🚀 go-pugleaf

[Continued From Part Two!]

     Cleaned and de-meringued, Mime Man, Johan and the mop trudged back out
onto the stage, with rolls of cloth tucked under their arms.
     "Our next award celebrates those Authors who are interested in a
mosaic, and telling the stories on the fringes of their part of the world.
Here to present the award for 'Best Anthology' is Author of one of the said
anthology titles... Van!"
     Van walked onstage, to thunderous applause, just as Mime Man and Johan
opened the umbrellas that they'd brought along. As Van took the envelope a
dozen key lime pies fell from the rafters. The two characters grinned at
the pie-covered Author, then looked innocently at the sky as he muttered
something about 'paybacks' and 'Boston Cream'.
     "Let's see this envelope," he said, wiping some pie from his eyes to
look at it. "Hunh. There're three series nominated, by three different
Authors, all of whom're probably guilty of covering me with pie. We've got
Ben 'The Pieman' Brown's _Bob City Chronicles_, Chris 'Crusty Guy' Meadows'
_Team M.E.C.H.A. Journals_ and Chris 'Flakey' Angelini's _Spotlight On..._.
The winner and guy who's going to get a chocolate cream where it counts
when he isn't looking is... Chris Angelini for _Spotlight On..._!"
     Frobozz blinked. "I... won something?" he asked of his cast, looking
around guiltily like a man who'd just found a wallet stuffed with fifty
dollar bills. "Um... right! I won! I won!" Reaching over, he tugged Ray and
Amanda out of their seats, dragging them onto the stage.
     "To everyone who voted for _Spotlight On..._," he began, jumping
behind the podium with a running leap. "I just want to say... bless you and
your cheques are in the mail! I'm glad that the 'grand daddy' of the
anthology set still keeps you all entertained! I know I've had fun doing
it. And to reward you all for making _Spotlight On..._ this year's winner,
my two favourite characters from that series will now juggle flaming
chainsaws!"
     "We'll _WHAT_?" asked Ray, incredulous. Frobozz blinked again.
     "Didn't we talk about this?"
     "No, we most certainly did not!" replied Amanda.
     "Is it stagefright?"
     "We can't juggle!"
     "Oh."
     Frobozz looked at the crowd, smiling weakly. "Um... minor... technical
difficulty. Yeah, they're having trouble getting the chainsaws to catch
fire."
     From backstage there came the sound of a saw buzzing to life, then the
unmistakable noise of gasoline catching fire and the tool exploding in
someone's face. "MEDIC!"
     Frobozz grinned again. "Um... yes. So I suppose um... well, for your
entertainment... um... pleasure... I will... er... grab this Grunion and
run like Hell(tm)!"
     With a deft grasp, Frobozz snatched the trophy from the podium and
bolted for the door. Amanda sighed and tapped the microphone.
     "From all of us at Spotlight, who don't rate our _own_ series," she
looked accusingly at the door that Frobozz had dashed through, "Thank you
all again!"
     The two left the stage to the sound of thunderous applause.
     "Say," said Johan to Van, nodding at Mime Man's gesturing. "You mind
reading out the next one too?"
     Van shook his head. "No problem. Why?"
     "The next presenter's supposed to be The Man With Two First Names."
     All eyes turned to the slumped corpse that had fallen next to his
Grunion, mouldering on the ground. A crown of flies buzzed gleefully around
him.
     "Got it," said Van, taking the next envelope. "The next Grunion goes
to the writers of that madcap world where the Authors live, that's going to
see a lot more stealth pie-fighters in its skies reallllly soon now. Three
Author's Altiverse posts have been nominated for 'Best AA' Grunion: Rob
Furr and Ben Brown's epic 'Whole Heap O' AA', Chris Angelini's potty
trained 'Baby Boom' and Eric Alfred Burns's stirring _All's Quiet On The
Western Fr--sorry, misread that, 'Nerflander #1'! And the winner is...
'Whole Heap O' AA!'"
     Calliope applauded the awards politely, smiling her best
`Grunions Evening Smile.' "What a fun night. Even the fights didn't really
muddle it."
     She paused, noticing Sabre's trademark befuddled air of benevolent
malevolence was disturbed by a dark glower, his hands fingering his Nerf
Sword, his eyes flinty and cold.
     "Sabre?" she asked, dreading the Author's reply.
     "Rob Furr?" he asked. "Rob Furr won Best AA?"
