🚀 go-pugleaf

[Continued From Part Two!]

     Hands propelled a short, bespectacled man onto the stage, who
stumbled, trying to keep a hand on his mop as he fell. Blushing bright red,
he looked out at the crowd and then at Mime Man, whose patience at this
point could only be called divine.
     "Um... hi?" said the man, looking around at the assembled heroes,
villains, monsters and paparatzi in the hall. "I'm... the guy who sweeps up
behind the set, and I'll be translating for Mime Man... what he just
gestured I don't think I'll translate, because this is a family special,
but it looks like we're on to the next award... which is... um... a salute
to the... um... musical achievements of...er... two syllables... seven
letters... sounds like... awful? Authors!"
     Suddenly the man felt his neck hair rise. He blinked. Something was
up. Looking down, he quickly checked his fly. No, that was where it should
be... could he have a tea stain on his shirt? Again he checked, but the
mustard and ketchup spatters were exactly where they should be. So what
could the problem... be...
     Like a flock of vultures waiting for their prey to die, a dozen or
more Authors stared intently at the man, greed for recognition of their
achievements burning like a tire fire in their eyes, the intensity of their
averice pinning the poor janitor to the stage with fright.
     "Mommy! I mean... um...
THEPERSONPRESENTINGTHEAWARDISNONEOTHERTHANBENBROWNOHDON'TLET
MEDIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE!"
     Mime Man sighed. Amateurs. Why did he always have to work with
amateurs? He pointed to the bedraggled Author-turned-presenter and beckoned
him up to the stage.
        "Thank you, Mime Man," said the tall, thin Author stepping up to
the podium.
        He waved goofily to the crowd. "Good evening.  As you all may have
been  clued in by the announcer, I'm here to present the Grunion for Best
Author. Wow. We've got a tremendous crop of Authors this year, and the
comptetition for this award is fierce. I think all of the guys nominated
deserve something in the way of recognition, so here we'll list 'em off one
by one.
        "First, we've got Chris Angelini, the newest of the Authors in this
batch. Chris's fine work includes _The Tribe of Behn_, and the
spectacularly complex _Task Force Aurora_ which, as we speak, has grown
into something earth-shattering called _Winner Take All_, which looks to be
headed in a spectacular direction. His spectacular climb from new Author
last year to fourth on the all-time words produced list is impressive, and
a little unnerving. You're too good for us, Chris. Go get published.
        "Second, Eric Alfred Burns, Author of the _Adjusted League
Unimpeachable_, who had us on the edge of our virtual seats, waiting for
the results of the trial sequence that took up much of this year's
plotline. He is also a co-author of _Set Piece_, which we are all eagerly
awaiting the second episode of. Eric has written a lot for Superguy, and
this year is no exception. It's good stuff. You're too good for us, Eric.
Go get published.
        "Next, we have Bill Dickson, whose work on the series _Team
Cynical_  and the spectacular _Blow the House Down_ miniseries thrilled us
all, before he was tragically taken from us by a roving pack of Vespa
scooters which snuck up on him in the dark and carried him off for parts
unknown. Bill is a long-time Superguy Author, and one of our funniest and
best. I would yell at you for being too good for us, Bill, but since you're
already published, that's kind of a moot point. Come back, Bill! We need
you!
        "Fourth on the list is my old friend and collaborator, Rob Furr.
What can I say about Rob that I haven't been lavishly bribed to forget?
Only that he's the Author of many fine Superguy titles, including this
year, the terrific finale of the terrific _Hard Times_. The mysterious and
entrancing _The Mind's Construction_, and _Set Piece_, which we are all
eagerly awaiting the second episode of. Rob is also responsible for SGA,
the Superguy Academy,  which is a lot of fun, and if you're not careful,
you may learn something. You're too good for us, Rob. Go get published.
        "And finally, Gary W. Olsen, a.k.a. the Swede, who co-wrote the
terrific _Blow the House Down_, then moved those characters on to the 100th
episode finale of _Radian and Shadebeam_, all the while keeping _Calforce_
and the SFStory series _Renegade Anarchists_ going. On the other hand, he
had little or nothing to do with _Set Piece_, which we are all eagerly
awaiting the second episode of. You're too good for us, Gary. Go get
published.
        "And now it's the time when we see which of these far too good for
us Authors the public at large has chosen to receive the Golden Grunion
Award for Best Author this year."
        He produced the envelope from his pocket, and began tearing it
open, ripping, rending, tearing with his teeth and sharp claws, scattering
paper all over in a horrible display of carnage and devestation that
heralded the end of civilization as we know it!
        Well, not really.
        "Ahem," Ben ahemed. "The winner of the Golden Grunion Award for
Best Author is (you guessed it) Gary W. Olsen!"
     "Yay!" the Swede exclaimed, as he and a much more subdued Janice
Hoffiser headed for the podium to accept the Swede's award. When the
applause died down, the Swede began his prepared speech.
     "Thank you all," he said. "This is the second time I've won this award
in the last three years, and I'm very grateful for the recognition you've
given me. You know, there is no real 'best' in these situations, it's all a
matter of personal taste and opinion, there is no objective way of
measuring, he who finishes hot has the better chance, a stitch in time
saves nine, it was beauty killed the beast, the early bird gets the worm,
sometimes you have to move forward just to stay where you are, ask not what
your country--"
     "This isn't a speech, Swede," Janice interrupted. "It's a random
collection of tired award speech cliches."
     "It is?" the Swede asked. He looked through his notes again. "Oh, it
is! I guess I was trying to crib from the speech I gave two years ago and
just kind of never got around to finishing the damn thing." He paused. "Did
I mention I'm the God yet?"
     Just then, there was a solid thumping from one of the windows on the
right side of the stage. Several dozen Swedes were peering in, each trying
to jimmy open the windows so they could enter.
     "They want this award!" the Swede exclaimed. "We can't let them have
it, Janice!"
     "Why not?" Janice asked. "They're you, after all."
     "Hoo, good point," the Swede noted. "Then again, I had to give the
acceptance speech, didn't I?"
     "You want me to take care of this?"
     "If you'd be a dear..."
     "Okay," Janice said. She walked over to the window, flipped the
handle and opened it outward, knocking the Swedes back. For several long
moments the audience was treated to the comic spectacle of several thousand
Swedes swaying out of control, arms flailing wildly.
     Then slowly, majestically, the Tower of Swedes toppled, scattering
Swedes for miles.
     "Ooh," the Swede in the Beanstalk auditorium commented.  "That's got
to hurt."
     "Shall we take our seats now?" Janice asked.
     "Um, sure." They walked back to their seats, even as the next
presentation started.
     Fiercely, the janitor clung to his mop. Only it understood his pain,
his fear, his heart-numbing anguish at being in a room filled with people
who could squash him like a grape and then atomise the remains with a flick
of their hands. His mop was his lifeline, his solace, his One True Friend.
Its handle was pine, and that made all the difference.
     "Continuinginthesame--" he stopped. Focus on the mop. The Mop was the
Way. When all else failed, the mop would remain true. He took a deep
breath, flicked a few slimy wet strands out of his face and continued,
watching Mime Man mime. "Continuing in the same vein, we honour those
Authors whose works have inspired doubt and confusion in all of us..." he
