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The Mediocre Adventures of Manman
Manman Returns, Episode 18:  One More Cup of Coffee


Manman and Juan came to a place where the snow ended.  Knee-high spruce
trees grew at the edge of the snow.  In this distance, a hazy mountain
range disappeared into thick gray clouds.  The sky had turned green some
time before.

"So let me get this straight," said Manman.  "You like the smell of
coffee?"  He shuddered.

"Yes," said Juan quietly.  "The full-bodied aroma is one of the things most
prized in a cup of Colombian coffee.  The bold taste and rich, dark color
are only enhanced by the strong, subtly smoky note of the aroma."  Juan
touched Manman's arm.  Juan pointed to the mountains in the distance.
"We're making progress."

Manman squinted at the mountains.  "I don't think that's RatherLarge City,
Juan."  He shut one eye.  "Though I guess it could be, if all the buildings
were sort of triangle-shaped and made out of rocks and snow.  And if they
were very close together."

Juan shook his head.  "No, my friend.  We're nowhere near RatherLarge City.
I don't even think that we're in a well-defined altiverse, yet, but we're
closer."

Manman opened his eyes.  "I didn't think it was RatherLarge."  He shrugged.
"How will we know when get to an altiverse?"

Juan sighed.  He took a coffee bean from his satchel.  "I'll let you know."
He chewed the coffee bean slowly.  We still have a long way to go, he
thought.  He hoped that Manman was able to make the journey.

-----

Ed woke before the first light of dawn penetrated his cell.  He felt weak.
A dull taste like the scent of rust filled his mouth.  His ears felt like
they were full of grit.  He groaned.  He closed his eyes.  He ran his
tongue across his teeth.  They felt rough.  Plaque, he thought.  He
wondered if prisoners were entitled to toothbrushes.  Must be something
about that in the Bill of Rights somewhere, he thought.  Maybe I need an
attorney.

He shuddered.  Sweat beaded his forehead.  I'm losing my mind, he thought.
The story.  That's what matters.

He sat up.  He leaned back against the wall of the cell.  Purple flashes
drifted across field of vision.

"The marzipan mates of the Oatmeal, last of the deepwater pirate ships,
sail toward the unsuspecting city of Whitehorse.  Chef Wheelbracken strides
the deck, berating his crew for minor infractions of ship's protocol.

"The bow of the Oatmeal cuts a wide swath through the palm tree forest.
Behind her floats a long, V-shaped wake of coconuts dislodged by the
Oatmeal's passage.  The crew of the Oatmeal rubs strong sunscreen onto
their bodies as the bright midsummer sun beats down upon them.

"Two hours out of Whitehorse, Chef Wheelbracken orders the crew to strike
the Jolly Roger and hoist the flag of the Free State of Alaska.  The crew
disguises themselves as oil company executives out for a simple pleasure
cruise.  They hide the cannons behind immense ice sculptures designed
specifically for the purpose by Aloysius, official sculptor of the pirate
ship Oatmeal (renowned as a genius in seventeen countries and a wanted man
in a dozen more due to his skill with the blade and innovative petit-fours
recipes).

"The Oatmeal slides into the port of Whitehorse shortly before dusk on
Midsummer's Eve.  The mayor of Whitehorse, one Alabaster William Hossfedder
III, greets the crew with a festive gala featuring  unconscionably
delicious hors d'oeuvres such as roast lemming toes on corn muffins,
barbecued caribou noses, spruce-tip souffle in labrador tea sauce.

"Wheelbracken welcomes the mayor aboard the Oatmeal with a hearty wink and
a gesture toward the ice statues.  'Had my boys whip them up special,
Mayor,' says Wheelbracken.  'You'll never lay eyes on the like of these
anywhere else, I'll wager.'

"Mayor Hossfedder inspects the sculptures.  He concentrates on a vaguely
human-shaped one, as he believes he may be able to make a guess as to the
subject of this one without making an offensively egregious error.  'Ah...'
says the mayor.  He hems and haws for a while.  'That one's particularly
good,' he says, pointing at what he hopes is a human figure.

