A cool refreshing breeze wafted across the acres of well tended lawns owned by eccentric millionaire hermit Eugene Whitmore III. He was alone, by his own choice on his own island in the carrebean. His mansion dominated a hilltop surrounded by the previously mentioned lawns. How did he do it? He has the island automated. every solid object on the island is a mechanical tending device. The lawn had just finished mowing itself.

Eugene woke up, smiled at the lovely weather, stretched his arms out and yawned then flicked on the television. Now an explanation of the television will follow. His tellevision is connected through 15 dishes, to 15 sattelites and all communication between anyone and anyone else is known to Eugene when he is watching his television.

I beg of you Marharishi Gerbil, I need my old identity back, I cannot take being a wetback anymore!" exclaimed the mind of Jake Gerbil from the body of Pedro McTavish. "Heck, In this body, I can't even have a barbecue! Why you ask?! Because the beans keep falling through the grill!"

"My son, my follower, my life servent, my underling, my insignificant insect of an entity, I shall grant you this wish, But boy oh boy, this gets tacked onto the dozens of favors you owe me" Boomed the ominous gerbil mind.

"Thanks dude, I'll remember it, your holy superiorness whose shoed I would most humbly lick." brown nosed Pedro Gerbil as his transformation proceeded.

When that affair was over, Jake Gerbil P.I. climbed down the mountain and returned to life realizing that he would again have to attend to the legal mess of inheriting pedro's stuff back again.

I awoke suddenly, unexpectedly, and with a start. Much to my chagrin, the first thing I saw was an oddly off-kilter advertisement for Cheddar Melts. Then I realized why it was off-kilter; I was lying on my back somewhere, staring up at a billboard from the ground. Since this didn't seem to be a very macho position to be in, I stood up, brushed myself up, and looked around.

I was in a vacant lot, next to a set of railroad tracks. I looked at my watch. 3AM. What the hell was I doing there? The last thing I could remember was walking out of my office to get a take-out order from the Chinese res- taurant across the street. Then nothing. I burped. Obviously, I had been to the restaurant, for I tasted chow mein. At the moment, it looked like I was going to have to investigate my own disappearance. Real neat.

Just then, an unmarked police car pulled into the lot.

Uh oh.

"Jake. Jake Gerbil."

The PI spun, turning to face the voice. A man stood in a shadow.

"Do you know me, Jake?"

"I know you. Masters."

"I want to hire you Jake."

"Suck off, slime bag. I don't work for evil scientists."

"I pay double your regular rate, and I don't know your regular rate."

"What's the job?"

"There's someone trying to take over the world, Jake."

"Yeah, I know."

"It's not me. If you'll accept the job, I want you to go to the address on this card within two hours. Any later, and the deal's off."

"What card?"

The man had disappeared. Jake walked over to where he had been, and found a white business card with an address imprinted on it. No name, no phone number, just an address. That guy Masters sure liked wasting money printing business cards with just addresses on them.

I had just finished writing another installment of 'The Adventures of Bill Zebop in the 21st Century!!' and I was beat. I walked out of my ground floor office, shucked off my shoes and hopped into the sleeper on my Longnose Pete. I fell asleep almost immediately.

I had a dream that I probably wouldn't be writing another one of these C&T stories because I was burned out. Most likely from writing those idiotic 'Bill Zebop' stories. I'd also been told that I'd been rather abrasive and irritable of late.

"So what?", said I.

I can be irritable if I want. That's the way I've always been.

So saying, I slept soundly. Hmmm....I didn't even notice someone taking my Ruger Super Redhawk from it's shoulder holster. Big whoop. I wouldn't need it anyways. I've retired.

"What a disjointed story!", someone said loudly.

"I told you I was burned out!!", I screamed. I needed a vacation.

A bright light was shone in my face. I heard the police officer mutter to his partner something rather uncomplimentary about me as he was getting out of the cruiser. He sauntered on over.

"Y'got some ID, buster?"

"Certainly," I said, reaching for my wallet.

I bet you thought it was going to be gone. Well it wasn't. It was there, and I flipped it open to where my Dik Miller, PI identification would normally be.

And it was.

The cop peered at it for a couple of seconds before he realized that the reason he could not read it was that he was shining his own flashlight in his face.

"So you're a private dick, ay?" he asked, obviously not being intentionally witty. "What were you investigating here? The ground?" He chuckled to himself as if he had just made a joke, which, of course, he had not.

"As a matter of fact, no. I have no idea what I am doing here at all."

"Looks like I'll have to bust you for tresspassing, then."

"What?"

"This is private property, y'know."

"It's a vacant lot."

"Shut up. You have the right to remain silent..." He babbled on for a few more seconds while he slapped the cuffs on me and frisked me. He found my Ingram Mac-10 submachine gun and Smith & Wesson 9mm automatic pistol, as well as a few Dik Miller (tm) gadgets that I had stored in various places.

I was carted off to the car, getting more confused by the second.

The day grew older and the customers left the restaurant. It was closing time for La Boulagerie on the Sunset Strip, and I was bushed. I took my days total in tips and headed for LotusLand. A pub where I could find a brew or two if I felt like it. Tonite was different, though. "Louie, gimme a double whiskey, straight up.", I said, and slapping a $20 on the counter, I added, "And keep filling till we're even." He put the half empty bottle on the counter and said, "That's the rest." "Thanks, Lou.", I replied. I took the glass and dropped it back. It went down my throat feeling like a scouring pad that had been soaked in sulphuric acid. Smooth shit. After a long while of throat-rasping, I was thouroughly inebriated, and in a nostalgic mood. "Hey, Lou! Come here, Lou.", I slurred loudly. "I used to be a P.I. ya know, Lou." "Yeah, sure. What happened? Lost your leads?", he giggled out. He wasn't doing a good job on my emotional state.

"Hell, Lou, I helped keep all the Jellybeans in the world from turning black!", I stated, and with that, pulled out my case that I always carried with me. It looked like a cigarette case, and when opened, it revealed about a dozen or so jellybeans of assorted color. "See?", I said, proving myself. "Can iI have a red one?", he asked. I snapped the case shut as his hand approached. I replaced it in my pocket. "Those are my -special- jellybeans. They were endowed with a special quality." "What? Mould?", and Lou proceeded to laugh. I picked up the drained whiskey bottle and hurled it across the room, hitting a mirror and smashing it. "NO!", I screamed at him, "THEY WERE GIVEN TO ME BY THE OTHER P.I.'S!", I bellowed. Turning around so Lou wouldn't see my rising emotion, I walked out of the pub, and down the street towards my flat. Where were the P.I.s now? I walked by an all night gun store and picked up a Weilheiler .45 auto with a thin-line laser mount, and 14 shell capacity.

'I'll never see them again', I thought. 'But buying this baby makes me remember those days. Oh, the glory.' I picked out my case, and looked at the jellybeans of assorted color. "Thanks Guys.", I said to myself and walked home.

I woke with a start. Immediately, my hand shot to my shoulder holster where my Ruger Super Redhawk usually is. I sighed in relief as my hand closed around the cherry wood grips of the gun. I withdrew it and studied it in the dim light of the sleeper. I cocked it, flipped out the cylinder, checked it, sighted down the barrel, replaced and spun the cylinder, gently let the hammer down and placed the gun back in the holster. The weight of the gun was reassuring as it pressed against my side.

I changed my undies, threw the worn ones into a corner of the sleeper, slipped on a pair of faded jeans, red and blue Adidas socks, my Def Leppard concert T-shirt and a grey windbreaker. Pausing only to grab my baseball cap, I leapt out of the sleeper and onto the pavement. Luckily, my Daytons were still laying where I left them the day before. I sat on the curb to put them on, drawing stares from passers-by. I had an urge to pull my gun, but I overrode it. I had business to attend to and I couldn't be delayed.

I walked into my office, grabbed a MAT-49 submachine gun, a Remington 1A-191 combat shotgun and a Dragunov Sniper Rifle off of a wall rack and dumped them onto my desk. I dumped a mess of hockey gear out of a duffle bag and proceeded to put the guns inside. I shuffled around in my drawers.....my desk drawers....and threw the ammo clips and sundry accessories into the bag as well.

I strode out of the office purposefully and walked to my tractor. I climbed in, threw the bag onto the passenger seat and started the truck. The 400 horsepower Cummins diesel roared to life. I could just barely hear the thin whine of the turbo as it spun up to boost. Putting the transmission into the low range, I shifted into the first of 15 gears and rumbled away from the curb

I had my guns. I had my truck. I had my Daytons. Life was good. And I was on a case. Again.

A bright street lamp shone down on me as I sat in the plush leather interior of a Ferrari 412 SuperAmerica. A quick glance in the rearview showed a sleazy pub, brightly lit, loud voices pouring out into the blackness of the night. I reached into my breast pocket and extracted a pack of Lucky Strikes and a book of matches. I drew out one cigarette, threw the pack onto the dash and opened the matchbook. I moistened the filter on my lips and placed it in my mouth. A match flared. In the sudden glare, one could have seen my dark and handsome face. But the streets were deserted.

Suddenly, a commotion ensued from within the pub, followed by the tinkling of glass. I watched casually in the rearview and spied a lone figure, eyes darting, stagger across the darkened street, trying to be furtive. This was my mark. I reached to the center console on the transmission tunnel and took out a small Walther automatic with silencer.

I allowed a smile to creep onto my face. This would be very, very easy.

As I passed under the pale lamplight, I thought of the other PI's, and how I wished I could join them on another case. From behind me and to my left, I heard, "Hey, buddy!". I turned slowly to see who was addressing me and said, "What do you wa..." Flash of light. Muffled popping sound. Searing pain. I didn't finish what I started saying, but fell back as the perferation in my left shoulder drowned itself in blood. Another flash, more sound, more pain. This time, right lower side. I hit the wall of the building and had the Weilheiler in my hand, but it was too late, the car was gone. I was washed in blood and pain as I slumped to the ground. My mind told me that the streetlight I was under went out, but my eyes were refusing to work properly. The rest of my body followed suit. I blacked out.

When I came to, a dull thumping made thinking unpleasant. I didn't know how long I had been here. "here" was quite undefined. I lay (strapped down) on a kind of mobile cot, i barely percieved the cieling, an average hieght. The walls ahead, left and right, disappeared from the soft glow of the 15 watt bulb, hanging naked, from above. Behind me, a plain wooden door sat silently and gazed at my predicament. I tried the straps: no good. I let myself relax, feeling the need for soothing rest. Somewhere on the edge of consciousness, a friendly silver haired doctor leaned over my body and ordered his assistant nurse, "300 cc lysergic acid diethylamide." A sharp jab slapped me into an upright position. A door slammed, locked. I was free of the straps! Moving to my feet, I tried the door, then kicked it. Looking out at the blackness around me, I carefully started along one wall. Then, a swirl of multicoloured lights, euphoria, blackness.

"You're booking me for WHAT?" I asked, not sure if I has heard it correct- ly the first time.

The duty officer grimaced at me through the rolls of fat around his face. I was tempted to make some sort of comment about dating Dana Zalko, but I refrained, lest that lead me into a worse situtation than the one I was already in.

"We're charging you with aggravated assault, battery, and robbery."

"What the hell for? And who? Where? When? What is going on here?" I was gettin g somewhat frustrated.

"The details about all that sort of stuff will be given to you later. Let it suffice to say that you are in the proverbial deep shit."

"But..."

"Take him away."

I was led off to a cell.

Elmer the Safety Elephant strolled innocently down the darkened street, and gazed in surprise at the prone form bleeding quietly in the corner. With a sniff of disgust, he continued on his way.

>Sqeek< Went his tricycle.

One of these days he was going to have to get it oiled.

A shot rang out.

Elmer's tricycle disintegrated. He totterred off, waving his purple trunk anxiously.

I floored the gas pedal and the Ferrari squealed away from the curb. Making sure that I had not been followed, I made my way back to my unobstrusive flat on the edge of town. Allowing myself to feel a slight modicum of elation at a job well done, I failed to notice a large Peterbilt tractor racing along in the direction I had come. Little did I know the significance of that truck and it's present mission.

At the moment though, I felt like celebrating and all else fled my mind. I parked the car in a covered garage and walked casually into the basement. My good mood disintegrated as I noticed that the door had been forced sometime during my absence. My features hardened into a grimace and my eyes became steely but not fixated. I had not exppected someone to be tracking me in my own home. I made a mental note to be more careful next time and to move my operation elsewhere. But now I had a decision to make.

Did I have time to return to my car and retrieve my gun? Or did I rely on my little 'surprise'? Hesitating for only a moment, I reached down to my left ankle and detached the Ruger Speed-Six from it's holster.

