From: blakes7-d-request@lysator.liu.se
Subject: blakes7-d Digest V99 #192
X-Loop: blakes7-d@lysator.liu.se
X-Mailing-List: <blakes7-d@lysator.liu.se> archive/volume99/192
Precedence: list
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: multipart/digest; boundary="----------------------------"
To: blakes7-d@lysator.liu.se
Reply-To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
------------------------------
Content-Type: text/plain
blakes7-d Digest Volume 99 : Issue 192
Today's Topics:
Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6
Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6
Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6
[B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 6 of 6
[B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 5 of 6
Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6
Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6
[B7L] Feisty women
RE: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6
Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6
Re: [B7L] Feisty women
Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6
Re: [B7L] Feisty women
Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 09:38:30 PDT
From: Rob Clother <whitehorse_dream@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6
Message-ID: <19990616163830.62181.qmail@hotmail.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed
>Potential weird crossovers? How about a Narnia one... Bleurgh. Can >you
>imagine..?
I'd rather not. <Pause> *Euurgh.* Too late. Quick, change the subject!
How about the memoirs of Vila Flashman? Somehow, I always think of B7
fitting best into an historical crossover anyway.
One day, I will get around to writing that 14th Century Blake's story. And,
assuming I ever do bother to get my backside in gear, I'll consider bids
from the Tarrant Nostra -- should they want Del to escape a swift bout of
Bubonic Plague.
-- Rob
______________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 09:38:21 PDT
From: Rob Clother <whitehorse_dream@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6
Message-ID: <19990616163822.7681.qmail@hotmail.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed
>Potential weird crossovers? How about a Narnia one... Bleurgh. Can >you
>imagine..?
I'd rather not. <Pause> *Euurgh.* Too late. Quick, change the subject!
How about the memoirs of Vila Flashman? Somehow, I always think of B7
fitting best into an historical crossover anyway.
One day, I will get around to writing that 14th Century Blake's story. And,
assuming I ever do bother to get my backside in gear, I'll consider bids
from the Tarrant Nostra -- should they want Del to escape a swift bout of
Bubonic Plague.
-- Rob
______________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 09:38:33 PDT
From: Rob Clother <whitehorse_dream@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6
Message-ID: <19990616163834.34049.qmail@hotmail.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed
>Potential weird crossovers? How about a Narnia one... Bleurgh. Can >you
>imagine..?
I'd rather not. <Pause> *Euurgh.* Too late. Quick, change the subject!
How about the memoirs of Vila Flashman? Somehow, I always think of B7
fitting best into an historical crossover anyway.
One day, I will get around to writing that 14th Century Blake's story. And,
assuming I ever do bother to get my backside in gear, I'll consider bids
from the Tarrant Nostra -- should they want Del to escape a swift bout of
Bubonic Plague.
-- Rob
______________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 11:11:34 -0600
From: Arkaroo <woollard@gpu.srv.ualberta.ca>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 6 of 6
Message-ID: <3767DAC6.3633@gpu.srv.ualberta.ca>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
***
"How do the bandages feel, boys?" Lord Radish-Culpepper asked as he
finished winding a roll of white linen around Henderson's head. "Not too
tight?" He tied a cheery bow atop Nigel's head and stood up. Across the
street, amidst the heaps of stunned wizards, a young man wearing a
'Theatre Employee' jacket was handing out free tickets to any people
groaning on the street.
"The management expresses great sympathy for your unfortunate crushing
injuries, physical damage by means of gravitational attraction, and/or
massive head trauma, while at the same time in no way taking any legal
responsibility for these aforementioned accidental unpleasantries,"
announced the sycophantic young man. "Please accept these tickets as our
way of saying, 'Sorry, hope you don't die'." He stepped across the
gutter and came towards Radish-Culpepper and his students.
"Here's a complimentary ticket to the show, for you and your students,"
said the sycophant. He handed Radish-Culpepper a stiff piece of
pasteboard with the word 'FUR!' written on it. A little demon ran out of
the young man's pocket and whispered something into his ear. The young
man nodded sharply.
"Sorry to run, but I've just gotten word that the Conductor's been
decapitated. Enjoy the show!" said the sycophant over his shoulder.
Radish-Culpepper looked down at the ticket with concern. He stood up and
walked towards the streetlight to think.
"Excuse me, sir," a voice said. Radish-Culpepper turned around. A man
wearing a monk's robe and carrying an astonishingly ugly one-eyed woman
under one arm and a pepper-mill under the other stood beneath the
streetlight. "Have you seen a large, unwieldy looking vehicle take off
nearby?"
Radish-Culpepper pointed up wordlessly at the silver disc slowly
rotating above the theatre.
"Thanks awfully," the man said before running past him into the Theatre.
"Help!" screamed a voice. Radish-Culpepper turned around. Down the
street a pig wearing a bowler hat was running towards the Theatre as
fast as verticality and hooves allowed. A large piece of Luggage mounted
on hundreds of tiny feet trundled after the pig, its lid open in a
slightly menacing way. Two terrified eyes peered out from beneath the
lid as the pig and luggage hurtled past him into the theatre's entrance.
Radish-Culpepper blinked.
"Excuse me, sir," another voice said. Radish-Culpepper turned around. A
man in leather trousers with a bowl haircut, a tall woman with limp
blond hair, and a frizzy-haired young woman also wearing leather
trousers stood beneath the streetlight. "Have you seen a man wearing a
monk's robe and carrying an astonishingly ugly one-eyed woman under one
arm and a pepper-mill under the other?"
