Buck - Fiction by Freon

“You know, Ms. Conrad, without your glasses, you don’t look so awful bad.”
The hooker stopped sobbing for twelve seconds, considering a notion that she could seduce herself out of the back of the cruiser. Had to nip that in the bud.
“Even better now that you aren’t swinging a knife at my partner’s throat.”
She started crying again. I shrugged, shutting the door on her. Better to keep a drunk in tune with reality.
I stuck her Iowa State ID into the clipboard, while Rosie got in. Somehow, she had gotten some coffee.
“Oh, oh, oh – you’re a goddess!” I dared a pull through the plastic lid, the aroma too tempting. We slid off the easement and backed into the street. “Who in Kerns is open this late?”
“The bellhop’s coffeemaker. They use the same stuff as the Casino café – and I thought you could use a little spoiling.” Rosie poked at the elbow bandage she’d put on the cut that Ms. Waneeta Conrad had afflicted there. “Thanks for covering me – might do the same for you sometime.”
“When’s the wedding,” said the drunk.
“Ms. Conrad, if you don’t mind,” I faced her momentarily and uncasually shut the plexi baffle, which she promptly spat on. “That’s nice. Thanks for cooperating. Keep it up, we’ll need samples later.” Unimpressed, I drummed my hands on the wheel and chewed my pen.
“I wanna talk t’ my agent.”
“Look,” Rosie said, pleasantly. “You had every chance to do that without pulling a knife. He’s a little off talking with you, tonight.” She examined her fingernails and babied her cup of coffee. “I suggest someone useful in your defense, Ms. Conrad. Try to think of who you wouldn’t attempt to kill--”
“Go stretch your neck.”
Glazed eyed glowed in the mirror, ringed with macabre streaks of eyeliner.
“---before you waste any breath.” Rosie’s voice trailed off. “Pete, is that something on the roadside?”
I squinted past her hand, to the curb ahead. She’d already grabbed hold of the spotlight. We stopped alongside what looked like a very large fur coat, or someone wearing one, in the gutter at Sullivan Reserve on Main. “I’ll call in. Can you see---”
“Oh, man,” Rosie sighed. She cleared her seatbelt and sprang out the door. “It’s somebody alright. Get on some gloves; I see a little blood here.”
I parked and rattled off a short call to Dispatch. Both of the city’s ambulance crews had remained in town, since Ms Conrad had been somewhat glancing in her earlier attack, and I’d turned them around. Either were half an hour out.
“A hit and run?” The enormous mass on the ground lurched. I came round the front of the car to see a hand reach up, clutching at the beam of the spotlight. “Easy, take it easy,” I said reflexively. I could see abraded elbow, bloodstains on the back of the palms.
“Jus’ lemme alone.” A deep voice, alcohol-slurred. “ Doin’ us no good, never before, and not now.” Then he gave a whallopping kick, barely missing Rosie’s shin.
“Hey, hey!” She stepped back. “You heard him, take it easy. Are you okay? Did you get hit or mugged or something? What do you remember?” She made to reach out a gloved hand, but another kick and a swat was all she got in return. “Pardon me!”
“I know this type, Rosie. Leave it to me.”
The lump on the asphalt regarded my words, and heaved a disgusted sigh. “Oh, here we go, now.” A face lolled into view, over hairy, naked shoulders and a braided mane of straight black. “Just what you mean by that, officer?”
I was close enough to smell the breath. The alcohol had been an improvement.
“I mean nothing by it, young man,” I began, very carefully. I looked him over from a safer distance. “You have any ID on you? License?”
“What a joke.” With a sarcastic laugh, he righted himself. “Look at me. Like I can ever fit behin’a wheel of a car. You people are lucky me and my brothers don’t jump that fence back there ever’ night, take a few of ‘em off the highway for laughs.”
“Sounds fun. Ever do it,” Rosie muttered, flashlight out, peering into the guy’s pupils and making it clear that she could use the aluminum tube as a smart little club if he tried to resist. Naked from the belly up, he had abrasions mostly across his face. Unsteady knees wobbled as he eyed my partner.
“I take the fifth. I wanna reservation lawyer.”
A cackle issued from somewhere behind the beam. “If he’s drunker than I am, you can let me go,” Ms. Conrad ventured.
“Shut it.” Rosie turned and marched off to the car. “I’m gonna go get some gauze.”
“Sir, you appear to be the victim of a hit and run. You don’t need a lawyer, you need medical attention. Get off it and cooperate.”
The guy narrowed his eyes. Drunk hate flared in them. He pulled himself from the ground. “Get off what?”
He stood, wavering, his head and hair rising above the car’s searchlight and into darkness. A pair of bloodied arms crossed a wide chest. Below, coarse black velvet pulsed all the way to the tail.
“Someone bagged a buck!” Waneeta Conrad howled mercilessly.
Limping on massive forelegs and advertising a badly skinned rump, he trotted uneasily to a bus stop bench a few feet away, grabbed a fannypack lying there and tossed it carelessly in my direction. “Get off my high horse? That a po-lice joke?”
