🚀 go-pugleaf

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* Don Cook Jr/Dr. Deranged(!) presents ...                              *
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*     Episode: 3, "Rise From Your Grave -- And Dance a Little Jig."     *
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/-----------------------------------------------------------------------\
 Research Journal of <indecipherable "doctor-like" signature>.

 Artifact: "Book of the Dead," Acquisition.
 Date: <pathetic pen scratching>

        I came into possession of this outwardly unimpressive tome
known as the, "Book of the Dead," when it was turned over to me by my
son.
        My son claims to have received this book from a stranger when
he was eight years old (almost two decades ago) if he agreed to
protect it and keep it from falling into anyone else's hands.  During
that time, he has successfully hidden it from my attention until now.
Why someone in their right mind would turn over such a remarkable book
to a small boy for protection, I do not yet know.
        While I managed to get few details out of my son, I did manage
to gather that he believed this book to have special, perhaps
mystical, properties.  He cautioned me before my departure by saying
that this book was, "bad news."  I have found that those outside the
realm of academia often feel a certain sense of awe or superstition
regarding objects that come from a time well before their own.
However, I resolve to research this issue with an open mind.  I know
I've certainly seen stranger things.

\______________________________________________________________________/

*****

        "... and let me just apologize once more, for myself and
Bonehead, regarding the bomb comments we made on the air about our
former affiliates Saskatoon and New Montreal," Chase Speeds, KILL
Radio's afternoon DJ pleaded into the microphone.  "I swear on my
parent's graves that I didn't know those two cities had blown up when
we said those things.  I mean, for Author's sake here, I'm a DJ --
we're *supposed* to ignore the real world."  Chase paused his apology
in hopes it would have a dramatic effect for those people at home
listening.  "I'm not a liar, folks -- so don't make me keep
apologizing at the end of every song.  Because I will.  And it's not
a pretty thing..."
        "Chase, we have a caller named John who says he wants to be
put on the air," Sammy informed from the control room.  "He also says
this doesn't have to do with bombs or Canada."
        "At last!" Chase cheered.  "Hello, John.  You're on the air
with Chase Speeds!  What can I do for you today?"
        "Good afternoon, Mr. Speeds.  I have a question for you."
        "Fire at will, John!  We're all friends here.  Right, folks?"
        "Indeed," John's voice replied over the speaker, "the question
is -- why are you swearing on your parent's graves when everyone knows
you're an orphan?  At first I was willing to believe your story about
those jokes being an accident, but now I wonder ..."
        Chase stared at the microphone silently.  He was sure there
was a frighteningly witty response he could toss out to counter this
horrible accusation, but if there was, it wasn't leaping to mind.
"Umm," he returned, "who are you?  How did you know that, John ..."
Suddenly, the awful realization struck him.  "John!  John Powers!  Why
you snake in the grass!  I'll ..."
        Chase never finished his sentence.  The damage was done.

        John Powers switched off his cellular phone and placed it on
the desk next to Chase's personnel file.  He chuckled evilly to
himself.  If he couldn't make his employee's lives miserable, what
could he do?  "That was fun," he admitted to himself.  "And it's so
nice today, I think I'll have my lunch outside.  Maybe that Manuel
Saldanas kid is scrounging through our dumpster again today so I can
eat in front of him."

*****

        "I'm a freak," Bonehead pouted.  Jay had been through quite an
ordeal since the Plight Heights' bomb scare and his journey to Canada
with Morbid.  Unfortunately, during the fight, he had been touched by
one of the infected superguys and given superhuman powers.
        "You're not a freak," Amber Staley tried to console.  She was
lucky enough to be out of Plight Heights with her band on a support
tour when all the damage was done.  "The doctors said you are perfectly
normal.  The same as you've always been."
        "Except for that one little thing," Morbid punctuated for his
girlfriend.  He couldn't help but chuckle to himself when he thought
about it.
        "It's not a laughing matter," Bonehead hissed from the back of
the van.  "I'd hate to think what would happen if the Admiral found
out."
        Morbid looked back from the driver's seat as the van waited
for the stop light to turn green.  "Hey, it probably saved your life,
y'know.  You took some nasty shots during the battle.  So, don't take
it so hard!  You're finally a real superguy like me."
        Amber and Morbid laughed.
        "I'm sure that makes him feel a lot better," Amber replied
sarcastically.
        "But I'm not a superguy," Bonehead protested.  "My ability
isn't useful for stopping bad-guys."
        It was Amber's turn to look back at Jay.  "Don't be
ridiculous.  I'm sure a lot of superguys would kill to have
unbreakable bones."  She could tell that Jay wasn't feeling any better
about the situation.  "It could have been worse," Amber said in a
vague, all-or-nothing attempt to cheer him up.
        "Yeah," Morbid added, "you could have ended up like that
Pastry-Face guy.  At least now you really can level brick walls with
your forehead."
        Amber turned back around in her seat to face the front.  "It
could be worse," she whispered, "but I don't see how it could be any
more ironic."  The two chuckled quietly.
        "What are you two laughing at?"
        "Nothing, B.H.," they both replied innocently.

*****

        Gerald Powers looked down from his lavishly furnished office
to the street below.  It was particularly interesting today, as it
supported an incredibly large mob of angry protesters.  "Why are they
here, son?"
        John Powers moved closer to the glass and looked down on the
crowd with a sneer.  "Well Dad, they're angry over the unintentional
bomb jokes that Chase recently made over the air."
        "No, I know that," Gerald answered back. "I mean, why do they
exist?  Is this mess all the machinations of deranged supreme being,
or is this just a clerical error of universal proportions?"  Gerald
looked at his son briefly.  "That's what your grandfather, god rest
his soul, said to me on the day you were born.  I had no idea what he
meant at the time, but looking down on their empty little lives puts
everything in perspective, don't you think?"
        John arced an eyebrow.  "Yes, of course," he replied
noncommittally not trying to push his father's delusions any further
than necessary.  "Actually, I think this protest is just something for
the middle class to do.  They need something to keep them busy."
        "They do?" Gerald replied in surprise.  "Damn.  I knew this
would happen when hoola-hoops went out of style," he frowned while
turning away from the window.  Gerald walked to his desk and sighed as
he sat down in his chair.  The chair's hydraulics designed for maximum
shock absorption when someone sat in it, hissed slightly as it eased
Gerald's impact.  "Son, what do these so-called 'middle-class' like?"
he asked curiously.
        "The middle-class are a strange lot," John began as if
referring to something insignificant under a microscope.  "Our research
department shows that they like beer ...,"
        "Imported?"
        "No."
        Gerald snorted in disgust.
        "They like beer," John continued. "ESPN, and thinking of
fashionable ways to coerce the government into punishing their social
betters."
        "Really?" Gerald asked, taken completely aback by this
revelation.  "Why are these maladjusted people allowed to exist?"
        John thought on that for a moment.  "Research doesn't have an
answer for that yet.  They're working on it though."
        "Good," Gerald smiled. "Good.  Give them more money.  And I
want to be notified of their results.  This research is far to
valuable to the world to trivialize by pinching pennies.  Spare no
expense!"
        "Yes, sir."
        "What about our current projects?  How is everything going?"
        "Everything is proceeding smoothly.  The preparations for
KILLfest 96' are well underway.  The Streetfight at the End of the
Universe is still in the preparation stages, but once the event takes
place, the profit will be so great that we won't be able to adequately
describe it in words."
        "Excellent," Gerald said as he stood up.  The chair hissed
slightly once more as it returned to it's original position.  "Now all
we have to do is get rid of these protesters."

*****

        Morbid, and Amber, wanted to enter the KILL Radio building.
They really did.  But a sea of easily set off protesters barred their
path.  It wasn't so much because the protesters wouldn't let them
pass, but because there were so many protesters that they could only
move collectively.  So, no individual could get through.
        Bonehead was there too, hiding behind Morbid and Amber.  At
first glance of the signs that depicted vultures picking his eyes out,
he decided that these people weren't his friends and hid.
        "It looks like the Anti-Bonehead protestors have joined up
with the usual gang of Anti-Tina protestors," Morbid observed casually
from across the street.
        *They might be appeased if you gave Bonehead to them,* Eugene
suggested telepathically to Morbid.
        "I don't think so, Eugene."
        Amber looked at her boyfriend.  "Eugene wants us to throw
Bonehead to gain favor with the mob, huh?"
        "Yep."
        *It would be to everyone's benefit.  Trust me.*
        Jay peeked over Amber's shoulder to get a glance of the mob
that wanted his head on a stick.  "Look at all those people who hate
me!  It was an accident!  I swear," he mumbled for what had to be
the 10,000th time.
        "We know it was," Amber returned sympathetically.
        "Yeah, Jay.  This will all blow over.  In fact, protestors are
how you know you've arrived in the radio business," Morbid replied
insightfully.
        "Really?"  Jay perked up slightly.  "Hey, I guess this means
I'm really popular now then, huh?"
        "Let's not lose our heads here," Morbid and Amber answered
simultaneously.
        "Besides," Morbid continued, "these guys aren't any big deal.
Just because someone wrote your name in chicken's blood on posterboard,
isn't any reason to go berserk.  Just then, something caught his eye.
        Was it the street gang kidnapping an elderly man?  Morbid
didn't even give it a second thought.  After all, in a couple hours
the chop shop would have sent the various stolen parts all over the
world.  No sense in trying to stop that.
        Was it the time-travelling street vendor in a glowing orange
space suit selling cracked copies of Ultima 9 before it's release?
Tempting, but no.
        Was it the one protest sign in the sea of others that had:
"Down with Morbid," scrawled across it?
        You bet it was.
        Luckily, Morbid managed to cross the street without causing
much property damage.  "One side," he warned.  "Coming through.  Get
out of my face," he said while pushing and shoving his way to the
sign with his name on it.  Success was only seconds away.  "Ok, buddy!
You better have a Hell(tm) of a good reason for ..."  Morbid parted
the last two obstacles in his way and looked down in horror at what
stood before him.  Behind giant glasses, was a blue-haired elderly
woman with a contented smile on her face.  Morbid noted the sign
clutched securely in her talons.  The same sign he had seen from
across the street.
        "Hi there, sonny," she greeted.  "Don't have your own sign, do
you?" she observed.
        "Nothing gets by you, does it?"
        "Why don't you distribute some flyers then."
        Before Morbid could react, he was holding a stack of papers
calling for a drunken student of acupuncture to practice his art on
his face.  "Uh ... I'll take care of these in a minute.  What's your
problem with that Morbid guy anyway?"
        The old lady appeared thoughtful for a moment before replying
in a gentle voice.  "Who?" she asked.
        "Me," Morbid replied.  "I mean ... Mr. Morbid, the DJ."
        "Who's that?"
        "The guy on your sign."
        "Oh yes," she smiled in recognition.  "Goodness me.  I almost
forgot.  Now what was the question again?"
        "WHAT -- IS -- YOUR -- PROBLEM -- WITH -- HIM?"
        "Ohh.  Let's see.  My problem is ..."  The lady pulled an
index card from her purse and began to read aloud: "My grandson
brought home a 'B' on his report card after I caught him listening to
the Mr. Morbid show."  She handed Morbid the index card.
        Needless to say, Morbid was speechless.  "You wrote your
complaint down on an index card?"
        "No sonny," she replied politely, "that nice gentleman over
there did.  He said that he would pay me five whole dollars if I join
this party here and wave the sign around.  Isn't that wonderful?"
        "Yeah, what a crazy life you lead, lady.  If you'll excuse me,
I have to go have a couple words with that gentlemen you mentioned."
It was partially true, if you substitute "fists" for "words", as they
were going to do most of the talking.
        "Sure, sonny.  You run right along now," she commented as
Morbid walked away.  "What a nice boy."
        Much to the dismay of the Ultimate Fighting Championship
fans in the crowd, the gentleman that Morbid was about to give a
stern "talking to" had just pulled away in a van.
        "Get the van!" Morbid shouted from across the street.  "Follow
them!"
        Amber and Jay looked at each other and frowned.

*****

        "Ok, Morty.  How does traffic look this afternoon?" Chase
Speeds asked disinterestedly.  It was a daily ritual at KILL Radio
that management forced upon the DJs.  If everyone were completely
honest with themselves, they would admit that sending a half-blind,
senile old man into the air to report traffic was probably a bad idea.
Morty could barely manage a morning cup of coffee without getting
everything within a five foot radius wet.
        Even still, there was no denying his record.  He was always
the first on the scene, beating everyone else up to half an hour in
advance on some occasions.  Again, honesty would point out that the
reason he was the best traffic reporter was because he caused most of
the accidents himself.

