Subject: Dead III
From: [email-masked] (Bryan Slatner)
Date: 18 Feb 92 18:47:02 GMT
Newsgroups: alt.bbs.allsysop

Copyright (c) 1991, 1992 Bryan E. Slatner
All Rights Reserved
You may distribute this file at your leisure so long as the original text
remains unchanged.

Dedaparamaxxaginos productions PRESENTS . . .

                           ! ! DEAD3.DOC ! !

           The much-coveted finale to the DEAD?.DOC series!

                     "Our Heroes enter Cyberspace"

                                  OR

                        "Ghosts in the Machine"

                                  OR

                The return of Joe Blow and George Tush

                   A NON-musical drama in five parts

       ("And now here's something we hope you'll REALLY like!!")

INTRODUCTION
------------

     There are no songs in DEAD3.DOC.  There is  a  reason  for  this.
The band moved to California where they are broadcasting useful smells
from  Frank's  anatomy  (don't ask).  For a copy of the original score
for DEAD2.DOC, mail an EXCEEDINGLY funny joke to:

     Dedaparamaxxaginos Productions, LTD, INC, PhD, BS, FTD.
     c/o Doomed Puppy
     8009 SW 55th PL
     Gainesville, FL    32608

     No CODs please.  We don't like getting fish in the mail.  That is
a REAL address,  and any correspondence sent there  will  be  answered
according  to  our  moods.  Letter  bombs  will be returned to sender,
unopened.   Drugs,  money,  complements,  and  general  ramblings  are
accepted.

     Mail may also be sent to [email-masked].

     We would like to thank the following people for not suing us, for
whatever reason:

     Cheech and Chong, for "Bailiff!  Wack his pee pee!"

     The Police, for one of the above titles.

     Douglas Adams for, "There was a horrible, ghastly silence, etc."

     Some comedian whose name I don't remember but who is  VERY  funny
        for    "Snakes!     Snakes!"    and    "Sorry    about    your
        family...tomorrow!"

     Roger Zelazny,  for the blatant thievery of  Amber-like  concepts
        concerning  shadow  shifting.  But  Roger knows where Imaginos
        lives, so I don't think we have to worry about a law suit.

     Dennis Miller, for "existential melancholy."

     William Shakespeare, just so we can SOUND impressively literate.

     We  would also like to thank the Federal Bird Inspector (FBI) for
not arresting us even though we deserve it.

     And a hearty FUCK OFF to  Dragon  Keep  for  deleting  the  files
(DEAD1  and  DEAD2)  when  we  uploaded them.  Your punishment will be
SEVERE jokes made at your expense in this file.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
                               PART -I-

                   Oh shit, they're baaaaaaaaaaack!
----------------------------------------------------------------------

The scene:

     Sysop and Beopunk Cyberwulf are sitting at Sysop's machine.  They
are logged on to the University of Florida VAX and are exceeding their
disk quotas.  Bad.  Naughty.  Oh well.

     All of a sudden, a terrible,  ghastly light flashes on the screen
(Sysop  now  has  a  brand  new  486-10000MHz  that he bought with the
insurance money he collected,  with an LGA [ludicrous graphics  array]
and a 115K baud modem).

     After  the  light dies away a single,  lone window appears on the
screen.

            /--------------------------------------------\
            |                                            |
            |             We're Baaaaaaaaack!            |
            |                                            |
            \--------------------------------------------/

Sysop:

     It can't be!

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Be what?  It's just a window.

Sysop:

     You're right.  I probably have some harmless virus.

Beopunk:

     Press a key and see what happens.

Sysop presses a key.  The box is replaced with.

            /--------------------------------------------\ 
            |                                            |
            |              Nice hard drive.              |
            |                                            |
            |        Too bad it's being FORMATTED!       |
            |                                            |
            |                 Muahahahah.                |
            |                                            |
            \--------------------------------------------/

The light on Sysop's 10.2 Terabyte hard  drive  begins  to  flash.  He
reboots  to  try  and  save  his  data.  This does not work.  When the
system reboots, he gets the message:

     Insert system disk in drive A:.

Sysop:

     Fuck!  Those little TURDS!

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     We MUST do something.

Sysop:

     You're right.  We must reassemble "The Assembly of Death!"

                     (Trumpets play in background)

Fade to:

     Imaginos's bedroom.  It's even more  disgusting  than  his  foot.
There  are socks everywhere,  broadcasting unuseful smells.  His phone
rings.

Imaginos (picking up the phone):

     WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTT?!?!?!?!

Sysop's voice (as if coming out of phone):

     Um, is Dave there?

Imaginos:

     WHO WANTS TO KNOW???!?!?!

Sysop:

     It's SysOp.

Imaginos (becoming bright and cheery):

     Oh!

Sysop:

     We have a problem.  Joe Blow and George Tush  are  back,  in  the
form of computer viruses.  They formatted my hard drive and . . .

     There is a kind of Speedy Gonzalez sound and Imaginos disappears,
and  the phone falls to the ground.  He always moves fast when there's
something to be killed.

Fade to:

     Admiral Asshole's house.  He  is  sitting  in  front  of  the  TV
watching  professional  wrestling  and cheers as "The Undertaker" puts
"Ivan Teartitsoff" into a coffin and sets it on fire.

Admiral Asshole:

     Yeah!  Yeah!  Burn the fucker's LEGS OFF!

     Out front there is a SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEECHING of tires.  There  are
several  very  LOUD  footsteps coming closer and closer.  Then:  WHAM!
WHAM!  WHAM! as the door shakes in its frame.

Imaginos (from behind door):

     Wake up goddamit!  We have to go and kill something.

     Admiral Assholes' serious face changes into a smile of  malicious
glee.  There  is the Speedy Gonzalez sound again as he rushes off into
his bedroom to get his AK-47 and some  hand  grenades.  He  opens  the
door  and  meets  Imaginos.  They get into Imaginos's Sherman Tank and
speed off to Sysop's house.

Fade to:

     Sysop's living room.  It STILL has not  been  cleaned  since  the
party at the beginning of DEAD2.  Someone has, however, taken the time
to  cover  the  slime  mold  next  to the TV with a poster of Guns -N-
Roses.

     The Assembly of Death is sitting down wherever they can,  due  to
all the junk littering the real furniture.  Sysop calls the meeting to
order:

Sysop:

     Friends and goodly users.  I would like to start out  by  stating
that THIS SUCKS.  We killed these bastards once, and now they're back,
reincarnated  as  vicious computer viruses.  Since I spoke to you all,
they have infected the  VAX,  The  Crucible,  Gridworks  Systems,  and
Helter Skelter.  We don't care much about Helter Skelter.  In fact, we
think  they're  partially  guilty,  so  we're not going to worry about
them.  Also,  Draggin' Tail has become completely  worthless,  but  we
already knew that; its just more apparent now.

     To tell you the truth, I really don't know how to go about fixing
this problem.  Does anybody have any ideas?

Gelbarion:

     Can't we just crush them, like Arnold would?

Sysop:

     You know what happened last time, Gelb.

Admiral Asshole:

     Let's burn their dicks off.

