"Aieee!" cried Biebill, screeching to a halt before the double doors of said

edifice. "Crypt-m-night!!!" Indeed, not only were there slashes of glowing

green on each of the doors, but large chunks of it swirled through the air

as the twister loomed above them.

************

"Quick, Biebill" shouted Jug, "open the barn door!"

Biebill took a precious few seconds out from ducking the swirling green chunks

to leer fondly at his companion. "Here? Now?"

Were it not for the particularly large piece of crypt-m-night heading towards

her chin, Jug would have smiled back at the hockey-playing sheriff. Dodging

to her left, she could not help but long for a snowbank. Alas, there were only

cornfields stretching away into the darkness and chunks of crypt-m-night

making small craters in the barnyard around her feet. "BIEBILL!" she cried

as a small piece struck him atop his head.

Thankfully, the great thickness and veritable magnitude of his bear hat

prevented completely any loss of brain function and he threw open the barn

doors, pulling Jug inside. It was pitch black. Blacker than that. One might

even say as black as Sid's heart were it not for the fact that his circulatory

pumping equipment was blue. The two of them stood, holding tightly onto

one another, breathing heavily. The air, thick with hay motes, smelled...

strange. "What IS that odor?" Jug asked, wrinkling her nose then pressing

it against Biebill's chest.

"I...I've never smelled anything quite like it, Jug," he replied softly,

craning his head, attempting to discern any shape, any form in the darkness.

It was useless. The darkness was just too...um... dark. All he could see

was the open doorway, lit greenishly by the falling crypt-m-night. Somewhere

deep in the barn, something metallic was knocked to the floor.

Father Russham, meanwhile, had grabbed up Susbo and rushed with her

back into his red, white, and blue farmhouse...the most overtly American

of all the farmhouses in The Village. "Zackhill!" he shouted to his younger

brother. "Get Andygan and follow me to the dark, spooky cellar from which

there is no way out!"

"Um, Bro," Zackhill commented, "that would be 'No Way Back'.

'No Way Out' was that Costner guy."

Russham was in no mood to quibble over 'backs' and 'outs'. All he cared

about was the large twister blasting crypt-m-night through his red white

and blue farmhouse windows. "ZACK!" he bellowed.

Zackhill smiled. He liked it when his older brother shortened his name like

that. It was somehow...familiar. Once they were in the dark, spooky cellar

with its door, strangely, at the bottom rather than at the top of the steps,

they huddled together right next to the grating of the wide open old coal

chute. With their backs turned like that, how could one really EXPECT them

to notice the brightening of the greenish glow on the other side of the grate?

Maxathon had finished his second helping of Jotha's apple pie. Tipping back

in his wooden kitchen chair, he smiled fondly at her as she bustled about

the room, tossing scraps to the five pigs who lived in the cabinet under

the sink.

Someday he would have to break down and buy her an actual disposal unit.

How adorable she looked with her pink and purple checked apron over her

pale yellow gossamer shredded gown. Downright domestic. This might not

be such a bad gig after all. His belly was full, Sid was twitching in agony

on the porch, Jotha was not only present but actually visible, and there

weren't even any blue plasma balls floating about the room. Life was good.

Of course, there WAS that twister approaching with those huge chunks of

swirling crypt-m-night. But, other than that, everything was peaceful.

Sid, his veins still pulsing turquoisely, lay on the porch planking, his eyes

growing wide at the sight of the plummeting crypt-m-night. He was

helpless. His right palm was still covered with the stuff from where he

had placed his hand on the doorslash. He frowned. There Joimus went

again with her off-kilter version of fanfic slash. Would she never get

it straight? Of course, if she got it straight, then it wouldn't really be

slash, now would it?  Be that as it may, the Chipster was in dire straights

...er...straits. He had thought it such a good idea to be the first one at

the yellow farmhouse, that tormenting Joimus and Maximus by making them

his "parents" would be so amusing. Now look at him! Lying on the porch

writhingly whilst Maximus stuffed himself with apple pie and watched the

slight swing of Joimus' hips as she fed the pigs. And MORE crypt-m-night

was coming! He would be completely done in! "Somebody SAAAAVE me!"

he cried desperately and rather theme-songishly.

Dodging the zinging chunks, Bunna Bang hopped up beside his prostrate

form. "You rang?" she asked, twitching her cottontail.

"Bunna!" Perfect! The English wabbit was the one castmember who might

actually help him. He held up his shaking, pulsing right hand, showing her

the big splotch of radiant green.

"Crypt-m-night," she commented. "Not good." She reached quickly into

her pocket, pulling out the large cabbage leaf she had been nibbling on

a few minutes earlier, then knelt beside the moaning Chipman. Expertly,

she wiped his palm, then tossed the cabbage leaf over the railing,

completely missing the fact that it was then gripped in small white teeth

and hauled off into the cornfield.

Sid's veins returned to their normal sparkly blue, and he sat up, taking

n a series of deep, ragged breaths. "Thank you," he gasped.

Bunna smiled. Never had those words crossed his lips before...ever. She was so moved

that she leaned forward, placing her soft lips atop his bow-like mouth.

He was startled. He was being kissed? In an epi?? Was Joimus too distracted

by the pigs to notice?

Bunna brushed back a wayward strand from his forehead, smiling at him in

the greenish light. "Remember the bung grasses?" she asked, her voice

gone low and throaty.

He did, indeed. It had been his great, um, happiness in the bung grasses

that had turned him into the blue plasma ball that had eventually robbed

the General of his memory. He looked in through the large window at where

Maximus sat, his eyes watching Joimus' every move. Then he looked back

at Bunna. "Could we do...that...again?" he suggested hopefully. The chunk

of crypt-m-night crashing through the planking high between his legs changed

his mind.

She helped him to his feet and they dashed inside the house. The kitchen

glowed with the warm yellow light generated by his "parent's" domestic

bliss. "Disgusting!" Sid remarked, entering the room.

"You survived?" Maxathon remarked, half question, half sigh.

"You give 'parenthood' a bad name," Sid said, glaring at his "father."

Maxathon smiled brightly. "One tries," he replied.

"Are you aware," Sid continued, "that a twister filled with crypt-m-night

is even now at our door?"

"Quite," Maxathon answered, turning his gaze back to Jotha as she leaned

over to pet a pig. He sighed contentedly.

"Bah!" exploded Sid. "Where's the door to our dark, spooky cellar?"

Jotha straightened. "Our dark, spooky cellar is in our barn. You know that.

It's where we keep all our discarded spacecraft and unusually-shaped keys."

How could he have forgotten! He looked at Bunna, his brow deeply creased.

"Where can we go to escape the falling, deadly-to-me crypt-m-night?" he

asked worriedly.

"I've heard bathtubs are good places to be during tornadoes," she replied.

"Really?" he asked, then taking her by the hand, led her upstairs. He

studied the large, cast-iron tub sitting there on its claw feet, then ripped

it loose from its piping and flipped it over. Being Sidark DID have SOME

advantages. "Come," he said, tipping the edge and crawling under. In the

sheltering darkness, he stroked her cheek, murmuring softly, "Bung grass."

Jeffius pounded on Martvy's door. "Martvy! Martvy!" he called desperately.

Martvy had been searching in vain for the jar of eyeballs. "Oh, well," she

sighed, "I'll just have do make do with other sensory faculties." She walked

the 39 steps to the door, unlatching it so her beloved young Jeffius could

come in.

"Are you all right?" he cried, running his hands all over her to make sure

she was in one piece.

Martvy laughed. How she loved it when he checked on her like that. It

was for that very reason she so often walked the high beams of the barn

or played in the pools of quicksand behind the sheep pens.

"There were slashes on your door again," he said seriously, "I was frantic

with worry."

"No need," she said, pulling his head down to her bosom and stroking

his hair, "I myself am keeping you quite safe from any slash in this epi."

"You...you are?" he asked wonderingly.

"Yes," she replied, nibbling his earlobe, "it's my chosen task."

Quieting, he said, "You do it very well."

Smiling to herself, she replied, "I know."

After a while, he looked up at her. "Do you have Oreos?"

"Of course," she said, feeling her way to the cupboard. "I know my own

plot devices."

As she handed him a plateful, he questioned, "You know many things?"

"Many," she agreed, enchanted at his awareness.

"Do you know where the plot is?" he continued, carefully unscrewing

the outer chocolate cookie from the inner white icing.

She frowned. It was the one thing she did NOT know. Since there was

never a script, there was most likely no plot, either. Sighing, she added,

"This is not 'The Plumber', my dear. I fear we may be quite plotless."

She rested her forehead against his, his breath close and redolent with

crushed chocolate.

He set the plate to one side, wrapping his arms about her shoulders.

"Perhaps," he whispered, "we could make our...own...plot?"

