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The Mediocre Adventures of Manman
Manman Returns, Episode 20:  Everything's Coming Up Mediocre


The crowd in the LargeImportant City Civic Arena stomped their feet.  They
stood on their tables.  They whistled, chanted, babbled incoherently at
each other.  Drinks spilled onto the floor, ate through the floor covering,
damaged the basketball court beneath.  Tables collapsed.  A large stage had
once again been assembled at one end of the Arena.  The stage was draped in
scarlet, cream and navy.  A thirty-foot-tall poster of Senator F. Ron
Trumner hung on the left side of the stage.  On the right side of the stage
hung a thirty-foot-tall poster of the left half of Manman's face, Manman's
left arm, and a worn-looking rectangle of Melba Toast.

Martha Stewpot, Mindy Kingsford, Fabulo Extravagante, and Ed sat at one of
the tables.  Ed wore a cowboy hat and a thick red fake mustache.  A badge
affixed to his shirt read "Hello, I'm:  AN IMPORTANT DELEGATE FROM A
WESTERN STATE, BUT I DON'T TALK MUCH SO DON"T ASK".  Jenkins stood behind
Martha's left shoulder.

Ed's arms twitched.  The purple spots were back again, melting together
before his eyes and dripping slowly through his field of vision.  "I don't
like this," he whispered to Martha.  "You didn't tell me I was going to
have to come back here."

Martha Stewpot's cool blue eyes blinked twice.  "This is the scheme, Ed.
You will not spoil the scheme through negligence, cowardice, or stupid plot
devices.  Is that clear?"  Martha's mouth drew into a tight line.  Her eyes
became bright, clear, steady as distant beacons on a clear night.

Ed tried to answer, found his throat clogged.  He made a rasping noise.  He
quietly cleared his throat.  "I understand, Martha." he said quietly.  The
shaking was gone.  Martha's eyes seemed larger, closer even though neither
of them had moved.  Her voice flowed through his body, warmer than his
blood and more nourishing.

"You will be simple yet elegant, Ed.  You will help me, and I will help you."

Martha's eyes were twin seas, clearer than the Caribbean, her pupils were
the tiny dots of pleasure-islands.  Ed felt her pupils as a presence of
their own, filling him with sandalwood-scented smoke, mingling in the pit
of his stomach with the sound of her voice.  He nodded slowly, unwilling to
break eye contact.

"You will do well, Ed."  Martha's voice was bemused yet soothing, as though
she spoke to a child.  "You will be comfortable.  The food here will be the
best that you have tasted.  You are content."

The blue light filled Ed's vision.  Martha's words twined themselves around
Ed's spinal column, reinforcing it as though a steel wire had been wrapped
around his bones.  He felt strong, confident.  The purple spots melted away
in the steady blue light.

Suddenly, Martha blinked.  Ed found himself in the LargeImportant City
Civic Arena.  He looked around, puzzled.  "There was something. .. just a
second ago..."  Fragments of blue light faded from his mind.  "Were we
talking about the ocean?"  He shook his head.  "Nevermind."

Martha smiled. "How do you feel Ed?"

"Hungry," said Ed.  "I've heard the food here is really good."

Martha sat back in her chair.  "Jenkins," said Martha.  "See if you can
find some food for Ed."

-----

The undergrowth grew thicker as Manman and Juan progressed.  Juan took a
sharp-looking coffee bean from his satchel, used the bean to hack a path
through the undergrowth.  Sweat poured down his forehead.  Juan removed his
sombrero and tied it to his satchel.

"I don't think this is a park," said Manman.  "I'm not sure we're anywhere
near RatherLarge City."

Juan wiped his forehead with his sleeve.  "I'm sure we're not."  He looked
around wistfully.  "If I was not here to help you, I would like to try
planting the sacred bean here.  It seems to be a good place for it."  Juan
hoisted the sharpened bean.  "We have no time to lose, though."

Manman scratched his head.  "We don't?"

