🚀 go-pugleaf

     The call had come from the Oval Office.  And it sounded as though the
President had believed what he was saying.
     The Chief didn't, of course.  But it had been made very clear that he
didn't have to believe it.  He just had to accept it.
     "It is the position of the federal government that Space Moose's
assessment is accurate," Clinton said.  "In light of these facts, we cannot
hold the combatants responsible for their actions.  The complexity and
skill of the deceit was extreme; none of the prisoners acted with malice or
knowledge of wrongdoing, and no charges will be pressed.  All of them,
without exception, are to be released at once."
     "Mr. President," said the Chief, "with all due respects, you haven't
got a clue in your chubby head what the Hell(tm) you're talking about.
I've got a battlefield down here riddled with bomb craters and littered
with bodies."
     "Chief," the Mayor warned.
     "The decision is final, Chief," intoned Al Gore woodenly.
     The Chief sputtered.  "Do you mean to tell me," he began.  He stopped
and wiped his spittle from the videoconferencing system's camera lens.  "Do
you mean to tell me that you idiots are going to take Space Moose's word
for this?"
     "Chief, really," protested the Mayor.  "A little respect..."
     "We don't need to take his word for it," said the man in the
government-issue suit, haircut, and sunglasses.  The Chief wondered why he
was wearing sunglasses indoors at night.  "We have proof."
     The Chief blinked.  "Come again?"
     The agent ticked off the points on his fingers.  "We have an alien
starship of unknown origin and design.  We have the remains of numerous
alien robots that match Space Moose's description.  We have conflict
between two very unlikely groups -- friends opposing each other, enemies
allied with each other.  And, we have some of the invitations."
     "You *what*?" gasped the Chief.  He then proceeded to choke loudly,
because he had been in the process of lighting a cigarette, which he had
now swallowed.
     "The invitations.  From our Dave Ross figure."  The agent smugly held
them up to the camera.  They were dirty and muddy, some smeared with blood.
"Taken off some bodies on the field.  And what's more, we have a witness
who made the invitations for Dave Ross."
     The agent picked up a remote control and the picture changed to a
videotape.  A federal agent disguised as a copy shop worker was sitting on
a stool in front of a hastily-painted backdrop designed to look like the
inside of a Kinko's.
     "Is it true," a federal agent disguised as a Chicago police officer
said, "that you made invitations for a Mr. Dave Ross, addressed to various
paranormals from around the world?"
     "Yes," said the disguised agent, reading from a script.  "It is true."
     The video switched off.
     The Chief took a long drag on a new cigarette.
     "So what you're telling me," he said after a moment, "is that a man
named Dave Ross, who was really an alien mastermind of fiendish
intelligence, duped half the paranormals on Earth into pounding the living
crap out of each other, and got them all into the same place with
invitations he made at his local Kinko's?"
     "Yes," said the agent with an ingratiating smile.  Satisfied that his
task was complete, he collected his things, turned and walked into the wall
next to the exit.  Feeling his way along the wall, he fumbled for the
doorknob and exited the Oval Office.
     "Release the prisoners at once," Al Gore intoned woodenly.
     Bill Clinton smiled.  "Thank you for your time, gentlemen."  He
reached over and terminated the call.
     "What are you doing?" asked the Mayor.
     The Chief looked up from the phone as he dialed.  "Calling the
precinct.  Having the prisoners released."
     "Shouldn't you go down personally?" the Mayor asked fretfully.
     "I don't get paid enough.  No, I think after I make this call, I'll go
have a beer with Sam and Bert.  After this call, that should prove highly
relaxing."
     "Really?"
     The Chief snorted.  "Of course not.  A drink with them after this
call, and I'd be sharing a padded cell with Laughing Lenny.  I'm going to
go home and hit myself over the head with a hammer.  Maybe that'll help me
sleep."

        *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

     The news swarmed through the block.  There was some outrage -- the
revolutionaries getting away scot free on such a flimsy excuse -- but there
was also joy, everywhere.  They were all going home.
     Mental had never tried this large a broadcast, but this was a good
time, and he wanted to catch everybody before they left.
     *Attention all superguys, Revolutionaries, and
Counter-Revolutionaries.  There has been a lot of pain, suffering, and
death recently, on both sides  of the battle. Included in this has been one
of our own team members.  Because of this, we are arranging a memorial
service for all concerned, in  three days time. All are invited as long as
they come to share their pain,  not to continue the battle. The service
will be held at the Correctional  Facility if we can get permission from
the police. Otherwise, it will be  held at a place to be announced. Thank
you for your attention.*
     Mental nearly collapsed into Mirror Maid's arms, his energy depleted.
"That'll be the last time I try that," he said weakly. "Let's get the
Heck(tm?) out of here."
     "Quickly, my Awesome Force!" commanded Andy Awesome as the cells were
unlocked.  "To the hospital!"  The group assembled as quickly as possible
and ran toward the exit.  The Awesome Force nearly piled into their leader
when he stopped short and placed an awesome hand on a guard's shoulder.
     "Excuse me!" he said urgently.  "Where is the Bob City Hospital (Best
Bedpans in Bob)?"
     "Across the street," the guard said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
     Andy looked at his teammates, an awesome expression of surprise on his
face.  "How awesomely convenient!" he declared.  The group bolted from the
room without so much as a goodbye.
     Spectrum sat up straighter as the realization began to sink in.  "It's
over!" he shouted.  "Over!"  He grabbed Spandex Babe and kissed her.
     "Over," she whispered.  "It's all over."  She began to grin.  "It's
over!" She jumped to her feet-     And the Masked Bruce's eyes caught her
like a bear trap.
     He didn't say a word, but his message was clear.  It wasn't over for
Spandex Babe.  Not by a long shot.

        *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

     Andy Awesome stepped away from the receptionist's desk.  "It's no
good," he said.  "They won't release him to us.  The most I could get out
of them is that he isn't expected to live."
     "Come on, Andy," Figuremaster said.  "We have to get him.  Scholarman
saved my life!  That shell would have ripped me in half."
     "More than that, according to the prophecies he flouted," Rat said
absently.  "More like a hundred thousand pieces."
     "Yeah.  It would have exploded inside of you, apparently," She-Devil
added nonchalantly.  "Left a red paste on pretty much half the field."
     "Guys!" Figuremaster shouted.
     "I don't see what we can do," Andy said.  "He wasn't carrying
identification, and we can't locate anyone who knows who 'Scholarman'
really is.  Without that, we can't locate next of kin to authorize the
move."
     "Andy, I have to get the cats to him -- according to the--"
     "I know, Anne, but--"
     "Andy," T said quietly.  "The question boils down to whether or not
you're willing to let Scholarman die because we have to play by the rules."
     Andy thought for a long moment.  "Rat, She-Devil, Anne, come with me.
T, Figuremaster, Damien -- we're going to need a diversion."
     "What do I do?" Chris asked.
     "Get me a cup of coffee, Hon," Anne said, as she followed Andy and the
other female members of the Awesome Force.
     "Oh.  Great," Chris said, and turned to do his duty.

        *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

     Roger pulled off his helmet as he and the rest of Force Ten clustered
around the odd helicopter-like vehicle that Floyd had appropriated from
Roger's labs for the flight over to Bob City. He hoped the rain didn't
damage the vehicle, or the Killer RV, the wreckage of which was now being
loaded onboard.
     "Shannon?" Sanka asked, quietly. Shannon looked up from where she was
looking at Prizm's bruises.
     "Yeah?"
     "Next time you've got th' inclination t'get us involved in one of
these super battles?"
     "Yeah?"
     "Do keep it to yerself, ok?" Sanka grumbled. Shannon was about to
protest, but Roger shook his head, moving in between the two.
     "I feel like I got run over by a Mack Truck..." Burnout groaned. "Ow..."
     "There, you should be fine, now." Shannon said to Prizm, a minor spell
speeding her bruises' healing.
     "Can I talk to you?" Roger asked, quietly.
     "Yeah, sure." The two stepped aside, away from the rest of the group.
Shannon was, in reality, as tired as they were -- but she wouldn't rest,
not yet.
     "How are they doing?" Roger asked.
     "Prizm's a bit... a lot shaken up. Burnout'll be fine, Sanka's
demoralized -- he _is_ kind of a nothing in combat, y'know. They should be
fine, but they really need some R&R."
     "And you?"
     Shannon winced inwardly. "I'm ok."
     "Then let's get the hell(tm) out of here." Roger said. "Floyd? Did you
pick up any Jolt on the way over?"
     Shannon's eyes narrowed. Jolt. She had always wondered how Roger
stayed so active.
     Roger put his helmet back on, revelling in the aloneness it brought.
He needed to think.. When he had fought Tornado, he had cut loose -- he had
been ready to _kill_ her. And, unlike when he had to hold back, it felt
_good_. It was what he was going to have to do, if he wanted to actually
win fights instead of getting trashed like usual. And Roger, for one,
thought it was time Force Ten started kicking some butt.

        *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

     "Excuse me," Figuremaster said.  He tried to pitch his voice high,
being as he was disguised as a Nun.
     "Yes," the receptionist asked.
     "I'd like to find out about a Mister Chuck U. Farley, please.  He's
our Parish Priest?"
     "A mister -- all right, you.  Nun or not, we don't--"
     "Look it up, it's a horrible curse he's had to live with."
     "All right," the receptionist said.  "But if there isn't--"  She keyed
the name in.  "Oh my," she said.
     "FARLEY, CHUCK U.," appeared on the screen.
     "Um, yes," she said.  "We have him on record.  What can we do for you?"
     "Well, he's not able to use his right hand right now, so I have to
sign some forms for him, I guess?"
     "Okay... let me check his condition."
     Ducked down deep in a Waiting area couch, Chris swore and began
tapping into his laptop as quickly as he could.  Conditions, conditions....
     "What?  He's here for a Vasectomy... a *Priest?*"
     "He used to be Lutheran!" Figuremaster yelped.
     "And a Hysterectomy!?"
     "He was Charlene before the operation!"
     "Oh... um... and here it says he has cysts... and a deviated septum...
what happened to him."
     "It was a horrid bowling accident," Figuremaster said.
     "Those can be nasty."
     "Oooooo!"  T said, clothed in a print dress and beads, wig and taffeta
blowing in a breeze no one else seemed to feel as he ran in the door.  "I'm
here to see my husband Chuck Farley!"
     "Husband?  He's a priest and he's married?!"
     Figuremaster turned pale.
     "We're Australian Reformed Orthodox!" T shouted.  Figuremaster nodded.
     Chris sighed and changed the 'Religion' blank to Australian Reformed
Orthodox Catholic.
     "So you are," the receptionist said.  "I think I'd better call your
doctor."  She glanced at the screen, and picked up the PA.  "Paging Doctor
Dan Tanner.  Dan Tanner."
     She then set it down.  "Dan Tanner?" she asked.  "Wasn't that Robert
Urich's character on 'Vegas?'"
     "Why yes," Damien Wilson said, sliding into the room in a lab coat and
a fake mustache, with a 'Dr. Tanner' name tag clipped to his pocket.  "I
get that all the time.  Mrs. the Reverend Farley, Sister--"
     "What is your name," the receptionist demanded of Figuremaster.
     "Sister Mary Yvonne Molybdenum," Figuremaster snapped.
     Chris rolled his eyes.
     "Sister Mary," Damien said, gritting his teeth in a grotesque grin to
avoid groaning at the pain in his partially-cat-healed arm.  "So good to
see you today.  How is every little thing?"
     "Better once we fill out those silly forms," Figuremaster squeaked.
     "Oh yes!" said T.
     "Wait -- if you're his wife, why is the Nun filling out the forms for him?"
     There was a long pause.
     "I've taken a Vow of Illiteracy," T said suddenly.
     "Right, very holy!" Figuremaster added.
     "Do you need a note from their doctor?" Damien asked, pulling out a pad.
     "Let me pull the file for the forms," the receptionist said, turned,
and walked into the file room, thus not noticing the two women, one
anthropamorphized rat, and thirty-five cats that snuck quickly past her
desk and into the elevator.
     "We're in," Rat said into her Comm.
     "Excellent," Andy said smoothly.  "According to the map Chris was able
to provide, you want the third floor.  He has a private room, number 313."
     "It's a plan.  Is he still alive?"
     "So far."
     The elevator opened on three, and they piled out.  Two orderlies
stared as they walked down the hall.
     "We're a Felinogram," Anne said cheerfully.  "Express your true
feelings through a visit by thirty-five cats."
     "And besides, if you don't move about your business, I'll filet you
guys," She-Devil added, brandishing her claws.
     The two went about their business.  The three women and thirty-five
cats went into the room.
     Scholarman was there, tubes jammed into most available orifices.
     "He looks like Hell (tm)," Anne said.
     "Well, a bullet designed to shoot through schools will do that to
you," She-Devil said.  "He'd be kinda cute, though, if he weren't so
chunky."
     "Better get to work," Rat said.  "I'd rather not shoot anyone, and I'm
not allowed to smoke in here."
     The cats swarmed over Scholarman, and began licking, nibbling at his
fingers, purring, and meowing.
     "Come on, guys.  Bring him back," Anne said.

(Concluded in Part Six, 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 |
===========================================================================