I caught the bag before it could strike me in the face. I showed my revolver, and chose a voice that would carry over the fence to the reserve, as well as my car’s onboard video camera.
“Actually, yes. Wanna hear another one? You’re coming to the station on the hood of this car, if you don’t calm down right now and give us a story.” I flicked the leather stay from the holster, resting my left thumb on the hammer. “Let’s start again: Are you alright, sir?”
The species card hit the bottom of the deck, for the time being. The centaur steadied himself, looked me over, and bellowed a quick chuckle of bravado. “Just take the ID, biped. Then we talk. Nobody’s puttin’ me down as no damn John Doe.”
#
“Do you have any idea how much booze a centaur needs to get this drunk,” asked my partner, leaning on the fender while we waited. Waneeta Conrad had mercifully passed out.
“Never thought they could get drunk! Bored sonovabitch tried to kill himself with booze.“
I dragged off the last of my coffee. The radio APB had been easy. ‘Be on the lookout for a latemodel pickup, southbound on Main, may look like it has recently hit a wall.’ I regarded our centaur, the vic with the attitude. “He’s not real keen on us.”
“All the same. They---” she admonished herself. “He leans pretty hard on the reservation crutch.” She sighed, frustrated. “Why can’t people just make something of themselves? My momma would’ve beat the daylight out of me for drinking at this age.” She shook her head.
“She never had to choose between the unemployment line and guaranteed Federal aid if you all stayed on-campus.”
Rosie peered past me. “No offense! I just don’t get it. It’s a waste. He’s a wiseass for his age, too. I mean, I can apologize for myself. Who’s feeding him this bigotry?”
“Nobody. Too proud to blame himself. You heard him. Kerns is a dead-end town. Casino won’t hire four-footers, and there’s no jobs left in this state.”
“Why are we the bad guys? We can fit into a car, we can get jobs, and we don’t need special housing. So we’re the bad guy for not complaining?”
“We’re The Man. Rosie, you just listed half the breaks. Being a centaur is a handicap … but just go tell them they’re handicapped as a species. Equal opportunity be hanged. They’re trapped. They hate us for it.”
Chiron limped over, scratching his chest. “I’m not under arrest,” and started to amble away.
“You have the right to press charges, Mr. Chiron. “ I held out a hand to give him pause. “…And it’s technically against the law to leave the scene of a road accident, even if you’re the victim. Wouldn’t you like some justice for a change? The ambulance can treat you---”
The centaur stopped, amused. “I’m surprised you didn’t call a vet.”
“Truth is they’re certified both ways,” I conceded, “under the circumstances.“ I nodded in the direction of the fence. “Do us the favor. We want him as much as you do.”
Centaurs evidently sober fast. I faced an unwavering glare. “He went out of his way to hit me.”
“I could see that from where we found you. You’re within your rights to have justice done. We won’t tolerate this.”
His mane bristled. “Justice? I think you don’t know justice from jack, officer.” He turned, pacing, wringing his hands. “Maybe I wanted to get myself killed.”
“It’s not out of the question---”
“What do you care? I’m just another buck. Momma will make more, right?”
“Who says?” I was a fool, lecturing a boy four feet taller than myself, but I stood my ground. “Who says anything about your momma? Who says I don’t know exactly what you’re going through? You wanna be treated like a stupid buck, go ahead. Ask for it.”
Chiron fell silent.
“Look, we’re not here to fix all your problems. We can’t.“
The buck started angrily. Then, resigned: “I know you’re the law. But Your Law. Not ours. I’m drunk, underage, and I’m lucky you’re not arresting me.” He dropped his arms to his flanks. “I just want for there to be an outside. You know?”
Rosie stood and walked back, tending to a chirping radio. I called after her. “Kill the spotlight too, Rosie. While you’re at it?”
In the sudden dimness Chiron cantered, silhouetted against the lights of his home – the reserve. He became an awesome reverse constellation, a looming, brooding void among flickering lights. After a moment, I followed and soon caught up. We stopped at the fence.
“Ron, you’re seventeen years old.” I reached out and nudged the centaur’s elbow when I saw the tears. “When I was seventeen I had everything I wanted, and I still wanted out. This place is a low hill in a deep hole. The further you go – alone – the worse it gets. No matter who you are.”
Rosie called from the car. “EMTs are four miles out.”
“Alright. We’re not going anywhere.”
After a long moment, Chiron turned to me. “I can just go back.”
“It’s up to you.” I fell back, holding my palms up. “Justice, Chiron. We’ll trip all over ourselves, maybe look like complete idiots. Bear with us.” I looked at him earnestly. “Have a little patience, and we’ll give you dignity and respect. That’s the law, yours and mine.”
Rosie whistled, from the distance. “Pete, it’s Unit Five. They stopped the pickup on Merollis Avenue. The guy’s pissing drunk. Somebody must be having a sale.”
Chiron blinked, and looked from me to the waiting cruiser, and back. He took a step forward. “If you have the time, then so do I.”

