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The Mediocre Adventures of Manman
Manman Returns, Episode 22: Invasion Yet-To-Be-Named


The Greenslimy Aliens flooded back into the Hardcore Shopping Club.
"Compass," chanted the Aliens.  "Compass.  Compass."  The Aliens spread
through the aisles.  "Compass.  Compass."  A rack of neon purple fedoras
crashed to the floor.  The Aliens tore open boxes of Yummy Crisps breakfast
cereal, digging through the tiny saucers in hopes of finding the secret
Captain Yummy decoder ring/homing beacon/compass/chew toy.  The Aliens
popped open cans of tennis balls, spilled fish tanks, flattened
basketballs, wrapped lace-and-sequin undergarments around their comrades.
Entire shelves of unbreakable plastic utensils crashed to the floor,
splintered into jagged shards.  The Aliens collected lawn ornaments,
brandished lobsters on posts, misshapen gnomes, orange deer, blue-and-green
kestrels, terra-cotta replicas of Big Ben.  "Compass," chanted the Aliens.
"Compass."

The Aliens moved into the Home Entertainment department, scooped up
portable CD players.  Perry Como albums disappeared from the rack, followed
by Percy Faith, Pat Boone, Shaun Cassidy, Herb Alpert and the Tijuana
Brass.  Fights broke out over the Seventy Sappy Strings discs.  Aliens
clubbed one another with cassette cases.  One Alien discovered a hidden
cache of Vanilla Ice albums, jumped aside at the last minute as the wave of
Aliens rushed towards him.  The Aliens began to sway as they walked,
sliding back and forth to the seductive rhythms of the bossa nova.
"Compass," chanted the Aliens.  "Compass."

The Aliens moved through the Auto supplies section, snatched tree-shaped
air fresheners from the racks, tore open the cellophane, hung the
fresheners from their Incredibly Sinister Weapons.  The Aliens snatched
mudflaps embossed with strangely-distorted female silhouettes.  They
clutched at fuzzy dice.  Cans of new-car-scented air freshener disappeared
into manila envelopes.  "Compass," chanted the Aliens.  "Compass."  They
moved out of the Auto supplies section, leaving behind only dusty canisters
of two-stroke oil.

The Aliens reached the Outdoor Sporting Goods section.  Slimy tentacles
clutched at brightly colored Hawaiian shorts, T-Shirts reading "Big Fly Rod
On Board", "Golfers Get It In the Hole", "Bungee Jumpers Never Die, They
Just Bounce Harder".  Aliens broke open blister packs, stuck sparkling
fishing lures into floppy-brimmed canvas hats.  Lawn chairs and kerosene
stoves disappeared into the wave of Aliens.  "Compass," chanted the Aliens.
"Compass."

The wave of Aliens halted before a rack of WallStore Brand Pathscout Plus
compasses.  The compasses gleamed seductively in the harsh fluorescent
light. "Oooo," murmured the Aliens.  The compasses lay before them like a
holy grail.  Each Alien knew that, if it got a compass, it could go down in
history as a leader of Invasion Yet-To-Be-Named.  The Aliens muttered,
glared suspiciously at each other.  They waved their Incredibly Sinister
Weapons.

From a distant corner of the store came a lone Alien voice.  "Cheese dip!"
cried the voice.  "Artificial bacon-and-pastrami flavored cheese dip!"

The Aliens glared at each other.  They waved their Weapons.  They admired
the sleek lines of the compasses.  Each Alien weighed the odds of grabbing
a compass.  The store fell silent.  The Aliens leveled their Weapons at
each other.  Greenslimy tentacles twitched on the triggers of Incredibly
Sinister Weapons.  The Aliens shifted nervously, swung their Weapons back
and forth.  The lights flickered, went out.  The compasses seemed to glow
in the darkness, just out of reach.  Each Alien considered the
alternatives.  There was a collective intake of breath.

The Aliens turned away from the compasses and charged for the cheese dip.

