<blockquote>
Dear Sir,

Fifty years ago you worked for the Total Life™ insurance company as a salesman of life insurance. You were located on the planet Sathora, now of the Anthos Republic. Our records show that you sold over thirty-two hundred life insurance policies to potential war victims, none of which have ever been fulfilled. Our father was one of your victims. He died twenty years ago, and no policy has been fulfilled. You have three days to come up with three thousand credits to be placed at the location on the enclosed map, or you will never see the light of the fourth day.

Sincerely yours,<font family="batang" size="20">
X</font>
</blockquote>

My head sang with blood as I set the paper down on the table I was sitting before. You must understand, it had been thirty years since I had quit working for Total Life™, and fifty years (as the letter said) since I had sold the insurance policies mentioned.

For a few brief moments, the blood pounding through my brain made my head swell, and I thought I was surly about to die.

Three thousand credits? Where was I, a retired insurance salesman going to come up with three thousand credits in cash?

Inform the authorities of my location, what the frell was that supposed to mean? They were going to lock me up? Put me away for the rest of my decrepit life?

Then it hit me, it was blackmail! They were blackmailing me, making me give them money in return for not slaughtering me like a pig. No doubt they would torture me first, yes, blackmailers always tortured their victims first.

I turned the TV off, even though it was a Mystery Daily marathon, my favorite show. I had to think of what to do. The answer, of course, was obvious. There was no way I could resist any sort of physical combat. The strength of my loins had left me twenty years ago.

I could go to the police ... no ... that this determined person, or persons (the letter was written with both single and plural forms referencing the writer) had been able to locate me. This indicated that they had superior intelligence, and thusly they were counting on the possibility of me doing such a thing. No doubt they had a secondary plan in place should I decide to contact the authorities.

They may even be watching me, at this very moment!

I stood, and moved over to the kitchen window and peered out. A glint of light off something shiny across the street in the neighbors window made me duck, there was someone out there with a rifle! Quickly I closed the shade, and hobbled over to another window to double-check.

I couldn't see the rifleman, but I knew he was out there. Probably a sniper, waiting to get me the moment my head was visible.

I sat down at my kitchen table again, and picked up the letter. The handwriting was a neat, flowing script, written with a pen that was loosing its ink. The paper was not of high quality.

Ah, things were becoming clearer now, I was the target of some sort of small time Mafia. They were using an old pen and bad paper to disguise the fact that they were already rich, the nice handwriting gave the game away.

I glanced at the envelope the letter had come in, and my heart skipped a beat. Several beats, in fact, I had to thump my chest to get the motivator going again. One of these days I would have a bad dream, and the motivator would die without me being able to jump-start it...

The stamp was dated the sixteenth! That meant today was the first of my three days, for today was the seventeenth! Or was it the eighteenth... Cursing, and armed with that bit of valuable information, I proceeded to make my plans. I was not going to be giving up my last three thousand credits thieving Mafia!




"Think he'll take it?" said Amanda Joust, at last. They had been sitting here, in the apartment they had once shared with their mother, for the last thirty-some hours in relative silence.

Her brother, Justin by name, didn't respond, but simply continued to roll a pencil between his fingers.

"I don't know," he said finally. "We'll have to wait and see."

"I still think it's rather mean, taking money from an old man."

"Yeah, well, it's our money, he sold Dad that insurance policy didn't he?"

Amanda nodded her head in agreement. Still, it seemed to be intolerably cruel to be extorting money from an old man.

"What if we get caught?" she asked a few minutes later.

"I don't know," replied her brother. "We'll have to make sure we don't find out what happens then, won't we?"

"How?" she inquired, leaning forward in her plastic chair. Justin rolled his eyes, and said nothing.

"How?" Amanda said again. Justin turned his head to face her, and gave her a level stare. "By not getting caught?" he said, as if it were a question.

"Oh, right..." she replied, embarrassed.

The two sat in silence again, Justin twiddling the pencil he was holding, Amanda twiddling her thumbs, one around the other. Three days...




<blockquote>[_] Locate Book
[_] Purchase blaster
[X] Construct body armor
[_] Trace handwriting
[_] Trace postage stamp
[_] Construct surveillance system
[_] Obtain manne...</blockquote>

I scribbled down the last item on my to-do list, 'Obtain Mannequin', and read the list to myself again. It sounded good, I certainly couldn't think of anything else I should do. I stuffed both the list and my pen into a shirt pocket before proceeding to don the makeshift body armor I had constructed out of baking sheets and a cast-iron skillet. I might think up some more things to do later.

The body armor was clumsy, but it didn't look too bad with a blanket draped over my shoulders. Hopefully, the snipers my enemy Drug Lord had placed around my apartment wouldn't suspect that I was protected by body armor, or they may try taking a shot at my head. Trigger happy @#%$.

Except for the antiquated slug gun my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather had handed down the generations, I had no weapons in the house. A blaster would most definitely be needed if I were to successfully fend off the Drug Lord's minions; I was in no shape for extended kung-fu combat. Heck, I hadn't been in shape for anything but sitting in my laze-boi all day for the last decade.

There was a gun shop down the street a bit, and I had about a thousand credits in chits and bills hidden under my mattress. So long as that greedy Drug Lord held off his armies of fanatic zombified minions, I should make it there and back fine. The biggest risk, of course, was the snipers he had posted around my house. If they caught sight of the body armor, they would most certainly shoot me in the head right away - trigger happy @#%$. I couldn't use the head protection I had fashioned out of an old pillow and an iron pot without tipping those long riffles off immediately. Forced into exposing myself without proper headgear, Ohh! That Drug Lord was a tricky bugger, he had thought of everything!

I headed out of my apartment, locking the door carefully. I had remembered a trick I had seen on Mystery Daily a few weeks ago, by placing a bit of paper in the door as you closed it, and marking its spot, one would know instantly if someone had entered (the paper would fall down you see. The mark was just in case the man who broke in knew the trick - he wouldn't know where the mark was though. Cleeeverrr). My vision isn't nearly what it used to be, so I didn't bother ripping the paper very small. I couldn't see the mark I made with my fingernail, so I was forced to use my pocketnife. Even then, I had a hard time seeing it, so I used the saw blade to gouge a chunk of finish off the doorframe. I stepped back to see how that looked. Perfect, I could tell where the paper and mark were ten feet away, I wouldn't even have to get close to the door when I came home to see if there was a gang of hired Ninja's inside waiting for me.