"'Aye,' says Wheelbracken.  'One of the best giant talking carrots Aloysius
has ever sculpted, or my name isn't Chef Alonzo Wheelbracken.'

"The mayor recognizes the name.  He cries out in alarm.  The crew of the
Oatmeal throw off their disguises simultaneously.  The mayor collapses to
the deck of the Oatmeal, sobbing.

"'No,' begs the mayor.  'We'll cooperate.  Please, we'll do anything.  Just
don't do what you did to Omaha, Nebraska.'

"'Well," says Wheelbracken.  'We might go a little easier on you if you
cooperate, but we're still going to have to do at least some sacking, you
understand.  Else, what's the point?"  The Chef licks his lips.  "Besides
that, we're low on powdered sugar."

Ed put his elbows on his knees, cradled his cheeks in his hands.  Great, he
thought.  Now I have to come up with a sack-and-pillage scene.  He wondered
how long he could ignore Domino Dan.  He sat up again and rubbed his eyes.

"Domino Dan orders a pizza while waiting for the Oatmeal to arrive."

That should do it, thought Ed.

-----

The brightly-colored bus pulled into the parking lot of the Howard Johnson's.

"We still like to stay at Howard Johnson's, when we can find them," said
Jane.  "It's almost like old times, even if they do have the shape wrong."

"Skipping through the fingers," said Dadaman.  "'Tis a long whittle under
the abalone."  Dadaman began attaching iridiscent purple post-it notes to
Andy's coat.

Andy typed at the SmallPortable Computer.  "I understand," said the
computer.  "But shouldn't someone stay out here to watch Manman?"
Jane shrugged.  "I thought we'd just wheel him into the room."

Andy typed, "But wouldn't that look somewhat suspicious?"

Dadaman clapped his hands.  The post-it notes leapt from Andy's coat,
collected into a ball of whirling paper suspended over Andy's head.
"Ceramic pastry," said Dadaman.

Jane gestured at the sphere of purple notes whirling over Andy.  "And if we
leave him here, no one will suspect a thing."

Andy's ears drooped.  He tapped at the computer.  "Right, I keep
forgetting.  Juan is much less conspicuous."

The ball of paper exploded into a swirling vortex of light.  "Cannonball
pagans.  Elegantly masticate eleven," said Dadaman.

-----

Fabulo Excellente rose at the crack of dawn.  He leaped out of his bed.  He
did seventeen sets of Excellente Tummy Tighteners, fourteen sets of
Fabulo's Fabulous Thigh Stretches, ten sets of his trademark Fabulo Neck
Tightener, twelve sets of Extravagante Arm Twirls, all interspersed with
one hundred and twenty seven head tosses, three hundred lip pouts, and two
hundred and three smoldering stares.

After his workout, Fabulo sat in front of the mirror and began to brush his
hair.  He was a firm believer in hair brushing.  He brushed his hair
slowly, counting as he brushed.  On the one hundred and second stroke,
there was a pounding on the door.

"Who is it?" called Fabulo.  "My adoring fans must simply wait.  I am
working extra hard this morning to make myself Excellente, and all true
fans will, of course, appreciate my efforts."

A muffled voice came from behind the door.  It was difficult for Fabulo to
make out the words.  The voice sounded somewhat like Jenkins.

"If you are Jenkins behind the door, you should be making yourself
Excellente too at this time of the morning.  You should not be wandering
around hotels pounding on people's doors."  Fabulo waggled the hairbrush at
the door.  "I have given you yet more free advice, and when you become
Excellente you will thank me for it."

Fabulo turned back to the mirror.  He admired the way his hair fell over
his shoulder.  He squinted until his eyes were thin blue slits behind his
hair.  He puckered his lips.  Excellente, he thought.

The door rattled as someone shook the knob.  "You cannot be Excellente yet,
Jenkins, if that is indeed you.  You forget that I know who you are."
Fabulo shook his head.  In the mirror, he watched his hair settle across
his face.  "Even though you have been tutored by the Master, myself, yet
you have far to go."

