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The Mediocre Adventures of Manman
Manman Returns, Episode 17:  The Unbearable Mediocrity of Mediocrity


Martha Stewpot's private jet touched down smoothly on the runway at
LargeImportant City Municipal Airport.  Inside the plane, Fabulo
Extravagante lay curled into a small ball on the couch.  He whined
pitifully.  "Is that the wing falling off?"

Martha Stewpot sat on the couch across from him.  She smirked.  "Yes,
Fabulo.  We're falling out of the sky and we'll hit the ground any second.
You have just enough time to make yourself look Excellente."

Fabulo whined.  "You are a heartless and cruel person, Martha Stewpot."

Mindy Kingsford looked up from the book she was reading, _Quantum Physics
of Mediocrity: Vol. 6, Lots of Equations_.  "He has a point, Martha."  She
called to Fabulo, "We've just landed.  You can try to act like a man now."

The plane bumped along the runway towards the hangar.  Fabulo moaned.  "I
am now sure that the plane is falling into little pieces.  You are both
playing cruel tricks with my mind."

Martha smirked.  "The perils of being Excellente.  Simple yet elegant wins
out any time."

Mindy cleared her throat.  "Just because he has better sales in the Male
18-35 demographic doesn't mean you have to torment him."

Martha sniffed.  "You haven't seen my new workout video yet.  _Be
Excellente_ will drop like a rock when it comes out.  Males 18-35 will be
robbing convenience stores to buy copies of my video."  She called to
Fabulo.  "So don't finance anything based on your residuals."  She smirked.

Fabulo made small, high-pitched noises as the plane bumped to a stop.

-----

Slam stood in front of the barbecue grill.  He wore a white apron with the
words "Kiss the Chef" over his tattered scarlet-cream-navy uniform.  The
barbecue grill squatted on the loading dock of Slam's Hardcore Shopping
Club.  Scarlet-cream-navy clad clerks cowered a respectful distance from
the grill.  Slam took a spatula from the pocket of the apron.  He poked at
the grill with the spatula.

"Light it," hissed Slam.

Two scarlet-cream-navy clerks scurried forward.  One bent to the canister
of propane.  The clerk turned the valve until propane began to hiss from
the grill.  The second clerk held a book of WallStore matches.  The clerk
struck a match.  The head of the match crumbled as the it touched the
striking strip.  The clerk tore another match from the book, struck the
match against the striking strip.  The match sputtered.  The head of the
match browned slightly.  The clerk muttered under his breath, tore another
match out of the book.

A faint scent of propane crept into Slam's nostrils.   He took a step
backwards.  The first clerk scurried away from the grill.  The second clerk
struck the match.  The striking strip tore off the matchbook, fluttered to
the ground.  Slam stepped back again.

"Turn off the propane," hissed Slam.  The first clerk scurried back towards
the grill.  The second clerk removed a cigarette lighter from his pocket.
He held the cigarette lighter triumphantly over his head.  The first clerk
lunged for the propane valve.  He began to spin the valve closed.  The
second clerk bent over the grill.

"No, ssstop," barked Slam.  The second clerk straightened, turned toward
Slam.  The clerk wore a slightly puzzled look.  The first clerk pulled his
hands away from the valve.

"No, not you," hissed Slam.  He waved his spatula at the second clerk.
"You stop."  He pointed at the first clerk.  "You, keep going."

The second clerk blinked at Slam.  He squinted at the spatula.  His brow
furrowed as he extrapolated an imaginary line in the direction the spatula
was pointing.  His face cleared.  A blissful smile of enlightenment spread
across his face.  He nodded to Slam, saluted crisply.

The second clerk bent over the grill.

There was a muffled whooshing sound.  Slam was blown backwards into the
parking lot.  Flame engulfed the clerks crouching at the grill.   Clerks
cowering to either side fell like scarlet-cream-navy dominoes.  The burning
clerks stood, staggered, collapsed onto the grill.  Tiny pieces of soot
from the burning clerks spread over the parking lot.  A cloud of black
smoke drifted toward downtown RatherLarge City.  The aroma of barbecue
filled the air.

Slam got up from the pavement.  His back hurt.  His spatula was bent to
almost a right angle.  His apron was scorched and now read "is he Che".
Slam inspected the grill.  The grill itself was undamaged by the explosion.
Little remained of the two clerks but two shriveled, blackened chunks of
flesh.  Slam waved the spatula over his head.

