🚀 go-pugleaf

   ]]]]]]]]]]]]]\\    ]]]]]      ]]]]] ]]]]]]]]]] ]]]]]]]] //============\\
   ]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]\\    ]]]        ]]]     ]]]         //  ||  Created   ||
     ]]]]          ]]   ]]]        ]]]     ]]]        //   ||     by     ||
     ]]]]          ]]   ]]]        ]]]     ]]]       //    ||  Don Cook  ||
     ]]]]          ]]   ]]]   ]]   ]]]     ]]]      //     ||  & Randy   ||
     ]]]]]]]]]]]]]//   ]]]]]]]]] ]]]]]   ]]]]]]   ]]]]]]]] || Milholland ||
     ]]]]          \\                                      ||            ||
     ]]]]           ]]   ]]]===\\   //====\\  \\  // //=== ||  Issue  1  ||
     ]]]]           ]]   ]]]___//  [[      ]]  \\//  ]]_   ||   9/13/96  ||
     ]]]]           ]]   ]]]    ]] [[      ]]   ]]      ]] ||            ||
   ]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]//    ]]]___//   \\====//    ]]   ===// \\============//
    /--------------------------\
   | "Fortune favors the bold." | PART I: SLOW STARTS FOR SLOWER STARTERS
   |        ** Juvenal **       |               >-----{*}-----<
    \--------------------------/


Mid-spring, 1995:

        Plight Heights in the springtime was always a joyous thing.  On a
clear May afternoon, a person could stand on the coast and smell the clear
air blow in from the ocean.  That is, if they could ignore the oil spill.
And the radon from the nuclear meltdown at the Plight Height's nuclear
power plant from a few years ago.  And the tremors.  But no one talked
about the tremors.  They were a touchy subject.
        Flowers bloomed, children played, and a few cars even swerved or
stopped to avoid the children.  Even the smog that hung over the city
like a imposing death shroud, striking fear in the hearts of all who lived
beneath it daily, seemed a bit rosier.
        But there was no joy in the secret lair of the Plight Height's
super hero team, Four Guys Named Bob.  One of the members was about to
be asked to resign.


        "And so, we three Bobs have come together to ask for your
resignation lest we be forced to fire you."  Captain Bob choked back tears.
But not for much longer.  "Why didn't you tell us?  We could've helped you
or something!"
        The Bob Marvel spit angrily on the floor of the Bobcave.  "Help
schmelp.  He's not one of us.  Toss his flaming butt out the door now."
        "Look, I told you guys when I first signed on that my name wasn't
Bob," Flaming Toddler protested.  "I don't see what you're all getting huffy
about."
        "Lies!" Bobarella boomed, her skin-tight black and red suit shimmering
in the light of the Bobcave.  "We'd have never allowed a non-Bob on our
team."
        "What the #$@@ are you talking about?  I even said so on my
application."  The Flaming Toddler gestured to a piece of paper on the desk
in front of Captain Bob.  "Look for yourself."
        "Well, I'll be.  He's right.  He *did* tell us."  Captain Bob blushed.
"I always wondered why he rolled his eyes when we called he the Flaming Bob."
        "It is of no matter," Bobarella demanded.  "He is no Bob and therefore
cannot be a part of the Four Guys Named Bob team."
        "I may not be a Bob, but you aren't a guy either," Toddler steamed.
"So why aren't you getting kicked off too?"
        "Because of Plight Heights Heroes' Guild Law 439A, Section 3," the
head Bob said, pulling out a red rule book.  After thumbing through a few
pages, he read aloud.  "`All superhero teams and/or such affiliates, as
defined in Section 1, Subrule 14, shall have at least one member of the
team who shall be well curved, scantily or tightly clad, and possess the
obligatory cheesecake requirement of at lease a 36C.'"
        "I see," Toddler grumbled.  "I'm being railroaded into this.  Fine and
friggin' dandy."  He turned to storm from the room, but suddenly stopped and
whirled about face.  "But mark my words, this won't keep me down!  I'll start
my own team of heroes - the best team this town's ever seen, and you'll regret
you ever let me go.  You'll come back to me on your hands and knees, crying!"


