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HEROICS INC.

Part Eighteen

Ashton, Iowa: Early 21st Century, October.


        'Life's a bitch,' Moonglow mumbled feelingly.
        The band were depressed.  This was not the hero's homecoming 
that they had fondly imagined, scripted and embellished in their 
heads.  It was bad enough finding that the town had changed, bad 
enough to realise that the venue they were playing was on the site 
of Mickey's Rock 'n' Roll Diner, hallowed shrine and favourite 
hangout of their youth.  But in front of Blossom, to find out that 
they had been booked to play at a retirement home.  A "Where Are 
They Now?" slot at a senior citizens disco.  They had a right to 
be despondent.
        The disgusting chirpiness of their guide did little to 
lighten their collective gloom.  Mrs Handy, The Chief Executive of 
the Residence (Managerial Section), was a compact, dynamic little 
bundle of energy, with a smile as fixed as her well rehearsed line 
in welcoming patter.  She paid no heed to the Band's wailing and 
gnashing of false teeth as they toured the "Autumn Years 
Experience Enhancement Facility".  Mrs Handy was a pro, a product 
of years of service industry, an inveterate "have a nice dayer", 
she could witter on with the best, blithely overlooking such 
everyday retirement home commonplaces as depression or 
Altzheimers.  Such minor considerations could do nothing to 
diminish this indefatigable woman's relentless grinding 
cheerfulness.


        'I think it's so nice to see people of YOUR age, still 
giving so much entertainment,' she chirped.
        'Well shucks, ma'am,' Starchild replied, miming strangling 
motions behind her back all the while, ' ... It sure is difficult, 
leaving our bath chairs, our blankets, chunky cardigans and mugs 
of hot cocoa, but we felt we owe it to our fans to put on these 
leather trousers, drink mind-boggling amounts of tequila and rock 
till their ears drop off.'
        'That's really sweet'.  By the way, if you feel the need for 
refreshment, we do have the latest cocoa-making facilities.  Now, 
Mr Hickey!' She wagged her finger theatrically at a hapless 
resident.  'Don't bash your head against the wall like that, 
there's a good boy.  We don't want you to damage the paintwork 
now, do we?.'
        As Mrs Handy swept past, the old man gazed at them with the  
eyes of a small trapped animal, all the while, thumping his head 
rhythmically against the wall.
        'Poor Mr Hickey,' Handy spoke in a confidential whisper, 
loud enough to wake the dead.  'He doesn't seem to have made the 
adjustment.'
        The band members were satirically shocked. 
        'REALLY!' they exclaimed in harmony, looking at each other 
in laboured bewilderment, 'We can't think why.'
        Starchild turned to his guest, with a strained evangelical 
grin, he mouthed through gritted teeth.  
        'Are you enjoying this, Miss Pimpleknocker?'
        Blossom played it to the hilt, responding with a manic 
painted-on smile of her own and a hyper-glassy-eyed nod.
        'It's just so wonderful to see all these people, in the 
twilight of their years, having such fun with enemas.'
        To herself, Blossom could admit that she was enjoying the 
experience; the murderous glares the others shot at their jaunty 
patronising hostess, the sense of belonging that she got from 
sharing the company of her old school friends.  Most of all, she 
was enjoying a feeling of intense relief.  She knew that the media 
would be making a fuss about her disappearance, that people would 
be looking for her, and the thought of arriving in Ashton had 
filled her with horror.  She had dreaded accidentally bumping into 
some old friend or acquaintance and setting off the whole sad 
circus of press attention again. Perhaps destroying her links with 
the band and her hopes for a new future.  Now, as they walked 
round "the complex", unwilling captives of Mrs Handy, Blossom felt 
that she could relax.  There was no one to identify her in this 
isolated environment. This home was as isolated as Shangri-La.  
She was safe.








