From: blakes7-d-request@lysator.liu.se Subject: blakes7-d Digest V99 #190 X-Loop: blakes7-d@lysator.liu.se X-Mailing-List: archive/volume99/190 Precedence: list MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: multipart/digest; boundary="----------------------------" To: blakes7-d@lysator.liu.se Reply-To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se ------------------------------ Content-Type: text/plain blakes7-d Digest Volume 99 : Issue 190 Today's Topics: Re: [B7L] Pages Bar? [B7L] The flat robin [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 2 of 6 [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6 Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6 ------------------------------ Date: Tue, 15 Jun 1999 08:15:52 +0100 From: Steve Rogerson To: David Henderson CC: Lysator Subject: Re: [B7L] Pages Bar? Message-ID: <3765FDA8.7295B3E8@mcr1.poptel.org.uk> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii; x-mac-type="54455854"; x-mac-creator="4D4F5353" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit David Henderson wrote: > How did the Pages Bar get together go? Well there was me, Steve K, Eddie, Jenni, Colin, Una, Matthew and Kevin, who we hadn't met before. I got very drunk, and then went back to Pages the next day for the Xena night. > Any chance people feel like doing it > again on either the weekend of 17/7 or 24/7? Me an Anne will be over that > way for a holiday (first time out of Australia actually). Have been on this > list for about seven years now, (although not what you would call a high > volume contributor) so it would be great (for me) to meet up I can't do 17 July cos I'm at Nexus, but 24 July looks fine. What do others think? -- cheers Steve Rogerson http://homepages.poptel.org.uk/steve.rogerson "What is it with you and holes?" Xena to Gabrielle, Paradise Found ------------------------------ Date: Tue, 15 Jun 1999 12:15:49 +0100 From: Julia Jones To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se Subject: [B7L] The flat robin Message-ID: Having finally got around to examining the things I dumped in the pending tray on account of being jet-lagged - what a nice flat robin. Is there going to be any more of it? -- Julia Jones "Don't philosophise with me, you electronic moron!" The Turing test - as interpreted by Kerr Avon. ------------------------------ Date: Tue, 15 Jun 1999 19:45:38 -0600 From: Arkaroo To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se Subject: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 2 of 6 Message-ID: <376701C2.7BAA@gpu.srv.ualberta.ca> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit *** Vila stepped out onto the recently vacated street outside the Hostel and took a deep, cleansing breath, which he instantly regretted. A thunderous stench seemed to be rising from the gratings along the street as the sun set [2]. He pulled his collar up over his nose and walked north. Right now, he needed to think, an impossible task with this smell. He'd had dreams that seemed real before -- vividly real, especially the ones with the watermelon eating contest and the three snakes. But he'd never had one with such a palpable range of sensory input. If it seems too real to be a dream, then Wossisname's Razor says its most likely not, interjected his id. "But if this *isn't* all a dream," Vila muttered to himself, "Then--" Then your life-span really is about as long as a ferret in a hydraulic press, said his id haughtily. Vila groaned. He lowered his collar from around his nose as the smell lessened around him and was replaced by a pleasant smell of fermented cereal grains and blood. He looked up from the ground and found himself standing in front of a tavern. Above the door a carved wooden sign showing two limbless individuals mud-wrestling creaked gently. Beneath the noble if rather ineptly rendered athletes the words 'The Lucky Leper' had been written in a badly kerned scrawl. Feeling his spirits rising, Vila entered the tavern. "Would you take a look at this," he breathed, staring at the interior of the tavern. Every the eye could wander was covered with blinking and beeping automated gambling machines. "This makes Happyworld look like Cygnus Alpha!" His eyes were dazzled by the gas-powered mammon-machines, and he stumbled about the bar, from the minuscule fruit-fly machines on the west wall to the enormous tropical fruit machines on the west. Breathing shallowly, he stood in front of the largest machine against that wall and frantically emptied his pockets. But the search, dedicated as it was, didn't reveal as much as a copper piece, just three crumpled MacFascist coupons and pair of dulled nail clippers. I guess that decides it, his id said. Let's go back to the hostel and dwell on your, or rather our, impending doom, okay? Vila turned back towards the door, but stopped when a flicker of reflected light caught his eye. Resting upright between the splintered floorboards near the pineapple-oriented fruit machines was a small metallic disc. He snatched it from the ground and held the glinting object up to the candelabra for closer inspection. It was a small silver coin, roughly stamped with what appeared to be an owl eating a weasel. Or, possibly, an owl giving birth to a weasel. Doing something to a weasel, at any rate. He flipped the coin in the air cheerily and went over to an unoccupied fruit machine. Sitting on the stool, he sighed happily. While he loved the life of thievery, it had not been his original career choice. "Thirteen generations of us Restals have been thieving," his father always said. "And you'll be a thief as well, Vila, or I'll cram you down the waste-disposal chute head first. Now get out of the bathroom and give someone else a chance, you disgusting little boy." But, unlike his ancestors, Vila wanted to be a gambler. Ever since he saw his first game of space-Yahtzee at the age of five, the lure of the dice and the snap of the cards called out to him. Their insistent voices were, unfortunately, no match for the renowned Missus Restal's baritone, which had frequently and deafeningly told him that a career as an eunuch was all that would await him in the future if he failed in his true calling of thievery. This, naturally enough, inspired a fear that coloured the entirety of his childhood and much of his adult life, although the threats of the esteemed Missus Restal become less villainous when it is noted that she thought that eunuchs collected empty milk-bottles for refill. He still gambled, occasionally -- he'd almost become rich once or twice. But gambling was only a hobby, now. Shrugging at the vagaries of fate, he stuck the coin in the slot and pulled the handle. The wheels spun dizzyingly, blurred fruits and vegetables whirring along hypnotically, before finally stopping. A small demon emerged from an opening atop the machine. "Two spiny stenchfruits and a fig," noted the demon. "That's a jackpot." Reaching into the machine, it removed a bulging leather satchel which it dropped on Vila's lap. Vila opened it and stared at the glistering contents. "Don't spend it all in one place, sport," the demon said. It went back down into the machine and slammed the hatch shut. "Thirty silver pieces!" Vila exclaimed. The local currency was comprised entirely of unencrypted precious metals: gold, silver, platinum, etc. Any coinage he won here, unlike in the Federation casinos, was universally exchangeable. "I'm up on the deal! This *is* a bit of luck." Shouldn't have said that, his id said smugly. "Ahhhhem!" went a theatrically cleared throat from a point two feet above his head. Vila turned around slowly and found that a large nun had crept up behind him so that her startlingly large abdomen was level with his face. Vila looked up, into the beaming face of Blake. Or, at least, an incredibly accurate copy of Blake. Wearing a nun's vestments and a monocle. "Hallo, sonny boy, nice day, ey wot?" said the false Blake heartily. "Criminy, do I feel the burning need to keep freeing the oppressed proletariat by means of an Ultimate Weapon which I seemed to have misplaced, silly mistake, haha?" He patted Vila's shoulder heavily. "Did I mention that I seem to have misplaced it, though, more's the pity. Can't miss it, dashed thing looks like a really big... bugger, I've forgotten my line! Bo'sun!" A voice emerged from beneath the nun's robe. "Pepper-mill, sir. A really big pepper-mill." "Dashed thing looks like a really large pepper-mill. What say we go back to the place where we were before I left on an unrelated manner and collect it for some good old-fashioned revolution? Pip-pip and up the old sea-dog?" Vila stared at him. "Um. What? Erm, the thing is, see, is that I'm on this rather large winning streak right now, and even though I know that this *must* be a dream, no offense intended, I'd still like ever so much to get my hands on as much honest lucre as I can before I'm forced to eat all those watermelon. So, sorry, I can't help you right now, um, Blake," Vila said. He leaned down and addressed the area around the false Blake's knees. "And sorry to you as well, mysterious voice." "Oh, I think you *can* help us out," hissed the voice from below. With a sudden rustle of fabric, a