"It worksss," he hissed.  "It worksss!"

He hurried back into the Hardcore Shopping Club.  The years of planning,
the expense, the overhead and excess inventory involved, were all about to
pay off.  He slithered in a little dance as he walked.

-----

Ed splashed water on his face.  The water smelled musty.  It tasted like
rust.  He let it drip off his face, then sat back down on the bed.  His arm
and head throbbed.  He lay down.  A network of fine cracks split the
plaster in the ceiling.  He had discovered that he could see different
patterns in the cracks, depending on the angle he looked at them from.  He
tilted his head to the left.  A pirate ship sailed across a grove of palm
trees near Mount Everest.  Ed tried to make up stories about the shapes he
saw in the cracks.  He felt that if he could make up strange enough stories
he could begin to understand Authors.

"Let's see," he said to himself.  "The pirate ship is captained by Alonzo
Wheelbracken, a retired pastry chef now living his childhood dream of
becoming the last of the deepwater pirates.  He and his merry band of
culinary cutthroats have discovered a way to make their ship sail across
palm trees.  Fortunately for them, there are lots of palm trees on and
around Mount Everest, so Alonzo can finally fulfill his dream of sailing a
pirate ship to the top of Mount Everest."

Ed scratched his head.  It was a good story, so far, but everything seemed
to be going too well for the characters.  He knew that a real Author would
never allow the characters to do exactly what they wanted to do.  Not
unless they were villains.  "Although the crew of the good pirate ship...
Oatmeal..." Ed frowned.  It didn't seem like a very good name for a pirate
ship.  He shrugged.  This was just practice, anyway.  "Although the crew of
the good pirate ship Oatmeal don't know it, the palm trees are being logged
at an astonishing rate by the lumberjack minions of TarCo, Inc.  TarCo,
Inc., under the direction of its founder, Sammy Tar, has discovered a way
of converting the palm trees into pressurized cheese food.  Sammy Tar does
not want anyone to find out the rate at which the trees are being logged.
So he hires a villain to stop the good pirate ship Oatmeal before it
reaches the logged areas."

So far, so good, thought Ed.  Now all he had to do was think of a villain.
Preferably one with extremely unlikely superpowers.

-----

Fabulo Extravagante stood before a red, white and blue van.  A stylized
blue eagle spread its wings on the side of the van, above the words "U.S.
Postal Service". Fabulo tossed his head.  "I cannot get into such a foolish
contraption.  This foolish device would be found in the textbook definition
of the opposite of Excellente, if such a word were to exist.  Which it does
not, for no one would want to say it."

Martha Stewpot's mouth formed a thin line, in a simple yet elegant gesture
of rage.  "You talk to him," she said to Mindy.  "I'll be back in three
minutes.  If he isn't in the van by that time..."  Martha stalked off
around the van.

Mindy sighed.  "Fabulo, that's the point.  These vans can go anywhere
without being noticed."

Fabulo stared at Mindy in horror.  "It is plain.  You admit this, and yet
you would ride in such a vehicle?"

Mindy sighed.  "Fabulo, we're supposed to be traveling secretly.  What do
you think would happen if we rented a FastDangerous sportscar, put the top
down and went tooling around LargeImportant City?"

"If you were driving, many innocent pedestrians would no doubt lose their
lives."  Fabulo shook his head.   "I cannot ride in that device.  It is not
Excellente, and I doubt whether it could even be made Excellente with large
amounts of effort from an expert such as myself."  He stared at Mindy
suspiciously.  "You would know this yourself if you had watched _Be
Excellente_ Volume 7, Excellente Transportation."

"Fabulo," sighed Mindy.  "I'm not trying to convince you that the van meets
your standards.  We have to use the van."  She sighed again.  "Let me put
it to you this way:  You can either get into the van yourself, or Martha
will have Jenkins drag you into the van.  I don't think being dragged is
Excellente.  I think you should just get into the van."

"There is no third option?  Perhaps Jenkins and I could duel over this in a
misty forest at daybreak?"

Mindy shook her head.  "Not a chance.  Even if Martha would let you, there
are no forests within a hundred miles of LargeImportant City."

Fabulo nodded.  He tossed his head again.  "I will ride in the van.  But I
have decided that I do not like this Martha Stewpot, though I still believe
that her servant Jenkins has an Excellente soul waiting to be developed."

