You can sift through the racc list archive
https://lists.eyrie.org/pipermail/racc/
or you can try google groups racc for these LNH and NTB stories.

And this week we have another Drew Nilium LNH vII issue -- #55!
Who can Stop -- THE ARISTURTLE!? Perhaps some one with a tasty
breakfast dish for a name?

And also a story by myself that should've been posted like back
during the whole Beige Midnight issues (but since it didn't appear
on the LNH Timeline (I guess NTB stories don't get to appear on
the LNH timeline) I forgot all about it). But seeing as LNH vII
#57 has Saxon writing a Ring Job story -- I guess I really need
to repost it so you aren't too befuddled by Saxon's story. I
mean, okay, since the Ring Job is basically just a parody of
Grant Morrison's King Mob character from the Invisibles maybe
I don't really need to repost it... but too late!

But, wait, you ask -- what is this gem called? An On the Deadbeat Special:
Beige Happy Hour!

Anyways...

_
| | Classic
| | =
| | ____ ____ _ ____ ___
| |__ | [] | | [] | | | | [] | | _ \

|____| \__] \__ | |_| \__/ |_|\_\
||
|_| OF NET.HEROES

ADVENTURES #230

=====================
LNH vII #53 and Beige Happy Hour!
=====================

From: Andrew Perron pwerdna at gmail.com
Date: Tue May 14 21:24:26 PDT 2013

LEGION OF NET.HEROES

:NN:
:NNNN:
:NNNNNN:
:NNNNNNNN:
:LLLLLLL: :NNNNNNNNNN: :NNNNNNNN: :hhhhhhh:
:LLLLLLL: :NNNNNNNNNNNN: :NNNNNNNN: :hhhhhhh:
:LLLLLLL: :NNNNNNNNNNNNNN: :NNNNNNNN: :hhhhhhh:
:LLLLLLL: :NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN: :NNNNNNNN: :hhhhhhh:
:LLLLLLL: :NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN: :NNNNNNNNhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh:
:LLLLLLL: :NNNNNNNN: :NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh:
:LLLLLLL: :NNNNNNNN: :NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh:
:LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLNNNNNNNN: :NNNNNNNNNNNNNN: :hhhhhhh:
:LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLNNNNNNNN: :NNNNNNNNNNNN: :hhhhhhh:
:LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLNNNNNNNN: :NNNNNNNNN: :hhhhhhh:
:NNNNNNN:
:NNNNN:
:NNN:
:N:

VOLUME TWO
ISSUE FIFTY-FIVE
"A Minute in the New Atlantis!"

[ The cover is a young girl standing on a mountain with her back to us,
holding a glowing equation over her head and facing a giant turtle with a
long beard and a toga flying towards her on jets of flame.]

<---------------------->

In her room one night, turning, tossing, unable to sleep, Faith Barnham
receives a shocking message from beyond!

"I am Baron Verulam, the last!" said the phantasm. "You are the only one
who can help me!"

"Help you do what!?" asked the frightened teen.

"Help me solve Francis Bacon's last puzzle, and save the land of Bensalem
from ultimate destruction!"

<---------------------->

"The people--!" she said, walking into the Great Chamber of Common Law.
"They're... they're..."

"Asleep!" trumpeted the Baron. "They have been inducted into a world
without change!"

"But who could have done this?"

"A great beast, who rose from the sea to punish us for our sins against
science. The ARISTURTLE!"

<---------------------->

"But why!?" she said, pounding at the walls of the Library of Saint Alban.
"Why do you think Bacon's works have the answer?" She thrust her hand out
toward the pile of books, scoured and tossed aside in turn.

"So it has always been!" grumped the ghost. "In times of trouble, we have
*always* turned to Bacon!"

"...what," she said, turning to him. "Always? In every situation?"

"Indeed! We have followed the law he set down for over five hundred years!"

