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The Mediocre Adventures of Manman
Manman Returns, Episode 23:  The Mediocre Escape


Fabulo Extravagante reached under the wall of the bathroom stall.  "Excuse
me?"  he asked.  "Anyone?"

"Don't worry, sir," said a young-sounding voice.  "I've called Arena
security.  They'll be here to help you any minute."

Fabulo looked at the backs of his hands.  The swelling had gone down
slightly, but it was still noticeable.  He knew his face would be worse.  A
pang of fear contracted his stomach.  "No," he called.  "That is not
necessary.  Truly, all that I need is the use of a cellular phone, for not
more than thirty minutes, I would imagine."

"Security will be able to get you to a phone.  They'll be here in a minute.
Are you stuck in the stall?"

Fabulo stared around the stall.  The walls were tan, inscribed with words
he had never learned to read and crude pictures which were far from
Excellente.  There was no place to escape to, nothing to hide his face and
hands from the security officers.  He knew that there were photographers in
the Arena.  His stomach twinged again.  Fabulo imagined a picture of
himself, his face splotched with hives.  His stomach jolted.  He imagined a
grainy, badly-colored replica of the picture staring out of the paper racks
at every supermarket checkout in the country.  Something in his abdomen
lurched sharply upwards.  He fought it.

"I do not need help," Fabulo called.  "I am here in this stall of my own
free will, and require only the loan of a cellular phone.  I would happily
repay the owner with either money or a wide selection of autographed
merchandise."  He tossed his head sharply, hair falling across his face.
Perhaps he could hide some of the splotches.  He thrust his hands into the
pockets of his jeans.  "I would be most appreciative if you would summon
Jenkins, a rather plain man traveling in the employ of Martha Stewpot."

"Um..." said the young voice.  "Martha Stewpot?  Here?"

Fabulo leaned his head against the wall of the stall.  Surrounded, he
thought.  Surrounded by those who are not Excellente, who can never be
Excellente.  The burdens of life settled onto Fabulo's shoulders.  "Martha
Stewpot gets all of her best ideas from me," said Fabulo.  "I require the
aid of Jenkins, her butler."

"Martha Stewpot," muttered the voice.  "OK," it called.  "Stay right here."
The bathroom door clattered.

Fabulo slumped to the floor.  His Excellente idea was in danger of being
lost forever, he thought, because none of the people around him had sense
enough to carry a cellular phone.  He squinted at the lettering on the
wall.  Here was a place in need of his help, Fabulo thought.  Each of the
inks was a different color.  The colors did not complement each other well,
nor did they work well with the color of the stall.  He closed his eyes,
made a mental note to send a copy of Be Excellente, Volume 9 to the owner
of the Arena.

-----

Juan kicked at the pile of rocks near the pool.  There was still no sign of
Manman.  He had searched for Manman throughout the neighboring forest.  On
a small trail a few yards from the clearing, he had found a half-square of
melba toast that seemed to have been nibbled around the edges.  He had
followed the trail until it dead-ended at the wall of a cliff.  He
suspected that there was a passage concealed in the cliff face, but he had
been unable to find it.

Juan kicked at the rocks again.  The rock on top of the pyramid rolled into
the pool.  A blue scrap of paper stuck out from the pile of rocks.  Grains
of white sand clung to the paper.  Juan picked it up.  Pink lettering read
"dered S".  Juan turned the scrap over.  The back of the paper was brown.
Blocky capital letters printed in grease pencil read "RANSOM NOTE. 10,000
DOUBLOONS, FRESH UNMARKED.  OR ELSE."

Juan sighed heavily.  A nagging itch at the back of his mind told him,
somehow, that Manman was needed back in RatherLarge City.  A ransom note,
he thought.  No time for this.  He crumpled the paper, opened his satchel.
He dropped the paper into the satchel, pulled out a coffee bean.  The ferns
bobbed placidly in the breeze.  The waterfall tumbled steadily into the
pool.  Juan stared at the pile of moss covered rocks.  Logic, he thought.
Manman disappeared in under a minute, without my knowing he was gone.  Juan
raised the bean to his mouth.  The smooth curve of the bean in his fingers
comforted him.  The melba toast may have been a decoy, he realized.  The
answer must be here in the clearing, somewhere.  He rolled the bean onto
his tongue.  It was strangely sweet.  Juan blinked as the lingering
sweetness spread through his mouth.  Sugar? he wondered.  Where did that
come from?

