Date: 25 Jul 2000 22:01:22 -0000
From: tiffer003@aol.comnoreply (Sailorwhitecastle)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.comics.creative
Subject: LNH/REPOST: Dial M For MPLass # 1

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|\/| FOR 
|  | MPLASS
 
	Issue Number One
	April 1999
	"Dearborn, Here We Come!"

   Robbie L was a lanky man, his bones nearly gnarled and his fingertips cut
sharply, fingertips that now eased their way into place onto the long metal
chain he grasped.  He pulled on it, twice, with a sound that was strangely
satisfying.  He smirked and looked towards Dale K, a stark opposite, big and
brawny.  He was steadying too brass knuckles and was set into his role much
better than Robbie L had been.  Robbie L shrugged a bit, and nodded to Sam K as
he heard footsteps.  Sam K wielded a pocketknife.
   It made its onomatopoetic KA-CLICK in-between two pairs of young footsteps.
   "I really had a good time, Josh."
   "Really, Nancy . . . I'm really sorry about your hair."
   "Oh, it's quite all right  . . . it will come out.  Let's just get home. 
Soon, I hope."
   "What was that?"
   "Oh, nothing, Josh, nothing."
   "Okay, then . . . oops!  That'll stain.  Sorry."
   Sam K, right on schedule, made his move.  He entered sidewalk of Oxford
Street and started gyrating, seemingly uncontrollably.  His right arm hung over
his head, his left arm was outstretched, the knife held backwards, and his
weight shifting back and forth from leg to leg.  "Hey, homes!"
   "My name is Josh," the 17 or 18 year old kid said, pointing a hole into the
air with his finger, speaking with a whistle that resonated thru his braces. 
He adjusted his glasses with his other hand.
   "Hey, homes!  Money, now!"
   "I, eh, that is . . ."
   "Unless you want me to poke out all those zits with Mistuh pocketknife,
homes, we better see some dead presidents, you understand, homes?"
   "My God," Josh said, his elongated Adam's apple quivering in his five foot
body, "it's a poorly-created blaxploitation character!"
   "I think you better give him the money, Josh."
   "But I don't have any money . . . I spent it all at the theatre."
   "Have it your way, homes!"
   Sam K gyrated some more before preparing to stab Josh's pimple-ridden nose. 
Nancy closed her eyes and screamed, "Josh!  Look out!"
   A finger tapped deftly on the shoulder of Sam K.  He turned around to see a
yellow-glove-covered fist make screaming conflict with his fist.  He stepped
back, woozy, and Josh stepped aside.  He hugged Nancy tightly.  Normally, she
would be very uncomfortable.  Not hugging, but hugging Josh.  Just the same, he
held her tightly.
   The elbow of this savior smashed into Sam K's nose, causing him to drop to
the pavement.  She turned around, her fist flying, enraged, as she made contact
with the bulk of Dale K.  He stumbled back slightly, but got back to his feet
quickly, charging at her.  She touched the dial on her belt and twisted it. 
Her eyes flickered back and suddenly, she was on fire: in more ways than one.
   First, flames surrounded her, not burning her costume or her body, and
second, she was on a roll as three punches in quick succession stopped Dale K
cold.  Without so much as a chance to catch her breath, she was on the run
after Robbie L.
   Robbie said, quite simply, "Meep!" 
   That was exactly one second before she thrashed him.
   She looked back a few feet from her, she stepping behind a large oak tree on
Oxford Street, and observed the two victims.  Josh stepped back from her,
shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot.  "Oh, gee . . . I'm sorry
'bout that, Nancy."
   "About what?  Not letting me get hurt?"
   "About hugging you . . . I know you don't like me . . . you don't need to
tell me that . . ."
   Nancy looked down at the two unconscious attackers near them and Robbie L a
few feet away.  "They could have hurt me," she whispered.  She turned to Josh. 
"Hug me again, Josh, hug me again."
