From: blakes7-d-request@lysator.liu.se Subject: blakes7-d Digest V99 #192 X-Loop: blakes7-d@lysator.liu.se X-Mailing-List: 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 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. *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 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. *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 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. *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 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 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" To: 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 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 To: Lysator 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 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" To: Subject: Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6 Message-ID: <011f01beb832$89a80c80$0c01a8c0@hedge> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Rob said: > How about the memoirs of Vila Flashman? Somehow, I always think of B7 > fitting best into an historical crossover anyway. Vila's too nice! And he doesn't get to have his way with the ladies as often... Una ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 21:00:15 +0100 From: "Una McCormack" To: "Lysator" Subject: Re: [B7L] Feisty women Message-ID: <013201beb832$f10a6b20$0c01a8c0@hedge> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Steve wrote: > Following a recent threme, Buffy came in at number two and Xena three. > Una will probably be glad to see Miss Parker at number 38, but you'll > never, ever guess who came in at 27. Well, not me at any rate. Lara Croft? Or the MC from 'Gambit'? Una ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 21:46:54 +0100 From: Julia Jones To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se Cc: lysator Subject: Re: [B7L] Flat Robin #45 - Part 1 of 6 Message-ID: <$x5$4mA+0Aa3Ewxs@jajones.demon.co.uk> In message <002701beb7ec$513bf000$ca8edec2@pre-installedco>, Alison Page 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" To: "Lysator" 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 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 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 **************************************