🚀 go-pugleaf

(continued from part one...)
                          ---~~~___|||___~~~---

     "Author Seeking Muse," the Man with Two First Names read from the
flyer a passing Swede had just handed him.  "Must enjoy lutefisk, beer,
time loops and the macarena.  Must be avowed enemy of staple guns.  All
expenses paid, live on premises, valet weasel service.  No time-wasters,
please.  1-800-pi-pi-square root of two-infinity-minus one-23."  He looked
on the other side of the sheet, saw it was blank, shrugged and handed it to
*THE* Mason Kramer, who folded it into the form of a paper hat and put it
on.
     "We have to do something," CHAOS Engineer mused with conviction,
before downing a mug of homebrewed cherry stout with equal conviction.
     "Something!" Stirge exclaimed.  The owner of the corner newsstand that
the four Authors were loitering in front of frowned and continued cowering
behind his cash register.
     "I tried something earlier," the Man noted.  "Got the Swedes to play
the exploding version of the Blue Danube.  Entertaining, but it'll take
forever to whittle down their numbers that way."
     "If the others succeed in capturing a Swede," *THE* Mason noted,
"something might be done.  Until then... we do more of... um...
not-something."
     "Problem is, every time we approach a Swede, he gets nervous and runs
away," Stirge said, as he juggled large, multi-spiked clubs and staple
guns.  "I don't understand why."
     "We need to have someone else approach a Swede," the Man decided.
"Someone he doesn't know... powerful enough to withstand any flights of
Authorial whimsy he may experience but not bright enough to get someone
else to do it for him."
     "Who are we going to find like that?" CHAOS asked.
     "Hi, guys," Dirk said as he strolled around the corner.  "You wouldn't
happen to be Authors, would you?"
     "How did you guess?" *THE* Mason asked, astounded, as he finished
transforming the newsstand into a light opera.  "I... wait, aren't you
supposed to have a leather jacket?"
     "I'm not Evan," Dirk noted, quickly and somewhat gruffly.  "I'm Dirk
Myers, and...."
     "You just got here," the Man finished.
     "Yeah, and...."
     "You're very low on Edit after the trip and whatnot."
     "Yeah, and...."
     "Farah was your favorite Angel."
     "Ye--what?"
     "Never mind, it's not important.  At least, not right now."
     "I was hoping one of you could loan me some Edit," said Dirk.  "Just
enough so I can create my base, a vehicle or two...."
     "It doesn't really work like that," Stirge explained.  "After a while,
your Edit will come ba--mmmmmph!"  While Stirge spent the next few minutes
trying to extract the trout from his mouth, CHAOS Engineer tapped Dirk on
the shoulder and pointed out a group of Swedes to him.
     "See those guys there?" CHAOS asked.  "They're the Swedes.  They've
got Edit to spare, and they'd be more than glad to loan some out to you."
     "Really?"
     "Hey, I'm an Author.  Would I lie?"
     Dirk considered, then nodded and headed for the Swedes.  They were
chattering to one another about lutefisk, but that died out as they saw him
approach.  Some penguins, who had been wandering about and eating lutefisk,
waddled away, unsure of the newcomer.
     "Hey," Dirk said, affably.
     "Hey!" the Swedes replied.  They stared.  Dirk stared back.
     "Um," Dirk added.  "Got Edit?"
     The nearest Swede frowned suspiciously.  "You're not... an Author, are
you?"
     "He can't be," another Swede asserted.  "I'm not detecting much Edit
at all within him."
     "We could subject him to the staple gun test," a third Swede mused.
The other Swedes made various noises of disgust.  "Or not."
     "We could pelt him with dairy products," a fourth Swede noted.  Dirk
ducked as some brie cheese missed him.  "We could make him the subject of a
series of Time/Life books."  Dirk ducked as Judy the Time/Life operator
missed him.  "We could... hey, that's odd.  The Man with Two First Names,
CHAOS Engineer, Stirge and *THE* Mason Kramer seem to be closing in on us
from behind."
     "Why would they do that?" the first Swede asked.
     "It's silly," the second Swede agreed.
     "They must be off," the third opined.
     "That or they're trying to ambush us," the fourth said.  He would have
commented some more, but Stirge took the opportunity to hit him on the back
of the head with a staple gun that was encased in a trout.  The other
Swedes ran.
     "Good job, Dirk," the Man said.  "Help me carry him back to the
Chapterhouse."  Dirk, bewildered but game, grabbed the Swede's ankles and
hoisted him aloft.  At that moment, the Nay-Saying Vermin turned the corner
and saw them.
     "And just *what* do you think you're... oh, no.  Authors."
     "Hi... um... Vermin," Dirk said.  "My muse.  Guys, Vermin.  Vermin,
Guys."
     "Repulsed," the other Authors noted.
     "Likewise," the Vermin said.  "What are you doing, Dirk?"
     "He's helping us carry this Swede back to the Chapterhouse," *THE*
Mason informed the vermin.  "Where we'll put a foolproof plan to rid New
Mitchell of its excess Swedes into effect."
     "And he's losing inches off his hips, thighs and buttocks while he
works," the Man noted, editing a pair of Trim-Jeans onto Dirk, who entirely
failed to notice.
     "A... foolproof plan," the Vermin repeated, a note of fear in its
voice.  "Um, if you'll excuse me, there's this... er... emergency...
thing... back at Mademoiselle Muse, Inc. headquarters (located deep inside
the Noj, that huge, looming, partially-embedded-in-the-crust-of-the-planet
structure over there next to the Mall of New Mitchell).  See you... um...
later."
     "Have fun!" Dirk told him.  The Vermin took off at a full run toward
the nearest public stepdisc.

