"Q: What is the difference between a blonde and a 747?
A: Not everyone has been in a 747."
CRONOS' ALTOGETHER RATHER ZARJAZ EXPERIENCES IN WONDERLAND
by Richard Karsmakers
IV - TED'S BOGUS JOURNEY
Of course, Cronos Warchild was quite wrong (rather totally and
exceedingly so, as a matter of fact). It wasn't the Virgin but
the White Kangaroo - the creature that had been the cause of his
current predicament. When it came within speaking range, he heard
it cry, "Oh the Mayor! The Mayor! He'll make a eunuch of me if he
discovers I've lost them!"
At that moment the White Kangaroo saw Cronos standing.
"Mortimer," the White Kangaroo said in a reproachful tone while
pointing to a place behind the mercenary annex hired gun, "what
are you doing here? Go into the house and fetch me my magnifying
glass and the keyring with the Koala on it. This minute!"
Intimidated and somewhat abashed, Cronos walked off in the
direction the White Kangaroo had pointed to. Obviously the animal
had mistaken him for somebody else, but Warchild decided not to
behead it for this mistake; if he would have killed every
creature that was doing something odd today he would end up with
a frighteningly huge pile of carrion at his feet. It would take
days to rid his hands of the stench of rotting flesh, though - he
relished the thought.
Was that a telepathic vulture, circling high above him?
After a brief stroll through green meadows with flowers
blooming and butterflies making love in the air, he came upon a
small cottage with a rusty copper plaque next to the door. "W.
KANGAROO" was engraved on it in rococo style, barely readable to
cultural barbarians like himself.
He walked inside and hurried up the wooden stairs when he heard
the slow, deliberate footsteps of what he guessed was the real
Mortimer. At the end of the stairs he discovered a little room,
of which he closed the door behind him. The room was well kept -
that is, if you just tried hard to think away the piles of
computer printouts, floppy disks and miscellaneous notes that lay
everywhere. On a table that was relatively void of the
aforementioned items lay a magnifying glass and the keyring with
the Koala attached to it.
"Zonk," the Koala sighed.
He wanted to grab these items to give them back to the White
Kangaroo - although it eluded him why he would want to do the
dratted creature a favour. He didn't get around to actually
taking the magnifying glass off the table, nor the keyring with
the Koala on it, for at that precise instant a hypodermic syringe
materialised next to them.
For a second or two there was a smell of ozone as if just after
A label was attached to the syringe. It had the typed words
"CYANIDE" and "MEDICATE AT YOUR OWN PERIL" crossed out, and
"INJECT ME" hand-written below them.
"Whattaheck," Cronos thought to himself, "it doesn't seem deadly
He stuck the needle in his left arm and injected the fluid in a
vein, or at least not too far away from one.
His arm turned purple, then cyan. Then his whole body went
bright red with yellow dots, then, too, all cyan. The entire
process, during which Warchild saw all kinds of strange colours
swirl towards him, lasted perhaps ten seconds. At the end of it
he felt like his old self again - only much bigger. He found his
head pressed against the ceiling, almost causing his neck to
break. Previously, the sensation of claustrophobia has been
rather dreadful but nonetheless subtle-ish; now, however, it
struck him like a freight train transporting lead storming
towards him, down-hill, with malfunctioning brakes.
And still he continued growing. There was no other solution but
to stick his head out of the window and his left foot up the
Sweat starting breaking out of him again, running down the
various parts of his body in small rivulets; what about the
cheap motel room he rented at the moment, cockroach-ridden though
it may be? He'd never fit in it - if he could get out of here at
all in the first place. And where was he to leave the large trunk
carrying his collection of patented and superlatively lethal
He was torn from his thoughts when he heard feet flapping up the
stairs, and a voice yelling, "Mortimer! I need my magnifying
glass right now, you hear? Mortimer!"
Next thing he knew, the White Kangaroo opened the door to the
little room - or at least the animal tried to but didn't actually
succeed as the door had to open to the inside and Cronos'
posterior was rather solidly pressed against it.
"Then I'll try to get in through the window," Cronos heard the
animal say to itself.
Outside, the White Kangaroo got quite a fright when it saw the
huge, square head with the sideburns sticking out one side of its
"Mortimer!" it called angrily, "Mortimer!"
Slow, deliberate steps up the gravel of the garden path
announced the butler. It was a badger wearing a black uniform,
that had a white towel folded around his arm which it held in
front of itself.
"Can I be of any service, Sir?" the butler inquired politely.
"What's that?" the Kangaroo spat with badly hidden vehemence,
"Would you mind telling me what that is?"
The badger looked up at Cronos' head.
"Shocking, Sir," it admitted, "It seems to be a rather
frightfully large head belonging to some sort of giant-ish chap,
with your permission, Sir."
"Get rid of it!" the Kangaroo commanded urgently, as if it
concerned merely a couple of gnats in the bedroom.
Although Cronos resented the possibility of his huge, rather
squarely built shape to be manhandled out of the room by the tiny
White Kangaroo and its midget butler, he began to think it would
be the only way out. The claustrophobic freight train had hit him
between the eyes - it hadn't even lost any velocity, the driver
hand't seen him, and the "limitless top speed" sign was coming up
around the bend.
His left foot deemed the moment fit to send to his brain the
signal of a rather irritating itch he had no way of being able to
scratch. He bit his tongue.
Voices reached him, barely audible, parts of sentences, as if
they were conspiring against him. He also heard a third voice,
that he saw belonged to what appeared to be a Skunk of sorts that
was called Ted.
"What?!" he heard the Skunk exclaim, high-pitched with fright,
"Do I have to go down the chimney?"
"Well, most certainly, Sir," the butler confirmed.
"But I don't want to, you see," the Skunk whimpered, "Why does
it always have to be me?"
Cronos saw the White Kangaroo snorting impatiently, flapping its
feet on the grass.
"I'm afraid, Sir," the butler tried to explain, "that I can't
offer satisfactory answers to either of your questions, Sir.
However, if you allow me, Sir, I would advise you to do whatever
you have to do quickly so as not to incur the wrath of your
master, Mr. Kangaroo, Sir."
"But..." the Skunk whimpered on.
"I think, Sir," the butler cut off the Skunk's words, "that
you're at this particular moment in time and space acting like
what is reportedly known by commoners as a 'yeller', Sir. Now if
you'd be so kind, Sir?" It emphasized its words by gesturing for
the Skunk to move its rear end up the roof and into the chimney.
There were some sounds of ladders being climbed, and of Skunk's
feet walking across the thatched roof. Cronos pulled back his
left leg as far as he could manage, back into the chimney
"Hi," said the Skunk in a voice that didn't particularly flow
over with confidence when it peeped down the chimney.
A leg extended itself. A boot collided with a black-and-white,
rather smelly animal which as a result was sent hurling through
the air. It connected itself to the ground some moments later.
There were some cries of anger outside. The unconscious Skunk
was fetched from its position on a patch of thistles, after which
further parts of conversations were carried by the breeze into
"Mouth to mouth resuscitation?" the Kangaroo exclaimed, its
voice filled with disgust, "Are you kidding? Mouth-to-mouth on a
"I kid thee not, Sir," the butler replied timidly, "As a matter
of fact, Sir, this is the recommended sort of remedy in medical
cases such as this one, if you allow me, Sir."
Suddenly a couple of clouds broke.
"A little bit of Plantiac, perhaps?" a voice thundered from the
heavens like the Gods playing double bass.
They all startled, Cronos inclusive; it even caused the Skunk to
come to, be it reluctantly. They looked around but couldn't see
anything. They decided to ignore the mystery voice, which was
never heard in Wonderland henceforth.
"Terrible! Terrible!" the Skunk accounted, "It was simply
terrible! There were fiends and monsters and flames and...and
giants! I stood no chance against their superior numbers. I mean
I tried, mind you, but even my proverbial strength and the smell
I can excrete left me at the shortest end. And then there was
this huge, black monstrosity that, in spite of my heroic defence,
catapulted me out of the room without as much as giving me a fair
"I see, Sir," the butler nodded, "I see, if you permit me, Sir."
"Shut your face," the White Kangaroo said, and lapsed into a fit
Time passed. It looked at the scene incomprehensibly, then
continued its eternal path.
Cronos, for his part, was quite glad he wasn't growing anymore.
Things would have looked severely disfortunate if he hadn't -
possibly even worse than they looked now.
In the mean time, the animals outside seemed to have some sort
of idea. The butler disappeared.
After a while the badger butler came back, pushing before it a
large wheelbarrow filled with a dark brown, semi-solid substance.
A peg was located on its nose.
"There you are, Sir," the butler said, slightly out of breath,
"the ma'ure, Sir."
The White Kangaroo looked up at Warchild's face, the beginning
of a triumphant grin dawning on its face.
"The smell's awful," the Skunk said, "Simply terrible."
Before Cronos knew what happened, he was being subjected to a
volley of what he guessed was human manure. Most of it missed
him, but some of it clung to his hair and some of it made its way
inside the room, just smelling awfully.