Radish-Culpepper pointed towards the Theatre's entrance wordlessly.
"Very kind of you," said the man in the leather trousers before the trio
ran past him into the theatre.
"I say, old chap," said yet another voice. Radish-Culpepper turned
around. A man wearing a nun's vestments and carrying an unconscious man
under his arm stood under the streetlight. "Have you seen someone who
looks remarkably like me just come by here carrying a pepper-mill in one
hand and an astonishingly ugly one-eyed human female under the other
arm? Or, on the off chance, a pig being chased by some sort of
ambulatory chest of drawers?"
Radish-Culpepper pointed to the Theatre's entrance wordlessly.
"Dashed kind of you," said the nun, tipping an invisible bowler hat. He
ran past Radish-Culpepper and into the Theatre.
He felt something unyielding and no doubt deadly prod him in the small
of the back. "If you don't tell me where--" started a well-cultivated
female voice before Radish-Culpepper interrupted her with his wordless
gesture towards the Theatre.
"Thank you *very* much," said the woman. She walked towards the Theatre
slowly, her high-collared white dress restricting her to a dignified
stroll.
A tale, pale-haired man wearing flowing white robes, accompanied by a
diminutive fellow in an ill-fitting suit, stopped beneath the
streetlight.
"Have you seen two milk-bottles come by here recently?" asked Merisu
asked Radish-Culpepper.
"Shut up!" hissed Solipsos. He grinned at Radish-Culpepper lugubriously.
"What my dear compatriot meant to ask was, have you seen two identical
curly-haired men come by here?"
"Carrying milk-bottles?" added Merisu
"*Not* carrying milk-bottles, thankyouverymuch," said the tall god
through clenched teeth. Radish-Culpepper pointed to the Theatre's
entrance wordlessly.
"You have my most humble thanks," said the white-robed god. "Come along,
Merisu." The two beings ran past him and into the theatre.
From out of the darkness beyond the wizards burst a tall, lanky man
wearing an overcoat. He sprinted towards Radish-Culpepper and waved a
little black box in his face. "My unsupernaturalometer just went wild.
Have you seen any readily explained activity in the area?" He peered at
Radish-Culpepper suspiciously. "Or have they gotten to you too? Who are
you?"
"I'm an astrologer," croaked Radish-Culpepper. "Care for a cigarette?"
He held out a packet of ready-mades to the sweating investigator.
Fistulous shrieked like a castrato seagull at the proferred cigarette
and sprinted into the Theatre.
"Pardon me, " said a rather tentative voice. Radish-Culpepper turned
around. A mass of anorak-clad, sexually indeterminate creatures stood
beneath the streetlight, clutching pads of paper and badly battered
fruit of various sizes and odours. The former-Persnickitite who had
addressed him continued. "Have you seen a studly yet somewhat
potato-nosed ball-of-charisma wearing an overcoat in the vicinity?
Trailing an almost palpable vapour of s-s-sexiness?"
Radish-Culpepper hesitated briefly, then pointed to the Theatre's
entrance wordlessly.
"Gosh, thanks!" said the entourage in unison. In a stampede of dandruff
and excitement they thundered past him and into the theatre.
The street was now empty save for the mob of injured wizards and the two
watchmen taking notes. Radish-Culpepper looked at the ticket in his
hand, then up at the sky, then back at the ticket. Grabbing his students
by their belts, he walked towards the Theatre's entrance.
***
Inside the theatre, concealed behind the thick velvet folds of the stage
curtains, Cravat-Lodger chewed his fingertips nervously and watched the
audience through a gap in the fabric.
The audience were on their feet, which was a good thing, but they were
on their feet because they were too busy recreating 'Famous Acts of
Genocide' on a one-to-one scale to be bothered sitting down. They milled
around the now cleared area in front of the stage, drinking overpriced
ale by the gallon and eating over-salted peanuts by the shovelful. From
the expensive booths high above the groundling seats a constant barrage
of bagged, burning horse excrement and the occasional black-liveried
footman hurtled into the audience below, to little visible effect.
Impromptu wrestling matches were happening in the aisles, as audience
members vied to see who was the most adept at dislocating arms (their
competitors and their own).
All in all, Cravat-Lodger thought, the audience was unusually sedate.
But he knew, from his years of theatrical experience and the throbbing
scars that come with it, that all that sedate good-will would change to
apoplectic fury if the show didn't start before 'Last Call' at the bar.
And then, in an instant, this scene of mindless mayhem and wanton
destruction would turn against the Director. Which just happened to be
*him*. He shuddered in terror.
He tensed imperceptibly as quiet footsteps appeared behind him, then
relaxed as the familiarly nervous two-step shuffle of Ignatius
Peril-Rodent became obvious. His assistant walked up to Cravat-Lodger
and looked through the gap in the curtains with him, a blood-soaked
bandage across his forehead the remnant of a close encounter with the
audience.
"Ah, Peril-Rodent. Any news from the vendors? Isn't there any way we can
convince them to keep selling after the hour?" he asked his assistant,
his eyes not straying from the teeming destructiveness of the audience.
"They say that the sale of intoxicating beverages after nine o'clock is
dangerous to the public safety, sir," replied Peril-Rodent.
"And two thousand half-soused theatre-goers with playbills in one hand
and straight-razors in the other *don't* pose a threat?" Cravat-Lodger
ducked as an empty bottle zipped through the gap in the curtains and
thumped into the backdrop.
"We're running out of time. We can only claim that the empty stage is
the avant-garde [8] second act for so long," said Cravat-Lodger
desperately. "Don't we have *anybody* who understudied for Colonel
Persnickety?"
