🚀 go-pugleaf

    Arthur Doyle was having one of 'those' days. 'Those' days are easily
recognisable by anyone who has rolled out of bed early in the morning with
a desperate need for twelve more hours of sleep and an overpowering sense
of certain doom and dread. As he climbed off of his pull-out couch and
resolved up some clothes, Doyle knew that there was _something_ that he had
to do today. Did he have a dentist's appointment? No... he was a
solid-hologram now, so cleaning his teeth was a bit moot. Important
meeting? No, Doyle was fairly sure that his day would be blessedly free of
posturing stuffed shirts poking their noses into Aurora business. So what
could he possibly have to do today that could fill him with so much
angstful anticipation?
    Then he saw the note. It was fairly innocuous, just a small Stick'um
sheet, stuck to his desk many months ago. Doyle read the small square, and
shook his head in disbelief. No... that couldn't be today. He would have
remembered. There had to be some mistake. He read the note again, checking
internal clocks, calenders, _anything_ which would tell him that the note
was lying. But he could find nothing. That was today's date, and the time
listed was twelve hours from now. And he... had... forgotten...
     "What was that scream?" asked one TFA ADVANCE engineer, as he looked
up from his preparations for that evening. His partner just shrugged and
continued wiring.
     "Oh, sounds like the boss," he replied, applying a dab of solder to a
salad bowl. "Screaming at the top of his lungs. Probably about forgetting
that the Golden Grunion Awards are tonight, and that he agreed to host them
here."
     "Ah," replied the first engineer, turning back to his work. "I'm just
glad that it wasn't anything important."

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

               Chris Angelini/Frobozz Magic Productions

                             -and-

                       Task Force Aurora

                             -and-

                      The Superguy Authors

                 -through inspiration provided by-

                             Murphy
                    (Also appearing as herself)

                              -and-

                      Mademoiselle Muse Inc

                       -in association with-

           'We Didn't Mean To Colour The Sky Pink, Honest!'
               Industrial Special Effects and Magic

                              -and-

       The Overworked and Underpaid Lisa MacDougall (producer)

                            -present-

               *************************************
               ***The 1995 Golden Grunion Awards!***
               *************************************