Sally Munday was tired.  Early that morning when she had 
tracked the strangely decorated van to Ashton, it had all seemed 
so easy. But Sally knew that detective work was never easy.  The 
long afternoon had proved that fact beyond doubt. She decided that 
the van owners had to be some kind of entertainers, had picked up 
the phone and dialled, and dialled and dialled: every bar, hotel, 
restaurant, school, cocktail lounge, deli, garden shed, woman's' 
group, that might put on a show.  Hours and hours of bright and 
polite requests for information had drained her, reducing her voice 
to a croak, flaying the inside of her throat in the process, and 
all for nothing.  No one had booked a group or magician or any kind 
of act with a van of the type she was after. All routes led to a 
brick wall and she was too weary to punch her way through it.
        As she picked up her son from her neighbour, apologising for 
the zillionth time for being late, she could barely keep her eyes 
open, even though it was only six.  Unfortunately, ten year old 
Chris Munday was no respector of parental fatigue.  His bubbling 
energy and excitement exploded around her in a stream of 
breathless chatter about his day. For a while, Sally sat in her 
chair at home, coat still on, letting her son's flowing voice wash 
over her, then she became aware that he had asked her a question.
        'Well, can I?' Chris repeated, realising that really old 
people, ones in their thirties such as his mother, sometimes had 
trouble with their hearing.
        'Can you what?'
        'Can I stay at Jimmy's house tonight?'
        'Who's Jimmy?"
        'He's in my class, you don't know him.  He lives over on 
Harper.'
        'By the retirement home?'
        'Yeah, right next to it.'
        'Why, suddenly, do you want to go and stay with this kid.  
What computer games he got?'
        Chris screwed up his youthful face disdainfully.
        'Ma, get with the program, computer games are passé.'
        Feeling prehistoric, Sally let her lack of fashionable 
knowledge pass.
        'So why do you wanna go.'
        'To see the van'
        In an instant, Sally felt her fatigue evaporate as her brain 
moved up a gear.  
        'Van. What van?'
        'The one I've been talking about all night, Ma.  You're so 
slow.'
        'What van, Chris?'
        Chris pulled his lower lip, looking thoughtful.
        'Well, it's really cool.  Really old and covered with really 
crucial things.  Unicorns an' stars an....'
        Sally resisted an overwhelming urge to hug her son and whoop 
with delight.  Luck was a wonderful thing.
        'Where is this van now?'
        'Where it's been all day.  Parked next door to Jimmy's, 
where they store the old people till they die.'
        'Give me Jimmy's number and get your stuff together.  I'll 
call his parents and take you over right away.'








For a while, she stood in the parking lot, gazing hungrily 
at the faded panels of the ancient vehicle.  Then Sally made her 
way inside.  The sweaty, gum-chewing, headset-wearing, orderly on 
the front desk scarcely looked older than her son. He viewed the 
new arrival with impatience, having just got to the good bit of 
his virtual programme: "Sex Warriors of Venus".
        Sally inwardly sighed; she was making a habit of 
interviewing kids today.  Outwardly she gave the youth a winning 
smile.
        'I wonder if you can help me.  I'm trying to find a friend 
who's here?'
        'Visiting hours are three to five.' The youth tried 
sulleness hoping to get rid of her.  He had better things to do, 
Empress Trixie's life was at stake.
        'She's not a resident.'
        The orderly's rude response would have been enough to make 
Mrs Handy wilt and die with embarrassment.
        'Like I said, lady.  Visiting hours are three to five.  
Everyone's gone.'
        Sally was starting to get annoyed.
        'Do you like artwork?' She motioned at the absurdly 
overdeveloped, half-naked forms luridly illustrated on the virtual 
disc cover.
        'They're okay.'
        'I have some artwork you might be interested in.' She held 
up the finely engraved bank note.
        The orderly swallowed his gum, abruptly becoming helpful. 
Empress Trixie's life was one thing, money was another.
        'What d'you want to know.'
        'I think my friends with the entertainment...'






        Sally ran to the portable phone in her car.  It was six 
forty-five. She thanked her lucky stars that she had listened to 
her hunch and negotiated this job for a flat finders fee, rather 
than by the hour.
        'Yes,' the servant said. 'Mister Billings is at home.'
        Billings was looking forward to a date with a shapely 
blonde, one not long out of puberty. He did not relish the 
interruption.
        'What is it, Munday.'
        'I've found her.'
        'Already!'
        'But you'd better be quick.  She's appearing for one night 
only.'









        Casper rapidly scribbled the address.
        'Yes, I know where Harper is.  I'm on my way.'
        He slammed down the phone.  A superhero hurrying to save the 
planet could have barely matched Titwilleger for the speed with 
which he changed and made it to his car. The sudden emergence from 
the garage caught the bored-looking press pack by surprise; before 
they even had a chance to grab their cameras he had roared off on 
his errand, glove compartment filled with stakes, garlic, holy 
water and perhaps, most importantly, silver bullets.  Casper had 
bought a gun.








The Assassin was skilled in a wide range of criminal 
activities.  One of them was bugging a phone.  He smiled grimly to 
himself as he listened to Claude Billings break the news to his 
client, then he looked at the map.
        "This was going to be easy."








