From: tiffer003@aol.com (TIFFER003)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.comics.creative
Subject: LNH: Dial "M" For MPLass # 2 (b/b)
Date: 2 May 1999 14:28:33 GMT

   The clock struck 2 a.m. as MPLass hurried back into the house, to find Mary
half-asleep on the couch.  Armed with this new information that had been given
to her, she could devise a plan; unfortunately the personality in charge had
the personality (and great brainpower) of Stimpy the Cat.  So now what to do? 
Wake up Mary, whom hadn't had nearly a wink of sleep in two days?  Turn the
M-Dial, hoping for another, more intelligent person than herself?  But what if
that didn't work? 
   The Stimpy-MPLass was at a lost, not knowing what to do, and so decided it
would be best to sleep.  So, she climbed onto one of the unused three cushions
on the couch, curled up, and slept as Mary lay there next to her, also
sleeping.
   It was the sharp drop of a newspaper onto a cold cement porch that awoke
both of them at about 5 a.m., and by now a new personality had taken charge. 
Getting up, grudgingly, from the scant few hours of sleep, MPLass unlocked the
front door (or what was left of it) and picked up the paper, bringing it into
the house.  She took it into the kitchen, scanning the headlines for something
interesting.  "Mayor Attends Little League Baseball Game," she read with a
sigh, "School Waits For Millage To Pass, Drug Ring Found Killed, and President
Makes Decision About Middle East."  She waited for a moment before it occurred
to her.  "Drug Ring Found Killed?" 
   She read over the article as the coffee maker across the room buzzed as it
percolated.

          DRUG RING FOUND KILLED
          12 dead, 2 injured during strange raid

          By DRED MORGAN

          Late last night, Dearborn's biggest ring
      of drug-dealers and lords was found, killed
     savagely in execution-fashion: two bullets to
     the head.  The police believe it was the work
     of a smaller, rival drug ring though they have
     scant bits of evidence.  Says police officer 
     Greg Simons, "While we don't approve of what
     these people did for a living, they were still
     human beings, and murder, especially on such
     a massive scale, is something we cannot ever
 
     CONTINUED ON PAGE A4, SEE DRUG RING

   MPLass flipped hurriedly towards Page A-4, when something alerted her in the
next room.  Turning the M-Dial, as this personality had the power to talk to
adorable puppies, something quite useless in any potential combat situation,
her eyes glazed over once more and she ran into the living room.  There, rising
off the couch, was the sound that alerted her: the yawning Mary awaking from a
few hours rest.  "Oh," she said, looking at the couch and then at the clock
that was above her, "I fell asleep, didn't I?  Sorry."
   "No prob," said MPLass.  "Found out what 311 is . . . means 'you're
capped.'"
   "Capped?" asked Mary.  "Oh, THAT capped."
   "Yeah," said MPLass.  "My source said it was used by gangs, though those
aren't too populous in Dearborn . . . as well as drug dealers."
   "So maybe that's what we're dealing with?" asked Mary.
   "Come see this," MPLass said, thrusting the article into Mary's face.  She
finished the article, looking up thoughtfully.
   "Maybe these two events are connected?" asked Mary.
   "Maybe," said MPLass.  "Now just to figure out what to do with this."
   Mary sat down, thinking, as an idea struck her, much like a brick might
strike someone upon his or her head.  "I got it," said Mary.  "Here's the plan
. . ."