large pig lifted up the edge of the false Blake's vestments and trotted out from beneath. It held a loaded and primed crossbow clutched awkwardly in its little trotters, which was pointing at Vila's abdomen. "Lead us to the Weapon, little man," hissed the pig. "I'm not afraid to use this. I'll fill you so full of wood you'll need to... so full of wood you'll be dead. How's that for a thought, eh?" "It never hurts to say please, Bo'sun," said the Captain reprovingly. "But, I do say, you've really gotten into this thuggish henchman persona, old boy. I hardly recognize you." "I swear, Mister Pig, I've never eaten ham in my entire life!" Vila pleaded. "Bacon makes me break out in hives!" "Keep quiet, fool," the pig said. "The distributor of liquid intoxicants approaches." The pig retreated back under the false Blake's robe, the point of his crossbow never wavering from its target. The bartender walked towards Vila and his happily grinning acquaintance. Eyeballing the false Blake from bare feet to wimpled head, the bartender removed his cigar and spat onto the floor at his feet. "No nuns allowed in here." "Dashed good idea, too," replied the fake Blake cheerily. "All that chanting and stigmata is bound to put a damper on festivities." "That means you, sister," said the bartender angrily. "Get out or I'll throw you out." He pointed to the door. "If its any consolation," the false Blake whispered to Vila as they exited the tavern. "I never thought you possessed the physiognomic attributes of a female member of your species. Sister, indeed. As if you two shared the slightest ancestral background." *** Up above the clouds as on the Disc, on the shimmering heights of Cori Celesti, night was falling. The last dollops of light rolled off the verdant slopes in streams of coruscating brilliance, to be replaced by a soporific caliginosity. The Small God's Hostel, which had been situated on the face of Cori Celesti to provide the best view of the Sun Goddess undressing, grew quieter and quieter as all good little gods and goddesses crept off to their beds for much needed slumber. Those deities who opted to stay awake were politely requested to go down in the cellar for their festivities, after which they were locked in securely and mercilessly. The basement, then, is where the action, however limited and sleep-deprived it may be, is happening. The basement was, as most basements are, cold and unfriendly. What little lighting existed was fitful and discomfiting, consisting of dim brown bulbs swinging and sputtering in the unmoving air. The first room after descent from above was where those objects both unwanted and invaluable were kept, in a sprawling complex of rubbish, mildew, and fist-sized earwigs. If one knew the path through the ceiling-scraping towers of broken lawn-ornaments and soiled gardening magazines, one could scamper past these dangerous obelisks of refuse and enter a long and preternaturally silent hallway, lined along its lengths with bare-concrete rooms full of the moldering produce and malfunctioning furnaces, and walk along its length to the two rooms at the far end, which were located at the furthest possible point from the Hostel itself. Topologically speaking, these two rooms may not even have been attached to any reasonable part of space-time, the universe instead choosing to set them apart for the sake of life as we know it. The first room was a dank and odorous pit, the walls paneled with cheap and cracking plasti-wood and stained with whatever nameless fluids seeped from the exposed pipes bolted to the ceiling. This room, whose origin had long ago disappeared in the mists of time, was the dwelling of the official 'Gaming Room of the Gods'. Here, far away from possible litigation, the shrieks and savage violence of heavily caffeinated elder beings who gained illicit and incomprehensible pleasure in pretending to be characters named 'Hogfondler the Half-Elf' could echo without cease, as dice were hurled and skulls were cracked. Shelves lined the walls, shelves packed tightly with every game imaginable [3]: a battered copy of "Riske" (Beinge A Recreatione of Combatte For The Wholle Familie With-Oute The Perils Of Dysentery); three unsorted decks of "Magik Thee Gathering (Beinge A Waye To Separate Nerdes Fromme Their Money)"; and two copies of "Klew" (Who Hath Murdered Miss Crimson, The Seamstress?), with each copy missing just enough cards to make the crimes unsolvable. The room across the hall served a similar purpose in removing unwanted members of the Pantheon from the general Hostel population. It was the property of the 'Small