The power of the bean steadied him.  The ferns drifted lazily from side to
side.  Juan sat still for a long time, staring at the rocks.  The droning
of the waterfall filled his mind.

-----

Slam cradled the briefcase in both arms.  He crept sideways down the hall,
scuttling like a crab along the south wall.  Slam's fingers moved over the
case in small, quick circles.  The briefcase was slightly warm.  A
vibration ran through the case.  Slam shuddered.  He stopped, leaned
against the wall.  The case pulsed rhythmically, the movement barely
distinguishable from the flow of the blood in his veins.

At the third door, he stopped.  He set the case down on the floor, fingered
the latches.  He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.  His tongue
flickered between his lips.  Slam laid his palms on the case, moved them in
tight circles over the metal.

He inhaled sharply, flipped the left latch open.  A deep hum came from the
case, a sound too low to hear, a sound he felt in the tip of his tongue, in
the hairs at the back of his neck, in the gases trapped in his hollow
bones.  The sensation was familiar.  Slam closed his eyes.  The vibration
formed complicated interference patterns along his spinal column.  He
disappeared into the dark ocean of the sound, leaving only dust to spread
along the ripples in his wake.

-----

The lights in the LargeImportant City Civic arena rose slowly as Larry Walk
pirouetted slowly at the front of the stage.  The strains of the band died
away.  Applause swelled sedately, rose toward the stage, drifted into
silence.  Larry Walk came to a stop facing the audience.

"Thank you."  Larry Walk smiled at the audience.  "Each and every one of
you is the wonderful person.  It has been a joy for us to entertain for you
tonight."  He waved the baton at the audience.  "Now, how about the last
round of applause for the boys in the band."  Scattered hands smacked
together.  Larry Walk's face grew solemn.  The baton quivered.  He paced
the stage.

"You must know that the boys work very hard for their spots in my band.
Why, each and every one of them --" The baton made precise arcs, indicating
the vertices of a complex figure.  "Each of them must personally audition
for me.  They must perform to exacting standards.  One time per month, they
must prove again that they belong with me in the Larry Walk Band."  Larry
Walk swallowed.  The tip of the baton made rapid circles in the air.  "Now,
how about the hand for the boys in the band?"

Somewhere in the audience, a man's slurred voice roared the second chorus
of "No One But Me Can Stomach Your Gumbo."  A woman near the stage giggled
nervously.

Larry Walk snapped the baton.  He threw the two halves into the audience,
stalked off the stage.

Applause thundered through the Arena.

-----

Senator F. Ron Trumner's face flexed in ways Picasso would have envied.  He
sat on the bed in a small hotel room.  Scarlet-cream-navy clad guards
crammed the room.  The Senator's nostrils flared.  The harsh, artificially
floral scent of air freshener hung in the room like incense.  The Senator
held a phone to his ear.  Static popped.  Beneath the static, the phone
buzzed.  Voices bled into the line, a woman and a man discussing
pomegranate seeds.  "Should they be boiled?" asked the woman.  Her voice
faded.  The phone buzzed again.  The corners of the Senator's eyes flexed.
He threw the phone at a guard.  The Senator's fist pounded the bed.

"Senator F. Ron Trumner is unhappy.  He knows that Slam shares his values,
and one of those values, he would venture to say, is reliability.  When the
Senator was a boy, reliability was a value to be cherished, and the Senator
still cherishes this value, just as you cherish this value.  He knows that
Slam cherishes this value as well, and the Senator is puzzled that Slam
does not answer his phone."  The span of skin between Senator F. Ron
Trumner's eyes crumpled, smoothed.  The Senator's face grew impassive.  He
pointed at one of the guards. "Senator F. Ron Trumner would like you to
take the helicopter."  The Senator's eyebrows flexed.  "The small
helicopter, he means.   Go back to RatherLarge City.  Call the Senator
immediately when you get there.  Sooner, if you see anything unusual."

The guard nodded twice, disappeared into the hall.  Senator F. Ron
Trumner's face set in a doleful expression as he watched the guard leave.

Senator F. Ron Trumner counted to ten under his breath.  He jabbed an index
finger at one of the other guards.  "You."  He whirled, pointed to a guard
on the other side of the room.  "You."  He gestured at the door.  "The two
of you follow him.  Make sure that he does what the Senator has asked him
to do."

Senator F. Ron Trumner's face slid into a masklike expression of tranquil
calm.  "Bring me Manman," he said.  "The Senator and his running mate must
prepare to accept the nomination."

-----

Manman sat in a comfortable chair in a room on the top floor of the
LargeImportant City Ritzy hotel.  Across from him sat a man in a dark suit.
Manman knew that the man in the suit was a criminal.  Manman watched the
criminal carefully.  The criminal's hand was in his jacket pocket, no doubt
he was holding the illict length of string at that very moment.  Manman
puffed his chest out.  He tried to make himself look heroic.  He tried to
remember whether he had ever seen a movie where the hero found himself held
at bay in a luxury suite with a known criminal.  He thought that he vaguely
remembered something similar, involving explosions, but he also seemed to
remember that the hero had been thrown out a plate glass window and hurtled
to the street below.

Manman felt that he could go through the window, but hurtling seemed
difficult.  He wondered whether pigeons could hurtle.  Perhaps he would
have to pay attention the next time he was at Public Statue Square in
RatherLarge.

One thing he did remember from several films was that if the hero talked to
the criminal for long enough, he could almost always discover the
criminal's evil schemes, as well as the weaknesses in those schemes.  It
seemed to be a basic law of criminal behavior.  Manman decided that this
law would almost certainly work to his advantage.  He would talk to the
criminal.

Manman was pleased to have worked out a plan.  He waved his arm in the air.
"Excuse me?"

The criminal blinked at Manman.  The criminal took his hand out of his
pocket.  "What is it?"

He sounds tired, Manman thought.  It must be difficult holding a superguy
captive.  He's probably trying to think of a way to foil my clever escape
plan.  Manman felt somewhat uneasy that he had no escape plan, clever or
otherwise, but he felt that sticking to the plan that he had was best for
the time being.  He could develop an escape plan later.  "Are you keeping
me here for a reason?"

The dark-suited man sighed. "We've been over this before," he said.  "The
Senator is busy.  Considering that you've already been shot once, it's not
a good idea to have you wandering around in public places."

Manman pondered this.  In some way, the criminal seemed genuinely concerned
for Manman.  Perhaps, he reasoned, worthy foes were difficult for this
criminal to come by.  He studied the criminal's suit.  If that was the
case, he thought, there must be more to the man than met the eye.  The
criminal might have some evil power.  Manman decided to probe the criminal
further.  "And, this affects you in some way."

The dark-suited man sighed.  "I'm your bodyguard.  So, yes, this affects me."

The Bodyguard, thought Manman.  He couldn't recall ever fighting this
villain before, although that was hardly conclusive.  Villains seemed to
change their names all the time.  He wondered whether it would be possible
to track a villain by examining the name changes on the villain's W-2
forms. It seemed likely.  He would have to mention it to Commissioner Slam.
It could be an important tool for the Commissioner.

The Bodyguard stood, stretched out his arms and yawned.  "Back in a
second," he said.  "Don't go anywhere."  He yawned again, wandered down the
hallway and into the bathroom.  The bathroom door slammed.

Manman stood.  He knew that he had two options.  The first option would be
to follow the Bodyguard surreptitiously, keep him under surveillance, and
learn what foul crime he was plotting in the bathroom.  The second option,
probably more difficult and dangerous, would be to attempt an escape.
Manman weighed the options.  If he learned what the Bodyguard was up to, he
would be in a better position to foil the criminal's plans.  Once he knew
the plans, though, it might be difficult to escape and inform Commissioner
Slam.  Escape would be dangerous.  Manman puffed his chest out.  He held
his arms out to his sides.  He set his face in an expression of grim
determination.

"I'll be back for you," said Manman quietly.  He tried to make his voice
gruff.  He scratched his head.  The speech should be longer, he thought.
It should contain some reference to values.  "I will defeat you.  For
values."

Manman stole quietly to the door, shot back the deadbolt, and stepped
carefully into the hall.

-----

Elusive underwater palindromes.  Banana the penguins, lightly please in
antifreeze.  Express exist.  No marinara potato held deftly basket
politburo.  Aroma custom cab wraparound  -- inside Wimbledon parsley
animal, pneumatic expertise.

Dadaman stole into the service entrance at the back of the LargeImportant
City Civic Arena.  Manman's limp body bobbed behind him, suspended beneath
several dozen Mylar balloons by short lengths of multicolored ribbon.  A
length of twine was tied around Manman's left foot, attached to a melon
scoop on Dadaman's left knee.

A wide, well-lit passageway led to a freight elevator.  Beyond the
elevator, a narrow flight of rickety stairs led down into darkness.
Dadaman took the stairs.  A metal bannister was set into the wall on the
left side of the stairway.  Dadaman kept his hand on the bannister, started
down the stairs.

After twenty steps, the stairway turned a corner.  Beyond the corner, the
light from the room was no longer visible.  "Pancreas," mumbled Dadaman.
He rubbed his arms together.  A faint light shone from a saltshaker on his
right wrist.  He could see a few feet in front of him.  He contined down
the stairs.

The darkness grew deeper as Dadaman descended.  The stairs turned another
corner.  Water dripped from somewhere above.  The stairs were slick.
Dadaman tied the twine to the bannister.  He sat down on the steps,
attached a large suction cup to each of his feet.   "Furbelow," he
muttered.  He glanced up at Manman's body, rotating slowly beneath the
balloons.  "Biodegradability," sighed Dadaman.  He shook his head.
"Porcelain in vain."

He untied the twine from the bannister, started down the the steps again.
Manman's limp form bobbed merrily behind him.

-----

Greenslimy Aliens swarmed through RatherLarge City, moving through the
streets in irregular zigzag patterns as the needles of their WallStore
Brand Pathscout Plus compasses drifted jerkily around the dial.  Aliens
collided with each other as the needles spun in wild 180-degree
fluctuations.  Fights broke out as Aliens argued over whether the area
indicated on the map the RatherLarge City Towers -- which appeared in
reality to be a slightly rusted manhole cover -- had been cleverly
disguised as a routine security precaution or in response to a breach of
security among the ranks.  Groups of Aliens discovered that other groups of
Aliens were, according to the map, their targets.  Aliens broke into
newspaper stands searching for the RatherLarge Police department, swarmed
into drugstores to apprehend the City Council, clambered up laundry chutes
to seize major financial institutions.  Aliens cheered over the capture of
one of RatherLarge City's most prominent citizens, despite the citizen's
flawless espresso machine diguise.

The Aliens made quick work of the RatherLarge City defenses, flattening a
platoon of National Guardsmen disguised as empty MegaBurger wrappers,
capturing an entire six-pack of policemen hiding inside Bl00penbrau
bottles, outflanking a dozen tanks concealed within dumpsters behind the
RatherLarge City Armory, itself disguised as the RatherLarge grocery store.

One small band of Aliens, let by a mottled green Alien with a plaid shirt
tied around his waist, kept to a nearly straight line, moving quickly in
ragged formation down East NorthTraveling Street.  A quarter mile down the
street, the leader removed the compass from his pocket, tapped the compass,
consulted his map, put the compass away.  The Aliens around him watched the
ritual intently.  The mottled Alien made a show of carefully refolding his
map.  He slid the map back into his manila envelope.

"We're on the right heading," barked the Alien.  "It's just a few hundred
yards further on."  The Aliens around him cheered.  The leader patted the
air with his tentacles, indicating that they should remain silent.  "Now,"
said the leader.  "When we get there, everyone stick to the plan.  No fancy
stuff.  No heroics."  The Aliens around him groaned.  The leader waved his
Weapon.  "Remember, I've got the compass.  And I'm armed."  The band
settled down.

"Now," barked the leader.  "It's time to reveal our target.  We are..." He
paused for dramatic effect.  "Invading..."  The leader stared at his
tentacles, stretched the moment as far as he could.  "The RatherLarge City
Daily Paper!"