Quickly, I moved to the elevator, and hit the ground level button. My body armor clanked a bit as I moved, so I wrapped the green and yellow striped blanket I was wearing around my body a little tighter. Even though the blanket was just to keep the Drug Lord's snipers from spotting my body armor, it could still be used to hold the body armor in place as well. I hadn't had enough twine handy to secure the entire thing down properly.



"Yessir, what can I do for you?" asked the young clerk at the weapons shop. Thank God I had made it down the street without being spotted by the Drug Lord's psychics and snipers; the blanket cameo must have worked.

"I'm looking to buy a blaster," I told the young man with authority in my voice.

"Pardon?" he said.

"I'm looking to buy a blaster," I said, a little louder. Perhaps he was hard of hearing.

"I'm sorry, Sir, but I can't hear you."

Blasted young generation, always listening to music too loud. Stepping closer, I shouted the phrase once again.

"I'M HERE TO BUY A BLASTER!"

"Ah," said the clerk, a smile spreading across his face. "Have anything particular in mind? We have a wide selection."

His smile faltered, as he seemed to see me for the first time, taking in my ingenious cameo scheme of a blanket. I knew immediately that he wanted an outfit just like mine, so I pulled out my checklist, and made a new entry.

<blockquote>
[_] Patent camo design
</blockquote>

If I lived through the Drug Lord's attack upon my person, I would make millions selling this outfit. Putting my list away, I addressed the young man, speaking loudly so as to accommodate for his hearing problem.

"I need something that can really push the energy, boy. I'm expecting an assault on my person by a Drug Lord. He's trying to blackmail me, but I WON'T GIVE IN!"

"Erm..." replied the desk Clerk hesitantly, "Could I interest you in this model, perhaps?"

He pulled out a small blaster from under the display glass, and offered it to me.

"No, no! Put that away! I need something bigger than that!" I said with disdain in my voice. I turned to look at some of the stuff on the wall to the back of the store, and moved too quickly. One of the baking sheets fell off of its rope, and clattered to the floor behind me. Blast, it had taken twenty minutes to make that sheet stick. I stooped over to pick it up, and had an inspiration. The Drug Lord's minions would no doubt be armored with high-tech armor with at least the same resistance power as mine.

"I need something that will punch through this armor, and leave a gaping, smoking hole," I told the desk clerk, handing him the sheet of armor.

"It's a cookie sheet," he said in reply.

"It's body armor," I snapped back, oh the impertinence of this younger generation. "I need something that will punch a hole through that. Go ahead! Test them on it!"

The clerk looked at me, his face flat, before he reached over to the hand blaster I had already rejected. Loading an energy clip into it, he walked down toward the end of the store, and waved for me to follow. Wrapping my cameo about my body a little tighter, I followed. There was a gun range set up here. The clerk was just finishing sticking my rear armor plate into a target holder.

"Watch," he said, and pushed a button. The rear armor plate moved away from us, as the target holder thingy-ma-bob moved it back. The clerk raised his hand, and fired the weapon he held.

After my ears stopped ringing, I opened my eyes and looked at the armor plating. A foot-wide smoking hole was burn right through the middle.

"Why didn't you tell me that was a magnum!" I cried in delight, this was just what I needed for a backup. "I'll take it! Do you have anything that has a high rate of automatic fire as well? I'm sure I won't be able to pull the trigger on this fast enough with the hundreds of druggies the Drug Lord will send at me..."




"Mike?"

"Yeah?" replied Mike, as he pushed the brim of his hat up a little bit. It was a hot, lazy day here in the suburbs.

"Did you see that?"

"What," said Mike, glancing about, his eyes watering from the glare of sunlight off the street.

"That," replied John, pointing.

"I have now," said Mike, staring. An old man was shuffling up the street, a puke-yellow blanket wrapped about his body, a cookie sheet dragging behind him by a bit of twine, and a delivery boy plodding on behind him with a cart from the mid-town weapons shop.

"Kinda hot for that kind of outfit, don't ya think?" An iron skillet fell from the blanket around the old man, and began to clatter its way down the incline of the street.

"I don't think he minds the heat," said Mike, as he tipped his hat back down and proceeded to pickup where he had left off with his mid-day nap.

"Thanks, young man, here's a dime for your effort," I said, handing a coin to the young man who had just hauled my purchases from the weapons shop. He looked at it incredulously; it must have been the largest tip he had gotten in weeks. And judging by the clothing he was wearing he needed the money. I could have sworn I heard him say something as he turned and left (probably a thank you, though I haven't heard a thank you start with an F before...), but he mumbled so badly I couldn't tell.

Turning, I looked at my door carefully. The sheet of paper was still there, as well as the gouge - no one had entered.

Unless... that was it, the Drug Lord surly had shape-shifters and paper men under his command, the invaders must have gone under the door. Stooping down, I examined the doorsill. Ahhh... a bit of dirt. My suspicions were confirmed. I stood, amidst a clattering of body armor, and opened my weapons box. Grabbing the large automatic weapon I had purchased from the weapons shop (a Glork MA-12, to be exact) I loaded an energy clip into it, and prepared. No doubt there were more than one inside.

"Prepare to DIE!" I shouted at the top of my lungs, before squeezing the trigger. A hail of energy of a great magnitude poured from the barrel of the rifle in a nanosecond. Unprepared as I was for the recoil of the weapon, the barrel soon began to point not directly forward, but up toward the ceiling of my apartment. Screaming energy burned through my wooden entry door, melting the handle and searing the glass insets. The recoil was tremendous; with each second I felt myself being jogged further and further backwards. Soon, plaster began to explode all about me as the gun worked its way into a vertical position, and slowly began to force me to the ground.

Finally, after what seemed like a decade, I managed to remove my finger from the trigger. I thought I heard my landlord screaming at me from below, but the ringing in my ears prevented me from telling for sure. Just to be thorough though, I yelled back at him. Pulling myself together (and shedding my body armor, which was now completely disconnected), I leapt through the smoldering remains of my apartment door, and looked about for the shape shifters and paper men I knew were hiding somewhere.

Unfortunately, as I entered I tripped upon a shard of what used to have been my door, and fell flat on my face.




The pain was incredibly ... painful. It was like being stabbed in the face with a dull chopstick twice. I began to assess my situation there, on the floor. Legs - check. They were functioning; I could hear them drumming against the floor in synchronization to the throbbing pain that stabbed through my body. Arms - check. The left arm was massaging my back, while the right arm and hand tried to locate something on the floor. I wasn't sure what they were looking for, so I let them continue on their merry way. Back - oh, not so check. That's where the pain was coming from, my back. Neck - check. There was a crick in it, a crick that wanted out. Head - check, though I was sure my daughter would tell me that it had gone south for the winter.

Slowly my vision began to clear up. Funny I had not noticed how dirty my linoleum floor was. Burnt wood-chips lay everywhere I looked. A blinding flash of memory struck my mind, and I remembered shooting paper men, dozens of them as they came pouring out of my front door, all intent upon killing me. It all came back then, the plot by the interplanetary Drug Lord, the legions of paper men and ninjas he had at his command, the snipers everywhere I looked, and most importantly the three day time limit he had given me to pay his father's insurance policy.

With a gut-wrenching moan I managed to command my arms, legs and torso to move my entire body into a standing position. The pain in my back almost stopped me from doing so, but the overwhelming persuasive power of the other limbs overcame his protests. My right arm had found what it had been looking for, the rifle that had mowed down those hundreds of paper men. With a grunt I stepped forward a few paces before sagging down into my lazy-boi for a short nap.




"Lizard innards, ball of twine, hair from a gork-frog's chest, a pinch of salmonella poisoning and two and one half turns around the bowl."

Setting down the book, "Brews, Boils and Booze", I sniffed the mixture I had concocted with apprehension. The recipe had billed itself as a 'Sure fire way to rid oneself of hoards of the undead'. If it worked, it worked by smell alone because this concoction reeked to high heaven of bad eggs. The book only contained two recipes dealing with hoards of enemies, and I had figured that my problems matched hoards of the undead better than hoards of doting teenyboppers.

"Here's hoping it works," I muttered. The last step was to coat oneself in the reeking mixture. After taking another whiff of the stuff I rationalized that I did have a day or two left before the Drug Lord would storm my apartment - I could wait until then to coat my body in the gook.

Setting the bowl in the icebox, I examined my newly updated to-do list.

<blockquote>
[_] Locate Book
[X] Purchase blaster
[X] Construct body armor
[_] Trace handwriting
[_] Trace postage stamp
[_] Construct surveillance system
[X] Obtain mannequin
[X] Create anti-army potion
[_] Call Cops
[_] Make trap-o-death
[_] Write Last Will and Testament
</blockquote>

Four out of ten, I was right on schedule. The mannequin had been relatively easy to construct. A couple of pillows, my Sunday-go-to-meeting suit, and an old bust of Martha Sneward, and I had a mannequin. I wasn't yet sure what I needed it for, but incase I required a mannequin, I had one. Next up, installing the surveillance system and prepping trap-o-death. The delivery boy should be here any minute with the surveillance system, so the trap-o-death was up next.

The idea had come to me during my mid-day nap. "Why not", said a little voice, as I dreamt about sleeping in the sunshine on the shores of Mahawa-haha beach on the planet Zeron. "Cut a hole in the kitchen floor large enough for several men to fall through?" The sheer brilliance of this idea had woken me up immediately. Incredible - not only did my IQ rank up there with those of Chosky, Van-Burent and Deuo, but I had a second voice in my head. That meant I had twice the thinking power of a normal human, which in turn meant I had a natural edge over that of the Evil Drug Lord.

Out came the sawz-all, and out went the back as I leaned over to begin my cut. I swear, I heard an actual explosion in my spine as I bent over. It was loud enough I half expected my neighbor Anna Nevaria (she lived directly below me) to scream up some obscenity about how noisy it was here, and how she should have stayed in the old country where people could live in peace.

Since I was stuck in this bent over position because of my traitorous back, I decided to start cutting anyway. The sawz-all bit right through the linoleum with ease, and my trap-o-death was begun. Any unsuspecting members of the Drug Lord's hoard of evil servants who stepped on this trap would find themselves facing Anna's rolling pin - the very thought of being in that poor man's shoes made me shiver even as I continued to make my cut.

In yet another pure stroke of genius, I decided to not cut all the way through, but rather, make the trap appear to be part of the rest of the floor. A few ninja's would run out on it, and fall through while the rest behind them continued to mash their way through to their doom. Brilliant.




<blockquote>
[_] Write Last Will and Testament
</blockquote>

"I, Army Rogers, being of sound mind and body, do hereby make out this, my last will and testament..."

You never could tell, that buggered-all Drug Lord just might get me, despite the incredibly brilliant plans I had laid. In all probability, I would run out of ammo for my guns, and then would be overrun by his hoards of demon ninja warriors.

Let's see ... My son gets the apartment, back taxes and all, and my daughter gets her mother's jewelry box, faux diamonds and all. That was about it... oh, mustn't forget my lazy-boi, that would go to Emmet (he lived above me). And my ninty-two inch photon TV was for Emmet as well. Anna Nevaria would get my kitchen utensils, both of them. That was about it. Once upon a time I had owned more wordily goods, but as my health disintegrated over time I gradually sold off those goods to pay for the medication and video's from Housebuster Bob's down the street.

"Signed, Army Rogers"

That took care of that. I looked over my to-do list again, putting a checkmark next to the will-and-testament.