                  Continuity Provided By: dev/null

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

     To say that the Beanstalk was a madhouse would be much like saying
that water is wet: an obvious statement of fact that does not convey any
new information to those who hear it. Today, however, not only were the
inmates running the asylum, but they were preparing it to receive
like-minded guests. With the confusion and pandemonium going on within the
orbit-high Beanstalk, the word 'chaos' was wholly unable to convey the
excited state of its inhabitants in any meaningful way.
     "Are we ready tae remove the ceiling?" cried Colleen over her radio to
a team of engineers standing by several floors higher.
     "Check!" came the reply. "We'll fit that damned Bob City monster in
here if we have to blow away the arboretum to do it!"
     "Er, Jones?" asked Colleen. "We took out the arboretum two floors ago."
     "Oh. Right. What do you call a place that's really full of mold and
mushrooms and other fungal plant life?"
     "Doug's on-duty bedroom."
     "I... think I'm gonna have to fumigate myself when this is all over.
Anyway, we're ready to drop the last floor above the banquet room!"
     "Go fer it!" replied Colleen, diving behind a temporary concrete blast
shelter. There was the sound of a terrible explosion from behind her, and
then several tons of metal crashed to the floor in the banquet room.
Removing the hard hat which she had somehow found, Colleen peeked out from
behind her shelter and gave a cheer. "The operation is a success! We now
hae the space within the hall tae fit the lizard!"
     "Oooooohhh..." moaned a voice from within the banquet hall. Several
men and women dragged themselves out into the corridor from the hall, each
battered, bruised and covered in metal fragments. Colleen's eyes widened.
     "Who might ye be?" asked Colleen, pressing the 'emergency medical aid'
call-button on her watch.
     "We...we're the decorators..." groaned a woman, falling to the ground
in front of Colleen.
     "We'll...have to touch the room up now..." said a man, leaning against
the wall. "Game over man...game over..."
     "Oh dear...did all a ye manage tae get out?" asked Colleen, looking
concerned. The man nodded.
     "However...you might want to send in a rescue team for the caterers.
They...sacrificed themselves to save us. And...I think the cake might have
fallen."
     "Will this horror ne'er end?" cried Colleen into her radio.
     "What?" came the response.
     "We hae killed the pastry...why? WHY?"
***
    Phobos put the finishing touches on the projector and hefted
it over his shoulder.  "Try it out, Jenny!"
    Jenny sent a command to Phobos' radio receiver, and her
holographic form rezzed into view in front of the projector.
"Good work, Pop!  The portable projector is online and ready to
fly!  Not that I have a chance of winning anything, mind you, but
I'm up for enough that I ought to at least be there."
    "Right.  And we'll be there, rooting for you.  Personally, I
think you've got a real shot at Best Narrator, unless the Great
Gary Machine sweeps everything again."
    "You think so, really?"
    "Yup.  You ready, Burt?"
    Mime Man nodded, frowning at his invitation.  "Something
wrong, Burt?" Phobos asked.  Burt handed over his invitation in
response.  Phobos looked at it.
    He looked at Burt.
    He looked back at the invitation.
    He looked back at Burt.
    "This is some Author's idea of a joke, isn't it?"
    Burt, aka Mime Man, aka the Emcee for the 1995 Grunion
Awards, silently nodded.
***
     "Guest list?" growled General Anaesthetic, reviewing his STOP
troopers, resplendent in Tornado armour painted up with faux tuxedo decor.
     "Got it...sir!" shouted the troopers, presenting their clipboards.
     "Greeting?" snarled Anaesthetic.
     "May I show you to your seat...sir!"
     "Washrooms?"
     "Down the hall and to the left...sir!"
     "Drinks?"
     "A waiter will be happy to take your order...sir!"
     "Armaments?"
     "Missile racks fully loaded...sir!"
     "Side arms?"
     "Armour piercing Teflon bullets with extra clip...sir!"
     "Good, good," nodded Anaesthetic, continuing to pace in front of his
troops. "I think we're ready to handle any social situation that might come
up. Now just remember, everything you do out there reflects back on ME! Me,
you understand? Me, your COMMANDER! The one who can make your lives living
Hell(tm) if he so chooses! So if the paparatzi slip in, or someone spills a
drink and you're not there with a mop...your head is MINE! Understood?"
     "Yes SIR!" replied the troopers who hadn't fainted, sketching a snappy
salute.
     "Good!" replied Anaesthetic. "I'm taking first watch at the front
tonight...disMISSED!"
***
     At the very rim of Earth's solar system, a small craft shunted out of
hyperspace with an inaudible *...*. This in of itself was not surprising,
as Earth tended to receive an average of 12.5 alien visitations per week,
often reaching 25.75 on holiday weekends. It turned onto an intercept
course with Earth's orbit and fired thrusters, reaching ridiculously high
speeds as it sped towards the blue-green planet. This too was not unusual -
after all, Earth was the party-spot of the solar system, unless you were
into the asteroid scene, but few would admit to being that 'type' in
public. What was unusual about this craft then?
    Quite frankly, not a damned thing. There are only so many ways you can
do 'ship enters solar system, heads for Earth' before the whole premise
gets stale. So instead of risking such, let's switch on the easy listening
radio station and then end the scene!

  'I see your true colors, shining through...I see your true colors and
that's why I love you...'

***
      Somewhere in the vast landscape of Mitchell 2, there stood a lake.
Deep within that lake lay an island.  The buildings on that island bore a
strong resemblance to those of certain computer games (read "Myst", had the
Miller brothers been a) schizophrenic magpies and b) high).  The lake the
island was in on had once been comprised of Zima, which spoke very little
good about its creator's mental health, but had been recently changed to
Jim Beam, which still didn't speak wonders about the creator's mental
health but at least meant that his or her taste had improved.
     We won't even get into the fish swimming in there. Considering what
fish tend to do in *any* body of liquid, it was a wonder anybody ever
wanted to drink the stuff, but occasionally a Swede would drop by, have a
sip, fall drunk into the water, urm, Beam, and drown, marinating in the
stuff.  Swedes being Swedes, they usually ended up with little damage done
except a massive hangover, but it didn't improve the drinkability any.
     Somewhere on the island, there were screams, yells, banging, and
occasional duck calls. The sound effects machine was on the blink.  Again.
     Yes, the island's main resident was trying to decide what to wear.
     "Waiiiiieee!" came the scream.
"Ididn'tknowcontinuitydidn'tknowitwascomingupTHISquicklyohmyELVIIIISSSS!!!"
More explosions, followed by more decidedly female screams of anguish and
shock.
     A male voice countered in resignation.  "Why don't ya just wear the usual?"
     The explosions of confused Edit abruptly stopped.
     "Oh." she said.

