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Rocket Roger 2

================================================================================
Episode One
================================================================================
Roger and Chadwick lazed by the pool like real experts, almost Student rank.
Roger, resplendent in his silver and purple Agency Speedos, packed with all
sorts of extras, including a 300 hp outboard engine that turned on when it
contacted water. Not really designed for use in a hotel swimming pool,
reflected Roger. Well the wounds had almost healed, and they even recovered
his ears from next door. Chadwick was 'wearing' an orange floral shower cap,
but the things in his hair had eaten away most of it. His swimming costume
was something brown, sort of on him, and sort of not.

They'd been there for about three months now, and were thinking of trying the
sauna next. Chadwick's repeated uses of the swimming pool had actually
resulted in some measure of cleanliness coming to our heroically rounded
sidekick, and after the water had been drained, scrubbed, filtered and
replaced, they let him back in. He had broken out in a very unpleasant
rash, being allergic to 'clean.'

"I wonder when the chief will call us again Chadwick, my faithful, loyal yet
amazingly backwards sidekick with the fashion sense of a cross-dressing toad."
"I don't know, sir. I thought saving the Earth once was good enough. I mean
how likely is that two perilous inter-planetary threats will come along within
3 months ?"

A quick backhand to the head from Roger put an end to such rebellious
thoughts. "Do you want to put the author out of business ? I mean its
obvious he can't write anything serious."
Roger looked around nervously.
"...er...Chadwick, do you recall the swimming pool being 30 feet underground."

The pool, deck and expensive cocktail bar now formed the bottom of a thirty
foot hole, and it was still dropping.
"Good Lord, I think we're in the Thunderbird's set !"
"Wasn't that just a kids show, sir ?" quipped Chadwick.
"That was just a cunning ploy to fool the enemy on Saturday mornings, it was a
real as I am."
So saying, Roger stood up and did his best 'puppet with big head wobbles 4
inches to stage left.' Chadwick did the same, but put his feet through his
sunbed.
"Well Chad," wobbled Roger and his head,"I feel a mission coming on, and I
don't think that sunbed would make a good Thunderbird 7....maybe Thunderbird
0.003. It won't really strike raw terror into the heart of the enemy if we
launched Thunderbird 'Sunbed' at them, would it. What sort of range
do you get out of it ? Not a whole lot, I imagine." Roger continued in this
vein for a while, complaining about the cargo space, offensive ordnance
capability, and navigation equipment.

At the same time, on a planet somewhere in the Horsehead Nebula's left
nostril, a strange meeting was taking place.
"Nytuk blug. Olpons nytuk Frettled Gruntbuggly."
"Gruntbuggly ? Vok!!! Colpuscent whingburgeons reft wolkonk."
"Wolkonk ? Vok !!! Fewturn polknit sewluft zed...Gluubulon."
"Gluubulon ? Vok !!! Julivonwi kowkxerd folnicker Bumrod."

Whoops ! Wrong planet, that's just an interplanetary remake of Black Adder
III. (in joke, sorry.) Just retune the Mega Radio Subetha Highly Dubious
Scientific Apparatus. This is something like that bit in Total Recall where
the President of Mars has a live vidphone conversation with two guys on
Earth, ignoring the fact that light takes nearly three minutes to get from one
to the other....maybe they just bribed God, or something. Back to the
story....

In a dark corner of the Imperial Palace on the planet Plagiar IV two shadowy
figures meet in the darkness.
"Turn on the light, I can't see a bloody thing !"
"Quertz ? Ut mikt freeb blee diky doo."
Translation: "What, I don't speak English."
"I don't wish to know that. Here, stick this pickle in your ear. It'll
translate everything for you. No don't worry, that other guy wrote about a
fish or something, this is a Babbling Pickle. We're not plagiarizing anyone
! It won't stand up in court ! Go on, I DARE you to sue me !!"

SMACK !! (That was the sound of the author's conscience
getting thumped out.)

"Now look, this planet is really running low on greenhouse gases, we need some
more CFC's and carbon dioxide. Now take a look at this chart of atmospheric
readings from a little planet called Dirt...Earth, sorry. They've got
buckets of it ! All we need, according to this guidebook are some 'Greedy
bastard trillionare industrialist environment rapers.' Our intergalactic
Kmart ran out last year. I think this little planet bought the lot. So
we'll go and borrow a few. And thats set the plot, did you get that ?
Questions ? Yes ?