     "Well, it *was* a very funny episode," Calliope said, looking
around for a waitress to get the Author scotch before he started
obliterating large sections of New England.
     "Rob Furr? Beat `Nerflander #1?'"
     "Sabre... Sabre... calm down. It's not--"
     Far away distant, a meteor (run!  Meteor!) smashed into Cape Cod.
     "Sabre... it's all right. You were nominated. Nominations are a good
thing.  It's an ack--"
     "Nerflander had everything! A bad Movie Parody! Nerf! Glowering
Authors in Trenchcoats! Inappropriate Queen Music! What was `A Whole Heap
of AA's' compared to that?"
     "Sabre... Nerflander #1 was also eighteen months late. And you left a
woman in labor all that time."
     "That's got *nothing* to do with it! This was an artistic
expression the likes of which has never been seen before! `Citizen
Kane' was nothing compared to Nerflander #1! `The Ten Commandments' was a
piddling backlot production when matched up with the pulse-pounding epochal
scale that was--"
     "Sabre -- you're becoming irrational and you're causing a scene.
Please, you've been *so* good toni--"
     "THERE CAN BE ONLY FIVE AND HE'S NOT ONE OF THEM!!!! I'll--"
     "Calm *down!*  You won a Technical *with* him. `Most Ultradelayed,'
remember?"
     Sabre paused in mid-rant. "Um, that's not our fault," he said. "The
editing crew dumped broccoli into the rough cuts so we have to refilm."
     "*And* you were nominated for `Knights in Blue Spandex.'"
     "Look, you try working with Dianna Potentiate. She got final cut, so
we had tons of--"
     "She did not *either* get final cut."
     "Yeah yeah. Right. Um... hm. I'm out of scotch."
     "So you are."
        "Ahem," said Rob.
        Ben tapped on the microphone.
        "Ahem," Rob repeated.
        Ben continued tapping the microphone.
        "Ahem," Rob said again.
        Ben thrummed his fingers on the microphone, making loud and
annoying echoes throughout the auditorium.
        "We have come here tonight..." Rob trailed off, apparently looking
at  something in the back of  the hall.
        "Whatcha lookin' at?"  Ben asked.
        Rob continued staring intently.
        "Will you get on with it?" yelled someone from the crowd.
        "Oh, yeah, right," Ben said. "Well, while my associate is staring
off into space, I'd like to begin by saying that we've come here tonight to
accept the award for Best Authors' Altiverse episode. Now, as you'll
recall, this episode was--"
        "There's a talking banana in the back of the auditorium," Rob
interrupted.
        "Is there?" Ben peered intently into the darkness. "Hmm, why so
there is."
        "Yep," said Rob. "Pretty big sucker, ain't he?"
        Ben nodded. "I wonder where he comes from."
        "A banana republic, probably. He's undoubtedly been sent to forment
unrest here and kick the noble proprietors of United Fruit Company out,
just like they did in Nicaragua."
        "Kicked out?" Ben asked, segueing nicely into a long digression.
        "Yes. You see, United Fruit Company was a leading motivator in
Central and South American politics for a long time. It served as the
Chosen Instrument of United States foreign policy in the realm of produce
production."
        "The Chosen Instrument?" asked Ben. "The uninformed in the audience
might appreciate an explanation of that term."
        "So they might!" agreed Rob, rolling out a blackboard from the
wings. As he turned around, he noticed several stray Authors who,
apparently confused as to which way one ought to go to get closer to the
stage, were slowly tiptoeing up the aisle, instead of down. Using his
preternatural throwing skills, Rob managed to severely injure quite a
number of Mitchellites, who were sitting as far away from the tiptoeing
Authors as was physically possible in the auditorium. "Aha!" shouted Rob.
"You there! The one in the hat! Yes, you. There are seats down in front.
Down in front. Come on, you're going the wrong way." Rob waved at the video
crew, who, in the spirit of cooperation that exists between all members of
ITVA, immediately turned their follow-spots away from the disappointed
award nominees, such as they were, and aimed them at the Authors in the
aisle. "Come on, folks, give them a big hand! Right this way, folks! Bill,
you can sit down there in the front row! And Frobozz! Yes, there's space
down here as well!"
        With the attention of the entire auditorium, as well a significant
majority of the viewing public who had been foolish enough to pay the
$39.95 for the pay-per-view right to the awards ceremony, focused on them,
the Authors sheepishly turned around and slunk down even closer to the
front row than they had previously been.
