The Return of the Giant Rat of Sumatra: Part 6

The following work is reprinted with permission from:

Young Dullard Ashamedly Presents:

THE RETURN OF THE GIANT RAT OF SUMATRA (Part VI)

by Charles Garofalo

Synopsis: In our last episode, our hero (well, maybe your hero, we prefer Indiana

Jones ourselves), Young Dullard, had decided to investigate the mysterious

Thessalapian Jade statue entrusted to him by May Day. This visit to the office of

the noted detective Ceasar Woof had been rudely interrupted by the appearance

of Athrozetz, an ancient Atlantean Goddess who wanted to destroy the Jade,

and Erus, her insanely jealous demonic boyfriend who wanted to

destroy Young Dullard.

The sudden arrival of Wahshday, Raineday, Badday, and Farrahday, agents

of ICCI, the Interplanetary Confederation for Criminal Investigation, to arrest

Young Dullard as an accomplice to May Daye, actually the intergalactic criminal

shapechanger Hubba the Rat, complicated an already thoroughly

confused situation.

A pitched battle involving magic spells, ray guns, and an oldfashioned

haymaker to the jaw provided the Arthian Avenger with the opportunity to escape

with the Jade, pursued by the survivors of the battle.

Meanwhile, a sinister new villain was about to make his appearance ...

Soon, thought the shadowed figure, soon. The years spent in prison, the jeers of my cellmates, the sneers of the guards, soon they will be repaid.

The day of reckoning is at hand.

Your life is mine, Young Dullard. Mine to take as easily as I grab this gerbil and drop him into this scorpion cage.

The trap is set. It requires only patience. And I have learned to be patient.

* * * * *

"Hey Willie. Getta loada what's comin' our way!"

Willie stopped sharpening his switchblade and looked. Uptown society girl, he thought. Maybe one of them corporate type dames. Walks like she knows what she wants and is used to getting her way. What's she doing in a neighborhood like this?

"She's gonna pass Mc Gee's Alley where Jose's got them killers leashed. This is gonna be fun."

Willie watched the hot number approach the mouth of the alley. He revised his assessment. High heels, long legs, body that won't quit. Maybe a high class hooker under a don's protection. Don't like it.

The woman reached the mouth of the alley. Four large, snarling, half starved German Sheppards lunged for her, struggling against the heavy chains which tethered them.

The woman slowed for an instant and looked at the dogs. With a dolorous cry the canines fled.

Sammy dropped the joint he was lighting.

"Don't like it one bit," said Willie. "Don't know 'er and don't want to know 'er. That broad's trouble. Let's beat it.

* * * * *

May Daye watched the toughs move away. She smiled for the first time since leaving her penthouse apartment. The last three days had been one long nightmare. First she'd been contacted by that hunchedback assistant of Athrozetz and given that odd statue, the Thessalapian Jade. After a brief battle with Dullard in her natural giant rat form, she'd duped him into taking the Jade for safekeeping where, given his might and his clumsiness, it was only a matter of time before he broke it, thus releasing Athrozetz from her prison in limbo. So far, so good.

That was when things had begun to fall apart. First, she'd learned that the Jade was actually a Quarard Stone. It could power her spaceship and get her off this backwater planet, but only if she could retrieve it intact. She'd been about to do just that when Athrozetz discovered her treachery and sent Erus after her. Next, the ICCIs had shown up gunning for her. Then, she'd lost track of the Arthian. By the time she had regained it, the hero had taken off again, pursued by Athrozetz, Erus, the ICCIs and some people she'd never seen before. She needed help to even the odds a little. Rent-a-Thug had given her an address on this block.

She checked the street number. "One seventy none. One eighty one should be this next building."

She walked past the stripped car, then up the stairs to a boarded up pseudo-brownstone. She pushed the graffiti cover doors and entered.

First floor, first door on the left read her directions. Spray-painted on the wall was "We ain't gonna take it no more!" Loud music came from behind the door.

She was about to knock when the door opened. Looking out was one of the strangest humans Hubba-the-Rat had ever encountered, and she'd been in some pretty desperate company in her day. He stood six feet tall and weighed no more than 120 pounds. He wore a sleeveless leather jacket, leather pants and high heeled boots with a length of chain as a belt. His hair had been dyed purple, teased and cut in Mohawk style. A pin protruded from each earlobe. A tattoo on one arm proclaimed "Hendrix Lives!" A scar adorned one side of his face, a lightning bolt the other. His eyebrows had been shaved and in their place were the clouds of a pair of nuclear blasts. His companions were barbed much the same.

"My name's May Daye. I need you to do a number for me. My money's good. I'm told you're the best."

"We've brought down a few houses in our time. I'm Nigel. This is Derrick, Dirk, Stig, Nasty an Barry. Our instruments are packed. We're ready to go."

May Daye looked at the row of guitar cases. "Grab your gear and follow me. I'll explain as we go."

* * * * *

KA-BOOM!

A small explosion shook the ground and cratered the pavement two steps to the left of Young Dullard. He'd been running without a plan since the battle at Woof's gardens. Only the fact that the ICCIs were bad shots and worse aviators had so far kept him free.

"Badday, watch out for that streetlamp!" cried Farrahday before she crashed into a nearby building's flagpole.

Erus bared his filed teeth in a grotesque parody of a human smile. At least he had a clear shot at that muscle-brained moron. He materialized a bazooka primed with a heat-seeking missile and fired.

Vito Diuriano was a short, olive skinned jolly little man to whom nothing out of the ordinary ever happened. The highlight of his week had been when he climbed atop a milk crate and helped down a cat who had gotten himself treed. He was naturally quite surprised to see the projectile veer off its path towards Young Dullard and home in on the hot dog cart he pushed.

The sight of frankfurters flying into the air from the explosion gave Dullard an idea. Weren't there other superheroes who got around by taking incredibly powerful jumps? And wasn't he Young Dullard, the Arthian Avenger, possessor of the 132nd strongest set of leg muscles in the world? He clenched his teeth and leapt.

Wahshday gasped as Dullard rocketed high into the air. "Quickly, men. Maximum acceleration! We can't lose him now!"

Dullard felt a sense of majesty asthe wind whipped around him. This was what he was born for. He pictured how heroic he must appear. All he needed was a cape flapping serenely behind him.

He looked at the ground far below him and wondered where his leap would carry him. Jersey at least. Maybe even Pennsylvania. Why hadn't he ever thought to try this before? He looked down again to look for landmarks. Then he remembered why.

"Help!" he cried. Even as a little Arthian, he had been afraid of heights. He closed his eyes and waited to fall.

* * * * *

An oddly matched pair entered the dimly lit room. The first was a short, well-dressed rotund individual. Behind him was a tough, hard bitten detective type.

"You see, Goodlose," began the Great Detective, "the trick to this game is not to go chasing all over town for your quarry, but to wait for him to come to you."

"I'll get the lights, boss."

"Yes, do that if you would, Goodlose. And take two steps to the right to avoid that Maylasian Tiger Trap."

"Sure thing, Mr Woof. The switch must be around here, somewhere."

"I'm sure you'll locate it presently." Sniff. Sniff. "That's a familiar scent. I wonder if he has a more sensitive soul than I judged and keeps a few bulbs around here for companionship."

"Hey, boss, look at this." Goodlose shined his pencil flashlight on an archway leading to an oddly littered alcove. A sign above the keystone read TROPHY ROOM.

"One thing at a time, Goodlose. That is the mark of a successful investigator. Take tonight for instance."

The Great Detective continued. "I knew I could locate that hero's lair with a little deductive reasoning. It was obvious where he would pick to hide, simply from his character. Now if he does his part by eluding his pursuers and retiring here, we can inform him of the results of our research."

"Hey, boss, I've found the lights," called Goodlose.

The light switch promptly sprayed the pair with sleep gas when flicked.

Ceasar Woof's last thought before he passed out was annoyance with himself for not having recognized that scent sooner.

* * * * *

Fortunately for the Arthian Avenger, he landed on his head, an exceptionally well-muscled section of his anatomy, and so escaped unharmed. A look around informed Dullard that he had landed a mere twenty feet fron this jumpoff point. Erus had dropped the bazooka and was now tossing shuriken at him. He turned to flee and was swallowed up by the darkness.

* * * * *

"You're a WHAT?" repeated May Daye in disbelief.

"We're Blistered Mister, a punk band, lady. That's what you wanted, isn't it?" inquired Nigel.

"NO, IT WASN'T. I WANTED A BAND OF PUNKS. INSTEAD I GOT A PUNK BAND."

"But we're very good at it," argued Stig. "We've played all the top joints: 'The Pit of Hell,' 'Charnel House,' and my favorite, 'The Skewered Rat.'"

May Daye gave him a look of withering contempt. Her only consolation was that things could not possible get any worse.

Naturally, she was wrong.

* * * * *

Young Dullard hadn't noticed the stairway until he'd hit it running. Then he was tumbling down it, narrowly missing a number of commuters who'd had their reflexes honed by years of rush hour travelling. He was alone for the moment. He had to make good his escape.

One look at the map told the Arthian Avenger where he was. He was deep within the bowels of the New York City Subway System. And, as usual, he was lost.

He reached into the boot where he kept a token for occasions just such as these. After a few minutes of fumbling around, he realized that he was looking in the wrong boot. Before he could fish in the other one, Athrozetz and Erus were upon him. A bolt of lightning and a crossbow quarrel struck on either side of him.

Athrozetz allowed herself to smile. The fact that every bolt of energy she had tossed in Dullard's direction had missed was a residue of design, not poor marksmanship. The Thessalapian Jade was proof against her magic by its mystical nature, but its charms would not protect it from the awesome physical force our hero could accidentally apply while dodging around.

Erus operated under no such considerations. If he were to "accidentally" kill the Arthian, Athrozetz might get upset with him for a while, but she'd get over it. After all, he'd be the only inhabitant of the limbo who was not one of her fawning servants. He thrust with his broadsword.

Young Dullard's leap to avoid the blow carried him over the turnstiles and onto the subway platform. There were two other people on the platform with him: a tall, blond man with wire rimmed glasses reading the New York Times and a bag lady. And, of course, the Transit Authority Officer coming to arrest him.

To arrest him! He, Young Dullard, the Arthian Avenger, Champion of Justice, Upholder of Fair Play, Protector of the Downtrodden, etc., etc., had broken the law! He was so shocked that he barely remembered to get out of the way of Erus' next swing.

It was only a glancing blow, but it was enough to knock the statue out of his hands and into the air in the direction of an onrushing train.

He remembered May Daye's big blue eyes and soft voice: "Don't let anything happen to it. It's vital that it remain undamaged!"

Young Dullard pushed Erus aside, accidentally bowling over the Transit cop and jumped. Perhaps he could catch it before it landed and shield it from the train with his own body.

"The plan is working," thought Athrozetz. In about three seconds Young Dullard, the train, the electrified third rail, and the Jade would all occupy the same point at the same time. Her exile is as good as over. Two seconds. One.

"Got it, boss." Agent Farrahday intercepted the statue and rocketed towards the ceiling.

"Nooooooo!" screamed Athrozetz. She hit the blond tressed ICCI with an ice blast.

The Thessalapian Jade landed in the bag lady's open bag. Athrozetz created a magical web which caught Raineday and Badday before being felled by Wahshday's stun gun.

Young Dullard staggedred out of the subway pit. The third rail had proved a shocking experience, but the train had been able to stop before running him over. Before he could do anything, Wahshday had pulled the undamaged statue from the bag. He was about to rocket to freedom when a new factor entered the equation.

Barnyard Getz had been following the battle while reading the paper, but had no intention of getting involved in a brawl between a group of costumed hoodlums. But when the little trenchcoated figure began to rob the bag lady, he swept into action.

"Stand up and fight!" he hollered. "Don't let these little punks push you around. Exercise your constitutional right to bear arms and defend yourself." He began firing away.

The bullets harmlessly richetched off Wahshday's bulletproof trenchcoat and the operative silenced him with a stun blast. But the delay had been enough to give Young Dullard a chance to get close enough to him to send him to dreamland with a roundhouse. He grabbed the statue as it fell.

Erus adjusted the sights on the newly materialized howitzer. From this range he couldn't miss. The sound of a metallic screech caused him to turn his head. Then he was bowled over by a horde of commuters leaving the train.

Young Dullard looked around. Everyone else was either unconscious or unable to stop him. The statue was still intact. He looked at the letters on the train. This was the one that would take him to his Secret Hideout. He jumped onto the train just as it began pulling out. His last sight was Raineday and Badday struggling against the webs.

* * * * *

"Ack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack!" complained a large, weird black-and-white duck as he waddled into Young Dullard's Secret Lair. Calvin Qunicey Welk was sure this passage must be the one those two detectives had entered. After the fracas at Woof's Gardens, Welk had decided that keeping the detectives in sight and following them from a distance was the safest and surest route to Young Dullard. It was mainly the big lug's fault that he was stuck in this bird form and he intended to have it out with him.

The trip through the subways that led him to Grand Central Station had had its moments of danger, but Welk was not a man, eh, duck, who let himself be easily dissuaded. He'd watched Woof and Goodlose walk over to an abandoned set of rails, jump down upon the tracks, and disappear into the darkness. When they did not reappear, he followed.

It was a well-travelled deserted corridor. First he passed a hole in the ground leading to the Vole Man, a semi-retired supervillain. Next he passed a room labeled "Lichenstenstein Liberation Army." Then he noticed the tracks of a very large animal, possibly a rhino. Further down were the offices of Yang and Wang, a small Import/Export house. After that was the coop of the Red Rooster, who sub-let part o fhis digs to Ivan Truhacker, a prolific pulp writer of space opera.

Fortunately. someone had left the door ajar. Calvin gave an "ack" to announce himself--he might be a duck, but he was a duck with breeding. Then someone dumped a bag over his head.

* * * * *

It took the Arthian Avenger only six or seven minutes to realize that although he might be on the correct train to get to his secret hideout, the train was going in the wrong direction. After another couple of stops of vacillation, he decided to get off. As he paused to get his bearings (they had fallen off when he disembarked), he heard a group of men coming down the stairs.

"Putting it in her torch wouldn't be any good," Dullard heard the leader saying. "It's not powerful enough. It'd only take her arm off. What we gotta do is get more nitro, then put it in her base. Blow her right into the ocean!"

"I still say we should wait until they've finished fixin' her up," one of the others answered. "After they spent all that money and time cleaning off the green and getting them stairs in shape. That'd really piss 'em off!"

"Yeah, but it'd be easier to pass ourselves as workmen--" argued the leader as they trailed off, arguing about whatever they were talking about. Young Dullard shrugged and returned to the task of finding his way back to his Secret Hideout.

* * * * *

"You sure you read that thing correctly?" inquired Nigel.

"Perfectly sure," answered May Daye. Things had improved during the last couple of hours. She'd complained to Rent-a-Thug and got back half her money. In addition, their customer service department had been so embarrassed about the mix up that they'd sent word out to do a free hit on Dullard. She doubted that they'd succeed, but you never knew.

"What a dump! Are you sure he doesn't just use this place to stash his unwanted furniture?"

"No, this is his Hidden Lair. My ship's computer has plotted every known sighting of that half wit against a city map and come up with this location."

The Punks looked dubiously about them. This was a superhero's hideout? The place was cleaner than most squatter's crash pades, but that was all. A bed and some chairs that looked like they'd been left out for the garbage men and salvaged, a camper's gas stove and an old piano that obviously doubled as an eating table, a closet with some pans and cans of food ...

May Daye was beginning to have her own doubts when she noticed the closet door. She opened it. "It's his Secret Hideout, alright. There are his street clothes and his two spare uniforms. This must be his formal. It's got a white base color substituted for the lime-green.

May Daye threw off the coat she was wearing to reveal a suit of form-fitting battle armor, a blaster pistol holstered at either hip.

"Gentlemen, I've souped up your guitars to emit a variety of blasts when you hit the strings. Spread out and take your positions. We're going to hit that screwball with everything we've got the moment he comes in."

"Derrick, you hide behind the piano. Stig: you, Barry and Dirk hide in those shadows by the wall. Nigel: you and Nasty get on either side of the door and ump him as he comes in. I'll hide in the closet."

"This is going to be the perfect ambush," she said, grinning evilly to the punkers.

It was.

Four tentacles of jointed metal immediately emerged from the wall behind her, pinned her arms to her sides, covered her mouth so she couldn't scream, and dragged her into the opening they'd popped out from.

As the band stared at their vanished leader, no less than six trap doors opened, swallowing Nigel and Nasty. A spring-loaded boxing glove emerged from another concealed trap in the wall right behind Derrick. An electrified net dropped from the ceiling and snared Stig, Barry and Dirk.

Within thirty seconds, there was nothing to indicate that the ambushers had ever been in the room.

