🚀 go-pugleaf

[Continued From Part Three!]

     At a radio signal, the space airlock of the Beanstalk swung open,
admitting the small craft that had journeyed this far to Earth. No one was
present as its occupant climbed out and made his way towards the ceremony.
His stride was businesslike, and there was no joy in his eyes. He had a
mission to carry out, and he would pursue it to the last. There was no
escape. This time... he would find those he sought.
***
     Mime Man mimed walking against the wind. Johan the janitor, attempting
to flee notority with his mop, ran against this wind, trying to get
offstage. To no avail. Tired, hungry and scared out of his wits, Johan
decided to take another tack. He tried to run off the stage again.
     The janitor was determined, let no one doubt that. But brilliant?
That's another story. Mime Man began to gesture, very insistantly and Johan
reluctantly returned to his position on-stage.
     "Our next award," said Johan as Mime Man mimed, "Goes to those plucky
virtual friends who've helped out superteams time and time again in their
hour of need. To present 'Best AI', a catagory name designed to offend just
about _everyone_, I give you BARD of the Tribe of Behn who's also designed
to offend just about everyone!"
     A spotlight shone as holoprojectors shimmered into focus. Will 'da
Bruiser' Shakespear resolved onto the stage, grinning like an idiot.
     "Hi mom!" he said, waving to the cameras. "Oh, wait, de champ doesn't
gots a mom. Never youze mind, den."
     A hush fell over the crowd as BARD stared out into the audience. The
hush continued as he grinned. The hush _continued_ to continue as the
computerized man stood on the stage, watching two flies buzz around his
head. Mime Man counted to several thousand by twos before marching over to
the computerized personality and thrusting an envelope into his hand.
     "Oh, tanks," said BARD. "But I's already gots my mail fer today."
     "You're supposed to read what's inside," sighed the janitor,
translating for Mime Man. "Or else you'll get... um.. you're supposed to
read what's inside."
     "Oh!" said the solid-holographic entity, tearing open the envelope.
"Hey... dere's just dis torn piecea paper in here!"
     Mime Man facepalmed.
     "He says 'Dowh!'," translated Johan. "Just... pick up the paper, put
the pieces together and read them please?"
     BARD followed instructions, which had been carefully laid out on the
paper for just such an occurance. In hindsight, those who had prepared the
paper should have realised that this heroic CP, who was only a few bricks
shy of a condominium, would actually have trouble getting to the paper
itself.
     "It says dat da nominees for dis award... well actually, dat's not
what it says, cause like its written phonetically but me sayin' 'dat' and
'da' is like, my own par'ticlar idiom, so I'll just keep talkin' like dat
'n you can jus' figger out which is me 'n which is da way its written.
Clear?"
     "Nope!" came the reply from the audience.
     "Tough. Da nominees for dis award are: Dat big 'ol AI-guy who was in
dat Set Piece ting dat we Characters ain't s'posta read, dat really weird
guy HAL what calls everyone Dick or Don or somethin', and... whoo! Jenny!
What a dame! Tried sending her flowers once, but I keep fergettin da right
email address.
     "Anyway... da winnah is... da doll--er, Jenny!"
     Jenny got over being stunned quickly, far too quickly for any human in
the audience to notice. From the camera's perspective, she sat for a second
after her name was announced, then turned to Phobos. She whispered briefly
in his ear and he nodded. She stood up, grinning broadly, and seemed to
walk up to the stage while Phobos fiddled with the holoprojector. That was
the main reason they'd wanted to arrive early; on the off chance that
Jenny'd have a reason to go on stage, he wanted to be up front to take care
of getting her there.
   BARD placed the statue on the podium and backed up, watching Jenny
slack-jawed.  Jenny stepped up to the mike, and took a deep breath.
    "Wow. I'd like to thank the Reader's for selecting me to receive this
award, first of all. You're all wonderful, really! And I'd like to thank my
family, who helped make me what I am today. Phobos, Summer, I couldn't have
done it without you. And, of course, my Authors, without whom I wouldn't
even exist. Thanks, guys!
    "And, finally, I'd like to thank the people that put the ceremony
together. And, while doing so, ask that they consider changing the name of
this award to something _slightly_ less offensive. I mean, come on, folks.
Do I look artificial to any of you?"
    Jenny giggled, causing half of the men in the audience to (a) faint,
(b) get a nosebleed, or (c) both. BARD stared in undisguised fascination,
not realised that she had vacated the position several seconds earlier as
he watched. Mime Man resisted the urge to slap the computer personality
silly - it would have been a redundant action at any rate - and nodded to
Johan, who prodded BARD with his mop.
     "Hunh, no I don't wanna buy dese grapes, I was just lookin'!" said
BARD, startled back to the thing that he sometimes called reality when he
needed a good laugh. "Um... tanks. Um...heh heh heh... glad ta be here...
