Spell humuhumunukunukuapuaa or you will die

In an abandoned comfort station buried deep beneath the burning ruins of Renaissance Square a group of brave travelers confronts Old Donovan, the protector of the last remaining conduit to Parallel Time. Two of their number have failed the test and paid with their eternal souls.

It's starting to get lonely around here. ... Your turn, little angel.

I'm not afraid of you!

Well, you should be. ... Spell humuhumunukunukuapuaa.

Etymology?

Hawaiian.

Function?

Noun.

Definition?

It's a fish.

Use in a sentence.

Certainly. Spell humuhumunukunukuapuaa or you will die.

No, I don't want to.

Then I send you to hell!

You can't send me to hell! I'm an angel. Ha ha.

Then I shall send you to ... Macungie!

Nooooo! POOF!



Your turn!

Gulp!

Same question. ... Spell humuhumunukunukuapuaa.

Um ... I'd like to buy a vowel?

Congratulations! You're going to hell

Who else wishes to go to hell?

I'll answer your damn questions!

Very well. At a company fish fry, half the people in attendance are employees. Employees' spouses are one-third of the attendance. What is the percentage of people in attendance who are neither employees nor employee spouses?

When have you ever been to a damn fish fry?

Answer the question.

That's 16.7 percent, Skelator.

Amazingly, you are correct. ... Now the seond question. ... What is the Farenheit equivalent of zero degrees Kelvin?

Negative 459.67 Farenheit ... chump.

You are clever, but your third question will have to wait. Next up, the little reindeer.

Damn!

I'm ready!

If two of Santa's sleighs leave the North Pole 1 p.m., how many miles apart will they be at 3 p.m. if one travels directly north at 150 mph and the other travels directly west at 200 mph?

Santa only has one sleigh!


No, he has two! Remember? He has the battle sleigh!


The battlesleigh was destroyed by Gabriel. Remember?

Oh, right.

It is a hypothetical question. Just answer it!

Based on a false premise! Besides, Santa always starts his journey at midnight, not 1 p.m.

But there is no one time zone at the North Pole because all of the time zones meet there, theoretically. So somewhere in the world it would be 1 p.m. and for that country it also would be 1 p.m. at the North Pole.

You're not helping.

Answer the question now!

Fine. You can't travel north from the North Pole! Ha!

The Troll Bridge Commission accepts your answer. Next question. Socrates was a follower of Plato. True or false.

False! Plato was a follower of Socrates and Aristotle was a follower of Plato!

There goes my next question.

Heck! I would have gotten that.

Final question. Finish this sentence: On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me ...

Oh, God. I hate that song ....

Answer the question.

I'd like a life line.

A lifeline? There are no life lines.

Hmmm. It's either pipers piping or swans a swimming. ...

Pssst. Ahhh-chooooswans!

Um ... I'm going to go with swans a swimming

Is that your final answer?

Final answer!

Congratulations! You're going to hell.

Crap! POOF !

Who's next?

You have sealed your own doom

Who dares to approach this comfort station?

We are weary travelers, on our way to Parallel Time.

Travel to Parallel Time is forbidden. Turn away now or suffer eternal damnation!

We want to answer the questions.

What do you know of the questions? There will be no questions. Be gone!

In the name of the Troll Bridge Commission, we demand to answer the questions.

You dare to evoke the name of the Troll Bridge Commission to me?

You have to ask us the questions.

You have sealed your own doom, then. Who among you will answer the questions?

I will.

And me!

I'll answer your damn questions, bonehead.

As shall I.

Me too!

Um, I never actually finished my lunch ...

Don't be afraid. Your guardian angel is here to look after you.

Oh God.

We'll all answer the questions.

Then I'll start with the statue. ... I will ask you three questions. If you answer incorrectly you will be banished to hell for all eternity.If you answer all three correctly, you will be allowed to pass into Parallel Time. ... What is the capital of Albania?

Tirana.

What are the country's borders?

Wait!

Fear not, son. Geography is my passion. Albania's borders are Greece, the Adriatic Sea, the Ionian Sea and, of course, the Kingdom of Yugoslavia, previously known as the

Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes.

No, Trexler. The countries have changed. ...

They have changed indeed. Albania is bordered by Greece to the southeast, Montenegro to the north, Kosovo to the northeast, and Macedonia to the east. It has coasts on the Adriatic and Ionian seas. Have fun in hell. You are the weakest link.

Drat. POOF!

No! Gen. Trexler!

Um ... weren't you also his guardian angel?

You're Saint Onslo?

The Player is doing much better. I believe he is fit for travel. ... Quite a contraption this hyperbaric chamber of yours.

It ain't mine, it's Marge's! She used to sleep in the damn things.

OK, men, let's hit the tunnels. Lead the way, Liker. And no funny business!

And how, exactly, do you define funny business? Would I tell a joke or maybe wear a stupid hat and nose?

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

I'll show you what it means, jackass!

Easy! ... Save your hostility for Old Donovan. You're going to need it. And Newman, too.

Which one should we save our hostility for, Old Donovan or Newman? Should we save some of our hostility for Old Donovan and some for Newman, or should some of us save all of our hostility for Old Donovan and the rest of us save all of our hostility for Newman?

Perhaps we should first save all of our hostility for Old Donovan and then work up a fresh round of hostility for Newman.

I like that! Although I'm not very hostile.

And what about Saint Onslo? Should, maybe, one of us save half their hostility for him -- or maybe all of us save, say, 10 percent?

OK, stop! Forget the hostility. Let's just find Onslo so he can lead us to Old Donovan and he can lead us to Parallel Time where we will stop Newman.

Should all of us forget all of our hostility, or ...

That's enough! This is torture!

Torture? Oh, well that just takes the prize, doesn't it?

Onslo! We've been looking for you.

Saint Onlslo, patron saint of the urban underground, at your service.

You're Saint Onslo?

He looks like a damn bum!

Oh, nice.

I'm sorry, but you've been downgraded. You're no longer a saint.

Downgraded? By who?

By Jesus.

By Jesus? Just who does he think he is anyway?

Why, he's Jesus! You know, The Almighty.

Well I never voted for him. ... Since when is Jesus in charge of saints?

Since forever and ever?

Listen here, Mr. Onslo. Do you know where we can find someone called Old Donovan?

Well, since I've been downgraded -- without so much as the courtesy of a phone call I might add -- maybe you should get some official saint to help you. Some sainted card-carrying member of the Jesus party. ... Downgraded? That's bloody perfect, isn't it?

Maybe you could appeal?

Appeal? Like some of them wretched old Irish saints that the pointy-hatted Roman bishops swept out the door? I don't think so.

I hate to interrupt, but we need to locate Old Donovan as soon as possible. The fate of heaven is in our hands!

The fate of heaven? Oh, that just takes the cake, doesn't it? What, God's afraid he might get downgraded? ... And what would you want with Old Donovan anyways? Nasty piece of work, that one. He'll chew you up and spit you out, he will.

Damn! Jesus said he'd eat me alive!

That would suck -- not!

Down, Rufus! Why don't you go chew on some of them damn bones?

Enough! Will you help us find Donovan or not? ... I could always torture you.

You're torturing me now, mate. Don't make me lose me patience ....

Oh, please help us Saint Onslo! Pleeeease?

Well, since you asked me nicely. Perhaps I can help. ... For a price. How much money ya got then?

I'm said to have millions, but being a statue ... I find myself a bit short.

I don't have any damn money. I'm dead. Jesus wouldn't even let me in the Diamond Club.

I'm afraid angels don't have any worldly possessions.

I don't have any pockets.

Don't look at me! I'm college student.

Pathetic. Look, I have 45 bucks. That's it.

That's a start. That's a nice ring. Hand it over. And the watch, too.

My secret decoder ring and my two-way wristwatch? Wouldn't it be easier to just torture him?

Just hand it over, Dick Tracy.

Pleasure doing business with you gents! Now where were we ... ah Old Donovan. Why anybody would want to find that old troll is beyond me ...

So you know this Old Donovan? Why do you call him a troll?

Technically speaking, he's not a troll, but he does guard the passage to Parallel Time. And I think he's registered with the Troll Bridge Commission as well. ...

You know anbout Parallel Time? Does everyone know about Parallel Time but me?

I may be downgraded but there's not much goes on down here in the underground I don't know about. ... So Old Donovan guards the passage and he doesn't want anyone to cross it. He'd as soon kill ya as look at ya.

So how do we defeat him?

Ya can't defeat him, chum. He's been guardin that passage for ages. What ya do is ... outsmart him. You see, he'll challenge you when you reach the passage. He'll tell you to go away or he'll kill ya. But you tell him you plan to cross over to Parallel Time. Then he'll have to ask you some questions -- those are the rules of the Troll Bridge Commission -- if you get a question wrong, he'll send ya straight to hell. But if ya get three questions right, he'll have to let you pass.

Does anyone ever get three questions right?

Never. ... Never, that is, until last week. This sea monster lady from Monaco came through here and answered the three questions and popped straight through without a hitch.

So there's hope! Oh, thank you so much Saint Onslo! I will tell Jesus myself how you helped us and ask that you be reinstated.

You do that. And tell him I wouldn't mind bein able to fly either. ... And I'd like some decent tea.

One last thing, Onslo. How do we find Old Donovan?

Simple. Just follow the green signs with the arrows that say Parallel Time.

Just follow the signs?

Sorry. I guess I never noticed the signs.

You owe me a decoder ring. ... Get moving. And no monkey business!

Honey! I'm hoooome!

Helldog here .... I don't know if you're picking this up, but I have a confirmed Marge sighting moving north on S. Fifth Street, crossing Union.

I don't see her yet here at Ninth and Hamilton, but I can hear her. She seems to be taunting St. Michael the Archangel, who is still hiding out inside the closed-down Daro's Extreme Fitness.

Honey! I'm hoooome! Yooo hooo!

She seems to be carrying something.... OK, it's two armloads of buses. I assume she got them from Bicentennial Park because she also appears to have the foul pole.... The left field foul pole I believe.

Still no sign of her dance partner.... He must be doing some curls. He's been a little outta sorts since getting that shot of steroids. ... OK. I see Marge now. Here she comes.

Oh Michael, come out! Don't be shy, my dear. Come and visit with Marge. Oh my! What have we here?



Ladies and gentlemen, Marge has stopped at the lifeless body of her brother Ronan, slain earlier by St. Michael after Ronan was attacked by the Trexler statue. She's talking to him.

Poor baby brother. As our dear mother used to say, it's all fun and games until someone loses an eye, or eyes as it were.

Still no sign of Michael, but the Irish Tenor has gone over to Daro's to see what's going on.

Ah! It's himself. Marge is waitin, lad. Michael, what are ye doin hiding in Daro's?

Do my arms look bigger to you? I don't trust this mirror; it makes me look skinny.

Begorrah, lad. Marge is destroyin' the city and she's comin' for ye. Ye got to get out there and put her in her place!

My pecs are definitely popping. Wouldn't you say?

Lad, I don't even know what that is.

I could use some protein. ... I wonder where The Player keeps those protein bars of his?

Ah! There you are. If you need protein why not eat your little Leprechaun friend here? If you don't, I will, though I do find Irish cuisine to be somewhat bland.

Begorrah! Help me lad. She's got me in her clutches!

Enough already! You're giving me a headache. I don't have time for this; I gotta get a workout in.

Helldog here.... I'm outside of Daro's Extreme Fitness. Marge has taken one of our broadcasters, the Irish Tenor, and is about to eat him! Strangely, St. Michael appears disinterested.

Jeez would you people shut the hell up??? I'm starting to get really pissed off.

Red Devil here.... Tenor, can you hear me?

Aye, lad, I can indeed.

I detect a bit of 'roid rage in your pal, there. Your best bet might be to piss him off.

Aye. ... Oh Michael, now that ye mention it ... I don't think it's the mirror. I think yer arms seem a wee frail. ...

What?

... and them pecs of yours ... are a bit ... poofy.

Poofy????

And, if I may, Saint Poofypecs, you appear to be a bit loose in the loin cloth. Do you even have testicles? Perhaps you would like to borrow one of my frocks.

Helldog here.... Um, I think Marge just pissed off St. Michael. He's about as red as I am right now. ... Wait a second ... she just swallowed the Irish Tenor!

Saints preserve us!

Saint Poofypecs? ... You no-good, lousy-rotten demon! I got your poofypecs right here, Marge. Feel the bite of my terrible swift sword!

Promises, promises.... Ouch! Oh my. ...That does sting somewhat, actually.

Oh my, indeed! With one swift thrust of his sword, Michael has just eviscerated Marge.... I'm not sure she even saw it coming.

How's that for poofy pecs, Marge?

Hellcat, I believe I just saw a red, gooey mass fall from Marge's gut. Would those be her entrails, or liver, perhaps?

I can't tell .... Wait. I think it's the Irish Tenor. ... Yes it is. It's the Irish Tenor, Devil.

Jaysus, Mary and Joseph. Saints be praised!

Folks, I think Michael's about to finish her off. ... No, wait. He's going back inside the gym. ...

It must be this mirror. ... My pecs really aren't poofy are they?

Uh-oh. He's letting her get away. Marge has jammed shut the door to the gym with the foul pole foul and is on the move. She's heading your way, Devil.

Uh-oh? Did you say "uh-oh"? You and me hafta talk, Helldog.

Sorry, Devil. I just got caught up in the moment. ... Can you see Marge?

She just passed me at Ninth and Hamilton. She's dropped a couple of buses and she's holding her gut ... that wound looks like the one that did Ronan in. ... She just disappeared behind the Soldiers and Sailors Monument. Maybe you can fly over toward Sixth Street, Helldog, and pick her up there.

On it, Devil. .... Got her. ... She's on Sixth Steet. She's losing a lot of blood, but she's pulling the steel beams out of the Cosmopolitan construction site. Unless I've missed my mark It looks like the final battle between good and evil will be fought at Sixth and Linden.

Something is wrong

How goes the Mission to Marge?

Something is wrong.

Time has been altered.

An alternate timeline?

Perhaps.


And the humans?

There they sit, in Turkey, 13 1/2 months in the past, but which past?

Marge has not appeared?

She has not. ... The previous attempt was flawed.

The archangel intervened.

The Hound of Chulainn was not eaten; he was spirited away. He lives on, at the North Pole.

The beginning of an alternate timeline? Are we trapped?

Perhaps. You ask a lot of questions.

If so, these humans must never be allowed to return to their time, if it exists. Caw!

How I wish those crows would stop their incessant chattering. They sound like a treeful of magpies.

Maybe they's hungry. I could sure could use me some a them french fried potaters. Hmmm.

I'm hungry, too, father. And cold. Marge should have been here days ago.

We are all hungry, my son. Apparently we must wait a bit longer for Marge to appear. Has anyone seen Truman? ... I can't help but feel that something is wrong.

Should we kill them now and be done with it?

Caw!

Is that a screwdriver in your pocket?

Tell me what you want now or the angel gets it.

We're not here to hurt you. As a token of good faith I'm going to unplug the power drill that I intend to use shortly on your kneecap. See? It's unplugged.

It's cordless.

Be that as it may. Now I need a token of your good faith. Put down the ring bologna, let the angel go and come down here and let me torture you.

Eww! He smooshed the ring bologna in my hair!

Quiet, Bubbles! You all have five seconds to clear out of my basement or I throw down the fish and chips. And take that Player bum with you!

Have some compassion, sir. We have an injured man down here. He's covered in fuzzy black beans and he's going into shock.

Did you know he tried to microwave one of my cats?

Nice ...

Everything ... is ... getting ... dark. I see a tunnel. At the end of the tunnel is ... Steve Young? ... Throw me the damn ball, a-hole!

He's delirious!

Listen here, Mr. Liker. The rancid contents of your refrigerator will have little effect on me. This violence is not necessary. We just want to know how to contact Old Donovan. He's supposed to be down in these tunnels somewhere in some sort of comfort station.

Well you took a wrong turn, Trexler. I don't know any Old Donovan.

Donovan? Donovan ... my friend ... is ... it ... really ... you? Throw me the damn ball! Don't get sick, Donovan. Throw me the damn ball!

He's doing sit-ups! He needs help!

Listen, I don't even use those tunnels, except maybe to go the the Brew Works. ... But there may be a guy ... I met a crazy vagrant down there a couple of times. He said he lives in the tunnels. He thinks he's a saint. He calls himself Onslo. Maybe he can help you.

St. Onslo? There used to be a St. Onslo. He was the patron saint of the urban underground. ... But he was downgraded.

Where do we find this Onslo?

I usually see him hanging around beneath the Hotel Grand or under the Hofbrau House.

Perhaps you could show us the way?

First tell Agent 86 here to put the drill back in its box. And lose the screwdriver, too.

What about the Player?

Toss him in that hyperbaric chamber with some extra strength Dawn. That'll take care of anything. ... Better set it for delicate.

Jeff Garcia? If it smell like a rat, it ... must ... be ... a ... rat.

You wouldn't have really used that ring bologna on me would you?

Nah. I was planning to eat it. ... Hey, is that a screwdriver in your pocket?

Maybe.

This man is a monster

Hmmm. Let's see what's in the fridge. ... What is that ... turkey? Sniff. Pretty slippery, but not too bad. ... Ah, cream cheese. Scrape that green crap off the outside of it and it'll be just fine. ... Beans? Eww! Those are pretty fuzzy ... better put them back. Hmmm. Is that sauerkraut? Cripes, it's moving! ... Jelly! That doesn't go bad, does it? ... Applesauce ... hmm ... oh my, not in this lifetime. ... I wonder if I shouldn't move the fridge into the temporal rift in the secret room. ... Probably no electricity in 1868, though. ... Hmmm. turkey, cream cheese and strawberry jelly. I think I have some Wonder bread left over from Christmas, or Labor Day. That doesn't ever go bad. ... Bingo! Find me one of those old Hess's bricks to put on top of the George Foreman grill and ... BAM! ... An Elena Ruz sammich! ... Whoa! What the hell! ... I think somebody's in the basement. Or something! All of Marge's crap is still down there. ...


I think I heard a voice upstairs!

What the hell! I know this place! This is Marge's crap. Those are her hyperbaric chambers. And those are her polar bear rugs ... the damn cats threw up all over them & picked out their eyes. And there's her dentist chair! Damn! This is Atown-Liker's basement.

Who the hell is down there? I've got a sword and the makings of an Elena Ruz sammich and I know how to use them!

He sounds violent.

I know how to handle this. Sir, we are not here to harm you. I just want you to put down the sword, and the jelly jar, and slowly walk down into the basement to be tortured.

Um ... no?

Hmm. He's clever. This is going to be harder than I thought. Rudolph, give me the explosives.

Explosives? You never mentioned explosives. I'm not sure we even have any in Santa's workshop.

Hang on, James Bond. I know this guy. He's my friend. I think he owes me some damn money as a matter of fact. Hey, Atown! It's the Player.

You? Get out of my basement, you self-serving bastard!

And he's your friend? ... All right, listen Mr. Liker. Here's how it's going to work. I'm going to come up the steps. You're going to put down your weapons. And I'm going to hold this screwdriver against your eye until you give me the whereabouts of Old Donovan.

Who is Old Donovan?

Wrong answer, Mr. Liker. Now I will be forced to put out your eye with the screwdriver and hold this hammer drill to your kneecap. ...

This fellow's got some nice tools down here....

Down! Down! Everyone take cover! He's attacking! ... Incoming!!

I'm hit! Oh Lord, I'm hit! Damn!


Oh good heavens! Those are the moldiest beans I have ever seen.

It stinks! It stinks! Medic!

Back off! I've got leftover fish and chips from Lord Wellington's Gate and, God help me, I'll use them! Do you know how long that place has been closed?

Oh my God. The nuclear option. We need more firepower.

Wait. Let me talk to him. ... Mr. Liker? Remember me? I'm your guardian angel.

You? I'd rather talk the psycho with the power tools!

It's true that perhaps I was not paying attention when your life took a turn for the worse. And it may have been true when St. Michael said everything I touch turns to poo, but I've turned over a new leaf. Just ask Gen. Trexler.

It's true, sir. She was my guardian angel as well. And although she was apparently preoccupied tinkering with a lute at the time of my demise -- and, really, if I might, she had plenty of time to see that truck coming -- she has recently been a positive force on my existence, such as it is.

And the Player has turned over a new leaf as well. Although he ran away when his friends turned against Marge, he did save me from being waterboarded by Ronan.

OK. You can come up to negotiate. But just you. Anybody down there moves and she gets it.

Oh my gosh. He's holding a ring bologna to her throat!

That's leftover from the 2006 primary election. This man is a monster.


I ... can't ... smell ... my ... cologne.

What ... the ... hell?

Rudolph, it's too dark in here.

Sorry. I can't make my nose any brighter.

OK, Player, put your nose back on.

Hell! First you want it off, then you want it on. Make up your damn mind. Doesn't the Man from U.N.C.L.E have a damn flashlight?

You wanted in on this mission. Light her up.

Hell! What's with all these damn bones? Jesus didn't anything about a bunch a damn bones!

These are Allentown's catacombs.

I don't recall any such catacombs in my time.

This is where your enemies are buried, General.

Ah! Well that would make some sense, then.

Quiet. Look up ahead. Is that a door?

It's a metal panel.

Pry it open, General.

Ooooh! Are those some sort of machines in there?

Look at that polar bear rug! Now that's a damn magnificent animal. I wish I could have killed it myself.

What ... the ... hell?

