Date: Mon, 7 Jul 1997 01:36:15 +0000 Comments: Authenticated sender is From: BT Murtagh Subject: INT: SPT / PAPP: Two Sinister New Allivals... The door of the tavern bursts open and two short men in black rush in pointing evil-looking little black guns at the customers. One holds his gun in his left hand, the other in his right; between their free hands is a handcuffed frog. The two halves of the saloon-type doors rebound at the end of their travel and smack them in the head, knocking them flat. The frog looks blearily left and then right, then shoots out a somewhat disheveled looking tongue and triggers the magazine release on each gun. With a little more effort he flicks one of the magazines out the door, wincing as the bruises on his tongue scrape on the floor. The men in black curse in some foreign tongue and stand before he gets to the other one. The man on the right reaches over and conks the other on the head, gesturing angrily at the magazine on the floor. (He doesn't seem to notice that his own gun is empty.) They once again point their guns at the customers... the make of the guns is not obvious, but there is obviously a right end and a wrong end and they appear quite confident that they are on the right end. "Evelybody flees!" shouts the one on the right. He has severe acne; his round face is covered with open sores. It actually takes a moment to see in the dim light that he is Oriental. "No one cad flee, you're id de way," remarks the frog. The two turn furiously on the frog. "SHUT UP!!!" They glare at him a moment, then the first speaker returns his attention to the room. "Evely... Nobody move! You arr undah allest!" "Whut phor?" someone asks. "Don't woolly what for! We don't terr you that!" shouts the one on the left as he reinserts the magazine into his pistol with an ominous-sounding click. He too is of the Orient, but his face is as narrow as the other's is round. It seems likely that he has some admixture of Caucasian blood, as his nose is extremely long and thin; overall he has a distinctly rodentlike appearance. "I do the tarking, Lo Rat Fink! Lemembah you prace!" "My aporogies, Chong Kew Law. I sharr eviscalate myserf soon as we comprete the mission." This offer seems onry.. only to infuriate Chong Kew Law. "We don't do that, imbecire! You watching long movies!" He tugs irritatedly at his collar, inadvertantly poking himself in the nose with his pistol, then swings the gun back on the bar. "This flog dlunk and in chahge of bicycre," he informs the customers. "We see him reaving this prace dlunk. Who is ploplietah? Ploplietah of estabrishment lesponsibre for dlunk patlons causing ploblems in tlaffic!" Dwayne clears his throat. "Um, I'm the plo... propratit... I own the joint. But responsible? Not me!" Nervously he polishes the bar with what appears to be the hide of a demon casualty in the Wars of Heaven. "Ah so!" cries Lo Rat Fink. "You not use plofanity with suspected climinals! Rawyers wirr eat you arrive!" Chong Kew Law slaps him on the head with his non-guntoting hand. This provokes a kick in the shin by the frog, and Law hops about madly for a moment. "You rittle... flog!! Stop that! I wirr clush you rike a glape!" The frog replies with a smug air, "You fwea'ened me in fwont of wi'netheth. My wawyah wiw ea' you awive." "We can thleaten you!" protests Lo Rat Fink. "We ah fleelance seclet porice! We can thleaten anyone!" "No' flogth. Ith iwwegal to fwea'en flogs i' fwon' of wi'netheth." Worried, Fink asks his superior, "Ith... I mean, is that tlue?" Law frowns, contemplating his shiny black shoes. "I not certain... many new legurations ratery... I confess, I not yet lead the ones on flogs." He sighs and takes out a handcuff key. "Best not take chances. New bosses suppose be ass-lippers if you clew up." "Thank you, gen'men," Alcmaeon says rubbing his wrists. "Bes' be on you' way now." "Not so quickry!" snarls Law. He swings his gun back up and waves it menacingly. "We not after dlunk flogs or ploplietors anyway... where is the lenegade Locky?" "WHO?" the bar choruses back. "Locky! Arias Litchy! The irregal seclet arien spy who prots to take contlol of... of the prace we come flom! Who steers the fires of dissident porice poetly and pletends it his own lighting, and DOESN'T GIVE US LOYALTIES!!!!" There is a puzzled silence while the assembly work their way through the diction (and some wonder if any dissident was ever torured so badly). Then a small shocked voice speaks; it is not certain whose it is, but it must certainly speak for all writers... "Yer means... royalties? Somebuddy 'ere... 'as p-p-p-plagerriseded..." "Nonthenth!" says the frog stoutly (if indistinctly). "None o' uth 'ud evah..." But it is apparent that the seeds of suspicion have been sown. The WRITERS peer at each other uneasily, wondering if it could be possible... wondering if it could be true... wondering who the heck has a name like Locky or Litchy anyway... wondering what the heck kind of speech impediment they're dealing with now... "Sirence! We know he here. We tlace him by tlail of Rime and Chiri Tostitos. Lo Rat Fink, find curprit while I watch door." Smugly, knowing that a divided crowd is a compliant crowd, Chong Kew Law steps back through the door. There is a clatter and muffled curses from the other side, then an ominous-sounding click. Lo Rat Fink begins to peer into the faces of the stunned WRITERS, holding his menacing machine pistol on each in turn. Until suddenly he stops... and a worshipful look comes over his narrow ratlike face. "June Creaver?" he breathes... and lets his gun sink slowly to the floor... To be continued... (P.S. Note flom author... never berieve what fleelance seclet porice say! Rying scum, they are! Especiarry ones with totarry bogus accents.) B.T. "And I dream of the days when our work was scrappy And rare in our pockets the mark of the mint, And we were angry and poor and happy, And proud of seeing our name in print." G.K. Chesterton ___________________________ [___________________________] MMMm @..@ [_Words From The Well of ___] |___/M (----) [__|Dr A. Frog, Symb.Al.,&__] U U @ ( >__< ) [__|_B.T. Murtagh, poet,_|__] \^ / ^^ ~~ ^^ [_dreamer, organ donor|__|__] U/ [__|___|__|___|__|___|__|___] -- Is our life not then a dream? BT Murtagh -- BMURTAGH@InfoAve.net --And pocket fluff gets all over the mints too. Dr Frog--