        "Maybe if I go back on my hands and knees, crying," Toddler pondered.
        "Oh, now, don't you go gettin' all sad and all over this little
mess," Toddler's faithful butler and former Army sergeant, GI Average Joe,
comforted.  "Don't ya know, in no time you and your little friends will be
out there galavanting about an' all.  Here, I made you some cookies."
        Flaming Toddler reached into the dish and pulled out an oatmeal
cookie, its edges singing and popping in his grasp.  "I told them I was gonna
start a team though, Joe.  Who'd follow a twenty-seven year-old-man trapped
in a flaming child's body?"
        "Oh, don't ya know people have followed worse," GI Average Joe said.
"You've heard about that new televangelist, eh?"
        Toddler turned around in his flame-retardant chair.  "Huh?"
        "I guess not," the former military sergeant, replied as he turn up the
volume on the TV.  "He just aired about four weeks or so ago, and he's already
got a sizeable following."  Joe shook his head.  "Mindless sheep."
        "This coming from someone who used to be in the army?" Toddler asked.
        "Mind you, now," Joe spouted in his heavy Minnesota accent.  "Just
listen to the gee-golly rubbish he's a-spreading about our town."
        Toddler watched an animated man with perfectly slicked hair wave his
arms about, clutching a Bible in one hand, a microphone in the other.  His
skin was shiny and slick, too, almost like finely painted wood.
        "And, my brethren, Gawd has spoken to me in a vision!" the man said.
"He warned me!  E-vil has grasped our beloved south!  Even in the home city
I claim for operations - blessed little Plight Heights, North Carolina - it
is planting its fo-ul seed, impregnating our virgin lands with the sinful
rhythms of rock music, feminist ideals, multi-syllables - let us not deny it,
my friends!  The very stench of Tejano has vomited itself upon our shores!"
He wiped forced tears from his cheeks.  "Even the children - our beloved,
sweet children, have been poisoned and played host to the vile parasites!"
He motioned to a few men in suits.  "Bring out the poor child."
        They disappeared behind a glittering curtain and re-emerged, pushing
a little boy in a wheelchair.  He had giant glossy eyes and a single shock
of black hair.  Tiny whimperings echoed from his throat.
        Again, the televangelist wiped more tears as he leaned to the boy's
side.  "What's your name, son?"
        "I am Manuel Adolfo Gustavus El-Marquis del Rio Saldanas, American
Capitalist With Well-Oiled Hair," the boy said.  "I come from Paraguay to
sample the laborless fruits and spineless ideals your country holds to the
gods as a gift."
        The evangelist playfully rubbed the few hairs Manuel had.  "Now
that's just cute, son.  Full of hope and childish whimsy."
        Manuel's tiny fists shook in anger.  "Touch not again Manuel, vile
charlatan, lest I will administer a thrashing upon you with my frail but-"
        "FRAIL!" the evangelist roared.  "Truer words were never spoken,
my friends!  This boy's soul is FRAIL!"  He bent back to Manuel.  "Son,
have you sinned against Gawd?"
        Manuel's eyes searched the audience and then fell to his open palm.
"Yes - it is..."  He stared a bit harder.  "Tr- true.  I - have - sinned."
        Toddler became riled.  "He's reading that!"
        "How have you sinned my child?" the evangelist asked.
        Manuel searched the other hand, but began sweating.  "Um... uh... I
sinned because... uh."  He rolled up his sleeve and searched.  "Crap."
        "Go ahead son, tell us your trespasses against the Lord Almighty."
        "Yes, of course," the boy muttered, rolling his head back in a
thinking pose.  "W-e-e-e-e-e-ell, let us see.  I, um... sinned.  Yes, I did
sin a lot."
        "C'mon, son, how did you SIN?" the evangelist growled.
        The boy's eyes lit up.  "I never liked Captain Kirk."
        The TV set shot out the sound of an audience gasping.
        "Big deal," Toddler said.  "Most people didn't."
        "I'm more a Sulu man myself, ya know," Joe put out.
        The evangelist stood and spread his arms mournfully to the audience.
"Did you hear that, friends?  This boy did _not_ like Captain James T. Kirk
of _Star Trek_ - you don't get much more immoral, heartless, and downright
un-American than that without strapping a crucifix to your naughty dangly
bits upside down and shunning country music!"
        An unseen bystander shouted "Amen!"
        Manuel looked confused.  "What do you mean?  Shatner was painfully
an inferior actor portraying an unnecessary relic.  His inabilities constantly
draped over the superior performances of such cast members as Leonard Nimoy,
George Taka-"
        "Be healed!" the evangelist screamed, smacking Manuel, open-palmed,
across the forehead.  The tiny boy toppled backwards and spilled out of the
wheelchair.  Manuel scrambled to his feet immediately.
        "Praise be to Christ Jesus and the everloving flow of eternal love!"
the evangelist sang out.  An uproar of applause shot afterwards.  "We're just
gonna have to root out this here evil and give it a healing slap in the name
of Jesus!"
        Manuel tottered over towards the evangelist.  "Okay, I have gone on
with your charade.  You feed Manuel now as promised."
        "Um, seems our little friend needs just a bit more healing," the man
said, nodding to the two gentlemen in tuxedos.  "Take him out back and give
him over to the healing power's of the Lord's tire iron."
        As he was dragged away, Manuel cried, "Wretched capitalistic pig-dog!
Manuel shall have his revenge!  I shall seek out thy Rolls, and violently
chew at the hubcaps!"
        Joe turned the TV off.  "See?  If people like that can have a large
following, surely you can put together a hero team."
        "That was awful," Toddler said.  "Who was that guy?"
        "Rev. Pinocchio he's called," Joe answered.  "But let's not think
about him, okay?  Back to you, Toddler.  You gotta pick yourself up by your
burnin' bootstrap y'know, eh?  Ya, you need to go on and take control of this
situation."  Joe seemed distant for a moment.  "If you grab what's in front
of you now, you'll regret it for the rest of your life."  Joe looked into
space.  "Believe me, I know...."