<blockquote>
[_] Locate Book
[X] Purchase blaster
[X] Construct body armor
[_] Trace handwriting
[_] Trace postage stamp
[_] Construct surveillance system
[X] Obtain mannequin
[X] Create anti-army potion
[_] Call Cops
[X] Make trap-o-death
[_] Write Last Will and Testament
</blockquote>

The first item, Locate Book, I couldn't for the life of me remember why I had written it down. I had a lot of books, and none of them pertained to the defeating of armies, counter-blackmailing of Evil Drug Lords, or survival in an urban nightmare.

That slight ringing in my ears was getting to be blasted annoying. It almost sounded like the doorbell was stuck on, but being that I didn't have a door anymore, no sane man would ring the doorbell. Or... would they? I glanced toward the door, and promptly returned my head to my checklist, and marked off one more item.

<blockquote>
[X] Call Cops
</blockquote>

I hadn't called them, but they were here, and it always felt good to check something off.

There were three of them, two tall and one short. The short one looked like he had had one donut too much this morning. They were looking at the remains of my front door, their faces slightly incredulous. The fat one had his hand on his gun, my mind - like the razor sharp trap it was - deduced that he was nervous.

"Anything I can do for you gentlemen?" I asked, as I hobbled over. My back was still acting up.

They looked up at me, and the first one cleared his throat.

"Are you Army Rogers?" he said after a moment.

"I am," I replied stiffly, gosh darn it my back hurt when I stood up. "Is there any trouble officers?"

"Well.." began the foremost man. He cleared his throat and started again. "My name is Bresco, we had a report of gunfire."

"Ah," I said, all serious now, "Yes, I was forced to defend myself this morning."

All three men became attentive at my words, and the foremost, Bresco, prodded me to continue. I was about to explain to them about the Intergalactic Drug Lord, the sniper's outside my window, the army of killer cyborg ninja's and psychic paper men, but something warned me not to. After all, here I was, an old man who could barley walk, claiming to be the target of an Intergalactic Drug Lord? Who was I kidding? They would never believe me, not in a million years.

"Well, ah..." I started, franticly trying to come up with a plausible story.

"I ... er, I went down to the uh, gun shop this morning and ..."

I paused. I couldn't say I was attacked by paper men, they would believe that. A mugger? Yeah, a mugger, no, a Rapist! Perfect. I mentally patted myself on the back at the idea.

"Go on," said Bresco.

"I went to the gun shop this morning to uh, buy a, uh, gun for self defense. When I came back, there was a uh," At this point I pointed toward my bedroom door, which was off to the left of the officers.

"There was a woman there, she said she was going to uh, rape me, and then throw my body down the stars."

"Did you get a good look at her?" asked the fat man. With that tone of voice I could almost see him leaning next to the water cooler at the station eating a donut and drinking caf while he mentioning off hand that he had caught a whopper of a fish the other day.

"Yeah, uh, no, she had a mask on. She looked like you though."

"Me?" he asked.

"Yes, same build," I replied, my voice sounding a little too sarcastic for my tastes. TO cover up, I mentioned that my back hurt, and would they come in so I could sit down on my lazy-boi.

Once we were all settled down, two of the officers on my only sofa with Bresco standing next to a window, we got started. I almost warned Bresco to stay away from the window, but I figured the snipers wouldn't risk blowing their cover by shooting an officer of the law. Oogurian police had always been very dogged at pursuing criminals, and now that the Anthos Republic was backing them with additional equipment, their reputation was even larger.

"As I was saying," I began again, as I shifted my body into a comfortable position, "She was standing by my bedroom door. Her face was hidden by a mask, but I could see blond hair and red nails."

"She was holding a fistful of red nails?" asked the fat cop again.

"No," I replied slightly ticked, "Her fingernails were painted red. Anyhow, she stood about one-point six meters in height, and must have weighed ninety kilograms, maybe more. She was dressed in solid black."

"What happened after that, Sir?" asked Bresco. He was still standing by the window, but he was looking at me now, not the neighboring apartment.

"Well, I pulled out the blaster I had purchased, and pointed it at her. She freaked, and started screaming at me about how she was going to cut me up into little pieces..." I paused for effect, and realized why my seat was so uncomfortable now. I was sitting on my clipboard, checklist and pen.

"I, uh," I said as I wedged the offending articles out from under my rear. The clipboard got stuck coming out the side of the chair, so I tried to maneuver it out the front - under my legs.

"Well, I told her to, uh," I continued, trying to get the clipboard out without hurting anything important. I could feel the pen beginning to dig into my pants. The clipboard finally slid out without injury, but unfortunately the checklist had stayed behind.

"I told her to leave, and then, I, uh," I mumbled, as I dug my hand down under my rear, looking for the checklist. As I shifted my bodyweight my pen punctured right through my jeans, and into my left butt cheek, prompting me to give a yell and jump up. Unfortunately, since one leg was raised to facilitate my left hand's searching, I failed to land on my feet.

"Sir, are you all right, sir?" asked Bresco, as I connected wit the floor.

"Perfectly fine, son. I was sitting on something..."



"As I was saying, gentlemen, I told her to leave. She started moving toward the door, cursing all the while." The cops had helped me into my chair, after removing the pen from my rear and putting some burning liquid and a band-aid on the wound. They had asked me if I wanted to go to a hospital, but not wanting any collateral damage to come from the Drug Lord's attack on me, I had declined.

"She moved outside the door, closed it, and then I heard shooting. A few blaster bolts burned through the door before I realized what she was doing, so I opened fire on her in return. I don't remember what happened after that, I woke up laying on the floor in the kitchen face down with a kink in my back."

The officers asked a few more questions; things like, why didn't you call us, and why didn't you go to a hospital for that back kink. I replied by saying that I was going to, but the kink in my back had prevented me from doing much. They left after that, the fat one suggesting that I get a magnetically sealed door to prevent future break-ins.

"Thanks for coming," I told them, before turning and heading back to my lazy-boi.

"We may be back later," they said. The reason was something about looking for DNA and scientific evidence.

What an ordeal. I had almost run out of lies by the time the left.

With the coppers gone, it was time to get back to business once again. I grabbed my checklist and scanned it.

<blockquote>[_] Locate Book
[X] Purchase blaster
[X] Construct body armor
[_] Trace handwriting
[_] Trace postage stamp
[_] Construct surveillance system
[X] Obtain mannequin
[X] Create anti-army potion
[X] Call Cops
[X] Make trap-o-death
[X] Write Last Will and Testament</blockquote>

I had intended to call the cops for the sole purpose of informing them of the impending chaos. They would have to deal with it, of course, and it was only fair to inform them ahead of time. After all, several thousand Mutant Cyborg Ninja's and Paper Men were about to meet their death at my hands. I shuddered slightly, those poor emergency workers, having to puzzle out how the Muntant Cyborg Ninja's autonomy worked - I didn't envy them.

I marked both the Trace Handwriting and Trace Postage Stamp items as being on stand by. They would both take a great deal of time; time I didn't have at the moment. With my back in the condition it was in I needed to pad my work schedule.

I checked my watch, a watch I had owned for fifty years (it was always accurate, in its own adorable way). It was exactly five fifty-seven PM. I was planning for the earliest arrival, which left me with twenty-six hours before my three days were up. If I didn't sleep, I could probably get my camera system rigged up, and go through a few dry runs of the impending assault. On the other hand, if I did sleep, I would be fresh and ready for the monumental battle.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to tell me what was the best option. Five minutes later, the pillow and I got to know each other.




The next morning I awoke fresh, fresh indeed. Fresh, and panicky. It was apparent to my keen mind that a Paper Man had been in my apartment, and had drugged me. The pillow was covered in drool. Muttering in disgust, I ripped the cover off the pillow, and threw the wet cloth into the clothing hamper. There it joined seven of its identical brothers...

Dolt! In the excitement of the moment, I had forgotten to take my medicine yesterday. The last think I wanted was a heart attack in the middle of the assault.

The situation was soon rectified, and I began to plan out my day. After breakfast I would get right to work on my camera system. As I poured myself a bowl of some brand-x cold serial (being careful to stay away from the windows) I began to sketch out, in my mind, the plan of action for my surveillance system. I would need to construct a few cameras from scratch, as well as a trip-wire and infrared thermal imaging network for those Cyborg Ninja's that may be equipped with thermoptic camo.

Dang, I had totally forgotten about thermoptic camo. The Drug Lord would most certainly equip his most trusted henchmen with the stuff, thus rendering them invisible to the eyes and thermal imaging sensors. I would need to make a tachyon beam-emitter and receiver as well if I wanted a ghost of a chance of survival against the camo equipped soldiers.




Well, that wasn't too hard now wasn't it? I set the last piece down into its socket, and dusted my hands against my pants. My completed camera system sat on the table. It was monstrously huge, unfortunately. I really didn't have the time to work on shrinking the design. That could come later, after the drug lord was done with his pitiful and helpless attack on me.

Measuring in at around four feet long, and weighing about fifty pounds, it was going to be a beast of an item to conceal. Fortunately, I had taken that into consideration. At the end of the two-foot camera zoom lens (ingeniously constructed from toilet-paper rolls and a focusing lens off of the neighbors sports-speeder) I hung a used birdcage. I would set the camera in a recessed area, and the ninja's would think it was an elegant cage holder.

Unfortunately, I didn't have a bird to put into the cage to complete the trick. So much the better though, the bird would only get in the way of the camera's work.

I checked my watch. It was precisely ... hold an a minute ... wait ... almost there ... precisely two twenty ... rats, missed it. It had been precisely two twenty-seven six seconds ago.

With a groan I stood. My back was killing me, it just kept getting worse and worse. I don't know what I had done to make it so bad, falling had not used to hurt this much. Pushing the pain away --a simple trick to one so skilled as myself-- I went on with my work. With my surveillance system all done I was free to begin setting up the rest of the brilliant ideas I had concocted while working. Let's see... there was the automatic pie-thrower, only it wouldn't throw pies it would throw hundreds of homemade knives that I would faction out of toilet paper and auto-body aluminum. Then there was the laser gattling gun I was going to make out of a flashlight, prism and mirror. Of course the gattling gun wouldn't hurt the ninja's, my real gun would do that, but I could use all the distraction I could come up with. Then there was ... The Bomb. My wife had made a few of these bombs on occasion, never intentionally of course, but she had perfected the construction of these deadly weapons. By combining beans, garlic and a few other odds and ends, and then consuming the entire thing right away, one had the capability of turning oneself into a weapon of mass destruction on demand. Just drink a bottle of soda-pop right before you wanted to kill someone, it was that easy. Unfortunately for uncle jimmy we hadn't known about the potency of these bombs twenty years ago, when Marget had first made them. We did now though, Uncle Jimmy's sacrifice had not been in vain.

Now that I was standing, it was time to get some pain meds. With difficulty I managed to hobble over to the bathroom. There were some drugs hidden in here somewhere.

Two hours and six dozen capsules later, I was feeling right spry again. I was also writing a letter to Drug-Co about the potential danger of the pain meds I had taken. They should warn someone that after three dozen you lost the ability to realize you had cut yourself.


<blockquote>... having cut myself, and not realizing it due to your pain medication, and having lost a considerable amount of blood (not to mention perfectly good towels & wall-paper due to said blood), it is my recommendation that you update your warning systems. Talking labels have been around for eons, can't you people get with the times? Get a movie-label. People will watch if it moves, blinks, and looks pretty. Most people won't listen to anything, let alone read something.

Sincerely,
Army Rogers</blockquote>


That should do it. Hopefully there was someone at Drug-Co smart enough to know good advice when he saw it. I folded the paper neatly and stuck it into an envelope. The envelope I stuck into my outgoing box. I would address it later.

"Time to prepare," I said, without thinking. My gosh, was I talking to myself now? "

"I must really be going senile," I said again.


<blockquote>"Mr. Heel-of-hand, meet Mr. Forehead. Mr. Forehead, meet Mr. Heel-of-hand."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Forehead."

