Episode Three

(Ed. Beware the In-Joke. It lurks in every line about Doctor Juliff.) In our last episode, Roger learned of the imminent destruction of the Earth intelligentsia by the Stupo-Ray. In a meeting with Commander Bloodlust and Dr Frank 'Frankenstein' Juliff, Roger is asked whether he will accept the mission…….. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I would be honored, sir !!!" lied Roger. Actually, he was hoping the mission involved a fact-finding tour to Eroticon VI, or shooting lots of small furry mammals out of cannons on Alpha Centauri; he hated dangerous missions, they tended to be, well, dangerous !! "Good show, Roger !!" wheezed the Commander, "But before you go, Dr Juliff has been working on a few gadgets for you. He tells me they're all modular and really adaptable…Please continue, Doctor…"

Dr Juliff stepped forward….sort of….more like…..lunged forward and shoved the most lethal weapon Roger had ever seen into his face. "See this, son ?!" bellowed the good doctor. Roger nodded slowly…. "Looks the spitting image of the M99 Mega-Pain Death Blaster, don't it " Roger started to answer, but Dr. Juliff wheeled round and talked to the wall, ceiling and the general atmosphere…. "I'll bloody say it does, look at the modules on this baby…standard Heat Sensor gizmo here and this Sureshot Sniping Gizwhacker right here, I mean if you couldn't hit a fly's left eyeball from a furlong away, Jeez, ya might as well just go out and cook dinner for six, know what I mean, son. Right you do….."

"Sorry, my lad where was I, hmm ? Oh yes the M99 and so on…well it's not, it's actually a pencil, cunningly disguised at great expense. See, look at this…you take off this module here, redirect this thingummy here point this over here, divide by the number you first thought of, that's a joke, boy, -laugh, and hey presto, Bob's your Auntie's best friend…A pencil ! Whaddaya think of that, son ?"

Roger didn't think much at all, he was too busy following the blur of hair and trying to spot where the voice came out of. Unfortunately, the look on his face set the good doctor off again….

"What are you looking like that for, you've got no idea how useful this little baby is…fully modular, too. Imagine this, Charlie….you're in a prison cell out back o' beyond, how you gonna send a rescue note without this little baby, eh ? Didn't think of that, did ya…Well there's more where that came from, just you wait here till the Great Spotted Blonks come home to roost….. "

He left in a hurry muttering something about "Why don't they get heroes that buy books about modules, I've got a brilliant one in the Highly Secret Bookshop…"

Roger shuffled over to the Commander and whispered, "Where did you find him ?" "No-one's actually sure, " mumbled the Commander "He just showed up one day, said he was from the Victorious Centre for Alien Elimination, and occupied an office. We let him stay, as long he keeps turning out gizmos. He brilliant, if just a little eccentric."

Dr. Juliff whizzed back in a cloud of metaphors. "Cop this lot, Roger, the latest in modular suits packed with features from the late twentieth century, the Seventies to be exact. Whack this gear on, Rog." Roger hated being called Rog, but something in Juliff's eye told him to do what he was told. "I'll just whack these babies in here…." said Dr. Juliff as he attached the flare modules to the trouser section. "Not too sure about them myself, but Sergeant Redpath seemed pretty sure."

                           In-Joke Mk II-----^^^^^

"One last thing, Roger, this suitcase that transforms at the press of a button into….another suitcase !! You'll probably think of a use for it by, say, the fifth episode. I mean, you'd better hurry up, because my goat's gander been got at by the monkey's short and tall of it, so I'm singing everything while I build a bloody brick wall and …." The Commander stepped forward and smacked the brilliant Doctor upside the head with a very functional truncheon. "Sorry Roger, he just goes on a bit, sometimes…." He started dragging him out…." Good luck with the mission Roger, you'll be catching the 12:43 shuttle to Moonie Base One, tickets under the mat on the way out….bye now."

Roger sighed, and trudged towards the door. Chadwick, the Lunatic Sidekick was waiting for him, and as usual smelled like the North end of a South- bound vulture. He didn't look too dissimilar either, dressed as he was in a Kaftan six sizes too big with a shoulder length wig on backwards. His nose was bloody from walking into walls….. "Are we going to Moonie Base One, Colonel Rogerson, I've always wanted to go there !" "You wanting to go there is hardly a reason for their tourist bureau to start leaping up and down for joy, Chadwick since you are the only so-called human alive who can repulse a battalion of Tranthian Skunk-Fiends. Besides, I don't think those throwbacks have any bureaus, except for the ones they keep their alleged clothing in. I don't see why we have to dress like them…."

Moonie Base One represents one of the triumphs of the New Age movement. After all that messing about with Crystals and funny voices, they felt the Karma of the Earth just wasn't right. So a group of militant hippies, if you can call owning a picture of Rambo militant, hired a shuttle, landed at Moon Base One, and sort of took over. And like, wow man, the breadheads didn't care ! Actually the astronomical cost of running Moon Base One was making the 'breadheads' think carefully about maybe playing darts with the dome and collecting on the insurance. So they didn't mind the hippies keeping the Base, as long as they allowed normal traffic through. Unfortunately, the hippies insisted only 'Brothers and Sisters of the Soil' could come through. The government hit back, as it usually does, by being sneaky. It issued all travellers with flares, beads, kaftans and CND necklaces, gave them phrase books and sent them to the renamed Moonie Base One. The hippies were overjoyed to see all these new Brothers and Sisters come filing through the Gates of Karma. So overjoyed, in fact, that they didn't mind letting their new recruits "just pop off to Delton III for a bit to meditate for a while….like, man, wow, dig it." When none of them returned, they didn't really notice; what, with the Lunar soil producing the most potent marijuana in the Solar System, you wouldn't notice much either.

WELCOME TO THE MOST ABRUPT ENDING SINCE NAPOLEON DECIDED HE COULDN'T !!

Thanks to some highly expensive editing procedures, you'll have to wait till the end of episode four for a cliff-hanger. Some of our older readers may have been getting heart trouble anyway, so breath deep and relax till next time when you'll see…….

Rocket Roger meets Episode Four in a small bar in downtown Milan !

                              Episode Four

As Roger and Chadwick hurriedly filed through to the departure area, dodging weirdos handing out flowers etc and entered the VVVVVVVVVVVVVFT loading bay. The V(etc)FT was the direct descendant of the Very Fast Train project, a marvel of engineering, and rather a good joke, actually. (Well, I liked it.) It would take them to Saturn's largest moon, Titan in a matter of hours, rather than the months it used to take when hitch-hiking from passing Planetary probes. They still couldn't make edible sandwiches though, and the coffee was still twenty dollars a slice……

Roger would have been bothered by all this, except his mind was on other things, not the least of which was the modular pencil, which, being 4ft long and bristling with weaponry while being hidden in his trousers, gave him a nasty pain and got several impressed looks from many women, as well as a few men. The other pressing issue was the news that Pirate Space Accountants, the scourge of the System, had been spotted in the area.

Space Accountants were a new development in an old business, piracy. Accountants had always been pirates but with the advent of planet sized computers, human accountants were made redundant. Though they stopped training them, there were a lot of old accountants hanging around desperately stopping people in the street begging to be allowed to audit them, for old times sake. Eventually, a large group of them (known as an 'overbudgeting of accountants') bought a ship, and started cruising the space lanes, stopping ships and auditing everyone on board, giving them coffee and company prospectuses etc… then slitting their throats.

As the train cranked up to 0.65 C, which is very bloody fast (thus the name), Roger ran over a few facts in his trembling mind. Firstly, he knew the concept of Pirate Space Accountants was irresistible and would certainly be developed further, which meant peril for him. Secondly, he had no idea how to get to Uranus…Shut up, Chadwick….and thirdly, the missiles and laser bolts crackling outside his window were getting rather noisy, as was Chadwick who cowered over Roger's head, snug in the baggage rack. Laser Bolts ?!!

Roger leapt to his heroic feet, and struck a meaningful pose, ready to leap into action as the Pirate Accountants boarded the train. Unfortunately, he leapt too hard and forgot about the weightlessness. As he floated helpless, but very brave, the train screeched to a halt, and Roger slammed into the far wall and slid to the floor in a crumpled heap. Chadwick did likewise, but swapped baggage racks in the process. After a few minutes passed, and normal gravity had been restored, the door to Roger's compartment slid open. The strange figure that entered was a sight not many have seen and survived. A suit from Regent Street was accompanied by a smart leather briefcase, an eyepatch, a bowler hat on top of a fiery red headscarf and a huge cutlass in the other hand that would have made Blackbeard worry.

"Good evening sir, and yo ho ho." Roger slowly awoke……. "My card, sir….." It read "Messrs Scurvy Dog Fletcher & Mad Dog St-Clair III". "Shall we get down to business sir, or shall I slit your gullet and strangle you with your own intestines ?"

As the Pirate Accountant awaited Roger's answer a soft moan came from the baggage racks, which quickly escalated to a scream as Chadwick rolled off the rack and onto the Pirate, bringing him down in a flurry of "Pardon me, sir" and "I'll keelhaul the scurvy landlubber !" "Good work Chadwick, " exclaimed Roger as he practised his art of kicking the opponent when he's down. "Now let's get off this train, and save the Earth."

Cautiously, Roger stepped outside his compartment. The corridor was empty, save a butler robot trundling towards Roger carrying a huge cocktail. Roger recognized it as a Brain Melter, a drink that made the Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster look like Santraginnian Mineral Water. Brain Melter hangovers were know to last at least 16 years, thus the highly expensive drink was popular only with the spoiled offspring of the mega-rich.

The robot turned and entered the compartment next to Roger's. A horrible whining noise emerged. "No no no, you stupid oik !! The parent company owns a 24% share in itself while leasing back half the equipment under Section 13 ! Call yourself an accountant. Ha ! I know Lesser Spotted Gronks with more brain power !! Get it right, peasant before you bore me to death !!! "

Roger peeked round the door and saw a Pirate Accountant lurching in a number frenzy, desperately scribbling figures on a wall sized piece of paper. Watching him and pointing madly at various bits of the horribly convoluted diagram was the most beautiful woman Roger had ever seen; well…bits of her, anyway….

Her clothing was exquisite, obviously money was no object to this socialite. Star Opals graced her ears, a gold and iridium weave dress clung tightly to her svelte figure. Roger knew at once……it was all surgery. After all, how genuine can a woman be, if their breasts have been filled and lifted so many times they nestle on her shoulders, and affect her hearing !!

As Chadwick closed on Roger's heels, the woman turned, nose upturned. "What's that godawful smell….Who the kufnuk are you ? " Roger noticed that the accountant was stuck in an accounting frenzy, a peculiar condition in which an accountant wouldn't notice if you ripped his nose and ears off and served them to him on toast. "I'm Colonel Roger Rogerson, ma'am. At your service. I've been ordered to rescue any beautiful maidens I find, would you care to …." "By you ?" laughed the woman. "No way, prole. No-one touches me until they reach at least eight million groats a year. Besides, this little man, " she gestured toward the still scribbling accountant "is going to tell me how rich I am. So off you go, and take your pet with you."