The Aliens around him cheered loudly.

"To tentacles!" cried the leader.  The Aliens advanced rapidly down the street.

-----

Ed chewed contentedly on the corner of a linen napkin.  The taste was
faintly floral, like bergamot, rose, and soap, just the hint of a chlorine
tang.  The fibers frayed against his teeth, he swallowed a few threads.
Martha watched him blandly.  Her eyes looked to Ed as though they were made
from glacial ice.

"Ed," said Martha.  "This is really getting to be a bit much."

"Mmrph?" asked Ed.  He swallowed, pulled the corner of the napkin out of
his mouth.  "What?"  He licked the fabric.  There was another, subtler
taste somewher deep within the bouquet.  He thought that it might be from
the fabric softener.  He nibbled at the edge of the napkin.

"You are far more suggestable than I had anticipated," said Martha.  Her
forehead wrinkled.  "Do you really think you should be eating that?"

Ed shrugged.  He wadded the napkin, shoved it into his mouth.  His jaws
worked feverishly.  The napkin tasted delicious.  He felt certain that he
was about to identify the last flavor, if he could only concentrate.  He
nodded.  "Mmph goob," he mumbled.

Martha sighed.  "I suppose it's my own fault."  She snapped her fingers.
Jenkins appeared behind her right shoulder.   "Please, Jenkins, see if you
can find some sort of partition.  If you must, you can fashion one out of
broken folding tables and batiked tablecloths, the way I described last
year on the _Screens and Partitions by Martha Stewpot_ video."

Jenkins strode away into the crowd.

"You're really getting on my nerves, Ed," said Martha Stewpot.

"Mmphr," said Ed.  His jaws worried the fabric.  Lavender, he thought.  The
other flavor is lavender.  The thought gave him chills.  Ed slurped happily
at the napkin.

-----

Andy strode down the street.  Jane walked beside him, her eyes closed, her
legs rising and falling in a steady tempo.  Andy manuvered carefully past
an abandoned wheelbarrow, stepping out into the street so they could pass
without Jane being disturbed.

Andy twitched his ears, listened for a hint of variation in the rhythm of
Jane's step.  He found none.  Jane's steps were as measured as the clicks
of a metronome.  When he stopped on a corner, she continued marching in
place, her legs moving up and down as regularly as though she was part of a
giant machine.  For a moment Andy imagined her that way, saw her feet as
driveshafts spinning huge, gleaming gears somewhere deep beneath the earth.
Steam poured through the gaps where the gearteeth met, rainbow oil slid
over the faces of the gears.  He felt heat from somewhere near the gears, a
red glow, the gears turned red hot, teeth melted together, entire gears
were torn off their axles, the world lurched under Andy.  He blinked.
Something rolled under his right front hoof.

A small brass bolt lay on the sidewalk.  Behind him, Jane's feet pounded
softly on the sidewalk.

-----

Manman stole quietly down the hall of the LargeImportant City Ritzy Hotel.
He knew that the criminal's accomplices were somewhere in the Hotel,
apparently posing as Senator F. Ron Trumner's security agents.  He felt
that his first priority should be to find a phone.  He could then call
Commissioner Slam, let him know that there was a criminal headed for the
Civic Arena, and that the criminal's accomplices had the Senator fooled.
He wondered, for a moment, whether the accomplices were likely to have
string as well, considering that the Bodyguard had only obtained his string
from Manman.  He found himself unable to decide, though he harbored a
suspicion that the Bodyguard might actually have been in possession of
string all along, merely pretending not to have any in order to add
Manman's string to his illicit stockpile.

He turned the corner.  At the end of this hallway was an elevator.  He set
out for it.  He felt that he was getting good at anticipating the
Bodyguard's actions.  No doubt his years of experience as a superguy were
conditioning his thought patterns, enabling him to come to conclusions
unfettered by his concious mind.  The Senator is right, he thought.  Being
a proven superguy really does have advantages.  He would have to mention
that to the Senator.  He was sure that values helped his reasoning, too, in
some way that he was not yet aware of.