Victim - fiction by David M. Crampton

"I don't want to die."

"What's that?"  The old man, wrinkled, grizzled, and spotted with age, leaned close to the younger man, straining to hear.

The younger man coughed, trying to clear the wetness from this throat. "I don't want to die."  His voice broke; it was more of a plea than a statement.

"Oh, ho, you ungrateful bastard.  What I wouldn't give to be dying right now."  He jabbed the younger man, lying broken and bleeding, with the end of his cane.  The younger man screamed and trees shook.  Leaves fell to the ground.  "That's right!  Feel that pain, compressed into these few moments!"  A sneer spread across the old man's toothless maw. "Stretch that hell over decades, and that's my due.  You don't want that, do ya, boy!"

The young man felt something wet on his face.  Was he bleeding or
crying?  "I don't..."  A fit of coughing overwhelmed him, and the pain
threatened to make him pass out.  He fought for consciousness, spending his precious strength of will to fight the ornery geriatric.  "I don't want to die."

The old man cleared the phlegm out of his throat and spat it onto the
ground next to the young man.  "You don't have a choice, you ungrateful prat.  It's happening, and you ain't going to stop it this time."  He waved his cane over the young man's chest again, threatening more pain.  "Just accept it."

"I don't..."  The cane came down again, and it felt like a cinder block.
This time, the pain won, and the young man passed out.

"God, I hate you."  The old man walked away from the broken form,
limping through the rain of leaves falling from the tree branches.

##

The doctor pushed up her sleeve and checked her watch.  "I'm calling it.   Time of death is 3:28 am."  She pulled the sheet up over the young man's face, and sighed.

David M. Crampton is the author of The Remembrance

ISBN: 978-1-4116-1174-0
http://www.davidmcrampton.com/

Sticks and Stones - fiction by freon

Professor Tripp sat back from revision and looked out the portal, trying to glimpse the star system toward which he'd been rocketing, nearly two dozen years all spent concentrating on one thing and one thing alone. The language.
The only commonality Erandii speech had with Earth's was the mechanism; vocal cords and tongue, forcing atmosphere through what passed (barely) for lips. Ancient audio communiques, all one-way, of course, finally established that the Erandii were not only understandable, but so much more complex that computer aid was a necessity, even for a master.
A meeting was inevitable, so who else would they send first but the premier Erandii-Earthtongue authority? In six days, his vessel - first ever Earth Emissary to Gam-Erandii - will set down on a world that, finally, appreciates his talents. He rubbed his studious head and gloated for a moment. As the first human to set foot upon this planet, those tongue-tied clowns of lowly Earth couldn't have chosen any better.
“Barbarians, all of them,” he spat. “Hell can have them. Here is the cradle of true civilization - Erandii!”
-
He staggered to the foyer, punching at the sky and cursing the blue-green sun at the top of his oxygen-fed lungs. The precious translator glanced smartly off the ground, showering Tripp's feet with the orange dust of Erandii soil. With a well aimed kick, he launched it at the makeshift consulate's wall, only to have it bounce back to within hearing range, still functioning perfectly. An anguished wail, and Tripp pulled his only other piece of gear from his environment suit and shot himself through the head with it.
-
The semicircle of gray-skinned elders parted to let the hoverbed through with its otherworldly contents. The stoutest of the five, Qaadeel, turned away and retrieved the human's talking machine, prodding the controls to no avail with his snouts. He looked up with nine apologetic eyes and frowned at his subordinates, hearing their words played out dutifully by the little box as they chittered, quiet and forlorn.
The box spoke, though no one listened. "Like, so he goes, 'no way', and, like, freaks in colors! Like, so we just looks at him, y'know?"
"Huh, yeah. Like whoa. So we like, axe why he can't do the do, dig? Like, dude, how could we not dis him, y'know? Know what I'm sayin'?"
"Dude. Talked just like my grandfather. Huh."

 

Sticks and Stones first appeared online in 1999.

The One-Shoed Rascals Eat Pastry - fiction by Michael Marcus

The foil-covered sky on this trancelike morning sparkles brightly over the molten fundament that defines the bottom of Lake West. Children of various ages and limbs hobble around the lake, waiting for the shoe fish to hop to the surface--without the food and leather, they will quickly die. Today, they are all doomed, for the One-Shoed Rascals are here. One-Shoed Rascals are lake-drainers, cow swallowers, and rampant nictophobes, capable of the most heinous butchery in the knifeless waters of Lake West and its major tributaries, the Wonk and Toto Rivers. Only the most fearless fishermen and carpetbaggers have tried to stop them; none have returned.

Even as this pointless exposition continues, the Rascals sight the children and propel forward with mighty swishes of their desperate tongues. One of the children yells out a cry of surprise as he finds a scuttle of shoe fish, hopping and crawling nearer and nearer a spot where they might leap momentarily out of the water and free themselves for a few seconds of their burden of their awkward, non-hydrodynamic shape. The other children gather around. This is the moment the Rascals attack.

Several swift spines surge from below the surface, sharply stinging the dead bejesus out of the unsuspecting kids, injecting them with virulent backward poison as they squirm in paroxysms of pain, dying even as their parents watch on. The Rascals drag them under with fiberglass harpoons hidden in their voluminous tusks. The elders observe the frenzy with detached clarity, shaking their heads. None of this batch survived the Rascal attack, time to breed more. One of the younger couples cries a little bit, throwing a birthday cake into the water after their dead five-year-old son.

The One-Shoed Rascals eat pastry.

Michael Marcus edits IF-X, the full-size comic anthology series published by Hamtramck Idea Men. 'The One-Shoed Rascals' appears in print in IF-X Issue 1 Vol. 1

FOR SALE - by Michael FREON Andaluz

1993 Probe SE with factory ground effects, 16-inch
factory alloy wheels, 4-wheel disc brakes, 2.5L 24v
engine with 5spd Manual Transaxle, ABS, factory
keyless entry, power roof, and body color power
mirrors. In short, this is a Probe GT without the
spoiler or fancy taillight lens.

This car has been in storage for two years after an
unfortunate encounter with two logs, which fell off a
truck in front of it on the street. The first log hit
the windshield and cracked it. The second one went
under the car, took away both fog lights and struck
the oil pan.

The car did NOT leak any oil after the accident, but
the engine oil pressure went to zero when checked, and
it was not started again and immediately parked.
Recently it has been started and oil pressure is
normal but can drop at any time while driving. A
mechanic stated that the dent in the pan might be
shrouding the oil pickup. Whatever that means. The
owner of the vehicle is quite happy with her new
Pontiac Vibe, and now wishes me, a lowly science
fiction writer, to sell it on her behalf.

