From: barnejd@wkuvx1.bitnet
Newsgroups: rec.arts.comics.misc
Subject: LNH: The Cosmic Conspiracy Chapter 6 - DOUBLESIZED!
Date: 5 Nov 92 21:32:39 GMT
Followup-To: rec.arts.comics.misc,alt.comics.lnh
X-From: barnejd@wkuvx1.bitnet
X-Newsgroups: alt.comics.lnh
X-Date: 5 Nov 92 15:31:46 CST
X-Organization: Western Kentucky University, Bowling Green, KY

WARNING: This is probably the grimmest story that ever has been
published in alt.comics.lnh.  I tried to lighten it up, but the rest
of the story just doesn't work if I do.  Definitely *not* for those
who take their fun seriously.  Just remember, you were warned...

Special DOUBLE-SIZED Issue!

CHAPTER SIX:
  Dr. Killfile smiled evilly again.  "Of course, world conquest takes
some planning, and the EXTRACTor *does* take a while, so I'll leave
you alone for a while.  I've got a universe to take over."  He stode
from the room.
  Continuity Champ looked about him desperately, hoping to find a way
out.  Or, he at least tried to look about him desperately. 
Unfortunately, though, he could see very little of the lab, for while
he could move his eyeballs (one of those peculiar quirks of most
paralysis fields), he could not move his head.  There could be no
escape; he was paralyzed, unable to call upon even the tiniest
fraction of his powers.  Waves of agony assailed his body as the
EXTRACTor leeched away his life-sustaining energies.
  Suddenly, one of the laboratory walls began to shift and warp.  A
rip in the ether of time and space appeared, a temporal rift from
which a nightmare stepped.  It was vaguely humanoid, seven feet tall
with ebony skin, cruel fangs, and razor-sharp claws, wearing only a
loincloth but carrying a high-tech laser rifle.  The hideous beast
paused and sniffed the air, then walked over to the EXTRACTor
controls.  It looked for a second, pressed a couple of buttons, then
proceeded to put its fist all the way through the machine's console. 
The field holding the Champion shimmered, then began to break up.  The
horrific creature looked at him, then smileda ghastly smile, a string of drool
escaping its monstrously thin lips.
  The field failed, and CC struggled to sit up.  The beast reached for
him.  He pulled back his fist, ready to attempt his martial arts
skills against the creature.
  The alien's mouth opened, and, much to the Champion's surprise, it
began to speak.  "Crimmony, old boy," it said with a distinctly
British accent, "no need for hostilities.  I'm a friend."  He looked
about.  "Come along and I'll explain.  Or you could stay here and wait
for that bounder Killfile to return."  He extended one clawed hand to
CC.
  Continuity Champ surveyed the alien, then took the offered
appendage.  He struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on his monstrous
new ally.  The pair stumbled into the rift.
  They emerged on a deserted street.  The Champion pushed away from
the alien, now sufficiently strong to stand on his own as his cosmic
energies slowly returned.  "Who are you?"
  "Oh, can't this wait?  Very well.  You may call me J'mbaub.  I am,
or rather, was a member of a race called the B'harain from several
centuries in the future.  You see, old boy, that Killfile chap, the
bleeder, stole your power in my timeline.  He recovered the
Plot-Device and became omnipotent.  In time, the Cult spread to a
thousand worlds.  On those worlds where they refused the Cult, the
races were slaughtered."
  He looked sadly off toward the heavens.  "My people were always a
peaceful race.  We loved our daily tea and crumpets.  Then Killfile
came..."  He broke off his narrative.
  "So you did the only sensible thing, stole a prototype miniature
time-travel device, teleporter, and laser rifle and tried to stop
him?" Continuity Champ filled in.
  J'mbaub snapped back to reality.  "Yes, that was my intention.  We
*must* stop Killfile, old bean."
  The Champ pondered what to say to the alien, when he caught sight of
a strangely familiar figure out of the corner of his eye.  He looked
to the side just in time to see a red cape flutter and turn the
corner.  "No," me murmured in disbelief, running to the corner.
  "What is it?" J'mbaub asked, following him.
  "Someone I knew... a long time ago.  But he's dead."  The Champ
reached the building the figure had fled behind and looked down the
narrow alleyway.
  There was no one there.
  "He's dead," Continuity Champ echoed distractedly.
  "And so are y'all," a sleazy-sounding voice drawled.  The pair
turned to see a posse with Sherriff Festus Clint at its head, plasma
rifle in his hand.  "Take 'em, boys."
  The squad immediately opened fire.  Instinctively, the Champ pushed
his depleted powers, enacting a spell to create a barrier to protect
himself and J'mbaub.
  A jade wall formed - but it covered only the Champion.
  The energy bolts and bullets struck the alien.  J'mbaub seemed for
all the world to be a marionette being manipulated by a madman, so
much did his form twitch and shudder.  "Cease fire!" Clint yelled over
the din.
  J'mbaub stood, battered and bloodied.  He looked down at his alien
ichor staining his hands.  "Oh, I daresay..."  The alien collapsed in
a heap.
  "No," the Champion whispered. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!"
  His powers returned in a rush of adrenaline.  A bolt of pure retcon
energy tore into the crowd of crazed cultists.  With a bound, CC
leaped into the fray, alternately blasting and punching the cultists,
until only Clint remained.
  The sherriff's eyes filled with fear.  "S-stay b-b-back!"  He cocked
and fired his rifle.  The bolt of plasma struck the Champion squarely
in the chest.
  He did not even flinch.
  Continuity Champ advanced swiftly on the sherriff, tearing the rifle
from his hands and bending it.  He glared at the trembling cultist. 
"You are proud of this weapon are you not?"  Clint nodded fearfully. 
"Good," the LNHer purred," because you will *eat* this rifle."
  The sherriff did not doubt it for a second.

                ****                ****                ****

  His business with Clint concluded, CC rushed to his alien friend. 
Just from looking at the severity of his wounds, he could tell J'mbaub
was dying.
  The B'harain coughed weakly.  "Oh, I daresay, this smarts.  I do so
detest mindless violence."  A spasm rocked his body.  "Do get that
Killfile chap for me, won't you, old sport?"
  "I will," the Champion vowed.  J'mbaub smiled, then his eyes closed
forever, his head lolling to the side.
  "Killfile," the LNHer grimly promised, his gaze focussed
dramatically off into the distance, "you're mine."

TO BE CONTINUED...

NOTE 1: This is not to say that all British people talk like J'mbaub.
NOTE 2: I just realized I killed off the character that, so far, has
        been the most fun for me to write.  Oh, well, such is life.

                                        -Drizzt