0 comments/ 5734 views/ 1 favorites Coffee Nips Anonymous By: ReverendAnimal BOOK ONE - Addiction "Newton?" I asked my roommate in a puzzled voice. "Did you take a bath this morning?" "Why Animal," answered the bespectacled wolverine, with his usual smugness, "is one missing?" "As a matter of fact yes!" Approaching the door, he peered into the bathroom to confirm my statement. Not only was the bathtub missing but also the sink, toilet and most of the far wall. "Now don't look at me!" said Newton. I looked at him anyway. I was about to ask a rhetorical and slightly silly question such as, 'Where do you suppose our bathroom went off to?' but thought better of it. Then I asked, "Where do you suppose our bathroom went off to?" He shrugged, as I figured he might. I popped a coffee nip (a small piece of coffee flavoured candy... only five cents, but highly addictive) and I felt somewhat better. I'm sure anyone reading this can imagine that finding one's bathroom missing might be quite disconcerting. Especially so if s/he were in my then-current state: dressed only in a blue terry-cloth bathrobe, carrying a large bath-towel and beginning the Dance Of He Who Has Lain In Bed For What Seemed Like An Hour Trying To Go Back To Sleep But Deciding His Bladder Wouldn't Let Him. Newton began sniffing about in the rubble that was once our bathroom wall, apparently looking for clues as to the bath's whereabouts. "Ah!" he said, "Our bath is not missing after all!" He stood holding up a shard of porcelain that very well could have been part of a bathtub. "Simply hidden by the oof!" I'm sure Newton didn't mean to say 'oof', but the fact that he did, I must confess, was my fault. You see, that was when my flying tackle knocked the wind out of his lungs; the momentum carried us through the hole in the wall, starting us plummeting forty feet down towards hard pavement. Normally I don't go about tackling good friends for no reason, especially when that tackle might cause them to fall to their deaths, but there definitely was quite a good reason for the tackle, and I guess you should know what that reason was. Just as Newton had said 'Ah!', I noticed a large black mass outside. As he said 'our bath is not missing after all!' I noticed this large black mass outside getting larger, since it was moving towards us at an alarming rate. Now rather than yelling a warning and having Newton get miffed with me for interrupting, and having to explain that a large black mass was moving towards him at an alarming rate, and that he should move before ... too late! or trying to catch the thing myself and go *splat*, I did the only sensible thing. I launched myself with all speed towards my companion ("oof!" he said), causing us both to sail out of the hole in the wall and begin plummeting forty feet down towards hard pavement ... as I've mentioned. Fortunately I had a solid grip on my furry friend, and fortunately I could fly. So to the resounding CRASH!! of the wrecking ball knocking another bloody great hole in our wall, we landed safely on the ground. "Oh!" exclaimed Newton, adjusting his glasses, "thanks ever so much for saving my life!" "No problem," I said, nearly choking on the coffee nip. I swallowed hard. "I believe that brings your arrears down to two." Before Newton could give me a receipt, a grubby-looking man in a hard-hat walked up to us. The expression on his face suggested that we had upset his work schedule. "What the hell are y'all doin' here?" He gestured at the wrecking ball. The man at the controls looked anxious to get on with his job. "Can't you see there's a wreckin' ball about to knock this place down?" "Yes I can, but..." I started. Cutting me off he called, "Go ahead Hoss!" to the man at the controls who let the ball fly and knocked another whopping hole in the side of our home. Not only our home, but also Polar Bears Unlimited headquarters and a favorite nightspot, known as the Canary, where one can enjoy the music of the modern counter-culture. A few years ago I had been able to make a down-payment on the place with some reward money that I'd received for my part in stopping Vital Sassoon from taking over the world and destroying our music scene in the process. I managed to pay off the rest of the purchase price by selling some junk that I pulled from my hat - like televisions, VCRs, diamonds cut into shapes of contour maps of various states, peanut-butter-powered cars, gasoline-powered hats and wool-knit sandwiches. Anyway there were three humongous holes in it now! Um... the Canary; not my hat. "Hey!" yelled Newton at the foreman, "stop that!" "Mister," the foreman warned me, "Yew'd better call off yer dawg, we've got a job to do!" "Dog indeed!" muttered Newton, flexing his claws. I got between them before things could get ugly. "What you don't understand sir, is that your job is to knock down our bloody house and generally fuck up our day!" The foreman blinked at me. "Did it not occur to you," asked Newton from behind me, "to knock and see if anyone was in residence?" "Hell, ain't s'posetabe anyone here!" He lifted his hard-hat and scratched his balding scalp. "Didn't y'all hear the first time the wreckin' ball hit the buildin'?" I evaded that question. It's a little embarrassing to admit to how heavily I sleep sometimes. And knowing Newton he was probably reading and was so absorbed in his book that he simply didn't notice the first Earth-shaking smash. "That's not the fucking point," I said. "The point is that you can't just knock over someone's home at this godforsaken hour!" The foreman looked at his watch. "It's a quarter after ten and we're behind schedule." He signaled Hoss again and before I could protest, another gigantic hole was placed in the side of our home. "Look you!" bellowed Newton. "If you do not cease and desist forthwith, there will be one less very ignorant redneck about town, if you catch my meaning!" The foreman looked indignant. "Don't threaten me, Mister! I've got me some government orders to demolish this place and I aims to git this job done!" He turned once again to signal Hoss and I lost my temper. Before he could give the fatal sign, I grabbed his wrist and shouted over to the Man Called Hoss, "Get out of that thing! Right now!!!!!!" What happened next surprised the lot of us. The Man Called Hoss got out of the wrecking machine. Mind you, not on his own power. He flew out of the control seat. Not like I fly, but more like he'd been carried out, and dropped to the ground. There was, however, no one there to have carried him. Then the wrecking ball snapped right off its chains and cables (seemingly of its own accord), hurtled itself through the air, landed with a mighty crash and turned the wrecking machine into so many potential Spam cans (if, indeed, the Hormel™ company used recycled metal for its canning operation). Turning pale, Hoss and the Foreman looked at me as if I were Satan himself (which is quite ridiculous; Satan is much taller). A few others in the wrecking crew, who had until this point been eating doughnuts and sipping Java, also gave me the You Must Be Satan look and lost most of the color in their faces and I daresay, the liquid in their bladders. After a short silence and a lot of blinking on everyone's part, the wrecking crew screamed and bolted, leaving the damaged wrecking machine and about a dozen doughnuts behind. The coffee, however, was spilled. All the better for me; I hate coffee. Some think