Gods Taking-popular-songs-and-replacing-the-original-lyrics-with-their-own-lyrics-about-a-work-of-fiction-that-they-all-enjoy Society', or SGTS for short. No-one could every remember meeting, or even seeing, a member of this society, but their reputation lived on in infamy, as something with which to horrify young godlings into behaving properly. Solipsos had peeked in there, once, when he'd been looking for the basement bathroom [4]. The room appeared innocuous; it contained nothing but milk-crates and a three-stringed lyre, and the walls had been covered from baseboard to ceiling with cardboard egg-cartons. But a strange horror had filled him as he stood staring within, a gut-wrenchingly terrible malaise. With effort he restrained himself from entering and strumming 'Ox-Cart-Path to Valhalla' on the lyre, knowing that if he did his eternal entrapment was ensured. The thought still made him wake up in a cold sweat some nights, although it's just as likely that his fondness for onion milkshakes was culpable. Back inside the Gaming Room, the laws of chaos appeared to be trying out new variations on the theme of 'messy' -- the neatly ordered games had been pulled from the shelves and gutted haphazardly. Pieces of the games, crumpled squares of cardboard and cellulose, lay here and there amidst the torn boxes. A Pinge-Ponge table, secreted away from upstairs in a daring day-time sortie, had been unfolded in the center of the room, leaving little room for the occupants to circulate. Solipsos kicked aside an empty 'Barrelle of Harpies' and looked down at the table with a critical eye. The table had been stripped of its net and covered from corner to corner with a thick layer of sand, kitty-litter, and whatever other dirt-like substances could be found [5]. In this sand the assembled gods, Merisu, Solipsos, and Syggar, had taken what useable items they could find from the boxes on the shelves, and used these to build a scale replica of a city. Although the buildings ranged from minuscule green plastic houses to oversized cartons of milk finger-painted brown, the city was obviously Ankh-Morpork. Set amidst the little houses was a channel filled with a stream of some thick, brackish fluid that bubbled and churned unceasingly [6]. It was a very good model, accurate down to the little tufts of garbage sprinkled everywhere. Here and there, little metal objects and colourful plastic gewgaws stood in little groups, each with a little paper flag designating their identities. 'Vila' read a little flag next to a little metal terrier. 'Wizards' read another flag, much further away, next to a group of miniature bowling pins. "This has gotten very confusing," said Solipsos, staring at the game-board in front of him. He reached across the board and adjusted the tall spire of the Unseen University (as portrayed by an inverted Hogswatch Night ornament), then jammed an olive onto the pointy bit. He eyed the resulting model suspiciously. "There's altogether too many characters. We're running out of markers for them." He grabbed a thimble from the pile of markers and began walking around the table. "Where's that Mulberry character at?" "Eddwode never did know when to cut excess," said Merisu. "He wants to have his cake and... everybody else's cake as well." He reached out and flicked a small and non-representative beetle off the table. Without warning the gods across the hall broke into loud song, to the tune of the popular Ankh-Morpork ballad 'My Hovel', by Insanity : "Vila wears his Sunday best; Avon's tired, he needs a rest, and Cally's reading minds downstairs; Blake is sighing in his sleep, Travis has a date to keep, He can't hang a-round; Our ship, in the middle of that bog; Our ship, parked beside that talking hog; Our ship, that was where we used to fight; Our ship, it's trapped in that peat bog tight," sang the voices across the hall. "Close the door, Merisu, that'd be swell," muttered Solipsos distractedly. Merisu ran to the door and slammed it shut, taking time to direct a venomous glare at the room across the hall. "Now -- where did I leave those wizards?" --- [2] "Sun set?" said Solipsos in confusion. "Didn't the sun set, like, hours ago?" "It set prematurely," said Merisu as it laboriously jammed the gnawed core of a candied-apple through the entrance of a small 'Animale Cracker' box building. "We put a new bulb in. Get with the program, Solly." [3] And some unimaginable, such as the ever-popular 'Hungry Hungry Brak-Solumothos, the Eyeball-Sucking Abomination From Beyond Space (Warning: small parts may constitute a choking hazard - Ages 3 and