guess I'll go now... wow, I almost met Jenny! Dat's like da high point of
my somthing or other... um..."
     The perpetually stunned machine intelligence derezzed, still trying
desparately to think of... well, a complete thought.
***
     Scholarman stepped into the hall, froze, turned, and stepped right
back out. He could tell he didn't want to be anywhere near what was going
on.
     "--you to admit it. T has better hair. Say it, and we can go
inside and--"
     "I'm not going to lie to spare your petty little musician's ego! My
hair is obviously the superior in every possible way!"
     "With the exception of *reality!* Your hair isn't worthy to mop the
floor around where my Hair would travel!"
     "Are you mad? Are you insane? Are you mocking me? What, am I a clown?
Do I amuse you!"
     In the weeks and months to come, the two heroes would report
different versions of what happened next.  The two stories would match
relatively closely, with merely the order of events being contested. In
this time, Andy Awesome and the Non-Biodegradable Trashman would ultimately
decide it was unimportant as to how it happened, and instead concentrate on
the fact that it did happen.
     What is uncontested is that one hero shoved the other.
     The other then shoved back.
     And the first then shoved back, harder.
     And then the second shoved back, even harder.
     It was not quite as significant as the assassination of the
Archduke Ferdinhand, but it was relatively close, considering what it was.
***
     The alien paused, his hand on the auditorium doors. This was it. There
was no turning back now. This was for the gold.
***
     "We again honour the Authors that make this world and us possible,"
said Johan, watching Mime Man carefully. He still didn't like talking about
the Authors, especially as they seemed to be working on a clever spiked
cage-trap that was hanging in a rather disturbing spot: directly overtop of
him. "And the ones who make things absolutely impossible by destroying
absolutely everything in sight. Here to present the 'Best Alitversal
Reconfiguration' award is... the Sage!"
     The Sage walked onto the stage, an air of vast superiority on his smug
face. He looked at the envelope handed to him, then tossed it over his
shoulder.
     "The nominees for 'Best Screwing Up and Breaking Their Toys In This
Issue' award are 'Radian and Shadebeam #100' - like I couldn't see _that_
one coming, 'Sal the Garbageman' - no surprise - and that thing when Task
Force Aurora blew up the whole universe, the dumbells."
     Doyle shifted nervously, and whispered to whoever would listen. "We
didn't mean it, really... I didn't have anything to do with it, I was just
observing... honestly."
     "And the winner," said the Sage, with a bored sigh.. "Is what I'll tell
you for twenty bucks."
     "Do we have the budget for that?" asked Kent, turning to Doyle.
     "We _are_ a government agency," replied Doyle, dryly.
     "That's... kind of what I meant."
     Doyle gave Kent a sour look, before netrunning through TFA's systems
to transfer twenty dollars from the organization's monthly 'Pizza Delivery
Fun' into the 'Bribes For Reticient Cosmics' slush fund. A crisp twenty
dollar bill was ferried onto stage, and the Sage nodded.
     "Knew you'd cough up," he said. "The winner is... Sal the Garbageman.
Big surprise."
   "Hooray!" exclaimed Jeanie. "You're getting an award, too!"
   "Best Altiversal Reconfiguration?" asked Sal. "All I do is pick up the
trash every week..."
   "And it's a very important job," Jeanie told him.
   "You really think so, hon?"
   "Of course! If you didn't do it, the garbage would pile up on every
street! The rats population would explode, and then everyone would die of
bubonic plague!"
   "Wow... I never realized how important I was..."
   "To me, you're the most important man in the universe." Sal gave her a
quick kiss, then ran up to the podium.
   "This is great, really. I want to thank everybody out there, but there's
one person in particular that I want to thank... Jeanie, this is for you.
Ever since I met you, I feel like I'm someone special. I feel good about
myself, because you feel good about me, and I feel good about you, and...
Well, I've been giving it a lot of thought, and I don't want this feeling
to end, ever. What I'm trying to say is... Jeanie... Will you marry me?"
   "Oh, yes! Yes!" she exclaimed, running up to the podium with her own
Grunion award. They embraced and kissed for a long time, while the assembly
gave them a standing ovation.
   "Ewwwww, gross," said Sporkboy. "How do they breathe?"
   "It's probably some version of the ancient Tibetan breathing control
ritual," said Spoongirl. "The monks of Blu-Phass can hold their breath for
up to ten days."
   "It's still gross. If I ever feel like swapping spit like that, I hope
someone kills me first!"
   Spoongirl looked at him for a long moment, and he looked back, startled.
For the merest fraction of a second, her expression softened. Then she
turned away. "Yeah, that goes double for me."
     Suddenly, the doors of the auditorum were thrown open by the alien who
had travelled from a distant star - and burned way too much gas doing it -
who stalked into the room. This alien looked, for the sake of convienience,
