🚀 go-pugleaf

[CONTINUITY NOTE: "The Adventures of Commodore Amiga" is now
officially operating under "Mary Worth"-style continuity, in which
the fhuge disparities between real time and story time are cheerfully
ignored. Of course, this means that annual holiday specials, etc.
would be taking place every few days or weeks of story time. Good
thing I'm not planning any.]


DILLINGER MEMORIAL CEMETERY
OUTSKIRTS OF CHICAGO

     During his brief tenure, the homo sapiens beast has conjured up
a plethora of tales about his wondrous universe and its creators.
Today, literally thousands of gods, demigods, and other cosmic
entities are united in an awe-inspiring tapestry of myth.
     Salvatore Manicotti had spent the better part of his life
devoted to One such being. That time was now over, as of three days
ago. On this bright, sunny morning, the aging Mafia don directed
thoughts of venom towards all of them, from Thor to Rad & Dar.
     As if snatching his son and only heir from him hadn't been
torment enough, they now spat upon the young man's memory by refusing
to make the heavens weep for him. His temples pounded under the
relentless assault of the sunshine, the sound of his own blood
drowning out the burial rites. No matter; he was hardly in the mood
to hear worthless comforts.
     When the ceremony was finished, Don Manicotti shook the priest's
hand, and turned his back on the man's quiet reminder that he'd
always be available to talk. He moved quickly across the grass
towards the waiting limo, his second-in-command closely in tow.
     "What was that name, Alfredo?" the don asked as they approached
the vehicle. "The name Ricotta whispered just before he left us?"
     "Commodore Amiga, Signor Manicotti," replied Alfredo D'Costa.
He placed a comforting hand on his boss's shoulder and used the other
to open the car door for him.
     D'Costa's family had served the Dons Manicotti for generations,
some more faithfully than others, but all with the same cool
efficency upon which each of the dons had depended for their very
survival. Like his predecessors, Alfredo harbored no ambitions for
the boss's title. The D'Costa clan, after all, was a shrewd bunch.
They recognized a true position of power when they saw one, which was
why the Manicotti family's staunchly nepotistic rites of succession
had been allowed to remain in place all these years.
      "Yes... Amiga," the boss whispered. "What do you know of him,
Alfredo?"
     "He led the superarmies to victory when PseudoHell(pseudotm)
broke loose, and retained telepathic control over all of them,
including Ricotta, for several days after the invasion was repelled."
     "And this is why my Rico acted so strangely in his last days?"
The old don broke off, silenced by his overhwelming grief.
     "In a sense, yes. But a significant role in the crisis was
played by the Canadians' Minister Mal--"
     "With Ricotta has perished the future of our family, Alfredo. I
am far too old to sire another heir, and I would sooner die than see
Rico's idiot cousin in my place."
     "You certainly would, boss."
     "Nevertheless, he is next in line. And, mark me, the demise of
the Manicotti regime will soon follow his ascension."
     "Let's hope not."
     "Find him, Alfredo," Don Manicotti intoned, the old gangster's
voice cracking as he stifled a sob. "You find this Amiga. He has
destroyed my world, and he must pay. Slowly."
     Alfredo nodded. In small matters such as this, his uncle had
taught him, it was best to simply let the monsignor have his way.
     "Consider it done."



              * * THE ADVENTURES OF COMMODORE AMIGA * *
                           Episode Eleven:
                             "Pariahs"

                                by
                         Brendan LeFebvre


                  "All the green things died
                  When Ronnie moved to this place
                  He said, 'Don't you dare ask
                  Why I'm cursed to wear this face.'"

                            -- "Ronnie", Metallica


SAN DIEGO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

     Commodore Amiga snatched the bottle of seltzer from the
bartender's hands and gulped down half its contents, gasping with
relief as his parched throat returned to normal. He took one more sip
for good measure, then turned to his benefactor, who'd watched him
with a faint smile as he drank. Looking at the man head-on for the
first time, Amiga could see that his general state of unkemptness,
first observed at the podium, included a faded gray tooth among the
man's otherwise-gleaming dental work and a grease spot on his
grotesquely-striped tie. But as far as the commodore was concerned,
he appeared as pure and angelic as he had when he'd first appeared at
Amiga's side to drive off the media horde.
     He managed a faint smile in response to his savior's grin, and
"hm"ed experimentally to confirm the return of his voice.
     "I can't thank you enough for what you've done," he then said,
half expecting the figure before him to retain his seraph-like
posture, perhaps disappear mysteriously amid a flash of bright light.
The response he got was disappointingly earthly.
     "Hey, no sweat, buddy. It's my job. Admiral Stanson himself
hired me to be your media liaison." His smile became a wide grin, and
he thrust a large, grizzly hand towards the commodore. "Bob Bouchet,
at your service!"
     He was, of course, just a man. Amiga felt a little silly as he
surrendered his own hand to Bouchet's vigorous shake.
     "Amiga. Commodore Dan Amiga. But you already knew that."
     "Right!" Bouchet replied with a booming chuckle. "Oh,
incidentally, sorry I didn't get to you in time. Traffic. You know."
     Amiga picked up his bottle again and took another sip, his brow
crinkling in confusion.
     "So... the admiral hired you, you say."
     "Yes, indeedy!"
     "Don't take this the wrong way, but... who the Hell(TM) *are*
you?"
     "Like I said, the name's Bob Bouchet. Licensed Spokesperson!
Here's my card."
     "Licensed..."
     "Spokesperson! It's my job to coordinate and oversee all of your
media appearances and product endorsement offers."
     "But I'm not allowed to endorse products."
     Bouchet clapped his hands. "Wonderful! Then the job will be
twice as easy!"
     Amiga drained the glass and signalled the bartender for a
refill. Then he turned back to Bouchet.
     "OK. Run this by me again."
     "It's really quite simple, Commodore. For better or for worse,
the events in Canada have turned you into a Major Celebrity, for at
least the next couple of days. Now, Major Celebrities wield a truly
awe-inspiring power over the minds of the general public, which is
sometimes not fully appreciated; why, a single careless phrase can
change the face of the United States' entire collective
consciousness!"
     "That is bad," Amiga mused, trying not to feel that faint
tugging at his conscience.
     "Not necessarily," Bob replied. "But it's the job of the
Licensed Spokesperson to ensure that the attitudes espoused by his
client are fully positive in their nature. In your case, we need to
make sure that nothing you do or say reflects poorly on the United
States Navy, the United States Government, and... what was it he
said?" Bouchet stared into space, thinking, as he pulled a cigarette
and BIC lighter from his pocket and proceeded to puff. "Ahh, it was
the usual crap about 'founding principles'... 'everlasting glory of
the red, white, and blue'... stuff like that. You know, the whole
patriotism angle--"
     "Now hold on," Amiga cut in, irritated. "You're telling me that
Dan Stanson didn't trust me to maintain the proper decorum in front
of the TV cameras? Just what the Hell(TM) is he insinuating?"
     "I'm sure he does trust you, Commodore. I watched you for some
time at the podium; you handled yourself exceptionally well. I'm sure
I was hired simply as a convenience to you, to prevent mob scenes
like the one you just endured. With a Licensed Spokesperson at your
side, you need not again fear the ambush press conference. Only the
journalists selected by *you* will be allowed the privilege of prying
into your innermost thoughts."
     "Well, Bobby, that's absolutely wonderful," said Amiga, slapping
a five-dollar bill on the bar to cover the drinks. "Here, then, is
your assignment: Keep them away. Keep them *all* away. I've got some
things to take care of."
     "No problem. That's... that's Bob, by the way! Bob Bouchet."
     Amiga's back showed no sign of having heard him.


SOMEWHERE, SOUTH DAKOTA
POPULATION: 217

     "Hi! I'm Suzy! Ooooh, is this your rhinoceros?" squealed the
enthusiastic young woman, her honey-blond hair gleaming in the
midmorning sun.
     "Why, yes! He is!" Ensign Richard Stoner replied, flashing a
pearly-toothed Grin and feigning an adjustment to his Supershades.
     "Ooooh! Can I pet him?" she gasped, clapping her hands
delightedly.
     "But of course!" said Stoner, making a grand gesture toward the
winged mammal. "Ronnie just loves meeting new people. Don't you,
Ronnie?"
     The rhino snorted as Suzy dashed to his side and began to fawn
over him.
     Rick continued displaying his Grin to no one in particular,
admiring the girl's... attributes... as she cooed over the indignant
rhinoceros. Noticing what appeared to be a group of the girl's
friends huddled shyly around the well, he began to surreptitiously
flex his muscles, pressing his body against the tight confines of his
garish spandex outfit. Then, pretending to notice the other girls for
the first time, he lowered his Supershades just enough to wink at
them, and Grinned again.

     A few moments later, Victor emerged from the Somewhere General
Store, carrying a loaf of Hwite sliced bread under each arm.
     "Rick," he shouted, holding up one of the packages, "this is all
they had. Hope Ronnie's OK with it."
     Stoner waved a gesture of acknowledgement in Vic's general
direction, without missing a beat in the telling of his greatly
exaggerated Heroic anecdote. A half-score of nubile South Dakotans
were clustered around him, lapping up every word.
     "...had I not soundly thrashed those three thugs in the missile
room as I did, the entire West Coast might well have been incinerated
in a grisly nuclear pyre! What's more...."
     Meanwhile, Stoner's initial acquaintance was on her knees,
her arms thrown around Ronnie's neck as she lavished his snout with
kisses.
     A random breeze pushed a few strands of Suzy's extraordinarily
well-conditioned hair into the rhino's face.
     Ronnie wrinkled his nose in an effort to contain the resulting
irritation, but to no avail.
     Their only warning was a low grumble from deep within the
rhino's throat. Stoner, who just happened to be pausing for breath at
that moment, whipped around upon hearing it, analyzed the situation
in a matter of microseconds, and threw himself downward, unmindful of
his dignity. Suzy merely giggled, and began to say "How *cute*."
     And then Ronnie sneezed.
     The blast hurled Suzy into the air, her snot-covered form
hanging limply as she arced up and away.
     Ronnie's violent expiration sent a spasm throughout his entire
body. Just as Stoner hit the ground, the rhino's wings slapped the
dirt in a single mighty flap, blowing the ten girls-next-door
rather solidly onto their rumps.
     Victor dashed over and hauled his comrade to his feet. "Rick, I
think we should go now."
     Rick looked around. People had begun to emerge from the
buildings of Somewhere, many of them wielding pitchforks. They were
quite definitely coalescing into an angry mob.
     "Vic, you just might be onto something there." He clambered onto
Ronnie's back; Victor took his place behind him.
     "Giddyap, Ronnie!"
     Ronnie, sensing the imminent danger, began to flap for all he
was worth. When he'd reached an adequate bpm, he galloped toward the
advancing mob, and leapt for the sky at the last possible moment. The
most bloodthirsty of the Somewherians had raised their pitchforks in
an effort to impale the great beast, but the backwash from Ronnie's
furiously-beating wings drove the entire mob to the ground.
      When they'd reached cruising altitude, Ronnie banked into a
southwest heading, and the three resumed their trek to San Diego.


SAN DIEGO NAVAL BASE

     Commodore Amiga paused at the door to his office. From the sound
of things, it wasn't empty. This perplexed him.
     Said sound consisted of an apparent argument between two female
voices, both of them vaguely familiar....
     He opened the door to find Commodore Anne Baldwin standing over
his computer.
     "All right, you smart-aleck piece of garbage," she was snarling.
"I'll give you one more chance to cough up those files, or I'll track
you down and take a baseball bat to you!"
     To which ETHEL, the supersubmarine Deep Throat's CI, represented
now by a 3D object vaguely resembling the late Marilyn Monroe on
Amiga's terminal screen, could only toss back her pretty blonde head
and laugh uproariously. The scornful gesture lasted exactly ten
seconds, after which the image snapped back to normal and proceeded
to lecture the frazzled Commodore Baldwin.
     -Fact: I cost the American taxpayers oodles and oodles of money,
and they would not appreciate any attempts to destroy me. More to the
point, Fact: You request files belonging to Commodore Amiga. Fact:
You are not Commodore Amiga. Fact: Appropriate clearance is therefore
required before I may unlock his files.-
     "Evening, Annie."
     Baldwin replaced the paperweight she'd snatched off Amiga's desk
with the intention of bashing ETHEL's virtual head in, and looked up
wide-eyed at Commodore Amiga.
     "Dan! What the Hell(TM) are you doing here?"
     Amiga sighed as the inevitable response bore down upon him.
     "I... could ask you the same thing." He would have to remember
to rinse out the taste of that cliche when he returned home.
     Anne countered with the obligatory exposition, the puff of
still-blonde hair atop her head quivering with her rage.
     "I needed to duplicate all of your Deep Throat files for use at
my terminal. And since you weren't here, I had to attempt to do it
myself. But ELEANOR here is proving most uncooperative--"
     The 3D object cleared its throat.
     -Actually, that's ETHEL.-
     Baldwin grabbed the paperweight once more, but did not take it
off the desk.
     "What on earth would you want with my files?" Amiga inquired.
     "Stanson's ordered me to assume your duties regarding oversight
of the Deep Throat until you return to duty."
     "But-- I'm *here*!"
     "Not in uniform," Baldwin observed.
     "The Admiral knows the Deep Throat is my project; I've overseen
her construction from the beginning!" Absurdly, the commodore found
himself fighting the urge to whine.
     "Look, Amiga, what the Hell(TM) did you expect? You ran off to
Canada with no notice whatsoever, you don't check in for days...
Stanson needs someone he can count on--"
     "Just a damn minute. I did check in. I told the Admiral that I'd
be away for several days. He said 'fine.' He encouraged it; said I
needed a vacation!"
     "Look, I didn't give the orders. Admiral Stanson did. I'm afraid
you're going to have to take this up with him. But first, if you
wouldn't mind helping me with... Commodore?"
     Amiga leaned against the doorframe for support. Suddenly and
without warning, the room had lurched beneath his feet. So tired, he
was, fatigue pulling at his conscious mind, trying to bring it
under...
     "I'm all right," he murmured. "Just tired. Think I'll go home
now."
     Commodore Baldwin watched him leave.
     -Would you like to play a round of checkers?- ETHEL sniggered.
     Anne picked up the paperweight, poised to hurl it at Amiga's
monitor... then got ahold of herself and settled for snapping off
the terminal's power switch.


SAN DIEGO, CA

     "Almost home, Rick," Victor reported. He handed the last of the
Hwite slices to his comrade, who was once again dressed in his street
clothes. "After we return Ronnie, we can check in at the base."
     Rick nodded, passing the bread forward to Ronnie. Free from the
distraction of Somewhere's finest, he had reverted to that same cold
silence in which he'd enveloped himself since the start of their
journey.
     "...and see how the commodore's doing," added Victor.
     Rick twitched visibly, but said nothing.
     "Then I thought we might plant cherry bombs in the restrooms."
     Still silence.
     "Or throw things at the Admirals."
     Rick showed no sign of having heard him. Vic suppressed an urge
to hurl him off the rhino's back.
     "Dammit, Rick--"
     "I'm leaving."
     "Huh?"
     "Resigning my commission. Just as soon as we get back and I have
a talk with the Commodore. I expect they won't be wanting to see too
much of me anyway."
     "Why is that?"
     "Well, there's the obvious..." Without turning to look at
Victor, he reached around, beneath the back of his shirt collar,  and
pulled up a bit of spandex.
     Vic averted his eyes from the garishly-colored fabric until
Stoner had replaced it beneath his shirt.
     "Well, Rick, I'm honestly not sure what that has to do with
anything. I mean, look at the commodore. He hasn't had to give up his
Navy career!"
     "Yes, let's look at the commodore, shall we?" Rick retorted. "He
kept his powers under lock and key for decades. He only used them on
the Deep Throat because there was no other way."
     "But you don't necessarily have to do what he did--"
     "Yes, I do. There's a reason superguys don't go over too well
with the higher-ups. Having powers singles you out and, because
you're different, makes you less of a team player. Amiga knows that.
Hiding his powers was-- is-- the only way to get by in today's Navy.
And I'm not about to throw away all my potential like he did."
     Victor digested that.
     "So how come you need to talk to him so badly?"
     "That," Stoner replied, "will have to wait awhile; I'd rather
not discuss it now."
     Ronnie picked up speed as they approached the Wild Animal Park,
its wide open spaces bathed in a soothing orange by the soft light of
the sunset.
     Stoner turned to Victor with a smile. "He's happy to be back,
looks like."
     Victor nodded. "Too bad we can't keep him... this really isn't a
bad way to travel."
     "He's not a vehicle, Vic. This is his home. I like him, too, but
we're doing the right thing."
     Ronnie glided in for a smooth landing next to the charred
cluster of baobab trees, near the spot where his mutations had first
been triggered by Jean D'Oblique's fireball.
     Vic and Rick stumbled off Ronnie's back and immediately reached
for the sky; the long flight had left them rather stiff and
saddle-sore. Before they'd even finished stretching, Ronnie spied two
of his rhino friends in the distance, and joyfully bounded off to
meet them, his wings quivering in delight.
     Stoner grinned. "Now that's just cute. Anyhoo, Vic, I'm sure
we'll see each other at some point before I leave; I'll be informing
them of my decision tomorrow. Meanwhile, I've got some errands to
run, so... take care of yourself!" With that, he leapt into
the air and flew away to the south.
     "He can fly, can't he?" Victor mused. "Huh. I'd nearly
forgotten...."
     He soon realized that he was standing in the middle of a
park chock-full of wild animals, and that it was getting dark.
     "Rick, I'm going to kill you," he muttered, and began walking
toward the monorail track. He could follow that back to the park
entrance. His path brought the scene of Ronnie's reunion within his
field of vision, dimmed though it was by the rapidly-sinking sun.
     The winged rhinoceros began to leap, taking to the air for
seconds at a time as he approached the two other rhinos, grunting
eagerly. Upon hearing this, they looked up at him, stood in shock for
a second or two, then fled in opposite directions with a series of
frantic snorts.
     Ronnie deflated visibly. His wings drooped; he didn't exert the
effort to stop running, skidding instead to a clumsy stop in the dirt
as he surrendered to inertia. He looked from one fleeing comrade to
the other, trying to comprehend their desertion. Finally, several
agonizing minutes later, he sank to the cooling earth with a
mournful snort and closed his eyes.
     Victor came to the wounded beast's side, and stroked his head
softly.
     "I'm sorry, Ronnie," he whispered.


ARBORVIEW ESTATES, APARTMENT 432
SAN DIEGO, CA

     Commodore Amiga pulled his keys from his jacket pocket as he
trudged toward his apartment door. He hadn't set foot in this
building since the morning he'd left for his day trip to the San
Diego Zoo. The memories of that day hovered in the depths of his
mind, small and dim, as though they harked from some distant age, but
he couldn't say whether that was an effect of crossover continuity or
simply the enormity of the events he'd lived since then.
     He'd have to straighten things out with the Admiral, of course.
At the very least, he probably owed the man an apology. But that
could all be worked out tomorrow. For now, he was tired.
     Amiga unlocked the door and stepped inside. The lamps at either
end of his living room snapped on. He started.
     "Good evening, Commodore. We need to talk," chorused Ensign Rick
Stoner and Admiral Dan Stanson from their respective chairs.
     Stoner and Stanson gaped at each other.
     "Buh-- How long have *you* been here?" they inquired in unison.
     "*I'm* talking to him first!" they declared stubbornly.
     "No, you're not!" they rebutted.
     "Jingle," added Commodore Amiga's keys as their owner fainted
dead away.


WELL. THIS IS JUST FINE AND DANDY. TOO BAD RICK AND THE ADMIRAL NEVER
NOTICED EACH OTHER; THEY MIGHT HAVE DEVISED A PLAN FOR COMBO-GRILLING
THE COMMODORE.
PERHAPS THEY SHOULD DRAW STRAWS. OR FLIP A COIN. OR USE SOME OTHER
RANDOM METHOD OF DETERMINING--

[Excuse me.]

ONE MOMENT, READERS!....

[What the Hell(TM) do you think you're doing?]

WHY, THE TEASER QUESTIONS, OF COURSE!

[Really.]

REALLY!

[By my count, you've used exactly zero question marks so far.]

YOUR POINT BEING?

[That's more like it. Now get back to work before I smite you or
something.]

WHAT *IS* DM'S POINT? I WAS JUST WARMING UP A LITTLE, THAT'S ALL.
AND WOULDN'T YOU THINK HE'D APPRECIATE A FEW SUGGESTIONS ON WHERE HE
MIGHT GO WITH THE NEXT ISSUE? AFTER ALL, AREN'T WE TEASER-QUESTION
NARRATORS AS MUCH A PART OF THE TEAM AS, SAY, THE ACTORS?

[Try "extras." By the way, you're fired.]

PTPTPHHHH!!!

Amiga's health, Richard's grievance, Victor's rhino, and Manicotti's
revenge. Insert relevant teaser questions here, and tune in next
month for an all-new episode of "Commodore Amiga", right here on
SUPERGUY!

---

                          AUTHOR'S NOTES:
On 31 December 1995, I churned out the bulk of Commodore Amiga #5, so
that I could wrap up my first arc before the ball dropped in Times
Square. This New Year's has provided no such convenient breaking
point, save perhaps this:

TACA 11 is my sixth episode posted in 1996, meaning that, on average,
it was a bimonthly series. Woo hoo!

In reality, of course, the postings were shamefully erratic; for
instance, the TACA 7-->8 gap was about 7 months, and that for TACA
8-->9 was two days. Still, not bad, especially taking into account
that I wrote at least another episode's worth of material for the
Winner Take All megathingie. I'm still no Frobozz, of course, but you
can't have everything.

Regardless! I have set in my head (and on this Post-It note affixed
to my monitor) a goal of posting at least 12 episodes of "The
Adventures of Commodore Amiga" in 1997. One per month, minimum. Can
it be done? Well, let's hope so; by my reckoning, TACA's
realtime:storytime ratio is running at least 25:1. This does,
however, still put me way ahead of Mary Worth, Rex Morgan, and the
idiots of Apartment 3-G. And besides, Continuity sucks.

But enough about me. Best wishes to the Superguy community from all
of us here at DM's ASComIIcs for a happy, prosperous, and *prolific*
1997!

---
Copyright (c) 1996 Brendan LeFebvre. All rights reserved, except for
archival and summarization purposes as outlined in the Superguy FAQ.
Admiral Stanson appears courtesy of Don Cook.

Visit the official Commodore Amiga Homepage!
http://www.eyrie.org/~dm/taca.html

             Brendan LeFebvre -- brendanl@iconn.net
           Author, "The Adventures of Commodore Amiga"
                   http://www.eyrie.org/~dm/