"No," said Juan.  "Time is growing short.  I can feel it."  He slashed at a
vine.  "Let's go."

They slogged uphill.  Each stroke of Juan's bean released the faint aroma
of coffee mingled with the sharp, humid scent of freshly-cut foliage.  The
forest had previously been quiet, but they now began to hear movement in
the trees.  Birds fluttered through the sky, made low chunk-a-chunk noises
as they passed over Juan and Manman.  Insects buzzed near Manman's ears.

They came to a depression running perpendicular to their path.  The
undergrowth was thinner in the depression, a brighter shade of green.  The
marks of running water were visible on the bottom of the depression.  They
descended into the drainage, turned left.  Juan only had to use the
sharpened bean once every few steps now.

"Juan," said Manman.  "Time for what?"

Juan shrugged.  He slashed at thick bush with thorny branches.  "I'm not
sure, myself.  But, since we left the tavern..."  Juan's eyebrows drew
together as he thought.  He sliced at a three-inch thick runner into
sections.  "I'm more aware, somehow."  He shrugged.  "Must be all the
coffee I drank.  There are secrets to the bean that even I don't know."

Manman nodded knowingly.  "Just like stamp collecting," he said.

-----

The Greenslimy Aliens lined up, two by two, in the concrete room beneath
Slam's Hardcore Shopping Club.  Slam shifted beneath the pile of athletic
shoes.  He was running low on supplies of food and Drink(tm).  He hoped
that the Aliens would begin their invasion soon.  He slithered back and
forth uncomfortably.  He made a mental note to have an escape tunnel
installed under the shoes.  He made another note to have a bathroom
installed in the tunnel.

The Alien at the podium waved his tentacles.  "Now, everyone stick with
your buddy.  You're responsible for making sure that they do their fair
share of invading.  Remember, though, that you each get half of whatever
spoils the other might find."  The Alien rubbed his tentacles together.
"Now, are there any more questions?"

The Aliens bubbled quietly amongst themselves.  The Alien at the podium
raised his tentacles.  "Then, I hereby declare Invasion Yet-To-Be-Named
underway!"

The Aliens burbled.  The first pair of Aliens shambled out of the room.
The Aliens toward the back began pushing their way towards the front.  The
Aliens in front turned, pushed the Aliens behind them.

Invasion-Yet-To-Be-Named collapsed into a mass of angry, shouting Aliens.

-----

Gargle apostrophe dangle with seventeen flop darlings.  Another catalytic
principle attached neuron formica.  Gamble slowly through the floodgates.
Shell paraphernalia.

Dadaman carried Manman by the left ear and right foot.  He moved swiftly
past the multicolored bus, out of the Howard Johnson's parking lot.  He
followed the sidewalk around the corner of the block, then carefully set
Manman down.  Dadaman's forehead creased in concentration.  He removed a
weather balloon from a ladle on his left arm.  Dadaman blew into the
balloon, released it.  The balloon rose slowly into the night sky.  Dadaman
crouched next to Manman.

Dadaman put a box of dominoes on the sidewalk.  He took a domino from the
box, set the domino down on its edge.  He quickly added other dominoes,
creating a replica in dominoes of a famous English hedge maze.  He dropped
a shrew into the maze.  The shrew put a tophat on its head and began to
tapdance through the maze.  The shrew sang faintly about being alone on the
road with a bicycle built for two.

Dadaman looked up at the balloon.  He held out his finger and thumb,
imitating a gun.  He pointed his finger at the weather balloon.  There was
a loud pop.  Lottery tickets fell from the balloon.  Dadaman watched them
fall.  He looked back to the shrew.  The shrew threw his tophat in the air.

"Event alone carbuncle," said Dadaman to himself.  He slung Manman over his
shoulder and set off down the street.

The shrew juggled burning matchsticks, sang about the ecstasy of being a
donut maker from Pensacola.