Knowing that I'd already announced my arrival with my carelessness, I decided that the direct approach would be best. I walked 2 metres to my right to stand in front of a small 4-paned window. I took two steps and leapt through the window with a horrendous crash. I could only hope that the sound had stunned my opponent for the nonce. Executing a perfect shoulder roll, I landed erect and alert, my gun pointing directly at.....someone.

He stood, almost non-chalantly, looking in my direction. The second I'd looked into his face, I knew that he was cast from the same mold as I. Cold, ruthless and calculating. I held the gun on him, expecting some trick.

He only spoke, calmly, "Your boss sent me to procure your services, Freeman. I'm Jake Gerbil, PI."

I had to hurry to keep my appointment with El. He'd sounded desperate. I knew that he'd been mentally unstable at one point in his life. I just hoped that he hadn't gotten himself into soemthing that he couldn't handle.

I passed through a quiet neighbourhood at over 90 mph, the exhaust roaring out of the two silver chromed stacks. In the fringe of my peripheral vision I noticed a charcoal grey Ferrari 412 parked under a covered garage. I thought little of it at first glance. Little did I know what the significance of that car would be.

Nearing my destination, I sensed trouble. There was far too much commotion for this sector and time of night. A number of emergency vehicles had sped along and through the route that I was now on. I slowed appreciably to let them by. Perplexed now, I sat in the truck, the engine idling.

Where was El Loco? had he caused this mess? There was the pub he frequented. There were a few of his friends walking about. I leapt from the cab of the truck and walked over.

Lou the bartender looked shaken. I laid a hand on his shoulder and spun him around. He was a big man. He loomed over my own 6'5" solidly built frame. But now, he was sobbing visibly.

I shook him by the shoulders.

"What's happened here?! Where is El Loco!?!"

All he could do was point. I peered in the direction he had indicated. I ran as fast as my legs would carry me, to a darkened street corner. This was where the emergency vehicles and police were congregating. I pushed through the throng only to be restrained a number of policemen. I demanded to know what had happened. All I could get out of them was that there had been a mysterious shooting a short time ago.

I broke away from their grasp and walked back towards the truck. I knew now that Loco was involved. I turned to watch an ambulance speed away to the hospital. The one who did this would pay, I vowed solemnly.

White. All white. And a wailing sound that came and went in a steady whine. 'Are my eyes open?' I thought, 'Am I dead? If I am, it hurts like shit.' "Gimme 500 milligrams of adrenalin, STAT." I heard, followed by, "He's breathing okay, but he's in bad shock, and he needs blood, BAD." I tried to move, but seemed immobilized. I tried to make a sound, but my lungs were preoccupied with breathing heavily. "He's blood type AB negative.", said one. "Shit." said another, and, "We've got one pint, that's it." "Who cares, we'll make it to the hospital in time." replied the first. "Who shot him?" the second asked. "No one saw, and no one knows why. He was walking home from LotusLand." "Poor guy. Do you think he has a chance?" My mind screamed out. I knew there was going to be an answer. I didn't want to know.

After a long pause, the first said, "In his condition, it could go either way." There was a moment of silence, and I returned to oblivion.

From the Journal of Jake Gerbil, P.I.

Dear Diary, How are you? I am fine. Okay, okay, I'm not fine. Things have been getting wor...

I tore the paper from the book and bunching it up in a ball, threw it into my trash can. Dik was sitting in the only other chair in the office, reading a newspaper. I quietly walked over to the small bathroom that accounted for the excessive price of my new office. I wasn't a great bathroom; hell, it wasn't a great office, but it was all I had. Everything I'd inherited as Pedro had been taken away. My 'rebirth' hadn't thrilled the cops, and they'd seen right through the phony will. Turning on the light I gazed into the mirror and opened my mouth wide. It was worse. Much worse. Sharpened canines, receeding gums, and an almost foggy image staring back at me. I wore sunglasses constantly now, to avoid three things. First, being recog- nised by the cops, second, having my ever-reddening pupils frighten anyone around, and third...

to protect my eyes from the sunlight that felt like it burned right through me. Like everything else the Bwana did, my 'rebirth' was a two edged blade. Sure, I had my old body back, but it was my OLD body. Day by day, looking into that mirror and seeing a stranger I'd avoid any day, I became more and more certain that my speculation was correct: I was turning into a vampire. My features weren't changing much, but the fangs were just too much for this detective. I returned to my desk and looked across at Dik. He didn't complain after I'd told him the scam. "You okay Jake? You look a little, well, pale" he said ominously. "Nah, just a touch of the.." a knock came at door. I opened it to reveal Masters. "Come into my office, freely and of your own will" I said. Damn! I was even talking like a vampire. "Hello Jake, Dik." "Now now, no need for name-calling" I replied. "I was saying hello to Dik you idiot." Oh. Suddenly the hunger came again, and I almost fell over in pain.

I reached into my jacket and pulled out a vial filled with V-8 colored liquid. I'd had to buy blood off the black market; it turned out blood banks were only open for deposits, not withdrawels. "Jake! Am I to understand that Maharishi Gerbil's finest student is taking drugs?" drawled Masters. I tried to stare icycles at him, but started to shiver and said "Just something the doctor gave me. Toothache." He didn't seem interested anymore and turned to Dik. "As you gentlemen are aware, someone is trying to take over the world." "Yeah, I know." said Dik "No you ninny! It's not me, someone else, someone...evil." he intoned ominously. "Oh and you were the fairy god-father eh?" I said, tired of everyone acting as if the world was going to end. Well, taken over anyway. "I wasn't going to keep the world you know," he sounded hurt. "Just sort of play with it for a while." "Enough!" bellowed Dik. "Why don't you just tell us what you want us to do."

"Gentlemen, this is the situation. As you know, I have remarkably large resources at my disposal. Some of these resources include survellance all over the world.

"My sources have shown that somebody or somebodies are trying to control the world through the use of an exceptionally rare mineral. This mineral is called byzantium. The principal characteristic of byzantium is its amazing ability to nullify magnetic fields."

The two PIs stared with a look of amazement and confusion.

"With sufficent quanitities, they could set up areas where no electrical devices work at all. A little creativity, and they could make a mobile unit that could be placed somewhere, and shut down everything and anything electrical or electronic. Imagine the havoc one could wreak if they had access to... say the military computers of the Pentagon."

Dik and Jake looked at Masters gravely. This was serious.

"Now let me show you what little information I have gathered... I have little time to spare."

As near as I can figure, these people, for I believe it is a group, have discovered the single largest source of byzantium." Masters opened a large map of the Mediterraean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean. "Right here." He pointed to an area several hundred miles out to sea. Jake peered at him with slight amusement, Dik looked puzzled. "That, my friends, is the resting place of the lost city of Atlantis."

"Atlantis?" Dik said questioningly, "Nobody knows where Atlantis is."

"I do."

I was becoming more and more puzzled by the minute. Had I heard correctly? Had we been hired by Masters? Had the guy that beat the crap out of me and shot El Loco, working for Masters and 'on loan' to us? Why was I asking so many questions?

I finally woke from my impromptu nap. There was a dull, throbbing pain in the vicinity of my left ear, but I deserved it. I was much too careless in my approach of the tall man. He looked smugly in my direction. I felt like kicking him where it counts, but he'd probably beat me to the punch. Again.

I walked over to Jake's desk and picked up my gun. I checked the cylinder to find all of my bullets missing. I shot an angry look at the man, but all I got in return was a smile, a nod and a casual salute.

Dik threw the ice pack into the trashcan and sat on the corner of the desk, studying Jake. Jake gnawed his lower lip, chewed his knuckle and sweated. Very strange, indeed.

I turned my back to them and furtively reloaded my gun with an evil glint in my eye.

It seemed we were one big happy family again. Whoopee. It looked like we were stuck with this case, so I decided it was time to get George. George the gun. Going back into the bathroom I opened the medicine cabinet. "Hey Jake, whatcha doing?" bellowed Barney, lowder than necessary. "Oh, just some medicine, you know," I pulled out my gat, "pain killer," then a my handcuffs, "band-aids, you know, that kind of stuff." "anything else?" he queried. "Yep, constipation reliever" and I removed my silver bladed knife.

It's a good job I had a police scanner going all the time in my lab (what good law abiding citizen doesn't?). I picked up the police report of an "El Loco" being held at St. Thomas. I was out the door immidiately, almost tripping over my cat on the way out. My sleeping cat. My cat that was STILL sleeping AFTER I drove off!

A few minutes later, I was at the hospital. Good job it was only 3 blocks away, or I'd really have been up the river. This rush-hour-old-folks-home traffic is murder. A shadow of a large "4" appeared in front of me - then it was gone.

Anyways, I faked up some phoney release papers and marched into the hospital (well, not marched). "Hi! I'm Dr. Shweinhunt. I've come for a patient named Loco. His brother needs a kidney" (it was all I could think of. @ "He doesn't have a brother" "He does now!". I couldn't be bothered arguing with the nurse, and ran up the stairs to his room, hauled him out of bed, down the elevator, and out the door. We were history.

I still didn't quite trust Bear, even though I'd been reassured over and over by Miller and Gerbil. Miller and Gerbil. Sounds like a law firm.

Miller, Gerbil, Freeman and Bear sounds eve more like a bunch of lawyers. Hmmm, there's probably some significance in that, but right now that wasn't my main concern. My main concern was to complete my assignment to kill El Loco

The other PIs were secondary. If they got in my way, though, I'd have to kill them, too.

While I carefully formulated my plans, Gerbil checked his weapons, Bear was thinking of a way to outsmart, and possibly neutralize, me and Miller stood by looking professional. What kind of professional, I did not know. Maybe a bedpost cleaner or a bicycle seat sniffer.

I glanced at my watch and decided that we'd wasted enough time. I could not abide this inactivity that the PIs seemed to relish. Eat, sleep, eat, sleep. The world would be a better place without them. Maybe I would take the time out to exterminate them, heh heh.

"I suggest we use those platinum cards, instead of staring at them and watching the colours change on the holographic image."

Miller and Gerbil turned towards me. Bear seemed to be pre-occupied with something.

"Hey, there's an idea!", Miller exclaimed.

"Ok, sounds good to me.", Gerbil said slobberingly, barely stifling a burst of maniacal laughter. In any case, he continued to waver around, stare about with wide-open eyes and curl up the corners of his mouth, displaying his teeth.

"What about you, Bear?", I asked.

He spun around from the window he was gazing out of. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, but from the general expression on his face I got the impression that he hated my guts.

"Yeah, what?", he snarled.

"Do you want to start on this case?", I reiterated.

He thought this over for the moment and said bluntly, "What?"

Gerbil and Miller groaned audibly. I didn't wait for more stupid answers and walked from the office and down to the street below.

The sun broke over a grassy knoll. The brilliant orange and yellows of the morning sillouetted two men, facing eachother. They drew swords, and began to fight. The moves of experienced swordsmen blurred by faster than sight, striking, parrying, counter-strike. The younger of the two made a minute error, his timing out by a fraction. The elder seized the opportunity, and, moments later, had disarmed his opponent and pinned him to the ground.

The Great Master helped Torch to his feet.

"My son, truly you are one of the greatest of ours in history. Yet, you have more to learn."

"He is finished training."

The two ninjas snapped around to face the voice.

A man, dressed in a black gi with a red belt faced them both, holding a katana loosely in his left hand.

"Who dares..."

"I do."

The two Masters faced off. The battle ensued.

Moments later, the Great One broke off.

"You will state your name to me."

"Masters. Richard Masters."

"He is yours."

"Come with me, Torch."

Running for your life is common practice among PI's, but Wheeling for your existence is another matter. This is what I was attempting, with the help of Skillprof. My shoulder was not so bad, but my side hurt like I was holding a barbed spear in my flesh. "Shit, Skill," I moaned, "where are we going?" "Out of here, buddy, you got cops that want answers from you." I remembered my previous conversation with the Doctor, and I grappled with hidden thoughts of my recent past. I remember light, shots and pain, but nothing of my surroundings or frame of mind.

After being dumped into Skillprof's car, and a gut-gripping nausea took over, mixed with pain. The nausea won, and filled my mind with a pale, ruddy blur. The thoughts again. Fight them. Impossible. Those two thundering bullets of pain ripping into and through my flesh, grating tissue in the process. I fought the urge to black out and triumphed, only to realize searing pain from my side. "Help me Skill...", I winced. Blackout again.

El hurt. He hurt bad. I guess that's understandable with rather large holes in one's shoulder and stomach.

We raced back to my lab, taking alley's to avoid cops, and narrowly escaping a certain-death accident with some dumb bitch turning into my alley.

at last. We were here. I just hope those lasing devices I had made really DID work.

I plopped him down on my lab bench, laser fired up overhead, and went to work..

"The dirty scum! I'll get him!", I thought grimly.