        "Well, Chase.  Things are looking pretty good today," Morty
Copter announced.  "Only a few minor problems in Plight Heights today.
However, I'm nearing what appears to be a congested area -- or perhaps
a group of trees -- just off the Interstate at Cooper.  I'm going to
go in for a closer look."
        "Morty," Chase replied uneasily, "I don't think that's such a
good ..."  Chase stopped himself.  He wanted to caution Morty, but on
the other hand, how would he hear the crash over himself talking?
"Tell us what you've got, Morty," he chuckled.
        Morty adjusted his glasses.  An effort which required two
hands.  "I see ... I think I see ... two basketball players in gray
uniforms ... no, wait ... I see a semi truck ... hang on, I'm getting
closer still ... the semi appears to be blocking ... a group of
rampaging elephants ... a giant turtle seems to have been overturned
... lots of people running around wildly everywhere as I approach.
Yep.  There must be some sort of accident."
        "Do go on," Chase replied while checking his office pool
ticket.  A fifty dollar pot was about to be his if the resulting
traffic update involved two fatalities, and six injuries (as a tie
breaker).
        "I'm approaching those two basketball players now, Chase.
They're starting to become clearer.  Oh, wait.  Those aren't
basketball players, they're power line towers."  Morty chuckled.
"Maybe I should see about getting the prescription to my glasses
updated."  That was usually how Morty's updates ended, but not this
day.
        There was a loud crash, followed by the sounds of electric
lines doing the "happy-happy" dance.  "Oh no," Morty commented, "down
I go."
        "There you have it, folks," Chase replied in an upbeat tone.
"I'm sure we'll see the rest of that traffic report tomorrow morning
on the front page of the newspaper.  But now let's return to another
half-ten-minutes of uninterrupted music!  Taking us into that set is
the latest release by Bjerk!"

*****

        Bonehead slowed the van to a stop and wiped the sweat from
his brow.  Jay had the uncanny ability of turning what could have been
a climatic chase scene that would have stolen the episode for his Author
into something slightly less interesting than watching professional
synchronized laundry folding on television.  "We're there, guys!
That was the most tense forty-five minutes of my life!  Wow!  What a
rush!"
        Mr. Morbid stirred in the back.  "Yeah, a thirteen mile an
hour chase across the city can turn anyone into a monster.  You the
man."
        "You're being sarcastic again, aren't you?" Bonehead pouted.
        "I'm your best friend, Jay.  Would I lie to you?"
        "I'd be more inclined to believe you if you hadn't fallen
asleep five minutes into the chase."
        "Well, what do you want me to say?" Morbid asked defensively.
"We were passed by a street sweeper.  A street sweeper!  It's a
miracle we didn't lose whoever was in that other van altogether."
Morbid leaned over and nudged Amber.  She had also fallen asleep
during the harrowing chase.
        Amber sat up and noticed that they weren't moving.  "Gee, Jay,
slow down.  If you keep this speed up you might accidentally get closer
to the other van."
        "You know what's bothering you two?  It's that for the first
time today I'm actually happy about something.  And it's tearing you
up inside," Bonehead replied in annoyance.  "I'm feeling so bold that
I might even ask that new secretary at KILL Radio out on a date!"
        Morbid smiled and put his hand on his friends' shoulder.  "Good
for you, Jay!  I'm glad that you're not taking these recent events in
your life lying down!"
        Jay smiled.
        "Why, if *I* had a psycho-military nutcase for a father who
cursed the day I was born, and hated superguys even more than that.  I
might be concerned.  And then if that same father ever found out that
I became a superguy myself ... I'd be a nervous wreck!" Morbid smirked.
        Bonehead's smile faded away, and he began to sweat again.
        "But look at you!  You're not even worried.  So, you march
right up to that secretary, -- what's her name again?"
        "H -- Holly," Bonehead stammered.
        "That's right!  So, you march right up to Holly and ask her
out to a movie.  Just put that deathly fear of rejection *completely*
out of your mind and go for it!  We believe in you!" Morbid finished.
        "I think I'm going to lie down now."
        Morbid slid the van's side door open.  "That's the spirit,
Jay."
        Amber followed Morbid outside and closed the door.  "That
wasn't very nice," she pointed out.
        "I know, but it passes the time," Morbid replied casually.
        "Do you remember how long it took him to get up the nerve
to ask a girl out on a date after the last time you destroyed his
self-esteem?"
        "Of course I do.  It was our junior year of high school,"
Morbid paused while thinking back to days his days of mayhem and
destruction.  Actually, that could probably also be interpreted as
last week.  So, Morbid paused while thinking back to his *earlier*
days of mayhem and destruction.  "All the way until today.  He knows
I'm joking anyway.  Let's check out that van and get out of here."

