[SG]: Paradigm Incorporated #5: Plots, Ploys and Plans

Brism Wanor brism at earthlink.net
Tue Jul 19 13:18:28 PDT 2005


Hide the doors!


Lock the children!!!


Take the sidewalks off the street ...

... before it's TOO LATE!!!!!


...

Oops.  My mistake.  It's already too late.

<<Cue: Fanfare on crumhorn, accordion, electric kazoo, and triangle>>

A cloud of smoke ...
A fit of coughing ???
And a frantic:
"WHOA! HOW DOoo YOooooUuuuu STEEER THIS THiiiiiiiING?!  WHOA, YOU ESCAPEE 
FROM A GLUE FACTORY!  WHOA, WHOA, WHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAA!!!!"

Brism has returned.


                         Fifth Infinity Productions
                          Procrastinating Like Mad
                                  Presents

                           Paradigm Incorporated
                         #5: Plots, Ploys and Plans
                                Brism Wanor

      Drew Brady was tired. Really, really tired. He'd spent six hours on a 
plane, and added two hours in time zones. His internal clock said 10:00 
p.m., the hotel clock said 12:00 a.m., and his body said half-past 
Armageddon.
      Groaning, he switched off the "Saturday Night Live" rerun he wasn't 
watching, and tried to sleep.
      He stared at the ceiling, and tried to sleep.
      He turned over, and tried to sleep.
      He stared at the pillow, and tried to sleep.
      He closed his eyes, and tried to sleep.
      He fluffed his pillow, and tried to sleep.
      He counted sheep, and tried to sleep.
      In desperation, he thought of high school freshman English, the most 
boring class he'd ever endured, and tried to sleep.
      Finally, he fumbled for the remote, turned the TV back on, and tried 
to drown himself in the mind-numbing midnight fare.
      "SNL" rerun ... Seen it.
      "M*A*S*H*" rerun ... Seen it.
      "Cheers" ... Ditto.
      Some sitcom from the seventies ... Don't want to see any more of it.
      Kitchen utensils ... Boring, in a "pluck my eyes out rather than 
watch" way.
      Drew groaned. It was going to be a long night.

      "So, where's Waldo?"
      Of all the questions Jessa had expected Paradigm to ask her, that one 
wasn't even in the running.  Not that he'd said much to her since she had, 
half-curious, half-reluctant, climbed into his car. In fact, apart from 
asking if she felt like coffee, he hadn't said anything.
      To be fair, though, neither had she. How, after all, do you tell 
someone that you're not from the local universe? How do you explain that 
the world around you is, where you came from, just a mailing list? How do 
you explain about Authors? How can you convince anyone with the least bit 
of sense that earlier in the day, you'd been bed-ridden, with only a 
computer for company? How ...
      "Er ... " she said, eloquently, "what?"
      "Never mind." Paradigm regarded her over his iced expresso. "I 
thought you'd gotten your name from an old computer game, that's all."
      "Oh, um, well," she floundered, salmoned, and tunaed, finally fishing 
up a rejoinder. "I sort of did."
      "So," he repeated, amused, "where's Waldo? Poet and Iris too, for 
that matter?"
      Well, it beat trying to explain the absurd, that was for sure. Years 
ago, Jessa and her father had played a near constant game of Pun-wars, in 
which one person picked a theme, and then both tried to find puns that 
tied in to that theme. Winner was whoever made the audience groan in pain, 
or, whoever hadn't run out of fresh ideas. Well, she was a little rusty, 
but ...
      "They got in trouble, lots of 'Ballyhoo' around their 'Hollywood 
Hijinx', left a lot of 'Plundered Hearts' in their wake, you see, and 
eventually the 'Bureaucracy' had to take note.
      "It didn't take a 'Sherlock' to 'Suspect' them. 'The Witness' at the 
trial of the 'Trinity' was real convincing. Didn't help that the only 
lawyer they could find was a real nut, 'A Mind Forever Voyaging' on rare 
herbs.
      "So, they were escorted to the 'Border Zone' and told to never 
return. So they went on a 'Journey' to a place 'Beyond Zork'."
      Jessa stopped to draw breath, and glance at a clearly amused 
Paradigm. Ok, she thought, now for the big guns.
      "They found some guides, real 'Cutthroats' by all accounts, who's 
licenses had been 'Suspended' for smuggling. Before you knew it, they were 
lost in the 'Moonmist' and these guides, 'Nord and Bert Couldn't Make Head 
or Tail of It' all, so ..."
      Paradigm raised a hand to silence her. "I'm afraid," he said, gently, 
"you're 'Deadline' has been reached. No offense, but I felt a 'Lurking 
Horror' as to what you'd come out with next."
      "That's OK," she admitted, "I'd have been hard pressed to squeeze in 
something like 'Zork:  The Undiscovered Underground', anyway."
      "Just make it the 'Cornerstone' of your next ... um ..."
      "My dad and I called them Pun-wars," she volunteered.
      "Quite."
      Jessa drank her strawberry ice and nibbled on a coffee cake. Paradigm 
drank his iced coffee and consumed a slice of chocolate cake.
      They ate and drank in silence for a time, before Paradigm said, "in 
all seriousness, I need to know some things."
      Jessa nodded. "OK," she agreed, "but it's a weird story."

      Fritz Thuddmann had been, among other things, a bigot. Oh, he 
wouldn't have called himself that, of course, bigots never do. He had 
called himself a 'racial purist' and a 'proponent of right' and a 'devout 
Christian', and a lot of other things, but he had been a bigot. He had 
also been dismayed at the death of a man he idolized, and the world 
generally hated, a man whose dreams of a master race spoke to the twisted 
mind of Fritz far more loudly than anything else.
      Fritz was not, to his further dismay, any good in genetics. Not back 
then, at least, not with the field so much in it's infancy. Instead, he 
became a chemist, and an alchemist.
      His goals were simple. He wanted to create the perfect soldier, 
nigh-invulnerable, strong, fast, and lacking all those pesky traits like 
morals, ego, and free will. Yet, all the soldiers in the world weren't 
much good without a good leader, and Fritz was honest enough with himself 
to admit this one failing in himself. He could not lead.
      So, another batch of experiments, this time to create an intelligent 
perfect soldier, no, perfect leader, who would lead the troops from in 
front, and inspire the loyalty, love and lust of the sheep-like public.
      Evidence suggested that younger subjects produced better results, and 
that, logically, a newborn infant would be ideal. Still, healthy, 
genetically pure newborns aren't the easiest things to get one's hands on. 
Fritz, ever practical, decided that the best way was to make one. After 
all, even if he could not be the Leader, he could be the Leader's father, 
and that would be worthy of praise.
      It is a truism, that if you seek, you will find. Fritz found a young 
woman, willing to share his bed, and his money, and give him a son.
      Soon after, Fritz immersed his son, Friedrich, in the concoctions his 
researches had produced. He made only one mistake. The mask which kept his 
son alive covered his chin completely. Like Achilles before him, Friedrich 
Thuddmann had a mortal weakness.
      Two years later, Fritz died in a gas explosion, and Friedrich was 
sent to live with distant relatives in England.
      Friedrich was everything his father could have wished ...
      Almost.
      He was fast. He was smart. He was nearly invulnerable. He was 
ambitious. He had the strength of ten men. And he believed, down to the 
core of his being, that his father had been a damned idiot.
      Friedrich believed that racial purity was a losing game.
      Compare cart horses to race horses. The former are calm, placid, 
almost somnambulistic. The latter are easily spooked by their own tails. 
The former are healthy, for the most part. The latter are almost never at 
full health. The former work all their lives, and live a long time. The 
latter are good for a few years at best, and don't live long.
      The same thing holds true for dogs, cats, and indeed all other 
mammals. It's also true of humans.
      Friedrich based this conclusion on historical evidence. While the 
common men multiplied, the nobility bred itself to itself, until most of 
the kings of Europe were frail, insane, and related.
      Clearly then, he argued, the survivors are the ones who mix many 
traits, and there is no way, ahead of time, to know which traits will 
prove valuable.
      So, bang went Fritz's plan, done in by the one thing bigots never 
understand. Common sense.
      Friedrich reached another conclusion, almost as stunning as the 
first. Ruling a country is a nervous business, ruling the world would be 
terrifying. His head was attached more firmly than most, and he intended 
to keep it that way.
      Another lesson of history, for those of you playing along at home: 
kings are beheaded, their advisors are exiled.
      Friedrich preferred exile.
      So, he planned, offering his services, which were considerable, to 
the types of men bent on world domination, and giving everything but his 
life, in pursuit of his employer's wishes. All in pursuit of the perfect 
employer, who would be happy for Friedrich to remain comfortably in the 
shadows.
      Which explained what he was doing in a police car, early on a Sunday 
morning. Going to jail for aiding and abetting a known felon. At least, 
that's what the police thought.
      Friedrich knew he could, and would, escape. The question was, did he 
want to help Victor Viola to escape?
      On the whole, yes. Viola was, to Friedrich's thinking, an ideal world 
conqueror. He was clever, twisted, brilliant, and absent-minded. Once he 
ruled the world, the novelty would keep him entertained for the rest of 
his life. Far better that, than a war-crazed loon, or some self-righteous 
idiot, or a new Alexander or Caesar or ...
      Besides, Viola was free with his money, lavish with praise, and 
stingy with criticism. When he failed, he took it with a kind of aplomb 
which Friedrich admired. Crazy the man might be, but he knew when to give 
up, and when to fight.
      Which meant, if he wanted to keep working for Viola, he first had to 
rescue Viola.
      The car was slowing, and Friedrich glanced to the other corner of the 
seat where Becks was sulking. There wasn't time for a plan, and no way to 
tell Becks, or make him understand, without getting the attention of the 
police up front.
      Friedrich bided his time, and hoped Becks, like a good soldier, would 
do as he was told without question.


                             WILL BECKS BEHAVE?
                    WILL PARADIGM BELIEVE JESSA'S STORY?
                          WILL DREW GET ANY SLEEP?
              COULDN'T I COME UP WITH A BETTER RETURN EPISODE?
                   WILL I BE HEARD FROM AGAIN THIS YEAR?

Answers will be found -- someday -- on


                           S U P E R G U Y ! ! !


-----------------------------------------------
Brism Wanor, Lord Dougl, Keeper of the Eighth Echo
brism at earthlink.net

                                  END OF LINE


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