Saga Of Dream Views

A Visit He'd been dreading the visit for a long time now. He knew he couldn't face the man – no, the boy the sad thing had become. And he would always be the boy. That sad husk in there had never reached manhood. Not since the Crash. The old sign of the hospital had been painted over, but it was still clear: Interweb Mental Institution. It had been painted over with the words: Interweb Institution For the Differently Sane. The political correctness plague had struck the hospital, just as it had everything else. It was a clean building, though. White marble, white pavement, perfect green shrubbery. It looked like quite a nice place, until you went inside. The two guards nodded at Howie as he walked through the gates. A nurse, dressed all in white, smiling a fake little smile that wavered at the edges, ushered him in. The foyer was tidy and clean and sterile. It stunk like disinfectant, and insanity. The secretary smiled at him. 'How may I help you, sir?' she said, typing a meaningless stream of letters onto her keyboard as to look busy and official. Howie shifted uncomfortably. 'I'm here to meet . . . ClouD,' he said, and added with a wink: 'But not the ones outside.' The secretary did not seem to find it amusing. He winked again, just in case. He leant forward. 'It was a joke, you see,' he said. 'Referring to the name of the patient in relation to clouds. That is, the phenomena known as precipi-' The secretary grinned. She was used to working with mad people. 'Nurse Daniel will lead you there,' she said, finishing off her meaningless stream of letters with an emphatic “PENIS”. 'He cares for ClouD personally, the poor thing. I'll just fetch him.' She pressed the button for the intercom and said into it: 'Nurse Daniel to foyer. We have a visitor for Patient 666.' Time passed. '666?' said Howie. 'Isn't that a bit . . . unfair?' The secretary shrugged. 'It had to go to someone. And we certainly couldn't give it to Mr Natas, that would just be cruel.' 'Why? What's wrong with Mr Natas?' The secretary grinned, without any mirth. 'You'll see, I suspect.' She looked over his shoulder. Howie followed her gaze. There was someone very familiar there. He had a wild, crazy beard, which covered his mouth completely, and joined with his hair, leaving only a pair of eyes and a nose visible, which peered at him suspiciously. And he smelled like the love-child of a toilet and a cesspit. He might have been

grinning or scowling; you couldn't tell through the beard. It was Daniel Danciu. It was obvious from the first moment he saw him. Last time he'd seen him, he had a spam-arrow embedded in his head. He didn't now. Howie decided not to mention it. He grinned. Daniel simply gestured and said, 'This way, sir.' He walked off into an elevator. The doors of the elevator began to close. 'I believe you are missing the elevator, sir,' called Daniel from inside. Howie hurried after him, and slipped inside just in time. Daniel was staring resolutely at the bleak metal sides of the elevator. Howie sighed. 'I know it's you, Danciu. You can't hide from me. I know everyone,' said Howie. 'I don't know what you're talking about,' said Daniel. 'My name is Daniel Craig.' 'Daniel Craig?' said Howie. 'Well, you can always dream.' 'I do not dream, sir,' said Daniel. 'With all respect, dreaming is just hoping with it's socks pulled up.' 'You used to dream,' said Howie with a sigh. 'We all used to.' 'I don't know what you're talking about, sir. Now, it seems we're here . . .' The elevator slid to a halt. The doors opened, with a faint pinging sound. A tortured scream met his ears immediately, followed by a spurt of manic laughter. Howie drew back in horror. 'Do not worry, sir,' said Daniel, strolling out. 'The screams are normal. I believe they are coming from Mr Herr.' 'Why?' said Howie, cautiously stepping out. 'What are you doing to him?' 'Nothing, sir. I suspect that is the problem.' 'I'm sorry?' 'Mr Herr tends to overreact to things,' said Daniel. 'He may be a trifle bored, or perhaps a bit peckish. I shall just stop along at his door.' Daniel stopped at a padded door labelled 664. He took out a key-ring, and selected one in record time. 'You may have to stand back, sir,' said Daniel over his shoulder as the door swung open. Howie did so, and a second later a dart flew out and hit the wall, bouncing off. 'I'm playing darts!!' said an excited voice from inside. 'Very good, Mr Herr. What was all the screaming about, if I may ask?' 'Hungry, hungry, hungry, Mr Diddle. HUNGRY AS A HIPPO, I SAY. HUNGRY HUNGRY

HIPPOS!!' There was a bout of coughing from inside. 'I believe I have a sandwich, Mr Herr. Egg, I believe.' 'I would like my dart back, Mr Dinwiddie. Thank you for the breadstuff. The wolves will enjoy it.' 'I'm sure they will, Mr Herr.' Daniel poked his head out for a moment, and grabbed the dart off the floor. 'Here we go, Mr Herr. Enjoy your day.' 'If only Esme were here. We could bake up a pancake in those days, I say!' 'Very good, Mr Herr.' The door closed. Daniel waved a hand. 'Come along.' 'You give that man darts?' said Howie, running after Daniel. 'Completely fake,' said Daniel. 'What do you take me for, sir, a savage?' 'Oh, no. And who is Esme?' 'No one, as far as we can tell. Completely imaginary. From what we can gain from his ramblings, however, she seems to be adept at making pancakes, waffles, and related foodstuffs.' They continued on past door 665. Laughter was coming from the room. 'Well, he seems to be happy,' said Howie. 'One of the least happy people I know,' said Daniel. 'That's Mr Natas' room. He believes he's the devil. We think he's working on his maniacal laughter. He'll continue like that until he goes to sleep, but only after we give him his teddy bear, as well.' They arrived at door 666. There was a shift in Daniel's beard that might just have been a smile. 'Now,' he said. 'The gentleman ClouD.' He unlocked the door, putting his finger to his lips: be silent. The door swung open. Inside was a boyish man, around twenty. He had long, messy blonde hair, but none on his face. 'You've shaved him well,' said Howie in a quiet voice. 'What? Oh, no. He just hasn't developed facial hair yet, it seems. It's rather puzzling.' 'Maybe it's Internet Prepubescence,' said Howie, looking sadly at his old friend. 'IP? We're quite sure that he does have it, but every time we try to tell him, he protests about being labelled. And what can you say to that?'

'Nothing,' said Howie, shaking his head. 'Absolutely nothing.' ClouD had a laptop in his, well, lap. He was continuously pressing keys on it, and a constant stream of muttering escaped his lips. Howie and Daniel drew closer. 'What is that he's muttering?' whispered Howie. 'We recorded some of it once,' said Daniel. 'As far as we can tell . . . all he's saying is the word “Moderator” over and over again.' 'Oh dear,' breathed Howie. ClouD suddenly snapped his head up. He focused on Daniel for a moment, and grinned. Then he looked over to Howie. His eyes lit up. 'My fellow staff member!' he said. 'I have been moderating! I have been keeping the noble laws of Dreamviews upheld!' 'You remember me?' said Howie, smiling grimly. 'Of course!' said ClouD. 'You are a staff member, like I am. I am a staff member for Dreamviews.' 'Yes,' said Howie sadly. 'Yes you were.' ClouD leaned forward, as if letting go of a deep secret. 'I think you confused are and were there, fellow staff member. Because I am a staff member for Dreamviews. I am a Moderator.' 'Dreamviews hasn't been up since the Crash,' said Howie kindly. 'We all know that.' ClouD frowned. 'The Crash, fellow staff member?' Howie looked to Daniel for help, who nodded at the laptop in ClouD's hands. Howie slid beside ClouD and looked at the laptop. The screen was empty apart from, scrawled in blue marker: Dreamviews (of which I am a staff member). ClouD looked up at Howie, grinning madly. 'Did you know that A Roxxor is actually Seismosaur, fellow staff member? I've banned him, with my Moderating powers. Because I am a Moderator for Dreamviews, fellow staff member.' He pointed to some writing below “Dreamviews”. Scrawled there were the words: A ROXXOR IS ACTUALLY SEISMOSAUR. HE IS BANNED. Next to it was a badly drawn hammer, hitting a stick figure in the head. And below that: I HAVE BANNED A ROXXOR (WHO WAS ACTUALLY SEISMOSAUR!!!) 'Well done,' said Howie kindly. 'How are you doing, ClouD?' 'My welfare is of no concern. I am moderating Dreamviews,' hissed ClouD. He turned back to his laptop. Howie drew Daniel to one side. 'He's obsessed with Dreamviews!' he said.

'Despite not knowing what Dreamviews is, sir, I would be forced to agree,' said Daniel, shaking his head at ClouD. 'We promoted him because it sounded like a good idea at the time. We never knew this would happen!' They both stared in silence at ClouD's frantically tapping fingers. 'Is it all right if I have some time alone with him?' said Howie. Daniel looked affronted for a moment. 'But-' he began. 'Please,' said Howie. Daniel hesitated. 'All right,' he said. 'But just a few minutes.' 'Of course,' said Howie. With any luck, a few minutes would be all he needed. Daniel left, leaving them alone. Howie sat in front of ClouD again. 'I need a favour,' he said after a while. ClouD paused for a moment. 'A favour?' he said. 'I need to know where people are. I need to know what they're doing. People from Dreamviews.' 'Dreamviews (of which I am a staff member)?' 'Yes,' said Howie quietly. 'I'm rebuilding it. I'm raising Dreamviews again, ClouD! Bigger and better!' ClouD looked down at his laptop. 'But Dreamviews is alive,' he said. 'In fact, Carousoul just posted a rather amusing comment. I have responded with “Lul”.' 'Of course,' said Howie. 'It must have slipped my mind. I still need people, though. We're . . . having a get together.' 'A get together!' said ClouD. 'Of fellow people from Dreamviews (of which I am a staff member)!' 'Yes. I need names, and locations. I know you wrote them down. You liked to make lists of your “Top People”.' 'I still do, fellow staff member,' said ClouD. 'I do believe I have a list in here somewhere . . .' ClouD began to rummage around in his pockets. He withdrew a crumpled piece of paper. Howie reached out to take it, but ClouD pulled it back and sniffed it carefully. 'Minty!' he said, and handed it over. Howie sniffed it carefully. It did not smell minty at all. 'Thank you for this, ClouD. My eternal gratefulness.' 'Can I come?' said ClouD. 'To the meeting? To see my fellow staff members?' 'I doubt they'll let you come,' said Howie. 'But just in case . . .' He ripped a corner off the list, and wrote and address down. He handed it to ClouD.

'Go there before the 8th of November, if you get the opportunity. That's the meeting place.' ClouD nodded sagely. He secreted away the address somewhere in his grubby clothes, and turned back to his laptop. With a remarkable sense of occasion, Daniel poked his head through the doorway. 'Time's up,' he said quietly. Howie nodded. He turned to ClouD, who was staring madly at his laptop. 'Good luck, friend,' said Howie. 'Live long and prosper.' 'Live long and prosper?' said Daniel, as they exited the room. 'Really?' Howie coughed. 'It seemed appropriate,' he said haughtily. Daniel gave a short bark of laughter. 'It seems to me,' he said, 'there's not a lot of going on round here, and absolutely no prospering.' 'Do you want to come to the meeting?' said Howie. 'You'd be a good asset.' 'I do not know what you're talking about,' said Daniel. 'This way, sir . . .' And Howie left, to the mad laughter of Mr Natas. Cats, Cats, and More Cats The morning light shown in through the safely madman-proof windows of the Interweb Institution For the Differently Sane. It shone in on Mr Herr's salty, salty tears; he had dropped his complimentary lollipop. It shone in on room 665, where Mr Natas was currently counting. He was currently up to 650, and was feeling quite apprehensive. And it shone on room 666, where there was nothing but the sound of frantic typing, and a low-key muttering. The muttering seemed to be some sort of chant: 'Dramaviews, dramaviews, drama, drama, drama . . .' ClouD was having fun. A fight had erupted over seemingly nothing, as was the custom on the Internet. He was currently writing a stern reply to both parties, but secretly laughing. He might have been making it too obvious he was laughing, however. Perhaps the large caps LULZ in parentheses were a bad idea. Well, even if they figured it out, they couldn't persecute him. He was a staff member. For Dreamviews. They were just lowly members. He gave a maniacal laugh, for the feel of it. Mr Natas next door responded with style, blowing ClouD's laugh out of the roof, and beating up it's parents. ClouD watched it go, and waved it goodbye. Then he turned back to his laptop. Holes in the roof were nothing. Misspelled accusations of homosexuality were much more exciting. He finished off his post:

Please stop fighting. I will give exactly seven reasons for this request: 1.You are disturbing the pigeons. 2.You are disturbing me. 3.Therefore, logically, I am a pigeon. 4.Coo, coo. I'm going to have to lock this thread. Stop being idiots. Also, get me a sammich. I'm hungry. Less crunchy bones this time. The strange men in white coats disapproved. The reason why I can lock this thread is that I am a moderator, and you are not. Ergo, I am better. Deal with it. Where's that sammich? To conclude, I am a pigeon. To lighten up the locking of this thread, I have imported a humorous picture of a cat:

(I believe this is funny because the cat is a “ninja” due to it kicking the dog in the face. Apparently he is a ten of them, as well. Possibly this is due to a temporal anomaly. You will enjoy this picture. I order you to.) If I am a pigeon, how can I talk? ClouD looked his post over. Yes, everything seemed to be in order. He turned and rang a bell hanging from the ceiling frantically. There was some scrabbling on the other side of the door, and a nurse poked her head in cautiously. 'Yes, Mr ClouD?' 'Fetch Daniel. Story time!' The nurse looked puzzled. 'Story time?' ClouD fixed her with a gaze as cold as Hitler's very soul. 'Yes,' he said. 'Story time. Daniel will have fun. I will have fun. Fun shall be had.' 'Yes,' said the nurse nervously. 'Yes, of course.' ClouD clapped his hands frantically as she left. He turned back to Dreamviews, and moderated. Sometimes he wondered why everyone around him kept insisting Dreamviews didn't exist. They acted as if he was insane. Like he was some sort of madman.

He typed: 'It's alive! It's alive!' into an empty text box, then wondered why he had. There was something in his pocket. He could hear it in there, whispering. He pulled it out. It was the address that his fellow staff member had given him. He stared at it for some time. He would go there, he decided. As soon as he escaped from these people. They were obviously crazy, keeping an innocent man locked up. There was a knock on the door, and a call of 'Are you decent, ClouD?' ClouD considered this. He hazarded a guess at 'Yes.' Daniel Danciu entered, carrying a tray. It had an orange on it, sliced into quarters. Daniel lay the tray down in front of ClouD. ClouD eyed them for a moment. 'Do you feel lucky, punk?' he asked one of them. 'No!' it replied. 'But I do want you to eat me!' ClouD complied with it's request. 'Let's tell a story!' he said to Daniel, once he was done. 'I'll start: a million intertwining universes, falling, breaking, creating . . .' Daniel sighed. Sometimes, things got old. But he had to play along. What else could he do? ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Howie had woken up on the wrong side of the bed; the one with all the cockroaches. To be fair, the other side of the bed wasn't exactly the right side of the bed either, due to all the snails. It wasn't a motel six. It was the kind of place that strived to be a motel six. But it was somewhere to sleep, for the moment. It wasn't somewhere you stayed. It was somewhere you left. There was one complimentary sachet of coffee. The stuff inside looked like tobacco, and ended up tasting of tar. A wonderful start to the day. Now, who was next? Howie scrabbled for the list poor ClouD had given him. He looked to the top name-but a name caught his eye. A name starting with s. It was right at the bottom of the list, under the subheading “Really Strange People.” That would work. The man was valuable, despite appearances. He looked at the address scribbled next to the name: 3120 Felein Street. That was just like him. He didn't lock the door on the way out. There was nothing to steal. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was a messy garden. Howie got the feeling that it didn't have to be a clean one. There were some messy bushes that looked as if they were designed by God after a bad night, and a rusted bicycle, in which a few magpies roosted. They looked at him warily. There were the creatures, too. They were all in various stages of skittering about, and they were all very disturbing. This was where he lived. The One of The Cats. Howie had never been here. Slayer hadn't liked people meeting at his house, for some reason. He could see why. Slayer's house could turn a red-blooded, bible-thumping American into an extremist terrorist, just by looking at it. Howie opened the gate, which promptly fell over. Why was here? Slayer wasn't really the first person you'd go to in a crisis. More like the last, just after Satan himself. But he had the Secret. The Secret within his eyes. Look into those tortured things, and you'd see the Secret, in all it's glory. Howie was sure he heard a few disturbing little crunches as he walked up the dusty path. He absentmindedly wiped his feet on the welcome mat, which didn't look very welcoming at all. He knocked on the door. There was an eruption of scrabbling, and a persistent hissing noise. Howie nearly turned and walked away then. But this was important. Some unintelligible shouting came from inside. More scrabbling, more hissing. The shouting became relatively intelligible. Howie thought he heard, 'No, no!' The door opened a fraction. An eye peeked out, which widened as it saw him. The door closed. 'Slayer!' called out Howie. 'I know it's you in there!' 'I know no slayer!' 'No capital letter!' said Howie. 'You know how it's pronounced.' There was a pause, punctuated by muttering, and the constant sound of hissing. Then a sigh. 'Damn,' said slayer quietly. 'Come in, if you must.' The door opened fully. Slayer scowled at him. Howie grinned back. And then he saw the cats. They were everywhere. They rested on couches, on a television, on bookcases, on cupboards, on each other. The hissing had been coming from two cats by the door, fighting. They might have been having fun, if your idea of having fun was violently digging your claws into your opponents face. Two were mating in the corner. No one seemed to be making much of a fuss. 'Oh,' said Howie. There really wasn't much he could say, apart from 'Oh god, oh god, oh dear god!'

which might just have been considered impolite. He managed to tear his gaze away from the room, and onto slayer. He was wearing a toga. A damn toga. 'You're wearing a toga,' said Howie. 'Like an Egyptian?' said slayer eagerly, while ushering Howie in. Howie paused for a moment. What? 'I . . . guess,' he said slowly. Slayer grinned. 'Good,' he said. It was very dark in the room. Howie said so. 'Would you like some light?' said slayer. 'I believe I have a light switch in here somewhere.' He edged past a mysterious box, jumped over a few cats, and ran his hand along the wall. 'I don't use it much, you see,' he added. 'Apart from when I need to take a clearer picture of the cats. Found it!' A lone light flickered on, and Howie nearly jumped in surprise. The walls were covered in cats: lolcats, normal pictures of cats, drawings of cats, pictures of slayer looking at cats, pictures of slayer drawing cats, pictures of slayer looking at pictures of slayer looking at cats . . . 'Coochie coo,' said slayer, who was kneeling down and scratching a cat under the chin. 'Hello Miggles. And you, Big Jim. And little Jim, of course. And you, Mitzie.' Mitzie . . . hang on! 'Mitzie?' said Howie. 'You named a cat after her?' 'Oh yes,' said slayer. 'Who's a good girl? You are, you little scamp. No, you.' 'Is there somewhere I can sit down?' said Howie weakly. 'Sit down?' said slayer. 'Oh yes. Sitting. With chairs. I may have something around here . . .' In the end, it turned out to be an upturned box. “Pictures of cats” was wrote on the side. Howie took a picture out of the box. It showed slayer, and a lot of cats. He took another, and another. They all showed slayer, with an ever-increasing amount of cats. Slayer came in, bearing a tray of dry biscuits and some suspiciously looking water. 'I'm sorry if this isn't that good,' he said. 'I'm afraid my time and money is rather taken up with the cats.' He laid the tray down on a tiny card table, and drew up a box for himself. Howie opened his mouth to talk, but was interrupted as a particularly large cat jumped up onto his lap with scrotum-crushing force. It pawed around his lap for a while, then sniffed him. When he had found him satisfactory, he settled down. Howie lowered his hands to pick him up. 'Unless you want reconstructive surgery,' said slayer. 'I would advise you let him stay there.' He was carefully eating a biscuit, and staring at Howie curiously. 'Big Jim does get rather angry.' Howie raised his hands carefully.

'First of all,' he said. 'The toga. That wasn't the point of meeting you, but . . . well, you're wearing a toga.' He shouldn't have asked it. Slayer's eyes lit up, as an opportunity to inform someone about cats presented itself. 'Bast!' said slayer. 'The Egyptian god of . . . no, you guess!' Howie's heart sunk. 'Cats?' 'No, she's a goddess of the sun. But she is a cat! Isn't that exciting?' 'And you've dressed up like an Egyptian,' said Howie flatly. 'Because you wanted to be like her.' 'Oh no,' said slayer. 'I've dressed up like an Egyptian for a fancy dress party!' 'A fancy dress party?' 'Yes! I'm holding it here,' said slayer. 'Oh? Who's coming?' 'Well . . . Big Jim, Little Jim, Stinky Sam, Pleasant Sam, Mitzie-' '-you mean it's you and the cats?' 'Yes,' said slayer. He frowned. 'Is there something wrong with that?' Howie paused. He could start a discussion here, but that wasn't the point of the visit. He was getting off track, and into dangerous territory. Very dangerous territory. He could swear slayer was breathing heavier than usual. 'No,' he said. 'Not at all.' He picked up a biscuit, and nibbled on it absentmindedly. 'I've come here about Dreamviews, slayer.' Slayer froze. 'Dreamviews? I don't want to talk about Dreamviews. Not since the Crash, Howie! Not since asher took us and sold us!' 'But-' 'No! Dreamviews is dead!' Howie leaned forward. 'I'm rebuilding it, slayer. I'm getting all the core members, and I'm rebuilding it again! We'll have it community run, not an asher-tyranny. We can have all new rules! “At least one cat girl is required in each thread”, maybe. I'll make a whole thread for cat-girls. Hell, I'll make a whole subforum for them!' Slayer hesitated. Howie could see the hope clicking into place. A whole place for cat-girls? Wonderful! 'I'll think about it,' said slayer. 'Come back in the morning.'

'Just “come back in the morning”?' 'Yes,' said slayer. 'It is time to feed the cats.' Slayer stood up, taking the tray with him. 'Come, cats,' he said over his shoulder. A roar of meows met Howie's ears. A river of cats formed, biting, scratching, yowling. They followed slayer into the kitchen. Slayer turned back for a moment. 'I advise you to go,' he said. 'This may take some time.' Howie left. The gate was open. Fortunes – Good and Bad From the top of the Accouncement & Rules clock tower, you could see all the way across Dreamviews; the Lucid Dreaming building, Sleep and Dreams, Additional Resources, Dreamviews Team Forums and Off-Topic Discussion, complete with the sprawling hovel that was Senseless Banter. They were all empty of people, long ago abandoned. Apart from one. If you opened the rusted-over door that was the main entrance to Off-Topic Discussion, possibly with a heavy crowbar, all you'd see was . . . . . . five polished doors, with five neat little names on them. The names would be these: The Lounge (with a little picture of a couch below it), Dream Views Favourites (a big tick, not unlike the Nike* tick), Entertainment (a link to a pornographic site drew over with a family-friendly not-at-all phallic Christmas tree), Extended Discussion (a picture of the mighty administrator MoS, pointing sternly at you) and Help! (a picture of a wrist, a razor being held back from it). You'd hear a small whimper from Extended Discussion, and walk towards it. You'd wrench the door open . . . Files; filing cabinets, some standing, some tipped over, and mountains of free files, piling over the filing cabinets, piling over themselves and just generally piling. There were piles of the things. And if you were brave, or possibly stupid enough to venture inside, climb up the piles as they shifted, your feet occasionally sinking, you'd see three more doors, at the very end of the room. The names on the doors would be clear. Something, or someone, had cleared them. The names on these would be Science and Mathematics (an abacus, making love to a test tube), Philosophy (a man with a question mark above his head) and Religion/Spirituality (a giant, blazing fire). The whimper . . . it was coming from Religion and Spirituality. You'd head towards the door, trampling over files that might contain an interesting thread on the schooling system, how the government is evil (which turns up everywhere), warfare, elderly midget rape . . .

You'd wrench the door open, and look around. More files, more cabinets, more heaps. This one, though, was different. There was a boy perched on one of the piles, a file open in his lap. Tears were streaming down his face, and in his pudgy fist a pen was clenched. He was writing in the file, his brow clenched, half in anger, half in concentration. At one point, he'd stop writing, and lay down, crying himself to sleep, muttering all the time. And at that point you'd walk up and peer at the file. Written at the top was a thread title: Why am I so good at debating? It was by Seismosaur. And below that, a reply, by A Roxxor: Because you are a very good person. You can lift mountains, Seismosaur! . . . another reply, by a mysterious fellow known as Ruasomsies: I agree with A Roxxor, who is also a good person. I feel proud just knowing you, Seismosaur. . . . and it went on. You would flip to the next page. By then, it was the Seismosaur-loving equivalent of a thirteen year-old boy circle-jerk. You'd put the file down, and scramble back down the mountain of files. This place was . . . wrong. And you'd leave. After a while, though, a faint whispering would be heard. It came from Seismosaur. '. . . don't take me, don't take me! Take him and him and him! Just not me! I'm supple! Don't take me, please, I can help . . .' And it would stop, to be replaced by a snore like a foghorn raping a seal. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Howie had spent the morning writing letters. He'd woken up at 5:00 A.M, and it was now midday. He'd just finished. There had been a lot of letters to write. But now he was done. He secured the envelopes with a rubber band and slipped them into his pocket. They were Info-Pack envelopes, ready for Tube Access. Then he went down to the house of slayer. The gate had been propped up with a plank of wood. A sign had been put up: PRIVATE PROPERTY (Just pretend it's actually a gate, please. And that it's locked.)

Howie jumped over the fence instead. It seemed a shame to knock it over. It looked like slayer had put in so much effort about the whole thing. A few weeds caught against his leg. A flower – possibly a mutant Venus Flytrap – tried to eat his shoe. He knocked on the door and shouted – over the noise of cats going about their nefarious business – 'Slayer! It's Howie!' 'Coming!' said slayer from inside. There was the distinct sound from inside of one man trying to fight against a wall of cats. Eventually, the door opened. Slayer had a frying pan in one hand, and a kitten in the other. It was licking his hand. He was wearing an apron too: Kiss The Cook! (PLEASE) Slayer grinned. That was a good sign. 'Come in,' he said, gesturing with his head. 'We're making breakfast!' We're, noted Howie. Not 'I am making breakfast.' Howie peered in the frying pan. 'What is – oh.' It was sardines, all lined up in a row. They filled the frying pan. They stunk like, well, sardines. Cats were clawing at slayer's legs, and trying to climb up his bare skin. Slayer somehow mistook Howie's look of abject horror for one of interest, and offered up the pan. His face gleamed with sweat from the pan. 'Go ahead,' he said. 'Take one.' Sizzling fat from the pan was landing on his toga – which he was, for reasons of his own, still wearing. 'No thanks,' said Howie carefully. 'I've had breakfast.' That wasn't necessarily true; the least deadly looking piece of bread toasted in a toaster that sparked all the time hardly counted as breakfast, but he certainly didn't feel like those blackened . . . things. A cat dug it's claws into slayer's leg with malice. 'Fuck!' he swore, then looked shocked. 'Dont listen to that, children!' he said to the cats. 'Daddy slayer did a naughty!' Howie broke out of his reverie for a moment. 'Feeling a bit catty, are you?' he said to slayer, then chuckled. He winked as well, in case slayer didn't get it. There was a blank look on his face. 'I'm sorry?' he said, rubbing his leg. Howie sighed. Puns never worked these days. 'Nothing,' he said. 'Can I come in?' 'Do you think he can?' said slayer, feeding a sardine to the kitten. 'Do you think the big man can

come in? Do you think the biggy-wiggy man can-' Howie went in anyway. A box was relatively vacant of cat. He sat on it. 'Are you sure you wouldn't like breakfast?' said slayer, walking back into the kitchen. 'No,' said Howie. 'I'm quite fine, I assure you.' That wasn't true – he felt like warmed over yesterday – but you didn't take breakfast from slayer, in much the same way you didn't take mysterious packages from mysterious men in mysterious black coats. Slayer took some time. At one point, the cats swamped the kitchen, then came out again. At another, slayer calmly crawled out of the kitchen and rolled around with the cats for a while. And at another moment, which was, as it were, the whole time he was there, Howie felt like digging an icepick into his own head. He didn't. It might have been considered impolite. Slayer finished, eventually. Breakfast was served to everyone but Howie, who was glad of it. Before Howie could open his mouth, slayer spoke. 'I want catgirls,' he said. 'But I'll do it.' Howie grinned. 'Great,' he said. 'I've got some letters to deliver. Do you want to come?' 'Letters?' ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Man of Steel hurried through Craigslist. He knew what he was looking for. He was looking for “Services”. He couldn't find it. He'd got lost in the dark maze that was Craigslist. He'd been distracted by all the girls promising “hto sex”. He opened another nameless door, and froze. There were two grossly obese people of indeterminate sex – you couldn't tell beneath the layers – procreating. Things jiggled that really shouldn't have. There was much moaning and thrashing. It was exactly like two whales in mortal combat. Man of Steel backed away slowly. He didn't want to be heard. He didn't want them to look up. He didn't want to see their dead eyes. He closed the door quietly, and suddenly there was a voice behind him. 'This way, deary,' it said. Man of Steel turned around. There was a body attached to the voice. It was a female one. Well, probably. It was not an attractive one, but that was hardly part of the job requirement.

'I'm looking for a fortune tell-' he began. The woman raised a hand for silence. 'You were,' she said. 'Come.' She began to walk away. Man of Steel hurried after. 'How did you know?' he said. The woman cackled. 'Fortune teller isn't just a name, deary,' she said, leading him down another dark hallway. 'Nearly to my room.' It turned out to be a door with a little plaque on it that said “Fortunes Told With (Relative) Care”. She opened it. It was an impressive room. There was a black table, with a black table cloth, and a black cupboard. There was also a rug, in black. The wallpaper was black, and the ceiling too. It was very . . . black. 'It's very . . . nice,' said Man of Steel weakly. 'I'm sure it's riotous in here.' 'Sit down, dear,' said the woman. Man of Steel sought for small talk. He decided on, 'I have a knife, you know,' in the end. He pointed to his belt to demonstrate this. There was a knife there. 'That's very interesting,' said the woman. 'If you threaten me with it, I'll curse you so hard you won't have the same damn number of limbs afterwards.' She added sweetly: 'Shall we start?' 'Sure,' muttered Man of Steel. 'Tea-leaves or tarot cards or whatever?' 'Palm-reading,' said the woman. 'Everything else, sir, is a load of bullhocky. Tell me, would you like the truth, or a sugar-coated life story of happy children, happy couples and big knives being made?' 'The truth, please,' said Man of Steel. 'This is important.' The fortune-teller picked up his hand. 'Well,' she said. 'We know you don't have a partner!' Man of Steel leaned forward. 'Which line?' he said. The woman hacked a horrid cough of laughter out. She leaned forward. 'I know you're single, sir, because your hands are quite worn out, if you know what I mean. Well defined muscles too, which suggests a lot of . . . use, shall we say?' Man of Steel gaped. The fortune-teller winked. 'Near future, far future, or death?' said the fortuneteller. 'Near future,' said Man of Steel. 'Specifically anything to do with . . . friends.' 'Okay. That will be . . . two hundred dollars.' She waited until he counted out the money, then carefully put it in her pocket. Then she looked at his hands.

'Well, what do we have here?' She studied his hands for a minute. Then she sat back, and looked thoughtful. 'What? What is it?' 'You're going to have a lot of . . . acquaintances arrive, at short notice. And you're . . . you're going to fall in love.' Man of Steel sighed. 'I said I didn't want the sugar-coated versi-' 'No, I'm serious. You're actually going to fall in actual real love. I can't explain it. I assure you, this never happens.' Man of Steel's eyes lit up. 'Who is it?' 'That is the far future,' said the fortune-teller. 'I can't tell you that.' 'Is that all?' 'Well, unless you want a bunch of pretentious mysticism with black and white trees and whispering leaves, yes, I think so.' Man of Steel stood up. He was grinning. 'Thank you,' he said. 'You've been very helpful.' The fortune-teller winked. 'And you're the one who paid me two hundred dollars. I think you can make your own way out. Don't take up any offers of sex when you get outside. Those girls have got so many diseases that the only reason they haven't died yet is that the diseases are too busy fighting all the others.' When he had gone, the fortune-teller took a quiet look at the man's far future. When she had stopped laughing, she wrote it down, in case she ever needed cheering up. An Unfortunate Sickness The concept of the Tube is easy to understand. At least, easy to understand if you live in a made-up world that somehow encompasses both sites of the Internet and real-life places. Some readers may not live in such a world. This is why an explanation is needed. Assumption 1: Every single person in the world either has a YouTube account, knows someone who has a YouTube account, knows someone who knows someone who has a YouTube account, have had a conversation with someone who has a YouTube account, knows someone on the Internet who may possibly have a YouTube account, has glanced at someone who has a YouTube account, or is aware of the presence of YouTube accounts. This assumption discounts babies and the Amish, because you just can't help some people. Assumption 2: If we accept assumption 1, then we also accept the fact that this connects every single person in the world through the presence (or concept) of a YouTube account. Assumption 3: Every single YouTube account in the world will have something badly spelled and/or grammatically inaccurate in it.

Therefore, if we accept all three assumptions, we also admit that this forms a “connection”, as it were, between every single person in the world because of presence of the badly spelled and/or grammatically inaccurate messages/statements/sentences. Further therefore, one must admit that if a worldwide communications system utilising both the Internet and the presence of badly spelled and/or grammatically inaccurate messages/statements/sentences was built, this would allow every single person in the world to contact anyone else, simply by either writing their recipients name, pseudonym, job description, appearance or a phrase they frequently utter. This system was built. It was called the Tube because some people have a sense of humour. There are Tube scanners on every street corner. You just had to insert your message with your recipient (however you choose to identify them) and it would scan it, formulate an electronic message and send it off. Unfortunately, sometimes things get a little garbled along the way. This is mainly due to the fact that there are a lot of 'Good Ol' Stan''s in the world, and a message with such a recipient would simply go the one the machine would judge to be the most good, the oldest or the Stanliest. ClouD hadn't got many addresses, and the ones he had were probably wrong – The Stardust Rainbow, for example, may not have been an actual address – but they were enough. The machine transcended mere rules of logic and would know ClouD's intention and would adjust the address accordingly. The presence of the badly spelled/grammatically inaccurate messages/statements/sentences may have been forgotten by now. But they are still important. Because the whole Tube system is based on the presence of such things, it adjusts messages accordingly. Usually this is not a problem to most people, quite probably due to the fact that the messages they sent in the first place were badly spelled and/or grammatically inaccurate already. Still, it was sometimes annoying to get a message from your boss with, in between the 'moral standards' and 'company values', a line of 'lul fag yur videos shit'. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 'You've got them all?' said slayer, hurrying after Howie through the street. Howie grinned. 'All the core members. Every single one – at least, according to ClouD.' 'But ClouD's been mad since the Crash,' said slayer. 'Yes, but he's not stupid,' said Howie. Slayer grinned. 'That's debatable.' Howie sighed. 'What isn't?' They arrived at a Tube scanner. Howie withdrew the little Info-Pack letters from his packet. He snapped one out of the rubber band.

'Who's that for?' said slayer, as Howie inserted the tiny envelope into the slot. 'Grod,' said Howie. There was a chukunk as the envelope slid in. An electronic buzz came from the machine, and it slid out again with a zwwp. Another one was snapped out of the bundle of envelopes. 'And that?' Chukunk. Buzz. 'Mitzie.' Zwwp. A snap of a rubber band. 'And that?' Chukunk. Buzz. 'Sandform.' Zwwp. A snap. 'And-' Chukunk. Buzz. 'Kushna Mufeed.' Zwwp. Snap. 'A-' Chukunk. Buzz. 'Mes Tarrant.' Zwwp. Snap. '–?' Chukunk. Buzz. 'DuB.' Zwwp. Snap. '?' Chukunk. Buzz. 'Man of Steel.' Zwwp. Snap. Chukunk. Buzz. 'Sindred.' Zwwp. Snap. Chukunk. Buzz. 'Carousoul.' Zwwp. Snap. Chukunk. Buzz. 'Goldney.' Zwwp. Snap. Chukunk. Buzz. 'Universal Mind.' Zwwp. . . . it went on. Slayer thought he caught a few more, but they swept over him in the flood of names. They finished. And that was it. 'Now what?' said slayer. 'We wait for them to get here from wherever they are?'

'Oh, no,' said Howie. 'We've got a meeting place.' 'Where?' 'Digg,' said Howie, setting off down the street. Slayer ran down the street after him. 'Digg? Why?' 'It's a good as place as any other. Besides, we'll be able to recognise each other. We'll be the ones not obsessively trying to inform everyone else about what they like.' 'And how are we going to get there? Digg's a long way away, Howie!' 'By car. I know, it's archaic, but it's the only thing we can afford right now.' 'You're renting one?' 'No. I want something that will last. I get the feeling that I might be needing a car. One thing: do you know how to wrangle a good price out of a used-car salesman?' Slayer frowned. 'Wrangle? Is that some type of fish?' Howie paused for a moment. 'Well, you've got a lot to learn,' he admitted. 'But you've got the eyes for it, boy.' 'The eyes for it? What the catgirl do you mean by that?' 'You'll see,' said Howie, and giggled like a schoolgirl.* ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Seismosaur woke to the sound of rustling. The rustling of files. Someone was coming. It had to be. He'd exterminated all the wild trolls from Religion & Spirituality, leaving only one – him. And now someone was coming. He wasn't prepared. No one ever came to Dreamviews any more. He was the only one left. No one was left after the Crash – not since asher had sold them. He didn't know what time it was. Time was immaterial. No light got in, no light got out. He only had his torch and the few lamps that hung on the wall. He didn't have a weapon. He was helpless. But people weren't supposed to be here! He grabbed his torch anyway, and tried to pretend that it would do something other than annoy his . . . visitor. The footsteps came closer. There was a shape, in the darkness. It was a tall shape. A strong shape. Seismosaur was instantly terrified of it.

'Seismosaur,' it said, with a voice like honey. Just “Seismosaur”. And somehow that was more terrifying than anything else the figure could have said. 'Have you been a bad boy, Seismosaur?' asked the figure, leaning forward. Seismosaur could now see the figure's face. It was sculpted, perfect, Adonis-like. And it was mad. You could see it in the eyes. This man was so mad sanity was just a thin line on the horizon. A warm trickle ran down Seismosaur's leg. 'No,' breathed Seismosaur. 'It wasn't my fault. It was asher! It was all asher!' 'I know all about you, Mr Seismosaur. I know your secrets. I know everything,' said the godlike being. 'Who – who are you?' 'You may think of me as . . . The King.' 'Please, I'll do anything! I can get my pants off in record tim-' 'Please do not take off your pants. If not for your sake, then for mine. I have a job for you, Seismosaur. I realise you may not be familiar with the concept.' Seismosaur frowned. 'Are you sure you wouldn't like me to take off my-' 'No. The nature of employment is somewhat different. I want you, Seismosaur, to . . .' . . . The King told him. 'I can't do that!' said Seismosaur. 'They're my friends.' 'I would not call them friends, as such. And if you don't, Seismosaur, I will kill you.' The only thing faster than his reply was light. 'When can I start?' 'Immediately. We have work to do.' ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The man was smooth, that's what you could say for him. You couldn't say much else. He had a suit on, and perfect hair and a perfect smile. And he looked incredibly honest. No honest man could ever look that honest. He shook both of their hands with a firm, steady gaze. He was a bastard. A complete bastard. He lead them to a dumpy little thing of a car. 'Here we have a wonderful Ford Focus-'

'No,' said Howie. 'I want . . . yes. I want an Aston Martin.' The salesman smiled, a little nervously. 'Well, we do have a DB9 in stock, but I wouldn't advise it for your type of gentleman.' 'You mean the type of being piss-poor?' 'Oh, no,' said the salesman, leaning forward. 'The type of not being a pretentious fuckwit with his head so far up his arse he can almost see the other end.' He winked. Don't listen to him, though Howie. He's trying to get himself on your side. You've got to remember that he's one of them. I bet slayer will be grinning, the naïve kid. Howie turned to slayer. He was grinning. Howie leant forward himself. 'How do you know we aren't, Mr Salesman?' he said in a low whisper. That put him off for a moment. 'Would you like to see the Aston Martin?' 'Oh, yes,' said Howie. 'I think we would.' In half an hour they were in his office. They were quite obviously Number 1 and 2 Mr. Pretentious Fuckwit With His Head So Far Up His Arse He Could Almost See The Other End. The salesman hadn't even bothered to advertise. They were obviously going to buy it. In another half an hour, the paperwork was signed. Now, to pay. This was the dangerous bit. But with just a bit of luck, it would work. 'And now,' said the salesman, smiling warmly. 'Unfortunately, you have to pay. Trust me, if it wasn't for my boss pushing, I'd give it to you free!' Liar, hissed the little bit of Howie that was always watching. Liar, liar, liar! 'Ah,' said Howie. 'That's the unfortunate bit.' The salesman's smile faltered a bit. 'I'm sorry?' 'We can't pay. We have no money. Nada. Nothing, unless you count our good hearts,' said Howie. 'Of course, good hearts are obviously very important things to you!' The salesman looked aghast. 'If you didn't have any money, why the hell did you sign?' 'Oh, we plan to take the car,' said Howie. 'We'd just like it free. Unfortunately' – he made a sad face – 'your boss seems to be pushing.' The salesman sighed. 'Can you just get out of-' 'I'd love to,' said Howie. 'But just trust me, here. Look into my eyes. I promise you that if you tell me sincerely that you would have given it to me free if your boss wasn't pushing so, we'll leave here.' Slayer looked over at Howie, bemused.