        "Americans!  They all drive like maniacs."
        Fortunately for Cecil Bland, he had been parked facing in 
the right direction when Casper screeched out of the house.  He 
had known that Blossom's disappearance had been just another of 
the Titwillegers pathetic publicity stunts, and had camped in his 
hire care outside the horribly familiar dwelling.
        Now, as he swerved and cursed, struggling to keep pace with 
Casper's frantic driving, Cecil allowed himself a brief moment of 
self approbation.  He was sure that Titwilleger was driving to 
meet his wife and it felt good to be right. He wished that 
Primrose was beside him so that he could tell her so.  He wondered 
what she would think of her husband if she could see him now,  
looking forward to Casper and Blossom's reunion with stern 
satisfaction. It was going to be their last.  A good civil 
servant, through and through, he was going to place them forever 
in the archive of time.  In a file marked - "Closed."









For a moment, all was clogging suffocating greyness.  Foul-
tasting nothingness filled his mouth, nose and lungs, and then it 
cleared.
        'I'll be damned,' Will said expressively, as he was  
overwhelmed by the lawnlike plain of greenery, the decorative 
clumps of small trees.  He looked back, expecting to see a wall of 
grey, but no such wall was in place.  On all sides he was 
surrounded by an endless flat horizon of green. Will felt he had 
to experiment, taking a few steps back.  But once again he could 
find no evidence of a wall, visible or invisible. It was as if his 
surroundings went on forever.
        For a while, he waited, luxuriating in the lush landscape.  
This was a new experience for the city dwelling-human, to be 
encircled by nature, even neat and tidy nature such as this which 
did not smell of anything.  With much effort, he pulled himself 
together.  Somewhere "out there", lost on this plain was the woman 
that Will loved.  Perhaps she was even in mortal danger.  Further 
enjoyment of the scenery would have to wait.  Filled with a sense 
of high moral purpose, Will started to walk straight ahead, not 
really knowing why he had chosen this direction.










Someone  should  have  told the first-generation Personifications 
in the bar that there was one thing Merlyn's people could not 
stand: Satire. Perhaps then the difference of opinion could have 
been averted.  No one heard the jovial quip that Robert Benchley 
uttered, but all the retired COMS units felt sure that it could 
have only been uttered in the spirit of good-natured banter 
that typified the model.  Unfortunately, the figures in plaid
were touchy when it came to their sense of humour.  With one 
smooth motion, a fierce warrior drew forth his sword and neatly 
sliced off Robert's head.
        The head flew through the air, bounced off the bar and came 
to rest by a spittoon.  To the tribe's considerable astonishment, 
"Bob" seemed unscathed by the experience.  Dorthy Parker bent down 
providing the grinning head of the decapitee with a martini 
(thoughtfully equipped with a straw), Mr Benchley took a sip, 
bemoaning the fact that, "the martinis were not like the ones at 
Tony's", then turned his attention to Kinata and her wide-eyed 
followers.
        '...Of course, you realise that this means War?'









Will had been enchanted by the Riton town, had been fascinated
and touched by the identical Riton creatures that had come
to visit him.  After that, things had gone downhill and he 
had fared no better than Grendella. His unconscious body was 
soon conveyed to the building that had been adapted to hold any 
unwanted visitors.
        Grendella's features filled Will's dreams while he slept and 
his vision when he woke up.  Her smiling face was just inches from 
his, Riton architecture not being designed for individuals of Will's 
or even Grendella's size.  It had been a tight squeeze to imprison 
them both and as a result, much to Will's intense, strawberry-
tinted embarrassment, he found himself pressed against his adored 
colleague with a closeness that would have made a sardine 
claustrophobic. Grendella could not contain her amusement at the 
human's obvious discomfort or his heavy blushing.  Will Prince was 
just so gruesomely adorable.
        'So tell me, Will.  What's a nice kid like you doing on a 
planet like this?'
        Will took a while to find his voice.  He desperately wanted 
Grendella to like him, and did not want to make a mistake by 
opening his mouth.
        'I've been sent to rescue you,' he mumbled sheepishly.  
        'Well, you've made a helluva start.'
        'Sorry.'
        'Don't apologise.  I haven't done that well on my own.'
        'What do you think we should do now?'
        'Don't know.  I haven't decided yet.  It's getting dark, I 
don't think they'll try us until tomorrow.'
        Grendella fidgeted in the confined space as she spoke,  
trying to get comfortable.  The soft motions of her body sent an 
electric thrill through the human, a delicately pleasured 
sensation that he had never experienced before.  
        'Tell me what's been happening to you.'
        When Will eventually found his voice, it was somewhat 
strained.
        'W-Well, I woke up.'








Ashton, Iowa: Early 21st Century, October.



Mrs Handy knew enough about local politics to be truly impressed 
by the name Claude Billings. Casper and his lawyer soon filled the 
places of guests of honour at the entertainment.  They sat 
uncomfortably, waiting for the show to begin, in the bright 
clinical main-hall, surrounded by patients in wheelchairs, many 
too doped or distracted to care who was appearing. Sally Munday, 
job done, hung around out of interest, sitting where she preferred 
to be, on the sidelines.







        'I can't!'  Blossom was being shy.
        'Come on; you'll be great.' Starchild was not taking "no" 
for an answer.
        'I remember you in the drama group. You wasn't shy then.' 
        Moonglow said in a tone of voice that indicated mild 
surprise at remembering anything.
        'That was over forty years ago.'
        'All you have to do is bash a tambourine.  Anyone could do 
that, even your dork of a husband could do that.'
        'I can't?,' Blossom's resistance was starting to crumble, 
        Starchild pressed on.
        'Ask yourself; who's going to know?  You're never going to 
see any of the people out there again, and its not like it's a big 
important gig.  Half the old folk are probably on more sedation 
than I was in '69.'
        'Go on.  It'll be a blast.' Goon and Stumpy added their 
encouragement.
        For someone of her years.  Blossom's giggle was surprisingly 
girlish.
        'Okay.'
        As the other band members whooped their "Far outs" and 
"Cools", Starchild leaned forward and gave Blossom a kiss on the 
cheek.
        'Look on this as an audition.  If we like you, we may just 
keep you.'
        Blossom grinned back: 'Just what I always wanted.  To become 
an honorary Misbegotten Son of Hades.'
        'Perhaps it's time we added a daughter to the family.'









Will had finished his story, but he barely noticed.  He we 
hypnotised, totally enthralled by the petite creature at his side, 
by the magical sparkle in her eyes and the wicked thrill in her 
laughter.
        This Grendella, Princess of the Dwarfen, was a woman of 
perfection, to be placed on a pedestal and worshipped.  Her soft 
unimpeachable loveliness should be wooed by the finest music and 
the best poetry.  If he could pluck up the courage he would 
whisper apologetically of his unworthy love, but for the moment he 
waited, enraptured.
        Grendella felt a bubbling feeling of hilarity.  They were 
all there, all the soppy signs: the sighing, the shy yearning 
puppyish looks.  Not for the first time, she wondered why men 
became such simpering fools at the thought of screwing.  For a 
while, she weighed up the pros and cons, realising that, after 
all, she had nothing better to do, and besides, she had always 
thought that he was "kinda cute", in a drippy sort of way. After 
she decided, she belched heavily, winked at Will with a sinful 
gleam in her eye, and indicating their cramped surrounding, asked 
him matter-of-factly.
        'Have you ever done it in a Wendy house?'
        As Will opened his mouth to shyly reply, her lips struck his 
forcibly.  To his total amazement, Will found himself responding 
with a passionate hunger he had never known himself capable of. 
After a while, the little bungalow started to shake.  The Riton 
guards, who fell off the roof, waited in terror for the Spoggle-
quake to envelop them.









Ashton, Iowa: Early 21st Century, October.



On the front desk, the orderly had been forced to make 
sacrifices.  The gum and the virtual disc had gone into storage 
for later. He could not really complain, it was turning out to be 
quite a profitable evening. He did not know who this band were but 
they certainly seemed popular.  Both the crazy foreign guy and the 
dull one in dark glasses had paid him well for letting them in and 
giving them directions. The orderly felt no guilt at admitting 
unauthorised outsiders, going against residence policy.
        'After all,' he told himself, 'What harm can they do.'









Fortunately, the staff were all involved with preparing for 
the disco/concert and Cecil Bland was not challenged as he 
followed directions to the hall's upper level.  Years before, 
after Micky's Rock 'n' Roll Diner and before the building had been 
converted into a residence for the aged, this hall had been part 
of a school, the upper level had been vital for assemblies, 
parents' evenings and the like. Today it was unused, just a 
storage area, full of stacks of old chairs, walking frames, the 
sort of stuff that builds up in a busy institution and that nobody 
can bring themselves to throw away. 
        Cecil settled himself amongst a nest of old chairs. He had 
a good view of Casper's pinkly balding head and of the stage. No 
Blossom as yet, but he felt sure that she would turn up somewhere 
soon. With hands made slippery by sweat, he struggled to put the 
rifle together.  So involved was he, in visions of the new moral 
world order that would spring from his actions, that he did not 
notice the door on the far side of the upper level open, or see 
the nondescript-looking man creep in and hide behind a pile of 
boxes.









