🚀 go-pugleaf

     *RING....RING....CLICK*  "BEN BROWN'S BAIL-SERVICE, Best Bondsman in
Bob,  this is Betty, may I help you?"
     "Um yes, my nane is Spectrum and I'm in jail right now, I need to get
out until my court appearance."
     "Yes sir, um, Mr. Spectrum.  Oh, my! Are you that superguy that helped
save our city from the giant chicken?"
     "Yes m'am, the Rooster D. Structoid.  I got in a fight outside of town
and everyone was hauled into jail."
     "Well, we are very appreciative of your help versus that giant chicken."
     "Yes m'am."  (Why was he getting a mental image of Lily Tomlin?)
     "Now, do you have any major credit cards, personal property, or
savings  that can be used to cover the cost of us setting your bail?  Oh,
and what is the bail set at?"
     "One Million Dollars, m'am."
     "Oh my..... One moment sir."
     Spectrum drummed his fingers impatiently.  A few moments later Betty
was back.
     "Well. Yes sir.  Now, about your assets, how do you plan on paying?"
     "Well, I have a friend who is a small blue cartoon rabbit.  He might
be able to help me with bail."
     "A cartoon rabbit."
     "Yes, and if you can't find him, there is a couple of girlfriends of
mine that might be able to help me."
     "I'd certainly hope so, sir.  Who are they?"
     "One is named Marie. Um, I don't know her last name. She's a space alien."
     "Oh, really?"
     "Yes, m'am.  I know it sounds strange.  Anyway, theres my other
friend, her name is Foxy.  Foxy Lady.  I haven't seen her in a couple of
weeks.  But she is hard to miss."
     "Let me guess sir, she is a 6' tall fox...?"
     "Yes!  She's 5'9 actually... Have you seen her?"
     *CLICK*


                           FUGUE AND FATIGUE
                            a follow-up to
                       The Industrial Revolution

                              WRITTEN BY
                               Ben Brown
                            Lawrence Brown
                              Eric Burns
                             Bill Dickson
                             Mason Kramer
                              Gary Olson
                               Bill Paul
                             Jesse Taylor

                               EDITED BY
                             Bill Dickson



     It wasn't like before.
     Scholarman was sure of that.  The last time he was blasted out of his
body, it was because of a badly overstrained magical spell.  The net effect
was his psyche had been thrown into the Netherspace between altiverses,
where he had met Kate Bush in a chainmail bikini, Zen Navigator, and five
friends with bad fashion sense.  They had warned him of a trial which a
twig could deflect, but the twig tended to suffer.
     That much was true.  He looked down.  They were operating again.  He
could see the poor sap wasn't doing well.  A 7.62 mm bullet had ripped his
heart to shreds, damaged both lungs, and shattered his rib cage and spine.
Death should have been very nearly instantaneous.
     But some mage had healed the poor fool just enough to make survival a
possibility.  Not a likelihood, but a possibility.  And then ambulances had
arrived, and carried the near-corpse to the hospital, while almost everyone
else had been arrested.
     Scholarman remembered seeing Andy Awesome and Rat staring at the
corpse as it was loaded into the ambulance.  He had been standing not five
feet from them, but he had a feeling he shouldn't have tried to talk with
them.  He then decided to follow the body, and here he was, floating.
     Scholarman was not a stupid man.  He knew the body that was busy dying
on the operating table was his own.
     "So," a young voice -- not far out of puberty -- said.  "Is it what
you expected?"
     Scholarman turned.  Standing near him, floating in the air, was a boy
on the cusp of becoming a man.  He was bony -- too thin, it seemed -- with
thick glasses and braces.  He was not unhandsome, but neither was he
particularly attractive.
     Scholarman smiled.  "Parts are, I guess.  I figured you'd meet me,
Richard."
     Richard nodded.  "Yeah, this part the out-of-bodiers got pretty well.
Except the overpowering light?  You know, the one you aren't seeing right
now?"
     "Yeah?"
     "Burned out six months ago.  It's been on back order."
     "So much for Heaven being perfect."
     "Oh, Heaven is.  If you like that sort of thing."
     Scholarman looked at the boy, his head cocked.  "What do you mean?"
     "Well, let me show you."
     Scholarman looked at his body.  "Shouldn't I wait until things finish
up here?"
     "Don't sweat it.  It'll follow us along.  Grab your backpack."
     "My what?"
     Richard pointed to the leather knapsack Scholarman's sister got him
for Christmas before he returned to college.  He lifted it -- it felt
relatively heavy.  He unzipped it and looked inside.
     And there he saw his books -- all of them, it looked like -- his
clothes, his stuffed animals, his poetry, his knick-knacks, his nerf
weapons, his Golden Grunion for Most Confusing Storyline, his car, his
television, his VCR....
     "What is all this?" he asked.
     "You know the phrase, 'you can't take it with you?'"
     "Yeah?"
     "Wrong."

        *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

     "Deposit...seventy-five...cents, please."
     Nora glanced around to make sure none of the overworked, overstressed
cops of the Bob City Jail were watching, then slipped the last of her
change from her hip pocket and inserted it into the phone.  The time from
the quarter they had given her had run out some time ago, so by all rights
her one phone call should have ended.  But the cops hadn't even bothered to
search her earlier, as the lycra-bodysuit-style superheroine costumes
didn't normally have pockets, so she'd managed to extend the call a little
bit.
     "Hello," she whispered, getting impatient.  "Dog Thing, are you there?"
     There was a noise on the other end as somebody picked up the receiver.
"I am sorry, Nora," rumbled Dog Thing's voice.  "We have yet to find
enough money to make bail.  Dominic is currently searching the sofa for
change."
     Nora turned her back to the wall and leaned against it, rolling her
eyes.  "Ah, jeez.  What about Bill's penny jar?"
     "If you recall, we rolled all those pennies to pay for Chinese
Take-Out two weeks ago."
     "Damn my midnight cravings!"
     "Never fear, Nora.  We will find a way to get you out of jail.
Indeed, many were the times in my best-forgotten youth -- a youth that I,
sadly, cannot forget, as my mind retains every detail of each thing I
experience -- that I longed for someone I could call a friend, who would
rely on me so that even in times of embarrassing distress, times that would
tax other friendships, he or she would feel confident in calling upon me
for-"
     "Listen, Dog Thing, I've gotta go.  Time's up.  Call me as soon as you
can help, okay?"
     "Of course.  Farewell, my friend."
     "Bye."
     She hung up the phone with an irritated motion and stalked off to the
waiting officer to be escorted back to her cell.
     "All right, buddy, here's your quarter.  Make your call."  The bubba
accepted the coin from the desk sergeant and stepped up to the phone.
     As he reached for it, it rang.
     He stared at it, perplexed.  On the third ring, he picked it up.
     "H-hello?" he asked.
     "Please deposit...twenty-five...cents."
     The bubba looked at the handset, then at the phone, then at his
quarter.  He shrugged, and inserted it into the slot, paying for the final
half-minute of Rainy Day Woman's phone call.
     "Thank you," said the phone.  With a click, it went dead.
     "Uh..." he said.  He turned to the desk sergeant.  "Uh, sir, I-"
     "All done?  Move along, we've got plenty more of you people to get
through here."
     "Well, no, I-"
     The cop glared.  He was in no mood for this.  "I said..." he droned
threateningly.
     "Come on," said another cop, taking his arm and escorting him toward
his cell.  "Let's not cause trouble, bub."
     "Next," said the desk sergeant.  "Here's your quarter.  Make your call."
     "FRINK!  PTANG!"
     "I don't care who you call, just call."
     "WHOOOO!"

        *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

     Lawrence leaned against the bars dejectedly.  What a fiasco.  He was
locked in a cell with Spandex Babe.  This was the good news. The bad news
was he'd burned his last quarter trying to get sprung and now he realized
how broke and alone he was.  Marie had somehow avoided  capture, but if she
was playing smart she was long gone.
     He was mulling over the past few days events when someone tapped the
bars behind him.  Turning to face the hallway, he saw a young cop holding a
couple cups of coffee.  "So, Lawrence, whats it like to be locked in the
same room with one of the most beautiful superwomen of the world?" Parker
Peterson winked mischieviously at Spectrum.
     "Parker!" Spectrum whispered. "How'd you sneak in here?"
     "I'm the Nikon Ninja, remember?" Parker grinned. His hat clicked as he
looked around the cells. "I got the idea from a Thunderbirds episode.."
     "What? What about your arm?"
     "Nevermind. Oh. My arm...Trapdoor Spider Man helped heal it. You
should see his place. Its wierd man, and-"
     "Can you get me out of here?!" Spectrum groaned. "I can't stand being
caged."
     "On my income? Hah! But don't worry. T.S.M. has a few friends.  He's
going to talk to you about that, too. Whenever you get out."
     Spectrum took the cups of coffee. "Ugh. Next time, make mine a Diet
Moutain Dew, ok? I hate coffee."
     "Its all they had, Spectrum.  Picky-picky...geez."
     "I'm sorry Parker. Thanks for stopping in. I'll see you at my court date."
     "I wouldn't bet on it."
     "What?" Parker said nothing, just stuck his thumbs on either side of
his head and wagged his fingers at Spectrum.  With a smile and a wink, he
walked away.

        *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

     "Okay, who's next?" Sam asked the desk sergeant.
     The sergeant glanced over his clipboard.  "Captain Invisible.  Holding
cell twelve.  Just get his statement.  No rough stuff."
     "Rough stuff?  Us?"  Sam tried his best to look offended.  "C'mon, Bert."
     The two Maverick Cops(tm) made their way down the stairs toward the
holding cells.
     "I can't believe the gall of that guy," Sam said, "accusing us of
being too rough."
     "I dunno what he's thinking of," replied Bert. "I mean other than that
little old lady we gave the third degree to for five hours straight, we
haven't done anything rough in the last month or so.  How were we to know
that she was a witness and not a suspect?"
     "Yeah, they can't expect us to know these things if they don't tell us."
     "FRINK! PTANG!"
     "Shut up in there!  You'll get your turn!  Ah, here we are, cell
twelve." Bert unlocked the door, then followed his partner in.
     "There's nobody here," said Sam, looking around.
     "The sergeant said the guy's name was Captain Invisible.  Maybe he's
just invisible."
     "Point taken.  All right! We know you're in here!"
     "Yeah, you can't catch us off guard by being invisible.  We're too
smart for that!"
     There was no reply.
     "Won't talk, eh?" Bert said, looking menacingly at nothing in particular.
     Still no answer.
     Sam scratched his head thoughtfully.  "I dunno, Bert, he may have
flown the coop on us."
     "Nah, he's here.  I can smell him."
     "Okay, whatever.  We're on to you, buddy!"  He brandished his pistol
menacingly. "This doesn't seem to be working," he mumbled. "What say we try
a little good cop/bad cop."
     "Right," Bert muttered in response. "Okay buddy.  Are you gonna talk
or am I gonna have to rough you up?"
     "Calm down, calm down.  Listen, Captain Invisible.  We don't want to
hurt you.  We just want to get your version of the events that happened."
     Again, there was no reply.
     "Talk, damn you!" Bert would have grabbed the prisoner's collar, had
there been a collar to grab.  As no collar was evident, he consented
himself with waving his pistol wildly.
     "I don't think I can control him much longer," said Sam earnestly.
     "Okay, Claude Rains, are you gonna talk or am I gonna have to get angry?"
     The empty air declined to answer.
     "All right," Bert yelled, cocking the hammer on his gat. "I'm gonna
count to three.  One."
     "Bert, calm down."
     "Two."
     "For crying out loud, Bert he's not a suspect he's just..."
     Someone pounded on the door behind them.
     "Yes?" said Sam, opening the door.
     "What are you two idiots doing?" asked a rather angry looking desk
sergeant.
     "Questioning Captain Invisible, just like you told us."
     "Oh."
     Sam shut the door.  "Y'know?" he said, turning to his partner, "that's
a pretty good excuse.  I say we use it more often.  Whaddaya think?"
     "I'm all for it.  What about you, Cap'?"
     There was a distinct lack of an answer.
     "Okay then, it's unanimous with one abstention."

(Continued in Part Two, following)


===========================================================================
| "There were promises to break and dreams to kill."                      |
|                                          -Elvis Costello, "20% Amnesia" |
|                                                                         |
| "He'll rekindle all the dreams it took you a lifetime to destroy."      |
|                                          -Nick Cave, "Red Right Hand"   |
|-------------------------------------------------------------------------|
| William R. Dickson, M00se Illuminatus...................wrd@beer.wa.com |
| Co-Author, Internet Explorer Kit for Macintosh..........iek@tidbits.com |
| Author, "Team Cynical," Superguy Digest......listserv@ucf1vm.cc.ucf.edu |
===========================================================================