"Stop that," he bellowed, nearly making the house burst at the
seams, "or I'll...I'll (he was searching for a foul enough
punishment for these vile creatures) do something I'll regret
Warchild did not get the time to put any of his threats into
practise, though, for at that moment the manure transformed
itself in raspberries. Raspberries, of all things!
Cronos might not have been very bright, but even an imbecile
laboratory rat would by now have learned that, whenever edible
things occurred in the story, its size would change from small or
big or big to small (or its surrounding would mutate with the
same effect). So, in spite of the fact that raspberries to Cronos
were just about the worst things to eat - but one - he tossed
some of them in his mouth.
There was a quick feeling of giddiness, accompanied by a growing
of chairs and tables, and next thing he knew he was gazing at a
printed-out computer program listing on the floor of which the
letters were almost one third of his height.
He dashed out of the door, jumped down the stairs, and ran
towards the forest next to the White Kangaroo's abode with all
speed he could muster. He almost stumbled upon a scene involving
the throwing of more manure and the performing of apparently
obscene things to a poor Skunk.
He guessed this was an appropriate moment to feel some sense of
guilt, but his extensive training at Mercenary Academy had made
sure he didn't and wouldn't ever.
The assorted animals that were gathered around the Skunk and the
wheelbarrow with manure thought for a moment that they noticed
Warchild's tiny form just in time to see a tiny booted foot
disappearing in the dense undergrowth of the forest. Just like
humans, however, who for example don't see gnomes as they don't
believe in them, the animals thought they'd had a collective fata
morgana and proceeded throwing excrements at the window.
"First I've got to grow back to my usual size again," Cronos
thought to himself when he knew he was safe, hiding under a
fairly large tuft of grass, "Then I've got to find my way to that
garden I saw when I just got here. Maybe some killer weed'll grow
there, or poisonous fungi that may come in handy in future
A sudden high twittering sound, repeated two or three times,
made an abrupt end to his train of thoughts. He looked up into
two black eyes and a large orange bill that belonged to a yellow,
cutely fluffy chicken. Incidentally, it was also terrifyingly
"Easy does it," Cronos tried to coax it, almost on the verge of
panicing, "Issy nice chicken, yes?"
He had never seen this big a chicken - but, then again, he had
never been as small as this before. He tried to think of it as a
huge mound of lean meat, but the image didn't work - it kept on
making sounds at him, opening its bill menacingly, threatening to
misinterpret him for a bit of delicious fresh corn.
It was completely uncertain whether the chicken wanted to eat
him or if it wanted to play with him. Either way, it did make an
awful racket and at several occassions almost flattened the
mercenary annex hired gun under its clawed paws. Again, Cronos
cursed himself for having opted to bring along the Elector-O-
Cute™ killer gadget, which had by now repeatedly proven to be
He was beginning to think he would either not get rid of the
chicken or not get out alive, when in the distance he heard a
cock crowing. If the chicken would have had ears, it would have
pointed them; it seemed to listen intently for a few moments,
after which it hopped off to somewhere far away from Warchild.
He sighed in relief.
"I'd surely like to have caught it and cooked it," he mused, "If
only I had been somewhat bigger."
Even Cronos knew that one wasn't supposed to go around chasing
and killing animals that are about four times as high as yourself
when all you're carrying is a device with which you can kill
people by telephone. The problem it came down to, again, was
size. How was he to grow up to the right size again? He couldn't
see any cakes, suppositories, bottles, icecreams or pieces of
liquorice anywhere. Not even any raspberries! All he could see
was a large mushroom that didn't seem edible either.
On top of the mushroom, however, sat a small llama - arms and
legs folder like only preciously few llamas can do, sedately
smoking a bong. It didn't seem to notice Cronos at all, nor did
it seem to notice the entire world around it, including the very
mushroom on which it sat.
V - ADVICE FROM A LLAMAOID
They looked at each other for a while, like opponents gauging
their enemy's strength. Cronos thought it looked really silly to
have a llama sitting on a mushroom with its legs and arms folded
much in the way he had seen statues of fat men with long earlobes
do in Oriental travelling brochures. But, then again, he had seen
llamas in much sillier poses shooting camels with lasers and
such, now he came to think of it.
"Chill out man, nicely groovy and zany and altogether rather
ozric," the llama said suddenly, almost startling Warchild,
"Zarjaz world we live in, innit? Almost better than 'Star
Raiders' on the Atari 8-bit."