The car has a very clean interior but the driver's
door panel is loose. The roof has marks on it and
there is a small dent on the right rear corner above
the taillight, little dings along the right rear
fender ahead of the tire, and a small hole in one
ground effect skirt on the right side. The car has no
rust. Everything works but the air conditioning blows
warm air.

The car has four new tires on it which were installed
about eight miles ago and a fresh battery. Just before
the accident the exhaust system was replaced forward
of the catalyst with genuine Ford parts to the tune of
several hundred dollars, and except for the oil
pressure scaring the daylights out of anyone who
drives it, the car is really quite impressive. For
obvious reasons, driving away upon purchase is not
recommended at all, but promises to be an adventure
you may laugh about in the future.

So much for the facts. I am a writer of fiction, so I
will now add the lies.

The car was actually damaged while in pursuit of the
notorious leader of the Kerabusek Underground Psychic
Resistance Front, who is responsible for the mass
hypnosis that makes us believe that Paris Hilton,
Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears are all worthy of
media coverage.

Ringleader Sijhan Valjean, wanted in as many countries
as have international crime investigation
organizations, had just fled a losing gunbattle with
Interpol and Secret Service policemen at our famed
McNamara Terminal at Detroit's Metropolitan
International Airport, in a highly modified log truck,
carrying one ton of dynamite, two tons of pointy logs,
six full gasoline cans of E85, and a seventy-five
pound bulk pack of nailgun ammunition - as well as a
cadre of trained beavers who had been brainwashed into
believing that Boeing 747's were actually earthly
apparitions of G'whalla'dunn, their beaver pagan god
of twigs and soggy boughs.

In pursuit was my friend and confidante, a surly young
lady named Wistralia Davenport, a keen new reporter
for the Detroit News/Free Press and newly installed in
their world renowned investigational reporting squad.
After receiving several encoded messages addressed to
the newspaper's editor, Davenport was dispatched to
cover the arrival of the prime minister of our closest
ally in the war against mass hypnosis, the planet
Wholveer II, which only passes within the range of a
Boeing 747 once every seventy years. Trivia, yes, but
trivia not lost on a fetching young heroine with a few
brain cells to slap together.

Armed with the date, the target, and THIS VERY CAR,
Davenport headed off the multi-pronged and
multi-rodented threat, clashing fenders and trading
hand gestures that would make a sign language
interpreter faint. With speeds of nearly two hundred
miles per hour ticking off the instrument panel, the
two vehicles streaked west on Interstate 94, towards
Chicago and a brood of evil Beaver Cubs who were
mounting a repulsive force as well as surrounding the
Sears Tower with diabolical intent and sharp, gnashing
little buck teeth.

With only minutes to spare, Davenport's burly
cameraman, a husky blonde man named Hurl Bjornsen van
Bjornsen, crawled out the sunroof onto the hood and
lobbed his Hasselblad 35mm with 170mm zoom lens into
the onrushing wind, and therewith unlatched the
stakebed's tailgate toppling the log truck's rabid
cargo onto the highway, and making the most foul
pavement pizza anyone could possibly imagine while at
the same time knocking loose three rather scary
looking pieces of box elder, which had only hours
before been carefully liberated from an eighty-foot
specimen in Muskegon, sharpened to nasty points, and
loaded with four thousand pounds of similar cargo into
the Ford F-700 that was presently very close to
sending one of its forged steel rods through its
crankcase at seven thousand RPM in overdrive. You
should have been there.

To make a long story short, one log caught the truck's
driveshaft, flinging the drivetrain into a very sudden
state of not turning and instantly making a pile of
Brillo Pads out of the engine. The result was a nine
ton steel box doing a horizontal rendition of Scott
Hamilton's gold-winning quadruple-axel finale in the
1988 Olympics at Lake Placid, which took the Kerabusek
chief to his final doom. Skidding to a stop out of
danger but flat-spotting all four original Goodyear
Eagle RS-A's, was young Davenport, at the wheel of
THIS VERY CAR, arriving to capture the final moments
of a doomed plot that could have galvanized the world,
or at least made extraordinarily good television.

Pictures? Well, the camera broke, you see.

Did I mention I need an agent?

Freon writes from Pontiac, and sold the Probe for 12 bills.

When Muppets Attack - Radio Play by Shalla Schmidt

You're listening to Radio Free Fandom...

Announcer: And now we bring you: When Muppets Attack or War of the Pastries! It was a quiet day on Muppetworld...

[Background sound of duck noises]

Burt: 3000 ready to go. Next week's shipment in production. Business is good. Hey! Careful with those!

[Sound of cascading crashes, accompanied by duck noises]

Burt (with frustration): Beauregard!!

Beauregard (dejectedly): Sorry.

Burt: Well, just get it cleaned up. These duckies are supposed to be on the truck in the morning.

[Arrow sound: whistle followed by thunk]

[Approaching feet]

Ernie (excitedly): Hey, Burt, I..Aaaahh!

[Loud thud, with many duck noises]

Burt: Ernie! Are you all right? You have to be careful.

Ernie: Never mind that! Look what just arrived!

Burt: Someone sent a pie to us by arrow?

Ernie: That's right, Burt.

Burt: Nice sling arrangement. But why not just have it delivered?

Ernie: There's a note. Here.

Burt (reading): 'To all muppets: We will crush your weak and pathetic planet beneath our heels. Your

rubber ducky factory is only the beginning. This pie will self-destruct in two days, but note the

lovely crinkly edge on the crust.' Ernie! Someone's trying to take over Muppetworld!

