Outlaw Sausage

The ULTIMATE C.H.A.O.S. agent! Alas, they slipped out before I could catch them. 

Can't
Hardly
Apprehend
Outlaw
Sausage


 

Two Toilets and a Little Lady

Some months back, I ordered two 3D-printed shapeshifters disguised as toilets and a 28mm nurse miniature. I modified one shapeshiting (typo, but I'm not fixing it!) toilet, carving off its teeth and tongue to create a normal (if plugged) commode. I painted the other toilet with grotesque poo-boscis extended and diarrhea stains overflowing the bowl. In between this noxious duo stands Nurse Cherry Bubbles, Paladin of O.R.D.E.R., a character based on Susan Shyluk.

One might ask why I went to such lengths. It's because Jeff Shyluk has been working on a Toilet Chase board game for a while, so I thought these trinkets could serve as rough prototypes for game pieces. I mailed him the pieces a few weeks ago, and he sent me this photo at my request, since I forgot to capture them myself. 

New Minions, New Paladins

Or maybe this is just a string of words that sound interesting together...

Cantankerous Melancholy
Jupiter Speedbump
Castaway Bypass
Handlebar Eggplant
Gruesome Satisfaction
Perturbed Palindrome
Halfway Meandering
Naughty Juicer
Vicious Poltroon
Habitat Frequency
Champion Underbite
Adidas Furthermore
Precious Soundbite
Addled Greenery
Forthright Menace
Pancake Betrayal
Wholesome Intruder
Profound Cement
Ruckus Catastrophe
Hooligan Nightmare
Parsimonious Adder
Bubble Knife
Radar Path
Stuttering Cavern
Jalapeno Surprise
Startled Ultimatum
Contraption Bingo

Dolt Man Soars

Today Sean asked me to use Microsoft Paint to draw Dolt Man (Paladin of O.R.D.E.R.) flying over some transmission lines. Here is my attempt do obey Sean's wishes. 

Sean's Cheek Forking

From the late 80s onward, though with diminishing frequency in the 21st century, I've whiled away idle moments conjuring up Minions of C.H.A.O.S. and Paladins of O.R.D.E.R., some of which have made appearances on this blog. One such miscreant is the evil Cheek Forker, a minion whose only super-power (such as it is) is to painfully jab the fork he carries into the hapless cheeks of Paladins of O.R.D.E.R., or, failing that, innocent bystanders. As threats go, Cheek Forker falls into the z-list "troublesome annoyances" category - at least in the world of metahuman fiction. In real life, getting forked in the cheek can be quite painful, as my brother discovered last month when he absent-mindedly forgot about a fork he'd put prongs-up in his shirt pocket; when he looked down, he impaled his cheek on the fork.

When Sean told me about this, I asked him to re-enact the event, and he complied, though by this point you think he'd know better. Sylvia, as usual, wondered what in the world I was on about when I gleefully related the tale.

The Hamster Who Saved Christmas, Part 2

Continued from this post. 

In a world that featured an eight-foot-tall sentient milkshake, talking vegetables, a murderous toilet and men and women with a bewildering assortment of so-called super-powers, a hamster with the ability to drive was really not such a miraculous thing. Little Wolfgang had no other special abilities. He couldn't talk, like Can 'o Beans or Putrid Soup; nor did he possess the power of super-farting like Flatulent Cow. He wielded no special weapons, as did The Screwdriver, The Shank or Cheek Forker; he wasn't wise like Buddha in a Bucket or Causeless Philosopher.

But Wolfgang the hamster had certain special qualities that other hamsters lacked. Yes, he could drive a car, a singular achievement among rodents (well, aside from certain trademarked cartoon mice), but Wolfgang's greatest power was the power of love in his tiny fluttering heart. And as Wolfgang pushed his sleek, miniature Lotus 7 to its limits, he felt a wordless surge of gratitude to the bald man for building his car, and to the tall man for giving him the big purple ball that would somehow save Christmas. (Wolfgang was a little foggy on the details.)

Wolfgang drove one-pawed, the right on the wheel, the left holding the ersatz Christmas tree ornament aloft. The air rushing past the speedy miniature roadster threatened to blow Wolfgang's jaunty stocking cap off his head, but Wolfgang paid no heed; it was a long way to Toronto, and the gently falling snow would soon make the roads impassable. Speed was all, and the city lights blurred as Wolfgang whizzed southwest down the centrelines of the city streets.

*     *     *

Meanwhile, Government Vito bade farewell to the innocuous balding scientist who'd designed Wolfgang's roadster. His mission accomplished, Vito made haste to his grandmother's house, his part in this Christmas story over. Ah, but what of that innocuous scientist? As soon as Vito left him alone, the bland man's features twisted and blurred into those of the malevolent shapeshifter Hoodwink! Casting his dark eyes about the Rideau safehouse to ensure no one was listening, he pulled his yPhone out of his jacket pocket and scrolled through innumerable menus until he located his Contact List at last. More scrolling revealed the number of Dr. Burnshock Brand himself, and Hoodwink initiated a call.

