Ringbone Gazette's 50th Edition!

The Ringbone Gazette

Late Winter 198 Issue No. 50

YES! We've made it all the way to Number 50. We still don't get no respect, we still haven't made it to the Official BSE-page (that's being fixed, by the way), but we've made it this far. Yay!

One massive change in BSE physics, a decrepit copier, two sets of Gaming Ghods (which reminds me- the Ascension of *THAD* to Broomfield is a holy day now), two Bone editors, three Bone publishers, six or seven CPT Editors, nine-plus newsletters, twelve major wars, thirty-plus affiliations and races, ninety-odd minor wars. and hundreds of characters have come and gone since this humble rag started ten years ago. Of course if I miscounted, I'm sure one of you kind, adoring, nitpickers will correct me.

But before you start reading, you might want to get up, get yourself a dozen cold ones (or hot ones, depending on where you are), some munchies, bid adieu to yer significant other, and take care of the, er, necessities, 'cause this is a major-long commemorative edition. We'll wait right here....

All set? Well, we batted around some ideas for nearly two months, trying to figger out how to do up this puppy. Of course we got plenty of assistance from our readers- just listen:

(sound of crickets chirping...)

Yeah, you get the picture.

In any case, after much idea-tossing and brain-stormin', the intrepid Bone staff decided to just do it wedding-style. You know, something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. No virgin though, not at Werth anyways. The 'blue' is at the top, in case you missed it. And we got lots of old, new, and borrowed stuff.

First, one of the new:

A Ringbone Saga: The Return of Father Larry

_{For those of you who are newbies, or have short memories, Father
Larry was the founder and publisher of the Ringbone Gazette. Sometime in
the early 180s, Father Larry abdicated his publishing duties and departed
for the Inner Empire. At least until recently...}

Scene: The Pope's Quarters at the Vatican, New Rome, Terra

Pope Thaddeus (Catone) XIV was holding his weekly meeting . It was the usual audience of diplomats, celebrities, and the well-off faithful. And, things were going well, until a man in a rather shabby friar's robe pushed his way through the crowd.

"You call yourself a spiritual leader!?!" the man shouted loudly as he shouldered a well=dressed and overfed matron aside, "You're mistaken! The very idea!"

"What are you talking about?" demanded Pope Thaddeus, glowering at the portly monk berating him.

"Allowing a crossword puzzle in the Papal newspaper!" the friar wagged his finger.

"It's a crossword puzzle," the Pope replied, "what's wrong with that?.

"It's the devil's instrument!" The friar shouted as he sidestepped one of the Pope's security staff, "Profane! Filthy! Yet you allow them to be printed! I bet you even "work" them, too. What kind of example is that?! uphm..." Four Swiss Guards finally closed in on the dodging priest, seizing his arms and clamping his mouth shut.

"The poor, misguided soul. See that he receives psychiatric care," ordered the relieved pontiff.

Two days later, a stout man in friar's robes was seen scrambling out the window of the psychiatric wing of the Vatican Hospital, followed shortly by shouting hospital security. The Swiss Guards and the police combed New Rome, but couldn't find the wayward and obviously disturbed cleric.

A Papal warrant was issued for the fugitive.

Scene: The Imperial Estates, European Continent, Terra (two weeks later)

Making his weekly tour of the Imperial gardens, Emperor Jasil and his entourage found themselves confronted by a gesticulating, red-faced, tonsured cleric who burst forth from the bushes..

"How could you let them put a crossword puzzle in the Imperial Times! " the friar yelled as he trampled over a display of prize tulips

"A crossword puzzle?," the bewildered Emperor said, "What's the problem? It's just a puzzle,"

"It's evil!" the friar thrust his stubble-laden chin toward the Emperor, "Crossword puzzles throughout history have corrupted the minds of the people and brought many an empire to its knees! You are bringing about your own destruction, Jasil. You have been warned!"

"A crossword puzzle?" asked the Emperor, frantically gesturing for his bodyguards, who were trying to make their way forward.

"And - *GASP*- you've got DUCKS!" the monk said pointing to the aquarian fowl in the nearby river. He reached down and began picking up rocks and throwing them at the waterfowl.

Imperial marines, sidearms drawn, dashed after the capering priest as he darted in and out of the crowd of confused, screaming functionaries.

"Ducks are agents of the devil!" the cleric shouted as he tossed a rock at a drake, "Crossword puzzles are evil!"

The marines almost caught up with him when he stopped to throw more rocks at the ducks, but the good Father slipped and fell into the river, only to emerge on the other side, sopping wet and covered with muck. He escaped before they could call for reinforcements.

An Imperial warrant was issued for the lunatic friar.

Scene: Late afternoon, IND Werth Starport

"Hey! Don't shove! I'm going!" said a portly man irritably as he started down the starship boarding ramp, escorted unceremoniously by two burly crew. "You'll regret treating me like this! I have friends in high places!" he called back to the starship hatchway as they released him.

"Yeah, sure," the starship's first mate mumbled as he closed the hatch and began retracting the ramp. "See if they'll put up with you and your crackpot ramblings for a month."

"Miserable heathens!" the pudgy priest shouted as he scrambled for the end of the ramp, tripped and tumbled unceremoniously onto the tarmac into a puddle of fossil fuel. He barely had time to dart for the safety of the blast shield before the starship's engines ignited, catapulting the freighter into orbit.

Chest heaving, bruised, and dripping petroleum from his already-stained robes, he looked up to find himself being scrutinized by a starport security guard who waved him toward the launch bay door with a blaster.

Werth's starport was bustling with activity as the disheveled friar waddled down the main thoroughfare gawking at the sights. Pirates sauntered through the crowd. Merchants lined the busy market space hawking their wares. Other, more shady characters lurked in the alleys, selling even more dubious and disturbing merchandise.