"But... he was the creator of the scientific method! The one who questioned
all the old wisdom!" In a single blow, she knocked the books off the table!
"If you were really following him, you'd be asking *new* questions, not
just following the old wisdom--" She blinked. "Following the old wisdom
blindly..."

With a great roar, the wall crashed in, and the Aristurtle was there,
roaring its defiance. But in the rubble, a tiny slip of paper, glowing
blue, floated into Faith's hand. She looked down - a single formula, that
seared itself into her mind...

<---------------------->

The Rosy Council all came out to see her off. "Thank you for freeing us
from the icy grip of the past," said the First Philosopher. "But what will
you do with the Unwritten Law that has written itself to your thoughts?"

"I don't really know," she said, standing by the portal home. "But I think
it's telling me to create something new - a new instrument by which to
promote science."

"You are truly the inheritor of Bacon's legacy," said the Baron's shade.
"Worthy to carry on his name."

"Then... I guess I will!"

"Then carry it to the world, Francis Bacon Lass!"

<---------------------->

Author's note: Note that the logo design at the top is the one used on LNH
v2 #50. I'm using it right now as a prod to all the writers involved~

In Flame Wars Final, I included Francis Bacon Lass as a suspect just to
make a silly reference to the whole Shakespeare thing. But she grew on me
over the rest of the story, and come the HCC, I realized I had a character
who I'd introduced but, unlike Pummelo, never given the origin of in-story.
Thus!

Tidbit: I actually came up with "Aristurtle" over ten years ago, as a
Pokemon name. The full evolutionary chain was Aristurtle -> Platortoise ->
Socryuutes, in order of "least awesome to most awesome".

Andrew "NO .SIG MAN" "Juan" Perron, used wiki a *lot* on this one.

From: Arthur Spitzer arspitzer at earthlink.net
Date: Wed Dec 23 11:42:52 PST 2009

NTB: An On the Deadbeat Special: Beige Happy Hour!

<<Warning: This story will probably give you cancer, rabies, a venereal
disease, and desire to have Satan's Love Child. Please consult with the
Pope before reading this story. Thank You.>>

Cover: [Grim Sloth (That's GrimSlut!) and Dr. Deadbeat (That's Dr.
DeadSlut!) are sitting at a table in a bar. Dr. Deadbeat looks down at
the text at the bottom in bold letters that says, 'A Beige Midnight
Crossover Issue!'. He takes a drink and says, "You're Fucking Kidding,
Right? RIGHT?!']

**** <<--BM-->> ****

From Beige Countdown #0:

**** <<--BM-->> ****

Kirk Dublin flipped the burger on the grill watching it sizzle on the
hot metal. Flies hovered around the grill. Kirk tried to shoo the
flies away with his spatula. But one fly didn't seem to want to leave.
It kept buzzing and buzzing. Getting closer to the grill. And
finally, the fly flew right into the burning coals. Stupid fly. Why
did it do that?

Kirk looked up and noticed that a stranger was in his yard. A man that
wore a black trenchcoat and black fedora carrying a staff made out of
some strange black material in one hand and a beige trenchcoat and
briefcase in the other. Kirk started to become very uneasy. "Umm --
Can I help you with something?"

"Once I may have joined you for slightly charred hamburgers and
citronella-tinged conversation, but for now I must be the Banquo at your
banquet, the uninvited guest." The Stranger gave a slight smile.

"Uhuh. Look if you want some food or money, I can..."

"No. I came here to speak to the Deadbeat."

"Deadbeat? I don't know what you're talking about. Maybe you should
leave."

"No. But my time is too precious to fool around with these type of
games." The trenchcoated stranger struck his staff on the lawn.
Everything except for the stranger and Kirk disappeared.

"No! What have you done?!" Kirk said as he gazed in horror at the blank
white world. "Where's my house? My family? Bring it back! Bring it
all back!"

