From alt.pub.dragons-inn Mon Nov 20 11:24:34 1995 Xref: netcom.com alt.pub.dragons-inn:8873 Path: netcom.com!noc.netcom.net!news.sprintlink.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!in1.uu.net!caen!reeve.research.aa.wl.com!WS008013F18C2D!simonj From: simonj@rh.wl.com (Jeff Simon) Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Subject: [Jack Kincaid] Jack Flash versus the Intergalactic Brewmeisters of Trell Date: Sun, 19 Nov 1995 04:46:25 EDT Organization: Parke-Davis Rochester Lines: 415 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: 198.205.215.16 Summary: Well, since nothing seems to be going on around here, I'll post this thing I've had laying around for a while. X-Newsreader: Trumpet for Windows [Version 1.0 Rev B final beta #4] *************************************************************************** Jack Kincaid. A.K.A. Jack Flash. Rogue, thief, and scalawag. Master of Illusion. Acquisitioner of Rare and Wondrous Items. Wearer of the mystical Blue Suede Boots and the Multiverse's only master of the electric blues harp. Previously only known by the rambling tales of certain drunken outlanders, he has at last decided to pay a visit to that most famous of watering holes, the Dragon's Inn. **************************************************************************** JACK FLASH VERSUS THE INTERGALACTIC BREWMEISTERS OF TRELL Kincaid was enjoying a glass of S and N Bigfoot when they came for him. Stormtroopers in spiked black armor, wielding weapons that belched scorching death. The Grumpy Griffin was suddenly filled with a violent hurricane of shattered glass and instinctively he threw himself to the floor. Some of the other patrons, slower or unluckier than himself, died horrible deaths. Some of them died in mid-swallow. Tankards rattled as they fell to the floor amongst a shower of carbon ashes, the patron's only remains. Kincaid scrabbled quickly behind the bar, scuttling across the floor like a lizard. Screams and the stampede of many feet filled the tavern. The other patrons were making a break for it, using any avenue they could find. "We know you're in here, Flash!" the commodant of the black-clad killers shouted. "Come out with your hands up, and we'll only make you suffer for an hour or two." The tone of the man's voice made it obvious he thought this was a reasonable offer. "How can anyone say 'no' to an offer like that?" Kincaid asked himself, digging around in the Pouch of Holding strapped to his belt. At last he found what he was looking for, a small, dark green sphere. The sphere had a small metal pin and ring assembly sticking out of its top. Kincaid pulled it out. "One Myssyssyppy, two Myssyssyppy . . ." "Just throw the damn thing!" the Murb hissed at him from where he was hidden under the bar. Kincaid made a face at the large black and white feline, then chucked the Salamander Egg - known as a hand grenade in some worlds - over the bar. There was a deafening outbreak of silence. "This is a magical plane, you idiot!" the commodant shouted at him. "Your hand grenade won't work here." "What kind of bullshit is that?" Kincaid screamed. "You guys are carrying Heckler and Koch MP5s, and I saw at least two metric pattern FNFALs and one Benelli 12 gauge with a pistol grip." "These are magical weapons, Jack! We just built them to look like assault weapons because we think those things look really cool." Kincaid exchanged an incredulous glance with the Murb. "Who are these idiots?" he asked in a disbelieving tone. "I heard that, Flash!" the commodant scolded. "You're not making it any easier on yourself." Kincaid quietly began sliding along the floor behind the bar, heading for the cellar door. He heard movement on the other side of the mahogany structure he was currently cowering behind. "If you heard me, why not answer the question?" the copper-haired rogue shouted. He was playing for time, utilizing the Interplanar Evil Nemesis Axiom. The Axiom required that prior to killing any hero, the chief bad guy had to explain his history, his goals, and also the exact method by which he planned to 'do in' the hero. "Invoking the Axiom won't work, Flash! You're a protagonist, but you're not a hero. You're a classic anti-hero." The commodant's voice was smug. "What are you, an attorney?" Kincaid whined, desperation beginning to rear its homely cranium. A quick shot from several of the automagic weapons caused it to duck the ugly head back down again. "That's right, Jack. We're ALL attorneys." One of the patrons remaining in the bar reacted to that statement with a scream of pure, unadulterated terror. The panic-stricken man drew himself to his feet and fled for the nearest window, but he was not quite fast enough. The black-clad stormtroopers cut him down with weapons that blazed flaming death. Then they surrounded his still smoking crisp and disintegrated it with different weapons that flamed blazing death. Soon, there was nothing left but a bad smell. "Fucking lawyers," Kincaid muttered to himself. The Murb looked at him. "On my world, the first thing we did was kill all the lawyers." "I've heard of that, somewhere . . ." Kincaid said thoughtfully. He had almost made it all the way to the cellar door. Carefully he rolled over, and threw his voice so that it came from the other end of the bar. Ventriloquism was a spell all Illusionists learned at an early age. "At least tell me who you are working for!" Kincaid implored as he beckoned the Murb over. "All right, Jack. Seeing as you're trapped behind that bar with no possible means of escape, I guess I can tell you what is going on. But you have to promise to come out and let me kill you when I am done." "I promise!" Kincaid avowed in his most sincere