broke off, fascinated by the sight of three Authors preparing a scale model
of a ballista at those possibly negative words. The seige weapon was aimed
and poised directly at the janitor's chest.
     "Don't mind us," smiled one of them, eyeballing the distance to the
man's lower intestine.
     The mop. The mop provided strength.
     "Here to... present..."
     "Higher! Crank it up, it won't even go through his ribcage like that!"
     "...the Most Confusing award is the man who..."
     "Ready!"
     "...understands confusion like no one else, straight from CalForce I
give you..."
     "Aim!"
     "...um... Confusion!"
     "Fi--oh, wait, the Swede likes him. Stand down."
     Confusion trotted onto the stage, greeted by a rousing burst of
applause from the heroic contingent and an equally stirring burst of booing
and catcalling from the villains.
     "Thank you, thank you everyone! I just flew in from California, and
boy are my arms tired! Yes, that joke's tired, but think of it as a
revival! And now, a subject near and dear to my heart. No, not late night
hot tub parties, but confusion! Nominated for Most Confusing Series this
year, in no particular order other than how I had them placed to win with
my bookie, are the _Preteen Patrol_, _Radian and Shadebeam_, and the _Tribe
of Behn_!"
     Confusion accepted an envelope from Mime Man and tore it open. "The
winner is... me! But since I'm ineligable - yes, sorry I'm taken ladies,
but don't let that stop you from trying, I enjoy pink champaign and long
nights discussing philosophy in the raw - the _other_ winner is _Radian and
Shadebeam_!"
     "Thank you!" Radian exclaimed as she hoisted her Grunion in the air.
Shadebeam seemed considerably more restrained about the honor, and in fact
seemed to be more interested in lighting her cigarette than in thanking, or
even acknowledging, the audience.
     "It wasn't easy to be the Most Confusing series for two years in a
row," Radian continued. "There were times where too much was being
revealed, when there was a danger that the casual reader might actually
understand what all was being referred to in past episodes. Fortunately,
our Author rallied and introduced many layers of labyrinthine complication
that threw many off the track up until the very end." She paused, seeing
the crowd's reaction. "Not that I know what the end is, mind you, seeing as
I've time-traveled here from last year and missed those particular events,
which I shouldn't be advised about, lest space and time be permanently
warped and all. Shade, you have anything to add?"
     "Nope," Shadebeam said, casually.
     "Right, then, thanks again!" Radian exclaimed, departing the stage
with her altiversal twin while the applause rose.
     "While we're up here," continued Confusion, "We might as well take
care of a few more awards. Who do we have next Nate, mind if I call you
Nate?"
     "It's... Johan, actually," replied the janitor, quite relieved that he
no longer seemed to be in danger of having a siege weapon become a
permanent fixture in his digestive system.
     "Sure thing, Nate. Let's deal with some more confusion. What've you
got for me?"
     "Well... you aren't really the presenter..."
     "Hum a few bars and I'll fake it!"
     From the back of the auditorium a large sign reading 'Do it! Ratings
through the Roof!' was hoisted up for Johan to see. The janitor sighed and
wondered why he was being told to rant about the roof. Instead, he turned
to Mime Man, who shrugged and began to mime again.
     "Okay... well, another one that confuses people to no end are those
title blurbs that Authors seem to insist on throwing into their stories."
     "Come on, come on, if we tear through these we can get on with the
post-post-post Grunion party warm ups for the real bashes tomorrow!"
      Confusion reached over and pulled the envelope out of Mime Man's
hand. "Let's see, we've got Team M.E.C.H.A., Mason's Mazin' Mob and the
Preteen Patrol again. Open envelope, pull out paper, read paper, right! Who
here's accepting for Team M.E.C.H.A.?"
     Robotech Master put up his hand, and was suddenly rewarded with a
Grunion underhand-tossed to him from the stage.
     "Hey..." said one of the Robotech Masters.
     Confusion sighed. "You want to say a few words, don't you?"
     "Well yeah," said the other.
     "Oh _all_ right, just keep it brief. We're going to miss the best
closeups of me on the news after this if we don't get a move on."
    Both Robotech_Masters trouped up to the stage to where the microphone
was waiting for them. "Well," said the first.  "Ordinarily, this isn't the
sort of thing I would be all that happy about, but since this is the only
Grunion I (we?) won at all this year, I guess it will have to do."
    "And I promise you," the other replied, "I'm going to do my best to
come up with far MORE annoying ASCII graphics in the future. Thank you."
The two R_Ms returned to their seat, and commenced arguing with each other
over who got to hold the statue.
     "Authors," said Confusion, shaking his head. "Can't live with 'em,
metaphysically you're in deep doo-doo without 'em. Right, next envelope,
make it snappy."
     Johan looked at Mime Man who rolled his eyes and handed over yet
another envelope, miming a shrug.
     "More Author awards! Best Dead Author! We've got Pickle, Robotech
Master and The Man With Two First Names here..." he tore open the envelope,
nodded once and leaned over to Mime Man. "Which of the stiffies is the Bill
Paul guy?"
     Mime Man scanned the crowd and pointed as a spotlight focused on the
corpse with two first names.
     "'Kay, thanks," replied Confusion, hefting the Grunion and winging it
at the slumped shape of the Man With Two First Names, bouncing it off his
skull. In response, the Author's corpse slipped lower in its chair, sliding
to the floor where it was 'accidently' stepped on by most of the First
Family of the last two terms of office. "Give me another one, just keep
them coming, we can get through these if we really work at it... Best
Underling in a Supporting Role: Number One, Number Two - this is all
starting to sound _really_ suspect - Number Seven - that one's okay -
winner is, yadda yadda, number Seven!"
     Confusion picked up the golden statue and looked over the crowd, took
aim and winged it again, skipping the statue off of the Fraternizer's head
to bounce it to its recipient.
   "Me?" asked Jeanie, as the statue bounced into her hand. "But I'm just a
humble convenience store worker!"
   "I don't know," said her boyfriend, Sal. "Maybe they made a mistake?"
   "Could be..."
   "Well, why don't you go up say something?"
     "Why not?" sighed Confusion. "It's not like we don't have some
debauchery to get to or anything."
   Jeanie shrugged and walked up to the podium. "Thanks. Really.  I wish I
knew what I had done to deserve this beautiful award, but, well, I don't
have a clue! I'm not even sure what an underling is..."
   "Wait, wait, she's not one of us," said Number Three, quietly, to her
sisters. "And yet...  There's something *very* familiar about her..." The
others nodded in agreement and tried to figure out where they had met
Jeanie before.
   "Well, anyway," Jeanie was saying, "thanks for inviting me and Sal to
this lovely ceremony, and thanks for the neat souvenir!"
     "Right, right, right, gimmie," said Confusion, grabbing another
envelope from Mime Man, while Johan leaned on his broom and sighed with
contentment at the fact that no one seemed to be noticing him anymore.
"Stupidist Name! Well if Gorgax doesn't win this one I'm going to be really
surprised... oh, nope, he didn't even make the ballot. Instead we've got
Sum Wan Important and Nobody Important vying for first place - you call
these names stupid? You should come to California sometime and we'd show
you a thing or two about how to name your kid so he gets beat up on the
school playground every day until he's thirty. Winner is, Sum Wan
Important, would Sum Wan please stand up? Sum Wan? Is someone named Sum Wan
here?"
