🚀 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 THREE...

        The Crimson Amoeba emerged from Hardass's coat and wrapped
himself snugly around the Grey Panther, who vanished into the shadows.
Sister Sludge and Crankshaft made their way inside and approached the
desk seargeant, who seemed a little less than eager to allow them into
the squad room to see Honey and Dear.
        "I'm afraid Detective Honey and Seargent Dear aren't available.
You can leave a message for them if you like."
        "But it's vital that we speak to them," Sister Sludge insisted.
        "Look miss, I wish I could help you, but the captain would have
my shield if I let you in: I'm under strict orders not to let anyone
see Honey and Dear."
        "Did somebody mention us?"
        One of the things they teach you at the police academy is how to
function well under pressure. NYPD cops often have to make split-second
decisions while staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. Lives are usually
on the line, most notably their own. The academy instructors always stress
one important factor when discussing such situations: a good cop doesn't
have to think about what he has to do. He doesn't have the luxury. If he
takes time to think about the ramafications of his decisions, he could
easily wind up dead. Don't think, the instructors all say. Don't think: do.
        It was surprising then that the NYPD chose not to celebrate the day
that Honey and Dear joind its ranks, for no two people had more expertise
in the field of not thinking they.
        "Will you two morons get out of here?!" snarled the desk sergeant,
"You're supposed to be laying low!"
        "Not to worry, sarge," insisted Dear, "now that we've been promoted
to undercover narcs, we've become masters of disguise."
        "But you're in uniform!" the sergeant raged.
        "Exactly," said Honey, "who would ever suspect that two uniformed
police officers were really undercover narcs in disguise?"
        "And this way we can blend in with the crowd here at the precinct,"
Dear added.
        "But your shoulder patches say you're with the undercover narcotics
division," noted Sister Sludge.
        "Oh sure," Dear chided her, "like some scornhead would have time
to read them before I blew his head off."
        Dear pulled his service revolver from its holster and waved it
around menacingly for some seconds before Honey stopped him.
        "Uh, Dear, I don't think we're allowed to do that."
        "What? Why not? We've got guns and everything..."
        "Don't you remember what they taught us at the police academy? We
can't just shoot people indescriminantly. There are rules we have to follow.
If we suspect someone of a crime, we have to arrest them with a minimal
amount of force and read them their rights."
        "Oh, yeah," said Dear, somewhat downcast.
        "Then, if they resist, we can blow their heads off."
        "Ah! I knew there was a reason I liked this job!"
        "Look, officers," Sister Sludge began, "since we've, uh, managed
to penetrate your brilliant disguises, could you please spare us a few
minutes? We'd really like to talk to you about the Steenbrinner case."
        "I'm sorry miss," said Honey, mustering his most convincing
authoritative air, "but we've been strictly prohibited by Captain
Sweetheart from discussing the case with the anyone."
        "Look, we're not from the press. We think there's much more to
Scorn than anybody realizes, but we can't continue our investigation
without your help."
        "Save your breath," said Crankshaft dryly, "these bozos won't
help us."
        "Wait a second," said Dear, "give my partner and I a moment to
discuss this."
        "Dear, what are you doing!" snapped Honey after Dear had pulled
him aside, "You heard what Captain Sweetheart said: if we talk to anybody
about Steenbrinner he'll kick us off the force for sure. I think he really
meant it this time."
        "I know Honey, and I've never seen the Captain turn that particular
shade of purple before either. But just think for a moment: technically,
this case is still ours, right?"
        "Well, we are the arresting officers of record. And I don't think
the Captain ever got around to having us reassigned."
        "He was probably too distracted by those pesky heart palpitations
again. So if the case is still ours, that means we're allowed to keep
investigating it, right?"
        "But Dear, the feds are already investigating. And they said they
don't need our help."
        "Honey you twit, don't you see: those two *are* feds!"
        "What? How can you tell?"
        "Just look at the trenchcoats they're wearing! They're in disguise,
just like we are."
        "You mean... the feds really do want us to help them?"
        "Of course! They said they're investigating the Steenbrinner
case, right? They must have finally come to their senses and realized that
the only way they could break the Scorn cartel was with Honey and Dear:
Undercover Narcs on their side."
        "Only... they were too embarassed to admit it, so they disguised
themselves hoping we wouldn't know they were really feds!"
        "Exactly! But we saw right through them!"
        "Yeah! Damn, we're good! Okay, so: should we tell them we're
onto them?"
        "No! We'll play along for now. We'll tell them what we know, but
only if they agree to tell us what they know too. That way we'll force
them to give us any information about the case that they may be hiding."
        "Brilliant! Right: let's do it Dear!"
        "I'm right behind you Honey!"
        The pair of New York's Luckiest broke from their huddle and
prepared to meet Crankshaft and Sister Sludge once again.
        "Alright," Honey announced, "you've convinced us."
        "We did?" said Sister Sludge.
        "We'll tell you what we know," Dear explained, "but only if you
tell us what you know too."
        "Well... considering that we know next to nothing, I suppose we
can go along with that."
        "Good!" said Dear, "Then come along with us to one of the
interrogation rooms upstairs. We can calk privately there."
        Ignoring the desk sergeant's protests, Honey and Dear escorted
the two renegade DefenseCo employees to the elevator. Meanwhile, several
floors above them, the Grey Panther and the Crimson Amoeba had finally
managed to enter the evidence room, which wasn't hard as the officer on
guard was fast asleep at his desk with a copy of Donut Quarterly spread
over his face.
        The Crimson Amoeba slithered to the floor and kept a watchful eye,
or whatever, on the entrance to the dimly lit room while the Panther
began his search. A quick glance at the logbook stitting on a desk nearby
told him which of the tall, reinforced steel lockers to check. Before long
he found himself staring at a dozen vials of Scorn still neatly packed in
their foam holder, accompanied by several large wads of cash a stack of
unmarked file folders. The papers in the folders held his attention for a
while, until he was suddenly struck by the thought that he'd overlooked
an important detail while opening the locker. The other storage spaces
were all securely padlocked. This one wasn't. Although, judging by the
peculiar scratches in the locker's steel door, it had been, once.
        The Grey Panther swept the beam of his flashlight over the floor
near his feet until he discovered the mangled remains of the lock lying
in a corner a short distance away. Silently cursing the years for having
dulled his instincts, he quickly doused the light and dropped into a
crouch. He let his senses flow through the room but they told him little
that he didn't already know: somebody had beaten him to the punch, and
that somebody was still there.
        He heard the rustle of a cape and the squeal of steel talons
grinding together. Then a deamon clad in red stepped out of the shadows
and looked him in the eye.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
        Although based on a deceptively simple principle, the Great
Protection Racket eventually catapulted the Interstellar Mafia into a
position of tremendous wealth and influence in the galaxy. Taking a page
from Mother Nature's own book, the Mafia became the ultimate parasitic
lifeform, living off the profits of the Belgians and any other mega-rich
race unfortunate enough to make their aquaintance. The Racket quickly
became self-perpatuating: the more wealth the Mafia amassed, the harder
they became to oppose. Not even their Xolchipalian brothers, who by now
had gone on to form the Xolchipalian Defense Forces and established
themselves as a powerful force for good, could do anything to stop them.
The Mafia enjoyed centuries of growth and success, until they discovered
the one disatvantage of being parasites, which was that they couldn't
survive without a healthy host.
        Actually, part of the problem was their own greed. Frank Sinatra
(coincidence), the Mafia's first leader, established a precedent for
garish excess that his sucessors were all too eager to perpetuate.
Expensive clothes, expensive foods, expensive wines and expensive women
became the standards on which the Mafia's society was based. Natural
parasites, while irritating, know enough to only take from their hosts
what they need to survive, whereas the Mafia took enough for themselves
to survive, for their spouses to survive, for their mistresses to survive,
for their children to survive, for their cats and dogs to survive, for
their chauffers and tailors to survive, and for their distasteful drinking
and eating habits to survive. They were spoiled by having the Belgians
to feed on, and none of them ever stopped to consider what might happen
once they were gone.
        Then again, nobody expected them to disappear overnight either.
When the Belgian planetary real estate business began to fail, the
Belgians became desperate, in part because they feared that the spread of
interstellar travel technology would render them obsolete, and because
they were worried what the Mafia might do to them if they could no longer
make their protection payments. Thus it was that the Mafia contributed, if
only indirectly, to the construction of SPAM, the Sentient Profitronic
Analysis Machine, which the Belgians hoped would save their civilization,
but which instead set them up for the fiscal equivalent of a magma enema.
It's amazing what some people will do just to make a buck.
        The universal historians made detailed records of the Great War
against the Belgians, in which the menace of SPAM was ended (or so everyone
thought), and of how the Belgians' demise affected the Mafia. Without
the Belgians' massive protection payments, the entire organization, now
under the less than frugal leadership of Al Capone (coincidence), began
to crumble. Stripped of the influx of Belgian wealth, all of the Mafia's
other ventures failed. Their illegal liquor stills could no longer afford
to stay in operation. Bribes to government and law enforcement officials
had to be scaled back. Brothels could no longer be kept properly staffed
or maintained. Narcotics production and trafficking faltered due to a lack
of raw materials. All of the Mafia's many branch enterprises withered
and died of fiancial malnutrition.
        The Mafia, once the most feared criminal organization in the
galaxy, was reduced to ruin only a few short months after the galactic
armada decimated planet Belgium. Planet Chicago became a slum, dominated
by meat packing cartels run by the last remnants of the Mafia elite, who
lived in bitter denial of their fate. A few splinter groups survived in
scattered locations, but without a financial juggernaut like the Belgians
to fund them, they were unable to grow beyond their limited territories.
        While the galactic coalition that had vanquished SPAM (if only
temporarily) argued over how to divide up the remains of the once great
Belgian Empire, the Mafia floundered. While the leaders of the coalition
dissapeared mysteriously after journeying to Partyworld to celebrate the
resolution of all their problems, the Mafia was powerless to take advantage
of the situation. While what was left of the coalition sacrificed itself
to fight off the interstellar corporate raiders known as the YesMen, the
Mafia slipped quietly into obsucrity. And there it remained, for nine
thousand years.
        Then, suddenly, and without warning, it made a comeback.

CONCLUDED IN PART FIVE, IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING...