🚀 go-pugleaf

        The dry soil smouldered and crackled in the heat left behind by
the explosion. The sun beat down on the jagged crater scarring the desert
floor, its rays periodically glinting off a thousand shards of alien
metal partly obscured by thin clouds of smoke. The charred and pitted
remains of a Kreep-built warp drive unit marked the center of the impact.
A set of handlebars was impaled in a nearby granite outcroppng. A CD
player chattered idly to itself as its spindle gradually wound to a halt.
        The shattered warp cycle had done an admirable job of making an
impression on the land, as had its rider, who now lay face down in the
sand clad only in a torn evening gown, his helmet cracked nearly in half
and a mildly scorched clipboard clutched in one hand. The papers clipped
thereto fluttered forlornly in the thin breeze.
        Vultures, or what appeared to be vultures, circled anxiously
overhead, though they seemed unwilling to approach as of yet. It may have
been because they sensed that the umoving form sprawled out on the ground
was still clinging to life, or perhaps the heat was still too intense for
them to bear. Then again, they may simply have been afraid of the tall,
silent figure whose worn and dusty boots appeared next to Loko's throbbing
head some moments later.
        Somewhere not too far away, an extremely dangerous man, twisted
in both body and mind, sat in a darkened room and watched this scene play
out on a viewer. Gnarled and emaciated fingers twisted a small knob and
the display focused on a scrap of debris wedged in the ground near the
unconcious Turdian's head. When at last he was able to positively
identify the article, a smile broke across the figure's discolored lips:
it seemed that even as small and badly deformed from the heat as it was,
Loko's Defense Squad keyring was still impossible to miss.
        "Perfect," said the man, his voice raspy but firm. "Absolutely
perfect."

                            The Defense Squad             QUOTE OF THE DAY:
                               Episode 180             "...at least I thought
                         The Last Turdian, Part 4       I was dancing, 'til
                                   or                   somebody stepped on
                          NorthByNorthWestworld:        my hand."
                      Chapter 1: A fistfull of turds       -J. B. White
                               Written by
                               Bill Paul
                       The man with two first names


