The Time Capsule Series

by Steve2

SERIES COMPLETE! Read how students in the future interpret today's life. Stories include: Jane, Brittany, Tiffany, Kevin, Sandi, Upchuck, 3 J's, Trent, Jodie, Stacy, Mack, Daria & Quinn.

15. Daria's Story This Can't Go On

Rating: PG-13

Special THANKS goes out to Mike Yamiolkoski and Thomas Mikkelsen for their patience and assistance in beta reading this story!

Location: Lawndale HS, History 363.
Time: Now.

Nick:                                       As all of you are aware, Daria Morgendorffer was the catalyst for the time capsule.  Her comments to her friend, Jane Lane, were overheard by then-Principal Li and her security net.  Today we get to find out something about Daria.  Bob, Diane?

Bob:                When reviewing Daria's history, I thought…

Diane:                                     You thought?

Bob:                                        Yes, me.

Diane:                                     It's always about you, isn't it?

Bob:                                        Well… yeah.

Diane:                                     (Rolls her eyes) Go ahead.

Bob:                                        Anyway, I thought instead of just leaping into the story, we'd see a little about the creation process of it first.  Nick and I researched this over the past few weeks while Diane was out doing her nails or something…

Diane:                                     Nails.  Thanks.  Just thanks. 

Bob:                                        No problem.  Anyway, here's what I came up with. 

Diane:                                     I take it the funeral I had to go to didn't count for anything, did it?

Bob:                                        Um… Nick, let's show the footage.

The electronic blackboard flickered to life.

Start Video

March 2002.
Location: Lawndale High library.  Time: morning.
Daria is sitting at a library table.  She looks tense and tired at the same time.  Jane walks up.

Jane:                                       Yo, amiga.

Daria:                                      Hey.

Jane sits down at the table, across from Daria.

Jane:                                       Okay, I give.  What's wrong this time.

Daria:                                      Nothing's wrong.

Jane:                                       Sure, sure.  Whatever you say.  C'mon, this is me.  You might be able to con your folks that nothing's wrong, but I can tell when something's bugging you.

Daria:                                      Nothing's wrong, Jane.

Jane:                                       You know, I can always embarrass it out of you.  I've done it before and I can do it again.

Daria:                                      You're just plain evil, you know that?

Jane:                                       Thanks.  It's a gift.  Now spill.

Daria:                                      It's about the time capsule.

Jane:                                       Say no more.  Who's story are you working on now?  Upchuck's?

Daria:                                      Nah.  He hasn't turned it in yet.  No, this one's harder.  I'm working on mine.

Jane:                                       So what's the problem?  You're a terrific writer.  You can slap something out in no time.

Daria:                                      Um, I don't want to "slap" something out, Jane.

Jane:                                       Hah?  Why not?

Daria:                                      It's, well, I may not have wanted to do this at the beginning but now it's gotten under my skin.  I don't want to write something out because I have to.

Jane:                                       You want to write something because you want to.

Daria:                                      Right.

Jane:                                       That damned conscience of yours.  One of these days, I'm going to have to remove it.

Daria:                                      When you do, make sure I'm awake to see it go.  Anyway, now I've got writer's block.

Jane:                                       On how to end the story?

Daria:                                      On the entire story itself.

Jane:                                       You're kidding.

Daria:                                      I wish.

Jane:                                       Well, then it's a good thing I'm here.  I can help you brainstorm something up.  Hmmm, okay I'm coming up blank.  What did you come up with so far?

Daria:                                      I'd actually considered a story about Quinn.

Jane:                                       You're kidding.

Daria:                                      Nope.

Jane:                                       You killed her off, didn't you?

Daria:                                      Yep.

Jane:                                       What's the angle?

Daria:                                      Well, she had a daughter, and I end up as the parent and…

Jane:                                       Aunt Daria?  You're kidding.

Daria:                                      I may not like to work, but that doesn't mean I don't like to punch people in the nose.

Jane:                                       Promises, promises.  So you're an aunt.  Then what?

Daria:                                      That's about it.  I grow older, Quinn grows older…

Jane:                                       I thought you killed Quinn off.

Daria:                                      I did, but for some reason she thought of naming her daughter after herself.

Jane:                                       I can see that.

Daria:                                      Anyway, we all grow older, you have kids –

Jane:                                       Me?  Kids??  What did I ever do to you?

Daria:                                      You want me to start the list?  Anyway, after your 22nd kid is born, you have your tubes tied and then get to work mobilizing them all into a baseball team.

Jane:                                       Yeah, right.  You know, I ought to write another story about you.

Daria:                                      Yeah, right.  About what?

Jane:                                       I could have it so that you get a job.

Daria:                                      If a job I must have, a cushy job it better be.  Or else.

Jane:                                       Yeah, a job.  And no cushy job for you.  This one would be… dealing with traffic.

Daria:                                      Not so bad. 

Jane:                                       I'm not finished.  It's also dealing with kids.

Daria:                                      You hate me, don't you.

Jane:                                       That's right, Miss Morgendorffer, you'd get the honor of being a crossing guard's assistant.  How do you like them apples?

Daria:                                      Do I get to throw them apples at cars?

Jane:                                       Damn, you know how to take all the fun out of this, don't you.

Daria:                                      Of course.  That's my future job.  I'm going into the government.  They suck the fun out of everything.

Jane:                                       Oh, I know.  How about writing about the time you went wiggy after eating the spiked fruitcake at school.

Daria:                                      How much pain do you enjoy being in anyway? 

Jane:                                       Awww, c'mon.  I loved what you said about it at the hospital.  Ahem, "God damn.  God damn us, every one."

Daria:                                      Jane…

Jane:                                       Now that's Christmas cheer if I've ever heard it.

Daria:                                      I'm going to kill you if it's the last thing I ever do.

Jane:                                       Still with the promises.  You know, I should make a movie of your life.

Daria:                                      Great.  A live action movie of my live action life.  Somehow I don't see it as a blockbuster.

Jane:                                       You may be right.  Even with me in it.  It needs an angle.  Hmmm, you know…

Daria:                                      I don't like where this is going already.

Jane:                                       You haven't even heard it yet.

Daria:                                      And I don't need to.

Jane:                                       Are you so sure?

Daria:                                      With you – always.  If I had to guess, I'd say you'd want me to rewrite the Wizard Of Oz bit, playing the part of Dorothy.

Jane:                                       See, you don't know everything.  I know you don't sing.

Daria:                                      That wouldn't stop you from making a musical out of it.  And knowing you, I'd also have to deal with Quinn.  Worse yet, I'd probably get stuck there for 10 years.

Jane:                                       Hah!  I was going for an even 12 years.

Daria:                                      You're not helping.  You know that, don't you.

Jane:                                       Of course.  How else could I help you unless I didn't help you?

Daria:                                      My head hurts.  You and your accursed logic.

Jane:                                       How about redoing Cinderella and change the lead characters, renaming it to…

Daria:                                      Janerella?

Jane:                                       No.

Daria:                                      Trenterfella?

Jane:                                       I was going for Quinnderella, thank you very much.

Daria:                                      I'd just as soon as volunteer sitting for the Gupty's again.

Jane:                                       Like they'd take you up on it after what you did last time.  So what other stories have you been thinking about?

Daria:                                      I've been thinking of writing a story where Ms. Li really goes security nuts…

Jane:                                       Ah, a documentary.

Daria:                                      Almost.  Then one of her new security goons finds a gun in my locker.

Jane:                                       Won't work.  You can't even lift a gun let alone fire one.

Daria:                                      True.  But the gun was put there years ago in a secret compartment by a dope dealer.

Jane:                                       Interesting.  But where to take it from there?

Daria:                                      I'm thinking I get framed on some charges and get sent to a rehab farm where I'm thrown into padded meat-lockers for days at a time.

Jane:                                       Sure, always looking to get out of schoolwork.

Daria:                                      …only I can't figure how to end it.

Jane:                                       You could have everyone go nuts around you.

Daria:                                      Nah.

Jane:                                       You could go nuts yourself.

Daria:                                      Who said I'm not already crazy.

Jane:                                       How about, you go nuts and then take out the mental wardens.  That lands you in jail where you're then recruited by the CIA…

Daria:                                      Hey, that violates rule number 1.

Jane:                                       Ah, yes.  You don't work because work is bad.

Daria:                                      Damn straight.

Jane:                                       I've always wondered what you would be like if you did work, y'know.  Hey, alternate history.  How about that?

Daria:                                      I thought I was already in a weird version of alternate history as it stands.

Jane:                                       You are.  But what if you fell into an alternate dimension where really bad Star Trek physics ruled?

Daria:                                      You know something about physics?  I'm surprised.

Jane:                                       Okay, okay, bad example.  How about if, say, your guardian angel came along and showed you what it would have been like if you'd done this or that.

Daria:                                      Great.  Just what I need.  To suddenly find myself back in Highland, this time having traded places with Quinn.  Next thing you'll say is that I'm dating Beavis or Butt-Head or both morons.

Jane:                                       Don't knock it.  Okay, okay, I was kidding on that.  No, what I was thinking was that you could still see an alternate reality but this time your guardian angel is a jerk.

Daria:                                      You mean, a J-G-A?

Jane:                                       Jerk Guardian Angel?  Sure, whatever.  How about that?

Daria:                                      You have got to quit painting with your windows closed.

Jane:                                       You have a better idea?

Daria:                                      I've been toying with the idea of being an attack sub skipper.

Jane:                                       Violates rule #1.

Daria:                                      I'm drafted into it.

Jane:                                       So where am I in this story?  The ever-loyal friend who only sees you when you come home for shore leave?

Daria:                                      Not at all.  You're my trusty sidekick and XO.

Jane:                                       I hope you mean your executive officer and not hugs and kisses because I'm not that kind of girl.

Daria:                                      You're not?  But what about all those rumors I've been spreading around school?

Jane:                                       The one where you still get hives when you see Trent because you've got a crush on him?

Daria:                                      I don't have a crush on him.

Jane:                                       Not as bad as you once did.  But I think there's still something between you two.

Daria:                                      Yeah, it's called several miles and different lifestyles.

Jane:                                       No, this could be good.  You could write a story where you're napping in the arms of Trent…

Daria:                                      You're still trying to go the Yenta act on me after all this time?

Jane:                                       Of course not.

Daria:                                      It won't work, Jane.  What's my motivation for being there?

Jane:                                       No motivation.

Daria:                                      Then what's the story about?

