From: lawrence@ctron.com (Gary St. Lawrence)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.comics.misc
Subject: *The Death of Flatulence Lad* or ...
Date: 15 Oct 92 20:25:12 GMT
Reply-To: lawrence@olympus.ctron.com (Gary St. Lawrence)
Organization: Cabletron Systems INc.


			*THE DEATH OF FLATULENCE LAD*
				     or

			    "Goner with the Wind"


	"Where the hell are the Fig Newtons!?!" screamed Sarcastic
Lad, violently rummaging through the cabinets of his LNH quarters,
which were adjacent to his sidekick's, Flatulence Lad. "Some
hockey puck ate my @#(*@#$ Fig Newtons!"
	Flatulence Lad sat on the sofa, trying not to look guilty
as the affects of the fruity cookie were begining to take toll in
his stomach. He longed for the days when he could sit on his
mom's sofa and not worry about his gastrionic powers. That wonderful
old brown leather sofa ... anytime his amazing powers acted up,
he'd just shift his position and the noise of the crumpling
leather would cover for him. No such luck now. Sarcastic Lad's
cloth covered furniture offered no sound to muffle his colonic
concerto.
	"C'mon Flats," Sarcastic Lad ordered. "We're going to the
market. I'll bet that just has your undies in a bunch, doesn't it?"
	"Gee, Sarc, why d'ya hafta take your frustration out on
me?" Flats asked innocently. "I mean, jeepers, we're partners and
all. Couldn't ya be nicer to me?"
	"Nyah nyah nyah nyah NYAH nyah nyah?" Sarc snapped back.
"Just shut up and go gas up the ... I mean, PUT some gas in the
cruiser so we can go, will ya?"
	"Sure thing, Sarc," Flats said, knowing that was as close
to an apology as Sarcastic Lad ever got.
	Sarc thought about his friend, and the lifelong burden
the boy had having such personally offensive powers. He realized
that he had been unnecessarily cross with the boy, and made a deal
with himself to make it up to the kid at the Cos-Mall.
	The Cos-Mall was one of Sarc's least favorite places, but
as it's the only shopping center that still lets LNHers do 
business after that battle with Mallomar Man which almost wrecked
the Piatza Plaza, it was a necessary evil he had to face 
regularly.
	"I'll meet you in the produce section, Flats," Sarc
said monotonously. "Park the cruiser and don't get into any 
trouble."
	Sarc was relieved to enter the air-conditioned store,
mainly because Flats was the last person he'd ever want to take
a long ride with in an enclosed cruiser. He made his was to the
aisle with the Fig Newtons and bought his usual 40 packages to 
last him through the week. He was standing at the checkout when
he noticed that Flats hadn't met him inside the store yet. Looking
out the window, he saw why, as Flats stood toe-to-toe, arguing
with a rather prim-looking but very large individual.
	"Hey pinhead! Watch my stuff,'' Sarc yelled as he bolted
to the door. The checkout clerk, flipping a gesture at the ebon-
and-gold garbed hero, tore open a package of Sarc's Fig Newtons
and began munching away.
	"Whotta jerk," the clerk said, suddenly choking on a 
particularly large chunk on unground fig.
 	Outside, Flats and the large, conservatively dressed
individual were arguing loudly. The large individual was violently
threatening the boy, promising to change some portion of the
boy's anatomy.
	Sarc leaped between the two and shouted, "What's with you
you schmuck? Can't you find someone your own size to hassle?"
Noting the man's particularly large frame, Sarc immediately
realized how stupid his question sounded, which fueled his anger,
and made him ready for a fight ... well, more ready than usual.
	The large man stopped yelling and clasped his hands. Sarc
stepped back and readied himself for battle. Flats stood trembling,
wishing he'd brought a spare costume to change into.
	Suddenly, the large man developed a glow around him and
his features began to melt. Before their very eyes, Sarcastic Lad
and Flatulence Lad saw the man split into two equally large and
powerful beings, both of whom eyed the Net-heroes angrily.
	"I'm Prymm," hollered one.
	"I'm Prahpah," the other wailed.
	"And we're gonna smash this stinking punk friend of
yours and then we're gonna pound you!"
	With that, the twin titans attacked, one leaping at
the Sharp-tongued Sentinel and the other at the Gaseous Guardian.
Being far too physically inadequate to fight the Emily-Postian
Powerhouse, having relied on his scent-ual powers too much,
Flats was pummelled severely while Sarcastic Lad, being the far
greater combatant (having needed to learn as a result of his powers)
at first equalled Prahpah's assault, and then gained the advantage,
pounding the Manner-minded Marauder into unconsciousness.
	Seeing his partner felled, Prymm seized up Prahpah and
the Dillitant Duo teleported away.
	Sarcastic Lad rushed to his fallen partner's aide, fearing
he was too late to save his gastronomic good buddy.
	Flats lay beaten, his boyish face bloodied by repeated
blows from Prymm's hammerlike fists. Trembling, Sarc knew his
friend was dying. He smelled like he'd been dead for weeks.
He held the boy's head in his arms. Flats looked at Sarc with
a near-blank stare and mumbled to his friend and mentor ...
	"Ya gotta ... get them guys, Sarc .... Ya gotta avenge ..
cough cough* ... me," Flats said, as a feeble gaseous pop
escaped him. "Prom ... mise me ... stay with the Leeg ...
they'll be good for ya, Sarc ... promise me ... -promise me-
.... pardon ... m-m-meeeeeeee ......."
	With a final blurt, the Colonic Crusader was dead.
Sarcastic Lad cried to the skies, furious at his friend's 
death and tortured by his inability to protect the feebly-
powered partner he'd taken on.
	"Damn you Prymm and Prahpah!" He wailed. "If it takes me
a thousand years, I'll hunt you down and make you pay!!! Do you
hear me!!!! I'm gonna staple your butts to your faces!!!!!!!
And I'm gonna do it for Flats!!!!! This boy won't have died
for nothing!!!!!!!!! I get you!!!!!"
	
******************************************************************

	Prymm and Prahpah materialized in their boss' office,
Prahpah just beginning to awaken from the beating he'd suffered
at Sarcastic Lad's hand.
	"Gentlemen," said a darkened figure from behind a desk
at the window. "I take it your efforts were successful? 
Sarcastic Lad is dead?"
	"Well .... not exactly, Mr. B. He's kinda ... I dunno ...
okay ... I guess. But that punk partner of his is trashed!
I nailed that squirt but good!"
	The darkened man spun slowly in his chair, a large
"R" hung above his desk, amid a collage of photographs and
diplomas. He sat with his fingers crossed on his lower lip,
looking angrily at his hired henchmen.
	"I'm not pleased with this news, gentlemen. No, not
pleased at all," said Mr. B. "I'm afraid I'll no longer be
needing your services. I require the aid of competent 
thuggery."
	"We're competent Mr. B!" exclaimed Prymm.
	"Yeah, we're the thuggest!" Prahpah mumbled through
broken teeth.
	"Hmmm. Well, I supposed killing that olfactorily
offensive upstart Flatulence Lad is a good beginning. Yes,
I'll give you gentlemen another chance," said the enigmatic
employer. "But make no mistake about this. I want Sarcastic 
Lad dead. I will tolerate no inefficiency on your next
onslaught. Do we understand one another?"
	"Oh, yessir, Mr. B!" said Prymm. "You can count on
us, Yessir!"
	"Mmmm," their employer said disinterestedly. "Now, begone.
I have plans to conceive of and I need no distractions from the
likes of you."
	Prymm and Prahpah skulked quietly from the room. Mr. B
swung about in his chair, laughing to himself menacingly.
In the light, it was revealed the identity of the man who wanted
to end the life of Sarcastic Lad.
	There, in the shadows of a New York City office, sat
Patrick Buchanan! The most dangerous ex-candidate in the world.
In his hands was a holovid of himself, his hand held high in
apparent victory by none other than Sarcastic Lad.
	He laughed louder, becoming more evil with every "ha".
	"Soon you little sharp-tongued screwup! I'll have
my revenge very, very soon ..."
	His laughter echoed through the chambers of the televid
studios. Prymm and Prahpah trembled before their master's evil.

To be continued ....

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