Up)' [4] Which is actually remarkably clean, due to the unwillingness of already alienated deities to soil their nest. Or maybe they just pee in beer bottles and throw them off the edge of Cori Celesti at atheists. [5] Including, but not limited to, cigarette ashes, the bones of small tree-dwelling rodents, dried paints, gravel, used breath mints, peat, the charred remains of low-ranking Andromedans, crumbled bits of crayon, earwax, leg hair, microscopic insects, melted ice-lollies, and air. [6] And was, therefore, an incredibly accurate model of the Ankh, apart from the schooner-sized dog-ends that bobbed near the warehouse district. ------------------------------ Date: Tue, 15 Jun 1999 19:45:23 -0600 From: Arkaroo To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se Subject: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6 Message-ID: <376701B3.41E4@gpu.srv.ualberta.ca> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit [By Arkaroo - Pretty please, tell me if you like this. Or don't like it. Whatever!] >"Supreme Commander," said Blake. "Have I got a deal for you." A pall of stunned speechlessness spread throughout the room like flatulence in a sweat lodge, broken only by the pitiful moans of Travis from his position splayed out on the floor. Cally and Avon exchanged worried glances; with slightly squeaky but nonetheless feline grace they began edging towards Blake from behind. Avon fumbled covertly for the cosh he'd tucked in his pocket. Blake turned around, revealing Vila's gun clutched in his white-knuckled grip. Avon swore inwardly and made a mental note to add generous amounts of laxative to the Liberator's supply of adrenaline and soma. "While I've never fired a weapon like this," Blake said. "I'm sure the learning curve must be low." He held the handle up to his face and began poking at the bumps and protuberances. Avon and Cally exchanged another look, then stepped back into line with the others. Blake smiled, and crossed his arms across his chest. "First things first," Blake said. "I want to see all weapons or other harmful items thrown onto the bed. Quick, like bunnies!" Jenna stared at Avon's sweat-soaked brow, then at Blake's demented grimace. "Blake, what are you talking about?" she asked angrily. She walked towards Blake, stopping short as he turned towards her, his grip tightening on the gun's trigger. "And why are you wearing Travis' suit? It's not at all becoming." She leaned closer. "Remember our little talk after the Speedo incident on the water-slides of Happyworld?" she asked sotto voce. "Silence, you limp-haired traitress," he said. "Don't presume to have special dispensation against my wrath based on some imagined former relations. Although I can certainly imagine what sort of relations they might have been, eh?" He flared his nostrils and leered like a Tarsian Warg Strangler on space-Viagra. Jenna recoiled backwards "What I'm talking about is my recent enlightenment," Blake said. "My chemically-aided escape from the shackles of wrong-minded socialism into the warm bosom of the mother Federation. I have seen the light, my former friends, and it is bright and sparkly and sort of orangeish. Having seen the error of my ways, I shall hie me back to Terra and present three of the Federation's 'Seven Nastiest Traitors' and their Alien-made space-vehicle before High Council. Wherein they shall pat me on the back, promote me to Space Captain, and give me a cushy star-cruiser with bucket seats and a toilet system that wasn't originally designed for nine-foot tall aliens with cloacal openings on their foreheads." Blake stopped for breath. "In short, what I'm saying is quickly, everybody, ditch your irons! Drop your heaters! Shuck your shooters!" He fired an energy-blast into the ceiling, sending a billowing cloud of charred lathe and plaster dust down on top of the Luggage. With venomous glares and sublingual curses the armed individuals dumped their weaponry into a pile on the bed. Avon removed his gun with an extravagant flourish. "I'll 'rest my rod', Blake, but I won't let you get away with this," he said as he threw his weapon on the bed. "So's your mama," Blake sneered. "Get back with the others." "Excuse me, Mister Leather-Suited Monk," said a muffled voice from inside the Luggage. "He's got another weapon in his pockets." Blake turned and looked at the singed arm poking out from the luggage and pointing towards Avon. "It's not a weapon. I'm just glad to see you," said Avon disingenuously. "Liar! He's got a cosh in his trousers!" cried the voice from the Luggage. "Thank you for noticing," said Avon humbly. Blake