"We...," she began happily, but the loud banging on her door put an abrupt

end to any personal plannings. She made her way again to the door,

forgetting to count the 39 steps in her distraction and tripping over the

gilded anvil which rested on the floor beside the couch. "DRAT!" she spat.

Sometimes not having eyeballs was SUCH a drag! "Who IS it!" she cried

irritatedly, fumbling with the 17 latches. As the door opened and the

unmistakable scent of industrial pollutants mixed with sea salt hit her

sensitized nostrils, she knew it was Jackonel Crowethor before he even

spoke. She was in no mood for polite chitchat. "If you are worried," she

said coldly, "about the sulphuric cloud that settled over my house this

afternoon...don't. I have already completely bottled it and sent it to

Pittsburgh where it belongs."

Taken aback, Jackonel was silent. It was only the slight jingling of his

epaulettes and the wisping together of stray blond locks that betrayed

his continued presence to her sensitized ears. He cleared his throat,

speaking at last. "My dear Martvy," he rumbled deeply, "I have but

come to ask if my wayward son, Handex, has been seen in your vicinity."

"SEEN?" she cried. "You dare to mock me, Sir?"

"No...no...," he stammered, backing away from the broom she was

striking him with. "I...I...only meant...."

"Get OFF my porch!" she shouted. He turned, dodging the falling chunks,

and ran rapidly toward the yellow farmhouse. "Oh, Jeffius," Martvy sobbed,

coming back into the living room. "I fear I need... MUCH...comforting."

"There, there," he soothed, pulling her close, leaving the taste of chocolate

on her upturned lips.

She would have wiped her eyes had she eyes to wipe, but instead she just

snuggled into him, whispering, "Now...here's my idea...."

Jackonel pounded on the door of the yellow farmhouse. "I'll get it,"

Maxathon said, rising from the kitchen chair.

"Is Handex here?" Jackonel asked, pulling broomstraw out of his hair.

Maxathon narrowed his seagreen eyes. He did not trust Handex and

Jackonel was even worse. "Only Sidark would know that," he replied,

his eyes hard, "but with the way the bathtub is making thumping noises,

I doubt he'd want to be disturbed."

Jackonel was lost. "Bathtub?" he repeated, not seeing the connection.

Suddenly he heaved a great sigh. "Maximus," he said heavily, "I don't

think I'm going to be any good at this evil CEO thing. It's just not...me."

Maximus smiled fondly at his friend. "I know, Jack," he said, nodding his

head in agreement. "It's hard for me to be so suspicious of you, too."

Just then Handex and Andoe darted onto the porch. Both of the older

men looked at Handex. "Now Hando," Maximus continued. "That's another

ballgame."

"Quite," agreed Jack, squaring his shoulders and glaring at his "son."

"Handex! I've been looking for you," he said severely. Then Jack turned

and smiled at Maximus. "How was that?"

"Very good," Maximus nodded.

Jackonel looked at his progeny. It had been some hours since he had last

betrayed him. He must figure out some new, clever way to sell him out.

"Father," Handex said suspiciously, "you knew I would be coming to check

on my dear friend Sidark what with all the crypt-m-night flying about.

Surely you would know that?"

Jackonel, who spied ceaselessly on the activities of the youngest Kentimus,

driven to discover his secret life, only smiled at his son. "He's in the tub"

he said quietly.

"Under," corrected Maxathon.

Russham pulled his children close to him, leaning his back against the coal

chute grating. He was worried about young Andygan. In their rush to the

safety of the dark, spooky cellar with no way either out or back, he had

forgotten to bring Andygan's dirty dishes.

He knew that without a single egg-encrusted plate or spinach-entwined fork,

Andygan would not likely survive the night. His gaze fastened on the twitching

doorknob of the door strangely at the bottom and not the top of the cellar

steps.

If only....if only. Then he became aware of how a greenish glow was

beginning to reflect off the face of his semiconscious son. He jerked his

head around. The coal chute! WHY had he not remembered the open coal

chute when he piled his family into the dark, spooky cellar with no way

back or out EXCEPT the open coal chute?? WHY? If there had been a script,

he could have blamed it on that. But, alas, the fault was entirely his own.

"Zackill!" he said, trying to keep his voice low. Zackhill had gone to sleep,

though, and Russham had to resort to tossing dead cockroaches at his face

in an attempt to wake him without getting up himself. Then it dawned on him

that the cockroaches WERE dead! Oh, no! This was more dire than he had

thought! A greenish fog was creeping through the grate and cockroaches

were dying like flies...or was that like cockroaches? Someday, when he was

less preoccupied with imminent disaster, he would spend time meditating on

the differences inherent in that, but right now, he just grasped the largest

of the crispy roaches and bonked Zackhill on his left nostril.

"Ow!" Zackhill exclaimed.

"Zack!" Russham whispered, "block the grate!"

"Block...block the grate?" Zackhill repeated, not yet comprehending.

Zackhill had once been a minor league blocker but had been tossed out

because he always blocked everything, even his own quarterback. "It just

didn't seem right not to block," he had explained.

"The GRATE!" Russham called again. "Block away, Zackhill, block away!"

Zackhill smiled, getting to his feet, a grate, er, great strength rising up

the core of his being. He looked at little Susbo, her hands filled with

crushed poppy petals, at young Andygan, fading away from the lack of a

gravy-coated tureen, at his big brother, collarless these long months

except for a piece of flannelfray. Confidently, he strode to the grate,

pulling alphabet blocks out of his jean pockets as he went. With a satisfied

smile, he quickly popped one block after another into the square holes of

the grate, not even pausing to make them spell out actual words but just

stuffing an A block here, a C block there, until the grate was entirely

and effectively blocked.

Russham beamed at him. "You always were the best blocker ever!" he said

proudly. He had not, alas, stopped to consider that with the green fog

blocked, the roaches were no longer dying. The doorknob on the door

strangely at the bottom and not at the top of the cellar steps was still

rattling. Andygan began to gasp. "Oh, no!" cried Russham. "Is there not

one dirty dish in this dark, spooky cellar with no way back or out?"

"I'll look!" cried Zackhill helpfully, whirling around and breaking the one

light bulb with his head.

It was black. Black like it was in the barn. The barn where Biebill and Jug

listened as a leathery rustling seemed to be drawing nearer. "Oh, Biebill,"

said Jug, digging her nails into the sleeve of his navy blue jacket, "I fear

I might not last the night."

Even though he could not see her, he pressed his face close to hers, whispering,

"You will, Jug, you will! I promise!" Unseen by her, he held a puck in his fingers,

in perfect skipping-stone position.

"It sounds like giant batwings," Jug added as the leathery rustling continued.
                                     

Biebill just presssed his lips together tightly, concentrating, gathering himself

for the toss. He pulled his arm back, adjusting the curve of his index finger

around the smooth puck edge, holding his breath, waiting for some target,

however vague, to appear. A shovel was knocked over, clanging to the floor.

Every muscle in his body tensed. There was the sound of a dull thud, like

something solid falling into a thin layer of hay.

"Cort!" giggled a woman's voice.

Biebill relaxed. He would recognize Sue the Vile's throaty laugh anywhere.

"Cort!" he called out, trying not to laugh himself. "It's Biebill and Jug!"

The rustling stopped, shortly followed by the slight creak of leather as two

forms gained their feet.The western sheriff narrowed his eyes, staring at

the greenish glow of the barn doorway where the northern sheriff and Jug

were silhouetted faintly. "Biebill?" he replied. "What are you doing here?"

"The twister...and the crypt-m-night rocks," Biebill explained as Cort and

Sue came up beside them.

"Twister?" repeated Cort. "There was a twister?"

Sue giggled again. "That was just me," she chortled, straightening her black

leather chaps.

"Why are you in the barn," Biebill continued, "I mean, other than...?"

"We didn't get a house," Cort explained, "and came in here for the, um,

night, thinking we would look around for something in the morning."

"If there is a morning," Jug added ominously.

"Whose house is that?" asked Cort, pointing out the doorway to the large

red, white, and blue farmhouse not far away.

"Himself got that one," Biebill answered.

"It's big," Cort continued, studying it. "Maybe we could spend the night

there?"

As the tornado seemed to have passed, the quartet made their way past

the craters and the insane dogs and the strangely swinging swings to the

door of the farmhouse.

Biebill knocked loudly, but no one answered. "I know they're here," he said.

"I saw Himself grab Susan and run inside when the twister came." He pushed

open the screen and they crossed into the living room. They walked into the

kitchen, noticing the steps to the spooky, dark cellar with its door oddly at

the bottom and not the top of the stairs.

"I bet they're down there," Cort commented. The four of them descended

quietly and Cort tried the knob. "It's locked from the inside," he said.

Russham, in the blackness within, listened to the rattling of the knob.

