NTB: Wrath of the Administrator TEB 2
Mr P R Hardy
N E T T R E N C H C O A T B R I G A D E
<*>
W R A T H O F T H E A D M I N I S T R A T O R
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P A R T S E V E N
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It had been a good month, thought Elric. He'd almost caught up on
his schoolwork, and no one had tried to kill him recently. He'd
actually managed to find something in his room. Why, it had
been over two weeks since one of his friends had been transformed into a
Rampaging Demon from the Dungeon Dimensions!! Yup, mothballing that
trenchcoat had been the smartest thing he had ever done.
Elric happily logged onto the Net for some mindless newsreading.
Let's see... no new mail, nothing fascinating on the newsgroups, looks like
a slow- Hold it. What's this? Elric frowned thoughtfully as he read the
signs. Bad omens in jello molds. LJC knocked off the Net. A dead
trenchcoater. Burak Racey spotted. Trouble was definitely brewing.
Elric leaped heroically to his feet, light gleaming from his
shining teeth. Ah-ha!! A heroic adventure! Evils to overcome, wrongs to
righ- Wait a minute. He'd retired. Hadn't he? Yes, he had most definitely
retired.
"No, you haven't," printed his computer screen.
"Huh?!?! Who? What? When? Where?" babbled Elric intelligently. Who
would have the audacity to read his thoughts and answer them? Oh, no, he
thought. Not her. Anyone but her... "Constantine!"
"Hi. Just thought I'd invite you to the party. 'Bye now! Oh, one
more thing..." SPLUT!
Elric wiped his suddenly damp forehead. How had Constantine known
where to find him? Why had she chosen him? How had she gotten the computer
screen to throw a snowball at him?
But the important question was: who was trying to destroy the
Trenchcoat Brigade?
There was no doubting it. Elric felt his blood boil as the
adrenalin surged through him. As much as he hated to admit it, he'd missed
the excitement in his life. "Damn. The slut was right."
Elric walked to the closet and got out the old trunk. Slowly he
opened it, revealing a black trenchcoat covered in runes.
"I though you quit," said his imaginary friend Ranklefrizzle.
"I tried. But every time I get out, they keep pulling me back in."
As Elric removed the runecoat from the trunk, a great wind swept through
the room, scattering papers everywhere. "Damn. So much for neatness.
Sometimes living in a manifestation of Chaos can be really annoying." He
smiled as trenchcoat purred to him, settling over his shoulders. "But it's
worth it."
Elric stood, once more the bearer of the great runecoat
_Stormbringer_ and member of the NTB. "Let's kick some bad-guy butt."
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P A R T E I G H T
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I slammed the shot glass down on the bar. "Give me another, Martin."
"Don't you think you've had enough?"
"Let me check. Well, I can still see you clearly, so the answer is
no. C'mon. Chop chop."
"Okay, Mr. Sloth. But this is the last one I'm going to fix, you got
that? You want anymore, you fix it yourself."
"Sure, Martin, sure. Whatever you say. Just hurry it up, okay? I
mean, I got things to do."
"Such as?"
He set the refilled shot glass in front of me. I snatched it up and
held it up to the light. Strange and illegal colors swirled around and
around inside of it. "Such as drinking this."
"Y'know, Mr. Sloth, it might not be my place, you being my boss and
all, but I really think you should start taking better care of yourself. I
mean, you ain't getting any younger, you know?"
"Sure, Martin, sure." I slammed the glass down. "Give me another."
"Aw, c'mon, Mr. Sloth."
"Martin."
Martin sighed. "Okay. One more."
"Thank you, Martin." I pulled out my IDC-326 Pocket Secretary.
"Janice? Any luck?"
A holographic green face formed in front of the small screen. "Not
yet, Stewart. I tried to post the article you gave me, and I was rather
bluntly told that I did not have permission to post articles."
"Flick. Did you try anything else?"
"I tried to post through another IDC, but with the same result. I
think there is something wrong with your account."
"Flick. Flick flick flick. Okay. Okay. Don't give up yet. I got
it. Janice, try email. Send the article directly to the head of the NTB."
"Certainly, Stewart. And who would that be?"
"Oh. Well. Look, just send it out to everyone, okay?"
"Certainly, Stewart . . . Oh dear."
"What? What's oh dear?"
"I am afraid that I cannot send anything outside of alt.cynosure."
"What?"
"Net privileges have been revoked."
"What, everybody's?"
"No, just yours."
Martin tapped me on the shoulder. "Mr. Sloth? I'm afraid there's a
problem?~
"A problem."
"Yeah, we're out of Coke."
"WHAT?"
"So I'm afraid I can't fix you your drink, not unless you want me to
use Pepsi or something."
"Oh my god. Why didn't you say something before?"
"I didn't want to interrupt Janice."
"Thank you, Martin."
"Your welcome, Janice."
I got up and started pacing back and forth before the bar. This was
much more serious than I thought. No Coke. None. Not a drop. Christ.
Could the Netromancer be behind this? Would he stoop so low?
No, that was crazy. I was getting paranoid. Just because someone was
in the Universal Office, just because Burak Racey was knocking on people's
doors and my net access was gone, didn't mean that anyone was out to steal
my Coke. Still, things were looking pretty grim. They couldn't possibly
get any worse.
"Stewart?"
"Yeah, what is it, Janice?"
"A message has arrived for you. Would you like to read it?"
"I thought I was cut off from the net."
"Apparently, people may still send things to your account. You cannot
reply."
"Okay, what's it say?"
"It reads: 'Come and join the party. SPLUT!'"
"SPLUT?"
"SPLUT."
"Lemme see that." Janice's face disappeared, replaced by a screen of
text. "`Come and join the party.'" SPLUT!
"Jeez, Mr. Sloth. I never seen anyone get mailed a snowball in the
face before."
"Well, you have now." I wiped my face dry on my sleeve. "Janice?"
Her face reappeared. "Yes, Stewart?"
"When's the next available shuttle to Chicago?"
"5:30. You already have a reservation."
"That's funny. I didn't know they _had_ reservations for shuttles."
"Sounds like an invitation, Mr. Sloth."
"Or a trap. You sure about that reservation, Janice?"
"Certainly. It reads: 'Mr. Grim Sloth. 5:30 shuttle to Chicago, IL.
2nd Class. Window seat. SPLUT!' Would you like to see it?"
"No, that's alright." I began pacing again. A call to arms? That
wasn't exactly normal behavior for a 'coater. A calling in of favors,
sure, but a call to arms? It was usually dangerous for us to get together.
Disastrous. We'd all end up in a $20 TPB somewhere. Sandwiched between
reprints of "The Sound of Her Wings." Maybe I should sit this out. Maybe
I should just stay here at Munden's and drink. That seemed like the
logical, safe thing to do. Sure. I'd be an idiot to go to Chicago.
"Martin, fix me another drink."
"But I already told you, we're out of Coke."
"Oh. Yeah.
"Martin, did I ever tell you I've always wanted to appear in a Dave
McKean cover?"
"Not that I can remember.
"Looks like I might be out of town for a few days. Keep the place
open, but if anyone comes looking for me, don't tell them where I'm at."
"Okay, Mr. Sloth."
I reached behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of Drambuie. "Call one
of your buddies to help tend bar, if you need to. But _not_ that Phil
guy."
"Whatever you say, Mr. Sloth."
"Anyone else but him. I don't want a repeat of what happened the last
time, you got that?"
"I understand, Mr. Sloth."
I grabbed Janice and my coat, and headed for the door. "Okay, see you
in a few days then. Take care of yourself."
"Aw hell, Mr. Sloth. You know I always do."
"Yeah, well, just be careful, okay? There's some heavy stuff going
on. And you know how hard it is to find a decent bartender in this town."
"Okay, I got the picture."
"And remember, don't tell anyone where I'm at. Not even if they're
wearing a trenchcoat."
"Sure."
"Stewart?"
"Yes, Janice?"
"You might want to bring that suitcase you found. I believe it might
prove useful."
"Hm? Oh yeah."
It was under the couch in my office, where I'd left it. When I picked
it up, something inside it shifted and rustled like a mound of a thousand
papers. Yeah, it just might come in handy, at that. "Y'know, Janice, I
think I'd better have you checked out after we get back. Sounds like
you've caught that Deus Ex Machina virus again."
Outside, the wind pelted my coat with sleet and freezing rain. This
won't be so bad, I thought. Maybe the Netromancer hasn't come into his
full power yet, and we'll be able to sort this out quickly. And maybe they
won't switch artists on us in mid-storyline. And maybe there'll be no more
snowball jokes.
"Stewart," I said to myself, "for a burnt-out, depressive cynic, you
can be one hell of an optimist sometimes."
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by fyf...@lafcol.lafayette.edu
aka FY...@lafvax.lafayette.edu
P A R T N I N E
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"So why a nice boy like you wanna weirness magnet?"
I stared long and hard into the coffee blue eyes of the
proprietress of "Madame Zool's Occult Bookstore and Bike Repair."
"Isn't it obvious? I have the calling, the desire to be so
much more than I am."
"So join the army. Aint no reason why you should hafta die,
or lose yo soul to prove some silly point."
"Uh...what are you supposed to be?"
"Huh?"
"That accent...what are you supposed to be?"
"From New Orleans, sho nuff."
"That has to be the worst New Orleans accent I ever heard.
You even say it like a Northerner. It's 'Norlins.'"
"Damn." She thumped the counter with her fist. "It's _so_
hard...nobody wants to buy some mojo from a witch woman who grew up
in Racine, Wisconsin."
"Well, umm...that aside, I'm still wondering if you know where
I could get a magnet."
Madam Zool sighed heavily. "So you think you know enough to
stay alive ten seconds after you get the damn thing?"
"Sure. What's there to know?"
"Who's currently ruling Hell?"
"Dumael and Urial."
"You _have_ been keeping up on current events."
"Thanks. Subscription to the Weekly World News. Now about the magnet..."
"So you wanna be a Trenchcoater?"
"That's the general idea."
"Why?"
"Nothing better to do with my time, and I have a whole load of
friends to sacrifice accidentally to the forces of darkness."
"You seem to have come prepared. Sorry, but I can't help you.
No weirdness magnets here."
"No clue where to find them at all?"
"Well, that's a different matter altogether. Sure, I have
some ideas. Ask other trenchcoaters where they got theirs. That's
the easy way. Make one on your own. That's the hard way."
"How do you make one?"
"Earn the undying emnity of the Lord of Hellfire. You'll be
surprised with just how much he throws your way."
"Hm...you don't imagine anyone SELLING theirs, would you?"
"I take it you have no clue what a weirdness magnet is?"
"No, not really."
The lights seemed to dim momentarily. When she spoke, each
syllable seemed to leap at me of its own volition. The furniture
seemed to rub against my leg like an overfriendly dog. A lot of
things seemed to happen. But not really.
"In the past, Evil was able to walk freely about the earth,
devouring and destroying all in its path. People, good people,
were caught in the unrelenting carnage. It was decided by a group
of mages that some attempt should be made to contain the Evil, and
protect the innocent.
"They worked long and hard, perfecting a process that was
foolproof. Attracting the Evil was easy. Containing it was a
different matter altogether. Finally, they settled upon a
brilliant theory. THey would create items of mystical power which
would attract the Forces of Darkness, and radiate such a powerful
aura, that they could not escape its influence."
"Wow. It must have worked, then."
"No, not really. Once the Hellspawn reached the trap, they
would simply destroy it, and that was that. It was decided to try
to make it mobile, so the Evil would be so busy trying to track it
down, it never would molest the innocents again. So the mages gave
these magnets to the best and the brightest, men of honor and
piety, those who could defend themselves, and fight the good fight.
They all died within a week. So the mages scrapped that theory,
and gave the talismans to a bunch of sneaky, backstabbing bastards,
with the morality of rotted eggplant."
"Trenchcoaters."
"_Right._ Anyway, it worked. Maybe too well, though."
"What do you mean?"
"The magic was inherently unstable, as part of the idea was to
keep it wandering around as much as possible. If a magnet wielder
stayed in the same place for too long, the magnet would transfer
its power to nearby objects. Swords, books, keychains with stupid
messages, which nobody buys, but everyone seems to have, churches,
apples, very small rocks, gravy..."
"I get the point..."
"Anyway, no one's real sure where the magic went, only that
it's never where you'd expect it to be."
"Hm. So all I have to do is look in the last place I woulda
looked, and it'll be there!" I smiled, pleased with myself.
"Nope. Been tried. Usually, it's your mother's underwear
drawer. Aint nobody want weirdness comin' from there."
"Your accent's slipping."
"Sorry."
"I see your point, though. I guess there's no hope for me..."
"Wait...how old are you?"
Gah! Was she gonna _card_ me? "Twenty-one?"
"Ah, you're too young to remember back in '62."
"I should certainly hope so." I was getting the feeling that
I was headed into another 'Oh, things were so much better when I
was a young necromancer in love, with the Forces of Hell invading
on alternate Thursdays, and only after All My Children...' Still,
I hadn't had to pay her a cent, and hey, it's her lifespan we're
wasting here. Time to sit back, and watch the hair on my arm grow.
"Well, back in '62, P.E. Bonewits graduated from Berkley with
a Degree in Magic. Apparently recreational drugs were used readily
by the administration. Not being able to find a job in the field
of his choice, he started sending resumes everywhere. Only one
company wanted to hire him: General Mills."
"Do you have this written down somewhere?"
"What?"
"This is a lot of stuff for someone to know. I wanted to know
if you had it written down somewhere, like a script. That way, I
could make a copy, and save us a lot of time."
She frowned at me in that special sort of way women look at men right
before they apply the Freddy Krueger (TM) Press On Nails, and go for
Soprano-Land. I shut up fast.
"Someone reading the resume thought it would be funny to put
him on the R&D board for their new cereal, Lucky Charms. They gave
him a simple mission: make the cereal...luckier. So he did.
"He had read about ways of building Probability dampeners out
of pulped Physics books (you know you're gonna fail) and Cubic
Zirconia (you know it's gonna look fake as Hell, no matter how dim
the light in the room is when you propose). He figured that if he
found the proper probability waveform for "Good Luck," he could
dampen out all others. Boom. Good luck magnets. He even made
them look like little four leaf clovers.
"However, he added a bit too much motion studies to the mix
(everyone gets at least ONE of THOSE right on a test), and ended up
with a batch of 10,000 weirdness magnets, suitable for holding up
bad casserole recipes, junior's homework, and the gas bill."
"And they shipped these out in a kid's cereal?"
"Yup. Cool surprise, huh? CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH! 'Hey, I
found the surprise! Mom, why is dad's head spinning around?' Fun
for the whole family at the breakfast table, let me tell you.
"Fortunately, the effect wore off in most, but a few still
remain potent. You might want to look for a few of those."
"I don't know...what about the REAL Trenchcoats? What do THEY
use?"
"What do you mean _REAL?_ The first? The Phantom Stranger
got his shoved up his bum a few centuries back (by forces better
left unmentioned, since they're still keen on the idea of fitting
big things into little holes), and can't seem to get it out. That's
why he's such a stiff. Mr. E swallowed his clover magnet, like a
gimp. Dr. Occult is almost as bad. About the only REAL magnet of
the lot is Constantine."
"Constantine? _THE_ Constantine?"
"If you're talking about the king of rat bastards, who'd sell
you to a demon, and as your dragged off, ask you for a fiver, he's
the one. Y'see, his family was the one that started the whole
mess.
"His ancestor was a ruler..."
"Constantine, as in EMPEROR CONSTANTINE, as in Istanbul, not
Constantinople?!?"
"Naah. The Emperor got around, if you know what I mean. Kept
on dropping illegitimate offspring wherever he went. After his
death, it was decided to pay off the majority, and kill the rest.
"One group in particular was so annoying that it was deemed
best to give them a plot of land to bugger off to, and live out the
rest of their lives inbreeding, to see what curve balls Mom Nature
could throw.
"They gave him land in Wales, which was no big honor Second
prize would have been more land in Wales. One thing, though. The
male ruler, once per year, had to participate in a rite that the
local pagans utilized to bring back spring. It involved the
symbolic mating of the two sides of nature, and let's just say
Constantine was into symbolism. Normally, his only concern was
when the barley crop came in, but this piqued his interest.
"He jumped at the chance...ahem. Sorry. Anyway, when he
looked at the figure he would mate with, it was decided to make him
a little more festive with a few hundred sips of the ceremonial
ale. Constantine got a little too carried away, and began spouting
off at the wrong times. During a critical part, where he was
supposed to say, "I defy thee, generic forces of evil (TM), and
shall drive you back screaming into wherever you came from, you bad
people," it came out a little slurred."
"Slurred?"
"Something like, "All right, if this evil dude wants to come
in, let him. There's plenty of booze and babes for everybody. I
need another drink. And quit chanting so loud!"
"Ah, his own version of the spell..."
"Something like that. Anyway, it released the Great Evil, and
Constantine and his new drinking buddy decided to find a place that
sold vinegar fries at 568 AD.
"When Constantine sobered up a few decades later, everybody
was pissed. The Great Evil had been ravishing the land all the
while, creating famine, drought, pestilence, and rude noises, but
since it was Wales, nobody noticed. Still, it was ready to move on
to virgin territory. Being the buttcheese that started the whole
thing, the mages decided to curse the Constantines by making the
entire family line walking weirdness magnets. Constantine's
response? He flipped the mages off, and thus a great tradition was
started.
"So if you're looking to liven your nights with a weirdness
magnet, I suggest you go to the source."
"And where can I find him?"
"Sincee you're rich, and into the supernatural, I'm surprised
he hasn't tried to mooch off you already. But I sense you are in
a grave hurry, by how quickly you're shifting your feet.
Bathroom's to the left."
One man-talking-about-horse session later, and I was back.
She reached below her desk, and handed me a laminated card.
It was about the size of an ID card, and said, "Good for
unlimited rides on the Synchroncity Express." What the hell was
that, Grand Funk Railroad trying to cover the Police?
"What's this?"
"It's your ticket for finding Constantine. Concentrate on the
name. Then take the express, wherever it takes you."
"And where do I pick up this marvellous train?"
"You know those abandoned tracks down by the White Hen?"
"Oh, the ones where all those body parts were found?"
"No, down the block, where all the dead squirrels formed
themselves into that eerie Elvis statue. Wait there."
"Until?"
"Until the train comes, of course. Don't they teach you kids
anything?"
"Right." It was time to go. I had...things...to see...
No I didn't. I picked up the damn ID.
"How much do I owe you?"
"Nothing."
My eyes popped out of their sockets momentarily, in a smashing
impersonation of Roger Rabbit I had learned while waiting in my
kitchen for the Jello to set (I know it is in poor taste, but it's
a hell of an ice breaker). An occult figure, asking for nothing?
99% of the time, they start the bargaining with "Your immortal
soul," and go down from there (in case you're wondering if you're
dealing with the REAL thing, the next step in occult bargaining is
offering immortal life for mint copies of "The Cowboy Wally Show,"
or a recipe for a really good margerita). Something was up here.
"Nothing. At all. Not a lifetime of servitude to the Weird
Beaver People of Saskatoon, Canada? Somehow, I don't believe you."
"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I'll accept $20 and
your watch. That way, the trip won't be quite as hard on you."
I ignored that cryptic message, deciding instead to file it
away in the Cryptic Message Cortex of my brain, which was beginning
to look like Christmas Day at 8 AM in the Dendrite Household, two
hourse after all 11 little Dendrites padded down to tear into the
ill gotten booty left by that fascist elf, Santa Claus, and his
Naughty/Nice dialectic that holds the hopes and dreams of a million
children in his iron sway, and which would make even Hegel sweat at
the possibilities (and who died and made him omniscient anyway...
and doesn't Hasbro get pissed when his happy elves make exact
replicas of Gi Joe with the Kung Fu grip (TM) complete with a half
ripped off Toys R Us Sticker (boy those guys were good), and didn't
he get slightly perturbed the year my father let the fire keep
burning (helped, I admit by an eager boy wishing to record Santa's
last moments for all eternity...okay, I'm bitter...you would be too
if you got SOCKS every CHRISTMAS, despite the fact that you sit on
that faker's lap in the mall, hoping to at least pass gas at a good
moment, and scream in his ears "NO MORE SOCKS, BUTTHEAD," and you
bury the ones you got last year, hoping they'd turn into a sock
tree, so you could grow your own, and Santa wouldn't have to send
anymore, but you never seem to add enough fertilizer, or water, or
maybe you planted them too deep or something...)
Sorry. Got carried away there for a moment.
Anyway, I passed the $20, gave her the watch, and thought of
Constantine the entire way to the train.
So I went to the train...Hey, it's magic, right? Ya gotta
have faith. Like, if people didn't have faith in Old Yeller, he would
have died. Whoops, Bad Example. Bambi's mother? Casper the
Whoever-he-was-before-he-became-a-Friendly-Ghost? No...
Anyways, I went to the tracks. And waited.
Bruce Wayne's parents?
Geez, I had forgotten how gruesome these kids stories were.
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Access is granted. Access is denied. In the eternal cycle of
this there is always Access... Granted... Denied.
A four bedroom suburban in the sub-uber-burbs of Greater San
Fran-gridlock built in the TownHouse stylie waits. A void floor dwelling,
it provides quick escape and endless entertainment. A bolt-hole for a
knothead and a polymath, it may host any of the Room-Continuum that have
been granted Access.
The Sugar Lump from the ant's eye view.
It is a big house to divide between two people. Two livable
floors and a Winchester stairway to mystery, a real security problem.
Precautions have been taken against the intruders that can be rule-
bound, hieroglyphs on the wall and Benson candles, all ineffective
against a burglar. Not many burglars from the Room-Continuum anyway.
The second floor is cool in the dark hallway, but warm in the sun-
drenched study facing the coastal hills. The heater is getting old,
but it has just enough left to cut the morning dampness. Here, in the
study, there are small clues to a unique life, The smell of gun oil,
the back-folded paperclips, the open copy of the Vedas. Reference works
esoteric and exoteric march along the walls. A study that recalls a
different time.
Ramaj Singh is just leaving. Taking the steps two at a time
in gravity assisted descent he pulls up short in the foyer and
experimentally looks out the peephole in the front door; no paper.
Ramaj opens the door and scans the porch without much hope. It
started with the San Francisco Chronicle. He called the subscription
desk when the paper didn't arrive the first day, but the paper never
showed up. He called the next day when no paper arrived and offered
up a piece of his mind. The supervisor said she would take a direct
interest in the matter. When the woman called back in the afternoon
there was no paper. She assured him that he would definitely get his
paper tommorrow. When he called the next day, she didn't believe him.
She had delivered the paper herself. There was no way that he could
not have received the paper, unless someone in the neighbourhood was
stealing them from him. He stayed up all night, watched the paperboy
go by. But there was no paper on the landing after he rushed downstairs.
He stopped calling the newspaper, there was nothing they could do.
Years of experience told him to test even the smallest wierdnesses in
case they were simply foreshocks. So he subscribed the three major
newspapers and some little independent rags (of all extreme points of
view) and bought something from a mail-order catalog. A week later
there was a junk mail flowing from the mail box onto a pile of no
newspapers. So Ramaj decided to just let the subscriptions lapse one
by one and continue to get his comic strip fix from his favorite
newsstand. He gets his news from somewhere else... the living room.
"Good Mo-afternoon Deft."
"Ramaj"
"What's on the Telly?"
"Nada, He's bald. Nu?"
Deft has six foot executive good looks and a mohawk, an aging
skate-punk as skate punks go. He is looking up from the living room
rug in front of the television, satellite dish controls at the ready.
He resembles a puppy-dog as he expectantly studies Ramaj Singh for a
reaction. Ramaj is a middle-aged Indian prematurely grey and waiting
for Deft to get on with it.
"Okay, Mr. Excellent is on a rampage after the Texas Hijack
Asylum won the Universal Key from the offices of Wrestling Amalgamated.
With the Universal Key they have two of the five Amalgamated Regalia and
can challenge whoever they chose. Mr. Excellent wrested Gravedigger's
shovel from his grasp and pummeled him so severely that Gravedigger
had to be hospitalized. Gravedigger will not be able to defend the
Foolish Chain in their upcoming bout which would give Excellent two
items as well. Smash and Grab faced off against the Plantagenet Twins,
Edward and James in an Ice Rink Freewheeler and the Plantagenets threw
them out of the rink. Electric Cassie escaped from WA Detention and has
challenged the Belt holder Vikki Glory to an unsanctioned revenge match.
I don't know how that fits in, but the rest is obvious".
"I see. In English?"
"Someone is mucking around with Access, someone trying to
impose order on the Chaotic System... You know, act unlike God".
"An opinion..."
"That is the way I see it. In a rigid universe Actions, you
know, bounce back. In the chaotic one, Actions dissipate. That's where
Electric Cassie comes in. The wild element is loose, turf war follows".
