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HEROICS INC.

Part Nine

The French kissing had been worthwhile, even though the 
horrific remembrance of the Purple Thingy's bad breath was a 
terrible price to pay for knowledge.  The mind probe sensors that 
the Orange Thingy had inserted at the end of its tangerine tongues 
had done their job.  It had learned of Queen Sharon and of her 
round up of likely heroic suspects.  
        "Two can play at that game."
        It was the Orange Ones turn to put in an appearance... 
or appearances.







The Martian miners and COMS had left little that would 
survive long against eternity.  Already their settlements and bases 
showed signs of dusty decline, even the holes in the ground left by 
their excavations would one day disappear. There was one legacy 
that was more robust, however.  The huge underground gravity 
enhancement and atmospheric heating complex was self-repairing. The 
titanic machines would go on forever, churning out an Earth-type 
gravity and warming, to bearable, the freezing Martian climate 
possibly long after their original Terran inspiration had 
disappeared.
        COMS had decided against the removal of this atmospheric 
apparatus because its parts were out of date and its functions were 
unnecessary on Earth.  The machines would remain as a monument to 
them, and they were certainly that: Monumental.
Will did not stop to admire COMS handiwork, as he bent, 
mumbling and grumbling in the shadow of the atmosphere machines 
colossal surface vents. He concentrated on digging a hole with much 
ill-grace and in the foulest of moods.  Having been shocked and 
alarmed by the realisation that his future probably contained no 
waste disposal systems, Will had then gone through a nasty couple 
of hours, struggling to control his need to give in to normal 
bodily functions.
        After a while, however, the pain had become too great.  He 
had dispatched Sulphur to a point some distance away and was unable 
to rid himself of the uncomfortable notion that the dragon had 
departed with a smirk.
        With the hole completed, Will anxiously struggled out of his 
utility suit and squatted on his haunches.  Satisfaction and relief 
coursed through him as nature took its course.  It was then that 
his mother appeared, or at least, she looked exactly like his 
mother' if you discounted her marked orange tint and the fact that 
she was see-through.
        Will smiled nostalgically at the distantly remembered, jolly 
mischievous face, the long blonde hair and the Rubenesque 
proportions that filled the utility suit.  Then he remembered what 
he was in the midst of finishing.
        'Why do these things always happen to me?' He groaned as he 
struggled to hide his nudity and situation behind the hastily 
grabbed utility suit.
        'Hello, Pumpkin,' she said.
        'Hello, Mother, It's great to see you and all that.  It's 
just that, I wondered if you would mind coming back a little bit 
later.  You see, it's a bit, no, it's VERY inconvenient at the 
moment.'
        Will's mother did not seem bothered by his predicament.
        'My son, I'm dead.'
        'DEAD!  That's just like you mother - break things gently.' 
        'I have come back from beyond the grave to give you some 
advice.'
        'Why bother now?  You didn't when you were alive.'
        'You have recently been involved in something totally 
outlandish.'
        'REALLY, mother!  I would have thought that my bodily 
functions were my own affair,'
        'You have been visited by a Purple Queen.'
        'Oh,' Will subsided behind his utility suit, 'that!'
        'Listen to me carefully Will. I have something important to 
tell you about your visitor.'






Simultaneously, the sales pitch that followed was repeated 
with customised variations all across the planet.  The packaging of 
the Orange Thingy's ethereal messengers was about as disparate as 
it was possible to get.






Sulphur's visitation was in the shape of Will, but not the 
normal version.  This was definitely the mega-deluxe model, Will's 
"better self" as it pompously announced, driving home a difference 
that was glaringly apparent. The utility suit of the Will - Mark 2 
was impeccable as was his grooming, with not a hair out of place.  
He presented a perfect and shining example of COMS breeding.  It 
was all that Sulphur could do not to scream.






Merlyn was confronted by the familiar form of Kinata, the 
guardian and ruler of his adopted people.  The reunion initially 
hampered by Sir Bastable's stream of questioning chatter. 
Fortunately, to keep him quiet, the Thingy arranged for the 
temporary appearance of a gag and Merlyn continued the meeting with 
his splendid looking regal visitor in peace.