Jane:                                       How about you have a dream where you're old and standing over his and my graves?

Daria:                                      Am I dancing over your grave?

Jane:                                       Hey, I happen to know you have no rhythm as well.  So no dancing.

Daria:                                      I'm going to have to sign up for one of those dance lessons one day.

Jane:                                       Okay, forget that storyline.  How about years in the future, you're married to Trent…

Daria:                                      Here we go again.

Jane:                                       Only this time you're having marital problems and you run into Tom.

Daria:                                      Stop.  That's not going to happen.  No old boyfriends in my stories.

Jane:                                       Oh.  Right.  Never mind then.

Daria:                                      Thanks.

Jane:                                       Then I guess it'll have to be a story about us.

Daria:                                      Hey, I'm not that kind of girl.

Jane:                                       Hush, you sweet thing you.  No, what I was thinking was you write about your 16th birthday when I had to practically break down your door to find out why you weren't celebrating it while Quinn was whooping it up.

Daria:                                      I'm not going to the past to dredge up some memories.  Not unless it's about Quinn having whooping cough.  Besides, I want to write about something in the future.

Jane:                                       Hey, I know.  How about writing about the Lane/Morgendorffer family reunion.

Daria:                                      What Lane/Morgendorffer family reunion?

Jane:                                       The one that happens nine years from now.

Daria:                                      Look, Jane.  I said I wasn't interested in Trent…

Jane:                                       Who said it had anything to do with you?  Make it Quinn and Trent being married.

Daria:                                      Now you're just being cruel to Trent.

Jane:                                       I'm his sister.  What did you expect?

Daria:                                      I'll think about it.

Jane:                                       You know, you could always write about the time I had the fake allergy attack when I ate dinner at your house.  Remember?  Where I implied I was allergic to oregano?

Daria:                                      Yeah, I remember.  And no.  I'm looking for something else.  I think I could do that one as a comedy but I'm not looking to write just a comedy.

Jane:                                       What are you looking to write?  Drama?

Daria:                                      I'm thinking more along the lines of sick and twisted.

Jane:                                       Ah yes, the old sick and twisted route.  Going for another revisit of LawnCON, eh?

Daria:                                      Actually I was thinking of writing about you getting an exhibition room at a museum.

Jane:                                       That doesn't sound sick and twisted.

Daria:                                      It will be when you find out that you need to speak to the public as a condition to get the room.

Jane:                                       You really are sick and twisted.

Daria:                                      You're just trying to get on my good side.

Jane:                                       You have a good side?

Daria:                                      Of course.  But it's buried beneath ten metaphysical layers of cynicism. 

Jane:                                       I thought that was ten lords a leaping.

Daria:                                      Hah?

Jane:                                       You know, ten lords a leaping, nine something… something, eight swans a swimming, seven geese attacking, six feet under, five g-o-l-d-e-n rings and so on.

Daria:                                      And did we remember to take our Prozac today?

Jane:                                       Hey, my bowl movements are my own business from now on.

Daria:                                      I have got to remember to take aspirin before talking to you – not after.

Jane:                                       Thanks.  I'm sure there was a compliment in there.

Daria:                                      You know, I think the sick and twisted route is the way to go.

Jane:                                       Well, at least I get my own room at the gallery.

Daria:                                      Oh, no.  Not anymore.  I changed my mind.

Jane:                                       Why do I feel like I just stepped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Daria:                                      Maybe because instead of the art gallery angle, you get to go around school and inform everyone of head lice.

Jane:                                       You suck.

Daria:                                      Thank you.

Jane:                                       Does this at least get me out of gym class?

Daria:                                      No.  But something else does.

Jane:                                       Wonderful.  What is it?  Do I get hit by a car?

Daria:                                      Nope.  Better.  You get to join marching band.

Jane:                                       Oooh, band.  Now there's a horror story if I ever saw one.  Or a comedy.  Take your pick.

Daria:                                      I pick horror.

Jane:                                       I knew you would.  But wouldn't it be interesting if you joined the band as well.

Daria:                                      I said horror, not self-defeating.

Jane:                                       No, not marching band.  Mystik Spiral.  And, what if they had a world tour and we went with them?

Daria:                                      The Magical Mystik Spiral Tour?  You've got to be kidding.  I'd have to be crazy to write something like that.

Jane:                                       Got any better ideas?

Daria:                                      Well, if I'm looking for crazy, I could always write about my dad going nuts looking for that stupid garden gnome.

Jane:                                       I forgot about that.  What about the time he tried to bond with you and Quinn on yet another road trip?

Daria:                                      Don't remind me.

Jane:                                       Okay.  How about writing about the time Upchuck bonded with some psychotic chipmunks when we all had to do that mandatory camp thing of Ms. Li's?

Daria:                                      Where'd that come from?

Jane:                                       Inspiration?

Daria:                                      Sounds more like desperation.

Jane:                                       Potato, po-tot-o.  At least I didn't bring up the time he nearly blew himself up with that compress O Matic 4000.

Daria:                                      If he'd managed to blow himself up properly, then at least I could have written about it.

Jane:                                       Too late.  The papers already did.

Daria:                                      True, but my take on it would have been a little bit funnier.  Especially when I implicated Sandi in a cover up of Upchuck photo kissing proportions.

Jane:                                       Now you're back to comedy?  Because if you're going to do that, then I think you should write about the time you convinced Brittany I was a hallucination so you could go out on a date with Kevin.

Daria:                                      I didn't want to go out with Kevin, Jane!

Jane:                                       Yeah, that's what you always said but you know, we hallucinations always know what's going on inside your head.  It's a brain thing.

Daria:                                      You're about to start seeing some hallucinations yourself.  It's a pain thing.

Jane:                                       There's an angle.

Daria:                                      What?  Beating you up?

Jane:                                       In your wildest dreams maybe.  No, a pain thing.  Write about when Quinn got her pimple and everyone in school thought she was dying.

Daria:                                      Um.  I already wrote about that.

Jane:                                       You did?

Daria:                                      Um.  Yeah.

Jane:                                       And?

Daria:                                      Decided to publish it.

Jane:                                       And?!

Daria:                                      Like I said, decided to publish it.

Jane:                                       Where?  C'mon, details.

Daria:                                      Well, I put it under a pseudonym and then put it out on the internet.

Jane:                                       I want to read it.  Give me the address.

Daria:                                      Forget it.  Finding it is up to you.

Jane:                                       I will.  Don't worry.  Okay, that story's a bust.  C'mon, think.  What else can you write about?

Daria:                                      I suppose I could write about my mom's work obsession.

Jane:                                       Where to start?

Daria:                                      I'd thought of writing about the time she ran for mayor.

Jane:                                       Yeah?

Daria:                                      But then I thought better of it.

Jane:                                       Why?

Daria:                                      I may complain about her, but I actually like my mother.  She does try in her own way.

Jane:                                       Yeah.  I know where you're coming from.  Okay, new topic.  How about writing when your cousin Lara came from New York to stay with you and ended up threatening Quinn's popularity?

Daria:                                      Jane, you know I don't have a cousin named Lara let alone would want to write about popularity.

Jane:                                       Yeah, I know.  I'm just grasping at anything here.  Whoa.  Almost time for class.  C'mon, I'm your sounding board.  Gimme another shot to help you out.  I need another topic.

Daria:                                      Well… no.

Jane:                                       Give.

Daria:                                      We've gotta go to class.

Jane:                                       Not until you give.

Daria:                                      Fine.  I've been thinking of a real topic.

Jane:                                       Give.

Daria:                                      I've been thinking of what it would be like to leave Lawndale.

Jane:                                       Details.

Daria:                                      Well, suppose my father got a new job.  That meant we'd have to relocate.

Jane:                                       Where?

Daria:                                      I was thinking down south.  Near the border.  We move.  Now I need to fit into a new school.

Jane:                                       Doesn't sound all that bad.

Daria:                                      Yeah, well, what if the locals didn't like us?  And what if a girl my age tried to kill me?

Jane:                                       Now that sounds more like your style.

Daria:                                      You think?

Jane:                                       You getting the crap beaten out of you?  Maybe killed?  I'd pay to read that.

Daria:                                      How much money you got?

Jane:                                       And just how long have you known me?

Daria:                                      Stupid question on my part.  Apologies.

Jane:                                       Accepted.

Daria:                                      Anyway, it's either that or write about leaving home to go to college.

Jane:                                       Harvard?  Yale?

Daria:                                      Nah.  I'm thinking of Willmore University.  Somehow I get screwed out of a scholarship and have to work my way through school.

The class bell rings.  Students get up from desks and exit the library as new students come in.  Jane and Daria gather up their books and are leaving.

Jane:                                       So how exactly did I manage to steal your scholarship anyway?

Daria:                                      Who said it was you?

Jane:                                       After all the scheming we've done together?  C'mon, give me a little credit where credit's due.

Daria:                                      All right.  I figure you managed to blackmail my mom.

Jane:                                       I thought you liked your mom.

Daria:                                      I do.  Doesn't mean I can't pick on her, though.

Jane:                                       You are one strange girl you know that?

Daria:                                      Flattery will get you everywhere one of these days.

Jane:                                       But not with you?

Daria:                                      You do know me.

End Video

Diane:                                     Once I saw the creation process…

Bob:                                        You saw?

Diane:                                     Yes, "me" saw.

Bob:                                        It's always about you, isn't it?

Diane:                                     It is this time.  Anyway, after we saw the creation process, we put a little thought into the end result. 

Bob:                                        Specifically, since Daria was acting as the managing editor for all story submissions, who would review hers?

Diane:                                     So Nick obliged us with more scanning of the Li archive and this is what we found.  Nick?

The electronic blackboard flickered to life.

Start Video

April 2002.
Location: Lawndale High hallway, by lockers.  Time: afternoon.
Jane is getting ready and Daria thinks of something to say.  She hesitates and then finally says it.

Daria:                                      Jane, could you read something for me?

Jane:                                       Hey, the last time I had to read something for you resulted in embarrassment for me, so no thanks.

Daria:                                      No it didn't.

Jane:                                       Sure it did.

Daria:                                      I don't think so.

Jane:                                       Duck season.

Daria:                                      Rabbit season.

Jane:                                       I forget.  Am I the duck or the rabbit?

Daria:                                      I think you're a chicken.

Jane:                                       Now them's fightin' words.  So whatdaya got?  Something good for class that I can indiscriminately borrow?

Daria:                                      Yeah, right, you being indiscriminant.  That'll be the day.  When pigs fly, maybe.

