🚀 go-pugleaf

CONTINUITY NOTE:
This issue takes place in the days immediately following the events
chronicled in Chris Angelini's "Tribe of Behn #36," the third volume
of his "Winner Take All" crossover. WTA is more than just a
prerequisite of this particular story; it represents a logistical
miracle and is a damn fine tale, to boot. So go and read it right
now, if you haven't already.


THE BEANSTALK
ESSEX, ONTARIO

     As Ensign Victor Martin buttoned the last button of his shirt,
someone knocked on the door.
     "Come in."
     Victor Martin looked up at the Beanstalk medtech who'd entered
his room. She was quite a bit shorter than he, with large red-framed
glasses and long brown hair. Her dark eyes were wide with what
appeared to be concern, and she bit her lower lip nervously before
speaking.
     "Feeling better?"
     "I suppose," Victor replied. "After all, my symptoms are gone,
and they gave me that spray, so I won't be contagious if I happen to
be quickened... for all practical purposes, I'm free of the Windsor
plague now and can get on with my life."
     She smiled. "You looked pretty bad there for awhile. I-- we were
worried about you."
     An awkward silence ensued. Victor, out of habit, began to make
his bed.
     "So what was your name again?" he asked as he fluffed his
pillow.
     "Margaret," she replied. "I took care of you when they first
brought you in."
     Victor nodded. "Thank you, then."
     He began rummaging through his bag.
     "What are you looking for?" she inquired.
     "Toothbrush."
     "Oh."
     Victor continued searching.
     "I think I can get--" Margaret began, but just then Victor found
it. She lapsed back into silence.
     Victor went into the bathroom. She stood and listened as he
brushed his teeth and then removed the remaining debris from between
his braces with his water pick. He came out of the bathroom and
blinked.
     "You're still here?"
     "Oh! Um, I can--"
     Victor waved a hand. "Whatever."
     He replaced the toothbrush in his bag, zipped it up, and placed
it on a chair in the corner of the room. Then he looked up at
Margaret thoughtfully.
     "Say, Mar--"
     "Yes??"
     "Do you happen to know where Richard Stoner is? We were on our
way to New York together when all this started, and I figured we'd
better be on our way before his mom started to worry."
     "Oh. Stoner? He, um... he died."
     "WHAT?!"
     "No, it's not like that. He's OK now. I can-- I can take you to
see him. If you want."
     Victor nodded slowly. Ever since his posting to the Deep Throat,
he'd been nagged by the uncomfortable sensation that the world was in
fact little more than a giant loony bin, and this conversation wasn't
doing much to assuage it.
     "Great! Let's go!" she squeaked, and held the door open for him.


DM's ASComIIcs proudly presents:


              * * THE ADVENTURES OF COMMODORE AMIGA * *
                           Episode  Eight:
                            "Post Mortem"

