SG: (Rob Furr): DIE MODERATELY HARD
Daniel Pawtowski
Here's another Superguy story from Rob Furr. It's fairly self-explanatory.
The main character is the "Punk With a Gun", a two-bit drunk who spends most
of his time holding up liquor stores, 7-11's, and the like. Only he has a
curious form of luck: whenever he tries to rob a store, somebody else is
already robbing it. Healways ends up delivering his infamous punchline,
"You can't rob this place! I'M robbing this place!", and then mayhem ensues.
The Punk awlays manages to get away before the police come. The police,
being not too bright, can never figure out what happened.
The investigation ususally ends up concluding that a robbery was foiled
by some unseen vigilante superhero. And thus was born the legend of
"The Gun Avenger", a hero who is never seen and does not even exist.
There are pieces that fit into a longer-running plot of Rob's, but you
don't need the whole thing to understand this piece of it.
From: r.f...@genie.geis.com
after LONG last...
A STUTTER FROM THE GUTTER
or
DIE MODERATELY HARD
(part nine of the Not-Quite-Ready-For-Continuity Saga)
(Warning: This does NOT feature any member of the Extreme Team.)
(This is ANOTHER part of the plot, and IS necessary to complete)
(understanding of what's going on.)
(well, maybe not.)
(and, just so you know, this is a VERY long episode, so be warned.)
If once a man indulges himself in murder, very soon he comes to think
little of robbing; and from robbing he comes next to drinking and
Sabbath-breaking, and from that to incivility and procrastination.
Thomas De Quincey
Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts [1827]
The more destruction there is everywhere, the more it shows the activity
of town authorities.
Nikolai Gogol
-I-
Most large cities have skyscrapers of one sort or another. Chicago has
a black monolith that no self-respecting missing link would walk up to
and touch in the morning sun whilst 'Also Sprach Zarathustra' plays on
the theater speakers. There's a very tall and rather nasty-looking pyramid
over in California somewhere, and Roanoke, Virginia, seems to have gone
for the 'gothic castle' look, in order to attract the discerning gargoyle
and eldritch creature. Bob City, on the other hand, decided early on that
design, architectural brilliance, and so on, were for the most part
unimportant, and what was important were watertight windows and roofs and
a good sump pump in the basement, along with a good working relationship
with the Federal flood insurance represenative. As a result, Bob City
skyscrapers tend to be rather dull boxes with lots of glass and not
much else.
However, a skyscraper is a skyscraper, and a foreign company is a
foreign company, and a vault containing six hundred million dollars in
negotiable bearer bonds is, after all, a vault containing six hundred
million dollars in negotiable bearer bonds.
So, while a semi full of international terrorists in the pay of a certain
Irish vampire pulls into the parking garage, let's let the obligatory
hideously complicated plan tick away. Right about now, some poor guard is
getting an exploding hockey puck in the face, and another schmuck is
chainsawing the phone lines. You've all seen it before, so we'll cut away
to the second part of tonight's activities.
Oh. Right. It's night. The rain on the streets of Bob City tonight is
a particularly annoying drizzle, raining just hard enough to irritate,
but not hard enough to call for an umbrella, or, this being Bob, an
inflatable life-raft. Night on the streets of Bob. The streetlights
glimmering on the puddles forming on the streets, deranged dancers
jumping in those puddles, swinging around those streetlights, and, in
general, making complete idiots of themselves while they sing about how
nifty the rain is.
Along with the stupid dancers, the pacing private eyes, the renegade
street mimes, there are ... others ... on the streets of Bob - those who
fear the light of day. The cowardly, supersitious lot. You know ... crooks.
Many of whom are wearing hip boots.
Along these mean streets, there walks a man who is not afraid. A man who
can stare Death in the face, and strike a weatherproof match on the skull
he faces. A man who has, in his time, knocked over more liquor
stores than you've had hot dinners. He is, to be honest, a punk.
But ...
_He_ is a punk _with a gun_. (cue theme song(to the tune of 'Another
Brick in the Wall'): 'he don' need no powered armor, he don' need no
mind control...')
And he will soon be entangled in the evil machinations of the Hibernian
Horror, the Doom of Dublin, the Bozo from Belfast...
('no powers born of radiation... HEY! YOU! DROP THAT STEREO!')
... Count Fitzpatrick!
As the story fades up, Our Hero, He of the Armament, turned up the
collar of his leather jacket as he trudged along the sidewalk of Franklin
Avenue.
Of course, it being misty, and Our Hero being lost in what passes
for thought in his mind, he mistakenly believed that he was walking
up Rather Street, which was the short cut to Manchu Towers, where
he lived. Franklin Avenue is fairly long, and cuts straight through
downtown Bob, eventually ending in the Bob City Space Needle and Rotating
Fun Park parking lot and marina. As it leaves downtown proper,
it passes by the Bob City Farmer's Market, and then by the Spitz Tower.
(Which, coincidentally enough, looks a lot like the Ronald Reagan
Presidental Library.)
Since Our Hero was on Franklin Avenue and heading in the proper
direction, he did indeed pass by the Spitz Tower. And, being the sort
of cheap thug that he is, he noticed certain signs of trouble, such
as the wide open door. However, he missed the security guard piled
carefully in the corner of the lobby, and the other body flying out
of a thirtieth-floor window to fall down, down, down, and landing in
another reddish heap at Our Hero's feet.
"Hmmm." he thought. Then he drew the Gun and spun the cylinder. There
was no point to that, since the Gun, even though it looked and acted
much like a .38 Special, it used no ammunition, and was, in fact, one of
the Ten Great Important Ceremonial Relics of the Shriner Empire. Why
this weapon had been left unguarded in the front seat of a spaceship
(which looked remarkably like a Chevy Malibu) parked on a back street
of Bob has never been adequately explored.
Our Hero looked up the street, where he thought Manchu Towers was.
Up there was home, he thought. Home. A cheap room, with beer cans
on the floor and holes in the wall where Axe-Man had attempted to
help decorate the place. Our Hero thought. He looked at the open door.
He looked up the street.
Then he shrugged.
"Never done a skyscraper before." he said, as he stepped over the
body.
-------------------------------------------
It might be wise to note at this point that the Bob City police
were on their way and would be at the Spitz Tower in six minutes.
-------------------------------------------
Up on the thirtieth floor, all was not well.
'Hans', the leader of the team of international terrorists in the pay of
a certain Irish vampire, glared up at the building directory. His name
was not actually 'Hans', but it had proved impossible to persuade the
Count that his name was actually 'Howard.' So, 'Hans' it was, until the
six hundred million dollars in negotiable bearer bonds was in his
possession and the Knife was in the Count's. Then, 'Hans' figured, he could
go and buy himself a garlic plantation somewhere and the Count could
go and call someone ELSE 'Hans.'
The tall blond international terrorist in the pay of a certain Irish
vampire looked at 'Hans.' "Well?"
"Well what?" glared 'Hans.'
"Is it on there?"
"Do you THINK they're going to put 'Impenetrable vault, contains
six hundred million dollars in negotiable bearer bonds' on the building
directory?"
The shorter blond international terrorist in the pay of a certain Irish
vampire stood on his tip-toes and looked very closely at the map at
the top of the directory. "Yeah, here it is."
Both 'Hans' and the tall blond etc. etc. etc. Irish vampire etc. stopped
and turned back to the directory. Sure enough, there on the map of the
thirtieth floor, was a room labeled 'Impenetrable vault,' with a footnote
explaining that inside the vault was indeed six hundred million dollars
in negotiable bearer bonds, among the other valuable possessions of the
corporation.
"Well, I'll be." said 'Hans.'
"Be what?"
"I dunno. Just, 'I'll be.'"
"So it's an existential sort of statement, then?" the shorter blond fellow
said.
"One must be amazed to exist?" the taller one said.
"Hmmm," the short one said. "I can accept that, to truly live, one must
pass through and understand a wide variety of experiences, and therefore,
novelty and amazement are an integral part of life, but mere existence?
I'm not sure."
"Well, let's look at it as Plato might..."
'Hans' cut in. "Let's argue about the meaning of activity in a memetic
void LATER, okay? We've got," he looked at his watch, "Five minutes and
eight seconds before the cops get here."
"So?" said the tall one, Maurice by name. "Hercule and Goethe already
have the surface-to-surface missiles in the corner office, and Henri and
Pierre are up putting the plastic explosive on the roof. What else is
there to do?"
This stumped 'Hans' and the short terrorist, named Mickey. The silence
stretched for eight point five seconds, until 'Hans' smacked his
forehead and cried "The Vault!" The other two smacked their foreheads
in the best European style, and then, for good measure, smacked each
other's foreheads. This created a fine air of cross-national cameraderie,
and warm feelings were everywhere. With rapidly purpling brows, the three
consulted the map one last time and trotted off down the hallway.
Thirty seconds later, Mickey returned to grab the acetylene torch.
-II-
Our Hero had managed to find the elevators, but, the international
terrorists being clever little bastards, the elevators were all up
on the fortieth floor and were refusing to come down. What with one
thing and another, this was a bad career move for the elevators, who
would have had a much nicer time in the basement.
The elevator waiting area of the Spitz Tower had lush carpeting, indirect
lighting, soft music playing at all hours of the night, and stuffed
leather benches. The general aura of the place was intentionally soothing,
restful, and peaceful.
Until, of course, Our Hero put six blasts from his Gun into the up button.
Walking away from the smouldering remains of an ineffectual but otherwise
inoffensive device, he scowled. "Dang elevators," he said, as he looked
around for stairs.
-------------------------------
'Hans' looked up from the acetylene torch. "Did you hear something?"
he said.
"No," said Mickey, "Except maybe six shots from a thirty-eight."
"Naw," said Maurice, "A three-fifty-seven."
"Except for that, no, anyway." Mickey nodded quickly.
"Oh," said 'Hans.' He looked at his watch. "Two more minutes until
the cops get here."
--------------------------------
It wasn't easy finding the stairs, as modern architects seem to regard
anything so low-tech as an annoyance. In the Spitz Tower, for instance,
the stairs were artfully concealed inside the ladies' bathroom and at
first glance appeared to be some form of modern art. However, Our Hero,
with his customary ability to cut straight to the heart of a problem,
skipped the stairs entirely and went straight to the heating ducts.
It was his belief that in any modern skyscraper, there would be little
robots wandering around with laser guns who would vaporize anything that
moved (and, to be fair, this was indeed the case in Manchu Towers, where
he lived.) So, rather than risk vaporization, he decided to take off his
jacket (revealing a dirty white t-shirt) and crawl around inside the
ventilation system.
A minute later, when he had actually found an opening to the ventilation
system, he revised his plan. The opening was, roughly, six inches by
six inches, as was the duct. A series of shots from the Gun failed to
open it any further.
"Well, *&%T#%," he said, and put his jacket back on. Apparently, you
couldn't believe everything you saw in the movies.
--------------------------------------
Outside the Spitz Tower, the standard assortment of cop cars, SWAT
vans, helicopters, and amphibious assault vehicles came squealing up.
Out of the lead cop car erupted the Chief of Police, who, as you'll
remember if you read the Extreme Team episode which dealt with the launch
of the first Space Needle, is large, violent, and easily irritated.
"AAAAlll RIGHT!" he screamed. "I want spotlights! I want choppers! I
want disposable and interchangeable FBI guys! I want machine guns!
I want superheroes! I want a Fun-In-The-Sun Barbie!"
The Deputy Chief did not so much erupt from the car as ooze, and stood
behind the Chief. As the various law enforcement-types swarmed around
the plaza like panicked mice, he said "No superheroes around, Chief."
"AND why NOT!" screamed the Chief, stomping his foot through the asphalt.
"They're all off chasing the Boomer Brothers."
"AAAAAAAAAAAARGH!" the Chief was busy fufilling the bit in his contract
which said that all management-level policemen would scream, bluster,
make bad decisions, and in general, be loud. "Well, how about some
maverick cops? This is the sort of situation they're GOOD at!"
"No maverick cops, either. Sam and Bert are with the superheroes." Two
attack helicopters, their blades stirring the rain into a fine froth,
started whizzing about the building.
"YARGH!"
-------------------------------------
Mickey turned and tapped 'Hans' on the shoulder. "The cops are here."
'Hans' turned and flicked up the welding goggles he had on, burning a
wide swath across Mickey's chest as he did so. "They are? Great. I'm
almost through the door. After that, we just wait for them to cut the
power off."
-------------------------------------
One of the interchangeable FBI guys sloshed up to the Chief. "Sir," he
said, "According to the book, we need to shut off the building's power
now."
The Chief turned and glared at the FBI agent. "WE CAN'T DO THAT!" he
shouted.
The FBI agent turned a delicate shade of blue. "Why not?"
"There's THREE hospitals, FOUR subway tunnels, and THE FBI STATION
chief's HOUSE on this grid!"
The FBI agent turned to another FBI agent. "He's right. We can't. The
boss is having a party tonight."
-------------------------------------
'Hans' looked at his watch. "They _should_ have cut the power off by now."
-------------------------------------
The FBI agent was on the phone. "Er, sir, um. What do we do now?"
(mumblemumbleseminafeminamumble) from the phone.
"Because it's on the same grid as your house."
(mumblemumbleseminafeminamumble) from the phone.
"Yessir," said the agent, and hung up.
"Wha'd he say?" said the other agent.
"He said call Washington and ask. Got a quarter?"
-------------------------------------
Inside the Spitz Tower, on the first floor, Our Hero was getting bored.
He hadn't found the stairs yet. What he had found was what looked like a
broom closet with lots and lots of wires inside.
In boredom, Our Hero idly pumped about twenty shots into the broom closet.
All the lights went out.
-------------------------------------
"THERE we go," cried 'Hans' in jubilation.
-------------------------------------
"THERE we go!" shouted the Chief. "WHO did that? WHO? CONGRATULATIONS!
GOOD WORK."
All the cops in earshot looked at each other and shrugged.
-------------------------------------
Up on the thirtieth floor, Goethe and Hercule, having noticed that
the lights were out, fired two surface-to-surface missiles out of
the building. One destroyed the protective dike which kept the Bob
River out of the parking lot, and the other annihilated a piece of
modern art in the parking lot. Coincidentally enough the piece of
modern art happened to be situated right over the main storm drain
of the city. The Bob River broke through and raged across the lot
until it found the hole into the storm drain, where it drained. Most
of the cop cars parked on that half of the lot were swept into the sewers.
This served as the cue for the entire police force to open fire.
------------------------------------
Down on the first floor, however, things were going a little less
swimmingly. It was dark down there, and Our Hero, not being a Boy
Scout, had failed to pack a flashlight or other source of light. So,
he wandered around aimlessly, occasionally taking a potshot at something
or other, barging through doors, into and out of fountains, over candy
machines, into and quickly out of a urinal or two, and, eventually, up
something which felt like it was modern art, but kept going up and up and
up and up and up and up and up and up and up and up and up and up and up
and up and up and up and up and up and up and up and up and up and up and
up and up and up and up and up and up and up and up and up and up and
up and up and up and up and up and up and up and up and up and I think
that's thirty ups but I'm not going to count.
--------------------------------------
At the entrance to the vault, 'Hans,' Mickey, and Maurice pulled at the
massive vault door. 'Hans' had cut a good bit of it away, but it was
still bloody large and nearly bloody to move, but 'Hans' had a few
bandages on him, and the cut was stanched almost immediately. They heaved.
And heaved again, and eventually the door began to move.
"Now be careful, people." said 'Hans.' "If the lasers got batteries,
we'll be sliced and diced the moment we step inside." There was a pause
while the door creaked further open. "Maurice. You go first."
"Why me?"
"Why not?"
"Oh."
The door moved more easily now, and a brilliant white light shone out.
At this moment, the Ode to Joy should be playing, but this is text, so
imagine it, all right?
The moving door allowed the light to shine on Mickey's face, then Maurice's,
then 'Hans'.'
With a discreet push from 'Hans,' Maurice stepped forward into the vault.
He failed to suddenly turn into a gas, and turned back. "It's all right,"
he cried and stepped forward, as the other two hurried in.
All three gasped. "It's a bloody ballroom," said Mickey, and so it was.
It had an elegant wood floor, a chandelier, and frescoes on the walls.
The mere fact that there were also racks and racks of negotiable bearer
bonds, priceless works of art, stacks of precious metals, and so on,
did not detract at all from the general feeling of 'ballroom'itude.
"Quick!" 'Hans' shouted. "The river won't hold the cops back for long!
Grab the bonds while I look for the Knife." 'Hans' started going through
the piles of art objects and office knicknacks while the other two
started loading the negotiable bearer bonds (TM) onto a handcart they'd
found sitting in the vault. He looked at his watch. "The tape recorder
ought to go off just about ... now."
-------------------------------------
A loud, overamplified voice echoed across the roaring river and
soggy parking lot.
"Ve haf hostages. Ve vill keel ze hostages unlef ve get un elekopter."
the voice said, in an overdone accent.
The Chief blinked. "Get a helicopter...and put snipers on it!" he said.