"Um. Having an understudy for the understudy of an understudy has never
been necessary before, sir, except in traditional Maulish
morris-dancing, but that was outlawed years ago. Cut down on the Maulish
population rather severely, you know, all those razor-wire hankies and
nail-studded sticks."
"We've no choice, then. Bring Stefan Sorrow in here," said
Cravat-Lodger.
"He's dead, sir," noted Peril-Rodent.
"Always on the ball, I'm glad to see. I'm well aware of Mister Sorrow's
current condition. However, death is merely the cessation of movement
and the resultant inability to project one's voice," replied
Cravat-Lodger. "In no way does it affect the acting ability of the
individual, merely the manner in which they should be blocked on stage.
Quick, fetch me a few lengths of broomstick, some twine, and a roll of
sticky-tape."
"I don't think we have time for *that*, Mister Cravat-Lodger,"
interjected Peril-Rodent. "Although I'm touched that you'd think of me."
"It's for Sorrow," said Cravat-Lodger. Peril-Rodent looked horrified.
"No, you gutter minded little twonk," Cravat-Lodger said venomously.
"I've got a plan to get this show going again. I used to be a bit of a
puppeteer in my youth, you know. Lots of 'ocking 'oo 'or 'eeth,
knock-knock jokes..."
"Sticking your hand up doll's bottoms, sir?"
"If you must put it like that, then yes, that as well." He looked out at
the audience and sucked his teeth nervously. "Gods, look at them. That
big one sitting in the front row just bit the top off an ale bottle,
neck and all. If that bugger finds out we've got no lead he'll bite *my*
top off, neck and all." He turned around and stared at Peril-Rodent, who
stepped back at sudden revelation of the playwright's sunken eyes and
fearful demeanour. "Go and fetch those items. Now. And fetch me a bottle
of Staff Sergeant Cruncher's pre-mixed martinis while you're at it."
"Um. He said never to touch his private stock, sir," said Peril-Rodent.
"He threatened me with the contents of his complimentary fruit basket.
Have you ever *seen* a spiny stenchfruit? Up close and personal, like?"
"He's dead, you know," said Cravat-Lodger. "Do you really think his
threats have any weight behind them?" Peril-Rodent stared at him
fearfully. "Very well. In the event that Mister Cruncher comes back from
the dead, you can tell him that I *ordered* you to fetch me some of that
cleaning-fluid that he calls, or rather, called, cocktails." He pushed
the nervous stage-hand towards the dressing-rooms, then turned back to
the curtains.
"Obviously, there are no gods looking over me," he sighed miserably. The
audience cheered as the orchestra stand caught on fire and fell over.
***
Eddwode stumbled down the aisle of the balcony, stepping over the
slumbering rum-pots, and looked down over the stage, wincing as his bare
foot came down on the splintered remnants of a watchman's fustigator. He
walked along the rail, staring at the chaotic swirls of humanity far,
far below.
"One side, sir," cried a voice from behind him. Eddwode stepped aside as
three exquisitely dressed fops bum-rushed a bus-boy to the edge of the
balcony and over. The bus-boy's arms pinwheeled madly as he tried to
fight gravity. Failing in that endeavour, he chose instead to fall
towards the melee downstairs. Eddwode rubbed his temples as the three
fops walked back to their seats and congratulated each other.
He had no idea how long he'd been laying on the floor of the god's
washroom, but it had been long enough for some misguided hooligans to
steal both his shoes *and* his wallet. He'd felt a strange pull in his
head from the flying saucer as he woke up, but it didn't beckon to him
anymore -- in fact, he couldn't seem to feel it at all anymore. He
slumped down against the railing, into a nest of chewed gum [9].
Penniless and without proper footwear, the great god Eddwode felt
wretched. He tried to remove the larger lumps of gum from his angora
bodice to no avail. He leaned over the railing and began to mope, then
snapped back like a flea on amphetamines as a familiar white-robed
figure walked underneath. He crept back towards the edge of the balcony
and looked down once more, with only his eyes peeping over the top of
the railing. Just as he'd thought, a smaller, greasy-haired figure
followed close behind the first. Eddwode snapped his fingers with
exasperation.
An empty ale bottle whistled past his head in a manner he'd grown to
recognize. Turning around, he gave a half-hearted wave towards Mulberry
Nipples, who sat six aisles back amidst broken timbers and shattered
plaster cherubim that had become dislodged when his saucer had landed
originally. She fluttered her hanky at him and belched concussively.
Eddwode sat down beside her heavily, his usually ebullient glow
noticeably dimmed. He gave her a sickly smile as he tried to comb his
damp and sticky hair back into order with his fingers. "Sorry about the
delay, my sweet. Some old colleagues of mine had some... concerns with
my plans for the show." He patted her arm affectionately, his boundless
optimism beginning to appear once more. "Have I missed any of the play?"
"Naught has been occurring since that pre-eminent mummer left yon
subordinate stage but the most illuminous and entertaining convergence
of bottles and thespians," She turned to him, her eyes brimming with
tears. "But, and this fills mine heart with a dolorous dread, I must
inform you that, prior to your welcome return, a fuliginous cloud did
billow forth from the arched dome of this most ventricose Theatre, which
did augur the decampment of thy celestial conveyance."
"Damn!" said Eddwode. "Who would want to pinch my ride?"
"But! Fortuity didst strike, as the most benefactionary distributor of
peanuts didst give me a scintilla of his exceedingly brine-steeped
wares, for but the merest osculation and promises of future venery." She
thrust a greasy sack of what he could only conclude were either
deep-fried elk feces or, indeed, peanuts, towards him. "It would fill me
with the most trascendent delectation if you wouldst consume my
gustationary offering."
"Ah, sure," Eddwode said. He took a peanut and examined it. "You *are*
sure this is a peanut?"
"By mine eternal covenant, it is!"
"I'll hold you to that," he said. Leaning back in his seat he threw the
peanut into the air and opened his mouth to catch it. Instead, it
bounced off his nose and over onto Mulberry's seat. He turned towards
her and looked despondently at the numerous folds and tucks in her
garments and person that the peanut could have disappeared into.
Mulberry turned to him, her eyes meeting his in a harmonious emotional
fender-bender. "O, most opalescent gem of the heavenly entourage,
whitherfore art thou looking at?"
"I seemed to have dropped my peanut into your... um, into your..."
"Into the softly folds of my voluminating womanliness?"
"Erm. No, into your ale mug."
"Be that but not just your couched vocable for your seeeeething
innermost impassionment towards mine corporealness?"
"Possibly, possibly. But I really *did* lose my peanut in your tankard,
pardon my Maulish. If I could just reach into your cup and grab my
goodies I'd be --
Out of the darkness behind him rose a muscle-bound silhouette. Eddwode
stopped, his fingers mere inches away from the pewter tankard that held
Mulberry's beverage. "Be not reaching into those areas that have been
given to another, you sissified masher," growled the voice.
"Huh?" said Eddwode, calling on thirty-three centuries worth of wit and
repartee. The figure moved forwards into the light, a light which seemed
to shine only for him, showcasing his rippling muscles and
improbably-sized package. Eddwode stared up at this ghastly vision with
dimly-concealed horror. "Who the hell are you?"
"I am Bastard 'The Bastard' Fitzrogers!" howled the figure. "And that is
*my* woman you are sullying." He stalked towards Eddwode, his fists
clenched like scarred grapefruit.
"Hold on, my good sir, I was hardly sullying her. Not that *that* would
be an easy task, methinks, " Eddwode sputtered. "And, while I don't like
to bring this up, I *am* a god. You know? Friends in high places?"
"And I've got eels in my knickers," bellowed Fitzrogers. "That won't
stop me from crushing your head like unto a Klatchian Cherry." He
grabbed ripped one of the velvet-upholstered seats from its moorings and
swung it experimentally at the sweating god's head.
"Crash down upon yonder ruffian with thine bolts of smiting, O mighty
Eddwode!" cried Mulberry, spilling her ale with excitement. With a howl
of rage borne of unreturned obsessiveness Fitzrogers threw the chair
over the railing.
"I don't do that smiting scene very well, I'm afraid," said Eddwode,
ducking Fitzroger's ham-sized fist. Stepping backwards from a
horrifyingly powerful right-hook, Eddwode stepped back into the pool of
ale that Mulberry had spilled, put his full weight on the rock-hard
peanut that bobbed in the middle of the pool, and toppled backwards onto
the floor. The air was driven from his lungs with the force of the blow,
leaving him dazed and defenseless. As he lay on his back, gasping for
air, he looked up and saw Fitzrogers standing above him, the splintered
end of the watchman's baton clutched in his fingers.
Below, a voice boomed from the stage. "Ladies and gentleman, the third
and final act is about to commence. Please take your seats."
OH BOY, said Death. SOMETHIN'S GONNA... DIE TONIGHT!
---
[8] "a-vant-garde" (a'vant-gard') n. 1. Requiring someone to get naked,
make animal noises, or both. 2. An opaque or semitranslucent brown
glass flecked with small metallic particles, often of copper or chromic
oxide. 3. Broad term interchangeable with "incomprehensible".
[Quirmish *arvangarte*, 'to bilk the rubes']
[9] There is only one producer of chewing gum in the entirety of
Ankh-Morpork, the Disc-renowned 'Toothsome Goodies Unlimited'.
Prospective investigative journalists are routinely given the task of
researching 'Toothsome Goodies' and determining the details behind their
monopoly. A cursory inquiry often reveals the long string of deceased
investigative reporters assigned to research the company. Further
inquiry invariably reveals the fact that the company is owned by the
'Ankh-Morpork Guild of Morticians and Grave-Diggers', at which point
forward impetus is inevitably stalled while the investigator finds a
quiet place to lie down with a damp cloth on their foreheads.
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 11:11:39 -0600
From: Arkaroo <woollard@gpu.srv.ualberta.ca>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 5 of 6
Message-ID: <3767DACB.2BC6@gpu.srv.ualberta.ca>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
[Note : after Una's inspiration I realized that the closet scene in this
segment (and parts of the previous) would lead to her suggested Narnia
crossover quite handily. So, I'll be adding an addendum to this section
once I write it. Now, the story continues...]
***
"... aaaaand three one-thousand. Three seconds. That means we're about
fifty feet above the street," said Radish-Culpepper.
"But sir," said Henderson pedantically. "Fendleton's Third law of
Fallingness would indicate that we're--"
"How's your GPA, Henderson?"
"Fifty feet is correct, sir. Boy, is my face red. By the way, sir, do
you think I'll be able to get my astrolabe back intact? My mother gave
it to me the day I left home, is the thing, and its all I have to
remember her by."
"I'm sure its fine," assured Radish-Culpepper. "All those crystals and
gold leaf shouldn't be harmed by a harmless fifty foot fall onto cobbled
streets."