"The dirty scum! I'll get him!", I yelled, surprising Jake and Dik. I grimaced and gestured aggressively and stalked back to the window.

Down below on the street, I saw Freeman leaning against my truck, still parked partly on the road and partly on the sidewalk, it's entire front end embedded into the building. A sudden fury filled me and like a berserker, I went absolutely wild. I gripped Jake's desk and flung it through the window with a terrific crash. I was slightly off the mark and missed Freeman completely, serving only to dent my truck's hood.

Jake literally flew (batwings?) to where I stood and grappled with me. Suffer- ing from some fear of the supernatural, I fought back with vigor. That's when I felt the sharp fangs pierce the skin of my left upper arm. Pain shot through my arm, neck and chest as I desperately tried to push Jake away. I was on the very very verge of unconsciousness, when I saw Dik come to my aid. Then there was nothingness

beep..."this is your landlord Mr. Scratch, your six month in arrears...click

Shaddup!

beep..."Hey Cat my man, dis is your bookie...your six months in arrears..click

Jeez where've I hoid dat before.

beep..."Cat honey, my period is six months in arrears...click

Crissakes, dey mus' all belong to da same family!

beep....Cat your needed by the PI's stay by your phone and someone will call and let you know where to go.

Now dat's more like it.

Brown sat at his desk. His 7 foot frame was streched to its fullest. The sign on the door said. Bobby Brown, PI, he had never had a job before. A PhD in Geophysics and Electronic Engineering but there were never any job openings in those fields. Oh well maybe someone out there would need help. Bobby picked the nail clippers out of the desk drawer and began to cut his toenails; Damn! it took a long time to clip all 12 of them nails.

Richard Masters led me into a taxi-cab. From there we proceeded to the airport. Not a word had been uttered. Between us that is.

We sat comfortably in the reserved special deluxe beyond first class section.

"I have a problem", Masters started off with. I did not deign to respond. He explained his problem to me. "I want you to find and kill the people who are trying to take over the world". I still did not say anything. I would do this task for him, for my Master had taken gold from him. "Take as much time as you need to prepare yourself, but know that the PIs are already on the case." He had even thought to book us on a flight to Okinawa.

"Your Master decided to send you to study at the Nine Fingers Ryu". Now I was impressed. The school I was being sent to was incredibly elite, and I was surprised that my Master would even inform Masters of it's location. Shortly, my training would be complete.

"Do you agree to do as contracted?" he asked. What a silly Westerner he was, I had been hired. I would complete my contract, or die. "Swear by your mother's name, your REAL mother's name." he said. "I also found out your real name too., Low". My face broke it's stoney wall for a second, but he saw it. "Yes, I know your real name, Duk Down Real Low. And your mother's". I swore I would complete my mission, which was really quite redundant. Firstly, any mission taken would be completed, and secondly, I had only the code of ninjitsu to follow and swearing on names was to be laughed at. But Masters biggest fault was that he was Western. Little did he know that once I was finished my training, he would fall as chopped wheat to my sword if I so desired.

I got off the plane, leaving him onboard. I made my way towards the hidden dojo.

I opened my eyes to see what looked a high ceiling. I noticed a number of large cracks radiating from a single point. This probably meant something, too but I was just too bummed out to care. I seemed to be spending alot of time laying on my back, unconscious and this was getting me down.

SI tried to prop myself up on my elbow, but experienced a burning pain in my

blood clotted around it. The memory of how that came about was fresh in my mind. I looked around the office, but Dik and Jake were nowhere to be seen. I leapt up and strode to the window. It was still mangled and shattered. I looked down to the street and noticed that my truck was missing!

The dirty rats had stolen my truck! Probably that Freeman guy's idea. I smacked my right fist into my left hand and thought about the terrible tortures that I'd make him endure. Feeling a little better after that, I walked out of the office and down to the street.

In the heat of confusion I found myself lost in the shuffle. unaware of quite what had gone on and where it had gone to, I became nervous and soon began flying away, towards the centre of the city where I could cloak myself in the anonimity of the crowds. I wondered just how fast I could fly as a bat, until I realized I wasn't a bat at all. My wings were feathered, not leathered, and a quick nasal appraisal showed that I had a beak, as opposed to a squinty little nose. With a startled cry I said "Oh no! I'm not a bat, but a useless old crow. Instead of being fearsome and deadly and hot, I'm short and ugly and liable to get shot. Then I realized the worst of the crimes, I was starting to talk in verse and in rhymes.

WI wondered to myself with what I was hit, to make me so silly and talk like a twit.

That the Bwana had dones this there simply was no doubt, it was another practical joke conjured by the old lout.

Grind, crunch, grind, grind.

"Have you ever driven a semi before?" asked Freeman.

"Of course I have," I replied. Then I thought better of it. "No. Never. Not once. Nope. I lied." I tried shifting again, but I was rewarded with another grind of the gears.

"You DO know how to work air brakes, don't you?"

"Um... no."

"Marvellous. Bloody marvellous. Just where are we going anyway?"

"The library."

"What the hell for?"

"We need to start somewhere."

"This is going to be one of those lives."

I could only imagine what Bear was doing now. He must have deduced that Miller and I had stol...umm, appropriated his Peterbilt. I fervently hoped that Bear didn't know what kind of damage Miller was doing to the transmission. This point was exemplified by another screeching, grinding gear change.

We rounded a corner and the library hove into view. If you've ever seen a library hover or float, then you must tell me about it, because this is just a figure of speech used to infer a sense of boding fatefulness.

I shook my head, trying to forget my past as a professor at a major university teachingthematic approaches to modern literature and studies in literary genres. I reminisced about my former lives and my many occupations. I had to profess that my present identity and occupation were most satisfying. The truck lurched as Miller shifted again, and I was jolted from my reverie. I loathed using words like 'reverie' because I knew that someone would use it in a future episode. I sighed deeply.

Gun in hand, I ran down to street-level. I could feel another berserker fury rising up. I tried to force it down, knowing full well that anything that moved would likely have a number of .44 magnum sized holes in it.

I looked around and surveyed the area. I'd need a car to catch those thieves with and my eyes fell upon a bright red Maserati Merak parked across the street. I stalked over and noticed a yuppie-ish looking guy sitting in the driver's seat. He lowered the passenger side window and gave me one of those who-the-hell-are-you-what-do-you-want-touch-my-car-and-die-those-shoes-don't- go-with-that-shirt-I-loathe-truck-drivers-wearing-mackinaws-and-Daytons looks. After looking at me for what seemed an eternity, ot at least the time it took to say that last sentence, he closed the window and turned back to reading his financial journals. I went berserk. I ran to his side of the car, beat the living shit out of him, stole his keys and took his car.

I laughed maniacally for awhile.

"So, it's you. I thought you were going to stop the PI's for me, I thought you were supposed to be really tough. You were supposed to take care of the PI's for me, and now, after the whole thing blows over, you saunter in here expecting me to do something about it, hmm?" "Look here, you stupid twit, I've had it about up to here with your nonsense. I have a good mind to turn you in to the SPCA. I've seen what you do to sheep." Masters went white. "No! Don't do that. Look, I've gone straight, I've just hired all the PI's, we're all on the same side now, see? Just read the previous messages." The guy paused, sorting through the other entries. "Hmm, well, ok, that's all fine and dandy, but just what am I supposed to do? "Well, I really don't know, but you can start out by indenting at the the beginning of your paragraphs."

"Then after you do that, you can join in with the rest of the PI's and hunt down the guy who's trying to take over the world. And this time I don't want any trouble from you." The guy pondered this proposition for a few moments. "What would I get out of this?" "I'll give you an American Express platinum card." Masters offered. "I don't need any earthly commodoties. There is only one thing I want in the world." "Yes, well, what is it?" "A really big stuffed giraffe with a tag that says 'You're #1 for me' on it" "Sorry, that can't be done." "Ok, well then I'll take the credit card." "Fine." Masters handed him the card. The guy put it in his pocket and walked back to the emergency escape hatch. "What're you doing?" Masters screamed "You can just leave! We're 20,000 feet in the air!" "So? Why should The Death Bird care?" he replied, before wrenching the door open and jumping from the steel craft.

I discovered how to operate air brakes when I pressed the brake pedal to the floor and nothing happened. I was about to pump the brakes again, but when I released the pedal the truck crunched to a squealing, grinding, adjective- filled halt right in front of the library.

Freeman and I stumbled out of the massive vehicle, and I hoped fervently that no one would notice that we were parked in a taxi zone. I opened the front door of the library and rushed inside, Freeman close on my heels.

"Okay," he said, wheezing slightly. "Now what?"

I gave him an evil eye. "I'm thinking. I'm thinking."

"You mean you dragged me all the way down here and you don't even know what you're doing?"

"You obviously haven't been a private eye for long. Just let me do the work. Remember, you're only a few messages old."

"Who said I was...", I let that trail off. I didn't want Miller to know that I wasn't really a PI, but an assassin hired to exterminate El Loco. Then I thought about that for a little while. Why the hell was I trying to kill El Loco?

Then it dawned on me. Ba-ding! Lightbulbs and the works. I'd been subjected to some kind of memory-blanking procedure. That had to be the answer. It had damn well better be the fucking answez 'cuz I was running out of ideas! But, anyways, I thought I'd start awalking again, seeing as Miller was slowly but surely widening the distance between us. I hate it when I (and everyone else) have these totally phenomenal, mind-bending conversations with ourselves and don't know how much real-time we've actually wasted. If you understood that explanation, I've got a mushroom farm for sale (cheap!).

Miller looked back at me quizzically. Possibly because everytime I stopped to think, I lurched, staggered and sometimes crawled along due to loss of motor control. Ho hum.

The tires squealed and smoked as the Maserati dived into the corner. I'd catch those rotten truck-thieves in no time, I thought, grinning like a fiend as I stomped the accelerator, causing the rear end to break loose.

Yes, I'd get those bums for stealing my truck. And for stealing my sniper rifles, my submachine gun and my combat shotguns, too. If there was anything more dear to me than my Peterbilt Conventional, it was my gun collection. That thought made me even angrier.

And another thing that really bugged me was the fact that this story was moving really slow. This made me very, very angry. When and if I ever caught that Masters idiot, I'd teach him not to invent a boring plot!!

With that off my chest, I could resume my chase of Miller and Freeman. And maybe give Jake a swift kick for biting me on the arm, the scum. Then I realized that I was out to get just about everybody. I resolved to mellow out , but only after killing those on my hitlist. (more maniacal laughter)

Masters reclined comfortably in a lawn chair with his wife, Mrs. Masters.

The afternoon sun of Rio De Janerio shone hotly on the couple as Masters studied his reports intensly, his loved one peeking over her Vaurnets at her husband, contemplating various suggestive comments.

Death Bird, Masters thought. Now there is an interesting twist. I wonder what he'll do. I wonder what's left of his mind. I wonder who's side he's actually on. Then again, no one knows who's side I'm actually on. Unless they think a little. I'm always on my side.

He glanced at the report again. His men had failed to contact Freeman at the arranged place. Losing an inside man was a real problem. If Freeman had managed to break through his conditioning, he was going to be real mad. If he hadn't, perhaps the hypnotic suggestions that would cause him to become El Loco were too strong, and he had, in effect, truly become El Loco. Of course, all this hinged on killing Loco in the first place.

If Loco was still alive, then there was a real problem. Freeman may have thought that Loco was dead, and is now becoming like him anyway, or worse, his primary hypnotic programming is satisfied that Loco is dead, but his lower suggestion to become Loco is not, in which case... a trained assassin is floating around out there, trying to figure out what's happening to his head. If that has happened, then Freeman can't make the meeting points, because his memory is erased upon the death of Loco... or the belief of the primary that Loco is dead.

Mrs Masters rose, whispered something in Masters' ear, and wandered inside.

Masters closed his eyes, allowed his head and neck to relax, and dropped the report on the ground.

"To hell with it... I think too much." Masters muttered.

Leaving the report beside the lawn chair, he entered his suite.

I garnered several strange looks as I swept up to the microfiche catalogue with a dramatic, sweeping motion of my trenchcoat. I had been practicing it and thought that this was a good time to use it. I was wrong.

"That looked stupid," said Freeman bluntly. "Really stupid."

I glared at him as I selected the SUBJECT/TITLE fiche from the folder and stuffed it into the reader. Whimper, Whonnock, Whitmore. That was it.

"What's it?" asked Freeman. Only then did I realize that I had said it out loud.

"Eugene Whitmore III," I replied devillishly. "Our first clue."

"How do you know?"

I wondered if I should tell him that it was in fact a wild guess and that I in fact had no idea what I was looking for. Only later would I realize what an incredible blunder I had made when I passed up Whitmore's name as too unrealistic for a maniacal bad guy.