Kevin:                                    Yo, Mack-Daddy, I'm going long!  Throw the ball!! 

(Kevin runs, then jumps, flying past the girls, landing in a heap a few feet down while Mack walks past, still holding the football, and shaking his head)

Jane:                                       Ha!  Got you on a technicality.  Now you have to let me read it.

Daria:                                      Didn't I ask you to read it to begin with?

Jane:                                       You might have, but I'm not saying since it takes the fun away from having to force it out of you.

Daria:                                      Okay, I got that one.  Here.  (Hands over some papers)

Jane:                                       What is it?

Daria:                                      My story for the time capsule.

Jane:                                       Really?

Daria:                                      No, it's Quinn's story.

Jane:                                       My hand's starting to blister from the perfume stink already.

Daria:                                      Jane, it's mine, okay?  Just read it.

Jane:                                       Why?

Daria:                                      Rabbit season!

Jane:                                       Duck season!

Daria:                                      You'll read it?

Jane:                                       Why not?  It's better than trading duck season phrases with you all day.

Daria:                                      Flattery will not save you this time, Lane.

Jane:                                       You should try it with some evil laughter.  It might sound better.  Hey, I just thought.  Is this the story I helped you with?

Daria:                                      You helped me?

Jane:                                       It is, isn't it?  Oh, boy, I can't wait.

End Video

This Can't Go On

by Daria Morgendorffer

(Transcribed by Steven Brown)

© September 2003

        In an effort to soften relationships with galactic neighbors, the Phipian Chamber of Commerce recently released the following statement to the galactic press:

Aarrr.  We don't recommend you stopping on any of the planets orbiting star PH-IP6244, even if your engines fail and you are locked in a downward spiral in our planet's gravity well while carrying a cargo of explosive combustibles.  Ever.  If you need to come to our planet, kill yourself first.  It's less painful that way.  However, if you do land and manage to exit any of our planetary bodies relatively alive and make your way back to your end of civilization, and are functioning mentally sufficient enough to remember your stay and subsequent recreational tortures without going into long weeks of screaming flashbacks, we would love to talk to you to see where we can improve.

        This was, as it turned out, the most positive spin on their planet they could devise.

*****

 (Translated from Glenichian.)

        A long time ago, roughly 5000 Glenichs in the past, the third (and, thankfully, only inhabited) planet orbiting the star PHIP (which stood for People for Hospitality and Improved Perfection by its inhabitants, and that the rest of the galaxy considered it Pest-Hole-of-Immense Proportion as it was on the "wrong side of the tracks, and then some") had a somewhat seemingly insignificant occurrence take place that changed its entire course of history.

        "Hey," said Neja Lnea as she walked into the bedroom.

        "Hey," came the response as Neja walked over to the desk in the room where the voice emanated from.

        "Look what I bought at the flea market today."

        "Not more fleas for an art project this time, is it?"

        "Not even close.  It's a pen."

        "You know, I could have given you one of mine."

        "Ah, but this is a special pen.  The label de jour says, 'Kool Radioactive Pen.  Use a Kool for writing at night.'"

        "You going to keep it?" asked her best friend, Iraad Fermogfrendor.

        "Sure. Hate to see a good pen go to waste.  Might come in handy, writing at night."

        "You sure you want to keep something that's radioactive?" Iraad remembered to show her concern like a good friend would.

        "Oh, I'm sure it's just a marketing ploy.  I can't think of the harm."

        "Why do I have a bad feeling about this?"

        Neja smiled and said, "Oh, you have a bad feeling about everything.  Don't worry.  Everything will be fine."

*****

        Early the next morning, Iraad slipped on her green jacket and walked over to her friend's house.  She rang the doorbell and a few minutes later Neja walked out, schoolbooks in hand.

        "Um, Neja," Iraad began.  "I'm not so sure buying that pen was a good idea."

        "How'd we get back on the pen issue?  I thought we were planning the downfall of Venik and his fmeezball cohorts."

        "We were, but then I took another look at you.  I just thought you were late getting up this morning and hadn't gotten a chance to brush yet."

        "Am I really that scary today?" Neja asked, amused.

        "You're growing a second head," Iraad stated flatly.

        "Whew.  You had me thinking I was a fashion violation or something."

        "Neja, you're growing a second head!"

        "Yeah?  And?"

        "It's a second head!"

        "Don't worry about it.  After all, you know what they say."

        "'Two heads are better than one?'" Iraad guessed.

        "There you go again reading my mail.  You owe me twenty-five gleens.  C'mon, let's get to school."

*****

        Early the next morning Iraad again stopped at her friend's house and rang the doorbell.  This time, Neja's brother, Nertt answered.

        "Hey, Iraad," he said, opening the door for her to come in out of the red morning.

        "Nertt," Iraad responded.  "Neja ready yet?"

        "Not yet.  She says she's having problems with her outfit.  You want to go on up?"

        "Thanks."  Iraad went up the stairs and down the hall to her friend's bedroom.  She opened the door, saying, "Yo!  Neja!  You need help yet or what?"

        "What do you think?" came the testy reply.

        "Neja, you have a third leg growing from your backside."

        "Worse, now I don't have anything to wear today.  Guess it's streaking time for old Neja."

        "Neja!  A third leg!"

        "Hey, I heard you the first time."

        "All right, where's that Kool Radioactive Pen you bought?  Let me see it.  Let's see… hrmmm… Ah, here it is.  You didn't read the fine print, did you?"

        "What fine print?"

        "And you think I need glasses?  It says, 'Due to radioactive content, radiation exposure could bring on nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, growth of second head, blood in stool, longer living if you get the lucky dose, drooling if you don't, irritability and third leg spurts.  Brought to you by Truth In Advertising Company.'"

        "Hey, I'm not irritable," Neja pointed out.

        "I'm not saying you were."

        "Arrr, what do you know anyway!!"

        "I know I'm taking this pen away from you."

*****

        The next day, a reluctant student sat in the principal's office, under a harsh glare.  "Neja, do you know why you were brought to this office today?" The principal asked.

        Neja replied, "Would it have anything to do with my grades?"

        "No.  It would have to do with your shooting of all the fmeezballs in school with your ancient lead-projectile weapon."

        "That's good, because I'm thinking of cutting classes for the rest of the year and I don't need to have my grades affected."

        "Neja, you shot 37-fmeezballs!"

        "Arrr.  I resent that.  It was only 35."

        "While the fmeezball team was using them!!"

        "Yeah?  And?  It looked like the fun thing to do at the time, right twosy?"

        Neja's second head, which mirrored her primary head, replied, "Yeah.  What my other half said."

        "Neja – don't you… two … have any goals in life?"

        Primary Neja replied, "I want to conquer the galaxy."

        And secondary Neja stated, "And maybe get my nails done. Harr-harr-harr!"

*****

        "Hey, something smells good in here," Iraad said, coming into the kitchen.

        "It's called dinn… er… Iraad?  Is there something you want to tell me?"

        "No, mom."

        "Iraad, are you growing a second head?"

        "…maybe."

        "It's drugs again, isn't it?  I don't know how many times I've told you kids not to do drugs.  Just you wait until your father gets home."

        "Speak of the devil," Iraad muttered as the kitchen door opened and an excited male burst in.

        "Honey?  Guess what?!  I got the account!"

        "You did?  Oh, Kaje, that's wonderful!  Um, what account?"

        "You remember me talking about it the other day, don't you?  It's this Truth In Advertising Company's latest product – a pen with luminous ink so you can write at night!  And I landed the entire regional account!  This is great!"

        "Yeah, great," Iraad monotoned.

        "I was so excited to learn I had the account that I went down to the loading bay, picked up a couple cases of samples and already handed them out to all the kids at the high school.  Iraad, you be sure to let me know what happens, okay?  Let's see if we can't drum up some business!"

        "Swell.  Just peachy," Iraad groused, understanding too well what had just happened.  She was sure going to let Neja know what was on her mind.  After dinner.  Twosy was getting a little hungry.

*****

5000 Glenichs, and 218 solar systems later:

        The glorious Captain Neja Lnea and her four senior officers surveyed their handiwork on Conquered Planet #218 [ref. CP#218, circa Srot5123 - 12.06].  They stood at the base of their spherical ship, impressively as they had the last 217 times, though none more impressive as the glorious Captain Lnea.  With hands on hips and hands shading numerous eyes, they watched as crewmembers hauled loot up ramps while listening to the faint crackling and popping of the planet's last remaining defense base being nuked out of existence.

        The alien capital city of OCIBCSI (pronounced "Ossie-bossie"), which stood for "Our City Is Built Come See It," burned in the distance, turning the reddish sky an off-gray with soot and ash.  Whatever vegetation existed around the Phipian ship that hadn't been crushed by immense landing gear or incinerated by landing rockets (which were really just for show as the captain enjoyed a good scorched terrain tactic to begin any invasion), slowly died from asphyxiation as well as from the lack of sunlight and whatever water had been in the area.

        CP#218 had been named FTGOACHIOP (pronounced Fet-Go-A-Chee-Op) meaning, "For The Glory Of All Creation Here Is Our Planet" by its inhabitants for thousands of solar rotations around its orange star.  But as the population of 256,724,322 FTGOACHIOPians were currently and undeniably dead, CP#218 had been unofficially renamed HBTDG-SSE (Here Be The Dead Guys—So Screw 'Em) by a Phipian with a sense of humor, of which at least one is born each generation.  However, as the humorous Phipian responsible was not part of the command crew, that reference was naturally edited out of the official conquest records and the Phipian reprimanded in a humorous way by being pushed down the ship's stairwell.  While that sentence seemed light to some, the Phipian ship had 2006 levels and the stairwell zigzagged the entire way up, or down in this case.  And it came as no surprise to Captain Neja Lnea that when the pushed Phipian reached the bottom, he needed some serious aspirin to dull his two-headed headaches.  She could have simply had the Phipian executed, but chances were that if she'd done that her brother wouldn't talk to her anymore and would simply publish the blackmail pictures of her during their younger days where she studied hard in school, trimmed her nails, and had joined the young Republicans.  No, better the glorious Captain Neja Lnea pay him a percentage of the take and keep his kid safe than have those pictures published in the Daily Phipian.

        Captain Lnea and her officers enjoyed overseeing the loading of the city's riches and booty.  Cranes hoisted bundles and bundles of precious stones, easily found greasy foods, scavenged weapon power sources and raw metals.  Nearly all the bundles went into massive cargo holds where Phipian labor crews systematically tagged, labeled and cross-referenced the items.  Once the cargo was safely cataloged and stored, it was then ignored until the Phipians returned to their homeworld, which was several times a year.