sneered and pointed his gun at Avon's pockets. Avon grimaced. "Whose side are you one, double-zed Wizard?" hissed Avon angrily as he pried the cosh from his pocket and threw it across the room. It bounced off the mattress and through the open window onto the street below. "Whichever side hasn't clubbed me unconscious repeatedly," replied the voice inside the Luggage. Jenna sidled towards Avon, her hands stretched towards the ceiling. "What's wrong with Blake? Has he gone mad?" Avon smiled and opened his mouth to reply. He bit back his words with a grimace as Cally jabbed his kidneys with her knuckles. "It's more that his madness has gone down a different rabbit hole," replied Avon, avoiding Cally's fists. "Actually, something happened to him while we were separated earlier today -- something terrible. Or perhaps he always felt this way, and was merely leading us on. Perhaps he was dropped on his head repeatedly as a child, a theory which holds water in my books, and it only today effected him. Whatever may have occurred during that time, the only real fact we know is that he seems to have spent quite a bit of time lit up like a Federation candle on powerful liquor in a dark hotel room with Travis." He lowered his voice as Blake approached. "Which leads to any number of disturbing conclusions. I'll leave them to your own imagination." He stood up straight as Blake walked past. A blur of motion low to the floor caught Avon's eye as Blake clumped by. Clinging to the curly-haired lunatic's bare-naked left foot was a slip of paper. It adhered to the wiry brown hairs on his ankle by means of some sort of thick, viscous syrup [1]. Avon's eyes swiveled like greased casters, following the path of the thin sheet of parchment along the floor. He inhaled sharply as the paper snagged on a jutting nail-head and peeled off the foot. Waiting until the gun-wielding former-revolutionary's eyes were focused elsewhere, Avon got down on his knees and snatched the sheet of parchment from the floor. He peered at the little sheet of paper, then crumpled it into a ball. "It's worse than I thought," Avon said. "Blake's hopped up on suppositories. Again." He threw the wadded paper over his shoulder. "Apparently he mixed these highly dubious 'sobering pills' with powerful spirits and sobered up clear into insanity. Hm." "Scumble and 'Marinari Pills', eh?" muttered Rincewind from his concealment within the luggage. A tone of worry entered his voice. "That's a bad combination. I had an uncle who mixed those--" "Let me guess," said Avon, clutching his forehead theatrically. "He died in a pointless and exceedingly unlikely manner. I think I'm getting the hang of these anecdotes now." "No, he lived a long and happy life," replied Rincewind in a hurt tone. "Well, then, my mistake," said Avon. He looked nonplused. "Of course, he *spent* that long and happy life chained to a wall in the 'Ankh-Morpork Home For The Differently Sane'. He thought he was a fire hydrant, you see; he always wanted people to twist his--" "Of course," said Avon with a thin smile. "That's most tragic." He walked over to the Luggage and sat down heavily on the lid, smothering Rincewind's continued oratory. Blake stepped back from the bed, having stacked the ponderous amount of weapons into a delightful pyramid, and turned to address his captives. "Right. Now, as I was saying, Supreme Commander--" Servalan walked towards Blake slowly. She smiled. "You were proposing a deal, if I'm not mistaken? Well, I've never been averse to a little unorthodox rearrangement in the metaphorical bedfellow department--" "What are you jabbering about?" hissed Blake, his eye twitching like an electrocuted pigeon. "I don't know *who* you are. Although I can certainly guess. Seamstresses, hah!" "Don't be ridiculous; I could never do a proper Blanket stitch," Servalan replied absent-mindedly. "But if you weren't talking to me, then who...?" Blake pointed his finger at Travis' stunned form. "The *Supreme Commander*, of course." "Oh dear," said Avon. *** If there was one thing that Ted the Exhibitionist hated about his job, it was working nights. Long, tedious hours spent crouching in the shadows waiting for even a single victim who, as luck would have it, usually never even appeared. And even when a suitable candidate came within range of exposure the darkness inevitably left everything to the imagination. In total, it was a stone cold drag, and unprofitable to boot. Scratching his dripping nose, Ted surveyed the dark and abandoned street outside the Hostel with little hope. Thanks to the recent astronomical increase in the