                         by Brendan LeFebvre


     "Pull!"
     The extra complied, causing the contraption at his side to snap
open like a mousetrap in reverse and catapult a fluffy lemon-meringue
pie across the training arena.
     Ensign Richard Stoner leaped into the air, arm outstretched to
catch the airborne target. He peaked far short of the intended
height, and flapped his arms frantically in an effort to gain
altitude, but to no avail. The pie sailed over his head and landed
face-down on the mat below, joining half a dozen others to form an
abstract pattern which vaguely resembled the Rocky Mountains, or at
least would have if not for the pie tins which obscured it.
     Richard shouted something incoherent and floated down towards
the exit, where Night Owl, aka Dr. Liberty Richards, stood, observing
his efforts with a faint smile. At the other end of the arena,
without a word, the extra began to reload the modified clay-target
launcher.
     "Don't give up, Richard! You almost had it that time!"
     "I don't know, Night Owl. I just don't think I'm right for this
whole superguy thing."
     Liberty sighed deeply. What would Tony say, in her position? She
tried to compose the appropriate pep talk.
     "Because you can't catch a silly pie? Richard, you know better
than that. Being a superperson isn't just about powers; it doesn't
matter how high you can jump. Or fly. Don't you see? It's all a
matter of what's in here--" she pointed to his chest--
"metaphorically speaking, of course."
     "That's not all. It's just... ever since the accident, I've been
doing a lot of thinking. You know, about my life and stuff. I was
kind of hoping to settle down someday. Maybe start a family. And when
I die for the last time, I'd much rather it be of old age.
Superguying is just too dangerous, and you can see I wouldn't be any
good at it anyway."
     Night Owl stared at him in disbelief. "I can't believe you said
that. Richard, do you know how much evil is out there in the world?
You've been given a better chance than most to hold some of it back.
Don't you feel any obligation at all--?"
     "Can we get out of here?" Stoner evaded. "I'm starving; it's way
past my breakfast time."
     Liberty sighed. "Just a second, Richard. I want you to try
something."
     "Oh, come on--"
     "Go!"
     "Night Owl, I'm *hungry*!"
     Liberty finally opted for a more direct approach.
     "Listen to me, you evolutionarily-challenged ape of a man! Do
you want to achieve those dreams that I *know* are calling out to
you, or would you rather wallow in a cup of cafeteria coffee and feel
sorry for yourself for the rest of the day? Of the week? Of your
life??"
     "But I just said I don't want to--"
     "For the record, Stoner, I don't believe a word you said about
settling down. I saw how you lost control of your emotions when you
kept missing the pies. Clearly, this does matter to you. So get out
there."
     Stoner trudged back to the center of the arena.
     "Pu--"
     "Wait! I haven't told you what to do yet."
     "But I already know what to--"
     "Now, then. The best way to acheive your dreams is to strive
beyond it. So when you first make that leap, Richard, don't think
right away about going for the pie. Imagine instead that you're
trying to leap all the way up to the ceiling. I think you'll find
that the pie is closer to your grasp than you first believed."
     Stoner rolled his eyes. "Right. Whatever you say."
     "Just *try it*, Richard."
     He nodded wearily and complied, focusing his eyes and thoughts
on a particular light fixture in the ceiling.
     "Pull!"
     The improvised pie-launcher spat its projectile into the air.
     Stoner leaped.
     The fixture was his beacon. Everything else fell away from
existence. There was only Richard Stoner and the light fixture.
     And the fluffy meringue up his nose.
     "Very good, Richard!" Night Owl called encouragingly as the
startled ensign lost control of his flight and nearly fell to his
death, managing at the last second to slow his descent and land
without injuring himself. "I'm proud of you!"
     "Yeah, thanks," muttered Stoner, clearly humiliated. He flicked
the biggest meringue chunks off his face and headed for the locker
room. "I need a towel. See you--"
     "Why don't you meet me in the cafeteria for lunch this
afternoon?" she suggested, in response to her faint pangs of guilt.
"I'll treat you to some onion soup. It's not that bad, I promise."
     "Yeah, fine," replied Stoner. Free food was free food, after
all.
     "All right. I've got to get back to the lab. See you there!"
     "Women," he grumbled when she'd left.


     In a small, featureless room, Commodore Dan Amiga sat perfectly
still on a standard-issue folding chair, eyes closed, hands resting
flat upon his knees. He exuded an aura of calm which completely
masked the activity between his ears.
     From his unassuming position in the heart of Canada's largest
paramilitary facility, the U.S. Navy officer controlled thousands of
mind-linked superguys. His puppets spanned the entire continent, and
most of them were damned tired, having just saved the planet from a
rampaging army of pseudodemons. But they were the lucky ones. Too
many had lost their lives in the battle for Earth.
     Now that the fighting had subsided, the world no longer needed
Amiga to coordinate the thousands of former Maladroit-minions. For
the moment, though, he still held the strings; the Beanstalk medtechs
had not yet managed to synthesize the agent that would sever his
psionic link to the superarmy.
     Their emotions resonated within him as they trickled home;
tremendous waves of relief and despair faced off as the lucky ones
returned to intact homes and families and the unlucky-- particularly
those who'd been spawned in the initial Canadian nuke blasts-- found
only devastation in the place of things familiar.
     Amiga had been taking advantage of the downtime to refine
his mental coordination. By now he was able to observe and even start
conversations with individual puppets, though he usually couldn't
tell one from another until after he'd entered their minds. He
decided now that it was the least he could do to console some of
them....