The door shook violently.  Loud blows echoed through the room.  The muffled
voice grew louder.  The pitch of the voice rose.

"You are becoming agitated, Jenkins," called Fabulo.  "One cannot be
simultaneously agitated and Excellente."  He put the brush on the table in
front of the mirror.  "And, regrettably, that goes even for me.  You have
disrupted me, so I suppose I will have to let you in."

Fabulo walked to the door.  He unlocked the deadbolt with a quick flick of
his wrist.  He turned the doorknob.  The door swung rapidly inward.  The
doorknob hit Fabulo in the stomach.  He fell over.  Jenkins fell in through
the open door, landed face first on the expensive rug.

Tears streamed down Fabulo's cheeks.  "You have wounded me, you violent
Jenkins.  After all that I have done for you, you have turned upon me."
Fabulo sniffled.   His eyes grew puffy.  "I have coached you, yet you have
turned on me."

Jenkins groaned.  He rolled over onto his back.   He sat up.

Salt water dripped from Fabulo's cheeks onto the rug.  He blubbered,  "You
are a cruel man, Jenkins, the sort of man who would work for Martha
Stewpot."

Jenkins shook his head.  "Fabulo," he gasped.  "Why did you do that?"

"I let you in," squealed Fabulo.  "What else should I do when a foolish
Jenkins man comes knocking on my door when I am working on being
Excellente?"

-----

Manman sat on a stage in a large, comfortable armchair.  Senator F. Ron
Trumner sat to his right.  A blonde, well groomed couple lounged in a
comfortable couch on the stage.  A low coffee table sat on the stage
between Manman and the couple.   A large backdrop at the rear of the stage
was painted to look like the interior of a comfortable suburban home.

"Good morning, Middle America," said the blonde man.  "I'm Jeremy Dance,
and this is my wife, Mrs. Jeremy Dance."

"Good morning," said the blonde woman.  "You can call me Mrs. D.  All my
friends do."  She smiled at the camera.

"And you can call me Jerry," said the man.  "We want you to feel like
family."  He nodded across the couch.  "Today we're here with Senator F.
Ron Trumner, the leading challenger in this year's presidential campaign."
He extended his hand to the Senator.  "Senator."

Senator F. Ron Trumner shook the man's hand.  "Jerry.  Senator F. Ron
Trumner is pleased to be here.  It's a darn good opportunity to show the
American people the kind of values the Senator stands for."

"Always a pleasure," said the blond man.  The man turned back to the
camera.  "As a special treat, we also have the Senator's running mate, that
moderately well-known superguy, Manman."  He held out his hand toward
Manman.  "Manman."

Manman reached for the blond man's hand.  He caught it on his second try,
shook the hand up and down.  "Hello, television host," said Manman.  "I am
glad to have the opportunity to chat in a witty and engaging way about
issues without substance."  A frown crossed his face.  "Or was I supposed
to do that in the debates?"  He dropped the man's hand.

"No debates, here, Manman," said the blonde woman.  "We just want you to
know that we're behind you one-hundred percent.  We share your values, and
we'll be pleased when you're elected."

Manman nodded.  "Thank you.  I'm now nearly certain that I am here to chat
wittily, and not to make vague innuendoes about your character."  He
beamed.

The blonde man cleared his throat.  "Senator, thank you for sharing your
time with us this morning.  I know the topic on everyone's mind is the
brutal and savage attack on your running mate, Manman..."

Manman waved his hand.  "I can respond to that by saying that I have years
of experience as a superguy, and, in any case, Senator Trumner is in the
best of health."

Senator F. Ron Trumner cleared his throat.  "Senator F. Ron Trumner thinks
his running mate is a little excited about his first chance to appear
together with the Senator as a unified ticket, Jerry.  It's understandable
that when you have values like the Senator's, you may be a little bit
enthusiastic about explaining those values.  And yet, the Senator dosn't
think you could call that a fault.  So, to sum up Senator F. Ron Trumner's
answer to your question, the Senator and everyone in his campaign are
shocked at that wanton and unprovoked act of violence.  The Senator feels
that we have come to a sad state when those who disagree with him feel that
they must engage in violence to prevent his ideas from spreading."