   Multiple Personality Lass stepped away from behind the tree, walking down
Oxford Street.  It was just a few blocks from her new home, and she would be
moving in the next day.  Correction: they would be moving in the next day.  Her
figure was strong yet feminine, a sort of Brat Pack era Molly Ringwald with a
push up bra and spandex.  Dearborn, Michigan, was one of those cities that
lacked a hero: of the super variety, of course, and she was bound determined to
fill that role.
   Correction: THEY were bound determined to fill that role.

   The house on Penn Street was two stories tall, with a visible alcove on the
top story leering down.  The sides of the house, painted white and made of
aluminum siding, didn't stretch out to gala mansion style, but it was still a
big house: big enough to fit four children, two adults, three cats and a dog
with plenty of room to spare.  At least that was how the owner had described
it.
   The owner of the house had inherited it, one could say.  He was, usually,
about five four, wearing glasses on a youthful face with the alternating
pumpkin cut-regular cut-unruly crop of hair, and you could bet he was wearing
something inspired by anime, comics, or Michigan State University.  Usually,
that's how he looked.
   Today, however, he was about six feet tall, red headed, with long, curvy
legs that rivaled your average supermodel.  Today, he was a she, or rather, a
they.
   Multiple Personality Lass, or MPLass, were several heroes in one: several
dozen heroes, to be percise, and her personality and powers could change with
the turning of her M dial.  It would turn automatically by itself every once in
a while, but it was the instrument in which the insane masses could become
sane, one at a time.  She put her hands on her hips, still dressed in her
costume, and looked at the house, which stood before her.
   The personality in charge now was the aforementioned lad, whom had coped
quite well with the recent gender-bender he had become the victim of.  He was
known as Anime Freak, he who was armed with the mighty chicken leg, and he whom
had relatives in the sleepy town of Dearborn, Michigan.
   True enough, transforming into a gorgeous red head did put a sort of a
hankering on his social life, but his girlfriend understood.  Mary Winters had
brown hair, long and luxurious, and while she didn't have the supermodel body,
she was still attractive: she was only more modest about it, hiding it a bit. 
That was one of the reasons he was attracted to her when he was a he, and that
he was attracted to her still when he was a she. 
   "I'm glad you chose to move in with us," MPLass said with a brisk smile. 
"This is going to be great."
   "I dunno . . ." Mary said, looking about.  "I don't have much experience
outside fast food."
   "Everything's going to be okay," she replied, taking Mary's hand and kissing
her passionately, "now that we've got each other."  MPLass's eyes flickered
about, and the M dial turned by itself.  The new personality in charge released
from the kiss, and the tenderness for Mary disappeared from her eyes.
   "Ninjas do not fall in love . . . Ninjas kill!"  Performing several ninjistu
kicks, MPLass headed into the house.  Mary sighed, taking one of several boxes
on the front lawn that required unpacking and headed into the house.  It was
going to be a long, long day.
   The ninja remained in control for much of the time that it took to put all
the boxes inside: more of a hindrance then a help as she chopped with her hand
several of the boxes, using her "ninja senses" to detect the weakest point in
the "foul package."
   Hours passed as two of the more cooperative personalities assisted Mary:
Jane, Queen of the Jungle, and Alice.  Alice got right to work with a turn of
the dial, pulling out a few blankets and draping them, with a woman's touch,
over the couch and chairs.  Mary looked at the completed living room, and,
satisfied, plopped down on the couch, half-exhausted.  
   "Should we tackle the kitchen next?"    
   "Sure, why not?" Alice asked with a shrug.  "So, how are you enjoying
Dearborn so far?"
   "I've only been here a few hours," smirked Mary.  "I haven't had enough time
to experience Dearborn.  But . . . maybe what Tom . . . Anime Freak . . . said
was right."
   "Oh?  What did he say?"  As she said, 'Oh', Alice's voice dropped an octave.
 She recovered half way thru 'What did he say?'
   "That everything's going to be okay, as long as we have each other."
   "Oh," Alice said, nodding slightly.  There was a long pause.  "Let's get
back to work, shall we?"

   They had finished the moving process by five o' clock, Mary working with and
against several others, until the house was nearly complete.  MPLass had left
Mary at home at about seven, after eating, to take to the streets, and find out
more about the gang of would-be muggers that she had apprehended earlier last
night.
   One of the possibly most exhilarating aspects of being a hero or vigilante,
as any of them would tell you, is the nightly patrol: the noble thing in which
the hero would go down the streets, looking for trouble, and stopping that
trouble cold.  Just a sort of chill that's sent up your spine as you walk down
the dimly lit streets, fists clenched and eyes ready.  Either that or it's the
fact that in Michigan, it can snow during June and so most of the year it's
incredibly, incredibly cold.  Maybe it WAS that, MPLass decided, as there
seemed to be no trouble nearby.
   She decided to try the next best thing and contacted her local stoolie.
   Justin Scarymann was of about average height, and average constitution.  He
didn't stick out like a sore thumb or any other bad cliché, and though he wore
nearly all black he wasn't strange enough to be "Goth."  He was the quiet type,
the kind of person who was content to go all the way to the back of a classroom
to sit, the one no one really noticed unless he wanted them to notice him.  The
fact that he was so quiet and anti-social granted him free access to Dearborn
and Detroit's more dangerous circles, as he'd listen in and gather information
about heists and killings and gang warfare and the like.  He was ignored, and
so no one saw him jotting down the latest underworld news.  He was the ideal
stool pigeon, and MPLass's first choice.
   He didn't see her as she grabbed him, painfully, by the shirt collar.  "Last
night, Oxford Street, mugging, information, now," she said quickly as she
shoved him against the wall.  He nearly shrieked.
   "Okay, okay, just cool it," Scarymann said, signifying her to back off. 
"Will you put me down?"
   He remained in the air.
   "Okay, fair enough," he said, half-gulping.  "Well, those three wannabe gang
members were part of the Oxford Street Bandits of Red Noose."
   "Red Noose?"
   "Nickname," Scarymann explained quickly.  "For who?  I dunno."
   "You don't know, or you won't tell me?" MPLass said, gritting her teeth. 
She turned the M dial, it clicked, and her eyes rolled.  She dropped Scarymann,
by accident, and looked at him crossly, her eyes beginning to glow with heat of
some sort.
   "I don't know, I don't know!  Don't hurt me!"
   The glow began to fade.  "Anything else you know about them?"
   "Yeah," Scarymann gulped, hesitantly.  "Red Noose trains these guys, he's
like, like the mastermind behind it all.  They've been doing muggings and such,
but while the police are taking care of them, Red Noose and the rest of them
have been taking care of the local businesses, breaking in and stealing money,
food, etc.  Telegraph's been hit pretty hard these past few days."
   "Okay," MPLass said, stepping back.  "Where are they?"
   "Oxford Street, somewhere," Scarymann said.  
   "Where?"
   "I don't . . . er, that is, they might be meeting at the local 7-11."
   "All right," MPLass said.  "And if you were lying to me, I'll be back."
   Scarymann nodded somberly as Multiple Personality Lass began walking back
down the street.  "Wait!" he cried.  "Who are you?"
   "You'll find out soon enough," MPLass said.  "Read the papers . . . if you
can get information that way, as well."

   MPLass woke up bright and early the next day.  Whoever was in charge late
last night had decided to crash on the couch, decided the Rhoda personality,
and whoever that was, well, they were going to pay.  Couches do not a nice
place to sleep make.  She shook her head, recalling what Scarymann had told
them, and decided that she needed a plan.  And so, she awoke Mary.
   "It's perfect," MPLass told her with a smile.  "All you have to do is go to
7-11 and apply for a job.  Infiltrate their ranks, and when I come in at noon
today, you tell me what you've found out.  Okay?"
   "You can't expect me to get a job in one day," Mary said, half annoyed. 
"Come on . . . Rhoda, is it?  The world doesn't work that way."
   "C'mon," MPLass said with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders.  "This is
seven eleven we're talking about here."
