🚀 go-pugleaf

                              The Defense Squad          QUOTE OF THE DAY:
                                 Episode 179           "You know, we really
                           The Last Turdian, Part 3     don't have a word
                                     or                 for 'male bimbo.'
                         One-way ticket to wackiness    Well, alright:
                                 Written by             'senator.' But
                                 Bill Paul              still..."
                         The man with two first names     -Elaine Boozler

CONTINUED FROM PART ONE...

        "Gentlemen," Montalban continued, "my primary concern here is
the alarming spread of Scorn, and the almost deliberate manner in which
our company has hampered our efforts to stop it. Hardass, I have read the
reports you and the Crimson Amoeba filed after the San Fransisco police
arrested you. Crankshaft and I have been faced with similar bureacratic
difficulties."
        "I too feel as though DefenseCo is purposely sabotaging my
efforts," noted the Grey Panther. "Thanks to our P.R. department, the
media keeps turning up when I'm out on patrol. It is difficult to stalk
the night for illegal drug smugglers when there are film crews dogging
your every step. One week it's 'Cops,' then the local news, then
'Nightline.' Everyone seems to think Defense Squad Miami is a summer
replacement series rather than a crimefighting unit. And our computer
system...!"
        "Always works fine for the support staff," interjected Montalban,
"but mysteriously malfunctions whenever any of the team requests data
about Scorn, correct?"
        "Yes." replied the Grey Panther, a little shaken.
        "Our own systems have become decidedly uncooperative of late.
That is why I propose that we embark on a little clandestined fact-finding
mission. I have just learned that a major Scorn dealer was arrested in
New York City. I want you four and the Amoeba to go there and investigate
this incident personally."
        "What makes you think we'll have any better luck in New York than
we've had in our own regions?" the Panther inquired.
        "For one thing, DefenseCo does not own the New York Police
Department. At least, not yet. For another, a large portion of the NYPD
administrative system remains un-computerized. Many of their records are
kept on paper, which means they are less vulnerable to tampering. Even
so, we must act quickly. Crankshaft, now would be a good time to go over
security measures."
        "Okay, first off, everybody leaves their DefenseCo comm-links
here. Ricardo will take them back to our HQ with him so that anybody
tracking our homing signals will think we're still in Detroit. Hardass,
make sure the Crimson Amoeba leaves his in San Fran."
        "But his comm-link is also a translator unit: he can't speak to
us without it."
        "Can't be helped. We'll just have to make due. Second: no
important communications over unsecured landlines. I have telephone
scrambler units and bug detectors for myself and all of you. Use them.
Lastly, under no circumstances are we to make contact with anybody from
the home office, especially the senior vice-presidents and the CEO. If
we encounter any of them, they are to be considered unfriendlies. SOP
is to evade if you can, subdue if you must. Stay alert at all times,
keep an eye on each other and try not to attract attention to yourselves.
This is not a game, kids. Something tells me there's a lot more at stake
here than our jobs."
        "What's the plan?" asked Hardass.
        "We'll interview the arresting officers in the case -- a Detective
Jack Honey and a Sergeant Al Dear, according to the reports -- and play it
from there. No telling what they might have, so there's no point planning
too far in advance."
        "Then it's settled," Montalban announced, charmingly. "I will
contact Ms. Marvelous and arrange for the Crimson Amoeba to meet you in
New York. As none of you can fly, I've taken the liberty of booking
passage for you on DefenseTrak. Your train leaves in an hour."
        "DefenseTrak?" said Hardass in disbelief.
        "A recent aquisition," Montalban conceeded, charmingly. "But
don't worry: I've registered you under assumed names and as long as I
keep your comm-links with me, no one should even know you're gone. Good
luck my friends."
        "Piss off."
----------------------------your face each day------------------------------
        The data storage banks of the universal chroniclers are constructed
from an elemental substance that's at least two or three periodic tables
away from anything humans will ever create in a laboratory, Twinkies
notwithstanding. Each data wafer tells the story of a civilization; from
its humble begining as a few nameless clots of amino acids, to its
bittersweet, often tragic ending... as different nameless clots of amino
acids.
        Regrettably, this particular pattern is more the rule than the
exception. History has shown that practically all races that start out as
slime eventually end up as slime, with the only difference being how much
damage they manage to do in the interim. In this respect, universal
history is much like the movie of the week, only with fewer commercials
and higher production costs. In general, neither of them tend to get very
good ratings.
        One of these many data wafers holds a tale of particular importance
to us at this point in time. It's a tale that the universe hasn't finished
telling yet, which means the information is still being recorded. It further
means that O.U.B. (Off-Universe Betting) is still talking wagers on its
final outcome. Currently, the odds are 5 to 2 on nuclear self-annihilation,
7 to 1 on accidental viral sterilization, 8 to 5 on hostile corporate
takeover, 100 to 1 on heart failure brought on by sexual ecstacy, and
even money on fatal cranial-rectal inversion (more commonly known as "a
terminal case of the stupids").
        So the end of this story is temporarily unavailable to us. But as
it happens, that isn't the part we're interested in. It's the begining of
the story we're after, and it would be a small matter to examine the
information already on the wafer to catch up on the parts we've missed.
All we have to do is find it. Fortunately, the universal historians have
so cunningly designed their headquarters that it's virtually impossible
for us to miss it. It's there, in the central data storage center, in one
of the more active processing arrays, to the left. No, further left.
Wait, that's a pay phone. Go back. Yes, that's it. There. It's all right
in front of you. Take a moment to consider the enormity of this moment: all
you have to do is press a single button on the viewing unit and the history
