From: dvandom@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu (David VanDomelen)
Subject: Re: LNH - Posting of the last chapter (so far...)
Organization: The Ohio State University
Date: Sat, 5 Sep 1992 20:35:18 GMT

Indeed!  How could Sig Lad escape the vengeance of the entire collected might 
of the LNH and whatever GreenRingWraith said the villains were really called?
     MERCHANDIZING!!!!!!!!!!
Last night I was bored and drew a picture of Acton Lord blasting the bejeezus 
out of Sig Lad.  Acton Lord says "Power *DESTROYS*, Sig Lad!  So swears... 
ACTON LORD (logo)" as Sig Lad mutters "must...reach...end...of...post!  
call...wReam!"  Send a SASE to me at 101 Curl Drive, 220 Jones Tower, Columbus 
OH 43210 and I'll send you a free photocopy of it!
     While the action was interrupted by this ad, Sig Lad had regained his 
bearings, and said to the assembled crowd, "Alright, nobody move, or I append 
all of The Day The Earth Cringed as my .sig!!!"
     Everyone stood still in stunned silence, until Cliche Dude shouted "You're
bluffing!"
     "Now you've done it!  You've *forced* me to use this!"
From B281@NEMOMUS.BITNET Wed Jul 15 13:00:51 1992

Here ya go...I had some problems with the end of the lines getting cut
off...took me a while to correct it.  Hope everyone enjoys it.
Mike
                      THE DAY THE EARTH CRINGED
                         by Michael Molinsky
       On February 12, 1989, "Sixty Minutes" was interrupted in
  mid- transmission, and replaced by an evil figure dressed in a
  cowled robe and carrying a scythe.  His bald scalp gleamed with
  perspiration as he peered knowingly into living rooms all across
  America.  He paused, as if to give neighbors time to tune in,
  then,  with a leer, he began.
       "For those of you who may not know me," he screeched out in
  a gravelly, high-pitched whine that sounded like nothing more
  than fingernails on a chalkboard, "I am known as Dr. Death.  This
  message is a notice to the United States Government, coming to
  you live from my secret base in Kirksville, Missouri.  It is a
  prophecy of pain, torment, agony, debilitation, nasty itches and
  rashes, nose bleeds, paper cuts, hangnails and hair loss.
       "In precisely twenty-four hours, " he continued, "I will
  flip this switch."  Dr. Death pointed to a large black toggle
  with a skull-and-bones inscribed upon it. "Do you know what will
  happen then?  Well, do you? Hmmmmmmm?"  After waiting for a
  minute or so, a hand from off-camera nudged Dr. Death's elbow.
  "Oh, well, of course you don't, you slimy, greasy, smelly,
  inflatable toadstools!!!  Only I, the great Dr. Death, the
  inventor of the contraption attached to this switch, know what
  will happen then!"
       Once again, he paused, smiling very smugly into the camera
  "But rather than keep it a secret, I'll tell you what will happen
  when I flip this switch."  He leaned very close to the camera
  in a whisper, said, "This switch will detonate the DEATH DEVICE.
  That's what'll happen!!"  Then, giggling outrageously, he began
  to gesture violently with his arms.  "And then the entire
  midwest'll be microwaved on HIGH for the next twenty years!!!
  That's what'll happen!!  And then the radioactive dust will
  spread into the atmosphere, and plants'll die, and kids'll be
  born with mohawks, and there'll be cockroaches the size of
  Toyotas!!! And I mean the Toyota vans, not those dinky
  hatchbacks!!!  It'll be beautiful!! And then..."
       As Dr. Death was dragged away from the camera, a new person
  took his spot.  The new man was dressed in a stylish three-piece
  suit, and his hair was greased down with what appeared to be
  lard. A prim moustache and a goatee surrounded a slit mouth, and
  his hawkish nose seemed to peck at the camera.  "Pardon my
  colleague, but he does tend to be a little excitable.  Allow me
  to introduce myself: I am Mr. Taxes.  The scenario Dr. Death just
  laid out for you was, although a bit over-dramatically presented,
  quite accurate.  However, despite the obvious joy it would bring
  my partner to completely destroy the U.S.A.'s ecology for the
  rest of eternity, we could be persuaded to prevent this incident.
       "I am a reasonable man."  He smiled knowingly, then lifted
  legal pad in his right hand so that he could read from it.  "Now
  it seems to me that, no matter how greedy or depraved I may be,
  there is a limit to the amount that I and Dr. Death could
  possibly hope to spend in our lifetimes.  That is why I am asking
  for the paltry sum of...let's see, carry the two, and then round
  off the decimals,... convert using the latest gold figures...oh,
  around five hundred billion dollars.  Now that seems fair,
  doesn't it?"  He gestured, and Dr. Death was allowed back into
  microphone range.
       "Especially when it would prevent this..."
       "....and there'll be hamsters the size of buildings, andwe
  won't have shampoo, and IBM will crash, and there'll be even
  slower mail service than we have now, and..."
       Gently, Mr. Taxes pushed Dr. Death away again.  Then he
  smiled innocently to the camera.  "There now.  You see?  Half
  a trillion is pocket change compared to the true value of the
  simple service we offer you.  The money, if you decide to accept
  our most generous offer, should be delivered in cash to the Kirk
  Memorial building on the campus of Northeast Missouri State
  University in Kirksville.  By all means, Mr. President, think
  about our little proposal."  He glanced at his watch.  "However,
  I wouldn't think about it for too long.  We now return you to
  your regularly scheduled broadcast."