As the friar wandered on. a man clutching a bag ran down the walkway followed by a rich-looking tourist shouting, "Thief!" A barroom brawl erupted onto the street, knocking passersby pell-mell. Pleasure slaves undulated beckoningly from brothel doorways.

"Still looks about the same," he remarked to himself, "seedy, violent, decadent, crass commercialism,... I can see I'm needed here as much as ever!"

He was jostled to one side unexpectedly by a crowd of drunk Kazerickki warriors and found himself sprawling against a placard on a shuttle-stop shelter. As he got to his feet, he glanced across the face of the signboard and instantly his hands began to tremble, his knees knocked, and his face took on the aspect of stark terror.

The sign, complete with a grinning duck, read in big letters:

"THE ISSUE!!!

Coming soon!

Ringbone Gazette, Number 50!"

* * * * *

Years ago, Father Larry had been a mild-mannered, devoutly spiritual man who led a peaceful life of meditation and good works, and for amusement published a quiet little journal called "the Ringbone Gazette". He was somewhat unremarkable in appearance, tending to a bit of a paunch from lack of physical activity, but on the whole rather ordinary. Until, that is, he came to know Maddie Mallard.

Maddie was ... eclectic. Maddie was everything Father Larry was not. To Maddie, the more outrageous, the more exciting, the more salacious, the more exotic, and especially the more CHOCOLATE, the better! Could ever have two more different individuals existed? (Not to mention that Maddie was a duck. A Dralm, to be exact, but a duck.).

Yet Fate, with her twisted humor, conspired to throw these two together in endless discussions and countless arguments, as Father Larry in a moment of weakness (and perhaps seeing a chance to bring about a wayward soul) hired Maddie to be the Editor. It became a frustrating and emotionally trying time for the normally serene friar.

The good Father intended the Ringbone Gazette to be an uplifting look at everyday life. Maddie envisioned something she considered much more "interesting" and worldly. First came the Raunchy Crossword Puzzles, then the salacious editorial ramblings which only got worse and more graphic with each issue. It almost made the the cleric want to tear his hair out.

At first, he corrected her. He gave her a List of 'Commandments'; guidelines to follow. He forbade the use of crossword puzzles in the publication which, of course, Maddie immediately ignored [See RG #1]. In desperation, he even locked her in a confessional once, hoping for divine intervention. It was all to no avail.

Then Maddie started the practical jokes. She started with hair-growth formula in his tonsure cream. Itching powder on his sandals. A pornographic picture tucked in his papers during a meeting (actually a nude holo of her, signed 'To My Dear Larry. Love, Maddie', but disturbing nonetheless). Latex "toys" hidden throughout Father Larry's quarters. A visiting bishop was not amused when he discovered one in the refrigerator.

One time she replaced his robes with identical ones that dissolved in water, so that when it rained he suddenly found himself robeless in the middle of the Werth starport shopping mall.

Ever more clever, ever more embarrassing, Maddie kept chipping away at Father Larry's composure until one day he cracked. He became obsessed with crossword puzzles. He ranted and raved about Maddie's evil ways, and, in time, considered her the agent of the devil. It was the start of a long, slow spiral downward.

* * * * *

"C'mon, buddy, move it!"

Coming to his senses with a start, Father Larry noticed it was now dark and a Starport trooper was prodding him to get off the ground.

"The law says 'no sleeping in the street'. You're the fourth one I've boosted tonight. By rights, I oughta haul your butt off to a cell." He looked at the shivering, unshaven, bedraggled friar and softened a bit.

"Look, Pops, I'll give you a chance. Either you move now, or I toss you in the slammer and you see Hizzoner in the morning. Hizzoner is not a morning-person.Your choice."

The cleric stood up unsteadily and moved away, the trooper still eyeing him.

As he stumbled down winding passageways, his stomach grumbled and the cleric realized he had no money and no place to stay. He was alone and friendless in a den of iniquity and perdition.

And try as he might, Father Larry could still see that that cursed Ringbone sign.

Father Larry, Hater of The Bird and Ducks Everywhere, Guardian against Crossword Puzzles, Despiser of Chocolate and Latex Toys, etc, adrift in the free-wheeling colony of IND Werth. Yes, he's back in the Periphery. Will he survive? Will crosswords ever be banned? Stay tuned.

How about some more new stuff? This next one is good, real good. The story that came into our hot little hands was written by an ex-CPT-reporter-turned-freelancer known as "Poppa" Woody. Cute, eh? It's the first of four parts. Here 'tis:

'0' Battle Log of Starship No. (1114) Out of the Yard and into the Brawl by CPT War Correspondent "Poppa" Woody

The following journal was written during the last two years. During that period Starship #1114 has been under the command of five different officers and fought in 27 battles. I profess no affiliation to any government, nor expound any ideology other than an unswerving respect for the brave men and women who serve on warships everywhere.

The story your are about to read chronicles the adventures of one such starship.

(Rhiggaw 195.23) Today I debarked from the tramp space liner SSL FAT LADY and stepped onto this cloudy moon. The soot of the blue mountains covers everything in the starport from the Flagritz dock workers to my shaven and tattooed skull.

My assignment: board the newly christened WCE SEA DEVIL. My editor tells me this is a historic day. Ship No. 1114 is the first Baseship to roll out of the yards at FGZ G' TARLK RUE for the Colonials.

As I take a public flitter across the starport to the shipyard I get a seat next to a real Flagritz. They seem to vary in color from red to crimson, and they smell a bit like stale cheese. When they walk they look like giant 8-legged pizzas. Their eyes bounce on their stalks like dancing pepperoni.

Before I board the SEA DEVIL I could not help but take a stroll around my new home. The Baseship is the bad ass of the space lanes. The 320 hulls make it more than twice the size of the Colonial man-o-war. Beside it in the next dock the FAT LADY is 5x smaller.

Security is tight. Two armored marines the size of snowbears do everything short of sticking a probe up my butt before they let me onboard. The first thing I noticed is the size of the gangways and the hatches. Flagritz grow to 8', so everything about a baseship is BIG. Higher decks than in a human built starship. Before reporting to my duty officer I decided to do a quick tour, and quickly get lost somewhere in the engine room.

The Chief Engineer Henry Sibley is a likable Naplian from Utopia MCXVI. Before pointing me in the right direction he insists on showing me his babies, all 100 thrusters.

"The engines on the SEA DEVIL are little different from the typical Nomad. Their's are much faster. They've built a ship that never needs maintenance. What we get is the older, bucket-o-bolts they built to use against the Imperials. These ships are slower than a three legged dog," Sibley said and grinned, "but if Gus puts us in a fight we'll fight like a devil."

I thanked Sibley, and found my berth. The dickheads in the WCE War Department wouldn't allow me to sign on as a press agent. Crew are hard to come by in the Transhole, so although my technical training is in Signals they sign me on as a cook's mate, which I gladly accept. I don't know about the crew, but on the cruise ahead Poppa would eat well.

The Chief Cook is a lesbian named Terry Foote. From what she says the crew are a bunch of "Heterosexual hormonal experiments gone insane. All they do is talk about who's killing who at the Coliseum, and play that new GTT game Holographic Heroes."

From what I'm able to get out of Terry the SEA DEVIL was originally commissioned a man-o-war. She spent the last six months making Binky Burgers while the ship patrolled Lemke and Linck.

"About the only action I've seen so far on this ship has been between our Sensor Chief and that Gregos bimbo from Communications. The stuff they're doing in the lounge is strictly against regulations. Gus doesn't have a clue what's going on around here."

Our skipper Lt. Karl "Gus" Augustus is as green as a Mer. How he wrangled the first baseship ahead of a dozen higher ranking officer is among the many mysteries of the Secretariat. According to Terry, "It helps when your old man happens to be the richest thorlium producer in the whole Transhole."

It remains to be seen what kind of leader Gus will be in combat. He could care less who's boinking who among the crew. He has no concern for discipline. None of the crew or officers are required to wear the Colonial regulation flight suit or boots. Everyone seems to consider the hammer & sickle emblem a trifle tacky. Onboard I see a surprising number of gray USS, brown FET, purple SSL, blue SMS, and pink EEM hats.

The Chiefs are a bright spot. Pendleton, Merrick, and the Sensor Chief "Romeo" Kidd, all seem quite competent. The Army Sergeant in charge of our marines, John Pelham, is 6'5" and looks as dangerous as a pulsar tank. Terry says when Pelham was 18 he fought in the Coastzip Coliseum at IZAC NEUTIN, and I believe her. He's got more stitches on his face than a football.

During takeoff the ship runs a bit sluggish. The FAT LADY seemed nimble in comparison. Once we were out of Rhiggaw's orbit the SEA DEVIL glided west through Daemon as majestically as a floating battlegate.

Beyond the gas giant Czar the Lieutenant spent several hours going through routine tests. Jammers, scanners, and targeting computers are all checked and re-checked. Terry and I were serving lunch when the general announcement came over the system:

"The SEA DEVIL is going to fire a test salvo at 1300," Gus said. "All crew are commanded to wear headsets." Gus' face on the monitor twitched with a smile. "Since there aren't any Imperial vessels on the sensors, we'll aim at Czar. We will split our disruptors into two batteries, so anyone wishing to watch the fireworks can see them from the port and starboard observation decks."

I looked at Terry. "He is kidding about the Imperials? Right?"

Terry shrugged. "I don't know about some of these guys. The way Pelham and Pendleton talk, you'd think the Imperials raped their daughters. It's a pretty stupid attitude. There are some mighty fine restaurants in the Periphery."

At 1300 Gus was back on the openband. He ordered our first volley by saying:

"All right Mr. Pendleton, let_s make them hear us on Rhiggaw."

The roar of the disruptor is both loud and high pitched enough to blow your ear drums. During combat communication headsets are mandatory, and it's one of the few regulations everyone follows.

As the first salvos echoed away I noticed the coffee mugs in front of Terry and I hadn't so much as quivered. Strange, considering the way my heart was pumping. Terry looked at me over a swirl of steamy araldo potion and said: "They should have named this ship the SHE DEVIL. When we do get in a fight, we're going to slap the shit out of somebody."

(Lemke 195.26) After two weeks of boredom onboard the Colonial FBS SEA DEVIL

we are flying into our first battle.

Yesterday Gus ordered us all into the Forum Room and on the big screen threw up a bunch of scans of a half built stargate. Busy constructing the gate are the crews of a dozen IND starships.

Gus said: "Commodore Greybeard O'Brien and the WCE PARANOIA picked up these photographs last Wednesday. This pile of dung is sitting one click west of Abigone. Yes, that's right. Beside Abigone, the very heart of the Colonial Empire. Two years ago the Coilex tried to steal our wormhole generator, and you all know what happened. Well, the ugly, six fingered, yellow clowns are back.

"Thursday morning we received orders from the War Department to proceed directly to Lemke 1745 and attack. Are there any questions?"

Terry seated beside me jabbed me in the ribs, and whispered: "Yeah, what's for lunch?"

Merrick stood and asked: "Who's going to be with us?"

"The whole Colonial fleet, every warship within 140 TU_s are soaring into Lemke at full throttle. Some of our boys are being sent to protect ODIN'S EYE, but the bulk of us, hopefully about 20 ships are going to jump the enemy."

That's not quite what happened. Not exactly.

Led by Rear Admiral Hyperion "Hype" Rage onboard his man-o-war WCE HUNTER'S MOON, six WCE MoW's and the FBS SEA DEVIL strafed nine Quman freighters. We caught them with their pants down, working without an escort. Their five ships-o-the-line were all unloading structures. No weapons.

Gus grinned. "This is sweeter than a gallon of Celestial Sludge. Battle stations!"

Later we learned a huge QSN war fleet was bottled up in the Drell System waiting to pop through the stargates. Several IND freighters got lost within the maze of blackholes that surround the Upper Transhole, and never made it to the Lemke. Thereby halting construction. Thereby stopping the urine colored lemmings from spilling out of Drell.

Although we caught the Qumans with their thumbs up their arse, they got them out in a hurry. Cargomasters are as slippery as Morlocks. Hours later after the censor had cleared the tapes the officers played the sensor recordings for everyone in the crew's lounge. The images on the big monitor looked like the silhouettes of starships in a GTT computer game.

Six Colonial MoW's and the SEA DEVIL put a volley of 560 disruptors into the Qumans' slimy hulls. Not one IND ship blew. Before our ships could fire again the IND blips were off the screens.

"That was the shortest fight I've ever seen," Pelham grumbled.

Still, the stargate was destroyed and the Secretariat declared a holiday. Even though there is a war going on everyone, including us, have been given the rest of the day off. What a way to fight a war.

(Lemke 195.27) Today belonged to Gus and the crew of the SEA DEVIL. The RDF caught up with three fleeing IND Quman freighters.

Our hulls echoed with the shout of the entire crew as our first volley, two batteries of 90 disruptors struck the SoL IND LANCER 2 and torched her with one shot. Our MoW's failed to give chase. Only the SEA DEVIL and the eight WaSP warships who joined us kept up the pursuit, destroying the SoL IND LANCER 3, and crippling the CM IND BLACKSTAR I.

There is great rejoicing onboard our ship. The General Secretary Horst Treyder called Gus and congratulated him, as well as the entire crew. Everyone onboard feels like a hero, even Terry, who broke out several bottles of Celestial Sludge. Half the crew are floating like they're at the space park on the low G moon Fishbed.

Gus said: "We've beaten three unarmed garbage scows. Don't get cocky."

That sobered us up.

(Lemke, 195.28) As it turns out the bulk of the Colonial fleet, another 15 MoW's, are in Abigone's orbit supported by 9 CATrack monitors. As we now learn, Hype's squadron was a do or die charge at the stargate.

As Terry put it, "It's always nice to discover you've been part of a suicide mission - after the fact."

We've been given 10 TUs leave. Terry and I went with about half of the crew through the hiport to the rec complexes at ODIN'S EYE. We found a corner bar called 'Lone Hive' run by a retired Samillian superwarrior and sampled the Sampoon. Merrick says it tastes like runny shit, but it gave my morale a nice kick.

The city is in a euphoric state of denial. The stargate is gone. The immediate danger is over. Newsreels show people dancing in the monorails and getting high on the steps of the Rotunda.

Terry came up to me with a pretty brunette Ensign that reminded me more of a musician than a starcaptain.

"Woody, guess who this is? You're never going to guess."

"Joan Curry, the lead singer of band Misspent Youth, and also the daughter of the evil genius Sir Arthur Curry, our very own War Secretary."

"Dickhead, how did you know?"

"I read the CPT. Well, at least I look at the pictures." Especially of first-rate babes.

Joan smiled. "Ex-singer of the Youth. I just got out of the Academy and picked up my first ship. She's still in the shipyard. We're going out with you guys next week on an assignment. That's why I thought it rocked that Terry is on the SEA DEVIL. But maybe I shouldn't be telling you this. Forget what I just said, okay?"

Terry was beaming, as if to say, Isn't she the best!

"What did you think of the battle?" I asked Joan.

She looked at us enviously. "It's all very good, the city is going nuts, but from what I hear upstairs, things are not all hugs and kisses in the Secretariat. Heads are rolling.. Most of your battle programs were set to retarget if 'not firing.' The way most of the fleet programmed their computers the RDF didn't even attempt to chase the enemy, including our fearless leader Hyperion Rage. In that first battle it was the WaSP that saved the day. Their space fighters buzzed the stargate, not you guys."

"You're right," I said. "The CPT is giving your old man hell, which is pretty embarrassing when you consider Sir Arthur is the Managing Editor."

As we sat drinking, watching the Lone Hive main monitor even the SEA DEVIL received criticism. We were the only baseship in the battle. In the first fight our two batteries struck the IND BLACKSTAR I and IND LANCER 5, both in the belly. Two thousand MU's of damage is barely a scratch to a 294-hull cargomaster.

The next news brief showed reporter Tyrone "Ty" Meup in front of a satellite scan of the Colonial fleet in orbit.

"The mood in the fleet is somber. Our starships are outnumbered 3-1 by a Quman armada that is also faster. Will they attempt to bombard ODIN'S EYE like they did SOUL CAGE and ELDORATH in 193? Will our fleet and ground batteries be able to stop them? Do the Qumans have the expertise to launch a ground attack? Is our Secretariat equipped to handle the crises? For the answers to these questions, and many others, smoke A-Big-One heavenherb, the herb that gives you visions."

"And I thought that was a news reel," I said.

"Those commercials get me every time," Terry replied.

(Lemke 195.29) While the rest of the fleet along with our CATrack and WaSP allies remain on station in defense of our HQ, the War Department sent us out with Marcus Mercantur's MoW the WCE ICARUS to sweep around Abigone to knock off Quman strays.

I overheard Pendleton say we could also be the first to run into a QSN invasion fleet. Rumor has it the Qumans have over 200 starships. When I found that out my stomach felt like a shaken martini.

Assigned to our mission is Joan Curry and her dinky 18 hull war galley the WCE BLACKHEART. They're as small as surveyors. She zips around our perimeter like we're standing still. Most crew hate war galleys. They call them floating coffins. The War Department recognizes the low life expectancy of WGs so mans them with volunteers. Why Joan chose the BLACKHEART is incomprehensible to me, even moreso when Terry informed me Joan took the assignment because she thought the ship had a "cool sound system." The BLACKHEART is lightning fast, but about as useful as a repairbot in a firefight.

At 0945 Kidd sounded the alarm.

"Battle stations! The BLACKHEART has an IND starship on its sensors."

Was this it? Impending doom? The QSN invasion?

Joan's voice crackled over the system: "It's a single cargomaster."

The BLACKHEART did a loop around the damaged CM IND BLACKSTAR I.

"Engines are damaged."

"From our last meeting."

"Maybe they've lost all their jumpers."

"Get us in close Mr. Merrick. I want those yellow bastards to piss themselves before we send them down to Davy Jones' locker."

Together with the ICARUS we moved in for the kill and dispatched the wounded freighter with one crisp volley. After the bells were silent and we'd left the scene we received a transmission from the BLACKHEART.

It surprised everyone to learn the war galley was commanded by a 23 year-old woman, and that she was the War Secretary's own daughter. Terry and the men on our ship stared at her in open mouthed love and lust.

"Nice shot."

"Thanks."

"Lieutenant, that completes our circle around Abigone. Permission to return to orbit?"

"Yes," replied Gus. "It looks like we've missed the main invasion."

We missed the second Quman stargate as well. They'd built this one several clicks away from Abigone. It was scanned by a mercenary by the name of Captain Dirty Mike Callahan and his corsair the IND ANONYMOUS.

It amazed us all to learn Dirty Mike along with the RIP SoL FNORDS working under marquee from the WCE disabled the second stargate. At the same time they derelicted three Quman ships whom they boarded and captured.

"Sort of pins a G rating on our rape of the BLACKSTAR, doesn't it?" said Terry, and I agreed.

TO BE CONTINUED...

NEXT TIME: From SEA DEVIL to RIP ASSASSIN!

Was that most cool, or what? Man, I love this historic stuff. Mebbe it'll do all those snot-nosed new starcaptains some good to learn something. What's that? I'm a new starcaptain? Yeah, but I was around here long before that. It just took me longer to get my papers. Maybe I should've joined the "real" SAM. I could've had anything I wanted. I'd just have to leave my ethics behind...

Speaking of the SAM , and their supposed Civil War, word on the spaceways is that ISP CNO Belker asked Santa for it for Christmas, plus two dozen Havana cigars. Ol' Mick got one; the cigars ended up on an FET black- market somewheres.

Onwards and upwards, Kiddies! At least to the "something old" part. Maybe that should be Downward and back...

The Bone staff spent nearly a hundred hours and almost that many liters of adult beverages reviewing the Bone archives (the ones in our backroom, not just the ones on the site). We went over and over them (mostly because they were blocking the doorway), until we found THE story to represent the "old stuff". This is the one, Kids! Comedy, pathos, drama, a great fight scene, the writer is still in BSE...aw, just read it, willya? It's...

A Letter from Rlo

Dear Maddie:

How are youse? I am fine. Just thought dat I drop youse a line or too and letz youse kno whutz ben goink on hear at da palace. I sori dat I ain't ritten suner, but dis emperer guy has kept me bizy.

Foist, I shood brings youse uptadate on whut haz ben happenink. Bak in mid-189, August I tink it wuz, me and "Ma" and me sister tami tooks off from Kriegerstadt ta go seez da Emperer at Jax. "Ma" wanted ta pleads me case personal like ta dis guy Jasil. And ta do a little shopping fur Tami's troseau. She wuz goink ta marri dis friend of da family, Captain Michael K. Romanov, butt dat's anuther story...

So, after I landed me yacht at Jax "Ma" sent greetings and salutation ta da Imperial Residence. Dose guys replied dat da Emperer couldn't accommodate her request fur a private meeting, citin some rigamaroll about security. Rite! Me saintly mudder wouldn't hoit a fly. Butt, ok, dose guys iz stupid alright, and nobuddy disagrees wid dat.

Ok, so instead of a private audience dey announce dat there will be a big PUBLIC audience and EVERYONE could be invited ta attend. Whut a bunch of dolts! Da hole idear behind da private audience was ta keep me AWAY from da Emperer. "Ma" loves me, dis I kno, but I gotz dis problem in relatink ta authority figures, and "Ma" thought dat I might do sumtink embarrassing or illeegal. Not 'cause I wanted ta, butt becuz I wuz just me, youse understand. "Ma" sez its me whoremoans.

So, instead of protectin da Emperer, hiz associates and bootlickers had unwizely exposed Hizooner ta untold and unfortunate calamities. Well, dey planned dis cotillion ball and open audience inside da reception hall attached to da Krieger Cathedral (a recreation complex which da KGB had special built fur Tami's wedding). Since it wuz open ta da public dey coodn't keep me outz.

Now, rite up frunt I wantz youse ta kno dat I had everi intention of behavin meself. "Ma" made me promise ta be good. And I alwayz keepz me promises ta me mommy.

Foist, da open air audience... Da ceiling had bin rolled back exposin da 6 square acres of royal blue indoor/outdoor carpetin ta da (fortunatly) gud weather of Kax. Bright sunlight an fresh air filled da hall like da first rush of lemite-grown heavenherb and everybodi seemed reel happy.