-----

Ed pushed the last platter away.  Kelp relish, butter, tree fronds, saltine
crumbs, flakes of chocolate, carrot cubes, kale leaves and the remaining
strands of fake mustache caked Ed's face.  "Ah," said something deep within
the melange of food.  "Simply yet elegantly prepared and served.
Delicious."  Ed burped.  A chunk of food fell from under Ed's left eye.  Ed
turned toward Fabulo's empty chair.  His spoon scraped across Fabulo's
bowl.  "No more oatmeal, either," said Ed.

Mindy Kingsford patted at her lips with a linen napkin.  "Ed," said Mindy.
"We need to talk about table manners."

Martha pushed her own plate away.  She wiped a napkin across her lips in a
dramatic, fluid gesture.  "Yes, Ed," said Martha.  "You have no idea how
much it disgusts me to see food, however tastelessly prepared, caked on
someone's face."  Martha folded her napkin neatly on her plate.  She
arranged her silverware on the napkin.

Ed's stomach rumbled.  He sighed.  "What about Fabulo?"

Mindy's eyebrows slid together.  "Leave Fabulo out of this.  He's had a
rough evening."  Mindy spun her knife on the tablecloth like a propeller.
"You're at least partially to blame, you know."

Ed shifted the plates in front of him.  A scrap of parsley caught his eye.
He snared it, stuffed it into his mouth.  "Mmrph?" asked Ed.

"Yes," said Mindy.  "You."

Ed swallowed.  "How was I to know he was allergic to butter?"  Ed picked at
the pile of plates.  The edge of Martha's napkin was nearby.  Ed eyed the
napkin, imagined the taste of the linen in his mouth.

Mindy pushed her chair way from the table.  "You should try watching
television sometime, Ed."  She stood.  "I wouldn't normally recommend it,
but for you anything would be an improvement."  Mindy threw her napkin onto
the seat of her chair, turned, strode off across the arena.

Ed rearranged the dishes in front of him.  He wondered if the laundry
detergent the arena used had a floral taste.  Perhaps citrus.  He imagined
the feel of the fine seams of the napkin sliding over his tongue.

"You really should apologize to Fabulo," said Martha.  "He should know
better, but tempting him like that..." Martha shrugged.  "There are simpler
and more elegant ways to torment Fabulo."

Ed moved his chair closer to Martha's.  "Are you finished with your
napkin?"  His hand darted toward's Martha's plate.  He hoped the napkin had
been starched.

-----

Manman and Juan traveled parallel to the mountains, in a direction that
Juan thought was south.  The trees had become taller, branchless except for
flat green fronds spilling from the tops.  The undergrowth grew steadily
shorter, less dense.  They seemed to be walking up a shallow slope.  Manman
trailed behind, humming a faint, monotonous tune.  The scent of greenery
faded, replaced by the moist smell of humus.  Clouds developed.  The air
cooled,  Juan's shirt clung to his back, chilled him.  Juan stopped, set
his satchel down.  He untied his sombrero from the satchel.  He put the
sombrero on.  He slid the sharpened coffee bean into his belt.

Manman came up alongside Juan.  Manman held a large, flat leaf in his hand.
The leaf was pale green, deeply serrated edges frayed toward the tip.
Manman waved the leaf at Juan.  "Have you ever seen a leaf this big?"  The
tip of the leaf knocked Juan's sombrero down over his eyes.

"Hold on," said Juan.  He adjusted his sombrero.  Juan studied the leaf,
shrugged.  "It seems normal enough."  Juan slung his satchel over his left
shoulder.

Manman twirled the leaf in front of his face.  "I think that we should look
for a good landscaper, as well.  Leaves should be leaf-sized."  Manman
dropped the leaf.  It spun as it fell.