Donovan will eat you alive. Literally

Sir, how do we find this Old Donovan?

The crows will show you the way.

Caw! The crows have no use for Old Donovan.


Caw. Old Donovan is our enemy! Caw!

He's actually right this time. Caw. The crows and Old Donovan are ancient enemies. We will not take you to him.

Dudes, chill. Just take them back to Allentown, then.

But Allentown is fraught with danger. The city lies in smoldering ruin as angels and demons battle in its streets.


Has anyone seen "Angels and Demons" yet? I love Tom Hanks.

You know, it's not half-bad. Better than the last one. I don't know why the pope has his nose out of joint over it. ... He's been a bit of a disappointment.

Tom Hanks is our enemy! Caw!

Shush! ... The crows believe that using an anti-matter bomb as such a key element of the plot was far-fetched to say the least ...

The crows shall launch their own anti-matter bomb against the Vatican! Caw!

Shush! Why don't you go outside and play with the polar bears? Caw!

Enough. We must find this Old Donovan and torture him!

Not likely, dude. Chances are you won't even survive the encounter. ... Here's the deal. The crows will take you as far as Allentown -- and that's an order, dudes -- and you'll have to find the cavern that runs under Hamilton Street. Beneath 7th and Hamilton, you will find an abandoned comfort station. Donovan is the rest room attendant. He'll tell you what to do.

I never saw any damn tunnel under Hamilton Street. How are we supposed to find that? Hell, thanks to damn ol' Marge, Hamilton street's a damn war zone.

If I may interrupt, Oh Lord, I have some small knowledge of the underground areas around Hamilton Street. There was some talk of creating those rest stations in my time.

But how do we get access?

Well, the place was pretty torn up after the Spanish Armada attacked. There's probably some good spots to get in. The Countess of Monaco got in from under the Butz building after it was destroyed.

That old bat's still alive? She's got more lives than a damn cat. Hell, she looks like a damn cat.

Dude, you may want to lose the hat and the nose. Donovan will eat you alive. Literally.

About time!

Hell! Who wants to look like you anyway, Rufus?

Whoa! "Desperate Housewives" is coming on. I'm out, dudes. Good luck. POOF!

OK. Angel, general -- you're with me.

I could help you find your way though the tunnels.

OK, Rudolph. You're in.

Whoa! Hold it right there. I got a red nose, too. You ain't leavin me here alone with Santa. He's a damn psycho. ... Plus one of those guys in Parallel Time looks just like me, but not as handsome. I could be unobtrusive.


He's right Mr. Bauer, Parallel Atown-Liker's right-hand man looks just like the Player. Plus, Jesus poofed little Ronan over to help with Santa. He took over for me when I was promoted from wiping the Cherubim's asses. He's quite reliable. And nothing like his grownup counterpart from Parallel Time.

I agree with Bubbles. I did some time with him in Limbo. He's a good little dude. Let me come Bauer.

OK, fine. You're in. Remember our objective is to get Newman. Everything else is secondary.

Remember the Maine! Get Newman!

Get damn Newman!

Get Newman, and his little dog, too!

What's all this damn racket! Who the hell are you people? ... Don't you touch me, you little bastard!

Yes, sir.

Get me some vodka you little twerp!

Yes sir.

I think Santa's going to be just fine.

Crows, it's time.


Caw!


Who told you we had an anti-matter weapon?

Caw!

Heaven will suck now

So, what's the connection between a dead actor in non-Parallel Time and president's dog Ponzi in Parallel Time?

The crows do not know this. But we do know that the dog ate 50 billion dollars and we do know that Jesus made Paul Newman the Lord of Parallel Time.


Then we have to go to Parallel time and torture Paul Newman.

Hell yeah! I'll torture that Newman my damn self. Jesus was my pal till Newman came around, then suddenly they hangin out watching all those damn movies and sharing those damn chips. The Player doesn't eat any damn chips! Cool Hand Luke can kiss my ass!

Caw! It is impossible. Lord Newman has imposed celestial lockdown. Not even the crows can travel to Parallel Time.

If I may interject, gentlemen. I may not know about such things as Parallel Time, but I do know about money. Am I to assume that 50 billion dollars is a substantial sum in this time?

Hell yeah, tin man. The Player's not even worth more than 30 billion.

Then that gentlemen is your connection. I dare say that money was not eaten at all, but hidden away. I believe this Ponzi of yours is acting in concert with Lord Newman. Ponzi is his pet! This man doesn't just want to be God, he wants to have more money than God.

Ponzi is more than his pet! Ponzi is his lover! Caw! Caw!

Stop! Seriously, you need to knock it off or we're not going to bring you with us any more. ... The metallic one is wise. I regret pooping upon him.

Poop!

Angel, how do we contact Jesus?

Easy! He's one of my Five Favorites, so it's a free call! ... It's ringing.

Um, hello?

Hi, Jesus. It's me, the little angel. You're on speaker.

Oh, hi. You were doing something with a statue, right? How did that work out?


Gen. Trexler attacked the Spanish Armada and fell into the water and then he helped capture Gabriel and then we ended up at the North Pole and Gabriel was eaten by a polar bear....


OK, cool. See ya later ....




Jesus, wait! We need to tell you about Lord Newman. ... Mr. Bauer, he doesn't sound like himself.

Jesus? Sir, my name is Jack Bauer and it is very important that I talk to you. What are you doing right now?


Jack Bauer? Cool. I'm just chillin' dude. Having some tortilla chips ... Newman's Own. Really excellent.


Sir, it is crucial that you do exactly as I say. Slowly, put down the bag and step away from the chips. I believe they have been drugged. Have one of the seraphim take them down to the lab.


The seraphim? Oh, there all gone. ... And so's the lab for that matter. Mr. Newman said I should lay them off.


You laid off the seraphim? Are you nuts? How could you? They are your last line of defense! Heaven will suck now.


Mr. Newman said we didn't need them and he never liked the whole "holy, holy, holy" thing. He said it gave him a headache.


Sir, who is with you right now?


It's just me and the Holy Ghost. ... A very creepy dude.

Please put him on the phone, sir. ... Hello, Mr. Ghost? It's imperative that you destroy all of the Newman's Own chips.

Um, sure, OK.

Jesus! Hey it's me, The Player! Drink one a my protein shakes. That'll kick the ass of them damn Newman chips.

Player ... buddy! How's it going, dude?

Jesus? ... Listen carefully. Your entire network has been compromised, starting with Gabriel, and Paul Newman has taken control of Parallel Time. It is imperative that we travel there to stop him, but he has engaged the the celestial lockdown protocols. Can you help us?

It is impossible! Caw!

No, wait. There is a way. ... Old Donovan.

Caw!

Ya gotta love those guys

I'm getting word from Earl F. Hunsicker Bicentennial Park that Marge has collected a fresh batch of LANTA buses from left field and is on her way downtown to continue her brawl with St. Michael. It may take a while, because, I'm told, she tipped over the Alburtus L. Meyers Bridge on her way over to the South Side. Just for fun! Man, I hope she wins this fight.
.
Michael, meanwhile, is rumaging around inside the former Daro's Extreme Fitness III, looking for some barbells and a mirror. Ever since he took that shot of steroids from Atown-Liker he's had this sense of crazed narcissistic caged animal about him. ... Maybe I was wrong about the guy, but I doubt it.
.
I don't think there much left in there, though, after they cleaned it out. Daro's, you may remember, was the gym that in its last few weeks of operation ran coupons in the Clipper magazine offering 1 year memberships for just $150 before slashing that price to $99. They signed up as many dopes as they could in that last couple a weeks then shamefully skulked out of town on Easter weekend. Easter weekend! Ya gotta love those guys. They're practically legends back where I come from. In fact we have a place of honor all set up for 'em when the time comes. ...
.
Um, where was I? Oh yeah, The Morning Call. Sweet move they pulled over the weekend, am I right? Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face. ... They cut off their whole freakin head! That's a lotta anguish and pain right there. Gotta hand it to Sam Zell. I mean there's not much more we can do to honor that guy -- he already has a whole wing named after him downstairs and he's a personal friend of the boss. Anyway, since Croc Rock and the Americus are gone we've decided to move our local operations into the Call's building. It's prettymuch empty now and I've still got a couple a buddies there.
.
Anyway, gotta bet back to my post. See ya on the radio.

Lame ass

Wake up and post something!

Leave me alone. I feel like crap. Maybe next week.

Lame ass.

Let us prepare our stones

I reckon this here's the place, hmmm.

How can we be sure?

See them two fellers there with the cart? They was in onea Marge's pitchers. Mmmm hmm.

It's not a cart, it's a litter.

And you's the same feller says things is ironic when they's merely a coincidence. Reckon I'll call it a cart. Mmm hmmm.

Enough. It matters little what you call it. It seems we are at the correct location. The question is not where we are but when we are. Where are those damn crows?

The crows are everywhere, Maximillian A. Bear.

And the crows demand a sacrifice! Caw!


No we don't. Knock it off. ... You are indeed on the ridge above Marge's Turkish vacation chalet. The date is April 16, 2008, three months before Marge will come to Allentown.

So, what should we do?

You must do what you have done before.

But this time don't screw it up! Caw!

But we've never been here before. I know I've never even been to Turkey.

Here here. I have been involved in both attempts to kill Marge, once alone in 1868 in Japan and once last year with these fellows,
which of course was also in Japan in 1868, I suppose, being that they had traveled through time to ensure my success in the first attempt, which as we know also failed, the second attempt being the first attempt, as it were.

Caw!

Do you not recall when Marge wrote on her blog
that she had survived a rock slide in Turkey? ... That was you.



That's preposterous! ... First, that was never Marge's blog. She hijacked it from Atown-Liker. Second, the idea that we came to Turkey 12 months ago to kill Marge is impossible! 12 months ago most of us were in Allentown, in one form or time period or another.

Truman is right. We would remember trying to kill a demon in Turkey, I think.

You do not remember because you have not done it yet.

Hmmmm. I reckon the Green Feller figures thats ironic too. Mmm. ... Wonder if Marge got some Turkish taffee in thar .... hmm.

Or a Turkish bath!

Be on your guard and watch the chalet. Tomorrow will be your day.

No time for frivolities my good fellows. Let us prepare our stones!

It is ironic, isn't it?

Caw! The 'you have not done it yet' part was a paradox. I'm pretty sure the part about preparing the stones was a double entendre.

She loves me, she loves me not

Where are we?

This is the North Pole.

Where is Gabriel?

Gabriel is in the custody of the crows.

Let me go, you filthy creatures!

Shall I puck out his eyes?

No! ... That's my job.

Torturing people is wrong, even if they are recently fallen archangels!

It's OK, Miss; I work for the government.

It's not OK. Let me go immediately or Mr. Newman will have your head!

Newman? What does Newman have to do with this?