      Some time later, a rather fair, good-looking dark-haired man did one
final brush to his shoulder-length hair, straightened his tie, and looked
in the mirror.
     "YESSsss," he said, grinning.  "At least one of us isn't gonna be an
embarrassment."
     His employer wandered in the room.  He glanced at her reflection in
the mirror and glanced away, his eyes watering.  While even in ordinary
times the glare was blinding, it was pretty obvious that she'd been gilding
the lily for the Grunions, so to speak, that is, if lilies had as much bad
taste to be prismatically colored.
     Every available inch of her attire was hologrammatically foiled.  Had
she been stuck in a highway lane at night, she would have been responsible
for several accidents.  True, had she been ordinary humanity, she'd also
have been *dead*, but we gotta have to use some metaphor for the
spectacular tastelessness of her attire.
     Being an Author, she wouldn't have had to worry about death, but the
pain and the resulting articles in the newspapers would have been
embarrassing.
     Liberace would have had a fit, had he been alive and there.
     "Gah," said the first person, whom we shall call her Muse, for he is.
     General Chaos tried to look innocent.  Her smirk was a clear example
of just how bad she was at it.
     "Can I say I'm not employed by you?" Kevin K. O'Shea asked, sticking
out his tongue.
     "Nope."
     "Can I say your dress code sucks?"
     "Nope."
     "Can I say that you're just a bad idea whose time has passed?"
     "I'm new, and you oughta talk, Kevvy."
     "About what?  Don't call me that."
     "Your dress code," the good General told him, trying to beat her
frizzy brown, not for a while cut, hair.
     "Hey, it's tasteful," Kevin told her with a snort.
     "Well, can I say that the...color scheme...leaves a lot to be desired?"
     "How so?  Hey, red, black, and gray are nice and tasteful. You want I
shoulda been given something like lime green and fuschia like some other
Stage 5s?"
     GC grinned evilly.  "Not that.  The way....it's arranged."
     Kevin looked down paranoiacally to see if he'd put his boxers outside
his pants.  He saw nothing, and scowled.  Being a Stage Five Invid, he had
enough embarrassing personal questions to ask himself and _Are my
underthings on the right way?_ wasn't supposed to be one of them.
     "There's nothing WRONG with it," he insisted.
     "Urm, some of the anime watchers....might."
     "Get to the Pooooiint!" he bayed, wishing she'd stop the beating
around the bush bit
     "You want me to?"
     "Yes," Kevin snapped.  "Or it's another moratorium on the Dust."
     GC cleared her throat.  "urm, Kevin?..."
     "YES???"
     "Kevin, you look like Ryou Saeba in that outfit."
     Kevin's eyes tracked downward, regarding his black pants, red shirt,
and gray blazer.
     He EEEEPED.
     "Gah." he said.  "Change it."
     "urrmm."
     "Do it!"
     GC grinned and waved her hands.
     "Urm." Kevin said.  "That wasn't quite the effect I wanted."
     "Huh?"
     "I look like a gigolo."
     GC looked at the red tux, black tie, and gray silk shirt. "Ah, so you
do."  She tried another Edit.
     "Not the flightsuit, GC," Kevin complained, looking at the
standard-issue Invid Battloid Pilot flightsuit he was now in.
     "Hey, you said it was nice and sharp-looking."
     "You know what'll be like with several other Invid there, asking why
the Hell(tm) I'm working for an Author?  They got NO reason to love
ShadowyWriter, you know.  And since YOU were dumb enough to cross over with
him..."
     "Heh."  GC tried again.
     "This...is not too bad," Kevin mused (of course he would), looking at
the black tux, red shirt, and tasteful pale gray bow tie he was now in.  He
narrowed his eyes.
     "Except for one thing," he continued.
     "Which is?  C'mon, we've got to hurry to get the Characters in time
for the awards. Cantata's doing Best New Hero."
     "I need privacy. My knickers are outside."
     General Chaos looked down appreciatively.  "Gee, Kev, I never knew you
liked little ducks."
***
     The reporter snuck down a hallway and into a recently devastated room
which would be housing the evening's festivities. He had been lucky enough
to sneak into the Beanstalk - fortunately, the crate holding Doug's daily
shipment of beer was large enough for a man to hide within - but he knew
that his luck couldn't last. He would just plant his cunning micro-video
cassette recorder and transmitter setup in a handy potted plant and sneak
back out. That evening, his magazine would have the inside scoop on the
Grunions that other - authorised - news services wouldn't. Carefully he
placed the camera in the leaves, its wide-angled lens positioned to take in
the bulk of the room. Running a wire down the trunk, he prepared to bury
the transmitter in the plant's soil.
    Then the earth moved and a head broke through, followed by a hand
holding a blue-steel magnum. With one motion, the gun was cocked and
pointed at the reporter's nose by the recently unearthed CAUTION agent Dow.