voice. Sincere or not, he still threw it down to the other end of the bar, just in case. The Murb was sauntering over to him, in no particular haste. The thief motioned frantically, silently urging the feline to hurry. "We represent the Phud/Duph Mega Brewing Company," the leader of the black-clad killers shouted. "We have come to take you into custody for your various crimes against the Consortium, not the least serious of which is your slandering of our good name in seventeen different planes and three different time-lines." "You said you were going to kill me!" Kincaid shouted. "Take me into custody or on the spot execution, which is it really going to be?" "Custody, shmustody. The only difference is whether we kill you now or kill you later." A large, black feathered duck jumped up from behind a distant table. "Kill him now! Kill him now!" it shouted, hopping from one foot to the other, spittle flying. A blast of automagic weapon fire blasted him all the way to Peking. "Damn, they're pretty honest for a bunch of lawyers," Kincaid ventured to the Murb in a surprised voice. His remark caused a momentary silence on the other side of the bar. "We all have our bad days, okay? Nobody's perfect!" The man's voice sounded more than a little peeved. "Well, death still sounds like a pretty steep penalty for slander," Kincaid said, attempting a little litigation of his own. The Murb now stood next to Kincaid's supine form. Kincaid bent at the waist, curling up until his mouth was next to the cat's ear. "I can't open that door without them seeing it over the bar. Use your claws to tear a hole in the door while I keep them distracted. And try to keep the volume down, would you?" The cat nodded and unsheathed his claws. They gleamed silver in the dim light of the tavern. The Murb was no ordinary cat, and his claws were not ordinary either. He padded down to the end of the bar and the basement door and began to cut through the solid oak panels, careful to keep it quiet. "So how about it?" Kincaid hollered, more to cover any inadvertent noise that in any real hope of winning a reprieve. "Don't you think that death is a little too severe for slander?" "You are also wanted for the crime of importing a competitor's product into the Phud/Duph home market of Trell," the commodant informed him sadly. "That is a definite no-no, Jack. The Brewmeisters were not at all happy when Starwind Ale began showing up on their homeworld. I am sure you are aware that it is a Double Death penalty offense." "Double Death penalty?" Kincaid wondered aloud. "That's right! We kill you in the most horrible way imaginable. Then we resurrect you and kill you all over again." "That Goddamn Shade," Kincaid bitched quietly, "I don't know why I let him talk me into running that stuff across the borders for him." "If memory serves me correctly," stated the Murb, "you were the one who approached him. You plagued him for weeks with all sorts of tears, threats, and bribes until he agreed to give you the franchise rights." "Why do you have to take everything I say so literally?" Kincaid complained. "Can't you see that I am in a high-stress situation here?" The attorneys from Trell began to get weary of waiting for him to come out from behind the bar on his own. They began to blast large holes in the wooden structure, hoping to spook him out. "Are you almost done down there?" Kincaid hissed at his feline side- kick desperately. "All done," the cat affirmed. Thanking his shiny gold god, Kincaid slithered over to the basement door, ducking his head to protect his eyes from flying splinters and the shards of shattered bottles that were flying everywhere. When he got to the cellar door he stopped, his jaw dropping in disbelief. "How the hell am I supposed to get through that?" he howled in dis- belief. "That's a catdoor, you stupid hairball generator!" The Murb shrugged and began cleaning his claws. "You said a door," the cat pointed out. "If you wanted a human-sized opening, you should have specified." "What's all that shouting back there?" the Commodant of the Trellian Stormattorneys wanted to know. "You're not planning an escape or any- thing like that, are you?" "Of course not!" Kincaid shouted back. "I'm just discussing with my friend here whether I want you guys to handle my book rights on this little adventure!" "No other firm can do a better job, Jack," the Commodant assured him. "Take a few moments to consider that." "I know what this is," Kincaid hissed at his feline companion. "This is a shakedown! You're trying to get me to cut you in on a bigger portion of our take on the last hie- er, wealth re-distribution tour we did." "Better make your mind up quickly, Jack," the Murb told him smugly. "I think they're getting out a BFG9000 back there. Kincaid popped his head over the bar long enough to ascertain that the evil troopers were indeed setting up the dreaded leviathan of transportable artillery. "Okay, Murb. Just because I'm feeling generous, I'll bump you up to a thirty-five percent cut." Murb worried at one of his claws with his teeth. "Ow, I think I'm getting an ingrown claw or something." Kincaid snarled. "All right you little giblet muncher, forty-sixty." The cat yawned and stretched indolently. "Don't worry about it Jack. I saw a white bronco tied to the hitching post out front. Maybe you can put on a disguise and ride it across the border to safety." "I forgot my passport," Kincaid whined, checking his wallet to see how much dough he had in it. Only about eight thousand bucks. Not enough to bribe the border guards. "Look you little twerp," the copper-haired thief blustered, "You've been gnawing on too much catnip if you think I'll go any higher than what I've already offered