++Flashback+Provided+By+Figment+Fantasy+Corp.+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


June 23, 1976
Ft. Lank, Minnesota:


        The mess hall was particularly busy that day.
        "Sarge!" called a private.  "How ya doing today?"
        Joe smiled and picked up his tray.  "Good, y'know.  What's new on the
menu today, eh?"
        The private wiped his hands on his aprons.  "Sarge, I came up with
this great new pastry - it's got a creamy center, just like a Twinkee, but
there's actually strawberry mixed in there as well."  He held a platter of
them out towards Joe.  "Try one, Sarge - I want you to be the first."
        Joe gave a wry smile but shook his head.  "Naw, I'll be waitin' for
someone else to try, y'know.  I'm not the brave one."
        Another private stepped forwards.  "H-h-he-ey y-y-ya, S-s-s-sarge."
        "Aw, Bobby, you still having that stuttering problem?" Joe asked
        He nodded nervously.  "Eee-e-e-ever su-su-since that bu-bu-bullet
lod-dged itsee-see-lf in my su-su-spine, sir."
        The cooking private held a snack out to Bobby.  "Here, Bobby, this'll
take your mind off it."
        Bobby bit into the spongy cake and suddenly was a-glow.  "I - I can
feel the pain go away!"  He quickly chomped the rest down.  "I can ACTUALLY
feel the bullet dissolve in sheer pleasure!  YES!"  Bobby did a back-flip
over a table.  "I've never felt better in my life!"
        "Impossible!" said Private Thames.  He grabbed a cake and ate it.
"My God!"  He pulled his shirt up.  "That scar from the horrible the egg
beater accident when I was in fourth grade!  It's gone!"
        "And my tattoo of my ex-fiance disappeared when I ate one!" cried
Sergeant Servince.  "Now I can have George's name put there and I'll win his
love back!"
        "It healed my goiter!" cried another soldier.
        Private Flives swallowed one and fell to his knees.  "Of course - it
all makes sense now!  I feel myself becoming one with all and my spiritual
conscience merging with the greater cosmic life force, allowing me to achieve
what the Buddhists called the enlightened state of Nirvana!"  All watched in
amazement as he ascended into the heavens.
        "Maybe I will have one," Joe said.
        "Sorry, Sarge, we're out," the cook said.  "But I'll go make up
another batch for you.  I wrote the recipe down on-"
        "Kitchen fire!" cried a cook in the back.  "All the cookbooks have
been destroyed."
        "Damn," said the first cook.  "I'll never remember that recipe!"
        "Noooooooo!" Joe screamed.  He looked skywards.  "Damn you!  Damn you!
You blew it up!"


++End+Transmission++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


        GI Average Joe ran his fingers sadly along the blinds.  "Oh, sure,
years later Hostess marketed the same thing - but it was never the same.
I tried - God knows for sure I tried, by golly, but I never had what I could
have had that day."  He cupped his face in his hands.  "I was such a fool!"
        "Was?" Toddler asked.  "You're using the past tense - this confuses
me."  He strolled about a bit.  "Still, you have a valid point.  There's no
time like the present to take over and make a super hero team - with me at
the helm, of course."
        "Isn't that your friend, Ol' Sweller, the sumo down there?" Joe asked
as he peeked out the blinds.  "I thought he worked with you at the Guild."
        "This is a sign!" Toddler cried.  He threw open the window and called
out.  "You there, boy!  Do you know what day today is?"
        Sweller looked up at Toddler from the street.  "Me?  It's Thursday."
        "No!" Flaming Toddler replied.  "Today is the day we form a super
hero team!  The greatest team this city has ever seen!"
        Sweller pulled his planner from his diaper and thumbed through it.
"No, it's definately Thursday."
        "Shut up and get in here!"


                                   <<<**!**>>>


That same night, at Rev. Pinocchio's Duplex of Praise(tm)...
10:45 pm:

        The good evangelist forced his way through the crowd of admirers and
into his dressing room.  "Bless you!" he yelled.  "Bless you all, and help
me bless the world with your generous love and donations!"  He detoured into
a guarded hallway, slamming the door behind him.
        "About damned time," he said.  The minister stormed to his make-up
table.  "You two!  Get out of here.  I need privacy."
        The two guards exchanged confused glances.
        "Am I not speaking English?" Pinocchio bellowed.  "Out!"
        Clumsily, the armed men stormed out, locking the door behind them.
        "At last!  Oh God, it hurts!"  Rev. Pinocchio fumbled with the
prosthetic nose, pulling it off.  His true, wooden nose immediately shot
out seven feet, planting itself dead into a wall full of cracks from past
stabs.
        "Rev. Pinocchio, very good show tonight," asked a figure in the
shadows of one corner.  "Did you get a good take in the offering plate?"
        The televangelist whirled around.  "Who's there?!"
        "A friend," the shadow said with a chuckle.  "I know things about
you, Rev. Pinocchio."
        "Another black-mail artist?" the minister cackled.  "I eat your
kind for breakfast, punk.  Whatever you think you've got, I can disprove
and then-"
        "This is not what you think," the man said.  "I know you're running
out of issues.  No more witches to burn for the lust of your spineless
heard.  But I can take care of that."  He stepped closer towards the window.
"But since you aren't interested-"
        "Now let's not be hasty, friend," Pinocchio said.  "Have a seat."
        The man raised a hand.  "I thank you, but no."  He pulled an envelope
from his jacket.  "Here's documentation you'll want to read.  Proof of
anti-Christian activities in over seventeen fields of occupation.  Enough
to fuel you and your campaigns for at least a year."
        Pinocchio eyed the envelope warily and then took it.  "Why should I
believe you?" he asked.
        "A better question is why shouldn't you?  Take a look, my friend.
Signed contracts, photographs, shipment orders."  The man turned towards the
windows and gingerly placed his hand on it, running his fingers down the
glass.  "I have more if you need it - files cabinets more.  Whatever you
need."
        The televangelist sorted through the envelopes contents.  "Dear God!
Do you know how many lives I could ruin with this?"
        "Not to mention how much you'll make in donations," the man said.
"Think of it - Rev. Pinocchio, crusader for the people.  You can seek out
evil, unveil it for its unethical standings, and topple empires."  He finally
stepped from the shadows and leaned into Pinocchio's face.  Most of his face
was covered by his hat or the upright collar on his trenchcoat, but a scar
from his temple, across his right eye, over the bridge of his nose and to
his left cheek was clearly visible.  "The best part of it is it will be
totally true.  All of it, and if someone accuses you of being a fraud, you
will have evidence.  Some of these people are committing criminal offenses.
You'll be the angel that pulls them to justice."  He stepped back into his
shadowy cloak.  "And everyone loves a hero."
        "What's the price?" Pinocchio asked.  "Or are you just some whacked
loon who wants to go about righting wrongs."
        "Not quite," the man said.  "This is a gift from my employer.  I have
several more which you will receive in due time.  However, we will require
your services."  He smiled evilly.  "But not yet... you'll know when, but
for the next year or so, just enjoy your new success."
        Pinocchio hesitated, and then looked back down at the papers.
When he looked back to asked the man one more question, he saw no one.
        Just an open window.