Sysop:

     No good.  You can't burn the dick off an electronic impulse.

Wostgheel:

     Leeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeetttttttttt's
     Juuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuusssssssssst
     Shoooooooooooooooooooooooootttttttttt
     Theeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeemmmm!

Sysop:

     No  singing!  This is a NON-musical drama goddamit.  And besides,
they're too small to hit accurately.  No,  I think this  is  going  to
require  DRASTIC  measures.  I think this is going to require...dare I
say it?...a journey into------cyberspace.

All (except Sysop):

     Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh.
     Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

Imaginos:

     Rick Wakeman would make a great soundtrack for this.

Wostgheel:

     You be cool.

Sysop:

     Wostgheel,  you have the most experience with this sort of thing.
Do you think you could take us into cyberspace?

Wostgheel:

     I don't know...that's pretty hard . . .

Sysop:

     Please!  The Gainesville BBS network NEEDS you!

Wostgheel:

     . . . it's very difficult to accomplish properly.  You have to take
all kinds of factors into account . . .

Sysop:

     You can bring your napalm.

Wostgheel:

      . . . but you talked me into it.  When do you want to leave?

Sysop:

     As soon as possible.  Does everybody have enough weapons?

     Everyone assembled pulls out some kind of deadly  weapon  of  one
sort  or  another.  There  is  enough  armament present to make Saddam
Hussein drool with delight.

Sysop:

     Great! Wostgheel, do your stuff.

     There is a  ominous  silence  as  all  eyes  turn  to  Wostgheel.
Wostgheel  closes  his  eyes  and the room begins to change.  Here and
there,  little things change shape:  the slime mold turns into a fuzzy
squirrel  and  runs  away.  The  sofa  turns  into  a giant lizard who
scurries away with fear.  In the center of the room,  a slowly turning
vortex  takes  shape.  Looking  into  the  vortex,  one can see a deep
blackness that is broken only by occasional pulses of light.

Wostgheel:

     Okay, everybody.  Into the vortex!

Gelbarion:

     I don't know about this . . .

Sysop:

     Gelbarion!  That is a very UN-Arnold like thing to say.

     Gelbarion jumps into the vortex.  Wostgheel goes  in  after  him,
followed by Imaginos,  Admiral Asshole, and Sysop, who states "They're
doomed," before jumping in.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
                               PART -II-

                              Cyberspace
----------------------------------------------------------------------

     Our  Heroes manifest inside Sysop's computer.  It looks like they
are floating above New York City at night.  It's beautiful.  There are
uncountable lights, of all colors everywhere.  Flashes of light,  like
photons  of all colors of the spectrum,  travel along great subways of
circuitry.  Our Heroes are awestruck.

Imaginos:

     Wow, man!  That's cooooooooooooooooool!

Wostgheel:

     You'll get used to it.  NOT!

Imaginos:

     I wanna STAY here.

Wostgheel:

     NOT!

Sysop:

     It's beautiful.

Gelbarion:

     Arnold would approve.

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Yawn.

Admiral Asshole:

     Where's my AK-47??? My hand grenades?

Wostgheel:

     All your earthly possessions have been "translated" into  a  form
that befits our environment.  For instance, this is my napalm:

     Wostgheel holds up about 20 hot pink cubes that say "Norton  Disk
Doctor" on them.

     Admiral Asshole searches his pockets and comes up with some cubes,
similarly colored that say "FORMAT.COM" He finds another cube, colored
green, that says "VMS Operating System" on it.

Sysop:

     Jesus, Admiral A!  That'll KILL them!  VMS...scary.

     Gelbarion pulls out a pink cube that  says  "FluShot+".  Imaginos
finds  that  his  hand  gun  has turned into "REBOOT.COM" and that his
Rambo Knife has turned into "QBBS.EXE".

Imaginos:

     Oh my GOD!  If that doesn't kill them,  I don't know  what  will!
Ooooooooh!  He  puts it back in his pocket and wipes the slime off his
hands.

Sysop:

     We'd  better  get  going.  The  way my computer has been behaving
after they were here, it's likely to power down any second.

     As if on cue (in fact  it  IS  on  cue,  this  is  a  screenplay,
remember?)  the  loud  hum that has been in everyone's ears since they
got here dies down and the lights begin to dim.

Sysop:

     Oh shit!  That happened as if it was waiting for me to say that!

Imaginos:

     It was, didn't you read the script!

Sysop:

     Who had TIME man!  I do have a *REAL* job, you know.

Wostgheel:

     Might I suggest that we get the hell out of here?

     Our heroes move from drive A:  into drive  C:.  Drive  C  is  not
nearly  as  pretty as drive A since George and Joe were here.  Instead
of light,  there is darkness  everywhere.  The  little  bastards  have
written  graffiti on the drive head:  "You suck,  we rule!  Heheheheh!
We'll teach you to kill US!  Muahahahahah!"

Wostgheel:

     We have to get to the modem!   It's our only hope!

Sysop:

     This way!!!

     They follow Sysop into the serial port, where the lights are on
again, but are dimming rapidly!

Sysop:

     Quick!  We'll follow the parity bit to the modem!

     They  hop  on  the back of a green pulse of light and are whisked
away into Sysop's modem.

Imaginos:

     Help us Obi-Wan-K-ZModem, you're our only hope!

Wostgheel:

     Stop being silly and dial the VAX!

Imaginos:

     Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep!

Sysop:

     We're doomed.

Imaginos:

     Don't start that shit again, or I'll start skipping!

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Where's Rusty the Bailiff when you need him?

     They enter the phone lines and are whisked away . . .

----------------------------------------------------------------------
                               Part III

                                The VAX
----------------------------------------------------------------------

     They arrive in a place that looks similar to Sysop's computer but
is a WHOLE lot bigger.

Imaginos:

     Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhooooooooooooooo!

Admiral Asshole:

     Shut up or they'll hear you!

Everyone else (in unison):

     NOT!

     There are packets of information flying everywhere.  Most of them
are multi-colored,  but a scary majority of them have become corrupted
and are pitch black.

Wostgheel:

     Shit, if I had a shotgun, we could go skeet shooting!

Sysop:

     Guys!  We're here for a PURPOSE!  Remember, we're here to kill--

Imaginos:

     Killkillkillkillkillkillkill!

Sysop:

     --those two little pricks.  I can see they've already been here.

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     I don't mean to be the bringer  of  bad  news,  but  those  black
packets  are  becoming  more  and  more  frequent.  If they get to the
Internet, I don't even want to THINK about the damage they could do.

Sysop:

     Can't we stop them?  There has to be a way!

Wostgheel:

     We can't stop the individual packets, but we CAN find the source
of them and destroy it.  [ He turns to Beopunk ]  If you were a virus,
what would be the place you would infect!

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     You're nuts!!!  [ Pun intended,  ed.  ]  There  are  HUNDREDS  of
possible places . . .

Wostgheel:

     But which would be the most likely?

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Ooooooooh!  I  don't  KNOW!  Why  do  *I*  always  get  the  hard
questions . . .

Wostgheel:

     Beo . . .

     Beopunk's face turns to a look of fear.

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Oh shit.  They've infected the FTP program!!!

Imaginos:

     We must find it!

Sysop:

     Lead the way, Beo.

     Our Heroes go through innumerable subdirectories (which is scary,
this is VMS,  remember?  MSDOS forever!).  As they  float  about,  the
black  packets  become more and more abundant.  They almost run into a
couple of them.  At last, they arrive at the proper directory.

     The FTP program image lies  before  them.  It's  a  scary-looking
structure, that is emanating black packet upon black packet.

Admiral Asshole:

     Stand back!  I'm going to nuke it with my VMS cube!

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Noooo!  It's  immune  to  that!  Besides  we  will  need  it  for
[ominous pause] the FINAL BATTLE.  Imaginos!  Reboot it!  Quick!

Imaginos (blushing slightly while putting one finger in his mouth):

     Ummmmmmm.  I can't.

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     WHY THE HELL NOT?!?!?!

Imaginos (still blushing):

     I already used it . . .

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     On what?

Imaginos (STILL blushing, eyes cast downward):

     Ummmm.  On myself.  It's better than valium . . .

Sysop:

     We're doomed.

Admiral Asshole:

     STOP THAT!

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Well,  I have this cube here that says ProDOS on it,  but it  may
not be powerful enough . . .

Wostgheel:

     Don't talk! USE IT!!

     Beopunk throws the shit-brown cube labeled ProDOS into the image.
Almost  immediately,  the  black  packets  stop.  The  remaining black
packets get sucked into a void of nothingness  that  manifests  within
the  image.  Our Heroes notice that they,  too,  are being sucked into
it.

Sysop:

     Shit!  We're being sucked in with the black packets!

Imaginos:

     It just  goes  to  show  you  that  ProDOS  is  too  horrible  to
contemplate.

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     SHUT UP!

Wostgheel:

     Ummm, guys, we need to get out of here before we all become files
marked for deletion . . .

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     To the modems!

Imaginos:

     Yahoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Admiral Asshole:

     When do we get to kill something??!?!!

Imaginos:

     Just be quiet and fasten your seatbelt.

     Beopunk Cyberwulf leads the way to the modems.  When they arrive,
they notice that the black packets are almost gone.

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     I hope we get the right one.

Wostgheel:

     What happens if we don't?

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     We'll end up on the Internet.

Sysop:

     Oh shit.

     They pick one of the modems and fly into it.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
                               Part -IV-

                             The Internet

**********************************************************************
ALERT:
------

     At his point,  our intrepid staff of authors has been  increased.
As you know Marimaxx and Imaginos usually write these little gems, but
we  here  are Dedaparamaxxaginos productions are proud to announce the
arrival of Morgan Bluejeans and Tempus (as in Fugit [pronounced  fuhg-
it]).  From  here on out,  parody fans,  it can only get stranger.  Do
not attempt to  adjust  your  monitor/terminal/DECWriter,  we  are  in
control.

        We control the horizontal.

        -<->-+-!!!.bork.bork.bork

        We control the vertical.

        ||               \
        <>                \
        <>  ( o )          \
        ++             ^    |
        <>  ( o )          /
        <>               /
        ||             /

        We control the cows.

                                   (__)
                                   (oO)
                            /-------\/  ---("How much for de wimmen?")
                           / ::     :
                          *  ::@\--::
                             ^^    ^^
**********************************************************************

----------------------------------------------------------------------

THE SCENE:

     Our intrepid (read: DRUNK) heroes now stand in the Main Stream of
the Internet [**NOTE:  This is probably the first, last, and only time
that  Beopunk  Cyberwulf  will  be  referred to as "mainstream" in ANY
Dedaparamaxxaginos Production.  So if you are going to capture ANY  of
this story, or echo it to your printer, NOW is a good time.***]

     The vastness of the Network links overwhelms Admiral Asshole, who
is  used  to  lording  over tiny little systems like the "Please Don't
Bubble Sort BBS",  run on a Timex Sinclair with 2K of RAM  and  ASCII-
only transfer protocol.  He begins to sob uncontrollably.

Admiral Asshole:

     It...It...It's so big!

Imaginos:

     Yeah, that's what your mother said.

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     It's big, alright. But don't let it intimidate you. Most of it is
just wasted space.....like HIM! (he points to Gelbarion)

Gelbarion:

     Huh? (He strikes and Arnold-ish thinking pose)

[***NOTE:  "Arnold-ish thinking pose"  is  actually  the  grand  prize
winner   of   the  Dedaparamaxxaginos  Productions  in-house  Oxymoron
Contest.  Shortly after  coining  the  phrase,  Morgan  Bluejeans  was
awarded  his prize:  a beer.  There were hearty handshakes all around,
and much rejoicing.  Then Imaginos came along,  slammed a surplus WYSE
terminal into the side of Bluejeans's head, and stole the prize.***]

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Exactly.

Sysop:

     Well,  let's see now.  Hmmmmm.  (He pulls from his pocket a faded
copy  of  "Hitchhiker's  Guide  to  the  InterNet."  The torn cover is
illustrated:  a blindfolded smileyface with a cigarette in  its  mouth
and  a  single, bloody bullet hole in its forehead.  Underneath is the
guidebook motto "We're doomed.")

Wostgheel (looking over his shoulder):

     YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUU
     KNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWW,
     (sees the others stare at him in annoyance, with more weaponry
that he has)
     er...You know, We always DID wonder where you came up with that
phrase.

Sysop:

     It's on my family coat of arms.

Wostgheel:

     We believe it.

Sysop (quickly scanning the book):

     Well,  it's  to assume that they're going to AVOID the MODERATED
newsgroups.

Imaginos:

     So are we. (loud belch)

Wostgheel:

     Well said. We agree.

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Howzabout we just head 'em off at alt.sex?  Little  weenies  like
that always head there eventually.

Imaginos:

     So are we.

Wostgheel:

     Well said.  We agree.

Imaginos:

     You know, we seem to be skipping here--

Sysop (turning in mild annoyance):

     "PKUNZIP Imaginos."

Imaginos:

     OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWW!

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     It seems we don't NEED Rusty here.

Sysop:

     Nah. I know a FEW tricks, 'Punk.

Gelbarion:

     Punks? Where?
     (he turns in an Arnold-ish pose of vigilance.)

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Oh,  shut  up.  He meant me.  "'Punk" equals "Beopunk Cyberwulf".
Get it? (he rolls his eyes.) There are NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO punks here.

Disembodied Voices (off-stage):

     Speak for yourself.

Sysop:

     We're doomed.

Disembodied Voices (STILL off-stage):

     Nice motto.

Admiral Asshole:

     Shut  up!!  (He wheels around looking for the voices,  FORMAT.COM
cubes in hand.  Strapped to his belt,  the VMS bomb  makes  small  but
menacing noises).

Disembodied Voices:

     Over here, Asshole.

Admiral Asshole (through clenched teeth):

     That's my name.  (He fires off a few FORMAT.COM cubes.  Somewhere
in Ohio,  a small semi-public access UNIX  system  dies  messily,  its
spectacular  sparking affects accompanied by a loud whine akin to that
of a Jewish-American-Princess Convention  on  a  humid  day  in  Miami
Beach.)

