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Sfstory Log 045

Subject:     Renegade Anarchists... episode two
From:        It was like that when I got here... (34EPWQL at CMUVM)

Episode Two: "If You Knew Satan Like I Knew Satan..." by Gary W. Olson

    The Sage stepped into the adjoining room, followed by Jerriphrrt,
Slithis and Benjen, who had just recently arrived at the station from
the Superguy digest side.
     "So, just what is this 'Sfstory digest' thing, anyways?" Jerriphrrt
asked, sitting down on a ratty old couch covered by a thing that may
at one time have been an afghan.  Jerriphrrt, for those unaware, was
a Calican - humanoid with catlike features, such as a cat's facial
features, a long tail, and fur.  Similarly, Slithis was humanoid with
reptilian features.  Benjen, a member of the native race of the Planet
Hottentot, was human, but had small conical lumps on his head, which
sort of resembled horns.  All three wore standard muave and green
civilian jumpsuits.  (The Sage, as you'll remember, is actually the
actor who played Vezzini in "The Princess Bride").
     "History, schmistory," the Sage said.  "Back when this digest was
called Sf_Story, then we had *real* adventures!  We had Omegas, Time
Agents, Varneyloop, the Pink Iguana Tavern, and incredibly complicated
storylines that were near-impossible to follow."
     "Wow," Slithis said.  "What happened?"
     "It got, as they say in the vernacular, nuked," the Sage told them,
drinking some more Pabst.  "Then it got restarted, as Sfstory.  No
confusion, just weirdness, or so went the ad copy.  Mostly it was just
this chase for a carrot-leek drive, until Satan T. Lucifer Jones unleashed
his dreaded apathy weapon."
     "Satan T. Lucifer Jones?" Benjen inquired.  "Sounds like a heavy
metal group." Slithis poked him in the eyes.  "Ouch!" Benjen replied.
     "Satan T. Lucifer Jones," said the Sage, "runs Hell.  Hell consists
of a vast armada of ships that comprise Satan's personal army.  These
ships are manned by the dead..."
     "You mean, Jerry Garcia?" Slithis asked, and got thwapped by Jerriphrrt.
     "No, I mean, those who have died, on any altiverse or digest known
to UMNEWS or NICBBS.  In fact, one such ship approaches even now."  Slithis,
Jerriphrrt and Benjen reacted like trained professionals, hiding behind
the couch, under the rug and behind the Sage, respectively.
     "Stop that," the Sage said.  "This is a renegade ship, containing
three who have broken free from Satan's manipulation."  The trio, relieved,
emerged from hiding.
     "Who are these renegades?" Jerriphrrt asked.
     "Oh, anarchists, I think," the Sage answered, raising his beer to
his lips.  He almost dropped it as Benjen rushed to hide behind him,
while Slithis dove behind the couch and Jerriphrrt went under the rug.
"Stop that!" he growled.
     Somewhere near the planet Karma Chameleon II, an Eye opened.
     Milagro Bekn'kse sat back down at the luxurious dining room table,
holding the Lady Van Van's eyes as he did.  Her beauty was as rapturous
as her pocketbook was large, he reflected, and if matters allowed, he
would have taken a full year to make himself rich off of her naive
trust of him.  However, matters did not allow.
     "I apologize for the interruption, my Lady," he said smoothly.
"However, I must excuse myself early this evening.  I have been reminded
of a promise I made to my dying mother, to visit her grave once a year
on the night she died."
     "Oh, you poor dear," the Lady Van Van said vacuously.  "How did she die?"
     "We're not exactly sure," Milagro went on.  "But we know it involved
salad dressing, four bottles of 'Southern Comfort', an engine block and
the entire Mormon Tabernacle Choir."
     "How horrible," Van Van breathed.
     "Yes," Milagro said.  "Until the 'morrow, then, my Lady?"  He had
no intention of returning to see the Lady Van Van, or anyone else on
Sargistus Epsilon IV, for that matter.  Nevertheless, it would not do
to arouse suspicions, especially among the wealthy patrons of the arts
around him, many of whom had their own private armies.
     "Until the 'morrow, Milagro," she said, and watched him walk away,
down the steps, hail a hovertaxi, and out of sight.  Her eyes narrowed.
     "Sensors have detected a ship," Niccolo Machiavelli announced.
Emma Goldman stuck her head in the door.
     "What kind?" she demanded.  "Satanic registry?"
     "No," Machiavelli said eventually.  "Lancea-class scout, single-
person ship.  Registered to a 'Pickle', known in author circles as the
'Lost Author.'  There is another being, identified as 'Bill Oopsthehead'
attempting to gain entry."
     "Has he detected the Red Emma yet?" James Dean, sticking his head
in the door, asked.
     "If he has, he's given no indication," Machiavelli replied.  "He
seems busy considering whether to let this 'Oopsthehead' person on board
or not.  I recommend we keep going."
     "Why?" Dean asked.  "This Lost Author may need our help."
     "Nick's right," Emma said.  "We're new here, and until we've got
our own plotline going, it's best to not muck around with others.  Of
course, it's not like there are really any other plotlines going on at
this point."  Everyone nodded and considered.
     "Well, maybe he'll be still be here on the way back," Machiavelli
suggested.  "Perhaps we could help him then."
     "Sounds good," Emma said.  "Let's continue."
     Satan T. Lucifer Jones sat at his desk, once again tackling the
veritable mountain of paperwork he had neglected while the digest was
relatively inert.
     "Well," he said.  "At least that 900 number on Earth could consitute
a tax writeoff."
     "Here's some more paperwork, mister," Susan B. Anthony said,
carrying another armload of forms and requisitions that had piled up
over the months of inactivity.  "I suggest you start right away."
     "I liked it a lot better when I had a succubus as a secretary,"
Satan growled.
     "I'm sure you did," Susan told him.  "But I've been brought in by
one of the authors to provide some discipline here, and that's what I'm
going to do!  Now start signing."
     "Okay, okay," Satan growled.  "Being the overlord of the underworld
isn't what it used to be, I can tell you that right now.  Which one of
those blasted authors foisted you on me anyway?"
     "He just called himself 'the Swede'," Anthony said, stacking some of
the paperwork Satan had already signed into a large wheelbarrow.
     "'The Swede'?" Satan asked.  "You mean it wasn't that Lord Sabre
person, or Nigel Savage, or CHAOS Engineer?"
     "Nope," Susan said.  "I think he's some bigshot author from the
Superguy digest who wants to expand or something.  Why he'd want to
expand into this place is something I don't understand."
     "Hmmmph.  Get me this 'Swede' fellow on the line, Susan."
     "Well, allright," Susan said.  "But keep working on these forms!
Another six years of solid signing, and we'll be shipshape again."  She
carted the signed forms out of the office, where they could be properly
filed.  Satan sighed.  He looked over a standard soul-contract.
     "Geez," he said.  "I still can't believe I got Groening to sign
his soul away after all these years."  He put his stamp on it and put it
in the 'out' file.
     The Lady Van Van stood up and excused herself from the table.  The
other diners understood - she was a delicate lady, and needed her rest.
A hover-taxi picked her up, and that was the last they saw of her.  It
was not the last they would hear of her, though, and some of the things
they would learn would make them very angry indeed.
     The Red Emma docked at the old, decrepit Whatchamacallit Station,
orbiting Planet Krunch in the Zagnutbar System, located in the Milky
Way Galaxy.  Goldman, Dean and Machiavelli entered the station, surprised
to find it still had an atmosphere.
     "I'm surprised it still has an atmosphere," Goldman grumbled.
     "C'mon, Emma," Dean said.  "The Sage is wise.  There must be a
reason he lives as he does."  They reached an airlock and cycled through
it into a sparsely decorated room.  The Sage rose to greet them.
     "Welcome, Emma Goldman, Niccolo Machiavelli and James Dean," he declared.
     "How did you know our names?" Goldman asked, surprised.
     "I'm the Sage!" the Sage declared.  "I know everything!"
     "Then you know why we're here," Dean said.
     "You've just escaped from the PLS Tell-Tale Heart and are looking
for some ideas on what to do next," the Sage told them.
     "Wow," Dean said.  "This guy's good."
     "Of course I am!" the Sage declared.  "I'm the Sage!"
     "Who are those three?" Machiavelli asked, pointing to the three
figures huddled on a ratty couch.
     "Oh," the Sage said.  "Those are Slithis, Benjen, and Jerriphrrt."
     "Er, hi," Jerriphrrt said.  Dean smiled pleasantly at them.
     "We came over from the Superguy digest," Slithis said.  "We're
looking to go to Planet Barbados, the Planet of Physical Delights.
There were some other guys who wanted to come along, but they wanted
to bring their ship with them.  So they went off to look for a way to
bring their ship over here to the Sfstory digest, while we decided to
hitch a ride with you."
     Goldman arched her eyebrow, and Slithis cowered.
     "Uh," Jerriphrrt said.  "If that's okay with you."
     "Do you know anything about operating a ship?" Goldman asked.
     "Oh, yes, yes ma'am!" Jerriphrrt assured her.  "We're experienced
pilots.  We also cook, clean, and know how to operate any make and model
of VCR known in our galaxy and several other dimensions."
     "Great!" Machiavelli said.  "I still can't figure those buggers out.
     "I have no objections, Emma," Dean said.
     "Fine," Goldman said.  "You're in."  There was much rejoicing.
     J. Edgar Hoover stood in front of his master, Satan.  Artificial
flames burned in the office and around the ship, all to make it more
hellish.  Satan was apparantly trying to get a call through, but did not
seem to be having much luck.  Finally, he slammed the hyperphone down.
     "Well?" Satan growled.  "What do you want?"
     Hoover stepped forward.  "We have a bearing on the Red Emma," he
said.  Satan looked at him in consternation.  "The Red Emma," he
repeated.  "That's the name they've given your prototype ship."  Inside
he smiled - Emma Goldman had been known as "Red Emma" in her years
on Earth in early 20th century.  Hoover had been an up-and-coming
bureaucrat at the time, and had milked her threat for advancement.
     "Fine," Satan told him.  "Thus far, you've proven to be a capable
replacement for Machiavelli, Hoover.  Don't fail me."  Hoover bowed
and left.  It had been difficult dislodging Machiavelli from the coveted
position of being Satan's Cheif of Coversion.  It was said that nobody,
absolutely nobody, did it better than Machiavelli.  Yet, it had only
taken half a century to outflank and dislodge him.  Hoover wondered idly
if Machiavelli had planned ahead for such an eventuality.
     Probably not, he concluded.  No one's plans were *that* far-ranging.
     Were they?
     Somewhere in the galaxy, Houris Jebillip laughed out loud.