        A few bundles were strapped to the exterior of the ship by members of the crew wanting that "something extra" to remember a planet by.  Similar to an earthling carrack, the ship's racks were standard issue for explorer ships and their courageous crews.  The bundles lashed to the ship often contained alive and squirming critters that a Phipian wanted to bring home as a pet for his kid to shoot.  Unfortunately, most Phipians didn't stop to consider that a leather tarp simply wasn't adequate protection from the cold of deep space and so those few creatures that survived the trauma of launch tended to perish seconds after leaving a planet's troposphere.  The fact there was no breathable air in space didn't help either.

        The loading nearly complete, the remaining unneeded ground personnel sauntered up the ramps into the ship.  Never in conquesting time had one of the glorious conquerors walked anyplace.  They always sauntered.  They acted as if they owned the entire galaxy.  And judging by the glorious Captain Lnea's performance record over the previous 217 conquests, that possibility wasn't far off.

        "Arrr.  It's decided then?" the glorious Captain Neja Lnea asked (in stereo) of her officers.

        "Arrr.  Right.  We keep heading Galactic East until we come to the next planet," said the incredible First Officer Nuniq Fermogfrendor, checking her clipboard.  "Our probes have intercepted transmissions from a planet containing a variety of sentient life forms far in abundance to what we've seen on the previous 218 singular-sentient planets.  The locals call it Earth and call themselves earthlings.  Aren't they a clever bunch?"  She rolled an eyestalk on her right head on the right side around and around for emphasis to indicate she was implying the opposite of her last statement.  "The planet contains a dominant humanoid species.  They shouldn't be too hard to handle, as the grubs on this planet were also bipeds and they all dropped dead when they saw us."

        "Harr harr harr!" chorused the amused fashionable officers, remembering the ease of taking the planet and plundering its booty.

        Witty Fermogfrendor continued.  "Arrr.  There may also be other intelligent species on this planet.  Several transmissions indicate an intelligent quadruped species whose leaders are either a "Francis" or a "Mr. Ed."  A mammal called "Flipper" seems to interact with earthlings as well from one of their oceans."

        "Arrr.  Doesn't sound so hard," commented the highly intelligent Captain Lnea.

        "Arrr.  Some of these humanoids appear to hold special powers, captain.  Transmissions indicate there are four musicians who can even mutate into superbeings called "Monkeymen."  We'll probably have to nuke them.  There also seems to exist a proliferation of undead walking this planet."

        "Arrr.  As long as none of them have two heads, screw 'em!  Standard incineration rules for the undead!" ordered the confident Captain, taking a last look at her handiwork in the distance.

        "Arrr.  Noted, captain.  One thing working in our favor is that this alien race seems very chaotic and not very civilized.  They seem to revel in… harr harr harr… get this: free love, feeling it has some sort of special significance.  What a bunch of losers!"

        "Harr harr harr!" chorused the amused lovely officers yet again.

        Wiping a laugh-tear away from her first and fifth eyestalks on each head, First Officer Fermogfrendor asked, "Arrr.  Do you want to issue any special instructions, captain?"

        "Arrr.  What the hell for?  We'll approach the aliens openly and off-guard.  Once welcomed to their planet, we plunder, plunder, plunder.  Harr harr harr!!"

        "Arrr.  But what do we do with the intelligent quadrupeds?" asked Ensign Halmeic Ziecenmak.

        "Arrr," replied the first officer.  "The same thing the humans do when they decide to get rid of them.  We shoot them.  Harr harr harr!!"

        "Harr harr harr!!" laughed the rest of the Phipians.

        "Arrr.  Now back to business," said glorious Captain Lnea.  "What about lunch!"

        "Arrr.  Excuse me, your gloriousness-es," said a Phipian cabin boy holding what looked like a camera with spikes surrounding it.  "But would you like a picture of your impressive self and your officers in front of the burning city for your scrapbook?"

        "Arrr.  Why not?  And you—well?!"

        Ensign Halmeic Ziecenmak checked his space-daytimer and said, "Arrr.  We have reservations in the ship's Space Burger-N-Other Charred Flesh."

        "Arrr.  Fine.  Now that that's settled, what's the name of the primary city on Earth we're heading for?"

        "Arrr.  Lawndale," informed the well-proportioned First Officer.  In the background, the huge ship, PLANET RAVAGER: Now Serving 218 electronically blinked its name to, PLANET RAVAGER: Now Serving 219.

        "Arrr.  Say 'killing spree' for the camera," said the lowly cabin boy.

        The five officers stood next to each other and grinned for the holopoloroid.

*****

        The PLANET RAVAGER, Now Serving 219 was a huge ship dedicated to one function: conquest.  It was designed to house 20,000 crewmembers with four senior officers and one junior officer raised from the ranks when needed.  Ensign Halmeic Ziecenmak was the latest Ensign, and also the longest one to retain his job, shattering the previous record of three and a half months by several hours and counting.

        On plundering explorations between stops at their home world, Phipian ships usually went through an average of four Ensigns.  Ziecenmak knew that the odds were with him as Ensign Alsakfernlake Jones, his predecessor, had been the fifth one Captain Lnea had executed.  And that had been 26-landings back.  If he could survive another 31 landings, he knew he would be bumped up to Third Officer and the others bumped up too as the captain would retire with an incredible amount of wealth like the previous captain, Iraad Fermogfrendor had done.

        Captain Lnea was a harsh Phipian, and cruel to the core, but what captain wasn't?  She gave every officer under her command enough rope to work on their own (and not bother her when the soaps were on) as well as to hang themselves and not implicate her when things went bad.  Alsakfernlake's problems had started on CP#192.  He was allowed to lead the landing party and in his hurry had defiled the age-old custom from Phipian Prime of waiting for a formal welcoming into a new planet's society before going about plundering its riches.  Alsakfernlake started negotiations by shooting the first person he saw when they had landed instead of waiting for a "Howdy" or "Welcome to our planet."  For as any intelligent species knew, putting out a verbal "WELCOME MAT" only invited trouble.  Ergo, any species that invited trouble was asking to be plundered.

        Besides, not waiting for a welcome was just downright rude, and no matter how immoral, amoral, antisocial, ruthless, bitter, savage, nasty, disgusting, psychotic, sociopathic, paranoid, and malicious the Phipians were, they were not rude. 

        Ironically, it was this awareness of their place in the universe that kept the Phipians sane and self-employed.  And the welcoming ritual that Alsakfernlake had bypassed had meant no plunder.  While Neja could have plundered the planet without the welcome, or at least gotten the welcome by placing a blaster to the head of an inhabitant, she was concerned of a mutiny among her crew for bypassing customs.  And while Neja knew any mutiny would, of course, be halted through the generous use of poison gas, it would have been a larger hassle to have to train an entirely new crew.  Therefore, to ensure that the Phipian High Command never heard of this, and to quell any resentment (well, any more resentment), Capt. Lnea had ordered the entire planet incinerated without getting the loot.  Of course, Alsakfernlake had to go after that. 

*****

        Traveling from planetary system to planetary system involved crossing unimaginably long distances, which took the better part of a week.  Six and a half days later, the PLANET RAVAGER landed in the designated spot on the visual transmission they had intercepted.  The huge spaceship, fully 12,000 cubic meters with thousands of armaments shoved in every conceivable nook and cranny, touched down on Continent 3, ref. North American Continent, subsection United States of America, ref. Texas State, subref. Lawndale, dest. Lawndale Park.

        A ramp extended as two blue-and-black clad individuals (who wore the metal badges recognizable from transmissions that indicated they were part of humanity's paramilitary security force) approached the ship.  The five courageous command officers triumphantly sauntered down the ramp, triumphant grins on both heads on each body for a total of ten grins.  Burned grass and trees could almost be seen smoldering under the ship.  Or would have been if they hadn't been crushed under the weight of the ship.

        "Harr harr harr!  Earthlings, you need not cringe as you see us in our full glory!  We welcome you properly to the greater galaxy of commerce and brotherhood!"  And together, ten mouths "harred" their loudest while 70-eyes (seven-eyes per head) took in the sight of the bored looks on both earthlings.

        "Arrr.  You may welcome us to your fine fair city if you must, we certainly won't stop you!" Captain Lnea commanded modestly.  She knew that one slip from the ugly furless alien was all she needed to appease the crew (and Phipian Prime), and then the world was hers!  Plunder, plunder, plunder!!

        One earthling then dared to approach the mighty Captain Lnea, pulled out a suspicious pocket sized notebook and said, "Look, pal, if I coulda survived a revitalized disco era, I kin survive some badly clothed, two-headed, fourteen-eyed green-furred geeky aliens!  So no lip, see!"

        Captain Lnea's lower mouth gaped while the obnoxious alien conversed with her paramilitary partner.  They were probably discussing between themselves the proper way to welcome a Phipian, her heads thought.

        "Arrr.  Hmmmm," Ensign Ziecenmak muttered, noting how the aliens ignored the Captain's clever ploy to get them to welcome the Phipians to the city.  "They may be more advanced than we thought."

        The obnoxious alien returned to the Captain and said in a snotty tone, "Hey, pal, dis yer vehicle or what?" she pointed at the massive ship with a finger glistening with native hot dog grease on it.

        "Arrr.  Well, certainly this is our vessel.  The mighty PLANET RAVAGER goes where it pleases in all the cosmos!"

        "Whatever, pal," muttered the human.  The human licked a wooden writing stick and began scribbling while walking around the incredible ship, poking it every now and then.

        The glorious captain accompanied the paramilitary security officer, all the while listening to the human murmur, "…illegally parked …no bumpers in front or rear …excessive weapons obstructing driver's view…" and so on.  Then the human asked, "No permit to land inna park, I take it?" 

        "Arrr.  Urm, no."

        "Uh-huh," she uh-huhed like a human who knew she was going to meet quota early this month.  The fiend!

        The human continued mumbling and scratching the paper with some sort of unintelligible scribbling law-enforcement officials the galaxy over tended to specialize in while the captain followed a respectful distance behind, her upper arms crossed over her chest.  Captain Lnea's two heads, like nearly all Phipians these days, were attached to a torso twice as thick as the measly human's.  Although wider, her torso was only slightly taller than a human's, the extra room accommodating her four arms.  The arms were set near each other, the lower limbs growing out a snug 28-centimeters below the upper limbs.  The arms were so close to one another that the most comfortable position for the upper arms when they weren't in use was to leave them folded across the chest and the stomach.  When the upper arms simply hung down, they bumped the lower limbs.  The lower arms were quadruple-jointed, enabling either head (which could maneuver 180-degrees like an earthling owl) to direct the arms on the backside.

        The other paramilitary human walked up to the always sophisticated First Officer Nuniq Fermogfrendor and said, "Hey, pal.  Just a friendly woid of advice.  Don't try hidin' those weapons you got all over yer body.  We got tough laws around here for people carryin' concealed weapons.  Youse understand?"

        "Arrr.  You sound like my mother."

        "Just do it, an' no back tawk."

        After scrawling furiously for 20-minutes, the paramilitary security human ripped several inches of paper out of her pad and shoved them into a startled Captain Lnea's lower hand.  The human said, "I'm impoundin' yer ship until youse gets da proper papers ta land it in da park.  Youse do know what papers I'm tawkin' about, don'tcha?"

        The glorious captain and his crew did not bother to dignify the question with an answer.

        "Damn tourists" muttered the human.  "Look, whatcha need is a permit, see?"

        "Arrr.  Where do we get this permit?" asked a cautious Ensign Halmeic Ziecenmak.

        "City Hawll."

*****

        "Arrr.  What do you mean, you don't have the permit?!" questioned the tough Captain to one of her crew several days later.

        "Arrr.  It's protected by some sort of government hurdle, Cap," replied the soon to be dead crewman.

        "Arrr.  What kind of hurdle?"

        "Arrr.  It starts with a long line…" 

        Zzzzapppp.

        The crewman stopped explaining as he looked down with curiosity at the dripping five-inch tunnel drilled through his body before dying with a look of immense stupidity still written upon its countenance.

        "Arrr.  That's what the last lackey said when he came back empty handed!" shouted the forceful Captain to an unloving recipient.

        "Arrr,  And that's the same result!" started Ensign Halmeic Ziecenmak.  "That's the fourth crewman you've gotten rid of in the last few days, Captain."  He looked around the Captain's "ready" room, silently thinking of having it renamed "large blat of red goo on the cabin wall that any earthling might easily mistake for chunky salsa" room.

        "Arrr.  Round up the staff, Halmeic.  The crew's getting restless for plunder.  We need to get this ourselves."

*****

        The glorious Captain Neja Lnea, incredible First Officer Nuniq Fermogfrendor, dashing Second Officer Idsan Fifnrig, suave Third Officer Cytas Wore, and wondrous Ensign Halmeic Ziecenmak showed the line of humans near them that a Phipian showed no fear when encountering new concepts, such as standing in line.  Or standing in a long line.  Or even a very, very, very long line.

        "Harr harr harr!  See, Captain?  The line moves already!" harred the incredible Fermogfrendor.

        "Harr harr harr!" chorused the other three officers to a scowling captain.

        "Hey, pal!" a rude human somewhere in front of them commanded as the line came to another sudden halt after advancing three centimeters.  "Put a sock innit!  I'm trying ta read some forms over here!"

*****

        "So then after that operation, my doctor said it was time for a checkup.  I tell you, never have I felt such cold equipment," a graying, diminutive human with hardly any head fur to mention wheezingly informed the glorious captain and her crew.  He was different than the other humans in that he had many dark spots over his sagging skin.  "If my son had been a doctor instead of a car salesman, I'm sure he would've had the decency to warm up his instruments before putting them on me."

        "Arrr.  Captain, can't I torture him just a little bit?" whispered Idsan Fifnrig when the human wasn't paying attention.

        "Arrr.  Idsan, how many times do I have to tell you.  Until we get that permit, we have to tread the human way."

        "Arrr.  Yeah, yeah.  'When on Gladnuflicknasdas, do as the Gladnuflicknasdasians do,'" Fifnrig recalled the age-old expression.

        "Arrr.  Didn't we kill the entire Gladnuflicknasdasian population?" asked Ensign Ziecenmak.

        "Arrr.  Yes," agreed the pretty captain.  "But only after we negotiated landing privileges first."

        "Harr harr harr!" harred the group.

        "Look, pal!" again bellowed the ominous voice somewhere ahead of the captain.  "I said knock it off!  I'm readin' here!  Don' make me come back there an' teach you knuckleheads a lesson!"

*****

        Time passed slowly—agonizingly slow, as if being sucked into a black hole or being monopolized by visiting in-laws.  There were only so many comical anecdotes they could bring up before reminiscing got stale.  The line went to only one window.  Centimeter by centimeter it crawled.

        Finally, they were the next in line.  Hopes soared!

        "Harr harr harr!  We are near the end of the line, captain!  Once we have the permit to land in the park, we'll take over this city and then the planet.  Then we'll have this world's riches!  And nobody'll tell us to put a sock in it!  Harr harr harr!" harred the charismatic First Officer Fermogfrendor.

        They approached a piece of timber nearly two meters tall, stretching five meters from wall to wall with a 10 by 5 by 20-centimeter rectangular vertical wooden mini-plank separating the horizontal slab into two equal areas of operation.  They did not bother to notice the workmanship of the wood, or translate its fine native inscriptions of, "Suicide Be De Pits, So Shut The Hell Up Before I Kick The Crap Out Of You", "Jo-Jo Wuz Here!" or "Jo-Jo Can Kiss My Big Hairy Butt" before the human clerk put up an Out To Lunch - See Next Window sign with an arrow pointing to the left.  An immediate stampede to the now open left window ensued, leaving the Phipians behind.  The stared at the new line they had to stand in, two mouths on each head gaping wide. 

        "Arrr.  Hey!  That's not fair!" protested Ensign Ziecenmak to an uncaring human race.  The bastards!

*****

        "Thank you for holding my knitting bag, sonny," said a hunchbacked human female with a thousand visible wrinkles under a matting of black fake head fur.  Six-centimeter long eye coverings protected two tiny black dots that must have been her eyes.

        "Arrr.  Did you get your fangs back in?"

        "The time?  I'm sorry.  I think I left my watch back in the bathroom.  I'd better go back and get it.  But I got my teeth back in, see?" she asked, smiling through bright red lips.

        Ensign Ziecenmak recoiled in shock.  It was one thing to see a mouthful of chompers fall out of a human's mouth, but it was something else to see how white they were.  No proper color at all other than some red smearing obviously from the lip paint.

        "Arrr.  By all means, return to the excrement room," supplied an annoyed Captain Lnea.

        "I'll be right back, sonny," said the old human.  To the Captain she said, "You have such a nice son.  He's so polite, and he looks just like you."  She shuffled back down the line.

        Fifnrig and Wore were hard pressed to restrain the debonair Fermogfrendor from executing the insulting human on the spot.  A Ziecenmak looking like a Lnea?  Couldn't the human recognize proper breeding?

*****

        "Pardon me, toots," asked a hairless, fat human with a burning weed between puffy jowls under a large olfactory snout.

        "Arrr!  Away, foul human!" commanded Ensign Ziecenmak stepping between the smoking human and his captain.  "None may cut in front of Captain Neja Lnea without enduring the most serious consequences of being de-molecularized into a pile of space-doggie vomit!"  Even though he had to keep his mighty hand weapon holstered, the brilliant ensign was learning the ways of human society courtesy of an eavesdropped conversation between Mrs. Pinklestein and Mrs. Winnermier.

        "Shove it, pal," sneered the human, blowing a cloud of smoke into the ensign's left face.  "I need a drink of water from the fountain youse creeps are hanging around.  So either get outta the way or I'll call the cops.  Waitaminute, youse the group makin' all the noise earlier?"

        "Arrr.  You're not cutting in line?" Ensign Ziecenmak's right head asked while his left choked on the noxious stinkweed cloud.

        "What the hell for?  I'm on my way outta here.  Now are youse gonna move it or not?"

        "Arrr.  Excuse me.  Sorry."  The five shuffled past the water fountain and continued their way up the line.  A slight twitch started in Ziecenmak's #4 eyestalk.

*****

        "Arrr!  Captain, we're here!  We've arrived at the window!" bellowed a joyous Fermogfrendor.

        The Phipians had arrived at the head of the line to the open window, again.  A middle-aged human female sat behind the counter, a communicator cocked under her chin and behind an ear.  "And he said that?" she screeched into the black colored device.  "Oh, Sandi.  You're too good for that weasel."

        "Arrr.  Urm, excuse me," started the courteous Fermogfrendor, trying to tread the human welcome ritual she had overheard just minutes before.

        "Just one minute, bub.  Can't you see that I'm on the phone?  Talk about rude.  Oh, Sandi, sure you can move in with me until you get that deadbeat out of your apartment.  Yes, you can bring your makeup bag.  No, only one bag.  I said no.  Oh, Sandi, you can call me anytime.  I'm only working.  What're old high school friends for?  Give me a call and tell me all about it when you tell that deadbeat you're moving out.  No, only one bag.  Stop it.  Okay, talk to you later."  The human hung up her communications device.

        "Yes?  What is it?" the human asked, arching a small line of facial hair over an in-set eye.  "Can I help you?"

        "Arrr.  Yes, human, you can.  We need a . . ."

        RIIIIIIINNNNGGGGG.

        "Just a minute.  Hello?  Stacy!?  How are things with you?  Oh, no.  No trouble at all.  I was just telling Sandi the same thing – I'm only at work.  Call me anytime.  No!!  She's seeing him again?!  Tell me more!"

        "Arrr.  Human, we need to get a…"  Fermogfrendor's lower left hand caressed her holstered Series XXXVIII Blaster, her trigger finger twitching slightly.

        "Just a minute, sir.  Can't you losers see I'm on the phone?  No, Stacy, no trouble.  "

        "Arrr.  But you see, we only need . . ."

        "She said what?!" the human screeched, rising off her stool to her full height of 1.524 meters, including heels.  "I can't believe it!"

        "Arrr.  Human, we tire of these…"

        "Sir…

        "Arrr, I'm a female of my species."

        "Whatever.  What would your mother say of your constant interruptions?  Hmmm?"  The human then proceeded to ignore them.

        The five Phipians seethed silently for 2/24ths of an Earth rotation until the communications call ended and the worker again rejoined the rest of the world.  Agitated Fermogfrendor's trigger finger twitched stronger, and another finger joined in.

        "Hrrrmph.  The things she said.  Now, how can I help you guys?"