[***NOTE:  Before  anti-Semitic  accusations  are  hurled  willy-nilly
against  the  staff  of  Dedaparamaxxaginos Productions,  it should be
noted that  Morgan  Bluejeans,  who  conceived  and  typed  that  last
metaphor, is in fact Jewish, and lacks the foreskin to prove it.***]

Disembodied Voices:

     You missed.

     (They step into the light provided by  a  passing  Elf  Sternberg
posting,  and  are revealed as ghostly Net simulacrums of Joe Blow and
George Tush,  as anyone with the brain of a trout would have deduced a
full page ago.  Our heroes, however, sharing a full brain between them
as the result of overconsumption of fermented grains, gawk and gape.)

Joe Blow Virus:

     And you won't get a second chance. Nyah!

     (He  throws a bag into the air.  It bursts,  spraying a fine dust
into the air.)

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Aw, shit, man! A virus! Duck!

(At this point,  all the heroes except for Gelbarion duck.  Ducking is
a very UN-Arnold-ish thing to do,  you see, and Gelbarion would rather
have his testicles removed with an acetylene blowtorch than  duck  and
hide from a cloud of glowing motes, even glowing motes that give off a
sinister, keening wail)

Gelbarion:

     Saint Arnold, protect me!

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Get down, you macho idiot!

     (He grabs the black-clad Arnold-clone and drags him face-down
into the "ground".)

Sysop:

     We're doo--

Wostgheel (holding an "NDD" cube to Sysop's head):

     We would suggest you refrain from saying that again.

(All this ducking,  chattering,  and macho posing is to no avail.  Our
heroes,  one and all,  are covered  in  "The  Dust."  MUAAAAHAHAHAHAH!
[***NOTE:  At this point,  it would perhaps be a good idea to have The
Alan Parsons' Project "Tales of Mystery and Imagination" CD running in
the background. Trust us.***])

Imaginos (sniffing at the dust):

     Anybody got a little spoon?

(It is then that our heroes notice that---DUM DUM DA DUM!--nothing has
happened...)

Blow-Virus and Tush-Virus:

     HAHAHAHAH! You fell for it! You idiots!

Tush-Virus (nudging Blow-Virus):

     Hey! This is better than a Tesla Coil!

Blow-Virus:

     Huh?

Tush-Virus:

     Never mind. You had to be there.

[***NOTE:  There was a brief pause here as Morgan Bluejeans and Tempus
Fugit,  two  Latin  scholars,  almost  came  to blows over whether the
correct plural of "virus" should be spelled "viri" or "virii". Wisely,
Dedaparamaxx suggested consulting a nearby medical dictionary,  which,
being many years old,  prompted our authors to  use  "viruses."  After
much  wailing  and  gnashing  of  teeth,  MBJ  and Tempus sat down and
settled for glaring at each other and  occasionally  muttering  "Gluba
me"  in each other's general direction.  From there out it was decided
that all occurrences  of  the  word  "viruses"  would  be  immediately
followed by the token "(dammit)." Imaginos  and  Dedaparamaxx  settled
for  drinking another beer apiece to the tune of "Piranha",  and after
several moments,  all four authors  continued  to  create  their  High
Weirdness...***]

(The VIRUSES (dammit) dance around for several moments laughing at and
taunting the Assembly of Alcohol-Enhanced Cyberspace Warriors,  before
skipping off in a random direction.)

VIRUSES (dammit):

     Yoooooooou can't caaaaaaatch ussssssssss!
     Yoooooooou can't caaaaaaatch ussssssssss!

Wostgheel (sniffing):

     They can sing but We can't?

Sysop:

     Shut  up.   We   have   to   catch   them   before   they   wreck
telecommunications all over the world!

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Or,   at  the  very  least,  generate  nonsense  newsgroups  like
"alt.romper.room" or "alt.we.dont.need.no.steenkeen.moderators"

Sysop:

     Yeah.

Wostgheel:

     LEEEEEEEEEEEEET'S
     JUUUUUUUUUUSSST
     FRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGMEEEEEEEEEEEEENTT---

Admiral Asshole (clutching the VMS Bomb menacingly):

     Shut up, man, or I'll set this thing off!

Wostgheel (under his breath):

     AAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSSSHOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEE!

Gelbarion:

     It's  hard  to  be  sinister  and  Arnold-like  when  your  black
motorcycle jacket is covered in this glowing purple dust.

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     I grieve for you.  Now let's go.

(They  all  scramble  to  their feet,  except for Imaginos who is busy
scraping up dust into his palm and shoving  it  into  his  pocket  for
later  consumption.  Finally,  though,  Sysop  grabs  Imaginos  by the
shoulders).

Sysop:

     Remember, Imaginos: THEY have the dust.

(There is a Speedy Gonzalez sound and Imaginos  tears  off  after  the
viruses  (dammit).  With Road Runner puff-clouds trailing behind,  the
rest of the Assembly of Pickled Purple  People  Peelers  chases  after
him.  The chase ensues,  carrying our heroes down a side trail off the
InterNet main feed.  Around them,  the environment shifts from  "pure"
cyberspace to a vaguely familiar starfield.)

Overvoice:

     Space...the final frontier--

Imaginos:

     Shit! I HATE Star Trek!

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Not so loud, man.

Admiral Asshole:

     Yeah! Jesus! You want to get our DICKS burned off or something?!?

Imaginos:

     Well, actually---

Sysop:

     We're doomed.

Wostgheel:

     Where are We anyway?

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     (Opens his mouth to answer, then pauses in thought.)
     Do you mean US "we" or YOU "we"?

Wostgheel:

     Not quite sure. Sometimes, We have trouble distinguishing.

Sysop:

     (Starts  to make a comment,  thinks better of it,  and closes his
mouth).

[***NOTE: This is FORESHADOWING.  Remember it.***]

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Well,  anyway,  it's  gotta be part of the rec.arts.sf hierarchy.
Let's just pass through the newsgroup wall and find out.

(Our Heroes just now notice the softly glowing wall in front of them.)

Imaginos:

     Is there a door?
     (He holds out his foot.)

Sysop:

     "PKUNZIP Imaginos"

Imaginos:

     OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!

Sysop:

     No. There's no door.

Gelbarion:

     Good. Arnold would not need a door, and we do not either.

Admiral Asshole:

     I could BLOW it open.
     (He holds out the VMS bomb)

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Dude,  if  you  do  that,  you will TRASH rec.arts.sf and all the
weaponry in the world won't save you  from  "Dead  IV:  The  Wrath  of
Trekkies."

     (He turns to Sysop)
     You wanna do this or should I?

Sysop (nodding):

     Allow me.
     (He turns back to the wall).
     "SUBSCRIBE"

(There  is  a  small  humming  noise  and  part  of  the  wall becomes
transparent.  Following an article,  our heroes enter  the  starfield.
As  they  pass  through  the  barrier,  however,  each of them feels a
tingling sensation.)

Sysop:

     Wow! That was strange.

Imaginos:

     Yeah.