Roger shrugged and turned to leave, only to find the doorway blocked. No ordinary blockage, i.e something in the Door department. This machine was definitely from the Horribly Beweaponed Death Dealing War Machines Department. It wore an eyepatch and bowler hat and was painted with the legend " Debt Recovery Droid: Pay up in money, or bodily organs." "Colonel Rogerson ?" droned the robot. Roger nodded, stupidly. "About your expense account…." Roger swallowed nervously, how would he get out of this one….. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ How will Roger escape the Debt Droid ?

Will he really miss having a pancreas ?
  Has the author run out of accounting jokes ? (No way, matey)

Tune in next time for another exciting episode of ….

Rocket Roger Rogerson of the Space-O-Navy !!! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                              Episode Five

In the last episode, Roger escaped the pirate accountant, but was now being menaced by a Debt Recovery Droid, the most hideous machine ever devised for financial purposes, except the random phrase program making up Australia's budgets, known as the Keating Device.

As Roger stood there, his mind worked feverishly. Unfortunately, it wasn't working on a brilliant plan. It was actually searching its memory and preparing an Oscar-winning rendition of Roger's life, ready to let it flash before his eyes. Roger was going to die, or so he thought.

Chadwick, with the cockiest look on his face since Saddam Hussein sent the troops in, stepped forward and looked up at the robot. "Hey robot, recite Pi to twenty billion decimal places. Run for it Roger !!!" Chadwick took off in a blur, only to be picked up by the robot's massive arm. "YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING TOO MANY STAR TREK RE-RUNS, THAT ONE DOESN'T WORK ANY MORE." "Well," squirmed Chadwick, trying to wrestle free, "what does work ?" "NOTHING LIKE THAT, INSECT ! YOU THINK I'D TELL YOU ?! "

Just then Roger noticed something shiny pinned to the robot's bowler hat. He couldn't quite make out if it was Kylie Minogue or an Efrishian Drankut. He decided to take a chance: "Everybody's doing a brand new dance now…." he sang hopefully. With astonishing speed, the droid launched into a dance routine, flinging Chadwick down the hallway, while deploying a blonde wig on its head and a tight pink skirt around its waist. "COME ON BABY, DO THE LOCOMOTION !!!" Roger nipped past the droid and sped off down the hall. "I know you'll get to like it if you give it a chance now…" suggested Roger over his shoulder. "COME ON BABY, DO THE LOCOMOTION !!!" bellowed the joyous robot clanking around the hallway like the Flying Scotsman on amphetamines.

Laughing confidently, Roger turned the corner and entered the escape pod area. A sign on the wall said "Only to be used when running out of train jokes. Warning escape pods have very little joke capability. Use sparingly." Nice talking signs they have round here, thought Roger as he decided to take a chance on the jokes, and on being in a confined space with Chadwick.

Making sure Chadwick sat next to the extraction fan, Roger reviewed his options. There weren't many. He decided the best jokes and plot line would be found aboard the Pirate Accountants now empty ship. As he let the pod slide gently out of its berth, he felt a twinge of sorrow for the pirates. Being trapped on the same train as that woman was a fate to hideous to contemplate. But then again, that's the only kind of fate accountants deserve.

A short time later, the pod docked with the Pirates Ship, the romantically named Serial Number 29X8348H. The airlock hissed open and Roger entered the Pirate ship's docking area. A sign on the wall read "Please complete this form in triplicate before entering the ship." Three small forms fell through a slot in the wall and a tiny shelf unfolded itself from the wall, but it was too high up and far too small, so Roger just used his knee.

Name: Colonel Roger Rogerson Occupation: Hero Purpose of Visit: Takeover Bid

As Roger wondered what to do with the forms, the inner airlock slid open. On the other side stood a young boy, about sixteen years old. "Obviously the office junior gopher," thought Roger, and handed the forms to the boy. "What are the forms for ?" queried Roger. "The first goes to head office, " replied the boy "The second to our files, and the third is for burning." "Burning ?!" gasped Roger. "Yes, " said the boy, very matter-of-factly, "something's got to run the ship."

Pirate Space Accountants, having rejected all forms of computerization and most forms of machinery, nevertheless need to power their spaceships. A four month committee meeting decided that steam power, which represented the Golden Age of Filthy Luchre (Industrial Revolution) was most suitable. Steam power requires burning, however and all the coal and coke were long gone. However, accounting's most abundant resource was easily found: Paper. Centuries of filling forms in triplicate had resulted in a paper mountain so vast, it would run their fleets for centuries.

Roger made his way to the bridge, crossed the bridge and entered the 'Pilot's Office.' (Accountants took everything so literally !) It held a bewildering array of pipes, tubes and gauges with not a binary digit in sight ! As he gazed around, one sign caught his eye. "Engine Room" it read, sitting just above a large metal funnel. "Hello ?" shouted Roger into the funnel. "Good afternoon, sir." came the reply. "Are you the new Managing Director ?" "I..I believe so." answered Roger. "What are your goals and objectives, sir. We need them to aid in formulating engine policy." "Engine policy ?" "Yes sir, the engine has to be happy with its role in our company. We give it a policy, like, our last policy of catching your train before the next financial period. Understand ?" "I believe I do, yes. Well my goal is to get to Titan as fast as possible." "Can do, sir. I'll schedule a committee meeting for Friday lunch." "What about now ?" bellowed Roger,"or you'll be sucking vacuum !!!" "Yes sir, now is also a very good time for me."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Will Roger make it to Titan ??

Will the committee decide on engine policy ?
  Will Chadwick rate another mention in this story ?

Tune in next time, for another brilliantly written, if a little hazy at times…

Rocket Roger Rogerson of the Space-O-Navy !!!

                               Episode Six

Attention: The David Syme business school has expressed its dismay at the portrayal of committees in this story as being slow, indecisive and useless. They intend to present a draft proposal for changes, which they are now discussing in a meeting. We expect to hear from them around November 2003. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Roger sat at what passed for controls on the Pirate Space Accountants ship. After all, everyone knows accounting has no efficient controls. Titan loomed large in the drawing one of the crew made for him. There were no windows on the ship, because windows were clear, and nothing in accounting practice should be clear. Like the general public, Roger just assumed the ship knew where it was going got some sleep.

When he woke up, the ship was berthed and he and Chadwick left. Roger resigned as Managing Director, collected his super and promised to invest it wisely. That night, around the clubs and bars that dotted Titan City, he did just that. Titan was still undergoing terraforming and was now the furthest outpost of what passed for modern civilisation. That is, advertising agencies, bars, Japanese restaurants and booming criminal element. Few people lived on Titan, because everything had to be shipped in from Earth, and so was horribly expensive. Advertisements tended to run something like: "Got a few extra gold bars lying around ? Then why not invest in this genuine chair !!"

With Titan being as far out as any ships went, Roger had a problem. He had to reach Uranus….Shut up, Chadwick….and save the Earth from the hideous, malicious, evil-smelling, ugly aliens who wouldn't think twice about stealing your garden hose. The author also had a problem; making this crossing of half a solar system sound plausible without inventing teleportation. Hmmmm……

Roger was deep in thought, contemplating his navel, when he became aware of a strange, overpowering voice behind him. He turned, to see it was coming from a small CRT mounted under a sign that read OWT OF ORDUR (Dodgy signs). "I'm Arthur !!" claimed the fat, ridiculously clothed figure. "And I'm Wayne !!" offered the other moronic looking character. "Are you having trouble saving the…" "Universe ?!" piped up the other. "Can't get to Uranus to fight the evil alien infestation " "Then come on down to Dodgy Brother's Faster Than Light Space Taxis !!" they announced in an approximation of unison. "Since hyperspace is actually nowhere, we'll…" "Get you nowhere fast !" bellowed the other flagellating throwback. "Just press the button under this screen and we'll be there in a …." "Taxi !!" "Jiffy !!" "Nice suit !!" "Few hours !!!"

Chadwick piped up "Are we taking a taxi to the alien base, Colonel ?" "We don't seem to have much choice, little smelly sidekick. " Chadwick press the button, which promptly broke off in his hand. The TV screen and the section of wall it sat in slowly moved up, revealing a decaying embarrassment to the automotive industry. Inside it sat two embarrassments to their Mother: The Dodgy Brothers.

"Another potential customer, Arthur." "Whaddaya mean 'another.' You're not still saying that bloody dog was a customer, are ya ?" "Shut up, Arthur….Good evening, gentlemen. Care to fly the friendly skies….no….Good, you'll want us instead then. Climb in…we're bound for Uranus….Shut up, Arthur."

Many strange sights were beheld by the occupants of this weird vehicles. Not the least of which was what looked like a blue police box with a scarf hanging out the door. Wayne managed to sideswipe it, even though there was nothing else around for at least 500 million miles.

Things quietened down for a while, until Wayne announced there was something 'bloody huge' on the Budget Radar. Arthur asked if it was edible at all, but got no answer. As the minutes passed, a metallic glint could be seen far ahead. They drifted closer and closer until the glint revealed itself to be a spaceship. But it was huge !! Miles long ! Miles high ! Probably miles to the lavvys in the back too !! The taxi was suddenly bathed in a green light. Another insidious plot device !! Also known as a tractor beam !! Cue suspensful music….Cue terrified looks of helplessness….Cue DANGER !!! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What will happen on the spaceship ?

Will Roger every get to save the Earth ?
  Will the author run out of plot before that ?
    Send your ideas to me, how will this story end ?

See you next episode, same VAX-time, same VAX-account number for…..

Rocket Roger gets frisky and watches Olympic Gymnastics !!!!

                              Episode Seven

Episode Seven of Rocket Roger; you're welcome to it. In our last thrilling episode, the Dodgy Brothers, Roger and Chadwick were all trapped in a FTL Space Taxi being dragged into a giant space ship. What fate awaits them ? Read on if you dare (or if you're skipping lectures, slack hoons.)

The green light bathing their tiny craft grew more intense as they approached the gigantic ship. As they came nearer, Roger could make out a name on its prow: The Challanic. Not THE Challanic !! (see end of paragraph to understand the joke.) This ship vanished sixty years ago,on its way to Alpha Centauri to build a colony. What fate befell the ship and its crew. They would find out soon enough……

They stepped out of their taxi into the ships docking bay. Strange thing was, it looked more like an office. Desks, carpeting, flimsy cardboard type separators, and lots of graphs all over the place. On the near wall Roger could see large photographs of the ships namesakes: The space shuttle Challenger and the ocean liner Titanic.

A woman in her early forties, hair drawn back tight into a bun, glasses out of the 1950s and the most runway sized shoulder pads Roger had ever seen. This woman obviously took power dressing to its credible limit. "Aha, you gentle-persons must be the management consultants." "Err…no…you dragged us in here, remember ?" answered Roger. "Yes, we thought you were trying to dodge the issue. Most consultants do." replied the woman, looking bemused. "Who are you, then. Did personnel send you up ?" "No, we're trying to get to Uranus." piped up Chadwick. The woman started to kick him, then her face lit up. "Oh, you mean the planet ! Sorry little person." Roger coughed and said "Would it be possible to be dropped off there, Mrs…err" "Please !!" The woman looked shocked. "Young person, while on this ship you shall mind your manners. Refer to me as Person Highsec. I am the High Secretary on the ship. As to your original question, I am afraid this ship isn't going anywhere, we have experienced a temporary breakdown in the engines." "How temporary is that ?" asked Roger. "About sixty years so far. We're still in committee as to what alternate solutions we have. The Propulsive Sub-Committee advises petitioning the engine to call off industrial action, the Action Sub-Committee wants to kick it until it starts up again, and the Procrastination Sub-Committee wants to postpone everything till next year, and have another Christmas Party." Roger stared at her incredulously. "Why not just radio Titan and ask for some help ??!!" "We'd rather solve this on our own, thank you. We don't want higher management thinking we are not self-sufficient."

She turned around and Roger stepped back to let the shoulder pads pass him. "Why don't I take you on a fact finding tour of the ship, maybe you can think of something we've missed. I'm sure we'll find some stray bits of plot lying around."

They started to walk through the ship. The whole place really was a huge office. Men in ties and collars looked nervously at VDUs, the women did exactly the same (between looking bitchy at each other, and commenting on each other's taste in clothing). Ergonomically designed chairs ensured maximal discomfort, so it must be good for you, and obviously, a committee had decided on the office decor. At least six different colours graced each wall, dotted with weird paintings that probably cost a fortune. The next area they entered contained a vast number of books, stored neatly on shelves, thick with dust. "What are they ?" asked Roger. "Management texts." replied the female person. "Actually, no-one reads them, but we pretend we have. We all get a one page summary of that lot, and that just about covers everything you'd need." "So this is just excess weight ?" "Yes, I suppose it is. Why ?" "Don't you know any physics at all ?" "Fizziks ? Who's that ?" "Well for a start, physics says that if you throw all that out the back as fast as possible, you'll start to go forwards at a proportional speed. With all this stuff here, you'd be at Alpha Centauri in a few months !" "Wow, I wonder why we never thought of that. This Fizziks person must be really clever. I wonder if they'd like a job here….."

While she contemplated that, Roger and Chadwick slipped away, leaving the Dodgy Brothers to deal with her. "Don't worry, boys. With credentials, talent and honesty like yours, I think you'd make great managers."

Roger and Chadwick started to head back to the docking bay. They passed through more offices. Modern art furniture could be seen everywhere. Chairs with backs four feet high were attached to about two square inches of seat. The triangular tables fairly creaked under the weight of a magazine called Management Hourly. They eventually found their way back to the alleged docking bay, climbed in the alleged taxi and sped off to further adventures and thrilling, if a little unbelievable, plot lines.

See you next time on …. Rocket Roger Passes the half way mark !!!

                              Episode Eight

Roger and Chadwick made their way through the offices back to the docking bay, and reentered the taxi. Roger cringed at the thought of Chadwick's potent aroma for another 10 hours, and his nose desperately tried to clamber off his face.

"Well, Chadwick, I wonder which career stereotype we'll criticize this week. I think we've run out of business and management-types, so I think its time for RELIGION !!!"

As the taxi choked its way out of the huge doors (upon which was taped a little A4 Poster asking WHERE IS GOD IN YOUR LIFE) (Chisholm Joke) Roger turned on the radio. After much crackling and wheezing, and generally sounding like a burning pensioner, a voice came through: Very American, very overdone, very vomit-inducing…. (for GAD, read God in an American accent).

"Brethren !!! Children of GAD !!! Welcome to Amalgamated Religion's Worship- Meditation-Yoga-Soul-Saving-Hour-Of-Power !!! We have gathered together to worship God and contribute to his retirement fund….. Yes my Children, GAD himself told me he's going to retire. He doesn't like this Universe, it doesn't pay well enough. He's been offered a job two dimensions down, unless he gets more money here. YOU CAN HELP, my children. Just send every bit of money you have, and maybe we can convince Him to stay. Also GAD confided in me, there aren't enough good looking nuns around, especially at my nun-school. If you're ugly and thinking of joining, forget it. GAD told me that from now on, would-be nuns must be under 25, slim, with a balcony you could do Romeo and Juliet from. A complete physical check by myself, as GAD's most trusted nun-picker, will ensure GAD is pleased with your sacrifice."

"Now, its time for our most popular segment, Make A Missionary. Brother Lauda is out in the Divine Dragster, we're crossing live……Niki, mate, you there ?" "Ya, Mein Friend I here am being. Following now am I the taxi- cab, which is holding two peoples inside, one of racially pure Aryan stock, the other is being not fit for ze shitting upon. You are being now a missionary, yes ? Please to call the present station of listening, and missionary shall you become. Happy shall you be as small nations shall you invade und learn jokes zat you may impress Helga und Gretel very much, Ja."

The radio went dead as Roger leaned over his shoulder and saw the last thing he needed….the Divine Dragster. He picked the CB handset and spoke to Brother Niki.

"You don't mean me do you, Brother Niki ?" "Who else meaning vould I be. A missionary you are now, pull over in the name of God…" "Now look, hang on a sec….BOOM*" The noise came from the alleged engine of the alleged vehicle. It probably had something to do with that Geschaftenkwik Missile that slammed into it. Roger decided pulling over was in everyone's interest, especially his.

Chadwick stopped picking his nose, a habit he'd developed because the pressure desensitized the cowardice part of his brain, making him feel brave. He'd written off to the Space-O-Navy many times, but each time had received a curt letter thanking him for his suggestion, but the sight of 12,000 men with their fingers buried deep in their nostrils was hardly likely to strike fear into the hearts of the enemy.

"Are we going to be missionaries, Colonel huh are we, are we, huh ??!!" "Chadwick, I think I'll be the missionary and you'll be my converter, OK ?" "What's a converter, sir. Is it important, do I get a uniform…" "Well, we'll just saunter into some backwater jungle village and tell everyone that you'll visit each hut for hours on end, unless they change their religion. One whiff of you is enough to make Jesus repent. Why do you smell so bad anyway Chadwick."

"Well, my mum buys all my aftershave and deodorant. But since she died twenty years ago, and was blind anyway, every morning I spray myself with rotting flea remover, ancient industrial greaser, or moldy fly spray. And I can't really change any of it, because she made me promise to treasure everything she ever gave me." "Well, maybe after we get back to Earth, you can hire yourself out as a locust plague repellent…..for Mexico perhaps."

By this time, the Divine Dragster had pulled up alongside. But the dilapidated taxi had no docking mechanism…the bloody thing hardly had a chassis, transmission, micro-fusion pile, or even fluffy dice !! It looked like time for some debate-causing plot twist: an unsuited space walk.

Roger started breathing deeply, oxygenating his blood as much as possible. Chadwick did the same, filling the cabin with a foul pong. A side compartment opened up on the Dragster; that was Roger's destination. "Ready Chad ?" "Yes, Colonel" "Pity….OK, here goes…."

The doors on both sides slowly slid, crunched and ground their way back, and fell off. Roger felt the unimaginable cold seeping into his body, his eyes blurred slightly, as what little air still in his lungs rushed out and froze before his eyes. Bracing his feet on the side of the taxi he pushed off and drifted into the airlock opposite. He turned to see if Chadwick was with him. But no !!! The airlock door had closed behind him, with Chadwick still outside, clinging to the handle, and ringing the doorbell for all he was worth, screaming into silence. Roger heard air hissing into the airlock and Brother Lauda's voice over the intercom.

"Are you alright, Brother Rogerson ?" "Open the damn door, you idiot, he'll die out there !!" "No chance, I'm not having that smelly, inferior scum on mein nice clean ship." "Open it, or I'll kill you and do it myself, that heap of dysentric camel dung still owes me thirty bucks !!" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ What will Brother Lauda do ?

Will Chadwick turn into a corpsicle ?
  Will Roger really become a missionary ?
    Will the author think of any more jokes, I hope so ?

All this and nothing else will be revealed in the next thrilling episode of

Rocket Rogerson hunts for a new plot line !!!

P.S Anyone who doesn't believe an unsuited spacewalk is possible please go to a library, get Arthur C. Clarke's "The View from Serendip" and read something useful.

                              Episode Nine

In our last thrilling instalment, Roger's little stinkbomb of a buddy, Chadwick was on the wrong side of an airlock and running out of time fast. On the inside of the airlock, concerned about the thirty bucks Chadwick still owed him was our hero, captured by the evil Brother Niki Lauda, worst driver this side of Venus.

Roger desperately looked around the steely compartment, the laughter of the evil Brother Lauda ringing in his ears. Then he saw a large red button next to the airlock. He rushed over to it, and read the little notice taped above it. "Press in the event that someone is trapped outside and about to die hideously." This was definitely the right time to press it. After all, it's very difficult to get money out of someone's pocket when they're frozen solid, clothes and all.

Roger slammed the button, and a faint whirring noise came from inside the wall. Roger looked up at Chadwick through the airlock window. Chadwick was looking above the door, at a video camera that extended out towards him, seemingly capturing that certain look…..certain doom.

"What the hell are you doing, Lauda, you inhuman monster !!" cried Roger, doing his best Flash Gordon pose. "I am ze shooting of ze jolly little Death Video to send back to Earth for ze playing of at ze parties, und family gatherings und all zat kind of schtuff. Is good idea, ya " "Nein…I mean….no ," yelled Roger "Who's going to watch it. He hasn't got a family and certainly hasn't got any friends." "Vot about his parents. Surely he is not being an amoeba, involved in a growth experiment that went horribly wrong ?"

"His Father abandoned him fifteen minutes after the birth, and his mother could barely stand the smell. When she went blind and learned to rely on her other senses, every time he walked past, she'd say "Good morning Farmer Johnson…been out shovelling shit all morning, then ?' Finally, she made him leave at the age of sixteen before she became convinced she lived next to a slaughterhouse without freezer facilities."

A strange quiver crept into Niki's voice. "Ya, mein parents were the kicking of me out also. Every day mein Mother would make all different German food things. For breakfast pickled pig's trotters und schnapps. For lunch pickled peanut butter sandwiches with pickled apples und schnapps. For dinner, pickled horses tail soup followed by pickled pickle in pickle sauce with pickled ice-cream afterwards……und schnapps. I HATE GERMAN FOOD !!! I am a German and I hate German food, every Geschtinken thing is Braufenzi Geschfrigenzi PICKLED !!! Mein Gott, I cannot let ze little fat one die. So disgusting is he, he vill not mind to be eating my lunch for me, Pickled Martian und schnapps. We shall speak at great lengths about how much our parents we are hating."

A moment later, the airlock hissed open. As the video camera withdrew, Chadwick's grubby little hands seized it, and he allowed the momentum to carry him through the airlock into the compartment. "Colonel Rogerson, sir…Thank you for saving me !!" This little cliche was delivered in typical "Sidekick crawly lick grovel Style". "That's alright Chad, but you've just spent a good one and a half minutes in hard vacuum near absolute zero….You should be frozen solid !!" "Aha…a normal person would be….but I'm definitely not normal. You see, all the gunge and muck and ancient aerosol I use and can't get rid of seems to act as damn good insulation ! Even so, that good one and a half minutes was actually a bloody awful one and a half minutes." Roger smiled. At least with all those noxious chemicals frozen to Chadwick, the smell would go away for a while. "Brother Lauda ," called out Roger, "can we listen to the news for a while, we're on some urgent business." The crackling of the weak radio signal carrying the news through the sub- etha blared into the cabin.

"….and here are the main points again. The City of Melbourne has failed in its 99th attempt to host the Olympic Games. Said a spokesdroid 'We're really looking forward to the next bid so we'll crack a century.' Weather; there will be a strong front of alien menace around the Dark Side of the Moon, while those of you living on Uranus (loud sniggers in the background) can relax, the alien menace has subsided."

"Oh no Colonel, the alien menace has moved to the Moon, why do you think they did that ?" "Probably because the outer edges of the solar system is utterly devoid of jokes, I would guess. Brother Lauda !! Take us to the Dark Side of The Moon. We've got an alien menace to exterminate !

Will the aliens finally show up ?

When will Chadwick pay up the Thirty bucks ?
  Why has the author engineered the most unbelievable plot since Toxic
    Custard !
     Will Melbourne ever get the Olympics ?

For these answers, plus Pi to 800 places, tune in next time for

Rocket Roger Goes Alien Smashing !!

P.S Those of you who noticed the sudden absence of Roger's press ganging

  into being a missionary......Don't be so picky, I'm on a tight schedule.

                               Episode Ten

In our last exciting episode, Roger had nobly extricated himself and his little sidekick, the brave but reeking Chadwick out of the stickiest situation since Sticky the Stick Insect got stuck on a sticky bun.(Thanks Ben Elton) What will happen this episode. . . Let's find out.

Roger swung lazily in the jerry rigged hammock he set up. One end was tied to an anonymous steel ring in the wall, the other was tied around Chadwick's neck.

"You know Chad, I'm looking forward to the end of this stupid adventure." "Why's that, your Colonelship. Are you tiring of the endless violence, the pointless waste of life; do you desire the more noble pursuits of the human soul such as art, dance, sculp….." "What are you babbling about, Chadwick," said Roger sitting upright and nearly breaking Chadwick's neck," I couldn't give a toss for that crap, and I love mindless violence as long as I'm dishing it out. I'll tell you what really riles me. We've been trekking across the bloody Solar System for 3 weeks now, and we still haven't seen a woman !! I mean, this so called witty, humorous, madcap serial is meant to be a parody of Z-Grade sci-fi movies, right ? So where's the women ? Where are the scantily clad Martian princesses with four breasts ? Where are the Barbarella clones with hopelessly impractical but very revealing bikini space-suits ?

"Oi you ! So-called author !!" "UH….YES, ROGER ?" "I want to see some women in this episode, preferably without a lot on !" "UM, OK ROGER I'LL SEE WHAT I CAN DO." "Good….and no ugly ones…..keep 'em slim…..find a sheep for Chad too" "MUMBLE MUMBLE BLOODY EGO-TRIP OFFICERS MUMBLE MUMBLE HORNY BASTARD…."

The Divine Dragster continued it's headlong plunge towards Harpo, one of the many Defence Stations in Lunar orbit. Harpo was so-called because it's radio was always on the blink so it never said anything. Groucho and Chico were really popular, but no-one ever saw Zeppo, and the less said about Karl the better.

The docking proceeded without fuss or funny, but the music was annoying since everyone hated the harp. Upon disembarking there were two gorillas in uniform waiting for them, carrying viciously lethal looking M99 MegaDeath Plumbium Cannons (They'll fill ya full of lead) (Chemistry/Latin joke.) "Come with…..us." they mumbled, checking little papers in their hands to make sure they had the words right.

Roger and Chadwick bade farewell to another expendable character: Brother Niki Lauda. An ill-conceived, hastily thrown together and badly scripted character but still a friend, and a great platform for German jokes.

The two Neanderthal guards led our heroes to a small electric car, which, at the breakneck speed of three miles an hour took them to a small white room. "Wait here." said the more talkative of the guards.

Roger and Chad sat patiently for a few minutes, until the door shwooshed open (Swooshed ?) and a familiar figure whizzed in.

"So, you slack son of a five-legged mule. You couldn't handle a simple

case of alien infestation, so you opened a can of inspiration and rushed
home to Doc Juliff."

It was, of course Dr Frankenstein Juliff, loopy and nutty but completely clever inventor of Modular Gadgets the likes of which had never been seen. He had given Roger the modular four foot long imitation M99 Death Cannon which with a few simple twists become a highly useful pencil. (More astute readers may have noticed the strange disappearance of this item after episode five)

"Well Rog, me old son, me old cobber, me old china, me…old….MATE !" The force of the last word shocked Roger into speech…. "Um….yes….Good morning Doctor…..err.." "I can see you're all choked to the nines with gratitude at the usefulness

of my incredible modular pencil.  But you'll need something stronger than
that for the next few episodes.  These aliens aren't kidding around
anymore, nosireebob'syourunclecametostayforeverandadayandwhenhewentaway
weallwroteaplay WHOOP !!  Sorry Rog, my wording module is being passed
incredible amounts of tramp data.  Just a little logic error, easily fixed
noworrieswhatsoeveratallnothingtofeareverythingsundercontrolitsfinenearly
gotit.....WHOOP !!  Ah, jeez, that's better.
We've finally managed to get a picture of the aliens, and they're uglier
than a Joan Kirner look alike competition.  We lost a good man getting
this picture, so memorize it well, you'll have a test on it before you go.
We might even add up the scores right, too" (Another in-joke, sorry)

Roger carefully examined the picture.  The evil curve of the huge talons.
. .  the piercing black pools in it's eyes. . . the scaly blue feathers. .
.  and the really cute way it fluffs up its head feathers... ?!?!?!?! This
was no ordinary alien, it was one of the most evil, sadistic, merciless
mutant BUDGIES the Universe had ever known !!

Every inch of six feet tall, and all called Joey, these horrible creatures
came into being through a freak accident involving uranium, plutonium,
germaniums (the pink ones), a cranium, a trapezium and 8 little blue
budgies in a terrarium.  Nothing had been heard since the plague of Joeys
had carried Tasmania off to the depths of space.  They were back in force
now, and on the Dark Side of The Moon......The Earth Seemed Doomed.....

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Will the plague of Joeys overwhelm Roger ?
  Will a girl show up for Roger to get ?
    Will the people in the computer center crack down on this rubbish ?
      Will this story get any more unbelievable ?

For all these answers plus How to get bird shit off your upholstery read….

Rocket Roger buys every Church album and really likes them !!!

Do you know anyone who would like to subscribe to Rocket Roger ? No ? Well send me their account number anyway, and laugh all the way to the Bank !!

                             Episode Eleven

In last weeks heart-stopping instalment, Dr Franky 'My beard's bigger than yours' Juliff revealed to Roger the true nature of the alien menace, now residing at 24, Dark Side of the Moon Street, The Moon. Mutant budgerigars, six feet tall and bent on Universal Domination and all called Joey, no less. How will Roger handle this….read on… +|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|+|

"Gasp !!" gasped Roger, gasping. "Gosh, Roger, " goshed Chadwick, Roger's little sidekick/buddy/insect zapper, "This is going to be harder than I thought. Nothing short of a thermonuclear MegaBlastaBomba can even tickle a Joey. How are we going to beat them, your Heroship…sir." "Well Chadwick, we'll just..uh…..no we won't….we'll….uh…erm….Why do I always have to make these decisions ? Surely the leaders of the world and top scientists and people like that wouldn't just let an incredibly handsome yet sensitive but rugged hero like me come up with all the ideas ! What about you, Doctor Juliff, got any ideas about Joey Extermination ?"

"Sure as whale shit sinks I do, Rog-baby. Just 'ave a butcher's at this little lot." He gestured towards a scrap merchant's delight piled high in the next room. Peering through the window, Roger asked what it was and what possible use half a ton of scrap metal would have in fighting creatures that ate M-756 Battle Tanks for breakfast.

"Well, Roger, you know how budgies love their own reflections, yes ? Well, Joeys are no different. So we'll just polish that lot up, build a mirror, stick a pilot on it and presto, no more Joeys." "No more Joeys ?" piped up Chadwick. "Yeah, we'll just fly her into the Sun. No fuss, no mess, no bother !" "No pilot." added Roger sarcastically, cocking his eyebrows at the Doctor. "Oh yeah….we didn't think of that. Well we really need a pilot or the Joeys will break the mirror and we'll get thrashed again." There was a short, embarrassing silence, the kind you get when you're typically about half way through a date, and run out of weather to talk about. Doctor Juliff started again. "Look, sod that for now, let's get it working first before we worry about niggly details like an agonising broiling death while spinning Sunwards. You must understand that you can't fly this mirror to the Joeys' base, their radar is amazingly sensisitive. You'll have to take it through the Lunar sewers, which by an incredible coincidence were just linked in to the alien base yesterday. Even alien invaders have to pay rates, y'know."

"How do I carry half a ton of scrap metal through sewers, and where in the name of Skilbey did you find it anyway. Lunar freight haul costs a mint !" "Glad you asked, Rog. We had this VAX on the base for database purposes. Well by an unfortunate coincidence we all tried to run INGRES at the same time. Poor thing didn't stand a chance ! Just blew itself to Kingdom Come! As for transport….Through the Wonders Of Modules…..by the Powers Invested In Me…..Abracadabra……Supercalifra(no, just kidding)….we are proud to present you with your NEW….MODULAR….CAR !! (Insert crappy game show noises)

Dr. Juliff pressed a large purple button a the scrap metal began to twist and turn and leap about like a frog on speed. In about a minute, where there had been a worthless pile of scrap VAX there now stood a awkward, stilted…well, words cannot sufficiently describe the essential WEIRDITY of the thing.

Chadwick leaped up the air and began waving his arms about like a typical brainless game show constestant. "YYYYEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!" he bellowed with a grin you could lose a tractor in, and he launched himself through the window and ran, still screaming in ecstasy, and draped himself over one of the wheels. "It's BEAUTIFUL !!! I LOVE IT !!! Is it really ours ?" Doctor Juliff and Roger cautiously picked their way through the broken glass, towards the strange vehicle. "Yep, it's yours until you die, or you finish the mission, whichever comes first." said the Doctor. "I don't know how to drive this thing, Doctor and Chadwick couldn't drive a nail into a 4 X 4." "That's why you'll be provided with a driver. She's also the story's token bimbo, so don't expect discussions on Aristotelian philosophy, OK ?. . . Aha, here she comes now." From the other side of the room, a figure (and I mean a FIGURE !!) voluptuously . . .well, walked isn't the word. She sort of slid/wobbled/glided over towards Roger.

"Hi Colonel," in a voice silky and smooth with a hint of condescension ('Only a Colonel ?') "I'm Mammary MacBimbo, your driver. I hope you're ready for this trip, it's going to be…bumpy." Some of those words were accented in a way that made Roger incredibly nervous. He plucked up courage, remembering he was the hero of this story, and incredibly sexy. "Sure thing, Miss Mac Bimbo. Ready when you are, and then a couple more times after that too !" This was obviously going to become disgustingly biological. "When do we leave, Doctor ?" asked Chadwick, noticing Roger's complete fixation on Miss MacBimbo and her main redeeming features. "Now Chadwick, we're fast running out of Moonbase jokes, and the gags coming up are festering quick so we'd better get to 'em fast."

Our gallant crew clambered into the Sewer-Mobile, and the western wall fell away, revealing a deep dark passage that smelled only slightly better than Chadwick on a warm day. "Here goes Colonel, ready to take the plunge ?" "Whenever you are, MacBimbo !"

She slapped it into third and floored it. ("Another woman driver." thought Roger) The craft shot off into the darkness. What horrible dangers would they encounter in the terrible maze of Lunar sewers. (Clue: Green & eats pizza) Find out (if you can't guess) in the next episode !!

Will the Joeys respond to the mirror treatment ?

Will MacBimbo affect Rogers judgement, or just his libido ?
  Will Rocket Roger get more readers than that Toxic Custard crap ?
    (YES,YES!)

Tune in next episode for another thrilling instalment of Rocket Roger !!!

                             Episode Twelve

The Sewer-Mobile sped on through the labyrinth of grey tunnels that made up Lunar City's sewer system. The threat of Lunar Sewer rats, huge ferocious and very rude, had been alleviated by strapping Chadwick to the bottom of the vehicle, just above the water line. God help him if a wave should develop. God help the rats too. "How much longer will this take, MacBimbo ?" asked Roger casually, trying to sound like he did this kind of stuff all the time. "Not much longer, Colonel. Sewers are dead boring and there's not many jokes floating in this crap. There is one concept we have to be careful of. . . and I think were just about to run into it. Look !"

She pointed ahead into the semi-darkness. Roger could make out three…no four blobs seemingly running towards them. He signalled MacBimbo to stop the Sewer-Mobile and unstrap Chadwick in case they needed to scare anyone off.

The vehicle gradually halted, and Roger looked carefully at the shapes. . . definitely humanoid. . .They had stopped running, though and seemed to be trying to catch their breath…wheezing…coughing…spluttering. Then they started running again, along the concrete banks of the sewer channel. "Come on dudes," Roger heard the lead one cry "like there's more non- beaudacious and totally uncool sewer invaders coming to find our secret hide-out !!"

"God, not again." said MacBimbo seemingly disgusted, "It's the Geriatric Mutant Ninja Turtles." Seeing Roger's confusion she continued. "After the craze in the early 1990's died away and kids went nuts over the Infant Hamster Assassin Squad instead, the Turtles were kicked out of their luxury Hollywood Sewer. They tried some part time work, but there's not much call for four underage mutants in any field. So they came to the moon and submitted themselves for medical experiments. After those were finished they moved into these sewers, and they've been here for seventy years. No matter what you do, just don't mention the Hamsters, OK ? They can't stand them."

The four Turtles had finally reached our heroes, and after catching their breath, they spoke. (Wheezed, more like.) "OK dudes, no funny moves, or we'll jump around making silly noises and waving these dangerous toys about." "Yeah….we're lean….mean….spleen …" "Green, dufus !!" "Oh yeah, sorry dudes, my memory's not what it used to…er..oh yeah…be !" Actually the sight of four geriatric amphibians with long green beards and more wrinkles than a Hollywood Tribute didn't exactly terrify Roger. But it did worry Chadwick. "Oh please Turtles, don't hurt us !! We're only trying to save the Earth. I hated the Infant Hamster Assassin Squad too !"

The turtles all looked at him and wrinkled their wide, flat, hairy noses. "Whoa, little dude, what happened to you ? Been swimming in the sewers ?" "You must be real evil, I mean you're short, smelly, and all the other 'bad guy' cliches in our cartoons. I think Food-Processor and the Big Toe Clan sent you !! Turtle Power !!" As one, the four turtles surged…well…hobbled forwards and started bashing the side of the Sewer-Mobile. (Actually, wet celery would have caused more damage than they did.) "This is ridiculous !" yelled MacBimbo. "We're being assaulted by four decrepit mutants ! " She started the Sewer-Mobile again, "One side, phlegm features !" and the turtles were knocked aside as the Sewer-Mobile leapt forward and continued it's harrowing journey.

Within minutes, they had stopped underneath a manhole. "This is it, Colonel, the entrance to the Joey base. Here, put on these disguises." From a compartment she pulled out two "Acme Joey Disguise Kits: Hours of fun for the whole family, until you get locked up !" "Put these on, and the Joeys won't suspect a thing. . .Unless Chadwick leaves his head facing backwards; fix it, halfwit !" Chadwick corrected the cranial orientation problem, and asked Roger "Squawk, tweet, tweet, squawk, Who'sanaughtyboy, then." "Automatic Joey Translation unit." explained MacBimbo. "Now get going !" Roger took his head off, (so to speak) and asked how they were meant to carry a half ton car around inconspicuously. "No problems, Colonel. Watch this."

She pressed a small button on the side of the car. An almost inaudible hum filled the air and the car slowly began to shrink, and shrink, and shrink. When it was matchbox sized, MacBimbo picked it up and gave it to Roger. "You now have half an hour before it expands into its mirror configuration, which, being two hundred meters wide will be a little uncomfortable if it's still in your pocket. Try not to let that happen, it's ve.." "Thanks for your concern, Mammary, I'll remember you in my dreams." drawled Roger, suavely. "Very expensive !" continued MacBimbo, annoyed. "Oh….right…" blushed Roger, quickly taking the shrunken mirror. Chadwick was already half way up the ladder, and Roger followed him. Mammary MacBimbo watched them go, and as the manhole cover fell back into place, she turned to face the reader/camera. She pulled a small black box out of her uniform. "They have just entered sector 12, I'm continuing observation."

From the top of her head, a small rip appeared, and spread down through her torso. Inside, amidst the folds of uniform and synthetic skin, could be seen… blue feathers !! The disguise fell into the filthy sewer, and in MacBimbo's place stood…A Joey !! Cackling and squawking, the evil impostor climbed the ladder into the base, with murder on her mind.

What will MacJoey do to Roger and Chadwick ?

Has MacJoey sabotaged the mirror ?
  What will our heroes do ?

Tune in next episode for the next thrilling instalment of

Rocket Roger of the Space-O-Navy !!

                            Episode Thirteen

In our last episode, Roger and Chadwick had infiltrated the Joey base. Unbeknownst (ancient word of the week) to them, their driver, Mammary MacBimbo, is actually a Joey spy. She followed them into the base, and will almost certainly be mean and nasty to them. Just to make things really bad, Roger only has half an hour to deploy the Joey-Killing Mirror before it expands and kills him. How will Roger get out of this one ? Read on and find out . . .

Roger and Chadwick cautiously climbed through the manhole and looked around and the Joey base. It was just what you'd expect to see in a lair of 40,000 mutant six foot budgerigars on the moon. (If anyone knows what that is, exactly, please write and tell me, then submit yourself for psychiatric treatment.)

The whole place was made up of twenty foot high cages, with cute little sliding doors and lined with old newspapers. There were thousands of them, stacked high, suspended on huge tree like structures. Noticeably absent were the usual paraphernalia associated with budgies, such as mirrors, ladders, bells, and little plastic framed balls. Roger recalled an article during the first Joey plague explaining the Joey's abhorrence of these items, as they brought out the primitive budgie instincts in them. i.e Ringing bells, climb ladders to nowhere and throwing balls up in the air and letting them smash their skulls in. The modern Joey avoided these items at all costs. (Remember that. It's important later on.)

Of course, there were the Joeys themselves, seemingly very busy, flying between various cages intended for purposes unknown to our heroes. Many carried metal objects, others lifted giant coconuts between them, gripping them by the husks. The overall picture was one of industry working at full tilt for the destruction of the Earth, with all the Joeys single-mindedly applying themselves. . . all save one: MacJoey, the impostor that had followed Roger and Chadwick into the base. She now stood about thirty meters behind Roger and Chadwick, slowly advancing towards them. "Look out Roger !" came a chorus of children's voices.

Roger turned, but MacJoey had quickly hidden behind an anonymous structure. "What is it, children ? Is the evil Joey behind me ?" The Joey started to overact her way towards Roger. . . "Yes Roger, she's behind you !!" Roger whirled around, but the Joey had moved again. . . "Where, children ? I can't see her !! Are you sure she's here ?" "Yes ! Yes ! She's behind the anti-plasmoid shield converter !" "Of course…the old 'hiding behind the anti-plasmoid shield converter' trick ! Come out, you evil old bird, you've got Rocket Roger to deal with now !"

MacJoey slowly emerged from her hiding place, and grinned evilly at Roger. "So, you knew I was a Joey agent all the time. Before I rip your head off, you might as well deal out some more plot exposition. How did you know ?" "It was quite easy, actually. When you so callously ran over the Geriatric Mutant Ninja Turtles, I wondered how anyone trained by the Navy could be so cruel and unfunny. I then made a great leap of deduction and paranoia, and sneaked a quick look at the next episode to make sure you were what I suspected; a Joey agent ! So I'm ready for you now, do your worst !!"

MacJoey and Roger began to circle each other, each poised to strike… "You won't be so chirpy after this, pal. " "You're dealing with me now, feather brain…your goose is cooked." "Well, I'm genetically engineered for combat; you're a dead duck ! Anyway, I've already told the authorities you're here !" "So….a stool pigeon, huh ?" "Yep, and when they get here, you'll be caught and tortured for information; then you'll sing like a bird !" Roger stood up, and cast his best 'annoyed psychopath' look at MacJoey. "Oh yeah…well, A rolling stone on the other foot is worth two gift horses. " "Huh ?!!?" replied MacJoey, and looked around while trying to figure out Roger's gift to English Literature.

"AHAHHAHA !" bellowed Roger as he leapt into action and planted his feet square into MacJoey's capacious chest. She was flung backwards, and tripped over Chadwick who was curled up on the floor in a well rehearsed manoeuvre. Her neck smashed against a conveniently placed wall and she died instantly. (I'm not one who believes in noble enemies getting off lightly with a mild concussion.) "Brilliantly done Chadwick, that's the first thing you've done right in living memory. What's your excuse ?" "I was trying to make friends with a Lunar Grasshopper. I nearly had it convinced, but then that mean ol' bird hit my head and.." "What's that thing hanging off your nose, Chadwick ?" "That's the grasshopper, sir. I don't like to put my nose where its not wanted, and this is ridiculous !"

A loud flapping of wings drew Roger's attention to the dark sky. It was accompanied by Physics screaming out that flight in a vacuum was impossible without a power source, but was quickly shouted down by Artistic License. After all, the sight of three hundred man sized birds flying through a Lunar Twilight is more terrifying than three hundred man sized birds flapping in place.

"Uh oh, let's get out of here fast !!" urged Roger. He leapt into the air and began flapping his arms like a man whose armpits are on fire. The brilliant design of the suits incorporated a null-grav device accompanied by a small…er…why am I explaining this to you. Look, he can fly OK ? The two impostor budgies flew high over the alien base. Fighting back the urge to panic hysterically, Roger looked around, and noticed an flat, open area. Perfect ! He banked and headed for it, closely followed by Chadwick, and a horde of Joeys. The horde grew larger as the squawk got around that infiltrators had…well, infiltrated the base. Roger touched down, and Chadwick crashed in a heap.

"Quickly Roger, by an amazing coincidence, there's only twenty seconds left until the mirror unfolds !" "Right, little buddy, start running ! Head for that big red 'X' on the ground." Roger dropped the little device, and started running from the … what do you call a group of mutant six foot budgerigars ? Roger ran as fast as he could, passed Chadwick, and tripped him up to make time. Lucky for him, the Joey's avoided anything that smelly….

Will the mirror unfold in time ?

 Will the author find a suitable ending for this story ?
   Will another story be forthcoming after this one ?