Newman? Um, I didn't say anything about Mr. Newman. ... I said you would be a new man.

That's it! Give me his flowers. ... Either you talk or I pluck each and every pedal! ... She loves me ... she loves me not ... She loves me ...

Stop! Stop! My beautiful flowers!

Hey! Who's makin all the damn noise out here? Mr. Claus is trying to sleep!

Santa is alive?

What kinda damn angel school did you go to, girl? Of course he's alive. I just said he was trying to sleep, didn't I?

Santa Claus is alive! I knew the old boy would pull through. Is he badly hurt?

Hurt? He's gonna be hurtin' when he wakes up. He's stone cold drunk, Mr. Talking Statue.

But we saw that angel there shoot him down with a missile of some sort.

The crows intervened, Gen. Trexler. We brought Santa and is reindeer safely home.

Not all of the reindeer.

No. Alas, Prancer could not be saved.

You're supposed to be watchin the old man, Rudolph.

... And I told you to take off that stupid nose! It's offensive.

You aint the boss of me, mutt.

Hey! That angel is the one who killed Prancer! ... Let me at him!

Easy, Rudolph. All in good time. First I want to know about Newman.

Newman? I knew he was no good. He's the reason Jesus kicked me outta heaven. I'd like to get my hands on him!

You? You aren't good enough to lick Mr. Newman's boots. None of you are. When he is through Mr. Newman will control heaven and hell.

You dirty son of a bitch!

Santa!

Watch out -- he's got a gun!

Eat lead, you bastard!

No, Santa! Not like this. We need to torture him!

Gabriel is getting away! I shall pursue him.

No, General. It's too cold for you out there! You'll shatter like glass. I'll find him. He can't get far.

Is it Christmas yet? Where are my elves? Where's my vodka?

Damn. We better get you back to bed, granpa.

Yes, old fellow, get some rest.

Mommy .... zzzzzzz.

Rudolph returns -- alone.

Rudolph, where is Gabriel? Did you torture him? What did he tell you?

Nothing. He was eaten by a polar bear.

No one to torture. We're done, then. Toast. All is lost. Zero, zilch, nada. Newman wins.

Notice how there's always a damn polar bear? ... Hey, I got a picture of Newman and some damn dog I stole from his dresser in heaven. Check it out.

Remarkable. But who is that dog?

Ponzi?

Secret Mission: Returning in 2 weeks

The St. Patrick's Day bassassacre

Alright folks, Red Devil here on Hamilton Street and I'm back after a break in the action in downtown Allentown. We've just witnesses an amazing air and sea battle on the Lehigh River that has led to the demise of both Santa Claus and the Spanish Armada. And now it looks like things are going to get started here again as St. Michael is back on his feet, looking quite fit after a shot of whatever that was in Dodger's syringe.

Irish Tenor here. Aye, Devil, it was an amazing battle on the river, though I must admit I missed a wee bit of it as I nipped in to the Brew Works for a couple a pints of Irish ale.

I thought you were banned from there after the ... incident.

Aye, lad, it's true I was. And begorrah they could never prove nothin'! I had to disguise meself as Michael Donovan to get in the door, I did.

Hey, whatever works for ya. ... Where the heck is Marge, anyway?

She headed over to the South Side, devil. It seems she threw every single bus in center city at St. Michael so she went over to the bicentennial park to get some more. It seems they park them in left field.

A bus garage in left field? Imagine that. The Phillie's could have kept Burrell if they had one of those in Citizen's Bank Park.

Padraig Burrell. Another fine Irishman unfairly set adrift.... Is it me imagination or does Ronan seem a bit ... wee?

Well, while you were eating your cabbage & potatoes or whatever, Cuchulainn had another warp spasm and reverted back to Ronan. He was so weak after he fell on his sword that he lashed himself to that lamp post just to keep from falling over.

We seem to be looking a little green around the gills, today Ronan.

I won't go down without a fight, archangel!

I was hoping you'd say that. Maybe I should untie you first?

I'll die on me feet, I will!

Whatever you say, demon!

Jaysus, Mary and Joseph! St. Michael has run Ronan through with his terrible swift sword! ... Tis a sad day indeed for an Irishman to die on St. Paddy's Day, it is. ... Even if he was an evil demon.

Heck, it's a sad day when any evil demon is killed by an archangel. ... You know, this really isn't the way I expected this to turn out. I feel awful.

Cheer up, lad and be glad you're not an Eagles fan. ... And besides St. Michael is a mighty heavenly warrior. He defeated Satan, you know.

Oh, fine. Throw that in my face. ... I just thought this time would be different ...

... Well, you know, lad, legend has it that Cuchulainn was so feared as a warrior that no one would touch his body until they were sure that he was dead.

How did they know?

According to legend, Cuchulainn wasn't dead until a giant crow landed on his shoulder and plucked out his eyes. And that hasn't happened....

Caw!

Oh, don't even ... Shoo! Shoo!

Caw!

Ah, for cryin out loud!

Down by the river, Part 2

... Yes Mr. Newman, I can be there in a jif.

With whom do you speak, Señor?

Don't worry your little head about it, Sidonia. My work is done here. I'm off!

But Señor, the armada is aflame and adrift. We are defeated.

Blah blah blah. Listen Sidonia, you're, like, 450 years old. You're already dead -- or you will be when St. Michael gets through with you. Anyway, ta-ta!

Dios mio! The angel swims away. ... Pendejo!

Can you move now, Gen. Trexler?

Yes, a little. Thank you.

That's what guardian angels are for!

Um ... you let me die once in a stupid car crash, remember?

Oh, get over it, tin man.

It's Helldog, here, folks. I'm reporting from the ruins of the Hamilton Street Bridge. ... As you know, Gabrielle took out one of Santa's reindeer with a surface-to-air missile and the battle sleigh seems to have crashed into the old Neuweiler brewery. I say seems because it has suddenly gotten quite foggy here on the Lehigh River and the fog, combined with the smoke from this furious battle has obscured my line of sight. There also seems to be a preponderance of crows in the area, perhaps attracted to the plentiful carrion aboard the the Spanish ships, most of which are either sinking or in flames.

Red Devil here, Helldog. Perhaps those crows are attracted to antique cars and trucks? I mean the Lehigh Valley Transportation Museum is right there, isn't it?

It sure is. And let me add, if I might, it is a beautiful facility. A real showplace for these noble vehicles and a great destination for the entire family. ... Of course it's been totally destroyed in the battle, but, still, truly, a marvelous facility.

Is there any sign of Gabrielle, Helldog?

Actually, no, Devil. A few minutes ago Gabrielle -- also known as archangel Gabriel -- jumped off the armada's flag ship and disappeared into the fog. ... What's going on at 9th and Hamilton?

Actually, Michael and Marge seem to be coming around. Ronan, however, doesn't look so hot. He's trailing what appear to be bowels after that nasty collision with Gen. Trexler's statue. It looks to me like he's lashing himself to a light standard just to keep from falling down.

Interesting stuff. Tough break for Ronan, though. ... But let's hope that battle resumes shortly.


Come, Gen. Trexler, we must get you back to the park.


The park? Out of the question! I haven't felt like this in years. We must defeat the Spanish ... and I have an empire to run ....

General, your war has been over for 110 years. You won ... I guess. And your empire ... well .... you wouldn't recognize it. You must return to your perch in the park.

Wait, angel. There may be another war for the general to fight.

Who are you?

Listen carefully. My name is Jack Bauer and I can only hold my breath for 35 minutes. Jesus' entire network has been compromised. Heaven has a mole at he highest level. You are the only ones I can trust. I'm going to need the help of you and the general here to uncover the conspiracy.

And how, Mr. Bauer, you propose we do that?

Torture, sir. We'll need someone to torture.

Goodness, this robe makes it hard to swim. I wish I were skinny-dipping.

Ah! A likely candidate approaches!

Come with us Gabriel, or I will pick your flowers, one by one.

Oh, you evil creature! Mr. Newman will have your head!

Torture is not nice, Mr. Bauer! You are a mean man. There are rules against torture.

Rules? Do terrorists follow rules? Does Marge follow rules? Is Ronan nice? What, we have to be better than they are, as they kill us one by one? No, I don't think so. And the courts? ... Let me tell you about justice ....

OK, OK! Jeez, do whatever you want. You're giving me a headache!

Oh, look! A crow swimming under water. How cute!

Come with me -- all of you.

Have you thought about my offer?

Hey, buddy! How's it going? Wanna play some pool?

Nah, no thanks, dude. I have a lot going on.

Have you thought about my offer?

About letting you rule Parallel Heaven for a while? Yeah, maybe it's a good idea ...

You bet it is. I'll take over there and get the place in order for you. I know you'll be keeping a low profile the next few weeks.

Things used to be so perfect in Parallel Time. Now things are a mess. ... Ever since that dumb polar bear opened the sixth dimensional rift. ... And then Ronan. I never saw him coming. ... And the crows? Come on. What's next? ... Like things aren't bad enough in Non-Parallel Time.

... And did I hear something about some TV chefs eating a Secret Service agent?

Don't even ask.

Listen, don't worry about a thing. I'll take care of it. Just relax. Take the next 40 days off. ... Hey, Mardi Gras party tonight! You coming?

Unlikely.

Well, listen, you just get some rest. You need me, you got my number. I'll take care of everything.

OK, dude. Thanks. Later.

See ya! ... Gabriel, where are you?

Still on the galleon, boss.

And Santa?

Going down in flames, just like you said.

OK. Listen get outta there now. ... How soon can you get over to Parallel Time?

Down by the river, Part 1

Helldog, what's going on down by the river?

I'm here on what's left of the Hamilton Street Bridge now, Devil, and I have a good view of the aircraft that is attacking the Armada. ... It's Santa Claus.

They used to warn us in devil school not to piss that guy off. Now I can see why.

He's just destroyed two ships with Harpoon missiles and now he's coming back around for a pass with the Gatling gun.


Does the Armada have any weapons to use against an airborne enemy?

Well, what do you think? Seriously.

No need to get snippy, Fido. I mean many Angels possess some surface-to-air capabilities. What about those flowers he's always lugging around?

Well, they appear to be just that -- flowers. Angels like flowers.

Dios Mio! Satan is raining fire on our fleet.

Not exactly, cupcake. That was a AGM-84 Harpoon missile. See those tracers? That's the 30mm Gatling gun. Those depleted uranium rounds could tear this whole fleet to shreds. ... I don't suppose you have any antiaircraft guns on board? ... Didn't think so. Luckily for us, I have something better.


Gen. Trexler! You should leave the river now. All heck is breaking loose up there.

I ... can't ... move.

I brought you some WD-40!

Go for the lead ship, Rudoph! I want that goddam angel's head on a freakin' stick!!

Yes, sir!

He's coming for us, señor!!! ... Padre nuestro que estás en los cielos, Santificado sea tu Nombres ....

