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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tune in next week for another thrill packed episode:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

REWIND REWIND REWIND REWIND REWIND REWIND REWIND REWIND REWIND

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

============
Episode Six
============
In our last Pulitzer Prize Winning episode, Roger and Chadwick had been
captured by the Heavy Metal Martians and had their spaceship blown up by a
loaded Japanese '54 Fender Strat.  Roger's plan to awe the natives, sadly but
predictably backfired worse than Saddam's 'Tour of Kuwait - 1991' and things
look bleak for our intrepid yet gullible heroes.....
------------------------------------------------------------------
Roger and Chad were bound tightly with bottom E-strings and led through the
narrow enclosed streets of the HMMC.  Outside the dome could be seen graceful,
dusty ruins, delicately aged into their majestic twilight years.  Untouched by
the passing centuries, the buildings held positions only possible in the
lighter gravity of Mars.  The original Martians had never been found but as
with all vanished races in sci-fi series, they were much smarter than us.
Didn't really explain why they let the Earth take over their world.  One of
their captives noticed Roger and Chad staring at the old Martian structures.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The small figure shuffled forward into the elevator, turned to face the door
and started humming to the muzak, totally oblivious to Roger's presence.  He
even managed to ignore Chadwick's devastating aroma.  The elevator continued
it's descent, stopped, and everyone got out.  The room they entered was huge
and cave-like but with a smooth glowing white floor.  Scattered all around
were strange machines, and all around them were hundreds of little beings.  It
looked like a dozen sci-fi conventions rolled into one Martian mess.
Unfortunately, Roger wasn't dressed for the occasion, and naturally was
viciously attacked.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Will Roger survive being mauled by  walking celery sticks ?
   Why hasn't the plot line from episode one been reached yet ?
     Why hasn't ANY plot line that makes sense been reached ?!

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

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

Episode The One Before Eight    OR    Episode The One After Six

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

=============
Episode Seven
=============
In our (my) last thriller of an episode, Roger and Chadwick escaped from the
heavy metal Martian mob, and stumbled into an underground hideout, the last
refuge of the Yoda lookalikes.  Unfortunately, due to the need for exciting
and dangerous endings, our heroes are being attacked.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Luckily for Roger and Chad, little creatures living under such low gravity
tend to be very weak, so it was like being attacked by under-developed pygmies
wielding damp lettuce.  Chadwick was tickled slightly on his nose, and his
sneeze knocked seven of them across the room.  The rest of them surrendered at
once, and asked him "Are you from Earth ?"
"Yes, we are."
A great 'excited crowd' noise arose, prompting the slightly bruised alien to
step closer to Roger.
"Then please tell us," A strange awed, expectant look came over his face.
"....Who killed Laura Palmer ?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But there was no time to contemplate that last joke, because the Heavy Metal
Martians had discovered their prisoners were gone !  Alarm guitars were
twanging through the whole sub-plot, thus providing an exciting scene to
escape from !  But how could Roger and Chadwick escape from this dire
predicament !
==============================================================================
Will Roger and Chad get their foot in the door ?
   Will the Little Green Guys find out WKLP ?
      Will this story get any worse ? (Can it ?)

Tune in for the next rivetting episode......

The Boot Is Mightier Than The Box
               OR
How To Open A Door In One Giant Step For Mankind

If you reckoned this stuff was at least 15% sniggerable, then you've qualified
for the Rocket Roger subscription scheme.  The only other condition is that you
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just write to The Toxic Custard Workshop Files at the same address !  Please
subscribe.  It's part of my thesis on how many gullible people there are.

===============
Episode Eight
===============
In the last episode, Roger and Chadwick were perilously trapped between a very
locked door into the Marshall FBD (A spaceship / 100 000 watt amplifier) and a
high potential for a horde of Heavy Metal Martians.  The door wouldn't open,
and the whole colony was searching for them.  What will our brave heroes do ?
Forget the brave heroes, let's watch Roger and Chad.
==============================================================================
Roger leapt into a carefully planned course of action, namely screaming and
trying to batter the door down with his fists before the horde got there.
"AAAARRRRGGGHH !!! Lemme in !! We're all gonna DDDIIIIIEEEEE !!!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Plug the bastard !" came a cry from the horde of hair, black t-shirts,
slashed jeans and loaded guitars.  Of course !  Plug !  Roger grabbed the plug
and shoved it into the hole.  The ship began to hum to itself.  (It later
wrote a tune based on the humming and made a fortune.)  Roger began a mad dash
to the boarding ramp of the ship, but he was too late !  The Martian Mob had
blocked his path and were slowly advancing on him !  They didn't look happy.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Will Roger get out of this nail-biting situation ?
   Will the escape be sensible at all ?
      Why does a spaceship need a power plug ? (Therein lies a gag.)

Find out in our next thrilling, chilling episode:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One of the figures lifted its arms and began to pluck its strings.  The
guitars actually talked by playing !
"What gives, man ?" came a voice from the speaker behind the guitar.
"Erm...." replied Roger, succinctly and authoritatively.
"Is this gig happening, or what ?" asked a red and white Fender, softly
plucking its strings.
"Um...How...what ?" insisted Roger, forcefully, yet tactfully.
"Just give us the word, and we play the ship right into orbit !" chuckled a
guitar with a beer-gut in the corner.
"That sounds good !" said Roger, relieved to hear no violence was needed.
"After we have a few crates of whiskey, of course !"  It laughed slobbily, and
if it could have drooled inanely, it probably would have.  Seeing Roger's
blank expression, it's tone changed....
"You did bring the booze, didntcha ?"
"Uh oh..." thought Roger, "Problems...with a capital W !"
==============================================================================
Will Roger ever get off Mars ?  (He'd better !)
   Will people write in and ask for Chad's bootleg tapes ?  (Better Not !)
      Will remote logons get any easier ? (Is the sun brown ?)

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

No Booze Blues  OR  How to get onto MTV Unplugged !

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

===============
Episode Ten
===============
In our last not so dangerous episode, Roger had discovered what actually
powers the spaceship he has gallantly stolen: Rock-N-Roll !  One problem, the
twenty living guitars that provide it won't start till vast amounts of whiskey
are thrown their way.  Roger has never heard of this stuff, and so risks being
viciously attacked, as usual.  How will Roger get the ship going ? Read on....
==============================================================================
"So where's the whiskey, man ?" demanded a vile, beer-gut shaped guitar.
"Er...I haven't got any whiskey." replied Roger, wondering what tone of voice
was best for trying to convince an alcoholic living guitar to cooperate.
The other guitars began to play again, but the music was terrible and loud.
"We call this one the 'No Whisky Blues'." bellowed the fat guitar.  "We sing
it just before we kill the guy who told us there's no booze !"  The group
slowly began to advance on Roger, their weak legs unable to move quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tune in next week for our next terrifying episode

New Improved Oxygen    OR    Who'll Get The Rogerson Account