I removed the fiche and stared at it solemnly for a few seconds before giving Freeman an answer. "All right then. I'll try something else if you're going to be such a smartass."

I picked up the M fiche and read it.

"Here. Masters. Richard Masters."

"But he hired us."

"Indeed. But what better place to start?" I wrote down the information the microfiche gave me and looked around for the section to which it referred me.

I was halfway across the floor when a Maserati came crashing through the plate glass windows at the front of the library. At the wheel was a crazed Barnard Q. Bear, and he looked like he was out for blood.

"That's my car!" shouted Freeman, drawing his gun.

Barn spun the wheel and gunned the engine, chewing up some of the expensive but tacky carpet with which the library lobby was decorated. He aimed the exotic Italian sportscar directly at Freeman.

"Wait!" I shouted. "What the hell do you think you are doing?!"

I was in the library obtaining some necessary information after receiving an anonymous tip that one of the local PI's was in fact a semi-human vampire. Well, you know, that's my job. People see vampires, they call Dale Dougall, Vampire Hunter. "Let see, 'Gelatin,' 'Generics,' Aha.. Here it is.. 'Gerbil.' That's got it." I stuffed the fiche into my coat and looked up just in time to see some wally trying to be dramatic with a trench-coat. I spent some time wondering if I'd get any lucky leads as to where I could find this Jake Gerbil character. There was a loud crash, and I was startled to see a Maserati come crashing through the window, with a huge, extremely threatening-looking man behind the wheel. He seemed to be rather peeved at the goofy-looking guy in the trenchcoat, and another man who was looking over his shoulder. I ran over to them, wondering if I could be of any service. "Can I be of any service?" I enquired of the goofy guy in the trenchcoat. He looked as though he was...

...fearing for his life, or at least his bodily functions.

"I'm Dale Dougall." The man seemed not to care. With good reason, of course. The big pyschotic in the Maserati had gotten out from behind the wheel and was stomping towards us. He appeared to be armed. Heavily armed.

"Laser Surgery?" I said, baffled. "Yeup, " Skillprof said, directing my focus to a large apparatus, "Fred worked wonders on you." There were no scars. No marks. Nothing. He had done a first rate job. "I haven't seen you in ages Skill." I said after a moment. "It's good to see you lived, Loco." "Thanks."

"Why, Skill?", I asked finally. "Did he shoot you?" came the reply, "I can't say why...I don't know." "Who?" "Don't have that answer either." The last statement preceded a long pause, and then, "I want to kill him." I announced quietly. "Well, that'll be hard to do. How do you find him?" "I'll know the moment I see him." Footfalls. Open and close of Lab door. More footfall. Another door sequence, and then the motorcycle roared to life and carried Loco home. Home to wait.

I stared at the three individuals who stood just a few centimeters away from the hood of my brand new shiny maserati. At least those platinum cards will buy nice cars. I opened the door and got out to approach the three PI's. They all seemed quite worried about the large hole in the side of the library. Obviously they'd never tried driving while being dead. It really isn't as easy as the media makes it look. "Hey, wait a minute, you're that Death Bird guy!" one of them said. I recognized him as being Dik Miller, one of the PI's. The other two I didn't know, but one looked very strange. The strange one spoke up. "I'm Dale Dougall, I'm Dale Dougall! Ahahahaha, I'm Dale Dougall!" He was obviouslly having some sort of meta-physical plasma-seizure. I quickly bopped him on the head with a copy of the Encyclopedia of Nicely Colored Fish. He quickly snapped out of it.

I didn't know it at the time, but Dougalls's seizure was a result of his being extremely close to a dead person. That kind of thing happens to those vampire hunters when they're around dead people. Especially live ones. "I haven't seen the likes of you for at least 50 or 60 messages! Where have you been?" Miller asked. "I co-starred in another one of those Living Dead movies, then I went and visited Masters. He told me the whole story. Then I oriented myself on your astro-cerebral brain impulse waves. Then I bought a Maserati, and smashed through a library wall. Then this Dale Dougall guy had a fit, then you asked me-" "Yes, yes, I know all that. I was there, you know." He inturrupted. "Oh yes, you do don't you?" I replied, when suddenly a red Ferrari screeched into the library, knocking down several display stands. And I thought I was the only one in the city driving italian cars through libraries. Apparently not.

I was having trouble remembering who I was. For some reason I had announced myself as Death Bird. Possibly because of the large piece of glass embedded in my forehead? Who knows.

I was just about to walk towards Freeman, Dik and some dumpy little guy carrying a mallet and a shoulder bag full of spikes, when all of a sudden a bright red Ferrari came in through the hole the Maserati had made. I spun around, leveling my gun at the driverside of the windshield. I began emptying the Super Redhawk into the passenger compartment as soon as I saw the partly decomposed hand reach through the side window. Quickly, I attached the Glaser Safety Slug Autoloader onto the Redhawk and face Freeman, Dik and the other guy, who was cowering behind a fold in Dik's trenchcoat. Freeman looked at me with what looked like barely restrained amusement. I was just about to put a few teflon filled dumdums into him when I felt the rotting and all-around slimy hand touch my shoulder. This was decidedly unfunny.

I noticed what looked like a Ferrari 412 swerve around a sharp corner and accelrate towards the library. I loosened the Walther auto with silencer in its holster and casually stood behind a concrete pillar. Miller looked in my direction, a question on his lips, when there was a loud crash, followed by the tinkling of glass and the roar of a high-powered car's exhaust.

I drew the Walther and stepped out into a clearing. It was Bear as I had expected. Only he would do anything this unpredictable. He caught sight of me and turned the car towards me, only to have the tires thresh and scrabble for purchase on a floor littered with books, broken furniture and untold square feet of folded up expensive carpeting. Bear, not able to get the car moving again, exited it and stalked towards me. At about that time I noticed that the car was a red Maserati Merak. I looked back to see Miller and another man conversing casually. At least Miller kept his cool in tight situations.

I turned back in time to see another red Italian sports car come through the hole Bear had made. A Ferrari 512 Berlinetta Boxer this time, I noted. Bear immediately spun around, emptied his gun into the driver and spun to face me again, while attaching a speedloading device on his gun. I had to admit that he was every inch a professional, if not a complete loonie.

Milelr was now showing some concern for his safety, as Bear gestured threaten- ingly towards him and the guy with the vampire-killing tools. Or maybe it was because of the zombie coming up behind Bear, that made Miller anxious. In any case, I felt a sorry for Bear. He'd have a good fright at the very least.

When the zombie placed a hand on Bear's shoulder, I could have laughed out loud, except that they seemed to know each other. I thought I heard the zombie speaking to Bear, something about 'wasting bullets on a dead person' and something about his choice of cars. Even though Bear was in good spirits, I kept my gun ready, anyways.

Two expensive European sports cars sat in the reference section of the Public Library. Two PIs, a vampire killer, a dead man and an as-yet- unidentified assassin stood chatting casually while everyone else in the building ran for their lives.

Freeman spoke up.

"So you know this guy?" motioning with his gun to Death Bird.

"Yes." said Barney and Dik simultaneously.

Douglas Dugall caught a look at Barnard's arm.

"You've been bitten by a VAMPIRE!" he bellowed.

"Shut up! I know that! Where's my truck!" bellowed Barnard.

"I dunno." said Doug.

"It's outside." muttered Dik.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

"I think we should leave." said Death Bird. "The cops will be here in a minute, and they never did like PIs, much less sporty cars."

The men disbursed, to meet at a local bar some ten blocks away.

Barnard took Doug in his Kenworth, Freeman drove Dik in the Ferrari, and Death Bird drove the Maserati.

A semi tractor and two sports cars sped down the road, leaving the library.

I nervously watched the road that was unfolding in front of us, (which is a remarkable thing for several tons of pavement to do,) and considered all that had taken place. It was a good thing I was watching the road, it was clear that Mr. Bear wasn't. Several cyclists made dull thudding noises as they vanished beneath the wheels of the Peterbilt. This didn't appear to phase the guy, which made me slightly tense. Such callousness one of the first symptoms of someone that has been bitten by a vampire. I wondered if he would lead me to this Jake Gerbil character before circumstances forced me to kill him.

I continued watching the road, and anxiously tapped my stakes together.

I'd been assigned to a singular vampire, and now I had a vampire, a vampire- in-waiting, and some sort of zombie to deal with.

This was the most fun I'd had since biology 12.

As I walked down the street, causing immesurable pain to my already sore feet, I realized my plight, which had hit me last night. Not only was a vampire, but a candidate for the Shakesprear choir. I spoke in verse, and my vampirism was becoming worse, verily things were becoming dire. I reached into my belt pouch and pulled out a vial, as I hadn't drank any blood for quite a while. Ahhhhh... As the delectable hemoglobin sated my thirst, my thoughts returned to the normal unconstructed random sequence of mush that were shared by all good P.I's. It seemed I was a special kind of vampire, one who spent most of the time as a normal person, but when lack of fresh blood set in, turned into a blood-sucker that spoke in rhyme. In short, a double-mixed metaphor lycanthrope vampire. I noticed a rather large truck up ahead, next to two sports cars and a small library. I knew the rest of the group would be there. No one else would be so stup...unique. As I approached the white building...

I felt a motled hand reach for my arm. Death Bird! After all this time, it must be...but no, it was just an old, filthy drunk. Close though. "What do you want?" I asked violently, and to my eternal regret, he responded, in D minor. "The luuuuv of two wimin s'like a bawl and chain, a bawl and chain, a bawl and chain..." "Will you shut up!" I yelled. No good, he just went on, and on. "The luuuvvv of two wimin s'like a bawl and...ack...gargle.. ..barf" I relaxed my grip on his neck. "Now who are you and what do you want?" He stared somewhat blankly at me and then grinned toothlessly. "M'names Farley. Farley O'Fartson, meanest, toughest, drunkest damn demon this side of the seven hundred and seventy-seven Hells!" "Don't you mean the six hundred and sixty-six Hells?" "Them too." He answered, somewhat confused. "Well, what do you want?" I queried once again. "Jest wanted ta tell you a little story 'bout me and mah life" he answered sheepishly.

I sat down on the sidewalk and listened.

My mistake

I shouted after El as he roared out on his bike, "Give me a ring if you meet up with PIs...."

hope he heard me...

I was bored. I had nothing to do - probably the cause of my boredom..

with nothing better to do, I decided to do a bit of hacking and find out what my "old friend" masters had been up to lately..

I found it a little odd that one man could want 3 different Italian cars in the space of 2 days..

very odd. .^

I shut down the Beamer in it's appropriate spot near to the far left wall of the parkade. Turned around, walked thru the door and to the elevator. The 4th floor light button came on after my voice command, and upward motion commenced. The apartment had been opened, and searched. What a mess. I was to pre- occupied to clean it up, but found the phone and dialed up Skill. It was busy. Call again. Still in use. Reclining into the couch, my mind went on cross-reference detail. Who/why sequences, over and over. Nothing came up except blank guessing. Try Skill again and succeed. "Yeup." was the greeting. "Hi Skill, I sat and thought, and couldn't come up with much. I think that the other PI's can definately help on this one. We have to find them. Soon." There was an agreement, and so we set a meeting. It might take ages to find my would-be assassin, but I was prepared to do what it took. The journey of a thousand miles begins with one footfall.

As I ordered my customary rum and coke, without the rum, I pondered the impro- bability of three very expensive Italian sportscars, two of them Ferraris, crashing through the one wall of that particular library at that particular time of day. I also wondered at the ineptness of the entire crew of PI's in being unable to distinguish between a Maserati and a Ferrari, much less a 412 and a 512 Berlinetta Boxer, especially since the latter was no longer in pro- duction. Then entire event, in fact, had gone by in a blur, and no one seemed sure of who had crashed through the wall first or who had done what. I filed the incident in the back reaches of my mind for later reference.

Death Bird returned. But how? Not only had he been killed more times than is usually necessary to get the job done properly, but he had been entirely vapourized at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. How he could come back to his present semi-decomposing state was beyond me. Then again, I had never been dead.

Dale, Death Bird and Freeman sat in a large booth, all talking about different things. Dale spoke fondly of his stakes, Death Bird talked about how to rip people's limbs off with only 2 precise movements and Freeman discussed ways to set up an assassination. I tried to ignore them, but had no luck. It's pretty hard to ignore a vampire hunter, an undead guy and a professional assassin.

One good thing about them though; they sure could clear out a bar fast. One look at Death Bird and people were fighting to be the first to leave.

I glanced over to Dik. He was looking pretty solemn. Possibly because he had already consumed 7 straight Cokes. Or maybe because he'd made that foolish mistake of confusing a Ferrari 412 with a Maserati Merak and a Ferrari 512BB.

Well, I decided to leave him alone. We all needed to unwind. Maybe not as much as Dik was, but still we needed a break from all this stupid non-stop action. A drink in a quiet bar was just the ticket. I hoped it stayed quiet.