much like a human would, save for the overly shiny silver jumpsuit and
glass fishbowl helmet that marked it as one of those ETs from a bygone age.
     "There are three here who have reconfigured this altiverse," said the
alien, his voice sounding hollow through the helmet, which began to fog up
with his breath. "Show yourselves."
     As one, Greg, Frobozz and one of the Swedes stood. They immediately
pointed to one another and yelled "That's the guy! Wasn't me, nope, nunh
hunh..."
     The alien watched the display impassively, before raising its hand for
silence. "I represent Shwoooooopinarn, Shwoooooopinarn, Fleebutzits and
Smith, and am here on behalf of Extra-Altiversal Insurance. As your
universe appears to be demolished more often than most people launder their
socks, EAI has no choice but to issue a write-off of the altiverse and
cancel insurance premiums," he held up a large back that clinked as it was
rattled. "The payment comes to ten wowthatsanicechunkofchangeion dollars.
Who will receive?"
     The three Authors looked at each other for a moment before pouncing on
the alien and scrabbling for the bag, pummeling the startled ET insensate
as they struggled.
***
     "Love," began Johan, as three unruly Authors were hosed down and sent
to the corner to think about what they'd done. "Love is what brings us here
together."
     Mime Man sighed, and wondered why everyone felt that they had to
improvise. He entertained a moment's vision of an invisible wall falling on
Johan's head, but Mime Man was a hero gosh-darnit. He'd have to wait until
the janitor committed a crime and _then_ drop something on top of him.
     "That's why we celebrate now... 'Best Interauthor Romace'! Here to
present the award is the god of Love himself... Cupid!"
     A cherubic child, as seen on numerous St Valentine's Day cards and
endless cartoons, flew onto the stage, bow and arrows slung over his
shoulder.
     "What're you laughing at?" asked Cupid, staring at the audience. "Just
because you've never seen a god with diaper rash before? Oh yeah, well take
this!"
     Cupid shot an arrow into the crowd, hitting someone who had made the
mistake of laughing.
     "See if you like falling in love with him, lady, and then snicker!"
     Doug eyed the striken woman. "Heeeeeello..." he grinned, sliding next
to her.
     "Kill me now," muttered the woman, as Cupid's spell took effect. Johan
cleared his throat.
     "Oh, what's the matter, the little god ain't moving fast enough for
you?" asked Cupid, nocking another arrow. "You want a piece of me, do you?
Do you?"
     "Could you... just read the nominees please?"
     "That's all you palookas think about, isn't it?" asked Cupid, picking
up the envelope. "Not enough that I bust my bare butt to make you all fall
madly in love with each other, but I've gotta do Grunion work to make ends
meet. Right. Dorks who've fallen in love outside their series: Trapdoor
Spiderman and Dynamite Vest Man; Prizm and Taximan; and Ramrod and Radian.
So the winner is... Ramrod and Radian. Like anyone really gives a rat's
ass."
     "Hey, I think it's sweet," said Johan, leaning on his mop.
     "Shaddup, you, or I'll make you fall in love with that, what'ser name,
Dog-Thing."
     Johan immediately clapped a hand over his mouth.
     "OH, GOD, NO," chorused the entire audience.
     "YES!" Ramrod and Radian shouted, leaping to their feet.
     "NO!" cried the audience.
     "YES!" the heroes enthused, joining hands and skipping up the aisle
toward the stage. They seemed oblivious to the moaning, groaning, and
occasional vomiting going on around them as they climbed the steps and
accepted the gleaming Grunion from the clearly queasy Cupid.
     "I made one _hell(tm)_ of a mistake with you two, didn't I?" asked the
diminuative god.
     "Th-" the pair began in unison. They giggled and kissed.  "Th-" they
both attempted again, and giggled and kissed. "Th-" they began, but were
interrupted by the thunderous sound of Mighty Guy gagging.
     "You first, dear," Ramrod said.
     "No, no, you first, sweetie," Radian said.
     "No, no, I insist-"  He stopped as Radian subtly pointed at a
regular-flesh-colored patch on her face where her white makeup had rubbed
off during the kisses. "Ah," he said. "Me first." She turned away to touch
up the whiteface.
     "Thank you," Ramrod said. "Thank you all. We really appreciate the
fact that you've chosen to celebrate the love that Akane and I hold for
each other by presenting us with this award. And since you've honored us in
this manner, we'd like to attempt to return the favor in some small way,
with the help of..."
     Radian gestured as she turned back toward the audience, and the rear
curtain rose to reveal an orchestra seated at the back of the stage, each
member wearing a white tuxedo. "Monsieur Lefleur et L'Orchestre de
Romance!" she announced.
     To a stunning lack of applause, Monsieur Lefleur twirled his moustache
and took a deep bow. Turning back to his orchestra, he gestured with his
baton and they began a sickly-sweet Andrew-Lloyd-Weberesque instrumental.
     "OH, GOD, NO," moaned the audience, as Ramrod and Radian turned to
each other, took each other's hands, and gazed deeply into each other's
eyes, and began to sing in a sickly-sweet Andrew-Lloyd-Weberesque sort of
way:

BOTH:    It doesn't suck
         No no, it truly doesn't suck
         We've had remarkable luck
         Our love doesn't suck!

RAMROD (Melody)                                RADIAN (Counterpoint)
  I've been such a lucky, lucky guy!          How did he find me?
  She's more than I deserve!                  Is this really real?
  She takes my heart into the sky!            Can this love truly
                                              be?
  I tell you, folks, this gal's got verve!   Would he look good in
                                             teal?

AUDIENCE:  BOOOOO!

BOTH (Oblivious):  It doesn't suck
                   No no, it truly doesn't suck
                   We've had remarkable luck
                   Especially when we-

LOVE COP:  At last I've found you!

AUDIENCE:  Hurray!

LOVE COP:  At last I've found this horrid pair!
           I can finally put an end to this
           Appalling little affair!

     The orchestra proceeded to play a twenty minute sickly-sweet
Andrew-Lloyd-Weberesque instrumental while the three players performed a
modern dance number that, in theory, depicted the lovers fleeing Love Cop
while she attempted to force them to recover their sanity, but (like all
sickly-sweet Andrew-Lloyd-Weberesque dance numbers) could also have
represented the life cycle of the Liberian chihuahua. At several points
during the performance, the audience's collective yawns threatened to suck
all the air out of the Beanstalk and buckle the hull. Fortunately, before
every perished in the cold vacuum of space, the dance number ended with
Ramrod and Radian pounding the crap out of Love Cop and shoving her
unconscious body off the edge of the stage. They turned to each other,
seized hands again, and resumed singing:

BOTH:    It doesn't suck
         No no, it truly doesn't suck
         We've had remarkable luck
         We've shown astonishing pluck
         We get comfier than a duck
         No, our loooove....
         Does....
         NOT....
         SUUUUUUUCK!


