================
Episode Eleven
================
In the last episode, Roger and Chadwick were suffocating to death inside a
Spaceship/100 000 Watt Amplifier recently borrowed from the Martian Heavy
Metal Colony.  When the power cable came out, the air stopped pumping, and
pretty soon, our Heroes will stop breathing.  And, being unconcious, they
didn't notice a strange craft drifting towards them....
==============================================================================
This intruder was not so much a spaceship as a flying billboard.  It's surface
was totally covered in what looked like advertising slogans: "Unflumbulate your
lopozoids with New Improved Lopozoid Unflumbulator !" and "Tired of seeing
your Polnoks looking like Veebles on a Dramblet ?  Buy this amazing New
Improved Polnok Hoozier and rest at ease !."  Even the ion stream from the
engine said "Koke Adds Life !"

All this selling power was lost on Roger and Chadwick who still lay unconcious
on the floor of their ship.  They remained blissfully unaware as a large hole
was punched through the roof and a small platform descended to the floor.
Upon the platform sat a medical droid, which dragged Chad and Roger onto the
platform, and sat patiently awaiting their recovery as they slowly moved back
to the other ship.

Roger lay still as his hearing returned.  He could hear the power system
running, and the air tasted and smelled sweet, and Chadwick was nowhere to be
seen.  (These two facts are more than coincidental.)  Looking around the room,
it seemed to be some kind of medical bay.  He was securely strapped onto an
uncomfortable stretcher, and couldn't do a thing about it.  A voice came from
somewhere behind him.  A young man was speaking to someone on the phone.

"Yeah, he's just woken up .... Weirdest thing I ever seen.  He's not from Clan
Kwikker-Kooker, or The Micro-Dine sector, or even Greater K.  He's got no ID,
no cards of any kind, no marks of civilisation on him at all.  Well, the Boss
wanted to see him, so I'm sending him up now."

Ten minutes later, Roger found himself strapped to a chair in a sumptuous
office the main feature of which was a fat businessman behind a huge wooden
desk.  In huge brass letters was written the name "Farquar T. Thunderbolt."
"So," began the man, "you're the guy with no firm."
"Er...I guess so." said Roger.
The businessman launched into a speech that would have made Hitler sit up
straight and start taking notes.
"Do you know what that means ?  It means that you are a subversive !  You are
dangerous !  You're a cancer in our society !  You don't belong here ! You
should be cut out...you should be made an example of."
Roger began to suspect he was not going to be given the pass-card to the city.
"And ordinarily we'd do it." continued Farquar.  "Sadly though, we have a
problem.  Let me explain our situation."

"This whole world is geared for only one thing: advertising.  We'd advertise
our own funerals if it got a new account for the company.  As you well know,
advertising is war, and we were originally bound for Zraken Beta, as
reinforcements for the Butter Substitute Wars.  Our ship crashed onto this
dung heap of a world after flying through twelve gigatons of our competitors
product.  The huge population on board weren't trained for anything...except
advertising !  That's what we're about.  Sadly, this world has no native
population, so we've got no-one to sell to, except ourselves.  And then we've
got no market to survey, except the guy who was the ships janitor.  He is now
'The Market'.  Everything we sell goes through a 'Market Survey'.  That is, we
ask the ex-janitor what he thinks of it.  Only problem is, all our tests
produce a one hundred percent result ! Every time !  Well, only problem now is
that he's at Death's Door and knocking pretty hard.  Luckily, you've turned
up.  How'd you like to be the new market ?"  He beamed at Roger as though he'd
just offered him twelve years in a locked room with the last seventy winners
of Miss Universe.  Roger just looked back at Farquar as though he'd just been
offered twelve years of being stranded on a planet full of crazy ad men. .....
which, in fact,  he was.

"Erm....can I think about it ?" asked Roger.
"Nope, we can't have you thinking, you know.  You must react instinctively,
tell us the first thing that comes into your mind."
"You're a bunch of poisonous, narrow-minded sons of a Hulgravant Mega-Wart
with the social relevance of a Papal Decree." grinned Roger.
"OK....that's a start..." frowned Farquar T. Thunderbolt.  "Tell you what, why
not go down to our leisure center and think it over.  It's one of the perks of
the job, y'know.  After a while down there, I'll just bet you'll love this
job."  He told Roger how to get there, and hurried off like a man who's just
carried off a brilliant plan and wants to brag to his friends...which he, in
fact, had.

Roger strode down the creamy walled halls and stopped at a plain looking door
marked "Leisure Center."  Letting himself in, he looked upon the most relaxing
and totally chillin' scene in the Galaxy, man.  The room was at least eight
feet high, and he couldn't see the walls, obscured as they were by a tropical
paradise straight from Fiji.  A waterfall cascaded from the roof into a
shimmering pool, hugged by smooth boulders damp from the rainbow spray.  On
each rock sat a gorgeous woman with a body that made Elle McPherson look like
Nancy Reagan.  "Uh oh.." said the suspicion centre of Roger's brain.  Roger
grinned and told his suspicion centre to take a short holiday, and shifted the
'Oh boy, look at that bimbo !' section into fourth gear.  He addressed all of
them at once, in a stupid pose that said "Hey, I'm a gullible pratt."
"Hey babes, I'm a multimedia superstar, and world famous Hero !  So who's
first ?" said Roger.  A stunning redhead slid voluptuously to the ground and
put her arms around Roger.  "Oh boy !" thought Roger.  "It actually worked !"

He spun around and dipped her low as in a romantic tango.  He bent low to
whisper sweet nothings in her perfect ear, and completely failed to notice the
tip of her left index finger drop off, revealing a glistening hypodermic.  She
plunged it deep into Roger jugular vein, and he fell to the ground.
"Damn it....I guess this means a nightcap is out of the question." said Roger
as blackness closed over him once more.
================================================================================
Has Roger's libido left him in trouble again ?
   Where has Chadwick got to ?
     Why set up such a lavish trap just for one man ? (Artistic license, man!)

For the answers to these world-shattering questions and not much else, tune in
next week for another spine-chilling episode of Rocket Roger !

=========
Ep Twelve
=========
At the end of the last mind-blowing episode, Roger had once more been rendered
unconcious by a combination of trickery (on their part) and stupidity (on his
part).  Little did Roger know (true enough in itself) that he was about to
undergo brain surgery.  It was the kind that would make him a perfect specimen
for market surveys: removal of 90% of brain tissue.  The situation seemed
hopeless......  (or whatever 'certain doom' cliche appeals to you.)
==============================================================================
Roger lay strapped down (for the second time in two episodes), cold, and
bloody annoyed !  He understood the need for the Hero to be in tricky
situations and then `Hero' his way out of it, but quite frankly, he was all
Heroed out.  He began to think back to his University days.....

     ****FLASHBACK TIME !! SHIMMER SHIMMER WOBBLE WOBBLE TWINKLY MUSIC****

"And so we can establish the Heroicicity required as a function of threat,
number of women present, resulting trouser bulge and how many bullets you have
left.  This is turn reveals that...." droned the lecturer.
"ZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzz....." replied the entire lecture theatre.

As usual, the lecturer had sent eight hundred bright cheery people into a
catatonic, zombie-like trance.  He was in good form today, it took a whole
eleven minutes.  Roger was made of sterner stuff than most of the others, and
could still force his left eye to creak open, though the right one had long
since given up, choosing instead to dream about Magda "Roller Coaster"
Williams.  Elementary Heroism 501 was the dullest subject since 'Great Music
of the late 1970s', and Roger hated every minute of it.  In fact, he also
hated Advanced Double Talk 314, Atomic Device Building 666, Advanced Seduction
417 (well, that one wasn't too bad.) and Running Like Buggery 806.  He felt an
insect bite his shoulder and, as usual, succeeded only in bruising himself
when he tried to swat it.  "That's it !" thought Roger. "I hate this place,
I'm getting out !"

As you may have guessed, Roger's education was no ordinary one.  He was
trained to be a Hero from an early age and had spent all his life learning all
the skills he'd need to be a genuine 'Poster-on-the-bedroom-wall, Dinner-
With-The-Queen, Take-My-Daughter-In-Fact-Take-Them-Both ' type of Hero.
Unfortunately, he hated, loathed and despised every contemptible, futile
moment his father was forcing him to endure.  It is the bane of all sons to be
what their fathers were not, but Roger (as you may have guessed) wasn't
interested any more.  "Right." thought Roger.  "Escape time !"

Later that night, having packed his favourite 'Ultra-Dude' comic, five frag
grenades, Electra-Plasmoid Lacerator and a change of underwear, he executed
his brilliant escape plan.  After bribing his dorm-guard with a heavy blow to
the head, running down the hallway holding a full length mirror ahead of
himself (to fool the video cameras), detonating sixteen mines by throwing his
mother's English Muffins (densest substance known to man) ahead of himself, he
finally reached the outer wall.  Flinging himself over it with a method
perfected only by Lunar high jumpers and b-grade Chinese movie actors, he
landed heavily on....a solid oak podium . . . with a microphone neatly at his
mouth . . . and an audience of smiling academics, parents and friends beaming
at him.  This not being the kind of thing you expect on the other end of an
escape, Roger just stood there with bulging eyes and open mouth.

"Congratulations Roger !" came a deep voice.  It was the Head of the
University, General Jeremiah 'Was A Bullfrog' Vorroson.  "A beautiful
graduation if ever I saw one.  Your parents must be very proud of you."
"Um...yeah, I guess." replied a stunned Roger.  "You mean you wanted me to
escape ?"
"Of course we did !" replied the General.  "You can't make a Hero.  Heroes are
born, not made.  So we just pressure you with boredom, stupid subjects and a
total lack of female companionship in the hope that you'll take it upon
yourself to use your training, think for yourself, and get out."  He grinned
the sort of grin that makes you want to grin too, though you're not sure why.
Roger wasn't sure either, but grinned anyway.  He turned to the audience, and
they all grinned too.  Roger turned to back to the General, and noticed that a
small pistol in his chubby hand was pointed at Roger's neck.  A soft whoosh of
air, and Roger slumped to the deck, still grinning.  It is a strange fact that
he was to spend much of his career as Hero slumped and unconcious, so it seems
he would just have to start getting used to it.
 
He awoke (not in the real world, just in his dream) right in the middle of what
some would call The Deep End, into which he'd been thrown.  This particular
deep end took the form of a negotiating table on the Planet Squipo.  At one
end sat a representative from the Quinton Fabulon Washing Machine Company, 
dressed in metal panels made from a recycled washing machine.  Facing him was 
what can only be described as  an Alsatian after meeting three chainsaws for a 
long chat and quick bout of dismembering.  It was actually three Squips, 
telepathic creatures of astonishing collective intelligence.  Sadly, if their 
telepathy was blocked (as it was by a washing machine in full spin cycle) they 
became as clever as a Mac owner.  They barely had enough intelligence between 
them to make sure they'd go out with a bang.  In exactly half an hour, their 
automatic Warbots would scour this planet, destroying every electrical 
appliance (especially washing machines) they could find.  At the same time, 
the washing machine company would launch a 'Spin Cycle' to end them all, in 
the form of a giant washing machine at the very core of the planet, sending it
spinning into another orbit.  And Roger, barely twelve hours into his career, 
had to stop them.

Naturally, he failed miserably, spending ten minutes trying to turn on his 
translator, another ten getting to know the two representatives, and ten more 
saying  "Well, lets try and see it from his point of view."  The entire planet
was laid waste.  As Roger sat there feeling useless and pathetic, eighteen
hundred ships from Earth landed, strip mined the entire planet in 5 hours flat
and took Roger back to Earth, along with around twenty percent of what had been 
the beautiful Planet Squipo.

"Well done Roger !" came the greeting from General Vorroson.  "You've done the
school proud.  You obviously knew we couldn't mine the planet while intelligent
life still existed there, so you manipulated those stupid Squids...."
"Squips, sir." interrupted Roger.
"Yeah, whatever, into roasting themselves into oblivion !  Brilliant
statesmanship, Roger.  All that ore will go straight to the Quinton Fabulon
Washing Machine company to provide badly needed washing machines for the
Scrabongor system.  Now, there's this alien there called a Goppigong...."
Roger calmly turned and fainted, thus beginning an illustrious career in the
service of the wonderful, exploitative world of Heroism.
================================================================================
Why has the author provided such a non-event ending ?
    Will Roger ever succeed (like a toothless parrot) ?
       Will Chadwick ever return from wherever he might be ?

For these answers tune in to the next brain bending episode of Rocket Roger !

So, how was that ?  There's one of these wastes of CPU time out every single
week !  What a wonderful world !  If you'd like to have Rocket Roger sent
straight up your alley, just send an introductory letter from the Pope, or a
responsible adult, and pray that our VAX is receiving outside mail.  Don't
subscribe to Toxic Custard, 'cos its gone for a while.  But next week, write to
edb134tbp2@vx24.cc.monash.edu.au and you'll get it right between the eyes.

=========================
Episode Twelve point Five
=========================
The sad time has come......the author is unable to provide a genuine, bona
fide, 100% Aussie Beef episode of Rocket Roger !  Instead, he's serving up this
half-baked 5% Kangaroo meat pint sized episode with artificial plot devices,
carcinogenic humour and dramatic additives.  The real thing will be back Real
Soon Now !  (This is Roger as a kid again, about third year University level.)
================================================================================
Roger was in trouble, again.  But it wasn't another life-threatening situation,
unless you consider having six assignments due this week as a potentially 
death inducing situation.  As he sat and contemplated the mountain of
paperwork in front of him, he thought of another Very Important Thing to do. 
It became absolutely vital to go and write another episode of his brilliant
story: Brave Brian.  This newly discovered sense of urgency to do something 
useful spouted from that part of Roger's brain which controlled the Desire To 
Be A Good Citizen hormones.  But since Roger had no intention of actually 
starting any assignments, he justified it with other stuff: like washing the 
car, dishes, dog, roof, fence, neighbour's fence, kitchen utensils, kitchen 
floor, ceiling, and writing lots of garbage.  

Fighting his way through the towers of reference books, half started essays,
piles of bug reports and core dumps, he struggled into the terminal room,
logged on, and wrote lots of crap, then flung it out to an unsuspecting world. 
(Except for those who asked for it.)  ("Nobody expects it, in fact those who DO
expect it"...tend to quote Monty Python a lot...hmmm.)  The writing was good,
it got laughs, it got replies, it won awards (Most Gratuitous Use of the Word 
'Electrono-Plasmoid-Interpolation-Polarity-Inverter-Accelerator' in Yak Skin
transcript form.)  but these screaming masses of fans did nothing to sway the
tutors who demanded to see Roger's completed assignments.  Roger said nothing,
and tried to bravely flash the reams of praise received from far and wide. 
Sadly, it didn't work and Roger was expelled from the Computing course, and had
to become a freelance Hero instead.  

This story was within an amoeba's left thumbnail of being true.  My nasty
assignments got in the way of more important plot questions, like 'Where has
Chad got to ?  Will Roger wake up and escape from the evil advertising planet ? 
Will the Mad Scribe ever get back to the plot line so thoughtfully expounded in
Episode One ? (God I hope so.)'

Keep watching, faithful readers.  Just think of it as Roger catching the wrong
train.  He's on his way.  Never fear.  Go ahead make my cliche.  Shut up.  OK.

The Mad Scribe trudges off to tackle the fearsome UNIX beast head-on.

===================
Episode Thirteen
===================
The Story So Far: Roger has crashed on a planet inhabited entirely by
Advertising Executives, who want him to become The Market.  To make him a good
candidate for market surveys, they want to remove his brain.  He has found
himself strapped to an obligatory operating table......
===============================================================================
Now that the obligatory and long overdue flashback scene was over, allowing
the author to use the University humor that has been held back for so long,
Roger was able to get back to the real world, where his brain was about to be
removed in order that he could become a good candidate for market surveys.  It
would qualify him to answer the Eternal Question: 'Do you prefer Snork to
Butter ?'  Obviously, giving a good answer to this question precludes the
possession of a brain, so Roger's brain busily packed its bags for a short
trip to the hospital incerator, from whence it might end up at any of fourteen
thousand McDonalds scattered around the planet.  Roger was currently strapped
to the cold operating table from Episode eleven.

"How about plan 34-C ?" asked Roger of himself.
"Nah, we don't have a Yak or a M-78 Ultra-Huge Tank." answered Roger.
"Right, " replied Roger "What about 40-Delta-QZX9 ?"
"I doubt that would work.  We're missing the small knife, the unicycle, and
the Eighth Division of Krappen's Mad Mercenaries." replied Roger again.
"Hmmm...well how about - "
"Ah shut up and stop bothering me !" yelled Roger at himself.

"Oh goodly yes indeedly !  The patient is wordily talking at his selfness."
Roger creaked his neck to get a view at what could possibly have uttered such
garbage.  He got a view alright, though the seeing didn't make things any
clearer.  It was obviously meant to be a surgeon, for it wore the customary
green gown and surgical mask.  On the other hand, what surgeon usually wore
the gown backwards, revealing a pot belly with a tattooed inscription: "Worst
Surgeon of the Year 545-560."  Also, the glasses with the lighthouse lenses
didn't exactly help Roger's faith , and neither did the fact that through the
lenses could barely be seen two dark eyes swivelling about in all directions.
His chubby face was thick with deep lines from continuous squinting.  Roger
quietly swallowed a large lump of fear in his throat.  It tasted awful.

The surgeon slowyly maneuvered towards the operating table where Roger lay
securely strapped down.  Twenty minutes later, with nothing left standing, the
Doctor finally arrived.  "Whew ! Almost didn't reachify my table.  And how are
we feeling today ?" he asked Roger's feet, patting them as he did so.
"My my ! That's quite a nose you have there !  Would you like it removed ?"
"Er...I'm over here actually !" called Roger from the other end of his body.
"Aha ! You cheeky little moveable Devil, you !  What's it going to be then ?"
"Well, how about a short back and sides, with a little blow wave across the
top ?"

"I don't think so, my friend !" came a booming voice from the viewer's
gallery.  It was the unmistakeable voice of Farquar T. Thunderbolt.  "None of
your slimy tricks will get you out of here.  You should be honoured that you
are going under the knife of our planet's finest surgeon."
"I thought you said you were all advertising men !  Where did you get a doctor
from ?  What's his qualifications ?" shouted Roger.
"Well, he's not actually trained, but he's seen every episode of Quincy three
times, and he's seen half of Ben Casey MD, Dr. Kildare, Veterinarian's
Hospital, St. Elsewhere and Doogie Howser !  If that's not training, I don't
know what is !  But enough of this mindless chatter.  Doctor Lotsablud, I want
you to remove this man's brain !"
"Yes !  My operation that is favourite !"  Dr. Lotsablud began madly
scrambling around, checking equipment, pushing buttons and insane laughter
filled the chilly air.

Roger struggled futilely against the cowardly bonds that tied him down.
"You can't do this, you fiend !  You'll never get away with it !"
"Oh, won't I ? " laughed the evil Farquar.  "And who's going to stop me ?"

If Farquar had the relevant statistics at hand, he might have chosen his words
more carefully.  A recent survey conducted by the Volvuxian Couch Potato
Society proved conclusively that more rescue attempts are made after the words
"...who's going to stop me ?" have been spoken (usually by the villain), than
any other phrase.

A muffled explosion echoed through the labyrinthine halls.  Shouts, gunfire,
more explosions and general chaos.  The surgery doors burst open and at least
seven men swathed in black flung themselves headlong into the room.  At their 
head was a familiar figure....short....plenty of space around him....a 
strange hazy gas that seemed to follow him....CHADWICK !!!

"Never fear, Roger !" shouted Chadwick as his men tied the Doctor up.  Roger
looked into the viewer's gallery and saw the plump figure of Farquar T.
Thunderbolt hitting a large red button before running from the booth.
"Quick Chadwick, " urged Roger. "He's sounded the alarm !"
Chadwick looked unconcerned, and slowly examined his fingernails.
"Don't worry, Colonel, we disconnected the alarm system before we came in."

Predictably, just as this rash statement was spoken, the alarms went off, like
a convention of really keen firemen.  The alarms clanged loudly and Chadwick's
face took on the look of a the guy who swapped accidentally all Saddam's 
bullets with blanks.  "Or maybe it was the coffee dispensers...." he said
softly.  
"I'll deal with you later !" warned Roger, wiggling an admonishing finger at
Chadwick's downfallen face.  "How do we get out of here ?"  A new voice
answered him.
"I think I'd better take over from here."  One of the anonymous figures in
Chadwick's rescue removed the black mask covered his head.  A full head of
shiny bronzed hair tumbled down around his shoulders ? His ? No way ! This was
definitely a HER !  Roger, being a complete loon, fell instantly and hopelessly
in love.
================================================================================
Has romance found Roger at last ?  
   Has Roger really fallen in love ?
      Will this woman be compatible ? (Does a dog go 'moo' ?)
  
Tune in next week for another heart tearing episode of Rocket Roger !

If you've picked yourself off the floor (from the theoretical laughter you just
finished doing) then why not subscribe to Rocket Roger ?  ('Cos its crap)
(Well, besides that.)  (And I've got no time to read it) (Ok, barring that.)
(And I don't like science fiction) (Alright, fair enough !)  Those of you still
left over, write to EDB393GBP@VX24.cc.monash.edu.au.  You can also subscribe to
the totally separate TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES at EDB134TBP2.  Please don't
ask HIM for ROCKET ROGER !  It's MY STORY !!  He's getting a bit cheesed off !

=================
Episode Fourteen
=================
In the last heart stopping episode Roger had fallen in love with the
mysterious woman who saved him from a frontal, backal and sideal lobotomy.
The rescue bid was headed by Chadwick, the most useless sidekick since Barney
'Blind as a deep sea fish' Bolowski took up archery as a social sport.  Well,
at least Chadwick hasn't killed anyone - yet.  The rescue went slightly wrong,
since Chadwick disconnected the coffee machines instead of the alarm system.
==============================================================================
Roger did his best guppy impression as the alarms clanged.  She certainly was
ravishingly beautiful, and ravishing was only one of the things on Roger's
mind.  This was no bimbo, no mindless concubine.  This was a woman to grow old
with, to raise a family with, to play 'Hide The Sausage' with several times a
week.  Chadwick ran over to Roger, grinning like a maniac.  Roger turned his
attention to the very embarassing fact of who had just rescued him.

"Oh boy, Colonel, I bet this is the first time a Hero has ever been rescued by
 a sidekick !  I can't wait to tell all my friends back home."
"I doubt your slug collection will much care to hear this tale, and if you
breath one word of this to any human being, I'll see you flung into deep
space, got it ?  As far as I'm concerned, I've just been rescued by ..... "
He turned to the beautiful woman, "...her ! *sigh* "

She turned to face Roger and strode casually towards him.  She smiled, and
slapped Roger hard across his blushing cheeks.  "You may call me Trist, and I
suggest you don't even bother trying your luck, Hero boy.  I've sworn a vow of
celibacy until our society is free of that cancerous leech, Farquar T.
Thunderbolt, who moves slyly upon us with his evil 'Gummo bubblegum' and the
insidious 'Wacko.'"
Roger opened his mouth to say something, but seeing the expression on Trist's
face, thought better of it.
"You have only been rescued," continued Trist "because this brave and handsome
fellow believes you can help us."  Brave and handsome ?  Who was she talking
about ?  Could it .... nah ... maybe .... Chadwick ?!