                            *  *  *  *  *

       President Bush, presented with the first major crisis of his
  administration, promptly made the first major decision of his
  administration.  It was quick, concise and very much the kind of
  decision that a great leader like Pontius Pilate would have made.
  He washed his hands of the whole situation and dropped it firmly
  into Dan Quayle's lap.
       So Dan Quayle brooded in his office with only his chief
  advisor, Bob.  "Well, Bob, I've got to make a decision on this,
  and I've got to make it right now.  What exactly have I decided?"
      Bob slid a document across the desk for Quayle to sign.
  "You've decided to bring in a superhero group to handle the
  situation.  Just sign there."  When Dan actually looked at the
  print above the signature line, Bob said, "No, no, no!"  whipping
  the paper out of Dan Quayle's hands.  "Did I say, 'Read this?'"
       Sullenly, Dan said, "Well, no, you didn't.  But, gosh darn
  it, I'm the Vice-President, and I think that means I should read
  at least some of the papers I sign.  I mean, doesn't it?" he
  asked, quite unsure of himself now.
       "No, Dan, it doesn't.   Being Vice-President means going to
  funerals and evading responsibility as much as possible."
       "Hey, I can do that!" said Quayle, brightening.
       "Good.  Now, if I promise to tell you what it says, will you
  just sign this and get it over with?"  When the Vice-President
  nodded, Bob sighed and once again handed the paper over.  "The
  paper just gives me the authority to speak for the government
  when I contact the superhero group to ask their help on this
  matter.  That's all.  So just sign the paper, and you can have
  your He-Man doll back.  Fair?"
       The Vice-President whipped off a flowery signature on the
  bottom of the paper and handed it back to Bob.  "So which
  superhero group are you gonna get, huh?  Are you going to try to
  get the Invincibles?  I watch them on T.V. all the time!!"
       "No, Dan, I can't get the Invincibles.  They're off on Mars
  doing something for one of their co-leaders."
       "So, are you going to try to get the Guardians?"
       "No, Dan.  They aren't available either.  They're in Greece
  somewhere."  Bob continued to pack away papers.
       "Well, are you going to get Defense Squad?"
       "No, Dan.  I'm can't get Defense Squad."
       "Well, then, are you...."
       "No."
       "Then what about..."
       "Not them, either."
       Dan looked very puzzled.  "Well, then, gosh darn it, just
  who exactly are you planning to get to handle this crisis of
  national proportions?" (Dan's been reading the editorial page
  again.)
       Looking a little sick, Bob said, "Well, I'm going to get the
  best...out of what's left over...which is one group.  This group
  in Oklahoma. They, um, call themselves...

                            *  *  *  *  *

       "...Ship of Fools Pool Hall.  Who in the Hall do you want?"
  Cat's Meow said into the Catphone.  "What's that?  Wrongdoing is
  afoot?  Well, certainly, my fine feathered friend, we'll be right
  there.  Don't worry, be happy!"  Cat's Meow slammed the phone
  down and went to open a window.  "Come on, Rufus, there's no time
  to lose!  It's crime-fighting time!"  With that, he leapt out the
  window and flew off to find the other members of the Ship of
  Fools.
       Rufus sat up and stretched.  {Oh, well.} he thought.  {There
  was nothing on television tonight anyway.}  Then he flew off
  after his partner.