        "Arrr.  Human, we need a permit to land our spaceship in Lawndale Park!  Arrr."  A double "arrr."  This was indeed trouble for the red and prematurely gray head-furred human.

        "A permit to land in Lawndale Park?" she asked.  "Oh my.  You're in the wrong line.  You need the office down the hall.  Next!"

        Faces downcast, the five left the line, shuffling their three huge, green-furred, inch-long talon, seven-toed feet along the mismatched tiled floor.

*****

        The five Phipians had carefully deciphered the Permits Here sign and were next in line at the window.  Their undauntable spirits were back up as they neared the end of their arduous journey.

        "Soon the permit, and then the riches!  Harr harr harr!" they thought.  Ten beautiful heads all thinking the same beautiful thing.  Oh, they'd make those humans pay.  They'd invent new tortures if they had to.  Why, they could torture the humans by having them wait in long lines like they had to wait in!

        The clumsy human in front of them concluded his business and turned to leave, bumping into courageous Third Officer Wore before continuing on out the building.  The devious human filched officer Wore's wallet, which was stuffed with various intergalactic currency as well as two dozen intergalactic homing speeding tickets whose programmed motto was:  "You better pay me soon or you'll regret it."  The human found this out some time later when his personal vehicle was re-molecularized into two tons of Spam by a vengeful Space Cop Association, Speeding Ticket Division, Pay Now Or Pay Later subdepartment cop-in-training.  However, as the human's vehicle was a rusting AMC Pacer, this action by the Space Cop Association actually increased its resale value.  Or would have had he not been driving it on the freeway at the time at an excessive rate of speed.

        The Phipians crowded close, eager for the permit.  The window was exactly like the last one they had come from, and was manned by a half-bald male human wearing tan trousers and a white button-up shirt with the top button unbuttoned.  His undone red tie complemented his shirt.  A nameplate in front of the window identified the human as one "Please Conclude All Phone Calls Before Reaching This Window."  Obviously this human of many names was the one in charge.

        "Yes, sir," the human said.

        "Arrr.  I am a female of my species!"

        "Whatever.  What can I do for you today?"  The civil servant was actually civil.  The human must have recognized the impressiveness of the five Phipians before him. 

        As well the human should.

        "Arrr.  We need a permit to land our spaceship in Lawndale Park!" said Captain Lnea.

        "Arrr.  Then we're going to ransack your planet of all its riches before we go on to Conquest 220!  Harr harr harr!" went a happy First Officer, her hand still resting on her blaster.

        "Hmmm.  Yes.  I see."  The human consulted a book he drew from under the counter.  He scanned the text for a few minutes, flipping the pages with a snap of his wrist, occasionally nudging eyeglasses up and down his olfactory snout.  Then, "Okay, since there's nothing in the book to rule out aliens from landing in Lawndale Park so they can conquer the world, let's see about getting you that permit, shall we?  Now approximately how big is this ship?"

        "Arrr.  I'd say 6,000 cubic sklors."

        "I see.  And about how big is a sklor?" asked the "civil" civil servant

        Fermogfrendor used her two massive upper green furred arms to stretch horizontally and the other two arms to stretch vertically.

        "Ah," said the human.  "Two meters.  Approximately 12,000 cubic meters more than likely.  You wouldn't happen to have a picture of it by any chance, would you?"

        Captain Lnea produced the snapshot the lowly cabin boy had taken on CP#218 of the officers in front of the PLANET RAVAGER.  They had obscene gestures pointed at the camera while the FTGOACHIOPian civilization burned in the distance. 

        Those clowns.

        "Ah.  12,000 cubic meters as you indicated.  Just wanted to make sure so there's no slip up on the calculations."  The human pulled an adding device from under the counter.  "Okay.  Let's see . . . carry the two.  Add three to that number… That would be, give or take, 39,369.6 cubic feet.  Ladies, this may be a problem.  You see, structures above a thousand feet aren't allowed in the park.  Since yours is substantially bigger than that, you'll have to get a Structure Exception."

        "Arrr.  How do we get that?"

        "Well, you'll need to go down this hall over here," began the human in typical governmental drone-tone, "and see a Mr. Bonder…"

*****

        "You say you have how many weapons?" asked an Asian-American (identified from pilfered broadcasts on the flight to the solar system) human woman wearing horn-rimmed glass coverings over her in-set eyes.  She had what seemed to look like black dyed skull fur that came down to her shoulders.  With nimble fingers, she flipped through a governmental manual and asked, "Are they chemical, electrical or nuclear?"

        "Harr harr harr!  We have scores of each!" announced a boisterous Wore.

        They were happily back on familiar territory and grinned at each other.

        The human muttered, "Oh, the things I could have done with those just a few years ago.  But, no, that was a different life.  Good for nothing school board."  Then, louder to the glorious Captain, "I see.  Well, you'll need individual permits as well as weapons licenses for all persons carrying side-arms.  They'll also need certifiable training.  Are your nuclear weapons fission or fusion?" he asked, looking directly at the Captain but displaying no emotion.

        "Arrr.  Urm, fission."

        Longingly, the human mumbled, "Oh, fission.  That would've shut those little brats up…er."  Again, louder, "Ahem.  I thought so.  Well, you'll need to fill out these energy discharging forms as well as this responsibility form for any stray electromagnetic pulses wiping out or interfering with television reception and/or banking computers.  And if any of your electrical shooters generates over one megawatt of power, you're going to need to fill out this stack of forms."

        Captain Lnea had picked up her first vile human characteristic—some of her hair had turned from a lustrous green to one shade lighter than jet black giving the appearance of dark bags under all her sagging eyestalks.

*****

        "Can I help you… beings?" asked a black-haired human female.

        "Arrr.  We seek visas for our crew to land in your city park," Ensign Ziecenmak replied in the best of hopes to get the request over as soon as possible.

        "Really?  Visas?  I thought the State Department did that."

        "Arrr.  Your department was where another human told us to amble over to," he said truthfully.

        "I can do Visas?  When did that happen?" the black-haired human wondered, looking up something in a notebook.  "Oh, that's right.  I can do emergency Visas.  So, where are you all from?"

        "Arrr.  We're from the stellar system, PHIP," ever-helpful Second Officer Idsan Fifnrig said, all 14 of her eyes going to the human's name tag, "Tonya.  It is a long way from here."

        "Pip?  Maybe it's just me, but you guys don't look very 'pippy'."

        "Arrr.  You speak true, for a human," replied a tiring Second Officer Idsan Fifnrig.

        The human pulled a 10-page form out of a binder, picking up a black pen at the same time.  "I think this is the right form," Tonya started questioningly.  "But I'd better check."

        "Arrr.  By all means, check.  We want to get the correct forms," said the always-approachable Captain Lnea.

        "Section One, Part One, Subsection A, If… said… parties… are… in…" Tonya began in her slow… detached… monotone… voice.

        Roughly 10-minutes later, while the human Tonya was still on the same page, cheeky Third Officer Cytas Wore asked, "Arrr.  Will this take long?"

        "I don't know since I've never had to read any of the forms.  It might take me a bit.  Um, what were you guys wanting again?"

        "Arrr.  Authorization visas to allow my crew to saunter down the ramps in your city park!" shouted a growing more irritable (but still pretty as ever) Captain Lnea.

        "Oh, that's right.  Uh-oh, I lost my place.  I'd better start over again."

        "Arrr.  I'm going to transform the surface of the Earth into a radioactive slag!" growled Captain Lnea to her usually non-flappable senior staff.

        "That won't get your permits processed any faster, mister," Tonya responded matter-of-factly.

        "Arrr.  I'm a female of my species!"

        "Whatever.  Whoops.  Lost my place again.  Better start over at the beginning."

        As a single entity, the staff sat on the nearby benches, nearly crushing them with their combined weight (since the earthling natives did not know how to build proper furniture) to wait out the document review.

*****

        "Wow.  You guys actually got permission to land a 12,000 cubic meter 100-ton ship in Lawndale Park?  I'm impressed," said the familiar Permits Here human, Please Conclude All Phone Calls Before Reaching This Window.

        "Arrr, Please Conclude All Phone Calls Before Reaching This Window, it was nothing."

        "Call me Joey."

        "Arrr, whatever pumps your rockets, earthling.  We've been flying ships like that since before you were weaned," said Fifnrig, the ship's navigator (when she felt like it, which wasn't as often as she would think – just thank the Plunder Gods for autopilot).

        "No, not the ship.  I'm impressed that you were able to convince my boss into allowing you to land, it being so big and all.  Well, I'm sure you don't want to talk to me all day so on to business.  This civil servant is here to help.  I see you have your forms all filled out."  The human seemed to have excessive underarm moisture on his too-small white button-up shirt. 

        "Arrr!  In triplicate!" bellowed the captain with greenish-yellow teeth, whose breath had personally caused the third floor's entire painted hallway to peel.

        "In triplicate.  Wonderful!" the civil servant beamed, scanning the forms, and offering an occasional hmmm or humph.  "Okay, your papers are almost in order.  There are just a few things we have to clear up on the last page.  Now, how many wheels does your ship have?"

        Ensign Ziecenmak said, "Arrr.  At last count, 5,634."

        "Arrr.  Plus a spare," offered handsome Fifnrig.

        "Oh my."

        "Groan," ten heads groaned collectively.

        "I think we may have a problem here."

*****

        The five officers were shoulder deep in forms in the earthling cafeteria, which incidentally served the best charred-black meat on moldy green bread they had ever eaten.  Captain Lnea was in mid-bite when a medium built City Hall employee with a red bow tie, fully buttoned white shirt and red suspenders attached to neatly pressed black pleated pants approached the table.  In the human's clean hands was a stack of papers 13-centimeters thick.  The human's nametag read: Mr. Tino.

        The Phipians looked up from their war on paperwork as the human with curly black head fur cleared his throat.  The gorgeous captain motioned to her third officer and ever-thoughtful Wore used her upper right arm to clear a spot at the table for the human.  The arm shoved all the discarded paper, styrofoam refuse, and unopened relish packets from their lunch off the table and let it land onto the floor in the ritualistic cleaning of the table to appease the floor gods.  The action was also used to give the lowly crew something to do as the ship operated at its best when it was neat and tidy.

        "I heard you GENTLEMEN…

        "Arrr!  Females!"

        "WHATEVER… were LOOKING for a PERMIT to land your SPACESHIP in Lawndale Park for a WEEKEND of RAVAGING the CITY, if not the PLANET."