Magda Mures was cordially greeted by Vlad Tepes, ruling 
prince of Wallachia, scourge of Turk and Boyar alike, It had been a 
long time, but she would recognise the wily, psychotic little runt 
anywhere. Magda was never over sentimental about ex-lovers.  Time 
had a way of healing emotional scars and there had been quite a few 
more interesting romances over the years, although, transparent or 
not, he was looking surprisingly well for someone who had been dead 
for over nine hundred years.






Balidare's apparition had lived for millions of years and 
held many grand positions during his stay on Earth, Governor of 
Atlantis having been only the first of them, but names did not 
matter.  The only title that Balidare cared about was a very simple 
one: Father,






Although these appearances were all remarkable, it was with 
Grendella that the Orange Thingy really excelled itself.  Not one, 
not two, but three leather clad, pistol-packing performers, "The 
Slime Girls From Hell", a trio of divas at their most deadly and 
desirable, two hundred years late for a reunion concert.  Even 
their, most optimistically ardent fan had stopped waiting at about 
the same time as he or she stopped breathing.  Grendella could not 
care less; "The Slimes" had never been punctual.






Each of the new arrivals introduced themselves in the 
familiar style of the beings impersonated.  The presentation and 
tone may have varied to conform to personal taste but the basic 
message was the same.  One trait that the Orange Thingy shared with 
the Purple One was a extremely poor opinion of the humanoid-type 
mentality, so it kept things fairly simple.  Its basic message went 
as follows:
 
        'You have recently been visited by an apparition.  You may 
not know it yet, but you are about to be asked to retrieve an item 
called "The MADID" for this Purple Queen. I would advise you not 
to.  This Queen is not a nice person.  Words like evil, nasty and 
spiteful, cannot begin to describe the dark depths of her perfidy 
or the wicked uses that she can put the MADID to. I therefore ask 
you for the sake of the future of the universe, and for the sake of 
your own futures, not to give it to her.  I ask you to give it to 
me....'
        At this point, to their credit, the onlookers all 
independently asked the same question,
        'Why not just refuse to go ?'
        'Because, she will only get someone else to do it.  I/we have 
been sent as someone you care for, sent to plead on behalf of 
powers you cannot imagine.  They must have someone on whom they can 
depend.  They can offer no guarantees of their goodwill, other than 
my appearance and promises of gratitude.  It is up to you whom you 
decide to trust.  All that they ask for is, for you to trust them 
with the MADID and that you do not mention this meeting to the 
Queen.  It would be dangerous to do so.'





This little speech was, in all cases, followed by an abruptly 
professional disappearance that was designed to discourage any more 
uncomfortable questions.






The Orange Thingy returned to its star-spangled hiding place 
and its palpably loathsome form, full of self-congratulation.
        "That should do nicely!" It putridly preened.
        You could not get those strange humanoid-style creatures or 
their companion machines to do anything if you tried to force them.  
But tell them they were making sacrifices to save the universe, 
throw in some rubbish about good versus evil, a little flattery, a 
sprinkle of concern for their welfare, and then, most crucial of 
all, appear to offer them a free choice between alternatives and: 
"Voila!"  The morons were yours. Just like any form of marketing or 
entertainment, it was all a matter of careful manipulation. Slowly, 
the Thingy uncrossed the tips of its myriad slimy tentacles.
        "That's the fibbing quota over for today."  It reminded 
itself, cynically looking down from its god-like prominence upon 
the travellers. "What fools they are."
        The Purple One had delusions that it was an expert on the 
psychology of these creatures, but Orange knew that the answer was 
so deceptively simple, It did not need experts.
        "They're just a total bunch of suckers." It orangely 
asserted, taking care to reassure its own touchy tendrils that use 
of the term "suckers'" was not mean to be tenticle-ist.







Will had tried to obtain some response or comment from the 
graven head on his sword pommel but the usually verbose 
ornamentation was silent.
        'Just my luck, when I actually need the damned thing, it's 
tuned to another channel.'
        Will petulantly climbed back into his utility suit, adding 
the final lurid touches to a melodramatic reworking of events for 
Sulphur's consumption.  The dragon did not keep him waiting long.  
It came cantering rapidly towards him on short green legs.
        'You'll never guess.' They both blurted out in excited 
unison, 'What just happened to me.'
        Man and dragon paused in surprise, silently absorbing the 
knowledge that their experience had not been unique.  Sulphur spoke 
first, voicing the feelings of both of them when he said.
        'Things are starting to get complicated.'