The salesman grinned. They thought they could trick him. They thought they could spot an honest man! Well, they were wrong! He was a good liar. These pretentious fuckwits would just have to leave! The salesman looked Howie in the eyes. 'I promise you, sir, that if it wasn't for my boss pushing, I'd give you the car free.' Howie nodded. It had been completely sincere. 'And now,' said Howie. 'My friend . . .' The salesman grinned, and looked over. Slayer smiled at him bemusedly. The salesman's grin faltered. His grin wiped from his face like shit from a toilet seat. He'd found the Secret. A whole world of catgirls . . . Blood began to leak from the salesman's mouth. His eye twitched, and then shut close. His head fell. 'What the catgirl is wrong with him?' said slayer frantically. Howie grimaced. 'Oh dear,' he said. 'He seems to be sick.' The salesman groaned. 'Twenty cents for the car,' said Howie, 'or we walk out of here with the antidote.' 'Hell no,' groaned the salesman. 'What the hell did you do? Poison me?' 'Oh no,' said Howie. 'You just seem to have been struck with a bout of sudden sickness. Which we have, curiously, the antidote for.' 'I can't sell a damn Aston Martin for twenty cents! I'll be fired on the spot!' Howie leaned forward, and his eyes gleamed. 'Yes, you'll be fired. But do you want to be fired from life?' The salesman responded by retching. 'I'll describe it to you,' said Howie. 'First, there will be the violent bowel movements. These will, at the least, last for two hours. You may be glad of this when it's finished, but this is only because your bowels have shut down-' The salesman vomited on the floor. 'Okay,' he said weakly. 'I'll do it.' He scrabbled around on the desk for a pen, and poised to sign. 'The twenty cents,' he added vehemently. Amazing, thought Howie. Even when he thinks he's about to die, he still asks for the money first. 'Gladly,' said Howie, handing the coin over. 'You could feed a hobo for weeks on that amount of money!'

He nodded quietly as the salesman signed. Then he pulled it over and signed himself. 'Wonderful,' he said. 'Glad to have worked with you, mister.' He stood up to leave, pulling slayer with him. 'The antidote,' said the salesman, bent over his desk. 'Oh yes,' said Howie. 'How silly of me to forget.' He thrust his hand into his coat, and pulled out a small glass vial. He gave it to the salesman, then picked up the keys to the car from the desk. 'Goodbye . . . Joe, was it?' They left. 'What the catgirl did you do to him?' said slayer, hurrying across to the car. 'Oh, I did nothing. I think you'll find that you did it all.' 'But he just looked at me-' 'Yes,' said Howie. 'He did.' 'And what was all that you said about, ugh, violent bowel movements?' 'Oh, that wasn't true at all. A complete fiction. The man won't die, either, but I think he'll find that after taking that little antidote I gave him, despite it being a complete lie, there will be violent bowel movements abound.' Slayer paused for a moment to consider this. 'You gave him a laxative? You bastard.' 'Well,' said Howie, smiling contentedly, leaning back into the leather seat, 'at least his bowels won't shut down.' The car started with a comfortable purr. Howie pulled it out of the block, and into the street. They drove in silence for a while. 'I'll need someone to take care of the cats,' said slayer. 'I hate to leave them like that.' 'Oh, don't worry,' said Howie. 'I've found a friend to care for them.' 'Who?' 'Let's just say she's really quite fond of cats, shall we?' ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ *That is, a manly schoolgirl. Possibly a transvestite one, if that floats your boat. Somewhat of a Tangent

Dawn suffused the world. The car rumbled to a stop. It was not a good car. Thirty-year old AMC Pacer's rarely are. There was a rattle as the door opened. There was always the rattle. It might have been caused by the car's very soul calling out for help, but it was quite a lot more likely that it was caused by it being a thirty-year old AMC Pacer. Burns stepped out of the car. The air smelled of burning rubber, old car and early morning. She looked down at the address in her hand, then looked at the address hanging off the wall of the . . . place. Yes, this was the right place. She'd been expecting something less horrible. There was some sort of sign propped up against the fence. Someone had drawn a friendly little penis on it. She threw it away, at which, as if taking it as, well, a sign, the gate fell over, crushing a few mysterious bugs. She walked up the path. There were a few cats hanging around outside, generally being cats. 'Oh,' she said, obviously disappointed. 'He said there'd be a lot of you. Well, come inside.' She opened the door with the key Howie had given her. A yowling arose. A wide smile split Burns' face. The house was bad, the yard was bad, the walls stunk – in fact, everything stunk – and there was a general aura of wrongness about the place, but . . . somehow this made up for it all. Burns got to work. There were a lot of mouths to feed. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Slayer had gone to sleep. He may have been having a pleasant dream, despite the fact that the little moans that escaped from his mouth sounded pained; you could never tell with slayer. Howie had not gone to sleep. When you're driving a very fast car down a very slippery, dark highway, it is rarely a good idea to do so. It seemed to Howie that the highway stretched on forever. He wasn't looking at the signs any more. He didn't know where he was. He just knew it would lead to Digg. Everything did, in the end. And he was tired. He was always tired, but this was a special kind of tired. He'd got some pep pills, though. They were keeping him awake. The inevitable low that occurred as the pep pills effect wore off he countered with pep pills. Presumably, in some time, he'd run out of pep pills. Possibly all the built up lowness, or possibly lowisity, would strike him at once, maybe sending him into a comatose state. There might also be an inspiring soundtrack in there somewhere. There so often is. But for the moment, he was simply a low-grade drowsy. And he felt like God himself had reached down and punched him in the crotch.

A dull, yet obnoxious light ahead signalled a gas station. He pulled in. It had to be a gas station. There was one single pump, which presumably had gas in it. The drunk old man with two teeth lying on the ground probably wasn't part of the deal. The gas was too expensive. This is a universally acknowledged fact; wherever you go - whenever you go, as well, for the time traveller – the gas will be too expensive. They could have just made it a few cents down, couldn't have they? Just reduced it a bit, right? But then that'd still be too expensive, a few too many cents over. And it would just keep going down, if you continued that way. And down that road madness lies, or possibly just really cheap gas. Of course, even if down that road that road madness did lie, you might even be there already, as many people are, or possibly on the way. And when you got there you'd be welcomed into the majority with open arms, and maybe just a quality steak dinner, a commodity unfortunately lacking in nearly every aspect of society. On the whole, it was a lot easier being mad. Madness was just laziness magnified. Sanity took effort. He filled up with too expensive gas, and went inside to pay. The clerk looked at him warily, as nudists might view a man who had just walked right in with a thick coat on. He laid some coins on the counter. It was not enough money, but it was a fundamental flaw in the human psyche that they assumed anyone who owned a flash car and did things confidently was an honest man. Howie grabbed some pep pills off a shelf, then some more. 'And these,' he said. The clerk nodded mutely. Howie waited for a while for the man to scan them, or at least look at the price tag, but the clerk was simply staring at him. He picked them up and slipped them into his pocket. 'Do you happen to do food here?' Howie said. 'It's just that I'm afraid I'm rather hungry. Lack of food does that for you.' 'The boy can cook a bit,' muttered the clerk darkly. It was a suggestive mutter. It suggested that the 'bit' the boy could cook was a very small bit indeed. 'Lovely,' said Howie. 'I'll have five dollars worth of fish and chips, thanks.' The clerk nodded, and didn't ask for money again. The concept seemed to have left him. 'Boy!' shouted the clerk at a greasy little door that was presumably the door to the kitchen. 'Fish, chips! Fiver!' Slayer was woken up. The car was parked in a greasy little parking lot next to the gas station, and they waited by sitting on the trunk. 'Why do you think . . .' said slayer after a while. 'Why do you think people are so aggressively stupid?'

Howie paused. How to explain this to one so young . . . 'Because they're people,' said Howie. 'That's the point.' 'But couldn't they just, you know, read a few books, talk to some people, sort out things with a clear head?' 'A clear head?' said Howie. 'We are talking about people here, aren't we?' 'I mean . . . couldn't we just sort out all these wars, all these silly people being silly people at each other . . . couldn't we just sort it out by having a drink together and moaning about our problems?' 'United in depression, you mean?' said Howie. 'It's an intriguing idea. If everyone was just miserable and generally indifferent to everything, we could lift mountains?' 'Well, maybe not mountains, unless they're, you know, those fiddly little ones. You know, those foreign ones?' 'You mean . . . banzai? You know, I could swear that's a television show.' 'I think it is, actually. But I'm sure it's not banzai.' 'Probably. But you know what's good?' 'Yes?' 'Dolphins,' said Howie, with absolute conviction. 'Sitting around, playing all day, making squeaky noises.' 'Are you sure you don't mean children?' 'Nah. Dolphins.' 'I heard,' said slayer, waving a hand vaguely, 'I heard that dolphins try to rape people and stuff. And they headbutt other sea creatures to death. I heard that they're real bastards.' 'Well, at least they're having a good time while they're at it. And what about all them stories of dolphins saving people?' 'Probably just a ploy,' said slayer gloomily. 'So there's more to rape later on.' Howie nodded gloomily. 'I reckon,' said Howie, drunk on cynicism, 'I reckon there's a lot of things wrong with the world, and no amount of dolphin rape will help it.' 'Damn right. I'd imagine any amount of dolphin rape wouldn't help it, really.' 'You think that food's done? It's just that I smell something fishy from in there.' 'Well, it is fish and chips.'

'No, I mean . . . wrong.' 'Yeah,' said slayer. 'But it's probably just the toothless guy. He wet himself again.' 'Again?' 'Oh yes. He's on a roll, now. Four times in a row. You just don't pay attention enough. You're too busy talking about dolphins and shit. Not shit, I mean; dolphins and catgirl.' 'Shall we go in?' 'Better than not going in. Besides, the trickle has nearly reached our feet.' There was a smell inside that might just have been fish and chips. It was coming from a lumpy package that he severely hoped was fish and chips. He opened it. It was fish and chips. That is, it had fish in it, and it had chips in it. There are some fish and chips that are perfect. The chips are crunchy, golden brown and with just the right amount of salt. The fish is perfectly cooked and battered, and tastes of good fish. This was not that type. This was quite the opposite. 'Something is moving in there,' breathed slayer. Possibly the cook was drunk. Possibly he was just really quite a bad cook. Possibly the devil had incarnated himself as some fish and chips. But there was no excuse for the . . . stuff in there. 'Food on the road, my boy!' said Howie. 'You just need to experience it first! Everything is moist, unless it's supposed to be. Everything jiggles suspiciously, unless it's jelly, in which case it just kind of . . . slumps. Take a few bites. Trust me, it won't hurt you. Just eat around the bits that are squirming.' They carried it outside to the car. 'But everything is squirming!' 'Well, eat around the bits that aren't making too much noise!' Howie said, picking a chip up. It wobbled and flopped around in his hand. There was a squish as he ate it. 'Beautiful,' he said. 'A triumph of the sliced potato.' Slayer picked up one of the chips cautiously. Something dripped off it, which he sincerely hoped was grease. He ate it. A myriad of tastes met his tongue. There was a definite pang of salt and grease which, coupled with the slimy texture, made him feel as if he was eating an oyster made out of potato. There was a certain . . . animal taste in there as well, that completed the overwhelming feeling of oyster and giftwrapped it, possibly in the flashy, distasteful kind of wrapping paper that turns up everywhere. 'It's very . . . interesting,' said slayer weakly. Howie finished off the rest with gusto, and cleaned the paper too. Then he flicked off all the bits that were trying to climb up his arms.

He jumped back into the car. Slayer followed him weakly, and slumped into his seat without much enthusiasm. 'You know,' he said, 'I'm starting to regret going with you.' Howie grinned. 'I get that feeling all the time,' he said. 'Sometimes I just feel like wandering off and leaving my body to stumble around without a clue. But you know what keeps me going?' Slayer sighed wearily. 'What? An inspiring Henry Ford quote? “Whether you think you can or think you can’t, you’re right”, perhaps?' 'Oh, no,' said Howie. 'What really keeps me going is that, no matter how much hope or love or sugary butterflies are involved, those people have got a special level of hell reserved just for them.' 'Oh, really?' said slayer, as they pulled out. 'What punishment can you give those type of people that they already haven't used on themselves?' 'I think an interesting and certainly vastly entertaining one would be their own inspirational sayings parroted at them by someone richer, happier and snappier dressed than themselves. After all, they did devise it themselves,' said Howie. 'Perhaps a tableau of people doing very inspirational things could be involved.' Slayer paused. 'Have you ever got the feeling that the person sitting next to you would do quite a better job than Satan at ruling Hell?' Howie grinned. 'I'll take that as a compliment.' ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ClouD stared at the walls of his cell. Padded walls. He was . . . he was in a mental institution. But how? He was perfectly sane! He was a moderator. They certainly wouldn't allow someone crazy to be a moderator. He looked down at the laptop in his hands. Sanity hit him like a hammer. It all became clear. There wasn't any Dreamviews, not any members. Just him and his broken mind. 'Daniel!' he called, and rang his bell. There was the sound of running feet, and Daniel poked his head in. 'I'm crazy,' said ClouD. 'I'm completely fucking mad!' 'Oh, no,' said Daniel. 'Differently Sane, remember? We've got a sign, remember?' 'I don't care about the damn sign! What the Dreamviews has happened?' 'It's a long story,' said Daniel carefully. 'Oh, okay,' said ClouD sarcastically. 'If it takes time, I'll just get back to all the important things I'm doing, in this padded cell with nothing but a bed and this stupid damn laptop!' He picked the laptop up, and threw it against the wall. It shattered, spraying pieces of it across the room. ClouD turned to

Daniel furiously. 'Tell me the whole story,' he said. 'Start to finish. Please. Before I start talking to fruit again!' Daniel sat down. 'Well . . .' he said, 'there's the interesting version, and the true version.' 'I want the true one,' said ClouD emphatically. 'Are you sure? The interesting one has a lot of intertwining universes and warriors and stuff. It's very good!' 'No! I've had enough of stories and talking fruits and all this . . . stuff. I just want to know!' 'Well, it all started with asher,' said Daniel. 'And from there, well, from there it just went downhill . . .' A Mystery, Of Sorts Consider hunting. Hunting is a noble vocation. You're supporting the group by hunting. You may not be supporting other groups; namely, the group being hunted, but the whole issue of other groups is a completely different matter. In ancient tribes, hunting was a job undertaken by everyone. Except women and young people and old people and injured people, of course. And, presumably, there are levels of hunting; that is, some hunters are better at hunting than other hunters, either because they're quieter, stronger, or simply better at stabbing things. Logically, only the best hunters would have been sent to kill dangerous animals, like elephants or hippopotamuses and such. Sending bad hunters may have been a learning experience, but only a learning experience in how to die. So there would be Bad Hunters, Good Hunters, Average Hunters and, just possibly, Hunters Who Are Really Quite Bad But You Wouldn't Say That To Their Face Hunters. So the Good Hunters would go off and come back later dragging a big heap of flesh behind them, which would be eaten, in due time. Possibly one or two Average, But Pretty All Right Hunters would go along and, in their time, become happy members of the Good Hunters group. The whole issue of the Bad Hunters group was resolved by upgrading them – eventually – to the Average Hunters group. And so it went. The two men who concern us now are none of these groups. They would strive to be Bad Hunters, in an ancient tribe. They would be the kind of hunters who hunted mice and rats and things who – even if they were quite hard to get to – would, let's face it, have a hard time killing even their own young. They were not hunters in ancient tribes, though. They were troll hunters.

And they weren't very good at it. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ At dusk, they came to the town. A little sign was next to the road. It said, in slightly shaky letters: Welcome to LiveJournal The place where common sense goes to die! Howie peered up at it blearily. It was hardly the ideal place. But it would have to do. If he drove any longer he'd collapse. Slayer was asleep again. The little bastard didn't seem to do anything but sleep. He drove into town. There were a lot of buildings, some big, some small, but all had a little plague above their doors, proclaiming their nonsensical names: . . . stardoom44, inabasket, preciousdyin, ifonly4679, edwardismyluv!!! . . . And below that, another plaque, showing some sort of title: . . . i dont fuking want to, going to class sucks, the deep black loneliness, why didn't I?, i want him inside me . . . People were walking along the street, and occasionally went into the other buildings. Sometimes, they stayed in there for a long time. Sometimes they left shaking. Howie paid no attention to this. He simply drove on, slumped in his seat. He looked around for a hotel, a motel, a pub . . . anything, but they were found lacking. There was just the endless names, and the endless people. Eventually, he resorted to pulling over. 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'but do you know where I can find a hotel?' The boy he had talked to turned to him. His eyes looked mad. 'ohai,' he said. 'run away run away get out of here youll be wanting the community house on 22th street.' The boy hurried way. 'I'm sorry, what was that?' said Howie, but the boy had already melted into the crowd. He shook his head. He was hearing things. He found it eventually, in the sea of names and people. He woke slayer, who didn't seem too happy about it, and went inside. There was a bunch of people shouting at each other. Some were scantily dressed, some not so. Some were dressed as strange and bewildering characters. But what they had in common was that they were shouting. At each other.

There seemed to be some sort of bartender by agreement. Howie and slayer struggled through the crowd towards him. They caught a few snatches of conversation as they went past: '. . . if people stoped havin wars everythimg wuld be fine' 'i agrei (sp?) . . .' '. . . should it sting like that?' 'I think if he had a dissese' 'but he said he didnt! . . .' '. . . my mom is a bitch. she doesn't understand mee!!' 'tell her you are an individual . . .' Howie tried to physically shut his ears down. He could swear he was actually getting more stupid just by listening to them. 'Do you think,' muttered Howie. 'Do you think anyone will care if I murder everyone here?' 'Not advisable,' said slayer. 'For every one of them you kill, two more will spring forth.' 'And what will they do?' 'Look at you disapprovingly, maybe,' said slayer. 'I'm not an expert on these things. What's the charge for killing a LiveJournaler, anyway?' 'Not much, I should think,' said Howie. 'Possibly they might give you a prize, or something. A little plaque saying “Thanks for improving the gene pool!”, perhaps.' They came to the bartender. He was spreading some dirt around on the bar with a cloth. He looked up, with tortured eyes. 'How may I help you, sirs?' 'We'd like a room, thanks,' said Howie. 'Separate beds?' 'Yes,' said Howie quickly. 'Separate. Yes. Thank you. Separate.' 'Got none,' said the bartender. 'But you could shop in with the hunters. It's a big room, and we've got camp beds.' 'Hunters? What do they hunt?' 'We're not quite sure. But they've got big black coats and they look keen all the time, so I assume they must hunt something. Even if it is the ability to hunt.' 'That'll be fine,' said Howie. 'And that'll be ten dollars for the both of you.'

Howie shifted uncomfortably. 'About that,' he said. 'You see. About that. The money, you see . . . the money may be lacking somewhat.' The bartender leaned forward. 'Tell you what,' he said. 'I'll give it to you free. For being well spoken and not saying 'lul' not even one time.' He winked, with the aggressively suggestive kind of wink that only a true bartender can cultivate. 'Just tell the boys Harry sent you,' he added. 'Well, thank you Harry-' 'Oh, I'm not Harry. But they'll appreciate the joke.' 'I see,' said Howie carefully. He knew about these smarmy little inside jokes. Hell, he was part of a few of them. 'Number seven,' said not-Harry. 'Third on the left. Can't miss it.' Howie and slayer continued up the stairs. They weren't the kind of stairs that people described as 'rickety'. They had gone much, much further than that point. They were the kind of stairs that people described as 'a few pieces of wood which persist in staying up'. Some stairs have a creaky spot, but these stairs were just one big creaky spot. The door was third on the left. They couldn't miss it. Howie knocked on it politely. There was a shout inside, and the sound of quiet activity. Then it opened. 'Harry sent-' said Howie, then stopped. He recognised the man at the door, and the man further inside, and by their looks, both of them recognised him too. 'No-name,' said Howie. 'Delphinus. What are you doing here?' ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Seismosaur soon adapted to his job. You might call him an adaptable person, if you wanted to be kind. If you didn't, you might call him a slimy little back-stabbing bastard. The job was . . . well, mainly the job seemed to be running errands. He went out and picked up things. He handed over mysterious packages. But, always, there was the task. All of the mysterious meetings and mysterious packages . . . they were all due to the task. The King had a whole plan in mind, he knew, although he never told Seismosaur about any of it. But he gathered things, overheard things, got glances of little papers, and what he did gather was that it was something to do with Wikipedia. Which was stupid. What could he want with Wikipedia? And what did it have to do with his frien – acquaintan – those people he knew? It was an enema wrapped in a riddle, surrounded by mystery. Well, something like that, anyway. But he didn't worry about that much. He wasn't paid to worry. Well, he wasn't paid at all, but if he was it wouldn't be done to ask questions.

Then, one day, the mysterious visits and packages stopped. The King told him to pack up all his belongings, so Seismosaur put his torch in his pocket. And then they left their dark little hideout, got in The King's private jet and flew away. Seismosaur had to sit in the luggage hold. The King didn't seem to like him much. 'I'm sorry,' he called through the door when they were safely in the air, 'but where are we going?' 'We're going on a mission, boy,' said The King. 'And you weren't paid to ask questions.' 'On that subject,' said Seismosaur uncertainly. 'You see. I, uh. It's just that-' 'No,' said The King. 'I can't just go around throwing money around.' And that was it. 'Of course,' said Seismosaur. There was nothing in the luggage hold. All his belongings could safely fit into one pocket, while The King seemed to have absolutely nothing. Nothing. No trinkets, none of the little strata of belongings that piled up over the years. The King was a very tidy . . . well, man seemed an insult to him. He was more than a man. He was . . . something else. And he seemed familiar. It seemed as if he knew The King. But that was just him. As soon as you'd been around him for more than a few minutes, you felt like you had known him for your whole life. He was obviously a very powerful person. He was obviously a very dangerous person. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ It took a long time to tell. Such things often do. 'He took us,' said ClouD coldly. 'He took us and he sold us.' Daniel nodded. 'That he did,' he said. 'And, well, what else could we do but get out of there? Dreamviews had fallen.' 'But you said that Dreamviews had become the biggest forum on the Internet!' 'The bigger they are, the harder they fall, I guess. And whoever bought us was obviously even richer than us. We couldn't fight someone like that, whoever they were.' 'What I'm confused about,' said ClouD, 'is the warrior. Somehow, I doubt he actually existed.' 'What?' said Daniel. 'Of course he did! Didn't you hear the story? Came from an intertwined universe, he did!' 'No, I don't think so,' said ClouD. 'I think he might have been a tad fictional. Perhaps just a bit made up.' 'Oh, a bit,' conceded Daniel. 'Well, everything is a bit fictional in the end, isn't it? Yeah?' 'Oh yes,' said ClouD, giving in. 'I expect the warrior really was there. You just changed a few

details, right?' 'Right,' said Daniel. The two of them sat in gloom for a moment. 'I want to escape,' said ClouD in a low whisper. 'I want to escape while I'm sane. This place just makes me madder.' 'You've got a psychiatric assessment in a few-' 'No! By then, I'll just be crazy again! It's this place. Whoever thought of putting a bunch of mad people together to cure madness was probably a damn madman himself!' Daniel stared at ClouD. He'd known him for a long time. He knew what he was like. He knew him. And he was deadly serious. He had his serious face on which – despite it looking like he needed to poop a little – was a very serious face indeed. 'I'll try and work something out,' said Daniel, and hurried away, leaving ClouD with no one to talk to but himself. That was his first mistake. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Man of Steel woke up at one in the afternoon that day, because he thought he needed an earlier start. Then he walked down to the kitchens. They were bustling with activity, and he was unwanted, but he was used to that. He took a chicken in the end, and went back up to his room. His butler was waiting there, a towel carefully folded over his arm. 'You appear to be dripping fat on yourself,' he said, standing perfectly still. Man of Steel looked down. Hot fat was dripping off the kitchen and into his bare chest hair. 'Indeed,' he said. He sat down and a knife materialised itself from some shadowy recess. He carved a hunk of chicken off with it, and held it up to the butler. 'Eat it,' he demanded. 'I'm sorry, sir?' said the butler. Man of Steel nodded towards the chicken. 'Eat the chicken,' he said. 'Think of it as a present.' The butler politely grasped the chicken. He tore off a bit, and ate it. 'Delicious, sir,' he said dutifully. 'Damn right!' roared Man of Steel, and plunged his knife into the chicken. He gave it back to the butler. 'I don't want it now,' he said sullenly. The butler smiled a little glassily. He was used to his master's . . . eccentric behaviour.

'Of course, sir.' When the butler had left, Man of Steel sat back in his bed and waited. They would be here any time now. It was simply a matter of time. Perhaps he should put some clothes on. But no one minded, at least to his face. When you were a very wealthy man, a lot of blindness could be bought. A maid came in. Man of Steel jumped up and did a naked dance for her. She smiled politely. 'Hello, Mr Steel,' she said. 'I've got your breakfast, sir.' 'Put it on the bed, will you, Vira.' 'Yes, sir.' A Number of Events, Curious Delphinus sighted along his crossbow. 'Trolls,' he said. 'We hunt trolls.' Howie paused. It was turning out to be somewhat of a strange visit. The two of them did indeed have big black coats, and they did indeed look quite keen about their job. The effect of the coats was somewhat ruined by the fact that they were at least two sizes big for both of them, and ran along the floor like dresses. In fact, they looked a bit like nuns with black robes and crossbows. 'You mean green, hairy, big teeth trolls?' 'No,' said no-name. 'Internet trolls. Actually, that description quite fits them.' 'But aren't they, you know, on the Internet?' said slayer. 'Of course they are,' said no-name. 'And LiveJournal is, and 4chan is, and Wikipedia is too. But that doesn't mean they aren't real.' 'And you kill them?' said slayer. 'Oh no,' said no-name. 'We just like to carry around crossbows so we can shoot arrows around. Of course we kill them. Some things just deserve to die.' Howie sunk into a chair. 'But why are you here?' said Howie. 'LiveJournal is hardly troll territory. It's just . . . stupidity territory.' 'There's been reports,' said Delphinus slowly, inspecting a knife, 'of excessive trolling. And not just normal trolling. Dangerous stuff. Plagues of goatse, for instance.' 'Plagues of goats?' said Howie. 'How in hell can goats plague?' 'Goatse with an e,' said Delphinus meaningfully. A collective shudder went around the group. 'Anyway,' said no-name, after a while. 'That sort of stuff.' 'So they called you in?' said slayer. Both of the hunters shifted uncomfortably.

'Not as such,' said no-name. 'Not really.' 'So you came uninvited?' 'Yes, I think that would be a pretty accurate description,' said Delphinus emphatically. Slayer hesitated. There was something they weren't telling him . . . 'Anything else?' he said. 'Well,' said no-name. 'Now that you, you know, mention it, there may have been something else.' He took a letter of his pocket. 'I think,' he said, handing the letter to slayer, 'that this counts as uninvited.' Slayer unfolded it. Dear no-name and Delphinus (or, as you twits like to call yourselves, The Exterminators), I know you're thinking of coming here. Don't. There is nothing but distaste for you here. You two are untalented hacks. There is, in no eventuality, any welcome for you here. Seriously. If this place is burning down, and people are screaming for help, do not come in here. If a tiger comes along and bites off your legs, and this is the only place in dragging distance, do not come here. I repeat, no one wants you here. We've seen the damage you do to other places. Seriously, I can not believe someone can be as stupid as you two are. DO NOT COME HERE. Regards, An Enemy. 'Yes,' said slayer weakly. 'I think that counts as uninvited.' 'Naturally, we had to come,' said no-name, taking the letter off him. 'Who do you think “An Enemy” is?' 'No idea. But we suspect they may be an enemy of some sort.' 'Remarkable,' said Howie. There was a pause in the conversation. 'On a totally unrelated note,' said Delphinus, 'what do you think of my mouth and eyes?' 'I'm sorry?' There was a loud knock on the door. Slayer, who was the closest, opened it. 'Don't open the-' said no-name, but it was too late. There was a giant Guy Fawkes mask with arms and legs in the hallway. 'lulfag,' it said, then promptly kicked slayer in the crotch. He went down. 'fail,' it added, with some satisfaction. It stepped into the room. 'A troll . . .' breathed Delphinus. He lifted his crossbow, and shot. The arrow hissed away.

It went through the troll. It didn't seem to mind very much. The troll advanced, the never-changing expression on the mask taunting them. Howie, Delphinus and no-name backed away. 'What do we do?' hissed Howie. 'I don't know!' said no-name. 'It's a powerful one, damnit!' He picked up the toaster, and threw it. The troll caught it in one hand, and threw it back. It hit Delphinus squarely in the forehead. He went down. Howie and no-name were backed into a corner of the kitchen. The troll paused, and laughed. It sounded exactly like the devil would, if he was a giant Guy Fawkes mask. The troll leapt forward and bore Howie down to the ground. It grinned madly. Suddenly, up close, it seemed a lot like it had teeth. It raised it's freakish mouth. Slayer was rising. Howie could not stop the momentary flicker of attention his way. The troll turned it's head back-and paused. Slayer was looking it squarely in the eye. The troll returned his gaze. A bead of sweat rolled down it's face, which was, as it were, the whole of it. The troll made a little squeak of pain. The troll exploded. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ They were just about to land when the boy arrived. He arrived next to Seismosaur in the cargo hold, who was quite surprised. The boy was wearing a shirt. It had a picture on it of some – Seismosaur peered closer – macaroni and cheese? 'I'm in!' said the boy triumphantly. 'What?' said Seismosaur, who had never gotten the hold of “Sorry?” 'I'm in the story!' said the boy. 'Where am I? LiveJournal?' 'You're in the air,' said Seismosaur. He turned to the door. 'King!' he shouted through it. 'We have a visitor!' 'I'm sorry?' 'A visitor! Some kid. He just appeared!' There was a grumble from outside, and the doors opened. 'If you're lying-' The King paused in the doorway. Then he laughed uproariously. 'Your name is . . . hellohihello, am I right?' said The King to the boy.

'Yes!' squeaked the boy. It was obvious the boy's balls hadn't dropped, or perhaps he didn't have any. The King nodded. 'I see,' he said. 'Well, come on out of there, boy. Don't bunk in with the hired work.' 'What?' said Seismosaur. 'He can just waltz in here and-' 'Oh, do be quiet,' said The King, and suddenly Seismosaur felt his vocal cords shut down of their own accord. 'This is obviously a very important boy.' He sat the boy down in one of the comfortable seats. 'Would you like a drink?' said The King. 'Soda, perhaps?' 'Oh, thank you!' said hellohihello. 'I wonder, why are you the villain? You seem like such a nice person!' 'I couldn't think why,' said The King, filling up a glass with soda and secretly slipping his own little addition in. 'Perhaps some people are just very unkind.' 'But you're a stranger,' said hellohihello uncertainly. 'My mother said to stay away from strangers, 'cause they'll hurt you.' 'I assure you, being hurt is the last thing that will happen to you!' said The King, setting down the glass in front of the boy. 'Oh, good.' The boy took a sip from the glass. 'This soda's a bit funny.' 'Don't worry about it. It's supposed to be like that. Because it's foreign.' That would work. Being foreign was an excuse for anything. If Hitler had said his tactics were simply foreign, World War 2 never would have happened. 'Right,' said hellohihello. 'I'm . . . feeling a bit . . . strange.' 'It might be because it's foreign,' said The King. 'But it's equally likely it's because of the poison I slipped in there.' Hellohihello coughed. 'I think . . . I'm . . .' 'Bye-bye.' Hellohihello collapsed. Seismosaur had watched it all from the luggage hold. The King prodded hellohihello's body with his foot. 'He was awful boring, wasn't he?' He turned to Seismosaur in the luggage hold. He walked over, and slammed the doors shut. The last thing Seismosaur heard was: 'Do remind me to get some slower working poison, won't you? It's much more fun watching them squirm.' ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Parts of the troll were littered around the room. Howie and no-name extricated themselves from

under the bench. 'What the hell just happened?' said no-name. 'He just looked at him!' 'I expect he gave it a stern look,' said Howie cheerfully. 'That's what my mam always said: A stern look'll take you a long way!' 'I think it took the troll a long way, more like it,' muttered no-name. Slayer was frozen in spot. A piece of troll was hanging off his head. 'Gnngh,' he said. 'Bang.' Howie grinned grimly. 'I expect you'll need a lie down.' He did. They were a number of other things that needed to be done, too, and they happened, in time. And now it was later. The room was looking relatively clean. That is, relatively clean for any room that Delphinus had been in for long. That was one thing about Delphinus, Howie learned later: he wasn't messy. He was chaotic. Messy was when your feet had to push through a few inches of rubbish until you got to the carpet. Chaotic was when you still had to do so, but you knew exactly where the damn carpet was. Messiness was the opposite of order. Chaos was order in a mask. 'We're not staying for long,' said Howie, when things had been sorted out. 'We're just stopping off for some rest.' No-name and Delphinus both froze at what they had been doing. Something was wrong. 'What?' said Howie. 'What's wrong with that?' 'Nothing!' said Delphinus, a little too quickly, and a little too loudly. 'Bullshit!' 'Honestly, there's-' Howie jumped up and grabbed Delphinus. 'You're lying,' he hissed. 'Now tell me what's wrong.' Delphinus sighed. 'You'd better come and see.' ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Vows were vows, thought Sister Scrupulous, but two thousand dollars was two thousand dollars. The Daniel man had come to her yesterday, with an offer. He just needed a distraction, he had said. Just something to take their minds off other things. She had asked him what other things these might be. He had said that they were some other things. And she hadn't asked any more.

She had thought and thought and thought and eventually decided, yes, she would quite like two thousand dollars. And now all she needed was to make a distraction. She had decided on a bake sale. Fun for all the family, except fun was sinful. And families, for that matter. You couldn't have families without something being inserted somewhere. If all went well, that would mean the nuns were out, eating shabby baked goods, leaving the Daniel man in control. She'd have wondered about what he was going to do and if it was sinful, but wondering about sin was sinful, so she didn't. A wonder had sneaked into her head, though. She was wondering if taking bribes was sinful, despite the fact that wondering about sin was sinful. But there was no actual instruction. Nothing saying And ye shalle notte take brybes and similar suche thinges. She kept it secret, though. It might not have been specifically sinful, but it was definitely specifically illegal. She had browbeaten all the nuns into cooking something each. She knew quite well they couldn't cook for peanuts, and she took a dark little pleasure in knowing that every single one of them would have to sample all of the eye-wateringly bad foods that the others had concocted, and pretend to like them. She took another dark little pleasure in having such a dark little pleasure too, and was all dark little pleasured out. On the whole, she thought, a lot of things were going well. Quite sinfully, of course, but well nevertheless. She wondered what the Daniel man was going to do. A (Somewhat) Cunning Plan The jet kissed down on the tarmac like a big heavy jet kissing down on the tarmac. It rolled for a little while, in a general kind of way, as if unsure of whether to stop or go. Then it rumbled to a stop. The engines cooled. The door opened with an impressively futuristic hiss. Tow figures stepped out. One was tall and broad-shouldered, the other short and fat. Short and fat was, however, an inadequate description for the second figure. In fact, it looked like someone had made a man out of marshmallow, and hit it with a hammer. 'I'm bored,' said The King. 'Do something amusing.' 'What?' said Seismosaur, skipping every two steps to keep up with The King's gait. 'That,' said The King sombrely, 'was not amusing at all.' 'Uh,' said Seismosaur, 'uh. Uh. Why did the chicken cross the road?' The King sighed. 'Perhaps I should not have asked you,' he said. 'Oh well. I assume amusement will turn up.' A little man* in a general kind of uniform came up. It was a plain grey uniform, and a picture of

The King's likeness was on a badge, which was in turn pinned on to his collar. He looked a bit of a twit. 'There was an unfortunate accident,' said The King to the man, 'and so I expect there may be an unfortunate corpse in the plane. I do apologise if he is starting to stink.' The man hurried off into the plane, gesturing to two men who were in the same uniform and, inexplicably, equally little. 'Do you think they only accept people below a certain height, perhaps?' said The King, with some interest. 'Perhaps they just like being around each other. Misery likes company, after all.' 'Yes, sir,' said Seismosaur, because there wasn't much else he could say. 'Yes, sir,' sneered The King in a mocking parody of his voice. 'Do you never say anything interesting?' 'Yes, sir,' said Seismosaur. The King sighed. He began to walk on, and gestured to Seismosaur, who hurried after him. 'Where are we going, sir?' 'None of your business,' said The King. 'But since you will insist on worrying about it and asking and wondering, we're going to a hotel.' 'You need a private jet to get to a hotel, sir?' 'Sort of, but it's not the hotel that matters. It's where it's near.' 'Where is it near?' 'A little place you might have heard of. I believe it is called “Wikipedia”.' 'What is it about Wikipedia, sir? What's going on?' 'I think you will find,' said The King, 'that it will all be figured out in time. For now, though, do you know where the toilets are?' ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ There was something about the streets of LiveJournal. Something other than the general, massproduced stupidity. A hard edge to it, perhaps. 'This place,' said Howie, 'unnerves me mightily.' They were hurrying through the crowds – well, trying to hurry; the trouble with trying to push through a solid wall of people, all of them pushing, and just a lot of general pushing going on, was that you couldn't. A good application of the elbow, though, always helped. 'ow,' said one person.