        Thoughts of glorious, gory conquest swept through the captain's mind.  But suspicion for the human also entered.  Slowly, the captain replied, "Arrr.  You heard true."

        "Well then, CITY LAW requires you to PROVIDE accessible DRINKING WATER areas as well as adequate WASTE DISPOSAL units.  And no LATRINES like my old D-I used to make us dig!  These PAPERS should cover most of the FORMS you will need to assist you in this ENDEAVOR.  If you have any questions, my OFFICE is on the 5th floor, right wing, room 5900A.  I'm ALMOST always there since, as my COLLEGUES always REMIND me, I have NO LIFE!"

        The human began to leave, turned and said, "I hope you APPRECIATE the EFFORT I'm making as I SACRIFICED my lunch hour helping you out GETTING these forms ready!  But I DOUBT that's the case since you REMIND me of the same lazy STUDENTS I used to TEACH!"  The human left but his presence remained.

        They looked at each other, an alien feeling swelling up inside each of them.  While they had laid waste to hundreds of worlds in search of riches, this was the first time they ever experienced a guilt trip.  Third Officer Wore's first, third and sixth eyestalks twitched several times and stopped.

        Damn those devious humans anyway!

*****

        An office door closed loudly behind the Phipians who were arguing between themselves as they walked down a hallway.  See what a low the accursed Earth civilization had brought to the glorious captain and her crew.

        "Arrr!  I can't believe you used red ink on those forms!"

        First Officer Fermogfrendor looked at his captain sheepishly.  "Arrr.  Well, urm, I thought that blood-red ink might put some fear in their disgustingly pale bodies, which in turn would expedite matters."

        "Arrr.  Okay, I see your point.  But use your brains, Nuniq!  Have they been intimidated by anything we've done yet?!  No!  And do you know why?!"

        "Arrr.  No."

        The captain calmed his demeanor.  "Arrr.  Me neither.  All they seem to do is scoff whenever I bring up our Fired Office Workers department back home.  They keep stating how they're civil service and can't be fired.  What do they mean by that?"

        "Arrr.  I'm sure they could be fired from a 422mm Sonic Water-Accelerated cannon just like any other fired worker," pretty Fermogfrendor said hopefully.

        "Arrr.  These aliens are confusing," admitted Lnea.  "Okay, who's got the black pen and where are the blue pens?!"

*****

        "Arrr!  What do you mean, 'wrong forms'?!"

        "I'm sorry, sir or madam.  New regulations just came into effect last week.  We only just now got the new forms."  Riiiinnnnggg-rriiiiiinnnngg!  "Excuse me.  Hello?  No, Eric, I won't do it.  I told you before that I don't work for you any longer.  Good-bye!"

        "Arrr!  So we have to do everything over again?!"

        "I'm soooo glad that you understand, sir or madam," whined an aging human female over her glasses and gray head fur.  "You can get the new forms from my assistant, Brittany, outside."

        "Arrr.  But she was the one to give us the wrong forms to begin with!" stated Captain Lnea, scourge of 218 previous planets!

        "Arrr.  Let me try some human influence on her, Captain.  I've been watching the natives," suggested crafty Ensign Ziecenmak.

        "Arrr.  Proceed."

        Ensign Ziecenmak sat on the desk corner, causing it to creak ominously and said, "Arrr.  Listen, chicky-baby.  Loosen up the strings a little, dig?  You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours.  Then we can do the nasty."

        The human gazed lovingly into three of Ziecenmak's eyes and said low enough so that only he could hear, "If you don't get your keester off my desk in five seconds, I'm calling security who will in turn take you out back and beat you senseless until I tell them to stop."  She then grabbed an eyestalk, gave it a good yank, and pushed the Phipian onto the floor.

        Ensign Ziecenmak was helped up and helped out, all the while beaming.  What a female! he thought, recalling his last date on Phipian Prime.

*****

        "Gee, I don't know if I can accommodate you… aliens," admitted a concerned Park Scheduling Department human.  He was younger looking than the other humans they had dealt with as his face was smooth instead of lined.  He had black head and facial fur, and two green eyes—the only good thing about the human.  "Mrs. Fernwilderstein is holding a religious revival meeting this weekend.  She's already bought a ton of Bibles.  Are you sure you wouldn't like to postpone your festivities until late November?  I have all the time in the world open then."

        "Arrr!  No, no!  We want this weekend!" commanded the battle-hardened Captain.

        "Okay, okay.  Keep your panties on.  Let me call and see if it's okay with her."

        The young human dialed a black-coated communicator on his desk.

        "Mrs. Fernwilderstein, this is Michael Thompson from City Hall.  Yes, ma'am.  I'm fine.  Thank you for asking.  And yourself?  Good, good.  Mrs. Fernwilderstein, the reason I'm calling is that I've got some gentlemen…

        "Arrr!  Females!"

        "Whatever.  Some ladies here who would really like to swap weekends with you if that is all right.  Yes, ma'am.  I know you had your heart set on Lawndale Park for the revival.  But they say their need is awfully pressing as well.  Okay.  Hold on."

        He placed a hand over the communicator.  "Ladies, she wants to know why you need it this weekend."

        "Arrr.  We want to ravage your world and steal your riches," admitted likable Lnea.

        "Mrs. Fernwilderstein, they seem to want to attack our world and steal our wealth.  Uh-huh.  No ma'am.  They're not wearing fascist goose-stepping boots.  They have sandals on.  Uh-huh.  Okay, Mrs. Fernwilderstein.  I'll see what I can arrange.  Thank you for your time.  And you have a good day too."  The human hung up the communicator.

        "She says you can have the weekend on the condition you leave survivors to attend her next meeting."

        The command crew huddled for a moment before responding.  "Arrr.  We'll leave 500 humans mostly alive for her meeting," Captain Lnea said smoothly.

        "She mentioned a figure closer to two million."

        "Arrr.  We can probably keep 5,000 humans alive long enough for her meeting."

        "Two million."

        "Arrr.  We can deliver 50,000, most of whom will definitely live to closing ceremonies."

        "Two million."

        "Arrr.  I can deliver 500,000.  No more."

        "I'll take 1,958,612 alive and relatively uninjured.  And no atheists.  Or else no weekend," said the deviously cool human.

        "Arrr.  Deal!"

        "The weekend is yours, then, ladies."

        The Phipians "Harr-harred" in their first conquest!

*****

        The glorious captain and her crew had all the required forms filled out. 

        Everything was finally in order. 

        Fermogfrendor's hand caressed her blaster, her fourth finger pulling an imaginary trigger.

        They were in the Permits Here office, and Call Me Joey hadn't gone home for the weekend.

        It wasn't even closing time yet!

        Third Officer Wore's eyes twitched nervously for several seconds and stopped.  The cycle repeated 42 seconds later as it had for the past 3/24ths Earth rotations.

        Ka-chunk, ka-chunk went the human's hand stamp.  Ka-chink, ka-chink rotated seven ball bearings in Captain Lnea's lower right hand.  Call Me Joey didn't seem to mind the extra noise.

        "Okay, ladies, for one weekend of ravaging the Earth starting at 12:01 a.m. this Saturday in Lawndale Park, to conclude at 11:59:59 Sunday evening, the price comes to $439,672,857.19, tax included.  Payable in advance in United States, planet Earth currency."

        "Arrr.  Is plastic okay?" asked a grinning Captain Lnea.

        "As long as you have the credit limit," replied the human smoothly.

        "Arrr.  Okay, Nuniq, put it on your card.  Urm, I seem to have forgotten mine."

        "Arrr.  Urm, I didn't bring it with me either, captain.  Idsan, put it on your card."

        "Arrr.  Urm, I didn't bring it with me, Fermogfrendor."  He looked to his left.

        "Arrr.  Don't look at me, my wallet was lifted a long time ago," said Third Officer Wore.

        "Arrr.  My card is maxed," said Ensign Ziecenmak.

        "So.  None of you can pay the bill."  The civil servant turned uncivil.  "After all the bother we went to on your behalf.  You can't pay the bill.  Did you check your wallets before coming here?  Of course not.  You just came here to waste our time.  How nice of you.  It's not like we have anything to do here in our offices."  The human calmly rose to his feet.

        "Get out!" shouted the human.  "Don't waste my department's time!  Don't bother coming back!  Your application is herewith forever denied!  All future applications denied!"

        "Arrr," muttered Ensign Ziecenmak.  "I've never been so embarrassed in all my life."

        The captain initiated a brilliant comeback to the foul tempered human and said, "Arrr.  C'mon everyone, let's go.  We don't need to ransack this planet anyway."  The captain's mind was still razor sharp.

        And with that, the glorious Captain Neja Lnea and her four officers sauntered out of the office. 

*****

Epilogue:

        The Phipian command crew sauntered their way out of City Hall.  The captain's eyestalks moved continuously, scanning the halls for any form of an attack.  It was a trait that had given her the upper edge more than once.

        "Arrr, Captain, don't worry about it.  The next conquest will go easier," said Ensign Ziecenmak, trying to get his captain's mood back on the track of gory glory conquest as they approached the massive brass and glass City Hall exit doors.  Human eyes watched their departure with little interest, instead trying desperately to think of a way to move to the front of the line and out of the un-air conditioned building.

        The command crew sauntered their way back to their ship, up the ramp and closed the doors.  In a few minutes the ship launched, scorching the park into little more than black dirt.  A giant strawberry sculpture slagged under the propulsion blast.

        Officers Morgendorffer and Lane watched as the ship launched and left the planet.  Once it was gone they resumed their beat.  As she was leaving the park, Officer Lane noticed something on the ground and picked it up.

        "What'cha find?" asked Officer Morgendorffer.

        "Looks like a pen one of those bozos dropped."

        "Litterbugs."

        "Don't you know it.  I think it says, 'Kool Radioactive Pen.  Use a Kool for writing at night.'"

        "Youse gonna keep it?"

        "Hate to see a good pen go to waste.  Might come in handy, writin' at night."

        "Famous last words.  Besides, since when da youse write?"

        "It could happen."

        "When pigs fly, maybe.  You sure you want to keep something that's radioactive?"

        "Oh, I'm sure it's just a marketing ploy.  I can't think of the harm."

-End-

Location: Lawndale HS, History 363.
Time: Now.

Diane:                                     We weren't sure if we'd actually find any post-review comments, but we got lucky.

Bob:                                        There's not much, but here's what we found.  Nick?

The electronic blackboard flickered to life.

