🚀 go-pugleaf

   The Mad Planarian leaned back luxuriously in his office
chair, a faraway look in his eye-spots.  "I had a dream last
night," he told Cantata and the Nenei, "and you were there,
and you, and you, and .. you."  He blinked twice and looked
again.  Sure enough, there beside him was a third Nene.
   "I was hungry," Nene 27.5 shrugged.
   The Author returned to his dreamy stare.  "There were all
these bright colors -- fluorescent orange, lime green, hot
pink -- and then everything went black, as if a house got
dropped on my head."
   "DOHW!"
   "Oops, sorry," Cantata 23 blushed when everyone's ears
stopped ringing.  "Sound really does travel better in water,
doesn't it?"
   "Harrumph," Nene 27 grunted cutely.  "Those bright colors
were incandescent emanations from highly volatile chemical
reactions in your Pond water."
   "Uh, cool!" the Planarian grinned stupidly.  "Like, whoa!
Pretty, like, colors!  Ow!"
   "Don't you *ever* refer to *him* again!"  Cantata grated,
releasing one of the Author's ersatz ears.
   "After the fish attack, you took the purifiers off-line,"
Nene continued, "and you resisted our attempts to restore
them."
   "Temporarily," Cantata inserted.  "What in blazes were
you trying to do???"
   The Flatworm stared blankly for a moment.  "Oh, now I
remember.  The toxic chemicals seem to help my mutant form
regenerate.  But I'm all better now, really!"
   "I'll believe that when I see it."

   "You don't believe me?  Okay.  I can imagine that.  I've
been rather erratic lately."
   "Rather," Nene 27 agreed.
   "But now I've got my hero back.  Everything should be
fine.  You all were right:  I shouldn't try to fix these
problems myself.  He's helped to get my story back in line
before; I'm sure he'll pull through for me again!"
   The four Musae gaped at him.
   "You're not going to retcon everything?" Nene 27 asked.
   "Does this mean you don't want that archival search you
asked about?" Nene 27.5 confirmed.
   "No neat little computer tricks?" the newest Nene whined
wistfully.
   Cantata expressed her doubt more directly, floating into
a position only inches in front of his face.  "Do you really
expect me to believe that you're going to stop all these
shenanigans?"
   "Eep?" the Planarian nodded.  "Here!  I'll put it all
down in writing, so it's official.  Then all the Readers can
see it, too."
   Nene 27 snorted cutely.  "What Readers you have left."
   "Huh, what?"
   "Do you realize that your last series, or whatever you
call it first started appearing a full year ago?"
   The Planarian sighed deeply.  "Yes, I do."
   "Then imagine how confused everyone is by this point in
time.  I noticed that the footnotes in the last episode
effectively covered most of your writing career.  Even the
die-hards would have a hard time keeping up."
   "Well, I intend to fix that, you see.  For the next few
episodes at least, I'm gonna put in some of the essential
back story, both for the benefit of the regulars and the
newcomers --"
   Nene guffawed heartily yet cutely.  "Newcomers!  I doubt
you have any of those.  Here we are, already sixty lines
into the intro, and half of the jokes are based on other
people's writing!"
   "Well, I think there are still some new Readers out there
somewhere.  So, if you don't have any objections, I'm going
to address them."
   "So why this sudden change of heart?" asked Cantata,
still unconvinced.  "Did your life suddenly flash before
your eyes?"
   "Well, I did have a near-dinner experience, but more on
that later."

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
   This post is the initial episode of a series which will
basically wrap up loose ends from my preceding stories.
Admittedly, it would seem odd to even pretend that this is
starting afresh (just as it was odd for a 'conclusion' to
end with a cliff-hanger), but a few characteristics make me
wish to provide a distinction:

   -- There is a major change in the cast, in that the
      title character has returned from an extended
      (year-long) hiatus from his own story.

   -- Episodes 11 through 20 comprised a series entitled
      "Identity Crisis", so named by the circumstances
      that a few characters were galloping about with
      the mistaken belief that they were the title
      character.  However, now that Jackson himself
      has returned, there is no longer any question,
      and so that particular messy situation, Murphy
      willing, is concluded.

   -- It was time to start a new arc anyway, since ten
      episodes spanning a year's time is a bit much to
      expect any newcomer to go back and search for.