Will was not a virgin when he slept with Grendelia, not 
physically anyway.  COMS regarded the sheer illogic of Humanity's 
hang-ups about sex as some sort of strange aberration, but they 
had reluctantly concluded that mankind had physical needs, and 
that such needs had best be catered for.  However, such provisions 
did not mean that sex or procreation could not be strictly 
controlled. The vitamin and nutrient enhanced pap fed to everybody 
an Earth contained a powerful contraceptive and sexual sedative. 
Wlll's very conception had been a fluke, taking place as it had in 
the relaxed atmosphere of Mars. COMS had programmed themselves to 
protect human life, whatever the cost, and it had been this 
programming that had permitted Will's birth, on a transport bound 
for Earth. The problem was that for those machines in the Olympian 
position of controllers, love was an abstract concept, passion 
just a word.  They did not interface with humanity, as did the 
Personifications.  Emotion was an unfortunate biological side 
effect to be restricted where possible. Thus people were allowed 
to have sex whenever they liked, as long as they promised not to 
enjoy it, harm one another, or most importantly, get involved. 
People who wanted sex advertised on Channel 69. They made an 
appointment.  They met once and that was that.  It was all cold 
and clinical.  Part of Humanity's, trade-off for a roof over 
their head, three bowls of pap a day and 6005 channels on the vid 
screen.
        Will had been involved in quite a few sexual encounters.  
Frigid impersonal no-nonsense affairs; swapping body fluids about 
as emotional an experience as shaking hands.  Like most of his 
peers, he had come to wonder what all the fuss was about. That was 
before last night, before Grendella.
        Will now lay with a silly grin on his face, and the sleeping 
Dwafen in his arms. Emotionally a virgin no longer, he wanted to 
hug her small figure so tightly, to never let her go.  Instead, he 
waited, his entire body shaking and quivering, waiting for this 
amazing creature to open her eyes.  At last, she did.
        Will sighed happily.  
        'I love you.' He said,
        Grendella patted his cheek.
        'Not now, Will.'
        'I mean it. I LOVE  YOU...'
        Grendella started to dress with difficulty in the confined 
space.
        'I mean it too. Not now.'
        'But!  I LOVE YOU!'
        'Look, Will.  I think it's nice.  We had a good time last 
night, sort-of. But right now I've other things on my mind.'
        Will pouted, looking like a kicked puppy.
        'What can be more important than love?'
        'The Ritons are going to kill our arses, if we don't have a 
plan.  I'm not cut out to be Juliet, and Romeo you ain't.'
        'You have a point.'
        'I  know.' Grendella pulled on her trainers with a flourish. 
        'Now! Put your pecker away, put your clothes on and get your 
brain into gear.  We've got to think of a way out of here.'
        Will did as he was told. Eager to please he was soon 
dressed.
        'How much time do you think we've got?' he breathlessly 
asked.  
        At that moment, there was a sharp rap at the door. Grendella 
suddenly seemed to deflate.
        'Much less than I thought.'








Ashton, Iowa:  Early 21st Century, October.



If Casper's gun had been the size of a howitzer, it could 
not have felt heavier in his pocket.  He had not expected to be 
so prominently placed and was feeling the strain of imagined 
eyes on the back of his head, eyes that flashed with accusation: 
"Murderer." 
He wanted to turn on the audience, to explain that what he was 
doing was for the good of society.  It was not right to let a 
witch loose, casting spells all over the place, it was not right 
to let such a creature live, even if he was married to her and 
even if he still partly adored her. The pressure of the orbs 
behind him soon became too much.  He excused himself to Billings, 
told him some fiction about "going to the john" and slowly made 
his way to the back of the hall.
        There was a rather sad looking cleared square there, about 
the size of an over ambitious postage stamp with a struggling 
splash of red lighting.  This was, as Mrs Handy had explained with 
a thrill of pride, the disco.  Around the edges of the square, a 
couple of very bored-looking residents were congregated. As Casper 
took a place conveniently near the exit, a sweet looking little 
old lady in her early nineties, moved over to his side.
        'Hiya hotstuff', she said with a saintly smile.  'D'you 
wanna boogie?'
        'No, thank you', was all he could think of to reply.
        'Don't give me that.  You shy ones are all he same: you say 
"no", then shake your sexy thang till your butt drops off.'
        'Listen, lady' 
        'Call me Peaches.' Her come-on look lost some of its appeal 
in translation, since she had forgotten to wear her teeth.
        'Listen lady.  GO AWAY.'
        Casper almost fainted as he felt a heavy hand on his 
shoulder.  He turned. The man behind him could have passed for 
God's older brother.  His Methuselahen face was contorted with 
rage.
        'Hey, Scumbag.  You messing with my date.'
        'Don't hit him Frankie.  He's not worth it.'
        'I asked you a question, Scumbag.'
        Casper was under a lot of strain and his voice failed him.  
He energetically shook his head.
        'Frankie, he's just some kid.  Forget him; let's Boogie.'
        'Later, Punk!' Frankie growled, before letting the Casper go 
with a look of angry reluctance.  Peaches gave him some coins and 
sent him off to fill the decrepit, and very quiet, jukebox in the 
corner.  It gave her a few moments to give Casper a knowing wink.
        'He's so jealous.  Don't worry though.  In a while, his 
medication will kick-in.  Then I'll be back for that dance.'
        To Casper's lingering horror,  Peaches patted his behind.
        'Remember. Save a boogie for me, Sweetcheeks.'
        For a while.  Casper watched as Peaches and Frankie 
performed a series of contortions to an old Bee Gees track, 
movements that looked, even at their slow-motion pace, like a 
sure-fire recipe for heart failure.  Faced with a rendezvous with 
Peaches, he was unsure whether to use the gun on himself.  
Instead, he forced himself to think of his mission, reminding 
himself that he had the safety of all the residents to consider. 
Reaching in to his jacket, he rested his hand upon the solid grip 
of the pistol, and waited.