----

Ed put another canape in his mouth.  He chewed the canape precisely 45
times, then swallowed.  "It's good," said Ed.

"Of course," said Martha.

Fabulo sulked.  "You have been listening to Martha Stewpot, Mr. Plain
Little Man.  This is not the way for one to become Excellente.  I had hoped
for more from you."

"Be quiet, Fabulo," said Mindy.  "It's starting."

The lights in the Arena went down.  A large screen dropped down from the
ceiling of the Arena.  Patriotic music, began to play, rich with brass, the
beat a plodding 4/4 without even the hint of a backbeat.  A film began to
roll.  A collage of black and white pictures filled the screen -- a small
house with a well-manicured lawn, an American flag, a bottle of Drink(tm)
labeled "5 cents", a much younger-looking F. Ron Trumner, a mushroom cloud,
the trunk of a car with prominent fins.  A deep voice filled the stadium.

"Once, America was great.  Lawns were well manicured.  Drink(tm) was
affordable.  The flag was a thing of beauty, and all the cars were
classics."  One by one, the pictures winked out, leaving the picture of F.
Ron Trumner.  "A young executive, F. Ron Trumner sets out on a journey.  A
journey of service.  A journey of values.  A journey which would take him
from the RatherLarge City Hall to the White House."  The photo of F. Ron
Trumner faded out.  It was replaced by a scarlet-cream-navy logo reading
"Trumner-Manman '96."

"This color scheme is offensive to my eyes," said Fabulo.  "They should
consider changing to an Excellente scheme."

"Hush," said Martha.

A picture of the White House faded in beneath the logo.  The voice
continued.  "But who is F. Ron Trumner, and why is he here?"  The screen
faded to black.  The patriotic music faded, was replaced by a twanging
banjo.

A dingy photograph of a very young F. Ron Trumner faded in.  The young
Trumner wore torn trousers.  A slingshot protruded from one pocket, a frog
dangled from the other pocket.  The voice continued "F. Ron Trumner grew up
like most other boys.  He worked in his father's business.  He went to
school.  He dreamed of the day when he would be a man."  A stock
certificate faded in, the photograph faded out.  "Yet, unlike most boys, F.
Ron Trumner had a vision of the future.  F. Ron Trumner knew where he
wanted to go.  Even at a young age, he knew that he would one day own the
Drink corporation.  He bought his first shares in the corporation as a
child."  The stock certificate faded out.  A plush office faded in.  "He
worked hard in his father's personal industry practice.  On the cases F.
Ron Trumner worked on, his father achieved a 85% win record."  A picture of
a man in a neck brace surrounded by piles of money faded in.  The sound of
a cash register ringing cut through the music.

"Excuse me, Jenkins," whispered Ed.  "Could I have some more canapes?"

Jenkins bowed, set off through the arena.

The picture faded out, as did the banjo music.  A naggingly familiar, yet
unidentifiable big band tune echoed through the darkness.  A shot of F. Ron
Trumner as a young man holding a diploma faded in.  "After finishing law
school, F. Ron Trumner joined his father's personal injury practice.  He
achieved an unprecedented 97% win record during his four years with his
father's firm.  He continued to build his ownership in the Drink
corporation.  He was successful, he was happy.  He had values, and knew
that the country shared those values.  Yet, due to those values, he wanted
to do more for his country than recover a fair settlement for those who had
been injured due to the negligence of others."  The pictures faded.  A
picture of the RatherLarge City Hall faded in.

"F. Ron Trumner was elected to the RatherLarge City council.  He quickly
gained a reputation for fair dealing, utilizing his training, his
negotiation skills, and his knowledge of the personal history of the other
council members to make sure that his ward received an unprecedented 43% of
city funds spent during his tenure."  Sketches of the gleaming F. Ron
Trumner Civic Bus Stop faded on to the screen, followed by the F. Ron
Trumner Sanitary Water Fountain, the F. Ron Trumner Public Restrooms, the
F. Ron Trumner World's Largest Drink(tm) Billboard, the F. Ron Trumner
Parking Garage and Mall, the F. Ron Trumner Decorative Manhole Covers, the
F. Ron Trumner & Associates Gilded Sidewalks, the F.R.T. Financial Towers,
Spa, and Drink(tm) Factory and the F. Ron Trumner Educational Center for
Promoting the Values of F. Ron Trumner.

"What a crock," said Ed.  "They never actually built any of that stuff.  No
one knows where the money went."

"Shush," said Martha.  "It's not polite to bring up minor indiscretions at
an event like this."

"Your canapes, sir," said Jenkins.  Ed took the platter from Jenkins and
began to shovel canapes into his mouth.

"The food here is amazingly simple and elegant," said Ed.

The voice continued.  "After years of dedicated service to RatherLarge
City, F. Ron Trumner heard a call.  He had heard the call faintly for
years, but now, with the retirement of the late Senator Harshwater, the
call became deafening.  He resigned his seat on the City Council, and ran
for Senator."

The pictures of RatherLarge City faded from the screen.  A scarlet, cream
and navy photograph of a slightly older F. Ron Trumner faded onto the
screen.  "It was a difficult campaign," continued the voice.  "The Senator
was questioned about his relationship with the Drink(tm) company, with his
wife at the time, with various animals on his country estate.  Yet F. Ron
Trumner stood firmly by his values.  He did not waver.  He did not falter.
To every attack, he responded with an even more damaging attack on his
opponent.  To every slander, he invented an even less credible story about
his opponent."

Fabulo whined.  "The color scheme still leaves much to be desired.  I must
send this Senator man a copy of _Be Excellente, Volume 9:  Excellente Color
Coordination_."

"Fabulo," growled Martha.  "Sit still."

A fanfare split the air.  "And he prevailed," continued the voice.  Another
picture faded in.  In this picture, Senator F. Ron Trumner rested his right
hand on a bible.  A short brunette woman in a blue dress and a dark,
speckled sheep stood beside Senator F. Ron Trumner.  Both the woman and the
sheep gazed adoringly up at the Senator.  "Bubbling with values, the
Senator embarked on the next phase of his career."

The lights came up in the arena.  "This concludes part I of Senator F. Ron
Trumner:  A Hagiography.  There will be a brief intermission before part
II.  During the intermission, dinner will be served."  The voice dropped to
a low whisper.  "A RatherLarge Productions film.  Drink is a registered
trademark of the Drink Corporation, and is used with permission.  Any
resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental."

Ed finished the last of the canapes.  He licked his fingers.  "Those were
delicious," he said.  "What's for dinner?"

-----

Jane picked the shattered remains of mollusks from her hair.  Fragments of
snail shells clung to the furniture.  Ink splattered the ceiling, ran down
the walls, pooled on the floor.  Half-dead octopi flopped weakly.  Several
slugs, apparently undamaged, crept across the television screen.  A squid
dangled from the light fixture, dribbled ink in a steady drip.  Andy sat on
the floor beside the bed, his eyes fixed on the wall.

Jane sat down heavily on the chair, stood up again.  She brushed octopi
from the chair.  She rubbed at her face.  "He's gone, Andy."  She chewed at
her lip.   Her eyes felt heavy, puffy and gritty.  She felt a dark weight
in the pit of her stomach.  Her fingers and toes were numb.  She brushed at
her face.  "They're both gone."

Andy's left year twitched.  He found the SmallPortable computer on the
floor beside the television.  It lay upside down, closed.  Droplets of ink
covered the case.  Andy opened the computer, set it back on the table.  He
tapped at the keys.  The screen lit.  Andy hoofed the trackball.  The
speaker on the computer clicked.  "Don't worry about the damage deposit,
Jane.  I can cover it."  Andy's ear twitched.  "Being the nation's richest
coffeeburro has at least some advantages."