In addition, I shall attempt to do the unthinkable and focus
on one of the many active subplots at a time.  It has been
amazing how things pile up when I'm not looking, as anyone
who has followed the whole series can attest.  However, as
in Real Life (shudder), it may be impossible to do justice
to the subject matter without some echoes and afterimages of
previous events.

                                One Mad Planarian
                                likely second-year nominee
                                Most Confusing Plotline

   "These events occur immediately following those in
Jackson Six #20, and as such take place in the first half
of August 1995."
   "Uh, thank you, Nene."
   "Any time."

                      Jackson Six #21
                 All's Well that Ends Well
                           Part 1
                  "Oh, What a Tangled Web"
                      Roger Christman


-----------------   WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE   -----------------
Way back in Episode #15, in the special episode "A Little
Murder", three of Richard Jackson's former associates were
slain within a period of twenty-four hours.  In all three
cases, the primary suspect was the well-respected criminal
investigator on the scene.  Two of these suspects are held
in the Interpol headquarters in Lyon; the other was executed
by the Red Chinese.  Richard Jackson has been instructed by
his commanding officer to cooperate with Interpol, and to
find more concrete evidence linking these murders to an
attempt on Jackson's own life.
------------------------------------------------------------

   The French Alps provide some of the most picturesque
scenery in the world, if one is of a mind to appreciate it.
Unfortunately, this sort of mind was not currently present
in the boxy police car speeding along the twenty-five
kilometers from Satolas Airport to Lyon.  The pouring rain
did not help this appreciation.
   On the other hand, neither did the rain hinder the
exceptional perception of the youth pressed against one of
the passenger doors.  Until less than a week before, Ichii
had never stepped out of the Reno metropolitan area, and he
stared at the passing verdancy.  Yet it held no interest for
him -- just a whole lot of empty space with nothing to do.
Instead, as he stared out the window through the rain, he
listened attentively to the argument next to him.

   "And so you went and napalmed the place?"  Richard
Jackson shook his head in disbelief, rubbing his forehead.
"And turn that damned radio off!  It'm getting a headache!"
   "But, Monsieur!" objected the gendarme at the wheel.
   The burly African American sitting shotgun leaned forward
and terminated the frantic yammering on the police radio,
silencing the driver's objections with a cold stare.  "Leave
it.  I want to hear this."  He twisted in his seat to get a
good look at the occupants of the back seat.
   "No," replied the nasal nebbish nestled against the door
opposite Ichii.  "*I* didn't do it.  *You* did.  I'm just a
harmless cult vice-president.  Remember?"
   "This is too much," Richard muttered.
   "Let me get this straight," interrupted Agent Johnson.
"You claim that you recall doing the very thing he's been
charged with, but you didn't do it?"
   "It's before my time," Horace answered plainly.  "As him,
I mean."
   "And you don't remember anything?" Johnson asked Richard.
   "The state police asked me about it last week, but no."
   "I've heard about deniability, but this takes the cake.
Tell me:  what *do* you remember?"
   Richard sat in stony silence, staring out the window.
For some seconds, the only sounds heard in the little car
were of the heavy rain hammering on the rooftop, and the
regular strokes of the windshield wipers.
   "Get your damn hands of the radio!" Agent Johnson
bellowed at the driver, nearly causing the vehicle to
swerve.
   "Nothing," Richard finally replied.  "I was told that the
situation had been resolved, and as far as I could tell, it
had been."
   Agent Johnson cursed in frustration.  "Then what *have*
you been doing for the last six months?"
   "If you're looking for an explanation, I can't give you
one.  Not one that you'd believe anyway."  Richard looked
sharply at Horace.
   "Well, you better make something up fast.  You're only
here now because your boss outranks me.  Once this case is
over, I'm taking you in."  With an air of finality, he swung
to face forward again.  "Oh, and you may turn on your radio
now."

   With nervous relief, the driver reached over; the radio
exploded into a cacophony of chatter.  Several voices were
shouting in French at the same time, with no apparent regard
for the others.  "Mon Dieu!" he swore.  "C'est commence'!"
   The response was immediate.  "Eh?" "What?" "Huh?"
   The driver continued in rapid French, waving an arm
helplessly about for emphasis.  Even Ichii turned his head
to look at him.
   "English, please!" Richard shouted, shutting the driver
up.  The gendarme took a deep breath and started again.
   "There are things happening in the city.  They start not
many hours ago."
   "What sort of things?" Agent Johnson asked.
   "Terrorists!  Explosions!  Invaders!  Boom!  Who can say?
I do not know!  The radio --"  He gestured helplessly.
   Richard sighed deeply, sat back in his seat and closed
his eyes.  "Just get us to base.  We'll consider our options
there."

   Driving to the Palais de Justice proved to be a difficult
problem.  The rush hour traffic was backed up everywhere,
and the air was filled with the incessant sound of horns
honking everywhere.  In some cases, citizens even abandoned
their cars despite the downpour and fled on foot to places
unknown.
   Although all of the traffic lights were functioning, they
were being superseded by police directing traffic at every
major intersection.  However, the policing did not help
matters.  Some seemed to be steering people to leave Lyon;
others directed them back the way they came.  The streets
were filled with vehicles attempting U-turns, reverses, and
everything in between.
   It was a credit to the gendarme to actually get to the
Palais de Justice.  With the help of his siren, he weaved
through the traffic and careered down the sidewalks, driving
in a manner discouraged on movie sets.  After a hair-raising
ride, they all arrived at the courthouse, and only at the
cost of one headlight, two hubcaps, a poodle, three sidewalk
cafes, and the pleasure some two dozen irate tourists who
found themselves swimming in the Rhone.
   As the driver slammed on the brakes on last time, the
police car splashed into a puddle, hydroplaned, spun around
full circle, and finally came to a stop against a lamppost.
A figure encased in black riot armor was apparently waiting
for them on the steps, a white P proudly emblazoned on the
helmet.  The armored cop climbed over the dented hood to the
passenger side of the car, opening the forward door.
   "Move, please," a female voice commanded the burly agent
riding shotgun.  As he struggled to unbuckle his seat belt,
the new arrival scanned the occupants in back.  Behind the
driver, Horace seemed to be turning green, and apparently
feeling disgusted with himself for feeling queasy at all.
Richard Jackson simply looked back impassively, briefly
touching the side of his abdomen.  Finally, Ichii was just
disengaging two sets of white knuckles from the seat in
front of him, where he had the foresight to brace himself.
"I expected a girl."
   "He's taking her place," Richard responded.  "She isn't
quite herself right now."
   The visor of the riot helmet faced Richard for a moment,
then nodded.  It then turned towards the driver.  "La Place
des Terreaux.  Rapidement!"  The rest of the figure then
climbed into the car next to Agent Johnson.  "I am Vera
duVrai--" she began.

   "There is no need to rush," Richard interrupted.  "Things
are returning to normal.  The explosions were simply smoke
grenades.  The only injuries are traffic-related."  He cast
a pointed look at the gendarme at the wheel.  "What you do
need to do is get your police back in line."
   Vera turned around to look at him.  "Why say you that?"
   "Half of them are telling everyone to evacuate; the rest
say stay home and hide in the basement.  That's where all
the confusion comes from."  Jackson indicated the vast sea
of stopped vehicles beneath them.  The driver had somehow
contrived to use their roofs as a very uneven roadway.
   "You only just come from the airport, and already you
know so much!  How know you these things?"
   "The 'how' isn't important.  Let's just say I get my news
from CNN.  Now, would you tell your driver to turn around,
before he gets us killed?"
   "Hear, hear!" Horace wheezed.  He tried to open his
window before retching, but doing anything in the bouncing
car was difficult.  But suddenly the window conveniently
shattered as the car returned to terra firma, coming to a
much-appreciated stop.  Several pairs of eyes used the
respite to take in the surroundings; several pairs of hands
hunted for something to hold on to when those eyes saw that
the car was now on the end of a drawbridge, and that the
drawbridge was rising.
   "I begin to understand you," Vera commented.  She looked
past Richard at the sea of cars behind them.  "But I fear we
cannot go back."
   Indeed, the car wasn't going much of anywhere.  Seconds
later, the rear bumper scraped on the roadway, and assumed
the role of a fulcrum as the bridge pushed the car upward.
When all the creaking and motion stopped, the car ended up
precariously balanced on its back end, supported by the
bridge surface on the one hand, and the car behind on the
other.
   "Don't anybody move," Jackson warned unnecessarily.
   Horace cursed piteously in his nasal voice.  Thanks to an
unlucky shift in wind direction, the pelting rain was now
hitting him full in the face.