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

     "Mmmmm hmmmm," Ben hmmmmd.  "That should about... do it."
     "You've implanted the program?" Dr. Deranged asked.  "The complex
cellular restructuring program that Thelma and Gadge developed to radically
alter this Swede into a walking bomb who will spread the program to other
Swedes and then explode, setting off a chain reaction that will destroy all
the Swedes on New Mitchell?"
     "That?" Ben asked.  "Oh, no, Rob already took care of that.  I'm just
shaving his eyebrows."
     "Why?" Dirk asked.
     "So we know which Swede he is."
     "Um... okay."
     "There's something not right with this," RecycleWoman mused.
     "Why do you say that?" the Nameless Author asked.  RecycleWoman handed
the script to him.  "Ah."
     "Now he must rise, and set forth into the world to do our bidding,"
said Rob.  "Who wants to do the lightning effect?"  A crowd of hands shot
up.  "Okay, let's see... DementoMan!"
     "Yay!"
     [Several powerful lightning bolts later.]
     "Nope, not good enough," Rob said, shaking his head.  "Next... Van!"
     [Several even-more-powerful lightning bolts later.]
     "Come *on,*" Rob groused.  "I've seen cocker spaniels who can issue
lightning bolts better than that!"
     "But I turned him into ashes," Van pointed out.
     "That was Frobozz," Rob noted.  Ben swept up the ashes and popped them
into the insta-reintegrator, which crackled and popped a few moments before
Frobozz, dressed like a breakfast-cereal-box character, stepped out, edited
up a large bowl of milk, and leapt in, splashing the other Authors.  "Well,
tell you what, let's skip the lightning.  Swede, wake up!"
     "Woog," the Swede said, as he struggled to sit up.  "I just had this
weird dream.  And you were there, and you, and you, and George
Steinbrenner, and Menudo, and...."   He shook his head.  "Weird.  Anyway,
I've got to get going.  Looking for a muse, you know."
     "There's something about this plan I don't get," Dirk said, as he
watched the Swede depart.  "Aren't Authors supposed to be generally
invulnerable, even without Edit?"
     "Well, yes," Sabre said.  "But because there are so many of the Swede,
his invulnerability is kind of... not there.  Until we get down to just one
of him.  Hence the beauty of the plan."
     "Ah."
     "I've got it," RecycleWoman said, snapping her fingers.  "The plan is
to have all the Swedes, except for one, blow up, right?"
     "In a nutshell, yes," Pickle replied.
     "Correct me if I'm wrong, but do the Swedes not now comprise the
entirety of the oceans, the ice caps, and most of the chain lutefisk
outlets?"
     The other Authors pondered the implications of this.
     "Oops," Ergh finally said.

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

     The program sped like a greased weasel through Poughkeepsie, leaping
from one Swede to the next with a terrifyingly implausible speed.  The
Swedes themselves failed to notice, busy as they were with consuming
lutefisk, avoiding staple guns, seeking muses and/or time loops, and
generally cavorting as Swedes are wont to do.  Even when they started
exploding, it failed to put a damper on their generally sunny dispositions.
     But as the explosions and quakes grew in magnitude and gratuitousness,
they quickly grew concerned.  They tried to Edit-proof themselves against
it, but, frankly, if they couldn't outwit standard office equipment, what
hope did they have against omniscient pseudoscience?
     New Mitchell exploded quite loudly, as the Swedes that were the ocean
and the ice caps and the lutefisk outlets detonated simultaneously.

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

     "Oh, great," the Amigoid commented, using his Authorial powers to make
sure that, vacuum or no, he very well *could* be heard.  He and the other
Authors were drifting around in space, having been flung away by the force
of the planet-wrecking explosion.  "At least Sheri and Christopher were
inside the BioDome."  He looked at said BioDome, which was floating next to
the Noj amidst the rubble of New Mitchell, unaffected.
     "Owwwww," the Swede groaned.  "Hey... this not my beautiful abode,
this is not my beautiful muse... where am I?"
     "Swede!" General Chaos exclaimed.  "There's only one of you now!"
     "Let me count," the Swede replied.  "One... one.  Yep.  One, pretty
much."  He looked around.  "Hey, where's the planet?"
     "You blew it up," Dirk said.  "Now we're drifting around in the vacuum
of space, unaffected due to our Authorial Invulnerability."  He looked at
*THE* Mason Kramer and Frobozz, who were taking advantage of the properties
of the void to make their eyes bug out like Arnold's in _Total Recall._
     "I suppose we have to find another planet," Robotech_Master said,
sounding quite dejected.
     "Nonsense!" the Swede declared.  "We're Authors, right?  We've got
this big heap power at our fingertips, right?  We'll just edit New Mitchell
back the way it was!"
     "Well, I suppose..." R_M started.
     "He's right!" Sabre declared.  "Come on, everyone.  Focus on New
Mitchell!  Edit that sucker back together!  Don't worry about getting the
pieces to exactly fit -- we'll fill 'em in later.  If we have any left
over, we could always use another moon."
     And so, the Authors concentrated their powers of Edit, reconstructing
their planet and their individual Authorial domains.  When they were done,
they admired their handiwork.
     "Nice," Thelma said.  "I like the fjords."
     "Did the northern continent have a mountain range with mountains
bearing the faces of the Monkees before?" the Plaid Author asked.
     "Er," Dvandroid said.  "It seems to be getting closer."
     "This must be..." commented the Swede, "...that gravity... I've
heard... so much about... late... ly...."
     "This is going to hurt," Dirk commented.
     "Relax," the Swede said.  "We're Authors.  We're invulnerable.  I've
fallen farther than this and laughed it off."
     "Isn't there something we should be doing at this point?" Mechaman
asked.
     "Something Authorial?" Pickle asked.
     "Something!" CHAOS Engineer, Ben and Ergh shouted.
     "Hmmm... invulnerability... no, that's covered," the Swede mused.
"Use our powers to transport directly to the ground... no, not sporting.
Um... there's something, I know...."
     They continued falling, gaining speed as they went deeper into the
atmosphere.  Some of the Authors did take the less honorable path in
Editing themselves directly to ground level, only to remember they should
have done something about that thing called 'momentum' first.  Those who
remained were preparing to impact in style.
     The Swede snapped his fingers.  "I've got it!" he announced.
     "What?" Dirk asked.  "Swede, tell us!"
     They hit the ground, creating deep, Author-shaped craters in the
pavement.  After several minutes, the dust cleared.  After an hour or so,
the Swede pulled himself out of his crater, his body making a funny
accordion-type sound with every movement.  Several other Authors with
similarly musical bodies were in the process of hauling themselves up, too.
     "We edit ourselves," the Swede said, haltingly, "so... it won't hurt
so much... when we... hit the ground."
     "Good... plan," Dirk said, just before passing out and falling back
into his crater.  Dvandroid, meanwhile, picked up a nearby penguin and hit
the Swede over the head with it before falling back over.
     "Squawk!" the penguin commented, from where it sat atop the Swede's
head, which was in turn atop a chunk of asphalt.
     "What's that?" the Swede asked.  "You want to be a muse?  Great...
what's your name?"
     "Squawk!"
     "Dirk?" the voice of the Nay-Saying Vermin called.  The Vermin himself
showed up moments later, weaving along the edges of the craters.  "Where
are you?"
     "Over... here...."
     "Ah.  Right.  Come over to Muse headquarters when you get a chance.
You've got some paperwork to fill out.  I--"
     "Squawk!"
     "Get out of my way, penguin."
     "Squawk!"
     "Don't be rude to her, Vermin," the Swede said, painfully.  "She's my
new muse."
     The Vermin looked at the penguin, then back at the Swede.
     "I *suppose* you want me to escort her back to headquarters so she
can get registered," he sighed.  "Why didn't I join the Department of Motor
Vehicles instead?"
     "Squawk!"
     "I wasn't asking you."

IS NEW MITCHELL BETTER OFF NOW THAT IT SUPPORTS ONLY ONE SWEDE?
HOW WILL THIS AFFECT THE SWEDE'S STRAINED RELATIONSHIP WITH STAPLE GUNS?
WILL HAVING A PENGUIN AS A MUSE BE INSPIRING?
WHAT ABOUT A VERMIN?
WILL DIRK SECURE THE EDIT HE NEEDS TO GO HOVEL-BUILDING?
DO PEOPLE RUN AWAY EVERY TIME AN AUTHOR ANNOUNCES SOMETHING ABOUT A
     FOOLPROOF PLAN BEING IMPLEMENTED, OR DO THEY SOMETIMES STICK AROUND
     TO FIND OUT WHAT IT IS?

Always questions with you, isn't it?
--
Gary W. Olson    swede@shell.sojourn.com    swede@drycas.club.cc.cmu.edu
                      http://www.sojourn.com/~swede