   Mary rolled her eyes as she considered the plan, while sipping the fresh cup
of coffee she had prepared for herself.  She set down the glass and nodded
slightly.  "All right, I guess I'll do it.  For Tom if for anyone.  But let me
shower up and such first, all right?"  She stood up from the kitchen table, her
long, frilly pink nightgown splashing downwards as she did, and considered
something for a moment.
   "But when you come in, shouldn't you be wearing some sort of clothes?  That
spandex uniform can be kind of suspicious, you know."
   MPLass examined the yellow black and red uniform she wore with the "M" Dial
on her belt.  "I suppose you have a point there . . ." Reluctantly, she headed
to Mary's closet to raid it for clothing as Mary headed to the bathroom to
shower up.

   C'mon, this is seven eleven we're talking about here.
   The words rung in Mary's head as, less than fifteen minutes after she had
arrived, she found herself outfitted with the annoying 7-11 uniform and a badge
saying "HELLO, my name is MARGERET."  Mary had frowned and crossed out GERET,
replacing it with a red Y, as she took her place behind the counter.
   It was nearly twelve o'clock and she had yet to see anything suspicious
other than the occasional bag lady desiring to have a slurpee.  Mary looked to
see if there were any customers around and, with no one in sight, she turned to
her co-worker.  "Hey, eh, Amy?"
   "My name is Steve," her co-worker said, his voice high-pitched.  "My magic
marker keeps coming off."
   "That's too bad," Mary said, nodding as if she was interested.
   "Yeah, Marygeret."   
   "It's Mary," she said, sighing.  "So, eh, how long have you worked here,
Steve?"
   "Oh, a couple months."
   "Really?  So, you're kind of new here, aren't you?"
   "I've worked here longer than anyone else.  We had a lot of lay-offs lately.
 Yep, I've got seniority . . . except over Mr. Nosse."
   "Mr. Nosse?  Who's that?"
   "The manager," said Steve, spitting a bit to his left.  Mary cringed in
disgust.  "He's the man with the plan, that man."
   "Ah," said Mary, nodding blankly.  Just a couple of minutes remained until
twelve, and all she had was the name of the manager and the fact that they just
let a lot of people go.  Not much to work with, no.  The bell dinged and in
walked a lanky youth, with the letters OSBORN tattooed on his forehead.  God,
sometimes villains were so obvious it hurt.
   "Jim L!" Steve said, slapping him high-five.  "M'man, m'man, m'main man."
   It was times like these that Mary was glad she was nearing her twenties and
she could put bad teenage lingo behind her.  She did a quick study of Jim L and
noticed, besides the tattoo, that he had your average build and no hair
underneath his bent backward ball cap.  In his hand, he fidgeted with a card of
some sort; she couldn't see what it was.  
   "What brings you here, m'man?" Steve asked, his voice reaching a very high
falsetto at "here."
   "Just cruising by, wanted to stop in and say hello," said Jim L.  "Dig it,
chickie?"  He looked at Mary, his tongue hanging partially out of his mouth. 
It probably wasn't out of lust: his tongue seemed to always hang out of his
mouth.      
   "Yeah," Mary said flatly, with some disgust in her eyes but not her voice,
"I dig."
   "Gotta be going, Steve . . . getting fired hit me pretty hard, Y'know. 
Gotta go for that job search, m'man."
   Jim L started walking out the door, walking in a way that could have been
accompanied by someone crying, "Raise the roof."  Mary shrugged, nearly gagging
from being hit on by a bad wannabe, and looked towards Steve.  "Hey, could I
take my break now?"
   "Sure, sure," Steve said with a shrug.
   Mary exited 7-11, following Jim L.  She had never actually followed a person
before, though being a hero's love interest, she figured it would have to
happen a lot.  It was the sort of thing one could expect.  For when one is a
hero's girlfriend, they tend to do two things: follow villains and . . .
   As Mary followed Jim L to the back door of 7-11, she heard two knives
KA-CLICK and saw two figures approach her.  Jim L turned and produced his own
knife, and all three of the men snickered and sneered.
    Follow villains and . . . get kidnapped.

   If the personality in charge had any fashion sense at all, they would have
realized that wearing a "New Kids On The Block" black shirt and baggy pants
were way out of style.  Not that one should be shallow about how others dress,
but . . . New Kids On The Block?  Come on, now, be reasonable.
   Besides the fact that the M Dial stood out and almost marked her as a hero,
the fact that she had neglected to take off the spandex mask really didn't help
matters too well.  At any rate, MPLass entered Seven-Eleven, looked around, and
walked up to the counter.  
   "Er, Amy?"
   "My name is Steve," he said, sensitively.  "Why does everyone call me Amy! 
It's not my fault that the marker washes off . . . cheap marker . . ." He was
in tears by now.  MPLass rolled her eyes as her personality changed.
   "Stop whining, you stupid baby," she said gruffly, grabbing him by his nose.
   "Ouch!  My acne!  My acne!  Mommy!"
   "Listen to me," she growled, "I'm looking for someone . . . a girl, brown
hair, applied for a job this morning?"
   "Oh, you must mean Marygeret."
   "What?"  She put him down.  
   "Mary, that's right, her name was Mary."
   MPLass's hand went for her dial and she turned it.  Her eyes flickered over
and a slightly nicer personality took over.  "Could you please tell me where
she went?"
   "She's on her break.  What's it to you?"
   MPLass blurted quickly, "She's my girlfriend," before she realized just how
bad that sounded.
   Steve blinked.  "Woah," he said.  "That's freaky, man."  He paused for a
moment.  "Could I watch?"
   "What the hell is wrong with you?  Can you watch?  Watch my fist, you
pervert!"  Angry, she released a punch, which collided with his face, sending
him down for the count, a puddle of near-nothingness on the floor.  MPLass
looked to see two bag ladies on opposite sides of the store.  They began to
waddle towards her.  MPLass noticed OSBORN written on their bags.  "Wait a
second," she said, examining the scene.  "You two are them!  The Oxford Street
Bandits!"
   One of the bag ladies removed her wig.  "Yeah," he said, his ear pierced.
   "The Oxford Street Bandits of Red Noose," the other muttered as he removed
his wig.  He opened his bag and tossed the contents towards MPLass, those
contents being various money items and weapons and objects of value.  MPLass
dodged them quickly as she could, grabbing with both of her hands the center of
her NKOTB shirt, planning on doing her best impression of Hollywood Hulk Hogan.
   As she struggled to get the blasted thing to rip decently and dramatically,
the dial turned and her eyes flickered, giving her a sudden burst of speed. 
The other member of the Oxford Street Bandits ripped his bag, sending
everything in a wider array towards MPLass.  Within seconds, she became a blur,
changing out of her badly chosen clothing and into her costume, and replacing
all the items in a shopping bag behind the counter.
   "Meep!" cried one of them, the one with the broken bag.
   "Meep?" the other asked.
   "Meep," the other confirmed. 
   Multiple Personality Lass went speeding towards the first one to mutter
Meep, who was positioned next to the slurpee machine.  As she rocketed towards
it, mere seconds away, the Bandit, shaking, pulled several of the slurpee
switches all at once, letting Coca-Cola, Cherry, Blueberry and other flavors of
half-frozen slush on the floor.
   As MPLass smacked into the heavy machinery, it falling on her with a painful
smash, she realized that incredibly fast speed was not a good power to be
using.  However, as she thought to reach for the dial, she found it under the
machinery with the lower half of her body, and she and her hands with the upper
half.  She didn't have super-strength with this personality, the angry fast
Bethany, and she could feel the pressure put on her lower half.
   The Bandit on the other side of the store picked up his knife and walked,
carefully, almost stalkingly, towards MPLass.  This personality had a limited
intelligence; she was used to hitting things hard and fast.  What could one do
with speed to get them out of this mess?  The thug was getting closer by the
second, and she couldn't think of one thing.  She couldn't slip herself out,
she couldn't teleport . . . this personality just ran towards people, vibrating
her atoms, and beating the living hell out of them.  Vibrating her atoms?  Now,
that just might work.  Not atoms, per se, but vibrating out of synch of
physical matter?  Why not?  It worked for most characters with those kind of
speed powers.