SAN DIEGO, CA

     {Good morning, Jeannette. Feeling better, I trust?}
     In an eyeblink, Jeannette D'Oblique was fully awake, her gaze
darting around the grimy alleyway.
     "Who-- wha-- Jean, wake up!" Beside her, Jean D'Oblique
continued to snore softly, an old McDonald's bag serving as a
makeshift pillow. She gave him a sharp poke.
     "Wha? Wha izz't?" he mumbled.
     "Did you hear that?"
     "No... lemme sleep."
     {Sorry to wake you, but--}
     "Jean!!"
     "Dammit, what?" he growled, propping his head up on one elbow to
glare at her.
     {Ah, you're both awake. Good.}
     "It's the voice, Jean. The second one."
     "So it is."
     {I don't believe we've been formally introduced. My name is Dan
Amiga. We met at the animal park the other day, Jeannette.}
     Dimly she recalled her actions under Maladroit's influence,
several days before. By the monorail....
     "Oh. It's you," she muttered. The bruises he'd inflicted during
their climactic fight sequence had become lost among the dozens more
she'd collected in the past few days, but as far as she was
concerned, he was responsible for them all.
     {Glad you remember. I trust everything is all right?}
     "Not really," replied Jeannette frostily. "At your request,
we fended off Hell(tm)-spawn for Elvis knows how long. It hurt."
     {If it's any consolation, you did help save the world.}
     "That's beside the point. I very nearly died."
     "So did I!"
     "Shut up, Jean."
     "What? I was in just as much danger as you were!"
     "Regardless. I was in the middle of a conversation with Mr.
Amiga."
     "He was talking to both of us."
     "All right, that does it!" snapped Jeannette. "I've had just
about enough--"
     {Both of you, stop fighting, please!}
     "I'm sorry, Jean," Jeannette gushed soapily, a tear forming in
the corner of her eye. "We've been through so much in the past few
days... and we nearly allowed our petty disputes to tear us apart.
Forgive me?"
     "Of course, ma chere," Jean consoled his wife as she began to
weep openly.
     Several thousand miles away, Commodore Amiga groaned.
     {All right, then,} he sent. <If that's everything... I just
wanted to make sure you two were all right.>
     "Yes, yes, we're fine," they mumbled, more or less in unison, as
their accidental reconciliation intensified, inspiring the drunk at
the other end of the alleyway to lift his head curiously.
     {Right, then. Well, good luck getting home. I'll just leave you
two--}
     "Rrmf! Get off me, Jean! Amiga, wait!"
     {Yes, Jeannette?}
     "I very nearly forgot. Somewhere along the line, we lost track
of our precious daughter, Mireille."
     "Other than that, though, we're fine," her husband contributed.
     "Shut up, Jean."
     {Indeed. I remember her well. She'll make a fine painter
someday.}
     "Yes!" exulted Jean. "I told her! I told her the world was her
coloring book! And now, to know that that destiny will be fulfilled--
*thank* you, Amiga!"
     "As. I. Was. Saying," snarled Jeannette, "Mireille is missing.
We can't begin to rebuild our lives without her. Can you help us?"
     {It's the least I can do, Mrs. D'Oblique. Hold on... I'll have
her located in just a minute.}
     With that, he terminated the conversation and began sifting
through his strings.


