chapter8.jpg (7440 bytes)


Date: Sat, Sep 14, 1996 1:13 PM EDT

From: Bottlenekk


To: SecraTerri, FifiOToole, Edmundkaz


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It wasn't the best dream Frank Lee Peking ever had. No, that one involved Grace Slick, a dozen jars of Chunky-Style Ragu, and a Garden Weasel.

But this dream was definitely a strong contender for the weirdest.

He'd dreamed he was in a church basement. He'd been talking to a midget, some guy in a cape, and a chick whose face had been white a few seconds ago, but now looked exactly like Marilyn McCoo's. (Okay, Marilyn McCoo with soggy, half-brown, half-black, cherry-scented hair, but Marilyn McCoo nonetheless.)

He'd also been eating pancakes.

Pancakes with some sort of......weird after-taste.

"Fachrissakes, Mardeen. Just exactly how many Nytols did you grind up in that batter?"

The grating female voice drifted into Peking's ears just a split second before the cloud of Raleigh breath billowed up his nostrils. His other senses also began to report in, one by one. His whole body ached. Especially his arms. He could tell he was lying face-down on some hard surface.

He licked it tentatively.


No, wait, his finely trained sense of taste could gather more specific clues than that. He licked again. Armstrong Congoleum....avocado background with harvest gold flowers....inlaid with little gold speckles......manufactured in 1962 at the plant in Sandusky, Ohio.....last waxed in.....uh.....1963. And last stepped on in this spot by a person who........had stepped in something extruded by a chihauhau with tapeworms!!

Peking spat, coughed, and tried to roll over.

"I didn't put in nearly enough, apparently," said another female voice. "It looks like he's coming around."

Peking cracked open one eye. He was staring at the toe of a big, clunky Nazi boot. Painfully, he rotated his head to see more of his captors. His eyes drifted upward. Camouflage pants. Canvas ammunition belts. And......

"Nice tits," Peking said aloud.

"Maybe we shouldn't kill him after all," said the scrawny woman, adjusting her hairnet with both hands, and casually thrusting out her scrawny chest. "He's got great eyes."

"Don't flatter yourself, Mardeen," the menopausal Dabolinkx widow snapped. "He's talking about our T-shirts."

And, as usual, Meno Dabo was right. In addition to the jackbooks and camo pants, both women were wearing olive drab military-style T-shirts with "TITS" boldly (and rather optimistically) stencilled on the front.

"For your information, Mr. Hotshot Detective, that's an acronym for our organization: This Isn't Tori Spelling," Meno Dabo hissed.

"You were afraid people might mistake you for Tori Spelling?" Peking croaked.

"Play innocent all you want, pal," said Hairnet. "The minute you and your pals came into town, we knew you were part of the cloning conspiracy. But if you think we're going to stand by quietly, while you fill Trailer Town with thousands of little blonde, look-alike sluts, you're wrong. In fact, you're DEAD wrong."

"Cloning conspiracy? I don't know what the hell you're talking about," Peking said.

"Have it your way," Meno Dabo snapped. "But Mardeen and I have been women enough for the men of Trailer Town for 47 years. And we'll be damned if we're going to let our boys get a taste of any strange now. Even if it does come from a test-tube. That's why you must.......DIE."

"DIE!?" Peking gasped. He began to struggle, but his arms were tied firmly behind him.

Hairnet eyed Peking's writing body and ran the tip of her scrawny tongue along the edge of her scrawny lips. "There are OTHER ways we could kill him, you know. Slower and more interesting ways."

"Nah," said Meno Dabo. "The timer's already set, and the bomb goes off in exactly 14 minutes. We need to call the Exhaulted Leader at Camp Trenchfoot now and get our new orders. And besides, your black rubber bustier is at the dry cleaners."

"Aw, shit," Hairnet muttered. She bent over and gave Peking a little pat on the butt. "You'll be the one that got away, sweetie," she whispered.

And with that, the two women stalked from the room and slammed the door behind them. As he continued to struggle against the ropes that bound his hands and feet, Peking looked desperately around the room. It was a kitchen. There was an old Magic Chef, in avocado, with an "Ask Me About My Grandkids" bumper sticker on the front. Grease-stained curtains, imprinted with a cheerful pattern of Eiffel Towers, French poodles, and the words "Oooo, la la!" An England Dan and John Ford Coley salt & pepper shaker set. And a combination kitchen clock / Last Supper lithograph, with the minute hand inching toward Judas' head.

For terrorists, they had pretty good taste.

"Where am I? What's going on?" said a groggy voice behind him.

Peking rolled over and found himself face-to-face with Wanda, whose legs and arms were also tightly bound. Gawd, she looked good in bondage. But there was no time for that now.

"There's no time for that now, Wanda! A bomb is set to go off in just a few minutes, and we've gotta get the hell out of here!! In my front pocket is a Swiss Army knife. I can't reach it with my hands tied behind me. But if you roll over so your hands are toward me......"

"Gotcha!" said Wanda, coolly springing into action. "What time does the bomb go off?"

"A quarter till Judas," Peking said. "So haul ass."



Meanwhile, in an abandoned factory across town, Caspar Mouse and Courtney Bombeck awoke to find themselves identically bound.

Except they were lying on a conveyor belt, which was moving steadily toward a spinning, six-foot buzz-saw blade.

"Where am I? What's going on?" Courtney gasped.

"There's no time for that now, Courtney!" Caspar yelled. "We've got about four minutes to get untied, or we're going to be split down the middle like firewood. There's a Swiss Army knife in my front pocket. I can't reach it with my hands tied behind me. But if you roll over, with your hands toward me...."

Courtney shot an amazed glance at Caspar. He was a man in a desperate situation, but a man who was coolly in control. Perhaps she'd misjudged him. And if she ever got out of this situation alive....

"Hurry up!" Caspar yelled.

Courtney rolled over and wriggled back against Caspar until she could feel his belt buckle behind her. She quickly located the pocket, and began clawing at it.

"Those are my keys!" Caspar shouted above the screech of the sawblade. "The knife's in the other pocket!!"

The hideous whine of the sawblade was growing louder. Courtney groped desperately for the knife. There it was! She grasped the familiar shape through the cloth of Caspar's cheap polyester pants, and began working it back and forth to slide it out the top of his pocket. Back and forth, back and forth.

"FASTER!" Caspar shouted.

Back and forth, back and forth.

"I'M WORKING AS FAST AS I CAN!!" Courtney screamed. "I CAN'T BUDGE THE DAMN THING! IT'S ALMOST LIKE IT'S..........hooked on."

Courtney's hands sprung open like she'd just grabbed a hot tailpipe. She spun around to face Caspar, her face a mask of disgust.

"Why'd you stop?" Caspar leered. "We almost had it."

"You don't even OWN a pocket knife, do you, you depraved little maggot?" Courtney spat.

"How do you know that wasn't a knife you had your hand on?" Caspar asked innocently, doing his best Puppy Dog Eyes.

"Because," Courtney snarled. "Nobody makes a knife that small."

And the sawblade, now only six inches from Courtney's back, screamed like a stray cat caught in the fanbelt of a '72 Valiant. Only Huge Tony or a miracle could save them now....



Meanwhile, back in the church basement, Huge Tony arose from the floor, dusting off his rumpled Cub Scout uniform. All around him, people lay sprawled on the indoor-outdoor carpeting, snoring and drooling.

Huge Tony knew something was terribly wrong. Everyone had been drugged! His friends were all missing!! Some horrible tragedy was about to befall the entire town of Trailer Town, if not the entire world!!! He had to do something, and do it NOW!!!!!

But, what the hell?

There were still plates of uneaten pancakes everywhere. And a man couldn't be expected to do his best thinking on an empty stomach.....



Meanwhile, at Camp Trenchfoot, Tom Brokenjaw stared at Cale, and said, "You yook awfuyyy famiyiar. Yike a famous singer or something."

"As a matter of fact, I'm RELATED to a famous singer," Cale sneered. "Let's make a little game of it, shall we? Guess which one, and I'll allow you to live."

Tom's brow furrowed in concentration as he analyzed the face before him. Then he snapped his fingers!

"Got it!" he yelled. "Trini Yopez!!!"



SUPER: "To Be Continued."


ANNOUNCER V/O: "Moms! Halloween is only a few shopping days away, so now's a great time to start thinking about those costumes for your little goblins. What's that you say? You can't think of a thing for them to wear this year? (insincere chuckle) Then why not stop at your friendly neighborhood Traiyer Town Tricks and Trash store? They're open 9 to 9 weekdays and 9 to 5 Saturday. And right now, the Mask of Disgust, as worn by Courtney in Chapter Eight, is on sale for only nan-natty-fav! BatteriessoldseparatelyvoidinIndianayouractualmileagemayvary."




EDITOR'S NOTE: Holy cliffhangers!! Who can possibly extricate our heroes and heroines from certain death? Every second is precious, so it will have to be someone who can write REALLY FAST!! (Insert your own EdKaz joke here.)

The author of CHAPTER NINE shall be.......










The Thrilling Conclusion!


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