     (The others turn around and see that he  is  not  moving;  simply
standing on the threshold, smiling).

Admiral Asshole:

     OK. Let's get our bearings.  Anybody wanna volunteer to recon?

Imaginos:

     Yeah.  Let's go find the little fuckers. (His voice cracks on the
last word.  The others resist laughing.  They  all  walk  together.  A
large Galaxy-class starship passes overhead.)

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Well, that confirms it.  We're in--

Imaginos (His voice is VERY nasally and squeaky now):

     HELP ME!

(The  others turn.  Wearing Imaginos' clothes is an Imaginos-sized Wil
Wheaton.  He clutches at his throat in surprise.)

Sysop:

     Holy shit! He's turning into Wesley Crusher!

Imaginos:

     My pubic hair is falling out!

(Suddenly, all background noise in the immediate vicinity STOPS!)

Off-stage voice:

     DID YOU SAY WEASELEY?!?

                   (There is a sound of phaser fire)

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Ah, shit!
     (at this, his voice, too, begins to shift up a few octaves)

Sysop:

     rec.arts.sf, my ass! We're in alt.ensign.wesley.die.die.die!

Off-stage voice:

     THAT'S RIGHT, YOU LITTLE DWEEB!

                    (the phaser fire draws closer)

Sysop:

     RUN!!!

Wostgheel:

     RUN?!?  (his  voice  actually cracks) Not until we save the ship!
     (his hands fly to his mouth with a gasp of horror)

Admiral Asshole (now looking like  Wil  Wheaton  in  plaid  workshirt,
                 ragged jeans, and a Dick Tracy baseball cap):

     Motherfuckers! They led us into a trap!

Gelbarion  (now looking like Wil Wheaton in black fatigue pants and "US
                ARMY RANGERS" T-shirt):

     Arnold would not run!

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     You ain't Arnold,  you twit.  You're Wesley-Fucking-Crusher,  and
you'd better get used to the idea and fucking RUN, OK??!!??

(A phaser blast set on "puree" liquifies a stray bit near  Gelbarion's
head.)

Gelbarion:

     Well, maybe just this once.

(The heroes run.)

Wostgheel:

     How's  about  We just shift the shadows?  (He leaps high into the
air.  A well-aimed phaser blast  set  on  "Vienna  Choir  Boy"  barely
misses his genitalia).

Admiral Asshole:

     Sounds  like  a  plan.  (He  dodges a phaser blast set on "Really
Messy Death".  Then he turns to  Wostgheel)  WHAT  THE  FUCK  ARE  YOU
WAITING FOR!?!?!?!?!?

Sysop:

     (He ducks a phaser blast set on "existential melancholy")  NOOOO!

(This is in a very high pitch.  In fact, by now all of our heroes have
been transformed into WEASELY,  errr,  WESLEY CRUSHER like parodies of
themselves).

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     ACK!  (he  does  a  double  somersault  and escapes a bout with a
phaser blast set on "OH, WOW") That would be a BAAAAAAAD idea!

Wostgheel:

     (He does a triple back flip, landing on Gelbarion's shoulders, to
avoid  a  dangerously  well-aimed  phaser  blast  set  on  "occasional
irregularity") Why not?  That's what GOT us here!

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     You've been contaminated, man!  Who knows what the effect of this
virus  will  be  in the real world!  What if we don't change back...or
worse yet, what if we translate into 'Noles!??!?!?

Sysop:

     EEEEEEEEEK!  Anything but 'Noles!

Gelbarion:

     FSU...Thhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb!

Wostgheel:

     We see your point.

Offstage voice which comes, oddly enough, from off stage:

     This is better than the death scene in Toy Soldiers!!

Another offstage voice:

     Nah!  The leeches in Stand By Me were better!

First Offstage voice:

     NOT!

Third offstage voice:

     You know guys, maybe Weasely isn't so bad after all.

First and second offstage voices in unison:

     WHAT!?!?!?!?!?!

     (There is the sound of  offstage  phaser  fire.  You  don't  even
wanna KNOW what these are set to!)

Third offstage voice:

     Joke!  Joke!

Fourth offstage voice:

     Set phasers to "maximum flame!"

Fifth offstage voice:

     NOT!  Set phasers to "very painful disembowelment"

First, second, fourth, and fifth offstage voices:

     (They fire in unison and shout) ASSHOLE!!!

Admiral Asshole:

     (Stepping  out  from  behind a DMA chip) What?!?!?  (He is nearly
pulverized by a phaser blast set to "Roseanne Barr in a  tub  of  lime
jello",  but  is  pulled  out  of the way in the nick of time [not the
Randy or the Fred of time] by an offstage HAND)

Sysop:

     Asshole!  Are you okay!??!

Admiral Asshole (panting):

     No you idiot,  I'm fucking Wesley Crusher!  But other  than  that
I'm in one piece.

Imaginos:

     You're fucking Wesley Crusher!?!?  Stay away from me...

Voice attached to offstage hand:

     Could you all PLEASE just shut up?  I'm trying to save you.

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     We're in alt.ensign.wesley.die.die.die, we look like Wil Wheaton,
and  you're  trying to save us?!?  You must be a cabbage or something.
Either that or . . .

Sysop:

     No, it can't be . . .

Wostgheel:

     He's . . .

All (in unison):

     AN EXPENDABLE CREWMAN!!!!!

Voice steps into the light:

     Yes (he hangs his head in shame).  So far this season, I've died
twelve times...I'm actually a production assistant on the show, but I
read this newsgroup.

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Sad.

Wostgheel:

     Indeed.

Expendable Crewman:

     Anyway,  I've tossed in my jibe  here  and  there,  but  I  never
thought they would take things THIS far.  So let's go.

All (in unison):

     But where shall we go?!?!

Sysop:

     'Punk,  you  know  this place better than any of us.  Where would
you go?

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     I don't know...

Sysop:

     Come on, dude, we're counting on you.

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     I just don't know...

Sysop:

     Stop saying you don't know!!!

Beopunk Cyberwulf (a little light bulb appears above his head):

     That's it!!!  (He turns to Sysop) Where would you go if you had a
question you needed answered?

Imaginos:

     Miss Manners?

Wostgheel:

     William Safire?

Admiral Asshole:

     Dr. Ruth?

Gelbarion:

     ARNOLD!!!!

Sysop (slapping head in frustration):

     SHIT!  If  it  were  a  cow  it would have bitten me!  The USENET
ORACLE!

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Exactly.

All (except Beo and Sysop):

     OF COURSE!

Beopunk Cyberwulf (turning to Expendable Crewman):

     Plot a course for alt.humor.oracle.  Make it so.

Expendable Crewman:

     Course plotted, sir!

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Engage!

     Our Heroes suddenly find themselves being whisked away through  a
gate  of  light  on a carpet of digital signals.  They are bounced off
several satellite relays,  in  and  out  of  many  UNIX  systems,  and
eventually are deposited at the foot of a great, golden altar.

Imaginos:

     Wow!  What a rush.

Admiral Asshole:

     Someone stop the floor from moving, please.

Sysop:

     Would anyone hold it against me if I said, "We're doomed."

All (in unison):

     YES!

Great Booming Offstage Voice:

     GODDAMIT!

                         (The altar trembles)

Sysop (whispering):

     Oh, we are SO fucking doomed.

GBOV:

     Could you guys KEEP IT DOWN!?!?!?  Lisa and I are BUSY!

Imaginos:

     Lisa?

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     The net.sex.goddess...also the USENET Oracle's steady squeeze.

                     (there is offstage giggling)

Offstage Feminine Voice:

     Gee, Orie, THAT's never happened before.  But don't worry, I'm
sure it's only temporary.

GBOV:

     It had BETTER BE!

Beopunk Cyberwulf (shouting toward the offstage fornicators):

     Oh, Great Oracle...

Sysop:

     You, who are so very big...

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     You, who are so absolutely HUGE...

Sysop:

     Gosh, we're all really impressed down here...

[***NOTE:  This  is  obviously  a BLATANT plug for Monty Python's "The
Meaning of Life." In fact,  get thee immediately hence  to  rent  that
wonderful film; it is only wafer thin.  We will wait.***]

Gelbarion:

     He doesn't look so tough to me.

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Shut up!

Sysop:

     We're doomed.

GBOV:

     What's that you say?!

Gelbarion (as Sysop and BPCW frantically try to shush him):

     I said "You don't look so tough to me!"

GBOV:

     Who  the  hell  do  you  think  you  are??  You're supposed to be
grovelling.

Wostgheel:

     Indeed, even WE can see that grovelling is in order.

Gelbarion:

     I  am  a  graduate of the Arnold Schwarzenegger School of Looking
German and Being Tough, and I do NOT grovel.

Sysop:

     Oh great Oracle,  whose nipples I am not fit to  pinch,  we  have
become infected with a horrible,  ghastly, completely yucky virus that
makes us look and talk like  Wil  Wheaton.  Oh,  great  Oracle,  whose
zipper I am unfit to zip, canst thou cure us of this wretched illness?

And in response, thus spake the Oracle:

     I'm  not  sure  whether you are grovelling or insulting,  but the
Oracle, taking pity on thee in this, thy hour of need,  shall cure you
of this virus.

     There  is a blinding light that leaves Our Heroes,  well,  blind.
As their vision clears,  they see that they have been transformed from
the Assembly of Annoying Adolescent Nerds into the Assembly of Heavily
Armed Vigilante Sub-Processes.

Oracle:

     Is  there anything else?  (He turns to BPCW and Sysop).  You two.
You grovel rather well.  I like you, even though you interrupted my...

Offstage Feminine Voice:

     Oh, Orie!

Oracle:

     ...well,  you  get  the idea.  Anyway,  we have time for one last
grovel.

Gelbarion:

     I will NOT grovel.  Nay,  for the Great Saint  Arnold  would  not
Grovel.

Sysop:

     Well maybe HE can't grovel,  but I can!  Oh,  great Oracle, whose
nose hairs I would gladly trim with mine own teeth.  Oh, great Oracle,
whose earwax I am not worthy to sniff.  Oh,  great Oracle,  I  beseech
thee...[remember  the  foreshadowing???]...I  beseech thee...[he turns
rapidly  to  Wostgheel  and  trumpets  blare   in   fanfare   in   the
background]...WHY  THE  FUCK  DOES  HE  ALWAYS  TALK  IN  FIRST PERSON
PLURAL?!?!

Wostgheel (shocked, and in a heavy French accent):

     Nous? [French for the plural of "moi?"]

Imaginos:

     No, you mean MOO!

Oracle:

     The Oracle has considered your question.  Your question was  "Why
the  fuck  does he always talk in first person plural?" And the answer
is:  "He  multitasks."  Pause.   "You  owe  the  Oracle...a  one  year
membership in the 'Sub-Process of the Month Club!'"

Sysop:

     No way!

Wostgheel:

     Indeed.  You could have just asked Us, We would have told you.

Sysop:

     Do you use DesqView?

Wostgheel:

     Windows.

Sysop:

     You're doomed.

Wostgheel:

     So We are told.

Admiral Asshole:

     All the time!

Imaginos:

     Without pause!

Gelbarion:

     There will be no grovelling as long as *I* am around.

Sysop:

     Shut UP Gelb!

Gelbarion:

     Arnold does not grovel for ANYONE.

Oracle (turning to Gelbarion):

     You.  I do not like you.  You are beginning to piss me off.

Gelbarion:

     I will CRUSH you.

Sysop:

     Shut UP, Gelb!

Gelbarion:

     Hasta la vista, baby.

Oracle:

     You  are  so fucked.  I hereby banish you to the most intolerable
newsgroup on the InterNet.  I hereby banish thee to...

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     No!  Anything but...

Sysop:

     No please!  I'll grovel some more!

Imaginos:

     As long it's not alt.sex.bestiality.hamsters.ducttape.

Oracle:

     No...even worse.  I hereby banish thee to...

                           (trumpets blare)

     alt.swedish.chef.bork.bork.bork!

All except Oracle (in unison):

     NOOOOOOOOO!!!

     And  Our   Heroes   are   whisked   away   into   the   void   of
alt.swedish.chef.bork.bork.bork.

The scene shifts to:

     Our  Heroes walk out of a large glowing gate.  They are frazzled.
Their hair looks funny.  Admiral Asshole's  beard  has  turned  white.
Sysop  looks  like his tongue has gone several rounds with an electric
handshake buzzer.

Imaginos:

     Jesus Christ, that was awful.

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Gelb, you are a DEAD MAN.

Gelbarion:

     Arnold...

Admiral Asshole:

     Shut the fuck up!

Gelbarion:

     ...still would not...

Sysop:

     BE QUIET!!!!!!

Gelbarion:

     ...GROVEL!

Sysop:

     AAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     All right!  All right!  Where do we go from here?

Sysop:

     Thanks to Gelb we STILL don't know where they are.

Blow-Virus (stepping in from offstage):

     Hee hee hee hee hee!  We're right here!!!!

Imaginos:

     They've got more of that dust!  Cool.

Sysop:

     Duck!

Imaginos:

     But they've got the DUST!

     Sysop does a flying tackle and wrestles Imaginos to the ground as
several bags of dust go whizzing overhead.

Imaginos:

     I want DUST!

Sysop:

     Stay DOWN!

Imaginos:

     MORE DUST!!!

Tush-Virus:

     You can not escape!

Blow-Virus:

     Hee hee hee hee hee!  Cackle!

Imaginos:

     DUST!  DUST!  DUST!!!!

     Admiral Asshole stands back and throws a FORMAT.COM cube  at  the
viruses  (dammit).  The  viruses (dammit) manage to get out of the way
and the cube flies into the  void  where  it  immediately  erases  the
makeup on Tammy Bakker's face.

Viruses (dammit), in unison:

     You can't catch us!

     The  viruses  (dammit)  fly  in  circles  around the heads of Our
Heroes.

Admiral Asshole:

     Can I use the VMS cube now!?!?

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     No!!!  Save it for later!

Admiral Asshole:

     But I wanna!!!!

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     NONNONONONONONONO!

Tush-Virus:

     You can't catch us.  Thhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhbbbbbbbbb!

Blow-Virus:

     Follow us, if you dare!

     The viruses (dammit) fly off into the void.

Sysop:

     Well, are we going to follow them?

Wostgheel:

     We may very  well  have  to.  After  listening  to  that  Swedish
Meatball, I don't think I can safely shift the shadows.

Sysop:

     We're...

Wostgheel:

     Don't say it or We'll eat your liver.

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     I vote we go after them.  I'm getting tired of this shit.

Admiral Asshole:

     THEN can I use my VMS cube?

All in unison (except AA):

     ALRIGHT!  NO PROBLEM!  YOU CAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNNNNN!

Admiral Asshole:

     Goody!

They follow the viruses, jumping into the void...

----------------------------------------------------------------------
                               Part -V-

                         The Final Battle at:

                         The Draggin' Tail BBS

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The scene:

     Our Heroes Manifest inside the Draggin' Tail BBS (which,  as  you
will  recall,  has  become  completely  worthless.  Even if Our Heroes
manage to disinfect it,  it will STILL be completely  worthless.  Some
things  never change).  It is a barren void,  much like it used to be.
There are dead messages everywhere, many of them Private Messages left
by horny Siberian Dwarf Teenage Mutant Ninja Samurai  BBS  Girls  from
Hell with Hormones that Go BUMP (or BANG, if you prefer) in the Night.
These messages are a chronological history of puberty,  detailing love
affairs and virginity lost.  Many of them are from  a  Siberian  Dwarf
Teenage  Mutant Ninja Samurai BBS Girl from Hell with Hormones that Go
BUMP in the Night named Persephone.

Imaginos:

     Oh, great.

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Are you SURE we have to save this place?

Imaginos:

     The only interest I have in saving this place is so  that  I  can
have the pleasure of trashing it myself.

**********************************************************************

Cut to:

     A row of terminals.  Many students are hastily finishing  FORTRAN
projects that are due in 27.93487598 seconds.  Dedaparamaxx and Tempus
Fugit   (who,   as   you   will   have  noticed,   are  the  ONLY  two
Dedaparamaxxaginos Productions staff writers who do NOT have a part in
this intense drama [Astute readers may or may not  have  noticed  that
the part of Sysop is in fact played by Morgan Bluejeans].  Well,  this
is  their  bit-part.   They  demanded  it.   We  are  sorry  for   the
inconvenience) are sitting at a terminal.

Dedaparamaxx:

     You know,  Tempus,  do you ever get the feeling that we're just a
story being written?

Tempus:

     Shut up and finish your homework.

**********************************************************************

Cut back to the Draggin' Tail BBS.

Sysop:

     I wonder what the Tyrant of the Tail thinks about this.

Admiral Asshole:

     Who cares.  Lets burn his dick off.

Imaginos:

     If we can find it.  Let's just shove all 60,000 of his modems  up
his ass!

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Wait!  Then people might get busy signals.

All (in unison):

     HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!

Sysop:

     Seriously though, we need to find those little...

Imaginos:

     YEAH!??!!?

Sysop (looking at Imaginos in an annoyed way):

     ...twits before...

Imaginos:

     UH HUH?!!??!

Sysop (looking at Imaginos with unadulterated disgust):

     ...they do any more damage.

Imaginos:

     THAT'S A GOOD ONE!

Sysop:

     "PKUNZIP Imaginos"

Imaginos:

     OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!

Wostgheel:

     You and your dust.

Imaginos:

     I don't have any dust!  I took a shower in the modem.

Wostgheel:

     Oh, hell.

                       (Imaginos simply smiles)

     Suddenly,  and  without  warning,  and  without  any  hint of its
happening before it happened, without ONE SINGLE clue as to the events
about to occur,  without even GOD knowing that it was  about  to  take
place,   without  ANY  FORETHOUGHT  WHATSOEVER,   sans  any  immediate
intelligent guessing on the part of Our Heroes,  the viruses  (dammit)
swoop in from offstage and dive bomb Our Heroes.  Our Heroes duck.

Sysop:

     DAMMIT!!!  There they go!

Wostgheel:

     Let me handle 'em, boys!!

     Wostgheel  bravely  stands up and fires off five NDD cubes.  They
bounce off the tough hides of the viruses (dammit) and  go  sputtering
off  into  the  darkness.  Where  they land,  the previously blackened
portions of the drive head take on a healthy pink glow.

Imaginos:

     Oh,  how cute.  Reminds me of  a  vagina.  I  mean,  Virginia!  I
mean, oh hell, forget it.

     Imaginos  stands  up  and  throws his QBBS.EXE cube high into the
air.  When it reaches apogee,  it bursts into a gigantic ball of slime
that splatters  on the ground and begins  spreading toward the viruses
(dammit).

Blow-Virus:

     OUCH!

Tush-Virus:

     Goddamit!  They've turned my favorite BBS  into  a  QBBS  system!
Now   how   can  I  keep  four,   pubescent,   message  threads  going
simultaneously?

Imaginos:

     HAHAHAHHA!  Take that you heartless scum!  Ding Dong, the Tail is
dead!  Yeah!

Sysop:

     We've hurt them, guys!  Let me give it a try.

     He discloses his heretofore undisclosed weapon that had  not  yet
been  seen  by  a  single  one  of Our Heroes except Sysop himself:  a
corrupted copy of McAfee an Associates' SCANV90.  He hurls it  in  the
general  direction  of the viruses (dammit).  It makes small,  farting
noises.  It strikes the Tush-virus on the tush.

Tush-Virus:

     OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!

     The Blow-virus circles around and begins  throwing  bags  of  the
purple  dust  at the group.  Imaginos steps forward and inhales all of
it.

Imaginos:

     YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Wostgheel:

     Awww,  Jesus Christ!  Dress  him  up,  but  you  can't  take  him
anywhere.

Imaginos  (his  eyes  are WIDE OPEN and his expression would make Jack
Nicholson gape in awe):

     DUST!  DUST!  DUST!

Sysop:

     Somebody tie him up!

Wostgheel:

     He'd like it too much.

Imaginos:

     DUST!  DUST!  DUST!

Obi-Wan-K-ZModem (from offstage):

     Use the VMS bomb, Asshole!

Bill Gates (from offstage):

     NO!  It's not a Microsoft Product,  and it doesn't run well under
Windows!

Imaginos:

     DUST!  DUST!  DUST!  I *LIKE* looking through windows!

Sysop:

     "PKUNZIP Imaginos"

     Maybe  it's  the  dust,  maybe  Imaginos  is just too weird,  but
something happens when Sysop PKUNZIP's him.

     Imaginos begins to uncompress.

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     I think I'm going to be sick.

Sysop:

     Point him the OTHER way!!!

     Imaginos  begins  to  grow.  And  grow.  And  grow!  Soon  he  is
towering  over  the  rest  of  Our Heroes.  The Blow- and Tush-viruses
(dammit) simply gape.

Imaginos:

     Ahhhhhh!  G'day mates!  Now you get to know what it's like when I
chase cockroaches.  You get to know,  know VERY WELL,  the  fear;  the
fear  of  being chased.  Being chased by:  A TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY TON
FOOT.