"I just miss her so much," blubbered Nigel. Radish-Culpepper looked over
at his other student with surprise, having almost forgotten that the boy
was up there. Tears rolled down Nigel's cheeks and plummeted into the
ebon unknown below his feet. His fingers were curled around a stout
length of steel pipe that jutted from the eaves. A thin trickle of
brackish liquid dribbled out from the opening of the pipe, into his
shirt-cuffs, and out through his trouser legs. At least Radish-Culpepper
*hoped* it was rainwater dribbling from Nigel's trousers. He looked over
at his student with pity.
"Listen, lad, you knew her for all of half-an-hour, most of which was
spent listening to her statement of sadism and watching her down more
pints than I've had ignorant students. You only had about fifty words
with her--
"--And one glorious encounter in the Lavatory, don't forget," whimpered
Nigel.
"Mmm, I was trying to block that out of my mind. The point being, lad,
that you hardly even knew her. Judging from her past history, you
probably wouldn't have gotten to know her much better before you lost
your life, or at the very least several valuable organs."
"She was so sweet and innocent," Nigel said. He sniffed. "The world will
just swallow her up and spit her out."
Without warning, just as Radish-Culpepper was about to deliver a
fiendishly insulting reply, the silvery disc that had settled onto the
roof of the Pilkington theater so many hours ago came to life with a
thunderous bang. From its darkened aperture a solid wave of heated gases
emerged, brightly coloured and oddly scented. Glaring lights attached to
the edges of the saucer blinked hypnotically. The noise from the engines
began to increase, along with the heat.
"Looks like we can't stay here, boys," RC said, angling his face away
from the increasingly hot air. He looked at Nigel and Henderson, who
seemed equally willing to be cooked rather than let go. "Come on, lads
-- here, whoever jumps first gets passing marks."
"It's a long way down," whimpered Henderson.
"We'll surely perish," whimpered Nigel.
"Don't worry, boys, the longer you fall the closer to the ground you
are, and the less time there is to spend falling. Come on, Nigel, you go
first. Mulberry would want you to."
Nigel shook his head stubbornly.
"No choice, then. Well, if you're going to stay here you've got to learn
how to defend against the hot exhaust, Nigel-me-lad," said
Radish-Culpepper deviously.
"How?" asked Nigel.
"There are three steps. First, pinch the bridge of your nose with one
hand," Radish-Culpepper said.
"Right," said Nigel, dangling by one arm as he pinched his nose. "What
now?"
"Now cover your eyes with the other hand."
"Right. Now whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiieeee!" screamed Nigel as he
plunged downwards.
"That was a bloody mean trick, Mister Radish-Culpepper!" said Henderson
in horror. Glaring at his instructor angrily, he edged along the
eaves-troughing away from Radish-Culpepper. "You're not going to trick
*me*."
"Wouldn't dream of it, lad, you've always had brains. That's what I
always tell folks who inquire. I say, 'grades aren't an accurate
reflection of an individual's intelligence, just look at Henderson'."
"Grades?" asked Henderson. "What about my grades?"
"Well, you know -- they're a little bit... low."
Henderson blanched. "Gods, I didn't know that! If... if I don't get a
3.0 or higher I'll have to go back... I'll have to go back to gutting
Poisonous Pricklefish on my parent's farm!" howled Henderson. "I can't
handle that again. My fingernails have only just now finished growing
back!"
"Gosh, boy, I wasn't aware of that," Radish-Culpepper said in a deeply
concerned voice. "I can't let that happen to my most... *promising*
student. Here's a ten point bonus question for you, enough to get your
grades above 3.0. Quickly, Henderson: what's eight plus three?"
"One two three six damn," Henderson muttered under his breath. "One two
nine damn." Detaching one hand from the eaves-troughing he began
counting off on his fingers. "One two three four five... nnngh." He
looked at his other hand, his hardwired need for validation by
post-secondary educational institutions dislodging his much weaker sense
of self-preservation. "Six seven eight nine ten you
bastaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrgggh--" he said, plummeting downwards.
The roar of the vehicle's engines increased, making the heat
increasingly unbearable. Just as he felt his remaining strands of bodily
hair were about to be melted, Radish-Culpepper managed let go of the
eaves-troughing and began falling. He curled his hands around the back
of his neck and watched the stars above him with the calm assurance of
the individual who knows that the universe hasn't quite finished its
game of 'Don't Drop The Soap' with him.
***
"Get your hand out of there," Servalan said icily.
"Sorry," said Arthur Carew.
"What can you see through there?" asked Avon, from his painful position
on the floor. Cally stood on his back and peered through the
blaster-hole in the top of the closet door.
"Blake's back again -- only now he's got Vila with him."
"Vila? Hm. Anything else unusual?"
"He's wearing a nun's habit and a monocle."
"Nothing new there. We've all had a gander in the back of his closet at
one time or another, I'm sure."
"No, *Blake* is the one wearing the habit."
"That is strange. Two on one ship, eh?"
"Get your hand out of there," Servalan said icily.
"Sorry," said Petty Hatfull.
"There's a pig wearing a hat, as well," Cally whispered.
"I thought you said he was wearing a nun's habit?"
"Very funny, Avon. They're coming towards the closet door. And that
pig's carrying a crossbow."
"Servalan! Still have your 'Icicle of Death' on you?" Avon asked.
"Why on *Earth* should I tell you that, Avon?" she replied from her
vantage point atop Jenna's shoulders.
"You're a pragmatic sort, Servalan. You know I'm a man of my word,
correct?"
"Mmm," she replied.
"I give you my word not to kill you 'til we're off this miserable
planet," he said. Cally gasped.