"Look, Dougall, I don't give two shits about your 'rapid-fire stakedriver'. All anyone ever needs is a good small calibre, high muzzle velocity automatic with a silencer. Softnose, teflon-filled bullets help, too."

I slammed my drink down on the table for emphasis. Dougall looked a little incensed, but shrugged it off. I looked from Dougall to Death Bird to see him/ it/whatever scraping partly decomposed skin from a waxy-looking arm. Very interesting. I paused to inspect his shirtfront which had 6 very large calibre bullet holes in it. I concluded that already being dead was a good way to avoid disabling injuries. Beats my ballistic cloth bodysuit by a mile.

Dougall had already begun on his 4th Bloody Mary and was looking a bit soused. Another good thing about being dead was the fact that you didn't get drunk, as evidenced by Death Bird having his 18th Nightmare. Yes, very interesting company I had here.

Too bad the mood was spoiled by the warm Dom Perignon '67. I wrinkled my nose in disgust.

Meanwhile Cat Scratch sat in his studio type bachelor pad in the Bronx. The room is littered with chinese take out boxes and empty bottles of Old Crow. Red eyed and distraught while waiting for the phone call pertaining to his instructions, he stares at proliferate spiders as they redecorate his pad.

"Guess they're jus' waitin' fer when they really get in a jam....now where is dat Dial a Whore number?"

Brown had fallen asleep at his desk. In his dreams he was musing over the possibilities of stealing one of those expensive-but-slightly-trashed-sportscars that had just shown up in the Police lock up next door. "Shit!" he dreamed to himself, all I have to drive is that blue Mini with the hair balls under the front bumper. And its stolen too.

Bobby slept on, not noticing the shadow that appeared on the otherside of his special door/window. Nope, he didn't even know he was there. Shit what should he care if a glow in the dark stranger was just outside his door.

"All right guys," I said after I had calculated that I had been musing for long enough. "There must be some way that we can figure out who is trying to take over the world and why he - or she, I suppose - is doing it. We have unlimited expenses, unlimited ammo, unlimited time, and, unfortunately, very limited clues."

That evinced nothing but a blank look from everyone else. I looked down at the bottom of my glass. How had I ever been matched up with this sorry bunch? Then again, I thought, this was the same - or nearly the same - sorry bunch that had saved the world from domination by Richard Masters in the first place. I looked at my watch. There was still a green jellybean on it. Memories flood- ed back, but I beat them away with a large and unfriendly stick - metaphor- ically, of course.

While I was still musing and the rest of the group was still looking blankly, the phone rang.

Ring, ring, it went. Ring, ring.

"Yeah what?" asked the bartender as he picked it up.

"It's for you," he said.

I looked up to see him pointing the receiver indelicately at me. I stood up, a bit shakily because of the Coke, and moseyed on over to the bar. Before I spoke, I took out a sanitized tissue and wiped the speaker in order to remove any parasites the bartender had deposited on it.

"Miller here," I said.

"It's Masters. What's happening?"

"At the moment, not a hell of a lot," I muttered sarcastically, peering around at the other PI's. "Right now, most of us are getting pissed out of our skulls on your Amex card."

"I didn't know Amex cards could get you drunk."

"Shut up, will you? Is there any other reason you called?"

"Yes, in fact."

"Well?"

"Oh, right. I've found out that there is some sort of plan going on to find Atlantis."

"Well, that's amazingly helpful. So?"

"I have reason to believe that it may have something to do with the plan to take over the world."

"You expect me to trust you?"

"I'm paying for it."

"Good point," I replied. "I'll check it out." I hung up. "Let's go."

I swung the door of the bar open and looked at the sorry bunch that awaited us. Needless to say, Farley wasn't impressed. It's pretty hard not to impress a drunken bum too. "These are the world-saving evil-doer-punching plot-destroying idols-of-millions that you told me about?" "Something like that" I replied. "Geez, the world's in trouble, isn't it?" He asked unquestioningly, which is pretty hard in itself. Suddenly one of them threw himself at me, charging like a bull in a china shop <double mixed metaphors from hell remember>. I was going to stop him but Farley interposed himself between us and breathed on him. The would-be vampire-killer gradually slowed to a stop and fell to the floor. "My God man," declared Dik "you've...you've...inhebriated him!" It was true. Dale Dougall, slayer of undead, was drunk. Dead drunk.

If you'll pardon the expression.

Fifteen minutes later we carried him out and began loading into the various cars and sped off to...to...somewhere.

We filed out of the bar and piled into the cars and the truck. It looked like I'd be carrying Farley MacFartson or whatever-his-name-was and Jake, seeing as nobody in their right mind would ride with Death Bird in the Maserati.

Dale slumbered peacefully in the sleeper occasionally waking just to receive another blast of raw wood alcohol breath in the face. This would effectively keep him from perforating Jake with his stakes. If there's anything more useless than a vampire, it's a vampire that's been ventilated with wooden spikes I always say.

The Ferrari 512BB and the Maserati pulled away from the curb and began accelerating away at a pretty fair clip. Obviously they had not stopped to think that a 26,000 lbs. tractor does not accelerate all that quickly. I did my best to catch up to them, but at every straightaway they'd widen the distance between us. I thought some more evil thoughts about how to disembowel people with BIC lighters and yank their brains out through their noses.

I looked over at Jake, who was drinking from a vial thinking I didn't see him.

"Why'd you bite me, Jake?"

Startled, he gagged, coughed, cleared his throat noisily and said something unintelligible.

"What was that?" I asked, perplexed.

"I SAID I WAS HUNGRY, OK?!?", Jake said loudly in a hail of spittle. I cringed away slightly. Who knows what vampire spit will do to clothing. After a pause, I nodded in agreement and ended the conversation.

Then, I decided that I should give Cat Scratch a call. I reached down to the console and picked up the radio-phone receiver. I spoke into it rapidly.

"Operator, get me Cat Scratch, pronto. He's in the book."

After a few moments, a raspy voice answered, "Yah, who da fugs dis?"

"It's Barnard. We're on a case again. Stay by the phone and wait for further instructions, OK?"

"What da fuck do ya tink I been do-". I cut him off and hung up. Now that I'd finished that, all I had to do now was to catch up to those goobers up ahead.

Brown awoke with a start. "Damn!" he said, "thats the last time I have snails for lunch. This PI business is going no-where, if I don't get a call soon I might as well take that trip to Florida that I have been saving up for. Maybe even do some Scuba diving.

In my rather embarrassing condition, I felt vaguely uneasy. Wether or not this was because I was in a truck with a vampire in the passenger seat, a soon-to-be vampire driving, and a drunk who kept blasting me with vapourized ethanol, I don't know. All I knew was I was going to be sick.

Farly McFartson was had lost interest in trying to establish communication with me. I sat up in the sleeper. I had the feeling I'd made a very bad mistake. We went over a bump.

I was walking along the darkened street when I bumped into an old friend of mine.

"Well, if it isn't Elmer the Safety Elephant. What a surprise!"

"Oh hello, Fred, old bean! Yes, a surprise! C'mon, I'll buy you a drink."

I had an urge to ask about his tricycle, but decided that it might be in bad taste. Elmer always lapsed into a spontaneous psychosis whenever somebody mentioned it. Though today, it seemed a little worse for wear. A few of the spokes from the front wheel were broken and the back wheels were warped. Then it caught my eye. Zounds! The right rear wheel was missing its solid tire! Astounding.

I tried to keep my composure and not to notice the wheel. It was too much! I galloped from the little pub as fast as my hooves would carry me! Elmer called after me, but I did not heed him. I ran and ran and ran...into the night.

Picking up the receiver, I heard the dial tone. Adding my own selection of tones, a ring is produced. "Yeup." came the voice. "Skill, you read the paper today?" I inquired. "Nope." "Page 2 tells me that a Peterbilt truck and a coupla fancy Italiano racers made alterations to the local Library." "Dik and Bernard..." He said aloud to himself. "You bet, " I said, then added, "We've got to find them. Find out what the heck is going on." We exchanged adieus and I put the phone to rest. Turn on the answering machine, and recording this: "Hi. This is El Loco. I am dead right now, but if you leave your name, phone number and astral plane, I will attempt to contact you through whatever means possible." Turn off recording. Set machine. Out the door, to the parking lot. Arousing the machine, it roared to life and sped me off to SkilLab.

"Yeah?" came the static-lined voice. "It's me Skill. Loco." I replied. The door buzzed, and I caught it in mid-noise. I appeared at Skill's door and announced my arrival with my knuckles. The door yielded and I entered. There was the distinct smell/feel/sound of flux being generated, but I disregarded it. "Now how do we find them?" He asked. "First things first. Call Cat and get him over here, then we'll talk." Cat Scratch buzzed from outside and was admitted. "So what da fuds all dis?" he said, rather stupidly. "Sit down, shut up." I commanded, continuing with, "We have to find the other PIs, and you are the only one with street punk informers. Find some." "Yea, gimme a minit." and he found the phone. A moment later, he announced that they were at some bar. "Fine. Let's go." I said as I approached the door. Others followed. Shortly afterwards I was breezing through town with two others chasing my lead.

I mused some more as we sped down the street. Where could I verify Masters' story? How did I know that he wasn't leading us on a wild goose chase? Or a domesticated goose chase, anyway. Where would there be some kind of ref- erence with which I could crosscheck his clues?

"Marine Building," I said aloud.

"What?" came the reply from the others.

"We have to get to the Marine Building."

"Why?"

"To check out Masters' story, that's why."

"Oh." The stereo sound was beginning to irritate me. I picked up the phone and relayed the news to the other vehicles. Within seconds, a Ferrari, Maserati, and Peterbilt Conventional tractor were roaring along the strange- ly deserted roads towards the Marine Building.

I hung like a bat. The entire room was pitch black. Except for a small section that was pitch dark brown. or was it molasses black. Who knows. The room was dark anyways. Somewhere in this 40 by 50 room, there was another person, trying to kill me. I heard a soft <thwick> to my right. A dart! With kokanee labels at that! This was dangerous stuff. I moved towards where the dart had landed, for the attacker would change his aim. Suddenly, another <Cathunk> and another dart hit almost in exactly the same spot. Oh no! He had figured on what I figured he was figuring I would figure on doing. I figured wrong. I heard a moan to my right. something soft, it sounded like sheep. Sort of a Baa, baa, BAA, bAA type sound. I was reminded of a pub I had occasioned in my youth, it was called the Rail. A noise directly in front of me! I did a quick Mawashi-geri followed by a shuto and a Shomen tsuki. My opponent hit the ground. Dead. I had passed another test of the eight fingers ryu.

A Ferrari, Maserati, and Peterbilt Conventional Tractor came to a squealing halt outside the Marine Building and our motley crew jumped out, running to the front door. There was a rank of buttons with keyed names beside them. One read "Marine Laws and Records." I pressed the requisite button.

After a pause, a voice spoke: "Yeah whaddya want? It's one in the bloody morning, you know?"

"This is an emergency," I said in my best this-in-an-emergency-there-is-no- cause-for-alarm voice. "I'm Dik Miller, private eye, and we - that is, me and my PI friends - well, not all of them are PI's, but - oh never mind - - - we're all here to find records about Altantis."

"Say what?"

"I said, 'This is an emergency. I'm..." I stopped. "Forget it. We're coming in." I signalled to Barn, Freeman, and Jake to help me knock the door down. We backed up, took a good run at it, and ran, only to hear the "open door" buzz just as we were about to impact - too late, unfortunately.

Streetlights and streetlines, I followed them to our destination pub and walked in. "You seen any of these guys?" I inquired at the counter. There came a nod, and I ventured further. "Where are they now?" He said that they had mentioned something about a Marine Laws building. "Marine Law building? Why there?" asked Skill to no one in particular. "Who knows, lets just go." I replied, and went out to ride again. A few minutes later, we pulled up beside the familiar truck, and not so familiar Italian Hot Wheels. At the moment our engines shut down, a loud shattering sound filled the air. This was followed by some moans and cursing. Cat, Skill, and I ran toward the sound and saw a mound of bodies piled up on each other, scattering glass around. "We found you." I announced to them. They seemed unaware of our arrival, for this startled them. They rose to thier feet, and as they did this, I saw someone I didn't recognise. Or did I.

Yes. I did recognize him. It was the asshole who put the holes in me. We met eyes at the same moment, and in that split second, we knew. I had my Weilheiler out before he could react, and had the sights marking the bridge of his nose. To my suprise, he did not follow the ritual, but stood there, stunned. He looked at me as though he were staring in a mirror for the first time. "Why did you do it?" I asked, straight-armed. "Do what?" he puzzled. "Son-ofabitch." and at that, I was tackled by Dik. "Don't shoot him, idiot! He's one of us!", he yelled. "He almost killed me. And I was just about to return the favour." I said. "He is WITH us, Loco." "He is going to pay for what he did to me."