"A pleasure, I'm sure Mr. Heel-of-hand. What are you doing here, today, Mr. Heel-of-hand?"

"Oh, the owner just started talking to himself again. Yourself?"

"I'm entertaining you, of course."

"Yes, yes, of course..."

"Oh, leaving so quickly Mr. Heel-of-hand?"

"Don't worry Mr. Forehead, I'll be back momentarily..."</blockquote>


With my surveillance system now in place I was ready for anything. It was a pity I hadn't been able to make more than one camera system. A real pity. Actually, with only one camera the surveillance system had been reduced to more of an incredibly high-tech movie camera.

Oh well. I shrugged, and went back to working on my laser gattling gun. All the better that way, now the police would have a complete record of what happened when the minions of the Drug Lord attacked me.

I ripped out my checklist again, literally. After taping the list back together, I settled down and ran though both mentally and orally. The moisture didn't improve the condition of the list any, and my mental telekinetic abilities were sorely lacking, leaving me with a now worse for the wear checklist.

Blaster, check. I eyed the weapon by my side with a smile. Even having it close was a comfort. I really couldn't say why I had not purchased one earlier in life. I thought on that for a moment, and finally came to the conclusion that I hadn't had an intergalactic Crime Lord chasing after me. Yeah, that was it.

Construct body armor, check. The suit of high-tech armor lay near me as well. If I lived through this attack, I would have to file a patent quickly. This body armor was pure gold. Not, constructed of gold, but rather, worth pure gold. Just think, police officers would be completely invincible to any sort of weapons fire... Save a magnum, of course.

Mannequin, check. The mannequin was set up in my bed. Should the ninja's come through the window in there their deadly attack on the dummy would wake me here, in the living room. Those ninja's were real dummies, not able to tell the difference between a mannequin and a real person. I had to chuckle at that thought.

My Anti-Army potion was ready, along with The Bomb. The cops, they had already come, albeit under their own power. The trap-o-death was done too. Anna Nevaria still hadn't called me about the noise, I hoped she hadn't died in the night, I needed her and her rolling pin.

My Last Will and Testament I had also completed, completed hours ago to be completely truthful, a thing I wasn't often. That was it for my list. I scribbled down a few other items, namely the prism-gattling gun and the pie-o-pain thrower, and checked them off immediately just to give the list a feeling of completeness, and to give myself a swift boost of pride. I had not only completed my list, but I had gone over and above the call of duty. I was perfectly effulgent, my brain was working like a razor blade cutting through cement, and my body hadn't felt better since the day before yesterday. I was ready. Not only was I ready, I was ready. Not only was I ready, I was Ready. In fact, I suspected that I was READY. Even, READY!

I popped back my lazi-boi, and grabbed the remote. It was time for Mystery Daily, and I was READY!



I swear that if my heart doesn't stop this whole palpitation thing, I'll die. Perhaps I should explain. Mystery Daily was done, and I had puttered around for a bit trying to think of some additional precautions I could take in preparing myself for the attack. By 'puttering around' I really mean 'Sitting in my chair'. My back hurt too much to stand up.

While trying to think of what I could implement next, I pulled the letter I had received yesterday, and reviewed it. Instantly, well, after looking at it about seven times, my trained eagle eyes caught something funny. The date in the letter was off by a single digit when compared to the date on the outside of the letter, or, on the envelope.

My incredible mind mulled this over for but a few minutes. Then, it hit me like a bullet to the chest, the letter had been delayed a day in its delivery. I was a day late in my preparations ... the drug lord was COMING TODAY!

That's when my heart palpitated, and I, despite the pain to my back, fairly sprinted to the medicine cabinet to get some pills. I couldn't die now, before my final hour! If I was to die I wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, not as a doddering fool dead with drool coming out of his mouth.

I kicked my preparations into overdrive. I was going to be ready for the attack of the Crime Lord and his Drug Lord minions, and their armies of cyborg ninja's and paper men. It was ... time.



"Army Rogers reporting for duty, Sir!"

"Suit up solder, you have a mission to perform at 0200."

"Aye Aye, Cap'n!"

Army Rogers, legendary commando, one man army, brilliant weapons scientist, chemical weapon genius, Rambo-Arnold & Hercules all wrapped into one, stepped into his private dressing room on the military base. As he slowly took his clothing off, revealing his two-foot diameter biceps, five-foot shoulders, and bulging twenty-seven pack washboard abs, he thought about the upcoming mission. He thought about it, carefully.

Enter. Blow things up. Leave alive.

Sure, it sounded simple, it sounded like yesterday's job, but it wasn't. This one had more cannon fodd... er ... enemies present. He would have to remember to bring more ammo.

"Get moving Rogers, we don't have all day!"

"Aye, Sir," Army called back as he pulled on his skintight drysuit. Done with that he grabbed his bag of guns and explosives, and headed toward the door.

Stepping out of his dressing room, Rodgers calmly noticed that his commander had a pickup ready.

"Taking me to the drop point yourself, Sir?" he asked politley, his voice calm and to the point as always.

"No, you muscle-bound dunder-head. This is your equipment."
Taking the insult in stride, the commander was really just jealous, Army looked at the truck with a hint of curiosity. He hid it, however, and looked suavely nonchalant.

"Oh? Special equipment? Laser wrist-watch, proton-bomb lapel clips?"

"No. Here, take this and cover your body with it."

Army took the jar his commander offered him, and eyed it with a calm air of superiority.

"What is it?"

"Body Odor protection," replied his commander, the sarcasm just dripping from his voice.

"Right," replied Rogers, a slight grin coming to his face. Someone had noticed the copious amounts of sweat he kept coming into the base with.

"Put it on, now!" barked his commander.

Army cracked open the lid on the jar -- for it was indeed a jar... a pickle jar, if Army was not mistaken -- and sniffed. He smelled nothing for a moment, but just felt a slight tingling sensation in his nose. Then, without warning, his sinuses erupted with a burning pain that overshadowed every other type of pain he had felt before.

"OWWWWW!" cried Rogers, despite his best efforts. "What kind of deodorant is this!?!?" he continued, frantically rubbing his nose.