it odd that I hate coffee, yet I am addicted to coffee nips. To them I say, "Go figure," and I leave it at that. Newton and I started a breakfast of raspberry-filled doughnuts. "What did you do?" asked Newton between bites. "Nothing," I shrugged, "I simply yelled at Hoss to get out and he did. The rest ... I dunno." "Wasn't it the result of a power granted by your hat?" As I mentioned earlier, I have a hat. It's a black top hat about eight inches tall with a blue bandanna hatband and a red feather stuck in it. But it's no ordinary top hat. It acts as a gateway to an extradimensional space, allowing me to store several hundred of my closest friends in it. I can also produce almost anything I need from it - like televisions, VCRs, diamonds cut into shapes of contour maps of various states, peanut-butter-powered cars, gasoline-powered hats and wool-knit sandwiches. Plus every time I place this particular top hat on my head, it does something strange. Once it made me One With The Cosmos for the better part of four years; another time it hurtled me forward in time approximately fifteen years (safely past the Disco era, thank you for asking) and shortly thereafter granted me the ability to fly (it is worth mentioning that when the hat grants me a power, it is usually temporary, but in this case it was permanent). Normally Newton's suggestion might have been accurate but my hat hung upon a hat-rack in a corner of my bedroom. And I hadn't worn it since the night before when it doubled the size of the Universe (and everything in it). "Nope," I answered pointing to my shaggy but otherwise bare head, "hat's inside." "Someone's here!" warned Newton, in a low whisper. "Where?" "I'm not sure," he said sniffing the air. "He should be close by, but... Hey! Is that ...?" he trailed off as both of us witnessed an unusual phenomenon. Well... if you consider floating doughnuts unusual, that is. "I hope you don't mind," said a disembodied voice from behind the levitating pastry, "I just got into town and I haven't had breakfast," and then bits of the doughnut started vanishing before our eyes. "Help yourself," I said to the doughnut, "I assume you're the one who tossed Hoss on his ass and disabled the wrecking machine?" "Yesh," slurred the voice through a mouthful of custard-filled cake. "Damn, no coffee. Oh well." The invisible person poured himself a cup of orange juice from a thermos that I hadn't noticed before, and then poured out two more cups for Newton and me. "Excellent! Thanks, man! Sorry about the coffee. Hi, I'm Animal." I held out my hand and an invisible one shook it, "And you are...?" He introduced himself as "Evan E. Evans, but my friends call me Talisman or Camouflage or Reverend John Spaulding or John C. Penguin or Hovis. You might remember me as Apricot." I paused. I blinked a couple of times. Trying to place him, I studied his facial features. Unable to see them, I gave up that useless endeavor. "Apricot Jones!?" I said after a bit. "I was wondering when you'd recognize me, ya big galoot!" "Holy shit!" I exclaimed, while wrapping my arms around the invisible dude for a crushing but friendly bear hug. "How the fuck are you, man!?!" Apricot Jones, as he was wont to be called, was one of the first people that befriended me after my hat took me away from Woodstock and hurtled me forward into the 1980's. The three of us (Apricot, Newton and I) were practically inseparable for several months, but unfortunately Apricot joined the Army as a way of showing up his mother, who wanted him to join the Army. Or something like that... I never quite understood it. Also unfortunately, we didn't keep in touch as well as we should have and I hadn't seen him since his very brief leave after boot camp. "Damn it's good to see you! Er... so to speak." "You too my friend!" We talked about old times (people we knew -- road trips to Memphis -- our adventures on Bitch River -- etc.), and caught up on all that had happened during his years of military service (for instance, how he gained his strange new powers and how when he was invisible he was bulletproof, knife-proof, baseball-bat-proof, mosquito-proof, and possessed the strength of ten men). "So yer done with Uncle Sam, eh? Good on you. What are you doing now?" I asked. "Actually, nothing yet. I did notice that there was a job opening at Polar Bears Unlimited," he said as a copy of that very same magazine appeared as if being pulled out of an invisible pocket. "Is the job still open?" When we established that the job in question was the cartoonist/writer job, and not the marshmallow-stacker job, I told him that it was indeed still open, and that I would like to see his work, if not him, as soon as possible. He said he had a portfolio with him and wouldn't mind stepping inside to show me. I agreed that we should go in (mainly because the orange juice reminded me not only that I really had to drain the proverbial lizard but also had to get on the BatPhone™ and find out who would be responsible for repairing my wall). We proceeded to the door. We got to the main entrance of the Canary to find that it was locked. Of course neither Newton nor I had our keys. This was not a problem really, since I could fly and there was a whopping great gap in the bathroom wall. So I hopped up, flew through the opening and down the stairs. I considered pausing at the downstairs restroom to take care of some urgent business but decided that it wouldn't take very long to open the front entrance, and since even at this hour, the summer sun was beginning to make things a might uncomfortable outside, it wouldn't be nice to leave my friends waiting. So I held it in long enough to open the door. As I pushed open the portal and opened my mouth to say something to the effect of 'C'mon in,' I heard the most teeth-rattling noise I had ever heard to that day. As I stood there dumbly, the entire building crashed down around me. When the dust cleared I held in my hand the only recognizable part of my home; the doorknob. "Well this is a fine How Do You Do!" exclaimed Newton. "Aw BatPoop™!" I yelled. Somehow this didn't seem quite as funny as it did when a similar thing happened to Arthur Dent. Well at least I did have a towel. "Maybe I've come at a bad time," said Camouflage. "Couldn't be worse, I should hope," answered Newton. "But it's not your fault," I said. Look if you've got some paper and a pen, I'll give you Cat's address. You met him before joining the Army. He's my partner at PBU, so you can show him your work. If it's as good as the stuff you sent us last year, you're in." He handed me the pen and paper and after a brief pause said, "Isn't it a moot point now, considering recent events?" "No," I sighed, "we'll just have to go to an outside source for printing, like we did before I acquired this ex-building. There might be a delay in getting off the next issue though, since all of our recent material is under that mess! FUCKDAMNBUGGERHELLSONOFABITCHSHIT! I need a coffee nip." We said our good-byes to Talisman as he departed to do some apartment hunting, and go see Cat. He assured us that we would see him again. "Will we now?" asked Newton. "Oh yes," he answered, "I'm not always invisible. It comes and goes." "Ah," we said. So Newton and I sat amid the debris that used to be our home, wondering what our next course of action should be. "Well," said Newton, "I've no problem living in the park and the neighboring woods, being a beast and all, but..." I took up where Newton left off, "But I've never been any good at roughing it. Don't worry Newton, you do what you need to. I'll get by. I can stay with one of my sisters, I suppose." "Drop by the Rice Krispie Treat Emporium later and let me know how things are going." "Sure thing." Newton went off to stake a claim in the park, and I flew off in search of a public restroom. **** As I flew through the clouds, my head was swimming. Three rather important things had to be attended to, and they were: 1.My wrecked home. 2.My coffee nip craving. 3.My bladder. I honestly could not decide which to deal with first. At length, my bladder made the decision for me. It threatened to let go immediately, and I had to convince it to wait two more minutes so I could get to a restroom. I commenced a power dive (which really didn't help matters), touched down in front of a Jim Dandy Market and made a beeline for the back area, where the restroom sign was posted. "OUT OF ORDER." "What?" I asked. "OUT OF ORDER," said the sign on the Men's room door. "Go anyway!" said my bladder. "OUT OF ORDER!" said the sign a little more forcefully. "Women's room," said my bladder, "no one will know." "But it's a WOMEN'S room," said a rather unreasonable part of my subconscious. "Okay," said my bladder, "we'll just go out here in front of the Chee-tos™!" "Women's room!" I said firmly, and barged in. My business being completed, I made my egress from the convenience store. One of the employees behind the counter called out for me to "Have a Jim Dandy Day!" but I ignored her. I wasn't being rude ... not intentionally anyway. I was distracted by the goings-on outside. The blue flashing lights of a Metro squad car greeted me, and a frumpy-looking woman, with the name 'Bertha' on her nameplate, was talking to a steely-looking officer. "... in the wimmin's room, and he was wearin' jest a bathrobe, carryin' a towel and a doorknob and mumblin' to hissef. I think he's plum crazy!" Bertha glanced up at me and let out a squeal. "That's him, Officer!" "'Mornin', Officer," I said. "Could I see some ID, sir?" asked Officer Danny Steele, as the name on his tag read. "No." Well, I didn't have any on me! "What?" he said after a very long blink. Apparently no one had ever said this to him before, and he didn't know quite how to handle it. "NOOOOOO!" I said a bit louder and more drawn out and shook my head slowly, as one might do to someone who spoke no English. I tend to be a smart-ass at the worst times. Officer Steele's face went as cold as Neapolitan ice cream, "You'll have to come with me, sir," he said through clenched teeth. "On what charge?" I asked simply. This must also have been something that no one had ever said to him, for again he was blinking at me. "What?" he said, after partly re-gaining his composure. "On what charge?" I asked again, with a thick hokey French accent. "Um ... uh ..." began the frustrated constable. "Well if you can't think of anything," I said, adopting Newton's haughty tones, "I'm certainly not going to help you. I'll take my leave of you now, sir. Good day. And good day to you, madam." As I lifted off the ground and began my flight, the officer called after me, "Wait! Wait! Vagrancy! It's VAGRANCY!" I kept going. BLAM! BLAM! The report of what was unmistakably two gunshots sounded behind me and I heard something buzz past both ears. "Stop or I'll shoot!" yelled Officer Danny Steele. I got, as they say, the Hell out of there! After some reflection, I decided I was never going to have another Jim Dandy Day, if I had anything to say about it, ever again. **** Again I took to the clouds. My troubles were far from solved, and my nerves were frazzled. Having someone shoot at you isn't pleasant under the best of circumstances, and my coffee nip craving was getting unbearable. I had all but forgotten my wrecked home, and probably wouldn't even think about it again before getting a nip fix. But how was I to acquire a coffee nip? True, they're only 5¢ each, but I don't carry change in my bathrobe. In retrospect, I realize it would have been easy enough to go and visit Squasha Semprini, and bum a nip off of her. She always has a pocket or two full of them. But (for reasons I won't go into right now) things had been a little weird between Squasha and me for the past few months, so I probably wouldn't have gone to her even had it occurred to me. It also never occurred to me to go to Cat's place, or the Rice Krispie Treat Emporium, or to see Eddie, or Martin, or in fact, any of the Elliston regulars, to borrow a lousy nickel. My brain simply was not working up to par. I don't know how long I had been flying around, but the sun was just beginning to set when I had it firmly in my mind that I needed to find a nickel before I could get a coffee nip. Landing clumsily on a sidewalk, I leaned heavily on a brick wall. My body trembled, and I felt weak with hunger. Coffee Nips Anonymous My eyes scanned the vicinity. I was hoping that I would happen to find a nickel, and I would get my nip. But alas, all that I found was a few gum wrappers, a crumpled up fast-food takeout bag, a pair of Micro-Ninjas™ fighting over the crust of their Ninja pot pie, a Tony Blammo™ religious tract, a fifty dollar bill, a plastic six-pack ring (what are those things called?), bits of broken glass, and some cigarette butts. No luck. Something went 'ping' in my head as I realized (Homer Simpson style) that fifty dollars was considerably more than 5¢, and that I would be able to get quite a lot of nips with it. Snatching up the fifty before anyone else saw it, I rushed into a nearby Kwik Sak™. I was in luck! They had that which I sought! I grabbed a box of nips (which should have lasted a week, if things went well) and ran to the checkout counter. I slapped my fifty down and waited for the cashier to ring up the purchase. "I'm sorry, man," said the guy behind the counter, "but I can't take that." "What!?" He pointed to a sign on the register, which read, "NO BILLS OVER $20 ACCEPTED AFTER DARK". "I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS!!!!!" I shouted, banging my head on the counter, "I CAN NOT FUCKING BELIEVE THIS!!!!!!!" I must have been a sight, because he said hastily, "But... but... The sun's not all the way down just yet. This shouldn't be a problem at all! Here's your change, sir! Please don't kill me!" Walking out of the store, popping a coffee nip and counting my change, I was smacked in the shins with a stick. I tumbled to the ground, and I was face to face with my assailants. They were seven of the meanest prairie dogs I'd ever laid eyes on! Wasting no time at all, they grabbed the money I'd dropped and made good their escape. I hadn't the time to pursue. I flew into the parking lot to recover the coffee nips, which had spilled from the box. Kneeling on the asphalt (oh, how my shins ached!) frantically stuffing nips into the pockets of my bathrobe, I barely had twelve of them when I heard the squeal of the truck, as the driver attempted to stop it before turning me into RoadPizza™. I might have had time to avoid injury altogether, but I had to get just one more nip. Grabbing the fateful thirteenth nip, I made a leap. The extra time that I took to nab the nip, and the fact that my shins felt like they were attached to the business end of a pit bull, resulted in disaster. Just as I was lifting off, I felt something hard connect with my left temple. I kept flying, and I know now that this was a mistake, because my head was reeling. I was already well above the ground when I blacked out. **** While I was unconscious, I think that I dreamed. Or perhaps it was a memory. I can't really be sure, but I was, once again, One With the Universe. My awareness expanded to touch all of Creation, and I knew peace. I also knew loneliness. Not the whiney, "I don't have a girlfriend" sort of loneliness (not that I haven't been known for that from time to time), but the "there's no one to talk to around here" sort. So I sought other souls traveling the Cosmos, and my search was not fruitless. Most of the Travelers I found couldn't, or wouldn't, communicate with me. Some ignored me to concentrate on their search for God, and many more were too hopped up on goofballs and other recreational drugs to pay me any notice. But some were quite willing to talk. One soul in particular, touched me like no other. A spirit of immense intellect and great love; she came to me in the shape of a beautiful woman, with pastel butterfly wings, seemingly animated in space. She enfolded me in the loving embrace of her psychic wings and made me feel safe. She came to me often, but our time together was all-too-brief, as soon my awareness was released from the Cosmos. I shrank down upon myself, and I was once again a flesh and blood Hippie. I'm pretty sure that this has nothing whatsoever to do with the rest of this story, but it was not the first time, nor the last, that I would have this dream, and it really made an impression on my mind. **** When I woke up, my head felt like it was filled with Jell-O™ brand instant pudding. The damnable thing was that I couldn't determine whether it was butterscotch or pistachio flavored. I also couldn't determine where, or who, I was. I quickly took stock of myself, and my surroundings. The sky had grown quite dark, and I was standing on a rooftop about eight stories up, wearing nothing but the aforementioned bathrobe, with a pocketful of the aforementioned coffee nips, and carrying the aforementioned towel and the aforementioned doorknob. My stomach was rumbling like distant thunder. Absently popping a coffee nip into my mouth, I looked for a way off the roof, all the while pondering over my predicament. Perhaps I had needed to change the lock on the bathroom door and I'd needed a screwdriver, which I happened to keep up on the roof, and not having had dinner, I'd stuffed my pocket full of candy? Unlikely. I spotted a small shed-like structure and guessed that the door led to a stairwell. I tried the door. For whatever reason I came out onto the roof, I had locked myself out. 'Damn,' I thought, pounding on the door. Eventually, a thirtyish woman cautiously opened it. "Hello," I started, "I was wondering if you might..." She cut me off with a blood-curdling scream. The stairwell filled instantly with people carrying baseball bats, crowbars and Ping-Pong paddles. They had menace in their eyes. "What is it, Betty?" asked a burly man, a twinge of panic in his voice. "Jehovah's Witness!" she screamed, and the angry tenants were upon me with a fury, wildly swinging their makeshift weapons. I ran, but there wasn't anywhere to go, except over the side. Glancing about frantically for a possible exit or shelter from this onslaught, I spied a bucket of water in a corner. As I paused to dip my towel into the liquid, I got a sharp wrap on the Gluteus Maximus from one of the Ping-Pong paddle-wielding vigilantes. Ooo! That stung! But then I had my towel at the ready. I snapped the moistened corner at one of my assailants. A tag on his knuckles relieved him of his crowbar, and the mob was temporarily cowed. But they still blocked the stairwell, and I was still trapped. I couldn't possibly fight through all of them and keep my bathrobe closed. Beginning to sense my helplessness, they advanced on me once again. Hastily back stepping, I tripped over the low wall surrounding the roof. It occurred to me, as I began my eight-story descent, that I should have told them that I was not, in fact, a Jehovah's Witness. Ah well, live and learn. **** A polite knock at the door interrupted the young punk-rocker known as Cat, who was arranging his favorite refrigerator magnets on his head. The refrigerator magnets were given to him by his good friend and partner at PBU last Christmas, after Cat got hit in the head the previous October by the inside of his light-blue Chevy Impala, due to a run-in with a drunken old lady in an ugly truck, smuggling stolen pumpkins. The magnets were a perfect complement to the shiny metal plate the doctors replaced that particular portion of his skull with. Cat was still trying to decide whether to go with a formal symmetry by surrounding the plastic grapes with the plastic watermelon wedges, or scrap the whole ensemble and replace it with a single bunch of plastic bananas, when the knock came a second time. He got up, skipped merrily across the room, and called through the door, "You're not a Jehovah's Witness, are you?" as he cautiously palmed his trusty Dukes of Hazzard™ laser pistol. "Heaven's no!" said the voice from the other side of the door, "I'm a Libra." "Good," said Cat, relaxing, "they've been shoving crosses up people's butts all over the city recently. So, if you're not a Jehovah's Witness, who are you?" "Cat, it's me, Evan." "Who?" "Evan E. Evans. My friends call me Talisman or Mr. Bouncy or Apricot Jones or Whatsisname or Reverend John or Camouflage or Jasper." "Did you say 'Apricot Jones'?" "Yes. Yes, I believe I did." Cat flung open the door, and outside on the porch was a scruffy-looking man with a scruffy red beard, scruffy orange-red hair, scruffy camouflage pants, a scruffy T-shirt with the legend 'SPAM' printed on it and a scruffy knapsack slung over one scruffy shoulder. Cat noted that his shoes, however, were impeccably neat and polished to a high military gloss (which must have taken some doing, considering that they were high-top canvas sneakers). "How are you, man!?" "Doing quite well, now that I've escaped the armed forces," he said in a voice that was neither scruffy nor polished. They talked for hours, getting reacquainted, and finally Cat asked him what he was doing now that he was out of the army. Talisman explained that Animal had sent him to Cat to show his work and to apply for the writer/cartoonist job. He then described the events as he witnessed them back at Polar Bears Unlimited Headquarters. "Well," commented Cat, "that sure puts a crimp on things. But I'm sure Animal will work it out. Okay, let's have a look at your portfolio." Cat was duly impressed by the work within and offered his guest the job immediately. "You've got some really good stuff here, and a couple of things will fit right in to our next edition. That is, if you'll take the job." "Sure thing, Bo. Now I just need to settle in, and find a decent place to stay. Or vice-versa. I've been apartment-hunting most of the day with no luck, but I've got one more place to look at nearby. I should probably get a car, too. My legs are pretty sore after all the walk—." "Hold still," warned Cat, in a low whisper. "What is it?" Without responding, Cat leveled his Dukes of Hazzard™ laser pistol and let off a blast of hot light, which missed Talisman's left ear by about one quarter of an inch. "CHEESE AND CRACKERS!" exclaimed Apricot Jones. "What was that for?!" "This," said Cat, holding up the tiny body clad