Freeman looked more dazed than ever at me as I wrenched free of Dik, and hurled myself toward him.

"Could this be El Loco?!", I thought dazedly. Yes. It must be. There would be no other with such distinctive features. The hooked nose, the twisted mouth, the gnarled hands. Yes, this was El Loco.

There was a flurry of action and I snapped out of my dreamy state. El Loco and Miller were wrestling on the ground, Miller tryingto wrest the gun from Loco's grip and Loco trying to sight the gun. I knew that I had a split second left but I couldn't bring myself to act.

Miller succeeded in tearing the gun away from El Loco, but this did not deter him from trying to harm me. Loco leapt up, a grimace in his face and his hands reaching for my throat. Instinct and reflexes took over then. I'd had a fight earlier with Bear under the same circumstances. Loco's state of mind was not conducive to the logic and strategy required to effectively carry out, or to defend against, an attack. I met him head-on.

I was taken aback, momentarily, by thu force of the attack. Obviously, he meant to kill or severely injure me. I decided to neutralize him without unduly harming him. Maybe a ruptured spleen, I chuckled mirthlessly. Then there was no more time for idle thought. I resolved to fight back.

He grappled with me, grasping my collar and coatsleeve, and tried to throw to the ground. I nullified his attempt by shifting my weight to one side, causing him to lose his balance and strength advantage. Though he held tightly to my right coatsleeve, I was able to deliver what I thought to be a crushing blow to the side of his neck, below the ear. He should have gone down, dead at worst, unconscious at best. I had not counted on his great stamina and obvious rush of adrenalin. While he was momentarily staggered, I caught him under the chin with my right knee and pummeled him unmercifully to the back of the head. This seemed to enrage, rather than incapacitate, him.

I felt that I had no choice. I could not hope to subdue El Loco in this wild state of mind. There WAS no other choice....I would have to kill him. This, I decided, would make up for my previous failure in killing him.

I stepped back, while El Loco knelt and gathered his strength for another charge. I did not wait for this. I reached into my coat and drew my Walther. I waited for him to draw himself up to his full height. I would enjoy this, though I knew that it was dangerous to have emotions surface during a hit. They could throw off your aim by pangs of regret or by incipient and immature feelings of excitement.

........I never had a chance to feel elated, regretful or anything else. I'd seen the boot coming from my right side in my peripheral vision, but too late. I determined to kill Bear, then. Revenge, I would allow myself. But for now, I fell sideways to the left from the force of the kick. The gun clattered to the floor. And I followed it shortly after.

"More popcorn Jake" said Dik. "Hmm?" I mumbled, engrossed in the escapades of the barbaric brain-dead geeks in front of us. "More popcorn I said!" "Allright, allright, here." I passed him the extra-large double-butter yum-yum barf-gulp popcorn we'd purchased at the beginning of the fight. Fleaman and El Dumbo were slugging it out and Bernard was working his way behind them. Dik passed the popcorn to Farly who passed it back to me. I grabbed a handfull of kernels and sat back to pop them into my mouth, taste their delicious flavor, and barf all over the floor. "Farly you damned little shit!" I bellowed. The popcorn had been sauced in five week old gin. "Sorry boss" he said unapoligetically. Bear slammed Freeman to the ground and everything came to a halt. Suddenly a sound came from our hip pockets; colectively. "Oh no!" cried Dik. Yes, it was true; Master's was talking to us through our American Express Platinum cards.

"Allright Bean-brains, enough of this, back to work" came his efoul voice.

I looked down. Indeed, the AmEx cards were implanted with transmitter/receiv- ers. and Masters had heard the whole escapade. I had been hoping to keep our disorganization to myself. Too late for that now.

"In we go," said Jake, stepping into the lobby and searching the directory for some sort of records department.

I was wondering why Farly had followed us on this trip. The last thing we needed was an incessantly drunk non-PI who smelled bad. Then again, we had Dippy, and next to him Farly looked like the Duke of Edinburgh. I resolved that we wasn't so bad after all.

"Here it is. 'Records department.' Fifth floor." Jake looked around for an elevator.

"Let's take the stairs," I said.

"Why?"

"You never know what Masters might be planning. The elevator could be booby trapped."

"So could the stairs," said Barn as he polished the toe of his boot with a Kleenex.

"Be quiet."

We took the stairs.

I was a little confused.

actually, I was incredibly confused.

1 minute earlier, we were at a bar asking about a sorry batch of PIs, and now, we were standing outside a marine building, of all places, watching El battle it out with someone I had never seen before..

and these talking AmEx cards really blew me away. Woz knows how Masters designed a transmitter so small that would transmit so far..........

Unless he wasn't so far...

Dik proceeded to fill me in while jogging up the stairs, popcorn still in hand

FFreeman. That, I learned, was his name. He had shot me for no obvious reason, and now, I was hiking up some stairs along side him. I wanted to kill him for what he had done, but the others were intent on not allowing this. Why I wasn't attempting to kill him now was puzzling, but I let it slide.

"Where are we go-" I was stopped in mid sentance. "Here it is." said Dik, staring at a door, heralding the words "MARINE INFO". We stood there for some moments, and finally, someone said, "Why aren't we going in?". This was followed by a few raised shoulders and Dik said, "Becaiuse it's the wrong door." After finding the right door, we entered to find an old, rasped man sitting at a desk. His features were familiar, but not quite. He had on a sailors cap, a pipe in the left side of his mouth, and strangely large forearms. He had a tattoo of an anchor on his left arm, and he squinted one eye. "Ar ar ar ar ar ar..." He laughed through a sandpapery voice...

"Bloody marvellous," I muttered under my breath. Then I remembered something, and turned to El and the rest of the new arrivals. "Hi guys."

"Hi yourself," said El. "Nice to see you."

"How's it going?"

"Okay, considering I've recently been shot. And you?"

"Oh fine."

"If you guys are finished," said Jake, "we can get on to talking to Popeye here."

"How'd ya know me name?" said the man, squinting even more visibly.

"Er... I guessed," stuttered Jake, staring hungrily at the man's arm.

Freeman shouldered past Jake and placed his hands dramatically on the desk. "We want to find out if anyone is searching for Atlantis."

We all stood around for a few seconds waiting for the enigmatic mister Popeye to answer our question. "Why of course someone's looking for Atlantis, what a foolish question. Ugh ugh ugh ugh You're the ones looking for it! Ugh ugh ugh! But you'll never find it! Ugh ugh ..." well, you get the point. He then drew a large can of spinach out from one of his forearms (I knew they were fake, no one has forearms that size) and prepared to launch its contents at us in a projectile fashion. "Oh no!" screamed Dik, "It's a.. It's a...Spinach Grenade! Duck!" IWe all hit the deck except Farly who just stood there and pointed one gnarled finger at Popeye. "Eat hot hellfire you one-humped camel from Begonia" Suddenly fire popped from his fingertips and hit the sailor squarely in the chest, rupturing several rather vital pieces of human tissue. "Wow." said Skillprofessor. Farly looked pleased with himself. "That was just a homonoluci, we had plenty of 'em back home."

"Umm, where's home?" asked Skillprof "The four hundred and thirty second Hell" answered the drunk, looking smug about something that none of us knew enough about to feel he should be smug about it. Skill looked a little sick. "And uh, I don't suppose that little fire trick was done using micro-minature incindiary components?" "Nope, hellfire coming from my demon soul"

Moments later I was rifling through the homonoluci's desk. "Hey, look at this here boys." Dik was busy reviving Skill, but looked over and I showed him my findings - a map of projected sites for the search of Atlantis. "But who's heading the search?" I asked. Dik took the map and gread the list of names at the back. "Oh no..." he said, dread apparent in his voice. I was beginning to wonder why he kept saying 'Oh no' when he explained himself. "This is the one man we can never hope to defeat. In all the world none can possibly match him. If he's looking for Atlantis he'll find it. Its... Jacque Coustau!"

well. Here I was. lying face down on the rather dirty, slimy floor.

the last thing I remembered before falling was a rather sharp pain in my stomach - not that I knew the difference between sharp and blunt pain, but you get the point.

"I'll get the dink that shot that damn dart, if it's the last thing I do", I thought to myself..

"No! Wait! Look!" Dik bellowed.

All the PIs and others turned, waited, and looked.

Dik stood there, holding a file.

"These are the people we're looking for. The company is called 'Sandar Inc' and they are currently carrying on a salvage operation of the coast of Gibralter. That Cousteau bit must be a ruse, trying to throw us off the trail. Any good PI can see when papers are falsified. Besides, I have it on good knowledge that my good buddy Jacque is in the Amazon at the moment."

Everyone stood, digesting this information.

"Well, now what?" queryed Barn.

"Logically, we should either attempt to stop these people from collecting the byzantium, or, avoiding a frontal attack, we stop them from getting it anyplace useful." stated Skillprof.

Dik thumbed through the papers.

"Here you go... Sandar Incorporated is based out of New York, with an office in Monaco."

"New York stinks. Let's go to Monaco! They have topless beaches there!" Loco yelled enigmatically.

Meanwhile, I peeled away a few exess toes, which Farley immediately grabbed and stuffed in his mouth. This Farley fellow had me worried. I knew just about every weird supernatural, dead, extra terrestrial or really weird thing. But I didn't know Farley, and he probably fit into all of those catagories. There was something fishy about him, and it wasn't just the rotten sardines in his coat pocket.

"New York," said Barn. "I always wanted to go to New York."

"As did we all, I'm sure," I added. "The problem is, how do we get there?"

"We've got two AmEx platinum cards. We can get there any way we like," said El, rubbing his eyebrow in a way that for some reason irritated the hell out of me.

"Ah yes, but remember," consoled Jake, "American Express is not a credit card; you have to pay your bill at the end of each month."

"It's not our bill," reminded Dippy.

"Oh all right," I conceded. "So how do we get there?"

"Let's rent a plane."

"Rent? A plane? You have to be kidding. Besides, remember what happened last time we got in a plane together."

"What do you suggest? A boat?" Skill asked me incredulously.

I digested this flood of information and was getting mighty confused. I'd thought that maybe we were in New York (the state) or thereabouts to start with. But then, I hear that we should rent a plane to get there. Then I hear someone mention that a boat would be our best bet. I had a mind to club this person on the head repeatedly with a filing cabinet.

Possibly I'd only been thinking that we were in New York, giving credence to Scratch's statement that our offices were in 'the Bronx'. But if in fact, we were in New York, why couldn't we just drive over to the building we were seeking. Or have a bicycle excursion to this place. Hey, that might be worth considering. I continued on this train of thought for quite awhile.

While I stared into space, swaying slightly back and forth, Dik and the rest of the crew silently slid out of the Marine Building and headed for the air- port....once again stealing my truck. And I stood, staring, obliviously for a great span of time.

I ran. And ran and ran and ran. I looked back once and saw Elmer the Safety Elephant a block or so behind, following me on his tricycle. Even from this extreme distance, I could see how badly warped the wheels were. That horrid vision caused me even more grief and I knew that I couldn't face Elmer again!

I ducked into an alleyway, hoping to evade him. The only sounds were of my deep breathing and the squeaks and 'ba-dumps' of Elmer's trike. It was getting closer. Closer. CLOSER. I shut my eyes tightly, in the vain hope that he would pass me by. Sweat sprang out on my forehead and breath wheezed and shuddered from between my clenched teeth.

The squeaks and 'ba-dumps' stopped and I felt a trunk on my left shoulder. I opened my eyes and looked into Elmer's wrinkled face. It was TOO MUCH! I sank to the ground and the last thing I saw was Elmer silohetted against the starry night sky...

"You must be nothing in a sea of nothingness" Sensei Demura said.

I had just finished one of my warm up exercises. It consisted of doing 400 3 finger pushups. To make it more interesting, knives had been placed underneath my hands to prevent me from letting my fingers relax. I had a small cut on my right hand from settling onto one of the knives.

"Consider the universe as a void, with spiritual discontinuity apparent at every turn in the wheel of fate. If you are nothing and your opponent is nothing, then you together are nothing and you have nothing to gain or lose."

I pondered this. That meant that he was nothing, and my training was nothing. The world was nothing.

"If you are nothing, then you are no greater or worse than the smallest ant or the proudest daimyo. Pride has no place in nothing, sjust as humility is nothing."

My training in the seven fingers ryu was progressing.

Cat Scratch stood pondering the place and time situation, he unwittingly pulled a slice of two day old pizza out of his pocket and began ruefully chewi ng.