"Very well," sighed Servalan. "Catch," she said, dropping the weapon
point first.
"Argh!" cried Arthur Carew.
"Argh!" cried Petty Hatfull.
"Whoo-hoo!" cried Solipsos as he ran down the sloping hills of Cori
Celesti towards the Disc.
"You've killed those two writers!" Cally said. "I'd like to say that I
didn't approve, but on some level, I think we're all better off."
"Pass me the weapon, Cally," Avon hissed. "It's time to puree some
pork."
***
Vila stared around the uninhabited room in confusion. "I swear they were
here, not fifteen minutes ago," he said. "They were! Dressed in leather
and holding pepper mills, the whole deal!"
"Incompetent lactating organ!" snarled the pig. Muttering angrily, it
began kicking aside the layers of yellowed newspapers and empty Quirmish
take-out containers that littered the floor. It kicked the bed, then
peered at the unusual arrangement of furniture.
"Why is all this rubbish piled against the closet door?" the pig asked
Vila. It tapped on the tilted lid of the Luggage suspiciously.
"Vila!" whispered a voice through the closet door's doorknob. He looked
down at it with astonishment, then looked away quickly.
"Dum-de-dum, talking doorknobs, haha," he whispered frantically. "All
right, Mum, do your worst. Those zucchinis don't hurt in the slightest."
The false Blake leaned over conspiratorially. "Don't let his gruff
exterior fool you. The Bo'sun really is a nice chap when he isn't on
duty. This pig business has left him on edge."
"Right, Bo'sun, pig, edge," hyperventilated Vila. "I really wish I had
something to drink." He tried to ignore the furious whispers emanating
from the closet door's keyhole.
"Oh, you poor fellow," said the false Blake kindly. "Here, I have this
oddly corroded metal flask in my--"
The door burst open with a tremendous bang as Solipsos kicked it in.
Startled by the sudden racket, the Bo'sun's finger twitched, and the
crossbow bolt twanged deep into the lid of the Luggage. Slowly and
inexorably, the Luggage righted itself.
"Uh oh," said Solipsos.
"Uh oh," said the Bo'sun.
"My hat!" screamed Rincewind. "You've killed it!"
***
Consciousness returned to Radish-Culpepper in a slow and languid wave of
warmth, like a nice long relaxing bath in a tub filled with honey. He
smiled happily, opened his eyes, and took stock of his surroundings. He
was laying on his back upon a comfortable and pliable surface --
possibly one of those 'aqua-beds' he'd heard about, as it seemed to roll
and quake with internal motion with every movement. A sheet was draped
over him from head to toe.
"Oh, thank goodness, I'm still in bed," he whispered to himself. "It was
all a dream." He closed his eyes and rolled over into a more comfortable
position. The mattress squeaked oddly, making a soft sound rather
reminiscent of pain. His brows furrowed. He turned over completely and
looked down at his mattress. The crumpled visage of a large, concussed
wizard, complete with large beard and crushed hat, looked back.
"Yark!" barked Radish-Culpepper in terror. The mattress opened its eyes
at the sudden noise and stared at Radish-Culpepper with horror. "Ack!"
yelped the mattress, flailing its arms wildly. With a flurry of weak
punches and hapless howls the two parties attacked each other, both
trying to escape from under the sheet's deadly grip. Just as
Radish-Culpepper was preparing to bite the wizard's shoulder the sheet
covering them was whipped away. Radish-Culpepper and the stunned wizard
stopped fighting and looked up to see a pair of Watch officers standing
over them. The wizard fainted.
"Well well well," said the first policeman, a short, stocky little man
clad in a badly rusted mail tunic. He bent down and prodded
Radish-Culpepper with his baton. "'Feigning Death in Public', were we?
Another charge added to your sizeable list of crimes, Mister
'Radish-Culpepper', if that's your real name. Come on, get up."
Radish-Culpepper stood up slowly. He looked around in amazement at the
tableaux before him: the street was covered with a dazed and groaning
display of stunned wizards peppered here and there with a fine layer of
concussed astronomers. A tall man with long hair and no chest-hair stood
back from the groaning wizards and stared off into nothingness with an
expression of distaste on his face. He stood beside the short,
notebook-wielding policeman, while the other policeman, a tall and
gangly fellow, was down on his knees laboriously outlining all the other
wizards in chalk, oblivious to their complaints and instances of
vitality.
"'Plummeting Without a Plummeters License or Permission of the Owners of
the Plummeting Structure'", said the first policeman, checking off the
charges on a pad of vellum slowly and laboriously. "Three shillings for
the first offense. Three copper pieces for the second. One pound for the
third. I'll have to run you in for these."
"Erm. You wouldn't happen to have change for a tenner?" asked
Radish-Culpepper hopefully. He pulled a crumpled blue bill out of his
pocket and held it up towards the ticketing officer imploringly.
"Fourth offense -- 'Attempting to Bribe a Public Servant with an
Insultingly Low Amount'," noted the officer. "Which brings the fine up
to three bob. I'll take the tenner and we'll call it even." He snatched
the bill from Radish-Culpepper's's hand and tucked in into his pockets.
"Urrgh, me head feels all broke," groaned a nearby voice.
Radish-Culpepper rolled over a heavily stunned wizard and pulled Nigel
to his feet.
"Eleven," whispered another nearby voice. Radish-Culpepper looked up to
find Henderson spread-eagled across the main-brace of the streetlight.
"I say, officer," croaked Radish-Culpepper. "Can you fetch a ladder to
get him down from there?" He pointed at Henderson.