[and don't forget to read the adventures of Rad on Superguy!]

***** Received 23:04:32 on 02/02/91, Posting #    55 *****
Subject:     He's ba-aaaack
From:        keep your hands to myself- Groucho Marx (JBANKERT at SUNRISE)

                           The Awakening

     CHAOS Engineer leaned back, yawned, stretched, and yawned
again.  He wouldd have to stop staying out so late at night,
falling asleep at work.  Then he noticed the cobwebs.  He would
have to speak to the janitorial staff about that.  Then he noticed
the automated clock calendar on the far wall.  He would have to
speak to someone about that.
     "Janine."  CHAOS Engineer heard the sounds of someone stirring
from out by Janine's area.  Shortly she walked in.
     "Janine, have we really been asleep for nearly ten months?"
     "It seems so, sir."
     "Janine, put yourself down for double time on the last forty
time cards."
     "Yes sir."
     CHAOS rocked back, and thought a moment.  He was definitely
going to have to speak to Satan about this.  Something had
happened, and he was not entirely sure what it was yet.


     Time Agent 357 was really miffed.  Here he was, still stuck
inside the produce section of the Planet of the Supermarkets.  His
wrist chrono indicated it had been nearly ten months.  TEN MONTHS!
He was definitely going to have to speak to his author about this.


     The crew of the Challenger II, formerly of the Atlantis and
Salyut space station had been here for ten months, activating what
systems they could puzzle out.  Luckily, one of those systems had
been the comvid screen, and they had been able to keep up with Twin
Peaks.  They had also found the ship's instruction/assembly manual
in cargo hold four, and made good progress in repairing all the
damage.  Challenger II was now nearly ready to get a crew and
cruise the spaceways.  Fortunately, they had not been able to shut
down the ships auto defense system.  Two shuttles and three Soyuz
modules had been wopped back to earth without so much as a blink of
the eye (wopped, for those of you curious, is the past tense
conjugation of the verb wop, which means to be teleported with
the accompanying sound effect wop (the noun descriptor wop of the
sound, not the verb wop) which is remarkably similar to the sound
that those well heeled french maitre'des make when they pop their
hand onto their open mouth).  NASA and the Soviet space authorities
sure as hell wished they had someone to talk to about this.


