The following is an -*-incomplete-*- story started by Sam "Captain X" Johnson around 1985. He began to write it on CommHex BBS, but then abandoned it, deciding it was just too silly and that it wasn't even worth doing a rewrite. Pity, I think it would have been okay as is. Be forwarned: This story ends abruptly, having barely started the hero on his way. The story is provided for your reading pleasure (?) because some of the background material from here was used in later stories. I just wish Sam had told us more about the Zygnic Mystic. Signed: Nomad of Norad ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sam "Captain X" Johnson's Unnamed and Unfinished CommHex Tale ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- On the very edge of Lake Powell sat the Mermaid's Cove Inn. It wasn't the classiest eatery around, but Sam Johnson wasn't the classiest eater. Sam strolled through the door and marched up to the bar, where he found several stout users swallowing mugs of Yoohoo as if the inn was sinking and they were trying to bail it out. The innkeeper, Ray Holley, saw Sam enter and went over to get his order. As well as the innkeeper, Ray was also the head of the Assassin's Guild, which helped keep him from getting too many complaints about the food. "What's your preference, guy?" Ray asked. Sam thought a moment. "Umm, I'll have six roasted plover's eggs with a spread of butter, some venison pastries, a pigeon pie, and a large skin of Malmsey," he decided. "We got burgers and fries, buddy boy. How about a jumbo Hexburger?" "Hexburger?" "Two almost-beef patties, lettuce, tomato, pickles, cheese, and the OuTcAsT's special sauce all served between two floppy disks for only $2.25." "Gimme a bagel and a Sprite." "Sure you wouldn't want to try our Executioner's Delight? Finest dessert we sell." "Er, what is..." "Executioner's Delight? Well to tell the truth, it's a Hexburger with whipped cream and nuts, but you'd be surprised at the great flavor." "I'll bet I would. Just a bagel, okay?" "Ah, watching your weight, hey? Then you'll want our Dieter Special." "Which is?" "It's Executioner's Delight without all the whipped cream and nuts. It's only $2.95." "But without the cream and nuts it's just a Hexburger!" "It's also $.70 above normal price. Don't spread it around, huh?" "I just want a bagel and a Sprite!" "We don't have any bagels, but we do have our specialty Danish pastries." "What are..." "They're two almost-beef patties, lettuce, tomato, pickles, cheese, the OuTcAsT's special sauce, whipped cream, and nuts, all served on a flaky and delicious floppy disk for only $1.95. We also have Diet Danish pastries which come without the pickles." "Those are just Executioner's Delight sans a disk!" "And sans pickles if you're dieting." "Do you serve anything besides Hexburgers?" "Well, no, but we do have a wide selection of table forks." "Yeah, well, gimme a Hexburger, hold the floppy disks. Oh, and a Sprite." "Wouldn't you rather have a Yoohoo?" "No, I want a Sprite." "I'm sure you'd prefer a Yoohoo." "I want Sprite!" "All we have is Yoohoo." "I'll have a Yoohoo!" "Fine. So that's one Hexburger, hold the disks, and a choc- olate Yoohoo." "I'm not too good on chocolate. Do the Yoohoos come in any other flavors?" "No, but they do come in a wide variety of colors." "How can you people manage to stay in business?" "It's our great clientele, sir. Oh, excuse me." Ray suddenly slammed his head down on the bar for no ap- parent reason and slumped down behind it, unconscious. Others followed his example, dropping face first into their Yoohoos and Hexburgers. Before Sam could react, a page ran in screaming, "The King approaches! All bow and look foolish before the King!" The Sysop strolled in and waved casually. "How's it going, guys?" "Here be the King!" the page hollered. "The King has ap- proached!" "You blow that bugle of yours and I'll tear your lips off!" threatened the Sysop. "The King has spoken!" bawled the page. "All listen to the King!" The Sysop flipped a quarter to the page. "Get lost, will ya?" "All hear the King!" cried the page. "The King has..." The Sysop made a gesture to his man-at-arms who promptly clubbed the page unconscious. "Ah, Captain," said the Sysop, "c'mere for a sec, will ya?" "What's up?" "I need to talk to you. It's about the pinheads." "Pinheads, eh? What about 'em?" "They've got me worried. This morning when I asked them to bring me breakfast, you know what they did?" "Can't imagine." The Sysop gave Sam a grave look. "They brought up my break- fast." "Sounds extremely suspicious." "You don't know these pinheads, Sam. They're total morons. Just last week I caught them trying to push the Hex's chapel into the lake. They said it had something to do with the separation of church and state. I asked them a while back to blow up the tires on my coach and they lobbed a grenade at it. In fact, I..." "Your coach has inflatable tires?" Sam interrupted, looking as bored as he could possibly force his facial muscles to handle. "Don't ask stupid questions. Anyway, a week ago they were boiling boots and calling it soul food (Sole food, get it? Hey, I don't write 'em, I just edit 'em! - ED). Now they're bringing me breakfast. The orange juice wasn't even burned. I think they're plotting something." "Like what?" "I don't know, but I want it stopped, and you're just the guy to do it." "Why me in particular?" "Because any situation that could prompt the pinheads to do their duties without a single complaint about union rules is so obviously hazardous it demands a character of your notable expendability." "You wanna run that one past me again?" "No, not really. Will you do it?" "What exactly am I supposed to do?" "How should I know?" roared the Sysop. "I'm a king, not an information poll! Why don't you ask Gruber?" "Gruber as in David Gruber?" Sam asked. "Yeah, go bother him for a while. He's outside waxing his horse." "Right. See ya later." "Don't trouble yourself." Sam strolled out onto the cobblestone street and began looking for Gruber. He found him by the Yellow Aardvark Tavern vigorously rubbing his horse with turtle wax. "Hey, Dave," Sam called, "can you spare a minute?" "Sure thing," David yelled back. "You wouldn't happen to have any Windex on you, would ya?" "'fraid not," Sam replied. "Can you tell me a few things about the pinheads?" "Like what?" "Like what's been happening to them during the last few days." "It's pretty suspicious if you ask me. It seems that every night... oh, hand me the rust remover, will you?" Sam tossed the bottle over. "You were saying?" "Well, every night a few of them wander off. When they come back, they have these weird marks on them." "Marks?" "Yeah. Little scars on their temples that look like X's. Hey, pass me the chrome spray and epoxy, huh?" "Here. So they wander off and come back scarred. Is that all there is to it?" "No, not just that. They act differently somehow. Gimme a flathead screwdriver, will ya?" "What are you doing over there anyway?" "I thought I'd give my horse a home permanent. All the other horses got 'em so why not?" David paused a moment, "Scratch the screwdriver. Lemme have a chisel and a mallet." "Um, here. You were saying the pinheads were different in some way?" Sam hinted. "Oh, yeah. Ever since they got those marks they just bump around like zombies." "They always bumped around like zombies." "Well yeah, but they're bumping differently somehow. Like they've got some purpose in mind." "What mind? We don't call 'em pinheads for nothing. What sort of purpose could they have?" "I really don't know. Why don't you ask the Zygnic Mystic? And hand me a cucumber, would you?" "Zygnic Mystic? Who's that?" Sam asked. "The Zygnic Mystic lives in the wastelands," answered the old man, appearing from no place in particular. "She knows many secrets and has much knowledge. She's also got a great pair of legs and makes a mean tuna casserole." There was a sudden explosion of flame and smoke and the old man was simply gone. "You'd think he could come up with a more original exit." David grumbled. "Thanks for the help, Dave," Sam yelled, clambering up the hill. "I've got to be going." "Think you could pick me up a box of thumbtacks?" David hollered back, but Sam was already gone. Between Bernsteen's Used Firewood Emporium and Lurang's Mule Repair & Maintenance Shop was a large and unruly street bazaar that was so crowded with people it had its own separate government system. The bazaar was choked with merchants and customers scrambling madly back and forth screaming and yell- ing and putting up such a squall that in all the smoke and confusion, it was nearly impossible to tell the merchants' stalls from the tents of people who had given up hope of find- ing their way out and had started homesteading. It was not a pretty sight. It was ugly and it was corrupt; and if the Hex's Civic Beautification Committee could ever lay its hands on a couple tons of gunpowder, business was going to take a defin- ite turn for the worse. Sam flashed his passport to the surrounding border patrol and entered the market with the same sort of wrenching gut feeling one has when a physician points a six-inch needle at one's flesh and says how painless it's going to be. This bazaar was the originator of the term 'blood in the market- place', and if you tried haggling with any of the shopkeeps about the price of an item, you'd probably get a nasty insight into what a businessman means when he says he made a killing on the market. Because of this, any successful and experienced hagglers were immediately eligible for a top spot in the Assassins' Guild. Sam quickly edged his way through the raging crowd to Dan Erlandson's fruit and vegetable stand. Dan had recently re- turned from a year-long mapping expedition of the outer regions beyond the castle walls, and if anyone knew where the Zygnic Mystic was, he did. "Hey, Dan!" Sam yelled, rapping on the counter. "Oh, hello Sam," Dan replied in a British accent that was thick enough to swim in. "What do you want? We've got a special on fruit flies if you're interested." "I need a map of the outer regions if you've got one." "Certainly. They're free with a pound of apples." "Could I have a map?" "Are you going to buy a pound of apples?" "Well, I wasn't planning on it." "Then push off, will you? I've got to go peel the peas." "You can't peel peas!" "It's my stand; I can do whatever I want." "Yeah, well I think I'll have that pound of apples after all." "Coming right up." Dan rummaged about behind the counter for a moment and produced a dripping paper sack filled with foul smelling fruit. As he was about to hand the sack to Sam, the bottom split open and a large brown block of apples fell out onto the counter with a sickening thud. "Those apples are all stuck together!" Sam complained. "Well, they're a very close group. Came from the same tree, you know." "And they're all brown!" "Ah, you noticed that too, did you? You're an observant one, you are." "There's no way I'm gonna buy brown apples!" "What are you? Some sort of bleedin' fruit bigot?" "If I'm gonna buy apples, I want some fresh red ones!" "All right. I'll just go back and paint them for you." "That won't be the same somehow." "How about this then?" Dan reached into a small basket on the counter and pulled out an enormous beautifully-formed golden apple. "Now that's more like it," Sam said approvingly. "Could I try some of it?" "Oh, please do," Dan said encouragingly, handing the apple to Sam. Sam took a large bite and immediately spat it out. "I can't eat this!" he choked. "It's wax!" "Do you have to be so bloody particular?" Dan yelled im- patiently. "Is there anything in this place that's fresh?" Sam deman- ded. "Well, there's Scott Segura from the cleaning staff." "Scott Segura isn't a fruit!" Sam snapped. "I take it you've never met him." "Look, all I want is a map. No apples, no peas, no flies, no wax, no janitors; just a map." "How about a pear, then? They're very good today and mostly yellow, except on the tops where they've been..." "No," Sam interrupted. "Nothing. Just a map." "Not even a..." "No." "Not even a small one?" "No." "Not even a very, very small one with a pedigree?" "Not a chance." "What if I knock the mold off?" "All I want is a lousy map, okay? A map! M-A-P, map!" "You're sure?" "Yes!" "Absolutely sure?" "I'm sure!" "Certain you won't change your mind?" Sam angrily snatched his sword from the sheath and pointed it at Dan's chest. "May I take that as a yes?" Dan asked, eyeing the blade. "Get the blasted map!" Sam growled through clenched teeth. Dan dug through the counter's shelves, emerging with an old and yellowed scrap of parchment with odd scrawlings on it that appeared to have been done in crayon. "One map," Dan announced. "That comes to three pounds." Sam flung the money down on the counter, seized the map, and stalked off. "Ruddy imbecile," Dan muttered. According to the map, the Zygnic Mystic resided in an aban- doned outpost far off in the deserts of the Mad Sheikh, an odd little wizened old man whose main obsession was with making pies for the many nomads and travellers who passed through his domain. In honor of his customers, the Sheikh christened these pies Nomad Meringues, and if the name didn't make you choke, the cactus filling certainly would (this particular bit of history is completely useless and is clinically proven to be commonly read by people who waste their lives fooling with computer BBS's, rather than doing something important, pro- ductive, and life-affirming, like writing clever stories). Sam sighed. He could think of at least a million fun things he'd like to be doing just now, and fooling around in a thousand-mile stretch of dirt didn't seem to be one of them. Still, he wasn't one to refuse the honor of doing a favor for the King, mostly because if he did the King would tear his heart out and play handball with it. Sam cursed silently under his breath and set off towards the castle gate, hoping to be able to find a Hertz Rent-A-Camel outlet before night set in. At the gate, Sam found Steve Walstra and Terry Hashey talking to the King's executioner, Jay Young, about a new device they'd invented. Steve and Terry were local inventors who were constantly pestering people to buy their latest creations, and were usually about as welcome a sight as black plague. Jay Young, a large, powerful man who possessed a build like the Sears Tower, had had the misfortune of not being able to get out of Steve and Terry's way fast enough, and was being subjected to one of their infamous sales pitches. Sam silently crept up on the group hoping to slip past before he was no- ticed, but Jay, who had been watching the castle hawkishly for any possible diversion, spotted him immediately. "Hey, Sam!" Jay yelled. "How're ya doin'?" Sam stiffened as Steve and Terry turned on him and he broke out in a cold sweat. He looked over at Jay to complain, but Jay was too busy sneaking off to explain things. Steve and Terry, on the other hand, were all-too-willing to explain things and suddenly Sam wasn't so sure he wanted to know. He wished he was younger. He would have cried. "So," Sam sighed, "what're you guys selling now?" Terry held up a pair of fluorescent-orange socks. "Neo-socks," Terry proudly announced. "The greatest things the world has ever seen." "Er, what good are they?" Sam asked, more than a little bit apprehensive. "Well, let's say you're travelling along, and your lantern burns out," Terry said excitedly. "What's the first thing you should do?" "Relight it." "No. You slip off your shoes, and you know what happens?" "Yeah, I stumble around in the dark and stub my toes." "Ah, but it won't be dark! Each of these socks emit a 20-candlelight power glow when activated by heat, such as, say, the bodily warmth of your feet. They're the ultimate in reliable, gas free lighting!" "Wonderful." "But there's more! Let's say you're attacked by highway robbers. You can use these as a defensive weapon!" Sam sniffed the socks cautiously. "They aren't that bad." "No, no, no!" Terry yelled, stamping his feet. "You hurl them to the ground as hard as you can and they explode with a brilliant flash of light that blinds your attackers long enough for you to escape!" "What happens if I accidentally kick something while I'm wearing these things?" "They blow your foot off." Terry shrugged. "Well, nothing's perfect." "Speak for yourself, cool guy," Steve said, rather smugly. "Oh, Sam, this is Steve Walstra." "No joke. Look, if I buy a pair of these willya go away? I'm in something of a rush."