From: rigler@galileo.ifa.hawaii.edu (Michael A. Rigler)
Subject: [KQ] Thk [Factory] Bubble Bubble Toil n Trouble
Organization: IFA
Date: Sat, 15 Aug 1992 11:52:39 GMT

DEEP IN THE BOWELS OF THE JOYSTIX FACTORY:


                     -= Basement Level 2 =-

Sweat drips off Wernher's brow.  It isn't just the heat given off by
the vats of boiling liquid.  Working in proximity to "the freak" always 
gives him the creeps, especially when he floats around above everybody's
head like he's doing now.  Worse still, when he floats around _inside_
your head.  

Just now, the squid-faced freak is sitting crosslegged in midair near 
the lip of a giant iron cauldron.  The cauldron gives off a nauseatingly 
sweat stench, and waves of scalding heat, but the Illythid doesn't seem
to mind as he calmly ladles a dash of precisely-measured black fluid 
into the mixture.  The cauldron responds by farting up a vile yellow
cloud.

Wernher shudders.  "How I'd like to squeeze that scrawny neck."  He 
mutters.  But it is just a fantasy, for Quruuminias is Elstrek's right-
hand man--er, mind flayer, and Wernher is fanatically loyal to Elstrek.
Loyal to the death. 

He turns to the five slaves and frowns in irritation.  This batch is 
taking too long to package.  And Kelstrek, who was there waiting impat-
iently for the order seems to have wandered off somewhere.  He gestures 
to one of the three guards at his side, the one with the whip.  

Across the enormous room, Quruuminias is deep in thought:  "...20cc 
C-CHO3 Tri-DiMethylPhenyl-Hydroxyl in an Alkaloid base at 450 degrees 
Kelvin for--"

                        * whip -- CRACK! *

The mind flayer looks up in irritation.  "Mr. Wernher!  Are we experien-
cing some sort of difficulty in processing the order, or are we just 
beating our slaves for the sheer bloody sport of it?" 

"No sir!  It's ready to go, sir!"  shouts the Security Chief, snapping 
to attention.  "We are waiting for the Keflek, the delivery boy.  He's 
disappeared, sir!"

"Well in that case I had better retrieve the young blighter, wouldn't 
you agree?"

"Yes sir!"

"And in the meantime, perhaps you could have our lazy helpers whipped 
until only one of the five remains alive."

"Yes sir!"

* CRACK! * CRACK! * CRACK! * CRACK! * CRACK! * CRACK! * CRACK! * CRACK! 

Quruuminias glances at the ceiling, guessing that the errand-boy might
have wandered up to his small room near Elstrek's quarters.  The punk 
probably got strung out during the long delay and decided to sneak away
for a hit from the private stash of joystix hidden under his pillow.
Quruuminias smiles, for unbeknownst to Keflek, the mind flayer has 
been substituting joystix with slightly modified formulae under his
pillow for several weeks now.  [Snotty nosed punk.  Act like a big shot 
for now.  But eventually you'll end up on my laboratory dissection slab 
like all the other human cattle.]

* CRACK! * CRACK! * CRACK! * CRACK! * CRACK! * CRACK! * CRACK! * CRACK! 

The mind flayer casts out a broad sweeping probe and instantly picks up
the beta-rhythms and REM dreams of the night-shift guards, dozing in their 
barracks.  And there is the nasty little bookkeeper, SanGosti, his brain
filled with figures and guilty thoughts -- trying to skim a little extra
off the bottom for himself, no doubt.  And -- what is this!?!? -- right 
next to SanGosti, the blunt but powerful emanations of a reptilian complex.
Interesting...

* CRACK! * CRACK! * CRACK! * CRACK! * CRACK! * CRACK! * CRACK! * CRACK! 

Quruuminias floats down to the floor and walks briskly towards the stair-
case.  "Secure the slaves, Mr. Wernher, and follow me.  We have trouble."

[ADMIN:  A second article to follow immediately...]


    \========C\                Rigler...
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    /========C/                 ...Thk

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