        The town was bustling with activity for the first time in weeks.
It was a welcome sight but one slow in coming: Withering Gulch had been
shaken up pretty badly and putting things back together was taking much
longer than usual. The telegraph lines were still down. A few of the
bank's windows remained boarded over due to a severe shortage of unbroken
window glass, and virtually every storefront on the main street was riddled
with bulletholes.
        There was a palpable sense of edginess wearing on the town's
inhabitants; they were recovering little by little, but even a blind man
could tell they were still afraid. They were worried about what lay
ahead of them. The last attack was incredibly brutal, perhaps the worst
of them all: there was a very good chance that there wouldn't be a town
left to rebuild after the next one.
        A twangy, out of tune piano played in the Shoot 'Em Up Saloon
(Come In And Get Blasted), its hollow melody doing little to fill the
hollow hearts of the various patrons inside. A scruffy bunch of ranch
hands played an interminable poker match while the listless bartender
shuffled around from face to gloomy face, offering glass after glass of
liquid forgetfulness.
        The only glimmer of brigtness in the entire establishment, if
not the entire valley, was Belle, the perky hostess. It should be noted
that in this setting a hostess often did much more that just host. A
saloon girl in the wild and untamed west was expected to do certain
'things.' Naughty things. Unpleasant things. Non-tax-deductible things.
In spite of this, Belle was always irrepressibly bright and perky,
whether at home, on the job, serving drinks, throwing unruly drunks out
into the street, or even cleaning out the spitoons. No matter what, no
matter where, she was bright and perky. Nothing but bright and perky.
        Frankly, nobody could stand her. Her persistent, upbeat attitude
contrasted rather awkwardly with Withering Gulch's gloomy disposition,
in a way that made it seem all the more gloomier. Most of the townsfolk
had fantsies about Belle, all of which seemed to involve evisceration with
a rusty fork, but inspite of the way she irritated the Hell (tm) out of
everybody, they endured her devil-spawned perkiness. Why? Because she
was perfect cannon fodder, and that made her useful when...
        But I'm getting ahead of myself.
        Further up the main street, which wasn't all that far, what with
Withering Gulch the town being little more than window dressing for
Withering Gulch the railroad station, stood Withering Gulch's Hot Times
Hotel (Come In And Get Toasted). Its name was well-earned, not because of
the daring and risque exploits of its clientele, but because it had been
burned to the ground and put back together again more times than anyone
could remember.
        It was in on one of the Hot Times' comfier beds, in one of its
higher-priced second floor rooms, that Loko and the concept of
conciousness were finally reunited under less than friendly terms.
        Initially the Turdian Terror was seized with the notion that he'd
once again woken up in a pool of his own vomit, until he realized two very
important things: first, the hideous pattern before his eyes was just the
wallpaper, and second, as has been made abundantly clearly in the past,
this storyline has evolved beyond such mundane, uninspired physical gags
(no pun intended). This is one series where the Reader need not worry
about being bombarded with cheap gross-out gimmicks, non-stop sexual
inuendo, senseless violence, obscure references to obscure beers or
excrutiatingly precise descriptions of high-powered firearms. None of
these half-baked, cheesy attempts at comedy will the Reader find here.
        Now secure in the knowledge that the room's wallpaper, while
perhaps capable of inducing nausea, was not in fact the result of nausea,
Loko breathed a sigh of relief and brought his hand up to brush the hair
away from his eyes, only to wind up smacking himself in the face with the
clipboard given to him in the last episode.
        Startled, and a bit flustered, he made a vested effort to let go
of the clipboard but found that it had been bound securely to his hand
with bandages. In fact he soon realized that most of his body was covered
in bandages, which was odd considering that the only injury Loko had
sustained in the crash was a blow to his head, which had been set with a
splint. Pondering this unusual circumstance, he thought back on the events
that had brought him here. He remembered meeting Larabeth in a bar on
Partyworld, and mistakenly transporting her to planet Chicago, home of
the Interstellar Mafia. He remembered Don Pacino (coincidence), who
seemed unusually eager to sign him to a mysterious deal, the details of
which he refused to divulge. He remembered his reunion with the
professional worrier, Edgar Von Blim, and their escape from Pacino's
(coincidence) lair. Lastly, he remembered the strange bald man in
flowing black robes who'd implored him to fill out the rather substantial
form that was now bandaged to his hand, and the blast from the Mafia-driven
space Studebaker that had sent him spinning out of control through
overly-hyped space.
        Now, for the first time since the form was handed to him, it
finally occured to Loko to look at it. Peeking through the many layers
of bandages, the following words were immediately obvious: FORM 101GB-XX5Ab,
APPLICATION FOR PLANETARY SOVEREIGNTY RIGHTS, SHORT VERSION. Not immediately
obvious was an staggeringly complex litany of rules outlining how the form
was to be filled in, what it was to be filled in with, and what sort of
jail time one could expect to serve if one failed to fill it in with less
than truthful information. The wording of the rules was oppresively precise
and detailed. The entire document was practically aglow with the power
of the bureacracy that had spawned it.
        Loko found that the severe knock on the head he'd suffered had gone
a long way towards impairing his ability to properly decipher any more
of the form's fine print, so he reluctantly put it down. While his head was
still swimming, the door to the room opened and tall, portly man stepped
in. His face wasn't at all familiar, but somehow Loko could tell just by
looking at his boots that they'd met before.
        "You... you brought me here?" the Turdian Terror demanded.
        "Ayep." said the man, taking a seat at Loko's bedside. "Y'all
didn't seem to be in any condition tuh move on your own when I found ya
decked out in the desert, so I reckoned it'd be a good idea tuh bring ya
back tuh town with me."
        "Where am I."
        "Like ah said, back in town."
        "What town."
        "Well tarnation boy, there ain't but one town in these here parts.
I reckon you musta taken a purdy good shot tuh the ol' noggin t'have
forgotten that."
        "I ain't from around here." Loko smouldered. "Now I'll ask you
again: what town."
        "Why, Withering Gulch, a'course."
        "Never heard of it. What planet is this?"
        "I'm afraid I don't quite catch yer meanin', son."
        "Nevermind," said Loko, fighting to free himself of his haphazzardly
applied bandages, "I can find out from the navicomp on my bike."
        "Yer whut?"
        "My bike... my warp cycle... Look, you must'a found it when you
found me."
        "Shucks son, only thing ah found out there with y'all was some
scorched earth and some o' the darnedest pieces o' bric-a-brac ah ever did
see. Everything looked pretty busted up tuh me, so ah left it out there."
        "Aw no... No! Goddammit! I can't have totalled the blasted thing
already: I've only had it for a few weeks!!"
        "Ahm sorry son, but like I said, there weren't really nothin'
left out there for me tuh bring back."
        "Shit. And me without collision insurance..."
        With one final effort, Loko tore free of the last of his bandages
and pulled himself out of bed. His benefactor rose from his seat and gaped,
both at Loko's impressive size and the remains of the pink evening gown
in which he was attired.
        "It's a long story." he explained, flatly.
        "Ah c'n imagine. Well, ah took the liberty of scroungin' up some
fresh duds fer ya. They ain't much, frankly: ain't a lot 'o people in this
town as big as y'all are, but they should do fer now. Jus' take a look
in that boudoir over yonder."
        "Thanks."
        "Don't mention it. Ah'll just wait in the hallway while you
get yerself fixed up. Oh, by the way, my name's Jeb. I'm the sheriff's
deputy in these here parts."
        "I'm Loko," said Loko.
        "Well ah kinda figured that, what with that dress an' all..."
        "No no, that's my name: Loko."
        "Oh, right. A'course. Tell you whut, when y'all are ready, why
don'cha jus' meet me over at the saloon, and I'll buy yuh a drink. Y'look
like ya could use it."
        "Now you're talking my language, Jeb. See you in a few."
        "A few whut?"
        "Minutes, Jeb."
        "Oh, right. Right. Uh, yeah. See ya inna few."

CONTINUED IN PART TWO, IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING...