🚀 go-pugleaf

     "Morning," the Swede said, as he ambled into the Chapterhouse.
     "Morning!" six thousand three hundred ninety four Swedes replied.
     "It's late afternoon," Ergh, who was wedged into a corner against the
jukebox by the four hundred Swedes who were moshing in the area that used
to contain the salad bar, pointed out.  "Almost sixish."
     "Well, it's morning somewhere," opined the Swede.  "Tor, old bassoon!
A pint of Murphy's Irish Stout!"
     "Hey!" Murphy exclaimed.
     "Not you Murphy," the Swede explained.  "Another completely different,
involved-in-the-brewing-arts Murphy."  Frobozz's muse shrugged and turned
back to trying to extricate Frobozz from between a couple arcade games,
into which he had been pushed by a mass of macarena-crazed Swedes.  The
Swede noticed this and frowned.  "Hey, weren't you a road earlier?" he
asked.
     "I got better," Frobozz said nonchalantly.  "Ow."
     "And you two were in beer earlier," the Swede noted, looking at Rob
and Robotech_Master.  "Brewing."  He held up a copy of Shadowywriter's AA
episode.
     "Well, see, I don't like beer," Rob said, "so I escaped, in a vague,
as-yet-unrelated manner."
     "Escape from Beer!" Ben added, thoughtfully.
     "But he likes beer," the Swede said, indicating Robotech_Master.
     "The Evil Author was in there," Robotech_Master replied, as if that
explained everything.  And, in its way, it did.  "I wonder what happened to
him?"
     "We fed him to the Swedes," Rob replied.  The Swede looked fairly
aghast.  "Well, wouldn't you?"  The Swede shuddered, but decided to drop
the subject.  Just then, Pickle, Sabre, Mason and Elmo strolled in.  Just
like that.  Timing, I'm telling you, timing.
     "Hey, guys," Frobozz called.  "How goes the deconditioning?"
     "Scooooters..." Pickle whimpered.  Mason whipped a large caber out
from under his trenchcoat and bopped Pickle with it.  "Oh, just fine,
guys," Pickle said.  "I'm almost feeling back to my usual self.  Hey,
what's with all the Swedes?"
     "That's why we called you here," Ergh told them as he climbed atop the
shoulders of a Swede and high-stepped over a few hundred of them until he
reached the table.  "We've decided something must be done."
     "Something!" Rob and Ben chorused.
     "Hmmm," Pickle hmmmmd.  "Something should be done, you're right.  Tor,
old bean!  A pint of Ballard Bitter for me, single-malt scotch for Sabre,
stout for Elmo and Diet Dr. Pepper for Mason!"
     "Something, something..." Robotech_Master pondered.
     "This is something, isn't it?" Sabre asked, as he drank, quite a trick
when you think about it.  Not that I'm saying you should.  Think about it,
that is.
     "No, something else," said Rob.  "About the Swedes.  Something in the
order of reducing their number, which has gotten into the several hundred
billion quadrillion range, and that's just on this continent."
     "Something else," Ben pondered.  "Wait, I've got it.. no, there it
goes... wait, I've got it again!"
     "What is it?" the Swede asked casually.
     "It... no, I can't tell you," Ben said.  He leaned over and whispered
to the others in the general vicinity who weren't Swedes.  "We've got to
get these Swedes out of the room for a few minutes.  Any ideas?"
     "Um... look!  Out there!" Sabre exclaimed, pointing through a window,
which hurt only a bit.  "A time loop!"
     "Yay!" the Swedes exclaimed, stampeding over the other Authors on
their way out of the Chapterhouse.
     "Riiiight," Elmo groaned, as he extracted floorboard from his teeth.
"The idea, Ben?"
     Ben, through a series of painful arrrrs and ooks, relayed the idea to
the others, who thought the idea was just spiffy and decided to implement
it immediately.

                          ---~~~___|||___~~~---

                         Mademoiselle Muse, Inc.,
                           in association with
                          Lutefisk Wagon Press
                                presents

                              SWEDEODELICA,
                                   or,
                         THAT'S NOT MY LUTEFISK
                 an Author's Altiverse happening-thingie
                                 writ by
                              Gary W. Olson
                       with a couple of scenes by
                               Dirk Myers
                         thrown in for seasoning

                          ---~~~___|||___~~~---

     It was a sunny day on New Mitchell.  Birds sang in the trees, fish
splashed merrily in the ocean.  A dozen Swedes wandered by, idly chatting
about the intricacies of multiple time loops, and the effects such time
loops would have on the etiquette of birthday gifts.
    Although Authors are known for a plethora of interests, a cornucopia of
interests, a whole heap o' interests, most of these interests involve
things like drinking large quantities of alcohol, playing practical jokes
on each other, arguing with their various musae, and defeating various
silly plots aimed at dominating then.  Every now and then, generally when
bored with other pastimes, Authors write.  It's a busy schedule.  Thus it
should come as no surprise that the geology of New Mitchell, which does
not involve alcohol, practical jokes, musae, or silly plots, is virtually
unexplored.  It is, therefore, rather uncommon for an Author to crawl out
from under a rock.
     Yet, on this particular sunny day, a small grey boulder,
undistinguished  in outward appearance, began to tremble.  The boulder
turned half a turn to the left.  A bird which very much resembled a
starling flew by overhead, completely ignoring the boulder.  Muffled sounds
came from under the boulder.  A few cursory taps rang out.
     The boulder swung open as though it was hinged on one side.  An Author
stepped out, wiped his hands on his jeans.  He was moderately tall, with
short blond hair and small round glasses.  He wore a nondescript T-shirt,
blue jeans, and brown canvas hiking boots.
     '"Finally," said a high pitched voice.
     The Author turned around.  Behind him sat a small, rodent-like
creature with dingy grey fur.  The creature sat on its hind legs.  Long
whiskers stuck out in random directions.  Two front teeth, yellow almost to
the point of being orange, peeked out from under the rodent's upper lip.
     "Excuse me?" asked the Author.  "Did you say something?"
     "No," said the creature.  "You're hallucinating."
     "Ah," said the Author.  "Explains a lot."  He rubbed at his forehead.
"Which way to the Chapterhouse?"
     The creature snorted.  "I'm not a hallucination, you idiot."  The
creature patted at his sides.  "Hold on a minute."  The creature pulled a
small white card from a pocket hidden somewhere in its fur.  The creature
peered intently at the card.
     The Author glanced around.  He seemed to have arrived at the bottom of
a canyon in a rather rocky part of New Mitchell.  He stood in a dry
riverbed.   The canyon sloped downwards in front of him, turned a rather
sharp corner.  Not the right direction, he thought.  The Chapterhouse is on
top of a mountain of Nerf.  Need to gain elevation.
     The rodent snorted, put the card back in his pocket.  "This is the
place, all right.  So you must be the Author I'm looking for."
     "Excuse me?" asked the Author.  It occurred to him that it might be
better to vary his responses.  "I guess I could be the Author you're
looking for.  I'm --"
     "Don't tell me, I already know.  Lost for years?"
     "Well, yes."
     "Presumed dead?"
     "I guess so."
     "Back now so you thought you'd stop in and see the Author's
Altiverse?"
     "That too."
     The rodent sighed.  "I guess I have to make do with what I'm given.
Have to admit that I'm kind of surprised you're not wearing your leather
jacket, though."
     "What leather jacket?"
     The rodent snorted.  "Look, everyone knows you're supposed to wear a
leather jacket.  It's part of your authorial costume.  Evan Pongress
without a leather jacket is like Pickle without--"
     "Evan Pongress?"
     The rodent glared at him.  "Look, did you fry your brain on the way
here?  If so, I'm not taking the assignment."
     The Author blinked at the rodent.  "But I'm not Evan Pongress."
     The rodent snorted.  "Of course you are.  The card says, very
specifically, that you are an Author who has been missing for years,
presumed dead, that you are back now and you thought you'd see this
altiverse.  Missing for years.  Presumed dead.  That's the tipoff.  You're
Evan Pongress, all right."
     The Author shook his head.  "No, I'm pretty sure I'm not Evan."
     The rodent scratched at his muzzle.  "Ok, I'll humor you for a minute.
Who, exactly, do you think you are?"
     "Dirk Myers."
     The rodent snorted.  "Elvis's shoes." He rolled his eyes.  "No wonder
no one else wanted this assignment."  The rodent stared the Author in the
eyes. "You're not serious, are you?"
     The Author nodded emphatically.  "Yeah, I'm Dirk.  Who are you?"
     The rodent drew himself up to his full height, balanced unsteadily on
his hind legs, extended a paw.  "I'm Nay-Saying Vermin."
     Dirk took the paw with his thumb and index finger.  It felt greasy.
He shook it gingerly.  "Is that a species or a name?"  He dropped the paw
and wiped his hand on his jeans.
     "Both," said the vermin.  "We don't bother with individual names.  By
the way, I'm your muse."

                          ---~~~___|||___~~~---

     The Swede stepped into his living room and realized something was not
right.  All about there were Swedes hanging about, eating pizza, watching
television, drinking beer, inventing game shows, and so on and so forth.
But that wasn't the not-right part.
     "Hi, Swede," several hundred Swedes chorused, dejectedly.  "How was
work?"
     "Why are you all so dejected?" the Swede asked.
     "She left us," about twenty Swedes whispered in almost-but-not-quite-
completely phony stage-whispers.  "Up and left.  Just like that.  Not fair,
I tell you."  One handed the Swede a note, which he read:

     "Gary,

          "I've decided to resign as your muse and go back into police
     work.  Don't try to convince me to come back.  Let's just say it
     was fun while it lasted, but I just can't stand trying to inspire
     several thousand quadrillion of you at once.  That, and I'd like
     to get into a relationship with a guy who can actually, once in
     a while, outwit a staple gun.  And that's not you.

     Ciao,
     Janice"

     "Oh, man," the Swede groaned.  "I need to sit down."  He pushed a
Swede off the edge of the nearest couch and sat down.  The Swede he pushed
off, meanwhile, landed on a staple gun which went off.  The resulting
antics provided seconds of enjoyment.
     "That's the fourth muse we've lost since we've been here," the Swede
next to the Swede sighed.  "Winona, Elizabeth, Johnette, and now Janice."
     "We should do something," the Swede next to the Swede next to the
Swede said.
     "The macarena!" some Swedes in the kitchen yelled.
     "Lambada!" some more Swedes from the vicinity of the dungeon/house of
pancakes exclaimed.  "The forbidden dance!"
     "No!" the Swedes on the couch countered.
     "Something productive," the Swede mused.  "Something which will give
us the inspiration we need.  We... yes!  That's it!"
     "What is?" the Swede next to the Swede next to the Swede next to the
Swede asked.
     "We go out and find another muse!"
     "Yay!" the Swedes chorused.  They rumbled out of the room, smashing
most of the furniture in the process.

                          ---~~~___|||___~~~---

     "I think I hear one," DementoMan whispered.  "Is the trap ready?"
     "Is it ready?" Stirge asked.  "Is it *ready*?  Is it _*ready*_?"
     "Yes."
     "Um... yeah.  It's ready."
     "Shush, both of you," General Chaos ordered.  "Let's watch and see if
he falls for it."  They peered over the hedge, eyeing the trap they had
painstakingly constructed over the course of a minute and a half.
DementoMan's fingers tensed, ready to spring said trap on cue.
     "Someone's approaching," Stirge said.  "Getting closer... closer...
he's stopping... checking out the trap... now!"  DementoMan pulled the
string, and he and the others watched the box fall over the hapless Author.
General Chaos and Stirge rushed forward, electric cattle prods ready, in
case the Swede had to be shocked into unconsciousness or they just felt
like doing so.  Stirge gently lifted the box up, while GC brought the edge
of her cattle prod up to their quarry's chin....
     "Should I ask?" Dvandroid inquired.  "Or just run away now?"
     "Dvandroid," DementoMan noted, astutely.  "We were trying to trap a
Swede."
     "Ah, that would explain the lutefisk," Dvandroid said, glancing at the
plate filled with tasty lutefisk he was sitting next to.  "But not the
hedge."
     "We needed cover," Stirge explained.
     "We're in a gymnasium," Dvandroid pointed out.
     The Authors considered this point for a few moments.
     "Okay," DementoMan admitted.  "It seems unlikely.  But we have to do
something about all these Swedes!"
     "Something!" Stirge and GC chorused.
     "Then you might try the Mademoiselle Muse, Inc. offices," Dvandroid
told them.  "That's where a few zillion of them have gone.  Seems they need
a muse or something."
     "Something!" DementoMan exclaimed.
     "Stop that," Dvandroid instructed, thwapping DM with a lutefisk.
Several penguins wandered in and started eating the fish.
     "Squawk!" one of them squawked.

                          ---~~~___|||___~~~---

     The vermin sat on the boulder and watched the Author intently.  "Now,
what was this crazy idea of yours?"
     Dirk held up a thumb.  "I'm going to Edit up a base.  It's traditional
for new Authors.  I'm going to spend hundreds of lines describing geegaws
that no one will ever refer to again.  Do you like your reflecting pools
rectangular, or octagonal?"
     "That's the stupidest idea I've ever heard," said the vermin.  "First,
you admit yourself that no one cares.  Second, you've never been good at
long descriptions.  Halfway through the base, you'll give up and start
hanging fish from the ceiling.  Third, and I only mention this because I'm
your muse, you hate traditions.  You loathe them.  So, why bother?  It's
just a waste of Edit."
     Dirk lowered his thumb.  "You really get into this Nay-Saying stuff,
don't you?"
     The rodent shrugged.  "I'm good at it."
     Dirk raised his hands, palms out.  He called on the Power of Edit.
     The wind blew quietly through the gorge.  A New Mitchell rock tortoise
emerged from a shadow near one of the canyon walls and began to make its
way across the canyon floor.  A cloud floated across the sun.  The tortoise
turned slowly, began to trek parallel to the canyon wall.
     The rodent snorted.  "And your hands will fall off when?"
     Dirk lowered his hands.  "It didn't work.  I must be low on Edit after
the trip."  He shrugged.  "No problem.  All I need to do is find another
Author and borrow a cup."
     The vermin struck himself in the forehead with his right paw.  "That's
an even stupider idea than the last one."  He extended the digits on his
paw and began to count.  "One, Authors don't part with Edit lightly.  Now
maybe, if you could Edit yourself into looking like an attractive Edit
Vampire, you might have a shot, but as it is, they won't give you a drop.
Two, what they will do to you won't be pretty.  Last I heard, they'd turned
some poor Author into a basketball court and made someone else into a batch
of cookies.  And now we come to an even better reason."  The vermin looked
up.  "Are you listening?"
     Dirk was already halfway down the canyon, walking quickly, humming a
cheerful tune.
     "Oy," said the vermin, striking himself in the forehead.  He hurried
after the author.  "Wait for me!  There are at least six reasons why
leaving your muse behind is a bad idea..."

(continued in part two, following...)
--
Gary W. Olson    swede@shell.sojourn.com    swede@drycas.club.cc.cmu.edu
                      http://www.sojourn.com/~swede