   She harmlessly passed thru the machine, turning to the thug mere feet away,
and she grinned, a fairly sadistic grin at that, before she rocketed towards
him, passing thru him, upsetting his very composition as he fell to a heap on
the floor.  She turned around to face the one who had turned on the slurpee
machine before.
   "You are SO dead," she said, redirecting her speed towards him.  In
mid-step, her dial clicked, her eyes rolling back, not of their own accord, and
MPLass's body suddenly retarded the normal amount of friction in the area. 
Everywhere surrounding her became slippery as ice, even more so, and as her
normal body struggled to cope with the sudden stop in the amount of speed she
was projecting, MPLass found it quite impossible without friction.
   Luckily, she didn't have to stop to run into the Oxford Street Bandit,
knocking him out cold on the ground.  She reached for her dial, struggling with
its sudden slickness, and turned it.  Her eyes fluttered back once more, and
now, MPLass felt halfway normal.  Inside her head, all of them let loose a
collective sigh before MPLass decided to look around for any secret hideouts.
   Five minutes later, she came up with two bags of chips hidden in the
freezer.  Frowning, she kicked the nearest piece of heavy machinery, the
slurpee machine, and she turned away from it, wrapped deep in thought.  But
then she heard a resonating sound, bouncing irregularly, from the slurpee
machine.  She smiled slightly.  It had to be a secret trigger!
   First, after managing to, after a large amount of effort, hoist the machine
back up, she pulled back the Coca-Cola switch.  Coca-Cola came out.  She turned
to the strawberry and then the blueberry.  Still nothing but the flavor.  It
was getting quite frustrating . . . and then she noticed the last two, Diet
Coke and Tofu flavors.  Since no one in his or her right mind liked Tofu, she
pulled the switch, and there was an electronic buzz which filled the air.
   The wall opened, steam emitting from either side, and radiated heat as well
as darkness.  MPLass could see that the opening in the brick wall had been
there for a while due to the burnt off sides: obviously there was some sort of
major heat or power source inside.   
   MPLass walked brusquely towards an aisle and "borrowed" a flashlight,
opening the package.  Considering the fact that she was stopping an evil
mastermind, she was sure that any authority figures would overlook a little
five finger discount, right?  She turned it on and headed inside.  Another
click of her dial.
   She recalled that no personality could really be in charge of the body for
too long: they all knew that.  Now, she growled and she hissed.  "Dark, dark,
dark.  I hate the dark.  Stupid dark.  KILL the dark."  There was a creak, and
she whirled the flashlight towards the sound, but nothing appeared.  "STUPID
DARK!  I hate the dark."
   "So we've heard," a voice said, sharp as a finely tuned violin, "but thank
you for reminding us."
   "I hate voices in the dark!  I hate the dark!  I hate you!  I'll KILL you. 
KILL the voice."
   "You're more then welcome to try."
   She stopped, as if in silent conversation with some slightly greater power. 
"But I don't want to turn the dial.  I HATE turning the dial.  It's my turn."
   Reluctantly, she frowned, turning the dial.  The voice that appeared from
her body this time was much more gentle, much more soothing.  "Who's there? 
Come on now, show yourself."
   "To your left," the voice said.  MPLass whirled the flashlight to the left. 
A noose was there, made of red rope.  It was done sloppily, and with bad knot
work.  
   "Red Noose," she smirked.  "Clever."
   "I'd like to think so," the voice replied.  There was something almost
familiar about it, but it was disguised.  "Tell me . . . do you like riddles? 
To your right."
   MPLass refocused the flashlight to her left.  A figure was there, one of the
would-be gang members she had captured the night before.  "You again?  I'll
take care of you."  It was the skinny one . . . Robbie L.
   The voice drooled on.  "I have no substance, no smell, no taste, no colour,
yet men fear me just the same.  What am I?"