Start Video

April 2002.
Location: Lawndale High cafeteria.  Time: noon.
Daria is sitting at a table.  She is trying to figure out what the mystery meat is without touching it.  Jane walks up to the table and then plants herself on the bench across from Daria.

Jane:                                       Found you at last.

Daria:                                      I didn't think I was hiding.

Jane:                                       Didn't say you were.  Okay.  Done.

Daria:                                      About time you got out of the bathroom.

Jane:                                       You keep that up and I'm not going to give you feedback.

Daria:                                      So you like the story?

Jane:                                       Of course I do.  Anagrams aside, I'm portrayed as a calculating, evil person, out to kill everyone.  You really caught the essence of me.  There's only one thing, though.

Daria:                                      What?

Jane:                                       It's…

Daria:                                      What, what?

Jane:                                       Keep your skirt on, Daria.  I'm getting to it.

Daria:                                      One more "it's" and I'll bust you in the chops.

Jane:                                       I'll take my chances.  The story was way too short.  I'm just starting to get good and involved and next thing you know, bam!  Game over.  What gives?

Daria:                                      Yeah, I kind of thought that myself.

Jane:                                       So, you gonna fix it?

Daria:                                      Nah.  This was just an excerpt of a much longer novel I'm working on.  Once I had your character down, the words just came rolling out.

Jane:                                       I'm a muse in my own time.  Congratulations, me.

Jane pats herself on the back.

Daria:                                      So the story was okay?

Jane:                                       Sure.  I especially liked that I was in the story three times – alien high schooler, alien captain, and beat cop.

Daria:                                      Count yourself lucky.  The original draft I started with had you in the story eight times.

Jane:                                       Even I think that's too many Janes in the world.

Daria:                                      You're not the only one.

Jane:                                       One thing about the story though.  Why are you making all the characters sound like pirates?  And pirates with a limited vocabulary at that.

Daria:                                      What?

Jane:                                       "Aaarr" and "Shiver me timbers" aren't that far apart, you know.  What's the basis for the "Aaarr?"

Just then Quinn walks up with Joey and Jeffy trailing behind her.  Jamie is walking further behind all of them, not in any hurry.

Joey:                                       You need me to get you anything to drink, Quinn?

Jeffy:                                      I can get you the ice!

Jamie:                                     I can't believe I let you two knuckleheads talk me into having lunch with you.

Quinn:                                    Guys… guys!  I need to get my homework done, so I need some privacy.

Jeffy:                                      I'll keep Joey away from you, Quinn.  Then we can have all the privacy the two of us need.

Joey:                                       I'll keep Jeffy away from you, Quinn.  Then we can have all the privacy the two of us need.

Quinn:                                    Aaarrgh!

Jane:                                       Never mind.  I can see where you got it.  Now explain the title.

Daria:                                      Inside joke.  I figured since everyone considered me a "misery chick" and thought I wrote nothing but dark, depressing stories, that I'd give them what they expect as a title, but not what they expect as a story.

Jane:                                       You're suckering them in?

Daria:                                      Bingo.

Jane:                                       You know, I can see that.

End Video

Location: History 363.

Time: Now.

Nick:                                       Discussion.  What conclusions can you draw from this story?  Diane?  Bob?  Who is Daria Morgendorffer?

Bob:                                        She considered herself a writer, and Diane and I wanted to know if that is what she became.  The story was entertaining so that's where I started.  For some reason it sounded a little familiar.

Diane:                                     Thanks to Bob's immensely unusual and old entertainment library, roughly 30,000 gig worth, we scanned all features and straight to rental releases of the past 47 years.  Surprise, surprise, we actually found a movie called, "Ground Zero High."

Bob:                                        The basic plot was not this story.  However, it did entail a 5-minute segment at the beginning of a short comedy that was basically this story.  The rest of the movie then dealt with eight Janes trying to kill off hundreds of cloned Kevins, Brittanys, O'Neills, and so on before stupidity ran rampant over the Earth.

Diane:                                     Not a bad movie, but the most interesting part I thought was that it was written by Mick Simons and not Daria Morgendorffer.

Kara:                                       She plagiarized it?

Bob:                                        No.  Technically, it was written by Mick Simons, who was this weird looking dude contracted exclusively to 21st Century Fox during his career, but it was based off a series of books written by Melody Powers.

Diane:                                     Which we were able to track down as the pseudonym for Daria Morgendorffer.

Larissa:                                  Sounds like you went to a lot of trouble to locate her.  Couldn't you have simply run a query off the internet?

Bob:                                        We did a quick internet check on Daria Morgendorffer at the beginning and found that she was an accomplished writer.  But her initial career listed her as starting as a reporter for a college paper which she then made into a full time job as a local reporter for a paper in New York City.  She stayed with that for about eight years.  She tried her hand on a morning talk show and had some good ratings but eventually the station's new owners wanted to go in a different direction.

Diane:                                     So she went back to reporting, this time as a national reporter who occasional did international gigs.  She covered a lot of the VLS outbreaks.

Bob:                                        She also wrote some children's books and served as a consulting editor for a publishing house that only made school textbooks.

Diane:                                     Her career could have been considered good at that point however she then branched out into poetry.

Bob:                                        Any way you look at it, the image she gave was of a solid, well-balanced person.  However, when we found that she wrote under a different name, things were a lot different.

Diane:                                     Her Melody Powers wrote dark, SF stories dealing with guns, bombs, and everything else under the sun.  It was exciting and fast paced.  It kept my attention.

Bob:                                        But more importantly, it paid well.  She didn't win any awards with this fiction, but it sold a lot of books and her Demolisher series is still being written.  It's up to 130 novels so far and as far as I can tell, her publishing house is having it ghost written for her now.  So all she has to do is sit back and collect the royalties.

Colin:                                      Now that's what I'd like to do.  Have people work and collect the royalties off their labors.

Nicole:                                    Cough-loser-cough!

Mrs. Whitmore:                    People, settle down.  So what else can you tell us about Daria?

Bob:                                        She now lives with a granddaughter in Portland, OR.  Her husband, Albert Feinstein, died 11 years previous.  They had been married for nearly 35 years, having met at college.  She has three grown children, all sons.  She has 13 grandchildren, the oldest living with her as her health hasn't been the best in recent years.

Diane:                                     We were able to track her down for this project.  We had to leave multiple video messages explaining we weren't autograph hounds out for a buck and that we were looking to do a school project.  She eventually relented and we had a conference call.

Bob:                                        As soon as she found out we were sincere about doing a school project, she was happy to help.  We got more information on her bio than what we found trolling the internet and network websites.  We could tell she wasn't comfortable talking about former principal Li though.

Diane:                                     That's for sure.  When we asked her about her dealing with Li, she said, quote: "Talk about Ms. Li?  I'd just as soon as go to Attica than speak about her."

Jon:                                         She'd rather go to a historic adventure park?  I don't get it.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    Bob?  Care to enlighten Jon here?

Bob:                                        Attica was a prison long before it became an adventure park, Jon.  Don't you remember anything?

Nick:                                       So what did anyone else think about the story she wrote?

Anne:                                     I was kind of disappointed that it was short, like Jane Lane said.  It just started going and then it ended.  I was hoping for more depth.  Or at least more jokes.

Mike:                                      I liked the intro Bob and Diane set up.  I enjoyed watching the thought process going into the story.  That was interesting.

Aaron:                                    I don't get the Duck season or Rabbit season references.

Jane:                                       You don't watch many cartoons, do you?

Aaron:                                    Should I?

Bob:                                        Don't even bother, Jane.

Elizabeth:                               So what did she leave behind as her contribution to the time capsule?

Diane:                                     A packet of decayed sea monkeys.  And a sucker.  Partially licked.

Nick:                                       What do you make of it?

Bob:                                        Personally, I thought it showed character.

Mrs. Whitmore:                    How so?

Bob:                                        Of all the footage I've seen of her on the Li cams, she is never smiling.  She always has a serious or deadpan expression.  I never saw her laugh or display much emotion.  Yet her story showed a hidden depth she seemed to refuse to show on camera.  It showed humor.  And leaving behind a partially licked sucker I think was her subtle way of telling the world that she wouldn't be anyone's sucker.

Rose:                                      And the sea monkeys?  Where do they fit in?

Bob:                                        I have no idea.

Nick:                                       Diane?

Diane:                                     No clue.  It's like she reached for the most convenient thing possible.  It's not like she thought they'd become a mutant sea monkey army in the future or anything.

Nick:                                       Anything else interesting to note?

Diane:                                     I did a search on news articles thinking to see what she reported on and found her name listed in an article about 12 years ago instead of on the regular author line.  Seems as if she was being considered for the post of Poet Laureate of the country.  When that story's reporter asked her what she thought that, she asked him how much the job paid.  His answer was that it paid nothing as it was an honorary position.  Her response was: "cheap bastards".

Nick:                                       Great job, you two.  Well researched.  Okay, next week is the last story.  Anne and I are presenting it.  I think you'll find it somewhat interesting.  So please, be on time.

NEXT:                                   Quinn's story: My Future

Contact me:

Jwbandsb@cs.com

Disclaimer

Copyright (C) 2003 by Steven A. Brown, all rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, with the exception of 1) brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews (yeah, like that's going to happen), and 2) the complete, unaltered text of this work, including this disclaimer (or an electronic document containing same and which has been data-compressed using a lossless algorithm) when used or reproduced for private and non-commercial use only (again, like that's going to happen).

Permission is granted to repost, republish, or retransmit this work in any way, shape, or form as long as these disclaimers remain intact, and no one except Glenn Eichler, Susie Lewis, MTV Studios, or Viacom, the parent of MTV receive financial remuneration.

The Characters of Daria Morgendorffer, Quinn Morgendorffer, Jane Lane, Trent Lane, Kevin Thompson, Michael Jordan "Mack" MacKenzie, Brittany Taylor, Jodie Landon, Sandi Griffin, Timothy O'Neill, Angela Li, Anthony DeMartino, and many more, even if not mentioned here, are the creation of Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis and Copyright MTV Studios. This story is in no way to be construed as a challenge to said copyright.

The Characters of future students are entirely fictionalized and only sounds like the names of other fan fiction authors whose work I have read and enjoyed. Just wait until I start putting in other author's nam… er, that is, it's all a coincidence I tell you. A coincidence! To those of you who may be offended, remember: this is a cartoon. This is not and could never be real. Or could it? I leave questions like that to philosophers, or to OTR drivers who have experienced significant sleep deprivation.