     The RMS Winebago II and the Millenium Eggplant floated dead in
space.  Their participation in the titanic battle versus Satan's
fleet had had a minimal effect.  All their planning, careful
strategies, blown out of the water.  The fleet was much larger than
their forcasts had indicated.  Aboard the Eggplant, the com
     "Calling Millenium Eggplant.  This is the Wimebago II.  Do you
     "Barely.  Things are bad here.  Yourself?"
     "Lousy."  The static filled conversation continued, as the two
ships tried to figgure out who they could talk to about this.
Suddenly, they were interupted by the appearance of Elvis.
     "Greetings Y'all.  Nevah fear, fo I shall take care of
everythin'."  Elvis' voice, against all laws of physics,
reverberated through the two ships.  They saw him strum a chord on
his guitar, a D7.  Systems aboard both ships miraculously came on
line, all indicators reading nominal.  Both ships even had
functional Carrot-Leek drives.  When they looked, Elvis had gone.
Both ships wished the other well, using their Carrot-Leek drives to
leave just before Satan fired up his apathy weapon.


     CHAOS Engineer flopped into the chair behind his expansive
desk.  Ten months of work to catch up on.  He was not looking
forward to it.  He had finally figgured out what had happened.
Satan had used an apathy weapon, and he had left the
transdimensional shield off that day in anticipation of some solar
radiation from Thorgol leaking through.  Would have done wonders
for the tan.  Well, at least the plot generator was up and running
again.  He would have to put in some overtime to make up for
things.  Hopefully the overhead would not be too bad.




Find out the these and other useless questions not mentioned here
on an upcoming SFSTORY.  It's not just a job, it's the 1812
overture at 9am Sunday morning while being hung over.

***** Received 01:01:23 on 02/07/91, Posting #    56 *****
Subject:     Renegade Anarchists... episode three
From:        It was like that when I got here... (34EPWQL at CMUVM)