of an entire race of beings, complete with all their triumphs and tragedies,
will be played out before your very...
        Nope, that's the coffee maker, gosh darn it.
        Come to think of it, this isn't the data storage center at all,
it's the cafeteria. Funny how they look so similar.
        Well, while we attempt to locate the central data storage center,
we can review at least part of the data we're after, since it appears to
be printed in summary form on the backs of these breakfast cereal boxes
that just happen to be sitting here. This is the tale about a band of
thieves and cut-throats, beings of tremendous evil terrorizing the
galaxy in their neverending quest for dazzling wealth, limitless power,
yellow moons, pink hearts, green clovers, blue diamonds, and I'm reading
the back of the wrong cereal box, aren't I.
        *toss*
        Let's try that again.
        Planet Chicago was colonized over ten thousand years ago by a
splinter group of Xolchipalians, who believed Xolchipalian technology was
being wasted on frivolous causes, which included preserving the galactic
peace, protecting less advanced races, and keeping hair on Bill Shatner's
(coincidence) head. This violent Xolchipalian faction cause no small
amount of trouble for their generally peacful bretheren until they were
eventually driven out into space and forced to relocate to Chicago,
inadvertently saving the planet from being turned into a parking lot for
Partyworld some centuries later.
        (The Partyworld management instead settled for planet Nevada,
a decision that implied moving it three million light years away from
its original location and completely paving it over. The Nevadans weren't
too pleased with this idea, but their complaints dropped off considerably
once the cement hardened.)
        Angry at their counterparts for kicking them off their homeworld
without even forwarding their magazine subscriptions, the renegades chose
to renounce their heritage and dubbed themselves the Mafia, a old
Xolchipalian word that means 'fat guys with high colesterol levels who
sweat heavily and won't eat anything unless it's practically oozing with
garlic.'
        The Mafia first gained notoriety as an interstellar interest in
the glory days of the Belgian Empire. The Belgians were making huge piles
of money in the planetary real estate business, and centuries would pass
before they would be forced to construct their Sentient Profitronic Analysis
Machine (SPAM), consequently shooting themselves in their collective tuchus.
This was the Golden Age of the Belgian Empire, a heady time when planets
were bought and sold like used cars and wealth flowed unchecked into Belgian
coffers like some great unchecked flowing thing. The Belgians were living
high off the hog and everybody knew it, including the Mafia, who desperately
wanted a piece of the action.
        The Mafia's first leader, Frank Sinatra (coincidence), made several
relatively cordial attempts to convince the Belgians to take the Mafia in
as a partner, all of which ended in frustration and failure. The Belgians
didn't believe in partnerships since they weren't part of the holy Twelve
Step Plan on which their positive cash flow society was based. When
negotiations broke down, Sinatra (coincidence) ordered his most powerful
ships to attack planet Belgium to teach them that the Mafia was not to
be trifled with.
        The battle lasted precisely thirty seconds, which was exactly how
long it took for the Belgians to buy the attacking fleet off.
        Understandably, when word of this got back to planet Chicago,
Sinatra (coincidence) was most annoyed.
-----------------------------then this is all-------------------------------
        Hillary Clinton finished her fourth cup of DefenseCo brand coffee
and noticed that it seemed to be growing less and less effective at
keeping her awake, even though its ability to deaden her tastebuds seemed
as healthy as ever. Putting the steaming mug aside, she could swear the
shrubbery background on her computer screen was changing colors before
her eyes. Regrettably, everything else on the display stayed exactly the
same; the report she'd gotten back from the government lab kept telling
her the same thing no matter how many times she went over it.
        "Results inconclusive." she muttered.
        "What mom?" said Chelsea idly.
        Hillary ignored her question and rubbed her tired eyes. Chelsea
was sprawled out on a couch in the corner of the Scarlet Shrubbery's
basement headquarters watching the nightly news. Socks the ninja cat
dozed on her stomach, purring contentedly.
        "Mom?" Chelsea, repeated, "You okay?"
        "I'm fine, dear. I'm just a little tired. It seems Socks's plan
to get the government to do our dirty work for us has backfired."
        Hearing his name roused Socks from his lethargy. He left the warmth
of Chelsea's stomach and padded over to where Hillary sat, then made a
nimble leap onto her desk.
        "What happened?" he asked. "I was positive they wouldn't become
suspicious. Did I underestimate their zeal?"
        "No, you underestimated their incompetence. It seems they were
only able to identify the most basic compounds in the Scorn sample we
sent them. They're as baffled about the rest as we are."
        "So we're back where we started?"
        "Yes, dammit."
        Clinton rose from the chair and paced a little, yawning and
stretching while Socks examined the report more closely.
        "We're going about this the wrong way," she said. "The drug
itself clearly isn't going to tell us anything. What we need is another
angle. Maybe we could trace the drug through the distribution network."
        "That could mean months of backbreaking work keeping tabs on
dozens of lowlife drug pushers," Socks cautioned her. "And for each day
you waste on them, the epidemic grows. Besides, that's the DEA's job."
        "Yes, and according to their records they're having terrible luck.
That's another mystery: the Scorn pushers always seem to be one step ahead
of the authorities. How can they possibly know what the DEA is going to do
before they do it?"
        Socks divided his thoughts between the lab report and Hillary's
question while the hedonistic parts of his mind tried to convince him
that he'd be able to think better if he went back to Chelsea's soft,
inviting belly. Without really meaning to, he nudged the mouse pointer
over to the DEA icon in the Shrubbery's database menu and clicked on it.
A screenful of data whizzed by outlining a sting operation in California
that, according to the file's date stamp, hadn't happened yet.
        Realization pounced on him like Libertarians on Rush Limbaugh.

CONTINUED IN PART THREE, IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING...