Monday Night

Something attempted to pull itself out of the muck. The gray-green ick sunounding the thing resembled its own flesh. The resson for this became apparent as the thing tried to further remove itself; it was the muck. A thought occurred to it, its first: "This won't do it all!"

Tuesday Night

Tug-gluk, the nearly-mighty hunter of the Sphink-Torr tribe, was in search of the nfamous (but tasty) ka-poo beast. Just one would feed a tribe for the rest of his life. Plus he could score with the tribal babes. He saw what looked like the spoor of the fearsome ka-poo and tracked it with relentless 1 determination. With his Jooks Spear raised, he began to make the ka-poo mating call. Then, as he awaited the answering call, Tug-gluk wimessed a miracle.

1 Well, nor precisely relentless let's Say relent-challenged (he'd cave in if he got a blister).

The light in the sky changed and Tug gluk looked up. An object, roughly the size of his entire village (including the ceremonial basting pool 2) was falling to the ground. It is bathed in a strange, yellow and red light that danced around it. It struck the ground with a thunderous crash, knocking Tug-gluk off his feet.

2 A marvelous pool, its building was the stuff of lebend. Unfortunately, the Sphink-Torr had not yet invented writing, so the construction is detailed in the stirring ballad, "The Hiring of The Sub-Contractors Who Replaced The Crooked Thieves Who First Got the Job of Building the Great Basting Pool.

Bravely, he regained his footing and investigated this strange thing with its dancing light. Tug gluk reached his hand out and touched the light. He yanked his hand back with a yell, "Urrr!"

Tug gluk decided to call this new sensation "burn." He named the light "Fire," and coaxed some of it to perch on his deadly Jooka. Tug gluk the Fire Bringer then brought the gift of flame to the Sphink Torr tribe.

Later, the Wazzos, sworn enemy of the Sphink Torr, discovered the gift of flame among the burnt out wreckage of their foes' village.

Wednesday Morning

Splinge, philosopher-king of Splutch, looked out over his kingdom. Curiosity had founded this land 3, and it was curiosity now that threatened to split her apart.

The most advanced civilization in the world had always met its enemies with open arms... and a knee to the groin. Unfortunately, the enemies who armed against them now came from within--and knew all their dirty tricks.

3: More precisely, it was founded by a couple of guys named Splutch the Really Tall and Splishy the Never-Quite-as-Tall-As-His-Older-Brother. According to legend, they were philosophers seeking to discover the meaning of the things women would say to them when they asked them out. To this end, they settled in a valley and named each rock for one of the phrases, then sat on the rock for days, meditating on it. One dark morning, Spluch was found dead on "I've got to show my cousin around the area" and his brother was devastated. In a grand gesture, he named the valley Splutch. It is rumored that on one of the cornerstones of the city is carved "Who's Taller Now?"

Splinge gazed up at the two glowing stripes that illuminated the world. They were the cause of the strife below. Tradition held that the lights were the holy eel twins, Bob and Larry, giving the gift of their luminous presence to the faithful. The rebels believed the lights were the holy eels twins, Larry and Bob, giving the gift of their luminous presence to the faithful. Thus the bloodiest civil war in history 4 raged.

4: The First Civil war in history, actually.

Rumors had floated about lately that the rebels were planning an expedition in a strange vehick (called a balloon) to reach the eel twins and ask them which was which. Splinge's ministers had been adamant that this blasphemous mission could not be allowed to succeed. Splinge, on the other hand, believed that the mission would be a good way to bring the people back together. With representatives of both factions on board the balloon, the truth would at last be known, and there would be no more cause for bloodshed.

To this end, Splinge had secretly contacted the rebels and proposed a joint expedition. After several long talks, much negotiating, and a few shouting matches, it was agreed. The balloon was being launcbed today from the center of Splutch city.

The crowd guped in wonder at the balloon, made from the bladder of a single ka-poo beast, lifted off the ground. The balloon floated higher, and still higher. Suddenly, a sound, as of the air ripping apart, was heard throughout the land. A snake trail of white smoke lanced out toward the balloon and it burst, sending the crew, their equipment, and the free University of Splutch Encyclopedias intended as a gift for the Eel Twins plummeting to the paved square below.

Responsibility for the incident was claimed by an underground organization of philosophers, terrorists, and cartographers. "The Ill Wind," as they styled themselves, proudly debuted their ICBMs 5 at the next peace conference. Everyone listened to them.

5 Indiscriminately Concussive Balloon Mangler.

Wednesday Night

The infant nation of the Ignited States of Turbidia 6 had more than its share of problems 7. Among them were rampant unemployment, failing industry, a negative population growth, and the highest per capita number of literary critics in the world. But Grundon Rutch believed he saw a bright future.

6: So called because of the enormous fossil-fuel fires that raged just beneath the surface.
7: Lack of heat was not one of them.

Rutch had just invented a device that would revolutionize travel. The first Rutchmobile was being offered as a gift to the President of the IST, and if he liked it, the sky was indeed the limit.

The president stepped out of the press box and walked forward to shake Rutch's hand. He climbed into the Rutchmobile and pressed the ignition. The vehicle started, and the president instantly began zooming around the prepared track at unheard of speeds. The Presidential Guard was understandably tense, and eyed Rutch with their hands on their weapons.

After some time, the president slowed his Rutchmobile down and stopped in front of the podium. He climbed jubilantly out and slapped the inventor on the back. "By Eels Bob and Larry, that was great! Now if you'd just strap a couple of guns to the hood I think you'd have something!"

Thursday Morning

Hawk Luger (everyone called him "Spit"), bartender and owner of The Floating Vagabond, began his daily chores in preparation for opening for business 8. His silent partner, friend, and perpetual tenant, Arithon Kincaid, was already behind the bar, searching desperately (albeit slooowly) for a cure for his hangover.

8: A sham, really, considering that Spit never really closed down to begin with. As he grew tired at night, he's simply appoint a relief bartender and go bac to his apartment, remaining "on call" for emergencies. Thus he was officially still on duty according to Bart's Union rules.

Spit lumbered up to his friend with an attempt to soften the effect of his 300 pound plus bulk slamming into the wood of the floor, sending lethal vibrations into Kincaid's head and turning his brain into the clapper of a bell. He squatted down to the man prostrate on the floor.

"Breathe," he instructed.

Arithon complied and expelled fouled air into Spit's face. Spit sniffed it for a moment, then said, "Cup of tomato juice, four tablespoons Ruilcian Brandy, a raw egg (shell included) and a dash of hyper curry."

Kincaid blinked his bloodshot eyes and nodded, winced from the nodding, and then began to assemble the prescription. He downed the unappetizing concoction with a stifled scream. His body was wracked by convulsions as the potion did its work. Suddenly, he was still, his eyes were clear, and it didn't hurt so much to be a biped.

"Thanks, Spit, and good morning."

Arithon normally hated to do anything that resembled actual work, but seeing as he was up already, and Spit had just done him a good deed, he decided to help get the place in shape for the noon crowd. This meant getting rid of the evening crowd.

While Spit began restocking the bottle behind the bar, Arithon was making the rounds, waking up anyone he could find among the limp and moaning bodies littering the tables, floors, and light fixtures. Most of those retaining sentience managed to rise to the occasion and stagger out of the bar. The ones who passed through the revolvin' door found themselves transported to theie home dimension or to somewhere else entirely. Those who went through the swinging doors found themselves on the outside of an asteroid. This didn't distress them, since they could all breathe thanks to the WARP Virtual Life Support Generator 9 installed on the roof of the bar, under its brightly lit sign.

9: One of only five hundred made, the generator was a masterpiece of Mock-Physics. The algorithms in the device state, quite plainly, that any being within sight of the generartor (whether they could see it or not, would be able to breathe. Thus methane breathers and oxygen beathers could speak to sulfur breathers and photosynthesizers without the social difficulties encountered in thr past.

On an asteroid just a healthy leap away were parked several space taxis, waiting to take advantage of the morning migration.

With the mobile drunks taken care of, Arithon pulled the lever under the bar that opened up the trap doors under the rest of the patrons. They were each sucked into a pneumo-tube that gently plopped each of them into one of the bar's many hospitality suites, with the bill automatically added to the patrons' tear tabs.

Arithon turned cheerfully to Spit, who was just hauling in a gigantic mirror from the back room to replace the one behind the bar chat had been broken last night. "Well, the wreckage is all taken care of, is there anything else you need done?" Later, upon reflection, Arithan would swear that it was the single most stupid thing he had ever said. 10

10: With the possible exception of "Nice Tommygun. Is it loaded?"

Spit looked up and realized what had just been spoken. With speed seemingly unnatural for someone of his size, he dashed to the storeroom and came out pushing a cart loaded down with cleaning supplies.

"You can clean out the restrooms."

Arithon began to protest, but realized that he had left himself wide open for it. He accepted the cart and began wheeling it to the door of the men's room 11. After Spit tuened off the Differential Vibration Sanitiators, Arithon flipped a switch that primed the cart's weapon systems. Kicking open the door, he rolled the cart through, guns blazing and screaming a battle cry he'd learned from the warrior-accountant tribes of the Jifwengar Desert: "Don't hurt me!"

11: Actually all three restroom doors in The Floating vagabond led to the same place. Embarassment was avoided because the doors had a WARP Differential Vibration Initiator attached to them, so that sentients coming into the restroom from different doors would exist at different vibrational frequencies, so they would be totally unaware of the others.

The few vermin that were accually in the room were dispatched quickly by the cart's pest tracking system attached to the guns and missile launchers.

Arithon poked his head over the cop of the cart, and, seeing no movement, commenced cleaning. After mopping the floor, Kincaid needed to rest 12. He sat down for a moment on the cart, carefully, so as not to set off the defense system.

12: He needed to rest because of the adventure he had while mopping the floor, which is too long to recount here. Suffice to say it involved a "roaring, a giant marsupial cockroach, an interdimensional portal, and a Freezer Yum franchise on a long-dead planet.

Something "blurped" from one of the bathroom stalls.

Arithon sat very still and closed his eyes tightly, praying that he did not just hear that.

This time it "blepped."

Kincaid jumped up from the cart and dashed to the restroom door. Throwing it open, he ran smack into a brick wall, marked with a sign saying, "Not 'til it's done, sissy!" Arithon cursed the Acme Insta-Wall he had gotten Spit for his birthday.

This time, a small, almost apologetic, "plip" sounded.

Arithon slowly crept back to the cart and checked the weapons systems. He was afraid of that; his initial saturation attack had exhausted the cart's power packs. There was no more juice for the guns.

Arithon quickly looked over the contents of the cart. Only a few of rte items were of any use, and he didn't feel like subjecting the audience to another annoying footnote 13, so he grabbed the large spray can of Doctor Extinction's Planetary Scrength Disinfectant.

13: Like this one.

Armed with the can and shielding his face with his hat, Arithon began opening the doors to the stalls. One by one, he kicked open the latches and sprayed the lethal can into the toilet. One stall. Two stalls. Five. Nine. He kicked open the door to Stall Twelve and let fly with the spray-can.

A glowing dome of energy over the bowl of the toilet deflected the deadly fog. Cautiously, Arithon peered down into the commode. It looked like any number of inhabited planets from orbit. He could see obvious cities, cultivated land, signs of pollution, even clouds.

"Oh, great," Arithon sighed, "a highly advanced civilization has evolved in the bowl. That's it. Spit can clean his own damn toilets!" He turned around and began walking to the door, determined to dig his way through the wall if Spit didn't take it down.

He'd barely made it two steps, when a series of tiny explosions rippled along his shoulders and back, flinging him into the cleaning cart. "Ow! That hurt, dammit!"

Turning around to see his attackers, Arithon could see nothing. He squinted. He shaded his eyes. He grabbed the Germ Spotter Janitorial-Issue Binoculars 14 from the cart. Adjusting the eyepieces, he was able to slowly focus on a squadron of at least forty-five microscopic fightercraft.

14: An extremely addictive piece of equipment, they are calibrated to spot mold, mildew, and the germs that cause bad breath. A built-in tracking computer in the binoculars was linked to the cart's weapon systems, enabing quick dispatch of the microscopic intruders.

They seemed to hover in an attack pattern, waiting for his reaction.

His reaction was to dive over the cart.

Crouching behind the cart, Arithon thought furiously "Okay, Kincaid, think. They came from the civilization in stall 12. Stall 12 was fine on Saturday night. We were very crowded and someone would've noticed this, so they've evolved between Saturday and today." Arithon waved a mop at a wing of fighters, cleanly missing all but one, which exploded in a bright flash that blew him into the wall and left a tiny mushroom cloud in the air.

"Oh, peachy. Nuclear powered attack jets. That one must have been a nanoton. 15 A couple more of those and I'll start glowing. I hate glowing."

15: Roughly enough explosive power to send a one hundred sixty-five pound man into a wall without seriously harming him.

Sliding along the wall, hoping he was too big for the fighters to take in all at once, he continued his train of thought. "All they've known rhroughout their existence is that stall in this bathroom. Lights! The lights never go off in here!" Arithon slid under the right switch, and turned it off.

Unbeknownst to Arithon, the nation of the Ignited Srates of Turbidia was plunged into a state of chaos, with rioting, looting, and real estate speculation running rampant. They delayed their search for the titanic being who rained death down upon them in an unsuccessful attempt to wipe out all life.

Kincaid crawled quickly back to the cart. With ingenuity born of desperation and too many MacGyver reruns, he rigged the aerosol cans on the cart into makeshift thrusters and attached them to the side using old chewing gum 16.

16: Acknowledged by everyone as the most durable adhesive in the universe.

Aiming the cart at the Acme Insta Wall in the doorway, he launched it. The cart rolled at ramming speed at the wall, thunderously slamming into it and disintegrating upon impact. The Wall was unscathed.

"That's a good wall," Arithon grudgingly admitted. But that didn't help him in his plight.

He began searching for another way out. The ceiling tiles! Kincaid climbed up on the dale and pushed a ceiling panel up and to the side. Hauling himself up into the piping and wires, he began to hurriedly crawl towards the main bar. As soon as he got weight over the first panel, it collapsed, and he fell to the floor of the restroom.

"OW, OW, OW, OW. Bad plan. Veer bad plan." Kincaid sat up on aching legs and looked around. His eyes had been used to the darkness for a little while now, and he wondered when the others figure out a way to deal with it.

Arithon was blinded by a bright light suddenly appearing in his face. Before he could react, hundreds of tiny cables were wrapped around him, tying him tighdy. Tkhecables were then yanked to the floor and fastened there. Arithon found himself totally immobile and stuck to the floor of the restroom. "Thank God I just mopped it."

A tiny whirring sound came from somewhere to his left. It got closer. Then, the source of the sound began climbing his chest. Arithon could see it now. It looked like a robot, four inches high, bristling with very tiny, very nasty looking weapons.

"We represent the Ignited States of Turbidia and its people. You are our prisoner." A voice spoke from a loud speaker on the robot.

Arithon rolled his eyes. Uh, brilliant! Did you figure that out yourself, or did you neo prompting! "And here I thought you were guerrilla beauticians giving me a manicure."

"Silence, Great Defiler!" The robot stamped its foot on Arithon's chest. "You shall answer for your crimes against the Bowl! You attempted genocide in my grandfather's time with your Fog of Death, you slew the Holy Eel Twins, Bob and Larry, when I was but a lad; and then you attempted to destroy us with bowl quakes. The spirits of the Eel Twins are with their ,faithful, however, and we have captured you after generations of living in fear of your terrorism!"

"Oh, please, do you really talk like that," Arithon asked. "There's a camera around here somewhere, isn't there? You're just hamming it up for one of those 'Reality Television' shows, aren't you?" Arithon strained against his bonds, trying to get a look.

The robot leaned forward. "Hey, don't laugh, pal; BOTS recorded a thirty share last season. This is my ticket to easy street. The lunch-box rights alone will set me up for life."

"I see," said Arithon. "So what kind of punishment am I looking at here?"

The robot struck a dramatic pose. "For your crimes against the Bowl, you are to be slain, and your carcass will be colonized to ease the burden of our congested civilization."

"Euwch! I don't think I like the idea of being colonized."