* * * * *

As Young Dullard wandered around the streets of lower Manhattan, he noticed an old lady in a bathrobe and spectacles staring myopically at him.

"Pardon me, meinherr," she asked nicely. "Haf du gesseenin mine Bootsy?"

"Bootsy?"

"Ja, Bootsy, mein kitten-cat. She's black und white und ..."

"I'm sorry, haven't seen her around."

Young Dullard inwardly flinched. He hated disappointing this sweet old lady whose cat might be the only family she had, and whose worldly goods might be all inside that suitcase she clutched to her. He wanted to help her, but with the Jade on his person, he could not get involved with another set of problems. Protecting the statue and saving the world were enough.

"Now where could dot vermannt pussy have gone und vent?" the woman asked.

There came the jingling sounds of a tambourine and chanting approaching the pair.

"Ach, dose fool Harry Christmas people again!" groaned Frau Sprodenknochen. "Best gescrammin, yunk man. Alvays dey ask du for money."

With those words of advice the Frau turned and gescrammed.

"Um-yoha! Um-yoya! Yoya! Yoya!" chanted the six shaven headed, robed, holy looking men as they converged around Young Dullard.

"Young man," began the leader of the devotees, "Have you heard the benevolent message of the holy prophet, Yama-on?"

"Uhhh ..." said the quick-thinking hero.

"Yama-on has entrusted us to spread his serene philosophy to all men," the head monk explained smoothly.

"Er ... yeah."

"Peace is not difficult. It's easy. It's yours for the asking."

Young Dullard would have liked to have gone about his business and gotten to his Secret Hideout, but could not figure out how to do it without offending this nice man. Besides, he could use a little peace right now.

Meanwhile one the the monk's followers had gotten behind the unsuspecting hero and was aiming an open-handed chop at the back of his neck. A second was winding up for a stiff-arm rabbit punch, also from behind. Both tactics had rendered opponents very peaceful in the past.

"We have brought more true tranquility to more people than the Hari Krishnas and the Zen sects combined," the monk continued.

"What are they doing?" asked Young Dullard, attracted to the screams of pain behind him. He turned around to see the two monks rolling on the ground, howling, each clutching one hand with the other like it were broken.

"Penance ritual," said the group's leader.

There was a sound of crunching bone and a shriek, and Young Dullard jerked his head back to see the lead monk also doing a penance ritual, only it must have been a variant, as he was holding his foot instead of his hand.

The other three monks helped their groaning comrades to their feet. They seemed a bit hesitant to get too close to Young Dullard, almost as if they were afraid of him.

"Well, your religion sounds interesting, but I got this statue here I've got to deliver. See you later."

"Yes, certainly," said one monk, helping his leader, who seemed intent on hopping away on one foot, support himself. "Good day, honorable sir. May Yama-on guide your every step."

"... In front of the crosstown express," he added, too low for the Arthian to hear.

The confused superhero watched as the monks bore their comrades away.

"Takes all types to please the gods, I guess," he mused.

He began to look at several movie posters to pass the time while he waited for the train. As much as he had tried to submerge himself in Terran culture, he could never understand their movies. The complicated plots of flicks like Star Wars and E.T. always got him confused.

"A View To A Kill," the Arthian Avenger read off the poster. "With Roger Moore as James Bond and Grace Jones as ... May Daye?! Heck why can't they get a girl who looks like her to play that role? Or why not let her play herself. She looks more like herself than that lady with the crewcut does ..."

Dullard shrugged his shoulders and resumed his wait.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, back at Young Dullard's Secret Hideout, a grotesque, demonic being had carefully pulled away the plywood sheet which cunningly more-or-less concealed the entrance to his hidden lair.

"Careful, you lumphead!" muttered Athrozetz, her slinky black dress and furs now somewhat bedraggled by the day's events. "If you damage the wall, even the masked genius there might suspect something!"

"Crud!" muttered Erus, carefully replacing the wall. "That moron wouldn't know dragon-turd if it fell on him. I don't understand how you knew that we'd beat him here, though."

"I've been carefully studying him for some time now," replied the Goddess, a note of wistfulness in her voice. "He always gets lost on his way to his Secret Hideout."

"Hey, look in here," called Erus from the threshold to the Trophy Room.

The alcove was littered with mementoes of Dullard's past adventures. "The Death Watch he broke, seeing the defunct timepiece once employed by Athrozetz.

Athrozetz read off the roughly scrawled tags attached to the other trophies.

"Secret formula explosive salvaged from Mad Matt's laboratory," she said aloud, touching a carefully stoppered flask of what any chemist could have told her was pure distilled water. However, since the Arthian Avenger had believed Mad Matt's bluff, he gave the flask the same respect he would have given to a bottle of "Nitro-Glycerine Plus."

"The Green Vampire's plastic bat," she read off. "The video-cassettes Sink Solow tried to smuggle off the Earth. The sword the Mercenary Master hit me over the head with."

"What's this one? There's no label on it."

The last looked like a cross between a model of a German Tiger Tank and R2D2's cousin. Athrozetz tentatively touched the toy. Said toy promptly came to life, buzzed, bleeped and squirted both from head to foot with a fine plastic spray.

The renowned immortality of dieties and toughness of monster types saved them both when the plastic spray instantly hardened to near diamond hardness. An ordinary mortal would have quickly suffocated. Athrozetz and Erus were merely frozen on the spot, unable to move, speak, or use any of their powers.

There was a scratching at the door and a kitten wandered into the room. It craned its neck around, uttered an inquiring "meow," and pounced onto the most comfortable piece of furniture in the room, an overstuffed chair. As it began to fluff up a place to rest, the tank top of the nearby toilet silently lifted. From within the tank, a perfectly detailed miniature battleship launched a pair of missiles. Two struck the kitten, which collapsed at once into a deep and dreamless sleep. On its collar was engraved the name, "Bootsy."

* * * * *

With furtive motions and cautious glances at the people around him, (which naturally drew even more attention to him than even his muscles, mask, and lime green, purple and orange tights did). Young Dullard snuck into the heavily travelled, disused corridor just off the main line in Grand Central Station.

As Dullard entered the corridor, several hookey-playing youngsters ran out. Making sure that the derelicts who had flopped there were sound asleep, Young Dullard tiptoed over to the entrance of his Secret Hideout.

Just as he was about to pry open the door, he heard footsteps coming up behind him. He turned around, leaned innocently against the wall, and began to whistle. It was a well-muscled square jawed young man with bright red hair.

"Oh, excuse me ..." he stammered. "You wouldn't know if there are any phone booths around here?"

Young Dullard pointed further down the corridor. The man thanked him.

Dullard quickly entered and shut the door. In the background, "Cockle-doodle-do," the famed battle cry of the Red Rooster, echoed.

"Finally," sighed Young Dullard, setting the Thessalapain Jade down upon a table. He sat down heavily on his favorite comfy chair and started to notice things. He didn't recall picking up that pair of statues in his trophy room, though they seemed familiar.

Also, what was all the noise about? Besides the usual roar of the subway trains, the valiant Arthian could swear he heard people cursing and yelling and banging on the floor under his feet. Also, it sounded as if someone was kicking the wall behind his costumes. From somewhere int the room, no, make that his food cupboard, was a flapping and angry quacking, as if a practical joker had locked a live duck in there.

This was all too much for Young Dullard. Instead of rising to investigate, he simply stared at the cat who had somehow got into his Secret Hideout. At first, he thought the cat had a very loud purr. Then it slowly dawned on the Arthian Avenger that the cat was not purring, the chair it was sitting on was snoring.

That was enough to gain the flagging attention of the Nemesis of Evil. He rose to investigate ... and the chair rose along with him and grabbed.

As he struggled, three other pieces of furniture changed, assuming roughly human shape. Strips of naugahide and scraps of upholstery fell from the mutinous furnishings, revealing the metal bodies of robots beneath them.

In seconds Dullard was struggling in the grip of four diabolic automations. As he fought, almost able to shake his metallic foes loose from hi, the mysterious stranger who had waited so long for him stepped into the light.

"You!" shouted Young Dullard.

"Come now. You knew I'd get you some day," sneered his captor.

"I did?" asked the befuddled crimefighter.

"Well, maybe you didn't. Forethought was never your style."

Grinning evilly, his opponent raised a huge pistol. It was covered with knobs, buttons, catches, switches and projecting pipes. It had some cables and five barrels and objects attached to it only its maker could have explained. In short, it was a thoroughly lethal looking instrument.

"So long, sucker," his old enemy sneered.

TO BE CONTINUED