        "Right!" said Rob. "Where was I?"
        "Chosen Instruments!" said Ben, carefully withdrawing a nine
millimeter Beretta and aiming it squarely at the form of Hugh Grant
(coincidence), who had been sneaking into the wings with a large and
suspiciously-sharp-edged hook.
        "Yes! Chosen Instruments! Yes, for a long time, beginning around
the turn of the century and continuing through the Cold War, the United
States had a policy of encouraging one specific company or group of
companies to act as the chosen instrument in that field in terms of a
defined region and industry. For instance, for many years, Pan Am served as
the Chosen Instrument of American aviation in South America. What was good
for Pan Am in South America was, by definition, good for America. Bill, sit
up straight and take your hat off." The Author in question slouched in a
slightly more attentive manner, while, next to him, Frobozz was injecting
powerful central nervous system stimulants directly into his carotid artery
in an effort to keep awake.
        "What was good for Pan Am was also good for other companies, of
course - encouraging a single airline in extra-national affairs encouraged
the growth of that airline, and through that, that airline's ability to
support larger fleets of aircraft, and through *that*, to support larger
airplane manufacturers. Pan Am had a special relationship with Boeing, for
instance, although Boeing's relationship with United took precedence,
United receiving the first 247s (a twelve-seat, two-engined all-metal
monoplane.)"
        Ben turned to the blackboard and quickly sketched out a rough
outline of the 247, noting the layout, the cross-cabin wing spar, the
streamlined engine cowling, and the retractable landing gear. As he turned
back, he noted that Hugh Grant (coincidence) was unrolling a fire hose, and
having an anonymous trooper attach it to the sprinkler system. Several
well-placed shots into the six-inch CPVC pipe prevented Hugh from getting
much pressure into the hose system proper.
        Rob smiled broadly and continued, sketching the Fighting Irish's
home stadium and typical plays on the blackboard. "Coincidentally enough,
the special relationship between United Airlines and Boeing had extensive
repercussions on the history of the aerospace industry, as TWA, which had
yet to switch over to all-metal aircraft, had a Fokker wooden trimotor
crash. This crash involved the death of all aboard, including the famous
coach Knute Rockne. Upon the discovery that the crash was likely caused by
wood rot in a major structural spar of the aircraft, public opinion began
to turn against wooden aircraft, and TWA was forced to look for a
replacement for their aging Fokker fleet. United had reserved all of the
early 247 production, which left none for TWA, who were subsequently forced
to turn to other aircraft manufacturers, including Donald Douglas' company,
which was struggling to survive with mail and training aircraft contracts.
Douglas turned around and produced a design which would revolutionize air
travel, change the way mankind thought about the air, and encourage a boom
in the aviation industry which would continue through World War II and
beyond."
        "That design was the DC-1, direct forerunner of the DC-3, also
known as the C-47, the Dakota, the LI-2, and so on and so forth. The
technologies assembled together in one place in allowed the aviation
industry to grow, and change, and, with its near permanent connections with
the U.S. military, eventually develop into the aerospace industry that we
know today... the aerospace industry that, in connection with the National
Aeronautics and Space Administration, put an American into space."
        "When the United States first decided to have such a thing as a
space program, they considered many types of people to be the potential
test subjects on the first manned missions, from professional athletes to
carnival performers. It was ultimately, however, the decision of then
President Dwight D. Eisenhower, that the first astronauts should be
recruited exclusively from military test pilots."
        "There were many reasons for this choice, but one of the principal
ones was the matter of security. Test pilots, already in the military, did
not need the same extensive background checks as civilians would have
needed had they been chosen. Being in the military, they already had
security clearances. Security matters were, of course, paramount in those
days with the space race featuring as a fairly showy part of the cold war
the United States waged with the Soviet Union."
        "Now, of course, since the cold war is over, the space program has
largely gone down the funding toilet. Sure we're sending up shuttles every
now and again, but if there were a space race still going on, we'd have a
working station of our own and probably be shooting for Mars about now.
What are we doing instead? We're using _their_ space station. Now I'm all
for international cooperation, and I'm sure my associate would agree with
me."
        "Yep," said Ben, reminding everyone that he was in this scene too.