Mindy shook her head.  "She doesn't like you, either.  You'd better watch
it.  It's not smart to cross Martha."

-----

Manman sat at the foot of a long table.  Senator F. Ron Trumner sat at the
head of the table.  The room was crammed with scarlet-cream-navy guards,
large, multicolored charts, empty paper coffee cups, cigarette smoke.  The
dark suited man sat to Manman's left.  He raised his hand.

"Senator, if you don't mind my asking, how was the perp able to penetrate
security?  Shouldn't we put more people on Manman?"   The man rubbed his
hand across a faint stubble of beard in precisely the way he had seen
Fabulo do on the _Be Excellente_ tapes.

Manman beamed at the man.  "Thank you for your interest.  I do stand for
values, and I would appreciate your vote."  He looked down the table at
Senator F. Ron Trumner.  "Do I shake his hand, now?"

The Senator sighed.  His face twitched.  "If you must."

Manman captured the dark suited man's hand and began to move it up and down.

"Responding to your question, Senator F. Ron Trumner feels that, in the
confidence of this room, he can be quite frank."

Manman dropped the dark suited man's hand.  "I'm pleased to meet Frank.  I
do stand for family values, and I would appreciate his vote."  He extended
his hand and looked up and down the table.  "Frank?"

The Senator shook his head.  "It's a figure of speech, Manman."

Manman frowned at the Senator.  "Does Frank have a gun I should get behind
instead?"

Senator F. Ron Trumner's face twitched.  "Getting back to the question at
hand, the Senator feels that no further security is necessary.  Senator F.
Ron Trumner's campaign, through various supporters that he is not obliged
to name under these circumstances, arranged to start Manman's campaign on a
dramatic note.  He will also be helping us later in the campaign."

The man in the dark suit flushed, nodded.  "Understood, sir.  Brilliant
campaigning, sir."

Manman raised his hand.  "What was that about supporters?  Do I hobnob now?"

-----

The rainbow-colored bus rolled down the highway toward LargeImportant City.
Jane drove.  Andy sat in the back of the bus, furiously typing at his
SmallPortable computer.   Dadaman hung from the ceiling of the bus,
reciting the twelve most popular meatloaf recipes of 1957.  Manman lay on a
stretcher, covered with a thin blue sheet.

Andy moved to the front of the bus, stood next to Jane.  The speaker in the
SmallPortable computer spoke with a lifeless, mechanical voice.  "I hate
the voice on this machine, but I don't think you should read and drive at
the same time."

Jane nodded.  "True."

"Baste the breadcrumbs with the oregano butter, then add just a dash of
Worchestershire sauce," said Dadaman.

"I've been able to find two, or maybe three, sources of Mediocrity."  The
machine stumbled over the word "Mediocrity", pronouncing it
"Med-Eye-Oh-K-Rit-Eye."  Andy tapped the keys, hoofed the trackball.  "One
is here.  That should be Manman."  Andy tapped.  "There is another source
of Mediocrity in LargeImportant City.  It seems to be even bigger than
Manman."  Andy tapped rapidly.  "I don't know what that could be.  There's
also another source in RatherLarge, I think.  It's weak.  It may be an echo
of Manman.  I should be able to tell more about that one when Manman is
further away from RatherLarge City."

Jane shook her head.  "I don't like it, Andy.  Nothing should be a stronger
source of Mediocrity than Manman."

"I agree," Andy tapped.  "We need to be ready for trouble.  I've brought a
supply of Colombian coffeebeans.  I'll teach you something about the bean
while we drive.  There are a few simple tricks I know that may come in
handy."

"Substitute one pound chalkdust if you run low on weasel fat, " said
Dadaman.  "Combine seven parts molasses to one part motor oil, knead the
mixture into the weasel fat or chalkdust."

-----

Manman and Juan stood outside of the Pink Iguana Tavern.  At least, Manman
was fairly sure that was where they were.  He could see neither the Tavern
itself, nor much of where they were standing.  He rubbed his eyes.  He
wondered if he needed glasses.   He wondered if glasses would look good on
him.

"Juan?" asked Manman.  "Do you think glasses would suit me?"

"Shhh," said Juan.  Juan touched a finger to his tongue.  He lifted the
moistened finger to the wind.  "Follow me," said Juan.

Juan and Manman set out in a direction away from where they had left the
Pink Iguana Tavern.  It was a long time before they could tell where they
were going, or where they had been, or, in fact, whether they were moving
at all.