'ouch,' said another. The steady streams of generic outcries of pain followed the four of them through the crowd. Slayer was walking rather gingerly and extremely cautiously still, and cautiousness was not an advisable character trait while trying to push through a crowd, so the other three had to step up their pushing, or perhaps they did it just because they enjoyed pushing other people. In any case, they were pushing rather hard. There was a lot of noise about. 'We should have,' growled Howie, 'taken my car.' 'No point!' said no-name. 'I thought I explained this. Cars stop working after an hour in this place. It's only a wonder you got to the community house first ouch. That's me, Delphinus.' 'Sorry ow.' 'Sorry,' said slayer. 'That was me. I'm afraid I got rather excited. I say, where are we going?' 'The gate,' growled no-name, mercilessly slamming his palm into a small child's face. 'You know, Delphinus, I'm starting to think we should just leave LiveJournal to rot. These people are so . . . so cripplingly retarded.' 'They are rather volatile,' said Delphinus cheerfully. 'But there's a strange kind of affection they inspire in you. It's like . . . well, it's like a puppy with no legs; it sure is hideous and whiny, but you can't help feeling endeared to it's little dragging motions and soul-crushing cries of pain.' 'You know Delphinus,' said Howie slowly, 'you seem to know a bit too much about puppies with no legs that can possibly be healthy.' 'Of course he does,' said no-name. 'Besides, he's far past healthy. It's a damn wonder he's not cancerous yet.' They broke out of a thicker clump of crowd. It was clearer here, but that wasn't much of a compliment; saying so was akin to congratulating Alzheimer's for not being cancer. No-name carefully, deliberately and painstakingly navigated around a little girl holding a lollipop then, when she was safely past, pushed her over. He giggled. 'I'm sorry, but what is the gate?' said slayer, who was rather behind in the conversation. 'The gate,' said Delphinus, 'is, as you may have deduced, a gate. In case you need more detail, it is a big one. It is also metal.' 'Hang on!' said Howie. 'We came in through just this empty road. I believe there was a rather honest sign there, also.' 'Well, yes, you probably did,' said no-name. 'But things work . . . differently here. It's like . . . yes; it's like the Hotel California. Like the hotel in the song.' 'I didn't notice any mirrors on the ceiling,' said slayer, frowning. 'Neither did I see any pink champagne, on ice or not. And I do not believe there was any pretty, sweaty boys in the courtya-'

'I believe,' said Howie, 'it was not a metaphor that had to be taken that far, slayer.' 'You mean,' said slayer, 'that there are no pretty, sweaty boys?' 'No,' said Howie. 'And before you ask, I assure you there is no pink champagne either.' Slayer looked mildly disappointed. 'Oh.' 'The gate is just ahead,' said Delphinus. 'You may be impressed by it. It is a very impressive gate.' 'I'm sure it is,' said Howie, who was extremely doubtful of the fact. It certainly wasn't impressing him; he didn't want to stay in this place any longer. It felt like it was stifling him, taking it into it's stained fist, and squeezing him, as a thirteen year-old boy might do so with his penis. They turned a corner. There was a gate there. It was definitely a gate. It was an impressive one, and big and metal; in fact, it was exactly like they had described it. 'What is it doing here?' said slayer. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ He did not know where the toilets were, but the strange, hobbling man who cackled and winked a lot did. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Here we see a huge, round building, very much like a library, with a copper-plated roof. If this were a web browser, and you pressed Ctrl- to zoom out, you would see that the building is surrounded by a mountain range, full of snow-covered peaks, treacherous passes, and yeti. Now if you pressed Ctrl+ to zoom in, your perspective would pass through the roof of the building, to see from above a labyrinth of towering shelves. If you looked yet closer, you would see that these shelves were piled high not with books, but with boxes. Boxes full of files, records, information, and in some cases, whole universes. Boxes upon boxes upon boxes full of just about every kind of information that you could find on the Internet. If you looked carefully, you would see a door at the end of every shelf. Through these doorways are the Backups, perfect replicas of websites past, preserved as they were originally, every change catalogued and accessible. This is the Archive, home to the Monks of Chronology, who are the ones who make sure things happen one after the other, in the right order, and don't get discombobulated. They are responsible for observing, recording, and if possible preserving, everything that happens on the Internet. If an Elephant Crush is executed*, a Monk of Chronology is there to observe it. If a united movement of cult religion is begun to root out unbelievers in the least friendly way possible, a Monk of Chronology—or possibly two—is there to record it. This is their job, and they take their job very seriously. Take for example Lao-Pin. At first glance, he seems inconspicuous enough. This is because, in fact, he is. It is not often much wanted to have the observer observed, or the recorder recorded. So the Monks of Chronology go unnoticed. They are by rote so inconspicuous at first glance, that hardly anyone ever gives them a second glance.

All Monks have an occupation, for when they are on duty and must blend in. Some Monks pose as sweepers, never lacking a broom. Others choose to take on the appearance of gardeners, or roofers, or barbers. After all, you tell your barber things you wouldn't tell your mother, but do you ever really notice him? Really think and see if you can picture his face. I thought not. Lao-Pin chose the occupation of hedge-trimmer. It was an honourable profession, and one that his father before him, and his father before him, and his father before him, and so on and so on for many generations, had chosen. You could say it was a tradition. Lao-Pin had a special job here at the Archive, though. He personally oversaw the running of the Wayback Machine. The very machine that backed up and preserved, in perfect duplication, copies of websites soon to be dismantled or shut down. Of course, he also did field work, but this was his passion. Right now, if you could see over his shoulder as he read through a box full of files on a lower shelf, you would know what was beyond the door he soon stepped through, after returning the box to its place. You can't, however, because of quantum, and because your Internet connection isn't good enough. After a period of time passed, Lao-Pin stepped back through the door, shutting it carefully behind him. Then he turned and walked down the aisle, a thoughtful look on his worn features. Here we see a shadowed alcove deep within the halls of the Archive. Here we hear a whispered conversation. 'Interweb Institution For the Differently Sane? Isn't that where—' 'Yes. That is why you are going there.' 'Ah. Just to observe, then.' 'Nothing else, mind you.' 'Of course not. I'll leave first thing in the morning.' 'Tonight.' 'Oh. I see. That soon?' 'It is a dangerous journey, and time is of the essence.' 'I'll just go and get my clippers now, then.' 'One other thing—' The following whisper is too quiet to hear, and so this is a good time for a scene change. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The voices bounced back and forth in ClouD's head like an extreme multiplayer tennis game. They were not his voices. They so rarely were.

He had gone insane again. The little central kernel of sanity that, as it were, defined him, was awfully embarrassed about the whole thing. To it, it was like catching the little cousin who had absolutely, expressively promised to stop doing all the worrying things, looking up doll's dresses again. He was currently being rather confused about a number of issues. The first was the laptop. It seemed to be in a great many pieces, a fact which completely and utterly befuddled him. He could not think why his friend the laptop was broken. He had surely not done something to offend it, could he? Now he couldn't moderate Dreamviews (of which he was a staff member). The second was Daniel. Every time he came in, he kept sighing and moping and not at all getting into their stories. There was obviously something very wrong with him; ClouD had repeated the words warrior, universe and intertwined many times, and he hadn't even turned his head. There had been one of these visits a few hours ago. Daniel had come in looking rather hopeful. 'Are you completely sane?' he said. ClouD frowned. 'I think,' he said, 'I should check with my alligator.' Daniel sighed a deep, heavy sigh. 'I'll take that as a no. Well,' said Daniel, 'the plan is going ahead anyway. I've got too far. I've already embezzled, what? . . . five thousand dollars from this place. A lot of people need paying. And now it's too late. You're damn crazy again. I really do have to thank you for that.' 'He says yes,' said ClouD, oblivious of Daniel's little rant. 'He says, in fact, that he would be delighted to go to dinner with you.' 'What the hell are you talking about?' snapped Daniel. 'The alligator,' said ClouD patiently. 'He says he would be delighted to go to dinner with you. He says you may have to order in. He says what would you like.' 'I would like,' snarled Daniel, 'for you to shut up.' 'Apparently that is not on the menu,' said ClouD, smiling serenely. Daniel slumped against the wall, and growled. 'I have dug myself into quite a hole,' he said. 'Have fun with your insanity.' And he left, storming and brewing, except he wasn't a storm, and he wasn't alcohol. And now it was now. And right now, Daniel had come in again. 'It is time to leave,' he hissed. 'The bake sale is preoccupying a very large amount of people, but soon they will get tired of eating things with the same taste and consistency of tar.' ClouD stood up, staring at his hands. 'I will have to,' he said, 'check with my alligator.' 'Screw your damn alligator!' said Daniel, grabbing ClouD's arm. 'You are running. We are going. Do not try to argue. Trust me, this was your idea in the first place.' ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ “How delicious, Sister Mary Margaret!” The apple pie tasted of burnt hair and had a curious deficit

of fruit, but it was sinful to be rude. At least that's what Sister Samuel said. Of course, Sister Samuel also said she was a woman, so Sister Samuel was a bit suspect. However, it was sinful not to give people the benefit of the doubt, even if they were built like a barrel, had more hair than most greater apes, and smelled like a sauna full of tuna. Thinking of saunas was probably sinful, too, so Sister Patunia did three quick Hail Marys just to be sure. The bake sale was getting on like a house on fire. That is to say, there was a lot of coughing and a permeating smell of something burning. Every single nurse, staff, and any of the patients that could be trusted with plastic flatware—which wasn't many, especially not Dave the Spork—were out on the front lawn, with folding tables set up to display all manner of baked goods—or at least cooked goods (to some degree, mostly about 325° too many)—to any and all willing to step through the large double gates, past the guards armed with tasers, to purchase a tasty treat. Or at least a treat that probably wouldn't bite back. So far two pies, three cookies, and one half of an indefinable pastry had been sold. Every customer but one had been either too polite or too afraid of being detained any longer than absolutely necessary to ask for a refund. The one that did was politely invited to trade her pie for a bun, but refused on the grounds of the bun was even blacker. Sister Patunia had the vague notion that this might be racist, and thus very sinful, but it would be impolite to bring this up, so she didn't. On her way back to the table she shared with Sisters Sense and Sensibility*, Sister Patunia noticed something peculiar out of the corner of her eye. A flash of movement through a window that opened onto a hallway, a hallway which should be unoccupied. Her first instinct was to go take a look-see herself, but then she remembered that a woman alone might inadvertently invite something sinful to happen, especially if there were a man in there, so instead she turned toward Sister Samuel's table. Though Sister Samuel did have many manly characteristics, she said she was a woman, and she knew how sinful it was to lie, so Patunia decided she would have to do. After telling Sister Samuel of her concern, the two started toward the side door into the building. Neither of them noticed the small man busily absorbed with his task of trimming the hedge that ran along the side of the building. Nor did they notice the blunt end of the clippers that neatly and efficiently, with no waste of inertia, relieved them of consciousness just inside the door. They didn't feel the small man throw them over his shoulders, one to each arm, and carefully carry them to a small office, where he placed them in comfortable chairs* and then locked the door on the way out, either. Lao-Pin was surprisingly strong for his size and age. Out on the lawn, the bake sale continued with limited success, but great enthusiasm. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The smell of burning wound it's way after them, as if it was somehow following Daniel and ClouD. The corridors were empty, devoid of any life for a few cockroaches, who had scuttled out to play, utilising their new-found freedom to not be crushed beneath a nun-ly boot. ClouD had taken a detour to the ground, to inspect the aforesaid roaches. 'I think,' he said, hunkering down and smiling delightedly at the roach, 'I like it.' Daniel pulled him up by his collar, and hissed into his ear.

'If you do not leave now, your ability to walk properly will be severely hampered by the fact that your legs are nailed to your head, ClouD. Run, damnit!' ClouD blinked. 'I think,' he said, 'you are a bit angry. I think—' Daniel dragged him away before he could inform him of what he thought, as it would undoubtedly be extremely ill-informed, wrong and just plain insane. He could still remember just a few days ago, when ClouD had been sane. He'd been terrifically sane, insightful and cynical to an endearing amount. In fact, he'd been the old ClouD. He'd been almost too sane. And now he was completely bonkers. It was like he had an on/off switch, with no middle ground. 'The door,' said Daniel, just as ClouD was starting to get control of his legs and keep up with him, 'is just a few more corridors. And then we'll be out of here.' ClouD looked crushed for a moment. 'But I would like to stay, Mr Wonka! Oh, please let me—' 'This,' said Daniel, his temper escalating, 'is not the chocolate factory. You are not Charlie. I am certainly not Mr Wonka. There are no little orange men, unless you count Mr Pamoo, and at least he only thinks he's one.' They slid around into another corridor. Out of an disregarded window, they could see a bake sale going on. ClouD's eyes lit up. Daniel put a hand over his mouth before he could say anything monumentally stupid. 'No you can not,' he hissed. 'There is no way that you will be going to that bake sale.' ClouD leaned forward, as if imparting a deep and complex family secret that had been passed down from generation to generation and protected from curious ears. And now, just now, he, ClouD, was going to let it go. 'It's just that,' he hissed, 'the alligator says he would like a muffin.' Daniel pulled him along the corridor. ClouD swore later that he heard two voices, and a thud, but ClouD heard a lot of things. Trusting his word would be akin to trusting the word of the devil on the matter of a little thing called a “contract”.* They sped round another corner, and came to the last corridor. It was unguarded. The door was a revolving one, a little joke of the nuns. They rushed out. A little man clipping a hedge watched them on their way to Daniel's car, but they didn't pay any attention to him; it's not like hedge-clippers were important. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ *That is, he was a man, and he was little. He was not a dwarf that had been maliciously politically corrected at. *In the case of the creator of the little-known thread on the Dreamviews community forum, “r u sure it wsnt a loocid drem?” this is not a metaphor. The poor twelve-yearold boy had a life-sized pachyderm step out of his screen and onto his head, irreversibly curing his spelling and grammar affliction. Some observers have theorised that this may have been the start of the Great Leak, but as any Monk of Chronology will tell you, that's bullwonky. *Twins, whose mother saw the error of her ways about three years too late. *Which are not, in actual point of fact, very easy to find in a mental institution. *'Contract? What contract? What exactly do you mean by “I stole your soul”?'

Tiger Riders and Other Such Things Howie tapped on the solid metal of the gate. He rattled at the padlock, which was, against all logic, locked – padlocked, in fact. He looked for any unknown little exits, and found none. Hopelessly, he tried to peer under the gate, and saw the bottom of the gate. He tried to look over, but it was too tall, and all he saw was gate. It was quite undoubtedly a gate, for the purpose of being a gate. It was, almost by definition, locked. It was a locked gate. That was what it was. 'Yes,' said Howie. 'It's definitely locked.' 'It's been that way since the Amendment,' said no-name. 'That's part of the reason why we're still in this place.' 'What the catgirl is the Amendment?' said slayer, peering hopelessly at the gate. 'I mean, I know there's the Bill of Rights—' 'This Amendment may be somewhat . . . different,' said Delphinus. 'It may, in fact, be completely different.' 'How so?' said Howie. 'For one thing,' said Delphinus, 'it's not an Amendment. More a sort of forcibly imposed dictatorial rule, kind of thing. It is, in fact, nothing like an Amendment, or exactly like it, depending on your point of view. It is, you could say, a bit unfair to a . . . select group of people.' 'And who might this group be?' asked Howie, hope quickly fading. 'You could say,' said Delphinus, 'that the group contains, as it were, everyone. The Amendment was the first thing to be changed after the Tyrant took over. Basically, according to it, you've got absolute freedom to leave, as long as you can get past a very high, nearly impenetrable gate, a legion of guards, a legion of tigers, and a legion—' 'Let me guess,' said Howie sarcastically, 'a legion of tiger riders?' 'Oh no,' said Delphinus. 'Much worse. A legion of screaming Twilight fans.' A shudder passed around the group like syphilis through a group of sexual experimenting teens. 'This is worse than I imagined,' said Howie. 'I thought it was bad when you mentioned the plague of goatse—' '—and the guards—' '—yes, and the guards—' '—and, may I point out, the tigers—' '—and the tigers, of course—' '—and the tiger riders, may I add—'

'—yes, and the tiger rider—wait. Hang on. You said there wasn't any tiger riders!' 'Did I? I can't imagine why I would not mention the tiger riders. The tiger riders,' said Delphinus, 'are not something I'd forget in a hurry. Indeed. The tiger riders, in fact, are really quite dangerous. The tiger riders are decidedly—' 'I think,' said Howie, 'we get the idea. Is there no other way we can escape this place?' 'Can you,' said no-name, 'climb over a wall eighty feet high, manned by efficient killer robots, that is also reinforced with barb-wire, all over it, and also guarded by a legion of tiger-riding guards with lasers?' 'No!' said Howie. 'And that can't be true!' 'Oh, no, it isn't,' said no-name nonchalantly. Howie sighed with relief. 'Oh well, that's goo—' 'The robots,' said Delphinus, 'also have lasers.' Howie threw up his arms in frustration. 'But we have a meeting!' he said. 'We have to get out of here! We have to see Grod and Goldney and Sindred – hell, all of them! We have to get to Digg.' 'Despite the pressing problem at hand,' said no-name, 'I am intrigued. What is this meeting, and why wasn't I invited?' 'You weren't in ClouD's list. You can blame him for that. But I promise if you get me out of here, you're both coming, if you want. We'll need all we can get, for the revival.' 'What is the revival?' said no-name. The streets seemed to be quieting down a bit. Instead of shouts of 'fag!', there were whispers; instead of heated discussions, there was just the sound of hurrying feet. An uneasy chill washed over Howie. 'This . . . thing,' said Howie, distractedly. 'This thing I'm doing. Building . . . back . . . Dreamviews.' Nearly total silence had fallen over the crowd. There was a few muffled shouts, a few whispers, a few conversations which slowly petered out as thousands of ears sucked at them. Then a deep, heavy silence fell. A cold wind blew across the street, scattering the rubbish of the day about. The LiveJournalers turned to look at the four of them, who suddenly felt very alone, despite being surrounded. Total silence, and nothing but the stare. 'I found this cool key!' said slayer, fiddling with the gate. Howie, Delphinus and no-name turned. Slayer was holding up a key. It was, presumably, a cool one. 'Now,' hissed Howie, 'is not, I think, the time, slayer.' 'Why no—' Slayer stopped, staring at the horde of LiveJournalers . . . . . . they stretched out across LiveJournal, standing as one being united, an entity of people

combined in one purpose, one goal. A whole city of people, all of them connected, all of them one. And all of them marching towards the four companions in an unstoppable wave. 'Oh, shit,' said Howie. As the four of them backed into the gate, they saw the horde reach into their pockets, all at the same time. They each withdrew a Guy Fawkes mask, and fitted it onto their face. The horde, as one, marched forward, like clockwork soldiers. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ClouD and Daniel drove down the street like madmen, which was fair enough. 'Do you think,' said Daniel, grinning madly, 'it was a mistake embezzling thousands of dollars and breaking a madman out of a mental institution? Please do not say anything about alligators or crocodiles or platypuses, please.' 'Platypi,' said ClouD, staring out of the window with wonder. 'What?' said Daniel. 'It is pronounced,' said ClouD, rather preoccupied with the world, 'platypi.' Daniel paused for a moment, and sighed, to keep back the scream. 'Do you think it will be a crime to murder you right now?' said Daniel. 'I wouldn't know, Mr Dinwiddy. Ask the platypi.' Daniel sighed again, and drove on, countryside rolling past them. 'I would like,' he said, 'some pornography. I really would. I'm probably a wanted criminal, I've got a madman in my car, right next to me, and I'd really like some pornography.' At the mention of such a thing, ClouD's eyes lit up. His head snapped towards Howie. 'Take the next left,' he said. 'And the left after that. Then a right and, yes, another left. Then take the third exit on the roundabout, turn around, circle around the fallen statue, and take the second left turnoff. Dodge around the squirrel, and then the dog. Take a right, and take the first turnoff on the roundabout. Wait for the ferry. If it is night time, do not wait for the ferry. When the ferry comes, get on, right next to the slightly overweight man who looks angry at everyone. Sit there stationary on the ferry for a while. Ignore the muttering coming from the other car. Get off the ferry. Take a left, two second rights, then another left. Pointedly refrain from swearing at me for saying stupid. Just dodge the kid running across the road. Actually swear at me. 'Take a left, then a right, then a left. Take another right. If possible, stop for icecream – I like chocolate; it's nice and simple. Pull out of the carpark. Continue down the main street and swear a lot until you find a toilet. Go to the toilet for a substantial amount of time; it's all that icecream you ate. Get back in the car. Swear at me a little. If this is not possible, swear at a few little children. Laugh at their salty, salty tears. Refuse to admit you are lost. Swear at me a little. 'Eventually pull over to ask for directions. Drive very quickly away from the priest you just asked for directions to pornography. Drive to a sex shop. They should know. Swear at me a little. Go inside the shop. Be disturbed by the particularly jiggling things inside. Ask a priest inside for

directions to pornography. Suspect that said priest is the same one as before. Go outside and get back into the car. 'Turn left, turn right, turn left. Wander around aimlessly for a bit. Pretend to know where you are. Swear at me a little. Find roundabout, turn the opposite way in a highly illegal manoeuvre. Go back to the sex shop. Apologise, and ask for directions again. Ask them to repeat it. Get out a piece of paper. Write said directions down. 'Follow said directions to RedTube. Enjoy tasteless pornography.' ClouD let out a big breath. Daniel was staring ahead, his eyes wide. 'What,' he said, 'was that?' ClouD shook his head, as if shaking out a few cobwebs. 'I . . . don't know,' he said. 'It just . . . came to me. Like a flash.' 'Maybe you're just good at finding pornography,' said Daniel. 'Like a sniffer dog, but for porn.' 'Yes,' said ClouD. 'I do imagine it would stink, all that sweat and spit and . . . stuff. Very sniffable, I would say.' 'I note with pleasure,' said Daniel, 'that you have gained your sanity again.' 'It'll soon be gone,' said ClouD. 'It's like sex, really; brief, with long intervals between, and a general feeling of embarrassment afterwards.' Daniel took the next left, and the left after that. Then he took a right, then another left, and the third exit on the roundabout. He circled round the statue, and took the second left turnoff. They were on their way. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Man of Steel looked at what we was looking at up and down. 'Beautiful,' he breathed. 'God-damn absolutely the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.' He waved a hand, and added, 'Put on the other one.' Vira put on the other one. 'Beautiful,' he breathed. 'Absolutely beautiful. I could eat you. Although not literally, because that'd be kind of weird. Unless you're into that kind of thing. I mean, I could do that. A little nibble here and there, I guess. Now, yes, put on the one with the tassels.' Vira put on the one with the tassels. 'Beautiful,' he breathed. 'Damn absolutely beautiful. Now put on the frilly one, thanks Vira.' Vira put on the frilly one. 'Beautiful,' he breathed. 'Damn beautiful. This is quite probably one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. Put on the one with the flowers, will you, Vira.'

Vira put on the one with the flowers. 'Beautiful,' he breathed. 'Amazing. Fantastic.' He paused for a moment, to admire. 'This,' he said eventually, 'is the most beautiful table-cloth I've ever seen. Thank you for putting them on the table, Vira. You may leave.' Vira left, smiling faintly. Man of Steel admired the one with the flowers. It was beautiful. Amazing. Fantastic. He lifted up a dish of potatoes, and placed it on the tablecloth, which shifted slightly. 'Take that,' he breathed. 'You naughty girl, you. Oh damn.' All Too Serious There was a groan. It was a groan with layers, that spoke of frustration and anger and pain. It was a groan with opinions, and strong ones at that. If this groan was a person, one felt, it would be Rosie O'Donnell. It had come from a pile of newspapers, and whether it was the newspapers that had spoken or someone under them was unclear; Schrodinger's Cat, but with less murdering of innocent – well, relatively innocent – cats. There was another groan, just the same as the last. The pile of newspapers shifted. A head emerged, and the shoulders it was attached to did so too. It groaned. A newspaper slid off the head. There was a sound like a bag of bricks hitting the floor, which was exactly what the sound was. The head groaned. It's alarm had gone off. The head extended, and was inexplicably followed by a body. The man emerged from the sea of newspapers like an ancient sea monster from an ancient time, when it was a lot more exciting, or at least a lot more dangerous.* There was a groan. The man walked across to his door, dry, dusty newspapers cascading off him. He picked up the bag of bricks from the floor, and took a roll of sticky-tape from a nearby bench. With the tape, he taped the bag up over the door again. The tape would deteriorate at exactly 8:00 A.M the next morning, if all went to plan.* There was a groan. The man sunk down onto the newspapers again. He slipped a thick diary out of his pocket, and flipped through the pages randomly. October 24. Probably. Woke up. Groaned. Taped bricks.

Wrote in diary. And next to that: October 24. No. October 25. Woke up. Groaned. Taped bricks. Shouted at a cat. Groaned. Wrote in diary. Was exciting day. He flipped through some more pages, and came to the latest one. By then, it had degraded into abbreviations so abbreviated the original words were unclear. That is, they would be unclear if you didn't know, with an absolute certainty, what those words would be; just as they were every, single day. Mar 666 (HAHA IT'S REALLY JUST MARCH 6) Wk up. Grnd. Tpd bcks. Grnd. Wte in dry. It was heady stuff. The man slowly, delicately, painstakingly carefully took out a pen, and wrote a few words in the diary. He snapped it shut, then lay back down. It smelled like something had died in here. He hoped it was him. He turned over on the newspapers. Moose Nearly Hit By Car It was a Canadian newspaper. It wasn't their fault. There was a groan. Outside, a light rain began to fall. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The horde advanced, and all was silent, apart from the rhythmic pounding of feet. 'What's going on?' said Howie, the metal gate digging into his back. 'You guys have been here longer!' 'No idea,' hissed no-name. 'No damn idea.' The first of the horde were now only a few metres away, their masks marking them as no one but another cog in some great machine. They still marched forward stiffly, all of their focus on one goal; the four of them. Delphinus pulled out a crossbow from some mysterious fold of clothing. He aimed at one of the masked horde.

'Die, motherf-' he said, but was interrupted as a toaster materialised above him from the very atoms of the air, and neatly fell onto his head. Delphinus went down. 'He really isn't very good at this whole thing,' muttered no-name. There was a crunch as Delphinus' crossbow was crushed beneath the feet of the horde. The three of them pulled Delphinus back before he could suffer the same fate. The horde was mere metres away. They stared at the four of them, and ground to a halt. Nothing. No movement, no sound, no feeling. Just the silence of the horde's stare. 'It seems,' said Howie quietly, 'they have stopped.' 'Well, that's lucky,' said slayer cheerfully. 'I thought we were in real trouble there. But guys, look at this, I found this really cool key!' 'I don't care,' said Howie, 'about the damn key. Can we move? It's just that I think it may, you know, disturb the-' The closest of the horde's hand shot up, and caught Howie in the throat. It's vice-like grip closed. There was a horrible sound like half a gurgle, half a choke. The grip closed tighter. Slayer and no-name beat at the fist, but it remained resolutely closed, it's owner staring out of it's mask at nothing, absolutely nothing. Howie tried to breath, which just closed the man's grip tighter around his throat. He fell to his knees, his face red. His masked killer stared down without any emotion, without any care, without anything. A light rain began to fall. The light began to fade from Howie's eyes. No-name kicked the man in the balls. His grip faltered, and Howie fell back, gasping for breath. 'They're still people,' said no-name. 'They've still got genitalia to kick!' The masked man was gasping on the ground. His mask had fallen off. He was staring up at the four of them desperately, pleadingly. 'Please,' he croaked. 'Please help me.' 'What?' said slayer. 'What?' The horde began to march again. A foot came down on the unmasked man's face, spilling blood across his face. Another came down on his rib, and there was a horrible crack. The horde did not notice. The horde marched on. The man was trampled to a bloody pulp. The horde swarmed over our four heroes like hyenas over dead flesh, except they didn't rip bits of meat off them, and our four heroes totally weren't dead. They picked up the four of them in arms of

iron, instead, and they could not resist. The horde could not be stopped. And stretching across LiveJournal, there was nothing but the grinning face of Guy Fawkes; anonymous, nothing. The horde marched onwards, the four of them in their grip, and stopped at the great metal gate. There was a sound like the whole of LiveJournal talking, which was exactly what it was. 'What do you want, Master?' 'Bring them to me!' screamed a voice that seemed to fill the whole world. 'Bring them to me!' The horde turned smartly, and marched on through the streets of LiveJournal. On the whole, thought Howie, this was probably a bad idea. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 'I think,' said Daniel, 'we should try again.' They were doing riddles. The theory was that it would keep ClouD's brain busy, and therefore keep him sane. The trouble, thought Daniel, was that there really wasn't much to keep busy. 'We have a man, okay?' he said. 'So he's sitting––' 'Is he,' said ClouD, 'an old man or a young man? Or possibly a middle-aged one? It's just that it might be relevant.' 'The age,' said Daniel, 'is not important. The important bit is that we have a man. This man, see––' 'I wonder,' said ClouD, 'why it is not a woman. I mean, not to be facetious, but equal opportunity and all.' 'It can be a woman,' growled Daniel. 'The important bit, you see, is that we have a man or a woman – hell, we have a person who is sitting down.' 'Sitting down,' said ClouD. 'Yes, got that.' 'So this man––' '––woman,' said ClouD helpfully. 'The gender does not matter!' screamed Daniel, taking his eyes off the road for a moment. 'This person isn't even real!' ClouD looked thoughtful. 'You mean to say,' he said, 'that this woman is not even a real person?' 'I think I made that pretty clear!' 'Then whatever are we doing this for?' said ClouD incredulously. 'I was interested before. This woman could have had real-life issues going on! She could have been menstruating, or have an abusive boyfriend or anything!'

'She can have both,' growled Daniel, 'if it shuts you up! She can have an abusive father too, and a dead mother! She can have an evil stepmother. She can clean the damn floor with her face, if you want. But will you let me get on with it?' ClouD nodded. 'Okay,' he said. 'Okey-dokey. Let's get . . . on with . . . it.' Something went click. 'Blimps!' said ClouD. 'Blimps everywhere! Flying through the Internet on wings of steel!' 'Poop,' said Daniel, 'you've gone mad again.' They drove on. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ There was a groan. The man got up, and waded through some newspapers until he came to a big, white metal block that may have been a fridge. He opened the door. It was probably a fridge, but whoever kept newspapers in one didn't deserve to keep it. The man rummaged around until he found some old, old pancakes that may not have been newspaper. He peeled off the bits that had headlines, and began to eat. They tasted dry, and kind of like newspaper. Wonderful. He'd have a new entry for his dairy. He slithered back onto his pile and it shifted beneath him. He pulled out his diary, and began to write. It was at 'nwspapr', when he heard the thud. It was a quiet, understated thud, but it was, nevertheless, a thud. Asher looked up in panic. 'Hello?' he said, but his answer was nothing but silence. There was another little thud; the kind of thud that any normal person wouldn't have noticed because it was the normal kind of thud that might be achieved by, say, a toaster hitting someone in the head. Asher wasn't a normal person, however. He tried to scramble over the pile, kicking drifts of newspaper up, tried to drag himself along with his own hands, tried to flop down the pile like a big fat sea lion, and completely failed to get anywhere. He stood up, and sunk down to his waist in the pile. There was a quiet little tinkle of glass breaking, and another quiet little thud. They were coming. Asher flopped around helplessly, trying to pull himself out from his pile which now seemed not quite as a good idea as it had when he had started with the whole thing. Footsteps.

The door smashed open, hinges ripped and thrown aside like crepe paper. The bricks fell with a thud. A man stood in the doorway. He was holding a gun, in the official kind of way official people that are used to holding guns hold guns. 'I'll swallow!' said asher desperately, in the desperate kind of voice that desperate people say desperate things with. The man in the doorway grinned. 'I've got people for that,' he said, and shot asher in the head very accurately. There was a neat little spattering of blood and flesh and brain, which blocked out the 'Nearly' in the boring headline, making it much more exciting. The man in the doorway picked up a newspaper and, using a jet black lighter, lit it on fire. He threw the flaming piece of paper into the dry, dry mountains of newspaper. Fire roared. 'Can't have people finding out,' said the man in the doorway. 'Terribly sorry, old friend.' He walked away. The only clue would be the bullet, and by then he'd be far away.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ *This is an important distinction that has done a lot of free work for natural selection over time. Unfortunately, it is also a distinction that hasn't quite sunk into the human consciousness yet, and especially those parts of the human consciousness that, say, base jump. *Unfortunately, this is never the case, quite probably due to the expectation that everything will just go to plan.

Rather Fun The horde marched up the hill, swarming, four utterly insignificant figures held aloft. The echoes of that great voice still seemed to be littered around Howie's ears like bodily fluids after a particularly vigorous orgy. For a moment, that voice had been everything; for just a second, all of existence had been nothing but a footnote on the great, majestic being that was the voice. Also, it sounded kind of English. They were not being held individually, but rather held by a general consensus of the crowd, passed from hand to hand, knocked from shoulder to shoulder, and always above the horde, always helpless to escape. There was a constant chant, echoing around the place. . . . lululululululululullululululululululullulululululu lululullululululululululullululululululululul . . . Howie groaned, and opened his eyes. He was lightheaded and weak, his throat still throbbing in pain. Lights swam in front of his eyes; horrifying, strange shapes of malformed owls, giant peaches, hamsters and Rick Astley. It took him a while to realise they weren't just lights. 'Memes!' said Howie. 'Memes everywhere!' They followed the horde like lapdogs, swarmed above them, around them, and flitted in between the

marching shapes. 'They come with the trolls!' said no-name. 'They've infected the whole place. Turned it into just another 4chan. We should have noticed before!' 'But they've just got masks,' muttered Delphinus, who had gained consciousness from a particularly knobbly elbow into a particularly personal place. 'They're not actual trolls!' 'Troll worshippers,' said no-name. 'Troll soldiers. Troll drones. I don't know! But I'm not really keen on debating the nature of them while they've got us like this. I'd really just like to concentrate on the fact that they've got us like this, thank you.' The memes swarmed around the four of them, drawn to their warmth, or possibly their sanity. The troll horde continued up the hill, and started to flow in one direction; a large, majestic place towering over all of LiveJournal. 'The Palace of Life!' said Delphinus. 'They've taken it. They're taking us to the Palace! Whoever the hell that voice was, it came from there!' 'What's the Palace of Life?' said Howie weakly. 'It's a long story,' said Delphinus. 'But, well, a lot of people wanted to talk about their life, and how bad it was. And then it just grew. Expanded outwards, merged, became the Palace. We've never been there. Only the Pope of LiveJournal lives in there, with his servants and maids and shit.' The first of horde – all those who weren't overweight, unfit or simply lazy; a very small amount – had reached the great double doors of the palace. The doors burst open without them even touching it, and they streamed in. The four were pushed through the door. It was a dark, sulking place inside, with black wallpapers, black curtains, black furniture, black pillows, guards clad in, yes, black and a black carpet. It was very black. That was forgotten, though, because at that moment, the voice was back. 'To the throne room!' it shrieked. 'To the throne room!' The horde poured through another door, then another, the four of them helpless to do anything but be bumped along with them. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ They had arrived. Over the door, in big, red, and what they probably thought as seductive letters, were the words: RedTube Home of Porn 'Looks like quite a pleasant place,' said Daniel.

'Mudababa!' said ClouD. Daniel sighed. 'A point to consider, certainly.' He got out of the car, followed by ClouD, a little hesitantly. A faint sound was coming from the big, hulking building. It sounded very much like moaning. Daniel paused for a moment. 'Do you think,' he said, 'this is a good idea?' 'Wrrrryyyyy,' said ClouD emphatically. 'Perhaps,' said Daniel, 'you're right.' He locked the car, and walked up to the door. ClouD followed him slowly, looking around intently at everything, as if afraid it would suddenly disappear. There were two heavily muscled men at the door. They were staring intently at them. 'Uh,' said Daniel. 'Uh. Do you need any, uh. Do you need any ID, or anything?' One of the men grinned. 'No.' 'Any, uh, admittance fee?' 'No.' 'Any kind of ticket of some sort?' said Daniel. 'No, sir.' 'Anything?' 'No, sir. We just let any old person in.' The man winked aggressively. 'We find it saves a lot of trouble in the long run. Just try not to have sex with anyone when you're inside, sirs. It's generally frowned upon.' 'I'll bite your freekin dick off!' snarled ClouD at the wall. Daniel dragged him inside. It was a large, dark, round foyer, with a seemingly endless circle of doors around the walls. A lot of people were hanging around, glancing at each other nervously and looking generally embarrassed about the whole thing. Some light and entirely inappropriate elevator music was playing. On each of the doors, there was a little short, eye-watering clip playing. Occasionally some people entered these doors, and occasionally people left. There was a general tense attitude about the place, as if everyone suspected everyone else of being a dirty little pervert, and were probably right. 'Where do we go?' said Daniel, half to himself. 'I mean, I don't want to get too extreme' –– he pointed to a door that seemed to be rather popular –– 'but I don't want to fall asleep in the middle of the whole thing.' 'I think,' said ClouD, blinking rather a lot and struggling to form a fully coherent sentence, 'I think that we should go in . . . the one with the music.' 'They all have music!' said Daniel. 'Not very tasteful stuff, either, may I add. Not even any classical.

No Bach, no Tchiavosky!' 'You didn't fucking come here for classical music,' said a passing boy, who looked entirely too young for swearing. 'Kids,' muttered Daniel, then added after the boy, after he was at a safe distance, 'clean up your hair!' He nodded, satisfied. 'No respect for old age these days,' he added. Even through the deep mists of insanity, this seemed to strike ClouD as odd. 'You're 22,' he said. 'Older than him,' snarled Daniel, then opened the closest door and walked through. On the wall a projection was playing. Someone was making vigorous motions. Someone else seemed to like this. There was a small audience watching, and everyone looked a bit befuddled about the fact that everyone else had to insist on being there. 'No one move!' cried ClouD rather excitedly. 'This is a hold up!' Daniel sighed. 'Excuse my friend. We are not holding up anything. Especially,' he added darkly, 'good old moral values.' The audience paused for a moment to collectively look him up and down. Several rather aged people seemed a bit affronted by the fact that he was talking about 'good old moral values'.* They turned back to their rather vigorous showing. Daniel was just about to sit down when he spotted Sandform. He was wearing an old fedora and an old trench coat, and he looked immensely miserable. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The doors to the throne room were double, and they both looked very expensive. This didn't save the horde from beating them down. It was a very basic throne room. There was a throne, there was some tasteless gold decorations. There was some cherubs. There were a great many curtains. The man sitting on the throne, however, is indescribable, so the author has been generous enough to, with care and aptitude, draw him.

The man grinned in a quite pirate-like way, and waved his scimitar around like a pirate. 'Let me see them,' he said, kind of like a pirate, but more like an Englishman. Two of the horde grabbed the four of them by the arms and dragged them forward. They kicked their legs out from under them. The man surveyed them, sort of like a pirate. 'Who are you, little men?' he said. 'Who are you to break into my LiveJournal and disturb my business?'

No-name stood up, and looked dramatic at the man. 'The Exterminators,' he said, rather dramatically. 'Never heard of them,' said the man, then cut no-name's head off. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 'How long?' said Daniel, rather incredulously. They had exited the disturbingly vigorous room, and were out in the foyer. They had found a few chairs to sit on, and a great many people were looking at them weird, as if sitting down and talking was a rather bizarre thing to do. 'Three years,' said Sandform miserably. 'I've been looking at that damn video for three years. I've memorised every groan, every moan, every overacted piece of bullshit that video has in it. I know it's length. I know every thrust; I've counted them. I know every single facial expression, every single twitch, and I've memorised every flaw that both of those people have. I know their thoughts by now. The woman has mother issues, and feels immensely dissatisfied with her life. When she was growing up she wanted to be a pony. When she was a little bit more realistic, she wanted to be an accountant. When she was an unemployed, miserable bastard, she wanted to be less of one. She never thought something like that would happen, and she rather likes a good cup of Earl Grey and a grapefruit, but is afraid to admit it, in case she sounds English. The man is a rather smart but lazy boy, who, when he was just six, wanted to be not a fireman or an astronaut or a caterpillar but a President. He's got not an ounce of ambition, though, and a hell of a lot of skill, and that combines to make a kind of weak arrogance. He desperately wants his parents to disapprove, to get a little bit of damn normality in his life, but they're just happy he doesn't want breasts and a vagina. If I was forced to watch that damn video one more time, I would have a haemorrhage.' There was a deep, black silence for a moment, that threatened to swallow them all. 'Why didn't you just leave?' said Daniel. 'The door was hardly locked.' 'I was cursed,' said Sandform, 'by a witch to watch a video looking shady for the rest of my life until someone invited me out. I do have to thank for that.' 'Hem,' said Daniel. 'Did you know . . . that I broke a madman out of a mental institution and, probably right now, am a wanted criminal?' 'No,' said Sandform. 'I hope that goes well.' They both stared despondently at ClouD, who was prodding a potted plant with a great amount of concentration. 'Do you think,' said Sandform, 'that he knows what he's doing, or does he just cruise along?' 'I think,' said Daniel, 'that I would very much like to get out of here. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The head rolled to a stop. It looked rather shocked. Blood spurted from the stump of no-name's neck. '!' said Howie.

'!' said slayer. 'Ouch,' said Delphinus, because the man had just thrown a toaster at him, knocking him out. 'You killed him!' said Howie, once he had regained his senses. 'Well observed!' said the man cheerfully, waving his scimitar around. 'Take them to the . . . yes, take them to the Room of The Iron Maiden.' The horde swamped. The horde backed away, the three of them in their grip. The horde disappeared out the door. The man watched them go. 'Yarr,' he said. 'I'm a pirate.' ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ *You will find that it is very rarely old people that actually talk about 'good old moral values'. The very fact of their age, in fact, debilitates them in this; they'd seen enough of life to know that 'good old moral values' only existed in words.