   "When you contacted me on the phone, I was so worried," said the woman,
apparently approaching her later twenties.  She stood about six feet, and her
hair was a deep black, so deep and dark you could mistake it for night, and her
skin was a lovely tanned shade, the sort that immediately betrayed a Mexican
heritage.  She was dressed in black, and her house was in shambles, a mess;
there was evidence of children from the toys strewn about but no children
seemed present.  "Carlos had so many enemies . . ."
   MPLass nodded slowly, trying to show some sort of pity for a woman she just
met.  "Well, Miss Gannon, your husband was listed as one of several drug
dealers whom was killed last night.  You know that and I know that.  What I
don't understand is about this beeper here . . ."
   "Please," said Maria Gannon, "don't you understand?  He's gone!  My Carlos
is gone!"
   "Yes," said MPLass, sitting down next to Maria on her couch.  "But maybe the
person who owns this beeper might have been involved in it.  This is our chance
to get Carlos justice."
   "I don't care about justice," said Maria.  "I don't care about anything . .
."
   She broke down into tears again, and MPLass tried to hide her frustration. 
While she didn't know this woman, she couldn't possibly have real feelings
about her situation, but at the same time, she realized how cold she was
sounding.  Someone she cared about was dead; what if something happened to
Mary?  MPLass would find out who did it and get . . . oh, that's right.  That
would work perfectly.  The dial was turned, as a more aggressive voice took
control, one that could voice this new idea so elegantly.
   "Revenge," said MPLass.  "Don't you want revenge for those bastards who
killed him?"
   Maria sat up, anxious.  "Yes," she said.  She wiped the tears from her eyes,
not for the first time today, and MPLass gave her the beeper's number.  "I
wouldn't know," she said, "who that might be.  Maybe it was one of his . . .
clients."
   "Who would know?" MPLass asked.
   "Well . . ." Maria Gannon stopped, shuddering slightly as if a sudden chill
had overcame her.  "Trainer," she muttered.
   "What?"
   "Waldo Trainer," Maria said.  "One of the others in the . . . the ring." 
The last phrase sounded and tasted bitter in her mouth even as she spoke them. 
She was not proud of what Carlos did for a living.  "They often shared
clients," she explained, "he and Waldo.  He's one of the two in the hospital."
   "Thank-you, Ms. Gannon," MPLass said, putting a hand on the woman's
shoulder.  "I'll try to get Carlo's killer for you."   
   Maria only nodded, a woman suddenly aged several years and content to be by
herself.

   Lucky for MPLass, while she was visiting Ms. Gannon, Mary was busy in the
hospital scrounging up information as was the plan.  While she didn't expect
much, it was decided that Mary had better do this in case MPLass's contact had
fallen thru.  What Mary discovered was that half-dead drug dealers tended to be
under guard by the police.  She first had attempted to get in the room occupied
by Rex Grant, but found two officers who were very adamant in not allowing her
to enter the vicinity.  The next room, a floor up and two doors down, was
guarded by one officer, Officer Simons, whom she had met before as any dear
reader should recall.
   "Miss Winters!" he said, surprised, "Whatever brings you here?"  
   "I'm looking for information," she said, as the timidity experienced around
the two officers below disappeared quite quickly.  She had a very low opinion
of this fellow, and she was prepared to tell him in no uncertain terms if it
was necessary.
   "About?"
   "Before we turned in the beeper," Mary lied, "we wrote down the numbers on
it and I called one of them today.  It was the residence of a Mr. Carlos
Gannon, whom was killed last night during this 'strange raid', which also
injured this guy, here.  It occurred to me that they might be related."
   "So you're going to question this young man about the owner of the beeper?"
asked Officer Simons.  "Preposterous!"
   "He does seem to be awake," Mary said, "and in much better condition than he
was originally."
   "Doesn't matter," snapped the officer.  "I want you out of here, now!"
   "Carlos?" the man on the bed, Waldo Trainer, said, his voice as raw as a
horse's.  "What's the number of the beeper?"
   Mary told him and Waldo answered quickly.  "Brent Morgan, one of his
clients, one of mine, too . . ."
   "Out!  Out!  Out before I have you arrested!" said Officer Simons, waving
his gun.  Mary, a bit frightened, quickly took her leave, and the officer
looked at Trainer suspiciously.

   "Brent Morgan?" asked MPLass as she and Mary converged upon their home. 
"I've heard that name before.  Now just to get to him somehow."
   "I don't know where you would have heard the name," Mary said, pondering the
situation carefully.  "And I don't think he's in the phone book."
   "No, I've heard it before.  In the paper, I think."
   "The only Morgan in the paper is Dred Morgan, the reporter," Mary replied.
   "I think that's a place to start," MPLass said.  There was a short pause
before she turned to Mary and continued.  "You do remember the rest of the
plan, don't you?  Well, of course you do, it's your plan."
   "I'll wait here, and you organize the 'event' for about 8 p.m. tonight."
   MPLass nodded, prying off her mask and heading into the bedroom.  She raided
Mary's closet once more, and quickly changed out of the tight, form-fitting
spandex suit into a pair of khakis and a T-shirt which read, "My Boyfriend
Helped Defeat The World's Four Evilest Super-Villains With a Chicken Leg And
All I Got Was This Stupid T-shirt."  As she entered, slapping on a backward
baseball cap as she modeled her choice of fashion for Mary, the brown-haired
girl on the couch frowned and gave up.  It was no use.

   Dred Morgan was nearly fifty years old, and though wrinkles and burgeoning
white hair showed some of the stress associated with it, he looked more like a
forty year old, or someone in their late, late thirties.  The hair on his head
that wasn't white was a cross between brown and black; his eyes had the same
sort of dark brown texture set between a grey-black-brown hybrid colour of
eye-brows which twitched occasionally.  His glasses rest on the tip of his
nose, two nearly perfect squares attached by a strange and blocky-looking
nosepiece.  He must have stood close to Five feet, nine inches, though the
posture he had learned over the past thirty or so years made him look shorter:
hunched over, nearly bent double, his neck creaked down towards the typewriter
as his fingers flew into a fluid motion.  It was very rhythmic; the
type-type-type sounds that were interrupted periodically and punctually, every
five or six seconds, by the sliding of a cylinderic carriage and the ding of a
bell.  Tapping at their own rhythm was his feet, though with every third or
fourth carriage return, they were in synch, these two primordial melodies of
the office, each a small movement in a larger symphony, one composed as easily
as a paragraph by the prolific reporter known as Dred Morgan.
   Now, all of this modern music was all part of Morgan being in the zone,
where he would stay for large amounts of time leering out periodically at his
notes with each successive paragraph or couple of sentences.  And when MPLass
entered, quietly, the music was quite lost on her ears and she slammed the door
behind her, causing Ludwig Van Morgan to bring his orchestra to a shrieking
stop.  He glared in her direction as his fingers, still used to the melody,
typed a few nonsense characters.  "What is it that you want?" he barked.
   "I'm looking for some information," MPLass said, quite surprised and quite
frightened.
   "About?"
   "About a kid named Brent Morgan, s-sir.  You, you related?" she stammered.
   "Yes," snorted Dred, eyeing this stranger and the M-Dial belt she wore with
some curiosity.  "He's my nephew.  What's it to you?"
   The shiny gold belt he was so fixated upon turned, by it, and he eyed it and
the reaction this girl had to it with a bit of fear.  Perhaps he had sponged it
off her as the personality changed, because no longer was her stance timid. 
Her eyes glowed something mean, her teeth gritting.  "I want to know where he
is.  Now."
   "Are you trying to intimidate me?" asked Dred, regaining some of his
self-respect and almost majestic sort of self-awareness and arrogance.
   "No," spoke MPLass coolly, taking an angry step in his direction, "I AM
intimidating you."
   Dred snorted again, and whether he was afraid deep inside or if the fear had
passed, MPLass could not tell.  "He's at Crowley Park, at Westwood?"
   "He better be . . . or else."  To this Dred said nothing, and after a few
tense moments and false starts after her exit, the symphony moved into its next
movement.

   Though MPLass's threat was most probably idle in nature, it was still lucky
for Mr. Dred Morgan, reporter that his nephew Brent was, in fact, at Crowley
Park.  The Park was nearly abandoned, with the exception of a few children here
and there; it wouldn't be too difficult to find this Brent.  Crowley Park was
only four or five blocks wide, though there was a long track, two miles all
together, which zigzagged around, covering a good deal of space but certaintly
not more than the space occupied by the green grass and tall trees.  At the
west-most end, there was a huge, sprawling wall that separated Dearborn from
Dearborn Heights, both suburbs of Detroit.
   MPLass found him, after a few minutes, on a huge playground set complete
with four slides (two winding, two straight; one straight one was tubular in
nature and one flat and wide.)  There was a bridge, made of plastic blocks hung
up by a metal chain-link, which also formed bars.  Leaning against something
resembling the outline of a beanstalk was a lad who bore a certain, but younger
resemblance to Dred.  "You Brent Morgan?"
   "That depends," snickered the kid, moving a foot up to a ring of the hollow
beanstalk, "you single?"
   Her nose cringed up in disgust.  "That depends," she snickered back, "you
got a death-wish?"
   "Not now, no," he said.  His foot moved back into place on the gravel that
swamped the area as his other footed lifted roughly into the place the other
had been, only on an opposite side of the winding playground device.  "Though
that depends on how I'm going to be leaving this world."
   "What's that supposed to mean?" asked MPLass.
   "Am I going to die painfully," he said as he replace his foot once more and
made a suggestive wink, "or am I going to die . . ." Here he took in a deep
breath, and when he released so did he release any resemblance,
personality-wise, to the elder Morgan.  "In your bed?"
   "Painfully," MPLass said, gritting her teeth.  She lunged her hands towards
this punk, more specifically his neck, but as she did the M-Dial turned and
that familiar flutter filled her eyes.  Her hands, rather than making the
aggressive and imminent motions of suffocating young Brent, instead tenderly
caressed his neck, her head moving towards his in a motion much like a kiss. 
That was, in fact, what she was intending and he was quite surprised, to say
the least.
   However, he regained his senses quickly, playing the "cool" act he had tried
time and again.  "That's right, babe," he said, making a strange motion in
which he started his hands, fingers and thumbs outstretched, by his lower ribs
and smoothly, on a rounded angle, plied them outward, until they came full
circle, his fingers resting in his pockets and his thumbs outside them, "you've
come to your senses."
   "That's right," this new personality, with a saucy sort of smile forming on
lips that seemed to have doubled in size, "I have."
   "So," said Brent, obviously unfazed by her sudden change in personality,
voice, and stance, "why were you looking for me, tall, tanned, and sexy?  News
spread of my reputation?"
   "Yeah," said MPLass with a wink that nearly melted the young and perverted
adolescent, "but mostly I was wondering what you knew about a house up on Penn
Avenue?"
   "You a cop or something?" he said, almost paranoid.
   "No," she said, whispering in a sort of voice that had about the same effect
as the wink, "but a fellow professional, one with a certain interest in the art
of the five-finger discount."
   She placed her fingers suggestively by her belt, turning the dial, and as
her eyes rolled back, flickering over, Brent muttered something that sounded
like, "Kinky."
   "So, so, like, here's the plan, y'all!" she said, distancing herself
slightly from the youngest of the Morgans, who once again changed his stance,
lifting up another leg while simultaneously putting down the other.  "They,
they got this here, this new stereo system, you read?  Replacing the old one,
the old one that they, they used to have, y'all understand this now?  And, and
they got, they got, got some jewelry, jewelry hidden in the, the couch, Y'know?
 Big money.  Big money.  So, I was, I was thinking, you broke into the place
before, right?  I help you get in, and you get in, you get in and you get, you
get the money, y'all understand, understand this, you read?"
   Now that she wasn't fawning over him like an incredibly desperate young
woman, which made him rather happy since, despite his attitude, he had never
actually been fawned over by any incredibly desperate and attractive (or
unattractive) young woman, his interest had faltered, but at the mention of
money it had returned full swing.  Still, he had to cautiously ask, "How do you
know about all this?"
   "I'm her, you know, her, that chick, that chick you robbed, yeah her, I'm
her, her, her roommate."
   "Oh," said Brent.  "So this is going to be like a little inside job?"
   "Yeah, yeah," stuttered MPLass.
   "And maybe after," he said, nearly purring like a cat in heat, "we can make
it a real INSIDE job."
   MPLass's response was rather vulgar and is therefore not printable. 
Needless to say, Brent was deeply saddened with her answer.