Ernie: Can we cut the pie, then?

Burt: No! It's an exploding pie, for heaven sake. Put it over there.

Ernie: Aaawww.

{Scene change}

[Crowd-style muttering]

Emeril: Nice party, Martha. Bamm!

Martha: Thank you, Emeril. I catered it myself. Have you had any punch? The butter cookies are

excellent. Made with butter. But from now on we are Lt Lagasse and Gen. Stewart! Lt, do you

know Magneto?

Emeril: Nice to meet you.

Martha: Magneto, who have we gathered together tonight?

Magneto: We have some great villains. Lex Luther, Mxzlplx, Sabertooth...

Emeril (in disgust): Oh, not that great slobbering idiot! Look, he's eating food right off the platters!

Martha: Lt!

Magneto: um...and villainesses, of course, Poison Ivy, Hexadecimal, Catwoman, Mystique. Oh, and we

have Barney.

Emeril (incredulously): What for?

Martha: Emeril! He's well known for being able to drive away or incapacitate most people over the age

of three. And he does lovely holiday wreaths. Magneto, who are all the men who are dressed

alike?

Magneto: Henchmen. Every villainous plan need a bunch of henchmen. Speaking of which, what is your

plan?

Martha: Good question. I should call the gathering to order. Have you tried the pastries? (speaking to

all assembled) Welcome, everyone, to my little tea party. Everyone get enough to eat? Good. As

you know, we are going to take over Muppetworld. Our plan is simple. From our base in this

remote region of Muppetworld, we strike at their vulnerable spots. We've already taken down

the rubber ducky factory. The cookie mines are next. After that, the public broadcasting system.

And once we have Sesame Street under our control, President Gonzo will be at our mercy.

Then, let the redecorating begin!! Yes, you have a question, Mystique?

Mystique: Why bother with this world? It's a joke. I don't need a rubber ducky.

Martha (condescendingly): From here we can send messages to all Earth's children. With Barney's help,

they'll be hypnotized. They will all make craft items for ME! I'll be the richest home decor guru

on TV!!...And, of course, you'll all be rich and powerful too.

Poison Ivy: What about the booster system that sends their broadcasts to Earth? We're not bombing that?

Martha (condescendingly) : No, we need that to broadcast our messages to Earth. Have you considered a

floral arrangement, Poison Ivy?

Lex: Martha, do the muppets have any defenses? How will they fight back?

Martha (condes): Well, Lex, they are muppets. Not a very violent group. Our biggest problem will be

Lou Zealand and his boomerang fish. Now, everybody will be part of a mission. Magneto will

hand out your assignments. After dinner, we take over the world! And have you all finished

your woven placemats? Sabertooth, that's not a placemat!

Sabertooth (quietly): Grrrrrr.

Martha: OK, people, enjoy yourselves! Barney, stop that singing.

Catwoman (purrs): Excuse me. I don't have an assignment, Martha.

Martha: I have a special job for you, Catwoman...

{scene change}

[Burning crackley noises]

Announcer: I know you can't see this, but the special effects are amazing.

Kermit: Hiho, Kermit the frog here, reporting from the local rubber ducky factory, which has just

exploded.

Count: One, one burning building, ah, ah, ah.

Ernie (sobbing): We only left it for a minute.

Kermit: I'm talking here with Ernie, owner of the factory along with his partner Burt. Ernie, can you tell

us what happened?

Ernie: We had just left for the day. We were heading back to Sesame Street when we heard a boom

behind us and turned to look. The building was in flames. Burt tried to run back in; I had to

hold him back.

Kermit: Uh huh. And do you know just what made the factory explode?

Ernie: Well, we did get a pie by arrow a couple days ago that said it would self-destruct.

Kermit: What? You got an exploding pie and just left it in there? I don't believe this.

Burt (tired): Ernie, we couldn't save anything. The whole place is a mess. All we could get out was this

one ducky. [Quack] What are we going to do?

Ernie: Take a bath?

Kermit: This is Kermit the frog reporting at the scene of the rubber ducky factory. Sheesh.

{scene change}

Miss Piggy: Oh, those poor boys! Rubber Ducky factory gone! Destructive forces poised to take over the

world! Who will save the day? *pause* I said, who will save the day!

Link Hogthrob: I don't know what you're implying. Are you saying it's my job to save the world from an

unknown evil menace?

Miss Piggy (sweetly): Link, you have leadership experience. The other pigs will follow you into space.

Link: Pigs in space? Hmm.

Piggy: Good. We blast off in three hours.

Link: What? I'm supposed to see my tailor this afternoon.

Piggy: You look fine. Now move! And remember, you're a leader.

{scene change}

Lex: Excuse me, could you tell me how to get to Sesame Street?

Snuffy: Oh, it's just down that road, you can miss it.

Lex: Thank you. Magneto. Mystique. Tie up the mammoth and gag him. We must maintain the

element of surprise.

{scene change}

Pres Gonzo: General Hogthrob, we have to do something. The ducky factory was hit with an exploding

pie. The cookie mines are under siege and the biscotti darts are flying. Flaming saganaki has

Sesame Street up in smoke! Do Something!!!

Link: We have our best pigs on it. My crew is here in space looking for the enemy base. Lou Zealand is

fighting back at the mines. The Swedish chef is guarding the PBS station. We have a veritable

army of chickens marching on the 'Street.

Count: 245 chickens! Ah, ah, ah!

Kermit: We're going to see what Dr Bunsen Honeydew and Beeker have come up with. Over and out.

Dr B: Well, Pres Gonzo, since the enemy is using battle foods, notibly baked goods, we thought we'd give

it a try. This is our own pie granade. Comes in apple, blueberry, and cherry. Also, we have the

projectile crumpets. Deadly. Our catapaults will be firing this three foot wide donut. Powdered

sugar, you know.

Beaker: [Beaker noises]

Pres Gonzo: As a last resort, you can fire me out of a cannon at the enemy.

Kermit: Gonzo! We can't fire you at the enemy. You're the president.

Pres Gonzo: Not even once?

Rizo: Gonzo, Gonzo!! (panting) Some cows in the Elementary District just reported Big Bird was

kidnapped!! A bunch of guys all dressed alike and a woman dressed in black jumped out from

behind a tree and grabbed him. They dragged him into a spaceship and took off!

Gonzo: This is terrible. What will we tell Snuffy? He's still shaken up about the attack on Sesame

Street.

Kermit: Link, I mean General Hogthrob, get us an update every hour. We have to find out who's behind

this. And we have to find Big Bird.

{scene change}

Link: Piggy, arm missiles.

Piggy: You idiot, we don't have missiles.

Link (panicing): What! Don't have missiles? How do we attack? There are 40 enemy ships heading our way!

We're going to die! We're going to die!

Piggy: Some leader. Link, we have lazers! Oh, nevermind, I'll just start shooting when they get near.

["sounds" of space battle]

Announcer: Will the evil Martha Stewart and her dastardly gang take over Muppetworld? Will the pigs in space

prevail against the enemy attackers? Will the cookie mines be saved? Answers to these questions and

more after these messages.

Commercial break: Spatula City.

Announcer: And now we return to When Muppets Attack!

Martha: Now, first we clean the bird and remove it's organs from the chest cavity. These will make a

fine gravy. Next we're going to rub butter and garlic salt into the skin.

Mystique: She's nuts.

Martha: I've prepared the stuffing ahead of time. It's a nice cornbread stuffing with sage and parsley.

There. Now the stuffed bird goes into the roasting pan. Can a few of you help me lift this?

Careful! OK, into the pan.

[Ooofs and grunts of effort]

Martha: We'll roast it covered for the first stage and uncover it for the final browning. All right, into the

oven! Poultry should cook for about 20 minutes for every pound, so we should be eating in about

three and a half days.

Emeril Lagasse: Spice it up! Bamm!!

Hexadecimal: And they call me insane.

Martha: What was that, Hexadecimal?

Hex: Oh, nothing.

Martha: There, now, on to business. #1, what's the latest report?

Emeril: That fish guy at the mines is tough, but we have Seseme Street. Hexadecimal and Mxzlplx are

doing an aerial scan to see what the native have cooking. Also, there's our space fleet. They've

met the muppet fleet in battle. But that stupid dinosaur won't quit singing. We're getting

complaints from the henchmen.

Martha: Correct me if I'm wrong, but don't henchmen of super villains end up either beaten up or killed?

Emeril: That's right! Spices up the villain game! Bamm!!

Martha: Send out a memo, #1: Henchmen who complain will be issued red shirts.

{scene change}

Gonzo: Kermit, it's terrible! We don't stand a chance. The enemy's using battle biscuits and

catapaulting flaming cheese all over the streets! Plus the space battles!

Kermit: Calm down, Gonzo. Gen Hogthrob is reporting from his ship.

Link: Pres Gonzo, do you read me.

Gonzo: Go ahead, Link.

Link: Bad news about Big Bird. A pile of feathers was found not far from where he was taken.

Gonzo: Could it get any worse?

Link: Well, we've taken some losses against the enemy space fleet but we fired back in earnest...

Count: 28, 28 enemy ships falling to the ground in flames, ah, ah, ah.

Link: ...but appearently the ships contained only henchmen. They obviously expected heavy losses. Some

good news: Our spy, the Swedish Chef, has found the attacker's headquarters, in a remote region

west of the Elementary District. After that, he went to check on the mines.

Miss Piggy: We've discovered who the enemy is: Martha Stewart and a bunch of supervillians!

Kermit: That explains the ballistic scones!

Gonzo: Doesn't she know that people who live in marzipan houses shouldn't throw scones?

[General moaning]

Link: I have contacted Major Sam, the Eagle, about the ground forces. His battle hens are formidable.

And they're all angry about Big Bird. I've instructed them to attack the enemy stronghold, but

they'll need a diversion.

Gonzo: It's time to bring out the secret weapons.

Others: Bomm, bomm, bomm!!

[approaching feet]

Swedish chef: Hurda humda fjorda!!! Fishy wishy inda cookie!!

Gonzo: What?

Kermit: He said that Lou is having trouble at the cookie mines and needs help right away!

Chef: Himda apple cherry whooska wooska splat!

Kermit: The pies are flying on both sides!

Gonzo: Where is the space fleet now, Generel?

Link: Orbiting. Should I head to the mines?

Gonzo: Yes! Back up Lou as best you can. He can't have many fish left.

Piggy: I thought they were boomerang fish.

Gonzo: Only if they miss.

{scene change}

Poison Ivy: Can you believe that nutcase? I certainly don't need gardening tips from her!

Lex: She has to go and that lacky of hers. Not to mention...

All villains: The dinosaur!

Sabertooth: My placemat was as good as any.

Magneto: I think we're in agreement. Let's take the remaining henchmen and take her down.

All villains: No more country wallpaper!!

Accouncer: But the villains' plan was overheard...

