============================================================================= DVANDOM | -. -. -. | ________| ____ \ ,___ \ ____ \ ________| | .' \ | | / ` | | | | | | | / ___| | | | | ` / | | __| | | < | __| | | | ,--- \ \ | | | \ | | \ ` | | | / | \ / | ___| _______-' ___| ____\ -______-' ____________| #38 - "Macro of Two /Worlds" - CRISIS ON EARTH GOON: Prologue copyright 1994 by Dave Van Domelen A Coherent Comics UnIncorporated Production ============================================================================= [cover is split down the middle by a wall. At the end of the wall, peering out down both sides are a pair of mobster-types. On the left side, Kid Macro is running towards the reader at superspeed. On the right side, a rather portly gentleman is gamely trotting towards the reader, but seems to be running out of breath. Yes, it's an homage to the "Flash of Two Worlds" cover.] ============================================================================= "This is NNN," intoned the voice of James Net.Jones, as the television came away from the top-of-the-hour commercial break. The view cut away from the station's logo and changed to a small studio of the type used in call-in news shows. The host was a tall, red-haired barbarian woman wearing a chainmail bikini and brandishing a longsword. She also wore a pair of very conservative-looking glasses and a sage and bemused expression. "Hello. Today on Red Sonia Live, the topic is the world's only successful net.hero group, the Society of Wireless Heroes. As most of you know, they're touring the Loonited States this week with the promise of finally shutting down the nefarious gangster, the Little Man, whose operations have steadily spread from an iron grip on Sig.ago to a nearly nationwide reign of terror. But can they hope to even make a dent in the mob ruler when few of their victories can be attributed to anything but luck...luck or the power of their most effective member, Mr. Macro? Before we go to the studio discussion group or open up the phones, we'd like to play parts of a taped interview that SWH leader Neddie Thunderbox consented to give on his arrival in Net.ropolis." The view cut to a virtual screen mounted on the wall (really a bluescreen) and the screen quickly expanded to fill the camera's field of view. "Taped Earlier" and "NNN" can be seen at the bottom of the screen. The scene is a luxurious hotel suite, where the short, round Neddie Thunderbox sits in a large and comfortable chair, stacked with extra cushions so that his eyes are level with those of Red Sonia. The clip seems to pick up after the pleasantries have been dispensed with and Neddie has finally gotten to something like a point. "...ah, yes, the Legion of Net.Heroes. Tragic, really. So eager to throw themselves into the breach, to carry the fight to that Killfile fellow. If only they'd coordinated efforts with us instead of blindly rushing in, they might not have been inside when the Society's plan came to fruition, and, er, killed everyone inside. But mind you, we *did* put an end to Killfile's threat!" "But Mr. Thunderbox, there are persistent rumors that your plan consisted of running away very fast after someone accidentally activated Killfile's self-destruct mechanism," countered Sonia. "That's cuz it did!" came a voice from off-camera. Neddie responded almost reflexively. "Shut up Dustbinman!" he cried out. "Shut up Dustbinman!" echoed Dustbinman from off-camera. The camera briefly panned, to show a tall, ragged idiot with a plasticene Trilby hat and string for knees, quietly inspecting his DustGun. "One cartridge in th' barrel...five cartridges in the magazine...." The camera panned back to Neddie. BAM! "...and one in me 'ead," finished the once-more off-camera voice. "So, you people *were* responsible for the deaths of that promising new generation of net.heroes! And I suppose the Net.Patrol's untimely demise during their team-up with you against Spoonsday was also the result of your incompetence or cowardice?" accused Red Sonia. "Whatwhatwhatwhatwhat?" sputtered Neddie. Suddenly, a mystical pink thunderbox appeared behind him. "Cor blimey," it muttered in a low, gravelly voice, roughly 4 octaves below that of a gorilla's. [Editor's note: Neddie's "Magic Word" for summoning his Thunderbox is "Wotwotwotwotwot?"] [Editor's other note: if you don't know what a Thunderbox is, you probably are better off not knowing.] Neddie's expression darkened. "Miss Hern Reporter, you would be well advised not to follow this line of inquiry any farther. Mr. Macro will read you a short white paper on the subject before you leave." Red Sonia fought down the urge to draw her longsword and cleave this cowardly maggot in two, and