in black, still clutching his tiny sword. "Darn pesky Micro-Ninjas™! The place is crawling with them, and the Orkin Man doesn't help one bit." Just then, the phone rang. "Hello," began Cat as he picked up the receiver, "Brady Residence. Alice speaking." "Greetings Cat. This is Newton," said the voice on the other end, not believing for an instant that he was speaking to any character portrayed by Ann B. Davis. "Have you heard from Animal today?" "No, but Reverend Whatsisname told me what happened at your place this morning." "Well, he was supposed to stop by the Emporium, to let me know how he fares. I'm probably worrying over naught, but I've the sneaking suspicion that something has gone awry." "He's probably watching Unsolved Mysteries in his hat." "Can't be; the hat's buried under a ton of brick and lumber." "Hmmm. I'll let you know if we hear anything at this end." "I'll do likewise. Oh, I have customers. I'll speak to you anon." Cat hung up the phone and flushed the Micro-Ninja™ down the toilet. "What's up?" asked Evan. "Animal is missing. Newton seems worried that he is, anyway." "Should we file a report with the police?" Cat gave Apricot an odd look. "You've been away awhile, so I'll let that one go. Believe me, Animal would be better off missing than found by the Metro Police. They have a tendency to shoot first and issue jaywalking citations later. I'll check around, and if he hasn't shown up by tomorrow, we'll comb the city for him." "I'll do anything I can to help." "That's mighty non-poopie of you," said Cat. "Hey, which magnets do you like?" Cat showed off his collection of fruit-shaped refrigerator magnets. "I'm kind of partial to kumquats myself, but I think the bananas set off the color in your cuticles very nicely." "Grapes and strawberries it is then!" **** Usually an eighty to ninety-foot fall is nothing for me to worry about. However, in my all-but-complete state of amnesia, I hadn't a clue as to my ability to fly. So, suffice to say, I was worried. Approximately halfway down I resigned myself to death, so I quit worrying. I relaxed for a split second before realizing that my death would be quite painful (not to mention sloppy), so I tensed up and closed my eyes, hoping for some small miracle, like a bale of hay in the alley below, or a bunch of thick mattresses, or a stack of marshmallows, or a sudden reversal in the force of gravity; anything to save my hairy butt. Hairy butt? Who has a hairy butt? Do I have a hairy butt? I opened my robe to check. Hey, I didn't want to die not knowing how hairy my butt was! Suddenly, my downward momentum halted. I felt no pain at all, and I didn't seem to be splattered on the pavement. I noticed, also, that I was moving kind of backwards, and that two huge talons were clutching my robe, just above my shoulders. Looking up past the feet, I noticed that they were connected to a pair of thick legs, which were in turn connected to the large feathered body of a giant condor. I decided not to struggle or attempt escape, because if I were successful, I would then face an eight to nine hundred foot fall. Not to mention the fact that I'd be naked. In due course, the condor landed. I was placed on a ledge on a large lone mountain (which stands in East Nashville, near the Cucumberland river), amidst a pile of twigs, string, newspapers, tweed jackets, bailing wire, hay, glad bags, sad bags, twist ties, Christmas paper, aluminum foil, marshmallows, socks on sticks, TV Guides, soft fluffy teddy bears, Kool-Aide™ drink boxes, Nike Air-Jordans™, Wrestling Buddies™ and anything else one might build a condor's nest out of. And before I could say 'Calgon, take me away!' the condor had fashioned herself a mighty fine bird abode, using the aforementioned list of supplies. It's really not so bad, you know. It doesn't hurt a person to be part of a condor's nest. Actually it was quite soft and comfy. I settled in for a good night's rest, enjoying the panoramic view of the city below. **** It was still quite dark when I awoke again. I felt refreshed, but my stomach was complaining something fierce. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had something to eat. Of course, I couldn't remember anything that happened before the incident on the rooftop. I absently popped a coffee nip, which did nothing to stop my angry stomach from rumbling and grumbling. I glanced about. The condor was still sleeping, obviously tuckered out after its hard labor the night before, so I could easily slip away, if I was quiet about it. The problem was getting down off the ledge. Struggling out of the nest I peered over the edge. I couldn't see very far, but I was sure there was no climbing down. Looking up, I noticed that higher up the mountain was a tree root sticking out of the cliff wall, which meant that we had to be close to the top. If I could get up there, I might be able to find a better place to climb down safely. But how? There were no handholds between me and the root, and it was much too high for me to reach. Hey! I still had my towel and doorknob! With this revelation, I quickly tied the knob to the bath towel, and tossed the knob toward the root, while clutching the other end of the towel. It fell short by a good three feet. What now? I needed something to extend my reach. Slumping down against the nest, I felt utterly defeated. The nest! Of course! Quickly and quietly, I started pulling bits of string and bailing wire out of the nest and fashioning a makeshift rope. A short time later I had the reach I needed, and after three more tries I had the doorknob slung around the tree root. Shimmying up the rope, I found some good hand and foot holds just above the root. I climbed as quickly as I could. Which, I suppose, wasn't as quick as it could be if I wasn't also trying to keep my robe closed. I know, there was no one around to see me but the giant condor, and the condor was asleep. But that chance that she would wake and see my John-Thomas was a very real fear. 'Well,' I thought as I got to the top, 'I'm not a nude model, that's for sure.' I adjusted my robe and set off in search of food. Unfortunately I had to leave the towel and doorknob behind in order to make the climb. Hopefully I wouldn't need them again. Making my way down the mountain wasn't exactly easy, but I managed without incident. At the bottom of the massif was a set of train tracks leading off towards town. Figuring that a train depot might have a snack bar, I followed the tracks and hoped the next depot was within walking distance. Just for the record, I was feeling worse than ever. My shins still ached, making the walk that much more tiring. A loud roar from my stomach kept reminding me that I needed to eat, badly. And my head was still filled with Jell-O brand pudding. At least I now could tell it was not butterscotch. I wasn't sure if it was pistachio, but I could be comforted in the fact that I'd eliminated butterscotch. Then there was the question of my identity. That really had me bugged. It had me bugged so much that I hardly noticed that I was crossing over a river on a very high bridge. And I barely noticed the train that was coming towards me from the other side. A quick glance down told me that jumping was a bad idea. It was at least a hundred foot drop, and even if I didn't break every bone in my body, I could never swim to the bank against the current. I never was a strong swimmer. Well, at least I now knew that I wasn't a water