   Their house was darkened, the lights all turned out, but it was nowhere near
as dark as it was inside the closet where Mary sat on the cold floor, waiting,
waiting, waiting . . . for her life to be threatened by the people whom had
ransacked her house just days earlier.  Of course she remembered the plan . . .
it was her plan after all . . . but she really should have thought it thru a
bit more before agreeing to it, before it reached now, the point of no return. 
In her hand, she had but a yardstick; hardly a weapon to convey fear in the
hearts of young punks with knives and handguns and chains.  She shuddered at
the thought of it as she ran her fingers up the cold expanse of the metal
yardstick, awaiting the marauders whom would soon be in her home, rummaging
thru her things and destroying her property.
   Being the girlfriend of a costumed adventurer did mean that she would be,
occasionally, the victim of kidnapping and other such nonsense, but she had
expected it to be so damn scary.  She understood the need for such things to
happen, so that dramatic tension and the like would be created, but she also
understood that the hero would come thru and save her life, time and again, and
all she would have to do was to wait for her hero (in this case, MPLass) and
say overly-dramatic and silly things like, "Oh!  If only my hero, my hero, my
brave and gallant savior, MPLass, could find me and save my life!  Woe is me,
woe is me!"  But this time, it would take effort on both sides: MPLass's, and
Mary's, in order to save their house and eventually retrieve their stolen
possessions.  It was so much easier just to wait and sigh and say, "woe is me"
and "if only my hero could find me" rather than to know that a fight was
coming, and that she, in a way, would have to participate.
   If she chickened out, she was a goner; she was dead, dead, dead.  And all
she had to fight with was a yardstick.
   To repeat, this plan really sucked.
   The only thing that really irked her about it was that it was her plan.  And
what a devilishly simple plan it was, in theory.  This plan, it had come from
too many hours spent babysitting in which her young charges had to see "Home
Alone," one, two, and three, over and over again, in a big marathon session. 
Such a simple idea, one that worked for that blasted, ugly, Caulkin kid in his
movies.
   And so she waited, Mary Winters, waiting with a yardstick in hand, and never
more afraid in the entirety of her young, young life, though if she lived thru
it she knew that there would be more to come.  More idiotic robbers and
kidnappers and villains.  Bomb plots, scam artists, bigamists, serial killers,
children's television . . . all these evil things would no doubt cross
MPLass's, and by association, Mary's, path.  And here she was, waiting for some
silly little looters with knives and guns, KNOWING that there were worse things
out there, and that she would most probably soon encounter them.  This "life in
peril, shaking with fear" crap would no doubt not be a first experience, or a
last.  This was going to happen OVER AND OVER AGAIN.
   So . . . why the hell was she doing this?
   She ran her fingers up the cold, long flat surface of the yardstick once
more, it sending a frightening chill down her spine.  She was doing this for
Tom, she decided, because she was in love with him.  Love makes you do stupid
things.  She was doing this for Alice, she decided, because she was her friend.
 Friends aren't forever, you know.  She was doing this for all of them, for
every mixed up head in that red-haired skull, because there were good people in
there like Tom and Alice and countless others.  And she knew, she knew that
MPLass wouldn't allow her to get hurt if she were in peril, so Mary had to give
her the same courtesy.  She had to do this not just to repay the favor, but
because everything and everyone she cared about was stuffed into that six-feet,
150 pounds of hero that was getting closer, accompanied by a gang of hoodlums,
with each passing moment.
   Her faith in MPLass and in herself restored, her fear fading quickly with
that intoxicating sense of adrenaline rush one has before fighting for their
lives, she grabbed the yardstick tightly, aggressively, preparing to strike as
she sat in the dark closet, awaiting destiny to make a house call.
   It wasn't long before, in the still and quiet darkness, so quiet you could
hear your own sweat plop onto the floor, that she heard the back door opened,
and several footsteps march into the house.  A CLICK preceded the living room
lights coming on in a blare that was blinding, and Mary could see the light
pour into the small crack between the bottom of the closet's door and the floor
barely a centimeter below it.  A vital few seconds passed, and the burglars
adjusted their eyes to the sudden presence of the light, something MPLass
anticipated.  After they could see quite clearly, she put a finger to her mouth
to indicate 'be quiet' and she looked around the house.  "Mary?  You here?" 
There was no answer, not one that the group could hear.  Inside the door,
Mary's breathing picked up; she didn't have asthma but if she did she would be
breathing quite loudly by now.  This was it, the moment of truth, the point of
no return.
   MPLass walked into the hallway, peering into the bathroom and the bedroom,
and came back into the living room with a devious smile.  "Nobody's home," she
said, nodding to Brent, "let's get started, gentlemen, shall we?"  Mary could
hear them dispersing, and her heart began pounding.  She had to wait for
MPLass's line.
   Among the rather loud sounds of destruction, the M-Dial turned, and it was
MPLass's doing.  She could not choose what personality was to be next, but by
some struck of luck, it was one that MPLass had been hoping for.  She almost
laughed to herself, and Mary didn't know what that was all about.
   "What are you doing?" asked a familiar voice of MPLass.  "Get to work! 
Don't just stand in front of the kitchen door!"