The cops' fire slacked off once they noticed that there weren't any
more missiles on the way, and two trotted off to a phone booth to call
Brent's Busy Bee Helicopter Service ('Best Bell Jet Rangers in Bob'.)
-------------------------------------
"We're almost done with the bonds, 'Hans,'" said Mickey, loading the
last of them onto the handcart.
"Hi!" said Hercule and Goethe, bounding into the vault with Henri and
Pierre behind them, in their first appearance in the story. We won't
bother to describe them, because of what will happen in about thirty
seconds.
'Hans' was scrabbling through a box marked 'Executive Decision Makers,'
and throwing the annoying little devices over his shoulder. "It's got
to be here somewhe...aha!" he cried, brandishing a fairly nondescript
dagger. It was about ten inches long, double edged, with a metal handle
and pillion. It looked ordinary, but there was something about the way
it caught the light...'Hans' shrugged, and put it in his coat. "You
better put the bonds in boxes, or else they'll slide off the cart on the
first turn." he said. "I'll just go up and see if the helicopter is
on its way." He left.
Hercule, Goethe, Henri, Pierre, Mickey and Maurice shrugged in unison,
and began boxing the piles of paper.
-------------------------------------------
Our Hero wandered aimlessly around the thirtieth floor. So far, it had
been less than a profitable evening. He'd managed to find a ream of copy
paper and a small potted plant, but other than that, he didn't see anything
he considered worth stealing. Most other criminals would have seen the
various computers, printers, disks full of important corporate secrets,
but, to be fair to Our Hero, it WAS dark.
At any rate, he was losing his patience, when he saw the light from
around the corner. Figuring that here, at last was something good, he
trotted around, and saw, through the open vault door, six people loading
some more copy paper into boxes.
"Wait a minute," he thought to himself. "Either it's really late to be
fixing the copiers, or ... " he paused, and rage filled him. "Wait another
minute!" (all together now.) "THEY can't rob this building. I'M robbing
this building."
He drew the Gun and walked slowly into the vault.
Maurice looked up first. "Hey, Mickey," he said.
Mickey didn't look up. "What?"
"There's somebody here with a thirty-eight."
"Oh," said Mickey.
"Is it a cop?" Henri asked.
"Doesn't look like one."
"Oh," said Henri.
"Superhero?" asked Hercule.
"The Count said they'd all be out of town," replied Mickey.
"Except for the Gun Avenger," said Goethe.
"But the Count didn't think he'd intervene," said Pierre, who was having
a bit of trouble with the packing tape.
"Oh," said Hercule.
"He's aiming the thirty-eight at us," Maurice said.
"Is it loaded?" Goethe was less than concerned.
"Looks like."
"Oh," said Goethe.
All this idle chit-chat was making Our Hero angrier and angrier, and
his hand was shaking with rage as he pulled the trigger.
Naturally, he missed.
Or, to be more accurate, he missed Maurice. He hit one of the large
shelving units, this one containing a large collection of anvils, from
medieval through modern times. With one of the front supports shot through,
the shelving unit slowly collapsed, one anvil falling on each of the
international terrorists. (The Ode to Joy slowly segues into the Anvil
Chorus about now.)
They collapsed. Or were collapsed, depending on how you look at it.
Our Hero looked at the Gun, then shrugged. If they were down, they
were down.
'Hans' looked in from the doorway. All his team were down, and a man
with a gun stood in the vault. 'Hans' quickly reached a decision. If
the Gun Avenger was getting involved, it was time for him to leave.
He walked quickly yet quietly away, pressing the button to reactivate
the elevators as he did so. He took the elevator to the basement,
where he got in an ambulance.
Before he left the building, he pressed the button to detonate the
plastique in the roof.
-------------------------------------
The explosion was quite lovely, illuminating the overcast sky with
a particularly pretty shade of orange-red. Bits of glass showered down
from the sky, but as it was also showering for real, this didn't quite
register on many people.
"Wooo," said the Chief. "Everybody! IN!"
All the cops charged the building.
-------------------------------------
Meanwhile, to skip back in time a bit, Our Hero ignored the sudden
shaking of the building, and wandered around in the vault for a bit.
He noticed a bottle that intrigued him (a bottle of Pinot Gran Fenwick,
1947, if you must know) and tucked that into his jacket.
Then he wandered out.
Once the building was secured, and the Chief made his way up to the
vault, Our Hero had long ago wandered out and back to Manchu Towers.