"Tough, get used to it."

"Well, okay. I suppose my crimes do demand retribution. It's just that... nah."

The robot stepped closer. "It's just that what?"

"Well, I was hoping to cash in on this, too. I mean' don't you think the networks would kill for an exclusive interview with 'The Great Defiler?' Whoever held the rights to that could probably buy his own country." Arithon could have sworn he heard a cash register bell come from inside the robot.

"Hmmm. Well, as an enemy of the state, you certainly may not reap any benefit from such an arrangement. However, as your agent, I could see to it that you are made comfortable until such an interview can be completed. Then, perhaps we could see about some disposition for you other than death."

Arithom grinned. "I suppose I could sign some sort of contract assigning you as my agent. But I understand that I must be punished. Permanent exile would do."

"I think not. Nice try though."

Arithon attempted a shrug. "I gotta be me."

The tiny robot leapt off of Arithon, and he heard it running back toward stall 12. Several minutes passed, during which more lights ere set up, illuminating the entire restroom. After a while, he heard the smallest hints of noises going on all around him. Suddenly, he und himself being lifted into the air, but still bound. The microscopic anti-gravity enerators attached to him resumed him to in upright position, and moved him toward stall 12.

He was moving at roughly ten miles an hour when he hit the door of the stall nose first. The door slammed open, hit the side of he stall wall, then slammed into Arithon's nose again. This repeated three times before he was maneuvered into a standing position next to the toilet.

A beam of light lanced up from the surface of the bowl, and began to dance back and forth quickly, until it formed a rectangular screen in front of Arithon about 2 feet wide. His face appeared on the screen. While mostly humanoid, there was an uncomfortable dizziness about it that suggested its moldy origins. The face spoke. "Welcome, Great Defiler, to Grunch Kaflop's Political Forum. You don't know me, but I know all about you; my father was Ploit Kaflop, the BOT pilot who captured you so long ago. It was his final wish that I become a journalist and interview you on international T.V., so here I am. Great lengths have been gone to for this interview. The very screen you are seeing me on was created just for this occasion."

Arithon blinked. "You guys work fast!"

Kaflop frowned. "Not really. It was the life's work of the team of scientists who invented it. They all won the Rutch Prize. But enough about us. My father told the world a lot about you, first in his interviews, and then in his books. 17 Now let's hear your side, What makes you tick? What would lead a gargantuan monster like yourself into a life of destructive blasphemy?"

17: The first, "The Capture of the Great Defiler, was hailed by critics as a a journalistic triumph, hut a literary failure. The follow-up, "The Great Defiler and Me" was a success on both fronts, however, and topped several bestseller lists. "Other Things the Great Defler Said" was largely ignored as a book, but the made-for-TV movie broke ratings records world-wide. 0f the children's cartoon show, "That Wacky Defiler" the less said, the better.

Arithon took a breath, and then regrettet it. The Bowl's civilization may have progressed far, but they still bore the smell of their roots. "I think it's unfair to categorize me that way. I'm just a simple adventurer, really, I didn't even know you were there."

Kaflop looked doubtful "Oh, come now, G.D., you don't mind if I call you that do you? Do you mean to say you never heard of the most powerful civilization in the Bowl?"

Arithon leaned back, pressing his hands against the toilet tank "No. Did you know that there is an entire civilization outside the confines of these wall?"

Kaflop raised an eyebrow. "Really? If they are anything like you, then we will have no trouble conquering the lot of you. What do you say to that?"

Arithon pursed his lip. "Hmm. I'd have to say...Can you swim?"

Kaflop's expression of total confusion turned to one of horror as Arithon bent his knees and pushed down the flush handle with his bound hands. The entire contents of the toilet folded up and swirled down the drain. The holographic TV screen swirled as well, granting Arithon a view of Kaflop's head spiraling down like any other piece of refuse.

After falling forward and rolling to rhe doorway, Arirhon kicked repeatedly at the wall until Spit retracted it into its handy pocket-sized case. Kneeling down and looking at his friend's bonds, he said "What the hell happened to you?"

Arithon sat up to face him "You know, Spit, sometimes, all it takes is one unpleasant chore to send the entire day right down the tubes."