-----

The Aliens swarmed into the refrigerated section, quietly humming along
with their CD's.  They opened tub after tub of non-dairy whipped topping,
imitation ranch dip, low-fat margarine, kiwifruit flavored yogurt, lunch
meat slices, tomato and watercress juice, sardine-flavored squeezable
spread, pineapple cottage cheese, nonfat cranberry yogurt.  Aliens popped
open bottles of mango-guava-motoroil-flavored Sugar Nectar, Salsa Blast
Sports Drink, Big Kahuna Caffeine Fizz, raspberry-wheatgrass juice,
Spirulina Sunrise Cooler, Purple Stuff, Arctic Apoplexy, Iced Whammy,
Andy's Dandy Chilled Colombian Mocha, prune juice cocktail, Prospecto Grape
Guzzle, Whompa-Chompa Swig-It, chocolate milk.  The Aliens threw shredded
cheese at each other.  They poured cartons of flavored non-dairy creamer
into the refrigeration equipment, draped elegant loops of fresh basil
fettucini over their heads, slapped hunks of raw meat together, flung pizza
shells into the condiment aisles.  The Aliens spun a hard-chilled chicken,
sprayed pressurized cheese food when it stopped.  Foaming Drink(tm) ran
over the tiles, dissolved the glue holding the tiles to the floor.  Aliens
began to slip as the tiles came loose.  They wrapped their tentacles around
the tiles and began to swing the tiles at any Alien nearby.  The sharp
edges of the tiles tore Alien skin.  Ichor mixed with the Drink(tm), the
floor grew slippery.  Aliens squealed in pain as the tiles scraped them,
scooped up fresh mackerel from the seafood section, hurled the mackerel in
random directions.

A small band of Aliens made their way back towards the outdoor sporting
goods.  "Stay sharp," said the leader, a small Alien with mottled skin.
"If we can get the compasses, we can be on the links before anyone else
makes it out of the Shopping Club."  The small band of Aliens moved through
the snack food aisle, carefully dodged as crustaceans fell in shallow
parabolas that originated somewhere back by the produce section.

-----

The lights went down in the auditorium.  The crowd murmured expectantly.
The sound of a brass band blared from the speakers to either side of the
stage.  The scarlet, cream, navy drapes at the back of the stage fluttered.
A tall, white-haired man in a dark suit strode onto the stage.  A blue
spotlight flicked on from the left of the stage.

"'Ello," said the man.  "I am, of course, Mr. Larry Walk." Applause rippled
through the auditorium.  The man bowed.  "Thank you, thank you so much."
Larry Walk clasped his hands together.  "I know you're all anxious to see
part two of the film, but we've got a special treat for you instead."
Larry Walk rubbed the back of his right hand with his left hand.  He raised
his left hand, snapped his fingers.  "It is in honor of the dear friend,
Senator F. Ron Trumner"  He snapped his fingers again.  He shuffled right
in a stiff dance step.  The curtains behind him rose slowly.  "It's the
peppy little number that the boys in the band like to call the 'Voting
Record Values Rag'.  Very nice."  A twenty-piece band sat on risers behind
the curtain.  They wore dark blazers, each monogrammed on the right breast
pocket with the initials "LW".  Larry Walk lifted his hands.  "And now..."
He clapped his hands.  When they came apart a conductor's baton was in his
left hand.  "Now, my friends, we can party."

The audience clapped politely.  The Larry Walk Band lifted their
instruments to their lips.

"You're the wonderful crowd," gushed Larry Walk.  "One and-a two and-a
three and four."

-----

Slam crept through the maze of tunnels beneath the Shopping Club.  He heard
faint noises above him.  He clutched the toilet paper dispenser under his
left arm.  A long train of lime green toilet paper trailed behind him.

"Ssseven," said Slam to himself as he passed a door on the left side of the
corridor.  "Yesss, yesss, almossst there."  The toilet paper unrolled a
little more, the train of paper grew longer.  Slam passed a door to the
right.  "Yess," he said.  "Eight.  Nexxxt one isss it."  Slam slithered
from side to side, twisted his spine in joy.

He stopped in front of the next door.  A small sign on the door read
"Storeroom -- Keep Out -- Slam's Orders".  "Ahhh," hissed Slam.  He
scurried into the room.

The storage room was large.  Dim light from overhead bulbs filtered through
a fog of dust.  Stacks of dusty grey clothing filled the room.  Slam threw
the toilet paper aside.  He made his way carefully into the room.  He
counted the stacks as he passed, stopped in front of the fourth one.