                            *  *  *  *  *

       Gary Standing, the government agent sent with the Ship of
  Fools to brief them on the plane, was quite convinced that the
  world was doomed.  The plane trip from Oklahoma City to
  Kirksville, which was only half over, had firmly convinced him
  that a mental ward somewhere in the country was presently
  searching frantically for eight missing inmates (nine, if you
  count the cat).
       He was at present trying desperately to explain the
  situation to Zen Master, apparently the self-appointed leader of
  the group.  He wasn't quite as bad as the others, although for
  some unknown reason he kept telling the stewardesses that he was
  a college man.
       The rest of the group was driving him insane.  The one
  called Shuriken was using the backs of the seats as balance beams
  and leaping all over the place, apparently in an attempt to test
  his reflexes.  Cat's Meow and Sorcerer had been screaming at one
  another since they got on the plane ("That's just the sort of
  thing I'd expect a Russian to say!" "I'm not a Russian, so stop
  calling me that!" "Yeah, right, Ivan!!").  Masochist was locked
  in the restroom, apparently flushing an imaginary Ming the
  Merciless down the toilet.  Peace-Maker was talking about how
  there hadn't been a social conscience since the sixties.  Rufus
  the Cat was dive-bombing the refreshment table.  The one called
  Mr. Neutron kept shouting, "Mrs. S-T-E-W-A-R-D-E-S-S," and then
  sitting solemnly and refusing to speak when one arrived.  And the
  newest member of the group, called Mr. Raccoon (apparently his
  only power was the ability to shape-change into a raccoon), kept
  stealing silverware from the kitchen area.
       "Look, Zen Master," said Gary, "we've only got about one
  hour till Kirksville, and then you will only have about ten hours
  to find and deactivate the DEATH DEVICE.  To do that, you'll
  probably have to go through Dr. Death, Mr. Taxes and whatever
  henchmen they may have.  Therefore, it is extremely important
  that you have some plan of action before we even get there, in
  order to save as much time as possible."
       "That certainly sounds reasonable," said Zen Master, ducking
  as Shuriken did a beautiful handspring-combination-twist over his
  chair.  "Of course, we've never worked with planning before, so
  we'll probably need your help.  Usually we sort of do things as
  naturally as them come."  Suddenly, he leaned forward
  conspiratorially.  In a whisper, he asked, "Do you think the
  stewardess in blue is starting to fall for me?  She seemed like
  the type of girl who'd go for a college man."
       Sighing heavily, Gary said, "Look, could we just stick to
  the topic at hand?  I'm not very well informed about your powers
  so you need to tell me what sources of information you have in
  your group."
       After a thoughtful pause, Zen Master replied, "Well, we've
  got Smiley."
       "Smiley?  What's a Smiley?"
       Cat's Meow, who was walking by at the time, took off his
  shoe and shoved his foot at Gary.  While wiggling his toe, he
  said, "The easiest path holds many dangers!"  He then replaced
  his shoe and moved towards the cockpit.
       "Umm....yeah.  Well, do you have, um, any other sources of
  information gathering?  Like, well, maybe telepathy?  Or, say,
  some sort of cosmic awareness?"
       After another thought-filled pause,  Zen Master replied,
  "Hey, yeah, I guess we do have two telepaths, and I suppose Mr.
  Raccoon and Rufus could ask some of the local wildlife."
       "Okay...sounds good.  Do you have anyone capable of
  deactivating a bomb?"
       After another pause (which didn't contain any thought, just
  a chance to look for that stewardess in blue), "Oh, Cat's Meow
  has some training in electronics.  I guess that'd be what the
  bomb was made of, wouldn't you?"
       Gary looked a little more hopeful about the situation.
  "Okay, okay, that sounds a little better.  Anyone with any
  training in chemistry?"
       In a voice loud enough to be heard by the others, "Why yes,
  that's exactly what I'm studying in college.  You see, ..."
       "You're a college man, yes, we know already.  Okay, so we
  seem to have the bomb as covered as it is likely to get.  Now,
  the government doesn't have any information on the powers of
  Death & Taxes, or even if they are superpowered.  So how are you
  going to deal with them?"
       "Probably what we always do.  Throw Masochist at them and
  let them beat him up for a while.  That'll give us a chance to
  see what they can do."  From somewhere up front, they could hear
  Peace-Maker say, "Yeah, man, like passive resistance is the only
  way."
       "Well, that seems like everything I can do.  Your country is
  counting on you, so please don't let it down."  He shook Zen
  Master's hand, stood up, and went to the far rear compartment of
  the plane.  As he took several Valium, the haunting melody of the
  theme song to the Flintstones floated back to him from the sing-
  a-long up front.

                            *  *  *  *  *

       Actually, they located Dr. Death's hideout before they even
  landed in Kirksville.  According to all the maps, there wasn't
  supposed to be a five hundred foot metal cockroach pulled off
  onto the shoulder down on Highway 11, so it made them all a
  little suspicious when they passed over one on the way to
  Kirksville Municipal Airport.  Confiscating a van at the airport,
  they whipped out onto the highway and traveled the brief ten
  miles down the road to get close to the giant cockroach, singing
  spiritual hymns all the way.
       Rufus and Mr. Raccoon crawled up to the edge of the trees
  surrounding the metal insect.  {I don't think it's alive.} sent
  back Rufus via Telepathy.  He sounded quite certain.
       "Thank you, Mr. Zoologist." sneered Cat's Meow.  "Could you,
  O Wise One, perhaps tell us something useful about it?"
       {You mean, like the particle beam weapons on the nose and
  sides?}
       "Yes, that's the spirit, Rufus.  Anything else?"
       {You mean, like a shimmering force field surrounding the
  whole ship?}
       "Boy, you catch on quick.  What else should we know?"
       {You mean, like the chipped paint on the hood?}
       "No, Rufus.  That we can do without."
       {It's blue under all that black paint.  Do you suppose that
  it's a stolen vehicle?  I can't seem to find either the license
  plate or the state inspection sticker.}
       Sorcerer started to beat his head against a tree.  Cat's
  Meow, however, knew how to handle the problem.  "Rufus, do you
  know what the term 'neuter' means when used as a verb?"
       {There are three guards: two at the sides of the door in the
  rear of the cockroach, and one up on top.  They are each carrying
  a semi-automatic machine gun with loads of ammunition.  The one
  up top has a pair of high-powered binoculars.  Telepathy can't
  penetrate the force field.  However, the guy up top, Joe
  Stockman, knows that there are fifteen more guards inside
  similarly armed, along with Death & Taxes.  He doesn't know what
  powers they have, but they don't carry guns.  The so-called DEATH
  DEVICE is located in the belly of the ship.  Internally, there
  are cameras all over the place, and four mobile robots with
  weaponry.  If and when they get the money, they're planning to
  detonate the device anyway and move to Luxemburg.  If they don't
  get paid, they're planning to detonate the device and then move
  to Florida.  The code phrase for opening the door in back (it's
  controlled by a voice-activated computer) is <Pat Sajak is a
  pal>.  Joe's driver license expired about two months ago, and
  he's cheating on his wife...}
       "All right, Rufus, that's enough.  It may be some time
  before we even visit the vet.  So, are we going to take the
  direct approach, or should we ask Sorcerer what a sneaky, back-
  stabbing Commie would do in this situation?"
       Everyone ignored the immediate outburst from Sorcerer
  protesting his dedication to the ideals of profit and the
  bourgeoisie.   Peace-Maker said, "You know, man, it just wouldn't
  be right to use violence against these dudes.  We've got to
  explain to them that violence is, like, the Fascist way of
  dealing with opposition.  And, hey, man, we're better than that."
  So now the group was ignoring two of the members.
       Mr. Neutron, in a fit of extroversion, said, "We will fight
  them in the hills...we will fight them in the streets...we will
  fight them on the highways...we will fight them on the giant
  metal cockroaches...we will never surrender."  Three down, six to
  go.
       "We're never going to rescue Dale Arden at this rate."
  Let's see, that would seem to make the score four to five.
       "Kill them."  While it was brief, to the point and probably
  quite efficient, the group choose to disregard Shuriken's
  suggestion (since they were in enough trouble with the media as
  it was).
       {We could get up real close and scratch some more paint off
  the side of the hood.  I still think it's a stolen vehicle.}
       Smiley said, "Caution has saved braver men than thee."
       After conferring amongst themselves, Zen Master and Sorcerer
  just started walking towards the cockroach.  The others bandied
  arguments about for a while, then decided to join them.  The
  consensus opinion?  To become their worst nightmare.

                            *  *  *  *  *

       Joe Stockman was bored.  He took another bite out of his
  Snicker's bar and scanned the area with his binoculars.  It was
  cold, the force field was giving him a rash on his behind and he
  was missing "All My Children."   It was not a good day.
       Then he spotted something.  There was no question in Joe's
  mind that something funny was going on down there.  The question
  was whether or not Dr. Death would want to know that a cat and a
  raccoon were doing what appeared to be a polka dance down by the
  edge of the forest.  The truth be known, they were quite good.
  Watching them almost made up for missing his soaps.  Still, there
  is always duty to think of...
       ...then again, it doesn't hurt to think about the short man
  in the ninja costume who slammed him down onto the roof, slashed
  back his arm and whispered, "Please resist me.  Or cry out.  I'd
  love for you to scream.  I haven't killed anyone in weeks."  Yes,
  one certainly should take that sort of thing into consideration
  when determining a course of action.  Needless to say, Joe stayed
  quiet (which disappointed Shuriken no end, let me tell you).
       Down by the door, Dan and Ken were also rather surprised to
  see forest creatures doing the polka.  However, since they were
  closer, they could actually hear the music.  The dancers weren't
  all that bad, but whoever wrote the music needed to be taken out
  and flogged.  Someone was singing along with the tune: "Oh, if I
  were a quack quack, I'd be a quack quack;  not just any quack
  quack, but a quack quack, well then I'd be a quack quack now!"
       Ken turned to Dan.  "Odd."
       "Very odd,"  agreed Dan.  "I wonder what the odds are of
  polkaing animals occurring naturally in the wild?"
       "Pretty big, I figure.  Though it wouldn't surprise me.  Ted
  Carten, my next door neighbor, had a dog that could whistle Dixie
  while balancing a paper cup between its ears."
       "You don't say!  Well, that changes things.  Maybe this is
  just an example of the evolution of the species.  Can't see why
  anyone would have trained the animals to do it, anyway."
       Ken scratched his head.  "True.  But by the same line of
  thought, why the heck would animals in the wild need to polka?  I
  mean, how does accentuate their survival?"
       "Well," stalled Dan.  "Maybe hunters are so shocked at the
  sight of 'em that they don't shoot 'em."  He looked pleased with
  himself.
       "Maybe.  But it seems to me, if anything, that horrible
  music points out where to find the animals.  So that don't seem
  right."
       After pausing for about a minute, Dan said, "Maybe the music
  is supposed to frighten off the hunters.  You know, polka's
  aren't as popular as they used to be."
       "You got me there.  God knows I wouldn't voluntarily touch a
  polka band with a ten foot pole.  I guess that music would tend
  to make the hunters look for more tasteful game."  After a moment
  of thought, he added, "Maybe we ought to write an article on them
  and send it to National Geographic."
       "Nah.  They'd just say we don't have any degrees, so our
  observations aren't worth diddly.  Still, I bet the circus would
  pay a pretty penny for a couple of dance-crazy critters.  Figure
  you and I could stand the music long enough to bag them?"
       "I'm game," said Ken.  "What are we going to put them in?"
       "I was thinking we could use one of those plastic trash cans
  Dr. Death uses for his home-made syrup.  That way, even after
  they wake up, they'd stick to the sides."
       Suddenly, the polka music stopped.  The animals sat quietly
  for a instant, as if waiting for it to start up again, then
  started to walk quietly into the forest.  Ken and Dan, seeing
  their cash casually walking away,  chased after them, holding
  their guns as clubs.  Just as they entered the cover of the
  trees, they encountered a man dressed in a cowled robe.  The last
  thing they saw was glow from his hands turning into beams of
  power which smashed them against a tree.  Their last thought was
  that musicians get touchier every year.

                            *  *  *  *  *

       "Swing low, sweet chariot...comin' forth to carry me home!
  Swing low, sweet chariot...Mama's got a brand new jaguar!"
       "Hold it, hold it.  That's not the way the song goes!"
       "Is it 'pigeon'?"
       "NO!"
       "Um...how 'bout, 'Papa's all dressed in drag'?"
       "NO!!!"
       "'Teddy's been really bad?'"
       "Look, why don't we pick a spiritual hymn that everybody
  knows."
       "There once was a man from Nantucket..."