Manman raised his hand.  "No spread for me, please.  I prefer plain toast."
He glanced over at the Senator.  "Plain toast with values on it, please."
Manman beamed at Senator F. Ron Trumner and leaned back in his chair.

Mr. Jeremy Dance looked from the Senator to Manman, back to the Senator.
Mrs. Jeremy Dance blinked rapidly.  She patted at her hair.

Mr. Jeremy Dance's throat twitched.  "Ah," said Mr. Jeremy Dance.  "Well
said, Manman.  Senator, perhaps you could clarify Manman's statements?"

The Senator's face flexed.  "Of course, Jerry.  It's as plain as the nose
on the Senator's face.  The Senator's running mate is a man of deep
thoughts.  What he means to say is that..."  The Senator licked his lips.
His face flexed again.  His eyebrows knit.  "Americans should be proud of
what we have accomplished.  When we have made toast, we should be happy
with the toast, and not expect someone else to give us an
artificially-flavored fruit spread just because we have some toast.  No,
Senator F. Ron Trumner says, we must earn the spread the way we earned the
toast.  Those are the values that the Senator's campaign stands for, and
those are the values that you've heard Manman describe here today."

Mrs. Jeremy Dance shifted on the couch.  "Yet, surely, Senator, there are
those who prefer jam on their toast?"

The senator leaned toward Mrs. Jeremy Dance.  He flexed his face into a
kind and compassionate configuration.  "And they may have jam on their
toast, provided they have earned the jam.  If it is their jam, they may eat
it on their toast if they would like.  That is the vision of America that
the Senator stands for, and that is what we have come here to talk about
today."

Manman shook his head.  "Thank you very much, but no jam for me, please."
He beamed expectantly at Mrs. Jeremy Dance.  "Is the toast done yet?"  He
waved his hand.  "Have I mentioned that the Senator is in excellent health,
and would appreciate your vote?"

Mrs. Jeremy Dance shifted on the couch.  She cleared her throat.  Mr.
Jeremy Dance put his arm around Mrs. Jeremy Dance.  "Well, I can see that
this intense political discussion is a little heavy for my lovely wife,
here.  Perhaps, Senator, you could share something on a more personal
note?"

The Senator's face flexed.  "Of course, Jerry.  Senator F. Ron Trumner
would like to tell you all a little story about a young boy.  The name of
the young boy is not important for the story, but he was a boy, and he was
very young.  One day this boy was out working -- and in this young boy's
day, young boys worked, and they worked hard.  As I said, one day this boy
was out working and he came across a five dollar bill.  Now, there was no
one there to see the bill.  The young boy could have just put the bill in
his pocket.  He could have spent the bill on ice cream, candy, comic books,
all the sorts of things that young boys spend five dollar bills on.  But
instead, he walked all the way into town after he was finished working.  He
found the town stockbroker, and he invested that five dollar bill.  He
invested that five dollar bill in the Drink(tm) corporation.  He invested
what was left of his paycheck that week in the Drink(tm) corporation.  And
he invested the paycheck after that, and the paycheck after that.  And when
he was a grown man, and his father left him untold millions of dollars as
an inheritance, he bought the Drink(tm) corporation."  Moisture ran down
the side of the Senator's face.   "That young boy was Senator F. Ron
Trumner, and the moral of the story, for those young people out there who
are listening tonight, is that you need to invest your five dollar bills.
Invest your paychecks.  Invest the money that you would spend on candy and
comics.  It's all right to have a soda, such as a Drink(tm), every now and
again, but you should invest as much as you can, and someday you can own a
company like Senator F. Ron Trumner does."

Mr. and Mrs. Jeremy Dance wept.  Mrs. Dance's makeup ran freely down her
face as she cried.

"Thank you," said Jeremy Dance.  "That was a moving speech Senator.  You
can be sure we'll be sharing that speech with our little ones tonight over
the supper table."  Jeremy Dance turned to the camera.  "Thank you for
watching.  We'll be back tomorrow with a Good Morning Middle America
Special Report on Violence In America, and How You Can Vote To Stop It."