   "Perhaps it is time to talk," Vera resumed.  "Like I say,
I am Vera duVrai, section chief of Interpol.  You have been
sent by your General Tripper?"
   "Agent Johnson, FBI.  And yes, we are here at his
suggestion.  We think the murders are linked."
   "And you are the victim's compatriot, Monsieur Jackson?"
   "Yes'm.  And this fellow muttering curses next to me is a
witness."  Horace began to retort but his reply was cut off
by a mouthful of rainwater.  "Not to be rude, ma'am, but
would you mind telling us what we are doing here on the
banks of the Seine?"
   "Saone."
   "Whatever."
   "Oui, I should explain.  Many thanks to your General --
we indeed connect two mysteries to one another.  With the
help of two great inspectors in our custody, we have found
this part of a great conspiracy."
   "Inspectors in your custody?" Johnson asked.
   "Oui, it is most lucky we have them.  As is true in your
case, they were implicated in these murders.  Yet, without
their abilities, we would not know as much as we do about
the conspiracy behind them,"
   "Conspiracy?" Jackson and Johnson both asked.  Horace
merely made a strange interrogative grunt.
   "This is the work of Doctor Fu Manchu, an ancient Chinese
mastermind, who wishes to restore the old dynasties."
   Richard snorted in disgust.  "That's ridiculous!"
   "That is the conclusion of our finest detectives."
   "Your suspects, you mean," Johnson corrected.  "Do you
actually believe them?"
   "Monsieur Johnson, nobody lies to Vera duVrai," she said
in a tone that brooked no argument.

   "Be that as it may," Richard began after a pause, "that
still does not explain why we are stuck here on a bridge."
   "Mais oui!  The inspectors wish to investigate the new
explosions, and so we go to them."
   "What?" Johnson erupted.  "You let two known felons loose
just because they asked you to?"
   "They are helping me to solve the case!" Vera retorted.
"It would be unwise to not use their expertise!"
   "If they're really helping you," Richard said.
   "As I say, nobody lies to Vera duVrai.  Indeed they both
wish to know how they were, how you say, framed."
   "You mean they are not your suspects?"
   "There is doubt.  They have no memory of committing any
crime, in spite of the evidence -- this I know.  Perhaps
this is also true in your case."
   "We'll never know," Johnson muttered.  "The Red Chinese
executed him, thinking they had caught one of their own
fugitives."
   "Oui, they have long sought this Doctor Manchu.  In fact,
one of their police is even here to learn too.  He is very
sorry for his mistake."

   "And so you sent those two detectives to investigate the
explosions in your city, while you waited for us," Richard
summarized.
   "Oui, and worry not, Monsieur Johnson.  There are many
police with them."
   "You'll just have to take them back.  There will be
nothing to see," Richard predicted.
   "How can you be so sure?" Vera asked.
   "CNN reports nothing but smoke bombs.  In fact, nothing
has happened in any other major French city.  So if you can
get only get your traffic in gear ---"
   As if to emphasize his point, suddenly there was a loud
cacophony of honking horns behind them (or from their point
of view, over their heads).  The drawbridge had gone back
down, but the car still stood on end, as traffic flowed past
it on either side.  A loud insistent blare came from the car
immediately adjacent.
   "Shut the Hell(tm) up!" Ichii yelled back/up uselessly.
   "Ain't it just like a Boston driver," Johnson muttered.
   Horace acted first, undoing his seat belt and opening the
door.  Just as he was about to roll out, however, gravity
slammed the door closed.  With a curse, he opened the door
again, getting the same result.  On his third attempt, he
managed to swing his feet out while holding the door open,
and was at a loss on how to proceed, when Richard gave him a
helpful push.  Horace fell out clumsily, narrowly missed by
the shutting door, not to mention the rushing traffic.
   "Monsieur?" Vera asked.
   "He got out to push," Richard explained.
   "You pushed him!" the driver accused, as he stared at
Richard's reflection in the rear-view mirror.
   "So he needed help!"  With some effort, he shifted into
the rain-soaked position Horace had occupied.  When he got
there, the latter opened the door wordlessly.  "We think a
lot alike," Richard added.  "Anyone you doesn't get out is
gonna have a rough ride."
   Everybody elected to stand in the rain, and it was much
easier disembarking with someone outside holding the door
open.  Unfortunately, in Agent Johnson's case, electing was
one thing, and climbing out another.  Any time he lifted his
feet, the car threatened to tip backwards onto its roof --
so he was forced to remain inside as the car was pushed back
onto its wheels (only blowing one of the forward tires).

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