price of lamp-oil, the only brightly lit areas in Ankh-Morpork were also those areas where the amount of competition, by fellow Exhibitionists or common thieves, could easily result in a forcible demotion to Random Street Eunuch, a thirteen pence drop in salary. Shuddering at the thought, he strolled along the street, buttoning his thin overcoat against the biting wind that swept along the street and up into his unmentionables. Time to call it a night, he thought to himself. Go home back to the wife and kids, put my briefs back on, and just spend some quality time fully clothed. As he passed the darkened mouth of an alleyway located cater-corner to the Hostel, the sounds of low, muffled voices caught his ear. He stopped abruptly, slipped into the darkest shadows beneath the generous eaves of the 'Ankh-Morpork Gristle Works', and peered around the corner. It always paid to keep an eye on action in the alleyways. Two figures stood near the mouth of the alleyways, beside an array of waste receptacles. Ted rubbed his eyes, unsure of what he was seeing. The first figure, a tall man with curly hair, stood with his back to Ted. He was struggling to get into his clothing, which, oddly enough, happened to be the vestments of a nun. The other figure was reaching out to help the curly-haired man, with hoof-like hands that matched the rest of its decidedly porcine silhouette. "Are you *quite* sure this is how the large lunatic was dressed?" asked the first figure. "This feels quite irregular. And tight." "The First Mate was quite clear, sir," replied the pig. "He said, 'A large, dark-haired man, wearing the garments of a indigenous religious practitioner, was last seen in the company of the ultimate weapon.' And then he said, 'Arrgh arrgh, this really hurts, I've got to go and lie down for a bit.' So then we poured him back into the bin." "These undergarments seem a bit... confining, is all," said the first figure, adjusting the fit awkwardly. "They're making this body's buttocks unpleasantly numb." "These primitive religions favoured repression of the sexual drive," said the pig. "Most likely those are meant to prevent inappropriate thoughts." "Hmm. Well, I'm having an inappropriate thought concerning the inventor of elasticized cotton and a large summer-squash. Look, should that be turning purple?" The false nun wiggled his left leg questioningly. "These strangling knickers are going to give me gangrene, I can feel it. Then where will we be? I'll be forced to get work sweeping the streets with a broom strapped to my buttocks and you... well, I'll be forced to eat you. For the sake of the mission, of course." "If it becomes necessary I'd be pleased to have you eat me, sir," said the pig. It held a somewhat crumpled wimple towards the mannish nun. "Here's your head-covering, Captain. I've tucked a few spare tissues into it for emergency purposes." "Damn good idea, Bo'sun," said the nunnish man. "These bipedal forms do ooze the most ghastly liquids from the most unexpected locations. There we go, I think my leg is better. How do I look?" The pig looked at him critically, then gave an approving nod. "You look like several million Andromedan shillings, sir. Now -- have you got your lines memorized?" "Erm. 'Hallo, sonny-boy, have you seen a tall, dark-haired fellow clad entirely in leather and carrying a condiment-grinder?'" "Pepper-mill, sir." "Sorry. 'Hallo, sonny-boy, have you seen a tall, dark-haired pepper-mill clad entirely in--' Look, I don't need to practice. I *was* voted 'Most-Likely-To-Become-An-Actor' at Slimewood Military Academy. Three years running." "You were also voted 'Most-Likely-To-Misjudge-The-Length-of-a-Grenade's-Fuse', Captain." "Right, and that never happened, so at least *one* of those awards should become true." "Mm. And here's your weapon, sir," said the pig, holding a crossbow out. "The Security Officer apologizes for getting the Blasters wet." "I can't carry a crossbow, Bo'sun! I'm supposed to be a member of the clergy. My only weapons should be fanatical devotion to the deity of my choice and a trustworthy groin jab." "You can't go after these fiends unarmed, sir," replied the pig. "If you refuse the weapon then I'll have to accompany you." "Splendid idea, Bo'sun. Only one difficulty," the Captain said sarcastically. "At the moment, you happen to be a pig. People will notice, society will talk. How will I be able to show my face in public again?" "No time to break my spirit with mocking barbs, sir," said the pig, pointing towards the Hostel's entrance as Vila emerged onto the street. "Look! There's that little fellow who was