-----

A red-faced guard with very little neck and a nametag reading "Ovid"
delivered Ed's food on a yellow plastic tray.  A gray slab of meat lay on
the tray next to pale green peas and faintly orange cubes of carrot.  A
plastic spork sat next to a slice of white bread.  A sugar cookie and
carton of milk rounded out the meal.  Ed pushed the vegetables around on
his tray.  He took a bite of the meat.  He could distinguish a faint salty
flavor if he chewed the meat thoroughly.  He could make out no other taste
to any of the food.  He ate half the meat, most of the vegetables, the
bread, and half the sugar cookie.  He sipped at the milk.

The water ran steadily down the drain.  Ed splashed his face again, then
lay down on the bed.  The cracks in the ceiling formed patterns that looked
like dominoes.  He spoke softly to himself.

"Sammy Tar hires Domino Dan, the toughest supervillain in Alaska, to stop
Chef Wheelbracken and his merry crew of cooks before the Oatmeal can reach
Mount Everest.  Domino Dan has a large black mustache and the dreaded
superpower of being able to make large dominoes appear at will.  He is also
fiendishly clever at arranging dominoes so that they fall on superguys at
the most inopportune moments.  Domino Dan promises Sammy Tar that the
Oatmeal will be sunk within a day of crossing the border into Alaska."  Ed
took another sip of the milk.  Things were going quite well.  He had
introduced a villain, and outlined a villainous scheme.  The next part
seemed quite clear.  The villain had to carry out the scheme.

"Domino Dan sets up an intricate network of dominoes disguised as palm
trees.  From his secret hideout, Dan can make dominoes fall anywhere along
the Canadian border the Oatmeal decides to cross.  He rents radar from the
Air Force so that he can monitor the border for pirate crossings.  When
everything is ready, he waits.  He chews on his famous black mustache while
he waits."

"Meanwhile, the merry crew of bistro blackguards on board the Oatmeal is
looking for other ships sailing the palm tree forest.  They're loyal to
Chef Wheelbracken, but exploring makes them uncomfortable.  So does sailing
up mountains.  They'd rather be looting and killing.  Or making creampuffs.
Chef Wheelbracken offers them a compromise:  on their way to Alaska,
they'll sack Whitehorse, a city on a small island in the great palm
forest." Ed frowned.  He wondered how Domino Dan was going to spring his
trap if the Oatmeal stopped off in Whitehorse.  He sipped his milk again,
and wished he had the power of Edit.

-----

Beneath the Wallstore, Slam knelt before the rippling image.  He bowed his
head, then looked up at the image.  "We have sssuccceeded, massster.  All
isss ready.  The connection isss essstablissshed, and will improve with
ussse.  Your ssservant awaits your will."

The image rippled.  "The troops are ready," said the voice.  "You have done
well, Slam."

Slam bowed.  A group of clerks arrived, carrying a pallet of Drink(tm).
"Get more," said Slam.  "Get all the Drink(tm) we have."

Slam began opening cans of Drink(tm) and pouring them onto the flamingo.
The image became deep green.

"I am on my way," said the image.   The figure grew large and shiny.  A
sound like several hundred sheets of cellophane being simultaneously
crumpled filled the room.

A Greenslimy Alien stood before Slam.  "We begin immediately," said the Alien.

-----

In a large, wood-paneled room on the top floor of the LargeImportant City
Ritzy Hotel, Martha Stewpot sat in a comfortable chair.  Fabulo lounged on
a couch nearby.  Fabulo stared at the wall,  hummed the theme song of his
video series.  Mindy sat at a desk to one side, typing intently on a
computer.  Precisely fifteen feet in front of Martha's chair, Bland
TV-Reporter stared blankly out of a small television set.  Martha aimed a
remote at the television.

"...no clues as to the identity of the assailant.  Authorities continue to
state that they believe he acted alone.  Manman is reported to be in
excellent spirits, and ready to continue his campaign."

"What the Hell(tm)?" said Mindy.  She typed furiously.

"Turning to other news," gushed Bland-TV Reporter. "It's frog jumping
season in LargeImportant City."

Martha pointed a remote control at the television.  Bland TV-Reporter fell
silent. "Dear," said Martha.  "Try not to swear.  Keep your sentences
simple, yet elegant."