ballerina. Fortunately, that particular bridge was an old-fashioned kind with a lot of metal grid-work above the tracks. Presumably for support, but in this case it was for life preserving. With barely a second to spare, I grabbed the girder above me and hoisted myself up and out of harm's way. Before the train was fully past me, it slowed almost to a halt. I didn't ask why; I just took my opportunity and hopped on top of one of the boxcars. It was just the break my aching shins needed. Soon I was speeding merrily towards breakfast. As misfortune would have it, the train stopped at a lumberyard instead of a passenger depot. No snack bar in sight. I climbed down off of the boxcar. Some men were unloading the cargo, so I approached to see if I could get directions to the nearest soup kitchen. I would have offered to help, and maybe earn some money to buy a meal, but my condition wouldn't allow it. One of the burly gentlemen spotted me as I walked into the lighted area. "Hey, yew damn hobo!" he said not so politely, "Git the Hail outta he-ah!" "I just..." I began. "Wanted to borry a quarter," he interrupted incorrectly. "Well I ain't got no quarter for ya, so jest piss off!" With this, he swung a long two-by-four towards my head. I ducked it just enough to make it a glancing blow. It hurt like Hell, but I was conscious and able to fight back or run away if necessary. I chose the latter option. I was in no condition to fight one man, let alone ten. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, as I collapsed next to a neatly stacked pile of bricks. There was enough light to see that I was on the outer fringe of a brickyard. Apparently a closed brickyard, since no one was working on it at the moment. Good. The two-by-four didn't feel very nice; I was sure a brick would've felt even less nice. My speculations were interrupted by a strange yet familiar odor. Sniffing the air, I tried to separate the new smell from that of mud and brick. It was an Italian dish of some sort, I was sure. Another sniff. Spaghetti-Os™! Spaghetti-Os™ with franks! Okay, it was a pseudo-Italian dish, but it smelled great! I followed the scent as best as I could. It led me to a campfire surrounded by five or six figures dishing out food to a larger group of folks who were as down on their luck as I was (if not more so). I wasn't really concerned with who they were. My full attention was on the large pot full of 'O' shaped pasta, tomato sauce and almost-all-beef-franks! The White Bengal Tiger with the black beret looked up at me. Coffee Nips Anonymous "Don't be shy," he growled, "grab a fucking plate. There's plenty for everyone." I didn't have to be asked again. I ate my fill (twice), then I passed out from exhaustion. **** "Who in Hell does that purple bastard think he is!?" Abruptly roused from my slumber by the shouting, I opened my eyes and saw the folks who had fed me my much-needed breakfast. There was the beret-wearing White Bengal Tiger, who I found out was named Lucky, two puffins named Simon and Simoné, an older gentleman named Max, who muttered something to the effect of one, pause, two, pause, three, pause, two, pause, one (repeating), and a small red-orange housecat named Renée. They were all listening to the one who had been shouting. "Can anyone tell me," continued the eight-foot-tall yellow canary, "who in Hell this Barney bastard thinks he is?!" He was waving an entertainment magazine as he yelled. He read the caption under the photo of the large purple T-Rex with a sarcastic tone, "'Barney: the Big Bird of the Nineties!' What a crock! What's wrong with the kids these days? Are their heads full of oatmeal? I carried the Children's Television Industry on my shoulders for almost two decades, and now this! This purple fucker is in, and I'm out! 'Big Bird of the Nineties' my feathered yellow ass!" The large fowl pulled out a .357 Magnum and cocked the hammer. "There can only be one Big Bird, and he ain't no goddam Purple Fuckasaurus! You're dead, Barney! Do you hear me!? Dead! Dead! Dead! And DEAD!" He got up, apparently set on carrying out his threat, but Lucky stopped him. "Put the fucking gun away, and stop yer bellyaching!" he growled. "You think you're the only one who's got problems?! At least you've had your time in the fucking spotlight! I got beat out by Tony for that spokesman job. 'They're fucking great!' he says, and he gets the fucking job. I could have said that! But no! He's got an uncle at the top of the company! Fucking nepotism! Now I'm out on the fucking streets, but am I bitter? Fuck no! So sit down, Bird, and shut the fuck up!" "No more weasels, please," muttered Max. "Max, 'e is right, monsieur Bird," said Simoné in a thick, but not at all hokey, French accent. "Ze magazine is only making wit' ze guess. We only 'ave 1988 years, mon ami. It is not quite ze nineties." The giant canary eased the hammer back down and put the gun away, as Simon gave him a shoulder rub. Lucky looked over in my direction, once Big Bird calmed down a bit. "Hey stranger, are you feeling okay?" "Much better, thank you," I replied. "A little grimy, but otherwise fine." "You're new to the streets, aren't you?" asked Big Bird. "Yeah, I guess so. I mean, I'm not sure, but it doesn't seem like something I'm familiar with." Simon and Simoné approached me from either side, and I tucked my robe down between my legs. "You don't know if you're new to the streets? How can this be?" asked Simon from my right. "From zis bruise on 'is 'ead," answered Simoné, "I would guess 'e 'as amnesia, mon ami." Renée hopped up onto my lap, licked my nose with her rough tongue and then rubbed the top of her head under my chin. As I began stroking her fur and scratching behind her ears and the front of her neck, she started purring loudly. "I like him," she said. "Can we keep him?" "You sure can," I said, and poked her cute little pink nose. "Feed me once, and I'll follow you anywhere." Max stumbled over to me, gazed directly into my eyes and exclaimed with conviction, "I'm a big fan of the plastic worm." **** Evan (a.k.a. Apricot Jones, Reverend Spaulding, Fletcher, Talisman or Camouflage, depending on his mood) E. Evans had found a good deal on a nice little tree house, about a half mile from Cat's apartment, near Inglewood. Emphasis on the 'little'. It consisted of a small combination living room/bedroom, a tiny kitchenette and a bathroom so small that he had to do his business from just outside the doorway. Kneeling. It did, however, have a tremendous amount of closet space. "Great for storing acorns and walnuts for the winter." That from his Treelord and neighbor, Billy, an elderly squirrel from Boise, who enjoyed a good game of chess from time to time. Small though it was, the apartment was furnished, and he couldn't beat the rent with a stick. "Against the rules, y'know," said Billy. Seventy-five dollars a month, including utilities, is something a wise apartment hunter doesn't pass up, unless said apartment is on fire. The good Reverend had also acquired an automobile the night before, on his way to look at his new apartment. The car was no less tiny than his apartment, but would get him around town. He climbed into said automobile, a brand new silver Sombrero JustBiggerThanAToaster™, and made his way to Cat's apartment. He had promised Cat a ride to the local We R Toys™ (Cat's own car was in the shop for a new muffler), where Cat planned to purchase something that might