Emeril: Martha! Martha!

Martha: That's General Stewart, Lt. Lagasse.

Emeril: Stop your foul whining! Our officers have rallied the remaining henchmen against us! They're

on the way to your office. It's mutiny!!

Martha: Well, you wanted it spicy...

Emeril: We're about to be shish-kabobs and you're joking?

Martha: I have a plan.

{scene change}

Magneto: I saw Emeril go this way, toward the Death Kitchen.

Poison Ivy: He's as crazy as she is.

Sabertooth: Nothin' wrong with my placemat.

Magneto: Shut up, Saber. Mystique, what are you muttering about.

Mystique: Did you see the cookie mines? Weird.

Hex: She's crazier than I am.

Catwoman: I didn't even like the way she roasted the bird. Too salty.

Mystique: Tasted like chicken...

Lex: Not really a leader of villains, if you ask me. And I for one am tired of redecorating my den of evil

every other day.

[General chorus of agreement]

Magneto: We'll take care of her. She won't be a problem after today.

Mxzlplx: I could turn her into a newt.

Magneto: No, Mxzlplx, I think a light glaze at 350 for a few hours.

Barney: I love you all.

Henchman: That big dinosaur has to go.

[Sound of doors bursting open]

Catwoman: Where is she?

Lex: Here, Catwoman, she's on the floor over here. Give me a hand, Magneto.

Hex: She has an interesting color.

Henchman: I found Lagasse over here!

Lex: What's that in her hand?

Magneto: A bottle of fixative. Empty! She must have swallowed it. Would have killed her instantly. Is

Lagasse all right, Mystique?

Mystique: Dead. Holding an empty bottle of Dave's Insanity. What a why to go. Spiced up and out.

Lex: What now?

Catwoman: There's nothing on this world that any of us want...

Barney: I love cookies and duckies!

Catwoman: ...Except the purple freak. Let's get back to what we do best. Wreaking havoc with the

Justice League!!

[general cheering]

Henchman 1: I'm pretty relieved about this. Muppetworld is no place for us henchmen.

Henchman 2: You said it. Give me a superhero to fight anyday.

[Sound of breaking glass, with screaming]

Supergrover: It is I, Supergrover, come to stop your evil ways. You are all my prisoners. Come quietly,

or I shall unleash my army of chickens!

Mystique: Don't just stand there, Henchmen, get him.

[Sounds of battle: Biff, Sock, Pow, etc. Pained moaning.]

Count: 12, 12 defeated henchmen! Ah, ah, ah.

Lex: Mystique, they're henchmen. They never win in their first encounter with a superhero.

[a general "Oh, man! sound from the villains]

Sabertooth: I'm getting out of here.

Poison Ivy: A plan with no drawbacks.

[sounds of fleeing, with footsteps and yells, followed shortly by skidding-to-a-stop noises.]

Animal: Animal!!

Catwoman: What the hell is that?

Animal: Woman!! Woman!!

Catwoman, Poison Ivy, Hex, Mystique, and strangely enough, Barney: Aaaaaahhh!!!!

Chickens: Bock, bock, bock.

Sam the Eagle: Round them up, BattleHens! You cannot escape justice, evildoers.

[clucking and yells]

Sam: Good job, ladies! That one was for the Big B. Take them to the jailhouse.

Supergrover: Another battle with evil fought and won. It's fun being a secret weapon.

{scene change}

Judge Fozzy: ...and I sentence Poison Ivy, Magneto, Sabertooth, Mystique, Lex, Hexadecimal, and

Mx..Mxl..the little floating guy to 10 years in the cookie mines. Wokka, wokka. [bangs gavel]

Lex: What about Catwoman?

{scene change}

Catwoman: Where am I? How can that little creature still be tracking me out here. I even went

through a river, ughh!

Animal (distantly): Woman! Nice woman!

{scene change}

Martha: Looks like they fell for it.

Emeril: Amazin' what you can do with couple of carcasses and some paint. They looked just like us.

Martha: I am the best.

Emeril: Your arm is bleeding, Martha!

Martha: Don't worry. A bit of thread and I'll have that sticked right up. Put your finger on the knot, will

you?

Emeril: Amazin'. Field surgery. Who'da thought?

Martha: Everyone thinks we're dead, Emeril. Muppetworld and the children of Earth can't be ours, but I

have another plan. Microtransmitters in my line of sheets at Kmart. We will subliminally

control the world!!

Emeril: Oh, Martha, can't you see I love you!

Martha: Well, bamm!

[swelling music]

Announcer: And so Muppetworld is saved thanks to the bravery of Link, Piggy, Sam, Grover, and the

BattleHens! Stay tuned for more thrilling adventures!!

Shalla Schmidt's play was broadcast live at Radio Free Fandom

SERENDIPITY - fiction by freon

The silver doors of the lander’s access bay slid softly to a halt, shedding a pale yellow reflection from the star we called µ-427 across the deck of our observatory ship as it orbited one of this system’s many unusual planets. Onto the gantry stepped our captain and chief observer, who we code-call Mr. “Muse” in the language of the planet below. Muse had just returned from the planet’s northern hemisphere, where it was agreed upon at the time of our arrival that the most promising specimens for study thrived. The development level of the natives had in recent g.t.u.’s reached a plateau a hair beyond the level of controlled simple chemical combustion; chemistry was in the midst of its golden age, and rudimentary world communications had been established. We were ready to leave.

Earlier, Muse had presided at a meeting to-day regarding the final phase of our mission – to anonymously usher these life forms of µ-427 into a new age of discovery, priming them for a rendezvous with the galactic civilization someday in the far-flung future.