     Imaginos removes his right shoe.

Everyone (except Imaginos) in unison:

     HOLY SHIT!!!  RUN!!!!!!  AAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Imaginos:

     See!  It even scares the good ones!  And they didn't even do
anything...

     Imaginos begins running in the general direction of  the  viruses
(dammit).  BOOM!   BOOM!  BOOM!  With  every  POUNDING  footstep,  the
circuits in  the  Draggin'  Tail  shake  (of  course  they  ALWAYS  do
that...especially if the lines are full).

Blow- and Tush-viruses (dammit):

     NO!  NO!  ANYTHING BUT THAT!

     Imaginos continues running toward the viruses (dammit),  wiggling
his toes menacingly.

Imaginos:

     You  can  not  escape!   Resistance  is   useless!   Exterminate!
Exterminate!

Blow- and Tush-viruses (dammit):

     We're doomed!

Sysop:

     YES!  Finally, someone other than ME says it and means it!

Wostgheel:

     We're happy for you.  Now cover your eyes before the blast blinds
you.

     Imaginos gets closer and closer  to  the  viruses  (dammit).  The
viruses  (dammit)  are running for their lives,  casting quick glances
over their shoulders every now and then where  they  see  the  ominous
figure of Imaginos's foot coming ever closer:

Imaginos:

     Your master has a labor at the instruments of time!

     Finally,  Imaginos catches up with  the  Blow-virus.  He  catches
Blow between the toes on his un-shoed foot.  Blow begins screaming.

Blow-virus:

     NO!  NO!  STOP!  SOMEBODY HELP ME!

Imaginos:

     You should have thought of that BEFORE you made my  favorite  BBS
go supernova, you little shit!

     Imaginos crushes the Blow-virus between his toes and lets it fall
to the ground,  where it is still alive,  and writhing in pain.  Then,
Imaginos resumes the chase after the Tush-virus.

     Imaginos  catches up with Tush and stomps him into oblivion.  The
Tush-virus is overwhelmed by the  unuseful  smells  being  broadcasted
from Imaginos's foot.

Sysop:

     It's almost too horrible for even THEM.

Wostgheel:

     Well, after that, we can be CERTAIN they won't be back.

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Let's hope so.

Admiral Asshole (weeping uncontrollably):

     I  didn't  even get a CHANCE to burn off their dicks!  Not even a
LITTLE bit of their dicks!

Sysop:

     Your chance with come Admiral A.  Just wait.

     Imaginos puts back on his shoe and comes trotting back up to  the
Group.

Sysop:

     Good  work,  dude!  It's  about  time someone put that thing to a
good use.

Imaginos (sobbing):

     No more dust.  Sigh.

Sysop:

     "PKZIP Imaginos"

     As suddenly as he grew, Imaginos is restored to his normal size.

Imaginos:

     Well, I guess that wraps up THOSE guys!

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     NOT QUITE!  Look!  They're still moving.

     Our Heroes turn and stare at the viruses  (dammit),  refusing  to
believe  that  ANYONE could have survived such an ordeal as being THAT
CLOSE to Imaginos's foot.

Imaginos:

     Give me a can of RAID!  I'll fix that!

Sysop (putting a restraining hand on Imaginos's shoulder):

     No, dude.  This one belongs to Admiral A.

     Admiral  Asshole  smiles gleefully and unclasps the VMS cube that
is attached to his belt.  He looks at it for a minute, and then throws
it high into the air.  When it reaches the apex of its trajectory,  it
bursts  into  THOUSANDS  of  multi-colored  sparks  that  float slowly
downward.

Sysop:

     Wostgheel!  Get us out of here quickly!

     Wostgheel closes his eyes and the shadows begin to shift.  Within
moments,  Our Heroes find themselves standing in front of the Draggin'
Tail BBS's main terminal: a TRS-80 Model I.

Sysop:

     Oh, shit!  Get it out of my sight!

Imaginos:

     Can I ring the electric piezzo buzzer?

Sysop:

     NO!

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     GADS!  Look at the screen!

     Our  Heroes  turn  to  look at the screen.  The TRS-80 is listing
sub-processes on the screen!

Sysop:

     Oh my God!  The Draggin' Tail has been formatted with VMS!

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     Not only that,  but the viruses [dammit] have  been  turned  into
tiny little sub-processes!

Sysop:

     It can't BE!  It thought they were dead.

     Beopunk Cyberwulf examines the screen more closely.

Beopunk Cyberwulf:

     They might as well be.  Look, they don't have any privileges!

     Everyone looks at the screen and sees that this is so.

Sysop:

     Well, guys!  I guess that just about wraps this one up!

Gelbarion:

     Yeah!  Let's all go home and watch Terminator II.

Sysop:

     Please, Gelb, I was thinking more of some SLEEP!

Imaginos:

     DUST!  DUST!  DUST!

----------------------------------------------------------------------

                               EPILOGUE

----------------------------------------------------------------------

     Our  Heroes all returned to their respective domiciles where they
consumed much beer and many many drugs,  and slept  for  a  very  long
time.

     Imaginos  went  to Kash and Karry and raided the meat department.
All that compress/decompress stuff had made him VERY VERY HUNGRY.

     The Draggin' Tail BBS is still draggin'  its  tail.  It  went  up
again after it was formatted with VMS.  Strangely enough,  no one ever
noticed it was down,  and no one noticed the change in  the  operating
environment.  Just  goes to show you that shit is shit,  no matter how
it smells.  A rose by any other name and all that.

     The  Gainesville BBS network went back to its day-to-day routine,
minus a few,  still-infected systems  that  nobody  ever  cared  about
anyway.

                                THE END

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Coming soon from Dedaparamaxxaginos Productions:

                                DEAD IV

                            REVENGE OF THE

                     SIBERIAN DWARF TEENAGE MUTANT

                   NINJA SAMURAI BBS GIRLS FROM HELL

                      WITH HORMONES THAT GO BUMP

                       (OR BANG, IF YOU PREFER)

                             IN THE NIGHT

                                  (__)
                                  (oO)
                           /-------\/  ---> "23 SkiDoo!"
                          / ::     :
                         *  ::----::
                            ^^    ^^

CREDITS
-------

    Dedaparamaxxaginos Productions (lack-of-good) Management Staff
    --------------------------------------------------------------

     Dedaparamaxx: Head writer, head dum kopf, head head.

     Imaginos: Master of cows and demented thoughts.

     Morgan Bluejeans: Cyberspace expert, maker of "big funnies."

     Tempus Fugit: Latin scholar, possessor of "outrageous French
                   Accent."

              Sometimes, but not all times, staff writers
              -------------------------------------------

     Jeff the Riffer: Evil!  Evil!  Evil!

     Diskwiz: Cyberspace engineer, editor-in-sleep.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
[email-masked]
Bryan Slatner, aka Marimaxx, aka Dedalus, aka Paradox, aka Mongo
President of Dedaparamaxxaginos Productions

If these opinions were the opinions of JenMar International, Inc., I would
own it.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-