     The orchestra played its final notes, and the auditorium fell silent
except for the chirping sound of Orbital Space Crickets and the occasional
dripping sound of drool rolling off an audience member's chin and splashing
into the pool that had collected on the floor.
     "Thank you," Ramrod and Radian said together, taking a bow before the
goggle-eyed, musically-lobotomized faces in the crowd. They pulled each
other into a long, noisy kiss, and made their way off the stage.
     "Still think it's sweet?" asked Cupid, rolling his eyes.
     "Sure do," replied Johan.
     "The other kids made you eat mud a lot, didn't they?" asked Cupid,
floating off of the stage. Mime Man gestured for Johan's attention again,
then mimed the next award.
     "Heroes and villains are celebrated tonight," said Johan, shifting his
security mop a bit as he translated. "But there's one thing they both have
in common: they need a place to laugh, love, cry, angst, fight and buy
spandex. Or to put it another way, heroing is equal parts practice,
practice, practice and location, location, location. Our next award is a
tribute to those places that make all of this possible... here to present
'Best Location' is the Great Cthulu himself, straight from his own twisted
location, the nether planes of--the... Great... Chtulu...?"
     Shaking with fear, Johan turned, mop at the ready to serve as a shield
against any and all dangers that could be turned aside by several
centimeters of wood and a wet squeegie.
     "Ggggggaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh..." said Johan, turning whiter than a ghost.
The janitor felt his hair leech itself of colour in fright as he stared
upon the nattily dressed spawn-thing who had come up to make the
presentation. His eyes bugged out. His sanity drained away. His tongue
swelled. He began running through any and all prayers that he had ever been
taught.
     And then Johan looked away from Rosanne Barr, seeing Cthulu on her
arm, which was almost as horrifying. Splitting the difference, he fainted
dead away.
     "Used to be the MC and they give me a weenie presentation like this,"
grumbled Cthulu, scooping up the fallen envelope with his tentacles.
     "You're a star," said Rosanne, patting Cthulu on the arm. "You'll show
'em."
     Cthulu grinned, causing the entire front row of the audience to go
stark, raving mad, devoted to the blasphemous mysteries of the great and
twisted lord. As the front row had been entirely celebrity seating, no one
noticed the difference and the show continued.
     "Our top three nominees for 'Best Location'," rasped Cthulu, squinting
at the envelope, "First, we've got the planet that we all know and love to
try to subvert to our dark designs, dragging it into a millenium of
servitude while extinguishing its vital spark over the course of
centuries... Earth! Next, the place that you want to get permission to
enter or fear wrath eternal, even if you were a creature old as time when
the universe was young: Bob City! And finally, that hole in the ground that
shelters foolish young heroic fools who dare to oppose the designs and
machinations of those who understand the mysteries of the universe: The New
Cynic Pit! And... our winner is... Bob City! Here to accept the award on
behalf of the city, the honorable Rupert J. Karst."
        There was more polite applause as the mayor of Bob City stepped up
to the podium, a voluminous sheaf of notes in his hand.
        "Good evening ladies and gentlemen," the mayor began, setting his
notes on the lectern. "I'd first of all like to thank you all on behalf of
Bob City. The award for Best Location had many fine competitiors this year,
including this magnificent venue we're in now."
        There was another round of applause for the Beanstalk.
        "I could stand here for hours and talk about our city, and all that
goes on there, and all we've accomplished in this past year, but really,
ladies and gentlemen, anything that I can say here won't give you the true
feeling of what it's like to live and work and be in Bob. I only wish..."
        Karst trailed off and glanced at the ceiling, as if something had
suddenly attracted his attention.
        "As I was saying," he continued, refocussing on his attention on
the crowd. "I only with that it was not only me, but the city itself..."
He trailed off again, glancing back up at the ceiling nervously.
        "Er, the city itself that could be here tonight in this," he paused
again, brushing something off the notes for his speech. "auditorium to
accept the" a thin stream of water appeared to course down his cheek.
"award."
        Karst glanced upwards again as the now-visible drops of water
sprinkled him and the podium.
        "But, er," he soldiered on uneasily. "We all know that
that...isn't...possible."
        There was a crack of thunder and the skies, er, roof, er, something
opened up, sending torrents of driving precipitation down on the stage and
the crowd.
        Karst picked up his notes, attempted to stop the water from
smearing them, and finally, resignedly tossed them over his shoulder into
the puddle that had welled up behind him.
        He turned back to the microphone, shaking his head wearily.
        "Thank you," he said, "and good night."
     Cthulu picked up the fallen Johan with his tentacles and dusted the
man off, before slapping him awake.
     "You can abase yourself before me later. Right now, read the next damn
award."
     "Oh mommy," groaned the janitor sleepily. "I had _such_ a bad dream...
they made me stand in front of bad people and there was seige equipment