"It's bug spray. You'll need it. Now PUT IT ON!"

With a slightly belligerent air Army complied. He never, ever went against a higher authority. As he rubbed the reeking compound into his formerly clean drysuit, he looked warily into the back of the truck. His CO was standing in it, rummaging about for something...

"Done yet?" barked his CO, impatient as ever.

"Yeah," retorted Army, a bit of insubordination creeping into his voice.

"Put this on, soldier," snapped his CO. A large collection of what appeared to be old kitchen utensils flew through the air, and connected with Army. The noise was deafening.

"What is it?" asked Army hesitantly.

"Body armor, just came out. Latest-and-greatest. Put it on."

Without a word Army complied. The 'suit' as his CO called it appeared to be a poorly constructed ensemble of pots, pans, and cookie sheets held together by binder twine. Several times a bit of twine broke, forcing Army to repair the offending bit with a shred of his own long, flowing hair. After all, this was what the army had made him grow it out for...

"Good," said his CO, now that the suit was on. "Cover yourself with this." A dirty striped blanket made its way down from the truck into Army's arms. "And here, here's your weapon."

Weapon? As in, weapon, singular form? Army didn't know what to think of here. He hadn't used a single weapon for ages. A four-foot gun in each fist was his personal tactic. He preferred it that way, to be truthful.

"Weapon?" he asked tentatively after he got the rug situated on his shoulders properly.

"Yeah. It's a pie thrower. Here are a few pies. No, go get them, Soldier."

Army stared in disbelief at the weapon handed him. It was a glorified slingshot.

A wild yell, accompanied by gunfire drew Army's attention to the north. The Enemy!

Looking about quickly, Army was dismayed to see that his CO, his bag of weapons, even the truck, had disappeared without a trace.

He looked back north, and spotted the first of the enemy minions. Cyborg Ninja's and Paper men.

Army set his square, six inch wide jaw, and pulled out a pie. It was a meringue. He set it in his slingshot, and with a smooth effortless motion pulled and fired. If his government wanted him to fight with a piethrower, dressed in pots and pans and smelling like something from the compost pile combined with turpentine, so be it. A slight pain in his chest was brushed off, and Army pulled and fired again, and again...

I stood in my living room, back square, shoulders straight, dressed in my high-tech body armor and armed to the teeth. My nostrils had long since grown accustomed to the smell of my odor weapon (or perhaps they had been burnt out). Before me, on its tripod, stood the laser gattling gun. Next to it stood the real weapon, the automatic laser weapon I had purchased down the street. In my left hand I held my magnum, in my right hand, a bottle of soda-pop. I was ready.

The anxiety of waiting was beginning to get to me. Here I stood, ready for war, yet no sign of the enemy appeared before my eyes. Having the shades closed (to prevent Snipers from spotting me) might have had something to do with that though.

The anxiety was making my gut spin, my heart palpitate, and my chest hurt. I couldn't tell whether this was from the various concoctions I had drunk not twenty minutes ago, or from me forgetting to take a pill this morning.

The phone rang. Curses, of all the times for the phone to ring. Naturally it had to be now.

"Yeah?" I said into the receiver.

A young voice answered on the other end with a very polite, "Yes, Mr. Rogers?"

"Speaking," I replied.

"Mr. Rogers, I'm with the Mass Mutual Dual Sual-Hickman Life Insurance, Car-Wax & Themepark Corporation. I'm calling to see if you would like to hear some numbers about why you need life insurance?

I really didn't know what to say in response. Life Insurance, Car wax and Themeparks? What a merger that must have been.

"No, but I am interested in a personal themepark," I replied. It had been awhile since I had had a chance to poke fun at a tellemarketer.

"Really?" replied the voice, all excited. "Just a minute.."

"Sure," I said. A grin slipped over my face, this would be fun. There was a popping on the line, and the sound of a phone being lifted and then dropped back into the cradle. Then, someone different spoke. This voice was a male voice, and it had a tone of authority. It scared me.

"Mr. Rogers, I understand you're interested in purchasing a themepark..."

"Naturally," I replied, my voice slightly sarcastic.

"Just a moment while I pull up your financial information," said the voice on the other end. "Ah yes, here we are. My my, Mr. Rogers. How were you planning on paying for this themepark? Our records show that you only make seven hundred credits a month.

"Er..." I grasped at straws, looking for a way out. I didn't remember giving these people my income information. "Well..."

"I hope you were not jesting, Mr. Rogers..." the voice said. I could imagine the owner sitting back in his posh leather chair, taking a drag on an expensive cigar.

"Well ..."

"You are aware of the legal ramifications and penalties for intentionally deceiving a courtesy caller, correct?"

This I wasn't aware of. "No, you're kidding, right?" I replied hesitantly.

"I never joke, Mr. Rogers. Ruling #2289494dj4 from the bench of her," here the voice took on a revered air, "Honor Judge Vema Matias," subsequent to naming the judge, the voice reverted to its normal gruffness. "The penalty for intentionally deceiving, hanging up on, or in any way deterring us from making a profit is six years in jail or two hundred thousand credits."

That was ridiculous! I suddenly realized that this man was not a sales clerk, and this was not the Mass Mutual Dual Sual-Hickman Life Insurance, Car-Wax & Themepark Corporation calling me, this was a minion of the Drug Lord! He was distracting me from my mission of defense.

"Well, let me tell you something," I said, my courage rising. "I've got a blaster in one hand, and a bomb in the other. I smell like nothing you've ever smelled before. I'm ready for you, you evil drug lord. Just you come and get me. You've never met anyone like me before, you stinking, low down scoundrel. Try to steal money from an old man, will you! Have you no respect for the elderly? Blackmail won't work on me you knave, prepare to EAT LASERS! I'm going to rip your fiscal status to shreds. I'll boil your gold with my eyes. You've never met a man like me before, you ... you ... you ... "

It should be noted that at this point my heart failed to do its sworn duty (that being pumping blood molecules to my body), and instead took a vacation. An early vacation I might add. The telephone receiver fell from my hand, and I toppled backwards. With a thundering crash I connected wit the floor. Curses, this was an inconvenience.