Der wuz all kinds of peoples. SSL people lookin woozy, but udderwise holding their own. GTT officials in dere straight laced cardboard necksleeves, lookin prosperous an eyein da potential buziness oppurtunities like thirsty mousequeetos at a nudist colony. AFT types lookin menacing, but menacing no one. SMS executives wid mining dust in dere pantcuffs an dealing on dere mind. FET desperadoes in flat black an polished silver, goin "pssst, hey buddy..." ta everyone dat passed by. I boughts a watch from one of dem, but it broke da next day. One of dem trailed a line of powder outta a busted pants pocket and da cleanin staff (an some others...!) wuz quick ta clean it up wid dere noses. One lone EEM official who looked like he had just lost hiz daddy at da state fair. A couple of COMmie mutants, but dey wuz no trouble at all... everybodi who daw 'em frisked 'em and dey wuz tied up all day. And hole heeps of independint types runnin around like independint types.

And Imperials... I ain't seen dis many suits since Phuzy attacked dat Imperial Marine general back on Earth when we wuz FET repersentatives ta solicit academy graduates. Der wuz ITS teamsters dere, lookin smart in dere cargo grey fatigues an gloss black boots. Dese guyz know how ta party! ISS stuff shirts in dere starched khakis, all of em tryin ta look like they'd actually surveyed sumthin besidez dere belly buttons. ICN officers who drank a lot thru straws. I asked one how cum an he sed it wuz because of da perminint pucker da ICN has ta have ta kiss up to da ISP. Hole gaggles of ISP high-muckymucks wanderin around laughing an sticking dere chests out. Wherever dey went dey wuz followed by tightassed Imperial Marines acting as gofers.

Aliens too. All kinds of alien types. Some I knew of, some I didn't. Butt, there wuz plenty of licker and some fairly loose looking ladies and everyone seemed ta be havin fun an making small talk while dey waited fur da entrance of da Emperer.

Da hall iz two acres wide and three acres long, wid da Imperial Throne at da long end raised up on a stone dais. At da other end iz rows and rows of tables each about eight feet long an 2 foot wide. Da tables are arranged so dat dey seem ta point towards da stone dais. Six rows of tables closest to da dais are covered wid food. Lotsa foods, some edible some just fur da aliens. I wuz standinh in da back wid Myron and Phuzy, minding me own business.

Den a pride of little lemites motored onto da hall in dere tiny amored ATVs. And den dey spotted da COMmie mutants being frisked by a bunch of chubby but well heeled old ladies (I tink dey was spooses of dose GTT fatcats). Dose mean little lemites made a beeline towards da mutants. Da leader of dose ratoids wuz some guy named Gulop da Flatulent. Well, he hunkered down inside his little ATV and hit da gas.Dat ATV took off like a shot, buzzed between a couple of doze old ladies and nailed one of da mutants right in da shin. BLAM! I tink he broke it ta tell youse da truth.

Anyways, dat mutant went down like a ton a thorlium and started shakin and vibrating. Da udder mutant reached inside hiz robe, probably fur a gun, when three udder lemite ATVs ran up hiz leg and knocked him down. Dose lemites were doing donuts on his chest laying da bones bare wid dere treads. I thought dat part was reel interesting ta watch, and even Myron looked like he had a woody.

Now dis hole experience lasted maybe 3-5 seconds. Now it iz time fur da security people ta show up. I gess since dere were so many races and cultures present dat da security people oughta be mixed up as well. A Catrark and a Galire showed up an started pushin da crowd back. A duo of Imperial Marines showed up screaming and waving dere broadswords. One of 'em accidentally stepped into da catrarkian and loped off about a pound of broccoli-like skin.

Whoa! De cartrarkian went ballistic! He started punching and screaming, all da time injurin someone else while dis really sticky green stuff was running down his "head". Da Marines were stunned. One of 'em just stood dere like he didn't know whut was going on, and da udder one kept jumping up and down screaming he wuz sorry. Da catrarkian wid da head wound coulda cared less. He grabbed da Marine, picked him up and threw him to da floor like a javelin. Hiz head popped wide open. Da udder Marine threw up and passed out. Den more security people arrived and a huge ruckus broke out involvin all da people whom da cartrarkian had wounded or offended and da local mounties.

Now, me and Myron and Phuzy watched dis fur a while and den decided ta skirt da fight and head fur da food tables up front ta chow down sum grub uninterrupted-like. We done good tu, cause da fight left a lot of unattended tables an dose half-empty glasses have just as much kick, 'course youse gotta steal twice as many too.

So, we makes it ta da tables and starts piggin' out on a big tray of holoid sausage. I told Myron ta get us sumptin ta drink and he leaves, but he comes back wid this dinky little plastic goblet of shampain. I slapped da cup outta his hand and told him ta go get a jug of wine or a pitcher of ale, sumptin a real man would drink. He gave me Phuzy's leash, but me pet skedbe was already flaccid atop a huge Martian cheese at da far end of da table, away from da dais. His tail wagged so I knoed dat he wuz happy.

By now da fightin iz gettin closer. Now and den an occasional inaccurately thrown bottle of sumptin or other would sail past an smash on da polished stone floor. When body parts did da same thing I figured ta make fur da exit. Den da Emperer showed up.

Somebody stupid convinced da Emperer ta show up guessing dat hiz August Presence might calm and quiet a riotous mob. Da dais was ringed by heavily armed Marines in battle armor. Dey never had a chance. I wuz starin right at da guy when dis reeli big guy came sailin through da air an crashed down on da end of da table. Da end legs buckled and da center table legs acted as a fulcrum turnin da table inta a 30 foot seesaw. Phuzy looked pretty terrified as him an da Martian cheese ball, or whut was left of it anyways, made a perfect arc across da hall and headed straight fur da dais!