   "Oh, I'm sorry," said MPLass, quite innocently, "I was just a little bit . .
. hungry."
   Hearing her cue, Mary grabbed the pair of scissors on her other side and
quickly snipped a small thread.  It cut instantly, causing the rest of the
thread, which ran from the closet to the opposite wall, nearly unseen due to
the fact it was the same colour as the walls and very close to the wall
perpendicular to the closet wall and front wall, to give way with a sharp twang
as the length of it tucked into the corner, running up the wall, gave way
immediately after, causing a laughably unnoticed bag of four or five dozen
apples to open above, showering the crooks.
   "What the hell was that?" asked Brent.
   "Payback," growled MPLass, launching herself towards the nearest thug,
recovering from his apple injury, and causing a super-dense fist to be lodged
into his face, causing his nose to break with a sickening crack upon impact.  A
knee, just as dense, to his side broke two ribs and caused him to crumble to
the ground in an ugly pain.  MPLass whispered slightly to herself, "Damn.  I'm
too powerful . . ." 
   She turned the M-Dial just as one of the thugs launched his body at her,
landing on her back and causing her to go the ground, face first, just as her
super-dense abilities faded.  Brent, angry at having been betrayed, brought his
foot down on her face and a familiar cackle filled the air as someone kicked
her in her side.  This all happened within the space of about ten seconds,
enough time for Mary to realize that something was wrong.  One will never know
what went thru her head at that time, but, fueled by anger for her now
being-beaten friend, she whipped open the door to the closet, standing there,
yardstick in hand, like a bat whom had just gotten off of a rather terrifying
plane trip that had got him out of hell.
   "Get her!" growled that familiar voice, and he was running out of the room
before Mary could get a good enough look at his face to place him.  She counted
that there were seven thugs; one on the ground, with a broken nose and rib, one
running quickly up the stairs, two beating on MPLass, and three more, looking
very confused but continuing to loot.  Obviously these henchmen weren't used to
listening to their leader, and she was glad that there weren't three rather
large and muscular and armed men coming after her.  That was the least of her
concerns, she decided as she stepped out of the confusion that had gripped her
for a few moments, and launch herself towards MPLass's attackers.  She wildly
swung the yardstick at one of them, but forgetting to use the flat end of it to
strike with.  The result was a rather sickening cut down the middle of the
man's face, blood oozing about, and as Mary struggled to free the yardstick, it
came out, caked with fresh blood and some flesh.  Her stomach now in a knot,
she felt her dinner involuntarily rush up, vomit staining the carpet.
   "Sick!" cried out Brent, stepping away from the scene and allowing MPLass to
get up.  The dial turned by itself and she made a fist, which welled up with
energy, grabbing him by his collar with her free hand.
   "Here's your kiss good night, lover boy," she spat furiously as she opened
the hand, causing the light to temporarily blind him.  So bright it was, that
Brent Morgan passed out; luckily, he would have his eyesight when he awoke.  
   Mary clutched her stomach tightly as she heard two men rummaging thru the
couch, looking for "jewelry", instead, they found the next trigger to the next
booby trap: super-glue that, when dried, would bound their hands to the couch;
unfortunately for them, it would get a chance to dry.  When they found the
trigger, the couch collapsed, causing them to be buried underneath the
cushions, underneath the weight of the now upside down sofa.  Only one henchman
remained in the living room, and he decided to give up with his dignity.
   "Please don't hurt me!  I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!  Please don't hurt
me!"
   "You know," MPLass said, looking about the ruins of the living room, "I
think we went a bit over the top here."
   Mary wiped some vomit from her mouth, looking up sickly at MPLass.  "Gee,
you think?"
   "Okay," said MPLass, rubbing her chin.  "I'll go fetch the leader from
upstairs, you call 911 for these guys.  Sorry, guys."
   She turned the dial, her formidable powers fading into less powerful ones,
as she quickly hurried up the stairs.  She heard the elastic, bungee-jump like
sound of a rope, made of a plastic material, gave slack and pulled back,
carrying a small weight tangled up in the same substance like a yo-yo, before
she saw the man trapped in the snare.  It was a man she very well recognized:
the police officer's uniform nearly cinched it.
   "Officer Simons," nodded MPLass.  "It looks like I've caught you."
   "But how?" growled the miniscule officer.  He wasn't denying any wrongdoing.
 
   "A simple trap, courtesy of Mary Winters," said MPLass.  She paused, as if
expecting Mary to crawl off the ground, despite her puking, and present
herself.  She didn't, and so MPLass went on, mildly annoyed.  "So, I suppose
now is when I ask why?"
   "What?"
   "You know," said MPLass, getting rather annoyed.  "Here is the part where
you explain your entire plan for me."
   "I won't give you the satisfaction."
   "Fine, then," said Multiple Personality Lass.  "I'll do it.  You were
unsatisfied as a cop; you wanted more.  And so you started breaking into
people's houses, then appearing when they called the cops.  That way, during
the investigation, you could foul it up with legal mumbo-jumbo and plant
evidence.  Then, you could blame someone in the house: and you'd make away
clean."
   "Damn," said Simons.  "You've done this sort of thing before, haven't you?"

---------------------
Tom Russell, Jnr. (Russ-Man)

"Norse mythology always turned me on. . . Thor, God of Thunder, would be
perfect for the job."
   --Stan Lee, 'Origins Of Marvel Comics'