The stranger shook his head. "This is the truth that you already know.
This was a prison forged by the man named Dr. Molar. Your family and
life here are not real. This is your reality." The stranger dumped the
beige trenchcoat onto the blank white ground. "Pick it up. Put it on."

"No. I can't. Not again. Please!"

"If you do not put on the trenchcoat, then you turn your back on
everything. Everyone. Worlds and Universes will die. You will die.
But put the trenchcoat on and everything might be saved. And once the
balance has been restored, I care not what you do with yourself. I can
bring you back here so you can wallow away your final years in this
dream life. If you want. But if you don't put on the trenchcoat your
dream and dream family die here and now."

"Fine." Kirk Dublin grabbed the trenchcoat reluctantly. He looked at
the trenchcoat with the fading logo 'Stolen from Club Med' on it and
hesitated. His hands started to shake. And then he put it on.

As soon as he put the trenchcoat on, a change overtook him. A wild grin
came over his face. His hand quickly reached into one of the pockets
and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He stuffed every one of them in
his mouth and took out a lighter and lit them all. After a number of
very deep inhales and exhales, he took all but one out of his mouth.
Putting his hand into another pocket, he took out a bottle of pills and
a bottle of gin. After he swallowed the bottle of pills and washed them
down with the bottle of gin, he threw them on the ground. "Damn. I
needed that." He laughed to himself. And then he looked at the
Stranger and gave a wink. "Well, Dave. Thanks and all for getting me
out of that Retard Asylum. You can drop me off at the nearest orgy or
whore house if you want. I'll even pay for gas."

"No. You're going to Net.ropolis. You have business there."

"The Hell I do. Look. Fine. You can leave me here if you want. I'm
sure I can find my way out of here." Dr. Deadbeat started to walk
around the blank world he was in. "Okay. Where's the door in this
place? Got to be somewhere here. Hmm."

"As tempting as that sounds. No. You're going to Net.ropolis. And
here's the reason." The Dvandom Stranger opened up the briefcase and
showed the contents to Dr. Deadbeat. The contents gave a golden glow.

"Is that...? Christ. For real?"

The Dvandom Stranger nodded.

"Damn. Bloody Bastard." Dr. Deadbeat frowned. "Fine. Net.ropolis it
is. So. Who else is going to be there? Eh?"

"Everyone that I can get."

Dr. Deadbeat laughed. "That's funny. You're kidding. Right?" The
Dvandom Stranger didn't answer. "I mean you're kidding. Please tell me
you're..."

And with a flash the two trenchcoaters disappeared leaving a blank white
world that seemed to be turning more and more beige as the time passed.

**** <<--BM-->> ****

And now...

'Beige Happy Hour!'

In some Nightclub in Scotland...

A bald man hopped off the stage. Every inch of exposed skin on him
seemed to have some type of a piercing. There were earrings, liprings,
noserings, cheekrings, neckrings, eyelid rings, top of the head rings,
armpit rings. Let's just say that there were a lot of rings on him. He
grabbed a psychedelic colored towel and used it to wipe the sweat off of
his forehead.

He walked over to a table where two men in trenchcoats were sitting.
"So. What deedya think? Are wee the next beeg thing? Did we ruck yure
wurld?"

"If rock your world means giving me the desire to time travel back
before your act and gouge both of my past self's eardrums with sharp
rocks to save him from having to listen to that -- then yes, I guess you
could say that." The trenchcoated man blew some smoke into the bald
man's face.

The bald man waved the smoke away. "Say. What record company are you
from anywee?"

The other trenchcoater shook his head. "No record company. We're from
something better. Ever heard of the NTB?"

The bald man smirked. "Oh, the Naughty Teenaged Babes? Well, of
course. I am a musician."

"No. Not them. The other NTB."

"What -- you don't mean -- those blokes that run around in trenchcoats,
smoking cigarettes, and saying the word bastard in all their sentences?
But they're not real -- They're a myth!"

"Alas, if only." The trenchcoater rummaged around one of his trenchcoat
pockets till he found a rather crumpled cigarette and stuck it in his
mouth. "No, they're real. The name's GrimSloth. And my loutish
colleague who doesn't appreciate your wonderful music is called Dr.
Deadbeat. We're here on a recruiting mission."

"And you want me to join your NTB? But why -- unless you've already
guessed my secret. Yes -- that must be it. But which secret? I have
so many. I guess you already know that I'm not really a Brit Pop Rocker
called The Ring Job and my band the Forgettables aren't really
musicians. I guess then you know that we're all part of a secret
society. Freedom Fighters fighting in a war that has been going since
the beginning of time. A secret war between the two forces that want
control of mankind. On one side: the Lameness -- Trying to make
everyone Lame! And on the other side: The Hippness -- Trying to make
everyone cool and groovy. I guess you can already tell what side I'm
on." The Ring Job gestured towards his black leather jacket, various
body piercings, tattoos, and shaved head.

"Actually, I am curious. Which?" Dr. Deadbeat flicked some ash on the
floor.

"Hah!" GrimSloth elbowed Dr. Deadbeat with a hard jab. "My colleague
is just joking! Of course we know. We're on the same side. The side
of -- umm -- you know. Hippness! See? We're wearing trenchcoats.
We're on your side."

"Maybe. But you didn't let me finish. Because the whole secret war --
that isn't the whole story. See, I'm not from this Universe. I'm from
some place higher. A higher plane -- a place where all of this is just
a comic. And all of you are just characters. You see -- my name is
really Chant Doorrison. I was a writer. A comic book writer! I was
writing this hip comic book called, 'The Forgettables' about this group
of hep swinging terrorists. Unfortunately, the sales for the book
weren't so hot. I needed to do something to increase them. I was into
magick at the time -- Real Magick -- and I decided to do this spell to
help get my sales up. So I'm sitting completely naked on this sigil
trantric style jerking off chanting shit -- and then I pass out. And
the next thing I know is that I'm here. I'm in the comic! The comic
that I wrote! I became the Ring Job -- super powered kung fu terrorist
whose every ring is some type of weapon! Freaky, huh? Don't know if it
helped sales though."

"Yeah, Freaky! And just so you know -- we have no bias against the
insane. In fact most of our members are certifiable -- so just sign
here and..." GrimSloth shoved a contract into The Ring Job's view.

"Hmm, I don't know." The Ring Job ran his finger through the fine
print. "What's this here about my first born child?"

"Oh that's just lawyer stuff. Don't give it any mind. Oh, you need to
sign in blood too."

"Is there some kind of fee?"

"Oh, right the fee. Well there's the yearly fee of 1000 pounds. But if
you're smart you'll do the lifetime fee of -- umm -- 5000 pounds -- and
for 6000 pounds all your band members can become NTB lifetime members too."

"Wow! For only 6000 pounds?" The Ring Job looked through his wallet.
"Hmm. I seem to only have 4000 pounds at the moment. Do you take checks?"

Both GrimSloth and Dr. Deadbeat's eyes danced at the sight of the money.
"Hmm. I forgot -- we're having a special today -- and 4000 pounds is
the exact precise amount." GrimSloth fingers quickly snatched the wad
of cash. "Welcome to the NTB."

"Don't I get a card -- or badge or something?"

"Oh right the badge!" GrimSloth looked at Dr. Deadbeat. "Give him his
badge." Dr. Deadbeat scrawled something on a cocktail napkin and handed
it to The Ring Job.

"This -- umm looks like a cocktail napkin with the letters NTB scrawled
on it?"

"Oh sure. To the uninitiated un-hep person that's what it looks like,
but to the with-it hipster it looks like a -- umm, what does it look
like?" said GrimSloth eyeing Dr. Deadbeat again.

"A metatextual construct of a Cocktail Napkin with the letters NTB
scrawled on it." Dr. Deadbeat lit another cigarette for himself. "All
the hep kids wear them."

"Wow! So I'm a member?"

"Yes. You'll need to buy yourself a trenchcoat. Start saying the word
bastard a lot. Use your friends as cannon fodder. And start smoking
cigarettes."

"But I'm a vegan. I can't smoke!"

"Pretty sure cigarettes are a vegetable. Deadbeat?"

"Yeah, vegetable. Trust me. I'm a Doctor."

"Well, if you say so. So what's my first mission?"

"Glad you asked that. There's going to be a big gathering of
Trenchcoaters in Netropolis. You're going to have to go to this place
called the LNHHQ. Heard of it?"

"The spandex superhero place?"

"Yeah. That one. Down below are a number of sub-sub basements. You
want to go to Sub-Sub Basement #58.5. That's where the party is going
to be."

"Party? Sounds fun."

Dr. Deadbeat laughed. "Yeah. Fun. When you get there, ask for Dave.
He'll tell you what you're going to do. Got it?"

"Yeah. LNHHQ Sub-Sub Basement 58.5. Got it."

GrimSloth looked at his watch. "Well. We've got to go. See you
around. Bye."

"Uh, yeah -- bye." The Ring Job waved to the two trenchcoaters and
looked at the cocktail napkin in his hand. Christ. What the hell was
he thinking?

**** <<--BM-->> ****

"Christ. That took forever. Who's next on the list?" Dr. Deadbeat lit
up another cigarette.

GrimSloth took out a crumpled list from one of his pockets. "Some
trenchcoater in the future by the name of Cockroach Las Vegas. A Hunter
S Thompson wannabe. Supposed be the last bastard in a world where all
the bastards were killed by some virus."

"You kidding me? Dave expects us to go there? Fuck that shit."

"Yeah. Let's just say we did. Next on the list. The Bible Thumper.
Some redneck hick from Texas searching for God. Has a bible belt that
he uses to thump people with."

"There's a keeper. How many more of these bastards do we have to find
before we're off the hook?"

GrimSloth ran his finger down the list. "We have to get 58 and a half."

"A half? How are we supposed to do that? Mystical Chainsaw?"

GrimSloth looked over the list. "Doesn't say."

"So what did Dave have on you?"

"Oh, you know. The usual. You?"

"Yeah. That. Bastard. One of these days we're all going to have to
get together and take care of him once and for all."

GrimSloth snorted to himself. "Lovely thought. Too bad we're all just
a bunch of spineless cowards or psychopaths like Dave."

"Yeah. Too bad. Hmm. Here's a thought. Why don't we just find some
sap and con him into doing this for us?

GrimSloth looked at the list. "Yeah. That could work. Or we could
just say we did and leave it at that." GrimSloth crumpled up the list
and tossed it into the air.

"Works for me. So where should we head?" Dr. Deadbeat took out a piece
of chalk from a pocket. Using the chalk he created a magical door in
the air.

"The Naughty Teenaged Babe Altiverse?" GrimSloth opened the door.

"I like the way you think." Dr. Deadbeat stepped into the door and
looked back. He waved his middle finger and gave a wink. "Adios,
Readers! This series is dead -- dead -- and dead."

The End.

**** <<--BM-->> ****

Credits:

One of the Dvandom Stranger's sentences in Beige Countdown written by
Dave Van Domelen.

GrimSloth (or is that Slut?) -- Stewart Fyfe
Dr. Deadbeat and The Ring Job -- Arthur Spitzer
Dvandom Stranger -- Dave Van Domelen
The Naughty Teenaged Babes Joke -- Tom Russell

Writer's Notes:

What's it been? 12 years since the last 'On the Deadbeat'? February
11, 1997. I think that was before Tom Russell started posting. Been a
long time.

Here's the rest of series in case you're curious.

http://archives.eyrie.org/racc/ntb/On.Deadbeat/

This is more than likely the last 'On the Deadbeat' and probably the
last appearance of Dr. Deadbeat. I did think about having him appear in
Beige Midnight, but then I figured there's no way in hell he'd be a part
of that.

I have a part of #4 of this series some where on my hard drive. Never
going to finish that obviously. I was a much different writer back
then. Part of why I never finished it was because I was trying to get
everything perfect. Now days I just hack and slash prose (see the story
above).

This isn't a great ending, but it's an ending.

The Ring Job is a parody of the Grant Morrison character King Mob from
the Invisibles. It was something that I came up with back when I still
was thinking about writing 'On the Deadbeat' Also was going to do a
parody of the Preacher and Spider Jerusalem. Never got around to that.

Also this is a bit of a homage to Paul Hardy's much funnier Retcon Hour
story -- Retcon Happy Hour.

http://archives.eyrie.org/racc/lnh/Series/Legion.Occult/Retcon.Happy.Hour.gz

It's kind of shame that no one seems to write NTB stories anymore.
That's probably because Vertigo isn't quite what it used to be. It's
been awhile since I've bought a Vertigo comic.

I'm not completely finished with the NTB. Various members will show up
in Beige Midnight -- so keep watch for that.

Oh and how about a letter page...?

Always wanted to do one of those...

What's a good name for one? Deadbeatings? Credit Rantings?

Ah well...

-----------

Date: Tue, 09 Apr 1996 02:22:52 -0400 (EDT)
From: "Kieran O'Callaghan" <kocallag at emerald.tufts.edu>
Subject: Deadbeat.

Just writing to express my appreciation for the deadbeat series
so far. The whole bastard Indiana Jones bit from the first issue was
great. I love the way the "hero" not only leaves the police station
without being arrested, but also pretty much robs the officer on duty.
I'm a little curious about what you meant by saying that the series
doesn't happen in quite the same universe as the LNH. Did he start out
in the Looniverse and then cross over to another universe at some point,
which would explain why he suddenly aquired a family. Otherwise I
suppose he could have started out in a non-mainstream looniverse and then
ended up in another non-mainstream one. Or has he in the same universe
the whole time and simply dealing with some very wierd events?_
By the way, up until now I've been a pretty evil,
nonparticipatory lurker. I'm mainly a fan of the LNH stuff, but I read
everything on a.c.lnh and racc. I've been reading the archives at the
eyrie for a while now in preparation for writing my own LNH stories. So
far, I've read everything except issues 3-36 of Constellation, the PULP
stuff, the ntb stuff, and the Earth-B legion stuff. So as soon as I'm
finished with my anal retentive approach to research, I'll be writing
stories myself(I hope). The point to all this history is that I
realized, because I've noticed the recent lull on racc and seen lots of
old series that seem to have died from lack of interest, that since I
enjoy all of the wonderful writing, I should at least express my
appreciation. So, this is the first time I've actually written my
opinion to a racc author with story comments. So keep up the good work.
Oh yeah, if you ever decide to stop writing your series suddenly, please
end the series somehow without leaving it hanging (in reading the
archives, I've seen so many series that ended with the plot just hanging
there, it's a horrible sight. It's even worse if you consider the fact
that, technichally, Cheesecake-eater Lad is still off amongst the
newsgroups looking for aLLiterative Lass.) Er, yeah, I'm babbling
again. Um, excelsior or something.
Kieran Michael O'Callaghan

-----------

Date: Mon, 07 Oct 1996
From: ej433 at cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Dave Klingbeil)
Subject: Re: On the Deadbeat #2

I don't get the George Hamilton reference.

"A Mecca where running jokes have killed more people than cars." Funny,
and probably true.

"You just had to talk the native talk." *hee hee* The scene with
lifting the paranoia's wallet sounds like Deadbeat is starting to think
like a Netropolitan without realizing it. Gamerboy? I haven't read THAT
name in quite a while. "So that's the way the cookie crumbles, eh?"
Deadbeat IS mentally going native. Could Deadbeat's pain have been a
dimension jump, given the lack of supers?