Well, someone had to do it.

My commandant, sub-ordinate to Muse, was code-called “Bard”. Our real names were unimportant at the time, and perhaps remain that way. In the scope of this new world’s history we were but specks of dust in the eyes of its onward march to technological fruition. Without our help, however, the odds of the planet’s induction – let alone its survival as an extra-systemic entity – were in serious jeopardy. At many of our informal ‘meetings’ in the ship’s pub, Bard told me stories about prior glaring fiascoes – failures of the Galactic Guild’s original “hands-off” directives. They were tales of thousands of promising world civilizations, laid to waste by diseases that were curable by the Guild. Or simple tectonic shifts whose prevention would have been child’s play to Guild geologists.

Or war.

The ability to destroy a world by warfare is the most disgusting, said Bard, because nothing the Guild could ever do, no matter how covertly, has saved a race so paranoid, so bent on self-destruction that God himself had turned his back on them.

µ-427 was to be the first experiment in the Guild’s new, “hands-on” approach. Public outcry over the waste of such an amount of precious life throughout the galaxy had lately changed the Guild’s protocol.

“What now, then,” asked Bard, yesterday, as Muse returned from one of many scouting missions. Perhaps, as Muse had often claimed, his lollygagging with ship’s ballast like me kept him from being properly informed. (I was fortunate enough to pull barkeep duty for the conference, and so relate this story.)

“Paddy,” he called to me, as he motioned for a drink. He winked, and I poured one extra strong. “Now then, are we going to get into it, Muse?”

“What, now. Five minutes I’ve been aboard and already he’s on my back.” Muse pulled up a chair and stirred his Fennimur stew. “Ah, just as well, for time is of the essence.” He extracted a file cube and opened it. After a brief flash, a holographic image of the Space Exploration Guild banner materialized over the conference table. Shortly thereafter a brief, candid ‘news reel’ covering the history of the world below was projected into the thin air of the room, beginning with the end of µ-427’s latest ice age, and the rise of intelligent life on the planet. Thousands of years flashed by in glimpses and peeks, punctuated every now and then by meteor impacts, major geo-thermal turmoil (µ-427 was yet a very warm planet) and the occasional bio-evolutionary flush. At length the review slowed to within the last fifty g.t.u.’s of the little watery planet, and finally halted with a brief visi-dossier on warfare at sea and the rise of some tyrant on the land-heavy side. The lifespan of these small, loud bipeds was roughly one fifth that of our own, a fact which prompted Bard to joke about this race’s real significance within the Guild’s designs.

“I can see it now, Paddy. If we ever see these ‘beings’ (used loosely) walking the Guild Commons, it would be worse than dealing with the Kasparites of theta-024. Gods! Imagine having to relate with a native, his son, his grandson, and if you’re really unlucky, even his great grandson! Or are we just too slow for them?” Bard went on, comparing their methods of propagation to that of small rodents and primates.

Muse spoke again. “I think they’re ready. We’ve been watching their institutes of ‘modern’ sciences and it appears that they’re on the verge of discovering what we’ve been planning to give them, anyway. But,” he raised his goblet, “Since we’re already here, and I would hate to waste the guild’s precious R&D time, I say we move soon and at least get our names down for posterity for this… experiment.”

I came to the table to fill Muse’s cup, and caught a glimpse of a 2-d portfolio before him. Muse didn’t mind; with a crew of six, there was no need (or practical use) for secrecy. A group of four natives was depicted, separately labeled as “test subjects”. A chill of satisfaction crossed my body - four subjects meant four separate missions to the planet surface. Since Bard and Sensei, as pilots, had to remain on the observatory, that meant that I was guaranteed at least one trip planetside. I was truly ecstatic; I hadn’t been there yet.

“Four separate jobs, eh,” I piped up. Muse looked askance and shrugged.

“Nosey. Oh, well, you’d have found out today, anyway. Yes, yes, you’re hitting the ground tomorrow with me and the twins.”

I could barely contain my glee. For nearly two g.t.u.’s we’d been ‘scoping delta-mu, all this time safe in orbit over the northern geographic pole, dropping probes and listening for chance electromag transmissions. Occasionally Muse would man a lander for some up-close, but the Brothers Grimm and I had always stayed aboard, waiting for the word to go.

Bard snorted. “Lucky bastard. Hey, remember your buddy. Bring back a souvenir.” I nodded, wondering later what the commandant could possibly want.

“Back to business, men,” urged Muse. Our captain was getting around to the mission itself. “Where are the Grimm's? This is the only meeting we’ve got before the drop.”

“Oh, they’re below decks,” I said. “They’re on drill, duty-checking de-orbit specs. Something about recalibrating for the next comet.” I assured Muse that I would convey their orders afterward.

Muse downed his Fennimur and cleared his throat.

“We leave tomorrow. Your orders are explicit, and you must stay out of sight (we are a bit taller than the natives, and we have more arms). Here are the Grimms’ folders and these…” as he handed me a thin mem-plate, “… are for you.”

“Any details?”

“It’s all there. You can take the Uttajhlian. His name is Marconi or something like that. Bard gets the Jermun, Hertz. The Twins leave first, one from Inklund named Oliver Lodge; the other for a Russian called Tesla. We want them to know about trans-media communication. Start with the basics, boys.”

So, that’s it. We drop in a few minutes, and we’re as jittery as hantmuggens. Damn, but I hope this all works out.

 

~Freon runs on hamburgers and bourbon.