make searching for Animal easier. No one Cat had asked had seen hide nor hair of Animal, including his many brothers and sisters, so Cat called Evan to tell him just that. When, by two o'clock pm, Animal still hadn't shown up, the general feeling of concern prompted the decision to go over the city with a fine-toothed comb. Talisman was not sure what Cat could possibly find at We R Toys™ that would help in the search, but he was sure he would find out soon enough. When Talisman entered the abode of Charles Atlas Tiddlywinks (a.k.a. CAT), said resident was tightening the titanium screws on his steel plate. He had been clearing the cobwebs from his mind so that he would be thinking clearly for the search. Cat was unsure what he was looking for exactly, but he was certain that he would find it at We R Toys™, next to RiverRat Mall. That was, after all, where he had gotten his trusty Dukes of Hazzard™ laser pistol, oh so many years ago. A short drive later, they were combing the aisles of the World's Biggest and Greediest Toy Store. Every so often, Cat would pick up a toy and toss it right back on the shelf, after a brief examination. "Uh-oh," said Talisman, when Cat picked up a Barbie™ Knife-Thrower play set. Cat turned to see what had alarmed his companion, but didn't see his companion. "Sorry about that," said the voice of the Talisman, "I kind of disappear once in awhile. I barely get a warning tingle, and time to say 'Uh-oh', and poof! I'm nothing." "Whoa! Freaky! Well, no harm done, so no need to apologize," said Cat. "Ah!" The 'Ah!' came out of Cat's mouth as the objects he sought came into his line of sight. Amidst a selection of toys inspired by recent (or not so recent) movies, he spied a costume from The Rocketteer™, complete with jetpack. He also snatched up a pair of wrist radio communication watches, as seen on Dick Tracy™. "Will you be needing batteries?" asked the invisible man called by many names. "Yeah, lessee. One watch battery for each of the watches and four 'D' batteries for the jet pack. Oh and I'd better get some new ones for my pistol." "What size?" asked John C. Penguin, as he gathered up the batteries that Cat needed. "Six double-A's." "Got 'em. How is buying these toys going to help us find Animal?" "You'll see when we get outside." "Okay. Hold on one second." Reverend Spaulding then picked up a hand puppet resembling Kevin Costner™ from the movie Square Dances With Puppies™, and made it appear as if Kevin was carrying the batteries. "I don't want to freak out the check-out girl." It didn't help, actually. The check-out girl was so excited that Kevin Costner™, or at least half of him, came to buy batteries at the We R Toys™ where she worked, that she fainted dead away. Well, not dead, but she wasn't able to ring up the purchase. The temptation to interpret this as a free gift was great, but Cat and Camouflage decided to be good and wake the poor girl, after hiding the puppet. She was quite upset that the top half of Kevin hadn't stuck around, but she managed to give correct change anyway. Out in the parking lot, Cat strapped on the Rocketteer™ jetpack. He didn't bother with the rest of the costume; it was superfluous. Then he handed Talisman one of the watches and strapped the other one on his own wrist. "Well, here goes nothin'," he said, and turned on the pack. In a moment, he was hovering high above the store. He flew a few circles, and then Talisman heard his voice over the two-way wrist communicator watch that he wore. "It works! This should come in handy!" Fletcher hit the call button on his watch, and spoke into it, "I can't say I'm not amazed by this, sir! And I've seen a lot o' poop in my day!" **** Our Spaghetti-O™ supply had gotten pretty low, so Simon decided it was time to stock up. "I think we should also get you some decent clothes, Cuddly-Pooh." He was addressing me. For lack of a name, Renée had started calling me that and it kind of caught on with the rest of the group. Ah well, it would do until I remembered who I was. "I agree," I agreed. "It's really difficult to keep my naughty bits covered with this robe." "Especially in the morning, eh Cuddly-Pooh?" grinned Lucky. "Shaddap, you!" I blushed. Simoné turned to Max. "Get ze cow, si vous plait." Max dutifully got up and walked behind a large pile of bricks. He dragged out a beat-up cardboard cutout of a neon-pink Jersey™ cow. "Good," said Simon, "let's go." We followed the train tracks back to the river. Stopping approximately fifty feet from the bridge, Simon and Simoné set up the cow on the tracks. The rest of us continued on, and climbed the support beams above the bridge. Once they had the cow set up, the two puffins joined us on the bridge. Then we waited. While we waited, Lucky filled me in on the plan, and he'd barely had time to do so before Big Bird called out, "TRAIN!" The train clacked along the tracks and over the bridge. About halfway across, the engineer apparently saw the neon-pink cardboard cow, because he began blowing his whistle over and over again. And when it was clear to him that the cow was not going anywhere, he applied the brakes. The train slowed with a squeal, but the cow remained still. There was no chance the train could stop before hitting the cow, if the cow didn't move (and being made of cardboard, that wasn't likely), but the engineer made every reasonable attempt. Simoné gave us all a wing-signal as the train slowed, and we all jumped down onto it just before it hit the cow and sped off. Lucky then peeked over the edge of the car we were on. "Kroger! Good, we're in luck!" he called over the rushing wind and train noises. "Don't you mean 'Kroger™'?" I asked. "Fuck Kroger and their registered fucking trademark!" he roared as he pulled open the door to the boxcar and began picking up members of our party and tossing them into it. When he'd tossed everyone else in, he motioned for me to follow him. We walked towards the rear of the train and stopped on a car that Lucky said was marked, "The Gap. We can get you dressed here. And I don't give a fuck about their trademark, either." He opened up the door, picked me up and tossed me in. Then he leapt in after me. "Find something to wear, and make it fucking snappy." I hastily rooted through boxes. Fitting a frame my size is no easy task, but I managed to find a flannel shirt and some overalls that fit, as well as some Fruits and Vegetables of the Loom™ and even some sandals that would do in a pinch. Which was exactly what I was in. When I'd finished getting dressed, I saw Lucky place a slip of paper between two boxes. I noticed the letters I, O and U on it, and the word 'Fricassean', which I somehow knew to be Nashville's leading newspaper. "What's that?" I asked. Reading his expression was difficult, at best. "It's an IOU. What's it look like?" "Why are you...?" "Look, just 'cause I'm fucking homeless, doesn't mean I think I shouldn't pay for anything." "But you've signed it 'the Fricassean'." "Hey, I'm fucking homeless! I can't afford to pay for all this stuff! Now, we have to get off this fucking train!" And, indeed, the train was slowing down. We waited until the train slowed to a relatively safe speed and jumped off. A tuck and roll later, and I came to a stop a bit dusty but otherwise unharmed. We dashed into some high weeds and then headed back towards the brickyard. When we caught up to the others along the way, they presented Lucky with the loot that they