   A punch to the nose with the left hand, small uppercut with the right, a
left-right-left-right and a kick to the face put Robbie L back on the ground. 
MPLass could hear others gathering around her, and a gun clicking into place. 
The loud and overwhelming sound of a shot filled the air, and destroyed the
flashlight.  Her breath grew cold and still, and she reached for the dial.  The
M Dial clicked and she grabbed something at her side.  Her eyes fluttered, and
she responded: "A badly paraphrased Tolkien excerpt."
   "You've got me there, or rather, I've got you," Red Noose said smoothly. 
"You've caused me pain in the past . . . and I'll cause you pain now."
   "Who are you . . ." MPLass looked around, but could see nothing.  She leaped
a few feet ahead of her, away from the congregating footsteps.  "What are you
doing?"
   "Training," Red Noose replied.  "Taking the uninspired wretches of the world
and transforming them into true world class criminals, criminals who can give
me my cut so that the old one can at last be claimed by the immortal
conqueror."
   "You speak in riddles."
   "I'm paraphrasing Tolkien again," Red Noose said.  "He destroys hills,
castles, and kings: you know, time?"
   "Oh," said MPLass.  She could nearly feel their breath on her.  "Where's the
girl?"
   "Mary?  She's nearby.  Somewhere . . . in the room.  With the rest of the
darkness and the uninspired wretches."  
   "So," she replied to her adversary, grabbing something by the side of her
belt, "I have some Tolkien for you.  What's in my pocket?"
   "Your pocket?"
   "Yes."
   "How am I supposed to know that?" he outburst, angrily.
   "You aren't," MPLass smirked.  "It's supposed to frustrate you . . . and the
answer is, a chicken leg."
   "Tom?" Mary's voice asked.
   The Anime Freak personality, in control since the last turn of the dial,
flung his chicken leg blindly at the darkness.  Part of its enchantment,
whatever it was, was that it would clear the foes of the room, defeating all
obstacles remaining, and return to his . . . her hand.  Part of the enchantment
also involved singing an annoying jingle for it to work.
 	"When Anime Freak throws his mighty chicken leg,
	All those who choose to oppose his chicken leg must yield
	If he stumbles to a fight and the duel is true
	The bread and the dumplings and the poultry will come thru
	When Anime Freak throws his mighty chicken leg!"  
   The chicken leg hit a light switch before returning to his hand, the dial
clicking again and his/her work done.  Now, there was a new personality in
control, and, surprisingly, Red Noose stood unharmed.  He hadn't been in the
room . . . until now.  "Well," he said, "I suppose I'm revealed now.  I take it
you're a costumed hero of some sort?"
   "Amy?"
   "Steve!  My name is Steve!" he argued, his voice returning to normal.  
   "It doesn't make any sense.  Why is a loser like you here as some master
villain?"
   "It's quite simple, really," Steve hissed.  "My father . . . owns this 7-11.
 He forced me to work here.  But I didn't want to!  I wanted to work for the
new accounting offices, where my skills could be put to good use!  I've studied
Shakespeare and mathematics!  I am a master of Latin!  And . . . I work at
7-11!  
   "Do you know the pain associated with those two little numbers?  People with
no direction, with no life, with no marketable skills!  I didn't want that on
my resume!  So, I decided to form the Oxford Street Bandits of Red Noose,
taking former employees of 7-11 and training them as my crime cartel!  I had
the perfect master plan . . . I would overthrow my father and his mighty
franchise, and I would convert this building into a fine art gallery!  But . .
. now all that's ruined, thanks to you!
   "I'll kill you!  I'll do it!"
   "I don't want to fight you, Steve," MPLass said, coming closer to him.
   "Really?  Do you mean it?"
   "No, not really," said MPLass, as she vented several minutes worth of
frustration on his frail young acne-infected body.  And Steve hurt . . . a lot.
CONTINUED IN EPILOGUE









Tom Russell, Jnr.


"Don't let me die!  I have so much to do."
--Huey Long