The magician, the vampir, the knight and the others, all 
doubled their pace, all fully aware that: "Things were starting to 
get complicated." All equally anxious to reach the city and the 
answers that it seemed to hold.







Wyart Earp threw down a card.
        'One!' The Wild-West marshal said in a gravelly drawl. 
        Richard the Third  of England spoke next.
        'Two Cards, please.'
        The elderly dealer obliged.  As the group around the table 
silently studied their hands, the dealer saw his opportunity.
        'Did I ever tell you fellas the one about the Venusian that 
crash-landed in Central Park?' he brightly asked.  Al Capone 
replied without glancing up.
        'Three thousand, five hundred and twenty-three times.'
        'So?  One more's not going to hurt then,' the dealer said, 
unabashed by the pain on the faces of the other players as he 
paused for a high strung horse-sounding whinny, before dragging the 
story out of its well-earned retirement.
        'There was this Venusian that crash-landed in Central Park.  
This was some time ago - the humans still controlled things - a man 
or a Venusian could still have some fun without it being a crime.'
        Cardinal Richelieu glared up from behind his cards.
        'Will you get on with it and spare us the sociological 
comment?'
        There were murmurs of assent from the assembled onlookers and 
card-players; a liberal mixture of the reputable, disreputable and 
just plain saintly.
        'If you'd stop interrupting I might have a chance to get on 
with it," the dealer snapped'
        'Three thousand, five hundred and twenty-three times, 
goddammit, I think that...' Al Capone growled.
        'SHUT UP!' The dealer commanded, snorting violently.  The 
restless assembly subsided, resigned to just getting it over with. 
'See what I mean,'    the   dealer   pouted,    'constant 
interruptions.  You sure know how to louse up a guy's comic timing.  
Now where was I?'
        The reluctant audience said nothing, The only movement in the 
room was the gentle, rising and falling motion of Richard the 
Third's hump as the dealer continued.
        'This Venusian had crash-landed.  It was his first time in a 
new city.  At least I think it was a he; you can never tell the 
sexual orientation of a Venusian.  Anyway, he thought he'd check 
the place out.  So he looks in his Earth guide book: "Venusian 
Vacations ", under entertainment and he looks up "What to do if you 
crash-land in New York City on a Saturday Night. After all the 
stuff about arming yourself for protection, The book says: "Go to a 
bar in Brooklyn and meet the locals: have a beer."
        So, the Venusian sets off.  Things are fairly quiet.  He 
only has run-ins with a couple of muggers and they come off worse.
        So, as I said, this strange little blue Venusian, did I 
mention that he was blue?  Well, never mind, he was. This strange 
little blue Venusian takes a cab out to Flatbush Avenue.  The cabby 
says nothing about the fact that the Venusian is stumpy, blue and 
repulsive looking, The cabby's been driving a hack in New York for 
some time.  He's used to odd fares and come to think of it, he's 
used to some pretty odd cabbies.
        Anyway, the Venusian gets to Flatbush, and he has a bit of 
trouble getting in to a bar.  There's some hassle about the fact 
that he doesn't have valid I.D. to prove his age.  So the Venusian 
gets a little depressed for a little while, until he finds out that 
you don't really need to worry about I.D. if you know how to use a 
sonic discombooberator pistol...'
        The dealer paused for a chuckle, a reaction unechoed by 
anyone else in the room, Completely unconcerned, he neighed 
fulsomely and continued, as much to himself as to those around him.
        'So, this Venusian, persuades a doorman to let him in.  This 
joint is humming.  The place is packed wall-to-wall with funsters 
having a great time, It's so full that you couldn't get a shoe horn 
between the clientele.  A band are playing, the music's banging and 
the atmosphere seems to have a life of its own.  Its all kinda 
exciting for a small town Venusian and full of anticipation, he 
floats over the crowd and makes it to the bar.  Luckily, people are 
having too good a time to worry about a Venusian pushing in and he 
says to the barman.
        "Can I have a beer please?"
        The barman is frantic, He's never been this busy, He shouts 
back.
        "Get lost buddy!  We don't serve Venusians."
        This isn't the reaction that the Venusian was expecting, so 