Eventually, Will and Grendella managed to fight their way 
out of the cat-flap sized door. There was quite a deputation of 
Ritons outside, almost the entire population, with the exception 
of the judges and lawyers, all looking exactly alike as if newly 
minted off some production line, all with strongly disapproving 
faces and with notebooks and pencils poised to record any new sin 
against the language, and, therefore, society.  With Grendella 
around, such crimes were not long in coming.
        'Hiya short-stuffs.'
        The sound of thousands of indignantly directed pens sounded 
like a convention of flea-infested yetis' scratching themselves. 
        'Nice day for a lynching.  The only problem is, how the 
hell're you going to find a tree tall enough?'
        Grendella giggled to herself; a distant smile from Will the
only accompaniment to her amusement.
        'Hey, Will.  Lets make a run for it, they'll never catch us 
with those short legs.'
        The Ritons started to widen their mouths.
        'Only kidding.  We'll come quietly.'
        The Ritons subsided, their little faces as grim as a 
Bavarian fairytale.
        'Jeez, you Munchkins are real down-dudes.'
        A representative Riton couple stepped forward.
        'Shall we go?', they said together.
        'Where?' Grendella was doing all the talking.  Will just 
kept a stupid, happy smirk on his face.
        'To the Place of Justice.  You are now in the early stage of 
finalization.'
        'You've got big mouths for small persons.  We don't finalize 
that easy, sawn-offs.'
        'You will be given a fair trial, and then you will be taken 
for a health alteration and immediately deprived of your life 
potential.  It is for the good of society.'
        'What is?  Judicial murder?'
        'You are both dysfunctional and cannot be allowed to corrupt 
the language or the culture.  This way, please.'
        They started to move.  Grendella toyed with the idea of 
running for it, but the small bodies of the Ritons pressed in too 
tightly, confining the movements of her limbs far more effectively 
than shackles.  She managed to elbow her companion sharply in the 
ribs.
        'Wake- up!'
        Will felt the sharp dig of the boney elbow, but it did 
nothing to diminish his sense of well-being, of things being right 
with the world.  Will was in a terrific mood and was not going to 
let such minor considerations as imminent death bring him down.  
He was in love and the world was rosy.  In the best of humours, he 
turned his loving eyes on the Dwarfen.
        'Do something, you idiot!'
        Will did something.  He decided to share his good humour 
with the world.  Speaking in a jovial voice, loud enough for all 
to hear.
        'Why do witches ride broomsticks?' He paused for a split 
second, a contented smile on his face, '...Because vacuum cleaners 
are too heavy.'
        Will laughed heartily to himself.  After a while, 
Grendella surprised herself by joining in.
        'That's awful.  Going for the insanity defence, I see.' She 
said when she had finished chuckling.
        'There's madness to my method.'
        'What's next?  Juggling and acrobatics?'
        'Another joke.' Will motioned at the hoards of nervously 
scribbling Ritons, 'I think they're a bit slow.'
        'Go on then.' Grendella could not see the point, but, apart 
from being executed she had nothing else planned for the 
afternoon.
        'What do you call an animal making a toasted sandwich 
in the jungle?'
        'I don't know!  What do you call an animal making a toasted 
sandwich in the jungle?'
        'A griller.'
        Grendella reaction was half wince, half smirk.
        'Ouch!  That smarts.'
        'Why did'nt the Cannibals eat the Clown?'
        'I don't know Will. Why did'nt the Cannibals eat the Clown?'
She acted up putting on her best vaudevillian manner.
        'Because they thought he would taste funny.'
        Grendella cracked and roared with near childish glee.
        'Your turn, beloved.'
        'If you don't stop talking about this love stuff, I'm gonna 
belt you in the mouth.  We haven't the time.'
        'Your turn, most beautiful Grendella.'
        The Dwarfen sighed her exasperation.
        'Okay.  This is a joke your old man told me, like yours, 
it's not very good.  There was this Venusian that crash-landed in 
Central Park....'