Like sumptin outta a old movie da big glob a Martian cheese and chubby skedbe seemed ta hover in da air before crashin on top of da Emperer. Pandamonium broke out. Imperial Marine bodyguards start shooting in every direction. Guards an security personnel in da broiling crowd, thinkin that an attack wuz taking place, started shooting back. Personal sidearms, not caught by da piss-poor metal detecters, appeared in hundreds of claws, hands an tentacles. Now, I wuz dere, I saw da hole ting.Well, yeah, I wuz unda a table a lot, but I sall all I needed ta see when I popped up occasionally ta grab annuder pie or plate of cupcakes off one of da nearby food tables.

A hole lotta poisonal feuds got settled dat day, let me tell youse. I hid behind a curtain and watched da mediks haul off da dead an mutilated. It's reely weird , 'cause wid all da gunplay goin on dey wuz so busy shootin each udder dat no one took a shot at da Emperoir!

As da cleanin staff rolled in da zamboni machines ta scrape off da accumulated dirt, food an body parts, two big Marines appeared carryin an empty pair of clothes. Upon closer examination I found it was Myron, limp as a dishrag an lookin like he'd been fertilizing hiz pants. Dey dragged him ta da dais where dere wuz a lot of shouting an inaudible replies from Myron. Dere butt fur da grace of *BOB* goze me, I thought. Den heavy hand were laid upon me person and I wuz carried like wise to da dais.

I wuz presented painfully in front of da dais and next ta manly Myron. Above us on da dais ISP admirals an generals, chamberlains and court loyalists wuz all attempting ta remove da scared, oily, shiverin, and defecatin' skedbe from Hiz Imperial Highness. Two guards held me while a guard poked me wid a baton and annuder one, wid hiz helmet off asked if da animal on da Emperer wuz mine.

I toldz him dat da skedbe wuz mine an dat heed live a lot longer if he'd scrape off da emperer pieces an gimme back me skedbe. I toldz him dat if'n he didn't do it quick dat me mommy would hear about hiz unperfessional lack of respect. He screamed sumpin about me mommy breast feeds zoo animals. I exploded!

I pulled hard on da left throwin da amored Marine on me right off balance. I stepped down hard on da instep of da marine on me left, puttin all me wight into me genuine, dayglo polished SMS hi-top mining boots (da ones wid da thorlium shank and hobnails). I didn't crush hiz foot, but I dented da battle armor real good and apparently pinched hiz tootsies in da process. He yelped and started hopping.

Da udder marine, off balance as he wuz, caught me padded knee in hiz upper chest. It didn't kill him or nutin' but he musta puked in his suit 'cause hiz lunch started oozing outta hiz face mask. Den I wen after da blastfemur dat insulted me mommy! Da spinnin propellers on me beanie caught him square in da groinal area. Hiz knees slapped together, he went rigid and got dis real pinched look on hiz face. I pushed - he groaned and then fell right over.

Da guards dat wuz holdin Myron let go of me manservant and headed fur me, arming lights a-twinkling. Dey never had a chance. Phuzy came in a low, fast dive off da dais and made a nice open field tackle. Doze Marines went bouncing around like Morlocks in a microwave. A bunch of da emperer's retainers and whut not had enuf time ta draw their sidearms and I froze when I heard all of dem hammers being cocked.

STOP! Everybody froze when da emperer-guy yelled. By now he wuz on his feet and striding down da steps off da dais straight towards me. Hey, no matter whut peeples say about dis guy, he iz not wimpy-lookin', hez gotta work out, just gotta.

So anyways, he cums over ta me and stands infronta me, lookin all regal like, not sayin nuthin. I'm kinda in a crouch 'cuz I don'ts kno whut hez plannin ta do. He breaks out into dis reel big grin, sticks out hiz hand and sez ta me, "Youse must be dat rascal Rlo Krieger. I bin lookin fowards ta meetin youse." Big as youse pleeze, like he wuz a fan or sumptin!

Well, we'uns iz just fine buds now. And da emperer does work out, every day. Ya see, dem guys dat hangs around all da time, dey run tings, everyting. Da emperer (he lets me call him Jazzy Jasil) iz kinda like a puppet. It seems dat ever since da old dayz when da ISN got him hiz throne dey and dere progidy have held Jazzy under kinda house arrest or sumptin.Oh , shure he can cum an go as he pleezes, but he ain't got da kinda power youse wood tink a empeer wood have. Itz dose ISP guys, dats whose it iz fur sure, dey is like reel shady CIA types. Like dat Colonel Flagg guy.

I gotz me own place wid a stable fur Phuzy and a kitchen fur Myron. "Ma" and Tami are havin a grand time attendin balls, cotillions and whut not. Tami has been pine'in fur her Michael K., but she iz young (an good lookin!) so sum lucky guy will snatch her up befur too long (at least thatz whut "Ma: sez)

People say we can't leave...I don't kno yet, I ain't wanted ta leave. Even so, all I gotta do iz tap out a coded message on me "Schmuck Rogers" super-secret Spaceman wristwatch and Ace'll cum bust us outta here.

Well, Maddie (... me fowl little lovebird) I must be goin now. Mother Bathory iz rumored ta be in town and I kno she haz visitation rights wid Phuzy, so I'm gonna look her up.

See ya on da Funway...

Now you know why Rlo's stayed in one piece as long as he has, besides his inestimable luck, I mean. Oh, and all those maniacal brothers. And he has a loving mother, and *BOB* on his side... It's still a classic.

Enough rambling. We'll get to another part of this issue soon, I promise. Meanwhile you'll just have to suffer through another:

Letters to the Editor

dear editor harold hedd;

congratulations on your 50th issue. the bone is the only 'rag' that we read out here.

we do have one complaint- you don't have anything from the nexus. we would send you something, but a society of intelligent rocks isn't very exciting. just moss, the occassional earthquake and a rock-slide or two.

on second thought, no news from the nexus is good news. it is getting a bit crowded out here.

a bunch of intelligent rocks

Dear Rocks (or is it 'rocks'?), Thank you for your kind words. Obviously you're all geniuses, if the Bone is your only choice of reading material. Then again, with the CPT damned near extinct, it's probably why it's the only choice.