"This is Dr. Burnshock Brand speaking on a secure Minions of C.H.A.O.S. channel," said Dr. Burnshock Brand. "Congratulate Hoodwink And Offer Salutations."

"Yeah, yeah," muttered Hoodwink. "Look, the Paladins came up with a countermeasure - a jamming device that'll block you from triggering the Christmas present sealant. But I know where they're going to plant the device. If you move fast, you can set up an ambush..."

*    *    *

Three hours later a toy Lotus 7 raced down the Gardiner Expressway, dodging the thankfully light traffic. The Lotus' tires kicked up snow as Wolfgang executed a perfect pinwheeling spin up the sidewalk and onto the grounds of the CN Tower. This daring maneuver was at last too much for the little stocking cap, which flew off into the cool winter night, never to be seen again.

Wolfgang glanced at the Lotus' built-in clock and noted with primitive satisfaction that it was still fifteen minutes to midnight - plenty of time to drive up the side of the tower and then plant the jamming device atop the Christmas tree at the tower's apex. Wolfgang shifted into high gear, accelerating toward the tower's base, gritting his sharp buck teeth and bracing for the wrenching impact of the 90 degree turn that would mark the final lap of this most unusual race.

But suddenly something huge and heavy slammed into the side of Wolfgang's roadster, sending hamster, car and jammer flying in opposite directions! Each landed with a soft thump in the heavy blanket of snow covering the tower's grounds, and when Wolfgang came to his senses he saw, to his horror, the terrifying evil of the fiendish Rabid Shopping Cart, now foaming at the grill with hydrophobic mania. Even now the cart was rolling into position to squash Wolfgang flat.

Wolfgang had only seconds to choose a course of action. Should he make a run for the car or the jammer? Or should he focus on preparing his fragile form to dodge Rabid Shopping Cart's charge? Wolfgang had no way of knowing if the sapient grocery cart would try to smash the jamming device, crush his car, or squash him. Each outcome would be equally disastrous!

There was not an instant to waste. Wolfgang's beady eyes flicked left to the idling Lotus, then right to the purple orb resting in the snow. He could not possibly reach one, then the other before his cagey foe crushed either the jammer or the car, and he needed both. Just before Rabid Shopping Cart's wheels started to spin, Wolfgang made the only choice he could: he charged straight ahead, right at the slobbering maw of the demonic cart.

Startled, Rabid Shopping Cart was thrown mentally off-balance for a crucial moment. His forward wheels turned right, then left, slowing his momentum and nearly tipping himself over. Wolfgang leaped bravely into the valley of death itself - in this case, the cart's undercarriage, where the toilet paper or flats of soda generally went. Enraged, unable to reach his prey with his killer wheels, Rabid Shopping Cart spun in impotent circles, saliva flying. Wolfgang felt himself getting dizzy, the landscape blurring about him as he rode this mad tilt-a-whirl. He caught a glimpse of the roadster, then the ornament; and he knew what he had to do. It would take crackerjack timing.

Faster and faster spun Rabid Shopping Cart, and Wolfgang's paws held on tight lest he be flung into the snow at the wrong moment. Wolfgang counted off seconds in his head, measuring how long each rotation took, judging how far he would fly when he let go. And then, a half-second before the Lotus would swing into view again, he release and sailed end-over-end through the air.

Time itself seemed to slow to a lazy meander. Wolfgang watched snowflakes drift past in slow motion. He looked up and saw Christmas lights blinking at the top of the CN Tower. And then, suddenly, he landed with a grunt right in the Lotus' driver's seat, like one of the Duke boys sliding into the General Lee through the open window.

Wolfgang wasted no time admiring his acrobatic skills. He jammed his paw hard against the accelerator, spun the wheel around 180 degrees, and drove hard for the jammer. Rabid Shopping Cart had halted his addled spinning and saw what Wolfgang was attempting. It became a race - hamster versus shopping cart for the ultimate prize: Christmas itself.

The shopping cart's coal-black tires skidded for purchase as it hurtled forward, intent on crushing the jammer under its wheels. And Wolfgang's Lotus laboured valiantly, seeming to lean forward as it charged toward the prize. Wolfgang's tiny heart raced just as quickly - perhaps even faster - than the eight wheels bearing down on the purple sphere that held the promise of Christmas morn.

Wolfgang extended his left paw. He glanced right and saw Rabid Shopping Cart's bulk bearing down like a dreadnought. It was going to be close - too close!

Wolfgang's paw caught the ornament's eyelet and held tight, yanking the jammer from the snow. A millisecond later, Rabid Shopping Cart passed through the space they'd just occupied. The Minion of C.H.A.O.S. gurgled madly and attempted to come around for another pass, but it was going too fast, too fast! With an ear-piercing grind of rending metal, Rabid Shopping Cart smashed headlong into the tower's base, its momentum transforming itself into a twisted hulk of whimpering metal.

Wolfgang chittered triumphantly and brought the nose of the Lotus around for another pass at the tower. This time the little car darted obediently skyward, its adhesive tires holding the car tight against the tower's side. Wolfgang spared a glance backward as he drove up the building's length, then immediately wished he hadn't. Gawking through the tower's glass floor was amusing, but from outside these dizzying heights were nausea-inducing.