THE BEANSTALK

     "So, um, you're from San Diego, right?" Margaret asked. She
gazed up at Victor with saucer eyes, which were further augmented by
her eyeglass lenses.
     "Well, I'm currently stationed there," he said, still not quite
sure what to make of her apparent fascination.
     "I'll bet you, uh, didn't expect to spend your vacation all the
way up here. In Canada."
     "Not exactly."
     "Were you upset about, um, missing the ADMINistry concert?"
     "Well, I'd have missed it anyway, because I couldn't get
tickets," Victor replied.
     They continued walking.
     "You know, I used to wear braces, too," Margaret confided.
     "Really."
     "Yeah! But they never gave me one of those neat little things to
clean them out."
     "Huh? Oh. The water pick. Right."
     "It was kind of embarrassing, really. I had to use my fingers a
lot--" Her mouth snapped shut as, in a sudden moment of insight, she
dropped that line of conversation.
     "I'm sorry to hear that," sighed Victor. "So, how much further
along is it?"
     Margaret's face fell.
     "Not far at all," she answered mournfully, rearranging the
planned course in her head so as to exclude the rest of the
unnecessary detours.
     Something occurred to Victor, and he looked at the medtech with
interest.
     "Uh, Mar--"
     "Yes??"
     "How did you know I liked ADMINistry?"
     "Oh! Um, I was moving your bag to the closet, and I, uh,
happened to see your CD in there."
     "Ah. Okay."
     Margaret sped up her pace, so that the young ensign would be
unable to see her panicked expression.
     "Say," Victor continued eagerly, grateful to have discovered a
light and familiar topic, "have you heard 'Demon Spittle' yet?"
     "Um, no!" she tossed back.
     "It's really great!" he endorsed. "There's this point in the
third track where Sys Guru's high-pitched vocals resonate with my
braces. Completely awesome."
     "Really?"
     "Yeah! And it's even better when I pick it up directly off the
radio."
     "Your braces can pick up radio waves?"
     "Yeah."
     "Oh! So that's what that device in your b-- er, nevmind!" Her
face went scarlet, and she began to walk even faster.
     Just ahead, Stoner emerged from the locker room, wiping the last
of the pie from his face. He looked up and grinned.
     "Victor! How you doin', buddy?"
     "Hey, Rick! Not bad. Come on, let's take a walk. We've got some
catching up to do."
     "Sure thing. I was just on my way to visit the Commodore."
     Victor turned to his escort. "Thanks for walking me here,
Margaret. Guess I'll see you around."
     Margaret stood forlornly in the middle of the corridor and
watched them go. Stoner sneaked a glance at her over his shoulder and
winked. She felt a little better.


     Amiga wiped the sweat from his brow and went through the strings
again, squinching his eyes shut in a futile effort to improve his
concentration. He'd managed to isolate the puppets in the San Diego
area, using the D'Obliques as a reference point, but he couldn't seem
to get in any closer. Despite his best efforts, they kept blurring
together, becoming one.
     It shouldn't be this difficult, he thought, grinding his teeth.
True, he hadn't encountered Mireille in close combat, but still, he
had seen her in person. And the fact that he knew her mother so well
had to count for something, didn't it?
     He gave it five more minutes, then grudgingly called Jeannette.
     {This is, er, going to be a little more difficult than I
thought.}
     "But what do you mean?" Jeannette gasped. "You said it would
just take a minute!"
     {I know. I'm sorry.}
     "I don't understand! Is something wrong? Why can't you--"
     {Calm *down*!} He very nearly shouted it out loud.
     The D'Obliques complied instantly to their master's request.
Amiga tried to do the same.
     {Sorry... look, I'm sure your daughter's fine. It'll take a
little longer than I thought to find her, that's all. You both can
assist me in my search, though, by sending me more information about
her. The more I know about what I'm looking for, the more likely I am
to find it. Focus on your daughter... conjure up thoughts and
memories of her as best you can. The sound of her voice, drawings
she's made, places you've taken her. Every little bit will help.}
     The D'Obliques nodded, closed their eyes, and complied. Amiga
sat back and absorbed their thoughts, hoping that what he'd just told
them hadn't been complete garbage.