Ashton, Iowa: Early 21st Century, October.




They looked vaguely ridiculous.  The grey-haired men that 
climbed onto the small stage, paying no attention to Mrs Handy's 
patronising applause or encouraging comments.  Then they picked up 
their instruments and were ridiculous no longer. Committed 
disciples of the god of thrash guitars, they could still kick hell 
out of a Hendrex anthem when they wanted. At the sudden surge of raw 
music, at least one set of false  teeth loosed by startled gums 
went flying across the room, The Misbegotten Sons of Hades had 
collectively  said: "Screw this, let's have fun", and in full 
mega-blast mode were something to see.  Mrs Handy gaped, 
mortified, this was not the olde-time dancing she had been 
expecting. An atmosphere began to take hold of the big hall.  An 
atmosphere of peace and love and heavy drugs, distilled into 
music.  Even those in the hall who had spent the late 'Sixties as 
fervently Right-Wing pillars of the community, suddenly remembered 
Monterey or Woodstock, wishing that they had wallowed in the mud 
and had got to know the beautiful people. Then, for a moment, the 
music stopped.  Wild-eyed and exultant, Starchild made his way to 
the mike.
        'Now, I bet you didn't know us "Sons" had a sister.  Well 
here she is. Our very special guest, "The Woman of Mystery". 
        Blossom strode on the stage, wearing a glitter-covered mask, 
a relic of the band's misguided flirtation with Glam Rock. The 
covering did not fool the vengeful men waiting for just this 
moment.  All at once, three guns were levelled at Blossom's heart.








The trial took place in the open on the edge of town, because 
there was no building big enough.  Under that lovely clear 
sky, surrounded by the tidy non-smelling grass, the strangers 
lives were to be decided. A parade of paired Ritons, each twosome 
exactly alike their predecessor, had appeared before the twin 
judges, flatly reading the evidence from their notebooks.
        Grendella had to admit that things were not going 
well.  When an entire society decides that you are guilty, a fair 
trial does not come into it and Will was not helping.  He ignored 
the proceedings totally, preferring to amuse himself with 
increasingly awful jokes.  The Dwarfen did not have the heart to 
chastise him, at least he would die happy. She sharply felt the 
irony of the situation; for hundreds of generation she had lived 
amongst a culture not her own, had avoided conforming to human 
standards of the norm, of "correct" behaviour.  Yet she had 
travelled across the universe to be put to death by the most 
uptight beings in creation.
        'Have you anything to say before we pass sentence of 
termination?'
        Grendella, opened her mouth.  Will was no good and if she 
was going to go, she was going to make damn sure that she was 
really guilty of crimes against the language.  Suddenly though, 
she heard a voice.  It spoke clearly and assertively. Full of 
righteous anger.
        'I'd like to speak.'
        Grendella could not have been more stunned if a grand piano 
had dropped on her.  It was Will who spoke.
        'I do not believe in the jurisdiction of this court.'
        'Silence, or we'll hold you in contempt.'
        'I AM in contempt.  In contempt of you and everything you 
stand for.  In contempt of anyone, anything, that tells people how 
to think or feel. How to live.  Where I come from, we've had 
plenty of people like you, people who decide that they know best, 
that want to restrict everyone else's right to free choice, but 
they always fail.  Because fanatics have one fatal flaw.  A flaw 
that's common to every little Hitler, McCarthy, COMS Computer, or 
Riton.'
        Will was visibly shaking with the effort of his words. The 
Judges started to look strangely nervous. 
        'Terminate them. Terminate them now.'
        The crowd of Ritons closed in for the kill.  Grendella 
prepared for the end, stood ready to take as many of the little 
buggers with her as she could.  Will ignored their approach, 
confident and contemptuous.
        'Fanatics have no humour.  You can't stand anyone laughing 
at you, can you?  At just how ridiculous you are?  Vile, pathetic, 
pompous creatures like you would never get power over other's minds, 
if everyone just laughed soon enough. Your moronic power-sated self-
importance wouldn't stand at chance!'
        Will and Grendella were starting to get overwhelmed.  The 
numbers of punching, clawing hands, of bitter spiteful faces was 
crushing the life out of them. Will ignored the pain of the 
hundreds of blows, ignored the unconsciousness that was making 
persistent demands for attention.  He kept on in spite of 
everything.
        'Well, it's never too late to laugh.'
        Will opened his mouth and roared with laughter.  As they 
beat him, as they struggled to kill him and the threat his 
merriment represented, he rocked with mirth. This was no giggle or 
chuckle, there was no politeness about it. This was a huge, 
incredible belly laugh, a summation of life spent dealing with the 
frustrating or ridiculous and a celebration of that life. 
Suddenly, Grendella's voice joined his, her laughter just as epic 
in scale.  The pain now came from their aching sides, from their 
watering eyes. Dimly they could see the Ritons falling back in 
confusion and it only made them laugh all the harder. Their 
surrounding seemed to become unclear. To run and fade like water-
colours in a downpour and none of it mattered.  For the moment, 
there was just the joy of hilarity, of sharing the happy thrill of 
existence.  For the briefest instant the Human and Dwarfen were 
joined by joyous, all-consuming mirth, bonded with a closeness 
that even sex had not managed.  Then, they lapsed into exhausted 
unconsciousness, cradled in each other's arms.