Navigating the underside of the CN Tower's bulbous main body was a little tricky, requiring him to hang upside-down for a few seconds, one hand on the wheel, one clutching the ornament. But soon enough he was on the topside of the sphere and on his way up the radio tower. The Christmas tree atop the spire beckoned.

Wolfgang parked on a low branch, then abandoned the Lotus and climbed up to the top of the tree, ornament in hand. With a flourish, he threaded a narrow twig through the ornament's eyelet and the jammer hung there gleaming with all the promise of a plan to ruin Christmas averted.

But just then, Wolfgang felt himself grabbed by a huge human fist. Wriggling defiantly, he looked up into the triumphant, sneering visage of none other than Minion of C.H.A.O.S. Shin Barker!

"Stupid hamster. Did you really think the Minions of C.H.A.O.S. could only spare one agent to intercept you?" chortled Shin Barker. "Ukelele Banquet gave me a lift up here just in case you got past Rabid Shopping Cart."

Wolfgang looked around and sure enough, there was the evil Ukelele Banquet, floating a few metres away. The levitating faux-guitar plunked a few sour notes of triumph.

Wolfgang sighed. It was over. He couldn't possibly defeat two Minions; he was just a hamster. Christmas would be ruined. Even now, Shin Barker was reaching for the jammer while Ukelele Banquet strummed an especially sarcastic instrumental version of "I Believe in Father Christmas."

But Wolfgang's sigh of defeat had a crucial side-effect: sensing the hamster's resignation, Shin Barker dropped the hamster, presuming the little rodent would fall to his doom. But Wolfgang, sensing one last chance to save the day, angled his fall to land on Shin Barker's left shin, where he immediately sank his sharp little teeth. Blood spurted.

"MY SHIN!" barked Shin Barker, pain flaring up the length of his wounded leg, throwing him off-balance. One of Shin Barker's pinwheeling arms smashed right into Ukelele Banquet in the middle of a chord, sending the floating ukelele spinning headlong into space with a startled flurry of discordant chords. Shin Barker screamed as he fell off the tree, eyes bulging as the doom of sudden deceleration awaited.

Wolfgang, too, was falling, releasing his hold on Shin Barker's leg. As they tumbled through the air Wolfgang felt sad that he wouldn't see the joy on the faces of Canadian children when they tore open their presents on the morrow, but he felt proud that he'd doubtlessly be remembered for his noble sacrifice. If only Shin Barker would stop spoiling the moment with his screams...

Suddenly, Wolfgang felt his fall arrested as he plopped into an outstretched palm. Startled, he looked up into the big blue eyes and handsome smile of Paramount Importance, one of Canada's premiere caped superheroes.

"Sorry I'm late," he said. "But that asteroid I just stopped would have ruined Christmas too."

Wolfgang chittered, Paramount Importance laughed, and Shin Barker kept screaming until he landed safely in a passing pillow delivery truck.

*   *   *

The Prime Minister flung his yPhone across the room. Dr. Burnshock Brand's desperate apologies continued to echo from the phone's tinny speaker.

"Idiot," fumed the Prime Minister. "I had everything planned so perfectly. My only mistake was letting Brand pick the interception team. Next time I won't make that mistake."

Yes, Christmas 2013 had been saved, all thanks to that stupid hamster and those meddling Paladins. But he still had at least one Christmas to go during the Prime Minister's term...

THE END?

Faking Depth of Field

You can use image editing software to fake depth of field effects. Just select your foreground image, invert the selection and apply gaussian blur. I may have gone too far with the blur, though.

Earl's Darkest Secret

Most of my friends are aware that I'm not a big sports fan. I can name perhaps two hockey players, two football players, one soccer player (Pele, from ads in comic books), and I know a few team names. Oh, and I know who Muhammad Ali is, thanks to the classic 70s giant tabloid comic Superman vs. Muhammad Ali. ("Superman, WE are the greatest!")

But at the urging of my parents and various teachers, I was involved in a few sports in my youth. I curled for three years, and my team placed third one year, first another - no thanks to me, really. I played baseball in Leaf Rapids and Leduc - terribly. During one memorable game, I was hit in the groin twice and the buttocks once while at bat. However, that was three more times I got on base than usual, and at least I was better off than my friend Jeff Pitts, who once famously took a flung bat to the skull. (He's okay, and has survived far worse.)

And, as pictured above, I actually managed one of the intramural baseball teams at Leduc Junior High. I still have the score sheets kicking around somewhere.

Despite my indifference (some would say "antipathy") to sports, I find myself drawn to baseball. It seems more civilized to me than other sports, for one thing; it seems as much a game of physics as anything. There's little physical contact (unless there's a brawl), and there's something appealing about the culture of baseball: the music, the association with hot summer days, popcorn, hot dogs, cold drinks. And it's a game that anyone can play - anyone with a bat, a ball, a glove and some forgiving friends.