there and Cthulu and..."
     "Hi there," said Cthulu.
     "Hi there," said Johan.
     There was a pause.
     "Boo!" shouted Cthulu.
     "Ahhhhhhhhh!" screamed Johan, running behind Mime Man for protection.
Cthulu walked off chuckling nastily, Rosanne back on his arm.
***
     The sonic barrage threw the flying Masked Bruce into one of the
Beanstalk's walls hard, denting it slightly. Support personnel and badly
outgunned STOP troopers fled as brilliant arpeggios of doom cascaded out of
the potent, Andy-Awesome-designed instrument and were bent and amplified by
T's power into sonic assaults that battered the Xolchipalian Gladiator (but
did not manage to muss the hero's perfect head of hair, of course).
     "Not... quite...." the Masked Bruce grunted, reorienting his Tihorn
and firing a snap sequence of nine Xolchapulses which were warped to the
side by sonic defenses, but which threw the Awesome hero back into their
detonations, knocking him about but doing nothing to even ruffle the hero's
flowing head of hair.
     "You can't stand before the Holy Trinity of Rock!" T shouted. "A-B-A!
A-A-B-A! A-B-A-C-B!" His hands strummed the chords, his magnetic glide
controlling the frictionless frets.
     "ARGH!" arghed the Masked Bruce, who fired a searing Xolchipaliax
Laser burst that seared the floor before the musical hero and erupted the
carpeting into flames that drove T back. He threw himself to the floor,
rolling into a three point stance and fired a Xolchipaliax Concussion Blast
that threw T through four stands and into the Mall, coincidentally next to
a hair salon.
     "You can trim that unsightly mop while you're there," the Masked Bruce
shouted. "I'll even pay for--"
     T rumbled his hands into a thrillingly deadly chord, and the
superstructure of the Mall's flying buttresses collapsed on the Masked
Bruce. "Sorry," he said. "No time for pit stops! I have an award to win!"
He headed back for the Auditorium.
     There was a shuddering explosion of Xolchipaliax Radiation, and the
Masked Bruce stood amidst the wreckage. "Like Hell (tm) he spat."
***
     "Just like heroes and villains need places to live," said Johan,
resplendant in a fresh pair of pants. "So they also need a way to get
there. Here to present the award for 'Best Non-Aggressively Beweaponed
Vehicle' is... a Vespa two-stroke scooter?"
     Its headight gleamed with the malevolent light of intelligence, its
chrome gleamed with a seductive finish, begging all those who looked upon
it to come closer... to touch it... to covet it... to ride it... to live
it. A low rumble sounded within its engine, a sound that spoke of menace
and power that could not be denied. It was... a scooter which rolled onto
the stage.
     "My god," whispered Johan, "It's... so... so..."
     His reverie was broken as Mime Man slapped Johan across the face,
breaking the spell that the scooter threatened to cast upon him - and
feeling pretty darned satisfying at the same time. Without a word Johan
passed the envelope to the Vespa, which took and swallowed the piece of
paper into its engine compartment. Another rumble sounded... and none who
heard it could doubt that there were three nominees, and that they were the
Nun on the Road's car, the Noj and the Mime Mobile. Then the rumble went
silent, plunging the auditorium into a moment of eerie silence before a
roar cut loose, deafening all in a display of supreme power. When the din
cleared, the scooter beeped once, and all knew that the Nun on the Road's
car had won. Johan, shaking at the awesome power of the scooter's roar,
stepped forward to speak again at Mime Man's urging.
     "There have been some logistical problems in getting the award *to*
the Nun on the Road, so we have asked her Author, Pickle, to accept in her
place-"
     "No need!" Pickle shouted cheerfully from a peculiar apparatus he and
the Artiste had assembled in the back of the auditorium. "We've rigged up a
SPAM-powered winch and an awesomeantium cable to haul her car up here!"
     "Ready," the Artiste said proudly.
     "Then pull the switch!"
     The Artiste reached out for a large, ominous knife switch.
     "Wait -- Bill, Dom, *NO!*" screamed Frobozz, as the switch closed.
     With the horrendous wrenching sound of tearing metal, the entire
Beanstalk was pulled out of orbit and shredded by rotational and tidal
forces as the auditorium section was dragged to the planet's surface. The
sky flared a thousand mysterious and beautiful colors as authors and
characters spilled out of the structure and plunged into the atmosphere,
burning up on re-entry. Cities shattered and burned as enormous chunks of
superheated metal rained down on them like the Final Judgment.
     Astonishingly, although its occupants had been hurled to their dooms
in the first moments of the catastrophe, the auditorium remained largely
intact until it landed on the Nun on the Road's Lincoln Continental, at
which point it was reduced to a small wad of unidentifiable metal.
     "I knew that was going to happen," said the Sage smugly from his small
spacecraft, hovering safely outside the danger zone.
     With his help to locate the bits and pieces of various Authors, and
approximately eight months of time, the damage was undone. With a
substantial amount of beer and heavy-duty chain, Pickle and the Artiste
were discouraged from attempting the feat again, despite their claims that
they had determined what had gone wrong the first time.  The Nun's award
was delivered by mail, and the ceremony continued.
***
[TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW! IF YOU DON'T SHOW, YOU'LL NEVER KNOW!]