     "Commodore? ... Sir?"
     Dan's eyes snapped open, and he whirled to face the intruders.
     "Can't you see I'm-- Victor! Richard! Hello!" The ire drained
away from his face; he rose and shook the ensigns' hands, smiling
warmly. "I trust you're doing well?" This last question was directed
towards Victor only.
     "Er, yes, sir. I'm fine." He looked at Rick, who showed no
offense whatsover at the commodore's apparent snubbing of him.
     "Wonderful!" exclaimed the commodore. "Well, boys, enjoy the
rest of your time off. I'll see you back in San Diego sometime next
week, I'm sure. But, if you'll excuse me, I've got work that needs
doing, so have fun and I'll talk to you soon!"
     He shooed them out and slammed the door.
     Victor blinked.
     "Rick, did you--"
     But the other ensign's face was utterly devoid of surprise.
     "He does have work to do. Very important work. We should leave
him be."
     Suddenly, Victor understood.
     "Elvis. You're still connected to him, aren't you?"
     "Yes indeedy."
     "But... why haven't they given you the antidote yet?"
     "There is no antidote for us. All they have is that preventative
spray so that we symbi-things don't spread further. No big deal...
the link will break anyway when they finally figure out how to
cure the Commodore, and Night Owl said that should only take another
day or two."
     "Oh." Victor stared at the floor as they continued down the
corridor.
     "Did it hurt?" he asked finally. "The change, I mean?"
     "Yeah," Stoner replied. "But that didn't last too long."
     "Right. The, uh, the death thing."
     Stoner nodded. "Well, that's over and done with, anyway. Now,
it's just a matter of learning to deal with these powers."
     "Oh? What can you do?"
     "Well, I can sort of fly. As for the rest... I'm really not sure
yet. But that's half the fun, right?"
     Victor forced a chuckle. "Yeah, I suppose. So how long were you
planning on staying here?"
     "Not too much longer, I guess. It's not like I can't experiment
with my powers anywhere else, and I do need to get home for at least
a few days before I go back to San Diego."
     Victor stopped. "You're going back?"
     Stoner looked at him. "Some reason I shouldn't?"
     "Well, no. It's just that--"
     "Why is everyone assuming that I've got this urge to become some
angst-laden vigilante? I'm still in the Navy, Vic, and I'll be damned
if I'm going to let some little symbiote change that."
     "But you know how some people in the service feel about--"
     "Screw 'em. I made the same promises they did, Victor. And so
did the commodore."
     "I guess you're right. Sorry."
     "Right. No problem."
     There was a brief silence.
     "So, do you still want me to go back home with you?" Victor
asked.
     "No."
     "What?"
     That earned him a devilish grin from Stoner. "Nothing personal,
Vic. It's just that you seem to have some unfinished business here."
     "Huh?"
     "You know."
     "No, I honestly don't."
     "Do I have to spell it out for you?"
     "I really wish you would."
     "Her name is Margaret."
     "WHAT?!"
     "Come on, Vic. Anyone can see she's interested in you. What have
you got to lose?"
     "You're insane."
     "No, really! Didn't you see the look in her eyes?"
     "Maybe. But to be honest, Rick, she kind of scared me. I think
she's been going through my bag."
     Stoner dismissed that with a wave. "So what if she was? She just
wanted to get to know you better. Is that so wrong?"
     "But-- that's my stuff," Vic protested weakly.
     "You're hopeless, man. But I'm sure you'll come around.
Meantime, I've got some phone calls to make. Talk to you later!" With
that, he darted into a stairwell and was gone.