He reached the elevator at the end of the hall.  He pushed the down button.
The elevator chimed softly.  The button lit up.  Manman stared at the
orange light beneath the button.  He wondered if the button would chime
again if he pressed it again.  It didn't.  He scratched his head, pushed
the up button.  The elevator chimed softly and the button lit up.

Somewhere behind Manman, a door flew open.  Muffled cursing cut through the
air.  Manman knew, with instincts sharpened by years of practice, that the
Bodyguard had discovered his escape.

There was a door marked "Cleaning Supplies" a few yards back down the hall.
Manman ran to the door, opened it.  He faced a small room jammed with mops,
buckets, sponges, white plastic jugs with flowers pressed into the necks.
Manman stepped into the room, pulled the door closed behind him.

It was dark in the supply closet.  One of Manman's feet was in a bucket,
the other one rested on what Manman thought might be a wet mop.  He could
still hear the cursing.  It grew louder.  Manman held the doorknob shut.
If the Bodyguard noticed the door, Manman vowed to do his best to convince
the villain that the door was stuck.  Manman puffed out his chest.  It
would be a valiant effort.  With his other hand, he reached around the
closet to find something he could use as a weapon.  He found a wooden
handle, no doubt attached to a broom.  He clasped it tightly.  The cursing
increased in volume.  Manman held his breath, watched the golden strip of
light at the bottom of the door.

A bell rang quietly in the hall.  A faint rumbling sound.  The elevator,
thought Manman.  He would have to wait for the next one.  "Curse you,
Bodyguard," he muttered.  "I missed the elevator."  Secretly, he looked
forward to pushing the buttons again.

The elevator doors rumbled shut.  The bell rang.  He could no longer hear
the cursing.  Manman counted quietly to ten.  The hallway was quiet.  He
counted to fifteen.  There was no sound other than his own breathing.  He
counted to thirty-four, a number he had always had an unexplained fondness
for.  The hallway was silent.

He began to realize that he had, in fact, formulated a clever plan to
mislead the Bodyguard.  Without even realizing it, his superguy instincts
had saved him.  He beamed at the back of the door.  "I will triumph,
Bodyguard," he said quietly.  He tried to make the whisper sound heroic.

He decided that it would be most dramatic to jump out of the closet,
brandishing his broom in a menacing fashion.  Although Manman was fairly
sure that the Bodyguard had taken his elevator -- stolen the elevator, he
corrected himself -- his superguy instincts told him that perhaps the
Bodyguard was lying in wait for him.  It might also be possible that the
villain had merely become captivated by the patterns of light and dark
fibers in the hallway carpeting.   Manman felt that, if the Bodyguard was
still in the hall, the second possiblity was the most likely.  Similar
things had happened to Manman himself a number of times.

He grasped the broom firmly in his right hand.  WIth his left hand, he
pushed the door open.  "Values!" he cried.  He lifted the broom.  The mop
suddenly moved out from under his foot.  Manman fell into the hall, yelling
wildly, waving his wet mop.  He landed heavily on his back.  Buckets
clattered out of the closet.  "Surrender for values!" called Manman.  He
waved the mop.  It dripped onto his left cheek.  He waved it a few more
times for good measure, then sat up and looked up and down the hall.

The hall was empty.

Manman puffed out his chest, tried to look victorious.  He shook his foot
in an attempt to dislodge the bucket.   The mop dripped quietly onto the
expensive carpet.


WILL MANMAN ESCAPE FROM THE RATHERLARGE RITZY HOTEL?

WILL JUAN FIND MANMAN?

WHERE IS DADAMAN TAKING MANMAN?

IF YOU CAN FOLLOW THOSE LAST THREE QUESTIONS, IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOU?

IF I'M ASKING THOSE LAST FOUR QUESTIONS, IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH ME?

WILL THE GREENSLIMY ALIENS CONQUER RATHERLARGE CITY BEFORE ANYONE NOTICES
THEY'RE INVADING?

...give me your poor, your huddled masses, yearning to be confused.  I'll
tell them how to subscribe to SUPERGUY...

Next Episode: The future of a squad car is in jeopardy.  The beginning of a
limited series titled -- RatherLarge Blue.

(c) 1997 Dirk Myers