Precious Metal But first, they had to do something about the car. 'Hothothot Girls . . . ASSPENISCOCKVAGINA,' said the car. 'It seems,' said Daniel carefully, 'that my car is talking.' 'TEENCUNT,' agreed the car. Sandform put his head in his hands, and rubbed his temples. He had taken off his fedora and his trench coat, which made him look exactly the same, except he didn't have a fedora or a trench coat on any more. He still looked shady. It seemed to be an unstoppable force. 'It's got a virus,' he said. 'You shouldn't have brought your damn car here.' 'A virus?' said Daniel. 'Like AIDS? Because I'm sure a car can't get that-' 'No,' said Sandform, 'not AIDS. Like . . . a computer virus, except for cars.' 'Oh?' said Daniel nastily. 'Download some bad pornography, did it? Maybe “Hot Exchaust Pipe Gets Driven”?' 'Don't be ridiculous,' said Sandform. 'There's only a limited market for that kind of thing. It's probably just tried to download a bad game or something.' 'It's a car!' wailed Daniel. 'I've never known it to download anything!' 'PENISASS,' said the car. 'Lul, put it in the pooper,' said ClouD helpfully.

'He's degenerating,' said Sandform. 'It's awful.' 'Well, he is a madman-' 'Oh, ClouD too, yes.' Daniel stared despondently at the car. 'Will it still work?' he said. 'Well, it'll drive,' said Sandform. 'But . . . well, think of it like a computer for a moment. It'll run like an armadillo on dope and there'll be pop-ups in the windscreen every few minutes advertising super-vibrating condoms for the small payment of a human liver and the title deeds to your house. I'm afraid it'll be a rather difficult journey.' 'Damn,' said Daniel. 'Can it get me far?' 'They got me quite far,' said Sandform. 'They were complete rip-offs, of course. They hardly vibrated at all.' 'I was talking,' said Daniel patiently, 'about the car.' 'It can probably get you a few miles, yes,' said Sandform. 'I saw,' said ClouD bursting in suddenly, 'a used-car dealership a while back.' Daniel nodded and opened his door. 'Let's just go there, shall we?' 'HOTVAJINABONED,' agreed the car. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 'Did he mean,' shouted slayer over the crowd, 'a room full of Iron Maiden music?' Howie was bumped from one shoulder to the next. 'What?' he said. 'No. Don't you know what an Iron maiden is?' 'Is it,' said slayer uncertainly, 'some kind of fish?' 'Quite a bit different from a fish, I should say. It's this . . . box. It's quite a spiky one.' 'I don't get it,' said slayer. 'Why are there spikes on the box?' 'Uh,' said Howie. 'More . . . in the box I should say.' The horde was still marching uniformly, all of their feet thudding down at the same time, all with the same upright stance, all with the same mask. Howie, slayer and Delphinus just simply rode the wave. They came to a big, heavy iron door. There was a big padlock hooked on, and, by it's own accord, it flung itself away, tearing away from the lock. The bolt slid back, and the horde pushed in. 'You'll see-' said Howie. He stopped.

It was a room full of Iron Maiden music. Ranged around the walls, on the floor, on the ceiling, covering every surface, were speakers, all of them pounding out loud yet socially relevant metal. On the floor were a few seats, bolted home. The three of them were strapped into these by the horde. Delphinus tried to bite one of the horde weakly, and was rewarded with a punch across the nose. Kill for gain or shoot to maim But we don't need a reason The golden goose is on the loose And never out of season Bruce Dickinson sang on, social relevancying the shit out of the three. Some blackened pride still burns inside This shell of bloody treason Here's my gun for a barrel of fun For the love of living death. 'Two minutes to midnight,' said Delphinus weakly. The other two looked at him, and Howie raised an eyebrow. 'I'm not allowed to be a metal fan, am I?' he said accusingly. 'Just because I'm pretty?' Go to war again, blood is freedoms stain, But dont you pray for my soul anymore. Two minutes to midnight The hands that threaten doom. Two minutes to midnight To kill the unborn in the womb. Slayer twisted at his restraints. The music pounded on, the speakers shaking, the three of them unable to do anything but have a moral message pounded into their very brain. 'I normally like this kind of stuff,' said Delphinus, 'but it's too loud. I can't hear anything but that pounding rhythm!' 'What?' screamed Howie over the music. 'What?' shrieked Delphinus at him, because he was a little girl who shrieked. Slayer shrieked too, but that was because the music had pounded into his head and buried itself in his mind, leaving it's rhythm stuck in there like a ladle in a drawer. He began to sing along with ungodly laughter. That'll happen to me, too, thought Howie. You can't stop it. It's too loud. Two minutes to miiidnight. It's happening. The body bags and little rags of children torn in two And the jellied brains of those who remain to put the finger right on you. As the madmen play on words and make us all dance to their song, To the tune of starving millions to make a better kind of gun. The music pounded on.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ No-names body was still standing. The man was rather amused by the fact. He giggled, and watched the blood flow and sputter out of the sad little stump of a neck. He poked the body with his scimitar, and it fell over stiffly, with a dull thud. He giggled. 'Yarr,' he said. 'I'm a pirate.' He waved his scimitar around in a general kind of way, in case this needed some clarification. He reached up to the stiff fabric of his eye patch, and for the first time in years, remembered. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The boy looked up at his mother with enamoured eyes. She was his world, and he was her worshipper. She was Mummy. She could do anything, including making baby noises at him and blowing on his tummy. She was practically a superhero. Also, she had milk. He hadn't learned to speak yet. He was young, and a mould to outside influences, one of which was about to arrive. He was playing in the sand, throwing it around, making bizarre shapes of sand, all vaguely lumpy and relatively shapeless, when a shadow loomed over him. He looked up. The shadow had come from a body. It was, he recognised, a stranger, and he screamed and screamed until his little girly voice was hoarse, but no one came. The man laughed. 'I've taken her,' he said. 'No use in screaming.' The little boy continued to, tears running down his face. The man flicked him in the ear. 'Do you know who I am?' said the man. 'I'm not just some man you scream at! Do you know who I am?' New thoughts and concepts he had never seen before clicked into the little boy's head. Suddenly, it was all clear. It had all been so simple. 'Poohead,' said the boy, a terrifically embarrassing first word. 'No,' said the man calmly. 'I'm the Gold Avenger. Do you know what I can do?' 'Poohead,' said the boy, seeking comfort in repetition. 'No,' said the Gold Avenger. 'I'm a superhero. I can manipulate an incredibly soft, rare and monumentally useless metal. Isn't that great?' 'Poohead,' said the boy. The Gold Avanger growled. He raised his hands and, sneaking out of the sand, as if mightily embarrassed about the whole thing, came a few grains of gold. They flew up and settled in his hands. 'Wasn't that amazing?' said the Gold Avenger.

'Sowwy?' said the boy, who had gone back to making a ninja-turtle-bear-pirate in the sand. So far, it had been turning out rather well, if somewhat erratically. 'You don't pay attention,' said the Gold Avenger, then threw the little grains of gold into the boy's right eye, and ran away, giggling like a schoolgirl. It blinded him for life. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 'Yarr,' said the man darkly. 'I'm a pirate.' He swung his scimitar around and buried it in the wall. He threw down all the gilt and garish decorations and he stamped and stamped and stamped. Then he picked up no-name's head. He peered into the lifeless eyes, then, looking thoughtful, closed them. He strapped the head to his pirate-belt, and walked into an incredibly secret room. He looked at the things bubbling there, and he laughed, actually happy, a thing that hadn't happened to him for a long time. He got to work. There was much to do. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Man of Steel sat, and waited. They hadn't come yet, but he had all the time in the world. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ It was an epileptics nightmare. Lights flashed on and off, the windows wound down, then wound up again with finger-crushing speed. The engine stopped and started, sometimes disappeared, sometimes reappeared in the trunk and just sometimes was in the proper place and running. But they had got there. It may have been faster walking, but it sure wouldn't have been so delightfully terrifying. The car rolled into the used-care dealership, and promptly disappeared. 'Well, at least it was easily disposed of,' said Daniel brushing himself off. 'How delightfully true,' said ClouD, who had caught English. 'How splendidly unerringly unquestionable.' Daniel sighed. It was only a wonder he hadn't acquired some tea and a crumpet from somewhere. The salesman wandered up to them cautiously, head down, slouched. He didn't look at all right. 'Fuck cats,' he said simply. 'I'm sorry?' said Sandform. 'Fuck,' said the salesman, 'cats.' 'Say,' said Daniel, 'your name couldn't be . . . slayer, could it? Because I kind of knew someone-'

'No,' snarled the salesman. 'Absolutely not. Now, buy a car or get the fuck out.' Daniel reeled at this subtle sale technique. His eyes boggled. 'Don't,' said the salesman, 'look so surprised. Ten fucking percent. Ten percent for every car I sell goes to me now. It wasn't my fault. It was his damn eyes! And I can't even quit, because the economy has fucking diarrhoea. I can't quit because the economies got a big fucking shit-stain on it's pants!' He waved his hand around wildly, looking for a table to hit his fist on. When none turned up, he settled on breaking the windshield of a Ferrari. 'Do you know,' he hissed, 'that my wife has left me?' 'You haven't got a wife,' said Daniel. 'No woman would let a man swear like that.' 'Fuck!' screamed the salesman. 'I can't even lie!' He put his head in his hands and cried thick and rolling tears. 'How terrible,' said ClouD. 'How positively atrocious.' 'You a fucking poofter?' hissed the salesman. 'You a fucking faggot?' 'Just,' said ClouD, 'English.' 'Oh,' said the salesman. He sounded disappointed. Suddenly, his head shot wildly up. 'I use bad words because I'm lonely and cold and I just need a hug!' he screamed. 'I'm poor and my only friend is this cancer doctor guy and I totally have a cane and everything!' 'I think you're confusing yourself with House,' said Sandform. 'Of course I am,' shrieked the man, and coughed erratically and with great enthusiasm. 'You want a free car? Because my boss can go fuck himself, although he already has his right hand for that. I've got footage,' he added darkly. Daniel grinned. 'Such a pleasant offer!' ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ They had gone through Two Minutes to Midnight, The Number of The Beast, Run to The Hills and The Trooper, and were now just Iron Maiden music with a thin, fleshy wrapper around it. 'You tell me we can start the rain. You tell me that we all can change,' screamed Howie along with Bruce Dickinson. 'You tell me we can find something to wash the tears away. You tell me we can start the rain. You tell me that we all can change,' sung slayer. He was coughing and weeping and kicking, but he didn't stop the singing. 'You tell me we can find something to wash the tears. And I know, of the pain, that you feel the same as me. And I dream, of the rain, as it falls upon the leaves. And the cracks, in the ground, like the

cracks are in our lives. They are sealed, and are now, far away,' joined in Delphinus, breaking into solo. They finished off the chorus again, and they finished off the whole song. Then they started and they finished Fear of The Dark. Then they began with another and another and another and didn't stop, not one instant. All Too Serious Part 2 (Whose Only Connection to 'All Too Serious' [Which I Guess Should Be Called All Too Serious Part 1 Now, I Guess] Is The Fact That It Is 'all too serious' {Note That This Is Not Capitalised; This Is Due To The Fact That It May Be Confused With 'All Too Serious [The Chapter, Not The Concept]}); Also, It's Kind Of Connected Due To The Fact That 'All Too Serious' (The Chapter, Not The Concept) Is The One Where Those LiveJournal Dudes (You Know, The Ones In The Story) Got Those Other Four Guys (Howie, Delphinus, slayer And no-name [Note That These Last Two Names Are Not Capitalised Because This Is How They Are On The Forum {That Is, Dreamviews}]) 'His eyes,' muttered the salesman, 'were the problem. Did I mention this?' Sandform sighed. 'Yes,' he said, 'you did. You've been mentioning it for the last ten minutes.' 'I just think,' said the salesman, 'I haven't quite got my point across. You see, you see, it was this guy's eyes. He was with this other guy, an older guy. There was decidedly nothing wrong with his eyes. But there was this guy, right, and he had these eyes, right, and there were – where was I?' 'You were talking,' said Daniel wearily, 'about the eyes.' 'Right. The eyes,' said the salesman, 'were decidedly awful ones. This guy, you see, had pretty awful eyes.' 'Where do I sign?' said Daniel, glancing at the large and complicated contract in front of him. 'On the dotted lines,' said the salesman, looking a bit annoyed about being distracted from the eyes. 'There's a lot of dotted lines!' 'Yes. Sign on them. Did I tell you,' said the man, 'about the eyes? It's just that I was getting to the exciting bit. About the eyes, I mean.' 'What,' said Daniel, 'is the exciting bit?' 'The exciting bit, you see, the exciting bit,' he said, 'the exciting bit is when I looked him in the eye. On second thoughts, though, it wasn't quite as much exciting as horrifying. There were . . .' 'Yes?' 'People,' said the salesman. 'But, like, cat-people. It was horrible.' A horrible understanding began to dawn on Daniel. He stopped signing for a moment. 'Oh no,' he murmured. 'This man, he couldn't have looked kind of . . . weedy and weak and rather frantic, could he?'

'Yes!' said the salesman. 'Exactly like that!' 'Slayer,' said Sandform, turning to Daniel. 'What was he doing buying a car?' 'Oh, it wasn't him buying the car,' said the salesman. 'It was the other guy. He was kind of tall and kind of big and kind of bald and kind of . . . you know, just generally average.' Daniel frowned. 'Don't know who that could be,' he said. Something was happening to ClouD. He was frowning and looking at his arms and his legs and the office in wonderment. Then he started laughing and laughing and laughing. 'It's all so clear!' he said. 'We've got to get the car and get out of here. Sign the papers. I've got a feeling this won't last.' 'What?' said Sandform. 'What won't last?' ClouD turned to him. 'It's Howie and Delphinus and slayer and no-name! They're in terrible danger!' 'How do you know?' said Sandform. 'I can just see it all,' said ClouD. 'All what?' 'All everything. Don't you see all the atoms? All the molecules? Don't you see all that history and future and space?' 'No!' said Sandform. 'Should I?' 'Maybe not,' said ClouD thoughtfully. 'Keep signing, Daniel. Get the car and drive.' 'Where are we going?' said Daniel. 'LiveJournal,' said ClouD. 'What?' 'Just sign on, all right?' ClouD smiled. He could hear, fading away very, very faintly, the lyrics of an Iron Maiden song. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ No voice could have kept up with so much singing, but their mouths opened and closed, opened and closed, hoarsely shrieking along with the never-ending music. There was no longer any thought in Howie's brain. There was just nothing but the music, nothing but the pounding rhythm. They had gone through every single Iron Maiden song. Time had certainly passed, but there was no way to tell how much, and no inclination to do so, in such a room. In such a room, there was nothing but the music.

There was something echoing there, though. Some sad parody of thought. He was thinking: how do I get out? The chairs were bolted the floor, and they were tied to the chairs. Therefore . . . what did therefore mean again? . . . so, so we have a chair and a floor and bolt and some rope . . . and what? Therefore . . . And I know, of the pain, that you feel the same as me. And I dream, of the rain, as it falls upon the leaves. And the cracks, in our lives, like a cracks upon the ground. They are sealed, and are now, washed away. No. Not lyrics. Need . . . thought. How to get out. Tits, whispered something deep inside. The answer is tits. Think for a moment. Where's the tits? Chest, thought Howie dumbly. Below the neck. What? BRUCE DICKINSON IS THE GREATESNo! Think! There was . . . something. Tits. That was important. Fleshy, pendulous, tits. IRON MAIDEN FUCKING ROCK ON! No. Wrong. There was something there . . . Something, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't grasp. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ A thin trail of blood still snaked it's way down the man's pants. It was coming from the sad little head of no-name. 'Yarr,' he said quietly. 'I'm a pirate.' He was working on . . . something. There was a few arms which were moving quite mysteriously, and a few gears who were also doing so. There was a big, glowing battery in the middle of all the twisted wires and metal and machinery, pulsing bright then, well, less bright. Despite being a pirate, he was remarkably good at machinery. He adjusted a vital little chain, then picked up a delicate metal casing from beside him. He fitted it over it all except the never-fading battery, and secured it all with a few screws. He sat back. He watched. After a little while, the thing said, 'Signal Interference. Metal. Wheels. Sleek. GUYBONESMILF.' The man frowned. What a curious thing to say.

'Define MILF,' he said after a while. 'Accessing data drives, dictionary,' said the thing, the battery flickering with it's speech. 'MILF: Acronym. Mother I'd Like To Fuck.' The man frowned. What a curious thing to say. 'You have no sexual organs,' he said. 'No desires. You're a battery that can talk.' 'HOTGIRLSNAKED,' said the thing. 'Interference. Rebooting logic drive.' The man frowned. What a curious thing to say. 'Logic drive?' said the man. 'You don't have a logic drive! How illogical!' There was a deep silence for a moment. Then, slightly guiltily: 'I found it necessary to install a logic drive.' 'Interference,' it added. 'Metal. Sleek. Wheels.' 'Remove interference,' said the man. 'Computing order.' There was a pause. 'Performing order.' The light flashed brightly, and then stayed that way. There were whirring sounds from the machine, like two men made of gears having a sword-fight while also a battling a dinosaur.* Then the laboratory was full of sleek metal and wheels. There was a feeling like his whole head was being stretched out, a pop and suddenly there was a car. 'PENIS,' it said simply. The man frowned. What a curious thing to say. He turned to the battery instead, leaving the car looking, as far as a car can look anything, quite lonely. 'I've got a head for you,' he said to the battery. 'It came from a very silly boy.' ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Somehow, ClouD had convinced them to let him drive. Despite there being no landmarks, rocks, trees, or anything at all that could be crashed into for hundreds of miles, he had so far managed to crash into a small cactus and a black stump 500 metres away from the road. The man could crash into air. He waved a hand around wildly, knocking the car into a higher gear in the process. This did not seem to bother him. He simply revved harder when the car started struggling. 'My point,' he said, 'is clouds. They're so wet and full of water! I mean, I knew they were there before, but have you really ever looked at a cloud properly? Tell me. No, seriously, tell me.' When no one answered, he leaned forward into Daniel's face and hissed. Then he leaned back and laughed uproariously.

He glanced at the road momentarily. There was a small boy standing in the middle of it. ClouD swerved around him by inches and casually flipped him off. 'Fun!' he said. 'I can see everything! Every little drop of water and every little grain of sand! Everything! And they're having trouble! LiveJournal and the pirate guy and the battery is the problem!' Daniel rolled his eyes. He was obviously crazy again. No sane man could make up anything like that. For a moment, ClouD paused thoughtfully for a moment. Then, with absolute sombreness, he swerved off the road, jumped in his seat, whooped, and ploughed into a field of corn which had mysteriously disappeared. 'What the hell are you doing?' screamed Daniel. 'What the fuck did you drive into this mysterious field of corn for?' 'Shortcut,' said ClouD. 'Besides, there should be a few helicopters near.' 'Whatever for?' said Sandform. 'For chasing Scully and Mulder, of course!' said ClouD, absolutely relaxed as the corn flew past his window. Daniel rolled his eyes. Nonsense. Absolute nonsense. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ What many people fail to understand is that there a hell of a lot more consequences than just one to any action. It's a fundamental human flaw, and it was a mistake that one particular pirate had made. Delphinus was getting to his feet. There was no doubt about it. He was still tied to the chair, but he was still getting to his feet too. For a moment, something flashed in the place of Delphinus; something bony and something dead and something . . . smiling? There was a tortured groan of metal, and one bolt was wrenched out, and shot across the room. Another did, and another and another, and finally Delphinus was free, the chair hanging off his back like some bizarre shell. He ripped off the bonds holding him to the chair, and it fell, splintering. Slayer was creaking and groaning his way through the ever-pounding music still, but for a moment, his last little scrap of sanity pointed there, there was something. 'I have a key,' he mumbled. 'I forgot, but I have a key.' Delphinus turned to him, somehow hearing him over the music. Slayer shrunk back, and Delphinus turned again. His eyes had been red. Pure, blood red.

'I've got to get us out,' he said. 'We've got to kill the pirate.' 'I'm sorry, I didn't hear that properly,' said slayer. 'Because no sane man wouldn't think of running away right now.' 'I am no man,' said Delphinus, his voice echoing with power. 'I am Iron Maiden.' And for a moment, his voice sounded like a guitar. 'I lived alone, my mind was blank. I needed time to think to get the memories from my mind. What did I see? Could I believe? That what I saw that night was real and not just fantasy,' added Howie helpfully. Delphinus waved a hand. The music faltered, and ground to a halt. But the speakers were still shaking and pounding with some unheard sound. Slayer said so. Delphinus smiled. 'You need no speakers to hear the music inside,' he said. Then he stripped down to nothing but a loincloth he was mysteriously wearing, which was quite strange. Slayer said so. 'This is Iron Maiden,' said Delphinus. 'It needs no clothes. Also, I wanted to show off this rocking loincloth. Seriously, I've been waiting a long fucking time to show someone this rocking loincloth.' Slayer agreed that, yes, it was a very impressive loincloth. 'Thank you,' said Delphinus. He seemed to falter for a moment. Then he waved a hand. The bonds around slayer and Howie sprung free. Howie fell forward onto his face. He mumbled something unintelligible. Delphinus pulled him up. 'We have work to do,' he said. 'The pirate has corrupted it all. He's taken simple stupidity and turned it into complex idiocy!' 'Feel bad,' said Howie. 'Head, Number of the Beast, bad.' 'I expect you'll be like that for a few hours,' said the red-eyed Delphinus. 'The music nearly had you all. I doubt you'll be able to put up an actual sentence.' 'Had,' said Howie. 'All. Who. You. Why, The Trooper, You. Speak. Good?' 'Push a man so far and he's out the other side,' said Delphinus, and that was it. He turned to the door. It quavered in it's girly door boots. It burst open. 'Follow the Iron Maiden,' said Delphius, and stepped out into the hallway. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ *The singularly most awesome thing in the entire Universe.* *Then again, it is not hard to achieve this.

Troubles It was a perfect body suit, made out of perfect titanium, and the perfect battery fitted perfectly. Perfect. Now . . . there was just one more thing. The man unstrapped the head from his belt, and placed it in the little box that was at the top of the body suit and was designed for this exact purpose. The top of the box slid home after it, and a panel slid forward on the side, revealing a glass sheet, which noname's dead eyes looked out from. There were a multitude of wires connected to the head, and two pulled at his mouth, forming an obscene little grin. It was perfect. 'Yarr,' said the man. 'I'm a pirate.' He flicked a switch on the side. A light sparked in no-name's eyes. He gasped a breath, growled, then screamed. His head tried desperately to move, but it was screwed in tight. 'Balggrr,' he said. 'Ballrfgi. Albayni. Albanmmm. Albany.' 'LiveJournal,' corrected the man. 'LiveJournal,' said no-name slowly, as if testing the word. 'LiveJournal.' 'Can you love?' said the man. No-name frowned. 'No,' he said. 'I have no capacity for love.' His voice seemed to have a somewhat machine edge to it. 'Good. That always seems to get in the way. Can you kill?' 'Yes. I have the capacity for killing.' 'Do you know who the Gold Avenger is?' 'No. My data-banks do not contain such a name.' 'Well, you'll learn.' 'I will learn, master.' The man grinned. It was all perfect. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Green and yellow and blue sparks flickered off Delphinus as he strode through the hallway, his hair standing on end. The other two had to run to keep up. 'What the catgirl has happened to him?' hissed slayer. 'He just broke the chair-'

'Didn't you hear?' said Howie. 'He's Iron Maiden!' 'But what does that mean?' said slayer. 'Maybe,' said Howie weakly, 'maybe the music got into his head and . . . did something. I don't know. Maybe it didn't. But apparently he's Superman now.' 'Not Superman,' said Delphinus, without looking back. 'Just . . . different.' 'But why are we killing this pirate guy anyway?' said slayer. 'Can't we just get out of here?' 'No!' said Delphinus, and his voice thundered around the building. 'Don't you understand? I'm responsible for this now! I can't just leave.' 'Well, I can,' said slayer. 'And I'm going.' He turned around-and stopped. His legs had frozen in place. 'No,' said Delphinus. 'You'll be helpful.' Slayer stared in horror at Delphinus. He was standing absolutely still, blood red eyes looking completely through Slayer. Then he turned. 'Come,' he said simply. Slayer felt his legs jerk forward of their own accord. 'We've got a lot to do. There will be guards. And something worse. I can feel it.' There were guards. Standing right in the next corridor. They were holding big, heavy guns that looked like they could kill people very easily, and the guards looked like the kind of guards that would be inclined to do so. There was no time. The guards guns rose, and shot out a stream of lead and fire and death. With one lazy hand, Delphinus kept slayer and Howie in place. They felt the tear of flesh and blood as the lead hit them, felt their life ebb away in little lead-stained tendrils-and suddenly it all hadn't happened. The guards looked down at the guns in their hands, which suddenly weren't there; they lay in twisted, metal heaps on the floor. Delphinus held out a hand, and the guards tore apart into their individual organs and arms and then molecules and then atoms. What was left on the ground was two little piles of yellow dust. 'You killed them!' said Howie, once his vocal cords started working again. 'You just went off and killed them!' 'They would have killed us,' said Delphinus, looking puzzled. 'Would you have preferred that?' 'Of course not! But you could have just knocked them out or teleported them away or . . . or anything!' 'Needless troubles,' said Delphinus. 'More troubles. Don't you see it all? If I sent them away there'd be worrying and troubles and thoughts of revenge. All of this unwanted stuff. This was so much simpler. Come.'

Their legs jerked forward again. Delphinus strode ahead, silent and calm and powerful. Absolutely so. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ He was a happy mouse, as far as a mouse can be happy; he was well-fed, as far as a mouse can be well-fed and he was safe, as far as a mouse can be safe. He made some squeaky noises at a particularly wide-hipped (and thus suited to child-bearing) female. She reciprocated this with some quite identical squeaky noises. He went up and sniffed her. She sniffed him back in a particularly exciting way. This was romance. 'Hi,' he said in Mouse. 'Your wide child-bearing hips excite me in ways I cannot express with a language designed to tell other mice about cheese. Nevertheless, I would like to mate with you.' 'I would like to mate with you also,' she replied. 'You have a strong figure and you look rather dashing, as far as a mouse can look dashing. But first, are your sexual organs functioning properly?' 'They are,' said the male, 'working remarkably well. I think you would like to see them.' 'That I would,' said the female, and they mated. 'Well,' said the male, some time afterwards. 'Well.' 'I did not in any way enjoy this, but it was a necessary course of action in the continuation of our species,' said the female. She got up and walked away. The male's face fell, as far as a mouse's face can fall. 'I really quite liked it,' he shouted after the quickly disappearing shape. 'And, you know, if you'd like to do it again I'd really, you know, be welcome to the proposition-' She disappeared among the tall stalks of corn. The mouse sighed, and nibbled at some fallen kernels. 'Damn,' he said. 'They never stay.' Awful lot of noise about today. Awful windy today. He tried to jump up and down to see the female again, look under the grass and look around it, too, and was so absorbed in the task that he was really quite surprised when a speeding tire tire ran over him. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 'Bit of a bump there. I was saying,' said ClouD, 'about the fairies.' Sandform sighed. He really was. 'My point was,' said ClouD, 'is that they're really real. All that knowledge. I can see it. And they're

real, they really are. I mean . . . have you seen those shows about medical marvels? People with three toes and four heads?' 'They're fairies?' said Daniel. 'No,' said ClouD. 'Don't be ridiculous. The doctors are the fairies.' 'The doctors are the fairies,' said Daniel hollowly. 'Of course,' said ClouD. 'How else could they get those magnificent wings?' Daniel had to agree. You couldn't fault his logic. 'Helicopters!' said ClouD suddenly. 'There!' Daniel looked to where he was pointing. There was a total lack of helicopter. 'ClouD,' he sighed, 'there are no helicopters. You're just driving through a corn-field.' 'Look again,' said ClouD. Daniel looked again. There was a big, black, sleek helicopter, which suddenly seemed to fill the whole world. ClouD steered the car towards them. 'Who the hell parks a helicopter in a corn-field?' said Sandform. ClouD looked over at him. He raised his head in a particularly dramatic way. 'The government.' 'Of course it was the government,' snarled Sandform. 'The evil, evil government.' He rolled his eyes. 'Shut up,' said ClouD pleasantly, and got out of the car. 'Boom bam bang,' he added, 'what do we have here?' ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Alarms rang and shrieked all along the Palace of Life. In the throne room, the man shrieked along with them. 'What are they doing out?' he demanded at the no-name thing. 'They were locked in there!' 'I do not know,' said the no-name thing. His battery glowed brightly for a moment. 'I now know.' 'Well?' 'Unforeseen circumstances eventuated,' said the no-name thing. 'What?' raged the man. 'Why the hell didn't we spot these circumstances, for gods sake?' 'They were unforeseen, sir,' said the no-name thing, absolutely calm. 'Would you like me to release the tigers?' The man was taken aback. 'We have tigers?' he said incredulously.

'We do now, sir.' 'Well . . . yes: release them.' The no-name thing marched away. He opened the throne room door stiffly, and continued into the passageway. He pressed a particular spot on the wall that was no different from any other spot on the wall, apart from the fact that it wasn't. A whole slid away, revealing a number of tigers. They were big ones. They were ferocious. They were in their prime, and were particularly excited about the prospect of tearing someone apart. 'Raowwalgrrrowlaggggkkk,' said one. The no-name thing carefully undid the lock. The tigers stalked out, ignoring the no-name thing. He was not organic enough. 'To the lower floors,' said the no-name thing. 'They hide there.' The tigers stalked away. The no-name thing walked back into the throne room. The man was staring out of his wide window. 'It is done,' said the no-name thing. 'Good,' said the man. 'They will get their fate.' 'Yes, sir,' said the no-name thing, and sat down. He was waiting. Not for something in particular; he was waiting for an order. 'We're going to summon the Gold Avenger,' said the man. 'He's going to die.' 'Yes, sir.' 'Good boy. Yarr. I'm a pirate.' ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Two sad little piles of dusts, scattered by uncaring feet . . . . . . accelerate. 'This is too easy,' said Delphinus. 'I need a challenge.' 'What do you mean a challenge?' said Howie. 'This isn't some game. This is Internet. This is-' '-serious business,' finished off Delphinus. 'Yes, I know the phrase. But do you know of all this power? Don't you see? Don't you see that with all this power everything is a game?' He strode forward, and Howie and slayer followed, willing or not. And then the floor dropped out from under them. 'Hmph,' said Delphinus. 'An archaic defence system. Should have seen it. Hmph.' And then it was all back, and the floor was quite definitely under them. 'Don't they understand,' said Delphinus, 'that they cannot beat the Iron Maiden?' He strode along, and seemed to grow taller and taller with each step. He spun around. 'Don't they understand,' he

roared, 'that they cannot beat me!? Are they too stupid? Are all these weak, stupid people too damn stupid!?' He accentuated the last three words with three punches to the wall, and left three perfect fist-sized holes in the wall. Howie and slayer cowered back. Delphinus' blood red eyes stared through them, but this time, they were looking at something else. Slayer spun around, and then a tiger ate him. 'Grarrpprrnng,' said the tiger. There was a little tinkle, and a key fell out of the air. Delphinus caught it. 'Interesting,' he said. 'Interesting?' cried Howie. 'Slayer just got damn slain!' 'Yes. Interesting,' said Delphinus, and waved a hand absentmindedly. There was a pop, and the tiger flashed out of existence. But there was still no slayer. 'Can't let this happen,' muttered Delphinus, staring at the key. 'There's too much damn trouble and fear and stupidity.' He slipped the key into his pocket, then turned to leave. There was a tiger there, and it looked quite angry. 'But you killed it!' said Howie. 'I saw it with my own eyes.' 'Maybe it didn't know,' said Delphinus, and waved a hand. There was a pop, the tiger flashed out of existence, and then was back again in moments. 'Oh no,' breathed Delphinus, with real worry. 'Oh no, oh no, oh no.' 'What?' said Howie. 'What?' 'Magic tigers.' Who The Hell Thought This Up? Smoke curled towards the ceiling in great clouds as the men talked. One was large, expansive, and has a particularly impressive beard. It was a beard you could hide mice in. It was a beard you could hide a small family of midgets in. The other was rather dirty and frantic. He also had a beard, but it looked like the kind of beard a fruity little flute player would have. 'Also,' said the frantic one, 'tits.' 'Of course,' said the second one, waving over a hand maiden. 'Small ones, big ones, medium ones, pointy ones, round ones, pendulous ones, heaving ones . . . you can have all the tits you want. Covered in milk if you like, but I seem to find that's a relatively limited market, and only for those with a peculiar Oedipus Complex. It's all in the contract, I think you'll find.' The frantic one shifted uncomfortably. 'Is this . . . secure?'

'I assure you, no one will see it but me. But you got to have the documentation. Gotta have the rules, kid. Without rules we're just apes with a superiority complex.' For a moment, the frantic man reflected that this was probably already quite true. Then he signed. You had to have the rules. The bearded man sat back, and nodded. 'I can tell we're going to have a good professional relationship here, kid,' he said. 'And do I smell . . . dry paper?' 'Just a hobby,' muttered the frantic man. 'Just my little thing. Finding the facts. Finding the patterns.' 'I'm sure you are,' said the man. 'I'm sure of a lot of things, me.' ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ . . . But none of that was happening. Not now. Time had passed, and with it events and contracts and mysterious meetings. It was all in the past. But the past is a dangerous place. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The tiger roared and rolled on it's back then rolled on it's front and roared again in a particularly terrifying way. 'Garrrghhhr!' it said. Delphinus jumped back as it's jaws snapped down in a lethal arc. 'I can't fight it!' he said. 'It's magic!' 'What do you mean, magic?' said Howie. 'It's a tiger! They just go around roaring and fucking and eating!' 'It's really quite the same with magic tigers,' said Delphinus. 'Except magically.' There was a crunch and a snap, and then his arm came off in the tiger's jaws. 'Oh no,' he said, complacently, as if he'd dropped an ice-cream with three layers. 'This tiger has bitten my arm off.' 'Ahh!' screamed Howie. 'Ahh! 'Don't worry,' said Delphinus, and waved a stump. His arm popped back into existence, reforming from the very atoms of the air. He twisted it around a bit. 'Nice,' he added, then the tiger bit it off again. 'Fuck.' Another stump wave; another new arm. He squared up. 'I've got a plan,' he said. 'And I'm not going to lose any more limbs.'

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ It was, as hotels went, a quite fancy one. It was, in fact, far more fancy a hotel than Seismosaur had ever had the fortune to visit. This did not, however, make him feel any better. Possibly this had to do with the King assigning him the closet as his personal space. Since the King had no luggage, Seismosaur got the whole closet, but even in such a fine establishment, this was not very much space. It smelled of a carefully cleaned closet that still managed to smell slightly of piss. Well, it was better what he was used to, in any case. Thus Seismosaur was very much relieved when dinner time came around. His legs were getting a cramp. The King hadn't said much since they checked in, and he wasn't sure if this was a good thing or not. The King didn't seem like a man of many words. The King didn't seem like a man of many at all. He was clean and composed and despite being quite large – not fat, really; just as if his proportions had gone wrong somewhere along the road – didn't seem like he took up much space. Seismosaur was sure The King would be really quite comfortable in the closet himself. In the hotel restaurant, they were shown to a small table in the exact centre of the seating area. Whether by design or coincidence, Seismosaur did not know, and nor did he wonder. He just wasn't wired that way. His foremost thought of the moment was whether the King would let him order a steak, so he asked. 'Order whatever you like,' said the King, 'but I hope you have plenty of money. I hear this place is expensive. No; I know it is.' His question answered, Seismosaur went back to wishing he was Matthew McConaughey. Meanwhile, the King ordered a 32oz Porterhouse and the Soup of the Day. He then proceeded to enjoy the steak with great and obvious pleasure. He ate rather oddly; when he devoured the steak, it sort of looked like a toast rack enjoying an orange. When he'd had his fill, he pushed the scraps toward Seismosaur, and reached into his pocket. Carefully he extracted a small, frantically buzzing insect. Upon closer inspection, one would see that it was a fly. With an expression of utmost interest and concentration, the King grasped a wing between two fingers of each hand, held the fly over his soup bowl, and pulled. First there was a stretch, then both wings snapped at the same exact instant, and the fly – now wingless, dropped neatly into the tomato basil with onion. 'How odd,' said the King. 'Something seems to have fallen into my soup.' Smiling in what Seismosaur thought to be a very self-pleased manner, the King raised his hand, beckoning a waiter over. 'Waiter, there is a walk in my soup.' 'Sir?' The waiter bent over, frantically looking into the fine china bowl. 'Oh, no, sir, that's a fly,' said the waiter helpfully, 'Though it does seem to be missing its wings, oddly enough.' The King smiled in a terrifically triumphant manner. 'Yes, and what else would you call a fly without wings?' ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ As it turned out, the King ate free of charge for the duration of their stay, after a brief conversation

with the manager, which mostly involved the manager apologising, grovelling, and agreeing with himself as to how utterly unacceptable this sort of thing was, and wouldn't the kind sir like Pay-PerView on the house? Seismosaur had to admire the King just a little more every day, despite his somewhat questionable sense of humour and rather childish little jokes. He was smooth. He had these . . . habits, but he looked so slick he could surf a corkscrew.* While the effortless manner in which he executed things like dinner arrangements and poisonings was nothing short of awe-inspiring, waking up upside down hanging from the curtain rod got old after a few mornings. Seismosaur still wasn't sure quite how the man managed it, either; he slept like a baby.* ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Something desperate and new and unfounded twisted and writhed and . . . . . . escaped, with a simple little pirouette. It looked vaguely lumpy, like a marshmallow man that had been subjected to a violent rape. What the catgirl is going on? it said. Then it looked around. Awfully red. Where am I? It thrust a hand out, searching for something. It found open air, and sucked itself out of the vaguely disturbing redness with an action that might be described in a comic book as 'Pazzangg!' There was a tiger, looking him right in the face. It winked, and then bit some guy's arm off. The thing screamed, then did a terrific backflip, which went entirely unnoticed by anyone except the tiger, who was rather preoccupied with biting limbs off, anyway. 'Grahg!' it said to slayer, and swiped at him. Slayer ran. He didn't know where he was going, and he didn't know where he could. Anywhere but here. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Two more tigers stalked round the corner on oiled, resilient legs, with a kind of persistent, menacing, low susurrus. One casually mated with the other, and a new tiger came into existence almost instantly. The tiger (magic) in front of Delphinus looked poised to leap. It was only Delphinus' determined efforts that was stopping it from doing so. It was frozen in time; a frozen expression on it's face, frozen muscles, tendons, limbs. A killer frozen in the act of leaping. Howie breathed out, realising he hadn't been doing so for the last few minutes. 'He'll be back,' said Delphinus, carefully stepping out of the tiger's flight path. 'They always are.

Magic tigers! Who would have thought it?' 'Certainly not me,' said Howie, and for the first time in the last week or so was definitely, assuredly sure of himself. 'Behind you,' said Delphinus, almost casually. Howie spun around, and then a tiger-didn't eat him, because he'd poked it in the eye. 'Grieyouw!' said the tiger. Howie jumped backwards, kicking it in the face in the process. The tiger snarled and leapt at it's sudden accidental attacker, magical claws out, magical teeth sharp and ready for disembowelment. Howie ducked and said, 'Duck!', almost as if it was all a humorous game of Everyone Pretend To Be A Duck. Delphinus ducked as he heard the voice. The tiger (magic) sailed over his head, and an acute picture of panic plastered it's face. It was heading directly towards it's frozen brother. It landed, magical claws sinking into it's flesh, magical teeth instinctively biting into it's brother's neck, sending a strong, deep surge of magic into the other tiger (magic). At which point the other tiger (magic) woke from it's frozen position, felt the surge of magic, and instinctively sent an equally strong charge back the other way. The forces met. 'Duck!' said Howie, in case the message hadn't quite got through yet, and flattened himself to the floor. There was a colourful, shiny explosion, almost like a firework, except with more flesh. Then the recognisable sound of something very hot quickly cooling. It sounded like pink pink. Howie looked up. There was a forty-foot crater and, he realised with panic, he was directly above it. In the air. He did a few complicated movements that would have been quite hilarious if a coyote was doing them, and dropped. There didn't seem to be much choice in the matter. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Slayer continued on another corridor. He had learned to float. His new . . . body? . . . was naturally accustomed to the skill. There were guards, but he passed them without any notice taken. He was used to this state of affairs. He was generally nondescript, at least in life. He was getting weak. He needed somewhere to stay. A free body. All the other bodies were already taken, the selfish bastards. He did a backflip through a wall, and then paused. He was in the throne room. A rather complicated ritual seemed to be going on. But he wasn't paying attention to that. There, just there, was a body. Sure, it had no head, but that was just circumstances. He certainly wasn't going to discriminate.

He dived in, felt a jolt, and found hold. Inside the body, complicated processes were suddenly kicking into process, like industrial workers who had been found lounging behind the bulldozer, drinking and talking, instead of occasionally sticking a shovel in the ground while they did this, which was their job. First, there was the buzz of dead neurons, blocked nerves opening again, then the heart kicked into place, blood sent pumping again, veins and arteries suddenly pulsing with activity once more, and from there, everything clicked into place, like a jigsaw puzzle, except with more strange wobbly red bits. Slayer began to rise. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The black, unmarked helicopter hissed through the air cleanly, sending the cornstalks below blowing. 'How do you know how to fly one of these things?' shouted Sandform, above the sound of the rotors. 'Don't,' said ClouD. 'Guessing. Maybe it's due to my moderating skills. 'Don't,' said Daniel, but Sandform had already said, 'What moderating skills?' 'For Dreamviews (of which I am a moderator)!' said ClouD. 'Who are you kidding, Sandform? You're on there all the time. Like, literally all the time. It's getting worrying. Me and the staff are looking of organising an intervention.' 'I've already had many of them,' said Sandform darkly. 'It's not my fault they got bitten, honestly! Besides, ClouD, Dreamviews is gone. Ever since that sellout asher and The Bearded Man shook hands!' 'Wrong,' said ClouD. 'Dreamviews exists, fag.' Sandform sighed. 'You know that's not an insult. And where are we going?' 'I'm sure I've told you this. Saving people. Dreamviews members, and fellow staff member Howie.' 'Why?' 'Knowledge,' said ClouD. 'Got it all.' 'Like Pokemon?' said Sandform. 'Exactly like Pokemon,' said ClouD gravely. 'Except not like Pokemon at all.' 'What the hell does that mean?' 'What does anything?' The helicopter shot on, slicing the air into fine little parts. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

'Yarr. I'm a pirate. He'll be here soon,' said the pirate. 'In an instant. Just need the summoning to take a little time.' 'I have time,' said the no-name thing. 'I always have time.' He sat down, perfectly still. He was unused, so the battery in the thing's chest dulled. 'Gold Avenger,' muttered the pirate. 'Gold Avenger. I've been waiting a long fucking time for this. Do you know how long I've been waiting for this? Go on, ask me.' 'How long have you been waiting for this?' said the no-name thing obediently. 'A long fucking time,' said the man, and stared at the scene in front of him. There was a simple chalk circle, and some tasteless embroidery and patterns and big black candles, but they were all secondary to the circle, which seemed to fill the whole world. 'Do you think I did it wrong?' said the man. 'Stabbing chalk with a scimitar and drawing with it is a remarkably inaccurate art.' 'I would not know,' said the no-name thing. 'I'm afraid I've never done this kind of thing before.' Then the face, through the clear glass, frowned. 'Interference,' it said, 'is what I'm detecting.' 'Can't be the car,' said the man. 'We got that out of the way. What kind of interference?' 'Paranormal in nature,' said the no-name thing. 'What?' said the man. 'Paranormal stuff isn't real!' 'Sorry, Mr Summoner,' said the no-name thing, without a trace of sarcasm. 'Sure, sure,' muttered the man. 'Well-' 'Interference displaced,' said the no-name thing. 'What?' said the man. There was a quiet little groan. He turned. There, right there in front of him, no-name's headless body was rising. It looked, despite having no face to do so on, quite angry. 'Blggg,' said the stump of a neck. 'Blggg.' It raised it's arms, and started towards the no-name thing and the pirate. And just then, The Gold Avenger appeared. He looked quite gold. He looked from the pirate, to the no-name thing, to the headless body to himself, The Gold Avenger. He frowned. 'Yarr,' said the man. 'I'm a pirate.' 'Who the hell thought this up?' said The Gold Avenger. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ *How this could be achieved is debatable. Possibly a complicated system of pulleys and levers and other excitingly manoeuvrable things, or possibly just a really tiny surfboard. It is an unfortunately unexplored art.

*In the realistic sense, that is, meaning that he woke up every hour and needed a wee-wee.

Bing

As they fell through the utter darkness of the hole, stale wind rushing past them in great droves, their hands touched for a moment, in an entirely non-gay way. Because they both had penises, and they totally didn't want them to touch. Like gay people. Which they weren't. And for that moment, Howie felt an incredible lightness suffuse him, as if he was a simple feather, drifting on the breeze. He did a few flips to test this, and lost Delphnius' hand while doing so, and was suddenly a big, simple rock again, falling incredibly fast to the presumably hard ground. There was no terror. There would be terror if there was any hope of living, but now there was just resignation. And then, suddenly, he was a feather again. 'You're sitting on my shoulders,' said Delphinus below him, and Howie heard it incredibly clearly, despite there being no possibility the sound could have reached his ears without being whipped away in the wind first. 'Do not worry. I'm keeping us up.' 'Are you falling?' said Howie weakly. His head span with the lightness. The feel and sound of the wind was gone, to be replaced by a tranquil lake of silence, but the darkness remained. He could have closed his eyes and seen the same. 'Of course,' said Delphinus, his voice twanging lightly, 'but the normal rules of the universe do not quite . . . apply to me at the moment.' Howie drifted along the strange dark void with a strange peaceful feeling. There was nothing but the void. No troubles, no stupid plans . . . nothing. All his worries just seemed to melt away-that is, until he hit the ground at a very high speed. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ To Daniel, something seemed to be bothering Sandform. At least, bothering him more than usual. He was peering at the arm of his seat curiously and tracing a pattern with a fingernail, and then doing the exact same thing with the other arm. 'What's wrong?' said Daniel. 'QuadSong . . .' said Sandform. 'QuadSong Corporation.' 'I'm sorry?' 'Your seat, Daniel! Look at your seat!' said Sandform. 'I could swear . . . I could swear I've seen that name before.' Daniel looked at the arm of his seat. He'd never really bothered to look at it before. Nobody looked at seats. Trust Sandform to do it. But he was right. Etched on the metal of the seat arm, was, in a neat, square script: QuadSong Corporation Singing On. 'What of it?' said Daniel. 'Some corporation owns the helicopter. Big deal.'

'EVERYTHING ALL RIGHT BACK THERE?' asked ClouD from metres away in the drivers seat, in an obscenely loud voice. 'IT'S JUST THAT-' 'It's fine, ClouD,' said Daniel, sighing. 'We're fine. Get back to driving.' 'It's just that we're passing over Urban Dictionary,' said ClouD. 'You can hear the ridiculously strongly stated, xenophobic views from here!' All three of them paused for a moment to listen. Below, there was a wreck of a stretch of buildings, and crowds pouring in and out of a big, rusting gate. Most were browsing the buildings with, bizarrely, apparent enjoyment. Others were standing on daises and screaming at everyone in a vain attempt to be heard over a crowd of people insulting everyone they could think of. Daniel swore he heard a desperate, 'FAGS!' screamed at them from below. 'Just because we're three grown men – well, two grown men and me – travelling together does not mean we're gay,' said ClouD. 'Yes,' said Daniel, 'of course.' 'I mean, not to nitpick, but gay is just an archaic term to lump people into categories-' '-yes, I think I understand-' 'I mean, sometimes I'm attracted to vagina,' continued ClouD, completely oblivious of Daniel, 'and sometimes I'm attracted to penis. Sweet, yummy penis. I would not call myself gay.' 'You wouldn't call yourself human, if people would let you,' snapped Daniel. 'Just to remove another label.' 'Humph,' said ClouD simply, and steered on with sullen resentment. 'QuadSong Corporation!' said Sandform. 'Not to intrude on your vastly important and relevant conversation, but . . .' 'But what?' said Daniel. 'You think some corporation sounds a bit familiar. I think Good Old Home Baking sounds a bit familiar, but does that make it important?' 'Of course it does!' said Sandform. 'QuadSong Corporation is important! I can feel it!' 'It's probably the mystical forces at work, then,' snarled Daniel. 'Or the magic pixies, maybe, or the elves or maybe even the-' 'I get your point!' snapped Sandform. 'You think I'm crazy! A lot of people do!' He sat back in his uncomfortable seat, and stared at the wall with sullen resentment. Daniel also sat back and stared at a wall with sullen resentment, partly because he was feeling sullen and resentful, and partly because he half suspected it was a big game he was missing out on. Sullen resentment twisted through and filled the helicopter, as if it was one big sullen balloon filled with resentment. Except with rotors, and not at all made of the same stuff as a balloon. And not the same shape, either. It wasn't even red, which was a nice respectable colour for balloons, but black, and no balloon that truly valued itself would be a black balloon.

So it wasn't at all like a balloon. More like a helicopter, really. Sandform was still staring at the arm of his seat, slowly running his tongue over his teeth. Daniel stared out the window coolly over the sprawling mess of Urban Dictionary. ClouD stared at his own crotch in amazement, as if he'd never seen it before, which, since this was ClouD, was vastly untrue. The helicopter stared at nothing, because it was a helicopter. That would be silly. 'We'll be there soon,' said ClouD. 'I know it.' 'I'm sure we will be,' muttered Daniel. 'Not you,' said ClouD. 'I was talking to my crotch.' ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The Gold Avenger looked around the ruined throne room. The gilt and glamour of the room had been destroyed in the man's rage, and was spread around the room in tatters. He could work with this. There was certainly enough gold around here for something – a knife, at least. 'Him!' said the man angrily, waving his scimitar around wildly, giving himself a haircut that looked like it was performed by an angry pirate, waving a scimitar around wildly, who had just seen the man that had half-blinded him in his childhood. The no-name thing turned to face The Gold Avenger. It paused, then turned the other way to the groaning body. It took a moment to decide, then rushed towards The Gold Avenger. It ran with a horrible purpose, iron fist upraised, battery glowing brightly. The Gold Avenger paused and waited for the perfect moment; this would require perfect timing. The no-name thing rushed forward with it's cold, loping run, gaining ground faster and faster-The Gold Avenger waved a hand around the room. All the gold he could summon flowed towards him, joining and conglomerating as it did, into one single shape. The Gold Avenger grabbed the shape just as the no-name thing arrived, and raised it threateningly. 'I warn you,' he shouted, over the pounding of the thing's legs, 'I can manipulate an extremely useless-' He was cut off by the iron fist that slammed into his face, forcing his head back at an angle that could not be considered healthy, even in nasty foreign places. There was a snap, a crackle and a pop, and a Rice Krispies advert was inserted into the story. Also, his neck broke. The Gold Avenger spat out a mouthful of blood, along with a few teeth, and fell over stiffly, a tad disadvantaged by the fact that he was dead. All the time, he hadn't let go of the gold shape he had been holding, and had, through the whole ordeal, failed to notice it was a rather large dildo. It rolled out of his hand, and stood incredibly amusingly on it's point. It shone in the light streaming through the window, and looked like a big, gold and shiny tower, except a big, gold and shiny tower designed to be inserted into a woman's vagina. The man waved his scimitar around in a pattern king of like an eight, except more kind of like a pair of balls, and clapped tremendously. 'Yarr!' he said excitedly. 'I'm a pirate!'

'Behind you, sir,' said the no-name thing calmly. The man paused his excitement. 'I'm sorry?' 'There seems to be a zombie behind you, sir,' said the no-name thing. The man turned quickly, and was brought down by the body's final jump at the man. A red mist was in front of slayer's eyes. He wanted to scream and scream and shake the man in front of him, but had to settle for a gurgle of blood from his neck. It didn't seem quite as effective as he thought, but he did not care. He slammed and slammed the man against the floor, and didn't stop. He was vaguely aware of a dull pain as something entered him through his stomach, but he continued violently, shaking and slamming the man against the floor. 'Yarr,' said the man weakly, before he passed out. 'I'm a pirate.' ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 'Ow,' said Howie. It seemed an appropriate response. 'I slowed your descent,' said Delphinus, somewhere in the darkness. 'It was necessary to your survival.' There was a scratch somewhere in the darkness, and a flare of light. Delphinus was holding in his hand a glowing blue penis. 'Thank you, Dr. Manhattan,' he said simply. 'This I will worship as a god.' 'You pretty bastard,' moaned Howie. 'We could have escaped! We could have just run away and not had to deal with fucking tigers!' 'Do not forget,' said Delphinus, 'that they were also magic ones. Magic tigers.' 'Sure, sure,' said Howie. 'Can you get us out of here?' Howie looked around himself. They were in a gaping, earthy hole. Everything smelled a bit damp, and curious things squirmed around the place. It was big enough to hold them both, but that was all. Still, though, since the . . . change, Delphinus seemed to take a lot more space that seemed natural. The glowing blue genitalia in Delphinus' hand cast an unhealthy blue glow on the walls, like the desperate kind of sweat on a big fatty going to the gym. 'I cannot teleport us out here, curiously enough,' said Delphinus. 'The distance is too great. My powers are . . . limited.' 'Your powers,' muttered Howie. He was vaguely uncomfortable about whatever had happened to Delphinus. It wasn't just his eyes. It was his whole attitude. That everything was some big game, now that the music had done – had done whatever it had done. 'Still,' said Delphinus, 'rather fun, eh? Magic tigers and big holes in the ground. Brilliant stuff.' Howie sighed. That was exactly the kind of thing. 'Look, Delphinus,' he began.

'Shut up,' said Delphinus simply, and Howie was so shocked that he actually did so. Delphinus turned to the moist wall of the hole. He sunk his hand into the soil, which began to crumble and fall away. He pulled his hand away, and for a moment it glowed red. 'That'll do,' he said, and, after a while, added, 'pig.' He giggled at his rapier wit, and thrust his hand into the little indent in the earth wall he had created. 'Dig,' he said to Howie. 'We're getting out. We're killing the pirate.' 'Like save the cheerleader, save the world?' said Howie scathingly. 'This'll free LiveJournal from the horde and the trolls?' 'Possibly,' said Delphinus. 'But he killed no-name. He's going to get his richly deserved vengeance. Besides, it'll be fun.' 'Fun?' said Howie incredulously. 'Fun?' But Delphinus had already dug himself a tunnel, and was continuing upwards, ignoring him completely. Fun was upwards, not downwards. Howie climbed into the tunnel after him. There didn't seem to be any alternative.

Pop 'Why are we here?' said Seismosaur, hurrying after the King. 'I'd say none of your business,' said the King, 'but it would all be a ridiculous farce. As bad as watching slapstick. We're here to meet an insider of Wikipedia. He's going to help us in.' 'In? In?' said Seismosaur. 'But Wikipedia is a heavily guarded fortress! They've got guards everywhere, swarming around the place. At least, according to Wikipedia.' 'And they would like you to think that, wouldn't they?' said the King. 'I mean, if they said that it was a small, unguarded little house filled with gold, they'd have people knocking on the doors all the time! They'd never get any sleep!' The King laughed, as if he had said something immensely funny. Seismosaur did not consider this the case. 'But they have pictures!' he said. 'Of a big fortress and lots of guards and a big statue of a question mark.' 'I expect they do,' said the King. 'I expect they have pictures of a two-legged teapot, too.' 'What?' said Seismosaur bluntly. The King sighed and blew a raspberry. 'My poor dear retarded Seismosaur,' he said. 'Do you not know the wonders of photo editing? I'm sure you do. I'm sure you've used it multiple times, in order to make it look like you have a penis the size of a whale. Everyone on the Internet has. It's practically a requirement.' He stopped. 'This is the place.' It was a low, run down building, clinging to the ground like a tic. It's windows would have been

boarded up, if the window boarders hadn't been so shit at window boarding, and there was a ragged little fence around the place, made of ragged little boards. It was ragged and shit and ugly, like Daniel Danciu's face. Seismosaur looked at it in disdain. As far as a building can look embarrassed, it did. Anything that could be looked at in disdain by Seismosaur was practically obligated to do so. 'Looks funny,' said Seismosaur. 'Smells funny.' 'I expect you'll be right at home,' said the King. 'Though I must agree that it is rather dilapidated. But the dreadful man said this was where we had to meet. He said anywhere else would be too obvious.' 'But this is obvious!' said Seismosaur. 'Everyone meets in the old building or the mill or the abandoned old mansion!' 'Yes,' said the King, 'so who would be so stupid as to meet in such a place? You have to think about expectations, boy.' 'Hpmh,' said Seismosaur. 'Hmph*,' said the King, neatly inserting Internet slang into his sentence. 'Let's go in. This man isn't one to be kept waiting. Don't say anything stupid.' The King walked up to the door of the place, neatly jumping over the fence on the way. He didn't bother to knock, and walked on in. Somewhat cautiously, Seismosaur followed him in. It was dark and dank and smelled slightly of old water inside, probably because of all the old water all over the place. There was a man seated at a card table in the corner of the room, fingers tented. He looked quite strong, and so did his two bodyguards. Well, thought Seismosaur, at least the King won't kill anyone. The King drew up another seat, and grinned cheekily at the man across the table, gesturing for Seismosaur to follow. Seismosaur drew up behind his chair, and tried to take up a dignified position, making himself look terribly undignified. The man across the table looked Seismosaur up and down, and grinned like a tiger. 'This your hired?' he said to the King. 'I've got a feeling mine might be a bit more accomplished.' 'I've got a feeling you're a big poohead!' said the King, and immediately raised his hand for a high-five. Seismosaur obliged reluctantly. 'Yeah!' said the King, throwing his arms around wildly. 'Fucking yes fucking hell yes fucking fuddfjnhellfuckffffffffffffffff . . .' He trailed off in a stream of obscenities, then sat up again. 'We have business,' he said gravely to the man, suddenly serious again. The man shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 'Just so you know, I am entirely uncomfortable with this, as evidenced by my uncomfortably shifting just then. I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this for Wikipedia. Have you seen some of those articles. Go ahead, go to this URL: http://en.wikipedia.org/ wiki/Tennis_...parison_(women),' he said, neatly copy-pasting the website into his dialogue. 'Look at all that detail! All those words wasted! They could have made them into a best-selling novel about a sad persons runtish blabberings about his Internet friends, or something! But instead we've got useless statistics about people with vaginas! Although I don't consider them people,' he added darkly.

The King opened his mouth to interrupt, but the man ranted on. 'Here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Line_of...British_Throne,' he said. 'Another one. Lines of succession, for fucks sake! Wikipedia should be about detailed description of labia, not some English cunts killing some other English cunts with some olden age cunt weapons!' He slammed his fist on the table, snapping it in two. 'Fuck you!' he said to the King. 'I hate you so much! But you can fix this. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of..._United_States. Look at this! Fucking nicknames! Nobody cares about nicknames, unless they're nicknames of labia! And nobody cares about fucking cities or the United States. I just want more labia, damnit!' 'Uh,' said the King, taken back for once in his life, which even caused him to drop his bold. 'Unicode!!' screamed the man. 'Nobody cares about Unicode! But look at this! http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Unicode_characters. Fucking fucking Unicode! There's nothing at all about vaginas in there! Just lots of Unicode! I'm pretty sure that thing is as long as a damn book! You could publish it and call it: Unicode: Why I Wasted My Life Making A Stupid List of Unicode Because I'm A Dumbass Who Likes Boys.' He went into a wild rage, screaming about Hannah Montana and Transformers and boy-lovers and 400 and 400 boy-loving Hannah Montana Transformers, tearing down the walls. He accidentally knocked out the two of his bodyguards, threw himself at the King and then laughed manically. Then his eyes popped out, and blood came spurting out of the empty sockets, followed by his brain, snaking out of the squirting, horrid eyesocket, and landing on the floor with an entirely inappropriate boing. 'Well well well,' said the King, regaining his bold with style. 'You are not getting a lollipop.' 'Gnhn,' said Seismosaur. 'Gnngh.' The King opened the Wikipedia URL's the man had left hanging in the air like a noose. A hologram of the articles opened. The King inspected them carefully. 'Interesting,' he said. 'I've always quite liked Unicode. Well, that was easy.' He reached down and into the man's pocket, and withdrew a tiny little silver key. 'What's that?' said Seismosaur. 'The very key to Wikipedia,' said the King. 'I was just planning on asking him for it. He didn't need to go needlessly dying like that,' he added in an accusing tone. 'How selfish of him,' said Seismosaur. 'How terribly horrible.' 'Yes,' said the King. 'Well, off we go.' He walked to the doorway, then paused there. He turned back around, and urinated on the guards a bit. 'Got to be sure,' he said, 'in case any jellyfish sting them while we're gone.' 'Jellyfish?' said Seismosaur wearily. 'Jellyfish?' And they left, leaving only the quiet drip of urine. Non Sequitur In the Desert (Or, Another Way to Skin a Cat) [Part I]

It was a dark and stormy night. Or it would have been if it had been dark, or stormy. As it was, the moon was full, there wasn't a cloud to be seen, and the stars were shining brightly. It was driving Pastro crazy. How the hell was he supposed to slip through the trees unseen, trailing Oneironaut (whom he had lost track of three times already in the last five minutes) and not letting himself be seen or heard, with all this blasted light! It was night, for crying out loud! Nights are meant to be dark. In Pastro's mind, that was pretty much the whole point of night. To a casual observer, the sight would be quite amusing; a young man, seemingly of approximate college age, dressed in all black, wearing a towel wrapped round his face and trying to look small. At least the latter wasn't hard, both of which he'd heard from ex-girlfriends. Not that he'd had many. Under the towel, the boy; for really, he could only be called a boy upon closer inspection, due to a lack of facial hair growth of any kind — was a bit green. One might assume this was due perhaps to a bad burrito, or milk a bit too far past the sell by date, but one would be wrong. This was Pastro's normal complexion. The same casual observer might also notice the rather conspicuously inconspicuous way in which he moved from tree to tree, as if following some shadow in the night. Of course, there was nothing there to follow. Nothing that the casual observer could see, at least. In truth, Pastro was having some difficulty locating what he was following. The last glimpse he'd gotten had consisted of an inch of matte black cloth vanishing behind a hedge in the barest of fractions of a second, and that was three minutes ago now. Damn, if I lose him now I'm suPastro didn't finish the thought, because he was recently unconscious. *~*~*~*~* Camels do not stop like most other four-legged creatures do. It is a much more involved process. When a camel stops from full gallop, it first locks its front legs, which sends up a spray of sand, then leans back, digging in its heels. Its neck whiplashes back, then dips low to counter the hump's tendency to drop too far behind. The whole body convulses, rippling like a wave, or a ride at Six Flags Over Georgia. This may sound simple enough, but the hump and high center of gravity make it a tricky game of balancing. Only expert riders can stay astride their mount in such a situation. Luckily, HyperNova was an expert rider. As his camel, who was named Clyde, thanks to a completely irrelevant and obscure song by the American comedy artist Ray Stevens, skidded to a halt, HyperNova was already airborne, performing a smooth and perfect forward flip and landing impeccably upright. The first thought that might enter an onlooker's mind could be: Wow, that guy's smooth! The second thought would be: Why is he wearing an Armani suit in the Sahara? This thought would be remarkably similar to Shift's first thought. She was pretty sure the man was a mirage, until he caught her in surprisingly muscular arms and whisked her off her feet, producing a glass of ice water from a wet-bar that folded out from his watch and touching the rim to her parched lips. Shift wasn't sure exactly how that worked, but she wanted one of those watches. "I'm here to rescue you." His accent was impeccably English, oozing charm and suave confidence. If Shift hadn't already effectively swooned, she probably would have when he spoke. Strange, she thought, she wasn't

usually this susceptible to charming strangers. She couldn't think of anything to say in response to his confidently heroic statement, so she settled on, "I just can't wait to be king!" It must be the heat, she decided, before swallowing the rest of the water and letting her eyes drift closed as she released her grasp on consciousness, somewhere between incredibly thankful and unbearably embarrassed. *~*~*~*~* Meanwhile, in a sizable village just south of the Saharan desert, there was unrest. The name of the village was Ubuntu, and it was in an uproar. But we'll get to that later . . . *~*~*~*~* Slayer was having trouble remembering where he was. He had the vague notion that things were not all as they should be, but he couldn't actually see anything, or even really tell if he had eyes. This was disconcerting, but not as much as it might be to someone who did not live with hundreds of cats. He blinked what he thought might be his eyes, and felt his toes wiggle. Probably not a good sign, but at least he had toes. Suddenly slayer felt what amounted to a rushing sensation, which might have been science's way of telling him this was a bad time to reminisce, or may have been the feeling of his necroplasm racing through space-time. Then again, it could have just been that Snickers Bar metabolizing and creating a sugar rush. In any event, the rushing ended, and in a flash slayer knew he had eyes, because they were burning. The thing to do with burning eyes, is to not rub them. Slayer did not know this. As he opened his stinging lids and looked around blearily, something clicked in his slightly unusual little brain. He was not, as Dorothy would say, in Kansas anymore. Or rather the opposite: he was back in Kansas, in the house in which he was raised, he was five years old, and his first cat, Bobo, was laying on his chest, glaring stolidly into his face, waiting for him to wake up. The thing you should know about Bobo, is that he was not a nice cat. In fact, he was about as mean and ornery a cat as ever was. At five years old, though, slayer was completely oblivious to this fact, and mistook the death glare Bobo was busily shooting him with, wishing he would just die on the spot so that he could have still-warm human liver for breakfast, instead of canned tuna, for loving adoration, in that especially innocent, naive manner that all five-year-old children have. Slayer was, at the moment, merely a passenger inside his five-year-old self's head. He was reliving this memory, and as bad memories are apt to do, it was determined to repeat in pretty much the same way as every other time he'd remembered it. When Bobo saw that he was good and awake, he jumped off of the boy's chest and purposefully walked to the door. There he waited for slayer to get up and let him out. This slayer did with great enthusiasm, as he really needed to go to the toilet anyway. Bobo had other ideas, though. He too needed to go to toilet, and he did not use a litter box. Litter boxes were for domesticated cats, thought Bobo, and that was something he was not. Bobo was, in his devious but not altogether up-to-date cat thoughts, a cunning and rebellious hunter, living off of humans because they were stupid and slow and easy to train. So slayer let Bobo out onto the lawn to do his business as bears do, only considerably more civilized, because whatever else Bobo was, he was not a wild animal. In fact, that squirrel about to jump into the road was a wild animal, and probably needed to be put out of its misery before it went

and had fun, which was something Bobo despised. So the thirty-pound gray cat with the tattered ear pounced. In the final stages of his pounce, Bobo learned something new. Coincidentally, this was the last thing he learned in his relatively short life. What Bobo learned was that while humans may be slow, their large metal boxes on wheels that conveyed them to faraway places were not. In fact, those metal boxes were really quite fast, and on the heavy side, and would probably hurt quite a bit if they hit an unsuspecting cat with one of their large wheels. Which this one did. If Bobo had lived long enough to think it through, he would have understood that it really wouldn't hurt, because before any pain could be processed, he would be dead. Unfortunately, this happened to him before he could think of it. Poor five-year-old slayer was heartbroken, and wracked with guilt. If only he had insisted that Bobo use a litter-box and stay inside, this would never have happened. If only he had done things differently, if only he had given his poor, deceased cat more love, perhaps things would have turned out for the better . . . Slayer never forgot that day, the day that Bobo died.

A Lord Among Bird-Kind Dirt was in Howie's ears and eyes and hair, and everything smelled slightly of burnt toast, but still Delphinus forged on ahead, dirt somehow burning away with his progress. They were in a tight, tight tunnel, and the concept that they were going in any actual direction had long ago abandoned Howie. There was just the faint blue glow of the clutched genitalia ahead, and the never-ending tunnel . . . . . . until, you know, it ended. Because that was what tunnels did. There was no dramatic camera shots, no inspiring music (although the reader is free to add some – the author would recommend Blinded by the Light, if that wasn't a ridiculously unprofessional thing to do), it was just that, one moment there had been a sickly blue glow, and the next there was the sickly normal glow of an overhead* light. Delphinus had broken through the floor. He pulled himself out of the earthy hole, and reached down and pulled Howie out. He looked around. They were in an old, mossy room. Mould was growing on the walls, but that was all right; the caterpillars were eating it. One single, spluttering light illuminated the hallway. The floor underneath their feet probably had been finest mahogany once, but now it was covered in dust, and bird shit. There was a lot of pigeons. They filled the ceiling, mating and clawing and shitting and doing pigeon things, like mating and clawing and shitting. The two of them were soon covered in a nice, healthy covering of white. Delphinus wiped some out of his eyes. 'The pigeon loft,' he said. 'We're in the pigeon loft.' 'But pigeon lofts are . . . like, on roofs,' said Howie. 'That's the point.' 'I know,' said Delphinus. 'But, well, look at it! This place is specially designed to be a pigeon loft!'

He pointed to a sign on the wall, which said, in clear, concise letters: PIGEON LOFT (A LOFT FOR PIGEONS). 'It looks like . . . like someone built over it, though,' he added. 'Like someone built a pigeon loft and made the building bigger.' He pointed to the roof, and indeed there were some deep grooves round the sides, as if someone had cut out a roof and placed a floor there. Then there was a voice coming from the mass of pigeons. Howie spun around; Delphinus simply grinned. 'Lord Beckindale,' he said. 'Good to see you again.' To Howie's surprise, a pigeon in a fine waistcoat (with holes for the wings) fluttered down and perched on Delphinus' shoulder. 'We meet again,' it, against all probability, said. Howie boggled. It is very hard to do this with a whole body, but he achieved it. Delphinus reached up and it hopped onto his hand, experimentally pecking it a few times. 'We're in a bit of trouble,' said Delphinus. 'There's this pirate-' At the mention of the pirate, a hissing came from the pigeons. There were several cries of, 'More like poorate.' Lord Beckindale's pigeon eyes flashed dangerously. 'We know of him,' he said. 'We know of his treachery!' Lord Beckindale turned and raised a claw. 'Sieg heil!' he roared. There was an answering roar. 'They're pigeon Nazi's,' whispered Delphinus. 'But don't let that put them off you. I think they can help.' 'We're looking to kill him,' he said to the pigeons. 'We're liberating LiveJournal again. Willy you help us? We'd appreciate it.' There were shouts of 'No!' and shouts of 'Yes!' and shouts of 'Help me!' from the Jews tied up in the corner, but Lord Beckindale silenced them all with a claw. 'You'll liberate it, will you?' he said. 'And what, you'll give it to some loser who can talk well but doesn't know a Jew when it's right in front of him?' He stamped and shook about. 'I'm not a Jew!' said one of the men in the corner. 'I'm a neo-nazi, look!' He punched the man next to him in the nose. 'Damn Jews!' 'No no NO!' said Lord Beckindale. 'Kill that man! Execution by a mouthful of shit!' He waved a claw, and the massed ranks of the pigeons rose and descended on the man like a wave of doom and death and incontinent pigeon. There was a slow river of white, a desperate gurgling, and then a finish to it. Lord Beckindale nodded in satisfaction. 'Quite enjoyable,' he murmured. 'Quite good.' He turned to Delphinus. 'Yes, we'll help you. On one condition.' 'Yes?' said Delphinus. 'Naked pigeons, tons of them,' said Lord Beckindale. 'And we get LiveJournal, for whatever we want.'

Delphinus didn't mention that pigeons were naked all the time, but simply nodded. 'Sure,' he said. 'Just no killing my mother.' 'Your mother a Jew?' said Lord Beckindale suspiciously. 'No, it's just that she's expressed pro-Jew sentiment a few times,' said Delphinus. 'That, you know, maybe slaughtering a bunch of Jews is the wrong thing to do.' Lord Beckindale narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. Then he raised his claws upwards, and did a fantastic pigeon backflip. 'Off!' he said, and rose. The pigeons rose with him, and unstoppable hoard of general stupidity and Nazism. They flowed out of the room, and before they could stop them, grabbed Delphinus and Howie in claws of, if not steel, at least low-grade Iron. The swarming swarm of swarming pigeons swarmed out the door in a great swarm, Delphinus and Howie held by thousands of tiny little pigeon claws, helpless to do anything but be buffeted along. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ They had arrived at LiveJournal. In the distance there was the high spire of the Palace of Life, in all it's inane glory. From here, they could even see the people wandering the streets. They looked rather happy. Everything looked remarkably good. As everyone knows, something is wrong. 'Beautiful,' said ClouD. 'Did you know the spire looks like-?' 'Yes, a penis,' sighed Daniel. 'I know, I know. Can you please remind me why we are here again?' 'Got to save Howie and Delphinus and no-name and slayer and everyone,' said ClouD. 'There's five Dreamviews members in there!' 'How can you know?' said Sandform. 'It's not like you're some knowledgeable magic demi-god!' 'Of course I'm not,' said ClouD. 'It's just that I'm seeing things . . . differently at the moment. And, well, what kind of story would it be if we just wandered around not interacting with the other arcs? That would be boring.' 'Story?' said Daniel. 'This isn't just some story written by some guys with altogether too time on their hands! This is Internet! This is serious business!' he added, for a moment summoning into being a cat with a serious look on it's face. The helicopter buzzed on like some great insect towards LiveJournal. It drew closer and closer, flying over the dusty plains below, annoying a great number of utterly insignificant little animals.* And then they were in. ClouD did a few flips for the fun of it. 'In the Palace of Life,' he muttered. 'We've got to save them!' ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The pirate woke to a heavy body lying on top of him. For a moment, he thought his pleasant dream

had been projected into real life, but then he realised it was slayer. He smelled a bit of cats, and was lying down on him, somehow managing to cry despite having no head. 'Why is he crying?' said the pirate to the no-name thing, pushing slayer off him. 'B'bo!' howled slayer's neck, his overuse of apostrophes making him sound like a bad fantasy book.. 'I n'd y' h'r', B'bo!' 'Apparently he n'ds B'bo h'r', sir,' said the no-name thing sombrely. The pirate looked down uncertainly at slayer. 'Yarr,' he said vaguely. 'I'm a pirate. Should we . . . kick him, or something? Perhaps teabag him a little?' 'Not a very effective strategy, sir,' said the no-name thing. 'We could ask him why he's an angry zombie who just tried to kill you, though.' 'Good man,' said the pirate, waving his scimitar round in a definitively piratey way. 'Do that.' The no-name thing turned to the howling dead body. 'Why are you a zombie who just tried to kill the pirate?' he said. 'B'bo!' howled slayer. 'We should inject him with poison,' said the no-name thing. 'This is what he said.' '. . . what?' said the pirate. 'What would be the point of that?' 'He requested it, sir.' Something had gone wrong. If you could somehow turn into a tiny little man, and for some reason you took it into your head to go inside the no-name thing, you would have discovered something horrible. There, rotting him from the inside, was conficker, poisoning his very robot soul, making him a machine based solely on the desire to be really, really mean. And kill people. 'I suppose,' said the pirate slowly. 'If he requested it.' The no-name thing smiled like a snake. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ John Dale was not, on the whole, a bad man. Yes, he worked for a totalitarian government, but that was hardly an argument. It's not like he had any choice in the matter. They were a totalitarian government. He was not a brave man. He was not a man who'd lead a riot, but he was a man who'd cheer from the sidelines, given that this would not disadvantage his health. He was a guard who occasionally shot people, but the people he shot were always very keen people who ran around and shouted a lot, something which, in his books, was a cardinal sin. He could do weird things with his tongue, and his girlfriend liked them. He liked his girlfriend back. Therefore, it could be argued he didn't really deserve to be trampled by a swarm of talking Nazi pigeons.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ *As opposed to an underhead one. *One of them died because he was so shocked, but that was all right because he was ugly and a wife abuser.* *No, he wasn't Grod.

A Very Russian Christmas The man ran across the snow, throwing up drifts. He did not know where he was running. He did not who he was running from, or precisely how he was running, although he did suspect it involved exciting acids and muscles and things. He did not know where he was. He was, on the whole, pathetically clueless about most everything, but at least he knew that he was running, and he was going to die if he stopped doing so. He could hear them, though, calling in their awful voices . . . screaming for him. Screaming for blood. He could not stop running. There was no choice in the matter. It was run or die. A scream, far behind. Not a frightened, oh god I'm being eaten scream, but an angry, oh god I'm going to eat someone scream. He knew that scream. But far behind . . . good. If only he could find a tree or something somewhere, with a life time store of food and water and good accommodation and monkey butlers. There was bound to be one round here. A scream ahead. He didn't have to worry about that. It sounded far away enough. So, accommodation. He peered through the trees, gasping breaths. A hotel failed to appear, as did a civilised race of tree-occupying hill-billies. He wasn't sure if they should have. He didn't know much about the country. So, where to go? He had a vague feeling that he should construct a shelter or something, but he didn't know how. In the movies, it took thirty seconds, a montage and some catchy music and suddenly a goddamn hut was up. No help there. Another scream, from the right. He tried to quicken his pace, and managed to make himself marginally slower and a bit more tired. Hang on . . . a scream ahead? He tried to skid to a stop, but the thing was already on him. He was knocked to the ground. Fortunately, he had landed in snow. Unfortunately, he had landed in snow, which was very cold. He tried to struggle up, but like a flash of lightning, the thing was on his chest. It grinned, revealing a row of razor-sharp teeth. 'Got you,' she whispered seductively. She drew a long claw across his face. 'We're going to have so much fun . . .' 'But-' 'No buts,' said the thing, putting hand over his mouth. 'Just you and me, baby!' 'No!' said the man, his voice muffled by the furry hand. 'That's practically bestiality! Even worse,

that's practically furrydom!' She snarled at that, and hurled him against the tree. His breath was knocked out of him in one, solid blow. She was strong. Too strong. She leant down, and licked her lips. 'We're not furries,' she said. 'It's a whole different thing. There's so many reasons why we're not. For one, we're not just pretending . . .' She grabbed him by the neck and pushed him against the tree, and licked along his ear. He shuddered, not at all pleasurably. 'Interesting philosophical question,' said the girl. 'If a gang of catgirls rapes a man in the forest, and no one is around to hear it, does he make a sound?' He saw, just over her shoulder, a few more catgirls approaching through the trees. He struggled feebly, but she had an iron hold. She pushed him to the ground, and his knees buckled beneath him. He collapsed, crying out weakly. A few catgirls knelt down and stroked his head. He pushed them away, backing against a tree. A moment later, his breath was driven out of him once again, this time by a vicious strike of the catgirl's foot. 'No use in fighting,' she said. 'No one'll hear you scream, [SomeGuy]. No one at all.' ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The alleyway was stinking and festering and there was a dirty old man in the corner, masturbating and laughing to himself. Seismosaur felt uncomfortable about the whole place. It was much too high class. 'Horrible place, I know,' said the King, 'but this is the only way.' He looked around for a moment, and seemed to ignore Seismosaur for a moment. 'What are we doing here?' said Seismosaur. 'It's just that we're kind of in a stinking old alley for no reason.' 'There is a reason,' said the King. 'We're looking for the secret entrance to Wikipedia. Look around and tell me when you find it.' 'What does it look like?' 'I don't know. Just tell me if you see something secret.' Seismosaur sighed, and looked around the alley. Nothing looked very secret. 'There's a badger nailed to this door,' he said. The King looked around. There was indeed a badger nailed to the door. 'Is it a secret badger, do you think?' he said. He poked it. Nothing secret seemed to happen. 'I should think not,' said the King, turning back to the alley. 'But it's got a keyhole!' said Seismosaur. The King spun around, looking hurt. 'Does it?' he said. 'Does it really?' 'Yes,' said Seismosaur, and pointed to the keyhole. The King nodded. 'I was testing you,' he said. 'Well done. Open that beaver wide!'