with the lunatic." Ted the Exhibitionist slid away from the mouth of the alleyway into shadow as the nun and the pig walked out of the alleyway. He walked away from the area quickly, studiously avoiding looking backwards. Ted was, at heart, a simple man; the act of exposing one's self in public doesn't require much in the way of deep personal introspection. He liked his world to consist of the Exposer and the Exposee. Pigs wearing hats didn't enter into it on *any* level. *** "*I* am the Supreme Commander," Servalan exclaimed through gritted teeth. "*That*..." she said, pointing at Travis' supine form. "...is merely a drug-addled decommissioned officer wearing women's nightclothes." She stomped her foot in rage. "There are absolutely no points of comparison, you imbecile!" "Get those toothpick arms back up in the air, you high-collared temptress!" yelled Blake. He bent down towards Travis' unconscious form and pried his eyelid open. "Wakey wakey, Supreme Commander," he bellowed into Travis' ear. "I've come to woo you." "Nnngh," said Travis, regaining consciousness and swallowing his tongue simultaneously. "No, my dear, that's not food," said Blake, levering Travis' jaws open and extracting the offending part. He smiled fondly at Travis. "If you don't mind my forwardness, Supreme Commander, I should think you should consider waxing your legs. If I weren't encased in leather from neck to toe I should worry about chafing during our slow dances." "Blll--" said Travis. He raised his partially-melted gun-arm at Blake. Blake hooked his arm around Travis' and hoisted him upwards. "Yes, my dear," said Blake. "Let's be off to collect our just rewards. As soon as we find the Liberator it'll be space-caviar and carbonated soma 'til our tummies grow tired of the exercise." Travis' eyes rolled around wildly as Blake began dragging him towards the door. "They seem to be distracted," whispered Avon. He lowered his hands slightly and tensed. With lightning quickness and a squeak of leather Blake whirled around and shot into the plaster ceiling above Avon's head. "My peripheral vision is unsurpassed," he giggled. Travis teetered, woozy from the sudden spin. "You're becoming a bit of a pest, Avon," Blake said. "I think I might have to kill you after all." Suddenly, with timing born of serendipity and lazy plotting, a muffled thump emerged from behind the closed doors of the closet. Blake released Travis, who fell to the floor beside the Luggage with a meaty thud, and sprinted towards the closet. A prominent vein on his forehead began to throb rhythmically. "Whew," said a voice from inside the closet. "Good thing you didn't break those little glass things. We can sell those as Colonel Persnickety Commemorative... what the devil are these?" "Boil cups," replied another voice inside the closet. "For soaking your---" "Boils, I figured that one out. Maybe we should just leave these here. Nasty little things. Say, did you hear something outside?" --- [1] Denizens of the Disc would recognize it for the fragrant (and how!) water of the Ankh that, to quote the popular guide-books, 'flows beneath the gambreled bridges and gilded docks to transport departed members of the local economic-dispersement community to their eternal rest'. The guide-books don't mention the large amounts of raw sewage that are also transported to their eternal resting places. ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 12:27:27 +0100 From: "Alison Page" To: "lysator" Subject: Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6 Message-ID: <002701beb7ec$513bf000$ca8edec2@pre-installedco> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit >[By Arkaroo - Pretty please, tell me if you like this. Or don't like it. >Whatever!] Well seeing as you said 'pretty' please... I like the various bits of the flat robin. I can't always get round to reading them, and I surely don't know where you (all) find the time to write them, but I think they are funny. Bits of them are extremely funny. I have only read one book ever by Pratchett, and that was the one he wrote when he was 17, about a carpet. But I think I get the hang of what's going on. However for the same reason I simply don't know how derivative or original the style or content is. But I'm enjoying it. I might even read some of the original books. And I personally like cross-overs quite a lot. I know some people can't get on with them at all. Any thoughts on cross-overs people? Alison PS my spell checker insists Terry Parachute -------------------------------- End of blakes7-d Digest V99 Issue #190 **************************************