"Hah!" Fabulo sat up.  "You have stolen that from my _Be Excellente_ tapes.
Admit that you are a plagiaristic person, Martha Stewpot."

"Now, Mindy, what is it?"  Martha half-rose, turned to stare intently at
Mindy's back.

Mindy tapped at the computer.  "The Mediocrity level in the room went off
the scale when you turned up the sound."  She swiveled her chair around to
face Martha.  "That has to be what we're looking for."

"I, personally, am looking for an admission of plagiarism from Martha
Stewpot," said Fabulo.  "I do not care at all about this Mediocrity."

Martha Stewpot settled back in her chair.  "Be quiet Fabulo," she said.
She passed the remote from hand to hand.  "Mindy, see what you can find out
about Manman.  Find out what you can about this assailant.  See if you can
arrange for me to talk to this person."  She set the remote down on the arm
of the chair.  "We've found what we're looking for."

"You have avoided my accusation, Martha Stewpot," said Fabulo.  He stood,
puffed his chest, tossed his mane of hair.  "You have thus admitted your
guilt.  I will expect restitution."

Martha turned to Fabulo.  Her eyes narrowed.  "There is no Excellente way
to die, Fabulo.  However, there are many simple yet elegant ways to kill."
She lowered her head precisely 32 degrees, returned it to level.  "I
believe we understand each other.  Now, please be quiet.  Mindy and I have
work to do."

Fabulo sat down on the couch.  He began to hum his theme song, then decided
against it.

-----

Andy tapped furiously at the keyboard.  "The Mediocrity level in
LargeImportant City just rose again," said the SmallPortable computer.
Andy brayed.  He tapped at the keyboard.  "But the readings from
RatherLarge City are even stranger.  It's almost like the Mediocrity is
being changed into something else.  It's still registering as Mediocrity,
but the pattern is different."

Jane frowned.  "I don't like it, but we'll have to check that later, Andy,"
she said.  "We're almost to LargeImportant City."

Dadaman set a large chunk of steaming meatloaf on Andy's head.  The burro
brayed.  He lowered a chunk of meatloaf toward Jane's head, but by the time
it touched her hair it was a scale model of the Queen Elizabeth.

-----

Beneath a brilliant purple sky lay an undisturbed plain of snow extending
as far as Juan and Manman could see.  Juan pulled a coffeebean out of his
satchel.  He put the bean in his mouth, chewed it slowly as they walked.

Juan swallowed.  "We've finally gotten somewhere."  He smiled.  "And I'm
finally talking like myself again."

Manman regarded the smooth, featureless snow.  "I don't like the sky very
much, but the snow is nice.  Very regular, nothing exceptional about it."
He scratched his head.  "Where did you say we were?  It doesn't look very
much like RatherLarge City."

Juan shook his head.  "I don't know.  Somewhere deep in netherspace, I think."

Manman frowned.  "I still don't understand why we couldn't have gone back
through the oatmeal."

Juan sighed.  "Because you can never reach the Pink Iguana Tavern the same
way twice."  He shrugged.  "At least, we can't.  One of the side effects is
that we have to take a different way home."

Manman shook his head.  "I keep explaining to you that no two bowls of
oatmeal are the same.  All oatmeal is different.  Well, not exactly
different... more like Melba Toast.  Well, not quite like Melba Toast...
sort of like postage stamps...."

They trudged on through the snow as Manman explained oatmeal to Juan.


WILL JUAN AND MANMAN EVER GET HOME?

IF THEY DO GET HOME, WILL IT BE BEFORE HOME IS INVADED BY GREENSLIMY ALIENS?

WILL THE PIRATE SHIP OATMEAL REACH MOUNT EVEREST?

IF ED POSTS THREE EPISODES, DOES THAT MAKE HIM AN AUTHOR?  IF SO, CAN HE
JOIN THE AUTHOR'S ALTIVERSE?  POST TO SUPERCHAT?  PLAN INTRICATE CROSSOVERS
THAT TAKE MONTHS TO WRITE THEN GET PUT ON HOLD IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PLOT?

DIDN'T WE ALREADY COVER THIS GROUND WITH BURT WARD?

WHY DOES MARTHA WANT TO SEE ED?  TO HELP HIM DECORATE HIS CELL?

... more questions, less answers, 98% weasel-fat free -- SUPERGUY

Next episode:  Juan complains, "I've never been that good at altiversal
navigation."

(c) 1996 Dirk Myers