Chadwick scrunched up his face to reveal something quite like a bulldog after
sixteen failed plastic surgery operations.  He smiled up at the motherly
figure of Trist, who returned a mischievous grin.  It was like watching
Quasimodo making gooey eyes at convention of cover girls.
"Oh good grief, " thought Roger. "I've been beaten to her by a man who
thinks...well, actually he doesn't think at all !"

"Er...glad to help."  was all Roger said as he picked himself up off the
floor.  "Good !" replied Trist as she made her way back to the door.  "Come
on.  The guards will be here soon and our base is many hours journey from this
place."

The group made their way into the corridor.  It was like any other corridor in
an advertising agency, lined with self-praising posters showing successful
campaigns from the past.  The famous "His Pants For Her" followed by "Her
Pants For It", "Its Pants For Rover" and "No Pants For Nudists."  (You
probably have to be an Aussie to follow that last gaglette.)  The deep pile
carpet, made from the hair of competitors after various spectacularly
successful takeover bids, was thick enough to muffle their footsteps.  Alas,
as they progressed confidently through the maze of halls, a mysterious
trapdoor opened up and swallowed the other members of the rescue group,
leaving only Roger, Chadwick and Trist.  This was no coincidence, as the
author can't waste lines writing about five other guys in black trudging about
all the time.  Best just to kill them off, and stick with the main plot, I
reckon.

"Where are we going ?" asked Roger.
"We are leaving the domain of the evil Farquar T. Thunderbolt and heading for
the domain of the good, kind and generous King Kwikker-Kooker."
"Look, this advertising thing is getting ridiculous !" exclaimed Roger.  "Do
all your political divisions sound like they'd go "Crispily crunchily golden-
brown after just fifteen minutes in the family oven ?"  Trist turned and gave
Roger a look that would have made Frankenstein quiver back to the kitchen for
a cuppa.

"Those are ancient and noble names handed down for generations since the Great
Arrival.  Since that time, many heroic feats have been performed to make our
world as it is today.  Brave Promo-etheus stealing the plans of fire and
finding out if people want it inserted nasally !  Clever Gallup and his forty
copy boys discovering just what colour the wheel should be !  Yes, Colonel,
our world is not like your Earth, but we are proud of what we have become !
Our world is a united one, living peacefully under the banner of Sales,
Advertising and Marketing." She made a religious looking gesture when intoning
the last three words.
"Then why are you trying to overthrow F.T. Thunderbolt ?"

"Because he's a blaspheming heretic !  He is trying to work without Marketing,
and is undercutting everyone else.  Just because there aren't any people on
this planet who don't work for an advertising agency, doesn't mean you can
skimp on the Market Research !  As our Holy Book sayeth 'Researchest thou
thine market, yea,  even to discover which colour is desired to anoint a
simple wheel.  Skimp not on this vital Holy task or shall thy face be
smothered in egg when sales sink lower than the deep end of the last swimming
pool in Hell.' That is how the Law is written and must be followed by all."

"Look Trist, you're a real nice girl and everything, but this guy Thunderbolt
isn't playing marbles !  He tried to cut my brain out just to make me a
suitable market research candidate !  He's way out of my league, and I really
prefer being alive.  You meet more interesting people that way.  Anyway, it
looks like you're doing OK on your own.  A bit of industry, science, mindless
but evenly matched warfare and religious intolerance; all the hallmarks of a
good civilised society.  We wouldn't want to upset the balance, so I think me
and Chadwick will go steal a spaceship or something original like that.
"I don't think so, Roger." said Chad, standing firm.  "Trist needs our help."
"Yeah right, " said Roger strolling away.  "I'll do this one on my own then."
"Goodbye Roger." whispered Chadwick.  Neither saw the silent tear roll down
the other's cheek.
==============================================================================
Is this the end of the Legendary Partnership of Roger and Chadwick ?
   Can Roger really escape the Advertising World on his own ?
       Is Trist really in love with Chadwick ?

For these answers read the next emotionally crippling episode of Rocket Roger!
 
If you began to form the merest hint of a snigger, why not subscribe to the
epic saga of Rocket Roger !  For the mere price of sod all, and a bit of
e-mail, you can have this amazing tale of bravery, heroic feats and lots of
smell jokes delivered right to your electronic door.  If you're feeling really
brave, try subscribing to the Toxic Custard Workshop Files at
EDB134TBP2@vx24.cc.monash.edu.au.  It's probably worth a squiz.

===============
Ep Fifteen
===============
In our last episode, the woman Roger fell in love with had just fallen in
love with Chadwick.  This revelation of this highly unlikely event was
followed by a dramatic parting scene, in which Roger decided to escape the
advertising world.  Chadwick has elected to remain behind to help the woman,
Trist, overthrow the evil empire of Farquar T. Thunderbolt.
=============================================================================
     Roger had wandered around for too many hours now, and his feet felt like
they'd been stamping on nails.  His stomach felt emptier than a particularly
deep bit of deep space, and his original plan of finding a spaceship was
looking in serious danger of being voted the worst plan since Cuthbert The
Mindless Twit tried using battle ants to attack Dwinkor, Lord of the
Anteaters.  He was lost, tired, hungry and (though he didn't know it yet)
about to enter a very ideologically unsound area of this otherwise stable
place.
     The particular part of the Kwikker-Kooker sector he had inadvertently
strayed into used to be the University.  This was where dangerous things like
'learning' and 'education' used to go on, before Good King Kopp Willbey banned
them.  He moved quickly through the dusty dark halls, fearing whatever hideous
beasts the author had planted to obstruct him.  Never fear, Roger, nothing so
obvious in this episode.
     The huge vaulted chamber Roger at the end of the corridor was the remains
of the library.  Nobody had trod the pine floors for decades at least and the
dust sat thick on the oak tables.  Roger approached one of the index analyzing
machines.

"On." he said, hoping the machine still worked.
"Shh !" remonstrated the machine.
"ON !" shouted Roger, hitting the machine in a very complex technical way.
"Silence in the library !" said the machine through clenched diodes. "Mime
your requirements."
"What ?  There's nobody here but me !" said Roger, looking for the switch to
turn off the 'Obstinate Librarian' mode.
"Mime, the art of, usage of, library, in.  See: French exports, pointless
exploits, excuses for wearing makeup, terminal idiocy, proper behaviour of
heroes in libraries." replied the uncaring machine, which was thoroughly
enjoying itself.

It was, of course, programmed to do so since librarians by their very nature,
(i.e small, quiet, shrew-like and likely to be bald by the age of forty five)
could never have the stamina and sheer guts to continually subject people to
the abuse librarians were expected to deal out daily.  Most only lasted a few
years before becoming suicidal/homicidal/psychotic/traffic wardens/all of the
above.
The final day for human librarians came on the day of the death of the last,
terminally overworked, human librarian.  It was a most unfortunate incident
involving thirty two copies of Shakespeare's complete works, a large pot of
Vaseline, and a crocodile farm.  They were replaced by the only thing that
could live up to the public's expectations of continual unwarranted abuse by
the librarian profession: the Index Analysing Machine.  It could cross
reference, alphabetize, correlate and interpret every index entry around the
world in two minutes flat...if it felt like (rarely), and it wasn't too busy
writing to the Board of Directors asking for more money (very rarely), and it
didn't tell you to try the Stockholm Institute for Training Bacteria to Play
Football's Anders Holstenwick Memorial Library (A. Holstenwick was the
greatest flagellum-bearing centre-forward in the Institute's history.), which
didn't happen too often (count the commas, we're still on track for a record
breaking sentence.).  Still, the IAMs were instantly recognized by the
library-going public to be the greatest achievement in getting libraries to
live up to their reputation since the invention of the 'Stick a metal tab in
your lunch bag' droid.
After only a few months in general use, the phrase " I annoy you therefore
IAM." was thrown around my desperate punners looking for material.

Roger set about trying to mime a spaceship.  He tried standing straight and
tall, spreading his arms out, but the IAM gave him a reference to the basic
beliefs of Christianity.  He tried jumping in this position, but was given the
code for the Superman collection.  He even tried farting to demonstrate rocket
power and received a reference to the biological disorder section.  This was
going nowhere fast.  His patience snapped and kicked the machine hard.
"Listen you rustbucket, I'm the only visitor you've had for hundreds of years
and your bloody mime games are pissing me right off !  Tell me where I can
find a spaceship on this navel-lint ball of a planet, or I'll bypass your
decision circuits and make you count every letter in every book ever
written...twice.

The IAM decided it had annoyed Roger long enough and told him that the only
spaceship on the planet belonged to Farquar T. Thunderbolt.  It sat atop his
huge skybreaker (not just a Skyscraper, a SkyBreaker) building.  However,
since Roger had just been rescued from F.T. Thunderbolt, he wasn't likely to
get it just by asking politely.  This was a definite bit of hard work coming
up.  It would have been good to have Chadwick here, even as a decoy to knock
out the guard dogs.

Meanwhile, Chadwick was enjoying life.  He believed that, in complete flagrant
disregard of all known laws of Human relationships, a beautiful woman named
Tristesse had fallen in love with him.  Naturally he was wrong and knew
something was a bit fishy when she kept asking him for skin samples.  His mind
didn't want to accept, however, that all was not hunky dory and he went on
believing they were both in love with each other.  After a couple of days, she
announced that she was ready to begin the final attack on Farquar T.
Thunderbolt's headquarters.  She carried a small glass vial of a repulsive
looking liquid.  When Chadwick asked what it was, she told him it was a deadly
poison derived from the multitude of noxious chemicals swimming about in and
all over his skin and that they would use it to kill F.T. Thunderbolt.  Chad
wasn't sure about this relationship any more.  It would have been good to have
Roger here, so he could understand when he was being insulted and humiliated.

Both parties started their journeys.  Roger packed whatever food he could
find, and a gun made from the internals of a library indexing computer.
Chadwick and Tristesse packed nothing but the vial containing the poison from
Chadwick's skin.  Farquar didn't stand much of a chance....or did he ?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Will Roger find the spaceship he so desperately needs ?
     Will Chadwick keep helping Tris in her assassination attempt ?
          Will there be another five week break till the next episode ?

Tune in (hopefully) next week for another installment of Rocket Roger !

===============
Episode Sixteen
===============
In our last late-breaking episode, Roger and Chadwick had both set out
towards the tower of the evil Farquar T. Thunderbolt, ruler of
the..erm...damn, I forgot to name his nation.  OK, let's go with Wacko Inc.
Roger was determined to steal Thunderbolt's spaceship, and Chadwick was half
an assassination squad, trying to kill F.T Thunderbolt, advertising genius and
general bad-guy.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Roger trudged through a wasteland of ruined buildings and unkept streets.  A
shadowy figure caught his eye, and looking closer he saw a broken down old
man wearing the latest in post-holocaust fashion, shuffle up to him.
"Got any ?" said the man.
"Any what ?" replied Roger, slowly backing away, bravely making sure his
blaster was there.  (You never know with these old broken down men....)
"Wacko ! What else ?!" rasped the potential target.
"What's that ?" asked Roger.
"You mean you don't know ?! It's....well...it's...just...Wacko !" coughed the
old relic.  "Actually now that you mention it....I've never seen it !  I don't
even know what it is !  Ha ! Haha !"  This burst of clarity was obviously too
much for him and he collapsed to the dusty ground, dead as this plot.
Roger shrugged, searched the guy's pockets and moved on.

After many days travel, both teams arrived at the tower.  By sheer and utter
coincidence, in no way related to the fact that they are the only three
characters, they meet at the base of the tower.  It is shiny, gleamy and
topped with a sign bearing the 'Wacko' logo.  Tris was delighted to see Roger
again, even if she only wanted the specs for a gas mask to block out
Chadwick's unique aroma.
"Colonel Rogerson !  I see you've decided to join our Holy Quest to kill the
evil Thunderbolt and stop the spread of this horrible Wacko."
"I'm glad you mentioned that. This old fellow back there came up to me begging
for the stuff, then he couldn't tell me what it was !"

Chadwick piped up.  "It's a concept, Colonel.  There is no such thing as
Wacko, it's just a marketing campaign that spiralled out of control.  The
whole population of this country was killed by a burning desire to have
something that didn't exist !"
"That's unbelievable..." sniggered Roger.
"Believe it, Colonel," said Tristesse, "everyone in this building thinks Wacko
is real and will defend it to the death, except F.T Thunderbolt.  He runs this
whole campaign and is secretly building a huge starbase complex in orbit with
the profits.  Using this poison derived from Chadwick's skin, we will kill him
and bring his reign of terror to an end !"
(Ed.  The readers may be interested to know that this well-worn line represents
the one thousandth cliche used in Rocket Roger.  Yippee, hooray, party noise
and streamers.)

Roger decided to put his foot down.  He did so, quite hard, and tripped on a
stray bit of post 'Wacko induced' holocaust rubble.  Picking himself up, he
addressed this revolution-mad nutcase.
"You can stick your quest where you probably think the Sun shines out of.  No
way are you getting me to risk my life, which I rather enjoy, to knock off some
trumped-up ad exec with a Starbase complex." (Wow, a pun !)  Tris huffed,
turned and left dragging Chadwick with her.  Chadwick turned despairingly to
Roger, but he had already been dragged half way down the path towards another
entrance into  the forbidding building.  Roger himself had already blown the
door away, taking the subtle approach in only setting the blaster to 78.

He stepped through the smoking frame, hoping the molten droplets of steel
wouldn't mark his uniform.  He was inside the lobby, probably once beatiful but
now looking like a convent after a Hell's Angels 'Screwing, Slashing and
Sodomy' convention.  It was mostly junk and rubble but in one darkened corner
a flickering neon sign still flashed.  "The Dungeon" it proclaimed, "The most
torturous nightclub in the building !"  A door next to the sign still clung to
its hinges and Roger made his way towards it.  He didn't notice the light beam
he crossed.  Somewhere nearby, a door slid open and the Security Robot emerged.
It's first visitor in three hundred years, you'd think it would be pleased
that business was finally picking up.  Actually it was incredibly
claustrophobic due to being locked in its cubicle for three centuries.  It's
circuits had been locked into 'fashion check' mode. When it was built, the
current trend had been wearing underwear on your head and a strange purple suit
which looked like the skin of a mutant giraffe.  Roger was a little more
sensibly dressed, which was going to prove very painful for him.  The robot
scanned Roger, found him wearing underwear in the most curious of places, and
its warped circuits decided Roger obviously didn't need his head.  It also
decided to help him remove it.

He heard a curious grinding noise and turned to see a seven foot rust bucket
held together by sheer bloody-mindedness bearing down on him.  Bits fell of it
with every step, but sadly the weapon bits were hanging on tight.  Roger stood
his ground, and was reminded of the Debt Collector Droid from his last
adventure.  He wondered what the author had against robots, and why couldn't
Roger fight against, say, a killer bagel instead of something as severely
dangerous as a deranged robot.  "Can we talk about this ?" said Roger.
"Take off your head." came the robot's pretty determined reply.
"It doesn't come off !" said Roger.
"That's a matter of opinion !" replied the robot, rolling forward shakily.

The Debt Collector Droid had been easier than this.  He got out of it by making
the robot sing Kylie Minogue songs.  (It would take too long to explain, go read
it yourself.) In this case, that plan was as useless as explaining tact to
Salman Rushdie or tolerance to the Ayatollah.  Roger drew his hand-made blaster,
which sounds great except that Roger himself had made it out of the insides of a
uncooperative library computer.  He aimed and pulled the trigger.  The gun
didn't fire, but did give him a reference to a book called "How to Relate to
Rogue Robots" by A. Isimov.  He felt as safe as a rat in a All-Cat zoo.  The
robot cared nothing for obscure literature and rolled onwards.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
How will Roger escape the mad robot ?
    What are Chadwick and Tris up to ?
       Will the author be able to handle more than three characters ?

Tune in next week (or whenever another episode pops out) for another (another?)
rivetting adventure of Rocket Roger !!

=============
Ep Seventeen
=============
In the last episode, the moronic author had written himself and Roger into a
deep dark corner.  Roger was being threatened with having his unfashionable
head ripped off by an ancient security robot.  His blaster has failed, and
his sidekick, Chadwick, is nowhere to be seen or smelled.  Read on, Macduff.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Roger's panicking was getting a little ridiculous, and he reminded himself
that, being the hero of the story, he was brave and resourceful.  He looked
carefully at the robot and realized that brute force wasn't going to help.
He had to use his brains !  Aaagghh !  Well, stranger things have
happened...but not many.
"Hey robot !" snapped Roger.
The robot ground to a halt, not quite expecting a conversation.  It hadn't
spoken to anyone in centuries, so it decided a quick chat wouldn't be too
bad.
"When was the last time you thought about anything ?"
"Uh...well" cranked the robot, "It has been quite a long while."
"And what is your operational lifespan ?" asked Roger.
The robot said nothing for a few seconds, as if retrieving some long buried
memories.
"About thirty years, I think.  I should have retired centuries ago, come to
think of it."
"So in your official operational lifespan, you haven't actually thought about
anything."
"No, I s'pose not." said the dejected robot.
"So if we accept Descartes' premise of `I think therefore I am' then your lack
of thinking during your official lifetime means that you don't exist !"
"Well, um, yes I suppose you're right." came the rather surprising answer.
"I'll just be off then, OK ?" said Roger cheerily as he strode past a very
confused piece of hardware.
"Uh..sure..." said the robot.  As Roger left, the robot could be seen hitting
its head against the decaying walls, then asking the walls whether they felt
it.

Roger could see no other exits from the lobby, so he entered the cubicle the
robot had originally emerged from.  He found it to be a rather complex Inter-
Level Security Shuttle, which was basically a box that could move to any floor
in the buildiattached the seat belt (this is a community concious comic strip)
kicked over a pile of Playbot magazines and pressed the button for the top
floor, where he was sure he would find Farquar T. Thunderbolt.  Somewhere far
above the ancient motors creaked back to life and unleashed a fifteen gee burst
of acceleration.  Roger had neglected to remember that this cubicle was built
for a robot, and his guts were suddenly much closer to his ankles than was
medically advisable while his vertebrae toppled like domioes.  Luckily for 
Roger the stopping process was a little less arduous; only about fourteen point 
nine gees.  ("Ain't I a stinker?")
Roger staggered from the cubicle into a deserted but gleaming corridor and
collapsed onto the floor.  He felt a vibration through the floor.  They were
regular, like footsteps coming his way !  He struggled to his feet and
clambered into a nearby hole in the plot: a ventilation duct.  As he crawled
down it, he heard voices, which he followed to their source.  He was looking
onto a high-level meeting of advertising execs.

"Gentlemen, and token woman with no responsibility whatsoever, we are facing a
crisis !  Wacko sales have plummeted in the last three months and I want to
know why !"
The rest of the board looked around nervously. 
"Is it because everybody's dead ?" squeaked a suit with a head on top.
"DEMOGRAPHICS !!!" roared F.T. Thunderbolt.  "We're not pitching Wacko at
the...'dead' is such an awful word..let's say...the metabolically challenged."
Murmurs of agreement seemed to float from nowhere.  In fact, they floated from
hidden speakers that Thunderbolt had installed.  The sound of agreement seemed
to always make the sheepish board members follow him blindly, which is just how
he wanted it.

"I have an idea." said the token woman at the table.
"No you don't." replied Farquar.  "Go and make me some coffee."
With a strangely familiar glint, the woman strode from the office.  She seemed
to stare a the grille behind which Roger was hiding.

Farquard continued to speak.  "What we need is a new approach  (Murmur murmur).
A dynamic and forward looking new way to pitch Wacko to our beloved public 
(Murmur murmur).  A new campaign with all the old cliches thrown out the
window (Murmur murmur).  The first thing we'll need is.....a girl with big
ti.."

"Not so fast, Thunderbolt !"  It was Roger's heroic voice that saved the author
from a barrage of well-founded criticism.  He moved slowly around the table
towards Farquar, wielding his blaster like a nun wields a crucifix.  "Let's go,
Thunderbolt.  You're taking me to your spaceship."  Farquar withered under
the gaze of the weapon and they both left the room.  The rest of the board,
being utterly devoid of leadership ability remained in this room and discussed
the demographics of the dead until they snuffed it themselves.

A few minutes later Roger was staring at what he'd been searching for for the
last three episodes: a way out of this dead-end plot line.  It was shiny and
sleek and had no fluffy dice in the cockpit.  They went inside and that was
when Roger got a shock.  Waiting in the cockpit was none other than
Tristesse D'Arpeggio and Chadwick, his ex-sidekick !  "Hand him over, Roger"
said Tristesse.  "Or you will die with him !"
---------------------------------------------------------------------------





In our last controversial episode, Roger had forced F.T. Thunderbolt, evil
advertising megalomaniac to lead him to his spaceship.  But waiting for them
both were Tris, revolutionary assassin and Chadwick, Roger's ex-sidekick, the
bane of deodorant manufacturers everywhere.  Tris was pointing a loaded bottle
of poison at the intrepid but planless Roger.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Hand him over, Colonel.  The heretic Thunderbolt must die !"
"Lighten up, Tris !  Just give me five minutes, I need him to start the ship
for me.  It's matched to his thumbprint."  So saying he dragged himself and
Thunderbolt up the landing ramp, moving with the grace of two epileptic lobsters
in a strobe light factory.  
"Not so fast, Rogerson !" shouted Tris, who, in her extreme revolutionary
paranoia, thought Roger was running for it, ran to the ramp and seized Roger's
neck.  He kept his grip on Thunderbolt and the three of them, successively
joined at the elbow/neck joint slowly pivoted their way up the creaking
gangplank, like a caterpillar with absolutely no coordination....in snowshoes.
Once inside the ship, events took a turn for the believable.  F.T Thunderbolt
reluctantly started the ship up and with Chadwick safely as far from the 
air-conditioning as possible, Roger, Tris and Chadwick strapped themselves in 
for lift off.
As the ship automatically navigated towards the Starbase Roger and Tris
unstrapped and they released Chadwick.  Thunderbolt was still strapped down
tight.
"Alright Rogerson, I've kept my part of the bargain.  Give me Thunderbolt for
the rest of the flight and my revenge will be complete !"
"God, enough with the cliches already !  Take him, take him !"

With a look that most professional wrestler's would kill to make, Tris
unstrapped the flabby F.T Thunderbolt and escorted him into a small room near
the back of the ship.  She took only herself and a thorough working knowledge 
of pain in the human body.  Farquar T. Thunderbolt was in for a rough time.
The ship drifted closer to the now visible Starbase and it was pretty damn
impressive.  Lots of shiny silvery domey futurey kind of bumps and bits
glittered expensively in the twinkly cliched starlight; just like NASA wish
they could make the boring, boxy 'toilet-roll' appearance of their orbiting
Lego set look like.  

As the ship nestled into the docking bay, Tris emerged from the back room
dragging F.T. Thunderbolt with her. He looked like Death warmed up, then frozen
again, microwaved for ten minutes, soaked in Liquid Plumber, diced, broiled in
a light barbecue sauce and stuck back together with Superglue.....followed by a
swift kick in the family jewels for good measure.  He wasn't saying much, but
the look on what was left of his face said more than enough.
They all entered the Starbase and cautiously entered the entrance to the entry
hall.  It was uniformly white with no furniture.  At the far end was what
appeared to be an elevator door.  Seeing no alternative they all stepped in.

Elevators are one of the most fascinating phenomena in the Universe.  They are
all secretly constructed with a special Personality Nullifier Field which
changes the mindset of anyone passing through the doors.  As an example if you
put the Ayatollah, Salman Rushdie, Rabbi Lev Goldstein and the Pope in a TV
studio, they'd happily kick the living shit out of each other on Live TV !  But
if you forced them into an elevator they'd move apart like negative point
charges, shuffle their feet and examine their shoes without saying a word. 
This is absolute proof of the mystical power of elevators and don't tell me you
haven't seen it yourself !  This is what Roger & Co. were stepping into.  

As the doors schloofed closed, Chad, Roger and Tris' necks turned to jelly and
they had to look down.  They started counting the scuffs on their shoes, 
thinking about the mail they had to answer and completely forgot about their 
prisoner.  When the lift stopped they were alone.  The mysterious elevator
force had make monkeys out of all of them.  For Chadwick, the new simian look
was a big improvement, but Roger wasn't used to it.
"What sort of a plot twist was that ?!  He can't even think of a clever
realistic way of escaping, so he invents a weird force to explain it !  Too
much Twin Peaks I think...."

The author completely ignored Roger's childish whining and continued.....
The trio emerged from the lift and found themselves (Oh THERE you are !) in a
dressing room.  It had wooden benches, grey lockers, various supportive
underwear type devices and the customary sweaty damp ambience.  A small speaker
in the ceiling played an advertising jingle.  "Da da doo doo da da DA ! 
Welcome to the game, you'll have a great time, until you're crushed down to the
size of a dime !  Welcome to the game, it's really a scream !  The
audience will love ya when they see....your....spleen !" A short silence was
followed by the one voice nobody wanted to hear.

"Welcome my friends, this is Farquar T. Thunderbolt, your All-Powerful Games
Master !  Choose a locker, get dressed and go through the door marked 'The
Dante Room'.  I think we'll all enjoy this....especially me ! *evil cackle
which cannot be spelled*."
"You fiend, Farqaur !" shouted Roger.  "What kind of sick game is this ?!"
"It's not sick." explained Farquar.  "It's The Fight Game !  The best gameshow
in the history of gameshows !  All you have to do is fight your way through my
maze and I'll let you live.  And if you don't make it through...well, I'll do my
best to torture what's left of your earthly remains.  *another slightly less
evil but still very scary cackle that still can't be spelled*."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Will Roger enter the Fight Game ?
   Will Don King try and promote him ? (No ! Not the Chernobyl Haircut !)
      Will Chad & Tris ever speak again ?

Tune in after my next assignment for another nail-biting episode of Rocket
Roger !
Here's the good bit !  If you'd like to WIN WIN WIN get this touching and
romantic story sent to your nearest and dearest enemies, write to
edb393gbp3@vx24.cc.monash.edu.au and he may subscribe you, but only if you
write on a day ending in 'Y'.  The back issues are now available WIN WIN WIN on
coombs.anu.edu.au via Fast Track Piracy methods that we all love !  Enjoy
yourselves, or subscribe to The Toxic Custard Workshop Files on
edb134tbp2@the.same.address.

==========
Episode 19
==========
In the last over-budget episode Roger, Chadwick and Tris had been captured by
the advertising bastard, Farquar T. Thunderbolt.  In his orbiting torture
satellite, our heroes are being forced into 'The Fight Game.'  What horrors has
Thunderbolt got planned for them ?  Will they choose the money or the Ankle
Spike Reebok treatment ?  Will they get the two-week vacation on Vega Six ?  Or
will they be mutilated beyond recognition ? Place your bets and read on....
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The first door loomed large in front of them.  It bore no markings save a brass
plaque with the inscription "Dante Room: Abandon All Hope All Ye Who Can't Make
Up Good Room Names."  Roger didn't like the sound of that.  He would much prefer
the sound of the Titan Secondary School Cheerleader Squad after a few beers too
many, but they were nowhere to be seen.  (Well, they were somewhere to be seen,
but it sure wasn't here !) Since they were in a locker room of sorts, he decided
to see if there was anything useful in the many lockers around the place.  Tris
and Chadwick joined him, but the only thing they could find was three sets of
purple wigs, leather jackets and a lyric sheet for "Anarchy in the UK" by the
Sex Pistols.
"Looks like a setup to me, " said Roger, "but you never know what you'll need in
this crazy place.  Put them on and hope we're not walking into a Richard
Clayderman concert."

They opened the huge door and were almost knocked back by a blast of heat and
noise.  At the foot of the door, leading one hundred feet across a Hell-like
chasm of fire, was a rickety wooden bridge.
"We don't have much choice, let's go." said Tris, stepping lightly on the
fragile looking structure.  As the others followed her, the door, not
surprisingly, slammed itself behind them with a ringing cliche, leaving them but
one direction to travel.  Still it looked safe enough......

"Welcome to the Dante room, contestants !"  It was the voice of F.T.
Thunderbolt.  "Doesn't look to tough, does it ? Hmm... tell you what, let's make
it more interesting **evil cackle that can only be spelled in Rumanian** !"  A
panel in the roof slid back and a fat figure began to emerge.  It was a woman
who had partaken of far too many truckloads of doughnuts.  She was dressed as a
Valkyrie, with pigtailed blonde hair, a large shield in one hand and a spear in
the other.  As she was lowered further and further it dawned on Roger that the
bridge could never take her weight.  Unless she stopped, they were doomed....
Luckily, she stopped, and it was here that the machinations of F.T Thunderbolt's
fiendishly twisted mind became apparent.  Clenched between her shining teeth was
the other end of the rope !  If she opened her mouth, they'd all be barbecued.

"Meet Ms. Germania Von Michelin !" laughed Farquar.  "I found her at Madame
Butterfly's Home for Insane Prima Donnas.  I'm sure you'll find her particular
form of insanity quite amusing.  If she sees people, anybody at all, she'll
think they're an audience and start singing one of those awful Bavarian folk
songs.  It'll be her swan song, or in this case, overweight buffalo song, but
it'll be such FUN ! *evil cackle that would put the Wicked Witch of the West to
shame and is utterly unspellable*"

"The only thing that can stop a culture vulture of that size is punk music !"
said Roger.  "Start screaming !"  As they all looked onto the lyrics sheet, and
accompanied by appropriate air guitar solos and head banging routines they began
to inch their way over the bridge.
"I am an Anti-Christ !" Von Michelin's eyebrows shot up in disgust.
"I am an anarchist !" She disdainfully wrinkled her nose and grinded her teeth.
"I know what I want and I know how to get it !" Her grinding teeth began to chew
through the rope, but they were halfway there.
"I want to destroy passers by !"  The rope began to weaken under the attack by
the teeth that had chewed a thousand takeaway burgers.
"Run !" shouted Tris.  They charged along the rickety span towards the archway
on the other side.  But their singing had stopped and Germania Von Michelin
suddenly found herself on stage again !  Time to sing, ja !
"Jump !" yelled Roger as he realized that the bridge was about to be assaulted
by 600 pounds of Teutonic womanhood.  They all leapt off the bridge just as the
open chorus of "Hans, Find Me a Big Knackwurst" had been warbled.  As they
landed amongst each others tangled limbs and bruised bodies they heard the
bridge and Von Michelin tumble into the fiery chasm.  "That was close, " said
Chadwick, "nobody ever survives the second verse of that song."

They had landed in an ante-room.  In one corner sat Roger's Auntie Mildred, in
another sat an ancient crone wearing a revolutionary headband and weilding a
huge knitting needle and in the third sat an orangutan, who Chadwick seemed to
be studiously avoiding.
"So.  The old ante-room gag strikes again." murmured Roger as he wondered what
would happen next.  Here's where things get groovy.  There are three plain
doors in this room.  The first is labelled "The Prune Room", the second is
"The Moon Room" and the third is "The Dune Room."  Which door will the intrepid
group take ?  And what about the orangutan ?  It's just the those crappy books
everyone used to muck around with except you can't turn back if you die, 'cos
The Scribe is in charge.  Submit your votes tattoed on the left buttock of any
Playmate Of The Year from 1987 onwards, or just send e-mail.
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Will this daring experiment get any answers ?
   Will Roger be ignored by you lot and have to ask the orangutan for advice ?
      Will your advice be any better ?
=============
Episode Twenty
=============
The avalanche of votes received by this author seem to indicate an obsession
with dried fruit unfairly harnessed with a reputation for bowel shifting.  The
humble prune will be the centrepiece of this episode.  Aboard the orbiting
Starbase, Roger & Co. have thrown themselves on the creative forces of the
readers.  How will they fare in 'The Prune Room' ?  Harken to my tale.....
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Chadwick, come here, I've got a plan." said Roger.
Chadwick waddled over looking happier than a cat in a rest home for paraplegic
pigeons.  "Am I important now ?  Am I in the plan ?" he gasped.
"More than that, little chum.  You are the plan !"  replied Roger smiling
graciously.  "Stand next to the door. " he said. "Now, bend over and close your
eyes." As Chadwick did so, Roger pushed the door opened and shoved Chadwick
inside with his boot.  "That should take of them." said Roger to the unbelieving
Tristesse D'Arpeggio.
"What do you mean 'them' ?" scolded Tris.  "He might be slaughtered in there !"
"Nothing with a nose can frighten Chad.  When he gets nervous, he sweats like a
sumo wrestler on holiday in the Sahara Hilton when the air conditioning breaks
down.  He's a human smell grenade !"

A soft knocking from the other side signalled that either the room was safe or
that the inhabitants were smart enough not to get near Chadwick.  As Roger
slowly pushed the door open the sounds of pain and moaning drifted through.  A
smell of torture and sweat, a wall lined with mirrors, the sound of a crappy
Jazz-Aerobics cassette.  No doubt about it, this was a health farm. Our brave
heroes strode in to meet the foe.

The foe presented itself rather politely.  It consisted of a rather shapely gym
instructor wearing a purple shoelace wrapped strategically around herself.
"Excuse me, but where is the exit ?" asked Roger, wondering where the danger
was, besides the possibility of someone walking on his tongue if this woman
stayed nearby for too long.
Instead of turning into a seven dimensional Star Chewer or ripping off her face
to reveal a battery of Blazzoom 450 Flesh Piercer missiles, she did something
rather unexpected: she answered him.  "Yeah, down the back, past the showers,
second on the left."  She jogged away and Roger's eyes jogged after her.
"Oh. " said Tris. "That was easy." She and Chadwick began to walk the
deceptively safe path towards the exit.  Roger shrugged his shoulders and
followed.
The group passed a bevy of fat businessmen, busily sweating and grunting their
bodies through a barrage of tendon bending, fat burning, money wasting
exercises.  "Excuse me, but is this really a gymnasium ?" said Roger to an exec
whose headband was obviously there to hold his toupee in place.
"Yes.  It might be.  I think.  Am I ?  I am.  I reckon.  Why not ?  Pinball."
replied the baggy-eyed one.
"Thank you." replied Roger, thinking how intelligent middle management had
become over the past decades.  A speaker on the ceiling crackled and delivered a
message.  It was the voice of Farquar T.  Thunderbolt, mad advertising genius
and the builder of this orbiting prison/joke.
What hideous plan was he about to describe ?  How would he choose to humiliate
and torture our Heroes ?
Actually, in hindsight, the two words he spoke didn't seem to constitute much of
a threat.  "Prune time" is not really recognized by any sentient species as a
threate of dire consequences.  The strangest threat in existence comes from the
Convatty Knids of Yamma Epsilon.  They live in a shell which is impervious to
all known attacks, except one vastly improbable sequence of events.  Thus the
Knids only insult, now a famous and well-respected tradition,  runs as follows:
"May a pregnant Varg Beast leap over your shell and release 14 milliliters of a
solution consisting of six parts uranium triophosphate, 2 parts copper flouride
and 1 part pureed Kvart brain, at an angle of 62.3 degrees, thus passing through
your anterior chamber, over the guarding rim and nestling above your third brain
and thus causing you to believe you are an electric toothbrush inspector."  More
maverick Knids run against tradition and substitute a 54.6 degree angle.  This
has provoked the older Knids to fits of rage, who hurl the original insult back
at the young mavericks, who retort with their new variation.  As you can see,
Knid debate is slightly less interesting than the view inside a coffin.  But,
back to the action......

"Prune time !" shouted F.T Thunderbolt.  All the would-be athletes froze, then
slowly made their way towards a strange octopus like machine.  When they were
all within its reach they opened their mouths.  Its arms reared up and dashed up
against the open mouths and began to pump a purple slush into them.  After a
minute of this the arms detached and the victims stampeded towards the bathroom.

This was all very curious, but Roger still didn't see the danger.  He's about to
meet it, as I shall explain.  The purple slush is a concentrated prune solution
that is so powerful, it removes brain tissue while opening the bowels up.  In
the past months the chamber beneath the toilet block has filled up with a
mixture of brains and prunes.  F.T. Thunderbolt has worked a fiendish plot and
the mixture has come to life: Prunus Sapiens.

As Roger, Chad and Tris wandered towards the exit an innocuous liquid dribbled
from beneath the door.  "What's that ?" asked Chad as he stupidly opened the
door.  A wave of purple slime crashed onto the whole group and exciting 'fight'
music began to play.  A steel slab crashed behind them, sealing them in a tiny
space with no way out.  The Prune slime was knee deep and gripped them with an
insane ferocity, holding them down as the mixture climbed higher and higher. 
Roger quickly searched his pockets for some high-tech anti-Prune hardware, but
found that the author (being a git) had forgotten to write about any.  Uh oh.

"I've got it !" shouted Roger.  "Tris, where's the poison you were going to use
to kill Thunderbolt ?!"  He was referring to the ultra-toxic reagent made from
the numeous noxious substances that Chadwick excreted.  
Tris reached into her pocket and retrieved the deadly liquid.  She pulled off
the top and poured it into the purple gunge that was threatening to crush
Roger's favourite bit of his body.  The slime's grip loosened immediately and
it began to spasm and twitch randomly.  It shook itself into dozens of pieces,
which gradually congealed and hardened and generally died.

"Lucky you remembered that." gasped Tris as she staggered through the exit that
mysteriously appeared in one of the walls.  "We were nearly..." she gulped,
"...written out !"  "Nah, it was obvious.  The writer didn't give us any secret
weapons, so he resorted to using Chadwicks repulsiveness...pretty woeful,
really. OUCH !!" yelled the ungrateful bugger as my hand tweaked his nose.

The new room was another waiting room.  Three doors were set in the far wall,
awaiting the readers' votes on which should be used.  Will it be the Tune Room,
the Broom Room or the Hoon Room ?  Your votes will help write the next episode,
and, by gum, it needs all the help it can get.  Send your votes on a hundred
dollar bill, or e-mail.
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Will Roger keep whining about the pathetic endings ?
    Will the readers flood me with hundred dollar bills (or just votes) ?
       Will anyone send a bill for a hundred dollars in an attempt to be funny?

All these questions are utterly irrelevant, as is the next episode of:
ROCKET ROGER !!  (Now available on ftp from coombs.anu.edu.au)