SOMEWHERE IN CALIFORNIA

     More whimpers from the back seat.
     The driver of the green Buick LeSabre ground his teeth and
pressed down harder on the gas pedal. The invasion from Hell(TM) had
completely scrambled his arrangements for the week, and the window of
opportunity was closing fast.
     Mireille D'Oblique looked over once again at the big girl. She
had to be at least eight years old, but she sure didn't act like it.
     "What's wrong?" Mireille asked for the dozenth time.
     "I want to go home!" the girl sniffled.
     The driver of the green Buick LeSabre whirled around, annoyed.
     "Look, kid, I told you. We'll get there soon!"
     "And you're taking me to my mommy and daddy too, right?" asked
Mireille.
     "Yeah."
     "See? Don't worry, Patty. You'll be home soon. Don't be such a
baby!"
     With that matter closed, she gazed out the LeSabre's window
across the desert that stretched unbroken to the horizon. They'd been
driving for an awfully long time, but that was no reason to cry. The
man was really nice.
     After losing sight of her parents in San Diego, she'd wandered
the city streets in a panic until Todd found her. He'd calmed her
down immediately, for he had seen her parents and could take her to
them. And, as a special added bonus, he had a delicious candy bar for
her to eat along the way. But that was long gone. She idly wondered
if he had any more.
     Patty began to sniffle yet again. Exasperated, Mireille finally
decided that it was worth her while to try to cheer the big girl up.
     "Look," she whispered, pointing at the floor mat beneath her
feet.
     Patty grudgingly turned to look where her seat-mate was
pointing, and nearly choked on a rising sniffle. The girl's finger
had somehow elongated into a waxy proboscis and pinned the mat to the
floor. Now, even more astoundingly, it was changing colors, from
green to blue to purple to red... back and forth along the rainbow
spectrum, and the mat changed colors with it.
     Mireille looked up at Patty with a wide grin. She forged a pink
crayon-finger on her other hand and extended it towards the other
girl's plain white shirt.
     Patty recoiled with a shriek, startling Todd and causing the
Buick to swerve wildly for a few terrifying seconds. The man
added several new entries to Mireille's growing repertoire of bad
words as he forced the LeSabre back on course.
     "What the Hell(TM) was that for?" he shouted.
     "Nothing!" Mireille insisted. "We were just playing. See?"
     She further elongated the pink crayon-finger and pressed it
against the top of the Buick's dashboard, transferring its hue to the
vinyl surface in a matter of seconds.
     The man stared at Mireille's handiwork in awe.
     "Say, kid. What else can you--"
     The Buick, nudged off course once again by Todd's distraction,
now veered off the road entirely. He wrestled furiously with the
wheel, but the mercilessly rough terrain was already hurling the
Buick onto its side....
     As her world spun away, Mireille screamed too.


THE BEANSTALK

     Stoner rushed back up the stairwell, taking the steps two and
three at a time. Reaching the desired floor, he plowed through the
double doors, tossing a quick apology over his shoulder as a line of
jogging STOP troopers, their leader shoved back by the door that had
suddenly appeared in his way, toppled like dominoes. Despite his
subsequent shouted warnings, at least half a dozen more people were
similarly inconvenienced before Stoner reached his destination.
     Commodore Amiga looked up, annoyed, as Stoner barged into his
chamber.
     "Rick, didn't I tell you--"
     "I'm sorry, sir, I really am," Stoner gasped. "But I've got a
problem--"
     "And I've got a missing girl who would be in the arms of her
parents right now if not for me. I need to get back to finding her."
     "Sir, it's my mama. I've gotta get home."
     "You're on leave, Ensign. You don't need my permission to--"
     "It's not that. I need to borrow your rhino."
     "You can fly now, can't you?"
     "He's faster. He's stronger. And I know he's yours, sir, but
dammit, it's an emergency. I beg you...."
     Amiga considered this.
     "All right, Rick," he said finally. "Go. Help your mother. But
take good care of Ronnie, will you?"
     Stoner blinked. "Ronnie the Rhino?"
     Amiga shrugged, allowing himself a faint smile. "Yes, I suppose
it's a little silly, but it's the best I could do. Good luck to you."
     Rick nodded. "Thank you, sir. I'll bring him back safe and
sound."
     He turned to leave.
     "Oh, Ensign?"
     "Yes, sir?"
     "He prefers jelly donuts."


SAN DIEGO, CA

     Admiral Stanson, weary from the day's paper-pushing, staggered
into his apartment and got the heating pad out of the closet.
     Some days, he thought, he could kill for the chance to be out on
the open seas once more, taking an active role in the defense of his
glorious nation. Being "promoted" to a desk had been, unquestionably,
the most difficult turning point of his life. It was a cruel
reminder that his country considered him too old to defend her
effectively, and he'd harbored great feelings of protest on the
matter for several years, until his body finally betrayed him and
started to conform to that assessment.
     The admiral sank into his easy chair and plugged in the heating
pad, cranking it up to the maximum setting and placing it against his
aching back. With a contented sigh, he picked up the remote and
switched on the evening news.
     They were in the middle of a special documentary on the recent
world crisis. Stanson's eyes narrowed. The base hadn't been too badly
hit by the pseudodemons; just a skirmish or two at the outskirts of
the base perimeter. But he'd seen the devastation wreaked throughout
San Diego. Good people, innocent people, had died in his city and
throughout his nation.
     And it was all, without question, the fault of the superguys.
Their very existence taunted the dark forces that might otherwise be
content to lurk harmlessly in some dark corner, and brought their
wrath down upon helpless extras everywhere.
     Take this recent mess, for instance. Demons didn't just drop in
from Hell(TM) on a whim, no matter the depravities to which the
populace might have succumbed. They'd come because something had
pissed them off, and that probably meant some damn fool superguys had
been screwing around in places man just wasn't meant to be.
     He lifted the remote control. His thumb descended towards the
off-button....
     The documentary segued into a discussion of the Parliament
seige. And just as Stanson pressed the button, the view on the screen
switched to a close-up of--
     Stanson jerked upright in his seat. "What the *Hell(TM)*?" he
growled, jabbing the remote again.
     The image faded back in, and Stanson only got another second or
two to stare at it before the view changed again.
     That was all he needed.
     For some time, the admiral stared at the screen in total
disbelief, but the face kept popping up. Only when the program
finally cut to a commercial did he find his voice.
     "Well, Commodore," he said softly. "Seems you've got some
explaining to do."


THE BEANSTALK

     Night Owl glared at the stone-cold cup of onion soup as the last
of the lunchers shuffled out of the cafeteria.
     "*Just* like a man...."


     Victor rounded a corner and tried not to look too startled when
he saw Margaret.
     "Um, hi," he said lamely.
     "Hi, Victor!"
     "I think I'm, uh, lost. Can you, um, show me back to my room?"


WHAT IS STANSON GOING TO DO ABOUT THAT REVELATION OF HIS?
WHAT'S MIREILLE DOING WITH THE GUY IN THE (EX-)BUICK?
WILL HER PARENTS IN FACT BE ABLE TO REBUILD THEIR SHATTERED LIVES,
GIVEN HER CURRENT STATE OF PERIL?
CAN AMIGA FIND HER IN TIME?
WHAT'S WRONG WITH STONER'S MAMA?
MEANWHILE, ON A LIGHTER NOTE, IS LOVE FINALLY IN THE STARS FOR
VICTOR?

Find out in "Commodore Amiga #9", coming soon to monitors everywhere!


* PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT *

So you still don't get it?
...OK. Last time.
This is your brain.
And this is SUPERGUY.
<crack! sizzle...>
Any questions?

---
Copyright (c) 1996 Brendan LeFebvre. The Beanstalk appears courtesy
of Chris Angelini. Liberty Richards/"Night Owl" appears courtesy of
Louise Freeman. Admiral Stanson appears courtesy of Don Cook. "Buick
LeSabre" is a trademark of the Buick Corporation, like they care.
Everyone and everything else appears courtesy of me, thank you very
much.