The Chief, finally reaching the vault, was so moved he forgot to yell.
"Wooo," he said again. "Six of 'em?"
The Deputy Chief oozed up behind him. "Yessir."
"I wonder who did it," the Chief looked around.
One of the forensic investigators called to the Chief, "You'd better
have a look at this," and indicated the shot-out shelf support.
"Looks like a bullet hole," said the Chief.
"Yep," said the investigator. "Thirty-eight. No bullet, though.
Recognize the M.O.?"
"The Gun Avenger," whispered the Chief. "I thought he'd retired."
"Doesn't look like it."
The Chief slowly, and reverently, took off his hat. "Our fair city
has yet another debt of gratitude to pay the noble Gun Avenger,"
he said, then glared at the investigators, "WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT!
GET BACK TO WORK!" he yelled, disturbing most of the evidence.
----------------------------------
"Here ya go, Count," said 'Hans,' handing the Knife over. "Fresh from
the Ballroom in Bob City."
The Count signaled his thanks with a naval signal light.
----------------------------------
Axe-Man and Our Hero split the wine.
"Better than Thunderbird," was the general conclusion.
WHOOOOOH. FINALLY. SIX HUNDRED LINES. THREE NORMAL EPISODES. BUT IT'S
DONE! FINALLY, IT'S DONE! YEEEEEEEEEEEEE-HAW!
WHY DID I PUT ALL OF THIS INTO ONE POSTING?
(a serious question) HOW MANY PEOPLE ARE STILL READING SUPERGUY?
HAVE PEOPLE FIGURED OUT WHAT I'M LEADING UP TO, OR SHOULD I
INTRODUCE THE ONE CHARACTER I WAS SAVING UNTIL IT BECAME BLATANTLY
OBVIOUS?
WHAT'S GOI.
He noticed a bottle that intrigued him (a bottle of Pinot Gran Fenwick,
1947, if you must know) and tucked that into his jacket.
Then he wandered out.
Once the building was secured, and the Chief made his way up to the
vault, Our Hero had long ago wandered out and back to Manchu Towers.
The Chief, finally reaching the vault, was so moved he forgot to yell.
"Wooo," he said again. "Six of 'em?"
The Deputy Chief oozed up behind him. "Yessir."
"I wonder who did it," the Chief looked around.
One of the forensic investigators called to the Chief, "You'd better
have a look at this," and indicated the shot-out shelf support.
"Looks like a bullet hole," said the Chief.
"Yep," said the investigator. "Thirty-eight. No bullet, though.
Recognize the M.O.?"
"The Gun Avenger," whispered the Chief. "I thought he'd retired."
"Doesn't look like it."
The Chief slowly, and reverently, took off his hat. "Our fair city
has yet another debt of gratitude to pay the noble Gun Avenger,"
he said, then glared at the investigators, "WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT!
GET BACK TO WORK!" he yelled, disturbing most of the evidence.
----------------------------------
"Here ya go, Count," said 'Hans,' handing the Knife over. "Fresh from
the Ballroom in Bob City."
The Count signaled his thanks with a naval signal light.
----------------------------------
Axe-Man and Our Hero split the wine.
"Better than Thunderbird," was the general conclusion.
WHOOOOOH. FINALLY. SIX HUNDRED LINES. THREE NORMAL EPISODES. BUT IT'S
DONE! FINALLY, IT'S DONE! YEEEEEEEEEEEEE-HAW!
WHY DID I PUT ALL OF THIS INTO ONE POSTING?
(a serious question) HOW MANY PEOPLE ARE STILL READING SUPERGUY?
HAVE PEOPLE FIGURED OUT WHAT I'M LEADING UP TO, OR SHOULD I
INTRODUCE THE ONE CHARACTER I WAS SAVING UNTIL IT BECAME BLATANTLY
OBVIOUS?
WHAT'S GOING ON HERE? A KNIFE? A CANDLESTICK? A BALLROOM? A CONSERVATORY?
DID THAT LAST QUESTION EXPLAIN ANYTHING?
WHY AM I WRITING THIS AT ONE IN THE MORNING?
WHAT IS THE PURPOSE OF LIFE?
WHO WROTE THE BOOK OF LOVE?
THESE QUESTIONS AND MORE WILL BE ANSWERED IN THE NEXT EXCITING EPISODE
OR THREE OF .... wait, i forgot. What is it again?