🚀 go-pugleaf

                            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

CONTINUED FROM PART TWO...

        Partyworld lurched and wobbled through space in its liquor-soaked
way, much the same as it did every night when happy week was in full swing.
Only tonight, there were at least two people on Partyworld who were not
interested in erroding their brain matter with hyper-charged intoxicants
or discovering exciting new uses for produce. Holding out against
Partyworld's overwhelming athmosphere of debauchery was difficult, but
these two managed it for two very important reasons: first, they were
concerned for their friend, who, as far as they knew, might well have
sacrificed his life to help them escape the clutches of the Interstellar
Mafia, and second, as if this really needs to be repeated, this is *not*
that kind of storyline. You want sex? You want violence? You want depravity?
You want gratuitous obscenity and perversion? Fine: go ask Newt Gingrich
for his opinion of the Democrats. Just don't come looking for any of
those things here, because you simply won't find them. Got that pink boy?
        Thus protected from Authorial excesses, and safely ensconced in a
dimly lit booth in the recesses of the Hellhole Bar & Grill (Come In And
Go To Hell), Larabeth and Edgar Von Blim exchanged harsh whispers as they
argued over what to do now that Loko was two days overdue for their
rendez-vous.
        "Von Blim, we have to go back!"
        "We can't. The Interstellar Mafia will be on the lookout for
us now. I'm worried that we might be captured if we go anywhere near
planet Chicago again."
        "But Loko's back there!"
        "No he isn't. My sensors showed him jumping into overly-hyped
space just at the edge of the Whatr'yooloo'kinat system."
        "Then where is he? It's been two days since we left Chicago: he
must have known we'd come here to meet up with him. You don't suppose he
went back to Earth, do you?"
        "I don't think so: his last known course showed him heading away
from Earth's sector. Unfortunately, there was a tremendous energy surge
just as he made his hyperjump that scrambled my sensor lock. I don't know
where he could have ended up. On the other hand, that means the the Mafia
doesn't know where he is either. But that's not what I'm worried about.
You see, Loko's warp cycle isn't equipped to generate such a vast amount
of power on a regular basis. The surge may have been caused by a
malfunction..."
        "A malfunction? Wait... are you saying his bike might have
exploded? You think he's dead!?"
        "There's no way to know for sure unless we go back and search for
debris. And as I said, we can't go back without risking capture."
        "No... no, he can't be dead. We'll just have to go out and find
him."
        "I'm worried that we may not be able to."
        "Well I'm not. We'll use your navicomp to approximate his
trajectory and check for habitable worlds along his projected path. I
don't care if we have to search the whole galaxy: I'm not letting him
get away this easily."
        "You know," said Von Blim coyly, "you're really quite good."
        "At what?"
        "Worrying. Why if you applied yourself you could become a
professional in no time at all."
        "I'll apply my fist to your face in a minute."
        "No, seriously: I really think you should consider a career as
a worrier. You've got all the qualifications, and the money's quite good."
        "Let's get something straight, Von Blim: the only person I ever
worry about is myself. I only look out for number one, and anyone who
gets in my way should be worried about having their face ripped off.
Do I make myself clear?"
        "Quite. Well, in that case, we should be going: I'm worried the
trail might get cold."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
        The hustle and bustle of the saloon gradually faded to a hush as
the thumping of extremely heavy footfalls accented by the clinking of
spurs bludgeoned their way through the midmorning air. Jaws hung open
and shot glasses were quickly emptied as a monstrous silhouette appeared
behind the rickety double doors, and hands strong enough to snap a man
in half swung them open.
        Loko squinted through the must and gloom until he spotted Jeb at
the bar. A dozen pairs of wild and curious eyes followed him as he
lumbered up to his side. He wore a pancho over a faded pair of buckskin
pants and a frilly grey shirt with wide, flowing sleeves. A dusty black
hat with a snakeskin band adorned his head, and a Colt .45 hung comfortably
near his hip.
        "Well, howdy there, pardner!" Jeb greeted him. "Glad ta see yuh
took a fancy to them duds. I see y'all found the shootin' iron I left
yuh too. A man isn't a man in these here parts less'n he's got one by his
side."
        "I'd prefer my laser pistol," Loko replied in a grainy monotone,
"but it'll do. So: what've you got to drink around here?"
        "Barkeep: pour my friend here a shot a' the orneriest rotgut yuh
can find, and put 'er on my tab."
        The bartender calmly poured a shot of Red Eye and hurled it down
the bartop like a speeding bullet into Loko's waiting hand. The Turdian
Terror downed it in a single gulp, then studied the glass carefully with
his jaws clenched tightly together.
        "Not bad," he hissed. "How 'bout another."
        After a quick nod from Jeb, Loko found the whole bottle hurtling
toward him at the same absurdly high rate of speed. He poured himself
another shot and turned to regard the saloon's other patrons, who still
hadn't quite gotten over his impressive stature.
        "Well don't keep us in suspense, Jeb," cooed Belle as she
slithered up to Loko's side, her eyelashes fluttering a mila a minute, "why
doncha tell us the man's name."
        "I'm Loko."
        "So I've heard," Belle said with a flirtatious wink.
        "No no, that's my... oh. Heh, yeah. Right."
        "Well, I'll say this much: you're not like any man I've ever seen
before."
        "Got that right, darlin'." said Loko, who was starting to enjoy
all the attention he was getting.
        "I mean, those muscles, and that chalky white skin, and those
firery red eyes... it just takes a girl's breath away."
        "Now Belle, don't be coy with the man."
        "Mind yer own business Jeb." snapped Loko.
        "Why... I bet there isn't a man alive who could stand up to you."
        "Well, I don't mean to brag, but they don't call me the Turdian
Terror for nothing."
        "Excellent."
        "Hunh?"
        "Oh... nothing."
        Following this unusual comment, Belle withdrew. While Loko
puzzled over this, one of the anonymous poker players, a husky bearded
sort, wandered up and gave him the kind of 'hard look' that gang bangers
like to exchange before they decide to make paramadics' lives difficult.
        "You sayin' you're a better man than I am?" the stranger demanded.
        Loko smiled condescendingly and swallowed another shot of Red Eye.
        "Well... it's not the sort of thing that really needs saying...
is it."
        "Nobody makes fun 'a me! Why don't you step outside so we can
settle this like men."
        "I'd be happy to. I'll just wait right here while you go find
one to speak for you."
        The stranger's gun was out of his holster in an eyeblink, but
even with three shots of whiskey in him, Loko was still fast enough to
grab his wrist and pull it into the air. The gun went off several times,
blowing a cluster of jagged holes in the ceiling. The stranger strained to
break free but his own considerable strength was usless against Loko's
iron grip.
        "You better be careful where you point that thing, friend," said
Loko dryly, "you might hurt somebody. Like yerself."
        A single punch sent the stranger hurtling across the saloon and
onto a poker table, which shattered under his weight. The players flatly
ignored the intrusion and pulled a second table into its place, then
dealt out a new hand. The bartender nonchallantly sent a fresh round of
beers rocketting towards them which they managed to catch in precise
rapid fire succession without hardly raising an eye from their cards.
        Belle sauntered over to the fallen stranger, picked him up by the
collar and tossed him out the saloon door and into the street.
        "Well," she said, returning to Loko's side just as he finished
yet another shot, "looks like I was right: you are just about the toughest
customer around."
        "Maybe I am. What's it to you?"
        "Well sir," said Jeb, picking up the discussion, "it's like this:
Withering Gulch has itself a little 'problem,' and y'all could be just the
man we need tuh solve it once'n fer all."
        "This doesn't involve signing any legal papers, does it?"
        "No sir, I reckon it don't."
        "In that case, as long as you're buyin', I'm listenin'."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
        The nearly inaudible flap of a cape and a barely noticeably thump
of boots meeting tarpaper were the only signs that heralded the arrival
of the Scarlet Shrubbery on the roof of Manhattan's 26th police precinct.
It was quiet again now that the excitement over the apprehension of George
Steenbrinner, one of New York's most notorious Scorn dealers, had died
down. The press had made a valliant effort to squeeze the various officers
stationed there for any information about the bust, but the federal
authorities had seen to it that there were no leaks. This case was their
Holy Grail, and they weren't about to let it get away from them before
they had a chance to investigate it thoroughly. Nothing got past their
wall of silence; even the Mayor didn't know all the details, though for
someone as accustomed to being kept in the dark as he, this hardly unusual.
        Aware of the situation though she was, the Shrubbery was determined
not to come away empty handed. Firing a grappling line into the stone
ledge surrounding the roof of the precinct house, she carefully lowered
herself down the side of the building and hung silently outside a darkened
window. Her claws made quick work of the safery bars and she was inside
within a few seconds.
        Down on the street, a quartet of nervous figures approached and
carefully studied the precinct and its environs, totally unaware of the
Shrubbery's presence, yet equally determined to crack the veil of secrecy
surrounding the Steenbrinner case.
        "This is it," said Crankshaft, tightening the belt of his
trenchcoat.
        "You're not actually suggesting that we storm a police station,
are you?" asked Hardass incredulously. The Crimson Amoeba burbled in
agreement from inside the donkey of stone's coat pocket.
        "Not exactly," Crankshaft replied. "Sister Sludge and I will go
in the front door and ask to see Honey and Dear. Chances are they won't
tell us anything interesting, but while we're keeping them busy, Grey
Panther and the Crimson Amoeba can sneak in and rifle through their files.
Hardass, you cover us out here. I'd ask you to go in with us, but, frankly,
you stick out like a stone donkey. If things get tough we'll send for
you, okay?"
        "Gotcha."

CONTINUED IN PART FOUR, IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING...