🚀 go-pugleaf

Netlurker grimaced as he intecepted a transmission from Ultimate Ninja:
][The Legion of Net.Heroes] all started back before I even read news so
]I can't give the details on the original creation, but I can tell you
]that the REAL LNH started about the time Drizzt decided to post the
]Cry.Sig series along with Scavenger's 501 blues.  Dave VanDomelen
]jumped into the action and began meddling with the plots.
]...Netlurker jumped in ferociously for a while and then retired to veg
]in Cyberworld...

	"Veg?  I'm *vegging*!?!?" He swiftly slid the vt1000000
terminal off the edge of the bar, crashing it to the floor.  Ratz
momentarily stepped into the back room, returning with an exact copy
of the computer, hooking the new one up with a break-away I-Net jack.
Netlurker smiled, "Thanks, Ratz."  He frowned again, perplexed. "Where
was I, then?"

	"Vegging," the barkeep stated matter-of-factly.  He wiped the
bar off once with a rag, fulfilling his token-appearance contract.

	"Oh yeah!  Thanks."  He cleared his throat and continued:
"Veg?  I'm *vegging*!?!?"  Once again he slid the terminal off the
edge of the bar.  "Ooops!  Sorry man: reflex!"  Ratz sighed deeply and
made another trip to the back room...

	Netlurker lept from his stool. "Retired?!?  Hah!  I'm *far*
from retired!  I'm The Netlurker: I'm supposed to *lurk*, dammit!"  He
sat back down at a table covered in papers and blueprints.  "It's just
that I'm *stuck* here for now: the gateway to the reality of
alt.comics.lnh hasn't been revealed to me yet..."  He spotted Freddy
Marx come out of the restroom, panic, and scurry back in, dropping the
icepack he was holding on his face.  "For now I have to be happy with
crossposting to there from alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo..."

	He laughed.  "Aye, but I *shall* escape to join Acton Lord
once again.  For now I can only wait for the one known as 'Jaynk' to
give me the proper access codes."  He laughed maniacally, but ended up
coughing and gagging.  "Damn, I've been here so long that I'm out of
practice!  And this smoke-filled room *looks* great in comic art, but
it sure does frag my lungs! *cough!*"

	A decked at a nearby table chuckled, "Awwww, poor baby, we're
defiling his pink virgin lungs..."  He blew a series of smoke rings in
Netlurker's face.

	"Would...you...PLEASE...stopThatRIGHTNOW!?!?!" He huffed at
the cyber-jockey's puff.

	The punk laughed, "Awww, come *on*, chummer..."

	"ACK!!! You said The Word!"  Netlurker covered his ears and
started singing, "la La lala lLA la la I can't heeeearr youuuu!!!"

	"Yeesh, whaddid I say?  What word?"

	"You *know* what you said! Stobbit!"

	"Stop what?  I don't know what word *not* to say if you don't
tell me what it is, chummer..."

	"BASTARD!!!" Netlurker went into battle mode: red readouts
flashed up on his cybervision, with a big yellow crosshair centering
on the decker's forehead.  A white text-line flashed: CRIME: SLANG
USAGE, INSTANCE: "CHUMMER", SENTENCE: DEATH!  He lifted his right arm,
twitched his wrist, and twin shotguns popped out of either side of his
forearm. <BLAMMMO!> TARGET NULLIFIED: HAVE A NICE DAY!  The guns
retracted back into his arm again.

	Netlurker eyed the corpse's partner: "You have anything to say
about that?"

	The decker's associate lifted his hands defensively, "No, no,
not a thing from me, chummer!"

	"ARRGHHH!!!"  He flexed his left arm and three inch razors
came from under his fingernails.  Jumping on the decker's table, he
grabbed the chump's shirt, swinging down with...

	<TWEEEEEP!> A whistle went off. "FOUL!!!", a voice yelled.

	Netlurker looked up at the striped-shirted referee.  "Awww,
come *on* Ref!  What's the foul?"

	The ref walked over and grabbed the razored hand, pointing out
the nails.  "*These* things!  They're only allowed in Women's League
tournaments."

	"AWwwww!!!  No fair!  We used 'em in the minors..."

	The ref help up his hands, "Sorry, we're using Gibsonian
Rules, not that Shadowrun crapola...besides, in order for them to be
regulation you'd have to paint your nails burgandy."

	Netlurker jumped off the table, dumped its ashen contents to
the floor, and proceeded to kick the dust onto the ref's shoes.
"What, are you blind?  Who payed you off?  You really oughtta get some
corrective eye implants..."

							- Mark

-- 
Mark "Klone Crimson" Friedman is friedman@cis.ohio-state.edu .................
"There is nothing former   "Beat poets,    "If you put a hungry ferret in your
 about King Crimson."       not children."  trousers, he'll run around..."
 - Robert Fripp, 5/11/90    - anonymous     - Nigel Tufnel (Spinal Tap)