"He was also a very intelligent man, which made Deadbeat rather uneasy
around him." Nice bit of characterization.

"Trenchcoaters avoided the fourth wall like honesty." *hee hee*
Definitely a parallel dimension. "The exposition in the room was
starting to get heavy." Deadbeat's breaking the fourth wall! Whatever
force is behind this must be messing with his mind.

-- Dave Klingbeil (weaver of dreams & itinerant madman)

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

From: in5y116 at public.uni-hamburg.de (Cornelius Goetz von Olenhusen)
Subject: Re: NTB: On the Deadbeat #3 (2/2)
Date: Wed, 12 Feb 1997 19:23:51 +0000 (GMT)

Hello Arthur!

On 11 Feb 1997 21:20:14 -0800, you wrote:

>First of all, sorry for the delay. Real Life, Writer's Block, and
>Laziness were as usual the main culprits. I actually got some mail last
>time and a positive review in RACC Reviews by Cornelius Goetz von
>Olenhusen (hope I spelled that right). I wasn't able to find
>Cornelius's e-mail address so I'll thank him here. Anyways, thanks for
>the letters and stuff. Guess I won't whine this time about not getting
>any.

Well, thank you for giving me something to review. :) After all, writing a
review (pain in the butt that it can be) doesn't take nearly as much time
or effort as actually writing a story. (I am currently trying to write an
LNH story and can't, for the life of me, come up with an even remotely
original plot. Just made the world a slightly better place by deleting my
last try. Sigh.)

Anyway, liked this issue. It's nice that there's still an NTB title around.
There is just something about those hard-boiled detective/cynical bastard
types that works very well with fantasy/horror elements.

Some criticism though: I think you have a certain tendency to, well, to
ramble a bit too much. Or sometimes a lot too much, like in that
Robot-Invasion issue of Jong. You know what I mean? Those bizarre tangents
on, uh, unpleasant parts of human anatomy, stuff like that. Can be fun for
a while, but still.... Actually this issue wasn't too bad in that respect.
Maybe that whole Prolixdraft/Carlos conversation could have been a little
shorter.
Hmm. Anything else to complain about? I got the feeling that some of the
dialogue could have used a little more work, but no big deal. Also this
issue was pretty long, wasn't it? I like that personally, but I read Wrath
of the Administrator in one sitting so I'm clearly abnormal. Maybe some
people might be put off by a 1400 lines issue? (Whatever happened to Paul
Hardy anyway?) Oh, and Yesterday Healer is a stupid name.

Stuff I liked: Doc D., as usual; Fun character. The way you include these
obscure bits of LNH history. The parts with Stomper, Cat, and Cheesy.
Spandexers vs Trenchcoaters is always fun because, when you get down to it,
they have equally stupid premises, so they can take turns playing straight
man to each other.

>As for when the next issue's going to come out. God knows. Every time
>I write something my Writer's Block keeps getting worse. Hopefully I'll
>get the next issue out before March comes.

Hmph. You better hurry with the next issue. You don't get paid for lazing
around, you know. (Well, okay, you don't get paid for writing either, but
get to it anyway!)

Bye,

Cornelius

P.S.: You got my name right. As far as possible anyway. It's actually Gvtz
instead of Goetz, with an umlaut between the 'G' and the 't' which you may
or may not be able to see correctly on your terminal. (Where's the Baron
when you need him?)

P.P.S.: Wondersock?!! You're insane.

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

I imagine if these people were still reading RACC they'd be very
disappointed with how this series ended...

Well, that's a wrap!

Arthur "The NTB is Alive!" Spitzer

==========
Next Week: Something LNH related -- I suppose?
==========

Arthur "Same Classic Channel. But Same Time? Probably not." Spitzer