"Did I mention that I would like values on my toast?"  asked Manman.

-----

Deep beneath Slam's Hardcore Shopping Club, a seething mass of Aliens
coated in sticky Drink(tm) bumped into each other, stepped on each other's
toes, poked tentacles into each other's sensitive areas.  Slam hid beneath
the pile of athletic shoes.

The largest of the Greenslimy Aliens climbed a short set of steps behind a
podium.  The Alien tapped a microphone on the podium with a tentacle.
"Check," said the Alien.  "Check."   Feedback whined through the room.
The Alien twisted the microphone.   The feedback intensified.  Slam's teeth
rattled.   The Alien smacked the microphone.   The feedback faded out.
"Thank you," said the Alien.  The Alien coughed politely into the
microphone.

The Aliens in the room stilled.  "Thank you," said the large Alien.  The
Alien coughed again.  "As you all know, we're here tonight to talk about
the invasion."  Muttered rumbling ran through the crowd of Aliens.  The
large Alien waved a tentacle.  "I know, I know.  We're still debating the
code name for the invasion.  I can tell you, though," the Alien lowered his
voice conspiratorially, "there are two finalists for invasion names.  The
final vote should be soon, with the usual press releases to follow."  The
Alien waved his tentacles dramatically.  "And then, you'll be able to tell
your progeny that you were in on this invasion.  An invasion of glory.  An
invasion of conquest.  An invasion of many other desirable attributes to be
determined after the marketing plan is completed."  The Alien paused
dramatically.  "Invasion Yet-To-Be-Named !"

The Aliens in the room cheered.  They waved their tentacles in the air.
They stepped on each other's feet, poked each other in sensitive areas.
The room erupted in a frenzy of Alien babbling, squabbling, pushing and
shoving.   A dark green Alien near Slam began hammering another Alien's
head against the concrete floor.  Slam burrowed deeper into the pile of
shoes.

"Please," called the Alien at the podium.  "Please, try to control
yourselves.  At least until the drinks arrive."  The Aliens stopped
fighting.  The low, bubbling sounds of chucking Greenslimy Aliens filled
the room.

-----

Manman and Juan came to the crest of a low hill.  A shallow valley
stretched before them.  The trees had grown taller as they walked.  A thick
line of fourteen-foot high trees cut across the far side of the valley.
The mountains were closer now, jagged peaks capped with faintly magenta
snow.

Manman stopped at the top of the hill.  "This still doesn't look like
RatherLarge City," he said to Juan.  "Are you sure we didn't take a wrong
turn?"

Juan shook his head.  "It's not a matter of which turn to take, Manman.
It's a matter of traveling until we get to where we are going.  It may be a
long way from here, or it may be just through that line of trees."  Juan
shrugged.  "I've never been good at altiversal navigation.  You could call
it a fault."

Juan pulled a coffee bean from his satchel, put it in his mouth.  He rolled
the bean around on his tongue, relishing the faintly dusty taste of the
exterior of the bean, the feel of the deep groove in the surface.  He
trapped the bean between the first and second premolars of his lower jaw,
deftly applied just enough pressure to crack the bean.  The rich,
life-giving flavor exploded through his mouth.  His heart sang with
pleasure.

Manman sighed.  "If we could find a telephone, then maybe I could call a
cab.  Commissioner Bigshot has excellent credit with most of the major cab
companies, so you don't need to worry about the money."

Juan pressed the coffee bean against his palate.  The bean separated into
two halves along the crack.  Juan methodically ground the two halves of the
bean into fine powder.  The deep peace and quiet power of the sacred bean
filled his body.  He swallowed the powder.  "Even if we could find a phone,
I think that we're outside the range of the companies which serve
RatherLarge City.  We need to keep walking."

Manman sighed again.  "If you say so."

Juan nodded.  "Yes.  It's the only way."

They trudged across the valley and into the trees.