Jeff Shyluk and I played Earl Weaver Baseball on his Amiga during the waning days of our university careers. We created two teams: the Minions of Chaos and the Paladins of Order, based on characters we created (or stole) for a series of collaborative short stories we wrote on Ron Briscoe's Freedom BBS. Players such as Irrational Carrot and Beef Ball Moo squared off against Paramount Importance and Bottle Dropper at two ball fields Verlucci Gruond (yes, spelled exactly that way) and...and I can't remember the "good guy" field. Perhaps Jeff will assist.

This all culminated in the End of the World Series, a real nail-biter of a contest, during which one certain homer was memorably foiled by the ridiculously high outfield wall of Verlucci Gruond. I screamed and yelled and my manager character onscreen did exactly the same, kicking virtual sand on the umpire. When that happened, Jeff and I almost went mad with laughter.

The Paladins - my team - won the series, if only just, and thankfully the infamous All-Star game didn't count. (I believe I lost that one 99-1.)

Even now I sometimes get the urge to find a bat, a ball, a glove and a friend and waste an hour or two cracking wood against...against whatever baseballs are made of.

I do understand, at least a little, why so many of my friends and family members enjoy sports. There's something beautiful about the human body in action the human mind calculating angles and vectors and velocities, interposing bat or stick in just the right spot at just the right moment. Perhaps it's just the angry side of sports that turns me off, the urge to win at all costs, to hurt others in the pursuit of something as abstract as a championship.

When people play, everyone should win. Maybe that's naive, but that's the kind of sportsmanship I can get behind.

C.H.A.O.S. Agent Profile: Insipid Butterchurn

Alias: Insipid Butterchurn

Affiliation: Minion of CHAOS

Real Name: Insipid Butterchurn

Height: 60 cm

Weight: 6 kg

Hair: none

Eyes: black

Distinguishing features: butterchurn with malevolent expression

Costume: none

Birthplace: Nose Hill, Canada

Birthdate: July 17, 1840

Powers: churns butter, but it always tastes bad

Skills: none

Vulnerabilities: cannot move unassisted

Equipment: none

Secret Origin: ancient prophecy

What Insipid Butterchurn lacks in raw power, he makes up for in sheer malevolence. Originally recruited by Dr. Verlucci (deceased) on a salvage mission to an abandoned Silly Putty mine, Butterchurn's scathing wit and peerless loyalty to the cause of C.H.A.O.S. made the immobile appliance a favoured son among the Minion crowd. No one has yet discovered what a sentient butterchurn was doing in a Silly Putty mine, but a text made of that pliable material was found next to the sputtering future Minion. The codex claimed that the churn's existence fulfilled an arcane prophecy, but the exact words are lost to us because Minion agent Carpet Stainer formed the malleable bible into a ball for his own selfish amusement.

The Adventures of Dr. Cerebellum, Evil Brain in a Jar

Illustration by Colin Dunn

Prologue: The Long, Long Night of Dr. Cerebellum

One day on a beach in the south of France, Philippe Gagnon dug up a supervillain.

Of course, he didn’t know it was a supervillain. His metal detector beeped; Philippe dug; and so sealed his fate.

“Mon Dieu! C'est un cerveau dans une fiole!*” he gasped, brushing wet sand off the artifact as he knelt beside his find. It was about 30 cm tall, and perhaps half that in width. The bizarre find consisted of a glass dome mounted on a stand of ornately carved wood, inlaid with bronze finishing, a number of buttons and lights, and a speaker grille. The dome was filled with a bubbling amber fluid. A brain floated inside the amber, bobbing gently with any movement of the jar.

“Macabre!” said Gagnon's companion, a lovely filly called Mignon. She leaned over Philippe's shoulders, eyes wide.

Before either could speak again, a stygian darkness enveloped the couple and their grotesque treasure. From the dome came a voice, harsh with static, speaking words they did not understand:

"I LIVE!"

*”My God! It is a brain in a jar!”


Chapter 1: Diminished Expectations

In a lavishly furnished office deep beneath the streets of Paris, lacquered fingernails, blood red, scraped silently across the smooth curve of a glass jar mounted on a pedestal of oak and brass. The disembodied brain of Dr. Cerebellum floated within, bobbing gently in a tiny sea of amber nutrient fluid.

"Don't torture me with a touch I cannot feel," said Dr. Cerebellum, his voice hissing from the speaker grille fixed at the base of his jar. Strumpet, his assistant, obediently pulled her hand away. How she ached to penetrate the glass wall that denied her fingers, her lips, the chance to brush against her idol's glorious brain! One day, she thought, you will feel the naked caress of my body against your living brain, my love. You deny the pleasures of the flesh, lost to you so many decades gone...but I will show you what you have forgotten...I will...

"Strumpet," Dr. Cerebellum said, "Dr. Verlucci will arrive soon. Is Dolt ready?"

Strumpet shook herself from her reverie, her blonde curls dancing upon her shoulders. "Of course, Doctor."

A metallic chuckle echoed from the speaker grille. "Good. With Verlucci out of the way, I'll be able to seize control of his entire organization. With the Minions of C.H.A.O.S. at my command, none shall stand before me!"

Suddenly, Dr. Cerebellum's slightly less competent lackey, Dolt, burst in through the door.

"He's here, sir!" Dolt shouted breathlessly, needlessly waving his arms over his head.

"Send him in, Dolt." Dolt nodded enthusiastically and retreated.

A moment later, Dr. Verlucci, self-styled Cardinal of Crime, hobbled into the office, leaning heavily on a steel walker. His aged countenance was fissured by decades of bitter spite, his spine twisted with a century's worth of vitriol. Strumpet moved to help the old man to a seat, but the venerable villain waved her off.

"Keep away from me, you tart!" he bellowed. "I'm not so old that I can't stand for the few seconds this meeting will take."

Strumpet hid her anger behind a sweetly professional smile. "Of course, Doctor."

"What's this all about, Cerebellum? I'm a busy man - got Paladins of O.R.D.E.R. to kill - trains to derail - candy to take from babies!"

"My dear fellow," replied Dr. Cerebellum, "I sympathize. Evil is a harsh, demanding mistress, and there are only so many vile deeds one can perform in a day."

"Get on with it, you freakish small-timer!"

"Very well. I'll make it plain: I wish to assume command of the Minions."

Dr. Verlucci cackled. "You? A helpless brain in a jar? A ghoulish monstrosity straight out of a drive-in movie? Fool! Commanding the Minions requires a towering intellect...a fiendish capacity for depravity...a complete inability to feel remorse or compassion! Not to mention an able body! You delude yourself, Doctor! And worse - you have wasted my time. Do not think you can escape punishment for this affront."

"Your response was not unexpected, Doctor Verlucci. I had hoped that you would be more...reasonable. Dolt," Dr. Cerebellum continued, "You may proceed."

Dolt returned, a small blue pistol clenched in his right hand.

"What's this?" Verlucci snorted. "You can't kill me, you fool. You'll have a horde of Minions on you faster than you can blink. Well, faster than you could blink if you had eyes."

Strumpet grinned evilly as her master's voice boomed from the speaker grille. "My dear Doctor! You overestimate the loyalty of your Minions! Who do you think asked me to arrange this meeting? Only your most dedicated lieutenants! Ha ha ha ha ha!"

Dr. Verlucci gaped. "But...Albertolini...Soggy Belly..? They would never betray me!"

Verlucci couldn't take his eyes from the barrel of Dolt's weapon. He began to realize he'd made a critical error, and raised his hands in feeble supplication.

"No...don't!"

"Now, Dolt," said Dr. Cerebellum.

Dolt pulled the trigger. A green glow enveloped Dr. Verlucci, then faded. The mad scientist blinked. "What have you done to me?" he whispered.

"Dolt has just tested my newest invention: the C.H.A.O.S. Gun. That is, the Collapse His Atoms, Or Shrink, Gun. A 'small-timer,' am I? Well, Dr. Verlucci, soon you will be the small-timer...literally!"

Dr. Cerebellum and his henchmen broke into unrestrained, diabolical laughter. Dr. Verlucci's stature began to diminish, clothes, walker, and all, his voice shrinking in tandem.

"You'll pay for this, Cerebellum! You'll...payyyyyy..."

But when Verlucci shrank to a mere five centimeters in height, Strumpet raised her right foot and then brought it down upon his shrunken head, crushing him like a bug. A grisly pool of blood and gristle spread across the carpet.

"Ewwwww," Dolt moaned, clutching his stomach. "I - I think I'm going to puke!"

Strumpet made a low, mewling sound of pleasure as she ground Dr. Verlucci's remains into the floor. A rapturous smile lit up her beautiful features.

"Well done, my dear. I'd say you've crushed all his dreams and aspirations. Ha ha ha! Dolt, clean up the mess."

"Yes, sir," Dolt replied glumly.

Strumpet kicked off her shoes and collapsed languidly onto the couch, stretching, her lithe form arching. "You've done it, Doctor," she cooed.

"Hmph. Yes. But this is only the beginning. With my hold on the Minions consolidated, all that remains between me and world domination are those idealistic fools, the Paladins of O.R.D.E.R. Once Alter Ego and his band of stooges are destroyed, I shall at long last realize my mad dream of conquest."

"Will you use the shrink ray on them? I'd love to crush those sanctimonious Paladins beneath my heels..."

Dr. Cerebellum's artificial voice box simulated a derisive snort. "Bah. Perhaps. But a simple shrinking death is too quick for them. Their demises must be more fiendish, more diabolical. As for the shrink ray - I shall use it to shrink beautiful women, who I will then put in birdcages for my amusement. Ha ha ha!"

Strumpet couldn't help herself; she rushed up to Dr. Cerebellum's jar and planted a kiss at its apex, leaving a greasy smear of lipstick.

"Oh, really, Strumpet. I wish you wouldn't do that. It's so undignified."

The Adventures of Dr. Cerebellum, Evil Brain in a Jar, Chapter 2: Minute by Minute

The dank catacombs beneath the Paris Opera House dripped with slime, a dark reflection of the glittering City of Lights above. Through this maze of grime and scum skulked Big Jim Spittolini, thug for hire, and his reluctant companion, Shrieking Groaner, smalltime supervillain.