        Five minutes later, the van had been examined.  The van itself
was nothing special, as it just belonged to a company.  It was the
business that owned it that proved to be significant.
        "K.B.U.M. Radio," Mr. Morbid growled through clenched teeth.
        "K-Boom?" Amber asked.  "So, a rival radio station is paying
people to protest KILL Radio?"
        "And there is no telling what else they're up to."
        "How unethical," Amber observed.  "Well, be sure and tell
Mr. Powers about it so they can get their lawyers on the case so that
they can defend the station."
        "That would be the reasonable thing to, wouldn't it?" Morbid
asked while looking up at the large KBUM building.  But then again,
he was never really a reasonable person.
        "Yes, it would," Amber replied, becoming suspicious of what
thoughts might be running through the mind of her boyfriend.  "I think
we should leave now.  Y'know, to make sure Jay is still conscious and
everything."
        "Alright ... some other time then, KBUM ..."
        And the scene shifted before the dramatic pause had time to
play out into a real plot point.

*****

        The pale young boy strolled up to the city cemetery guards
confidently.  He wore a sneer as awkwardly as his polyester Dracula
cape.  "Working the -- *grave shift,* gentlemen?"  Timonius smirked at
his witticism.
        "Yeah, kid.  That's even funnier the thousandth time I heard
it," Stan, security guard #1 replied while stepping closer to the
gothic wanna-be.  "Say, aren't you a little early for Halloween, son?"
        "Do not mock me," Timonius spittled out accidentally.  "I am
Timonius, Vampire Lord of the Night!  Wronger of rights!  Scourge of
Middle Schools."
        "Yeah, right.  Listen kid, let me call your parents," Terry,
security guard #2 offered, "we'll have you home in time for the Ranger
Turtles tomorrow."
        Timonius raised his hand defiantly, which prompted Terry to
stop in surprise.  "No," he said as his eyes met the security guards
hypnotically.  "You will stand aside and let me pass."  With that, he
waved them away with his hand.
        "Wait!  I know this scene," Stan blurted.
        "Ohohoh," Terry continued.  "I know!  It's that Jedi mind
trick thing.  Man, I love that movie!"
        "That's what it was.  Nice impression kid.  But I bet you
won't guess which movie this scene is from."
        Timonius rolled his eyes as Stan and Terry began reenacting the
final scene of Seven.
        "What's in the box?!" Terry yelled.
        "Put the gun down!" Stan yelled back.
        "I could easily destroy them," Timonius reassured himself, "but
I will not sully my hands on these wretches."  The young boy clapped
his hands -- a gesture which was misinterpreted by Stan and Terry to
continue their performance.  "Henchmen," Timonius called out, "to my
side."
        With that, four Who Cares Bears appeared out of the darkness
and flanked the geeky gothic wanna-be.
        "Unecesary Surgery Bear," the short haired gray bear
announced.  An image of a maniacal surgeon adorned his rounded belly.
        "Macho Bear," a blazing red haired bear yelled in a manly
way.  His stomach sported a picture of a muscular flexing arm.
        "Bare Bear," he giggled.  He was best not mentioned.
        "Politician Bear!"
        Timonius peeled his fingers away from his forehead.  "Must you
go through that routine *every* single time you meet someone new?" he
grumbled.
        "As sure as my head looks like a ..."
        "Nevermind!" Timonius interrupted Bare Bear's reply.  "Just
dispatch these two.  We have an important meeting with a dead guy."
        "I don't think he's going anywhere," Macho Bear barked.
        Unnecessary Surgery Bear looked at the two security guards
grimly.  "I don't like the way those kneecaps are making your legs go
back and forth like that.  I'm afraid they're going to have to come
out."
        Five minutes later, both almost-human human and psychotic
bears gazed down upon the small plot where the remains of a villainous
mastermind were supposed to rest for eternity.  Fat chance of that.