Save your worthless prayers, Sidonia. ... Santa, say hello to my little friends!

Devil, it looks like you were right about those flowers. In fact they're not flowers at all. They are some sort of surface-to-air missiles.

It's a ManPAD, Helldog.

A man purse?

No, a ManPAD. A Man-Portable Air Defense System, know-it-all. ... An FIM-92 Stinger, to be exact.

How could you possibly know that?

I got my sources, mutt.

Well, whatever that angel is firing, he just scored a direct hit on a reindeer! It looks like Santa's going down!

Prancer is toast, Santa! We're losing altitude!!

Keep it together, airman! Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! We'll try to land on the river!!

What the heck! What a time for a cell call. ... Hello? This better be important and make it quick! Oh, it's you. Yes sir. Everything is going like you said it would, sir, except for that damn statue. Yes, that's right -- Santa is going down in flames as we speak. Disguising those missiles as flowers was brilliant, sir. OK, yes. I'll be in touch Mr. Newman.

09:59:57

09:59:58

09:59:59

10:00:00

To Be Continued

Ho, goddam ho!

You can go in, now.


Hello, sir.

Angel! Thanks for stopping by. Listen, I just wanted to thank you personally for what you did with that statue. That showed some great initiative.

Really? You mean I'm not in trouble?

Not in the least. In fact, I think you may have just earned your way off of diaper duty.


Oh, thank you, Mr. Christ!

With Gabrielle playing for the other team now, I've been thinking that Michael could use an assistant -- provided he survives the battle he's in right now in Allentown. ...

But Michael hates me.

Hey, this is heaven, kiddo. There's no hate in our gait here. Don't worry, he'll get used to the idea. He has a lot on his plate.


But, who would take my place cleaning up after the cherubim?

I have a couple of ideas on that. ... I think I also need to find somebody to keep an eye on Santa.

Santa is a psycho.

He's been under a lot of pressure. ... Alcohol may be a factor, as well. ... But when he's finished in Allentown he'll have some down time to recharge his batteries.

You better send the Energizer Bunny, then.

Hang on a sec. Let me make a call right now. ... Put me through to Limbo.

Damn! What the hell do you want? Ain't Paul Newman around today to braid your hair?

Not another word, Player. Just listen. You want out of Limbo? Here's the deal. You can come back to heaven, but you either have to look after the cherubim ...

Hell! The Player doesn't clean up any damn diapers!

... Or you can go to the North Pole to babysit Santa.

Ho, goddam ho!

Remember San Juan Hill!

Remember San Juan Hill!

What is that? It's coming right at us.

It is a bronze warrior, señor.

Shoot it!


Too late. It's under the water.

Engage depth charges!

Que?


Fire torpedos!

Torpedoes?

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Folks we're trying to get word on what's happening along the river. The cannons have stopped firing. We have a correspondent making his way from a hell portal near the Americus hotel, which I'm told is still standing. ... Wait, he's there? OK, we're switching over to Helldog live from the roof of the Americus hotel.

Thanks Red Devil. From my vantage point atop the beautiful Americus hotel it appears that the Spanish Armada is in a state of utter disarray. The statue of Harry Trexler is evidently in the water poking holes in the ships from underneath with his sword. Earlier today the statue left its perch in Trexler Park, cut through Cedar Creek Park, stopped briefly at Yocco's and proceded east on Hamilton at full gallop. As you saw earlier he interfered with the execution of Michael the Archangel, injured Ronan and charged the Armada.

Yeah, that was pretty screwed up. ... Does the Armada have any weapons to defend itself against Trexler?

No, Devil, the galleons are over 400 years old and not equipped for underwater warfare. However, they do have one factor working in their favor: Oxidation. I don't think that statue is going to be able to maneuver for very long in the river.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Sidonia, you must do something! Five of our ships are sinking!

I will pray, señor.

Pray? Oh, that's just precious! That's everybody's anwer for everything around here. Listen bub, stop praying, get off of your ass and get in that water.
Señor, listen. The statue has stopped.

I can't lift my arms. ... Glug.

All right. That's what I'm talking about. ... Now target Michael!

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

It looks like the statue is finished, Devil. Several of the galleons are sinking but there are at least 15 more that are forming up to begin firing again.

Thank goodness. It's getting boring around here. Michael, Ronan and Marge are all still flat on their backs at the moment. Another barrage or two of cannonfire might finish Michael off once and for all.

Whoa! What was that? Devil, a meteor or something just flew past me. This whole building shook. Wait ... one of the galleons has just exploded into flames!

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

Dios Mio! It is the devil himself!

That's no devil, Sidonia. That's Santa Claus.

Die, bastards! Die! Die! Die! Ho ho!

You gotta pull down your loin cloth a little

Señor Gabrielle, the fight goes well. But is it not God's will that we attack Marge? I believe that is why we were brought here.

It's Gabriel. How many times do I have to tell you that? And I'll decide what is God's will around here. I'm an archangel, dammit! Just keep firing at Michael!

But Señor Ga-Gabriel, is not St. Michael an archangel as well? When the sea creature brought us through the time warp ...

The sea monster? Oh, that's just precious. Listen, you just fire your little guns at Michael and let me do the thinking. ... And why is it you call him Saint Michael and all I get is señor?

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

Ladies and gentlemen, it looks like we're just about finished with today's preliminary matches. In case you have been living in a cave -- and it is very likely that some of you have been -- let me recap. ... Marge handily defeated the sea monster in our first matchup, finishing her off in a big explosion that destroyed the Butz building.

Then, Cuchulainn entered the ring to challenge Marge in a familial grudge match. And let me tell you this is one serious case of sibling rivalry. As that match was about to get underway, remnants the 420-year-old Spanish Armada mysteriously appeared on the Lehigh River and began to attack Marge with cannonfire, seeming to tilt the odds in Cuchulainn's favor.

At just about the same time, archangel Gabrielle appeared and ordered Marge to stop being a demon and go back to her castle in Romania, where she lives with her sister, Vermiculite. At this point Marge drop-kicked Gabrielle into the river, where he apparently took charge of the Spanish Armada.

And then, in a surprise move, Michael the Archangel cut short his vacation and took on both Marge and Cuchulainn, forcing the brother and sister from different realities to work together. And just as it seemed Michael was getting the upper hand on the demon siblings, Gabrielle, who is now clearly playing for the other team, trained the Armada's guns on Michael, nearly finishing him off in a whithering barrage.

And that's where we stand now. Downtown Allentown is almost completely destroyed -- as Marge said it would be -- and Michael is unconscious and surely about to be killed by either Marge, Cuchulainn, the cannon balls or some combination thereof.

Any thoughts, Irish Tenor?

Aye, 'tis a sad day indeed. All of this destruction, plus the death of the angel who defeated Lucifer. I'm afraid this defeat could tip the balance between heaven and hell, lad.

Yeah, what a shame. Better luck next time, eh? And ya know what makes it even more sweet? That Atown-Liker moron had a chance to save the day by praying for divine intervention, and what does he do? He asks Santy Clause for a gift receipt. What a clown!

Aye, lad, the word 'tool' comes to mind. He's a feckin' tool.

Listen, Paddy, why don't you go get yourself a cup of tea and calm down. I don't think you wanna see what's gonna happen next.

Well Michael ye don't seem so big to me now, do ye? Do ye remember when ye destroyed me torture chamber? I want ye to remember that when I cut off yer head.

How long do you intend for this to take, or are you attempting to bore him to death? Here's an idea. Perhaps you could recite some Yeats for him. You could drag this out until St. Patrick's Day.

Keep talkin while ye can, Marge, because herself is next, she is.

Remember the Maine!! You won't knock down my building, damn Spaniards!

What the hell was that?

Lad, a bronze man on a bronze horse just galloped down the ruins of Hamilton Street. He crashed into Cuchulainn and I believe the Celtic warrior has fallen on his sword. He appears to be injured, Devil.

That was Gen. Harry Trexler!

Are ye sure it wasn't Santa Claus, lad? Or maybe the feckin' Easter bunny?

Very funny. ... Actually, it is Santa Claus! Look up in the sky!

Eat lead, bitch!

Ladies and gentlemen, I do not believe what I am seeing. This has been an incredible turn of events. Just as he was about to execute St. Michael the archangel amid the rubble of the intersection that was 9th and Hamilton, Cuchulainn paused for a soliloquy, as the Irish are inclined to do. At that moment the statue of Gen. Harry Trexler and his horse Jack of Diamonds galloped by on their way to the Lehigh River, bumping into Cuchulainn, who fell on his sword, getting a nasty gash.

Marge moved in to finish off Michael, but from out of nowhere, Santa Claus and his reindeer swooped down and opened up on the big gal with a machine gun.

That's no ordinary machine gun, lad. It's fine big gun, it is. Santa is firing a 30mm GAU-8/A Avenger Gatling gun. And I believe he is using depleted uranium armor-piercing shells. And as ye can see he's stopped Marge in her tracks.

What is Atown-Liker up to now?

It looks like he's got a syringe, lad.

Michael, wake up! Quick, take this shot while Marge is occupied! I found it in Dodger's room.

Hey! Bring that back. I'm gonna sue your butt!

Steroids?

I cannot confirm or deny that. I'm not here to talk about the past. No hablo.

Gotcha. Wait a second ... Santa Claus? Did you actually pray to Santa Claus?

Sorry about that, but he's here. And he's kicking butt!

He's got the battle sleigh? With the Gatling gun?

And laser-guided bombs and missiles too!

Sweet. Gimme that shot!

OK ... Um, you gotta pull down your loin cloth a little.

That's what she said!

Prepare the battle sleigh

As you can see, Allentown has really taken a beating from the guns of the Spanish Armada, who, under the direction of Gabrielle, seem to be unstoppable. As you can also see, the PPL Tower is one of the few buildings still standing.

Aye, lad. And poor St. Michael is taking a beating as well. Aside from having to fight the two giant demons, Gabrielle is using his fine angel sense of triangulation to target Michael.

Yea. A damn shame. He seems to be on his last legs. Whatever. What goes around comes around, right Mike?

I can't take much more of this. Some one has to stop the cannon fire.

And that Cuchulainn is pretty handy with a spear.

And that Marge knows how to chuck a bus.

Aye, lad. She has it down to science. First she tears off the front like it's a box of Goobers, eats the people inside and tosses it at Michael. She has good form, I'll give her that.

Atown-Liker! Come out. I need your help. It's up to you to stop the Spanish Armada.

Me? What the hell? You're the freakin' angel. How am I supposed to stop a 420-year-old navy?

Listen to me. Your life was spared for a reason. ... You know what you have to do. ... You have to pray.

Pray? Are you outta your mind?

You must. If you don't, everything around you will be destroyed.

Holy crap. ... All right, here goes. Um ... father, son, holy ghost. It's been 24 years since my last confession. ... Um, no that's not right.

Hurry! I won't last much longer.

OK, OK. Jeezo-whiz. Um, OK, listen. I know I don't ask for much ... I mean some of these yo-yos are asking you for stuff all the time, right? So please hear me now: Dear Santa, please help Michael out of this jam and get rid of the Spanish Armada. And get rid of freakin' Marge and the big Irish a-hole too. Thanks. Talk to you next year. ... Oh, one last thing. Would it be possible to get a gift receipt for that Nano you gave me? I really don't like that weird red color. ... How was that ?

We're doomed.

What the hell? Get me Santa on the horn.


Hey. I heard. What an a-hole!

... and Michael let him live. Listen, dude, could you do me solid and deal with this for me.

You bet. Anything for you, boss. ... You know there's nothing wrong with that color....

Actually that Touch you gave me is the same color. I ... got used to it. ... Oh, and if you get a shot at Gabrielle, take it.


Hmmm. Check. ... Hello? Get me Shinny Upatree. ... Shinny? Prepare the battle sleigh.

This is war!

So, Michael the Archangel thinks I am useless? I'll show him. I can do more than change diapers. ... I will save Allentown myself -- with the help of its greatest military hero, its bronze warrior, Harry C. Trexler! . ... Gen. Trexler, wake up! Your city needs you!

Who has disturbed me? ... How is this possible?


I am your guardian angel. Allentown is under attack by the Spanish Armada.


But we won the Spanish-American War. I should know, I was there. Wait ... my guardian angel? Where were you when I was in the car crash that killed me? Surely you could have warned my driver that a truck had stopped on the crest of that hill. ...


I am so sorry about that. You see, I had broken a lute string and, well ... I suppose it was an oversight. But let's not talk about the past. The important thing is that your city faces certain destruction if you don't use your military skills to stop the Spanish Armada. You've defeated the Spanish before ...


No, no, no. I'm not a fighter. I was a glorified clerk. A factotum with an undeserved military rank. I was in charge of the commissary in Puerto Rico. I was only made a general in the Pennsylvania National Guard because I was wealthy. I have no military skills. ... Did you say a lute?


Forget the lute. Focus. Your city is under attack. Don't you hear the cannon fire? Your own PP&L tower is being ruined as we speak.

My building? My beautiful building? Ho, Jack of Diamonds, come about, my faithful steed. We have been called to serve once again! ... What about my trolley company? Has that been attacked as well?


Um, it's ... gone, yes. ... Completely gone.


Damn Spaniards! Show the way angel; this is war!

One year ago ...

I reckon this is the place. ... Anybody home?


Marge! Come out! My name is Maximillian A. Bear, vampire hunter extraordinaire. I demand you come out!


I'm feeling a bit dizzy. Perhaps we should hide behind a rock.


Who has disturbed my beauty rest? More code enforcement inspectors? ... I shall have you impaled like the others!


Hmmm. You kinda purty. Hmm.


Oh, I see. ... Perhaps the impalement can be postponed. Won't you come into my castle young man? Your friends can wait outside.

Don't go with her Karl. She's a succubus. She has bewitched you.


Hmm. I rode a bus once when I left the nervous hospital. Don't remember it too much, 'cept I spent up some a my money.


Karl, is it? Well let me assure you, Karl, that this will be a ride you won't likely forget. ... And it won't cost you a penny.


Karl! Stay away! She intends to steal your seed and use it to create a demon child! When she is through with you she will kill you. She is ... she is ... she is actually quite enchanting isn't she? May I ask your name my lovely new friend?


Why aren't you the gentleman. My name is Vermiculite, but you, dear sir, shall have to wait your turn.

Maximillian! She has bewitched you as well. Snap out of it! Don't look at her!

I seen her first. Hmmm. I reckon I'm gonna have to kill you fellers.

Karl! You don't know what you are saying! Don't look into her eyes. ... Those beautiful eyes, those beautiful limpid pools of beady luminescence. ....

Such refined taste you have, my little toad. Tell me, are you green all over?

OK, bitch. I've heard about enough.

Ah, the rug speaks. How enchanting. A living rug to curl up with on a cold morning ... Imagine the possibilities.

Can it sister, I'm immune to your warty charms. We're looking for Marge and we're not leaving until we find her.

Then perhaps impalement would be to your liking. I suspect, rather, it would be. ... Karl, this rug seems quite dusty. Perhaps you would beat it for me.

Hmmm. Yes'm.

As for you other gentlemen, please form an orderly line. I shall be with your shortly. ... Drat! Not the crows.

Away succubus! Your spell is broken. Do not torment these people further or you shall suffer the wrath of the crows.

Tell us where Marge is.

Ah hell. Marge went to her vacation chalet in Turkey.


The turkeys are our enemy.



Dude, let it go. We must travel to Turkey.



I don't suppose you could leave the big one behind? ... Didn't think so. What's a girl gotta do anymore to find a nice date?

Maybe if you didn't impale them?

Go Eagles

I'm poofing my previous Brew Works post, which was a copy of an e-mail I sent to the owners.

While I think it was more or less appropriate as an e-mail, it was unneccessarily sarcastic/snotty as a post. ... So what? I'm pissed off at a bar. Again. Won't be the last time, I'm sure.

Jeff Fegely e-mailed me that, yes, the Eagles should have taken precedence over the Dolphins as far as the TV was concerned.

So ... whatever.

I love Santa Claus

Dude! What's up, buddy? Are you coming to my birthday party?

Maybe. .. Is Newman gonna be there?

Well, I certainly hope Mr. Newman will come.

Then I ain't comin!

Dude, why do you have to be like that? We all want you to come.

Bull! You and Newman will just be there conspiring against me, trying to keep the chips away from me.

Dude, that's absurd. Nobody conspires against you ....

Oh yeah? Then how come when we're watchin one of Newman's damn movies, you're always passing the chips back and forth with each other? Nobody ever passes any damn chips to The Player.

But, Dude ... you don't eat chips. You always drink protein shakes and eat power bars and such ...

How would you know if you never pass me any?

OK, fine. Here. Have some chips. They're really good. There Newman's Own.

Hell no! The Player doesn't eat any damn chips! You and Newman can keep your damn chips!

Dude, I'm starting to worry about your attitude. I mean, this is heaven, man. We all work together here, we all pull for each other. We're a team. You think Michael the Archangel wants to be in Allentown fighting demons? Well, I don't. ... He's doing that for us; he's doing it for the team. There's no I in team, dude.

Oh, yeah? Well you what's got an I in it? I want the damn ball, that's what. The Player's gonna find a nice Hanukkah party this year. ... Hey, I thought Newman was Jewish anyway.

He's half Jewish.

So which half is comin to the party?

OK, that's just about enough. I think someone just earned a time out. -POOF!- ... Do you believe the nerve of that guy.

Knock knock. Anybody home?

Dude! What's up? It's great to see you. I could use a friendly face right about now. How long has it been??

A year. Listen I'm gonna be pretty busy tomorrow, so I thought I'd bring you your gift early. ... It's an i-Pod Touch.

Oh man, a Touch! These are awesome! Thank you, Santa. How did you know? Dude, you're the best. I love presents. I mean that's the reason for the season, am I right?

You're always right. Listen, I gotta run. You won't believe my day. Happy Birthday and I'll see you at the party!

Later, Dude. ... I love Santa Claus.

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

-POOF!- Hey, where the hell am I? ... Damn, it's that crazy Irishman, but he's all little ...

Hello sir.

You're like a mini Ronan without the accent. Where the hell am I?

This is Limbo, sir.

Damn! They suspended me again?

Brown and Beautiful

POOF! Whoa. I'll never get used to time travel. Thanks, for the lift, Jim. Now go and make sure those clowns don't screw things up in Romania.

Romania? They're supposed to be in Turkey. Caw!

Ah, for cryin out loud! Turkey?!?!

The turkeys are our enemy.


Shoosh! ... The crows will correct this problem, Michael. Caw!

Thanks for your help. ... God, for birds, they seem to have a lot of enemies. ... POOF. You?!?

I am here to help.

Sorry, sister. Everything you touch turns to crap. That's why you were reassigned to diaper duty with the cherubim. We don't need any foul-ups in this operation. Scram!

I'll show you! I'll show them all! POOF!

What the hell?

Hey! Watch your mouth. You're the clown I'm looking for. ... Come with me. Now where do we find your Irish look-alike? ... Holy shit!! Was that a cannonball??

And I should watch my mouth? ... Yes, it's a cannonball, Einstein, and here comes another one. The city is under attack by a 420-year-old navy and two giant demons are throwing buses at each other at 9th and Hamilton.

Oh no. I'm too late. With Johnny Manana's closed, I had to find another gateway from heaven. It took me an extra half an hour. ... Here's the deal. We gotta go find your Irish twin and one of you will need to sacrifice his life to save the timeline, because you both can't be here at the same time. ... Ew! What the hell???

Get your stinkin' foot off me. ... What are you lookin at? You lookin' at me? Who the hell you think you're lookin at? You'll hear fom my lawyer!

Ignore him. He's a head case. He tried to poison me, you know. ... So what if neither of us is willing to sacrifice his life for the timeline?

Then I'll just have to smite you ... er, one of you, I mean. ... Well, OK, probably you. I mean you're supposed to be dead anyway.

What the hell!! The other one doesn't even belong here! He's not from this timeline ... he's not even from this country. He could be an illegal! Why don't you just send him back!

No time. I have to smite Marge and Ronan before they destroy the city.

Well, beggorah, lad, you took your sweet time. Not a lot left to save. What's this I hear about you smitin' one of us to save the timeline?

That's the way it's gotta be, Paddy. The only thing holding the fabric of time together is the fact that that one has a tan and you don't. And as that tan wears off, present time will stop moving and the past will crash into the future, destroying the universe.

But my tan still looks really good. I'm, like, bronzed. We have lots of time. You can smite the demons -- watch out for that cannonball -- and send HIM back after. Or kill him, whatever you think. ... Sir.

Is that how ye treat a poor immigrant, is it now? It's not bad enough that me own sainted mother and I had to leave me beloved emerald isle, but then you yourself Michael tore me from my own timeline with that seance of yours into this fearsome place. And now I'm to be killed for it? It's unfair. It's discrimination I tell ye.

He's got a point there, Bud. ... Don't worry, I'll make it quick. Any last words?

Yes: WAIT! I have a confession. I was never dead and I was never even in the Dominican Republic. ... I've been hiding in the basement of the Federal Grill for the past 5 months drinking up what was left of their booze and waiting for this whole Marge thing to blow over. Karl found me unconscious after Charles Atlas over there tried to poison me with an O'Douls and he hid me at the Federal. ... This isn't even a real tan ... it's a spray-on. I found it in the basement. ... I think it was part of their uniform.

Charles Atlas? I was way bigger than him. Guess what? I'm suing you, too. ... Is that really a spray-on?

Wow, that's pretty sweet for a spray-on. What brand is that?

Aye, it is a fine tan, lad. Very natural indeed.

"Brown and Beautiful," I think. ... So, you see, I can just spray more on while you fight the demons and you can send him back after.

Aye, fair enough. This version of Allentown's no fun anyway, what's left of it.

Um, pardon me, girls, I don't wanna break up your beauty session, but we got a fight to broadcast. And, um, Michael if you're gonna mix it up with Marge and Ronan, you better get to it. Time to smite or get off the pot.

Try and stop me, twerp. This is gonna be fun. ... By the way, has anyone seen Gabrielle?

I believe this is my cue

In somewhat of a surprise development, a fleet of Spanish Galleons has appeared in the Lehigh River and is attacking Marge with a withering barrage of cannon fire.

Aye, and they're causing quite a bit of damage in the city, faith and begorrah.

Marge is ducking behind the smoldering ruins of the Butz building at the moment and has been lobbing a few cars in the direction of the fleet, but she really seems to be outgunned right now.

Aye, lad and there's been no sign of the sea monster for quite some time. I fear the poor lass has perished in the Butz explosion, saints preserve us.

I believe this is my cue.

Begorrah!

Begorrah is right. And may I just add: Holy cow!


Ronan is having his warp spasm. Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, he really is Cuchulainn!

Well Marge, what do you think of your little brudder now?


I think it's quite clear that you were adopted.

Whoa! That was close! Two cannonballs just whizzed past Marge's head and into the Holiday Inn! What destruction!

And here comes another one, devil! Aye! It just put a hole in the PPL Tower!

I don't think the city can take much more of this onslaught.

Look now, lad. Ronan's got his Caladbog. It's one of his favorite swords.


So then, Cuchulainn's chief weapon is a sword?

No, lad, his chief weapon is actually the Gae Bulga, a spear. You can see it there in his quiver.


A quiver? ... And Marge's chief weapon?

Well, it seems she's fond of vehicles -- cars, buses and as we've seen, even a helicopter. Occasionally a light pole or some such. She's also fond of throwing or kicking her opponents. However, her chief weapon seems to be that she can't be killed.


That could come in handy in a death match. But what about rockslides?

Aye, rockslides. That might be the trick, indeed.

Might they be some fans of yours in the river, Marge?



Admittedly I have always had a problematic relationship with the Spaniards, but I wasn't expecting the Spanish Armada.

Nobody expects the Spanish Armada. Defend yourself!

Do the Limbo

Hmmm. I ain't never ate no little boy before. Mmm hmmm. I don't know If I should start eatin' at the head or at the feet. Mmmm. Maybe I should start in the middle like I was eatin' an ear a corn. Hmm.

Please don't eat me sir! My father is very powerful and he will pay you handsomely for my safe return.


Mmm. He one of them vampire fellers. That's what ol' Max said.

Well, yes. But I was adopted. I am the descendant of Cuchulainn, the Irish warrior.

Hmmm. I reckon I heard that story one too many times. Mmm. Reckon I don't got much use for money. But I do like to buy them french fried potaters and sometimes I buy a ticket to take the bus to the nervous hospital. Mmm. ... I reckon I'll start eatin' yer head.

POOF! Wow. That was different. ... Thanks for the lift, boys!


Caw!

OK, catch up with ya in a few, Jim. I don't need any more witnesses than necessary.

Help me, sir. Don't let this mean man eat me!


Hold on. Nobody's eating anybody here. Karl, put the punk down.


Thank, you sir! My father will reward you handsomely.


Yeah, right. Don't get too excited, kid. You're going to Limbo. POOF! ... OK, one problem solved. You notice he didn't have that phony Irish accent?

Hmmmm. I guess not. Mm. Now I'm kinda hungry.


I figured as much. I brought you some french fries, just like you like 'em. ... Now listen carefully. When Truman digs you out of this cave, the crows will take you and your friends to Romania in 2007. Leave young Marge here. You'll meet up with her soon enough. You do your job and I can get back to my vacation. ... OK, Jim, I'm good to go! POOF!


Caw!


Mmm. Whoever that was, he was a nice feller. Hmmm. Sound like Truman comin' through them rocks.

Karl! You're alive. I had feared the worst. ... Oh, that's right I am dead, and it hasn't really slowed me down any. ... But at any rate, I'm glad to see you alive.

As much as I hate to interrupt a tender moment between a redneck and his rug, what have you done with my brother, you rustic oaf?

Hmmm. I'm from Arkansas. I reckon that's pretty rustic. That boy, he went to do the limbo. Mmmm. I like these french fried potaters.


So, Ronan is ... gone? ... And all you've had to eat is those potatoes?


Mmm. This angel feller came and he gimme these potaters. Mm he said that Ronan ws gonna do the limbo and them crows is gonna take us into the future to see Marge in Romania.


What are you babbling about! I demand to know what is going on here.


I'll be happy to explain it to you, Marge. ... In about 140 years.



Caw caw!


Enough about the jackass penguins already! God, you're obsessed. ... Come, we must take these clowns to Romania.

You speak good English

So, pal, do they have helicopters over in Parallel time?

Aye, lad, indeed we do. And we've got televisions and toilet paper and frozen dinners and whiskey and poteen and beer and rum punch ...

OK, I get the gist ... So, when you see a helicopter on TV, what usually happens to it?
It explodes, of course.

So, whaddya think's gonna happen when Marge tosses that helicopter into that hole the sea monster just made in the Butz building?

Saints preserve us!

Ladies and gentlemen, in a stunning turnaround it appears Marge has snatched victory from the jaws defeat. ...

... How about, Marge has pulled victory from the gaping maw of defeat?

Gaping maw ... I like that. You Irishmen have a way with words. Try this ... Marge has looked into the gaping maw of defeat and pulled out a victory with just one battered pinkie through its nose ring ...

Nose ring! Very fine indeed, lad. ... Or, with just one battered pinkie tenuously grasping its nose ring, Marge has jerked victory from the cruel, gaping maw of ignominy ...

That's a mite thick and I'm not really sure if it's clear that "its" modifies "victory" in that construction, but I like where you're going with that ....

HALT!

Look, lad, it's a wee angel ... and what else, might I ask, would "its" possibly refer to if not "victory"?

Gabrielle?

Stop calling me that! It's Gabriel. That's Gabriel the Archangel to you!

Well, what do we have here? Gay-briel did you say?

Marge, I command thee in the name of heaven to cease this destruction, revert back to your normal size and leave this place at once. You are to return to your castle in Romania and never leave there again.

Or?
Or I shall smite thee.

You shall look delightfully kitchy dangling from the rearview mirror of my private ambulance.

This ain't gonna be pretty. What's he gonna do, hit her with his flowers? Why didn't they send Michael?

I shall not warn you again. In the name of the Almigh ... Hey! Stop it!!

My former associate Mr. Player once showed me the rules of what you laughingly call "football" here. I believe this is what is known as a "punt."

Folks, that wasn't just a punt, that was a beautiful punt. Big arc, lots of hangtime. ... I think Gabrielle just landed in the Lehigh River. ... Well, "its" could have referred to "pinkie," I suppose.

Bah!

Who are you? In the name of heaven I demand to know where I am!

I am the Duke of Medina Sidonia and you are on my ship, archangel. I am at your service. Welcome to the Spanish Armada. ... Men, open fire on Marge!

You speak good English.

Use your discretion, dude

You have reached Michael the Archangel. I am currently on vacation. Yeah that's right: Vacation. And it's been a long time coming. So leave a message at the beep and I'll get back to you next week. If it's an emergency please call Archangel Gabrielle.

Hey, Michael, man, it's Jesus. I was hoping to catch you ... something's come up.

Hello, Jesus? It's me. What can I do for you, my Lord?

Oh man, Michael. What are you doing in your office when you're supposed to be kicking back with an umbrella drink and soaking in some rays?

Well ... I didn't know where else to go. I mean, I'm already in heaven.

You're absolutely right, like always. Though, Cabo is pretty cool. ... So here's the deal. I think I'm going to need you down in Allentown again. I mean I did send Gabrielle down but I have a bad feeling about it. ... I mean he's a fine archangel, but ... he's not half the swordsman that you are.

Oh, well thank you, Jesus. I'm flattered.

Please tell me we're talking about the same thing.

Oh, right, of course. ... So what's the problem? I mean the sixth-dimensional rift is sealed and the normal progression of time has resumed.

Marge.

Oy vey. I hate that word.

Dude, she's finally flipped her wig. She's, like, 13 feet tall and she's smashing buildings in downtown Allentown. She's totally buggin.


Not Parallel Allentown?!?

No, non-Parallel, thank Dad.

Seriously. Parallel Allentown is sweet. Non-Parallel Allentown, not so much.

Tell me about it, but some of them still like it. You know, the apologists. ... Anyway, Marge. She's been fighting this sea monster ...

I know the one.

Well, the sea monster is losing and this Cuchulainn character is ready to take on the winner.

You mean Ronan? Marge will peel him like a potato and swallow him whole.
Yeah, about that. ... It's complicated. He's got some ancient powers ...

Not another grandfather clause??

Man, I'm sorry, dude. I know how you feel about this stuff, but you know the story. ... Anyway he goes into this warp spasm thing and he's kind of a badass.

What will you have me do, Lord?

You know the drill, dude. I don't like to interfere in earthly matters. Use your discretion. But here's some advice: It would be better for everyone of neither one of them walks away from this fight.

Got it. What about the crows -- you want them gone? I could take them out easy.

No way, the crows are cool. In fact, you're gonna need their help. ... Oh, and one last thing. Atown-Liker is back from the dead -- with a tan.

I suspected as much.

His double from Parallel Time is there, too. Is that going to be a problem?

Nah. I just gotta off of one of them before the tan wears off. Any preferences?

Hmmm. ... Whatever. Use your discretion, dude.

A profile in courage

The battle continues as Marge follows the sea monster around the corner onto 9th Street. Marge got off to a quick start in this match, but the sea monster has responded with a couple of devastating blows, biting off the head of Marge's lone remaining henchman and then hitting Marge with a Smart Car right in the keister!

Aye, perhaps Marge underestimated the creature.

Perhaps. ... Uh-oh. What's this? The sea monster appears to be distracted. ... She's turned her back on Marge and is looking in the window of Robata of Tokyo. Oh my I think she's caught the scent of sashimi.

Aye, I believe it's a fine fatty toro she's smellin, lad. While I prefer a grand Irish salmon from the Fanad coast, they say most sea monsters prefer the fatty belly loins of the bluefin tuna.

Is that what they say? ... And speaking of belly loins you still haven't explained that scene in the Brew Works yet. Wait. ... Sensing an opportunity, Marge has picked up a yellow Head Start bus, no kiddies aboard as far as I can tell. ... Oh my! Marge has crushed the sea monster under the bus. Wait ... she's picking it up again and ... oh my! ... she's slammed it down on the monster a second time. Just a second now ... she is picking up the bus again. The sea monster is now inside the destroyed vehicle and seems to be unconscious. ... Marge is throwing the bus -- sea monster and all -- toward Walnut Street.

Are me eyes playin tricks on me, devil?

No they aren't, Mr. Irish Tenor. Marge has thrown the bus into the new townhouses on Walnut Street and the three rows of them just fell like dominoes! Oh my! Could the sea monster have possibly survived?

Faith and begorrah! There she is!

Ladies and gentlemen, we are witnessing a profile in courage. It's nothing short of that. This will go down as one of the greatest monster vs. demon fights in the history of Allentown. ... The sea monster has emerged from the burning ruins of the Zawarski town homes and she's making her way straight toward Marge, who seems taken aback! ... The sea monster lunges at Marge, and they both disappear as they grapple inside the empty La Belle Cuisine store, which promptly collapses on top of them, along with the adjoining buildings! Such destruction!

Look, devil, she's got a big fry pan on her head!

That's right. ... Marge has staggered out of the rubble. On her head is a large copper paella pan. This is one fine piece of culinary hardware, folks. ... Here comes the sea monster climbing out after her. She takes the pan from Marge's head and -- BAM -- right in the kisser. Marge appears to be staggered. The sea monster grabs the collar on Marge's frock and throws her head-first into the eye doctor's office across the street, and that building comes down as well. This neighborhood is sure taking a beating, folks. ... OK, she's got Marge by the collar again and she's aiming her toward the Garden Gate health food store. Not good -- I was planning to pick up a Power Sandwich there later. ... Ouch! The monster has just put Marge's head through the brick wall. Now she's forcing Marge to drink gallons of soy milk! Oh my! This could be the end.

I believe soy milk in that quantity could throw Marge's hormones out of whack, devil, as well as lead to some potential health problems down the road.

I'll take your word for it. Now what's she doing? ... It appears the sea monster has uprooted a streetlight from Hamilton Street and, and, are you kidding me? The sea monster has impaled Marge on the street light and pole, Christmas decorations and all. We are witnessing a huge upset, folks. The sea monster has apparently beaten Marge at her own game and impaled the impaler.

Saints preserve us! Marge is smiling, even though she's been run through with a light pole. That's a fine big set of bloody teeth she's got.

Folks, I don't believe what I am seeing. Marge is pulling the light standard out of her body and her gaping wound appears to be healing before our eyes!

Begorrah, the wee Christmas tree is sticking out of her belly and it's still lit! Saints preserve us, I'm in need of a wee drop of something.

Have some soy milk .... Now, Marge is on her feet and pointing the light standard right at the sea monster, just like Ryan Howard does before striking out. She takes a mighty swing and ... Oh my! It's a long drive! Watch this baby. ... Um, well, OK, it didn't go that far after all. But Marge has swatted the sea monster across the parking lot and into the upper floors at the rear of the Butz building, where she disappears inside amid the ringing cacophony of broken glass.

Aye, a regular ringing cacophony it is.

Now Marge is eyeing up that helicopter parked on the roof. ... Folks, this match is far from over. ...

Poop! Poop! Poop!

The jackass penguins have arrived.

We hate jackass penguins! They are our enemy, as are the crapface penguins.

We shall attack them!
And slaughter them!

And we shall eat their flesh and pluck out their eyeballs!

POOF! Um ... guys?

Very well, we will not harm them.

But we shall mock them!

We shall mock them and we shall poop on them!


Yes! Poop! Poop! Poop! Caw!

Um ... OK, I can live with that.

Caw! Caw! Poop on jackass penguins!

Oh, yeah. One more thing ... St. Michael the Archangel is going to need a couple of favors. Do whatever he says, OK? ... Later, dudes! ... POOF!

Caw!

Here is a letter I found in my house

From: Marge
Oct. 28, 2007
Impaler Castle
Romania

To: My Dear Dead Friend Truman
The Spiritual Realm
Non Parallel Time

My Dearest Dead Friend Truman,

It has been too long since we have corresponded and I hope you are well (the fact that you are dead notwithstanding). I had the strangest dream today and I felt compelled to contact you.

I dreamed that I was a little girl studying the martial arts in Japan when I was almost killed by a rockslide (these events so far happen to correspond with reality). Then I dreamed that I had a small brother who was trapped in a cave by aforementioned rockslide (I, however, was an only child).

As I stood outside the walled-in mouth of the cave, a polar bear rug began speaking to me.



(Here is a pencil sketch of said bear. Perhaps you did not know of my artistic talent!)

This must be very amusing to you, as you know of my fondness for polar bear rugs. I have been fascinated with them since I was a child and I simply cannot have enough of them surrounding me.

Anyway, the polar bear rug and I dug through the rocks to save my brother, but, alas, he was not in the cave. The only person there was someone named Karl, who said he was from Arkansas and was fond of fried potatoes. The next thing I knew, I was standing amid the ruins of a destroyed, burning city.

I cannot tell you how much this dream has vexed me, yet I cannot understand its significance. Perhaps I have too much on my mind.

As I'm sure you know the Vatican today beatified some so-called "victims" of the Spanish Civil War. To this day I am quite suspicious of the Spaniards and their forked-tongued king, Juan Carlos, traitor to fascists everywhere.

Also, I apparently have run afoul of the local bureaucracy here in Impalvania. It seems they have found some alleged code violations with the castle. Several inspectors have been "dispatched" to poke and prod at its thousand-year-old foundations and it seems none of them has returned to their retched cubicles. Perhaps they were catapulted over the ramparts or impaled in a forgotten dungeon. Whatever their fate I don't see how it is any of my concern.

At any rate I have been thinking of at least temporarily shifting my base of operations to the city of Allentown in America, where I would like to test my theories on society-building on a living model, so to speak.

I hope to see you when I arrive in America. I have been in contact with an influential blogger in Allentown and I intend to use his headquarters as my Team Marge nerve center. (He is as yet unaware of this plan.)

Adieu, mon ami

Marge

You messed up my new TV

So, Don, why do you want to be a character on Allentown is Nice?

Well, it looks like I'm going to have a lot of free time on my hands and I'm really funny. You should see me, I laugh all the time!

I have noticed that, but you know we already have two professional athletes working here, The Player, with whom you're familiar, and R. Dodger. They are very popular, at least with themselves.

I am aware of that Mr. Liker, but I was led to believe that both of those characters were dead.

That's not necessarily cut-and-dried. The Player is technically dead and he's gone to heaven. But he still visits the blog from time to time. The Dodger has had his head bitten off by a sea monster, however he's still talking and threatening to sue people. So I wouldn't say he's actually dead. In fact, I was dead myself and here I am.

I must say I was very pleased when Karl whacked The Player with his slingblade and killed him. You should have seen me laughing at that one. It was nearly as funny as the time I threw a four-yard swing pass about six feet over Westbrook's head in Cincinnati. If he caught it, he might have scored and we might have won. I laughed so hard.

Yes, I saw that. And I saw Sunday's game. You were so awful I think you messed up my new TV. Are there any other reasons why you believe you should be a character here?

Well, I'm a trend setter. For instance a week ago I didn't know an obscure rule about overtime in football, I mean I've only been around 10 years and I've only played in overtimes, maybe 10 times. Now I know the rule and a brought a lot of attention to it. This makes me a trend setter. ... Did I mention I like your tan?

Really? ... I have to be honest with you. I've been so busy and my schedule is a mess. I never know when I'm going to be around to even write the blog. Plus I'm still trying to decide if Allentown will be destroyed or not. Just as these may be the last days of you and Andy Reid, these are probably the final days of Allentown. I'm not sure I can fit you in.

Did I mention that I can dance? I do this moonwalk thing sometimes when I score.

You score? I forgot about that.

Or maybe I could help you out with the crows. I really don't get them or how they fit in with that Irish guy. ... And I don't get the deal with the other Irish guy. And what ever happened to Meg? She was cute.

Well, I guess that's on me. I need to put my guys in a better position to succeed. But I know what to do and we'll get it fixed.

Seems like I heard that in Cincinnati.

You some kinda demon?

You look well, Marge. Small, but well. Childhood agrees with you. ... I just want to pinch those rosy cheeks!

Do so and you shall lose a paw. ... How do you know my name? I have no intention of sharing banter with some flee-bitten doormat while my dear brother is trapped in that cave. What has become of my menservants?

So glad to see you haven't lost your charm.

I demand that you stop speaking to me and retrieve my brother Ronan from that cave!

Why, is it past your lunch time?

How dare you! My father will kill you. Do you know who he is?

Um, Ivan the Nosewipe or something? ... Listen Marge, I have a friend trapped in that cave as well, so I'll help you dig. ... After you.

When we are finished here you shall adorn the wall of the servants' privy.

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


Hmmm. I guess you's Ronan.


Who are you?


Name's Karl. Hmmm. I guess we stuck in this here cave. Hmmm. You some kinda demon?

I am the direct descendant of Cuchulainn, the greatest Irish warrior.

Hmmm. That's what them crows said.

You've spoken to the crows? They are a scourge upon Ireland! Some day when I am grown I shall wipe those creatures from the face of the earth.

Hmmm. Them crows said somethin 'bout that too.

Do you know how to get out of this cave?

Mmm. I reckon I have some friends outside gonna help. Hmmmm.

Why are you looking at me like that?

Hmmmm. I'm fixin' to eat ya. Hmmmm.

You ... have doomed Allentown to destruction

Good Lord, everything is ruined. Everything we have planned for so long has gone for naught. Marge will live and she will destroy everything in her path, including Allentown.... And it is your fault. You and your blasted crows have doomed Allentown to destruction.

I'm terribly sorry Mr. Bear, I truly am. But there must be another way to kill Marge without destroying the crows. These are noble, mythical creatures who seek to foster harmony between man and heaven.

Spare me your inane lecture, you toad. All is lost and the fault lies squarely on your frail green shoulders.

Well, I ...

But father, wait a moment. Remember when I lived in the future and I contacted to my own ghost in the seance? I told myself that you were actually killed when you executed this very attempt on Marge's life. You fell into the canyon and died. However, this time you were spared -- saved by the crows.

It is true. You were saved by the crows. If we were able to change your history, perhaps we can still stop Marge.

You know, she is just standing there at the bottom of this canyon, talking with Truman. Perhaps we could....

Caw, caw!

The crows say no. They say we must go to Lithuania.

Caw, caw!

I'm sorry. Romania. The crows want us to travel to 21st century Romania.

A fine big woman, she is

... Marge opens up with an aggressive move, tossing the sea monster through a large picture window onto the sidewalk. ... The sea monster is down and not moving. ... Of course, not much is moving as time seems to be progressing verrrry slooooowly right now. I'm afraid, folks, that this match may be over before it even gets started.