Jane sighed.  The darkness in her stomach spread to cover her ribcage. "I
don't understand it, Andy."  The darkness crept into her lungs, oozed up
her spine.  She shook octopi out of the bedspread.  "Why would Dadaman
throw mollusks at us?  Why did he take Manman?"

Andy tapped at the keyboard.  "I don't know Jane."  He brayed softly.
"But, no matter what, Dadaman couldn't do anything to hurt Manman.  Dadaman
is, after all, Manman's own interesting side."

Jane shook her head.  "It's not like Dadaman, though."  The weight settled
in at the base of her skull.  She felt dizzy.  She pulled slugs off the
television, flipped them into the center of the room.  "It must have
something to do with the other Manman."

Andy's ears twitched.  He brayed softly.  His hoofs flew over the keyboard.

-----

Anaerobic milk cartons bleeding across the encyclopedia.  Another.  Winter
wheat snowed haphazard forty-seven thieves.  Intoxicated amorphous
vegetables.  Oatmeal pastimes.  Lint.

Dadaman pushed Manman in front of him in a red wheelbarrow glazed with
rainwater.  Chickens followed him. The chickens clucked softly.  Their
white feathers glinted beneath the streetlamps.  He pushed the wheelbarrow
through a crosswalk, onto the sidewalk across the street.

Two men in long overcoats stepped from the shadows in front of Dadaman.
They were tall, solid looking.  Dark sunglasses covered their eyes despite
the dim light.  They stood side by side, blocking the sidewalk.  Steel
glinted in their hands.

"Apartment koalas," said Dadaman.  He set the wheelbarrow down.  The
chickens clucked restively, scratched the sidewalk under the wheelbarrow.

"No problems," said the figure on the left.  "Just drop your wallet and
keep walking."  The figure on the right shifted his feet.

"Rubber plantations have never sung pepperoni."  Dadaman spoke quietly.  He
removed a pancake flipper from his back.  "Ever been to Kalamazoo, join you
in an emu."

The man on the left glanced at the man on the right.  "Must not speak
English."  The man on the right shrugged.

"Everyone bleeds the same."  The men stepped forward.  Knives moved
restlessly in the faint lamplight.

Dadaman raised the pancake flipper.  He pointed it toward the sky, held it
between him and the men like a barrier.  "Perihelion, we never knew thee,"
said Dadaman.

"Freak," said the first man.  He lunged at Dadaman.

Dadaman turned the pancake flipper to the left.  As the man lunged, his
knife caught in the flipper.  Dadaman flicked the pancake flipper upwards.
The man spun backwards.  His head hit the sidewalk.  The man lay still.

"Iguanas sunning perchance upon olives," said Dadaman.  He turned to the
second man, warbled a canary song, turned the pancake flipper from side to
side.  He advanced on the man.

The chickens wandered out from under the wheelbarrow, began to scratch and
peck at the first man's overcoat.  They clucked at each other as they
scrabbled in the man's hair.

The second man backed away from Dadaman.  He swung the knife.  "Stay back,"
said the man.  "I can use this if I have to."

"Bagels hidden behind sasquatch," said Dadaman menacingly.  He turned the
flipper so that it reflected the streetlight into the second man's eyes.
The man turned, ran down the street.

"Presto," said Dadaman.  He hung the pancake flipper on his back.  He
produced a large container of non-dairy whipped topping and a rubber
spatula.

The chickens clucked irritably as Dadaman covered the first man in whipped
topping.


WHERE'S DADAMAN GOING?

WHAT'S FOR DINNER?

HOW MANY CANAPES CAN ED EAT?

WILL THE GREENSLIMY ALIENS EVER START THEIR INVASION?

WILL THE CHICKENS FIND ANYTHING TO EAT IN LARGEIMPORTANT CITY?

... if you're looking for the meaning of life, you could always ask --
SUPERGUY ...

Next episode: Manman explains, "It's often hard to decide whether to use
the classified ads or the yellow pages."

(c) 1996 Dirk Myers