!  You in there?" he yelled.

"Hmmph wumph gmph umph," came the reply.

Wading in, 357 headed for where he remembered the workdesk to be.  He
finally located Time Captain Sean Landorian hip-deep in overdue reports.
"Where's Lockheed?"

"Over there," said Landorian, jerking his thumb towards a large pile of
papers to his left.  "At least, that's where he was last week."

"Uh, right," said 357.  "Anyway, I'm here to see why you haven't processed
my vacation request yet.  I've been going practically non-stop since I was
introduced into the story."

"We appear to have lost your request."

With uncanny skill and luck, 357 strode to the nearest pile, reached into
the heart, and pulled out all three copies of his request.  With a smile he
placed them in front of the Billy Dee Williams lookalike.  Then with a frown
he noticed that the request had "DENIED" stamped across it in orange ink.

"Now I remeber," said Landorian.  "We need you to capture Omegas before you
can take your vacation."  He made a few notes on the paper and placed it
under a large paperweight.

"All right," snarled 357, no longer in a good mood.  "Where is he?"

"Sensors say he teleported to a desserted planet in the Zagnut star cluster."

"Don't you mean 'deserted' planet?"

"No, desserted.  With chocolate sundaes, cakes, pies, etc," said Landorian.
"Also, our sensors say he can't teleport.  We don't know why, since he could
obviously teleport to get there.  Get on the job."

Time Agent 357 weighed the recent Intergalactic Supreme Court decision on
justifiable homocide, and decided not to kill Landorian anyway.  The man was
only doing his job.  Omegas, on the other hand, 357 thought, is going to be
in deep trouble.

On the desserted planet, Omegas was already in deep trouble.  Actually, it
was deep fudge ripple, but the meaning's the same.  He had discovered that
in addition to negating teleportation, the strange metallic paint that
covered his body was also screwing up his conjuring powers.  He discovered
this by attempting to summon a ship, and instead summoning a dragon which
proceeded to attempt to eat him until it noticed it's surroundings.  When he
last saw it it was so fat it couldn't move.

In alterverse 233, a rectangular shape appeared.  No color, no sound, not
even substance, but something was there.  Slowly the rectangular area turned
pitch black, then quickly exploded in a rainbow splash of colors.  Silently,
a large beared man stepped out, brushing the rainbow colors away from his
new shirt.  The rectangle shrank to a point, not exactly diminishing in size
but rather appearing to recede into the distance.  Soon, it was gone.

The Cowboy looked about, and noticed that the place looked a little
run-down.  He went about cleaning the leaves out of the pool, a thankless
job as no one but he swimmed in this kind of weather.  Looking up, he
noticed a conglomeration of stars, nebulae, and black holes littering the
sky as opposed to the one red star that was normally found there.  Deciding
not to get involved with the petty squabbles of the other authors, he
stripped down to his suit and jumped in the pool, noting that the aligators
were very slow moving in the cold.

***** Appended 13:03:36 on 10/18/88, Posting #    41 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     More on Omegas
From:        The Cowboy (CFW9587 at TNTECH)

Omegas swore.  He swore long and hard.  He swore at the sky above him.  He
swore at the metallic flake paint that covered him.  He swore at himself.
He swore at God above and Satan below.  But mostly he swore at the melted
fudge ripple ice cream that was sucking him down like quicksand.

Yes, you heard me right.  Fudge ripple.  A little more ripple-y than usual,
as Omegas had tried to melt it away, succeeding only in making things worse
and generally depleting his powers for a time.  He wished once again he
could teleport, but that power was the first that the metallic paint had
nullified.

Omegas' head went under, and he struggled back to the surface.  Melted fudge
ripple was not easy to stay afloat in.  His correspondance course in
Creative Cursing was put on hold, however, when he saw the HMS Golden Lance
blasting down from orbit.  It landed and Time Agent 357, temporal
displacement pistol at the redy and looking pissed, stepped out.

"Shit," said Omegas.

357 noticed Omegas, and pointed his pistol at the fudge ripple.  With a
blast of raw energy he vaporised said ripple.

"Great," said Omegas.

357 aimed his pistol directly at Omegas and prepared to fire.

"Shit," said Omegas.

The energy beam struck the metallic flake paint that covered Omegas and
glanced off into a nearby banana split.

"Great," said Omegas.

357 bodily picked up Omegas and began carrying him back to the ship.

"Shit," said Omegas, who was then soundly thrashed about by 357.

"Is that all you're going to say?" he asked, obviously irritated.

"Pain," mumbled Omegas.  Good enough, thought 357 as he place Omegas on board.

The HMS Golden Lance took off heading for Time Central.  357 examined Omegas
and was unable to determine the composition of the paint.  He also failed to
notice the two powerful devices, the mini-ABPSAR and the mini-timetraveller
that Omegas had concealed about his person.  Though both were inoperative,
Omegas believed he could remove the paint by employing some of the
sophisticated equipment aboard the Golden Lance.  The fact that this
particular equipment was quite vital to the safe operation of the ship
didn't seem to bother him in the least.

357 placed Omegas in the brig and activated the force wall at full strength.
Telling his ship's computer to keep an eye (or scanner) on Omegas, he went
back to the control room.

In alterverse 233, the Cowboy was in the middle of a very delicate
experiment when someone appeared.  They appeared in much the way he had
earlier that day:  a dark rectangle containing a silent rainbow explosion,
out of which stepped someone.  Someone wearing a bikini.  "Hey, Cowboy!" she
yelled.

The Cowboy cursed and rolled off his air mattress.  "Why did you do that?"

"Do what?" she asked, readying herself for a dive into the pool.

"Yell.  You scared away the alligators.  I was performing an experiment to
see if they could be taught to float on thier backs," he explained.

"Can they?"

"I don't know.  Like I said, you scared them away."

The woman seemed to notice the nip in the air and wished she'd worn
something more than just her dental floss bikini.  "Isn't it a little cold
for swimming?"

"I don't know," mumbled Cowboy as he regained his air mattress.  "The pool's
heated, so it's not so bad."

Hearing this, the woman did a graceful swan dive into the center of the
pool.  The pool was only three feet deep at the center, but this didn't
matter, as she had barely touched the water before she was on her way out.
"Brrrr," she st-st-stuttered.  "I thought y-you s-ssaid it w-w-was heated."

"It is," smiled the Cowboy.  "A full 68 degrees F.  Hypothermia doesn't
really become a problem until around 65."  He then frowned as he realized
something.  "Wait a minute, how did you get into the author's dimension?"

"I followed you," she said, indicating the space to her left where the
rectangle had appeared.  "You left your telegate open."

"I left it open because it was in my closet.  What were you doing in my
closet?"

"Just browsing," she mumbled as she began running towards the telegate.

"OUT!  GET OUT!" shouted Cowboy as he followed her through.

***** Appended 18:07:31 on 10/18/88, Posting #    42 *****
=========================================================================
Subject:     Some of the boys were whooping it up....
From:        Dr Abigail Ann Young (YOUNG at vm.epas.utoronto.ca)

The bar no longer shimmered in heat.  The summer had passed into
a dim memory, and autumn was in the air.

Not that there was much air in the bar: its inhabitants were breathing
a strange mixture of beery fumes, tobacco smoke, and heaven alone knows
what else.  At a back table were the two volumes of the microprint
OED with two draught ales and a plate of Buffalo chicken wings.  The
Mad Doctor was nowhere to be seen, but there was an empty chair.

*AMAM* We almost succeded last time in getting the doctor to accept
the help of another computer *MAMA*, said the A to M volume (in the
interest of furthering the plot), *AMAM* but she's so disappointed
about NOED at WATDOCS that she wouldn't listen to reason, or even ask
its name!*MAMA

*NZNZ* I know, I know: she hasn't even been willing to come out for
a beer for months!!*ZNZN

*AMAM* Well, it would have helped if you hadn't reminded her of the
small number of women acting as professional brewers: you know how
difficult she can be to manage!   Anyway, the point is that she's
coming tonight, and so is MORGANA: if we can just get them to work
together, then the PLAN has some chance of success. *MAMA*

*NZNZ* I still think MORGANA is a very strange name for a computer
account: are you sure she, or it, or whatever, is on the level? *NZNZ*

*AMAM* It's an alias: comes from some novel or romance or other...
The point is that MORGANA is an omniscient, omnipotent, maybe even
omnidestructive, account: and we need that destructive capability to
carry out the PLAN. *MAMA

*NZNZ* Look, here comes the Doctor: better change the subject and
order her an ale: we don't want her to realise we're managing things
now! *ZNZN*

A silvery glow preceded the Mad Doctor as she stalked through the bar
toward the quiet back table.  She greeted her henchmen with abstraction
and drank off the top third of the pint before her on the table.  "I've
done it!  I've found some one who can really help us with the PLAN: the
perfect ally, far better than NOED.  Someone who combines the two attributes
most essential for us: a female computer account.  She's called
MORGANA, she'll be joining us later."

Her henchmen sank back weakly in their chairs as she finished her speech,
riffling their pages in relief.  If she had tried to bring in someone
else at this point, MORGANA would have had them unbound!  The only thing
harder than being henchmen to a mad doctor is being henchmen to a
mad doctor while double-crossing her to work for an omniscient computer
account, and the strain was beginning to tell: paper, ink, and buckram
can only bear so much.

The PLAN had originally been the Doctor's idea: maddened by her own
failure to achieve a tenure-track postition, the decline of grammar
and spelling she was forced to observe all about, and the underlying
sexism of her youthful icon, Star Trek, she sought for a solution.
The PLAN was to be that solution, a way to enforce her standards
of spelling, composition, and equality, made possible by the growing
computerisation of instruction and communication in the universities.
The fact that it would incidentally lead to the destruction of those
who had laughed at her thesis and shut her out of university teaching
was, of course, not a consideration.  As a plan, it had only one draw-
back, that it wouldn't work without the aid of an omniscient and pre-
ferably omnipotent computer account, the existence of which most
inhabitants of the Mad Doctor's altiverse were unaware.

She, however, was different.

She had been a fellow graduate student of Dr von Spleen, founder of
Spamology.  While listening to his drunken and/or drug-induced ramblings
about multi-dimensional vectors, she became aware of the multitude of
altiverses, including those inhabited by omnipotent computer accounts
and those inhabited by henchmen whose three-dimensional manifestations
are as volumes of the microprint OED.  That knowledge provided her, not
with power (power was not what she sought, at least not at first) but
with companionship and consolation in her struggle to break into the
old boys' network of North American universities (pause while the narrator
sobs into her tea cup).  Now it would provide her with assistance in
carrying out the PLAN which obssesses what is left of her once-keen
mind.

Unfortunately, the Doctor is now morally blind in certain directions
(intones the voice of the reasonably omniscient narrator, ie the
Author).  She only cares for the success of the PLAN, and not for
who or what gets hurt in the process.  This makes her a dupe,
just as much as her henchmen are dupes, of MORGANA.


WHO IS MORGANA, ANYWAY?

ARE THE ARTHURIAN OVERTONES BEING OVERDONE?

WHAT'S HAPPENED TO DAR?

WHY IN THE WORLD DOES THE COWBOY THINK ANYONE WOULD WEAR A DENTAL
FLOSS BIKINI?  WOULD HE?

DOES ANYONE WANT TO HEAR ABOUT MY SUMMER (ACTUALLY EARLY AUTUMN)
HOLIDAYS?

For answers to some of these questions, tune in next time to.....
...................................................................
SFSTORY!!! (DOWN WITH INTRUSIVE SPACES)

***** Appended 21:30:20 on 10/19/88, Posting #    43 *****