     "May I see your press pass?" asked Dow, without the least trace of a
smile or a willingness to lower the gun. The reporter fidgeted.
     "I...um...don't have one?" managed the reporter. Dow's determined
expression turned to one of cold - very cold - humour.
     "Oh good," he said, his gun never wavering. "We like those the best."
     "We?" asked the panicked reporter, as several CAUTION ninja
materialised from the shadows. Swiftly, they gagged the reporter and melted
back into the darkness to 'deal' with his intrusion. Dow chuckled, smashed
the transmitter, and buried himself once more.
     The reporter would serve as a lesson to his fellows.
***
     "Bad news," said Colleen to her engineers, as they finished tidying up
the recently 'renovated' banquet hall. "It turns out thae we managed tae
critically injure all of the chiefs... so the cooking responsibility comes
down tae us!"
     "Us?" asked one engineer, looking dubious. "But I've never made
anything more complicated than a bowl of cereal..."
     "Same principle," replied Colleen with a nod. "Use the microwave.
Besides, we're engineers! We understand how tae cobble together Wonderful
and Mysterious devices from the secrets of quantum physics and nuclear
fusion! How hard could a recipe be?"
     "Colleen... in the kitchen?" muttered one trooper to another. The
second one sighed.
     "I'll be standing by on med-kit alert at all times," he replied.
***
      "Aauuuuuugghhh," a purple-haired young Englishwoman said, looking at
the program.
     Sven Norstrund looked over her shoulder.  "Hey, *I'd* think it'd be an
honor."
     "gaannhh." she repeated, both blue eyes fixed on it.  "Say it isn't so."
     A short light green-haired man with a head that looked like the wrong
end of a nuclear test site adjusted his best (read: un ripped) pair of
jeans.  "What?  What?"
     Sven looked over at Marv.  "Cantata's presenting an award."
     --which one?-- Ninja said, giving her paws a final lick.
     "Best New Hero."
     "Waaaaahhhhhh." Cantata whimpered, her perfect, perfectly made-up
features looking with fright considerably less perfect and more like a deer
in the path of an oncoming steamroller. "Noooo."
     "Okay, so why are you having a fit over an honor, Tatty?" Sven asked,
sticking his head over so both of his bottle-green eyes were looking at
least partially into her glazed pale-blue ones.
     "Nyaaaaahhhhh," Cantata said, one more time, before regaining some
form of coherency. "Urm, urm, urm...Because of a couple reasons," she said
slowly.
     --like?--  Ninja stuck her face in Cantata's, breathing
herring-scented breath in her face.
     "For--one thing," Cantata said, "this is probably the consolation for
not getting anywhere in the Best New Hero stakes. I was nominated.  Ghod
knows why.  Along with a nine-year-old with a bottomless appetite and a guy
who wears a lampshade on his head. I probably didn't make it."
     "Yow," Sven commented , not very intelligently.
     "And like the second reason?"  Marv asked.  Cantata whimpered loudly.
     "That's it,"  she said.
     "Like WAHH?"
     "The--the L word.  Lots and lots and lots and lots of l words..." She
whimpered again to drive home her point.
     "Huuuhhh?--oh." Sven finally said after some thought. "That."
     "And a persistent smell of spliff."
     "ooooohhh." Marv grinned malevolently.   "*I* see, dude."
     "Main reason why I'm not wearing a skirt."
     "Uh. HUH."  Sven looked at her black and silver flight costume.
     --isn't that a bit out of continuity?--  Ninja asked.
     "Continuity is a wanker.  Plus, it Doesn't Involve a Skirt. It's going
to be bad enough trying to present with The Drugged Libido From Outer Space
making lewd faces at me from the audience. Without him ALSO trying to see
what color my knickers are."
     --i could just sit on him,--  the giant black cat offered.
     "Might be fun," Marv grinned at her.
     "Laugh, and you are a dead man," Cantata told him, solemnly.
     Another person charged in the room at this point.  He was a dark
haired, blue-eyed young man who was looking a bit startled. He also bore a
remarkable resemblance to the Muse of the Author who did the series the
Slackers were in.  He was also wearing a tweed suit jacket in the hopes
this would make him look important, but all it really did was make him look
a couple sizes too small. He was also hefting a centuries-old Japanese
katana just because he was paranoid about it getting stolen.
     "Urm," he said.  "Can I interrupt?"
     "What is it, cuz?"  Cantata asked the newcomer, whose name is in fact
ALSO Kevin.  But not that Kevin, okay?
     "We've got people at our door. There's a woman with absolutely
blinding--clothes, and a bloke that looks like me in a suit.  They say
they're our Author and Muse," Kevin said, his eyes disbelieving.
     "Oh shit," Cantata said, beginning to gnaw on her fingernails.  "This
is perfect.  Let's go mad now and save them the trouble."
***
[Continued In Part Two!]