"If we wuz dere den, and we're here know, how did we get here and where the hell is here? Dat's it, I'm sworn off'a Old Crowe now, 'n goin' back ta tequil a. When ya figgered where we are, let me know, meanswhile I'm jus' sittin' er out."

I didn't care anymore. I was going to go to Gibraltar, and that was that. I had seen the Nav papers for this Sandar company, and had located thier proposed location. Gibraltar, the Rock of Ages. Okay. You got it. "Hi there, you renting this plane out?" I asked the guy playing electric guitar in the plane room. "Yeah? Why? You wanna truck some load? Hyuk hyuk hyuk." he said in a southern drawl. "Shut up you stupid fuck. Read this." I handed him a paper that had some pictures attached. "Recognize them? I think your memory is good enough." He looked over the pictures, and read the paper. A good bit of detective work, that. Too bad. "Whur'd you git this shit, asshule?" "I got it from some friends. There is a large envelope that is sitting in my office over town. It contains the same thing as what you see there. If I don't call back in 1 hour, it will be taken to the cops." "They cain't prove thet I killd 'em. Them's just pictures when they wuz alive."

"All I want to know is why you had to kill them. Three innocent girls, dead." "I killd 'em cuz I thawt they'd talk." "Talk about how you raped them? Talk about how you tortured them? Talk about how you mutilated each of them in front of the others eyes?" "Yeah, cuz I thought they'd fink. So whut air ye gonna do." I unholstered the weilheiler from beneath my sports coat, and simoultaneously pushed a button on a small remote control unit in my hand. I pointed the gun at him, and said grimly, "Listen to your confession." I pressed another button on the unit to stop the tape from rewinding. I then hit the play button. "I killd 'em cuz I thawt they'd talk." I turned it off. "You bastard.", I said, sighting the bridge of his nose, "I'll let murder slide, but not rape." "Hey, I gawt lohts o' money, really, If'n yull jest..." "Too late. You have been justified." A loud report, and a crimson stain in the middle of his forehead occured almost instantly.

I retrieved my AmEx card, and said, "Okay guys, I got the plane. Head on in." Soon, all the PIs arrived.

"Can anyone fly it?" I asked.

"Don't ask that again," I pleaded.

"Well, sorree," sneered El. "Last time you guys flew anywhere I was in a coma on the tarmac being kicked by some old ladies. I don't know who flew last time."

I turned to look at Pedro. He stared back at me with bloodshot eyes, unknow- ingly chewing on a bit of dead skin he had removed from a hangnail. Then I remembered he wasn't Pedro anymore. He was Jake Gerbil, vampire. (Hey, that\ might look good on a business card.)

"Wh-what are you guys looking at me for?" he asked nervously.

"I don't suppose you can still fly a plane," I intoned.

"Er...during the day?"

"Probably," said El.

"No. Not in the daytime. No. Never. Too bright. I can't stand brightness." He shivered slightly.

"Uh," said Freeman.

"Who else could there possibly be?" El scratched his eyebrow again.

"Um, guys," said Freeman.

"I don't know. I really don't," I sighed.

"Hello?" asked Freeman quietly.

"Looks like we're stuck," said El.

"Yo, I'm a registered pilot."

"You're a WHAT?"

While the others gaped at me in utter surprise and astonishment, I sauntered past then and into the cockpit. I checked the instruments and found them in passable condition. A little dirty, but none the worse for wear.

Miller walked in, plopped down in the co-pilot's chair and lookedd in my direction. Then, El Loco walked in and took the navigator's chair. The faint smile on my face faded as I smelled the distinctive odor of cordite or some other smokeless explosive. El Loco had fired his weapon recently. I would need to keep my eye on him.

I sat down in the pilot's chair and went through the pre-flight checklist aided by Miller. He looked nervous. Possibly he'd had some traumatic experience involving planes, I concluded. Or maybe he doubted my ability to pilot this plane.

"Ever flown a Lockheed L-1011 before, Freeman?", he asked predictably.

"Yes. I flew multi-engined aircraft in the air for-", I caught myself. Air force records could be checked! I cursed Miller while he smiled devilishly.

"I thought so," I sneered. "You know, the L-1011 is quite a nice plane. Too bad they don't make them anymore. They're a lot nicer looking than DC-10's, and they have a longer range. Don't you agree?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure," replied Freeman as he went over some last-minute checks and started up the engines. There was a faint whine from behind us. "Okay, El, get us set up for a Great Circle to New York. I'll try to convince tower control to let us take off."

I stared at the console before me. Images flashed before my mind. Missiles. Ramjets. Bill the Cat tote bags. Crash-landing in the French countryside. I started to sweat and my teeth chattered.

Freeman was oblivious to my predicament. "Airport control, this is unregis- tered flight zero eight six, repeat, unregistered flight zero eight six, requesting flight clearance for runway two zero."

There was a few seconds of static before the reply came. It was preceded by several loud bumps and a soft proclamation of "Who me?"

"Um... hello? I mean, this is airport control to flight zero eight six."

"Hello control. I said I'm requesting take-off permission for runway two zero, effective immediately."

"Er... sorry, but the regular controller is off getting doughnuts right now, and I'm the... uh... janitor."

Freeman rolled his eyes heavenward. "I don't care if you're Sheik Yamani. Give me permission to take off."

"I don't think I can do that."

"Look, you can either give me permission to take off now or I'll take off any- way and crash into some oncoming plane and get somebody really pissed off at you. Give me the damn permission, will you?"

"All I do is mop floors. I don't even know how to give you permission to take off."

"Reapeat after me: 'Airport control to flight zero eight six.'"

"Um, airport control to flight zero eight six."

"'You are cleared for take off on runway two zero.'"

"You are cleared for take off on runway two zero."

"Thank you."

"Thank you."

"You're done now."

"You're done now."

Freeman glared at the tower, dimly visible in the distance.

"Shut up."

"Shut up."

"I said shut up!"

"I said shut up!"

Freeman turned off the radio and concentrated on taxiing the plane towards runway 20.

Scanning msgs since April 5th

We took off with a great rumbling and roaring and gnashing of teeth, but we did manage to make it into the air. We were on our way, and nothing except a loss of fuel or an air traffic controller's strike could stop us now.

I thought back to that last sentence. I sensed some sort of dark forboding in it. Or maybe it was foreshadowing. Fore something, anyway.

"So, El," said Freeman, "have you got us plotted on a Great Circle to New York?"

"A Great what?" asked El.

"Marvellous. I don't suppose you've ever navigated a plane before."

"I don't like planes."

"This is getting worse by the minute."

El looked at Freeman threateningly. "You know what?"

"What?"

"I think I'll kill you now."

I sensed that things were getting a bit out of hand, especially considering that Freeman was the only one capable of flying this aircraft, and without him we would almost surely be dead.

Then again, that had never stopped us before.

El was screaming as he undid his seat belt and leapt at Freeman. Luckily,

the former assassin managed to engage the autopilot before he was grabbed by the throat. I attempted to intervene but El's adrenaline-charged rage caused him to send me flying across the cabin. I landed on a control panel and only just barely managed to brush myself off when Freeman followed my path and landed on top of me.

El made another maddened lunge, but was intercepted by Barnard, who came rushing into the crew cabin to investigate why the Reggae channel had suddenly been cut off on his headset; I had fallen on the recorded program- ming control.

"Hey! Hey!" cried Barn, with unusual intelligence. "What do you think you're doing?!" He struggled to hold back El, who was foaming at the mouth.

"He tried to kill me and now I'm going to kill him!" yelled the Loco one, spitting unglamorously with each consonant. Somehow, he pushed Barn away and ran at Freeman again.

Why couldn't he at least wait until we were on the ground?

"Bastard!" I screamed, midair towards Freeman. I caught him right in the mid section, and thrashed to the side. He brought both hands down on my backbone, and I faultered. He brought up his knee, and connected with my chest, and that was it. We were both on the ground, racing for an upright position. Bernard stopped this effectively with a shove to both of us. "El! Stay!" he screamed, and, "Freeman, fly the fucking plane!" "He tried to ki-" I attempted some justification. "Shut up! I don't want to hear it!" He yelled. Bernard walked over to the music box, switched it back on, and stormed out. After replacing the seats, we reclined and Freeman took the controls again. "You guys are real assh-" started Dik. Too late though, the radio blasted. "What the hell are you doing?!" came the static/screaching voice. It was the Air Traffic Control man. And he was mad. Real Mad.

"Oh shit." moaned Dik. "We are in it this time." "Air traffic control, this is flyer pluto indigo zero eight sixer. Pluto indigo zero eight sixer. Reading you." "How'd you get off the ground? Who authourized this" he asked, baffled and angry as all heck. "We have an emergency. We have an emergency shipment of radioactive Plutonium that has to be shipped to a storing site FAST." I conned. "Plutonium! Shit! Get the hell out of our airspace!", he was panicking now. "We have to have clearance for all locations on request, be ready Air Control." "Okay, just fly SAFELY!" "Okay, we're set." A short time later, after Skillprof found out about the story, he busily started assembling fake control rods from 7-11 GloStraws (tm). "Thjhis'll get em." He chuckled.

We were on our way.

Stupid goofs. That's what Freeman and Loco were. Stupid goofs. What did they think they were doing fighting in the crew cabin? Gumbies, just about broke the stereo.

I stomped back to the passenger compartment and looked down the aisle. I had my choice of over 350 seats. This made me feel particularly powerful. I could choose any seat I wanted. First class, second class, economy, tourist, baggage or the unpressurized landing gear wells. Yeah, almost like being in a 7-11 store...I can hear the song now, "Freedom of choice, 7-11!".

I 'harumped' about then.

"Harumph.", I said, "No fucking stewardesses. Or for that matter, there're no stewardesses to fuck. Harumph."

I started walking down the aisle, trailing the headset cord behind me. I stopped at a seat in first class. I looked down to see Jake snoozing, partially covered with a blanket. I looked around. There seemed to be lots of seats available. But still, I grabbed Jake by the collar and shook him.

"Hey! Hey! You're in my seat!!!", I screamed directly into Jake's face. He woke with a start.

His eyelids fluttered open and I noticed for the first time how bloodshot they were. No pupils either. If I wasn't slowly becoming hypnotized, I would have noticed Jake glancing periodically at my thumb on his collar, gnashing his teeth and licking his lips.

My grip loosened as I slowly fell under his control. I tottered back and forth from heel to toe and the sly smile on my face was replaced by a rictus of fear (that one's for The Torch).

Then I felt the searing pain in my thumb and the eye contact was broken. I immediately looked down to see Jake gnawing on my thumb and forefinger. I stood watching this, dumbfounded for many seconds before realizing that this hurt immensely. Jake grasped my wrist and continued to chew while I pulled away frantically. I placed a boot against his chest and tried to push off with little effect. Short of blowing his head off with the Redhawk, what could I do ?!?!

I woke up to find myself in a small, cramped room filled with what looked like luggage.

"So, you're finally awake, eh?"

I spun around and saw Elmer (sans tricycle), sitting by a campfire, heating some coffee. (?!?) I relaxed then and asked him where we were.

"Oh, we're in the baggage compartment of a Lockheed L-1011, about 30,000+ feet up. Somewhere near New York, I'd say."

"What are we doing here?", I asked perplexed.

"Well, I thought that you might like to go to New York with me."

"Oh.", I said unenthusiastically.

I wondered why this compartment was pressurized and then realized that there were animals (other than Elmer and myself) in here. A few dogs, cats and an exotic animal or two. Snakes, birds and the like.

"Coffee?", Elmer asked, startling me.

I crawled over towards him, took the cup he proferred and settled in for what would probably a very long flight.

So fine, I can't calculate a Grand Circle or whatever, I'll do some vector stuff and figure it out. I figured we'd head due north, and hit it soon enough. Landing should be fun, as we had no clearance. Being as this craft was previously used for illegal operation, I decided to see if it had any "extra's". I walked back thru the body and to the mid- section where the food was prepared. I opened a few cabinets, found not much. I looked under the counter, and found a large crate marked 'desserts'. I was curious, and opened it. I found a bunch of clear plastic bags containing large amounts of white powder. I ripped one open, and tested with my tongue. Cold as ice. Yep, this was the real stuff. I decided to give it a whirl, seeing as I didn't have anything else to do. I did a line or two and decided that was enough. "Hey guys! Look what I found." Popular stuff.

The aircraft cruised along, headed across the Atlantic, towards the southern coast of Spain.

Inside, Barnard was sleeping restlessly, a wound on his wrist and thumb recently healed over.

Two rows back, Jake was sleeping like a dead man, flat on his back across three seats, arms crossed over his chest.

El Loco was spacing out, trying to walk the ceiling, and otherwise running up and down the aisle, talking to the sleeping men.

"Hello, I'm your TWA inflight stewardess... can I interest you in some of our TWA coffee, or TWA tea?"

