🚀 go-pugleaf

   If you were to imagine a stereotypical bank, tastefully
decorated in cherry-wood with brass trim and deep pile carpeting,
staffed with tellers who were immaculately groomed and
professionally dressed, that bank would be the Dillweed National
Bank.  Now, if you were to imagine the exact opposite, you would
have Frank's House of Money and Stuff.
   Frank's has become famous nationwide for their innovations in
banking; the mosh pit in every branch; open bar privileges for
customers who maintain a minimum balance; tellers who might not be
able to add or subtract, but look spectacular in their tiger-
striped bikini uniforms; and official hours that go from "9AM
until we feel like going home."  In little over a year, Frank's
had grown from a storefront check-cashing operation to become the
largest, most popular financial institution in the city.
   After waiting ten minutes in line, the Serially Numbered
Underlings reached the counter with their wheelbarrow full of
stolen cash.  "Um, like, can I help you or something?" asked the
teller.
   "Yeah," said Number Three, "we'd like to return this money we
stole."
   "Hmmmm.  Um, okay."  The teller tapped a few keys on her
computer and stared at the screen with a vacant expression.  "Can
I, like, have your account number?"
   "We don't have one," said Number Two.
   "Oh, sure you do," said the teller, brightly.  "Everyone with
an account has an account number.  They, like, go together."
   "We don't have an account."
   "Oh.  Well then, just, like, fill out an application or
something.  I think that's how it works..."
   "Look, you don't understand--"
   Number One put her hand on Number Two's shoulder.  "Forget it,
sis.  We're going to have to do this the old-fashioned way."
   "Like, have a bitchen day!" called the teller, as the Serially
Numbered Underlings pushed their money back out the front door.
They returned a few minutes later, blowing a hole through the back
wall.
   "All right, nobody move!" shouted Number One.  "This is a
stick-down!"
   "Don't you mean a stick-up?"
   "No, it's a stick-down.  Take this money and put it in the
vault -- hurry up, we don't have all day!"  The tellers were
confused, but they did as they were ordered.
   "Excuse me, ma'am?" Number Three asked one of the bank's
bewildered customers.  "Would you like some jewelry?  I think we
bought too much..."
   "Um, sure," said the woman, accepting a silver necklace.  Other
customers crowded in, looking for their share, but fortunately
there seemed to be more than enough for everybody.
   "You know, this is kind of fun," said Number Two, as she tossed
expensive wristwatches and packs of money into the crowd.
   "Who are you people?" asked the bank president.
   "We're the Serially Numbered Underlings."
   "Hooray!" the people cheered.  "The Serially Numbered
Underlings are the greatest heroes since Spoonman!  Yay!"
   "Aw, shucks," said Number One.  "We're just returning what we
stole this morning."
   "What you stole--?  Oh!" the bank president exclaimed.  "You
didn't take that money from *us*!  That money belongs to Dillweed
National, the bank down the street!"
   The three supervillainesses looked at each other and shrugged
their shoulders sheepishly.  "Oh well," said Number Two.  "Their
loss, your gain."  The crowd cheered again, and the bank president
opened a case of champagne.
   "Say, if you girls need a job, I have a few teller openings..."
   "We already have jobs," said Number Three, "but we'll keep the
offer in mind."  The crowd cheered once again, and the house band
started up with a rocking version of "Money Changes Everything,"
the most appropriate of the six songs they knew.  Suddenly, the
celebration was shattered by the buzzing of electric coils
whipping through the air.  The assembly turned to see six costumed
figures standing in the hole that the Serially Numbered Underlings
had made.
   "Stop right there, evil-doers!  The Super Seven are here to
save the day!" shouted one of them.
   "Tom, do we really have to talk like that?" asked one of the
others in a low voice.  "There must be something else we can do to
improve our image..."
   "This is the only language these people understand.  Now come
on, just like we rehearsed--"  He stepped forward.  "I am the
amazing Mr. Plasma, master of plasma-powered energy!"
   "I am the incredible Taximan, as swift as the speed of light!"
   "We are the stupendous Tesla Girls, the awesome Anode and the
uncanny Cathode, specialists in spectacular electric coils!"
   "I am the miraculous Magnoboy, magnetic wonder of the world!"
   "And I am the incredible Human Microwave--  Wait, somebody used
already used incredible, didn't they?  Um, amazing?  Spectacular?
Damn, you guys took all the good ones!"
   "Should we, like, call the police?" one of the tellers asked
her co-workers.  They nodded in agreement and hit the silent alarm
buttons.  The police arrived moments later, in time to save the
Super Seven from an angry mob of bank customers who were pelting
the heroes with bricks.  In the confusion, the Serially Numbered
Underlings were able to escape with ease.


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                         DEAD AT @ 21 DAYS
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                          SUPER SEVEN #10
                        DEAD AT 21 DAYS #4
         Copyright 1994, Greg Fishbone, all rights reserved.

  Permission is hereby granted to disseminate or reproduce this
  work via electronic means only, for entertainment purposes only,
  and only if all attributions and headers remain in place and the
  text of the work (including attributions and headers) is not
  altered in any way.  Any reproduction of this work for profit of
  any form is strictly forbidden without the express written
  permission of Greg Fishbone.  Hard copy reproduction is limited
  to single copies printed for the use of the user only, and
  cannot be mass produced or disseminated in any way.  Implicit
  permission is granted to make reference to the characters and
  events of this work in the context of the Superguy Subtopic of
  the Superguy Mailing List only, and such use does not constitute
  an abridgement or relinquishment of any of Greg Fishbone's
  rights as they are expressed or implied herein.  All other
  rights not specifically referred to in this notice are reserved
  to Greg Fishbone.  "Super Seven", "Dillweed City", and all
  character names used in this story are trademarks belonging to
  Greg Fishbone, who reserves all rights to their use except in
  the context of explicit or implicit permission granted to
  Superguy authors.  (Wavy Lay's Au Gratin contains: potatoes,
  vegetable oil (one or more of the following: corn, cottonseed,
  or partially hydrogenated soybean oil), whey, salt, cheddar
  cheese (milk, cheese culture, salt, and enzymes), butter,
  buttermilk, monosodium glutamate, onion, disodium phosphate,
  artificial flavors, garlic, citric acid, artificial colors
  (including yellow #6), disodium guanylate, and disodium
  inosinate.)

  As always, feedback to fishbone@astro.ocis.temple.edu


   "--I'm here with Newstime's new, highly-paid superhero
consultant," said Wanda Wong, as the camera panned over to include
a short, middle-aged, slightly-obese man dressed in a gaudy
costume.  Spoonman waved to the camera.  "Spoonman, we're glad to
have you here with us."
   "Hey, for what you're paying me, I'm glad to be here too!"  The
two of them chuckled amiably.
   "Now, I understand that you were present when the Serially
Numbered Underlings stole two-point-three million dollars from the
Dillweed National Bank?"
   "That's right, Wanda.  And thanks to my quick action, none of
the innocent bystanders were harmed in any way.  Sure, the
villains escaped with the money, but money can be replaced, while
human lives cannot."
   "You are a true hero, Spoonman," Wanda gushed.
   "Thank you."
   "Spoonman, who do you think is behind these Serially Numbered
Underlings?"
   "Hmmm.  It's too early to tell, of course, but I'm sure that
it'll turn out to be nobody important."
   In room 22 of the Dillweed Motor Lodge, Nobody Important jumped
to his feet and gaped at the television screen.  "Amazing!  How
could he possibly know?"
   "Anyway," Spoonman continued, "I could capture these
villainesses if I really wanted to, but they don't seem to
represent enough of a threat to warrant my attention.  Notice how
they returned the money on the same day they stole it?"
   "Yes, let's talk about that," said Wanda.  "The orderly return
of the money was, as we have already reported, disrupted by the
so-called Super Seven, and innocent lives were needlessly put in
jeopardy.  This group seems very popular with the tourists for
some reason, but they have been almost universally condemned by
city residents, who are forced to live day-in and day-out in fear
of their misguided activities.  What is your opinion of this
group?"
   "Ah, the Super Seven..."  Spoonman chuckled to himself.  "I
believe that they have good intentions, for the most part, and
they are motivated by a desire to carry out justice -- or at least
what *they* see as justice.  Unfortunately, they are just too
darned inexperienced to be an effective superhero team.  Top-rank,
professional heroes, such as Mighty Guy, Space Moose, and myself,
have vast amounts of crimefighting experience to draw upon, to
prevent us from using our incredible powers to cause more harm
than good."
   "Is there any truth to the rumor that the city government has
recruited you to to drive the Super Seven out of Dillweed City?"
   "I'm afraid I can't discuss that until my fee for that service
has been completely negotiated."
   "We have time for one more question, Spoonman -- well,
technically we've already run over, but who really needs to hear
boring sports scores and weather reports...  Anyway, do you think
we'll be seeing more of the Serially Numbered Underlings?"
   "I certainly hope so," said Spoonman.  "They're easy on the
eyes, if you know what I mean."
   "Thank you, Spoonman."
   "Say, Wanda, are you busy after the newscast?"
   "Uh, no..."
   "Maybe you could buy me dinner or something."
   "It would be my pleasure!"
   "And then you and I could retire to my new secret base, the
Spoonlair.  It scored a sixty-four on the _Superguy Companion_
quiz -- Tres chic!  Very trendy!"
   "Cool!  Let's go!  Uh, back to you, Chet..."
   Tom, Nick, Kyle, and Stacy sat in front of the television in
Laurel's old dorm room, watching the evening news.  Stacy was
holding an ice-pack over a lump on Kyle's head.  On the screen,
anchorman Chet Hairdye was quickly running through local,
national, and international news, trying desperately to make up
for lost time.  "There's something very wrong with this city when
the villains are more popular than the heroes," said Tom.
   "Maybe *we* should try giving away money," Kyle suggested.
   "Mark thinks we should hire one of those image consultants,"
said Stacy, who, along with her sister, was channeling for their
frequency-jamming teammate in the next room.
   "Why not?" asked Nick.  "Nothing else has worked--"
   "Look!" shouted Tom, pointing at the screen.
   "--and finally, authorities are seeking your help in
identifying this young woman, who was discovered wandering around
without memory or clothing in the center of Oatmealzillia, the
downtown area where Spoonman destroyed a giant oatmeal creature
last spring.  If you have any helpful information, please contact
the police tip-line at 1-800-555-BUST."
   The four of them sat, staring in shock at the image on the
screen.  Tom was the first to speak.  "Laurel..."


OKAY, WHO TOOK EPISODE #10 IN THE "RETURN OF LAUREL OFFICE POOL"?
  STEP FORWARD AND CLAIM YOUR PRIZE!

FOR OUR NEXT CONTEST, SEND ME A LIST OF YOUR THREE FAVORITE SUPER
  SEVEN CHARACTERS IN ORDER (YOU CAN CHANGE THEM LATER, IF YOU
  WANT).  THE MOST POPULAR CHARACTER WILL BE HIT IN THE FACE WITH
  A CREAM PIE IN A FUTURE EPISODE (TIP OF THE PEN TO SCOTT
  McCLOUD)!  REALLY!  :D

Only from *SUPERGUY*, pound for pound a greater entertainment
  value than a barrel full of lemurs!

--
Greg Fishbone                                  fishbone@astro.ocis.temple.edu

   "As you can see, Your Honor, I have no eyebrows."
           --Defendant on "The People's Court" responding to Judge Wopner's
             question: "What seems to be the problem, ma'am?"