Slam's tongue darted across his lips.  His hands trembled.  He rubbed his
hands together.  "Ok," he said to himself.  "Ok."

He began to dig into the pile of clothes.  The clothes were stiff with
dust.  Pale yellow moths sprang from the pile at his touch, flapped
erratically toward the light bulbs.  The air grew thick with the smell of
insects and mildew.  The shadows of the moths ran crazily through the room,
larger as they approached the lights until they melted together and the
room grew dark except for irregular spots of dim bulblight racing over the
piles, up the walls.

Slam's fingers found something metallic.  "Yesss," he hissed to himself.
"Thisss isss it."  He pulled a metal briefcase from the pile.  Even in the
swarming fragments of light, he could read the letters stencilled in red
paint on the briefcase.  He remembered painting them, in the years when
WallStore was just a dream, in the sunlit days of his youth when he had
first met F. Ron Trumner and they had only just realized that they could
make each other's ambitions come true.  The word stirred up memories, for a
moment the air in the storeroom tasted fresh, like the air in the Pentagon
parking lot on the morning he had painted the letters.  He ran his fingers
over the word.

Kitschodyne.

-----

In the LargeImportant City Plaza Deluxe-O-Rama Hotel, the Seventy Sappy
Strings ground out a slow rendition of "The Embarrassed Policeman's Holiday
Waltz".  F. Ron Trumner and his aides had left the room.  The dark-suited
man unwrapped the last loop of string from Manman's wrists.  The man
crammed the string into the pocket of his suit coat.

Manman beamed at his hands.  He wiggled his fingers.  He turned to the
dark-suited man.  "Thank you," said Manman.  "May I have my string back?  I
would like to teach the game to Senator Trumner."

The dark-suited man scowled.  "I'm sorry, Manman.  There are... strict
rules against string in this hotel."

Manman blinked.  "Against string?" He scratched his head.  He stared
intently at the dark-suited man's pocket.  Manman grew serious.  He
pointed, waggled his finger urgently at the man.  "As a proven superguy,
it's my duty to tell you that I know that you have string in your pocket."
Manman waggled his fingers at the man.  "Although I would very much
appreciate your vote, I have values, so I'm afraid that I must inform the
management.  Please remember that a vote for Manman is a vote for Senator
F. Ron Trumner, and have a nice day."  Manman glanced around the room.  He
turned back to the dark-suited man.  "Have you seen the phone?"

The dark-suited man sighed.  "There's no phone in this room, Manman."  The
man fingered the string in his pocket.  He wondered what the Excellente
response to Manman would be.  "There are strict rules against calling the
management to report violations of the rules."

Manman waggled his fingers.  He stood up.  "I could go down to the front
desk and tell them."

"You aren't allowed to leave the room.  Senator F. Ron Trumner's orders."

Manman sat down.  He scratched his head.  "Then I suppose I must defeat you
myself."  He knew that he had defeated villains in the past, though he
couldn't remember how.  He suspected that there was a trick to it, and that
Commissioner Bigshot had known the trick.  Commissioner Slam would know how
to catch a villain, he thought.

The dark-suited man sighed.  He rubbed his face.  He wondered how soon the
Senator would return.  He flopped into the couch opposite Manman, put his
feet up on the coffee table.

Manman scratched his head again.  He needed to find a way to get a message
to Commissioner Slam without using the telephone.  He thought of carrier
pigeons, but despite his fondness for the birds, he did not think that he
had time to trap and train a pigeon while a dangerous criminal was in the
same room with him.  This was clearly a job for wits, not brute force.

Perhaps he could fool the criminal.  "I have just made an important
discovery in a case that Commissioner Slam and I are working on.  I need to
reach the Commissioner immediately.  What do you think the best way to do
that would be?"

The dark-suited man shrugged.  "He's probably at the Arena.  If he is,
you'll see him later tonight."  The man kicked at the coffee table, settled
into the couch.  "Until then, you should just sit tight."

Manman nodded slowly.  "Thank you," he said.  "I stand for values.  Don't
forget to vote."  He was not sure whether the criminal was actually
relaxing, or was just pretending.  He decided that he would need to keep an
eye on the dark-suited man until he could talk to Commissioner Slam.  In
the meantime, he decided to get as much information from the criminal as he
could.  "So," said Manman.  He waved his hands at the walls.  "This Arena.
Is it nearby?"  The question sounded too pointed, Manman realized.  The
criminal might grow suspicious.  Manman covered his mistake.  "Do they
allow string there?"

-----

Jane followed Andy down the sidewalk.  The small coffeeburro moved slowly,
kept his gait even and predictable.  From time to time, he brayed softly,
comfortingly, speaking to Jane in the ancient dialect of coffeeburros.

Jane kept her eyes closed.  The memories of Manman faded.  She watched the
patterns of light and darkness as she and Andy moved past streetlights.
She felt numb, very far away from herself, as though the feet that hit the
sidewalk were attached to her legs by long dark threads.  Her feet drifted
further away, the thread stretched down a tunnel, around a blind curve.
The patterns against her eyes were orbits around a distant sun that had
gone out on one side.  She floated through emptiness, timeless.  The
twitches against the strings were meaningless, distant hieroglyphs in a
language she no longer knew.  She felt herself slowly freezing, slivers of
ice spreading through her body, merging, forming thick interlocking sheets
between her and the sporadic glimmers of light.  Eventually there was no
one left to see the light, the threads hung slack, arching through the
hollowness of space.

The coffeeburro felt Jane's movements grow leaden.  She walked behind him
automatically, her steps regular as a metronome.

-----

Underwater caterwaul.  Forceps ultra companion.  Wicked celsius swinging
freely under lichen.  Pasta internally horrible pagoda richer than
elevation not popcorn, never bulghur, frequent dolphin-and-chutney
alabaster.

Dadaman bounced down the street.  Manman slumped in a sidecar bolted to a
garlic press at Dadaman's waist.  The sidecar rose a few feet into the air
on each bounce.  At the bottom of the bounce, the sidecar ground into the
sidewalk, leaving a faint smudge of metallic purple paint.  Manman's eyes
opened briefly, stared unblinking for two bounces, slid closed.

"Area of gastritis."  Dadaman stopped.  He took a pair of rollerblades from
the sidecar, strapped them on, set off again.  Chickens wandered from the
alleys as Dadaman passed.  Several of the chickens wore large fake glasses
with imitation mustaches.  Several carried plastic hamsters in their beaks,
some strummed gently at tennis rackets, others towed 1:100 scale models of
Big Ben.  Three of the chickens began to slap each other with coho,
wandered down the stairs beneath an Italian bakery.

Dadaman turned onto a four lane street.  At the end of the street the
LargeImportant City Civic Arena blazed with scarlet, cream, navy lights.
He stopped in the darkness between two streetlights.  A signboard in front
of the Arena read "Tonight Only -- Senator F. Ron Trumner -- Accepts
Nomination -- Special Guests -- J.P. Nezblud -- Larry Walk and his Band --
Rev. Willy Cracker -- Perry Pose and the Pop Powerhouse -- also Manman."
Dadaman stopped in the darkness between two streetlights.

Two black dice were in Dadaman's hand.  He dropped the dice on the
sidewalk.  They bounced, rose quickly into the overcast night sky with a
quiet whine. A faint smell of watermelon prickled Dadaman's nostrils.

"Chestnuts beg the question," muttered Dadaman.

-----

The small band of Aliens wheeled in loose formation around the end of the
aisle.  The compasses lay before them, gleaming in blister packs, perfect
against the off-yellow camping scene stamped on the thin cardboard backing.
The Aliens let out low whistles of appreciation.  Greenslimy tentacles
reached out, snared compasses, pushed the small plastic devices through the
flimsy backing.

"Compasses," cheered the small band of Aliens.  "We've got compasses!"

Loud hurrahs echoed through the Shopping Club.  Aliens from all corners of
the store hurried to the Outdoor Sporting Goods section, pausing only to
scoop up glow-in-the-dark garden implements.   Rows of Aliens gathered
around the compass-bearers.  A hush fell on the Aliens, broken only by
occasional slurpings and tentative snappings of elastic waistbands.

The compass-bearers looked at each other.  They knew that their moment of
glory was at hand.  They nodded knowingly to each other, confident that
history would show them as being the bravest Aliens in the Invasion,
confident that large sculptures of the finest foam rubber would be raised
in their honor in the Kitsch Dimension, confident that their offspring
would be entitled to discounts at the RatherLarge City Golf Course down
through the ages to come.

With assorted dramatic gestures, the compass-bearers drew forth their
compasses.  As a single Alien, they looked down at their WallStore Brand
Pathscout Plus compasses.  They shook the compasses gently in their
tentacles to get the needles moving.  Each compass-bearer stared at its
compass.  Each compass bearer slowly straightened, pointed a tentacle.

"North!" cried the compass bearers, each pointing in a different direction.

-----

Fabulo Extravagante crouched in a stall in the LargeImportant City Civic
Arena Men's Room.  He stared at his hands.  Puffy red welts marred the
palms.  He turned his hands over.  The backs were worse.  "Butter," he
moaned.  "All for butter."

Hot tears ran down Fabulo's cheeks.  Sobs wrenched his lungs.  The Plain
Little Man had been cruel, Fabulo thought, no doubt driven to a life of
treachery and deceit by his pathetic failure to become Excellente, even
under Fabulo's expert tutelage.  The tears splattered on the green tile
floor.  The Plain Little Man had seemed nice, Fabulo thought.  He had even
shown glimmerings of an Excellente soul, from time to time, just as Jenkins
once had.  Yet, just as Jenkins had betrayed him, the Plain Little Man had
turned on Fabulo.  Savagely.  Unexpectedly.

Fabulo rubbed the tears from his face, using a dazzling gesture he had not
yet committed to videotape.  He knew that he was lucky to be Excellente,
while all around him lesser souls destroyed themselves trying to live up to
his example.  It is a burden to be Excellente, thought Fabulo.  He knew
that he must be more careful not to present false hope to those who, like
Jenkins and the Plain Little Man, craved an Excellente life they could
never have.

Fabulo's sobbing subsided.  He pulled a large, white handkerchief from the
back pocket of his jeans, swabbed his face with it.  He wrung the
handkerchief.  Life is hard for the Excellente, thought Fabulo.  He would
have to cover the subject in one of his videotapes, perhaps in a new
segment of volume eleven.  Then again, the burdens of being Excellente
might require a whole videotape themselves.  It might be a suitable end to
the _Be Excellente_ series.  He could also cover the duties of the
Excellente, although, he reflected, any soul who had truly become
Excellente would know the duties by heart.  Perhaps it would do better as a
segment in the introduction.

He imagined himself dressed in a dazzling white shirt and white jeans,
standing in front of a black velvet backdrop.  "Being Excellente is a goal
well worth striving for," he would say.  "But it is a goal that must also
have a price.  Those who are Excellente must, at all times, set an
Excellente example for those who are still striving to be Excellente.  This
is advice from Fabulo, and no advice has ever been more truly recorded on a
series of videotapes.  To be Excellente is to live Excellente, and to live
Excellente is to help others to live Excellente."  He would bow his head
modestly.  "Yes, it is truly an honor to be able to help others to achieve
what I have achieved.  Should anyone else become truly Excellente, they
would, of course, have a duty to, as I do, help everyone to become as
Excellente as they can be."

Fabulo imagined brisk synthesizer music fading in as the camera pulled
back.  His head would still be bowed in modesty, his Excellente hair
falling in a golden cascade over his face, his hands clasped before his
abdomen in a gesture of serene strength.  The picture would fade to a dark
background as the music segued into his theme song.

"I must be shooting this as soon as possible," said Fabulo to himself.
"Excuse me," he called out of the stall.  "I must reach my video producer.
Might anyone have a cellular phone?  I would use it for the noblest of
causes."

-----

Manman and Juan came to a clearing where a small creek fell several dozen
feet down a sheer rock cliff into a wide, shallow pool.  Short ferns grew
along the shore.  Moss-covered stepping stones led from the far edge of the
pool up to the falls.  Larger rocks were arranged in a semicircle around
the edge of the pool.

"Let's take a break," said Juan.  He sat down on one of the rocks.  He took
a bean from his satchel, chewed it thoughtfully.  The bean was dark
roasted.  The smoky flavor of the sacred bean spread through his body,
clearing his thoughts, restoring his strength.  He sighed in contentment.

Manman sat on a rock nearby.  He watched Juan intently.  "How many beans do
you have in there?"

Juan shrugged.  "Five or six handfuls left, I think.  Why?"

Manman beamed at Juan.  "There are some small rocks down by the pond that I
think would look very nice in my rock collection.  I have thirty-seven moss
covered rocks."  He waved his hands.  "Rock collecting is a great hobby.
You can learn a lot from rocks."

Juan sighed.  "If there's a rock you really want, I can put it in the
satchel.  As long as it isn't too big."

Manman sprang from his seat.  He knelt at the edge of the pond, began to
sift through the rocks on shore.

Juan leaned back against the rock.  He closed his eyes.  He felt the power
of the bean rolling through him in slow, warm waves.  He flexed his toes.
The weariness of traveling left him, the bitterness of the bean surged up
his spinal column.  He felt dizzy, the steady drone of the waterfall seemed
to change in pitch for a moment, then the dizziness drained away, replaced
by a warm elation.

"Manman," called Juan.  "Are you almost ready to go?"

There was no answer.

"Manman?"  Juan opened his eyes.  The ferns on the far side of the pool
twisted gently in the breeze.  A small pyramid of moss-covered rocks was
stacked in front of the pool.  Manman was gone.

-----

Once again, Aliens surged out of the Hardcore Shopping Club.  The Aliens
quickly broke into small groups, each group centered around a
compass-bearer.  "This way," shouted dozens of Aliens, each pointing at a
different landmark.  "This way to victory."

The knots of Aliens drifted apart.  The mottled Alien led one of the larger
bands.  "This way," growled the Alien.  He looked from his WallStore Brand
compass to the crudely drawn map in his other hand.  According to the
compass, he was clearly headed in the right direction.  The Alien glanced
around at the other groups of Aliens.  "Idiots," he grunted.  He called to
his band of Aliens.  "We're the ones going the right way.  Last one to
finish their mission has to be caddy!"  The Aliens shuffled off down the
street.

Across the parking lot, another band of Aliens studied their maps.  They
passed the compass from Alien to Alien.  The leader, a lime green Alien,
glared around the parking lot.  "Well?" he asked.

The Alien next to him shrugged.  "We're sure it's this way."  The Alien
pointed to the compass.  "See?"

The leader squinted from the compass to the map.  "Seems pretty simple to
me."  He shrugged.  "Ah well, I guess that just means more booty for us,
eh?"

The Aliens around him cheered.  The band wandered out of the parking lot.
The leader looked back across the parking lot at the other clusters of
Aliens.  Idiots, he thought.  Despite the complicated planning that had
gone into the invasion, none of the other groups was headed the right way.
The leader smirked.  He knew that his band would be the heroes of Invasion
Yet-To-Be-Named.


WILL THE INVASION BE A SUCCESS?

WILL IT EVER BE NAMED?

WHICH GROUP OF ALIENS IS GOING THE RIGHT WAY?

WHERE'S MANMAN?

IS JANE OK?  IS FABULO?

WHAT IS SLAM UP TO?

DO THEY ALLOW STRING IN THE LARGEIMPORTANT CITY CIVIC ARENA?

... like teaser questions through a mailrouter, so are the days of our
SUPERGUY ....

Next episode:  Manman forms a plan.

(c) 1996 Dirk Myers