Episode Three: "Somewhere to Eat at 3 a.m." by Gary W. Olson

     The hyperphone by the side of the phone buzzed insistently.  A smooth
hand fumbled for it in the feeble light of morning.  Finding the receiver,
the hand lifted it.  "Hello...?" she asked, drowsily.  There was an angry
noise on the other end.  She nudged the figure next to her.  He mmphed,
and took the receiver.
     "Mmm, thanks, Winona..." the Swede mumbled.  "Hello?"
     "Is this the Swede?" a deep, authoritative voice asked.
     "Yep," the Swede replied.  "Whassup, Lucie?"
     "Call me Satan," Satan T. Lucifer Jones insisted.  "I hear you're
the new author in this multiverse."
     "Were you the one who gave me Susan B. Anthony as a secretary?"
     "Were you the one that generated the plot about those anarchists
stealing my very extremely dangerous prototype ship?"
     "WHAT IN BLAZES ARE YOU DOING?" Satan exploded (again, not literally).
"Do you have any IDEA how long things have been PEACEFUL around here?
Now I've got TONS of paperwork to catch up on, half my staff STILL hasn't
come back from vacation, and all my cable subscriptions have lapsed!"
     "Well, you're in Hell," the Swede explained.  "Things are, well,
hellish where you are.  Besides, look at it this way - you'll be collecting
a check again."
     "Say, that's right, isn't it?" Satan said.  "Maybe I can finally
start buying real pizzas instead of those convenience store microwave
torture pizzas.  So, what's the plot?"
     "Sorry, can't tell.  Besides, you're not in it much, except as the
Big Heavy that our heroes will eventually have to deal with."
     "Damn," Satan said redundantly.  "Guess I can't get out of the
paperwork, then."
     "Care to sell your soul?  We're running a special today - money,
fame, babes and a copy of that Brady Bunch massacre over on Superguy."
     "Hmmm," the Swede said, clearly tempted.  "No thanks."
     "Just thought I'd check," Satan replied.  "Eternal damnation!"
     "Yep.  Aloha."  The Swede handed the receiver back to Winona, who
set it back in it's cradle.  He paused, then, for a brief moment.  He
had the strangest feeling, as though someone, somewhere, somehow, had
just called him an idiot.  Disconcerting, to say the least.
     The Red Emma departed from The Sage's space station.
     "This is the starboard retro control," Niccolo Machiavelli was
pointing out to Jerriphrrt, who was having a plate of tuna.  "Enviro
controls, the nav'puter, Mr. Coffee -- you're sure this is similar to
what you've worked with?"
     "It's almost identical," Jerriphrrt said.  "I'd ascribe it to
either a) the thought that some of this technology must have been
brought to hell by people who died on our digest, or 2) it's incredibly
convenient from a plot perspective.  In fact, the only panel I *don't*
recognize is this one over here..."
     "I'd choose iii)," James Dean said.  He and Slithis were busy
hooking up the vcr to the ship's giant screen color tv.  "All of the
     "At any rate," Emma Goldman, who was sprawled out on a foam vinyl
couch, while Benjen fed her grapes one at a time.  "We should be getting
back to where the Lost Author and that Bill Oopsthehead thing is.  Check
the scopes, Nick."
     "Aye aye, cap'n," Machiavelli said, turning to a scope.
     "We're anarchists, Nick," Goldman chided.  "We don't have captains."
     "I revise my earlier comment," Machiavelli replied.  "It should
read, 'I'll take a look at it when I'm good and ready, you loonie.'"
     "Much better," Goldman grinned.  "What's the scopes say?"
     "Weird," Machiavelli muttered.  "We're nowhere near the Zagnutbar
system.  According to the scopes, we're in the Sol System, orbiting Earth
     "But the Zagnutbar system is almost half a galaxy away from where
we are," Dean protested.  "How--?"
     "What about that turbulence we had a bit ago?" Jerriphrrt suggested.
     "That?" Slithis said.  "Interstellar dust, like I said."  Benjen
pelted him with a grape.  Only a couple thousand kilometers away, a
Soyuz module wopped into Earthspace, but no one on the Red Emma noticed.
     "Checking the instant replay," Machiavelli announced.  " it
is."  A 3-d tactical display of a particular sector of the Zagnutbar
system was projected above the circular table in the center of the bridge
"Right here," he said, pointing to a glowing green anomaly.  "A hyperspatial
plot inconsistency, with the other end here in the Sol System.  I'd wager it
was accidently created, by a powerful force."
     "Acc..." Dean said.  "But only an Author has that kind of power."
     "Exactly," Machiavelli replied.  "As I recall from Hell's Archives,
there was an incident almost a year ago in which the Lost Author, leaving
the Zagnutbar System, found himself in orbit over Earth just in time to
see Stetson Tyler's starship blast off from Earth.  We must have hit the
same plot inconsistency in our haste to depart the system."
     "Weird," Jerriphrrt said.  "Earth was what got us in trouble in the
first place."
     "Really?" Dean said.  "You must have a tale to tell."
     "As I imagine you do as well," Jerriphrrt replied.
     "We could tell tales over food," Slithis suggested, his stomach
already growling.
     "An excellent idea," Goldman said.  "Nick, take us down to Earth."
     "Naaah," Machiavelli said.  "I'm not hungry."
     "I'll do it, then," Jerriphrrt announced, moving his paws across the
flight console.  Unwittingly, his long, furry tail brushed against the
computer panel he had not been able to identify earlier, flicking an
unlabeled switch.
     There was a horribly beautiful blast of light.  When they opened
their eyes they noticed that a significant chunk of the Moon, Earth's
only natural satellite, had abruptly vanished.
     "Oops," Jerriphrrt gulped.
     Somewhere above Earth, an Eye shifted to regard the tiny vessel
that had laid waste to a significant portion of the Holy Planetoid.
     The Lady Van Van watched her quarry as he paid the taxi-drone with
some no-doubt ill-gotten gains.  He had proven to be a master of evasion,
and several times she had almost lost him.  But if he was a master of
evasion, she was doubly a master of tracking.
     She watched as Milagro Bekn'kse entered the building, then opened
a breifcase.  Clearly, the next step could not be done in the strapless
evening gown she was wearing...
     J. Edgar Hoover's ship closed in on the Lancea.  Surely, this one
had seen the Red Emma and it's communist occupants as it had flown by.
The fleet of Hell had defeated this one before, and there was no
reason to believe it was any more powerful.
     Tom Cruise walked up to him, saluted, and handed him a sheet of
paper.  He then walked away, vaguely disturbed by his continuing memories
of his demise at the hands of Father Dagon over on the Superguy digest
over a year ago.
     Hoover's eyes bugged out as he looked at the paper, which was alread
starting to burst into flames in the hellish environment of the PLS Tell-
Tale Heart.  He marched onto the Bridge and stood in front of its Captain.
     "Er, yes?" Edgar Allen Poe asked.
     "Take this squadron to Earth, immediately," Hoover ordered.
     "But, you said you only needed to track them here," Poe protested.
"Surely they cannot have gotten to Earth so quickly..."
     "Apparantly they discovered a plot inconsistency in the fabric of
space itself," Hoover growled.  "That isn't the worst part.  The worst
part is that they've discovered one of the less destructive weapons on
the ship.  Sensors indicate it took out a big chunk of the Moon there."
     Poe whistled.  "And you say it's one of the *less* destructive
weapons on that ship?"
     "What are you?" Hoover asked, squinting.  "A red?  A commie sympathizer
trying to pump me for information before stabbing me in the back?"
     "Me?" Poe uttered, cringing.  "No, sir.  USA, all the way!  Red
white and blue.  Go Yankees!  I love McDonalds!"
     "That's better," Hoover replied, his mouth a tight line.  "Now get
us there, pronto!"  Poe gulped, and turned to give the order.
     The ship set down in the parking lot of a "Denny's" restaurant.
Compared to the huge, lumbering ships in Satan's fleet of Hell, it was
tiny, but compared to a Hyundai, it was quite large, and took up most
of the large parking lot.  Fortunately, it was three a.m, so only ten
cars (eleven if you count the Yugo as a car) were crushed.
     "Are you sure we shouldn't have blown those metal things up first?"
Benjen asked as the six anarchists and allies thereof descended down the
boarding platform to the scorched concrete.  Motorists, upon seeing that
two of the figures weren't human, three were technically dead people,
and one had horns, sort of, cowered in fear.  The platform snaked back
into the ship after they had gotten off.
     Inside the "Denny's", they wasted no time in getting to the buffet.
James Dean took extra helpings of the cold, runny eggs, while Benjen
dug into the greasy bacon and Slithis eyed the dead bugs pile that had
been swept into the corner.  Everyone loaded up on vaguely meatlike
squares and a chocolate-pudding-like substance, in addition to their
individual choices, and took the central large table.  One of the
employees looked like he was going to use the phone, but Goldman whipped
out her laser pistol and blasted all the phones in the establishment.
He was quickly dissuaded.
     "So," Benjen asked.  "Who goes first?"
     "I suppose we might as well tell you our story first," Dean said,
some blackened toast bits falling off the edge of his mouth.  "It all
started, as these things usually do, with jell-o..."
     Somewhere in the galaxy, Hourus Jebillip nearly burst a gut laughing.
On the stage, a comedian was doing something obscenely funny with balloon
animals.  All around him, the comedy club patrons were laughing as well.
     In mid-laugh, Jebillip stopped, and stood up to wave to someone who
had just entered the club.  Milagro Bekn'kse saw him and came over.
     "'Bout time," Jebillip said.  "Was wondering when you'd show."
     "Took longer than I expected," Milagro replied.  "Is there somewhere
more private we could take this?"
     "Nowhere more private than this," Jebillip said.  "I'll activate the
privacy cone."  Invisible beams were activated, and the table became
     "Now," Milagro said.  "Let's get down to business."  Neither of them
noticed the Lady Van Van as she watched.


***** Received 00:41:09 on 02/09/91, Posting #    57 *****
Subject:     Renegade Anarchists... episode four
From:        It was like that when I got here... (34EPWQL at CMUVM)

Episode Three: "Dead Anarchists Tell Tales" by Gary W. Olson

     "Jell-o, did you say?" Slithis inquired.
     "Yes," James Dean replied, munching on some rather greasy looking
eggs.  "Wiggles, shimmers...lime, I think it was, wasn't it?"
     "I think so," Emma Goldman replied.  She glanced around at the
interior of the "Denny's" restaurant they were in.  Her home planet,
Earth, had come far since she had died over half a century ago, but
this particular restaurant wasn't among the grander accomplishments.
Still, most of the food seemed edible, sort of.  But no jell-o.  They
were out of jell-o.
     "Anyway," Dean went on.  "My assignment was to make a large bowl of
jell-o in the shape of Bill Cosby's face for the captain of my ship,
which was at the time the PLS Father Knows Best."
     "I, meanwhile," Goldman interjected, "had just been reassigned to
the PLS Father Knows Best after accidently letting Patrick Swayze get
reincarnated.  I mean, how was I to know?  So, I was rushing in, late,
to see the Captain, just at the time James was rushing in late with his
jell-o sculpture, and *bam!* we collided."
     "Man, the Cap was mad," Dean grinned.  "I thought that was *it*
for us.  We were sentenced to watch Jell-o Pudding Pop commercials for the
rest of eternity - to this day I still can't say "cos" without shuddering."
     "That's where I came in," Niccolo Machiavelli said.  "I liberated
them from their captivity..."
     "Drafted us into Satan's Coversion and Interference Agency,"Goldman said.
     "...where I gave them a fresh start..." Machiavelli went on.
     "...made us work the most dangerous jobs..." Goldman translated.
     "...until they became my most trusted allies..." said Machiavelli.
     "...until everyone else was co-opted by J. Edgar Hoover..." said Goldman.
     "Eventually, the time came for myself and my allies to seek new
horizens and new opportunities," Machiavelli continued, undaunted.
     "He was caught arranging to steal the prototype vessel, and we
barely made it out alive," Goldman continued, undaunted.
     "After that, we went to the Sage for guidance," Machiavelli said.
     "After that, we went to the Sage for guidance," Goldman repeated.
     "Stop that!" Machiavelli whined.
     "Stop that!" Goldman whined back.  They broke into laughter.
     "What is this 'prototype' ship, anyway?" Jerriphrrt asked.
     "Well, as you so aptly found out when you blasted away a large
chunk of the moon," Machiavelli said.  "It's a vessel of extreme power
and danger.  I must confess, even I know little about it's more exotic
systems, and until we learn more about it, I'd recommend against trying
any of the buttons or switches on that control panel."
     "Much as I hate to say it," Dean said, "you're right.  But we can
use that one switch, right?"
     "Yes, we know which one that is," Machiavelli said.
     "So what's your story?" Goldman asked Jerriphrrt.
     Somewhere near Sagistus Epsilon IV, an Eye shifted to regard a
certain portion of the main continent of the planet below.  Elsewhere in
the galaxy, ancient machinery started a slow, steady hum.
     J. Edgar Hoover and the (relatively) small fleet of Hell closed in
on the planet Sol III, more commonly designated as Earth.  Louis XIV
handed him a status report.  Hoover grimaced as he looked at the figures.
The blast the Red Emma had let out had vaporized about 6.66% of the total
mass of the moon, and that was only because it had made a glancing blow.
     He handed the smoldering status report back to the former french
king turned Satanic tactical engineer and looked out the viewport.  He
was expressly forbidden from laying waste to the planet - Satan's franchise
would be forced to forfeit all the souls released from their bodies in
such an incident.  Once they came back up into space, though...
     Somewhere near Earth, an Eye shifted to regard Hell.
     "Well," Jerriphrrt said, munching on a moldy fish stick and flicking
his tail back and forth lazily, "we all met in the Ottsamaddawidu Military
Academy, along with Halapadin Krisko."
     "I'm sorry," Dean said.  "The what Military Academy?"
     "Ottsamaddawidu," Jerriphrrt repeated.
     "Nothing, as far as I know," Dean replied.  Slithis bopped him.
     "That's the name of a powerful empire in this galaxy over on the
Superguy digest," Benjen informed them.
     "There's no Ottsamaddawidu Empire here?" Jerriphrrt asked.
     "Nope," Goldman told them.
     "Weird," Slithis said.  "Especially considering that this Earth is
more or less similar to Earth-Superguy."
     "Except for Texas, I imagine," Machiavelli said.  "Texas here was
annihilated by the takeoff of Stetson Tyler's spaceship."
     "Er, whatever," Jerriphrrt said.  "Anyway, we met, and got kicked
out together, and got and lost dozens of jobs together.  Krisko went into
the employ of a chap called Galaxy Hunter, while we three joined one of
the big galactic broadcasting agencies.  We were assigned to collect
the broadcast shows from Earth, so they could be sold to other local,
regional and galaxy-wide nets.  Since Earth doesn't generally acknowledge
the existance of life outside it's own planet, we didn't have to share
any royalties with them."
     "Cle-VER," Machiavelli complimented them.
     "Yes," Jerriphrrt went on.  "Anyway, we discovered that this
princess that everyone thought was dead was alive on the planet, and
we were ordered by the Emperor to bring her back.  So we did, more or
less.  Her boyfriend, a superhero named Rad, went around after that
gathering an army, and there was this big civil war involving the four
major galactic superpowers, which eventually smoothed out."
     "During the reception, we were visited by these cool guys from
the Starship Winaprize," Slithis took over.  "They were heading to the
planet Barbados, the Planet of Physical Delights, and invited us to
come along.  So, we quit our jobs and came along.  We went to the Sage
to learn where Barbados was, and he told us it was in the Sfstory
universe.  The Winaprize crew went away mad, because they couldn't get
their ship through the small portal connecting the Superguy and Sfstory
digests, but we decided to go through.  And here we are."
     "Not bad," Dean said.  "Maybe we could visit this Barbados?"
     "Don't see why not," Goldman said.  "Nothing better to do, eh, Nick?"
Machiavelli said nothing, although it was clear that Barbados was not the
destination he had in mind.  He would be patient, though.
     "It's settled, then," Jerriphrrt said.  "We go to Barbados."
Satisfied that that had been decided, they turned to look at the small
television that was playing in the corner.  A doctor was receiving a
Nobel Prize of some sort.
     Slithis recognized him.  "Hey, that's Dr. Sleaze!"
     Machiavelli squinted.  "No, that's Dr. Nathanial Sleasie, one of
Earth's foremost scientists.  Very respectible fellow.  Satan's been
trying to corrupt him for ages, now, with little success."
     Benjen boggled.  "But he's a supervillain!"
     "On Earth-Superguy, yes," Machiavelli said.  "But on Earth-Sfstory,
he's a very prominent scientist."
     "Who's the President, then?" Jerriphrrt asked.
     "Oh, some Shrub fellow, I think," Machiavelli said.  "Bush, I think
his name is.  Doesn't look like he'll win the next election, though.
Burt Ward has a lot of popular support, especially in the midwest and
sun belt."  Jerriphrrt blinked.
     "Well, let's get going," Goldman said.  They exited the Denny's
Restaurant to behold a strange sight.  Fourteen squad cars had surrounded
their spaceship, and twenty-eight policemen were having a difficult time
finding a way in.
     On Sagistus Epsilon IV, in the middle of a top intergalactic comedy
club, Milagro Bekn'kse and Hourus Jebillip talked business.
     "You're sure this thing is clean?" Hourus asked.
     "Yeah," Milagro replied.  "No tracers, no radiation.  I checked."
     "No, I mean, is it *clean*?" Hourus asked again.  "I mean, you
swallowed it to keep it from being discovered."
     "Oh, that," Milagro said, laughing.  "Don't worry, I sealed it in
an airtight plasteel container.  It never touched my digestive tract."
     Hourus looked at the object again.  It was green - not an ordinary
pine green, or emerald green, or even gan green.  Rather, it was
a luminous green, as if the jem had some kind of interior power source.
That, however, was not their concern at the moment.  That jem was the
most valuable piece of mineral in the galaxy, the prized possession of
one of the galaxy's wealthiest collectors.  Milagro had spent almost a
year in preparation to steal it, and had finally managed to do so, though
not without arousing suspicions.
     Hourus had what seemed to be the simpler job, that of resale.
The other wealthy patrons of the arts in the galaxy would pay through the
nose just to look at the jem.  How much would they pay to buy it?  More
than they could ever spend in twenty lifetimes, no doubt.  It was a more
difficult job than would seem, though.  Between heist and resale, agents
of just about every wealthy person and empire in the galaxy would be
looking for that jem.  Empires would weaken and others would strengthen.
Galactic wars had been fought over less.
     The Lady Van Van chose that particular time to make her presence
known.  She did so by stepping into the cone of silence surrounding
Milagro's and Hourus' table, weapon drawn.
     "My Lady!" Hourus exclaimed, completely baffled.  "I--I--"
     "Save it," Van Van replied.  "You're under arrest, Milagro Bekn'kse
and Hourus Jebillip."
     "Under whose authority?" Hourus demanded.  "I'll have you know I'm
very powerful on this planet..."
     "Which means diddly to me," Van Van said.  "My I.D."  She showed
them an idento-plate, that listed her official designation.
     "Time Agent...173?" Milagro read.  "You're a Time Agent?"
     "Exactly," Time Agent 173 replied.  "Now let's go."
     "Maybe some other time," Milagro said, upturning the table into
her shot.  Actually, the table was supposedly rooted to the ground, but
Milagro had cut through the base support with a small laser hidden in
his shoe.  He and Jebillip tore out of the comedy establishment, with
Time Agent 173 hot in pursuit.
     "Events are moving," the Grand High Spatula noted astutely.
     On Karma Chameleon II, the Ottsamaddawidu tribe had a good hunt.
     "Er, excuse me," James Dean said to the officer who looked to be
in charge.  "Do you have a search warrant for our starship?"
     "Eh?" the officer, who was rather shortish, said.  "Who are you?"
     "James Dean," Dean replied.
     "And I'm Betty Crocker, wiseass," the officer replied.
     "Pleased to meet you," Dean said.  The officer scowled.
     "Look," the officer continued.  "I'm Manny Seconds, of the
state police.  Your starship has not only crushed ten cars, eleven if
you count the Yugo, but it's illegally multiply-parked, doesn't have
a license and has so far electrocuted twelve of my men.  I demand an
     "Er," Slithis offered.
     "Candid camera?" Jerriphrrt said off the top of his head.
     "Right!" Seconds shouted.  "You're all under arrest.  Come along,
the lot of you."


***** Received 01:39:54 on 02/20/91, Posting #    58 *****
Subject:     Renegade Anarchists... episode five
From:        the Earth will shake (34EPWQL at CMUVM)

Episode Five: "Jailhouse Rock" by Gary W. Olson

     Harmonica sounds echoed through the cold concrete rooms, reverberating
off the steel bars of the jail cells.  In the cells, winos slept, ladies
of the night checked their makeup, flashers flashed, Wall Street executives
bought Bolivia, and some renegade anarchists sat around.
     "So, who's playing the harmonica?" Jerriphrrt asked.  No one knew,
but numerous theories of a dubious nature were offered.
     "Never mind that," Emma Goldman told him.  "We've got to get off
this cruddy planet.  This isn't much better than the last time I was in
jail."  James Dean sat down next to her.
     "Checked everything," he told them.  "Cement blocks are solid, and
so are the bars."
     "He's right," said a bartender in the next cell.
     "I meant," Dean continued, "the steel bars on the wall."
     "If only they hadn't taken my laser pistol," Goldman muttered.
     "Yer what?" a female voice asked from the next cell.
     "A laser gun," Machiavelli said.  "You wouldn't understand."
     "Try me," she said.  "I've seen some groovy things, y'know."  She
sat up, and the moonlight reflected on her Japanese features.  Despite
the short punk blonde hair, the ear to nose chain and bizarrely uncoordinated
clothing, Jerriphrrt, Slithis, and Benjen immediately recognized her.
     "Akane?" Slithis asked.  "Akane Moroboshi?"
     She drew back from the bars between the cells upon hearing those
words, and glared at them in suspicion.  "Who are you?  You narcs?"
     "We're anarchists," Machiavelli said in a droll tone.
     "What's with the cat costume and the reptile costume, then?" she
asked.  "You guys celebratin' Halloween, or what?"  She proceeded to
crack up at her own joke.
     "We're as real as you are," Jerriphrrt told her.
     "I'm not real," she told them.  "I'm Shadebeam, 'kay?"
     "What have you been smoking?" Benjen inquired.
     "Dunno," Shadebeam said.  "Must'a been good, though, to hallucinate
cat people and dead movie stars.  Anybody got a light in this place?"
She held a cigarette twixt her fingers as she looked around.  "No?  Damn.
Guess I gotta light it m'self."  She pulled out Emma Goldman's laser
pistol from under her jacket.  "Weird lighter," she muttered.
     Goldman saw the pistol and tried to speak, but the world slowed
down to a muddy crawl of time.  Blinding light erupted from the gun,
and a large hole in the back wall of the jailhouse appeared.  Shadebeam
blinked, and spit out the cigarette stub.
     "Give me that," Goldman said, reaching for the gun.  Shadebeam
pulled away.  "What'll ya give me for it?  I can buy a lotta good stuff
for what this'll get me."
     "How about a ride on a spaceship?" Machiavelli told her.
     "Yeah, sure," Shadebeam told them.  "What good'll that do me?"
     "You can leave this planet forever," Dean said.  "No cops, no
authorities, no real plot -- think about it."
     Shadebeam looked confused.
     "Tell you what," Goldman said.  "Let us out and we'll prove it -
we'll take you to our starship.  You can keep the gun until then."
     "Guess might as well," Shadebeam said, raising the gun and blasting
a hole in the back wall of the Anarchists' cell.  "But no tricks!"
     "Do we look like tricksters to you?" Machiavelli grinned.
     Satan T. Lucifer Jones snarled.  He had been soaking his right
hand in hellfire for the past hour to relieve his cramped hand, and
his secretary, Susan B. Anthony, had moved three wheel-barrow loads
full of backlogged paperwork into his office.  Some days there was
just no injustice.
     Just then, the hyperphone rang.  "What?" Satan answered with his
usual lucidity.  There was some chattering on the other line.  "Really?"
Satan said, grinning more evilly than usual.  "And just what do I get
for 'returning' this little item to you?"  More chattering.  "Yes, that
will more than compensate me for my time and effort.  Thanks for calling.
Eternal damnation!"
     After putting the hyperphone back in it's cradle, Satan tore into
the mountains of paper around him, finally finding a blank work order
form.  Susan B. Anthony came in, and frowned upon seeing him not signing
forms filled out months ago, but a new form.
     "See that this gets carried out immediately, Susan," Satan told her.
     "What about--" Susan began.
     "I'll *get* to them, wench!" Satan growled.  "Now get Goebbels on
the line.  With Hoover busy, this job falls to him."  Susan snatched the
work order form off the desk before it could burst into flames, and
stalked out.  Satan allowed himself the luxury of an evil cackle.  If
all went according to plan, Hell would see record new levels of entrants.
     Above Earth, J. Edgar Hoover tapped his fingers and looked for
signs of the red menace in his co-workers.
     "There," the Grand High Spatula said, putting the hyperphone down.
"You know, Satan sounds an awful lot like John Lovitz."
     "Just so long as the heart of our HyperNet is restored," the Omnipot
Egg Beater said.  "Keep an eye on the Eyes.  I want to know the instant
the ship that laid waste to the Holy Planetoid reappears."
     The Swede sighed, and continued typing.  There was no real action
going on where he was, but he hadn't appeared in the last episode, so
he put himself in this one, just because.
     The Red Emma was still in the parking lot of the Denny's Restaurant,
but now it was surrounded by twelve tanks, sixteen troop carriers, five
missile launchers, and two "Budweiser" semis.
     "Wow," Shadebeam said.  "Totally groovy."
     "Can I have the gun back now?" Goldman asked.
     "No," Shadebeam said.  "Not till we get back on the ship.  If I
hadn't swiped it from that officer's desk on my way to the cell, you
wouldn't have it at all."
     "She's got a point," Jerriphrrt said.
     "Don't encourage her," Machiavelli replied.
     "I've got an idea," Dean said.  He pulled out the remote control
and fiddled with it a bit.  Benjen helped him make some adjustments.
     The soldiers were quite surprised to see a landing platform snake
down from the ship, apparantly of it's own volition.  It's defensive
grid had made it impossible to move, so they had waited for something
to happen.  Now, finally, something was happening.
     Bursts of unholy light ripped from cracks in the ground, and the
Earth started to shake around them.  A troop transport started to slide
into a crevice - the soldiers jumped out and started running.  As the
tremors gained momentum, the tanks and transports retreated, and the
launchers and semis were abandoned.
     "How did you do that?" Machiavelli asked as the group ran to the ship.
     "Simple," Dean told them.  "I patched into the ship's holovision,
and had it project outside the ship.  Pretty simple, rea--" Dean went
sprawling over a rock in the parking lot and came face first down,
looking into a deep crevice.  Stunned, he reached down, and found--
     "Holy mother," he said.  "This ain't no illusion."
     "How far down do those crevices go?" Jerriphrrt asked.
     "We'll figure it out later," Goldman told them.  "Come on!  Before
those military bozos come back with bigger guns."  Thus, Emma Goldman,
Slithis, James Dean, Benjen, Jerriphrrt, Niccolo Machiavelli and Shadebeam
ran up into the Red Emma.  The landing platform snaked back, the hatch
snapped shut, and the engines roared to life.  When the dust settled,
the starship was a speck on the horizen.
     Time Agent 173 cursed as she lifted off in her starship, away from
Sagistus Epsilon IV.  Her quarry, Milagro Bekn'kse and Hourus Jebillip,
had nearly eluded her, after she had come so close to capturing them.
As she left the upper atmosphere, she started to have cause for
optimism - their ship, the Golden Fleece, drifted in space just a few
parsecs out of the gravitational field of the planet.  Apparantly,
tinkering with their ship was a precaution well taken.
     She got onto the comm-link.  "This is Time Agent 173," she told
them.  "You are under arrest.  Heave to and prepare to be boarded."
     There was a soft, velvety voice on the line.  "Come on, my lady,"
Milagro soothed.  "There's more than enough dough for us to split up.
C'mon, join in with us."  Behind the voice, softer, 173 thought she
heard cursing.  Hourus Jebillip was a notorious swindler and con man,
but he wasn't a starship mechanic, that was certain.  Nevertheless, it
was important to act swiftly before he *did* manage to fix the problem.
     "I am initiating docking procedures now," she said.  "I suggest
for your own safety that you do the same."  As her ship approached,
she saw the docking ports being rotated into position.  It was a practical
move on Milagro's part - a forced docking could rupture the hull plating
of their ship.  Considering that the jewel they had stolen was more
important than their lives, they made a wise choice.
     At that particular moment, something happened.  A huge box, with
what looked to be a giant touchscreen panel in one corner, decloaked in
front of them.  The box had a huge, parsec-spanning screen, upon which
was a huge Eye.  All was silent for a moment, as 173, Milagro, and Hourus
contemplated the new arrival.  Then, a voice boomed through their sound
     "This..." a deep, thunderous voice said, " CBS."
     "This is most totally psychadaelic," Shadebeam giggled, as Goldman
took the laser pistol from her unresisting hand.  "We're in space."
     "Yes," Goldman said.  "We are."
     "Trouble!" called out Machiavelli.  The ship rocked moments later.
     "What was that?" Slithis demanded.
     "A fleet of Hell," Dean said.  "They've found us."
     A face appeared on a nearby commo scope.  It was a hard face, cold
as diamond despite the blazing flames behind it's wearer.  "At last,
I've caught you, commie scum," J. Edgar Hoover growled.  Behind him,
Edgar Allen Poe sighed.  "Surrender, and I'll turn you over to Satan
with all your body parts intact."
     "I sense some major bad vibes from that dude," Shadebeam said with
what appeared to be a great gift for understatement.
     "Turn the comm board off," Goldman said.  Jerriphrrt switched it
off.  "Now, do you know what switch you hit when you blasted away a large
chunk of the Moon?"
     "Yeah," Jerriphrrt said, pointing to a switch that was in the "up"
position on the mysterious weapons console.  The ship rocked again.
     "Shields at 30%," Machiavelli told them.  "Next hit will drain
them completely."
     "Try it again," Goldman told him.  "It's our only chance."  Dean
flipped the switch down.  Nothing happened.  He looked at the others a
moment, and flipped it back up again.
     Nothing happened.  The ship rocked again.
     "Shields are gone," Machiavelli told them.  "We're finished."
     "No we're not," Benjen said, determinedly.  "These other switches
have got to do something."  He reached out his hand.
     "Wait!" Slithis yelled.  "You can't just--"  His sentence was cut
off as Benjen flipped a switched.  Twenty-three microseconds later,
the universe abruptly vanished.
     "Now look what you've done," scolded Slithis.
     "Oops," Benjen said, smiling weakly.


***** Received 18:42:57 on 02/25/91, Posting #    59 *****
Subject:     Lost Author: The final episode
From:        Bad Dream Lover (CEYX at CRNLVAX5)

Well, Ramrod is kind of locked up until Evan gets back, but I wanted to write
something, so I thought I rescue Pickle from SFSTORY...this story is going out
to both digests, to wrap it up for SFSTORY-only people and introduce him to
Superguy-only people.  Sorry about those of you getting it twice...

                                 Lost Author
                                Final Episode
                                 Bill Dickson

     Pickle slowly nosed the battered Lancea into the Sage's station, parking
next to the spray-painted sign that said "Park Here."  Getting out, he slowly
walked through the dark and dusty hallways, past the cardboard 'THIS WAY TO THE
SAGE!!!!' signs, his aching and scorched body complaining every step of the
     Finally, he rounded the last corner to find the sage sitting quietly in
his chair.
     "Elvis sent me," he said.
     "I know!" answered the Sage smugly.
     "He said I should ask you how to get to a place called 'Superguy Digest.'
It sounded important."
     "It is!"
     Pickle looked annoyed.  "How do you know?"
     "WHAT?!" bellowed the Sage, spattering spittle all over the place.  "Have
you forgotten to whom you speak?  I am the SAGE!  I know EVERYTHING!"
     "Oh yeah," said Pickle, wincing at the assault on his already pounding
head.  He still thought it was just the guy who played the dwarf in 'The
Princess Bride' come to a deserted space station to lose his few remaining
marbles.  "So do I get there?"
     "Right through that door," said the Sage calmly, gesturing with his thumb.
"My station is at a juncture point of many universes."
     "Oh."  Pickle looked at the obviously seldom-used doorway.  "Um....I kind
of wanted to bring my ship along."
     "I know you did!  I am the Sage!"
     "Right.  So, um...can I?"
     "Of course.  You can disassemble it, carry it piece-by-piece to the
docking bay of Superguy Digest, and then reassemble it.  It would take about a
year and a half."
     "Oh."  Pickle squeezed the bridge of his nose between his right thumb and
forefinger, wishing his life had led him anyplace else.  "Well, I didn't really
want to take that long, and I don't really know how-"
     The Sage waved a dismissive hand.  "I know how, of course.  But you have a
second option."
     "And that is?"
     "You can die."
     Pickle frowned.  "That doesn't sound very good."
     "It worked last time, didn't it?"
     "When you slammed your ship into the castle in the long-lost Pink Iguana
Tavern stories, you got resurrected where you next needed to be, didn't you?"
     "Trust me.  You did.  Well, this time, Elvis says you need to be in
Superguy Digest.  You don't doubt the King, do you?"
     "Of course not.  And besides, the burns you've got are from Hell's Fury
cannon, and those never heal.  If you stay here, your existance will be very
     Pickle pondered for a moment.  "But what about my ship?"
     "Oh, please!  You got a new ship last time, right?"
     "Well, yeah..."
     "So it'll happen again!"
     "Will it have an FTL drive?"
     The Sage looked exasperated.  "Of course!  Don't you trust the Sage?!"
     "Well, it's just that my first ship didn't, and this one does, so I wasn't
     "Naturally, you can expect another change.  This time, for example, your
ship will be able to achieve trans-galactic velocity thanks to the magical
spirit of Christmas giving, the same force that permits flying reindeer to pull
ten times the load of common land-bound reindeer."
     "Where, exactly, do you get your information?"
     "In this case, from SPY Magazine, the New York Monthly."  The Sage tossed
Pickle a rolled-up magazine, and he opened it to the marked article, 'No,
Virginia, There *Isn't* a Santa Claus.'  Prominently displayed was a pencil
sketch of hundreds of thousands of reindeer burning up in Earth's atmosphere,
their fur aflame and their eyeballs popping out of their sockets.  It somehow
managed to be both disgusting and hilarious at the same time.
     "There was a misprint," explained the Sage, "in this issue only.  It
explained that the Lost Author would come searching for access to Superguy
Digest, and that he would have to die to get resurrected there with a new ship
powered by the magical spirit of Christmas giving."
     "Oh," said Pickle.
     "That'll be fifteen dollars," said the Sage.
     Pickle dug out the rumpled bills and handed them over, then retreated to
the relative sanity of his ship.  He would just go in search of the Authors'
beach again.  Perhaps Satan's Apathy device hadn't affected that place.  He
could hang out there with them, if they hadn't all been rendered apathetic, and
maybe they could work something out.  That's what he'd do.  And he'd never
listen to anybody, even Elvis, if they told him to go talk to the Sage.
     He backed the ship out of the docking bay, and caught only the briefest
glimpse of the huge Satanic battlecruiser Plan Nine From Outer Space before it
blasted him to dust with its brimstone accelerators.
     The Plan Nine From Outer Space fell into orbit with the Sage's station,
and shortly a small shuttle detached and flew into the docking bay.  The Plan
Nine's captain, the deceased Rex Reed, climbed out dressed in a clumsy pressure
suit that would maintain the scalding tempuratures and foul atmosphere required
to simulate the environment of Hell.  He made his way carefully along the dark
and dusty corridors, following the cardboard 'THIS WAY TO THE SAGE!!!!' signs,
until he found the small man sitting quietly in a chair.  He switched on his
external speaker.
     "My lord Satan T. Lucifer Jones has sent me to find out if-"
     "Yes, yes, it would be possible for him to get to Superguy this way.  But
the Trans-Topic Omnidrive would be more efficient, as he could bring his entire
fleet that way."
     " did..."
     "That'll be fifteen dollars, please."








All this and more, no longer on SFSTORY, but on....SUPERGUY!!!!

Don't miss it!

***** Received 00:08:18 on 02/28/91, Posting #    60 *****
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