   "Damn!," said Nobody Important. "He always wins these things, ever since
we were children!"
   "You had a stupid name contest when you were children, boss?" asked
Number Two.
   "Oh yes...  He had the stupidest name, the funniest clothes, the biggest
nose, the flattest feet -- and I hated him for it!"
   The spotlight panned across the hall, searching for the award winner.
Not finding Sum Wan Important, it settled on someone important-looking, a
tall figure in a long black cloak, approaching the podium. At the front of
the room, the cloak fell away to reveal three children riding on each
other's shoulders. Not very original, perhaps, but still something of a
surprise.
   The three assembled in front of the microphone, two boys and a girl.
"Hello," said the girl. "Our father was crushed under a pile of debris at
the end of the Preteen Patrol series and couldn't be here to accept his
award tonight. We will be accepting it on his behalf. I am Sum-Wot, this is
my brother Sum-Tym, and my other brother Sum-How."
   "Hi there!" said Sum-How Important, brightly. "Hello, Uncle Nobody!"
   "We will also be seeking revenge on the ones who defeated our father and
kept him from becoming the absolute and uncontested ruler of the world,"
said Sum-Tym. "Sporkboy, Spoongirl, AquaRegia--  We'll be coming for you,
and we won't rest until you are dead!"
   "Yay!" exclaimed AquaRegia, standing up on the table and clapping.
   "He said *dead*, not *fed*," Sporkboy told her.
   "Awwwwwwww!"
   "That's all. Thanks!" The three joined into a conga line and danced off
the stage.
     "Conga! That means it's time for Best song!" yelled out Confusion,
whipping the envelope from Mime Man's hand. "'Nun on the Road', 'O What is
This' and 'Devil with a Blue Dress On'! Lots of crooners this year, aren't
there? Of course none of them really stack up to Ramrod... thank Elvis! And
the winner is, 'Nun On The Road!'"
        "Thank you, thank you," said Ben, stepping up to the podium. "But
as much as I'd like to claim that this one is mine totally, I can't leave
out the fine musicians who helped make this song a reality, so without
further ado ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce the band!"
        There were loud cheers from the crowd as a walking bass line started up.
        "First of all, on bass, we have a very good friend of mine, and the
voice of the Bob City Chronicles' teaser questions, Zonglar the
Invincible!"
        Zonglar smiled, and kept playing as the crowd cheered him on. A
lush keyboard assortment was added to the mix.
        "Next, on keyboards, we have Octo, the Eight armed Wonder!"
        More cheers as Octo waved to the crowd with one arm, while the
others kept hammering away on assorted keyboards.
        A driving drumbeat started up.
        "On the skins, the one, the only, Mister Microwave!"
        There were more cheers. Out in the crowd a pair of villains
considered this.
        "Why's he on drums?" asked the nefarious doctor Fu Manchu.
        "They can't let him near any electronic instruments," replied
Professor Destruction. "He'll short them out.
        The music changed to a reggae beat, with a sharp guitar sound.
        "On rhythm guitar, Dreadlocke!"
        The hulking rastafarian cyborg nodded at the audience and kept
playing. The music changed again, this time with a screeching guitar solo
over.
        The spotlight focussed in on a man dressed as a manta ray with a
sign around his neck reading "I am not a Weimaraner."
        "On lead guitar, the one, the only, Man Ray!"
        The solo stopped, but the band kept up a steady beat.
        "And singing lead vocals, the man you've all been waiting for,
Denglor, Master of Liiiiight!!!!"
        There were huge cheers, mostly from the villains, for the figure
now entering the stage.
        The band stopped playing, and waited a few seconds for the cheers
of the crowd to die down, then Denglor, Master of Light counted off a beat
and the bass started up in a song to which the music was familiar, but the
lyrics a little strange.

Well he walked up to me and he told me I was under arrest.
He said that if I'd come quietly that that would be best.
But when I tried to run and hide,
He pulled a pistol from his side.
If he had shot me I would have died
But then he missed me.

Well he called for backup and the cops they swarmed all over the place.
The put up roadblocks and started showing shots of my face.
I lay real low and went to ground.
I tried to keep my profile down
And in their hurry to search the town
Somehow they missed me.

[Guitar Solo]

Well I got away from them and kept my little but out of jail.
By they come after me again and time again without fail
And when they come I can not stay
I constantly must run away
But that is why I am here today
Because they missed me.

Yeah, they missed me.

Yeah, they missed me.

[fade out]

     "This just isn't moving fast enough," said Confusion, as the musicians
filed off the stage. "Time to apply Ford's principles, ever hear of an
assembly line?"
     "Excuse me!" hissed Peter Kent, walking onto the stage while shielding
his eyes from the bright lights. "But what exactly do you think you're
doing here?"
     "Presenting awards to the lucky winners, of course!"
     "I mean the way you're making a total mockery of all that this
ceremony stands for!"
     "Self-promotion and lots of back patting?" asked Pickle from the audience.
     "No, I mean the slapdash way that you're just tossing out awards left
and right without a thought! Don't you think the participants deserve a
little more dignity than that?"
     "You've got Godzilla, a dominatrix radio personality and someone who,
by his own admission, used to have Dumbest Name contests with his relative
in the same room. Now look me in the eye and tell me again that you're
expecting dignity."
     Kent sighed. "Just clear the stage, please. You're ruining the Grunions."
     "Or saving them. Of course you're not helping, are you?"
     "They'll just edit this part out," said Kent, smugly.
     "We're broadcasting live."
     Slowly, Kent turned to the cameras as a sick, cold sensation ran
through his stomach. Calmly he turned again and walked off the stage, he
only audible words being "I'm a dead man for sure."
     "Well, I know better than to stay where I'm not wanted. Night
everyone, it's been a slice!"
     A thunderous roar of applause rose up as Confusion wandered offstage.
Johan smiled at him, content to be one with his mop. Then, the cheering
died down, and he wondered when the next award would be read out. Next
award. No Confusion on-stage. Wait... slowly these facts jiggled about in
his mind until they bumped into each other, connected, and formed... a
thought.
     "Ulp," he said, as the thought became realisation.
***
     Spandex Babe sipped her diet cola. "Is the Masked Bruce coming back,"
she asked. "Officially, I'm supposed to stay with him through the entire of
the ceremony, under the terms of my being allowed to come."
     "Well," Trashman said lightly, "I expect it'll be just fine, given
that you're with the rest of us anyhow."
     "I'm just excited," Transit said from the next table. "Look at all the
heroes! I never thought I'd be in the same room with--"
     "Get used to it," Kid Electron said with a grin. "We have one
year, and then *we're* up for Best New Hero and Best New Hero Group. And
you *know* we're the best--"
     "Oh, put a sock in it," Frigid Girl said, sipping her Zinfandel.

"WellIwishIknewwhereMikewastoobecauseI'mbeginningtogetkindofworriedImeanIkno
wtheGrunionsareofficallyatimeofneutrality-butwehavealotofenemiesinthisrooman
dhe'sthedeputyleadernowsooneofthem-couldbeafterhimandwe'dneverknowituntilitw
asterrifyinglyandtorturously-toolateandI'llhavetolivewiththememorythatwithal
lmyspeedIwasn'tableto-savethemanIlovebecauseIwasdrinkingandwatchingabadprodu
ctionnumber."
     The heroes and Academy members blinked in unison.
     "Excuse me," Memorex said, "but--"
     "Cool your jets, Dash," Unorthodox Lass said. "What kind of trouble
could he be--"
     "--don't see where you get off claiming your hair's anything special!"
     "Nothing special! Do *you* see a wind machine? No! That's pure
Trowbridge, mister!"
     "Pure crap, you mean! *This* is hair excitement, Mister, and don't you--"
     Healer put her head in her hands, shaking. "One award. We could
possibly win one award, and he's arguing with the other nominee."
     "Should we put a stop to it?" Mandy asked.
     "Why," Kid Solipsism said. "What does it matter? Let him have his
little illusionary fun."
     "Besides," Unorthodox Girl said, "it's not like we're going to win
anything, so why worry about where our teammates are?"
     "Indeed," Trashman said. "Besides, T and the Masked Bruce are both
heroes of the highest caliber. How serious could an argument about such a
silly subject get?"
     There was the thunderous surge of overly dramatic organ music, causing
the heroes (save Trashman, who merely arched an eyebrow) to jump in their
seats. "Ladies and Gentleman," the PA announced.  "Mister Michael
Crawford!"
     "That *was* coincidence, right," Unorthodox Lass asked.
     Kid Solipsism snorted and drank more Mister Pibb.
***

[Continued In Part Four!]