acquired from the train. "Corn-dogs and lemon-lime soda," he said. "Not bad, kids!" Simon smiled. "We also got a few cases of Chef Boy-Are-You-Dumb™ Ravioli," he said. "Did you fucking say 'Ravioli'?" Lucky snarled with a smile. "He sure did!" said Renée. "Sweet!" **** "So... Animal is definitely missing then," said Squasha, after Cat had introduced her to the invisible man known as Talisman, Apricot Jones, John C. Bouncy-Bouncy, Mr. Tushy-Bottom or Reverend Whatsisname (depending on how close it was to lunch-time), and told her all that had happened. "It sure as heck looks that way," said Cat. "He told Newton that he'd go stay with one of his sisters. I called his youngest sister, Lynette, and she didn't know where he was. She called everyone else in their family, and six hours later, called me back to tell me that no one had seen or heard from him. They were worried that his hat might have hurtled him forward in time again, and they'd have to wait another 15 years to see him." "But you told her that his hat was buried, right?" asked Bill Nefarious, who was busy in Squasha's kitchen, getting everyone a nice refreshing beverage. "Right," he said, "but of course he's still missing, so they're still worried." "Well, I've got something that might help," said Squasha, touching a bronze medallion which she wore on a chain around her neck. It was nicely decorated with the face of Athena on one side and an owl on the other. It also doubled as a bottle-opener, when needed. "Animal gave this to me back just before we invaded Eternia. Got it out of his hat." "What does it do?" asked the Man of a Thousand Nicknames. "It's a homing device, geared in with my teleporting ability. If Animal needs me in an emergency, he whispers my name and it glows bright puce, and I can teleport right to him. Same if I need him; I whisper his name and teleport, and it takes me to him. I don't even have to know where he is. But it only works if he's within my teleport range." "Well, I'd say this qualifies as an emergency," said Cat. "I think yer right." She held it between her palms and whispered, "Animal." Bill came into the room with a tray full of drinks, and joined everyone in staring at the medallion. It was glowing. And it was a shade of puce. But it wasn't all that bright. "What does that mean?" asked the penguin. "I'm not at all sure," said Squasha, sounding not at all sure. "I guess there's only one way to find out..." "Wait a minute!" said Bill Nefarious, "I'm coming with you!" "Okay. Cat? Can you receive calls from any phone on your Dick Tracy™ wrist radio communication watches?" "Yep," he answered. "Good. We'll call you as soon as we know something. What's the number?" Cat hastily scribbled his and Talisman's numbers down on a piece of paper and handed it over to Squasha, who put it in her pocket. She grabbed Bill's flipper-wing, and she and the penguin vanished in a puff of azure smoke (with a little teal mixed in). Talisman and Cat sat impatiently sipping their Fuckleberry Punch Kool-Aide™. **** Mike expected a typical boring night, working at the West End Avenue Kwik Sak™. He expected to deal with various people buying late-night snacks and late-night beer and late-night girlie magazines. He certainly didn't expect to see what he saw when he went out to check the levels in the gas-tanks. As he scribbled down the numbers in the logbook, he glanced up to see a puff of azure smoke (with a little teal mixed in), and out of it stepped a penguin, wearing a fetching mid-length black skirt and an equally fetching white peasant blouse. His gaze was quickly distracted from this sight by the very attractive bleach-blonde young woman (who he thought looked no older than 17, but no younger than 18) stepping out of the puff of smoke with the penguin. She was dressed very fetchingly in a full-length birthday suit! "I don't think he can hear you, Squasha," said Bill, "he seems distracted." Squasha had been trying to ask the Kwik Sak™ employee if he'd seen Animal (after looking around and not seeing him herself), but all Mike could do was stare, mouth agape, at her lovely nudidity. "Oops!" she said when she realized what the Kwik Sak™ employee was staring at. She grabbed Bill's flipper-wing for a two-inch 'port that would remove her clothing from the penguin's body and replace it on her own. "With all the strip-clubs in this town, you'd think this guy had seen a naked woman before, for fuck's sake," she said with a slight blush. "Now," she started again, when the puff of raw umber smoke (with a little burnt sienna mixed in) had dissipated, "have you seen a guy with long wavy dark-brown hair, mutton chop side-burns, blue eyes? He's six foot two, somewhere between 200 and 225 pounds, wearing a bathrobe and carrying a towel and a doorknob." "Um... well... hmmmmmmm," he began, as his eyes and brain recovered from the beautiful sight he'd seen a moment before, "Oh yes! Someone came in last night wearing a bathrobe. He bought a box of coffee nips with a fifty-dollar bill. I remember 'cause I wasn't going to break his fifty, and he nearly blew a gasket!" "That's Animal, alright," said Bill. "Yep," said Squasha. "Do you know where he went?" "Well," said Mike, "as soon as he left the store, he was mugged by a mean-looking gang of prairie dogs, and then he got hit by a truck." "WHAT?!" cried Squasha and Bill, in unison. "He got hit by a truck! Please don't kill me!" "We are no more likely to kill you than Animal was," said Squasha. Mike did not look comforted. "We're not going to kill you! What happened then? Do you know what hospital he was taken to?" "Um... he wasn't taken to a hospital." "Pardon?" "It was the strangest thing... that truck didn't look like it was going all that fast, but it must have been going at breakneck speed, because when it smacked his noggin, it sent him flying at least ten blocks." He pointed west. "He kind of disappeared over that row of stores." "Zounds!" exclaimed Bill. **** "Zounds!" exclaimed an unseen Talisman, after Bill and Squasha told him and Cat what they had learned from Mike. It didn't take them long to get to the Kwik Sak™, after Squasha phoned them. "If Animal was hit in the head, he might have amnesia," observed Cat, "which explains why the medallion didn't work right." "My theory, too," stated Squasha. "I'm guessing that the medallion took me to the last place where Animal was, where he was sure who he was." "As good a theory as any," said Bill, "but it doesn't tell us where he is now. Where do we go from here?" "Well... we might as well see if we can figure out where he landed," she said with a shrug. As our heroes hopped into Talisman's Sombrero™, an elderly couple walked in to the Kwik Sak™ to purchase a pack of gum and a box of mice. "Please don't kill me!" pleaded Mike. **** "Y'know," said Cat, as they drove down West End Avenue in Reverend John C. Penguin's small but roomy Sombrero™, "we should swing by Dragon Park and pick Newton up. His nose could be a big help in tracking Animal down, now that we at least have a starting point." "Dragon Park?" asked a disembodied voice from the driver's seat. Cat turned to look at Talisman. Cat didn't see the good Reverend, of course, because he was still invisible, but knew he was there. "Officially, it's called Fannie Mae Dee's Park, but we call it Dragon Park on account of there is a dragon living there. Don't worry though. Much like Gamera, this dragon is a friend to children and punk rockers."