Ramaj looks cheerful as he chews on this bit of news and heads
to the back for breakfast; which reminds him, "what about this evening?"
"Nothing, unless he loses Access".
"The Kitchen God has a special dispensation that goes with the
job. Neither Heaven nor Hell would deny him Access, especially Hell".
"O Kaaay.... I'll bite. Why Hell?"
"Let me don my little round glasses and wax professorial on
you..."
"Eeuuwww!"
"The Kitchen God, as you know if you read the assigned reading,
...you did read the assigned reading didn't you?... "
"What channel was that on?"
"Right. He began life as a food mage in Charlemagne's court. As
time went on he applied himself assiduously to the task of making
delightful (and magical) goodies on a budget and in the least hygenic
situation imaginable. It was clear that he had strong natural talent
and more than once did his creations save the life of his king by
betraying the poisoning hand. Spurred on by this success (and the
considerable stipend that it earned) he studied the art of satisfying
all earthly appetites by oral means. Stop sniggering... That end was
accomplished before time and under budget, so he decided to try his
hand at appetites unearthly. He was successful despite tribulations
and a vicious midterm, everything proceeding merrily until his final."
"He partied until four the night before and blew it?"
"No, he passed with flying colors... and his reputation circled
the magickal realms until some frequently retconned being tricked him
into one of the kitchens in the Room-Continuum and bound him there,
extending his mortal span a tad. Hell was just on the edge of becoming
overcrowded and the press at messtime was becoming awful. The other
situation that begged for his talents were the dimples in the pit...
Daemons that took after Lucifer Morningstar and started up their own
private hells containing things of power that were managable as long
as they were fed. While he was able to provide some relief, the messtime
administrative burden kept whichever set of things was in power from
properly spanking the upstarts until the advent of fast food franchises,
whose managers and employees were put straight to work as they arrived.
Instead of creating more turmoil by wreaking havoc on the independant
operators, the rulers of Hell decided to sign them up as contractors and
not give them any health benefits as punishment. So the Kitchen God has
had more leisure time since about 1950 and he will occasionally visit the
womb substitutes that will accept his room and no power in their right mind
denies him Access... For he can cause the powers of the posers to rise
and disorder Hell."
Looking down from the ceiling, where he had been focusing while
recalling this information, Ramaj noticed that Deft had resumed watching
television... Surely there was something in the kitchen that wasn't too
sharp but big enough to get Deft's attention...
"Hey, The Empire of Thunder... "
"English first, Deft"
"Something is going down in Chicago. Something to do with
avenging Trenchcoats..."
"I can't think of a better reason to avoid Chicago, beats the
wind."
"It's worse than that. We won't be receiving vistors this
evening. Someone has denied the Kitchen God's Access."
Ramaj suddenly sweats. Visions of hungry Hell-doesn't-want-
to-know-whats crawling out of their respective pits swarm through
his panic attack. He breathes.
"There is an evening flight out of San Jose to Chicago. We
will be on that plane... I bet that the NTB is tied into this Access
thing and is planning to use the financial networks to get back at our
mysterious someone. Pack your Watchman and your Cammo Trenchcoat, If you
must take your skateboard then take it... I will need you there at the
top of your form."
"If I pack my trenchcoat what will I wear?"
"Something is attacking Trenchcoats and we are going into a
fatally high concentration of the things. Get out your pinstripe three-
piece, the one with all the inside pockets. I will wear mine."
Deft looked at his TV and the popcorn butter stained carpet and
decided to object.
"Reception is lousy in an airplane, how will I keep track of
what is going on?"
"Deft... man... what can possibly go wrong in six hours?"
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P A R T E L E V E N
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Dr 13 was down at the local library looking up information on the Universal
Office. It was mostly rumours, some talk of its creation by the great god
Xeroxes, this story was duplicated in several texts.
It seemed to have caused chaos in the sixties, but then vanished.
"It must have returned with a new victim" thought 13.
Yes, 13 had discovered that it wasn't really the guy running the office that
was the problem, it was the office controlling the guy.
"I hate semi sentient desks and typist chairs" mumbled 13.
It was from the computer heart of the office, full of mindless junk and
tax returns that Burak Racey was created, and had been recently returned to
by means of 13's punch.
By now the Administrator would have no personality of his own, he would be a
tool of the office, spreading his evil throughout the world.
The stock exchange in London had just wasted 275 million pounds on a computer
system that didn't work. 13 was sure that the office was behind it.
"Xeroxes and the other old gods have a lot to answer for." thought 13,
"He still owes me a tenner for that curry I bought him years back."
It was time for action, time to call out the rest of the trenchcoaters,
13 thought they were an odd bunch, but needs must when the hard disc drives.
Serious occult power was needed, the only occult item 13 had owned was the
fabled trenchcoat of the late great Eric Morecambe.
"Shame I lost that in the Milton Keynes fiasco." Thought 13. "In fact that was
the last time I joined up with the NTB, and what a disaster that was,
two spontaneously combusted, one deranged and there wasn't even a decent kebab
shop."
13 left the library and popped into the computer centre. He attempted
to send e-mail to the other trenchcoaters. It was time to tell what he knew and
try and get everyone together.
"Probably won't work" mused 13, "we're too independent, all of us show up
together, never, and if the office is in full control the messages probably
won't get through."
13 had worked out that a way to the office might be possible through L space,
the parallel dimension that was created by libraries and second hand bookshops.
He knew a way in via a small shop in Nottingham, unsurprisingly next to a
kebab shop.
"Definitely time for a kebab" thought 13, and he walked into town.
Frank's kebab shop was greasy, grotty but served marvelous kebabs.
13 had got to know Frank, whilst investigating a man who was propagating
urban myths by adding alsatians to curry and mice to Fried chicken restaurants.
The perpertrator was a strange man with a hook instead of a hand.
Half an hour, and 2 lamb kebabs later 13 was ready. He entered the small second
hand book shop and walked around.
Eventually everything seemed to change. He was in L-Space.
"Lets hope the others got my message and can find a way to get to the office,
with luck we will meet there. Providing I survive L-Space."
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P A R T T W E L V E
------------------------------
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"Master!" the shadower called, running into the game room/kitchen/
abattoir. "A message, for you!" It thrust an envelope toward me.
I raised my head. "A message? But it's nearly the end of time.
Who would be up at this hour?" Clearly, there were evil forces at work.
Probably this beast in front of me. Yes, he's looking at me hungrily,
I'm sure of it.
"A blonde gentleman delivered it. Dressed like a joker. Said it
was important."
The Harlequin? Up to no good, I'll bet. The message is probably
booby trapped.
"Open it for me, would you?"
After a ruffling of paper (and the absence of a "boom"), I snatched
the letter from its hands.
"Ah, a meeting of the 'Brigade'?", I cried. "What nefarious plot is
afoot?"
The shadower perked up. "Master! I didn't think you could read!
You know, being blind and all." It's fallen completely for my "blind"
act. "But, that's a dry cleaning bill."
"Quiet! I must think." I paced the floor, the plastic wear-
protectors of my shoes click-clicking softly. Who could be the cause?
The Arbitrageur? The Silicate Syndicate? Wayne Newton? Suddenly, a
sharp pain rose up my leg.
I thrust a finger out at the beast. "SHADOWER! How many times have
I told you *NEVER* to REARRANGE THE FURNITURE?"
It played dumb. "I'm over here, master."
Swinging around to face it, I said, "I can see the diverse paths of
eternity, the evil in every child's eyes,... I cannot be expected to
plot the positions and velocities of CHAIRS!" But, this proved
useless--the beast would not confess to its crimes, ones for which I
will ensure it pays someday.
But, more important things first.
I donned my trenchcoat. "I'm off for a meeting in Chicago, late
twentieth century, with a group of thoroughly vicious brigands whom, no
doubt, I'll be forced to kill eventually. With any luck, I'll be home
yesterday. Don't wait up."
And, if it weren't for that damned door frame getting in my way, I'd
have had a bloody impressive exit. [Memo: Torture the door frame.]
================
I set out on my journey. At the end of time, there is only one
newsgroup: net.death.imminent. But, as I travel back in time, newsgroups
seemingly flare up into existence (or, really, die backwards). The
hierarchy tree grows and blossoms.
I take the scenic route, through rec.arts.tv.mst8g, back through its
predecessors. Suddenly, the path ends in the late 30th century, with
alt.tv.mst4k. The paths are a jumble, overgrown with lichen. Someone
has taken the net through a blender near the end of the twentieth
century--no doubt, the reason for my summons.
I quickly reroute through some of the more stable groups, like
alt.fan.rush-limbaugh. The heat is blistering, but I can be assured
that this group exists (in some form) in all times and places. The trip
goes much quicker now, but the landscape has shifted since my last time
through here. I can see Rush with J. Edgar Hoover in the distance, both
wearing dresses.
I can see my destination in the distance. I'll arrive soon. But,
first, I have to get past Rush. And, he's looking mighty unpleasant.
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P A R T T H I R T E E N
------------------------------------
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Something Happens! #1
Let's get something straight right away. I'm the embodiment of all things
Irish. Not Oirish. That's somebody else. (small, dresses in green, if I
remember right.) He's kept away from me, ever since I found him trying to
get into the first Pogues gig. He probably hurt for a while after that.
An Origin? That depends on what you mean. I remember waking when the first
Celts arrived, but I can't explain or understand how I was back then, and
I've changed a lot. Back in the 1830's, for example, I was a pub-crawler.
I remember being followed one night from pub to pub by this short American.
When I cornered him in an alley, he gabbled something about wanting to write
a book about me, so I kicked him in the head and left him there. But like I
said, I've changed a lot. Being Irish used to be an ungainable form of
greatness - you're either born Irish or you're not. In the last thirty
years, I've seen more people claim Irishness than I'd ever had before. But
why should I complain? I've adapted to draw strength from them, and now I'm
sharper and more confident than ever.