                                   <<<**!**>>>


Weeks later...


        Toddler and Sweller sorted through the applications.
        "And I was worried there wouldn't be enough people who wanted to
be on our team," Toddler admitted.  "This is an outpour!"
        "Maybe we shouldn't get too excited until we've interviewed a few of
these people," Sweller said.
        "Nonsense!  These are all certified heroes!"  Toddler pointed a
flaming finger at one.  "Look at this one's references!"
        "Look how he also wrote his resume in crayon," Sweller grumped.
        "You're too negative," Toddler said.  "Joe, send in the first of our
applicants."
        A foul smelling man in an undershirt, ripped up jeans, a "Honk if
You're Single" baseball cap and a green mask stumbled in.
        Sweller checked iver his clipboard.  "And you are?"
        "The Phantom Trucker," the masked man blurted.  "I seek out evil and
give it a good ol' sexual harassin'."
        "NEXT!"
        In swaggered a sad looking, preteen girl with ratty hair and a severe
underbite.
        "Any you are?" Sweller asked.
        "The Martyr Miss," she replied.
        Flaming Toddler stared in confusion.  "And your super powers would
be... what?"
        "I go out of my way to be miserable, doing things that I know will
make me terribly unhappy, and I whine my enemies into submission."
        "Let me get this straight," Toddler said.  "You do something that you
know will make you unhappy, you groan about it, and that makes people give
up?"
        She nodded.
        "What do you do if they don't surrender?" Sweller said.
        After a few moments of a pause, she spoke up.  "You hate me, don't
you?"
        Flaming Toddler could feel the burn of an ulcer rising.  "I can't
believe this - is there nothing but a room full of losers out there?"
        "You're burning too bright.  It's hurting my eyes," Martyr Miss
pulled out in a nasal voice.
        "Other applicants are Mime Master, the Jugalar Juggler-"
        "What's he do?" the ignited leader asked.
        "Um, something rather nasty with knives and small woodland animals I
am afraid," Sweller replied.
        "Don't bring up woodland animals!" screeched Martyr Miss.  "I have
bad memories!  A squirrel used to take my lunch money!"
        "I'm gonna go address these creeps," Toddler growled.  "You get rid
of her!"
        Martyr Miss pointed to Sweller's diaper.  "Your not trendy enough.
I'm offended."
        The sumo sat uneasily.  He knew he had to get rid of her, but at the
same cost he really didn't want to touch her.  It wasn't that he didn't
know where she hadn't been.  Actually, from all the rumors of her nightly
romps in the local tobacco fields with an unnamed mule and a corkscrew
(which won't be related here as a gift to our more delicate readers), he
actually had a pretty good idea where she had been and it made the situation
all the worse.
        "Sweller?"  A figure poked in through the back door.
        "Skinnybutt!" the sumo exclaimed with a bit of gyration.  "How is my
favorite animated corpse?"
        "I'm well."  Skinnybutt fished into a paper bag and pull out a plastic
container.  "Betty heard you made it on a new team, so she sends this piece
of cherry pie in congratulations."
        Ol' Sweller reared back in pleasure.  "Ah, she is definately an angel
of mercy!  Send her my unsolicited appreciation."
        Martyr Miss shook at Skinnybutt.  "Cherry pie?  Are you making lewd
references to my body?  How offensive!  You should be ashamed!  I'm a woman
damn it!"
        Skinnybutt squinted and adjusted his glasses.  "You lie."
        Sweller turned to the ghost in desperation.  "Please, Ski-chan, you
have gotta get her out of here."
        "My pleasure," the ghost said, yanking out an Uzi.
        "With no bloodshed," the diapered warrior added.
        Ski-chan sized Martyr Miss up again.  "Since when does a virus bleed?"
        Martyr Miss roared with renewed agitation.  "Are you calling me a
microscopic organism?"
        "No," Skinnybutt answered, "I'm referring to you as a member of a
lesser evolved kingdom that thrives on stolen nutrients and in doing so
causes untold amounts of disruption of peace and pleasure."
        She thought for a second.  "I'm still offended."
        Skinnybutt put the Uzi back and pulled a camera with tripod and Big
Bird doll from his jacket.  "Hey, Rosemary's Baby, look at the birdie and
gimme a slack-jawed smile!"  He adjusted the lens and waved the doll.
"C'mon, show me those pearly yellows!"
        Martyr Miss stopped and struck a pose.
        "Say, 'thoracic cavity'," Sweller yelled.
        "Huh?" MM asked.
        Just then, Skinnybutt's rib cage popped open and a tentacle reached
out and pulled Martyr Miss in, shutting the bones behind it.
        "I'm gonna go dump her somewhere," the ghost said.  "I'm thinking
France."
        "Thanks, Ski-chan," Sweller said.  "Hey, why don't you apply for
our team?  You're one of the oldest heroes - or anything - I know."
        The ghost shook his head.  "Betty's grumpy enough I re-enlisted with
the Heroes' Guild as it is.  That would probably just pour gas in the fire."
The ghost hobbled towards the door and, with a wave, disappeared.
        "Not a ONE of them had any useful powers!" Toddler ached as he walked
back in the room.  "Not one."
        "Scared them all off, eh?" Sweller said.
        "Half of them were scared of their shadows," Joe replied.
        "Maybe we're doing this all wrong," Sweller said.  "Why are we waiting
for them to happen our way.  If we want some heroes, let's go look for them."
        Toddler slumped, face down, on the steel table.  "And you suggest
where?"