"I can't believe I'm walking in this stuff," Shrieking Groaner said with a groan. His official supervillain boots, once a shiny red, were caked with nauseating goop.

"Shaddup," Spittolini barked, "We're almost there. I'm sick of your whining, Shrieking Groaner. It's always shrieking over this, groaning over that! Why, I've got half a mind to plug you right here and leave you for the rats."

Shrieking Groaner shrieked, horrified, his lower lip quivering in fear. Spittolini rolled his eyes and pressed on, rounding a curve to find the doorway to Dr. Cerebellum's Sanctum Sanctorum. "We're here, Groaner. Pull yourself together - time to meet the new boss."

Spittolini pushed open the door and blinked at what he saw – a sumptuous anteroom, far better than the digs Dr. Verlucci had enjoyed. Disembodied brain or not, Dr. Cerebellum evidently had taste.

Dolt, one of Cerebellum’s personal assistants, rose from behind his desk to greet Spittolini and Groaner.

“If you’ll come this way, gentlemen,” Dolt said, ushering them through a set of oak double doors and into Dr. Cerebellum’s offices. The sinister brain in a jar was there, along with his associate, Strumpet.

“So – you’ve arrived,” Cerebellum said.

“We’re here,” Spittolini replied. “So is the job done?”

Strumpet said, “Dolt washed Dr. Verlucci's remains down the drain a few minutes ago. The remains of his brains flow mainly down the drains! Ha ha ha!”

Spittolini nodded. “And our money?”

“Deposited into your Swiss accounts, as agreed. I assume that along with your loyalty, I’ve bought your friends?”

“Yeah, yeah. Verlucci wasn’t that popular, trust me. If you can deliver the goods – wealth, power, and sex – then you won’t get any trouble from any of the Minions.”

“We’re easy to please!” said Shrieking Groaner, barely suppressing a shriek of delight and a groan of ecstasy.

“Excellent. Now then – doubtless you’re wondering just how I plan to lure the Paladins to their doom.”

"It had crossed our minds," Spittolini replied laconically.

"It's simple. We'll take a stroll and shrink the Eiffel Tower. Then, when the Paladins show up to investigate, we'll shrink them, too."

Strumpet said, "But boss, I thought you were only going to use the shrink gun to shrink beautiful women and put them in birdcages."

"You have a shrink gun?" Spittolini interrupted. Verlucci ignored him.

"I changed my mind. When you crushed Dr. Verlucci beneath your spike heel, Strumpet, it aroused…feelings…that I haven't experienced for quite some time. To see that do-gooder Alter Ego crushed in a similar fashion would bring me great satisfaction."

"When do you intend to carry out this plan?" Spittolini asked.

"Immediately," the mad brain replied, "And you, Mr. Spittolini, will play a very important role. Strumpet, if you please…"

Strumpet took Dr. Cerebellum into her arms and lifted the jar off its pedestal. She raised the jar high, and as Big Jim gaped, she carefully planted it on his head. Before Spittolini could react, a series of clamps snapped out of the bottom of Dr. Cerebellum's base and tightened around the shocked gangster's skull.

"OW! What the hell is this?" he cried, reaching up instinctively to try to pull the brain in a jar from his head. It was no use; the jar was clamped on tight.

"Don't worry, Spittolini. The clamps aren't tight enough to cause any lasting damage, though they may give you a bit of a headache. I assure you that I won't put any undue pressure on your brain."

"It feels like my head is stuck in a vise!" Spittolini complained. "What the hell are you planning?"

"My unusual appearance means that I would draw undue attention were I to prowl the streets of Paris without some form of disguise. You, my dear fellow, will serve as part of that disguise. Strumpet, the hat, if you would."

Strumpet opened a closet and produced a tall, black, stovepipe hat. She approached Spittolini and the doctor and pulled the stovepipe over Dr. Cerebellum’s environmental jar. The doctor’s voice was muffled by the hat, but still audible: "I call it the C.H.A.O.S. hat - for 'Cleverly Hide All Obvious Synapses,’” he explained.

“Why do all our evil inventions and operations have to have some clunky C.H.A.O.S. anagram?” Strumpet grumbled. “’Change Height At Once Steroid,’ ‘Create Hideous And Odious Stench,’ ‘Conjure Ham And Onion Sandwich…’ Besides, it’s just a hat, for God’s sake, not some brilliant technological wonder.”

“You’re an effective operative, Strumpet, but you should cultivate your appreciation for Minion traditions. Dr. Verlucci was an overconfident fool, but he had a flair for villainy.”

"This is going to put one hell of a kink in my neck," Spittolini said, "How much does your stupid jar weigh?"

"Well, the total weight of my brain, the jar, the nutrient fluid, and the base puts me at a svelte 45 kilograms."

Spittolini groaned.

* * *

Some hours later, Dr. Cerebellum and a hand-picked (or brain-picked, since Cerebellum had no hands) team of Minions of CHAOS emerged from a manhole, blinking in the bright sunlight. They were a fearsome group: The rugged Spittolini and his disguised master, Cerebellum; the fatal femme, Strumpet; the oafish but obedient Dolt; and Shrieking Groaner, clutching in one hand the innocent-looking but cataclysmic Calamity Bagel. The Eiffel Tower waited heedlessly in the distance.

"Don't we need more agents than this if we're going to take on a team of Paladins? We don't know how many of their agents could show up, or which ones," Spittolini said. Shrieking Groaner agreed with a quiet, mournful groan.

"Bah! You display all the foresight and cunning of your erstwhile leader—which is to say, none. Whenever a crisis alert comes in to Paladin HQ, Alter Ego or one of his lieutenants sends in a recon team, usually composed of a small group of key agents: Naked Singularity, because of her ability to provide instantaneous transport to the scene, Bottle Dropper, because of his experience and keen observational skills, and Alter Ego himself, because he has an irrational credo about not sending his agents in where he won't go, etcetera ad nauseum. Alter Ego usually keeps his heavy hitters in reserve, so there's very little chance we need to worry about powerhouses like Paramount Importance or Dolt Man (no relation to Dolt)."

"I'm not related to Dolt Man!" said Dolt.

"Dolt, I already said the disclaimer," sighed Dr. Cerebellum, voice muffled by the CHAOS hat.

Just then, a rotund, balding man in a baker's apron came upon the Minions. He pointed and laughed at Spittolini. “C’est Monsieur Lincoln! Ha ha ha! Dans le grand chapeau!”

Spittolini grimaced. "I may not know how to speak French, but that guy is putting himself in Dutch with me! Hey, buddy - how'd you like a knuckle sandwich? With extra ketchup?"

"Fool!" Cerebellum barked within his hat, "No French chef worth his salt would sully a sandwich with ketchup!"

"But I like ketchup," Dolt whined.

"Silence! I tire of this idiotic banter. Shrink the tower and draw those putrid Paladins to their atomic doom!"

Strumpet raised the CHAOS gun, its barrel aimed directly at the iconic tower. With a squeeze of the trigger, she bathed the structure in weird green light, and the tower began to diminish. Cries of anguish rose from the streets of Paris:

"Quelle dommage! Le tour c'est petite!"

"Mon dieu! Je pense que je vous vomir!"

"Mon chapeau c'est dans le chateau!"

"Ou est le salle du bain?"

* * *


Bottle Dropper, by Jeff Shyluk

Moments later, in the stratospheric headquarters of the Paladins of ORDER, the heroic Bottle Dropper nearly dropped his bottle of beer as the Trouble Tingler zapped his plush leather chair, alerting him to activate the MegaScreen. He did so by slamming an open palm against a bright red button, and the gigantic (one might even say ostentatious) viewer hummed to life.

"Holy Smashamoley!" yelped Bottle Dropper. He watched in horror as the Eiffel Tower shrank to the size of one of those novelty Eiffel Tower pencil sharpeners or paperweights you might pick up at a sleazy tourist trap at that one casino in Las Vegas - you know, the one with the half-scale Arc de Triomphe (soon to be shrunk, dear readers; have no fear).

Bottle Dropper knew what he had to do. Pulling on his communications headset, he keyed an emergency alert signal into the computer:

"Calling all Paladins...Calling all Paladins..."

TO BE CONTINUED

ORDER/CHAOS SUPPORTING CHARACTER FILE: EYE-GORE

The sinister visage of...EYE-GORE!

Little is known of Eye-Gore, Cyclopean Triple Amputee. Though, like many residents of Earth-69, he possesses paranormal abilities, Eye-Gore has yet to choose a side in the neverending battle between Chaos and Order. (However, he is known to have a somewhat adversarial relationship with ORDER stalwart Rock Savage.)


Wooed by both sides for his incredible combat skills and iron constitution, Eye-Gore is a man to watch, and could tip the balance between good and evil.

C.H.A.O.S. Agent Profile: Shin Barker

Alias: Shin Barker
Affiliation: Minion of CHAOS
Real Name: Jack Shemp
Height: 170 cm
Weight: 65 kg
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue
Distinguishing Features: 1950s crewcut; caucasian; prominent Adam's apple and chin dimple
Costume: Casual clothes; wears shirt with slogan "Shin-Bark-A-Delic"
Birthplace: Etobicoke, Canada
Birthdate: June 17, 1974
Powers: Causes others to bark their shins
Skills: Good at math
Weaknesses: Barks own shin frequently
Equipment: None
Secret Origin: Mutant
Notes: Friends with Toe Stubber; jilted lover of Paladin of ORDER Sabrina Virtue
Quotes: "My shin!", "Shin-Bark-A-Delic!"

Jack Shemp, AKA "Shin Barker," is one of the more recent recruits of the Minions of CHAOS. Interred into the ranks by new Head Minion Dr. Cerebellum, Evil Brain in a Jar, Shin Barker has proved his usefulness on several CHAOS missions, including the destruction of a Paladin aircraft (pilot Whiskey Ripper barked his shin on the controls, sending the plane careening into the indestructible form of Paramount Importance).