"Go away!" he shouted. "Go back where you came from and leave us alone!"

"What's he talking about?" asked Sue.

"Hey, RUSS!" Biebill called. "It's me, Biebill! Open the door!"

"Biebill?" Russham said. "Where are the aliens?"

"Aliens?" repeated Biebill. "Haven't seen any of them, Russ...except for

Sue here."

"Ow!" he added, rubbing his newly-kicked shin.

There was a scraping sound and the old door opened, revealing Russham

with a semiconscious Andygan in his arms, little sad Susbo by his side,

and Zackhill right behind them.

"What," asked Cort reasonably, "are you doing down in such a place with no

way out?"

"Back," corrected Zackhill with a sigh. "No way BACK.

"Wasn't that Costner's movie?" asked Jug.

"No, that's mine. Costner's was Out," Zackhill added wearily.

"What's the matter with Andy?" asked Cort, eyeing the limp form in

Russham's arms.

"He's dishly-deprived," Russham said seriously, heading quickly up the

stairs and laying the quiet form on the kitchen table amongst the grubby

leftovers of the partially-eaten evening meal. Gently he took Andygan's

pale right hand and placed it tenderly inside a bowl where large scraps

of mashed potatoes clung wetly. Every eye watched as slowly, slowly

Andygan's index finger moved just slightly, touching some potato, then

pressing into it. His long eyelashes flickered, opened, and Russham helped

him into a sitting position, placing a plate with syrup dribbles on his lap.

Andygan looked down, his eyes finally able to focus, color coming back into

his face.

Russham sighed raggedly. "He'll live now." His knees felt suddenly weak and

he sat heavily on a chair, burying his face in his hands.

Bertannon sighed as she watched the lavender trails of dawn spread across

the sky. All night she had sat atop the small rock in the middle of the field,

listening to Budeph snoring, punctuated only by the wild screaming coming

from the nearby river that ran through it. She hoped that, come daylight,

someone would see to that. She herself was too tired. "I should have known,"

she said to herself, "that he would head for the one rock." It was inevitable.

It was the way of all the Whitelly men for 10 generations. It was the price

one paid for loving one of them. They all had rocks in their heads...or,

under them. How could he look so comfortable, she wondered, as she watched

the rising and falling of his chest under his tight white tee-shirt. Bending,

she flicked a small lizard off his ear, then returned to her contemplation

of the dawn. The woods were not all that far away. Perhaps if she were to

walk alone amongst the tall trees, her soul would be soothed?

She slipped quietly off the rock and headed toward the forest. Budeph

opened one eye, watching her go. He sat up, leaning a moment against

the rock, rubbing his hands over his face to wipe away the dew and the

snail trails, then stood, following her. She had picked a small, mauve

flower and was holding it to her nose. He dashed it from her hand,

crying, "No, Bertannon! That is the bad color!"

"Mauve is the bad color?" she asked, her eyes narrowing.

"It used to be puce," he explained, his eyes darting from side to side,

checking for things that were not ever supposed to be talked about.

"But now it's mauve. Don't ask me how...or why. It just...is," he continued.

Bertannon stood there, leaning against the smooth bark of a giant white

oak. He smiled at her, his face half in half out of its shade, and in a

deep, rumbly voice began, "In the town of Coraopolis lived a former

policeman. In his prime he had been a detective in some distant state but

had fallen on hard times one night in a dark motel room."

She listened as he spun his tale, taking her with him in his words. The

sound of his voice made her so peaceful that her lids half lowered and she

knew were she to lie down, she would sleep. She shook her head, chasing

away the comfortable fog, paying close attention as he ended, "...and so

the detective lived, though terribly wounded, and together they drove down

the city street, heading east."

She smiled, said nothing, but wandered a bit further, resting her palm

against an old water oak. Silently, he looked at the tree as though appreciating

its form, then said, "Long ago, in the back country of Australia, a man lay in

the sparkling waters of a small stream, his dog nearby. He had been...."

She listened, fascinated by his words, his voice itself, carried away by them

from the forest where they stood to the distant place he described. They

lost all track of time...all sense of how deeply they were venturing into the

woods, led from tree to tree, from story to story, unaware of watching eyes.

Tired at last, she sat down under a scrub oak, leaning her head against its

bark, closing her eyes. "A young man had washed dishes for some time,"

Budeph began, tying, as always, his story to the species of oak, "when, quite

unexpectedly one day...."

"HELP!" came the scream from the river.

       
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