                                   <<<**!**>>>


        "The senior citizen center?" Toddler blurted.  "Oh yeah, when I think
thriving heroic activity, top-notch stability under fire, and looking good in
tight, flashy suits, I think senior citizens, Sweller."
        The sumo glared at his well-lit companion.  "Not all of them are
geriatric, you know.  Besides, a lot of the older and retired heroes stick
around here and relive old times.  Face it - there's nothing like the old
vets of yesteryear."
        GI Average Joe nodded.  "Oh, ya, that's for sure.  True, we had a few
of them that didn't seem as harmful back then as they do today-"
        "McCarthy Marvel, Sgt. Segregation, and the Radon Rascal come to
mind," Toddler said, staring at the tomb-like building.  "It's so depressing
here."
        "You're forgetting some of the better heroes - American Frag, the
Purple Taser, and the crown-jewel in the Heroes' Guild's history: the
Snaps-Evil-Doers-Heads-Off-And-Dances-On-Their-Intestines Guy," Sweller
reminded.
        "Their names may not have been terribly original, but they were
straight to the point," Joe said.
        "And no false advertising," Toddler recalled.  S.E.D.H.O.A.D.O.T.I.
Guy, if I remember it right, once took out a boatload of drug-crazed androids
toting missiles commonly used to remove warships like they were water pistols,
and he came out of it with only a mild toothache."
        "And that was 'cause he always ate a candy bar 'fore battle, ya
know," Joe said.  "And don't you go getting such tom-foolery in your head,
eh?"
        Flaming Toddler looked up at his companions.  "You're right - this
IS a good idea.  Let's go in there and get us an old guy!"


WHICH OLD GUY WILL THEY CHOOSE?

WILL FLAMING TODDLER'S DREAM EVER TAKE OF THE GROUND?

OR WILL HE AND OL' SWELLER BE FORCED TO BECOME THE "DIAPERED DUO"?

WHY ISN'T DON COOK WRITING MORE "MR. MORBID"?

For the answers to these questions [except the last one] tune in next week
[or sooner if we can get the author liquored up] for BLITZ BOYS!
______________________________________________________________________________
            "Blitz Boys" is (c)opyright 1996 Don Cook, Jr.
                                    &
  =========================================================================
  ||(C)opyright 1996 rkmilholland/ ||  Sacred Circle of Confusion, LTD.  ||
  ||     Knight of NEE! #166       ||       "Hang on to your ego. "      ||
  ||   nee@io.com/randy@unt.edu    ||      http://www.io.com/~nee/       ||
  =========================================================================