'Badger,' said Seismosaur, and put the key in the keyhole. There was a faintly inappropriate tinkle from inside, a few clunks, and then the badger's shroud swung open. Seismosaur climbed into the badger, and the King followed closely. 'It's roomy,' said Seismosaur, running his hands along the smooth, cold metal of the badger's walls. His voice came back as echo from the many tunnels of the badger. Suddenly, the badger's loudspeaker crackled into life. 'Go away,' it said. 'You're not welcome in Wikipedia. Incidentally, a badger has none of those things.' It crackled out of life. 'Ignore that,' said the King. 'Walk ahead. Be careful to stay away from the river.' Seismosaur stepped smartly away from the badger's cool, clear river, and grabbed a handle. They began to walk along the badger's corridor, the lights flickering overhead. 'You know,' said Seismosaur, 'I would have thought they'd protect it more. I mean, all you have to do is insert a key into that badger's keyhole and climb up that ladder and roll under the badger's rope and you're through.' 'I don't know,' said the King. 'They have that loudspeaker.' As if it had been called to life, the loudspeaker crackled again. 'I warn you,' it said, 'don't come any further. You don't want to know about the defence systems we've got. Also, you're giant cocks. You giant cocks get out of our beaver.' 'No!' shouted back Seismosaur, jumping across the mining rig that had been installed inside the badger. 'And it's a badger!' 'Good spirit,' said the King, nodding approvingly. 'Now you just have to get less stupid and annoying.' Seismosaur beamed, reflecting beam-light all over the mirrors that had been installed inside the badger. Their reflections were reflected from mirror to mirror to mirror, so that they were all around themselves, staring at other mirrors and sometimes the real ones and sometimes the floor. On the whole, it gave the affect of shoving an icepick into your own brain. The green light emanating from the badger guiding them didn't help, either. 'I wonder,' asked the King, 'how do you fit inside a badger when you yourself are one?' The badger turned to them, and grinned with it's baleen plates. 'Who knows?' said the badger, in a deep Russian accent. 'Who cares?' 'You know, this whole thing really doesn't make much sense,' said Seismosaur. 'Shut up, shut up, shut up!' said the badger. 'Why do you have to be so annoying? My boss will hear of this. Мой господин Сталин услышат об этом,' he added, in an evil Russian snarl. 'What did you say?' said Seismosaur, panicky. He turned to the King. 'What did he say?' 'He said your tits are too big,' snapped the King. 'Shut up.' The badger cackled, withdrew a bottle of vodka from the stiff fabric of his jeans, and took a swig. 'Бьюсь об этих двух гомосексуалистов заниматься любовью друг к другу,' he muttered. 'Vodka

never gets old. В отличие от вашей матери.' Seismosaur narrowed his eyes. 'I don't trust him,' he whispered to the King. 'He's Russian, and he's got an eye patch. Look at his swaggering badger walk! Just because he's got nine legs.' The King hit him around the ear. 'Shut it.' Another crackle came from the loudspeaker. This time, the speaker sounded a bit desperate. 'You're going to die in a minute,' it said. 'Trust me, we've got these awesome defences. Lasers and robots and everything. You'll be dead as a door-fastener. I'm only saying this to warn you, because I'm a really nice person. Not like you guys, trying to penetrate our beaver.' 'Badger,' said Seismosaur. He stood up, and hugged the old bum lying in the street above him, and gave him a button, just dodging out of the way of the car in time. The bum, who was incidentally a badger, waved thanks from the ceiling of the badger. 'We're here,' said the badger, taking a swig of vodka. 'Вы, ребята получают удовольствие с гейоргии.' 'What did you say?' said Seismosaur, narrowing his eyes. 'I said have fun invading Wikipedia, you dirty American,' said the badger. 'Нет, вы сосать краны для жизни.' He departed, leaving a trail of dirty Russian sweat. Soon his green glow disappeared round the corner. 'Rather pleasant fellow, I thought,' said the King. 'I'm sure all those Russian interludes were praising us, or some such thing.' He turned to the door. It was a lightweight wooden one, adorned with a large question mark. On the floor was a welcome mat. Someone, as if on an afterthought, had hastily scribbled 'Un' before the welcome. It looked flimsy, as if the merest of elephant charges could break it down. 'No, really,' said a desperate voice from above, 'don't go in there. There's magical enchantments and ghosts and tons of stuff. I mean, if I wasn't such a nice person I wouldn't be saying this but since I am-' The King opened the door of the badger and stepped inside. There was a rickety little table in the middle of the floor, and a small, bald man was sitting at it, speaker in hand. He looked up. 'Oh, shit,' he said. The King smiled pleasantly. 'I'll give you a minute to flee,' he said. 'If you don't go by then, you won't be getting out of this badger alive.' The bald man dropped his speaker, picked it up again, dropped it again, froze, looked up, and ran. There was another door at the far end of the room. The King strode towards it, Seismosaur blowing along in his wake. The King wrenched open the door of the badger, and entered Wikipedia.

Cubicles . . . hundreds of them spread across the great floor of Wikipedia, each staffed by one person, each working away relentlessly. Since there were so many cubicles, the cubicles were bunched up into larger cubicles, and each of those cubicles were in rows of more cubicles. Old, dead cubicles littered the outskirts, a reminder of when days were better, when the cubicles smelled newer and the stupid, inane little pictures of your son didn't seem as stupid and inane as they were. 'Hi,' said the King brightly, and pulled out a pistol as if he was about to start shooting people, which was what he did. Left and right, men and women went down, some of them screaming joyously on the way. Blood splashed against the cubicle walls, some of it hitting family photos, giving old people with squints bigger squints. It was a slaughter. Some of them didn't even notice anyone was dying, and went about their business as usual, typing along. That is, until they got shot, which was when they stopped typing, because they were dead. Nobody fought back. Within ten minutes everyone was dead. Just in case, the King shot the cubicles as well. There was a shifting of rubble, and someone moaned. The King promptly shot him. 'What the fuck?' exclaimed Seismosaur. 'First impressions are everything,' said the King. 'And nobody seems to like me at first. Killing them solves everyone's problems. It's a win-win situation. Say, you want coffee? I'm sure I can shoot some up.' Non Sequitur In the Desert (Or, Another Way to Skin a Cat) [Part II] Let us dwell for a moment on ninja. There are among experts (philosophers and drunken scientists, mostly*) several points of contention on the subject of ninja. The first is whether or not they actually exist. I personally can't tell you, because if I did, they would come and kill me, probably not in my sleep, because I'm just not that lucky. The second point of contention centers on, assuming for the sake of sanity that they do exist, whose side are they on? The third, and most contentious point of contention, has been known to start flame wars throughout the internet. This is the ancient question: who would win in an epic battle of epic proportion, ninja or pirates? These last questions will almost certainly be answered later on in the story. But for now, still hypothesizing that ninja exist, imagine one such mystical man (or woman, if you like imagining women better, but this one was a man) flitting through the shadows of a public park. You would, of course, have to imagine him, even if he existed, because you would not see him unless he wished to be seen. Imagine him standing immediately behind you. Imagine his nunchucks whistling* through the air to contact the back of your skull. Lightly, though, because he doesn't want to take your head off. But he could. Imagine blacking out hurriedly. If ninja existed, it would be a myth that they always wore pure black. A ninja can disappear wearing blaze orange dungarees and an elephant skull for a hat in a daylit city square. If I were at liberty to say, I would tell you about the time I saw this happen. Anyway, back to our ninja. After you go change your pants, I'll ask you to imagine this ninja speaking softly under his breath in a slight Texan accent. "Stupid Canadian kid." Now imagine the ninja, who was wearing black jeans, and black shirt, a black parka, and a black

balaclava* with a short katana in a sheath on his back, throwing the newly unconscious Canadian over his shoulder and stalking off into the unknown. Only obviously he knew, because if it was unknown to him, it wouldn't make much sense, and might be a plothole. Of course he probably wasn't really a ninja, because they probably don't exist. *~*~*~*~* "Are you sure this is a good idea?" "Yes, now press the button." "But the sign says, "DO NOT PRESS" in rather meaningful letters." Sure enough, the sign said:

DO NOT PRESS DuB was getting impatient. This kid had no stomach for real life. "It means unless you're authorized." "I'm not authorized!" "I'm giving you my authorization. Now hurry up and press the damned button, we don't have much time!" "Well, alri-" Poog pressed the button, and the world exploded. Quite loudly.* When the dust cleared, quite a little while later, there was nothing to be seen of DuB, Poog, or their tent. In fact, there was nothing to be seen of much of anything. DuB, Poog, and most of the sand dune they'd been camped on, were gone. Or at least, they'd relocated. *~*~*~*~* Shift awoke laying in a soft bed. This would not have been unusual, if her last memory didn't involve passing out in the desert next to her camel. Then she remembered the dashing man that had found her and gave her water. From a wetbar in his watch. After thinking on this for a moment, Shift did a reality check. She was awake. Had it all been a dream, she wondered? Or was she just hallucinating? But then where was she now? Then she heard footsteps, and reached instinctively for the covers, to pull them up and preserve her decency. This was when she realized she was naked. In her mind, waking up naked naked in a strange bed with no memory of getting there was typically a bad thing. Shift prepared to kick some ass. "Ah, you're awake! I've taken the liberty of preparing you a light breakfast. The pilot is awaiting your instruction, but that can wait until you've eaten." It was the dashing man from the desert. His accent nearly caused her to swoon again, with it's incredible sexiness. Looking briefly around, Shift realized she was in an airplane. A very, very nice airplane, with a bedroom, which she was in, a jacuzzi in the corner of said bedroom, and presumably a pilot waiting for her instruction. Her instruction? What was this?

Something was nagging at her memory. Something about this man's voice seemed very familiar. "Who are you?" She asked, clutching the sheets to her chest. "Ah, my love, have you forgotten so soon? Think back. Five years ago, a place called Dreamviews. It was spring, flowers in bloom in The Lounge..." His impeccable, yet somehow slyly dirty English accent suddenly clicked. "Say, "Indubitably."" "Indubitably." Shift's eyes widened. "Devir...?" "Yes, my love!" No, this wasn't a dream, this was a nightmare. The fling five years ago had been a huge mistake, and she had realized that after the first week. Sure, the sex had been incredible, and his voice still sent shivers down her spine, but it was all supposed to have ended so long ago! Catching him in bed with another woman wouldn't have been so bad. Catching him in bed with her stuffed panda, though, was something else altogether. He was crooning to it and everything. Of course, later he swore it was all a big misunderstanding. Shift knew better. "Um, Devir, why are you here? Where are we, actually?" "Well, you needed rescuing. This is what I do." Shift thought on this a moment. "How did you know I needed rescuing?" "I felt your need through the ever-binding ties of our everlasting love." "Uh-huh. You planted a GPS locating chip in my shoe again, didn't you?" "Again? You found the other ones? I thought they got—Oh, shit." "Yes. Oh, shit. Now get me my clothes and get the hell away from me." Devir's facial expression ranged from panicked to horny to gleeful to embarrassed, and then back to panicked. "Um. Your clothes. I don't, exactly, urm, have them." "And just WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY, THEN?!" Shift decided it was high time she got pissed and started cussing. "Well, urm, your camel, ah, ate them."

"My . . . camel . . . ate my clothes . . ." She was now speaking through her teeth, which caused an unpleasant yet oddly sexy hissing sound. She looked very angry, which looked very sexy, but also very frightening. Devir couldn't decide whether to be aroused or scared shitless. "Yes. Well, in as many words." He decided on not telling the full story, as he didn't think she'd appreciate the dry wit he'd prepared. "You fed my clothes to my camel." Devir looked trapped, like a trapped squirrel in a trap. If there had been a short version of the dryly witty story, this would be it. "Yes." Shift had just, slowly but deliberately, begun to wrap the sheet around herself, in preparation of getting out of the bed and beating the living shit out of her would-be stalker slash jilted lover slash James Bond wannabe, when, in a blink of an eye, something rather unusual occurred. A pair of interdimensional travelers blew a temporal paradox rod and dropped out of the small fold of spacetime they'd been passing through at 1089^14 the speed of monarchy. Quite a lot of sand, a two-man tent, and two empty whiskey bottles came with them. All right in the middle of the bedroom of the small private jet currently occupied by Shift and HyperNova. *~*~*~*~* "Try editing your /etc/xorg.conf to add your screen's native resolution." "Okay. I clicked 'Start'. Now what?" "No, in Ubuntu." "But I'm in Windows right now because Ubuntu isn't working. The desktop or whatever won't load." "You have to use gedit, from the command line." "Is that under Accessories or System?" "No, in Ubuntu. In Linux." "But it won't show the thingy, nothing happens after I log in!" "Log in from the command line, and don't start X yet." "So go to Start, then Run?" "NO! In LINUX!" "But-" "Oh forget it. Just stick with Windows..." It was always the same conversation. The Ubuntu forums were degrading of late, Ynot thought. It was never this bad before the Crash. It was never-

An alarm sounded, signaling a breach in security. It was a quiet alarm, and sounded like a gnome farting. It didn't need to be loud, because any sort of alarm was strange enough here to be taken notice of immediately. Ynot opened a screen on his mobile. Yes, it was the old packet attack on all open ports again. Luckily, there were only two open ports, and one of those was a decoy that led to an IP logger. The other was not supposed to be open. Lots of little events like this had been happening around here lately, Ynot couldn't figure out what was going on. The logical answers weren't, well, logical. Nobody hacked open-source software from the inside. It was an unspoken rule. It was an honor code. Nobody broke it. Nobody . . . *~*~*~*~* *Who can tell the difference? *Figuratively speaking; they made no sound. Hence you having to imagine them. *Not because it was obligatory ninja dress, but because it contrasted nicely with his red and white Spawn boxers. *This is an understatement. The noise startled Tasmanian Devils on the next continent over.

The United States of Insane Sandform has gone missing. ClouD and Daniel looked everywhere, from under the seats to not under the seats, but he was nowhere to be found. Oh well, thought Daniel, as ClouD flew on towards the palace. He'll probably turn up somewhere. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Howie could not see Delphinus. He could only see the grey of the pigeons, with the occasional splash of white of the pigeons. There was a sensation of movement, although there was no way to tell if he was actually moving; it was as if he was floating in a great void of grey. Still, they seemed to be slowing. Something seemed to be going on. Slowly, the grey, plain walls of the Palace came into view, followed by the small figure of Delphinus. The pigeons under Howie gave way, and he crashed to the floor. They were in an expensive looking corridor. Everything had a certain sleek look to it, like the certain sleek look the Candiru has as it lodges itself in your genitalia. It wasn't a good sleek. It was a bad sleek. It looked like the smell of a bank. There was an elevator at the end of the corridor. It was sleek and dangerous, but then again, it was an elevator. That was the point. Howie stood up. 'Up that elevator,' said Delphinus, 'and we're in the throne room. That's where we kill the pirate.' 'Coo,' said Lord Beckindale, and then looked mightily embarrassed. 'Sorry, speech impediment. I meant, lets go get the bastard. We need this place. We could raise an army with all these retarded bloggers!' Everyone looked to Howie, even the pigeons. Something seemed to be expected of him.

'Let's . . .' he said, 'let's go bugger him!' 'You mean have anal sex with him?' 'What?' said Howie. 'Since when does bugger mean anal sex?' 'Since when are jokes about genitalia funny?' 'Well,' said Howie uncertainly, 'the date could be disputed. There, you see, is no date that it just clicked into-' 'It was rhetorical,' said Delphinus. 'You were supposed to say 'Always' and then we'd all go off and have root beers. Or kill a pirate. Whatever. Can we just go?' He strode off down the corridor, the pigeons following him, and Howie following them, rather more reluctantly. Idiot bravado, thought Howie. There was no future in it, apart from one under the ground. I never wanted to be an action hero. I just wanted to get some good friends together and rebuild this place I went to about lucid dreaming and make some hilarious puns along the way. But now there's this dictator pirate guy and magic tigers and Nazi pigeons. Anyone who could make up stuff like this is very probably insane. But now I have to kill a pirate. If I don't, Iron Maiden incarnate will murder me like a cheap hooker. Delphinus slammed his hand down upon the button dramatically, the wind ruffling his hair like a cheap hooker ruffles your (pubic) hair as she gives you a blowjob with entirely too much teeth, right before she is murdered like a cheap hooker. It lit up, and an automated voice came out of the wall: 'Thank you for choosing Upwards Industries for your dictator-overthrowing needs. In the future, please consider our services. Remember, there are free plushy dolls of Upwards Allen available at the concessions store, complete with inspiring shovel and jiggy legs. Upwards Industries – bringing you up to overthrow dictators for twenty years!' The elevator doors slid open smoothly, like a cheap hookers mouth. Delphinus stepped inside. The pigeons flew inside, and settled on the floor. Howie negotiated a way between them all, and leaned against the wall. The metal was cool, exactly the way murdering hookers isn't. The doors whooshed shut, and the elevator jerked upwards. Some light, breezy elevator music began to play, with appropriate lyrics. Sitting one day, in my cheap room, wandering if I'd get food today, when a song came on the radio, reminded me of you. It was called A Life in the Dictator's Shoooooes. It must be hard, being you. Dictating us worthless dogs, and ordering around your peasants. You'be got a hard life, full of strife and other bad things. You, Mr. Dictator, you Mr. Dictator, you're the one for me! Your dictatorship be damned, Mr. Sam, I think I'm in love with you. Your hair, your face, the way you call me a worthless dog and stamp on my faaace, It's what I love about you, my overlord. I'm sorry I'm poor, I'm sorry I'm ugly, I just want to . . . give my vagina to youuuu! Lord Beckindale nodded his head along with the music.* He bared his beak viciously at Howie for seemingly no reason, and clawed at the wall vaguely. 'Good music,' he said. 'Got a beat you can kill to.'

'Hah!' said Howie. 'Call this music? More like poosic!' Howie felt a deep thrill. What a great pun! They were all probably swooning. And then the world went wrong. There was a crash from above, and a large dent appeared in the roof. The elevator shook, throwing it's occupants off their feet. 'We're gunn' have a howdown!' cried a voice from above. 'I'm gunn' rustle you like cows!' Everyone looked up in alarm, even Lord Beckindale's composure broken. There was another slam from above, and the dent widened. Another one, and another one, and a fist burst through the roof of the elevator. Metal was ripped away by the hand for seemingly no regard for it's own safety, blood splashing around the elevator walls. A head was thrust through the hole. It was Sandform. He was wearing a hat. A cowboy one. 'That ol' pirate sent me, boys!' he screamed manically. 'Set me up with them two Danciu and ClouD poofters, sent me here to get you boys!' He grinned widely, and did two finger-guns, except they weren't fingers, but actual guns. Delphinus threw himself and Howie to the floor, as bullets rattled and poured into the elevator walls. Despite Sandform's seemingly never-ending ammunition, he seemed to have a complete inability to even get near the pigeons or the two humans with his shots. 'They said those god-darn aliuns warn't real!' he roared. 'But I'n saw'n them with my own two eyes, boys! I shot'n, too. Got their corpses hid in ma ol' barn, right next to the hookers! Yee-haw!' 'Texans!' cried Lord Beckindale. 'They're nearly as bad as Jews!' I hadn't meant to be an action hero, thought Howie. But now I am. And what did action heroes do? Certainly not fight enraged Texan rednecks. But what the hell. He stood up heroically. A bullet grazed his arm, and one slammed into his leg with a hot jab of pain, but still he continued towards Sandform's half revealed body. 'You lookin' to god-darn fight me, boy?' roared Sandform. 'I'll shoot the flea orff a dog's back at five hundred yards, How, and it's pointed straight at your heid!' Howie ducked from a barrage of bullets, and leaped forward. Sandform jerked back in surprise, and slammed his head against the roof of the elevator. In the few moments he was stunned, Howie wrested a pistol away from Sandform. 'Damn hippy!' shouted Sandform. 'You gunn' put one of 'em god-darn flowers in that little barrel of your'n?' 'No,' said Howie, and shot Sandform point blank in the face. Blood splattered against the roof of the elevator. But Sandform's head was regrowing. 'One on one shoot out, you son'a'bitch!' screamed Sandform. 'Up on this here lifty thing!' He grasped Howie by the shirt and lifted him clean out of the hole. 'You think I can be stopped by damn boollets?' He threw Howie against the quickly rising elevator roof, knocking the breath out of him.

Howie could see the walls shooting past at an altogether too fast speed, as the elevator continued upwards. What was worse, the roof was getting closer. 'Get up, you yellow son'a'bitch!' said Sandform. 'We're gunn' have this shoot out, whether you like or not! I'll damn shoot you on the groun' if I 'ave to!' Howie looked upwards. The barrel of Sandform's gun was trained right on him. 'Say,' said Delphinus' head, rising out of the hole, 'can I help here? Just asking, because I am Iron Maiden incarnate and all.' 'No,' said Howie quietly. 'This is one redneck I've got to kill by myself.' He slipped his gun into his belt. 'Let's have this damn shoot out!' Sandform grinned, and thrust his own gun into his holster. 'Sorr' for having to kill you, boy,' he whispered. 'It's just that I got a damn corntract to uphold! That pirate guy, he said to me, you go stop those son'a'bitches from getting to me. So I went'n to Redtube, cause I'n knew that Danciu boy! I'n knew what he liked! They're on this damn helicopter! What they darn't know is that it's got a damn bomb on board! Hidden in that Dan' guys beard!' Howie said nothing; he simply left his hand hanging at his side, watching Sandform's own closely. 'Then I got'n told about you,' said Sandform. 'Telepathically, you see. From this magical tiger bastard. You killed that boy! You're a god-darn murderer, boy! You feel happy about that?' Sandform's hand shot towards his gun, but stopped inches before it. 'You don't know any'thang 'bout duelling, boy! I've got feints and speed and all you'n got is a good conscience and a face like an eel in a brothel! 'Remember Dreamviews? I enjoyed'n that place! First friends I had in years! Shame about the Crash, huh? I'm sorry we couldn't meet as friends today, How. That god-darn place was good! You like guns? I do. We could have discussed lots of shit about guns today! But unfortunately I gunn' have to kill you! 'You could help me,' said Howie, his fingers twitching. 'I've got this list from ClouD. You're on it. You were a friend before. You could still be.' 'Tryin' to convince me?' said Sandform. 'I'm not gunn' be convinced by any of your fancy words! I got'n a job to do! I bet you got a job, huh? We all do. Maybe you type up shit. I just happen to betray my old friends and kill people! Can't'n be blaming me for that, boy!' 'You're going to die,' said Howie quietly. Sandform grinned. 'How's that, boy?' he said. 'Look me in the eye and tell me how you little weakling is gunn' kill me!' 'I couldn't do that,' said Howie. 'That would be a lie. It's the roof that'll kill you in the end.' He gave a cheery little wave, and leaped back through the hole in the roof just in time, a bullet from Sandform's gun skidding past his foot. Sandform looked up at the advancing wall of metal. 'Oh'n, shit,' he said.

There was no room for movement. Nothing. He looked down into the face of Howie, who was staring up at him with no triumph, no glee, just shame. He leapt towards the hole, but he was far, far too late. There was a crunch, a slam of metal against flesh, and an end to it. The elevator doors opened with a ping. 'Thank you for travelling with Upwards Industries!' said the elevator. 'We hope no homicidal gunwielding rednecks interrupted your assuredly pleasant journey with us.' Delphinus looked out of the door. The thrown room was before him, it's gilt savaged and wrecked. There was for some reason a car parked serenely in the corner of the room, and a costumed dead body in the centre of the floor, a golden shape next to it. Another seemingly dead body lay on the ground, flanked by two figures. One was some kind of robot thing. The other was a pirate. Delphinus grinned, and strode forward, snatching Howie's gun away from him. The pigeons followed, Lord Beckindale in the lead. Howie didn't follow, but slumped against the cold elevator wall. Blood dripped through the hole onto his cheek. 'If only he was less homicidal, gun-toting and insane,' said Howie quietly. 'Maybe we could have chatted about guns a lot, or something.' Delphinus ignored him. He had a task at hand. 'Let's kill the pirate.' ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ *A task pigeons are incredibly well designed for.

The Final Countdown (But Not Really) The no-name thing looked up, and murderous rage filled it. Stepping out of the elevator was a man. Well, something that looked like a man, in any case. He seemed to be almost . . . glowing from the inside. He had a wicked beard, too, like Jesus, except less kindly and more insane. His mouth and eyes were kind of pretty, too. KILL, KILL, KILL, INTRUDER, KILL, KILL, KILL, was the thought going through the no-name thing's head. Apart from . . . apart from, yes, one tiny bit. It whispered, Don't kill! No! Friend, hunter, homoeroticism! That was pushed to the side. It had a job to do. To kill every single thing ever. 'Let's kill the pirate,' said Delphinus. He strode forward. The no-name thing stood up. 'No,' it said, slowly, ponderously. 'He is to be killed last.' The pirate looked up from slayer's body, flask halfway from it's lips.* 'Last?' he said. 'I don't think so.' The no-name thing spun around to face him. 'NO!' it roared. 'You are not exempt! Every single thing ever! Conficker said so! Kill! Kill! Kill!

Kill with knives and torches and pitchforks and guns and poison!! Everyone will be dead apart from me and I'll have a root beer and I'll be like, awesome, I have a root beer and everyone! Will!! Be!!! Dead!!!!' The thing's voice echoed around the throne room, shaking down plaster and making the walls vibrate with it's volume. It seemed to go on forever. Then, it stopped. The no-name thing turned back around as if nothing had happened, and grinned mirthlessly. 'Operating command Kill Every Single Thing Ever,' it said steelenly.* There were a few whirs from the mechanical beast, and then a few moments of horrible silence. Then, without no-name's mouth opening, it said, 'Command Kill Every Single Thing Ever . . . operated.' It raised it's hand, spread it's legs, and paused, it's metallic hand pointing straight at Delphinus' heart . . . . . . who laughed breezily. 'What are you going to do,' he said, 'give me the finger?' 'No,' said the no-name thing, and there was a little mechanic click, 'I will shoot you a lot.' Delphinus looked down, into the barrel of the gun. 'Oh,' he said, right before bullets started pouring out of the gun. They should have hit him. They should have killed him. But instead they slowed to a snail's pace, and curved back the other way like little choo-choo trains.* And then they gained pace again. There was a barrage of metallic thuds, as the bullets slammed into the body of the thing, which looked down. The bullets hadn't made even a dent. 'I will not be stopped so easily,' said the thing steelily. It brought up a hand, and punched Delphinus in the jaw. He flew across the room, and slammed against the wall, like a ragdoll. Delphinus got up, then stumbled and fell over again. 'I was not,' he said weakly, from the ground, 'expecting that.' The no-name thing advanced on him, arms outstretched as if strangling the very air. It came upon the limp figure of Delphinus and lifted him far above it's head, as if to slam him upon the ground. 'No,' said a weak voice from the elevator. 'Not another one.' The thing turned. Howie was struggling out of the elevator, limping from the bullet in his leg, his shirt covered in blood not his own. He was holding a gun outstretched. 'This is for Sandform,' he said, 'that crazy Texan son of a bitch.' And he shot. And shot. There was no end to the bullets. He squeezed the trigger again and again, bullets rattling out like marbles, slamming into the body of the thing, the glass cage of it's head, it's legs, it's shoulders. The stench of gunpowder filled the air, and the stench of oil too. Soon, Howie came to realise he was shooting an empty gun. It dropped from his limp hand, and clattered to the ground. The thing was standing just as it had been before, apart from one thing. There was one tiny oil leak, at the base of it's knee. Oil was leaking down it's leg slowly. It reached down, still looking at Howie, and welded it shut with it's hand. The small flow of oil stopped. 'No,' whispered Howie. 'That should have worked. There was so . . . so many bullets! You couldn't have survived that!'

'I think you'll find I'm surprisingly resilient,' said the thing. 'You will not find me lacking.' A gun extended from his hand again, replacing the welder. It shot it, once. One single shot. Howie was lifted off his feet and blown against the wall, chest bleeding freely. Problem dealt with, the no-name thing reached up again and gripped Delphinus. A hand on his legs, a hand on his head, he threw him at the floor at a speed nothing could survive hitting the ground at. It was lucky then, seeing as he was at such a speed, that he disappeared halfway through his flight. He reappeared again behind the no-name thing. At the same speed. There was a slam. The no-name thing was thrown against the wall. There was a crack in the glass box of it's head. That was all. Nothing could survive that speed, though. Slamming into metal instead of the floor wouldn't make it any better. But Delphinus was getting up. Bleeding from his head, his lip, bruised all over, both wrists broken, he was still getting up. And he was smiling. He outstretched a hand, and the no-name thing rose in the air. 'But,' it said, truly astonished, 'how?' 'I think you'll find,' growled Delphinus, 'I'm surprisingly resilient.' He slammed the no-name thing against the wall with his hand, like a puppetmaster. The no-name thing thrashed about wildly, bullets rocketing into the ceiling and the walls and the car. Whenever one headed towards Delphinus, it mysteriously altered it's course. But it did not escape. Delphinus grip was one of iron. One of iron maiden, you could say. 'I am Iron Maiden!' roared Delphinus, punctuating each word with a slam against the wall. 'You will not beat me! You will not triumph! You will not find me lacking!' Actual dents began to appear in the thing's body. But that was all. He was not being destroyed. He was merely being harmed. The wall itself was falling apart, chunks of plaster flying away. Delphinus was slamming the thing against wooden beams, and they themselves were falling apart. Still Delphinus slammed and slammed, bullets and plaster flying, dust swirling around him. But then, just for a moment, he stumbled. Just for a moment. But a moment was enough. The thing escaped Delphinus' magical grip, and fell to the ground. Then it stood up. It was battered, it was dented, it was cracked in places, it was leaking, and it was angry. 'Kill every single thing ever,' it said. 'You will be first.' It reached forward, and before Delphinus could stop it, grabbed him by the shirt. Then it threw him across the room. Delphinus landed, and skidded. He had stopped at the base of the glass window. He did not get up. The thing bounded across the room in one jump, leg working like a piston. It landed next to Delphinus, and grabbed him again. It lifted him up, and pressed him against the glass. 'You will not survive this fall,' it said, and pushed him through the glass. A flower of glass, a Delphinus shaped hole, and he fell. Gravity didn't give him much choice in the matter. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The helicopter flew towards the Palace, rotors thudding through the air. They were getting closer. Five hundred metres . . . four hundred metres . . . three hundred metres . . .

'Shitbum,' said ClouD, and giggled loudly. He seemed a bit insane again. Two hundred metres . . . . . . but, wait. Something was . . . happening. The great window of the throne room had smashed. At least, a tiny part of it had. Something was falling out of it. It almost looked like a body. 'Don't you think that body looks a bit familiar?' said Daniel, peering closely. He itched his beard. It felt . . . different. 'I think it looks like a hedgehog growling,' said ClouD unhelpfully. 'No!' said Daniel. 'I know that body! Something . . . something about his mouth or something!' 'Pretty mouth,' said ClouD. 'No, shut up, I'm trying to think here,' said Daniel. 'None of this “pretty mou”. . .' He had stopped in mid-sentence, staring at the falling body. 'Delphinus,' he whispered. He turned to ClouD. 'That's Delphinus, that pretty bastard! We've got to save him! Steer towards him, damnit!' ClouD just stared serenely ahead. 'Damnit, you Australian bastard!' screamed Daniel. 'He's falling! We've got to get him, damnit!' 'G'day, mate,' said ClouD simply. 'This is not a good time to go insane!' said Daniel. 'Steer, damnit!' An idea struck him suddenly. 'Steer and I'll barbecue some shrimp for you!' At the mention of such a thing, ClouD's Australian eyes lit up. He quickly pushed the lever down towards the falling figure. 'Put another shrimp on the barbie,' he muttered to himself, concentrating. 'Shrimp shrimp shrimp.' The helicopter advanced towards the limp body, but it was falling too fast. Any moment now he would hit the street . . . 'Too fast!' cried Daniel. 'Too damn fast!' He looked around the helicopter desperately. There was nothing there apart from some readied sky-diving equipment and a sign saying 'Save Delphinus with this'. 'Useless! Nothing!' said Daniel. 'What the hell am I going to do?' 'Use the sky-diving equipment,' said ClouD. 'Enough of your insane ramblings!' Daniel cast around desperately, quickly taking his clothes off to help him think. 'I know!' he said, when finally fully nude. 'A good idea is turning off all the engines!' 'Sure,' said ClouD, and turned off all the engines with the button to do so. Three Minutes Later . . .

'Well,' said Delphinus, 'I sure was lucky you thought of that brilliant idea. Say, why is your beard ticking?' Daniel stroked his badass beard. 'It's probably because it's so fantastic,' he said. 'That'd be it.' 'And why is there a flag sticking out of it saying 'Bomb'?' said Delphinus. 'Also, do you think we should turn the engines back on?' 'Oh yeah,' said ClouD, and turned the engines back on with the button to do so. 'A flag?' said Daniel. 'I see no flag.' 'No, I'm sure it's there,' said Delphinus. 'Just fly back up to the palace again, ClouD, I've got this thing I have to finish off.' 'Where is it?' said Daniel, puzzled. 'I can't see anything past this flag in my beard.' 'It's right next to the bomb,' said Delphinus. 'Well,' said Daniel, 'you could have said.' He grabbed the flag, and tugged it out. 'I'm glad I got that out of there. That could have really harmed me.' 'Glad to help,' said Delphinus, and turned back to look at the palace. They were approaching fast. Impossibly fast. Too fast. 'Slow down, Cl-' cried Delphinus, but they were already through the window. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 'Like I said,' said the battered no-name thing, 'poisoning him is a good idea. It'll stop him thrashing about like that, for one thing.' 'But,' said the pirate, 'but . . .' The thing gave a metallic sigh, and snatched the flask from the pirate's hand. He lowered it to slayer's lips, and then the world exploded. There was a crash from behind, a scream, and sound everywhere. The thing swung around. There was a helicopter heading towards them. The pirate was already diving away. The thing didn't have as much time. A crash, a scraping screech as the helicopter landed, a bounce, and it was upon the thing. The rotors span sadly to a stop, and the dust cleared. 'Where do I get my shrimps?' said ClouD, climbing out of the helicopter. 'Is this the place? Why is there a pirate here?' 'I'm starting to think,' groaned Daniel, 'that you're not insane, but just plain stupid.' Delphinus pushed aside them both, emerging from the helicopter. 'Where is it?' he growled at the sprawled pirate, who had been trapped under a broken rotor. 'Where'd it go?'

'Ha!' said the pirate. 'I don't know what's better, you killing it, or it killing you. That whole thing was a mistake.' 'Where is it?' shouted Delphinus. 'I don't care if it was a damn mistake! Where is the damn thing?' 'Wasn't this whole thing about killing the pirate in the first place?' asked Howie, from his sprawled position at the wall. 'On a related subject, I have a bullet inside me.' He fell weakly against the wall. 'I make it what it's about! The helicopter can't kill the thing! That was my job! Where are you?!' he screamed to the roof, shaking his fists. There was a shifting of rubble behind him, and something emerged. Delphinus didn't notice. He was too busy screaming. A clanking of metal legs, a metallic groan. 'Where the fuck are you, you metal bastard!?' screamed Delphinus again, shaking with rage. 'Right behind you,' hissed the thing, and grabbed Delphinus by the neck and lifted him into the air. His throat was immediately blocked. The thing's grip was too strong. He tried desperately to take a breath. This did not help. 'Hey, Mr Tin Piece of Shit!' said a voice from behind the thing. It spun around, enraged. Daniel was standing there. 'What?' said the thing. 'You're ugly, although your beard kind of makes you look like Abraham Lincoln,' it added. 'That's the plan,' said Daniel brightly. 'You still take commands, right? Well, obey this one. Catch!' He took the bomb from his (kickass) beard, and lobbed it towards the thing. As per it's commands, it dropped Delphinus, and caught it perfectly. Delphinus scrambled away. The thing looked down at the bomb, and saw the time left. 0:03 . . . 0:02 . . . 0:01 . . . 'Oh, fuck,' said the thing, and the bomb exploded. Loudly. Redly. And hotly. The cloud of flame rose like a flower, and descended again. The thing was in the centre of it. There was no way it could have survived such a thing. But it did. The thing stood there, smoking, red-hot, plinking with the the heat, but it stood there. It was leaking oil from it's joints, and it's surface was mottled and melting, but it stood there, an insult to common sense. It's chest was a gaping hole, oil streaming from it. It didn't seem to notice, or even care. 'I will not be killed so easily,' said the thing. 'Is there a volcano near? No? Then I think you have no hope.' It strode forward. 'I'm not going to say prepare to die. You humans like to take things as they come, after all.' It raised it's hands. 'No,' said Delphinus, behind it. He stood up, lighting a cigarette no-one knew he had. 'Look inside yourself, whatever you are. I mean that literally. None of this soul-searching, goodness of your heart bullshit. I mean actually look inside yourself. There's a damn gaping hole in your chest, it should be easy enough.' He took a drag of the cigarette. 'Hey, this cigarette makes me look pretty cool, right?'

The thing looked down into the oily mess of it's chest. Wriggling inside the black cavern of the hole was . . . something. Something pale and squirming. Something horrible. '. . . wha – what is this?' said the thing, shocked. 'Conficker,' growled Delphinus, taking a drag. 'It gets in and eats you from the inside, turns you to it's murderous needs.' 'No,' said the thing quietly, 'that can't be. It was . . . it was me all along!' 'That's what they all say,' said Delphinus. 'Right before they explode and eat everyone.' 'He knows!' hissed a voice from inside the thing. 'I am Conficker! It is I who reset your account lockout policies automatically! It is I who disabled certain Microsoft Windows services such as Automatic Updates, Background Intelligent Transfer Service (BITS), Windows Defender and Error Reporting Services! It is I who made your domain controllers respond slowly to client requests! I did all these and more! I slept with all your mothers! I'm that much of a dickhead! Literally; because I am a worm I look kind of like a dick!' It hissed and twisted inside the thing, and raised it's head. 'It is I who I cancelled Firefly, Arrested Development and Futurama! I'm just that kind of worm! If I was a person, I'd have a Mohawk!' It finished talking with a hiss, and glared at them all. Delphinus strode up, blowing smoke. 'We can kill it,' he said to the thing. 'It's a simple matter of looking it in the eye and saying, “No.” Wait.' He paused, thinking for a moment. 'No, that's schoolyard bullies and drugs. A strenuous series of patches and discussion with unintelligent tech guys is what it takes to fuck up Conficker. And disabling Autorun, sometimes. But luckily we're in a fictional story. We can just shoot it a lot, or something. I bet I can scrape out a gun from somewhere. Like from under Sandform's dead body. What do you say?' The thing paused for a moment, thinking. It looked down at Conficker in it's chest, which gave it the finger like the asshole it was. It looked at Howie, who looked shot at it. It looked at slayer, who looked like a guy with no head at it. It looked to the pirate, who swore at it and tried to pry the rotor off himself. It finally looked at Delphinus, who smiled, and nodded suggestively towards Conficker. It frowned. 'I embrace this!' it roared to Conficker, to the world. 'Me and you together, baby, we'll rule the world! We can be like Batman and Robin, except with less homoeroticism and more killing people! I promise you, you're last on my list of things to violently murder!' He turned to Delphinus. 'And you're first.' He extended a hand, and the gun once again slid out. 'No, I'm not,' said Delphinus. 'You'll never get to. Please! We can stop this thing! This is a choice!' 'What can you do for me?' roared the thing. 'Conficker can do all this for me! Instil me with murderous rage, be an asshole to people I don't like, set me up with some hot babes . . . there's no end to the things it could do for me!' 'Accept this thing, and you won't get out of here alive,' said Delphinus. 'Take this as a warning. Hey,

I'm like the Doctor here, aren't I?' The thing leaned forward. It sneered with no-name's mouth. 'I decline,' it said. 'Do your worst.' 'I could throw you against the wall again,' said Delphinus. 'I could punch you hundreds of times. I could collapse this roof on you. But you'd still live. You know that.' The thing grinned with noname's mouth, forgetting for a moment to violently murder Delphinus in the warm glow of praise. 'But I'm not going to do that,' said Delphinus. 'I'm going to do something much worse. I'm going to think. I'm going to look at the situation and say, hey, is there something that can be solved by not screaming and shooting people?' He spread his arms wide. 'It's all about thinking in the end, really. If it weren't for us thinking, we'd just be a bunch of monkeys with less hair than usual who're shit at climbing trees.' The thing stared at the hands of Delphinus. Something was wrong. Something about his . . . hands. Wait, not his hands. What was in his hands. Or rather, what wasn't in his hands any more. The cigarette. It was gone. There was no cigarette any more. He looked down. There, still flaring with a tiny flame, was the cigarette. It was inside him. With the oil. The highly flammable oil. He reached in to pull it out, but it was too late. A flash of flame, and the thing lit up, burning from the inside. A man with oil instead of blood. Oil pumping through vein-like pipes. All through it. Everything needed oil eventually. All through, it burnt. Fire spread through pipes, a chain reaction of mini-explosions. An arm rocketed off the thing, as fire burst out. And the leaking joints of the thing lit up. Everything flamed, and the great battery pumped more and more out. It did not know to stop. Oil came and fed the fire, and the fire raged on. The thing was melting from the inside. Another arm burst off, molten hot, falling to pieces. It tried to walk forward, to grab Delphinus, but it's own legs were melting and collapsing beneath it. It tried to take a step forward, but found it had no leg to do so. It's other was quickly turning liquid, quickly taking on a consistency that couldn't handle the weight it was given. It collapsed, half-liquid, all hot, all red. The thing fell over slowly, ponderously, into the red-hot mess of it's own limbs. And from there the fire raged on, with fuel from inside and outside. There was no hope for the thing, not any more. And all from one cigarette. 'No!' screamed Conficker. 'You will not beat me! Your mother fellated me and I kicked your dog! I'm . . . just that . . . kind of . . .' Silence. Delphinus stepped away from the molten pool, and the twisted, dead worm inside of it. 'What an asshole,' said Howie, getting to his feet. 'But I guess he's just that kind of worm. Say, you want to go help slayer up?' 'No!' said Delphinus. 'Can't! Power! All of it, so . . . powerful! Everywhere!' He collapsed to the ground, twitching uncontrollably. Howie rushed over to him, but was interrupted halfway by a fist.