Shin Barker was seen as a neutral force in the CHAOS/ORDER conflict until Paladin agent Sabrina Virtue turned down his marriage proposal. Enraged, Shin Barker was heard to yell, "I'll show you! I'll show you all!" before storming off in a huff, spoiling the effect by barking his shin on a park bench. Nevertheless, Shin Barker contacted Dr. Cerebellum just a few days later, and now his turn to CHAOS seems irreversible.

If you encounter Shin Barker, contact an agent of ORDER immediately. Do not attempt to apprehend him yourself - you could suffer a badly barked shin, or worse.

Filberts

Filberts

Pork Chop Oink

Pork Chop Oink, by Sean Woods

Agent of CHAOS File: Pork Chop Oink

Alias: Pork Chop Oink
Affiliation: Minions of CHAOS
Real Name: Pork Chop Oink
Height: 2 cm
Weight: 100 g
Hair: None
Eyes: Black
Distinguishing Features: is a pork chop
Costume: None (sometimes wears pimp clothes)
Birthplace: Unknown
Birthdate: Unknown
Powers: Enticing aroma; sentient, can speak
Skills: None
Vulnerabilities: Knives and forks
Equipment: None
Secret Origin: Unknown
Notes: Also known as "les grand jambon avec les yeux"
Quote: "Oink!"

Little is known about Pork Chop Oink. He has been working with the Minions of CHAOS since at least 1987, and probably for far longer. His super-powers are undaunting, but his malice and vitriol are unmatched by any in the Minion camp, including such bitter stalwarts as Irrational Carrot, Teeth-Filled Cyst, and The Amazing UGH!.

When last encountered, Pork Chop Oink was working in Detroit, Michigan, as a pimp. When turned down for a date, Pork Chop Oink is often heard to complain, "What am I, chopped oink?"

Pimp My Pork Chop Oink

Pimp My Pork Chop Oink, by Sean Woods

At the Movies Again

Go see X2. Do it now, because it rocks. I love intelligent science fiction. I love stories with integrity. And I love perfect casting. Even non-geeks will love this film.

What a find at the video store - not one, not two, not three, but FOUR Mad Mission films - all in one spectacular DVD box set!!!!! :-O I didn't even know there were four Mad MIssion movies!

Mad Mission! Mad Mission! MAD MISSION!!!!!!!! It's mad, I tell you! MAD!!!!!

There aren't enough exclamation points in the universe to express my glee.

In other news, Sylvia and I cooked a steak tonight. This whole cooking deal isn't as hard as people make it out to be. Take that!

Work on the Chaos/Order database continues. I'm working on Minion #63, Smoking Gardener. This is turning into quite a job.

Embrace Your Inner Geek

Right now I'm working on an Excel spreadsheet, one that describes, once and for all, the names, appearances, origins, and abilities of the canonical Paladins of O.R.D.E.R. and Minions of C.H.A.O.S. In an effort to ensure accuracy, I must of course do some research. So I've been perusing my old binders, and I discovered some old character sheets from my Dungeons & Dragons days. Among these sheets is a cryptic piece of paper that lists "Turtle Treasure." Apparently, one of my characters managed to haul the following items out of some demon-infested dungeon:

"Robe, brown - radiates evocation/alteration magic
Horn of fog production
Girdle of many pouches
A wooden sword: a folding boat
Cube of frost resistance
A net of sharing
Quall's Feather Token of the Fan
Cloak of the Elvenkind
Stone - unidentified grey rock, radiates high magic
Mirror of past scrying"

All this was found in "room #71," or so another scribbled note suggests. (There's also a phone number for "Halls of Adv. + Magic." I don't dare call...)

This many years removed, I can only guess what amazing properties these items may have possessed. The brown robe, radiating evocation/alteration magic, seems as though it may have been useful in such mischief as casting fireballs or turning people into badgers.The horn of fog production doesn't seem very useful, unless you're working as a special effects man on a John Carpenter movie, or if you need some fast cover for a hasty retreat. "A wooden sword: a folding boat" was written exactly that way, colon and all, so it seems that the wooden sword somehow turned into a folding boat...or maybe it's some kind of cryptic Zen koan, who knows?

Cube of frost resistance...not an ice cube, I guess. "Quall's Feather Token of the Fan." Is this one item, or two? Let's see...either Quall (whoever he or she may have been) had a token representing a fan made of a feather, or I simply stolle Quall's Feather, along with a Token of the Fan...a fan? Isn't that sort of anachronistic? I guess it could have been one of those manual fans like geishas have...maybe it was a token of a fanatic...I'm getting a headache.

Cloak of the Elvenkind seems simple enough - a cloak giving me some sort of elven abilities, maybe the ability to see in the dark or what have you. The mirror of past scrying seems self-explanatory, too; presumably, if you looked into the mirror, you could catch a glimpse of the past.

Mind you, given the limitations of the speed of light, you're looking into the past every time you peer into a mirror anyway, even if it is only a nanosecond or so...