"Now, before Rob goes off on his inevitable tangent about Mars, I'd like to
add that while none of us longs for the paranoia of the cold war, there are
those of us, particularly those in the defence contracting industry, who
wouldn't mind another crack at the cash involved. That's not to say that I
am in the defence contracting industry, only that if I were, the dough
would be a nice thing to have. It's interesting how this country was
essentially on a wartime footing as far as the cash flow was concerned, for
about fifty years. This has led us to accept certain facts of life which
may not be necessarily true, but since the majority of the population has
grown up under these conditions, we see nothing odd about. But back to the
movie."
        "Which movie?" Rob asked, in an attempt to untangle the conversation.
        "_The Right Stuff_."
        "Ah, yes, _The Right Stuff_, which stars Ed Harris, among other
people. There's a federal law stating that Ed Harris must appear in all
space program movies."
        "Is there?"
        "Yes. All good ones, at least. He was in _The Right Stuff_, and
then last year appeared in _Apollo 13_."
        "A good movie."
        "Yep."
        "Stiffed somewhat at the Oscars."
        "Yep. _Braveheart_ got all the bacon. The Scottish Epic seemed to
take home everything. Guess they just have a thing for guys in kilts."
        "I wouldn't be so sure. After all, _Rob Roy_ won hardly anything."
        "Gosh, I'd nearly forgotten that came out this year."
        "Yep. This was a big year for Scottish Epics. Although they might
as well have been Irish Epics."
        "Irish?"
        "Yep. Filmed on location in Ireland, for the most part. Plus, in
the case of _Rob Roy_, the lead actor, Liam Neeson, is Irish."
        "That he is."
        "He's also Tall!"
        Rob placed his hands proudly on his hips. "Tall!" he pronounced
enthusiastically.
        "He's taller than either of us, folks," Ben said, turning to the
audience which had largely gone neglected in this scene so far. "And we're
not exactly short."
        "Nope!" Rob said proudly. "We're Tall!"
        "It's rather amazing how the fine folks that make movies can expect
us to believe that Liam Neeson, who is six foot five or so can disguise
himself as just about anybody in the world in _Darkman_."
        "Ben, don't get me started on _Darkman_."
        "All right. Just interesting to note that. Neeson pops up in other
movies, too."
        "He's an actor. That's his job."
        "Yes, but in interesting roles. For example, in _The Mission_,
Neeson, already a fairly well known actor, plays what is little more than a
bit part. It's not a cameo or anything either. He's in most of the movie,
playing the part of monk #2."
        "Monk #2?"
        "Yes, he's one of a bunch of monks bringing Christianity to the
remote areas of South America, and the movie is all about church and state
conflicts, and the oppression of just about everybody by the Spanish ruling
class."
        "Much as goes on in parts of Latin America today," interjected Rob,
bringing the digression full circle.
        "Exactly!" Ben shouted happily. "Like the banana republics from
which that large banana at the back of the auditorium probabl..."
        "What?"
        "It's gone."
        Rob scanned the hall.
        "Why so it is!" he said. He looked out at the audience.  "There's
an audience there, though."
        Ben nodded sagely. "Probably here to see us get this award."
        "What award?"
        "Best AA."
        "Oh, yeah, that's right. We should make our speech on that now."
        "Right! Okay, we'd like to thank the academy. By the way, the word
`Academy' comes from the Greek, where the original grove of Academe was
outside Athens."
        "Socrates, was it?"
        "Yes! Socrates! Or at least that's what Plato says. I'm still not
completely convinced Plato didn't make the guy up."
        "Ack. Plato. Allegory of the cave. Ack." said Rob.
        "Yes, Plato's view of the--mfrlgs!"   Ben attempted to continue.
        "What?" Rob looked to see what was up with his comrade, only to
find him being dragged bodily from the stage by a pair of armored STOP
troopers.  He considered this for a moment, and then realized that if they
were dragging Ben off, they would probably come for him too at any moment.
        "Oh, bloody He-glmph!"
     Mime Man slapped his face and gestured frantically to Johan, who
watched with intense concentration before slapping his face as well and
whispering to Van. Being an Author, Van thought that this was the going
thing to do, and whispered to Pickle, who - on the principle of Author See
Author Do, whispered down the line... and so on and so on. Finally, Elmo
walked onto stage and whispered in Van's ear, who nodded brightly.
      "Sure, I'll quietly accept the job of reading another nomination
because they just dragged off the next presenter, and not say a word to tip
people off about how ramshackle and last-minute this year's Grunions are!"