'Well, now that that's over,' said the pirate, rubbing his hand, 'we can get on with the real business. Horde! Quickly!' There was a stampeding from outside. The pirate turned to the sprawled figure of Howie. 'You thought you'd won? Just because you'd killed the homicidal Texan and the homicidal robot? You think that's what matters? Killing crazies? You think this is over? I'm just getting started. Really, I have to thank your friend for killing that thing. It was just getting bothersome. Unfortunately,' he added, turning to the twitching figure of Delphinus, 'it seems he has other concerns.' The pirate kicked Howie, knocking the breath from him. Howie groaned weakly. He was still bleeding, from his chest and his leg. Somehow, he'd thought it would all end with the dead robot. That it would all sort itself out. That wasn't happening. Cut off the head of the snake and the snake continued to writhe around like a damn madman. Slayer still had no head. No-name did, but was inconvenienced in other departments. And he was sitting in a glass box in the middle of a pool of molten metal. Delphinus was having a fucking seizure. Danciu was here, but he was too busy admiring his beard to notice anything else. ClouD was here too, but he seemed kind of insane, and was in any case too busy with his shrimps. And there was a horde banging at the doors – literally. Everything was wrong. Nothing was right. There were still unresolved issues, but the chapter was ending anyway. Howie knew what was happening, with a dreadful kind of certainty. This was the exact kind of thing to happen with something in a serialised format. It was a cliffhanger. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ *You know, the ones he had. *Woodenly would just be entirely inappropriate. *Although choo-choo trains like these would rarely appear in a child's play set.

The Final Countdown (But Not Really) The no-name thing looked up, and murderous rage filled it. Stepping out of the elevator was a man. Well, something that looked like a man, in any case. He seemed to be almost . . . glowing from the inside. He had a wicked beard, too, like Jesus, except less kindly and more insane. His mouth and eyes were kind of pretty, too. KILL, KILL, KILL, INTRUDER, KILL, KILL, KILL, was the thought going through the no-name thing's head. Apart from . . . apart from, yes, one tiny bit. It whispered, Don't kill! No! Friend, hunter, homoeroticism! That was pushed to the side. It had a job to do. To kill every single thing ever. 'Let's kill the pirate,' said Delphinus. He strode forward. The no-name thing stood up. 'No,' it said, slowly, ponderously. 'He is to be killed last.' The pirate looked up from slayer's body, flask halfway from it's lips.*

'Last?' he said. 'I don't think so.' The no-name thing spun around to face him. 'NO!' it roared. 'You are not exempt! Every single thing ever! Conficker said so! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill with knives and torches and pitchforks and guns and poison!! Everyone will be dead apart from me and I'll have a root beer and I'll be like, awesome, I have a root beer and everyone! Will!! Be!!! Dead!!!!' The thing's voice echoed around the throne room, shaking down plaster and making the walls vibrate with it's volume. It seemed to go on forever. Then, it stopped. The no-name thing turned back around as if nothing had happened, and grinned mirthlessly. 'Operating command Kill Every Single Thing Ever,' it said steelenly.* There were a few whirs from the mechanical beast, and then a few moments of horrible silence. Then, without no-name's mouth opening, it said, 'Command Kill Every Single Thing Ever . . . operated.' It raised it's hand, spread it's legs, and paused, it's metallic hand pointing straight at Delphinus' heart . . . . . . who laughed breezily. 'What are you going to do,' he said, 'give me the finger?' 'No,' said the no-name thing, and there was a little mechanic click, 'I will shoot you a lot.' Delphinus looked down, into the barrel of the gun. 'Oh,' he said, right before bullets started pouring out of the gun. They should have hit him. They should have killed him. But instead they slowed to a snail's pace, and curved back the other way like little choo-choo trains.* And then they gained pace again. There was a barrage of metallic thuds, as the bullets slammed into the body of the thing, which looked down. The bullets hadn't made even a dent. 'I will not be stopped so easily,' said the thing steelily. It brought up a hand, and punched Delphinus in the jaw. He flew across the room, and slammed against the wall, like a ragdoll. Delphinus got up, then stumbled and fell over again. 'I was not,' he said weakly, from the ground, 'expecting that.' The no-name thing advanced on him, arms outstretched as if strangling the very air. It came upon the limp figure of Delphinus and lifted him far above it's head, as if to slam him upon the ground. 'No,' said a weak voice from the elevator. 'Not another one.' The thing turned. Howie was struggling out of the elevator, limping from the bullet in his leg, his shirt covered in blood not his own. He was holding a gun outstretched. 'This is for Sandform,' he said, 'that crazy Texan son of a bitch.' And he shot. And shot. There was no end to the bullets. He squeezed the trigger again and again, bullets rattling out like marbles, slamming into the body of the thing, the glass cage of it's head, it's legs, it's shoulders. The stench of gunpowder filled the air, and the stench of oil too. Soon, Howie came to realise he was shooting an empty gun. It dropped from his limp hand, and clattered to the ground. The thing was standing just as it had been before, apart from one thing. There was one tiny oil leak, at the base of it's knee. Oil was leaking down it's leg slowly. It reached down, still looking at Howie, and welded it shut with it's hand. The small flow of oil stopped.

'No,' whispered Howie. 'That should have worked. There was so . . . so many bullets! You couldn't have survived that!' 'I think you'll find I'm surprisingly resilient,' said the thing. 'You will not find me lacking.' A gun extended from his hand again, replacing the welder. It shot it, once. One single shot. Howie was lifted off his feet and blown against the wall, chest bleeding freely. Problem dealt with, the no-name thing reached up again and gripped Delphinus. A hand on his legs, a hand on his head, he threw him at the floor at a speed nothing could survive hitting the ground at. It was lucky then, seeing as he was at such a speed, that he disappeared halfway through his flight. He reappeared again behind the no-name thing. At the same speed. There was a slam. The no-name thing was thrown against the wall. There was a crack in the glass box of it's head. That was all. Nothing could survive that speed, though. Slamming into metal instead of the floor wouldn't make it any better. But Delphinus was getting up. Bleeding from his head, his lip, bruised all over, both wrists broken, he was still getting up. And he was smiling. He outstretched a hand, and the no-name thing rose in the air. 'But,' it said, truly astonished, 'how?' 'I think you'll find,' growled Delphinus, 'I'm surprisingly resilient.' He slammed the no-name thing against the wall with his hand, like a puppetmaster. The no-name thing thrashed about wildly, bullets rocketing into the ceiling and the walls and the car. Whenever one headed towards Delphinus, it mysteriously altered it's course. But it did not escape. Delphinus grip was one of iron. One of iron maiden, you could say. 'I am Iron Maiden!' roared Delphinus, punctuating each word with a slam against the wall. 'You will not beat me! You will not triumph! You will not find me lacking!' Actual dents began to appear in the thing's body. But that was all. He was not being destroyed. He was merely being harmed. The wall itself was falling apart, chunks of plaster flying away. Delphinus was slamming the thing against wooden beams, and they themselves were falling apart. Still Delphinus slammed and slammed, bullets and plaster flying, dust swirling around him. But then, just for a moment, he stumbled. Just for a moment. But a moment was enough. The thing escaped Delphinus' magical grip, and fell to the ground. Then it stood up. It was battered, it was dented, it was cracked in places, it was leaking, and it was angry. 'Kill every single thing ever,' it said. 'You will be first.' It reached forward, and before Delphinus could stop it, grabbed him by the shirt. Then it threw him across the room. Delphinus landed, and skidded. He had stopped at the base of the glass window. He did not get up. The thing bounded across the room in one jump, leg working like a piston. It landed next to Delphinus, and grabbed him again. It lifted him up, and pressed him against the glass. 'You will not survive this fall,' it said, and pushed him through the glass. A flower of glass, a Delphinus shaped hole, and he fell. Gravity didn't give him much choice in the matter. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The helicopter flew towards the Palace, rotors thudding through the air. They were getting closer. Five hundred metres . . . four hundred metres . . . three hundred metres . . . 'Shitbum,' said ClouD, and giggled loudly. He seemed a bit insane again. Two hundred metres . . . . . . but, wait. Something was . . . happening. The great window of the throne room had smashed. At least, a tiny part of it had. Something was falling out of it. It almost looked like a body. 'Don't you think that body looks a bit familiar?' said Daniel, peering closely. He itched his beard. It felt . . . different. 'I think it looks like a hedgehog growling,' said ClouD unhelpfully. 'No!' said Daniel. 'I know that body! Something . . . something about his mouth or something!' 'Pretty mouth,' said ClouD. 'No, shut up, I'm trying to think here,' said Daniel. 'None of this “pretty mou”. . .' He had stopped in mid-sentence, staring at the falling body. 'Delphinus,' he whispered. He turned to ClouD. 'That's Delphinus, that pretty bastard! We've got to save him! Steer towards him, damnit!' ClouD just stared serenely ahead. 'Damnit, you Australian bastard!' screamed Daniel. 'He's falling! We've got to get him, damnit!' 'G'day, mate,' said ClouD simply. 'This is not a good time to go insane!' said Daniel. 'Steer, damnit!' An idea struck him suddenly. 'Steer and I'll barbecue some shrimp for you!' At the mention of such a thing, ClouD's Australian eyes lit up. He quickly pushed the lever down towards the falling figure. 'Put another shrimp on the barbie,' he muttered to himself, concentrating. 'Shrimp shrimp shrimp.' The helicopter advanced towards the limp body, but it was falling too fast. Any moment now he would hit the street . . . 'Too fast!' cried Daniel. 'Too damn fast!' He looked around the helicopter desperately. There was nothing there apart from some readied sky-diving equipment and a sign saying 'Save Delphinus with this'. 'Useless! Nothing!' said Daniel. 'What the hell am I going to do?' 'Use the sky-diving equipment,' said ClouD. 'Enough of your insane ramblings!' Daniel cast around desperately, quickly taking his clothes off to help him think. 'I know!' he said, when finally fully nude. 'A good idea is turning off all the engines!'

'Sure,' said ClouD, and turned off all the engines with the button to do so. Three Minutes Later . . . 'Well,' said Delphinus, 'I sure was lucky you thought of that brilliant idea. Say, why is your beard ticking?' Daniel stroked his badass beard. 'It's probably because it's so fantastic,' he said. 'That'd be it.' 'And why is there a flag sticking out of it saying 'Bomb'?' said Delphinus. 'Also, do you think we should turn the engines back on?' 'Oh yeah,' said ClouD, and turned the engines back on with the button to do so. 'A flag?' said Daniel. 'I see no flag.' 'No, I'm sure it's there,' said Delphinus. 'Just fly back up to the palace again, ClouD, I've got this thing I have to finish off.' 'Where is it?' said Daniel, puzzled. 'I can't see anything past this flag in my beard.' 'It's right next to the bomb,' said Delphinus. 'Well,' said Daniel, 'you could have said.' He grabbed the flag, and tugged it out. 'I'm glad I got that out of there. That could have really harmed me.' 'Glad to help,' said Delphinus, and turned back to look at the palace. They were approaching fast. Impossibly fast. Too fast. 'Slow down, Cl-' cried Delphinus, but they were already through the window. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 'Like I said,' said the battered no-name thing, 'poisoning him is a good idea. It'll stop him thrashing about like that, for one thing.' 'But,' said the pirate, 'but . . .' The thing gave a metallic sigh, and snatched the flask from the pirate's hand. He lowered it to slayer's lips, and then the world exploded. There was a crash from behind, a scream, and sound everywhere. The thing swung around. There was a helicopter heading towards them. The pirate was already diving away. The thing didn't have as much time. A crash, a scraping screech as the helicopter landed, a bounce, and it was upon the thing. The rotors span sadly to a stop, and the dust cleared. 'Where do I get my shrimps?' said ClouD, climbing out of the helicopter. 'Is this the place? Why is there a pirate here?' 'I'm starting to think,' groaned Daniel, 'that you're not insane, but just plain stupid.' Delphinus pushed aside them both, emerging from the helicopter.

'Where is it?' he growled at the sprawled pirate, who had been trapped under a broken rotor. 'Where'd it go?' 'Ha!' said the pirate. 'I don't know what's better, you killing it, or it killing you. That whole thing was a mistake.' 'Where is it?' shouted Delphinus. 'I don't care if it was a damn mistake! Where is the damn thing?' 'Wasn't this whole thing about killing the pirate in the first place?' asked Howie, from his sprawled position at the wall. 'On a related subject, I have a bullet inside me.' He fell weakly against the wall. 'I make it what it's about! The helicopter can't kill the thing! That was my job! Where are you?!' he screamed to the roof, shaking his fists. There was a shifting of rubble behind him, and something emerged. Delphinus didn't notice. He was too busy screaming. A clanking of metal legs, a metallic groan. 'Where the fuck are you, you metal bastard!?' screamed Delphinus again, shaking with rage. 'Right behind you,' hissed the thing, and grabbed Delphinus by the neck and lifted him into the air. His throat was immediately blocked. The thing's grip was too strong. He tried desperately to take a breath. This did not help. 'Hey, Mr Tin Piece of Shit!' said a voice from behind the thing. It spun around, enraged. Daniel was standing there. 'What?' said the thing. 'You're ugly, although your beard kind of makes you look like Abraham Lincoln,' it added. 'That's the plan,' said Daniel brightly. 'You still take commands, right? Well, obey this one. Catch!' He took the bomb from his (kickass) beard, and lobbed it towards the thing. As per it's commands, it dropped Delphinus, and caught it perfectly. Delphinus scrambled away. The thing looked down at the bomb, and saw the time left. 0:03 . . . 0:02 . . . 0:01 . . . 'Oh, fuck,' said the thing, and the bomb exploded. Loudly. Redly. And hotly. The cloud of flame rose like a flower, and descended again. The thing was in the centre of it. There was no way it could have survived such a thing. But it did. The thing stood there, smoking, red-hot, plinking with the the heat, but it stood there. It was leaking oil from it's joints, and it's surface was mottled and melting, but it stood there, an insult to common sense. It's chest was a gaping hole, oil streaming from it. It didn't seem to notice, or even care. 'I will not be killed so easily,' said the thing. 'Is there a volcano near? No? Then I think you have no hope.' It strode forward. 'I'm not going to say prepare to die. You humans like to take things as they come, after all.' It raised it's hands. 'No,' said Delphinus, behind it. He stood up, lighting a cigarette no-one knew he had. 'Look inside

yourself, whatever you are. I mean that literally. None of this soul-searching, goodness of your heart bullshit. I mean actually look inside yourself. There's a damn gaping hole in your chest, it should be easy enough.' He took a drag of the cigarette. 'Hey, this cigarette makes me look pretty cool, right?' The thing looked down into the oily mess of it's chest. Wriggling inside the black cavern of the hole was . . . something. Something pale and squirming. Something horrible. '. . . wha – what is this?' said the thing, shocked. 'Conficker,' growled Delphinus, taking a drag. 'It gets in and eats you from the inside, turns you to it's murderous needs.' 'No,' said the thing quietly, 'that can't be. It was . . . it was me all along!' 'That's what they all say,' said Delphinus. 'Right before they explode and eat everyone.' 'He knows!' hissed a voice from inside the thing. 'I am Conficker! It is I who reset your account lockout policies automatically! It is I who disabled certain Microsoft Windows services such as Automatic Updates, Background Intelligent Transfer Service (BITS), Windows Defender and Error Reporting Services! It is I who made your domain controllers respond slowly to client requests! I did all these and more! I slept with all your mothers! I'm that much of a dickhead! Literally; because I am a worm I look kind of like a dick!' It hissed and twisted inside the thing, and raised it's head. 'It is I who I cancelled Firefly, Arrested Development and Futurama! I'm just that kind of worm! If I was a person, I'd have a Mohawk!' It finished talking with a hiss, and glared at them all. Delphinus strode up, blowing smoke. 'We can kill it,' he said to the thing. 'It's a simple matter of looking it in the eye and saying, “No.” Wait.' He paused, thinking for a moment. 'No, that's schoolyard bullies and drugs. A strenuous series of patches and discussion with unintelligent tech guys is what it takes to fuck up Conficker. And disabling Autorun, sometimes. But luckily we're in a fictional story. We can just shoot it a lot, or something. I bet I can scrape out a gun from somewhere. Like from under Sandform's dead body. What do you say?' The thing paused for a moment, thinking. It looked down at Conficker in it's chest, which gave it the finger like the asshole it was. It looked at Howie, who looked shot at it. It looked at slayer, who looked like a guy with no head at it. It looked to the pirate, who swore at it and tried to pry the rotor off himself. It finally looked at Delphinus, who smiled, and nodded suggestively towards Conficker. It frowned. 'I embrace this!' it roared to Conficker, to the world. 'Me and you together, baby, we'll rule the world! We can be like Batman and Robin, except with less homoeroticism and more killing people! I promise you, you're last on my list of things to violently murder!' He turned to Delphinus. 'And you're first.' He extended a hand, and the gun once again slid out. 'No, I'm not,' said Delphinus. 'You'll never get to. Please! We can stop this thing! This is a choice!' 'What can you do for me?' roared the thing. 'Conficker can do all this for me! Instil me with murderous rage, be an asshole to people I don't like, set me up with some hot babes . . . there's no

end to the things it could do for me!' 'Accept this thing, and you won't get out of here alive,' said Delphinus. 'Take this as a warning. Hey, I'm like the Doctor here, aren't I?' The thing leaned forward. It sneered with no-name's mouth. 'I decline,' it said. 'Do your worst.' 'I could throw you against the wall again,' said Delphinus. 'I could punch you hundreds of times. I could collapse this roof on you. But you'd still live. You know that.' The thing grinned with noname's mouth, forgetting for a moment to violently murder Delphinus in the warm glow of praise. 'But I'm not going to do that,' said Delphinus. 'I'm going to do something much worse. I'm going to think. I'm going to look at the situation and say, hey, is there something that can be solved by not screaming and shooting people?' He spread his arms wide. 'It's all about thinking in the end, really. If it weren't for us thinking, we'd just be a bunch of monkeys with less hair than usual who're shit at climbing trees.' The thing stared at the hands of Delphinus. Something was wrong. Something about his . . . hands. Wait, not his hands. What was in his hands. Or rather, what wasn't in his hands any more. The cigarette. It was gone. There was no cigarette any more. He looked down. There, still flaring with a tiny flame, was the cigarette. It was inside him. With the oil. The highly flammable oil. He reached in to pull it out, but it was too late. A flash of flame, and the thing lit up, burning from the inside. A man with oil instead of blood. Oil pumping through vein-like pipes. All through it. Everything needed oil eventually. All through, it burnt. Fire spread through pipes, a chain reaction of mini-explosions. An arm rocketed off the thing, as fire burst out. And the leaking joints of the thing lit up. Everything flamed, and the great battery pumped more and more out. It did not know to stop. Oil came and fed the fire, and the fire raged on. The thing was melting from the inside. Another arm burst off, molten hot, falling to pieces. It tried to walk forward, to grab Delphinus, but it's own legs were melting and collapsing beneath it. It tried to take a step forward, but found it had no leg to do so. It's other was quickly turning liquid, quickly taking on a consistency that couldn't handle the weight it was given. It collapsed, half-liquid, all hot, all red. The thing fell over slowly, ponderously, into the red-hot mess of it's own limbs. And from there the fire raged on, with fuel from inside and outside. There was no hope for the thing, not any more. And all from one cigarette. 'No!' screamed Conficker. 'You will not beat me! Your mother fellated me and I kicked your dog! I'm . . . just that . . . kind of . . .' Silence. Delphinus stepped away from the molten pool, and the twisted, dead worm inside of it. 'What an asshole,' said Howie, getting to his feet. 'But I guess he's just that kind of worm. Say, you want to go help slayer up?'

'No!' said Delphinus. 'Can't! Power! All of it, so . . . powerful! Everywhere!' He collapsed to the ground, twitching uncontrollably. Howie rushed over to him, but was interrupted halfway by a fist. 'Well, now that that's over,' said the pirate, rubbing his hand, 'we can get on with the real business. Horde! Quickly!' There was a stampeding from outside. The pirate turned to the sprawled figure of Howie. 'You thought you'd won? Just because you'd killed the homicidal Texan and the homicidal robot? You think that's what matters? Killing crazies? You think this is over? I'm just getting started. Really, I have to thank your friend for killing that thing. It was just getting bothersome. Unfortunately,' he added, turning to the twitching figure of Delphinus, 'it seems he has other concerns.' The pirate kicked Howie, knocking the breath from him. Howie groaned weakly. He was still bleeding, from his chest and his leg. Somehow, he'd thought it would all end with the dead robot. That it would all sort itself out. That wasn't happening. Cut off the head of the snake and the snake continued to writhe around like a damn madman. Slayer still had no head. No-name did, but was inconvenienced in other departments. And he was sitting in a glass box in the middle of a pool of molten metal. Delphinus was having a fucking seizure. Danciu was here, but he was too busy admiring his beard to notice anything else. ClouD was here too, but he seemed kind of insane, and was in any case too busy with his shrimps. And there was a horde banging at the doors – literally. Everything was wrong. Nothing was right. There were still unresolved issues, but the chapter was ending anyway. Howie knew what was happening, with a dreadful kind of certainty. This was the exact kind of thing to happen with something in a serialised format. It was a cliffhanger. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ *You know, the ones he had. *Woodenly would just be entirely inappropriate. *Although choo-choo trains like these would rarely appear in a child's play set.

A Dissertation on Time and Clocks and Shit Like That The quiet tick of the clock brought many thoughts to the man's head. Foremost of them was that he should write an essay – a dissertation, perhaps – on time, on clocks, on many things. Yes. Everyone would love it. It would, perhaps, be Fantastic. He'd post it on an Internet forum, that would be a good idea. A Prime Placement Decision. He pulled his laptop to him, opened up the Dreamviews website. He hadn't had this privilege, this Gift, this concession, this Prerogative, not until a week or so ago. The strange ladies, the ones in the grey clothes, they had said the head nurse had gone insane and captured another patient and run off with him, or Some Such Thing. He didn't know why they were talking of patients, seeing as he was in a Philosophers College, but now the laptop was his, for all his needs. Even more . . . personal ones.

Ah, pornography. The Unconquerable Demon. Perhaps he should write something about it – he could name it The Higher Mind, perhaps. But no! He had a task at hand, a Mission, if you will. To inform people. The hordes must know of the Ultimate Truth! Dead men. Dead men and spider nests. Crawly, crawly spiders. There was a scraping noise, and the door creaked open. Upon the door had been embossed 'Leo Volont – The Greatest Philosopher Ever To Exist. None Of That Socrates Bullshit, This Dude's Fucking Real, Man'. They had finally seen the Truth. More would, in time. With the culmination of the Ultimate Plan. There was a figure in the doorway. Was it that terrible Witch? Ah, yes. Sister Samuel, that was she. The one with a face like a bulldog, and the arse too. She was a silly . . . woman. Thought she was Smart. Not as smart as he. 'Yes?' he said politely, making it clear that she was disturbing him. Sister Samuel smiled nervously. This particular patient worried her. Well, all of her patients worried her, what with the insanity thing, but this one particularly. He seemed . . . focused. Very strange, almost obsessive. 'We've got a visitor for you,' said Sister Samuel. 'A very hairy visitor. Says she knows you.' Ah, of course. His Loyal Servant. The Executor in his Great Plan. This one was loyal, good, fair. Not like all the others. All the others had left him cold, lonely, a Husk. But this one was good (yes, good!) if not as smart as he. But then again, that was to be expected. 'Bring her in, you retarded imbecile,' he said, and continued on typing. Hmm. Perhaps being an Insulting Arse to everyone would make him more popular! Yes, that was sure to work. Sister Samuel bowed out, and minutes later came back, this time accompanied. The visitor was . . . hairy. Almost cute, although he would not dare to admit such a thing in such of his company. He, a Philosopher, a Religious Hero, could not admit to such a thing. To do so would be intellectual suicide. 'My Loyal Servant who also happens to be a catgirl,' he said sombrely. 'Please, sit down.' He waved Sister Samuel out of the room. She was not needed here. The girl opened her mouth to say something, but he interrupted her. 'Vampires,' he said excitedly. 'Intellectual and Artistic Vampires.' 'Sorry, sir?' said the girl. 'Do you know how to make a Vampire?' he said. 'What, like paper-mache?' 'No, you commie-French-atheist! Real Vampires! Intellectual and Artistic Vampires! They are as Leaches, sucking and sucking at the soul of things, taking all that is worth! Plagiarists, thieves, marauders! They do not see the Truth of things! We are subjected to the conundrum of not knowing what is reliable information and what is not . . . since nobody can vouch for its authenticity, and if anything proves to be useful, we have to support the guilt of suspecting that the true creative source

of that information has been left unrewarded. Do you not see their Blaggardary?' 'You mean plagiarists? Yes, I know they're bad-' 'Not just plagiarists, my girl! They are Vampires – real ones! While Mythological Vampires feed on blood, these ones feed on creative ideas, that Higher Truth in one's Soul, and suck it out like a straw from a yummy, yummy milkshake! But I have a Plan for these horrible things! They are not smart enough, not to the Intellectual Willpower as me! I will conquer them and take them as Servants! To the Cause, my girl. While catgirls are powerful – oh Yes, they have power – they can be overcome by Mortal Means. Intellectual Vampires, on the other hand . . . there is no limit to the power they can hold!' He slammed his fist upon the ground. 'Philosophy!' he screamed. 'Pretentiousness! Douchebaggery! This is what I stand for! This is our Cause! I need you to find these Vampires. Bring them to me, I shall put them into use. Fuck you, Carl Castenada, you fat son of a bitch!' 'Yes, sir,' said the girl hurriedly. 'It is just that . . . I came here for a reason. You know how we have taken LiveJournal? There's been trouble. Attacks by a rebel group.' 'We have other bases.' 'LiveJournal is important. It is integral. Such retardedness can be harnessed, as you know.' 'I'm sure our operative there can deal with it,' he said softly. 'That is your orders?' 'Yes . . . Yes! Leave him to deal with these “Rebels”. If he cannot handle them, he does not Deserve to be Victorious. You are hanging,' he said. 'You want to say something. What is it?' 'Dreamviews members, sir,' whispered the girl. 'All of them.' He burst into laughter, falling against the padded wall. 'Dreamviews?' he said. 'That fickle little place? It did not Recognise my Power. But now . . . yes, extra motivation. When we have the Vampires ready, bring them to me. I will order one after this little . . . troupe. Ahahaha.' He stopped suddenly, running his tongue over his teeth. 'I can't believe how great I am,' he whispered. 'How fucking great I am. Can you?' 'No, sir.' 'Of course you can't, you're a freakish cat-thing. Now go. Leave me to my Philosophy. I have to Inform people on the Internet. And . . . yes, tell the grey man. He should know. Let him make whatever choice he chooses to make. Just do not let him interfere in the Great Plan. That is, after all, the Ultimate Purpose.' 'Yes, sir.' 'And do stop being so Disgusting.' 'Yes, sir.'

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Snow swirled and flitted down upon the lonely figure in great droves as he came closer to the great building. He had a grey cloak on, and under that a grey shirt. The grey motif was continued in his vest, in his pants, in his hat, in his coat. There was only one part of him visible that was not grey, and that was his face. He looked up ahead, and a small smile played on his lips. The Archive. The great round building stood ahead, on the top of the mountain. It was either that or the bottom of a mountain. There was nothing much but mountains round here, apart from the snow and the trees. The great copper roof was visible even from here. He waded through another drift, and paused. There was something ahead. All there had been was a fleeting shadow, but he did not need anything else. He quickly withdrew a sleek, grey gun from his pocket. Another shadow, another flashing glimpse of . . . something. Something with fur. It had moved, somehow. Impossibly fast. He rotated to face where it had been. There was nothing there but snow, and a boring looking tree, which waved it's leaves at him in a vague, boring kind of way. But he had seen it. This thing. It almost felt like it was . . . hunting him. Ah. Of course. This was no worry. He had been a fool to do so. He straightened up, pulling his cloak around him, and turned and punched a lady in the face. She grinned. 'You know I like it rough,' said the catgirl. The man smiled thinly. 'Of course I do, my dear,' said the grey man. 'Why are you here? Is there trouble?' '[SomeGuy] . . . we have him,' said the girl. 'Another renegade down. And . . .' She paused. 'Yes?' said the man. 'Could you hurry up? It's just that I have an appointment.' 'Well,' said the girl, 'it's just that . . . well, there's this rebel group. They've risen. They've invaded LiveJournal. Our operative controlling the place reported it at the earliest opportunity, but well . . . it seems one of them is some demi-god Iron Maiden incarnate kind of thing.' The man grinned. 'Yes?' he said. 'How can something like that happen?' 'I don't know, probably the writer's half-crazy or something,' said the girl. 'It's just that we can't get there. All our operatives are tied up! Vira's at the Fortress of Solitude-' '-he's still calling it that?' said the man. 'That crazy rich bastard.' 'Yes, he is. Like I always said, making knives and pretending to be Superman online will always lead to insanity. Actually, I never said anything like that. That's a retarded thing to say. But anyway, like I said, Vira's tied up at the old Steel place, Tarrant's at Urban, quelling rumours of logic, Marvo is busy at DeviantArt, making everyone look at his pictures of ClouD, and . . . well, The Big One is busy being herself at everyone. There's others, and they're all busy. We're too stretched! It's all got

too big!' The grey man paused, as if thinking. Eventually he said, 'Let it go on. That gold bastard can deal with it. If he doesn't . . . well, kill him, to put it bluntly. And if he doesn't deal with it, kill the rebels too. We do not want people interfering in the great plan.' The girl shifted uncomfortably. There seemed to be one more thing. 'Yes?' prompted the grey man. 'An uncomfortable coincidence,' said the girl, '. . . they're all former Dreamviews members.' The grey man licked his grey lips. 'No,' he said quietly. 'This will not get in the way. Since when have we bothered with history? Not since the Crash! Dreamviews is dead and gone. Dead as poor old Moomoo.' 'Moomoo?' said the girl. 'Whatever are you talking about?' 'Nothing,' said the grey man softly. 'Be gone. Continue your work. There must be no interruptions. No obstructions.' 'As you wish, sir,' said Ophelia, backing away. 'I will do so.' And she disappeared, just another shadow. The man stood for a while, staring at the snow. 'Poor old Moomoo,' he said. 'How I miss thee so.' He went back to walking. It wasn't far away now. Trouble At The Old Mill Lord Beckindale rose like a pigeon, wildly flinging shit around. He clawed at the doors, which were rocking on their hinges. 'I'm too pigeon-like to die!' he cried. 'Let me go! I'm going to claw some goddamn eyes out!' 'Shut up!' roared the pirate. 'The author forgot your plotline for that last chapter, why couldn't he do it this time?' 'Never never never!' screamed Lord Beckindale. 'I am a pigeon and there are many things I can do. Mob that pirate bastard, boys!' The pigeons rose as one incontinent wave, and descended upon the pirate. He spun expertly, chopped one down, did a flip, chopped another one down, then grabbed Lord Beckindale by the neck. 'Lord Beckindale!' he spat. 'What a name! Tell me your real name, you grey bastard!' The pigeon tried clawing at his hand, but his grip was too strong. 'Bennington,' he whispered. 'Of course! That convenient plot point that happened that turned you into a pigeon! I bet you really want to stop being a pigeon, don't you?' 'Ye . . . yes.' 'Well,' said the pirate, leaning down and smiling, 'I can stop you being a pigeon really quickly.' He

whipped out his scimitar in one smooth movement, and slit Bennington's throat. He threw it lazily at ClouD, where it landed in his shrimps. 'Tell my wife . . .' whispered Bennington, '. . . tell my wife she's an overweight whore.' 'You don't have a wife!' cried ClouD. 'Damn right! And why would I marry her, that fat whore?' said Lord Bennington, falling back, letting loose his bowels as one last insult to the world. The pigeons pulled back, suddenly panicking. They rose as one and fled out the window, their leader dead. The pirate grinned. 'Now who will challenge me?' he roared. 'I am the lord of LiveJournal! None can stop me! Naked pictures of girls of an uncertain age!' There was a shifting of rubble as Danciu leapt down. He stroked his beard, and looked into the pirate's eyes. 'I will.' The pirate laughed manically. 'You will? You with your admittedly great beard? What will you use? Beard power?' 'Yes,' said Daniel quietly. He reached up a hand, and stroked his beard, obviously expecting something extreme to happen. There were no laserbeams, no missiles. Just Daniel, stroking his beard. 'Well, shit,' he said, and the pirate punched him. He was blown back across the floor, landing in the rubble. 'No one!' screamed the pirate. 'No one is as good as me at being great! All you've got left is ClouD, and that headless bastard. One of them is insane, the other is ugly and also has no head. What are you going to do? It's all gone wrong, hasn't it? You think some god will just turn up and save you? That ain't happening, you southern bastards! That doesn't happ-' There was the ping of the elevator doors opening. The sound seemed to echo around the room. A figure stepped out. It was wearing a long black coat, and it's right hand was shoved into its pocket. The left was holding a shotgun. Thump. Thump. Thump, went the man's footsteps. The figure raised his head, and silently withdrew the cigar from his mouth. 'Please,' he growled, 'I prefer Grod.' He pulled back the pump, chambering a round slowly. Chu . . . KUNK. He raised the shotgun. The pirate opened his mouth, and Grod shot. There was a momentary look of shock on the pirate's face, and he was blown off his feet, skidding across the floor as he landed. Chu . . . KUNK. Grod chambered another round. The pirate rose shakily, a bloom of blood spreading across his chest. 'You won't . . . get me,' he

gasped. 'I'm the fucking pirate, you Czechoslovakian son of a bitch!' 'I'm Grod, you motherfucker,' growled Grod. He shot again, once again blowing the pirate off his feet. This time, he stayed down. Grod strode across to the pirate, and kneeled on his blood-soaked chest. 'You . . . won't . . . do this,' gasped the pirate. 'Look at me,' Grod hissed. 'Look into my eyes. Look into my eyes and tell me I won't blow your fucking head off.' He raised his hand, bunching it into a fist. 'I will punch you so hard your head will explode. I don't need this shotgun. I will punch you so hard . . . your head will explode.' 'No!' roared the pirate. 'It was all working. All those inane little blogs, all that borderline child pornography – I'd stopped that! I'm a damn hero, you fat bastard! I saved this place.' 'Maybe you did,' said Grod. 'Maybe you're fucking Abraham Lincoln. But you do-' 'I'm sorry,' said Daniel helpfully, 'but I'm afraid that would be me.' 'Shut up,' said Grod simply, turning back to the pirate. 'You don't realise. This isn't because of those people. I'm not doing it for these other Dreamviews cunts, as well. I'm not saving LiveJournal. Now ask me. Ask me what I'm doing.' 'What . . . are you doing?' 'I'm punching a fucker in the face,' said Grod. 'You motherfucking dickhead. You pretentious douchebag. I will rip your leg off and make you eat it! Mark! My!! Fucking!!! Words!!!!' 'You couldn't do that!' said the pirate. 'That's technically impossible.' 'Watch me,' said Grod, and ripped his leg off. And made him eat it. 'You motherfucking arsehole!' screamed Grod. 'Your dick is small comparatively to mine. Hey, I don't blame you. My dick is bigger than the world's fucking dick. I can loop my dick around my own body, infinity times.' 'Now that can't be possible.' 'Watch me,' said Grod, and looped his dick around his own body. Infinity times. Grod threw back his head and laughed. 'I am so great!' he roared, and added, quieter, 'But enough about me. Tell me about you.' He smiled, and he had perfect teeth. There was something knowing in that smile. That smile would strip your down to your core, dick-slap your flaws and bend them over the kitchen table. That smile was the smile of-Grod. 'There's n – n – nothing about me!' stammered the pirate. 'I'm just this pirate who took over

LiveJournal, honestly!' 'Wrong,' said Grod. 'I know all about you, aurelian-joint. But – no, I'm not going to tell these bastards. I'll let them see for themselves.' He dragged the pirate up by his neck, showcasing him before the rest of the Dreamviewers. 'Observe,' he growled. 'Observe the pasty skin, the sunken, hollow eyes. The dead look. Observe how he struggles weakly. Observe how such a fucking dick he is. Observe.' 'I'm afraid I've got nothing,' said Howie. 'Observe the pathetic little sword,' said Grod. 'What a dick. What a pathetic little role-playing fucker. Look at that crumpet in his hand!' 'Well, he's English, then.' 'Correct. Now, tell them something about yourself, gilt-patella.' 'No,' panted the pirate softly. 'Please don't.' 'PLEASE?' roared Grod. 'PLEASE? I will punch you! So hard your head will explode, dammit!' He thrust the pirate forward. 'Tell them something about yourself, fucker!' 'I have a superiority complex,' said the pirate quietly. 'I'm afraid I have no idea,' said Howie. Grod sighed frustratedly, and broke a whole wall down with his angry stare. 'Another thing!' he screamed. 'They will know, gilded-popliteal!' 'No, no!' 'YES!!' 'I . . . I masturbate to pictures of myself,' said the pirate, head hung in shame. 'Goldney!' cried the whole room in unison. 'Damn right!' roared Grod. He raised his fist. 'It's punching time, boys and girls!' 'No!' shrieked Goldney. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry . . . I didn't mean to do it! It was aliens and japanese and other people! The very idea of it being me! Ha! Preposterous.' 'You know,' hissed Grod, 'you almost had a chance. Just until then.' He raised his hand, and time seemed to slow. His fist moved forward, plowing through the air like Man of Steel plows through young women. Then it connected, and the world seemed to hold its breath. Grod punched Goldney. So hard his head exploded. Grod wiped his hand off. 'Shit, motherfucker!' he roared. 'You shoulda' listened.' He turned to

Howie. 'You dying, man?' 'I . . . I'm afraid so,' said Howie. 'Tell my wife . . . tell my wife I love her.' 'Fuck you, man,' said Grod, pulling Howie up. 'I ain't doing none of that shit. Fuck this bitchass bullet, man.' He punched Howie in the chest, causing the bullet to be forced out in a shower of blood from the sheer force of Grod's punch. 'All fine,' growled Grod, striding over to Daniel. He pulled him up from the rubble and regarded him for a moment. 'Don't fucking get punched again,' said Grod. 'Not ever.' 'Of cou-' said Daniel, but he was interrupted by Grod punching him. Next, Grod turned to the pool of molten metal that had been no-name. He picked up the glass cage containing the head. The head inside was definitely dead. 'I got the solution, man,' he growled. 'Give me a picture of . . . yes, Man of Steel.' No-name's eyes snapped open at the mention of being a creepy stalker. 'Yessir!' he screamed, and within milliseconds had the picture grasped in his mouth. Grod took it and ripped it up, throwing the pieces at Goldney's dead body. 'You're fucking fine,' he said, and chucked the head to slayer, who caught it perfectly in his right hand. 'Your seeing-eye stalker. Keep him safe and feed him dongs regularly ('cause he's such a gay) and you'll be good. And don't you be darin' to put cat ears on that motherfucker.' Next Grod turned to ClouD, who had finished his shrimps and had a vague feeling that he should be wearing a hat with corks on it. Grod slapped him viciously. 'Stop being so fucking Australian and you'll be fine, you dickhead,' said Grod. Lastly, Grod turned to Delphinus' twitching body. He pulled him up and regarded him for a moment, then kicked him in the balls. Delphinus stopped twitching, and fell to the ground. Grod pulled him up again. 'Name every Iron Maiden song,' said Grod. Delphinus did so. Easily. 'Too much power, fucker,' said Grod, and kicked him in the balls again. 'Do it again, pretty boy.' Delphinus did it again. Easily. Grod pumped his shotgun again, and aimed it squarely at Delphinus' genitalia. 'Try to do it again,' he growled. 'Just try.' 'I'm fine,' squeaked Delphinus. 'I may be pretty, but I still have a penis! Please don't hurt me.' Grod grinned, and slapped Delphinus lightly. 'I ain't gonna hurt you, fucker. Just don't go being a demigod again and I won't fucking beat the shit out of you. You're good now? Plain old pretty-boy, helpful step-over Delphinus?' 'Yes, sir.' Grod nodded, and knocked him to the ground violently. 'I'm off, fuckers,' he said, striding the door, once again sticking his cigar in his mouth.

'Where are you going?' said Howie. Grod spun around, and levelled the shotgun at him. 'I got shit to do. Douchebags to punch. Don't you dare go disturbing me, you sons of bitches. Tell that pussy-ass Lord Bennington he's a pussy for me.' 'He's dead.' 'As dead as your fucking brain!' roared Grod. 'Why else would I call him a pussy if he wasn't dead, you arsehole?' 'That's a good point.' 'Damn right,' said Grod, and opened the door. The horde was there, staring at him silently. He raised his shotgun. 'Oh, hell no.' 'Close the door!' shouted Howie. 'You can't shoot all of them!' 'You did not just say that!' screamed Grod. He aimed his shotgun at the LiveJournaler closest to him, and shot. The round shattered as the man's head exploded, sending burning chunks of shrapnel into the horde. These themselves exploded upon impact, sending a shitstorm of flaming, screaming shrapnel into the horde. One by one, they fell. Grod stood in the middle of all it, silent, not one piece of shrapnel daring to venture near him. Grod spat, and strode through the litter of bodies, kicking aside those in the way. He turned the corner, and disappeared from sight. Delphinus rushed around the corner. Grod had disappeared, leaving only behind a note, pinned to one of the dead bodies. Delphinus picked it up, and unfolded it. Hey, Thought there would be something important in here? Tough luck. Anyway, here's a picture of some chick with a fucking gun:

HARDCORE. Fuck you guys, Grod And his signature, an elaborate picture of him punching Goldney in the face. 'Well,' said Delphinus. 'That was interesting.' Howie, slayer (with no-name's head firmly grasped in his right hand), ClouD and Daniel were already piling into the car. Daniel climbed into the drivers

seat, and put on a pair of shades. 'Get the hell in, you dolphin son of a bitch,' he said dramatically, and turned the key. The car made a putt noise, and the wheels fell off. Delphinus gestured towards the door. 'Let's just steal one out there. I doubt they'll mind, being dead and all.' 'Also, what was that ridiculous key thing about?' said Howie. 'I mean, we still don't know what it was for-' 'God, I don't know. Probably he'll come up with something.' ' “He”?' 'Huh? Oh, sorry. I was just . . . thinking about something. I don't know who “he” is. It just came to me. Like a . . . grey feeling.' 'Whatever,' said Howie. 'Anyway, let's-' There was a wild scream from outside. The six Dreamviewers rushed to the window, and peered down through the spires of LiveJournal. There was a dog-sled, advancing fast. Perched on it, whipping his huskies wildly, was Exobyte. 'I'm coming, eh!' he screamed. 'We gotta ride fast, guys, eh!' He was wearing a toque, a flannel lumberjack shirt, a piece of blubber was clenched in his teeth, and he was brandishing a hockey stick wildly. He aimed it up at the Palace of Life and it shot a solid stream of maple syrup at ClouD, hitting him full in the chest. He screamed and flailed around desperately, as he began to burn. 'Ahh!' he screamed. 'Canada!' 'We've got trouble, eh!' shouted Exobyte up to them. 'Sacrebleu! Trouble at the old mill, eh!' 'What old mill?' shouted down Daniel. 'The old Canadian mill, eh!' In The End There is a Motorcycle – Part 1 Abraham Lincoln jumped in the air and kicked a vampire in the face. 'Shut the hell up, Hannibal Hamlin!' he roared with vigour. 'I could kick in your face with my beard alone!' Hannibal Hamlin hissed and scuttled backwards across the floor like a spider. 'Yes, master! I will not object again, master! Would you like a croissant, master?' Abraham Lincoln, 16th President of the United States of America, leaned down and hissed into Hannibal Hamlin's face: 'If you ever try to offer me a croissant again, swear to God himself, I will punch you so hard your stomach will have a heart-attack? Understood?' Hannibal Hamlin nodded mutely, and turned to the tied up prisoners. 'What would you like to do

with them, sir?' Vampire Abraham Lincoln smiled, and drew his hand to his beard. 'Oh,' he said, 'I reckon we'll just eat them. I've always fancied Canadian. What do you think of that idea, Mr. Hamlin?' 'Oh, I reckon-' 'No-one asked you what you thought, Hamlin!' Abraham Lincoln turned to his Vice Vampire, and snorted in disgust. 'And lose some weight, Hamlin. You're even pudgy as a vampire. I'll slap you in your titties, I swear I will, unless you lose some of that.' 'Yes, master!' Hamlin started jogging on the spot. Abraham Lincoln nodded in satisfaction, and turned back to the tied up Canadians. 'Time to open a Canuck of whoopass on these guys!' Hannibal Hamlin laughed dutifully. *** The sled had already left LiveJournal. The great Palace of Life had been left to the memes. In hours it would be dead, crumbled to dust, only able to cry grammatically incorrect phrases about cats, and nonsensical phrases about mudkips. 'Artistic Vampires who are Presidents have taken the Old Mill, eh,' said Exobyte casually. 'That pretty much explains the conflict right now. Oh – and there's catgirls in with them, too. Catgirls with the Presidents. Well, not right now, they're arriving. We've got to get there before them.' Slayer had frozen up, staring blankly out of the sled. 'Catgirls?' he breathed. 'Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.' 'But vampires don't exist!' roared Danciu. 'I am sure of that. There is no way you are telling me that vampires exist. I can deal with werewolves, catgirls, fat people and communists, but I cannot deal with fat people and vampires! That is pretty much the whole point of my existence! I have slept well for every night on this damn Earth knowing that vampires don't exist! Don't you try to tell me that it turns out they do, Exo!' 'It turns out they do, eh. They've got books. You know The Complete Book of Vampires and Cookery?' 'No.' 'It's all in there. I'm sure you've read it. Everyone has. It was on all the bestsellers lists.' 'I don't read books that are on bestsellers lists,' said Daniel proudly. 'I'm fucking left-field.' 'Well, they're not regular vampires anyway. They're artistic vampires. They don't suck blood. They suck creativity. These are the things that cause Writer's Block. These guys made Shakespeare cry. You don't want to mess with them. These guys are dangerous! We're going to have to mess with them.'

'CATGIRLS!' screamed slayer suddenly. 'Don't you all see? Catgirls! I can't just get over this. There are catgirls near! I bet they have ears. I mean, dudes. You know me-' 'Who are you again?' said no-name. 'Who are you again?' said Howie. 'Who are you again?' said ClouD. 'Who are you again?' said Daniel. 'Who are you again?' said Delphinus. 'Yes!' roared Daniel. 'That was awesome. High-five, dudes!' And they all high-fived, all five at once. But slayer wasn't listening. He was sniffing the air, head help up high. 'Catgirls,' he hissed. 'Near.' 'No . . .' breathed Howie. 'No, no, no!' 'What, what?' asked Delphinus frantically. 'Is he going to go all weird again?' 'More than weird. Oh, I should have told you all before! But I didn't have the guts! I thought we could cure him! I spent a whole day showing him pictures of cats, and pictures of people! He should have delineated the difference! It's easy! One of them is a cat!' 'What are you talking about?' said Daniel. 'He's probably just got a boner.' 'No,' breathed Howie. 'More than that.' Something was happening. Slayer was warping, twisting his arms. He screamed, and hair bristled out from his arms. He curled into a deep ball, whimpering. But it wasn't like a whimper any more. It was almost a . . . . . . meow. Slayer sprung to his feet. Two freakish cat ears had grown out of his head, and he was covered in fur. He slashed at Howie's face, and jumped out of the sled. 'Must . . . find . . . catgarrrls!' he roared, before springing away. 'No!' screamed Howie. 'Come back!' But slayer was already running across the fields, in the opposite direction of the sled, no-name's head clamped firmly in his mouth. 'Tell them I died in a more manly way!' shrieked no-name; the sled turned a corner, and they were gone. 'Go back!' screamed Delphinus. 'Dammit, go back, you Canadian!' 'I can't, eh!' said Exobyte. 'I'm not controlling these dogs! Destiny is.' 'Yes, that is right,' said ClouD. 'Destiny is, that makes sense.' 'Yes, yes it does,' added Howie. Exobyte nodded agreeably, and leaned back in his seat. Even Daniel

nodded along. 'I thought you knew that, Delphinus,' said Exobyte. 'Sleds are powered by destiny. We can't go back for slayer and no-name.' Delphinus sunk his head in his hands. 'But what WAS he?' he said. 'He . . . changed.' Daniel, ClouD and Exobyte looked to Howie, who shifted uncomfortably under their gaze. 'I shouldn't have kept it a secret,' he moaned. 'But . . . he thought you'd think of him differently. He just wanted to make out like he was creepy, not . . . different.' 'Different?' 'Slayer was a – a werecatgirl. His mother was bitten by a cat when she had her first period, so when she had slayer . . . there was a 50/50 chance of him being, you know, different than the other kids. And, it happened. He was born a werecatgirl.' 'That is not,' said Daniel firmly, 'how pregnancy works. I may not be sure of much, but I am sure of that.' 'How do you think catgirls came into being, Daniel?' said Howie. 'Magic and wonder? No, it was cats and periods.' 'How do you know all this?' asked Delphinus. 'I knew slayer's mother. By which I mean she was the town bicycle.' 'Fuck!' screamed Daniel suddenly. 'Fuck! This!! I've had it with saving people. I do not even care that there are vampires. Vampires, as far as I'm concerned, can go bloody suck a dog off. A big fat hairy dog. I do not care that artistic vampires are giving Canadians writers block. There is no universe in which I care about that.' He thrust his hands into his pockets, and they came out with a small device. It had 'TELEPORTER' printed on the side. 'What is that,' said ClouD. 'Are you going to teleport some puppies here or something, is that what you are going to do.' Daniel turned and looked into ClouD's eyes. 'I'm sorry, ClouD. There won't be any puppies. Not any more. Just . . . just take this first.' Daniel took a silk-covered box out of his pocket and lay it in ClouD's hands. 'Don't open it until the need is greatest.' And with that, Daniel pressed a blue button on the teleporter, and he was gone. ClouD stared blankly at the space that Daniel had left there. He cast around at the other members of the sled, who all hung their heads out of his sight. 'Has he gone to get the puppies?' pleaded ClouD. 'Is that where he has gone? Is he getting some puppies and some ice cream? Are we going to play with puppies and eat icecream?' 'N – no,' said Delphinus. Tears sprung into ClouD's eyes. 'But I wrote stories with him,' cried ClouD. 'Is that where he has gone? To get some stories?' No-one dared to answer. ClouD simply stared at the box in his hands.

'Daniel?' he asked. 'Daniel, are you playing a joke and you are really in this box?' The box didn't answer, and neither did Daniel. Tears began to run down ClouD's face. 'DANIEL!!' he screamed. 'FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!'

Something About Grey Dawns Lao-Pin was tired. It had been a long walk, there and back. Monks of Chronology did not believe in alternate transportation. It was a belief held by their order that walking never hurt anyone, except for all those people who forgot to take water on their desert traipses and wound up dead for it. It was commonly held that perhaps their memory would be better in their next life, if indeed there were next lives for idiots. Lao-Pin did not mind being tired, because it meant he would get a good night's sleep. In fact, he was just about to finish his tea and hit his bamboo mat when the knock came. As knocks went, it was rather droll. Not very loud, but not quiet either; not heavy, but not soft. It was just a knock. If Lao-Pin were to associate a colour with this knock, that colour would be grey. The Archive doors did not get many knocks, though, and that fact alone made this knock unusual. It was late, and Lao-Pin had only just got in. He was not terribly pleased at the knock. However, no one else was around to go to the door, and Lao-Pin somehow suspected that this grey knock was meant for him. So he started down the wandering corridor toward the great doors at the entrance to the Archives. *~*~*~*~* Pastro awoke to a horrific smell. If smells had personalities, this one would be several, or possibly that of a raging psychopath with multiple personality disorder and a fetish for kicking puppies. It was not a pleasant smell. It was so unpleasant, in fact, that Pastro immediately felt the nearly irrepressible urge to vomit. He didn't, but only because he hadn't eaten anything in twelve hours and there was nothing to expel. He opened his eyes, and promptly discovered the source of the smell. He was in a sewer. And the sewer was moving. No, he was moving. In a boat. A rather small boat, but a boat nonetheless. Well, at least he wasn't touching the sewer water. At this point Pastro began to wonder how he got into the sewer. Looking over his shoulder, he found out. For there was the reason he been out stalking through the park. There, in the stern of the boat (Pastro vaguely remembered that this was the correct term) was Oneironaut, the man Pastro wished to be his father. Well, actually Pastro actually thought him to be his father, due to an unusual form of delusional amnesia caused by a moose attack when he was fifteen. But that's another story altogether. “I don't appreciate you tagging along.” Pastro winced at Oneironaut's tone. “You should have stayed in Canada.” “I thought you could use my help!” “Help. Yes. You nearly had the police arrest you for propositioning an old lady, Pastro!”

“Well, I was only asking her if she'd seen my black ninja father...wasn't my fault she thought I meant something dirty. I seriously have no idea what she thought I was talking about. I had no idea old women could be so...deranged.” Pastro shuddered. That had been a horrible experience, especially the bit where she took her dentures out. “She took her den-” “Quiet, we're nearly there!” Oneironaut shushed, putting a hand over Pastro's mouth. A hand that reeked of everything in the sewer, concentrated. A hand that had been in the water. Pastro shuddered again, and fought back a dry heave. He couldn't breathe. And then they rounded the bend, that Pastro hadn't even realized they were approaching, and they were there. *~*~*~*~* At The End There is a Motorcycle – Part 2 It was dark, and cold. That was one thing Daniel Danciu was sure of. He was not sure of much else. 'Hello?' he said. There was no answer. He got to his feet, and shoved the teleporter in his pocket. The whole room was pitch black, but he stumbled across it in any case. There had to be a door somewhere. The floor underneath was gritty, almost but not quite like dirt. Perhaps he should have had more foresight. He bumped against a wall, which felt almost but not quite like slime. Fantastic. He pulled out his special knife which he kept in case he ever needed to fight an angry bear, and stabbed at the air vaguely. Then, he heard it. 'OP is fail bitch post tits.' He froze in panic. Surely not. Of all the places on the Internet . . . 'fuck you butthurt fag' No, no, no. This couldn't be happening. But it had to be. No capitals, no full stop, a complete disregard for the English language . . . 'gaiafag fgt bitch' he heard from somewhere in front of him. Danciu groaned. Only one word in that sentence had made any kind of sense. Suddenly, he knew, with a dreadful kind of certainty. He was here. It was too late. The lights switched on, and the sudden illumination blinded him for a moment. His vision was a blurry mass of light. He closed his eyes, and breathed slowly. Daniel Danciu opened his eyes. He was surrounded by six-foot-tall Guy Fawkes masks. Anonymous. It was all around him. I am become Death. Destroyer of worlds . . . He sunk to his knees. 'No,' he cried. 'No, no. It can't be.' 'Newfag,' said the tallest of Anonymous, and violently slapped him. 'Jew newfag is new.'

*** 'Because I am a silly racial stereotype,' said Exobyte, scrounging around in the back of the sled, 'I have these.' He held up four hockey-sticks, and chucked one each to Howie, ClouD and Delphinus. Delphinus and Howie caught them, but ClouD just stared absently at the box in his hands. 'Daniel,' he whispered. 'I am totally not gay, because labels are not cool, but if there was anyone I could go gay for . . .' He trailed off. Exobyte pushed the hockey stick into ClouD's hands. 'We need these to fight off the vampires.' 'But they're vampires,' pointed out Delphinus. 'Don't they only die from stakes through the heart and radishes and moody men in black coats?' 'Well, no. Not for these vampires. They're artistic vampires, remember. They feed off ideas. The only way to kill an artistic vampire is come up with an idea so retarded, it actually physically causes the vampires heart to reverse itself. But hockey sticks are powerful. They can stun a vampire. Not kill it, but stun it for the time needed to come up with an idea about, I dunno, shark robot fighting monkeys.' 'Finally,' said ClouD. 'Finally.' 'Sorry?' 'Finally, a use for me. I can come up with a bunch of retarded story ideas. Just give me a notebook.' He spoke calmly, flatly, like a dead man. Exobyte handed him a notebook and a pen. ClouD got to writing. 'Now,' said Exobyte, 'it's only a few minutes away from the mill. Get writing, ClouD. Everyone prepare their hockey sticks. Get ready. If there's any luck, the catgirls won't have got there yet.' The sled sped across the plains, towards the Old Mill in the distance. The dogs kicked up a great cloud of dust, which twisted their path out behind them. Howie could see the Old Mill approaching fast. It was quickly becoming clear why it was called the Old Mill. It was old, and it was a mill. 'Can these things shoot?' asked Howie. 'It's just that shooting would be nice, thank you.' 'No,' said Exobyte. 'These are hockey-sticks. That's a wacky idea. This is not the kind of place for wacky ideas.' 'Fine, fine,' said Howie haughtily. 'I will make do with hitting.' He brandished the hockey stick; Delphinus did the same. ClouD slipped Daniel's box into his pocket and brandished his less enthusiastically. He looked like a sad little duck. 'Cheer up,' said Delphinus. 'I'm sure he's in a nice place. A nice place with a bunch of virgins and alcohol and horse-queens. I'm sure he's having a great time.' 'Yes,' said ClouD coldly. 'I'm sure.' 'We're here!' screamed Exobyte. 'The huskies reared, their hoofs flying about enthusiastically, like a small child jumping on the face of a kitten. The sled slid to a halt. Exobyte jumped off, and

Delphinus, Howie and ClouD followed. 'Okay,' said Exobyte. 'It's four former members of an Internet forum against one of the greatest presidents of the United States, who is also a vampire. Let's get rolling.' Exobyte led his way across the field of corn that surrounded the barn, and knocked on the door. 'Um, hallo,' he said. 'We're here to sell you doorknobs. Doorknobs for your barn.' He turned around and winked at Howie. 'We're a bit busy,' called a voice from inside. 'Got a bit of a thing going on.' 'I assure you, sir, they are very good doorknobs.' 'We've already got doorknobs!' 'These are better doorknobs. They have coathangers. And puppies.' There was a sigh from inside. 'I've never been one to pass up a good coathangered puppy.' Hannibal Hamlin opened the door. Exobyte swung his hockey stick at Hannibal's fat, fat face. He fell to the ground, holding his streaming nose. Hannibal Hamlin said, like a man revealing a great secret, 'Dammit, dammit, dammit! You aren't selling doorknobs at all, are you?' Howie rushed in, and kneed Hamlin in the face. Then he spied the scene inside. There were hundreds of vampires ranged around the barn. Some of them had nice coats on, and were reading books. Some others were simply staring at the Canadians tied up in the middle of the floor, who had a notebook each in front of them, and a pen. They looked weak, and the pens wobbled in their hands, like the control of the world wobbled between the Russians and the USA, before Russia went all pussy. And Abraham Lincoln stood in the middle of it all, overseeing the whole thing. He smiled, and pulled at his beard. And turned to the arrivals. 'So nice to see you,' he said pleasantly. 'You are three minutes late. Do try to keep a better schedule. He gestured to the Canadians in the middle of the floor. 'It's all going rather well, don't you think? And you come here to ruin it for us all. Tut-tut-tut. Take them, minions.' The vampires leapt, and took the four Dreamviewers with grips of iron. Abraham Lincoln laughed pleasantly. 'You didn't think you'd get us, would you? With hockey sticks? What do you think we are? Fools? I can only assume you do.' Lincoln leaned back suddenly, and wings unfolded from his back. He flew over to the Dreamviewers. 'Think of some ideas,' he hissed. 'We can always do with more. Yum-yum-yum.' First, he turned to Howie. 'Go,' he said curtly. 'Umm,' said Howie, unable to resist Lincoln's gray stare. 'A punventure of some kind. Like, like, like, there's this bit where this guy beats up another guy in a University and he's all like, “You got schooled” and it would be super cool and maybe some robots too-' Lincoln burst out laughing. 'Beautiful! Positively beautiful. I could feed off that for weeks. You, Dolphin boy, next.'

Delphinus panicked. 'Uhh,' he said. 'What about there is a dog. Yes, there is a dog. And the dog wants to get a puppy, but mother dog won't let him, and then there is a unicorn, that would be nice, and maybe some happy things happen. Also there should be a racecar.' He stopped, and nodded. 'And that's my story.' Abraham Lincoln nodded slowly. 'Borderline retarded. That was dangerous. Remind me never to talk to you again.' He turned to Exobyte. 'FUCKIN' RABBITS,' burst out Exobyte, before Lincoln could say anything. 'Just fuckin' rabbits attacking each other and having wars and shit. There can be this scene where this one rabbit, he's like, “Fuck you,” and he attacks this other rabbit and bites his eye out. And he'll be like “AHHHH” because his fucking eye is gone, and he'll be running around in a circle, and then BAM. This boot comes down. Crushes them all. That's the twist. There were giants all along.' Abraham Lincoln doubled over coughing. 'Very good,' he croaked. 'I think you just gave me indigestion. Christ, that was bad. But nourishing. Nearly an overdose there.' Finally, he turned to ClouD, and smiled. 'Why, you seem like a nice fellow,' he said, patting ClouD on the back. 'I've got a whole story,' said ClouD innocently. 'Would you like to hear my story, sir?' Abraham Lincoln laughed, and nodded. ClouD smiled again, and opened his notebook. 'The Cat Who Was a Bear, by one esteemed backflipper, ClouD.' He cleared his throat. 'Once, there was a cat. He had spots and claws and he meowed like a cat, too. But he had a terrible secret. He was a drug-lord. Also, he was a bear too.' Abraham Lincoln choked. ClouD carried on. 'One day, while in a walk in the Ghettos, the cat spied a robber. He promptly set about bathing him in acid, and sold the remains to a young Cuban man for a chicken. He used the chicken to make dinner for a homeless man and also he became a dentist. The homeless man, not the cat. Or maybe both. Anyway, the point was, he really hated Communism. He hated that shit. So one day the cat who was a bear and a dentist set about considering an efficient way of governing a country. He found an oil-rig somewhere, and kidnapped a young Japanese couple. Then he formed FuckCommunism, which officially became a country just tomorrow. Anyway, he decided to try communism anyway, just to see how it worked. But soon, for some reason he was a pig too, and the Japanese couple was a horse who was an allegory for something or other, and anyway, he bought a boat in case he needed to fish for sharks. So he fished all day and all night, and finally he caught that shark, which probably represented something or other which I can't remember now, but I'm sure it was meaningful. But this Communism thing wasn't going too well. He was breaking rules all over the place and some guy who was a well or something had made a book criticising him but in a sneaky way.' Artistic vampires all around were falling to the ground, coughing blood. Hannibal Hamlin had already fell to the ground, and was screaming, screaming, screaming. Abraham Lincoln simply stood in the middle of it all, eyes glazed over, staring into somewhere entirely different. ClouD raised his voice over the commotion. 'So, the cat who was a bear who was a dentist who was a communist went out to bomb Russia. Bomb all of it. He constructed a bomb, and strapped it to a donkey. But the donkey could not detonate it himself, because he was a donkey. The donkey ran

away, with nothing but a napsack full of nourishing cheese. For his whole life, he laboured with the bomb strapped to him, laboured, laboured, laboured. His love-making was interrupted by the bomb, and he could never have children.' Hannibal Hamlin's eyes exploded, spraying blood across the barn. His body crumpled, and fell. The other artistic vampires were doubled over, spewing blood. Abraham Lincoln had sunk to his knees, closed his eyes, and was crying silent tears. Some of the blood on to ClouD, but he remained silent, and steely; he read on. 'And on his deathbed, the donkey turned to his wife, and hugged her, and cried a single tear. Unknowingly, though, that set off the bomb, and killed all of Russia. And the catbeardentistcommunist celebrated, but they were out of champagne. But that didn't even matter, because they had an oven, and cooking materials. And they all had muffins.' Abraham Lincoln screamed, raised his head to the sky, and screamed and screamed, as if he was screaming tempest to the Gods themselves. His coat whirled off, his undershirt, and there was his chest, opening. His heart revealed itself, beating, pulsating in anger. And there it was, flowing backwards. It swelled and swelled, and his other organs shrinked and squeezed away from the expanding beast. It shook once, twice, three times. Abraham Lincoln's heart exploded. Blood and flesh exploded from his chest, and as he fell, as did the other vampires, falling to the ground, clutching at their heads. Everyone was screaming, and Exobyte, Delphinus and Howie ran, ran, ran out of the doorway. ClouD remained there, his expression steel, staring silently at the dying vampires. He waited for every last one to die, and then he stood back. 'Good,' he said, and departed, his footprints burning a macabre trail across the blood spattered floor, like the path of a god. At The End There is a Motorcycle – Part 3 The man laughed breezily, swept a drink from a passing tray and said, 'I do not mean to pry, but you don't by any chance happen to have six fingers on your right hand?' The woman laughed with him, and smiled pleasantly, leaning in. 'Do you always begin conversations this way?' The man's heart beat faster. Perfect. Wonderful. 'You are wonderful,' said the man. 'Thank you; I've worked hard to become so,' replied the lady pleasantly. 'I admit it, you are better than I am.' 'Then why are you smiling?' 'Because I know something you don't know.' 'And what is that?'

'I... am not left-handed,' said the man, smiling, switching his drink to his right hand. The woman tipped her head back and laughed like a small ornamental bell. 'You are amazing.' 'I ought to be, after 20 years,' said the steely man. 'Oh, there's something I ought to tell you,' remarked the woman. 'Tell me.' The woman, looking into his eyes, a smile playing on her lips, switched her glass to her right hand, just as he had. 'I'm not left-handed either.' The man felt like high-fiving someone. That had been wonderful, fantastic, exquisite. 'What is your name?' asked the woman. 'Call me Ishmael,' replied the man, completely switching nerdy references. *** It had begun to rain; a light, drizzly sky-piss that got in your eyes. No-name blinked, pretty much the only movement he was capable of. 'Please,' he whispered to the hunched figure. 'Please take me back.' Slayer turned to no-name's jar, blinking in confusion. 'Naaaow,' he said slowly. 'Carrrtgiiirrrls.' He licked his now furry hand with a coarse tongue, and sniffed the air. 'Nearrr.' He picked no-name up once again and darted across the field. In the distance, a flash of lightning illuminated the perilous mountains of DeviantArt for a fleeting moment. Night was approaching. Slayer slid to a halt under a tree, and scratched at the bark with his newfound claws. 'Thissh tree. They warrr here.' He spun around. The storm was advancing fast. His fur was soaked and matted with dirt; he did not care. There was only the scent. He paused for a moment, looking into the distance. And once again he ran, no-name's head always safely clutched in his freakish paws. He was getting closer. He could feel it. He ran. *** 'They're all dead,' said ClouD. 'I killed them. We're safe.' But not one of them were listening. Howie, Exobyte and Delphinus were staring down the dirt road, where a semi-trailer truck was advancing fast. A great cloud of dust followed it. 'Who is it?' said Howie. 'More vampires?' 'I don't think,' said ClouD, 'vampires travel in semi-trailers.'

The truck did a wicked skid, two backflips, and landed perfectly in front of the four Dreamviewers. Written on the side was: PUNCHING INCORPORATED

FOR ALL YOUR PUNCHING NEEDS And below that, a fist punching a hole in a fist with a third fist. It was the singularly most greatest thing Howie had ever seen. The door opened, slowly. A man with a goatee, a worn leather jacket and a pair of tinted sunglasses stepped out. He acquired a cigarette from seemingly nowhere, and lit it. He cradled an invisible guitar for a moment, and stared into their eyes. 'Keep watching,' he said through gritted teeth, cigarette wobbling in his mouth. 'Keep. Watching.' He raised one hand, and took the cigarette out of his mouth. 'This is my pick. This' – he held up the invisible guitar – 'is my guitar. Keep watching.' He lowered the guitar, spread his legs, raised his cigarette, and played a chord on the invisible guitar. It sounded perfect. Grod pointed to every one of them with one finger. 'All of you get the fuck in right now, or swear to Me, I will make you.' At The End There is a Motorcycle - Part 4 The inside of the Punching Incorporated truck was dented and beat up, and most of the dents were in the shape of a face. No-one dared ask. There was a leather seat that looked as if it could fit four people; one of the spaces was filled up by the driver, and two more were occupied by a large brown dog. Howie, Exobyte, Delphinus and ClouD clambered inside. The dog's tail whumped enthusiastically against the seat, and it attempted to lick all their crotches at once. 'You know,' said Grod, 'I once knew someone who named his dog “Nigger”. It was a white dog. That guy was a fuck. I still have his hand somewhere around here. So anyway, what I'm really trying to say is this is Reginald. Reginald, say hello. Four more crotches!' 'Uhmm,' said Delphinus, 'I don't mean to be rude, but there's one seat left, and four of us.' 'One seat left if you're a fat son of a bitch, maybe,' said Grod. 'I dunno, just sit on each other. You guys are gay, right?' 'NONE OF US ARE GAY,' said ClouD angrily. 'LABELS ARE BAD AND YOU ARE TRYING TO LABEL US SO YOU ARE BAD.' Grod put his head in his hands, and patted Reginald wearily. 'I'm not listening to this shit,' he said. 'Not. Listening. Figure out a way. Eat a bowl of chilli. By the way, where are those other nerfherders? That Danciu and that catgirl freak and the head in a jar? Nerfherding?' 'They . . . had to leave,' said ClouD. Grod laughed. 'I understand. Nerfherding. Right.' He started the truck, and kicked it into gear.

'I'm sorry,' said Exobyte, 'but you're not just abducting us, are you? I mean, I wouldn't put it past you.' 'No, you goddamn Canadian. We've got a fucking job to do.' 'Why us?' said Delphinus. 'We're not good at anything. We've just barely survived this whole thing, anyway.' Grod stared off into the distance, as his semi-trailer trampled several innocent people. 'Haven't really . . . got anyone else to call on,' he said quietly. He stared out the window for a moment, then coughed. 'Of course, it's lonely at the top. At the top of the fucking food chain. Did I mention that? I'm the top of the food chain. I mean, really. I will literally eat you if you disobey me. Understood?' 'Yes,' squeaked Delphinus. 'Good. Now, we have guns. We have cigarettes. We have alcohol. We have all that we need for this fucking mission, you understand? Because this is it. The final charge. We're going to fucking save the Internet. And Dreamviews. All of it. But first, I've gotta fucking do some retarded exposition, because we don't want that shit messing up the bits with guns. Explain a bunch of shit, yeah? So get ready. 'I assume you nerfherders are aware of the Crash and all that bullshit, when you're not herding nerf. The day Google physically integrated the Internet with reality itself. Yeah, that shit was fucked. A lot of servers went down that day. And a lot of real life places, too. Like how the White House just disappeared. They've got an Asian food place there now. I'd call it the Yellow House, except I'm not a racist fuck. Anyway, yeah, Dreamviews went down. Biggest forum on the Internet, remember? That was awesome. A lot of people wanted to lucid dream, after J.K Rowling made that whole book about it. But she's dead now. Or Italian or something. I don't really watch the news that much. 'Well, Google didn't cop any flack. Because, well, it's Google. And I hear the food there is pretty good anyway. But have you ever noticed how things are a little more boring these days? A little more tame? That's fucking Google. You know Google Suggest? Try and look up “titti”, see what it suggests. The first one's “tittilating”. Don't try and tell me they didn't censor that shit. Everyone on the Internet is looking for titties. 'But I've got information. Dirt. On Dreamviews. On asher. Poor damn asher. They've got operatives, man. Google, I mean. They killed asher. Because you know what? He sold us out. He sold us to Google. Because we bought out 4chan. I never really knew why we did do that, fucking awful place. Something about running a cat factory or something. Because we owned 4chan, Google needed us. Because Google owned every fucking site on the Internet.' 'Now,' said Howie, 'I hardly think that's right-' 'They did. They do. Just think of it. They own Youtube, Blogspot. And who do Youtube and Blogspot own? And those companies, who do they own? Like a fucking net, like a disease, spreading and spreading. Except Top Cola. Nobody wants Cola. Have you ever thought, “Wow, I could really do with some Cola right now?” I haven't, that's retarded. Cola is retarded. But all of a sudden, Top Cola owned 4chan. Anonymous. All of it. Moot killed himself, and suddenly Dreamviews and Top Cola is competition. So Google bought us out, asher got rich, read a fuckload of newspapers, and they killed him too. A perfect takeover. Google owned the Internet. Game over, insert two fucking quarters.'

'But why?' said Delphinus. 'Couldn't they be happy with what they had?' 'Because fuck everyone, that's why. Because of power, because of selfishness, because of overcompensation for a tiny dick. Larry Page and Sergey Brin were goddamn nerds before they founded Google. But now they own the Internet, and the Internet is literally reality after the Crash. Larry Page and Sergey Brin own the world. The Universe. Everything. All the matter in everything. So they're not sad, lonely nerds any more. They're the owners of all reality. BAM, suddenly they've got big dicks. It doesn't matter if their real dicks are small. Their dick is the Universe. Which sucks, because when was the last time you saw titties? I sure haven't. Here!' Grod reached over, and ripped the pants off Exobyte. 'Just look!' he screamed. 'Look, dammit!' Against their will, they looked at Exobyte's naked crotch. There was nothing but a blurry spot. 'Censored!' screamed Grod. 'Censored. Google has fucking managed to censor the world. Because you know what, they don't want a nosy god from another Universe popping in and seeing titties and war and fucking all over the place. Because that's humanity. Titties, war and fucking. And Google fucking stopped that. Sure, there's no more war. And that's all right. But no more titties, no more fucking? You can't do that, man. You can't censor humanity. We're robots now! Robots who work at our job and get home late and don't even have enough time to bone our wife or our husband or our hooker; robots who get up in the morning and have fucking sterilized coffee just to keep ourself from falling asleep during the day, robots who read vacuous fucking empty shit in the newspapers about some politician and his buddies getting spanked in an empty little dark room by an Amazonian princess with a dick. Fuck Google. They've fucking censored us in case some celestial fucking being stops by and gets his panties in a knot. Fuck celestial beings, fuck Google, fuck censorship, fuck fucking bullshit. FUCK! FUCKING!! BULLSHIT!!!' Grod screamed roared, ranted, and headbutted his own windshield in. He reached behind his seat and chucked a shotgun to every one of them. 'Enough fucking exposition,' said Grod, and pumped his shotgun. 'It's fucking shooting time.' There was a bump from under them, and suddenly the world was a blurry, fast one. The truck careened up on to it's right wheels, then slammed to the ground. It skidded, throwing up sparks, and the five of them and Reginald were catapulted through the empty space where the windshield used to be. The truck continued on it's perilous path; skidding, bumping and flipping, it came to the cliffedge and fell, fell, fell down to the riverbed below. 'Fuck,' said Grod. 'I kept my cigarettes in there.' 'A helicopter,' said Howie. 'There's a helicopter coming!' He pointed up into the sky. A helicopter was indeed approaching, slicing the air into tiny bits as it lowered down to the ground. It was a helicopter in the shape of a knife, and the rotors were knives too. It landed exactly like you'd expect a helicopter shaped like a knife to land: perfectly. Printed on the side was: STEEL INCORPORATED

BECAUSE I FUCKING FEEL LIKE IT And below that, a picture of a knife holding a knife fighting a third knife who was also holding a

knife. That was the greatest thing Howie had ever seen. The door slammed open. A tall man stepped out, his coat being ruffled suitably dramatically by the slowing rotors. He stepped out on to the dusty plane, and smiled at the five Dreamviewers. 'You've got the guns,' Man of Steel said, and put on a pair of sunglasses, 'I'll bring the knives.' *** The man fell on to the bed like a man about to have some sex, which was what he was about to do. The Princess Bride references ran through his head. Surely there was one appropriate for this moment. No, he decided. There wasn't. Not even nerdy quotes could infiltrate the lure of women; not even designing websites or making knives or posing with no shirt on. This was now, and now was sex time. 'Sex time!' burst out the woman from the bathroom. The man smiled. She was his kind of woman. The naked kind. *** The great herd of catgirls sped across the plain, SomeGuy in the lead. This was the life. Not his old, boring, Internet life, but this; the call of the chase, the blood, the sheer, virulent power. They were getting closer now. The Mill was only a mile or so away already. There was more than one way you could turn into a werecatgirl. There was a howl from the pack behind him, and he joined in joyously. Soon they were all howling, like madmen, madwomen, mad catgirls. It didn't matter. It had never mattered. All there was, was this. And, just on the edge of hearing, another howl. Not from the pack. It almost sounded . . . familiar. He stopped them with a paw. Night had already fallen, but darkness was no boundary to him. The howl had come from a tree across the plain, only 100 or so metres away. There was someone there, he saw, crouching against the rain. He ran over, and he saw. It was slayer. And, in his hand . . . no-name? 'Slayyyarrr,' he said. 'Wallcoome.' SomeGuy swatted the jar that contained no-name's head out of slayer's paw. 'No neeed. Come with arrrsse. Huntinggg. Leave him.' Slayer looked from no-name's sleeping head – he had closed his eyes long ago – to SomeGuy's beckoning hand. On the one hand, head in a jar. On the other hand, catgirls. He chose. *** They arrived at the mill in the dark. Empty, gone. Bad news. The Master would be told. The herd departed silently, and slipped into the dark of night.

*** 'Dreamviewsfag,' said the tallest of Anonymous. 'Ownerfag. Cancer that killed /b/.' Daniel Danciu screamed, and shook the bars of his cage. He wished he had his box back. His thoughts were scrambled, like eggs. Broken, shattered, lying in pieces. He found that he could only think in short, concise words, most of them containing “fag”. 'Gaiafag,' he moaned. 'Lulz turtle. Dancing in my head. fuck oldfags, fuck newfags. I'd . . . tap . . . that. TITS!' he roared in earnest, tears running down his face, 'OR GTFO!!' 'Take him!' roared the tallest head. 'To the heart! To moot! Never forgive, never forget!' Moot was dead, Danciu managed to think. I know that. Killed himself with a fucking razor. I know tha – TITS. Oh god. It was happening. He was turning. The trolls roared, and grabbed him by the arms. They carried him out of his cage, and for the first time he got a good look at them. They were smeared in their own feces, their own piss, their own sperm. They didn't wash. They didn't need to. They were Anonymous. They were taking him somewhere. Down stairs that seemed to go on forever. At last, they stopped. They were at a thick wooden door. A low moaning came from within. He struggled feebly, but they had him. A bolt was slid back; a second, a third and a fourth. A key was inserted, the door swung open, and he was thrown inside. The door slammed shut behind him. Darkness. Utter darkness. He looked to the sides. Nothing. There was nothing in here. He lay back, and looked up towards the ceiling. And into the eyes of moot.