Then we have this lovely little missive:

Heddie;

What's this crap with the Oberons? You printed not one, but two letters of the leader of that misbegotten pack of psychotic Imperial ass-kissers. Are they blackmailing your sorry drunken ass or what? And quit bashing the Transhole- we've got more freedom and scientific development than your sorry-ass pus-filled Periphery.

The Critic

Dear Critic: Many thanks for your letter , which I regretfully edited for swear words- I don't want some young'uns concerned parental unit coming after me with a shotgun, or worse- a lawyer.

No, the Oberons do not have anything on me, except a threat to have Larissa "take me out to dinner". They, like you and (a thousand Hapedazians in a thousand years), can type up a letter and send it in. And as for the Transhole- there's freedom, but some are more free than others.

There must be some kind of way out of here, said the Joker to the Thief. There's too much confusion- I can't get no relief... Whoops! Bet you were thinking it was a USS war-conference, eh? Sorry- I was just trying to pick out some Terran-retro music for the ship's party when we get to EEM Dangup. The 1960s and 70s are all the rage there. I hear that bell-bottom coveralls are real popular. I even picked up the thing on the left to add to the mood. The guy I bought it from said it's a historical artifact from that era, owned by some dude named Hoffman. The collector had some other neat stuff like day-glo posters, but he said somebody had bought up his collection of "bongs", whatever those are. Somebody suggested that the SAM did ...

Back to the music... we were trying to figure what a good selection would be for the upcoming bash. One of the crew suggested some patriotic songs from the Flagritz Republic. The rest almost shoved him out the nearest airlock, but the feller's our best gummy-ball player. What kind of songs do the FGZ have, anyway? Are they anything like the ROC's number-one hit: "Roll out the Zombies"?

That brings us to the 'borrowed' part of this rag. Once in a while, one of our beloved readers accuses us (gasp!) of pilfering from the BSE-List. You know who you are, and shame on you! While on occasion, we've mined the spacewaves for ideas (you can't be a literary genius all of the time), we don't take lock, stock and whoo-ha and reprint it. Except this time. It was too good to ignore. It also won a Stempy for List Message of the Year. And believe it or not, the author is from the ROC:

The Ballad of the Autumn Harvest By J.B. 'Banjo' Hatterson

Twas two nights before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. The straps were tied around Skua with care, While he dreamt of St. Nicholas, naked and bare;

His eyes how they twinkled, his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his ass like a cherry! The pleasure girls were nestled all snug in their home, In hopes that St. Nicholas would leave them alone;

And Nick in his leathers, with his hired slut, Were spreading whipped cream over Skua's pink butt. When out in the hall there arose such a clatter, Nick sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Security sirens were starting to blare, So they both untied Skua, and straightened Nick's hair. They ran to the control room, it was quite a dash, The screens showed a circle, the screens showed a flash!

When what did their wondering eyes faintly see? But a miniature warship with a 'Flagritz' ID. Nick quivered with fear, his yellow skin - white, Could it be that Lord Den would come visit tonight?

No time for heroics, and orders, and all, Just barely time to escape at all! Nicky and Skua in the escape pod, Kissing and crying and praying to god.

Relays were closing and software was working, Every gun in the colony was firing and jerking; Autumn Harvest imploded and the afterglow, Gave the lustre of midday to objects below.

Did Nick fire first? Say it ain't so! The records are lost, so we'll never know. The Escape Pod was found, and Nicky is safe, And Skua's leather G-string is beginning to chafe.

So lets all go home, there are emails to write! Let's argue forever that our side was right!

Nicky, Skua, pink butt-cheeks, and whipped cream? Can you say 'kinky', boys and girls? Heck, just Nicky alone is perversion enough. Just another day at Ilium Novum. Gives a whole new meaning to "watch your butt on shore leave". Or is it "beware of Qumans wearing lifts"? Congratulations, Mr. Banjo! That rivals anything Maddie put out in her day. Well, almost. Some of the stuff I found in the back issues still makes me blush. And I used to think latex just had something to with structural paint.

Speaking of the Bird, we were going to do a Raunchy Crossword Puzzle in her honor, but then you-know-who is in town. So as a kindness to Werth's newest visitor, and because we just repainted the lobby, we'll skip it. But- we'll run this instead. It's time for:

Rumor and Innuendo

* Word on the spaceways is that the Foelians are slowly building up. Sources aren't sure if they'll jump in if the T4 enters the war, or wait and pick up the pieces.

* The KZK are still adding to their "Guide to the Transhole" with some first-hand info about some rather interesting sights.

* There's a schism developing in the so-called Grand Alliance about strategy.

* Talks have started among a group to set up a League of Non-Aligned Races.

* The RIP may have bitten off more than they can chew in the Nexus.

* Looks like there's more than two groups aiming for the ROC: try three or four. In any case, the Naviar and the DDR have company.

Well, that is it, Kids. Hope you enjoyed the issue, and make sure to pick up your trash before you leave. Look for the next issue in about twelve weeks. We promise another boffo one: the continuing sagas of Father Larry, and Poppa Woody. Maybe even an interview, some free advertising for the WCE, plus the reprise of "Rollo McAllister of the STC". Stay tuned!

The Bone would like to thank the following:

"Banjo" Hatterson

King Komehameha Annie Ominous

"Poppa" Woody Chapel of the Six Fuller Brushmen

Two Unnamed Contributors (by request) Clan Oberon (why? because!)

White Satin Coffee Shop All You Stempy Voters!

IND Werth Chamber of Commerce Hizzoner Rlo Krieger

IND Werth Starport Security The SAM (for comedy, and pathos)