Will awoke with a smile on his face.  He was alive and in 
love.  He could see from the reassuringly grey surroundings that 
he had survived the first test.  There was only one thing to do in 
the circumstances, and he did it: He got up and danced. 
Concentrating on just moving his body, he forgot, for the merest 
instant, the trials and tribulations that lay ahead of him. He 
forgot the friends and followers - Sulphur, Balidare, Merlyn, 
Magda, his father, even Fitche - who were somewhere out there in 
that grey waste, probably in terrible danger.  For the moment, all 
that mattered was the dance.  A dance of celebration, of self 
congratulation, of the sheer wonderment of being alive. It came as 
no surprise when Gilhoolie appeared.
        'Congratulations.'
        Will executed a neat little two step, 
        'Thanks...'
        'I'm surprised and impressed', The Fantastation admitted.  
        'You're the first hero to survive that test.'
        Will continued his jig.
        'Lucky old me.'
        'But then, most heroes don't have much of a sense of 
humour.'
        'You surprise me,' Will started to do the Swim. 'What's 
next?'
        'We follow the signs.'
        'Have you got a bike for Grendella?  Maybe we could try a 
tandem.'
        'She's not coming,'
        The effect of Gilhoolie's words was more sobering than a 
naked dip in Arctic waters.  Will stopped dancing and started 
glaring.
        'What!'
        'I said, she's not coming, not for now.' The Fantastation 
seemed quite relaxed about it.
        'Why not?'
        'It wouldn't be fair for you to have help.'
        'You mean, I've been through all that stuff with the Ritons 
for nothing.'
        'You've saved Grendella, for the moment."
        'What d'you mean?  For the moment?'
        'She's in storage, until you rescue some more of your group.  
If you don't succeed...'
        'She dies horribly.'
        'That's right. You're finally getting the hang of Spoggle.'
        'I love her.'
        'You'd better do well then.  Your transportation's this 
way.'
        With leaden feet, Will followed the bouncy fantastation, and 
with equally leaden heart and mind, he cursed the cruelly 
unforgiving fates that seemed to dislike him so much.
        Gilhoolie turned, reassuringly smiling at the Human's long 
face.
        'Never mind!  Look at it, this way.  It all builds 
character.'
        Will felt all the cares and responsibilities of a universe, 
once again land heavily an his sloping shoulders.  He thought 
about it a while, then found the words to sum up his turbulent 
feelings of injustice, speaking from the heart, with more 
bitterness than a crateful of lemons.'
        'HOW MUCH F**KING CHARACTER AM I SUPPOSED TO 
NEED?!!!'



        







        It was at this point that the lights went out. 

        Part-way through his story.  Sulphur was beside himself with 
fury, his eyes glowing an angry yellow in the gloom, as he 
complained to the other old or derelict machines, his companions 
on the junk-heap, in the wait for the end.
        'It's bad enough we're waiting to be scrapped, without 
having to do it in darkness!'
        For a while they tried to persuade him.  But it was no good.  
The Dragon had learned a great many things from his human 
companion and had picked up a transport-load of bad habits; one 
of these was bad-tempered sulking.
        There would be no more talk of Heroics INC. this night.  
However, the other machines comforted themselves, for a little 
while at least; there was always tomorrow.





                                        THE END

© Gary Cahalane