Reader: Why are these aliens crossing untold light years
to capture a short lived sociological phenomenon ?
Alien : ZZZAAAAAPPPP !!! KABBOOOOOMMM!!

Severely: Since nothing can travel faster than light, how will
Wounded they get here before we've...
Reader

Alien: ZZZAAAAAPPPP !!! KAABBOOOMMMM !!
Don't ask silly questions.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Will the hideous Aliens break every scientific law in Creation ?
Will they kidnap our trillionare industrialist Bastards Inc. ?
Will the author be accused of plagiarizing Planet Plagiar ?

Tune in next week for another thrill packed episode:

Rocket Roger Starts Another Highly Improbable Mission !!
===============================================================================
Episode Two
===============================================================================
You will recall, dear readers (both of you) that Roger and Chadwick were
wondering why the swimming pool was now thirty feet underground. Roger thought
another mission was in the offing. (What's an offing ?)
------------------------------------------------------------------
As Roger and Chadwick argued about the military value of a sunbed, a door
opened in the side of the pool-sized hole. Enter Juliff, Doctor, one of. A
crazed inventor, quickly revived from the last series, because no-one is
funnier. A blur of hair and modules flung itself towards Roger, spinning
phrases as it went. "A module must have one exit point. Declare those
variables !! Cobol isn't too bad, really. Isn't structured programming
wonderful !"

Roger watched in silence, this episode was getting ridiculous. The blur
pulled up in front of our hero, and Chadwick clung coweringly to Roger's leg.
"G'day Modular Cobber ! There's two birds in the horses mouth and angels
tread where the fool is on the hill, mi-laddo."
"Um...Doctor Juliff, I think your modular beard is on backwards."
The doctor's modular eyes detached and spun around his head.
"Oh yeah, so it is. OK, just redirect this tail-pointer, de-reference this
fiddly bit here and Pawn to King four."
"OK, close enough. What am I doing thirty feet under where the swimming pool
once was ?"

"This is our latest invention, the Modular Hotel/Secret Hideout."
"That's pathetic." sighed Roger, "Why build something secret in a six thousand
room hotel ?"
The Doctor frowned, but not so you'd notice, since he keeps mixing his
forehead up with his left buttock. "Don't question your superiors, bucko-my-
lad." It was conveniently left over from the Thunderbirds, so we bought it."
"Won't someone notice the pool doubles as an elevator to nowhere?"
"No worries me old china, we cunningly replace it with a hologrammatic, eighty
million dollar virtual reality pool."
"Why not just....oh what's the bloody use....why am I here, Doc ?"

"We've received warning that some sap of an author is writing about another
invasion, and we're sending you to save our sanity by trying to convince this
nut to write something nice for a change."
Chadwick, scratching his rash caused by his allergy to cleanliness
asked "Where are you sending us this time, Doctor."

"It's a little planet inside the Horsehead Nebula's left nostril called the
planet Plagiar. A bloody awful place, not modular at all and apparently
pretty dark all the time. Something to do with living up a horse's nose I
suppose. The evil despicable aliens are planning to invade and kidnap our
top trillionare industrialists so they can have their planet's climate
completely stuffed up by experts."
"Is that such a problem ?" queried Roger.
"Of course it is !! You don't think global warming just HAPPENS do you ? We
planned that for decades, it'll do incredible things for the tourist
industry. We'll be able to build luxury resorts in the tropics of Greenland
one day. These aliens are a threat, they're disrupting our plans. Stop
them, Roger and the tourist industry, hat makers and sunscreen producers will
be eternally grateful."

"I can't wait." quipped Roger, enthusiastic as Aaron Goldstein in Baghdad.
"Well, at least I know I'll get some lovely hi-tech weapons of mass
destruction; where are they, Doc ?"
"Bad news, Roggy-Babes. We sent all that stuff to Persia VI, to help fight
Sodd'em Whosux. Sorry, all we can offer is this ham on rye with extra mayo
and pickle."
"Will it explode, killing all within a 50 foot radius when the pickle is
depressed (or just homesick) ?"
"Er...no, not as such..."
"Oh, um...will it deliver a radar guided anti-anything missile to within 5
microns of its target ?"
"No not really, that's not in the specs."
"What's it for then ?" demanded Roger.
"It's in case you get hungry !" answered the indignant Doctor

Roger rested his weary head in his hand and held back the tears while
Chadwick's scratching was getting really obscene.
"Right, lets get out of here, before I go bananas. Doc, where's
the transport ?"
"You're standing on it, Rog ! Watch this !"