      Mime Man mimed 'pie', 'after the Grunions' and 'back alley' to Johan,
who nodded with a sigh and handed the envelope to Van.
     "Now it's time to reward those Authors who write good, overall series
that are consistently enjoyable," said Johan, translating. His mop remained
silent. "If you'd be so good as to read out the nominees for 'Best
Series'?"
     "Right!" said Van, idly wishing that he could blowfish the camera lens
on the principle that it would be seen around the world. "Our nominees for
Best Series are _Radian and Shadebeam_, _Preteen Patrol_ and _Adjusted
League Unimpeachable_! And the winner of the 1995 'Best Series' Grunion
is... _Radian and Shadebeam_!"
     The Adjusted League Unimpeachable applauded, all but for the Masked
Bruce, who slammed an angry fist.
     "What?" Unorthodox Lass asked. "You didn't expect."
     "It was rigged," he half-sobbed. "All rigged!"
     "Look, we couldn't expect to win that. We just couldn't."
     The Masked Bruce blinked. "Not us," he said. "I put money on the
Preteen Patrol."
     "Ooooh...."
     "Ohmigod, we won again!" Shadebeam exclaimed, her reaction in
complete contrast to her earlier disdain for the Most Confusing Grunion.
She pulled Hal, Andro and China from their seats and they followed Radian
to the podium, where their Grunions were waiting.
     "Well, um, who wants to go first?" Radian asked. "Hal?"
     "Thank you," Hal said. "I would like to thank everyone who voted for
our series as Best Series for the second straight year. A lot happened
during the course of it, not the least of which is the fact that I gained a
physical human body--"
     "Which I can't be told about," Radian said. "In fact, I didn't hear
what you just said. Carry on."
     "I would like to thank the various AIs and CIs I have know over the
years for the support they have shown for my suddenly becoming human. In
particular, I would like to thank my longtime friend Jake, the Defence
Squad AI, who said, and I quote, 'you look like an Amway rep now, Hal.  See
a stylist, pronto.'"
     "I'd like to thank everyone I met over the past two years, though for
the most part you never saw me, or us, I should say, when we met," China
Kyoko said.
     "Same here," Andro Symon added. "I'd thank Radian, our mother, as
well, if she were listening to us."
     "Hmmm hmmm hmmmmm hmmm, I can't heeear you," Radian said, her
hands pressed firmly over her ears.
     "And, of course," Shadebeam said, "where would we be without people
like Todd the Revolutionary Anarchist Werewolf, server of fine ales at the
Big Time, and others such as he who served the fine microbrews that gave us
strength to carry on?"
     "La la la la laaaaaa..." Radian sang. Shadebeam removed her hands from
her ears and pointed to the microphone. "Oh. Um. Thanks.  This is great. I
guess whatever is going to happen that I haven't experienced yet,it'll be
very dramatic."
     They sauntered back to their seats, as the applause rose. Van grinned
at the applause, doing his most impressive Slinky tricks to entertain the
crowd while they settled down. "And while we're on Best Series, we might as
well present 'Best New Series'! The nominees are: _Preteen Patrol_, _Bob
City Chronicles_ and _Synapse and the Guardians of Rectitude_. The winner
is... _Synapse_!"
        Frederick P. Ludge was the first Guardian to his feet, whistling
shrilly through his teeth and pumping his ham-sized fist high in the air.
"Whoo!  Whoo!  Whoo!" Mary Agnes stared to follow suit, but stopped when
Tony took her by the arm.
        "Fred, would you mind carrying Judy? She's still unconscious."
        "Shore thang, Pops!" Fred slung the red-sequined crimefighter over
his shoulder, and the sextad made their way to the podium.
        Liberty Richards was the first to speak into the microphone.  "I'd
just like to say it's been a real privilege working with this team, one not
many academics are fortunate enough to experience. Freedom to the graduate
students!" she shouted, indicating the ivory ribbon that was affixed to her
lapel. Knowing political statements during Grunion acceptance speeches were
frowned upon, Tony quickly interceded.
        "Ahem. We'd also like to express our pride in being part of this
truly outstanding field of nominees, and I'm sure I speak for the entire
team when I say..."
        Ludge elbowed his way to the mike. "YAHOO!!!!" Jus' lookit yer boy
NOW, Grandmaw!!!! Yeah! YEAH!"
        Grey Leopard deftly snatched the mike away. "We'd also like to
thank everyone who voted for us for this award, and, of course, our Author
for creating us. I'm sure Windswimmer would say the same if she were
awake."
