Subject: A Stranger Enters...
From: Mark "Crimson" Friedman <friedman@cis.ohio-state.edu>

	The Chatsubo was quiet that day.  Ratz made his obligatory
appearance and wiped off the bar with a rag, fulfilling his obligation
to keep the newsgroup even *slightly* related to its own title.

	Then it happened: the door of the bar was blown off its
hinges, falling onto some nameless patron who was only there to be
slaughtered carelessly anyway.  A shadowy figure walked in, hefting a
bazooka over one shoulder.  He looked at the man bleeding under the
doorway and muttered, "Amazing resemblance to Cannon Fodder..."

	Generic Street Samurai jumped up from his table and
proclaimed, "You can't do that!"

	"Why not, little boy?"

	"'Cuz it's *my* job to senselessly destroy lives and property
in this establishment."  He pulled a howitzer out of his pocket,
pointed it at the bandstand, and fired, scattering musicians
everywhere.

	"You think that's tough?  Look at this sword!" He drew his
katana and threw it across the room, nailing a waitress between the
eyes.  "Top that!"

	"I got a sword too!"  Generic Street Samurai drew it from the
sheath.  "It's monofilament: sharper than yours, too!"

	"Yeah, but mine's cleaner!  Look at the way mine glints in the
light!"  He motioned over to the waitress, who found the strength to
hold it up for the patrons to see ("Oooooh!" "Ahhhh!").  "Your sword
is all dirty!  You should be embarrassed.  Clean that off!"

	The Samurai pouted and wiped the blade off on his shirt.
Unfortunately, the monofilament blade *did* turn out to be *extremely*
sharp, thus cutting him in half in the process.  "Oooops..."  The
torso fell off the legs and onto the ground.

	The Stranger smirked. "Works every time..."  He walked over to
the bar, reclaiming his sword from the waitress along the way.
"Barkeep!  Gimmie an Old Peculiar..."  Ratz did so.

	The man on the stool beside him smiled.  "Nice selection, eh?
My name's Freddy Marx, what's yours?"

	The stranger smiled, "They call me Netlurker.  I just escaped
to here from rec.arts.comics.  What do you do?"

	"Oh, I'm an angst-ridden decker turned musician who winds up
being everybody's punching bag somehow..." He shrugged.

	Netlurker raised his eyebrows.  "Oh, really?"  He pushed
Freddy off his stool, jumped on his chest, and proceeded to wail on
the musician's face...

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

"Awwwww, come on!!!"

"ACK!!!"  Netlurker turned to face the voice behind him. It was Cliche
Dude himself!

"Hey, I've used some bad cliches in my time, but this is just plain
pathetic!  I mean, *everyone* makes this sort of macho intro post and
then are never heard from again.  You should be *ashamed* of
yourself!"  Cliche Dude pointed an admonishing finger.

Netlurker lowered his eyes and pouted like a child.  "Awwww...I'm
Sorrrrreeeee..."

"Now go to your dressing room."  Netlurker shuffled pitifully
offstage.  Cliche Dude yelled through the fourth wall to Gaffer Lad,
Kid Grip, Master Electrician, Foley Frank, and the rest of the
Production Crew, "That's a wrap gang!  We can all go home now..."

				THE END

		     (a Klone Crimson production)

--
Mark "Klone Crimson" Friedman is friedman@cis.ohio-state.edu .................
"There is nothing former   "Beat poets,    "If you put a hungry ferret in your
 about King Crimson."       not children."  trousers, he'll run around..."
 - Robert Fripp, 5/11/90    - anonymous     - Nigel Tufnel (Spinal Tap)