Find out in the next thrilling episode of Rocket Roger !!!

                            Episode Fourteen

In our last episode, Roger was running for his life from a flock of mutant budgerigars (Joeys) on their base on the moon. He had just dropped a device which would expand into a two hundred meter mirror, which should mesmerize the Joeys with their own reflections. But the Joeys are getting pretty close…..

Roger stopped at the marking on the ground, and read the little sign. "Minimum safe distance for expansion of two hundred meter mirror and also for being chased by group of evil mutant Joeys" "5….4….3…..2….1…NOW !!"

As it happens, one of the birds nearly got a wingtip to Roger before a deafening roar filled the air. Picture the following scene, if you can.

A glistening, awe-inspiring structure polished like the sun, two hundred meters high. In front of it, sitting quietly on the ground are 40,000 six foot budgerigars, all mesmerized by their own reflections. Behind it are two figures, climbing a ladder to a small cabin in the centre of the structure. They enter it, and the click of the door sealing are the only noises to disturb the immaculate silence, until the Joeys start to murmur to themselves, trying to provoke a response from their reflections. The mirror silently lifted from the alien base, followed by the helpless Joeys.

"Now what do we do, Colonel ? We can't just land at a zoo and say 'Hey we've got 40,000 mutant birds to spare; do you want a couple…'" "Simple….we fly 'em into the sun, like the Doctor said." "But won't that get a little hot for us too ?" "Yeah…but like any macho Hollwood-Type hero, I'll bother about that when we get there….Jeez, don't look out the window; you'll drop your guts !!"

The sight was something to behold…and then regret beholding. A copious amount of the most fearsome avian mutation seen, since Big Bird caught Rabies and ripped eighteen toddlers apart on Sesame Street. "The computer says they're gaining on us, they'll start hitting the mirror in about 7 hours at this rate." "Seven hours…that's way too long. The readers can't wait that long. Quick, invent a plot device that'll get us to the Sun in about four lines." "Aha, Colonel…what about this button that's just been thought of, marked 'Press here to get to the Sun in a hurry.'"

"I expect it'll get our asses out of this frying pan and into one Mother of a fire !" remarked Roger as he pushed the button, which promptly vanished.

It was suddenly very hot, which led Roger to brilliantly deduce they were somewhere near …wait for it…The Sun. Great !! Sort of…. Looking out of the window, Roger saw the fearsome beaks of the hardy Joeys nudging forwards faster and faster. Within seconds, they were upon the mirror, chattering away to their reflections and pecking like fury.

"Buffalo Balls !!! We're dog-meat !!" cried Roger "She's breaking up !!" The whole cockpit was shaking and buffeting, and our heroes began to pray for another brilliant plot twist to 'Please get us the Hell out of this…'

Chadwick was flung out of his box, striking a massive red button marked 'Eject Cockpit and send it back to Earth to a hero's welcome.'

A final blast of power, and the cockpit was still, drifting slowly back to Earth. Chadwick and Roger struggled to their feet and looked outside. The mirror had begun to crack up and rifts began to appear in its immaculate surface. The Joeys began to snap out of their entranced condition, but found themselves helpless. Unlike on the Moon, where Physics took a backseat to Artistic License and let the Joeys fly in a vacuum, being this close to a major astrophysical body made things different.

The Joeys continued their inexorable drift towards the Sun, which suited Artistic License just fine, because they all got roasted as they meandered through a lovely hyperbolic orbit. By an incredible coincidence, about three months later, 40,000 beautifully cooked birds the size of ostriches plummetted to the Earth in famine stricken Asia, thus saving millions of lives and annoying the Hell out of Bob Geldof, who had a little single all ready for release.

            INSERT "TIME GOES BY" MUSIC HERE

Roger and Chadwick lay by the pool at the Everest Hilton, sipping enormous cocktails, munching on the rave new delicacy: Solar-Cooked Joey. "We did a brilliant job, Chad…especially me." "Yes sir, Colonel sir, absolutely amazing." "We really deserve this break after our harrowing adventure…I wonder what'll happen next week." "Nothing, sir. The writer's buggered off for a holiday, nothing's going to happen till he gets back." "Right then, I guess we'll just wait around here till he does. Waiter !! Another three of these, please !"

                          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 !

Episode Six

In our last Pulitzer Prize Winning episode, Roger and Chadwick had been captured by the Heavy Metal Martians and had their spaceship blown up by a loaded Japanese '54 Fender Strat. Roger's plan to awe the natives, sadly but predictably backfired worse than Saddam's 'Tour of Kuwait - 1991' and things look bleak for our intrepid yet gullible heroes…..

Roger and Chad were bound tightly with bottom E-strings and led through the narrow enclosed streets of the HMMC. Outside the dome could be seen graceful, dusty ruins, delicately aged into their majestic twilight years. Untouched by the passing centuries, the buildings held positions only possible in the lighter gravity of Mars. The original Martians had never been found but as with all vanished races in sci-fi series, they were much smarter than us. Didn't really explain why they let the Earth take over their world. One of their captives noticed Roger and Chad staring at the old Martian structures.

"F'kin ugly, aren't they ? Don't worry, man, we're knocking 'em down next year. Gonna build a huge f'kin concert arena instead!" "Your artistic sensibilities astonish me." lied Roger, sarcastically. "Y'know we're planning a comeback tour of the Earth ?" said the HMM. "Really ?" chuckled Roger in disbelief. "But you don't have a spaceship !" "Don't need one. We got a Marshall !!" laughed the HMM. "If you lie it face down, that amp's got enough power to lift itself right off the ground ! And it can take us with it !" This was beginning to sound seriously dangerous. The sub-plot was going to take longer to finish off than Roger had previously thought.

They were thrown into a stinking pit of a room, one of Edisons original 2 watt light bulbs, toilet, and a floor showing more cockroach than floor. "Wow ! Just like home !" smiled Chadwick, eagerly looking around. Roger was less impressed. "I bet room service closes at ten around here. Better get some shuteye then, we'll need for tomorrow's heroic and daring escape sequence." He walked to the bed, killing as many cockroaches as possible. At least Chadwick would have plenty of dinner tonight.

After getting very little sleep, because of the mutated cockroaches practising "Stairway to Heaven," Roger was awoken by the sweet strains of 'Revielle' on heavily distorted guitar. With all the extra licks and turns thrown in, it took seven minutes to finish.

Roger kicked Chadwick to conciousness, praying that he wouldn't have his customary apres-sleep morning fart. He was lucky. "Good morning Colonel. " Chad stretched until you could just see one of his bones poking out of his generously-proportioned figure. "Have you got your escape plan together ?" "Wait a minute, I'll check…." said Roger, searching his memory to see if his built in IULEG (Incredible, Unbelievably Lucky Escape Generator) had come up with anything, and it had.

(I hope nobody here has read 2000AD Monthly issue 18, 'cos I absolutely positively didn't get this from pages 8 to 17 thereof.)

"Well Chad, this is incredibly unbelievably lucky, but there's a massive escape tunnel right underneath us that the HMs haven't found yet, even though they've been here for two hundred years, and we've been here for one night !" "By the great Skilbey, sir ! We're lucky today aren't we ! " Roger overacted a huge smile. "We sure are, Chad !" Chadwick seemed to remember something "Didn't I read this somewhere bef….." A series of full stops hit Chad over the head, thus preventing further embarrassment to a certain author.

Roger swept the dust away, revealing a stone slab. Luckily, the HMs hadn't put many guards on the only prisoners they've had in two hundred years. In addition, these guards suffered bouts of deafness, especially during highly contrived escapes.(Doesn't this sound like every war movie you've ever seen.?)

The slab lifted to reveal blackness. The blackness led down into more blackness, but it was blacker. Roger reached deep, found the light switch and turned it on. It revealed a small room, with a sliding steel door on one side, a small railing around four feet from the ground and flourescent lights in the ceiling. There was also very annoying music, (James Last Orchestra playing the Best of Deep Purple) and a sign saying MAX CAP: 16 PERSONS. "This guy Max must be really sick if he thinks he's sixteen different people…." thought Roger as he jumped into the small room. Chadwick followed by trying to climb down slowly, but was left dangling his hands gripping the hole in the roof while his feet lingered five feet from the floor.

"Help me Roger ! I can't get down !" "Your dancing problems, like your aromatic armpits, aren't my fault, so don't inflict them on me, OK ?" commented Roger as he casually tickled Chad's ribs, making him crash to the floor. Beside the steel door were several buttons, all illegibly marked. Roger pushed the bottom one, hoping it would lead somewhere interesting and safe. Roger felt the elevator started to descend, but it quickly stopped much too soon. A soft bell sounded, and the door slid slowly open. Outside stood a small figure who looked like a green Cabbage Patch Kid dressed as Obi Wan Kenobi, complete with a mysterious hood which cast strange dancing shadows on his craggy face. It opened its mouth to speak….. "Going down ?" croaked the ancient being. Roger barely managed to say yes. "Damn Good Coffee !" murmured the creature.

The small figure shuffled forward into the elevator, turned to face the door and started humming to the muzak, totally oblivious to Roger's presence. He even managed to ignore Chadwick's devastating aroma. The elevator continued it's descent, stopped, and everyone got out. The room they entered was huge and cave-like but with a smooth glowing white floor. Scattered all around were strange machines, and all around them were hundreds of little beings. It looked like a dozen sci-fi conventions rolled into one Martian mess. Unfortunately, Roger wasn't dressed for the occasion, and naturally was viciously attacked.

Will Roger survive being mauled by walking celery sticks ?

 Why hasn't the plot line from episode one been reached yet ?
   Why hasn't ANY plot line that makes sense been reached ?!

For these answers and the exports of Peru, Burkina Faso and Burma:

Tune in next week for another thrilling episode….

Episode The One Before Eight OR Episode The One After Six

I HATE TITCHY DISK SPACE BUDGETS !! But enough of my problems, if you don't have enough problems, and would like more why not subscribe to Rocket Roger !? Write to edb393gbp3@vx24.cc.monash.edu.au and I'll see that you're visited by your local shrink. If you want a real problem, subscribe to The Toxic Custard Workshop Files from the complete loony at edb134tbp3@the.same.address.

Episode Seven

In our (my) last thriller of an episode, Roger and Chadwick escaped from the heavy metal Martian mob, and stumbled into an underground hideout, the last refuge of the Yoda lookalikes. Unfortunately, due to the need for exciting and dangerous endings, our heroes are being attacked.

Luckily for Roger and Chad, little creatures living under such low gravity tend to be very weak, so it was like being attacked by under-developed pygmies wielding damp lettuce. Chadwick was tickled slightly on his nose, and his sneeze knocked seven of them across the room. The rest of them surrendered at once, and asked him "Are you from Earth ?" "Yes, we are." A great 'excited crowd' noise arose, prompting the slightly bruised alien to step closer to Roger. "Then please tell us," A strange awed, expectant look came over his face. "….Who killed Laura Palmer ?"

There was an audible silence as Roger tried to think who he meant. "I - I'm sorry…who ?" "Laura Palmer….daughter of Leland, very good friend of almost anybody….she of the blue makeup." "Should I know ?" asked a bewildered Roger, who was born hundreds of years too late for all this.

The little green guy started to get emotional and impatient. "For a hundred years we had monitored your television in order to learn your ways. We still have many questions like 'Why is Neighbours STILL running ?' but most of all…."Who killed Laura Palmer ?" We have the whole first series on tape, but Eg-Nog (cursed be his name) broke the antenna, and the repairman union was on strike for three years."

He started to cry, clutching Roger's trousers. The rest of the crowd didn't look too sane, either, and were shuffling closer. "If you don't tell us, we'll go collectively NUTS !! Was it Leo ? Or Bobby ? Or Agent Cooper ? PLEASE !!" He broke down into a sobbing heap, draped over Roger's shiny boots. The others started yelling names at Roger, pressing forward, eager for a reply, ANY reply ! "Donna ! Leo ! The owl !"

Roger and Chad back stepped towards the lift. Chad worriedly tugged Roger's arm. "Tell them something, Roger ! Anything ! Just get us out of here!" "Um….er…it was…" The room went deathly silent again. "MARVIN !!" yelled Roger as he turned and ran back to the open elevator doors.

The crowd gasped, then sighed in that 'I knew it all the time' way that annoys the hell out of everyone, especially when you know for a fact that whoever it is didn't know anything of the sort. Voices started up again, saying "Of course ! I could see it in his eyes ! Who else could it have been ?!" The trick seemed to have worked. Although, as the elevator doors closed, Roger was sure he heard one of them say ….. "Waitasec…..who the Hell is Marvin ?"

Roger stabbed the 'down' button, hoping that the author would plant another convenient escape ship somewhere below. Unfortunately, and totally out of the author's control, the elevator began to rise, back towards the surface, and the horrible Heavy Metal Martians. It did this because it was upset. It's not often that elevators get upset, but this one was peeved that the author hadn't give it a long speech on the tedium of being an elevator (ha ha), or letting it see the future, and be very funny about not wanting to go up (ha ha), and thus robbed it of a chance at stardom. Well, this author doesn't think that psychic elevators are believable. Little green guys watching 'Twin Peaks' are obviously an everyday occurence. Not to worry, readers. After Roger and Chad nervously tiptoed from the elevator, it promptly dropped down its own shaft due to a unforeseen case of Ferrous Termites.

They stepped into a 'Variation on a Launching Pad Theme.' Just imagine something very metallic, functional, greyish, and covered in graffiti, and that's probably the place. Sitting in the middle was the Marshall FBD from Episode Four. For those of you who have sinfully not tattooed this story onto your arm, the Marshall "F'kin Beast of Destruction" is a spaceship owned by the Heavy Metal Martians. And, just to be totally original, Roger was going to steal it.

They reached the boarding ramp, but got a surprise when they pressed the button marked 'Open the f'kin door.' Something happened, but you couldn't file it under "Door Openings I Have Read About." "It didn't open, Roger !" yelled Chadwick through clenched teeth. (This is a very difficult thing to do, and some experts have pointed out that it is possible that when Chadwick talks, not all the noise comes from his mouth.) "Not to worry, young but overripe sidekick." He pulled small black box from his pocket. "My very own sub-molecular burglar kit ! Guaranteed to break any form of electronic locking or you get five years off your sentence." Roger knelt and stuck the device onto the black metal door, totally ignoring what we of the Twentieth century would call a 'Door Handle.' "What do you think you're doing ?" yelled a voice that seemed to come from the door itself. Roger looked up in surprise. Doors weren't meant to talk. Martians - yes, computers - yes, Inflatable Ingrid - yes, but not doors ! He pushed a few buttons on the burglar kit. "That won't work you know. I'm burglar proof !" It was definitely the door. Roger kept working. "Just shut up, Door ! No known code can stand my black box…..try and stop this !" He reached out and pressed a red button.

The box began to buzz softly, and a row of red lights all lit up and began to flash in different combinations at amazing speed. It soon began to slow down as the buzzing became louder. The lights stopped, but the door remained shut. A loud buzz followed by a fury of flashing lights. Nothing. The door was silent, but in smug sort of way. The box hummed, but no lights came on. The humming became a rattling hum (!?), then a scream, and smoke began to pour from it. It fell to the floor and smashed itself. "Bloody Japanese artificial intelligence…." muttered Roger. "Why do Japanese AI systems kill themselves if they fail their mission ?"

But there was no time to contemplate that last joke, because the Heavy Metal Martians had discovered their prisoners were gone ! Alarm guitars were twanging through the whole sub-plot, thus providing an exciting scene to escape from ! But how could Roger and Chadwick escape from this dire predicament !

Will Roger and Chad get their foot in the door ?

 Will the Little Green Guys find out WKLP ?
    Will this story get any worse ? (Can it ?)

Tune in for the next rivetting episode……

The Boot Is Mightier Than The Box

             OR

How To Open A Door In One Giant Step For Mankind

If you reckoned this stuff was at least 15% sniggerable, then you've qualified for the Rocket Roger subscription scheme. The only other condition is that you can breathe. Send off to EDB393GBP3@vx24.cc.monash.edu.au and I'll send an episode to you every week. If you'd like to read something absolutely awful, just write to The Toxic Custard Workshop Files at the same address ! Please subscribe. It's part of my thesis on how many gullible people there are.

Episode Eight

In the last episode, Roger and Chadwick were perilously trapped between a very locked door into the Marshall FBD (A spaceship / 100 000 watt amplifier) and a high potential for a horde of Heavy Metal Martians. The door wouldn't open, and the whole colony was searching for them. What will our brave heroes do ? Forget the brave heroes, let's watch Roger and Chad.

Roger leapt into a carefully planned course of action, namely screaming and trying to batter the door down with his fists before the horde got there. "AAAARRRRGGGHH !!! Lemme in !! We're all gonna DDDIIIIIEEEEE !!!"

When Phase One of this ground-breaking plan was complete, Roger moved on to Phase Two : crying and cowering in a quivering heap. But Chadwick, the poor man's Sanchez, ran to Roger's side and shook the pathetic Roger's heaving shoulders. "Colonel ! Please don't do that ! You always get out of everything !" He pulled a rickety tape recorder from some anonymous recess of his clothing and pressed 'play.' From its dilapidated speaker came the woeful strains of some annoyingly patriotic and inspirational music. Chadwick lifted his head and began to make a patronizing speech into where Camera Three would have been when the movie rights to this episode were sold.

"What about that terrible time on Sirius VI, Colonel ? You didn't learn the native language correctly and told the Thoroughly Insane Dictator of True Pain and Torture that his sisters were as ugly as a Fifth dimensional Warthog with a skin condition, but after I radioed the Third Brigade of Death Marines in, we managed to complete the mission. And on Solomon's World, when you followed that map upside-down for three days and got us trapped behind lines, we still managed to get out, with just a little help from a tactical airstrike by four squadrons of the Ultra Bomber Wing, and on Salva…"

"Ok ! Ok ! So you're a great morale booster, Chad ! What, in the name of Skilbey, did I ever do to deserve you !" shouted Roger sarcastically. Chadwick didn't understand sarcasm, being too brutally honest. (Not to mention as thick as Ultra-Packed Plasteel.) "Oh Colonel ! You're back ! I'm so happy you're back !" blurted the delirious Chadwick. "Yeah, yeah, whatever you think, Chad. Just turn that bloody music off !"

Chadwick did so, and Roger returned to trying to unlock and open the door. First he tried to bypass the electro-lock seal circuits with a Wendell 750 Plasma Harmonizer. The door remained shut. Then he made a small target on the metal surface and used a Yazaki Electron Destabilizer. The door was unimpressed by his efforts and didn't budge. Roger then picked up a stray Particle Mega-Cannon and delicately showered the door with enough high energy radiation to destroy a minor Sun. The door internally yawned, contemplated the sudden warm spell, and thought about how great it was to be locked. After chanting an ancient Swahili door opening spell, Roger borrowed a Sonic Screwdriver from a man with a long scarf and obligatory hornbag assistant. The door had never read about Sonic Screwdrivers and continued its state of blissful lockedness. This attempt was followed by a quick horoscope casting, sacrifice of a virgin mouse and selling his eternal soul to the Devil. The door was, of course, a skeptic and had no time for such occult nonsense. If you had to choose a phrase to characterize this door, "Obstinately and stubbornly locked" would probably be a candidate for the "Most Accurate Assessment Of A Door" trophy.

Roger was about to re-implement Phase Two of his previously incomplete plan, when Chadwick stepped forward and pulled down hard on the door handle. (Remember that ?!) The door quietly and graciously slid open. Roger contemplated suicide, then he decided maybe a quick bout of strangling Chadwick might be more appropriate. But it was too late, because Chadwick had already wandered into the ship. Roger trudged, trying to invent some new torture methods that were especially effective on "…ungrateful sidekicks who upstage their Heroes…mutter…mutter."

The interior of the ship consisted of two items. A control console just where you would expect it to be, and beer cans everywhere else. Roger pushed away a few cans and revealed the pilot's seat. It's surface, having not been cleaned for hundreds of years made Roger worry about his the condition in which his bum would be returned to him after sitting in it, so he decided to take his chances with standing. Predictably, Chadwick took no notice of it, in fact, the seat seemed to try and avoid Chad's bum, a feeling held by nearly all sentient beings.

Roger was proud of their progress so far, and rightly so. Two alien mobs, three hostile inanimate objects, one lucky escape and several useless and dull sub-plots had safely been avoided. In light of this, he was especially indignant that the ship was being uncooperative, and refused to start. He sent Chadwick outside to try and find the problem, but Chadwick, being only a sidekick, and a cowardly one at that, pointed out that only Heroes could solve dangerous and life-threatening dilemmas. However, if ever Roger needed undue praise, ego-boosting, or a quick shoe-shine, he'd be there with bells on.

Roger huffed, and stepped outside the ship. The alarm guitars were still chugging away, and the Heavy Metal Martians would probably be here soon. As he walked down the ramp, he noticed a thin black cord running towards the rear of the ship. Roger followed the cord to the back of the ship and up into the engines. In the shadows he noticed a quarter inch hole. It was marked POWER. On the end of the black wire, lying next to the hole was a metallic plug. Roger looked hard at the plug, then the hole. He was sure there was some elementary relationship between the two which he was missing. As he stared, he felt a rumbling under his feet, and voices began to sound in the distance. The rumbling and the voices grew louder, the Martians had tracked him down !

"Plug the bastard !" came a cry from the horde of hair, black t-shirts, slashed jeans and loaded guitars. Of course ! Plug ! Roger grabbed the plug and shoved it into the hole. The ship began to hum to itself. (It later wrote a tune based on the humming and made a fortune.) Roger began a mad dash to the boarding ramp of the ship, but he was too late ! The Martian Mob had blocked his path and were slowly advancing on him ! They didn't look happy.

Will Roger get out of this nail-biting situation ?

 Will the escape be sensible at all ?
    Why does a spaceship need a power plug ? (Therein lies a gag.)

Find out in our next thrilling, chilling episode:

Power Cords Man ! OR Where's the Spare Battery ?

Episode Nine

At the thrilling climax of our last episode, Roger had plugged in the engines of the escape ship, but was now cut off from the boarding ramp by a horde of Heavy Metal Martians. This didn't help the exciting escape scene much, because it's notoriously hard to escape when you're not on board. Could Roger fix his problem ? Let's watch…… The mumbling horde began to shuffle forward towards Roger. Trapped ! But wait ! Maybe, they'd all attack one at a time, like they always do in the movies….no such luck. The mob still surged forward, growling words like "Kill" and "Pain" and "Cut 'em off." None of these prospects appealed to Roger, so he mentally prepared himself for some heroic combat sequences. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, crossed his arms over his chest and prayed to the God of Unbelievable Fight Sequences: Arnie Stallone.

"Aaaaaaaoooooooouuuuuuuummmmmm *THWACK* *CRUMP*" said Roger, as he slumped to the ground with a nasty lump on his head. Heavy Metal fans are notoriously distrustful of philosophy, and seeing Roger's deeply introspective chanting, immediately smashed him over the head with a Gibson. As Roger began the slow descent into blackness, he heard the dragging footsteps of the mob nearing his helpless body. As he decided it was all over for him, and started wondering how many thousands of grief-wracked mourners would bawl their way through his funeral, a strange sound filled the air. Roger recognized it as Chadwick's favourite cassette: a bootleg recording of a live concert featuring Nana Mouskouri, Lawrence Welk, Willie Nelson, John Denver and the Hooked On Classics drum machine.

The mob stopped as the music filtered through the hairspray and disturbed the long disused 'brain' cells. They all froze, and clapped their hands over their ears, desperately trying to keep the woeful, pathetic strains out of their ears, but it was no use. A frightening scream rent the air as hundreds of tortured souls sank to the floor, begging for mercy.

"Music hath charms to sooth the savage beast," thought Roger, "but if you don't have real music, then you can't go past Chad's bootlegs !" He casually strolled past the writhing figures, occasionally putting the boot in if one of them twitched in a suspicious or threatening way.

Inside the ship, Chadwick had stacked some boxes on the seat so he could see over the control panel and was relaxing, snapping his fingers, enjoying what his disfigured brain chose to call music. "Did you have any problems fixing the engines, Colonel ?" "Nah, not really." said Roger, seeing an opportunity to show off. "Just the usual alien horde to vanquish. Care to have a look ?" Chadwick jumped down from the chair and ran to the view port. "Wow ! Did they hurt you, Colonel ? Did you get all of them ?" "Sure I did ! One of them nearly knocked my immaculate hair out of place, though….the consequences could have been dire. Let's get this ship off the ground, Mars is getting dull real fast."

They sat down at the pilot's console and logged onto the ship's control system. They TRIED to logon to the engine control system. (Please note, the author is about to unleash scathing attack upon a personal loathing of his: logging on to uncooperative systems from remote sites.)

Roger pressed a few keys, and the screen was instantly covered in garbage. After changing parity and data bits setting, Roger succeeded in getting into the first stage of the system. But it was the Kitchen system, so Roger used the this one to try and get into the Engine Control System (which wouldn't respond directly to it's own phone number). He managed it, but it had a different data bit setting to the first one, and consequently crashed. After swearing loudly, Roger repeated the whole process 3 times. It mysteriously and for no apparent reason, worked on the last try, but the text quickly changed to garbage when Roger accidentally type the letter 's' and breathed too hard. "Sod this !" cried an exasparated Roger. If he had been the author, he'd probably have nicked off to the kitchen to eat things, but being a Hero meant he had to start the engine manually and keep the plot ticking over.

He ran towards the back of the ship, into the Power Source Facility. In an attempt at humour, one of the Martians had crossed out 'Source' and tried to write 'Chords' but obviously did not possess complete control of his either his hand or, in fact, the alphabet. Roger stepped through the door, which made the door happy (Plagiarism ! Plagiarism !) and flipped the light switch.

Inside the small room was a terrible sight indeed. It smelled awful, like twenty sweaty musicians locked in a stable of horses suffering at least six gastric disorders …. on a hot day. Strangely enough, only the stable and horses were missing from such a quaint scene. The twenty musicians turned to face Roger. Roger looked back and forth, trying to create a clear description in his mind for us to read.

What could he think, but that these poor souls must be mutants. Hideously deformed by prolonged exposure to Heavy Metal, their bodies had warped to fit the subliminally projected stereotype from all Heavy Metal songs. There was no head or face, just a mass of hair. The legs weren't actual legs, they were more the result of an overzealous stuffing of the crotch with socks, various fruits, aerosol cans and, in one pitiful case, a pumpkin. These varied forms of padding had been vastly overdone, and ran all the way down jean's legs, clinging tightly to the patches of fabric between the wide rips and slashes, thus forming a barely functioning leg. By far, though, the most amazing feature of these beasts was the torso. It was a guitar ! A beautiful, shining guitar of fantastic design, each brilliantly unique, each eminently playable, graced the gap between hair and legs. A long wire led from each guitar into a small plug in the wall, above which was a small speaker.

One of the figures lifted its arms and began to pluck its strings. The guitars actually talked by playing ! "What gives, man ?" came a voice from the speaker behind the guitar. "Erm…." replied Roger, succinctly and authoritatively. "Is this gig happening, or what ?" asked a red and white Fender, softly plucking its strings. "Um…How…what ?" insisted Roger, forcefully, yet tactfully. "Just give us the word, and we play the ship right into orbit !" chuckled a guitar with a beer-gut in the corner. "That sounds good !" said Roger, relieved to hear no violence was needed. "After we have a few crates of whiskey, of course !" It laughed slobbily, and if it could have drooled inanely, it probably would have. Seeing Roger's blank expression, it's tone changed…. "You did bring the booze, didntcha ?" "Uh oh…" thought Roger, "Problems…with a capital W !"

Will Roger ever get off Mars ? (He'd better !)

 Will people write in and ask for Chad's bootleg tapes ?  (Better Not !)
    Will remote logons get any easier ? (Is the sun brown ?)

For these answers, plus how to instantly burn up your disk space, tune in for

No Booze Blues OR How to get onto MTV Unplugged !

If you couldn't help but laugh at this undergraduate effort, then write to edb393gbp3@vx24.cc.monash.au and get it personally delivered by twenty blushing maidens/hunks with great figures and enormous sex drives/whatevers every week. If you're not interested, then bog off to The Toxic Custard Workshop Files ! Hand delivered by twelve lepers and six dogs with two legs between them. Just knock three times at edb134tbp2@vx24.cc.monash.edu.au and ask for Nigel. The password is Gespacho Soup.

Episode Ten

In our last not so dangerous episode, Roger had discovered what actually powers the spaceship he has gallantly stolen: Rock-N-Roll ! One problem, the twenty living guitars that provide it won't start till vast amounts of whiskey are thrown their way. Roger has never heard of this stuff, and so risks being viciously attacked, as usual. How will Roger get the ship going ? Read on….

"So where's the whiskey, man ?" demanded a vile, beer-gut shaped guitar. "Er…I haven't got any whiskey." replied Roger, wondering what tone of voice was best for trying to convince an alcoholic living guitar to cooperate. The other guitars began to play again, but the music was terrible and loud. "We call this one the 'No Whisky Blues'." bellowed the fat guitar. "We sing it just before we kill the guy who told us there's no booze !" The group slowly began to advance on Roger, their weak legs unable to move quickly.

Roger had to move quickly. What would keep these vile creatures back ? Aha ! Nipping past two guitars and jumping over a third, Roger landed in front of the hole that the fat guitar was plugged into. He reached up and yanked it out of the wall. The guitar plucked at its strings, but heard only a nasty twanging sound that rattled horribly. In silence it clattered to the floor. The other guitars stopped dead and looked at their fallen companion. "If this ship isn't off the ground in two minutes, " said Roger, "the rest of you get the same, OK ?" He turned and strutted arrogantly from the room, notching up another twelve points on his personal Toughometer.

During the next three hours, some incredible sounds came from that back room. It was like ten 'Monsters of Rock' concerts meeting a nuclear bomb, only louder. Flying on rock-n-roll had its disadvantages: There was only one station to listen to, and you couldn't turn it down.

"Chadwick ! Go stand outside the door, please." "Do you want me to guard the cabin, sir ? Am I being useful yet ?" "Yes, but not as a guard, I just want your multi-layered alleged skin out there blocking that horrible noise off. Honestly, Chad, some of the stuff that covers you is still unidentified by science !"

But all was not as Hunky-Dory as it seemed. Roger had indeed managed to steal the Amplifier/Spaceship, but he hadn't really thought about the Episode where he plugged in the power cord to the engine. The Marshall company, when it went into building spaceships instead of amplifiers, couldn't get out of the habit of putting power leads instead of internal batteries. Basically, their spaceship had to be plugged into a 220V wall socket before it would go anywhere. Unfortunately for Roger, the three hundred thousand foot long extension cord was about to run out…..

Chadwick stuck his head around the door and asked Roger what a flashing red light next to the 'Cable Limit Warning' meant. Roger was about to investigate, when every light in the ship went out. The beeping, buzzing and humming all suddenly vanished, and the guitars that powered the ship stopped playing. Roger ran to a window, and looking outside could see a thin glinting from the cable that used to supply power to the ship snaked back to the surface of Mars. This was obviously a situation calling for leadership ability, intelligence and a swift surety in one's decisions. Roger glanced around looking for this amazing sounding guy, but caught only his own inadequate reflection.

"What do we do now, Colonel ?" asked Chadwick, re-entering the flight deck. "Let's see where we're going first." answered Roger, trying to sound like he'd done this a hundred times. A quick look over the controls showed that the ship was now driftting, powered by Newton's First Law. "Well, it looks like we've got enough air for about five hours." "What happens when that runs out ?" "We'll get tired, start hallucinating, collapse, and basically….die." "Well at least you have a few hours to think of a way out." said Chadwick, looking hopefully at Roger. "Only if nothing unexpected happens to the air, like something involving your disgusting digestive processes." replied Roger, feeling seriously worried. "I'll try not to kill us, Colonel…." said Chadwick, turning away and finding a comfortable corner to sit in, and wait.

Roger considered the situation. They had just cast themselves adrift in inter-planetary space, without power or extra air. The chances of running into another ship at this distance were astronomically small. He'd rather take a bet on a dead horse winning the Derby, or that the next US President would be a small mongoose named Neil.

They sat still and waited for the air to run out. Roger wasn't worried about himself, he knew he would never succumb to the perils of hallucination, and besides, the pink elephants running around his head would keep him safe. Boredom wasn't a problem, the eighteen thousand one inch tall screaming Mongols fighting a pitched battle with Hitler's Fourteenth Panzer Division provided adequate entertainment. It was only when all his old girlfriends filed into the room and started nagging him about being lost in space again, and never calling home, and never listening to what 'she needed….' that Roger began to think that maybe - perhaps - it could be possible that his sanity bucket had developed a leak. Breathing became agonizing toil, and his vision began to cloud over. It looked like the end for brave Roger. Unless…what did that sign over there say ? He could only see a few of the words clearly…"Auxiliary Air Supply" Roger struggled over to the sign, and cleared the rest of the sign. He read it again…"This ship has no Auxiliary Air Supply." With a groan at the terrible joke, Roger slid to the floor and into unconciousness.

Could this be the end for Roger and Chadwick ?

 Will they slowly suffocate and be lost in space forever ?
    Is the author really that stupid ?

Tune in next week for our next terrifying episode

New Improved Oxygen OR Who'll Get The Rogerson Account

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.

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.

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)