        "Ok, the first thing we need to do is dig him up," Timonius
instructed.  "To be precise -- you bears dig him up.  Now."
        Macho Bear growled and pulled back for a punch.
        "Not the face!  Not the face!" Timonius whimpered while
shielding himself with his arms.
        "Watch it, dweeb-of-the-night!" Macho Bear warned, "or we'll
make sure that you join whats-his-name three-feet under!"
        "I think you mean, 'six-feet under'," Politician Bear
corrected.
        "Naw!  I don't respect nobody enough ta give em' a proper
burial, y'see?"
        Timonius peeked through his fingers.  "Would you be so kind as
to dig him up?  Please?"
        Macho Bear was not impressed.
        "With sugar on top?"
        "Well, as long as it's with sugar on top," the machoest bear
in the graveyard replied.  The remaining bears nodded in agreement as
they broke out the digging equipment.
        "Now," Timonius pondered aloud, "if you each dig in thirty
minute shifts then we should be able to reach our man before the dreaded
sunrise.  But we must hurry!  Time is of the ess..."
        "Found him," Politician Bear announced.
        "Inconievable!  We've only been here a couple minutes."
        "A shallow grave," Macho Bear snarled, "way cool."
        Politician Bear held the Juan Valdez coffee can into the air
as if it were a sacred artifact.  The moonlight reflected dully off of
the rusted silver can.  "This is him.  As sure as my real estate
dealings in Arkansas are crooked, buddy."
        "Let me see that," Timonius replied, still unconvinced.  He
examined the container closer.  "Juan Valdez," he scoffed at the
label, "I bet he's never done anything interesting in his entire
life."
        "Yo boss!  How did this geekwad die anyway?" Macho Bear asked.
        Timonius was annoyed by the question.  It was the mastermindly
thing to do.  "He was blown up.  Why?"
        "Well, y'see ... I've blown up lots of stuff in my time.
Orphanages the elderly, heroes, villains, even other explosives."
        "Will you be coming to the point any time soon?"
        "Hey?!  Are trying to start something?  Y'wanna go?  Let's
go!  I'll show ya who is the man, dark-boy!  I'll yank that attitude
out of ya and insert a new one."  Macho Bear began dancing around and
waving his fists aggressively.
        Timonius immediately entered his fighting stance, which
consisted of crouched into a little ball and blubbering.  Yes, he
could strike at any moment.  "I ... I'm sorry ... you were saying
about the explosives?"
        "Yeah, I didn't think you wanted any of this!  Anyway, as I
was sayin' -- if this jerk-face was blown to bits, that coffee can may
be all that's left of him."
        "The buried him in a coffee can?" Unnecessary Surgery Bear asked
in disbelief.
        Timonius uncurled from fetal position slightly.  "Maybe you're
right, o' macho-one.  And once he lives again, I will make him my
thrall with my vampire-like prowess, and I will have my revenge on
Skinnybutt!"  Timonius laughed evilly, or attempted to anyway.
        "Hey," Bare Bear whispered to Unnecessary Surgery Bear, "what's
so special about this Tejanomancer guy anyway?"
        Unnecessary Surgery Bear shrugged.


WHAT SECRETS WILL MORBID'S DAD UNCOVER REGARDING THE BOOK OF THE DEAD?
WHY IS KBUM RADIO INTERESTED IN KILL RADIO?
WHY THE HELL(TM) DID TIMONIUS DO THAT HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE THING?
WAS THE TREMOR YOU FELT CAUSED BY THE COLLECTIVE CRINGE OF EVERYONE IN
CHANNEL TWO OF THE CALVIN CHATSERVER?
WILL MORBID HAVE MORE THAN A CAMEO IN THE NEXT EPISODE?
IF TIMONIUS IS HERE, CAN THE REST OF GOMI BE FAR BEHIND?

Find out sooner or later, in the virtual pages of Superguy!

***********************
* Mr. Morbid Fun Fact *
***********************

Number of new characters introduced in Mr. Morbid #2: 10
Number of new characters introduced in Thickening Plots #4: 17
Number of new characters to be introduced in Mr. Morbid #4: 16,462.
        -Take THAT, Ergh!  :)

*****
Timonius, Vampire Lord of the Night, is the property of RKMilholland.
Used with permission.
(c)1996


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