I Am Gathering a Troupe for a Journey

I am sad to say the hour of judgment draws near. I'm not talking about biblical predictions of the end of time, or some poorly-imagined Bruce Willis action movie armageddon. I'm talking about the growing conspiracy, which I have mentioned before, without giving specific details. It's practically here.

As you may know, I have tried gathering a group before through classified ads, hoping to attract mercenaries and those with a death wish to follow me into the danger, with me firmly in the back; but no such luck. I will have to go this mission alone, and take some commune staffers with me. Mostly to carry my things, but I'm not ruling out fighting and taking bullets and what-not.

The problem, as you can imagine, is that the commune is over-run with cowards, dope fiends, and morons. Actually, the dope fiends aren't so bad, but trying to explain to them the importance of the mission takes way more time than I have. In the end, if I can get no one else, maybe I'll tell them we're going to pick up Chinese food and they'll follow me.

The morons are another matter entirely. They make up the bulk of my workforce, which was part of how they came to work for me for practically nothing, but of course that doesn't help with my mission. I'm planning on traveling a great distance and it's possible I'll be pursued—all involved will need great cunning. Most of them can't even say great cunning.

So mostly I'm left with the cowards. I can't find them right now. I know they're there, I can hear them scurrying to hide whenever I enter the room. And they haven't even heard about the deadly mission yet, they're just afraid I'll yell at them for not proofing their stories and columns, etc. Can you imagine the pants-pissing that will happen when I invite them to look death in the eye? No, that won't do. So I'm left with a random assortment of commune employees to choose from.

Lil Duncan? She's neither a coward nor a moron, and the only dope she goes for is Lorenzo Lamas. But she's a woman, and therefore left out. I don't need any women going along just so they can get pregnant or have their periods or complain about how we're not asking for directions. She's out.

Ned Nedmiller? Ned's afraid of nothing, indeed more things are afraid of him, and he's not so much a moron as a babbling oddity. And he's been gathering dust since I stopped publishing his column—he hasn't even stopped writing them yet. I've got a stack of them piling up on my desk and blocking the light from the windows, but I haven't the heart to tell him. Which is why he won't be coming along on this mission.

Ivan Nacutchacokov? See cowards, above.

Omar Bricks. Omar's not stupid, and far from a coward. As for being a dope fiend… well, if I loosen up my definition of dope fiend considerably, he's a prime candidate.

Stu Umbrage? Stu has guts in abundance, and brains in abundance. There's no man in the building I would trust my life with but Stu Umbrage. Still, I don't like him, I don't know, just something about his accent or something. All haughty.

Clarissa Coleman? Weren't you listening when I said the things about women? You're stupid for even bringing her up.

Raoul Dunkin? Yeah, right. There's nothing that ingrate would love more than to get me alone while he's fully armed. Not on your life, or mine.

Griswald Dreck? He's a great candidate, but Griswald's actually proved on a piece of paper with Sharpies that if he leaves the building he ceases to exist. At least that's what he told me when I asked him to cover the court beat one day, and I'm not about to test his vast knowledge.

Ramon Nootles? Not with all those paternity suits still pending. It would cost me more than I could bear parting with.

So as you can see, I'm up a creek in sewer-flavored water with a boat-moving device. I'll have to get this all sorted out, and soon, since imminent death is calling. Wish me luck, readers—or better yet, come with me. Women need not apply.

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