        "Not!" mumbled Judy, still slung over Ludge's shoulder. "I really
*hate* that bitch..."
        Cory turned to Mary Agnes. "Kitten, you want to say something?" He
stooped to pick her up and lift her to microphone level.
        "Uh-I, uh..." Mary Agnes stared out at all the faces in the crowd,
suddenly turned shy and buried her face in Grey Leopard's shoulder.
        "Awww...." gushed the crowd. "Isn't that CUTE???"
        "Why, I think she's cuter than Spoongirl!!!" came one comment,
which Mary Agnes's sharp ears instantly picked up on.
        "Did you hear that? They think I'm cuter than Spoongirl!"
        "Come, Mary Agnes, our time is up," cautioned Tony, hastily trying
to usher the group back to their seats.
        "Nah-nah! I'm cuter than Spoongirl! I'm cuter than Spoongirl!"
taunted Mary Agnes as she skipped offstage.
        "I am *NOT*!" came an an enraged voice from the audience. "I mean,
you are *NOT*!! I mean..." The hiss of a Spoonlaser beam sizzled the air,
and the Guardians of Rectitude scrambled to avoid the blast.  Only young
Mary Agnes stood her ground. An invisible shield appeared around her,
redirecting the laser blast, which ricocheted up to the ceiling and struck
the chandelier, which crashed into the orchestra pit, effectively dampening
the merry musical interlude.
        Frobozz wailed in dismay from backstage. "No! No! No! This is the
Golden Grunions! I didn't ask for any Phantom of the Opera
allusions!!!!! Auuuugh!!!"
        Mary Agnes took advantage to the distraction to dart backstage and
quickly snatch up a handful of knives from the buffet table, which she
proceeded to hurl at her tormentor with fiery accuracy. Spoongirl managed
to dodge the projectiles as she returned fire, but several front-row
spectators were not so lucky. Within seconds the stage was pockmarked with
smoking laser holes, and several audience members were pleading for medical
assistance. Murmurs of "aw, isn't that *cute* the way they're trying to
obliterate each other?" were muffled by the sounds of rustling taffeta and
bloodcurdling shrieks as the best-dressed pillars of Superguy society fled
for their lives.
        "SYNAPSE! Stop that this MINUTE!" bellowed Tony. Mary Agnes froze
in mid-throw.
        "Th-that's right, Spoongirl, precious!" squeaked Spoonman, who was
huddling underneath his seat. "Do like the nice man says, won't you, pretty
please, honey bunch? Eeep!" His daughter's response left the upholstery of
his chair charred and smoking and Spoonman whimpering for his mother.
        Tony snatched Mary Agnes by the arm, calmly relieved her of her
arsenal and marched her back to their seats, ignoring her protestations of
"she started it!"
        "You're lucky this is all out-of-continuity, young lady, or you'd
be in for a good spanking when we get home!" he scolded. "Now sit down!"
Mary Agnes subsided meekly and obeyed. Spoongirl, with some reluctance,
holstered her Spoonlaser. The surviving musicians timidly struck up a tune,
the TFA aids began to sweep up what debris they could, and the ceremony
continued.
***
     "Now, to present Best Narrator," said Johan, wiping his brow under the
hot lights. The action might have attracted less attention had he used his
hand, rather than his mop. Still, you couldn't deny the shine left left
behind was impressive. "The highly sedated and very tranquil Frobozz Magic
Productions Narrator!"
     Hello, narrated the voice. I'm very... happy to... be here again. I
had... pudding... this morning. I'm happy to meet you. Are you happy to
meet me? I have... Grunions... to announce... then we can play. Our
nominees... they're silly... are Emma Dunne... Jenny.. and Pan... and the
nice and funny winner is... Pan... someone catch me, I think my medication
is wearing off...
     "Thank you," Pan, Gary's narrator, said as he hovered invisibly near
the microphone. "It's an honor to win this award, one I've strived for ever
since my introduction, years ago, in Rad #1, back in 1989. It was a
struggle at first, having to narrate for my Author, who was obviously new
and had a tendency to write some fairly goofy material. But, eventually, he
got the hang of things, and I got some better material to narrate, as well
as the satisfaction of working for someone who wrote steadily through the
years, even as other Narrators' Authors dropped by the wayside or slowed
production to a crawl or..."
     Hey, it's just a technical award. Don't get carried away.
     "Just a technical award? *Just* a technical award? Now listen
here, Mr. In-House Narrator, Mr. Jealous Because This Award Went To Me
Instead Of--"
     I'm not a Mr.
     "Oh, sorry, Miss..."
     I'm not a miss, either. Pan-dimensional narrational entities are
non-corporeal beings, and as such, have no gender.
     "What?"
     S'true. Look it up.
     "Why didn't anyone tell *me* this?"
     No need. You're omniscient, remember?
     "Never mind."
     The award disappeared from the podium into the Narrational plane,
where Pan put it on a nonexistent shelf next to his nonexistent fifth-grade
trophies for Best Descriptive Passage Concerning The Uses of Plywood. He
then...
     "Oh, just end the scene, already."
     Righto.
***
     "Now, to present one of the more important awards of the 1995 Golden
Grunions is Sven Norstrund for 'Best Hair'!" shouted Johan, getting into
his role. He tossed the mop into the air, letting it twirl like a baton
before catching it with the top of his skull. "Ow."
     Sven walked onto stage, looking around as thunderous applause rose.
Wondering why he was receiving such a massive ovation, he removed his hat
and accepted an envelope, revealing the hair below. The crowd went wild,
spontaneously standing and flicking Bic lighters. Sven scratched his head
and shrugged, sending the crowd into greater paroxysms of appreciation for
the 'Best Hair' category.
     "Ooookay," he said, looking at the back of the envelope. "For 'Best
Hair', we have - hey, who threw that shirt? - we have 'T' and 'The Masked
Bruce'!"
     Just then, in an explosion that rocked the Beanstalk, T smashed
through the back of the auditorium and sailed out over the crowd, slamming
into the first several tables and knocking many many drinks over. The
Masked Bruce soared out through the hole, sweeping high as he slammed
Xolchapulses after T, scattering patrons hither and yon from the
destructive scene.
     The Adjusted League Unimpeachable looked shocked.
     The Awesome Force looked appalled.
     Andy Awesome and Trashman slowly turned to look at each other, and
sighed in unison.
     "You... will... *never*... claim... this... award!" the Masked Bruce
shouted, punctuating each statement with Xolchapulse after Xolchapulse,
hammering the wrecked furniture around T, burying him. "You... limp...
haired... *freak!*"
     The room grew quiet. The Masked Bruce slowly smiled. His hair was perfect.
     With a surge of superb musical power, the wrecked furniture was
blasted away, leaving T, godlike in stance and power, his perfect hair and
cape billowing in a wind no one felt, his face free of all mercy.
     "Dick Dale," he said.
     "Bwuh?" the people around him said.
     The hero's fingers blurred brilliantly, perfectly into Tribal Thunder,
searing staccato waves of power slamming the Masked Bruce hither and yon,
even as T leapt onto the stage, never missing a note. The horrified
audience members, while never condoning the battle, began spontaneously
dancing, right up to High Jinx and Rat tearing up one section of the floor
as only a hyperdextrous man and superenhanced rattiod could, while Memorex
and Maxine Destruction tore up another area of the floor in a technically
superb frolic that still barely managed to do the destructive music
justice.
     The Masked Bruce hit the stage, staggering under the assault and
firing back desperately, his attacks being reflected off the superior
sounds of T, but shaking the hero. The two closed in a deadly concert of
destruction, Tihorn and Guitar singing their potent song to one another to
the applause of hundreds.
     "STOP THIS RIGHT NOW!!!!!"
     Everyone froze, including the two bedraggled heroes with perfect hair.
     ! was standing in the back. "I THINK THIS IS JUST POOPY! YOU TWO BE NICE!"
     The two snapped around to the presenter. The Masked Bruce raised his
Tihorn. T prepared his guitar. "Who... won?" they said in unison.
     "Um... oh God... the Masked Bruce."
     There was a long pause.
     "Cool," the Masked Bruce said, standing up straight and sheathing his
Tihorn.
     "Hey, congratulations," T said, shaking the Masked Bruce's hand. "You
were due."
     "No problem. Nice riffs, by the way."
     "Really? Thanks. I thought I was a little too staccato."
     "Nah..." they wandered off the stage.
     Wisely, Sven fainted.

[TO BE CONCLUDED TOMORROW NIGHT! ONE WILL STAND, ONE WILL FALL, ONE LITTLE
PIGGY HAD NONE...]