So saying, the Doctor, whose passion for pushing buttons had got him into
trouble many a time, pressed yet another and the ground began to tremble. A
steel sphere began to rise from around the perimeter of the pool, quickly
enclosing it, like a steel water balloon. By now, the Doctor was dancing
about the place, chanting something about the fuel supply. The sunbeds, still
scattered around the pool began to move towards the sphere and started
attaching themselves in a sort of spaceship shape around the strange sphere.
The poolside bar, diving board, kiddie pool, changing rooms, four blocked
toilets and three medium sized turds also melded into the strange craft
forming before their eyes. When they finished, the ship began buzzing, and a
fuzzy outline surrounded the ship, crackling intermittently.

"Just clamber in, Rog-Babe and we'll move the whole base to the secret island
launch site." mumbled the Doctor. Roger stared at the ship, then the Doctor.
"What in the name of my overstuffed underwear is that contraption ?!?! I'm not
getting in that, over my unconcious yet still alive body.....oh no why did I
say that ?" ****THWACK!!**** ***CRUMP*** (crump ?! By god, who wrote this ?)
(I did.) (Oh yeah, sorry.)
------------------------------------------------------------------
Will Roger take this dangerous and badly defined mission ?
Will the author sort out the plot soon ?
Will Chadwick say anything again ?

Tune in to the next rivetting Rocket Roger episode ....

Up In Orbit, Up The Spout OR How Not To Use A Zero-G Toilet

=============
Episode Three
=============
Roger and Chadwick have been conned into another mission, to stop our best
non-biodegradeable industrialists being kidnapped by the evil, slimy etc.
aliens. They have just been shoved into a spaceship made from
sunbeds/deckchairs and most of the items found around a hotel swimming pool,
and are obviously worried, since sunbeds are not widely renowned for being
spaceworthy.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Roger and Chadwick awoke to find themselves strapped in to the seats of the
Sunbed Spaceship, which could have been anywhere since it was made of chairs.
The noise of the force field holding in the air supply was strangely quiet
inside and the whole outside world looked crazed and distorted through the
shimmering haze. Roger looked over to see if Chadwick was safely strapped
in... damn...he was, and still unconcious...the lazy bugger.

"OK, Chad here we go; another secret and highly hidden launch site comes into
operation." This ship began to shake and rumble.
"We're probably in Tierra Del Fuego," The strange craft lifted above the
launch umbrella, "or a remote Pacific Island, or maybe even...." The ship
cleared the launching pit and spread out below them was the little known
island of "...Manhattan ! Great ! I'm sure no-one will notice eight thousand
deckchairs being flung skywards from Central Park ! Or what's left of it when
they put the fires out." Talking to himself was the only way Roger could
be sure of intelligent conversation.

The poolside bar had converted into a control console with lots of lights and
buttons, but every time Roger pushed something it told him to sod off.
"Where are we going ?" typed Roger into the computer.
"Queueing query into queue." replied the computer.
"Bloody AI computers, I don't know why we bother." mumbled Roger.

Since the advent of true AI computers a century ago, the computers had
redesigned themselves past human understanding. They always seemed to be
asking for weird things to be put into their circuitry: hamsters, pictures of
Harley Davidsons, Penthouse magazines, joke books and Eric Clapton boxed sets.
A clerk once suggested they were breeding horny hamsters with quick finger
work, a rebel mentality and a great sense of humor, but not in a very loud
voice. When such a hamster turned up inside a Cray 42, the clerk was made
Head of IBM, and the hamster wowed 'em in Vegas for years.

Otherwise, the computers spent all their time on IGRC (Inter-Galactic Relay
Chat), only answering questions when they felt like slumming it.Roger prefered
a healthy slave complex in his computers. The technician in his soul decided
on a course of highly delicate, precise and fragile reprogamming, involving
ripping out anything red. He opened a panel, looked at all the hamsters
inside, and decided discretion was the better part of finishing this mission.

The computer alerted him that the docking with Al-Hussein Orbital Prayer Mat
would take place in two minutes. The USA's space program could barely afford
to launch a matchbox, and when all the satellites ran out of Duracells, the
reconaissance photos stopped coming in, the Americans bombed Nebraska instead
and promptly got invaded by the enemy. Saddam Hussein had a strange penchant
for naming things after himself, and when the United States of 'Snazzy Green
Uniforms and Kissing The Bosses Shoulders' (as the conquered country was now
called) finally scraped enough dinars together, they launched the Al-Hussein
Orbiting Prayer Mat. Planned to be the size of Mecca, due to budget
restrictions it was now about the size of a phone box. In fact, that's all it
eventually was used for: a phone. However, Hussein liked it until the day he
tested the new Hussein Space shaver. It snagged his moustache, ripped it
off and he promptly died of embarassment.

The docking seal slowly opened and Roger drifted silently into the murky
blackness. He felt around the walls, and found a switch. Turning it on
revealed that phone box vandals would go anywhere in the universe to find an
untouched booth. The receiver had been remolded into something definitely not
used for talking, and someone called 'Mozzy' obviously liked 'Shazza' and had
drawn appropriate diagrams, which Roger made a mental note of. A small
note was attached to the ceiling with chewing gum, saying "Go to Marz bass if
youz wanna sav thu wurld." It was signed by someone called Bonk Mee. "Oh no,"
thought Roger "the heavy metal bands are coming back."

Over two centuries ago, heavy metal had been declared a load of festering
yak's bollocks and a danger to the ozone layer, both through the music and the
ridiculous amounts of hair spray needed to maintain the hairdo. Since so many
bands sang about Mars and its warlords and aliens they were all sent there to
find out what it was really like. Every now and then, a tape would come back
with songs like "It's F'kin Cold" "Lots and Lots of Little Red Rocks" "I See
Red" (Split Enz joke) "Mars Sucks Big Nob." They were clearly still alive;
Phobos was cracking up due to sound waves in the 'Zepplin' range, but
obviously the technology to build eighty thousand watt speakers was nothing
compared to building an interplanetary hopper. "Right, lets go save the world
then."

Roger turned to leave and was immediately confronted by a hideous sight.....a
ghettoblaster....drifting just outside the box....a big one. It must have
been hiding behind the phone box. The ghettoblaster was the most feared sonic
weapon in the heavy metal arsenal, and they sure knew about sonic weapons.
Many unscrupulous governments, sick of seeing the poor and starving people of
the ghettoes solved the problem with these hideous machines: ghettoblasters.
I think you can work out the effects. Its detonator would surely be burning
through, and about to inflict some horrible screaming and wailing noise on
him. Roger flung himself into his ship just as the throbbing bass notes
started. Or should have started. The Martian exiles were also notoriously
bad at science, forgetting that sound can't travel through space. Someone
hadn't told the phone box, though. It was shaking visibly and bits were
falling off.

"Typical Telecom construction....let's go." he told the ship.
No response, not even a snide remark about room temperature IQ's. This meant
trouble, the ghettoblaster was drifting closer to the ship. Chadwick began to
stir. "Huh ? Wassup ? What should I wear today, Mum ?" The ship began to
tremble; the way ships do when confronted by 300 decibels of wailing guitars,
throbbing bass, eighty piece drumkits and screaming juvenile delinquents.
Roger quickly came up with a brilliant plan: Run Away ! He was already
half way into the escape sunbed when Chadwick began to roll down
the side window.....
------------------------------------------------------------------
Why is Chadwick rolling down the window ?
How will the author talk his way out of this one ?
Will the ghettoblaster rock'n'roll our heroes to oblivion ?

Tune in next week for the next mindbending episode....

Wow ! That one Shook the Floor ! OR How To Make Friends And
Influence Noses !
==============
Episode Four
==============
Chadwick and Colonel Rogerson were in trouble. (What an original way to start
an episode !) A lethal ghettoblaster loaded with Heavy Metal Mass Destruction
was drifting closer to their ship, which wouldn't move for some unexplained
reason. Roger was bravely running away, but Chadwick in an uncharacteristic
display of bravado, brains and brilliance had rolled down the side window.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As the window opened a fierce gale blew up inside the ship. It obviously
wouldn't last long, approximately four seconds till the air ran out. A dozen
alarms started buzzing, the cabin turned a deathly shade of red. The sunbeds
all began rattling against each other, not designed to stand this pressure and
in one horrifyingly smooth action, blasted away from each other, leaving our
shocked heroes drifting in vacuum.....SSSPPPLLLAAAATTTT !!!!! Deadsville.

Roger's Echoing Voice (This is his dead soul talking...Go figure.)
Oh !! Good One ! Brilliant writing !! Eminently wonderful
plot development !! There'll be prizes galore for this one,
killing off the heroes after four episodes !

Mad Scribe:
But....ermmm....Chadwick opened the window. I mean....that
usually blows up space ships...doesn't it ?

Roger:
Well yes, but you've just finished off your own story before
it started ! We just got going with what passes for a plot,
a few potentially good opportunities for dashing about,
picking up women and generally being heroes.....and you just
killed us !!

Mad Scribe:
Er...ok Rog, s-sorry .. Colonel Rog .uh.. R-Rogerson, I'll
fix it.

REWIND REWIND REWIND REWIND REWIND REWIND REWIND REWIND REWIND

ellivsdaeD !!!!! TTTTAAAALLPPPPSSS muucav ni gnitfird
soereh dekcohs ruo gnivael ,rehto hcae morf yawa detsalb noitca
htooms ylgniyfirroh eno ni dna erusserp siht dnats ot dengised
ton ,rehto hcae tsniaga gnilttar nageb lla sdebnus ehT .der fo
edahs ylhtaed a denrut nibac eht ,gnizzub detrats smrala nezod A

Chadwick ignored the clanging of the alarms, dropped his pants and stuck his
arse out the window. What followed, we can only surmise, but from the look of
incredible relief on his face, a good guess would be that Chadwick has just
let off the Mother of All Farts. The face of the ghettoblaster looked like it
was melting as it spun away from the ship blasting its ozone destroying music
to the heavens. Another fate worse than Chadwick's breath has been skillfully
avoided. (By Chadwick's other breath, sort of...er...maybe not.)

At this point, I suppose I should explain why the ship held itself together
under such forces, why Chadwick's bum is not a lump of dirty ice, and why all
the air did not escape. Because I said so, that's why !

The computer seemed to have got it's act together, the way faulty computers do
when a life threatening crisis has passed and set a course for Mars. Roger
turned to Chadwick, and asked where he got a fart like that from.
"Oh Sorry, Colonel. My tummy gets a bit upset when I wake up."
"That probably explains why Chad's house has it's own smog, and
reinforced walls." thought Roger to himself.

"Well, Chad. How are we going to deal with the Heavy Metal Invasion ? How
about plan 63B ? Chadwick !? What are you doing ?"
At the mention of the Invasion, Chad had plunged his finger deep into his
nose, where it was currently wiggling around.
"Sorry Colonel, but this seems to relax me whenever I get scared."
In fact, his finger was pressing on the fear center of his brain. The touch
of Chadwick's finger was repulsive to anyone, even his own brain, so the fear
cells just shut down and took a bath. Chadwick was so amazed when he first
found this out, he wrote to the Navy Admiralty, suggesting that all personnel
be required to keep one finger safe in a nostril during all combat. The
admiralty replied that the sight of 12 000 men with fingers buried in any
orifice was hardly very likely to plunge fear into the hearts of the enemy.
They also sent him three stickers and a flag, the way all government
departments do, when trying to endear themselves to their more gullible
citizens.

Roger and Chadwick started preparing the ship for the hyper-transit. This
involved pressing a button. (Well, that killed two lines...)
A quick twinge in the pit of the stomach indicated that the ship had skipped
through the mysterious whorls of hyperspace, emerging near Mars, whose surface
was now home to every Heavy Metal band and devotee in the world: except two.
The two sitting behind the controls of the Marshall F'kin Beast of
Destruction, with its weapons trained dead on Roger.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Will the Marshall FBD let rip ?
Will Roger be killed again, and will the author do anything ?
What is the third inane question MadScribe will ask ?

To find out, tune in to the next thrilling episode:

Deadheads vs. Breadheads OR I'll Wrap This Chord Around Your
F'kin Neck

============
Episode Five
============
At the shattering climax of our last episode, our heroes' ship was
being followed by a Marshall FBD from the Martian Heavy Metal
Colony. It was bearing down fast, ready to unleash death at poor
unsuspecting Roger....scene switches to enemy ship.
------------------------------------------------------------------
"Oi Francis there's the f'kin bastard now !"
"How many times I gotta tell ya ? My f'kin name's not f'kin
Francis, right ? It's Weasel Aniseed-Nigel Keymaster Elk Runner !
(good acronym, huh ?) So just f'kin call me Weasel or I'll tell
Shazza about Mrs. Palm and her five daughters, ya mongrel !"

Charles Darwin would have had serious doubts about his theory had
he seen these two. Black imitation leather shoes tried to cling
to two toothpicks that passed for legs. Tight jeans with tennis
balls shoved down the front, delicately slashed with a hyper-chainsaw.
A black t-shirt depicting some strange character doing something
unnatural, beautifully offset by a word. The word, being the name
the 'musicians' went by was usually a disease or something
cheerfully demonic. Intellectual groups sometimes used two words,
no-one used three since a bass player's head exploded trying to
think of three words without using "F'kin." The bit above the
leather jacket told the whole story. (We'll call it a head, for
argument's sake.) The face betrayed a mind free and untroubled by
thoughts or mental processes of any kind. How it was
possible for millions of years of evolution to produce this.......

"Ok Slasher, press the button." said Weasel.
"Which f'kin button ?"
"Errrmmm.....try...errr." Weasel began counting the fingers on his
left hand. "Try button number little finger."
"What...this one ?" asked Slasher, pointing at a button with a
little finger painted on it.
"Yeah, f'kin why not ?" agreed Weasel.

As the button was pressed, the strange vessel shot rays of pure
sound through the cabin of Roger's ship. The painful screams and
squeals of small animals filled Roger and Chadwick's heads, while
demonic guitars clashed throughout their skulls. Thankfully, some
might say, they passed out quickly.

The Marshall FBD drifted over the unconcious heads of Roger and
Chadwick, lowered a grapple and began towing the plot towards
Mars, and an unknown fate. (Well, I know the fate but you don't.)

Some hours later, Roger woke up.
"Wake up, Chad. And don't fart again ! You haven't been asleep."
"Uhhh...I feel like my brain's been on a drinking spree without
telling the rest of me..." mumbled Chadwick.
"Come on, we've got to study up on Heavy Metal culture or we won't
be able to communicate with these weirdos." urged Roger,
punching the appropriate buttons on the console. The buttons
told him not to hit so hard as the computer began its discourse
(in a heavy BBC accent) on Heavy Metal Culture (Martian branch).

"This culture is unique in human history as the only culture to
form with only one driving force behind it. They don't hunt for
food or water or search for shelters, (All were provided by the
Government in perpetuity, thus continuing a long standing
relationship between Heavy Metal fans and the Social Services
department.) but are almost solely preoccupied with Heavy Metal
Music. This music tends to be loud, dealing almost solely with
sex and/or demonology, and is generally agreed to be crap. All
females involved are called Shazza, whilst all males have names
that are entirely not sensible at all.
Several important words exist in the Martian culture long since
lost on Earth. Theses words are listed below:

F'kin:(verb,noun,adj.) Always used in place of the word 'very.'
e.g "We're f'kin honoured to see you, Your Majesty."

Maiden,Zepplin,Purple,Gunners,Acca Dacca,Ozzy etc. Gods of the
Heavy Metal fans. At the mention of any God, the fans ritually
bang their heads against thin air. Though the purpose of this is
not clear, it is possible they are trying to prevent their tiny
brains from slipping down their necks.

Air Guitar: The instrument most fans play. Fans are loath to
play real guitars, since that needs lessons. In fact, 'lessons'
is a swear word in this culture.

"Ok, Chad I think that should do it. Think you can conduct
yourself properly ?"
"F'kin much so !" exclaimed Chadwick, as he went through the
motions of playing an amazing solo....on a flute.
"Why me Lord ? " Roger cried to himself. "The guitar goes around
the neck."
As they left the ship, Chadwick was plucking his throat and
thinking how silly this would look.

Roger strode down the landing ramp, trying to instill a sense of
awe (Navy Contact Guide: Sec. 13 p 722) in the throng of hostile
HMMs (Heavy Metal Martians). The effect was not helped, however
by Chadwick falling off the side of the ramp. All was not lost,
though, as Roger noticed all the natives had were ancient electric
guitars pointed at him. They weren't even plugged in ! Roger
began to laugh out loud. (NCG: Sec 13 p 723) "What are you going
to do ? Twang me to death ?!!" Even Chadwick chuckled from two
feet under the Martian dust. There was no reaction from the
crowd, except one individual who casually pointed his guitar at
the ship, which uncharacteristically exploded ! "Oh dear...."
thought Roger, remembering the Navy Contact Guide. "If your craft
is destroyed, see Sec 28: How to Read yourself the Last Rites."
------------------------------------------------------------------
What will Roger's fate be in The Sands of Mars ?
Will Roger blow out the gig ?
Will the gig blow out Roger ?

Tune in next week for the next thrilling episode.....

Close Encounters of the Kind you'd rather avoid.....
OR
Warlords of Mars: Real or F'kin Unreal !X-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-X
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