                            *  *  *  *  *

       "Let me see if I've got this straight," screeched Dr. Death as
  he leaned hawk-like over the guard at the communications station.
  "Cameras all over the ship are going blank, and the guards
  communicators are apparently being jammed by a radio station's
  signal, which plays nothing but spiritual hymns and limericks?
  Does that seem like a fair assesment of the situation.  Well,
  does it?  Punk??"  Nervously, the guard nodded, as beads of Dr.
  Death's spit rolled down his forehead.  "I see.  Well.  And
  presumably you've told some guards in person to investigate the
  cameras?  Hmmmm?  Is that to be assumed?"  Once again, the guard
  nodded.  "And should I also assume that you're a Julio Iglesias
  fan, and that's why you object to a little good, wholesome music?
  Religious fanfare upset your stomach?  Is that it?  Well, is it?
  Speak up, Mr. Music Critic.  I'd like to hear your opinion!"
       "I..."
       "SHUT UP!!!!!!!!  I'M answering the questions here!!!  Now
  then, it seems that we've got two possibilities:  either we've
  got some intruders, or the communications system THAT I DESIGNED
  MYSELF is being overwhelmed by an AM radio station.  Now I
  wonder. Which could it be?  Which option seems more likely?
  Which one lies farther into the realm of possibility?  What do
  you think?"
       "Um," began the guard firmly.  "Maybe we've got
  intruders..."
       "Do you think so?" asked Dr. Death politely.
       "Yes, sir."
       "Are you positive you want to stick with that answer?"
       "Quite positive, sir."
       "There's no turning back after this.  Is this really what
  you want to say?"
        A little more uncertainly, the guard replied, "Um, yes,
  sir."
        "All right, then.  Fortunately for you, that happens to be
  the right answer.  Now then, what do you think we ought to do
  about this little invasion?  Hmmmm?  Do you think, perhaps, it
  might be time to activate the defense robots?  Does that seem
  wise?"
       The guard was shocked.  "What about the other guards?  Some
  still might be out in the halls!"
       Dr. Death smiled.  "So, do I take it that you are against my
  little, oh, suggestion?  That you would prefer to wait until all
  the guards are accounted for before loosing my little toys on the
  passageways?  Does that sort of sum up your stance on the
  matter?"
       Very uncomfortably, the guard said, "Well, actually, yes,
  sir.  That seems like the proper way to proceed, sir."
       "How very wise of you.  Yes, indeed, that does seem to be
  the proper way to proceed.  You have analyzed the situation very
  well. Very well, indeed.  As a matter of fact, I think I'll
  promote you. You seem far too wise to be working at a simple
  communications table.  I now dub thee, 'Official Envoy to the
  Trespassers.'  So why don't you run along and speak to the
  intruders and see if we can't clear up this whole mess."  When
  the guard made no move to leave, Dr. Death lifted him out of the
  chair and threw him effortlessly out the door.  "Run along now.
  There's a good lad.  Now then," he said as the doors closed and
  locked, "where did I put that robot activation button?"

                            *  *  *  *  *

       "I must once again strenuously affirm that THIS is the way
  to the belly of the ship," said Sorcerer, pointing down a sloping
  air shaft.
       "Don't be silly," stated Zen Master.  "This ladder over here
  leads directly where we want to go."
       "Actually," began Masochist, "the last time I saw Clitus, he
  was heading up those stairs over there with Dr. SeVargo.
  Honest."
       "OH, I'M LOOKING OVER MY DEAD DOG ROVER, WHO I RAN OVER WITH
  THE MOWER!  ONE LEG IS MISSING, THE OTHER IS GONE; ONE LEG IS
  SCATTERED ALL OVER THE LAWN!"  sang Cat's Meow, Peace-Maker, Mr.
  Raccoon and Mr. Neutron in a beautiful barbershop quartet.  (The
  record album, 'Ship of Fools Sings Your Favorites,' will be out
  in stores sometime in December.  Watch for it.)  "OH, YES,
  THERE'S NO NEED COMPLAINING, THERE'S NO DOG REMAINING, WHAT'S
  LEFT'S ON THE GROUND, YOU SEE!!  OH, I'M LOOKING OVER MY DEAD DOG
  ROVER, WHO I RAN OVER WITH THE MOWER!!!!!!!!   Thank you, thank
  you.  And now, for our next number, we will be performing 'The
  Lumberjack Song!'"
       {By the way, I don't want to intrude, because, after all,
  this really has no bearing on the discussion you guys are having
  about which tunnel to go down, but I thought maybe you'd like to
  be informed about something.}  thought Rufus.
       "What's that?"  asked Zen Master.
       {There are four huge battle robots heading toward us down
  the corridor behind us.  They are armed and dangerous.  Use all
  precautions in apprehending these dangerous robots.  If
  necessary, shoot to kill.  Now let's do it to them before they do
  it to us.  (Just like "Hill Street Blues", huh?)}
       The four battle machines rolled into the room just as the
  others turned around.  The smell of ozone wafted from the
  crackling shields which surrounded each of the monstrous
  megalithic mice.  Whiskers primed with enormous electric charges
  twitched and writhed as the monstrous metal machinated mechanical
  megalithic mice lifted their upper lips to bare their two-foot
  long incisors.   Suddenly, one of the macho macromolecular
  magical magnetic magnificent maidenly maintainable majestic male
  malevolent malicious malign malodorous mammalian mammoth man-
  eating maneuverable mangy manly manmade manufactured married
  marvelous Marxist massive masterful mathematical mature mean
  measurable mechanized meddlesome megalomaniac megaton mellow
  meltable memorable menacing meowing mercurial meritorious merry
  mesmerizing metallic metaphysical metastasizing methodical metric
  mice became so confused by the length of its description that it
  leaped past  the group and ran for cover.  The other three, more
  used to the price of fame, were better able to deal with the
  situation and began to advance on the group.
       Rufus, confronted with ten-foot mice, promptly flew up to
  the ceiling and stayed there.  Shuriken negligently flipped a
  couple of throwing stars at the robots, but as he had suspected,
  they just bounced off the force fields.  Masochist, however, took
  the direct approach.  He walked straight up to one and tried to
  pet it.  "Hey, is your name Algernon?"
       The mouse, certainly shocked at the human's behavior,
  shocked the human back.  About five zenillion volts ran straight
  up Masochist's arm. "That tickles," he snickered.  The mouse
  tried again.  This time, Masochist fell down laughing, "No!
  Please!  You're killing me!"  Satisfied that one of the pitiful
  humans was dying, the mice turned to confront the rest of the
  group.
       Cat's Meow turned to one and said, "Oh, I'm a lumberjack,
  and I'm
  OOOOOOOOOKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
  The sonic blast blew one of the critters onto its back, while
  Mr. Neutron used a lightning blast to blow its unprotected chest.
       Zen Master created a huge mousetrap while Sorcerer blasted
  one of the mice into it.  Meanwhile, Peace-Maker was holding a
  mouse over his head and telling it all about Woodstock.
       In a matter of a few minutes, scattered metal parts were all
  that remained of the metal monsters.  However, Masochist,
  laughing too hard to save himself, had fallen down the air shaft,
  so the problem of where to go was solved.

                            *  *  *  *  *

       The room that Masochist found himself in was completely
  dark. I mean, it was pitch black.  Couldn't see your hand in
  front of your face.  Even if your life had depended upon it,
  chances are that you couldn't have read a Roger Zelazny novel
  while balancing a pickle on your forehead in that room, it was so
  dark.
       As usual, Masochist immediately evaluated the situation.
  "It's dark," he said.  "I mean, it's pitch black.  I can't even
  see my hand in front of my face.  Why, I bet that even if my life
  depended upon it, I couldn't read a Roger Zelazny novel while
  balancing a pickle in my forehead in here, it's so dark."
  Satisfied with his own commentary, he immediately set about
  feeling his way across the floor.  After he'd gone about ten
  feet, the lights suddenly came on.
       The room was extremely bright. (No, don't worry, we're not
  starting that again.)  When his eyes adjusted, Masochist saw that
  he was lying in the middle of a huge rectangular room.  Other
  than himself, the room contained Dr. Death, Mr. Taxes and a small
  red  device with the warning label, "DEATH DEVICE:  ages 5 or
  older.  Fun for the whole family!"  Reluctantly, sluggishly, ever
  so slowly, an idea crept into Masochist's brain like a thief in
  the night, and it occurred to him that perhaps this smallish red
  machine was the DEATH DEVICE.
       "Is that the DEATH DEVICE?" he asked.
       "No," snarled Mr. Taxes.  "It's an oil field."
       "Oh," said Masochist, disappointed.  "Could you maybe tell
  me where I can find the DEATH DEVICE?  It's awfully important."
       "Can't we just kill him and get it over with?" begged Dr.
  Death.
       Pensively, Mr. Taxes nodded his head.  "Yes, I guess that
  would be for the best.  Better let me handle him.  I've seen this
  group in action.  If you give this boy anything, he turns it to
  his advantage."  He smiled wickedly.  "It's time the IRS got its
  pound of flesh from him."  Then he began to wiggle his fingers.
       Normally, the huge over-abundance of hormones and adrenaline
  in Masochist's system make the word 'fear' completely
  incomprehensible.  However, as Masochist felt all the energy
  drain from his body, he did seem to remember seeing the word in
  the dictionary a few years back.  After he'd fallen to the floor
  from weakness, he recalled that fear was an emotional reaction,
  causing the person to wish to run away and avoid something.  Just
  as consciousness began to slip away, he suddenly realized that he
  had missed his mother's birthday.  Then everything faded to
  black. (Pitch black...you couldn't see your hand in front of...)
       Just then, Cat's Meow came flying in from the air vent.
  "I'm your worst
  NNNNIIIIGGGGHHHHTTTTTMMMMMAAAARRRREEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"     Mr.
  Taxes flew across the room (although not under his own power),
  slamming into the wall and spilling the contents of his
  briefcase. "STOP THEM!!!!!"  he screamed, smoothing down his
  hair.  "DON'T LET THEM GET THE DEATH DEVICE!!!!  KILL THEM
  ALL!!!!!"
       With a flourish, Dr. Death pointed his hand at Cat's Meow
  and shouted, "Go scratch your fleas!"  Suddenly, Cat's Meow found
  that he had a terrible itch.  It was just awful.  Pretty soon, he
  was down on the floor, twitching and writhing, writhing and
  twitching, sometimes even twitching or writhing, attempting to
  get at that horrible itch.  Dr. Death pulled a mace from his belt
  and approached the helpless superhero.
       Then Rufus flew down the shaft.  Now Rufus wasn't terribly
  brave, and he wasn't very smart, either.   However, he did know
  that Cat's Meow paid the bills.  So it was with reluctant bravado
  that he zoomed in at over a hundred miles an hour and raked his
  claws across the top of Dr. Death's head.  When what was left of
  the cowl fell away, one could see the deep red marks across the
  bald pate, like well-tilled rows in a fallow field.
       However, in mid-flight, Rufus suddenly felt so tired that he
  couldn't even make the effort to turn before he slammed full
  speed into the wall.  With a pleasant splat, Rufus fell to the
  ground, unconscious.
       Before either villain could advance on any of the bodies
  sprawled about, Mr. Neutron plopped out from the air shaft.
  Having used his telepathy to evaluate the situation, he was
  ready, willing and able.  He reached out, grabbed Dr. Death by
  his cape, and flung him at Mr. Taxes, giving Sorcerer time to
  join him before the others were ready to attack.
       Pointing his mace directly at Mr. Neutron, Dr. Death
  screamed, "ARNOLD!!!", and Mr. Neutron promptly turned into a
  pig.
       While the porker was chased around the room, Sorcerer and
  Mr. Taxes circled each other warily. As Sorcerer raised his palms
  to deliver a devastating pair of blasts to the groin (Mr. Taxes',
  not his own), Mr. Taxes said in an odd voice, "It's April 15th,
  you know."   Suddenly, uncontrollably, inexplicably,
  outlandishly, impertinently, overwhelmingly, Sorcerer felt
  afraid.  More specifically, he felt afraid of this little fancy.
  Most specifically, he wanted to go home and protect his gold
  coins from the IRS.  They were his coins, after all.  What right
  did they have to them?  None!!!!  After all, he'd stolen them,
  fair and square.  He MUST go protect his gold coins.
       As he turned to leave, the pig managed to evade another
  swipe of Dr. Death's mace, then ran full-speed past Sorcerer,
  plunging into Mr. Taxes' (yes, that's right.  After all, he's a
  telepath, and he knows what Sorcerer was going to aim for anyway)
  groin.  As they tumbled away accompanied by a high pitched
  squeal, Sorcerer felt the incredible awesome uncontrollable fear
  melt away.
       By this time, Shuriken, Mr. Raccoon, Zen Master and Peace
  Maker had managed to slide down the air shaft.  Mr. Raccoon, not
  built for battle, wisely stayed out of the conflict.  Cat's Meow
  recovered from his scratching, and Masochist awoke salon fresh.
  Seeing that he was outnumbered, Mr. Taxes limped to a corner and
  disappeared through a secret door.
       Dr. Death also saw the consequences of the odds.  However,
  he wasn't about to leave without giving his baby a chance to show
  her stuff.  With a light, almost winsome toss, he sent his mace
  sailing to land with splendid precision upon the activation
  switch next to the DEATH DEVICE.  With a gentle sigh, he
  teleported away.
       The members of the Ship of Fools crowded around the DEATH
  DEVICE (except for Masochist, who, though awake, continued to
  examine the ceiling with that dreamy lethargy that strikes us all
  in the morning.  "Do I have to go to school today, Mother?"  he
  was heard to mumble).  Drawing heavily upon his studies in
  chemistry, Zen Master said, "It seems to be built out of metal."
       Slightly more useful were the observations of Cat's Meow.
  "Let's see, where's the access panel...hmm...not here...not over
  here...uh...hmmm....arrggg....meow...prrrrrrr....well, gosh.
  There doesn't seem to BE an access panel.  However, I did find a
  Timex digital watch embedded in the cover over here.  It seems to
  say that we've got about a minute and a half before six thirty."
       Attempt to turn the device over failed, although it didn't
  seem to be bolted to the floor.  "A HEAVY metal," amended Zen.
       So they moved away from the device, and Cat's Meow, Sorcerer
  and Mr. Neutron all hit it with their blasts at the same time.
  As the smoke cleared, they could all see that the red paint had
  been blasted off, revealing an unscratched green metal
  underneath.  The Timex was still ticking.
       {Gosh.  I bet this device was stolen too, then repainted
  after the fact.  Who do you suppose they stole it from?}  Rufus
  was, as usual, completely ignored.
       All the while this was happening, Masochist was marvelling
  at how calm he felt.  You see, his powers (and his schizophrenia)
  came from adrenaline, and having all the power sucked out of him
  sort of made him (momentarily) lucid.  Yes, he could see how
  wonderful the colors of the ceiling arches were without
  immediately realizing that they were the same color as Ming's
  robe.   All in all, it was a good feeling to know you're alive,
  such a happy feeling, way deep inside...
       When he finally began to listen to what his friends were
  saying, there was only thirty seconds on the clock.
  Unfortunately, the mere thought that he and everyone in this
  room, not to mention the entire Midwest, were about to become
  toast sort of sent screaming messages to the mutant organs on top
  of his kidneys: "Okay now, ADRENALINE!!!!!  COME ON, YOU CAN DO
  IT PUMP IT OUT BY THE GALLON WE NEED IT NOW MORE MORE MORE MORE
  MORE MORE YOU CAN DO BETTER THAN THAT I WANT MORE ADRENALINE IN
  THE BLOOD STREAM THAN WATER!!!!!!"  Thus, sadly, forlornly, we
  bid adieu to the momentary sanity of Masochist.
       Before his clarity of vision disappeared, Masochist did have
  a thought.  As was usually the case, thought immediately became
  action with almost no consultation time in between.  With a
  gleeful cry of "Dogpile on Clitus!!!!", Masochist leapt past his
  friends and threw his body over the bomb.
       With only fifteen seconds left, Sorcerer spent five of them
  glaring frantically about the room, as if looking for some way to
  escape the fate that Masochist had just chosen for them.  Seeing
  none, he screamed, "$*##$$*^ *$!^$ ^*&# #@@#&@!!!!!!!!" to no one
  in particular and joined Masochist in wrapping his body around
  the bomb.
       Zen Master, getting the idea, created an adamantium shell
  around both the bomb and the two superheros with damage absorbing
  powers.  Everyone else ran for the far corners of the room...
       ...which they slammed into at a speed far exceeding their
  normal running pace.  When their eyes adjusted from the flash,
  they saw that the adamantium shell around Masochist and Sorcerer
  had melted, and lay in a pleasant bubbling ring around the
  heroes. Both Masochist and Sorcerer were alive, though they were
  glowing a bright yellow.  The others began to congratulate one
  another on a job well done.
       "Stop the celebration,"  said Sorcerer, looking not at all
  comfortable.  "We've got a problem.  The bomb's still going off."
       "By golly, I feel good!" stated Masochist, smiling.
       "Then get your elbow out of my ear," muttered Sorcerer.
  "Look, this bomb is a radiation bomb.  That first blast was just
  to launch huge pockets of radiation into the atmosphere.  Even as
  we speak, radiation powerful enough to penetrate adamantium is
  irradiating my body and what my body can't absorb is passing
  through."  Everyone stepped back about ten feet.  "Will you stop
  that!!!  You've got to get me and Masochist outside so that we
  can somehow get this baby into space."
       Everyone agreed that was a good plan.  However, no one
  wanted to touch the bomb with a ten-foot stick in any case, and,
  as Cat's Meow pointed out, they hadn't been able to even lift the
  bomb before, much less carry it.  However, that problem was
  solved when Masochist, in getting his elbow out of Sorcerer's
  ear, sank his hand into the deck and lifted himself, the bomb and
  Sorcerer into a gymnastically impressive one-handed hand stand.
  He then curled in two fingers and his thumb and, balancing on his
  fingers, began to walk toward the secret door. (Needless to say,
  Masochist absorbed a lot of damage, augmenting his strength
  tremendously, and he is a professional.  Kids, don't try this at
  home.)
       With Peace-Maker's telekinesis keeping Masochist balanced,
  they made it outside with no difficulty.  There was no sign of
  either Dr. Death or Mr. Taxes.  {Okay, you're outside now,
  Sorcerer.  Now what was your plan for launching it into orbit?}
       "Masochist here will just throw it!"  said Sorcerer.
       Zen Master pondered that for a second, then said, "I hate to
  be a party pooper, but if you and Masochist get off the bomb and
  then throw it into the atmosphere, won't that mean that you'll
  leave the huge pockets of radiation we were trying to avoid?"
       "I hadn't thought of that," said Sorcerer gloomily.
       Once again, having strained against the bonds of madness and
  emerged victorious, if not unscathed, an idea occurred to
  Masochist.  I seemed like an awfully good one at the time.  As a
  matter of fact, it had seemed great.  So, as we have already
  pointed out, thought became action in a matter of moments.
       "Don't worry about it, Ivan," said Masochist, placing his
  palm flat on the ground, "you're not that heavy, and neither am
  I, compared to this bomb.   So I'll throw us all into space!!!"
       "NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!" mentioned Sorcerer, but he was too
  late.  He and Masochist and the bomb were off.  The G-forces left
  him unconscious for a while, although he did seem to remember
  spotting Jupiter.  By the time he had regained consciousness
  fully and removed himself and Masochist from the bomb, he wasn't
  even sure which solar system he was in.  Using his power blasts
  as jets, he dragged Masochist (against his better judgement)
  along with him as he tried to find a planet with an Intergalactic
  Greyhound bus station.

                           *  *  *  *  *

       The other members of the Ship of Fools soon found themselves
  in the radiology wing of Grim-Smith hospital in Kirksville.  Odd
  things were happening as a result of the radiation they had
  absorbed.  For example, Mr. Raccoon's raccoon form was now about
  the size and weight of a polar bear, and he could lift over five
  hundred tons.  Cat's Meow's sonic blast and flight powers were
  about ten times as powerful as before, and Peace-Maker's
  telekinesis was up around seven hundred thousand pounds.
       Not all the stories were happy ones, however.  The radiation
  caused all of Mr. Neutron's hair to fall out, and all Zen Master
  could create with his solid energy powers was tomato sauce.  So
  they got together and opened a pizza parlor in Oklahoma (The
  "Neutron Master Restaurant."  Catchy, huh?)  Shuriken's bones,
  which were laced with adamantium, were so radioactive that they
  glowed a brilliant blue visible through the skin.  He dropped out
  of the superhero business and worked as a diagram of the skeleton
  at Kirksville College of Osteopathic Medicine.
       The four remaining Fools got to travel to Washington, D.C.,
  where they met Dan Quayle, who presented them with their official
  reward for services rendered to the American government and all
  the hick farmers in the Midwest:  at the expense of the federal
  government, a four story building in downtown Oklahoma City would
  be outfitted so that the group could use it as a headquarters.
  In addition, a monument to Masochist and Sorcerer was
  commissioned and placed in the Myriad Gardens to commemorate the
  invaluable sacrifice of those two American heroes.
       Thus, everything turned out for the best in the end...

                            *  *  *  *  *

       "Please insert twenty Asodi before dialing that number,"
  said the Operator in that smug, self-satisfied voice all people
  in control of a situation seem to have.
       "Look, operator, I'm trying to make a COLLECT call.  I don't
  have any Asodi, so I can't insert any!!!"  An hour and a half of
  arguing with the operator was doing very little for Sorcerer's
  mood, already gone bad by the five months they had spent scouring
  this system before finding an Intergalactic pay phone.  "I just
  want to be connected with the local branch of Yellow Cabs."
       "That call will require twenty Asodi.  Please hang up and
  dial your number again."  Masochist walked a few yards away while
  Sorcerer blasted the telephone into toothpicks.  At this rate, he
  mused, they'll never find Dale Arden.


                       *  *  THE  END  *  *
Organization: Sophomore, Mechanical Engineering, Carnegie Mellon, Pittsburgh, PA