In the rear of the cabin, Scratch had discovered the bar, filled only with Tequila, and was now sleeping peacefully and unconsciously under it.

In the flight cabin, Freeman was snoozing while the autopilot controlled the plane. Dik and Skillprof were busy working together on some unusual gadgets.

"When Zenchin kata is performed, all concentration is upon oneness and breathing." My instructor went through the motions, his body perfectly controlled. "And now, for some useful katas".

"This is the door opening of crowded closet kata" he said. He went through elaborate motions of grabbing invisible objects out of the air and placing them on the ground.

"But Effervescent Poon, how does that help?" asked the stupid son of a batch of cookies.

"Well Log and Lock trees, one never wants to be left without critical katas for your everyday basic bachelor pad." I wondered why I was in this ridiculous class. A bunch of common fools. I decided that I was being taught humility. I was sure that the five fingers ryu could do better than that.

Someday, I would have the pleasure of killing Masters.

"Whoa, neato," I said uncharacteristically. "How do you get it to do that?"

"Like that," he said.

"Oh." I turned towards the pilot's chair. "Yo, Freeman, where are we?"

"Mphl," he replied noncommittally.

I stood up from the mess of circuits on the floor and walked over to the con- sole. Freeman was fast asleep.

"Shit," I said, back in character again. "We're over the Atlantic."

"I thought we were going to New York," motioned the Prof.

"We were. Looks like we're heading for Spain now."

"Well, that's pretty close to Atlantis, anyway. Why don't you wake Freeman up and tell him the news?"

"If you insist." I cracked my knuckles and slapped Freeman across the face.

After a few hours of feeling akin to Hercules, and other higher beings, I started coming down from my fix. I realized that I had to 'Stay Real'. So I walked over to the door of the airplane and dragged the crate of coke with me. I commenced opening the door with a few quick turns of the little wheel in the door. The last turn did it, it must of been spring-loaded, cause that burst, no -FLEW- open. The cocaine preceded my exit from the plane and rained down on the Atlantic. I had a fear-inspired grip on the door latch that prevented a diving lesson. I watched the open doorway as a bunch of loose things were sucked out into the atmosphere. "Um, help." I said calmly, remembering not to panic in a life-threatening situation. Things weren't all that bad. Yet. Wait, now they were. The aircraft started to descend rapidly. "Oh yeah, we depressurized." I said to myself quietly. Suddenly, I saw Bernard get sucked out of the plane holding onto his head- phones for dear life.

He just sort of hung there, clinging to his headphones, and squinting in the high wind. I said to him, "Hey Bernard! What now?" He looked at me like he was mad. Why, I don't know, he just looked a little tiffed. "You ", insert any obscenity you want. He used them all. "Okay, so I made a mistake."

Meanwhile, in the cockpit, Dik cracked his knuckles and slapped Freeman. At that precise moment, the door to the flight room whipped open, papers whirled everywhere, and the plane started to dive. "WHAT! WHAT DID I DO?!" screamed Dik, terrified that he had struck some higher being. "Forgive me! Oh, please have mercy!" said Dik, falling to his knees near Freeman. Freeman woke up to this clamour, and was pretty confused. About as confused as you would be when you wake up to a slap, a vaccum-like wind, and the plane in a dive. "Shit!" was his only expression.

It looked to be about 40,000 feet down to the water, which happened to be remarkably blue. But, I didn't have much of a chance to marvel at the scenery as my ears were slowly being ripped off by the headphones. I grabbed the cable and started dragging myself back into the plane. Good thing this particular headphone cable was made of spun SAE 1041 steel alloy or I'd be doing my imitation of 'man hitting water at 200 miles per hour).

I inched my way up the cable and was finally able to grip the edge of the door opening. Once there, I pulled myself inside, stopping only to give El a good swift kick to the butt. He seemed to want to retort, but was in no position to do so. He mostly buffeted around in the wind and made faces.

The plane continued to dive and I knew we only had a matter of seconds. I turned around and braced against the door jamb, legs braced. Reaching outside, I managed to snare El by the collar. And he decided to do another dumb thing at this time...

El Loco, a rictus of fear (ho ho, good expression!) etched on his face, released the door handle and clung tightly to my arm. At first, I tried to shake him off, then I tried to scrape him off against the door. None of these tactics seemed to work, so I decided that the next option was to bring him inside. Miraculously, or maybe we just fluked out, his pants leg snagged on the door handle and when I pulled El inside, the door followed and closed.

Immediately, the wind died out and the plane seemed to stabilize. I turned around and noticed that most of the PIs were hanging onto their seats, lavatory doors and bar sinks as if their lives depended on it. And they probably did. I also noticed that about 3 tons of paper, tools, electronic circuits, logbooks, headphones, seat cushions, one (1) PI by the name of Dik, pillows, blankets, carry-on luggage, assorted bits of clothing, food trays, bar supplies and a beverage cart had piled up against my back.

After maneuvering my way through the logjam of stuff, I headed up to the crew cabin with surprising difficulty. It was only then that I noticed that Dik and El were still clinging to my arms and legs. I shook my limbs vigorously and they flew off, to land in a heap against the navigator's chair, where they lay in a semi-comatose state.

I leaned over the back of the captain's chair and found Freeman soundly sleeping again and for the first time noticed Dale Dougall snuggled up against Freeman's legs with Farley MacFartson, sleeping soundly also.

I checked to see that the autopilot was still on and then walked back into the passenger compartment, still trailing the headphone cable that had saved my life.

"El! You idiot! Get the fuck in here!"

"Err...umm...Hi"

"Don't 'Hi' Me, you bumbling wet buffalo fart"

"Now sit down, shut up, and tell me what damn course you plotted us on!", I continued.

"How can I tell you if I'm supposed to shut up", El muttered.

"AIIGHH!"

Dark. It was dark. Real dark. Whoa was it dark. Utterly, completely, totally dark. Black. Pitch black. Coal black. Numbingly black. Definitely quite black. And dark.

I awoke from my darkened, black stupor to see things returning to some sort of normalcy, at least as far as atmosphere was concerned. The flight cabin, and the passenger deck in general, were chaotic, and as I peered around I wondered who would be stuck with putting all of those cheap oxygen masks that automatically drop from the overhead compartments back into said compartments. It sure wasn't going to be me.

As my hearing recovered from the sudden loss of pressure, I heard Skillman (oh, sorry, Skillprofessor) shouting various rather obscence...um...obscen- ities at El Loco. Something about setting us on the wrong course.

"Well, how was I supposed to know?" barked El. "I've never navigated a plane before."

After a time, I awoke from one of my favorite recurring nightmares. The one with Elvira and all that tepid bean-dip. I got the feeling that something was not-quite-right. I removed by glasses from my pocket and placed them gingerly on my face. I surveyed my surroundings, trying to determine exactly why I was feeling ill-at-ease. I was hung-over, (not quite sure why,) and my senses were a little dim. I was in an aircraft. Several of my newly-found companion s were in various places around the plane, doing various things. Most of them were slumbering. I wondered if perhaps the cause of my tension stemmed from my realization that the plane was in chaos. There were debris of almost every nature littering the floor. It looked like armageddon. I decided that my dim fear was based on something more subtle. Presently I began to investigate.

Decked out on the floor, was Jake Gerbil, the undead that I had been sent to cleanse. I knelt beside him to get a close look. His condition had worsened: He slept like the dead, his eyes staring into space. This would not be terribly disturbing, if they weren't glowing such an eerie shade of green. his fingernails had grown almost an inch since I'd last seen him. I began to search for my prized practice-stakes, and after several minutes of poking among the devastation, was dismayed to find that they were not aboard the plane. I realized that in all likely-hood, they were still in Mr. Bear's truck. "Damn the luck! Now I'm going to have to improvise," I said, and stamped my feet. Some of the conscious members of the group looked up with what looked like some sort of amusement in their eyes. Farly the drunk rolled over, and shouted "No gnu's is good news." He then vomited noisily into a cardboard box full of salted peanuts in those little cellophane bags that no- body can open. I sat down.

SSSSSSLLLLLAAAAAAAAPPPPPP!!!!!

I woke suddenly and got an immense headache for my efforts. I looked around groggily and noticed Miller standing over me, getting ready for another swing. Wearily, I drew my silenced Walther automatic and pointed it in his general direction. "Siddown, Miller! Or yer gonna have more holes than a cheese grater!!"

I was not surprised to see him sit in the co-pilot's chair, very quickly.

In fact so quickly that he seemed to rebound off of the seat and fly back towards the passenger compartment. This brought me fully awake. Puzzled, I turned in my chair and looked back in the direction Miller had flown. There seemed to be some kind of commotion back there. It looked like one of the access doors had mysteriously opened and was sucking various things and people outside.

Suddenly, the plane seemed to lose power and went into a steep dive. I fought the controls and managed to bring the plane out of the dive, but we were still losing altitude at a steady rate. I tried to depress the control surface pedals but there was some kind of obstruction. I looked down and saw Dale and Farley, snoring complacently. This was not my day.

But it seemed like a good idea. I released the controls, relaxed my body and slumped over the control panel in a deep slumber.

I sat in my seat in the first class section, sipping dry white wine from a piece of debris I'd found. It looked like part of a broken Peterbilt air dryer. I would have been suspicious, if I didn't know that my Longnose Pete was back at the airport, probably being stripped down to it's frame by airport security. Deep sigh.

"Oh stewardess.", I called as El Loco wandered by. "Would you happen to have those little cheeses in cplastic packages, would you?"

I expected him to ignore me, but I didn't expect him to leap on me and attempt to strangle the life out of me. At that moment, I remembered an old Kung Fu movie I'd seen once, where the hero had spat wine into his opponent's eyes and blinded him momentarily. Smiling inwardly, I decided to give this a try.

Meanwhile, El Loco continued to tighten his chokehold. I smiled inwardly again because he could not hope to strangle me through the thick cords of my neck muscles.

Anyways, I breathed deeply and spat the wine in a fine mist directly into

...El Loco's face. When I'd emptied my mouth of wine and opened my eyes to survey the results of my effort, I was dismayed to see El Loco, clothes, hair and face sodden with wine, continue to apply a stranglehold on me. Not only had I NOT blinded him, it appeared that the wine thing had only served to further anger him.

While I pondered this dilemma, I barely noticed the absence of any pressure on my throat. In fact, looking up, El Loco was apparently in some pain himself. He seemed to be clutching his posterior and uttering little mewling sounds. I would have felt sympathy for him, if he hadn't been sitting on my chest and if he hadn't been trying to kill me. Straining a bit, I managed to sit up a smidgen and look around to where El Loco's troubles seemed to stem.

My first impression was that a sudden attack of hemmorhoids had interrupted him, but further investigation showed a crazed vampire named Jake had latched onto El's left bun with very LONG AND SHARP teeth. I barely suppressed a chuckle.

"Arrrrrgggghhhh!" I cried, releasing my stranglehold from Bernie, and spinning around with fists clenched. There was a problem however. As I spun around, Jake seemed to spin with me, sort of like a dog chasing its tail. I decided to leap into the air, and come down hard on my butt, hopefully this would do Jake some damage. No luck. He released his um, grip, and I hit my tailbone on the floor and commeced rolling in the aisles in pain. "Ah! I've been wanting to do that for a long time." said Jake.

Stupid dick. Not dick as in Dik Miller, but dick as in penis.

My years of studying had been leading up to this moment; as Jake looked around with a feral grin on his face, (possibly looking for new game,) I rummaged through a pile of wreckage that had stacked up against the door to the W.C. I found exactly what I'd needed: a tray of cutlery. I dug through it and aquired a silver-plated table-knife. I grasped it between two sweaty hands and hurled myself across the body of the plane and plunged the knife deep into the chest of the Satanic Entity. What was SUPPOSED to happen was this: Jake was suppose to fall to the floor, gasping for air and begging for mercy. Then he was supposed to manage one last blood-curdling scream, trailing off as he returned to dust and blew away. At least that's what the books said. What actually happened wasn't quite so satisfying. Jake merely looked down at his chest and snarled.

This was all very interesting. El Loco was rolling around in the aisle clutching his bum, Dale had literally flown the length of the plane and stabbed Jake in the chest with sundry pieces of flatware and Jake snarled, spat, wheezed, gnashed his teeth, flexed his fingers suggestively and drooled on the floor. This was very spooky. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I might have discounted it. But I HAD seen Dale flying! Amazing.

Anyways, I shrank back in my seat, hoping Jake didn't look my way. I had gained new respect for him. I'd had first hand (and thumb and arm) experience with ol' 'buzzsaw tooth' (that's what I liked to call him when he wasn't looking). But seeing him gnaw on someone's bum is something altogether new. After chuckling about it for a bit, I was becoming increasingly afraid of Jake. A chewed butt w