-----

Fabulo sulked in the back of the van.  Mindy sat beside him.  Jenkins
steered the van through the streets of LargeImportant City.  Martha Stewart
sat in the passenger seat of the van, reading a thick hardcover book with a
pink cover.

"Why must we visit this foolish man in prison?  And if we must, I do not
see why I cannot sit in the front seat," said Fabulo.  "Although this is a
rather plain vehicle, it could only be improved by having an Excellente
person such as myself in the front seat."

Mindy shook her head.  "You know that Jenkins won't sit next to you.  I
don't blame him, either.  I don't know why you thought you had to trick him
like that."

Fabulo snorted.  "I did not trick Jenkins.  I would not harm a flea.  I am
well known for showing compassion to all living creatures who make an
effort to be Excellente."  He sniffed.  "Although, I must regret to inform
you, that does not include Jenkins."

"Fabulo," called Martha.  "You really must learn to get along with people
who see the world differently than you do.  It's a far more important skill
than being Excellente is."

Fabulo sniffed again.  "As you have never been Excellente, Martha Stewpot,
I do not see how you can determine whether being Excellente is of
importance or not."  He sniffed again.  "Nevertheless, I will remain quiet
in order to safeguard my Excellente ideas from further plagiarism."

Martha sighed.  "If you say so.  All I ask is that you remain quiet."

"I am very good at remaining quiet," said Fabulo.  "You do not know how
quiet I am capable of being because you, Martha Stewpot, have never heard
me when I am quiet.  I am Excellente at being quiet."

"I certainly hope so," said Martha.  "For your own good."

Fabulo closed his mouth and leaned back against the side of the van.  He
knew how to show Martha Stewpot who was Excellente and who was not.

-----

The Alien at the podium flipped off the overhead projector.  "Now," said
the Alien.  "Packets have been made up for each of you which contain your
assignments, as well as your post-invasion tee times at the RatherLarge
Golf Course.  If you'll just step to the front of the room, just tell the
Alien behind the table your name, and she will personally retrieve your
packet.  Study the contents carefully, and don't forget to fill out the
enclosed invasion force survey card.  Remember, we need your feedback to
plan future invasions."  The Alien cleared his throat.  "You know that
we're all rooting for you.  Good luck, and enjoy.  Remember, this is your
invasion -- Invasion Yet-To-Be-Named."

The Aliens cheered.

-----

Ed stared at the floor.  He scratched his cheek.  He needed to come up with
a relatively believable scene of the crew of the Oatmeal sacking
Whitehorse.  At the same time, he didn't want to spend much time on the
scene, since he hadn't really intended for the Oatmeal to be in Whitehorse.
It's a problem, thought Ed.  He didn't really want to deal with the
sacking of Whitehorse at all, come to think of it.  He came up with a
compromise.

"The crew of the Oatmeal sacks Whitehorse in a quick and efficent way
familiar to afficionados of deepwater pirate fiction, and of little
interest to anyone else."  That should do it, he thought.  "After
Whitehorse is sacked, the only things left standing are the town bakery,
half of the town bank, and several dozen partially-melted ice sculptures,
courtesy of Aloyisius.  As the brave crew sets off once more for Mount
Everest, Mayor Hossfedder is left sobbing in the town square.

"'Thank you,' sobs Mayor Hossfedder. 'Thank you for sparing us what you did
to Omaha.'"

There was a sudden clattering on the door of the cell.  Ed looked up.  Ovid
regarded him through the bars of the cell door.  Ovid's face was ruddier
than usual.  His neck looked shorter, too.  He rasped his nightstick across
the door again.

"You've got visitors," grumbled the guard.


WILL THE GREENSLIMY ALIENS CONQUER RATHERLARGE CITY?

WHAT WILL THE INVASION BE NAMED?

WILL MANMAN AND JUAN FIND THEIR WAY HOME?

WHAT HAPPENED TO OMAHA, ANYWAY?

... you could make up your own version of what happens next, or you can
read the next episode -- here on SUPERGUY...

Next episode:  An actual fight scene.  Sort of.

(c) 1996 Dirk Myers