instead retorted, "And what will you do if I don't abandon it? Try to kill me? When this is going out on international feed?" Neddie's face broke into a grin, but it was hardly a pleasant look [not that any of his looks are pleasant - Editor]. "No, I'll simply have Mr. Macro read you a *long* white paper on the subject. Now, do you have any other questions?" Sonia turned slightly pale at the threat, then did her best to regain her composure. "Ah, yes, I do. Given that Mr. Macro's power is that he's the world's fastest reader of prepared statements, his codename makes sense in the modern sense of a computer macro...an abbreviated way to execute prepared actions rapidly. But how is it possible that he gained his name back in the late 1950s, long before modern computers?" "Have you seen the man? He's a hazard to shipping! Macro in the classic sense, you see. We considered calling him the Flesh, since he has so much of it." Sonia laughed, albeit a tad nervously. "Several of my viewers are interested in knowing how the Society members have remained the same age for about forty years. What's your secret, and when does it go on the market?" The camera briefly zoomed in on Sonia's own face, already showing signs of age. She winked at the camera and it zoomed back. "Simplicity itself, madam. The immortality of syndication. If we're ever feeling a bit old, we simply run an old show, and instantly we're rejuvenated! Not to mention, we *are* wireless characters, after all...we're as old as we're described as being!" Red Sonia smiled the smile of someone humoring a madman, then continued. "This is certainly an opulent suite, Mr. Thunderbox. I take it your backer, noted financier Cornelius Van Runt, is footing the bill?" Suddenly, there's an edit in the tape. Neddie chuckles, "Apologies for the musical number, Max Mercuray couldn't keep his harmonica still any longer. You can edit it out, I trust...oh, along with some of the more unfortunate parts of this interview, yes? Ah, look who's arrived...our trusted advisor and go-between with Mr. Van Runt." An impeccably dressed upper-class English gentleman strode into camera range and smiled down his nose at Neddie. Sonia nearly leaped from her seat. "Per Annum!" Neddie nodded and his magickal Thunderbox interposed itself between Red Sonia's sword and Per Annum. "No need, madam, he's fully reformed! It happened nearly thirty years ago, for heaven's sake...how could you forget a thing like...." Per Annum interjected. "Neddie, don't you remember? We re-ran a pre-reformation episode last night...there's bound to be a few gullible people out there who thought it was new. And I *was* the villain of the piece." He looked smugly and serenely at the barbarian chat show host, who was beginning to realize she'd just been zinged. Then the scene flipflopped back onto the virtual monitor as the show returned to live coverage. Red Sonia grinned bashfully. "Well, just goes to show we all make mistakes...fair's fair, I left in his gaffe, so I left in mine. Now, on to the discussion...." * * * * Mr. Macro sighed and turned off the telly. The things they allowed on Amerihern television.... Nothing like the BBC's programmes. Lack of quality control, of decorum, of even a smidgen of common sense in programme production...these were areas in which the BBC could hold up its head and know it was the best in the world at. Still, it hadn't been the same since the downfall of John Snagge had been accomplished. Better than being on the dole queue, however. And if he had to enter potentially dangerous circumstances once in a while in order to pick up a handsome paycheque, so be it. Back in his "Wallace the Pelvis" days of rebellion, he might have disdained the indolent lifestyle he now led, and the pampered elite that made it possible, but as Mr. Macro he knew the larger responsibility he bore. Himself. He stood and walked out of the room intent on hiring a cab from the lobby of the hotel, so as to see what sights the city had to offer. In the lift, a strange Italian gentleman tried to get his attention. Mr. Macro sighed...the price of fame...a public. No doubt he'd want Mr. Macro to read something for him. Macro lacked the energy to shoo him away, so he simply turned and put on his Public Smile. "Hello," he addressed the Italian. "Hey, boss. I hear you read things pretty good, eh? Could'a you read dis here paper? It's not for me, y'unnerstand. It's'a for my kid." Whatever, thought Macro. He took the paper and began to read. "Suddenly, Mr. Macro disappeared from existence..." he came up short. Tricked! Must... extemporize...only...hope..."entering...another...universe..." so...hard... reading...what's...not on...the paper..."altogether...*" With that, he faded from sight. Vinnie Goth shook his head. "Atsa no good, th' boss he no like it." He doffed his somewhat conical hat and scratched his head in frustration. * * * * An immortal's lot is not a happy one, even if he's only had to live through a relatively few millenia already. Ozzie Goth had once craved immortality and the power over men he felt sure it would bring him. He and his brother both lusted for the endless life that only the net.gods had. They had pacted with those net.gods for immortality, but found out that the price for one's immortality would be the life of the other, for H*r*n the Slayer was not a kind net.god. Still, they had agreed. After all, one would live forever, and the other would lose but a few decades. They had cast the bones to decide who would live and who would die, and Ozzie had won. Of course, it became apparent after a few centuries that both brothers had lost. Ozzie was no leader of men, no great planner. It took him a few centuries to get that through his head, but eventually he did. Still, the lust for power would not leave him...part of the curse of his particular immortality, he could not abandon the passions of his "youth." So he settled for being the eternal second in command...letting better men than him make the plans, content to only point out where he knew from long experience the plans would go wrong. Unfortunately, millenia of life have a tendency to magnify unstable personalities, and Ozzie's was pretty damn unstable by now. He'd taken to smoking big black cigars and painting large eyebrows and a mustache on his face with shoe polish (he and his brother had made the pact before Ozzie had managed to sprout a respectable face of hair). The Little Man, Ozzie's current boss, would only tolerate these oddities because Ozzie had such a good success rate as the Little Man's capo. And this job was to be no exception. Some flaky Brit had offered to drive Dvandom Force out of town a week ago, but apparently had taken the money and run. While the contract went out on this Per Annum character, that left Ozzie to put Plan B into action. Capture one of the Force and use him as a tool to keep the rest of the Force from prying too closely into the Little Man's rackets. Kid Macro was the target, mainly because he could be so easily neutralized...take away the wrist computers and he couldn't execute any macros, right? Ozzie had set up an ambush along one of the Kid's patrol routes...another nice thing about choosing Kid Macro, he was very predictable. A thin layer of dust concealed the sheen of the grease patch laid down on the alley's surface, and a large robotic duck was ready to drop down on the net.hero and capture him. Ozzie's beeper went off. "Okay, men, the lookout has sighted our target coming this way. When he hits the secret slide, the duck will drop and we'll get our hero collared." And Kid Macro appeared at the mouth of the alley, easily moving forty or fifty miles an hour, oblivious to the doom that awaited him.... * * * * "Information highway...heavy netter thunder...looking for a bugfix... for the system that he's under..." blared the speakers on Sidewinder's Harley as the classic song "Born to be WiReD" by RACcenwolf played on the cycle's CD player. After a few near-misses caused by his relative inexperience driving a motorcycle as...robust...as a Harley, Sidewinder had elected to take the sideroads. A bit more fitting, perhaps, and less likely to result in him wrapping the hog around the grille of a trunk carrier. He had no desire to be roadkill on the information tollway. Besides, rambling through the Alt.eghenies in the autumn let him really appreciate some of the things he never saw that much in the city. The breathtaking colors of the sysadmins as they turned red in September and October before dying and falling from the trees...the picturesque old houses and datanodes, some operating on only 300 baud!...even the colorful locals, like that quaint ATC tearing up the fields as a farmer shouted and chased it around on his combine. Of course, he was also starting to notice the lack of public restrooms, the lack of ATMs, the lack of comic shops...no matter, he'd be across the mountains in less than a week, right? And O.hi.o had plenty of comic shops, he'd heard. Falling into a sort of road-trance, Sidewinder thought back to a few weeks ago, when he'd led the crusade to stop Self-Righteous Preacher's inhuman treatment of Contraption Man. It had felt good to finally be really in the thick of it again, doing more than just comic relief. Of course, it only made sense that PC Person take the lead in the debate...s/he knew more of the arguments to make, hir leadership was probably better for the cause. And then the familiar feeling came, as Sidewinder had felt himself being pushed farther and farther to the edge of the group he had gotten going in the first place. Just like old times. He sighed, not that it could have been heard over the roar of the engines or of the speakers. Checking the gas gauge, he decided it would be a good time to stop for lunch and fill up the tank. Small towns dotted the road every few miles, he should reach one of these slowly-dying-former-tourist-attractions-now-killed- off-by-the-interstate's-creation pretty soon. Perhaps the rising plume of smoke up ahead meant some local harvest festival was going on. Or perhaps it had something to do with the horde of dirtbike-riding young punks streaming down both sides of the road towards him.... * * * * "And I shall share my jolly mixtures with naughty evil, for naughty feelings cannot stand the mixtures, the mixtures of the Blue Bottle! Poses heroically with finger inserted in bottle as blue light dances...dance! dance! dance!...across his sinewy form. Removes finger from bottle to reveal ring... erghhhhh...strains mightily to try and remove finger from bottle...Eeeh! Jumps around on one foot trying to pry..." SPLOOSH! "'E's fallen in da water!" cried Atom Jim as the Blue Bottle fell into the room's opulent hottub. "Whatwhatwhatwhatwhat?" intoned Neddie Thunderbox [Editor's note - Oh, you know by now]. "Th'rote," he addressed the Thunderbox by name, "remove Blue Bottle's bottle from his hand...it's stuck again." "Right," replied the mystic being. POP! "EEEEeeEE! My finger's still in da bottle, you naughty genie you!" cried Blue Bottle in pain. "Never mind, you've still got nine more!" beamed Neddie. "Now where'd Mr. Macro get off to? Fortnightman I'd expect this of, but not good old Wal!" "Nk, nk, nnnk..." started the doddering WildCrun. "May...maybe he's gone off with Fortnightman on a sinful holiday!" "Oooooo...I could use a sinful holiday," cooed Black Minnie, almost (but not quite) as doddering as her husband WildCrun. "Ahhhiowwwwnknknk!" sputtered WildCrun. "Stop such talk this instant! And what would you use a sinful holiday for?" "Oh, repotting plants in, I suppose..." she trailed off into the background as Neddie once more took center stage [and most of right and left stage as well - Editor, filling in for the missing Mr. Macro]. "And a right good job you do of it, Mr. Editor! And here I thought no one could fill Mr. Macro's trousers!" chuckled Neddie, little realizing what horrors the writer had planned for him in payment for that last weight crack. "Whatwhatwhatwhatwhat?" "Stop that fool thing," oozed Per Annum's voice as he strode in from the anteroom. "And get that finger out of your bottle, Blue Bottle...it'll ruin the taste. Now, to the plan." Per Annum laid out an elaborate map of the warehouse the Little Man's men were using to store their illegal booty in before transshipment to fences around the world. "Atom Jim, you and Blue Bottle will wander around outside the front door like idiots until someone shoots at you. This will serve as a distraction while the others pilot the submarine under the warehouse and enter secretly from below." "EEEeeeh...I don't like this plan! It will get me deaded again, I just know it! Whimpers in corner, trying to reattach finger with plasticene and string." "Besides, Per Annum, this warehouse is on the west side of Net.ropolis, not the wharfs. How would the submarine get in?" objected Neddie. "Exactly! They'll never suspect a thing!" smirked Thynne. "I've ordered five miles of pre-fabricated submarine tunnel, once you assemble it, you can sail in under cover of darkness and strike!" "Brilliant!" shouted Neddie. "But wait, what about the dirt and rock in the way? How will we fit the tunnel in?" "Neddie, Neddie...what are the odds of there being solid dirt and rock all the way from the harbor to the warehouse? Practically needle-nidle-naught. Still, there might be a little, which is why I've also had a shovel and highly skilled British labourer laid on for the task of digging the hole in which to place the tunnel. And here he is now!" A rather annoyed looking man who looked rather like he should be in a trenchcoat, except that on Earth-Goon the Net.Trenchcoat Brigade was never formed, slouched in with a shovel. "I'm going to make you pay for this, Van Domelen," muttered Kipling under his breath. * * * * Kid Macro was finally starting to get the hang of this tight maneuvering thing. It wasn't the tools, it was the talent after all. After a few weeks of practice, his reflexes were now up to the point that he could control his motion to a certain degree with only a few simple macros. Forward, backwards, right, left and stop were enough to navigate around town with. He still keyed a map of Sig.ago into his wristcomps to override if he was about to slam into a wall or run into Lake Mich.sig.an, but like training wheels, he needed them less and less as time went by. He was also proud of himself for finally one-upping Rotanna this morning. He'd managed to short-sheet her bed...while she was in it. He was still blushing a little from what he'd seen, but the macro kept him from stopping long enough to suffer her wrath. He grinned again despite himself as he let the programmed path take over for a moment. He fully expected to return and find his bed full of snakes, or a rug waiting to eat him the moment he set foot on it, but he felt confident it'd be nothing lethal. And it would have to be reallllly embarrassing to erase the feeling he'd gotten from finally getting her one good. Of course, hitting a patch of grease and sliding out of control into a wall was pretty embarrassing too, and that's exactly what he was doing now. Rotanna's doing? The question flashed through his mind as he flailed madly trying to slow his rapid rush into the brick wall ahead of him. Had he pushed her too far, and now she was going lethal? Was one of hs teammates a murderer? Thankfully for the reader, having already gotten the monthly recommended dose of Angst from the latest issue of Academy, this was when Kid Macro hit the wall and all thoughts fled before the sparkling redness that swam in his brain right then. A mass of feathers and malice dropped from above and quickly crushed his wristcomps with its webbed feet and deadly bill. He could hear his death in its quacks. His vision turned to gray and started tunnelling down to black. "Oh, dear," said a surprised voice next to him. The duck was distracted long enough for Kid Macro to look up and hazily see a rather large gentleman in an evening coat, holding a piece of paper in one hand. He quickly patted himself down and pulled out a small piece of paper. "The time is now exactly eight o'clock...no, that's not the one," he pulled out another piece of paper as the fowl robot moved to smother him in its deadly down. "Ah, here it is. Ahem, the criminals suddenly were forced to flee by the timely arrival of the local constabulary, accompanied by a number of costumed vigilantes." And as he said it, it happened. Police sirens wailed as black&whites screeched to a stop at the mouth of the alley, and Kopikat and Cheeez Arrow dropped from an overflying CheeeZeppelin. Ozzie Goth pulled his cigar from his mouth, saluted and said, "Hello, I must be going. Can't say it hasn't been fun...'cause it hasn't." And with that, he and his men beat a hasty retreat. * * * * Mr. Macro cleared his throat. "That was the Goon...er, Dvandom Force, a Coherent Comics UnIncorporated production, starring mostly characters created by David Van Domelen, with the spirits of Spike Milligan, Peter Sellers and Harry Secombe twisting his every thought and word. Primary funding by the Van Runt Foundation and Laggo, the system lag in a tin. Thank you, and good night." ============================================================================== Programme Notes: Many, if not all, of the new characters presented in this story are parodies or homages to various golden and silver age comic book characters and comedians. Most references are taken from the Justice Society of America (TM etc DC Comics) and the Goon Show, a correspondance list for which follows. Ozzie and Vinnie Goth are an homage to DC's Vandal Savage, who was the villain in one of the first Earth-One/-Two stories (the third or so). The title of this issue is based on the first of those crossover stories, "Flash of Two Worlds". Ozzie and Vinnie act like Chico and Groucho Marx to an extent...the extent to which I can transliterate their unique speech patterns and gags. The other references I leave to the reader to discover, as they may or may not hide plot points. SWH Character Goon Show Character JSA Character ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Neddie Thunderbox Neddie Seagoon Johnny Thunderbolt The Thunderbox Throat The Thunderbolt Atom Jim Little Jim Atom Blue Bottle Bluebottle Green Lantern WildCrun Henry Crun Wildcat Black Minnie Minnie Bannister Black Canary (preCrisis) Mr. Macro Mr. Greenslade The Flash Fortnightman Major Denis Bloodnock Hourman Dustbinman The Famous Eccles Sandman Per Annum Hercules Grytpype Thynne Per Degaton InfraHumanite Count Jim "Knees" Moriarty UltraHumanite Max Mercuray Max Geldray Max Mercury (not JSA exactly) For more on the Goons, see alt.fan.goons at a disreputable newsreader near you. For more on the JSA, see rec.arts.comics.misc. For more on Dvandom Force, see rec.arts.comics.creative!