The man on the other end of the receiver continued to chatter on.

"Well, I never. You will be hearing from our lawyers, Mr. Rogers. You have clearly breached the ruling set down by ... Honor Judge Vema Matias ... you are impeding our profit making capabilities, a capital crime! And on top of that you insulted me! We'll sue Mr. Rogers. Do you hear me? We'll sue! ..."


Amanda and Justin were looking out their window when the cops arrived. The curtains were half-drawn, allowing them to remain out of sight.

"What's with all the blue?" asked Amanda.

"Probably something with the shooting we heard yesterday," replied her brother, curtly.

"Awful lot of blue to arrive now. Wasn't there a police car outside the apartment yesterday, too?"

"Yeah."

For several minutes they stood there, watching. Then out of boredom they decided to take a walk down to see what the commotion was about.


An officer was speaking to a fellow member of the constabulary in rather heated tones as the brother and sister duo walked by.
"I'm telling you, the old man has himself barricaded up there! The whole place is booby-trapped."

Amanda and Justin looked at one another when they heard this. Old man?

"Several guys fell through the floor. Someone said a machine gun went off. No one knows what happened. Oh.. wait.."

A man appeared at the door of the apartment building. "Nothing to see here folks, move along," he said with a waving motion. "Nothing at all to see here."

As Amanda and Justin walked away, they both caught whisps of sound saying, "dead as a doornail" and "Army..."

"There goes that scheme," muttered Justin. "Old codger is dead."

"Can we sue someone?" asked Amanda.


The next morning the cops found me. They had received permission from some higher-up to detain me for disturbing the peace, and as such they came in the droves. There wasn't much work for them lately, what with the criminals suing the cops for arresting them. Apparently someone (probably their lawyer) had decided that I rated low on the sue-scale. As I was saying, they came in droves. Dozens of droves. The building was saturated with cops questioning my neighbors, examining everything for fingerprints, and eating donuts. Several fell through my trap-o-death, resulting in their not only receiving one first-class shock, but one first-class butt kicking from Anna. Another one of them tripped off the pie-thrower resulting in seven serious cases of bleeding. One hotshot rookie tried to out-draw my gattling gun, and though he managed to disable the pseudo weapon, had it not been for the sad fact that it fired nothing but light beams the gattling gun would have gotten him first. Needless to say, the ambulance was busy that day.

I, on the other hand, was left to decompose where I lay. It was determined that that would be safer for all concerned, including me.

<blockquote>Dear Miss Rogers,
We regret to inform you that as of 10:30 Central Time here on Sathora, your father Army Rogers was pronounced dead. He died from a heart attack in his apartment, it appears he went peaceful, and didn't feel much pain.
If you could make your way to our offices we would be more than happy to help you fill out all the legal forms.
Thanks,
Pine City Police</blockquote>


Kirsten Rogers stepped into the Pine City Police department with a heavy heart. The news that her father had died had been a blow. Only five days until his birthday, and the entire family had been lined up for a surprise party. Now what was she going to do with that cake that she had spent over a hundred credits on? Eat it, she supposed.

"Can I help you?" asked a receptionist with a smile.

"I'm Kirsten Rogers... I'm here about my father?"

"Ah, yes, so sorry about your father." The receptionist smiled congenially. "If you'll just follow me?"

The Receptionist led Kirsten down a hallway, to an office marked "Chief".

"He's expecting you," she said, before heading back the way they had come.

Hesitantly Kirsten tapped on the tinted glass. A voice called from inside beckoning her to enter, and she did so.

"You must be Kirsten," said the Chief of Police for Pine City. He was a stout man, with a likeable tone of voice and an ugly face.

"Yes," she said.

"Please, have a seat. We have some things to discuss."

After taking a seat, Kirsten looked expectantly at the Chief. He in turn looked her over, as if measuring her up. Then he began rather bluntly.

"Did your Father ever exhibit any signs of ... insanity prior to his death?"

"No, why?" she replied aghast.

"Well..." said the Chief rather hesitantly. "His last days were rather strange."

The Chief paused for an antagonizing thirty seconds. It was almost as if he was waiting for Kirsten to say something. Finally she said, "Well?" in a very exasperated tone.

Nodding to himself, the Chief continued. "When he was found dead, these images were taken. Here's his front door. If you've never seen these types of burns before, they're laser burns. He apparently went out and bought himself several heavy-duty blasters, and shot the living daylights out of his door."

The Chief glanced at Kirsten, but she exhibited no signals that would have told him to stop.

"He was also found dressed in an ensemble of kitchen utensils. He had a pot on his head, cookie sheets strapped to his chest and back, a skillet over his groin and butt, and tinfoil wrapped over his arms. This was all held together by common bindertwine. Under this mess his body was coated with a very potent concoction. I am still suffering from the effects it had upon my nose. He had apparently been working on several things. One of them included a mess of cardboard, an old VCR, and a birdcage. It was setup in a corner of the room. He had also cut a hole in his floor, and set it to cave in when someone stepped on it. In short, it appeared like he had gone insane and started to defend himself from an attack of some sort."

Kirsten sat stunned. Insanity... Insanity in her family. She would be at a high risk...

With a scream, she leapt into the air and bolted out the door.
"Miss Rogers! Please, come back!"



I wouldn't go back. I couldn't go back. They wouldn't trick me again, they couldn't stop me. Oh Dad, why did you have to go insane? That's the last thing we needed. Insanity in the family. Wasn't it enough that Uncle Billy was always in the pen, and that Margaret couldn't keep a boy for more than six weeks? Wasn't it enough that we were the laughing stock of the block? You and Uncle Jimmy, rest his soul, had spread a black haze over our name. Insanity was the last thing we needed.

Curse you Dad! Discovered covered in pots and pans? Covered in, let me guess, Mom's potion? I'll bet you had ingested some of Uncle Jimmies Bomb as well.

I pulled my car over, and stopped the engine. Dang it Dad! Just before your birthday too.