"Mm, requisitioning a ladder is a lot of paperwork, sir," said the
officer sympathetically. "But I've had a lot of experience getting cats
down from these things." Placing his notebook on a nearby wizard, he
prised a cobblestone out of the street. "The secret is in the leverage,"
he said, and hurled the cobble at Henderson. It hit the young student's
head with a resounding clunk and fell to the street. Henderson hit the
street soon afterwards with a limp thump. Radish-Culpepper and Nigel ran
towards him.
"Um," said the officer, thoughtfully scratching his head. "I meant that
I've had a lot of experience getting *rats* down from these things. Not
cats. Funny I'd forget that."
"Henderson, are you alive?" asked Radish-Culpepper. He prised
Henderson's eyelids open and peered at the young man's spastically
twitching pupils.
"Did... did I get the question right?" whispered Henderson.
"Yes, lad, you got the question right. And after only four tries. Good
show."
"Is... is my GPA 3.0 now?"
"Mmm, there's a spot of difficulty there. The thing is, we're not
actually supposed to change our grades after ten-thirty P.M. on the
seventeenth of March, and it's just past eleven, so..." Henderson
snapped into a sitting position, his face red with fury. "Just kidding,
Henderson," said Radish-Culpepper, patting the apoplectic student on his
back. "Just making sure you were intact. I'll make the change to your
marks first thing tomorrow."
A sudden commotion erupted from the wizards as the second policeman
began outlining the Bursar. "Oh, this too too solid flesh, falling on
mine head from the heavens, hurts like a son-of-a-bitch, by gum," he
soliloquized as the policeman pinned him down and traced his head.
"Whether 'tis better to have loved and lost or to take arms and go amok!
That's a real pickle." With a burst of strength, he threw the second
policeman aside, leaped to his feet, and thrust his chin out.
"O! To creep the boards once more!" howled the Bursar/Purser before he
sprinted towards the red velvet ropes around the Theatre's entrance.
"Stop him! He's an actor!" yelled the Dean, limping after the Bursar.
The watchman stared at the fleeing wizards with curiousity.
"We can't stop him for *that*, citizen," said the first watchman.
"Acting isn't a crime, after all."
"Unless, of course, Lord Vetinari passes Bill 639," reminded the second
watchman.
"And I think we're all hoping he does," replied the first watchman. He
ripped the list of charges from his notebook and threw it in the gutter.
"Let's go to the 'Lucky Leper' and get sauced," he said, holding up a
crumpled bill. "I'm buying."
***
Vila looked at the open door, his jaw hanging open. "Its... they've...
who'll... gnnng," he said, interrupted from his chain of ellipses by the
solid impact of a cosh on his head.
"Sorry, old bean," said the false Blake regretfully. "But I'll need an
assistant now that the Bo'sun's been run off." He hoisted Vila up under
his arm and walked out the door, whistling merrily.
With a thunderous crash the closet door burst open, spilling
sweat-soaked revolutionaries, a cool and dignified Federation
politician, and two dead writers out onto the floor in a jumbled heap.
Servalan stepped daintily but quickly over the others, pausing only to
give Avon a sharp kick in the head while she recovered her icicle. She
looked down at him and rubbed her icicle thoughtfully. Smiling slightly,
she went to the door and disappeared into the hallway in a swirl of
white fabric.
Jenna stood up and began to rub her shoulders. "Get up, Avon, Cally.
We've got to go after them."
Avon groaned and clutched the growing bruise on the side of his face. "I
can't believe I promised not to kill Servalan," he said. He got to his
feet with the aid of Cally. "Somebody make a mental note for me to slap
myself for that one."
"We'd better hurry," said Jenna nervously. "Blake *must* be stopped."
The three limped from the room, leaving only the gently stiffening
corpses of Arthur Carew and Petty Hatfull behind.
SO, said Death. YOU TWO ARE WRITERS, I HEAR. The room around the three
remaining individuals began fading away like melted-sugar window-panes
in a rainstorm.
"That's correct," chirped Arthur. Petty nodded in agreement. "Just point
us at paper," she said. "And watch the words flow--"
"Ooze," said Arthur.
"*Flow* onto the page," she continued. "Why do you ask?"
Death shrugged, and pointed to the wide expanse of smooth, unblemished
white sand that now surrounded them. THIS OUGHT TO LAST YOU FOR A WHILE.
"Do you have any wrist-braces, by any chance?" asked Arthur hopefully.
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 17:37:16 +0100
From: "Alison Page" <alison@alisonpage.demon.co.uk>
To: <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6
Message-ID: <020701beb81a$76a15e60$ca8edec2@pre-installedco>
Content-Type: text/plain;
charset="iso-8859-1"
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Arkaroo said -
>How about a Red Dwarf/B7 crossover?
Oh, you know you want to.
Alison
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 11:38:15 -0600
From: Arkaroo <woollard@gpu.srv.ualberta.ca>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6
Message-ID: <3767E107.135B@gpu.srv.ualberta.ca>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Alison Page wrote:
>
> Arkaroo said -
>
> >How about a Red Dwarf/B7 crossover?
>
> Oh, you know you want to.
>
Me and Penny have the beginning mapped out already -- once the
Discoworld (a typo, but I like the concept!), that is, *Discworld* Flat
Robin finishes (and we're approaching the end rapidly), the Red Dwarf
crossover shall appear.
So, everybody...
"If you're in trouble he won't save the day,
He's smart and reliable or so he'll say,
Without him our Vila would go astray,
He's Kerr, Kerr, Kerr Avon,
More reliable than a Feddy tax haven..."
Aaaaand so on.
Arkaroo (I'd like to see a 'Starstruck'\B7 crossover. Anybody remember
'Starstruck'? C'mon, 'fess up -- Erotica Ann?)
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 20:11:26 +0100
From: Steve Rogerson <steve.rogerson@mcr1.poptel.org.uk>
To: Lysator <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: [B7L] Feisty women
Message-ID: <3767F6DA.3DDC478D@mcr1.poptel.org.uk>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii; x-mac-type="54455854"; x-mac-creator="4D4F5353"
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Cult Times in the UK has put out a special edition listing its Top 50
Feisty Fantasy TV Females and Servalan comes in at number 16. No place
for the rest of the crew, I'm afraid, despite Jenna, Cally, Dayna and
Soolin getting a passing mention in the intro article.
Following a recent threme, Buffy came in at number two and Xena three.
Una will probably be glad to see Miss Parker at number 38, but you'll
never, ever guess who came in at 27.
Seven of Nine won btw.
--
cheers
Steve Rogerson
http://homepages.poptel.org.uk/steve.rogerson
"What is it with you and holes?"
Xena to Gabrielle, Paradise Found
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 21:41:07 +0200
From: Jacqueline Thijsen <jacqueline.thijsen@cmg.nl>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: RE: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6
Message-ID: <39DCDDFD014ED21185C300104BB3F99F10FBF4@NL-ARN-MAIL01>
Content-Type: text/plain
Una wrote:
> Arkaroo wrote:
>
> > My techniques for writing a chapter: 1) no life 2) lots of coffee 3)
> > lack of of sleep. The time to write the story comes from the first, the
> > energy comes from the second, and the humour (whatever exists) comes
> > from the third. Works like a charm!
>
> Hmm. All that mixture gives me is hallucinations.
>
Exactly. And when you write those down, you've got yourself a story.
Jacqueline
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 20:21:30 +0100
From: "Una McCormack" <una@q-research.connectfree.co.uk>
To: <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6
Message-ID: <011f01beb832$89a80c80$0c01a8c0@hedge>
Content-Type: text/plain;
charset="iso-8859-1"
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Rob said:
> How about the memoirs of Vila Flashman? Somehow, I always think of B7
> fitting best into an historical crossover anyway.
Vila's too nice! And he doesn't get to have his way with the ladies as
often...
Una
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 21:00:15 +0100
From: "Una McCormack" <una@q-research.connectfree.co.uk>
To: "Lysator" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Feisty women
Message-ID: <013201beb832$f10a6b20$0c01a8c0@hedge>
Content-Type: text/plain;
charset="iso-8859-1"
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Steve wrote:
> Following a recent threme, Buffy came in at number two and Xena three.
> Una will probably be glad to see Miss Parker at number 38, but you'll
> never, ever guess who came in at 27.
Well, not me at any rate. Lara Croft?
Or the MC from 'Gambit'?
Una
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 21:46:54 +0100
From: Julia Jones <julia.lysator@jajones.demon.co.uk>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Cc: lysator <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6
Message-ID: <$x5$4mA+0Aa3Ewxs@jajones.demon.co.uk>
In message <002701beb7ec$513bf000$ca8edec2@pre-installedco>, Alison Page
<alison@alisonpage.demon.co.uk> writes
>I have only read one book ever by Pratchett, and that was the one he wrote
>when he was 17, about a carpet. But I think I get the hang of what's going
>on. However for the same reason I simply don't know how derivative or
>original the style or content is. But I'm enjoying it. I might even read
>some of the original books.
It is, by and large, an extremely good pastiche of Pterry's style -
authentic flavour, with original material. I haven't commented in
detail, since an awful lot of it was posted while my brain was otherwise
engaged (jetlag does this), but I've enjoyed most of it.
--
Julia Jones
"Don't philosophise with me, you electronic moron!"
The Turing test - as interpreted by Kerr Avon.
------------------------------
Date: Thu, 17 Jun 1999 08:37:22 +1000
From: "David Henderson" <David.Henderson@jcu.edu.au>
To: "Lysator" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Feisty women
Message-ID: <004401beb848$cdc13520$653bdb89@lemon.jcu.edu.au>
Content-Type: text/plain;
charset="iso-8859-1"
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
From: Una
>Steve wrote:
>
>> Following a recent threme, Buffy came in at number two and Xena three.
>> Una will probably be glad to see Miss Parker at number 38, but you'll
>> never, ever guess who came in at 27.
>
>Well, not me at any rate. Lara Croft?
>
>Or the MC from 'Gambit'?
Emma Peel, no wait I know, Sleer! Thought you would pull a fast one eh
Steve?
>>Seven of Nine won btw.
Wot didn't the people responding realise the criteria was 'feisty'?
DaveH
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 16:02:13 -0700 (PDT)
From: J MacQueen <jomacqueen@yahoo.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6
Message-ID: <19990616230213.20520.rocketmail@web905.mail.yahoo.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=iso-8859-1
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit
--- Una McCormack <una@q-research.connectfree.co.uk>
wrote:
> Potential weird crossovers? How about a Narnia
> one... Bleurgh. Can you imagine..?
I have this sudden vision of Avon, Tarrant and Tom
Baker's Puddleglum the Marshwiggle. Oh, grandma, the
teeth!
Regards
Joanne
_________________________________________________________
Do You Yahoo!?
Get your free @yahoo.com address at http://mail.yahoo.com
--------------------------------
End of blakes7-d Digest V99 Issue #192
**************************************