he refers to his guidebook: Rule 2. What to do if the barperson 
refuses you?  Answer: Order a drink and offer the barperson one.
        "I'd like a beer please,"  The Venusian says in his most 
charming voice, " ... and have something yourself"
        "We don't serve Venusians!"
        The barman shouts back, adding this really hard bigoted stare 
to drive the point home.
        So much for meeting the locals, thinks the Venusian as he 
goes back to the guidebook for Rule 3: What if the barperson still 
refuses? Answer: Order a drink, offer the barperson one, and one 
for any significant other.
        "I'd like a beer please", says the Venusian in a voice so 
suave, it's almost sickening.  "Have something yourself and I'd 
like to buy one for whoever you're exchanging bodily secretions 
with."
        The barman starts to get annoyed at this. He takes time from 
all his fevered serving to glare at the Venusian.
        "Listen, buddy, I don't know what you're problem is. BUT GET 
THIS. I don't serve Venusians, I don't drink with Venusians and 
neither does my Sue-Anne."
        The Venusian starts to realise that the barman isn't exactly 
thrilled about serving him, so, he goes back to the guidebook...'
        'Jesus!,' A feminine voice muttered with some feeling. 
'Hasn't this guy heard of paraphrasing?'
        The dealer sharply looked up, stared significantly at 
Dorothy Parker before re-immersing himself in the warmth of his 
storytelling.
        'So the guidebook says: Answer: Offer a drink to the 
barperson, the significant other and the regulars.
        "I'd like a beer", says the Venusian, still being polite, 
cause everyone knows that Venus has a very calm and polite culture, 
        "Have one yourself, one for Sue-Anne, if he's here, and a round for 
the regulars."
        "No!" says the barman, but he's not quite so sure now. The 
man's greedy enough to think of the money he can make from such a 
round.  So once more the Venusian goes back to the guidebook for 
the last time, . . .'
        The dealer tried to ignore the gale-like proportions of the 
sighs of relief around him.
        'The guidebook says: Answer: If all else fails. Offer to buy 
a round for the entire bar.
        The Venusian pauses at this, and works out that he has enough 
hard cash to cover the bill.  He has plenty and besides, by now its 
a matter of principle so he says. "I'd like to buy a round for 
everyone in the bar."
        The barman starts to say no, but the place is packed, that's 
a lot of money.  So he caves in."
        The dealer started to emit little brays of sniggering self-
amusement.
        'He spends forty-five minutes serving triples to everyone in 
the bar.  Then the sap adds the total and says to the Venusian. He 
says...'
        More whinnies of choked back laughter.
        'He says. "That will be fourteen thousand, three hundred and 
thirty two dollars and twenty five cents."
And the Venusian says...'
        'HAVE YOU GOT CHANGE OF A ZONK?'
        Altogether, the assembly chorused the long-delayed punch-
line.  The dealer's mouth flapped open, robbed of the delivery, his 
amusement stifled and stolen.
        'Oh.  You've heard it.' He softly said.
        'Three thousand, five hundred and twenty-four times,' spat Al 
Capone from behind his cards. 'Now!  Which one of youse guys wants 
to place a bet?'
        'I do.' replied the dealer, brightening suddenly with a 
series of happy neighs.
        'But first. Did I ever tell you the one about...'







        "Have you got change of a zonk?  That's a scream, and I mean 
that most faithfully.  Give that mortal a hearty clap of your 
tentacles.  He'll go far, but not far enough.  But seriously, the 
man's desperately needed in entertainment, there's a terrible 
shortage of stage planks..." On and on, and on, it wittered.
        The Purple Thingy was starting to deeply regret changing its 
dart-throwing tenticle into a Game Show host.  It toyed with the 
idea of lopping off the offending protuberance and sending it into 
deep space but was cognisant of the amount of noise pollution that 
such an action would cause.  Instead, the Thingy settled for 
changing the Game Show host back to its original state.
The newly recreated tentacle was just flexing and feeling and 
congratulating itself on the success of its "getting restored by 
the use of maximum annoyance" ploy when the Thingy neatly lopped it 
off and hurled it into deep space.  
        Never let it be said or imagined that the Purple Thingy did not 
cover all the bases when it came to punishing transgression.

© Gary Cahalane