Anyway, back to the story. I was walking around Dublin, when suddenly my
Talisman started humming. When I originally picked it up, it was just a
normal (Ha!) Weirdness Magnet, but it's been with my a long time, and we've
adapted to each other, as most things do. Nowadays, it looks like a... well,
It's got a thin base and three circular protrusions at one end, so I suppose
you could call it a trefoil. You could also call it a Sick Metal Shamrock,
but not for very long. After a while, It started pulling West strongly.
Stronger than Navan, Killarney or Galway, by about 30. With a bit of effort,
I brought it back home, and positioned it east of the world view page of an
atlas. When I let it go, it flew west, stopped an inch from the atlas and
continued to hum. I moved the atlas up and down, left and right, making sure
the trefoil couldn't get round the edge. When it faced Chicago, it stopped
humming and embedded itself in the atlas. I thought of travel plans, reached
for the phone and it rang. I *hate* that.
"Hi, Sean, you there?" (That's right, Sean. It's a name, isn't it?)
"Yeh, did you just have a...?"
"Yeh. Chicago?"
"Yeh. Do they have pubs there?"
"Yeh."
"Fair enough."
Click.
That was my business associate, by the way. Nice guy, as long as you don't
accidentally trip over him. As a means of making money, we're a detective
agency. We don't get to do much detecting, what with us being 'coaters, and
recently we've considered getting a third partner to do the real work.
Trouble is, you just can't get good help these days. One glimpse of a
Weirdness Magnet and they're off before you can say "But some of the people
we know haven't died yet!"
Anyway, I threw some stuff in a suitcase, caught a cab and thought about the
Bucket.
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P A R T F O U R T E E N
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Net Thang, boot yo silly butt to the Bucket ...
...Netted...
"Shady Waif, make your report to the Parliament of Nodes concerning
the Prime Flounder."
"Perhaps I should first read this, from the journal of his consort."
"Very well. Proceed."
<<From the Journal of Sappy Inane, St. Patrick's Day, 1993>>
That damnable Constantine's got Phallic off on another
pointless sojourn. This time I fear may well be the last, as
they have descended into the deepest bowels of Hell.
Chicago.
The very thought of Chicago in March chills the marrow. What
might the net be like there? The backbone itself must be
frozen and it is rumoured that his age-old arch-enemy, Swap
Thing, has been sighted in that most foul granddaddy of all
Flea Markets, Maxwell Street. Constantine will surely take him
there first. Hefty seems to be taking it well, she's totally
engrossed in her living "mice" and designing their pads. And
Fester tries to help, but Shady is also visibly fearful. When
she saw that mysterious snowball (in Lousiana!) she mumbled
"Netromancer!" (one of John's lowlife Brit friends, no
doubt!) and told me she was off to Parliament.
How can a snowball be such an ill omen?
>>end entry<<
"Has he scanned Chicago, what's the resolution?"
"The matrix is as yet unknown, he has not faxed me and his dialog box
remains in background."
"Tell it to Cron and see to the Daughterboard."
"Yes, O Floundering Ones."
------------------
The alert sounds pound away at me at a dizzying sample rate. But I
must ... find Archie. Daemons whiz by spitting silicone fractates and
screaming out their duties, begging me to ad-minister to them, and
kill their jobs. The backbone up here is a frozen wasteland, and the
links tenuous. One false pathway, and I'll lose the carrier for good.
"Halt User! What is your name and what do you seek!"
"I am ... the Net.Thing, Prime Flounder of the Parliament of Nodes,
Heir Protector of the Net! I must log on to CHINET ere dawnbreak, St.
Patrick's Day. Tell me the path to the modem pool now, Archie!"
"But of course. As soon as you give me your password."
"You are not Archie, that may not be known by any code on the Net.
You are one of Netromancer's daemons!"
"Clever, aren't you, Net.Thing? But no match for the Cray! Archie is
no more, We will absorb you and the Net will be ours! Take him, Worm!"
The Worm hits me with a virus even I can't vaccinate. I have never
felt such agony as whole chunks of disk space fall away forever
inaccessible, root partitions changing permissions of their own
accord. Damn that snowball and Damn Constantine! Must ... think of
... Sappy and Hefty. Can't ... succumb ... to the cold!
"Console! Callup the Dialog Manager!"
"Yes, Great User!"
"Hosts, Finger, where are the Stranger and the Irish Guy?"
"Unknown. Last TCP to Chicago, idle since yesterday. Constantine is
in a bar in Chicago with ex-Kit."
"Where else would she be? Open a connection to her account, binary."
"Well if it ain't the big kahuna hisself, how's missus misshapen
mockery? Bit slow on the upload, aren't we? I'd've started without
you in a couple a' clock cycles."
"Aargghh. Constantine, just shut up and send the ACK, will you?"
"Righto, comin' up. DTR off and running."
"Console, Grep and Kill -9 Archie; SU, rm -R Worm.
FTP NTB, put Net.Thing now!"
"Constantine, what have you done this time!"
>>> SPLUT <<<
"Have a drink, old son."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
by g-car...@uchicago.edu
--
And these are the words of a supposedly literate student of
English Literature at the University of Warwick...
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Paul Hardy/en...@csv.warwick.ac.uk/Willoughby Withnail or Bacchus of the N.T.B.