you." At that moment, the entire center portion of the bar exploded into wooden splinters and a large, swirling cloud of sawdust. Kincaid's lip began to tremble as he surveyed the carnage. On the other side of the room, the BFG9000 began to whine as it built up another charge. "Okay you little bird-molester, fifty-fifty." he spat angrily. The Murb's whiskers shot up in delight. With two strokes it ripped a huge section out of the thick wood door. "After you, partner," the cat purred at him happily. Growling curses, Kincaid slithered through the hole. He snaked his way down the stairs and into the cellar, the Murb padding along silently behind him. Rollo the bartender was huddled in one of the corners with two of the barmaids. The big man did not look very pleased. "That's the last time I want to see you in this place, Flash," the bartender growled. "You are banned for life, you and that big cat of yours!" "Yeah, yeah, add it to the list," Kincaid muttered darkly. Murb pulled out a small notebook from some furry pocket and began to write in it. "G, R, U, . . . ." the cat began to spell out as it added the Grumpy Griffin to the long list of places that would no longer serve them. "I didn't know that you were a marsupial," Kincaid remarked. "What are you talking about?" the Murb asked in a puzzled voice. "I've never eaten soup in my life." A thunderous explosion shook the ceiling overhead as the BFG9000 was used to reduce the remaining portion of the bar to kindling. Kincaid leaned down and grabbed his feline cohort by the scruff of the neck. He pushed the cat out the cellar window and squeezed through himself as jackbooted foot- steps thundered on the stairs behind him. The pair took off running down the street as a howl of thwarted vengeance rent the air behind them. Kincaid started hunting for a place to hole up as they sprinted for their lives. "Did you hear that howl of thwarted vengeance?" the Murb asked him as it hurried to keep up with the long-limbed thief. "They don't sound like they want to negotiate anymore." "Stop wasting my time with the pathetically obvious," Kincaid puffed. "We need to find a place to lay low. How about Ratty's Pub?" "We've been banned," the Murb replied as the pair legged swiftly past the aforementioned establishment. "The Spitting Cobra?" Kincaid asked, as they approached another tavern. "Banned there too." The Murb panted. The pair kept running. Two blocks behind them they heard the ominous howl of impending litigation again. Jack Kincaid picked up the pace. "How about the Red Lady?" "Banned." "Nick's Cafe Noir?" "Banned." "The Happy Mage?" "Banned." "The Stumble Inn?" "Double Death Sentence." "There too?" Kincaid whined peevishly. He turned off the Street of Unforgotten Heroes and on to Dragon's Lane. The pair began sprinting towards the Plaza of Glittering Steel. "The Dragon's Inn?" Kincaid wondered aloud. "What the hell is that?" "I don't know, I've never heard of it." "Well, if they've never heard of us either, there's no way we can be banned from the place," Kincaid postulated happily. The two thieves burst into the tavern and stood there, gasping for breath. Over in the northwest corner, a cranky looking fellow in an green Oregon Thunderducks sweatshirt stood up and waved a thick novel at them. "This place is for serious literary arch-types only, you guys," the man said. "Ah, bite me," Kincaid snarled, walking over to the bar. Behind it, Rowan Littlefair watched his approach gloomily. "You're not from Aurauna, are you?" the Inn's owner inquired suspiciously. "Uh . . . no," Kincaid lied smoothly. "Good," Rowan implied, setting up a tall Starwind Ale for Kincaid and a small bowl of salmon with a catnip chaser for the Murb. Kincaid smiled as he took a deep drink. "I think I like this place," he told his feline partner. "Snarf," the Murb agreed, his head buried in the bowl of fish. Suddenly, the door behind them crashed open. The black clad Death squad tromped into the Inn. "Okay, Jack," the Commodant snarled, "No more running around." Behind him, his panting subordinates nodded their heads in agreement. The commodant drew his sidearm, a Wand of Really Painful Disruption. It looked remarkably like a Glock model 20 Ten Millimeter automatic pistol with the optional Laser Max integrated laser sight. Behind him, the stormtroopers leveled their own automagic weapons. "Never mess with the Brewmeisters of Trell," the Commodant snarled as he pulled the trigger. Behind him, his men did the same. After five seconds or so, Kincaid peeked from between the hands he had clapped over his eyes. All of the Brewery Enforcement Agents had utterly vanished. "What happened?" Kincaid demanded, utterly bewildered. "The Dragon's Inn has a complex set of Anti-Violence Spells on it," Rowan explained. "When your friends tried to kill you, they were instantly transported to a spot fifteen feet above the exact center of the harbor. A nice cold swim ought to cool them off." "I think I love this place," Kincaid confided to his feline accomplice. "Are you sure you're not from Aurauna?" Rowan asked again. ***************************************************************************** Jack Kincaid is a copyright of Jeff A. Simon, 1995. All rights reserved. No Jack Kincaid story may be reposted, used, read, alluded to, or even thought about without the express permission of the Phud/Duph Intergalactic Mega-brewery Corporation of Trell. Violation of this law is punishable by the Double Death Penalty. ******************************************************************************* -- The opinions expressed in this message are mine alone. This message does not necessarily reflect the positions or opinions of my company or organization.