The mercenary annex hired gun let it sink in for a while. He was
about to produce a reply along the lines of "Sure" or "Indeed"
when suddenly the llama spoke again.
"Who might you be, squire?"
Immediately, a D.E.A. (Damaged Ego Alert) sounded in Cronos'
head. Had his fame, or notoriousness, not reached this
subterranean world? Had the stories about his flawless killings,
that had so far spread across all the inhabited planets of the
known universe like wildfire, missed out on this meaningless
Somewhat hurt he replied by mentioning his name in the usual
"That sounds like a seriously unsound name to me, chum," the
llama practically laughed out loud, letting Warchild's name roll
over its tongue as if sampling cheap wine.
"It will not do, man," the llama concluded after some more
rolling and sampling. "I will therefore call you 'Jeff'. Now you
have to agree that's much better to start with. Seriously groovy,
as a matter of fact."
Cronos stared at the llama, somewhat amazed at the animal's
capacity to insult both him and his parents in one go without as
much as flinching an eye, nor disconnecting its mouth from the
bong. Somehow, the name 'Jeff' in his mind connected itself with
the image of a bearded chap with long hair sitting on a stuffed
yak, wearing an afghan, smoking a Camel cigarette and in his
hands holded an empty bottle of Inca Cola. He didn't quite know
where the image came from but, frankly, couldn't be bothered.
"This world seems altogether rather strange to me," Cronos said
out loud after accumulating in his mind all the weird things that
had happened so far while being underground.
"You!" the llama retorted, visibly agitated, "Paugh! What makes
you think you've got something to say around here?"
Now that was a question that Cronos A) Couldn't reply to, B)
Hadn't expected and C) Wondered about what had caused it. All
these factors together left Cronos in a state that, should
careful evaluation have been necessary, would have had to surpass
hibernation - a state that would have been almost unmistakable
from, if not identical to, death.
"May I add, by the way," the animal added as an almost trivial
afterthought, "that there's a drop of nasal fluid on your upper
This was the drop that made the bucket run full. Sniffing
violently and wiping his nose with his sleeve, Cronos walked off
much in the way the Virgin had walked off from him earlier.
"I say, old fruit," Warchild heard the llama yelling behind him,
"come back, man! No need for all that running off all of a
He turned around and traced his steps back to the animal. He
didn't like the smugness of its smile.
"Be excellent to each other," the llama said. Muttering to
itself, it added, "I've always wanted to say that. It does have a
nice ring to it, even if I say so myself."
"Is that all you have to say?" Cronos asked, "Is that why you
wanted me to come back?"
"Well, you know, dude...er...no," the Andes inhabitant said. It
even took the bong out of its mouth. If blew a puff of smoke in
Cronos' face that made him feel dizzy for a couple of moments,
then said, "So you think things have been rather strange to you?"
"Yes," Warchild nodded, "I mean I've changed sizes at least one
one one one one times today. Animals talk. You talk. And you're
smoking, too. Only a while back I tried to recite Napalm Death's
"Dead" and the word, one word mind you, came out all wrong. I
don't know what's happened to me. Am I one card short of a full
deck? Am I not quite the shilling? Am I not the usual top
billing? Am I..."
He cut himself off, just short of saying that he thought he
was a banana tree.
"Am I slightly mad?" he asked to wrap it up, genuine concern
filling his voice.
The animal shifted its position on the mushroom, as if it had
suddenly discovered that its rear end was sleeping. It closed its
eyes for a moment, which looked as if it was reading the answer
to Cronos' questions from the insides of its eyelids.
"Well," the llama said after a while of breathless
contemplation, opening its eyes, "Perhaps you could recite the
lyrics to Metallica's "Orion" for me."
Cronos thought hard for a while. Then he thought hard for
another while or two. He then said:-
"If birds could talk
The world would be quite different
This is the strange dream
That birds have at night
It is no longer possible
When they're awake
Cannot man teach them to do so
Or let them be?"
"See?" Cronos said, initially sporting some pride at being able
to say something as profoundly deep and extensive as this, then
disappointed, "The words came out all wrong."
The llama looked like a psychiatrist who was about the judge a
ten-year-old little girl mentally incapacitated for the rest of
her life. Its face did not so much frown, but more sortof
contorted. One of its front paws seemed to stroke its chin in a
wholly un-llama-like way.
"First of all," the llama said, "that wasn't "Orion" for that's
an instrumental song. Trick question there. You did do "To Live
Is To Die", but again it seems the words didn't quite come out
right. Incidentally, did you know that the real lyrics to that
song were probably partly ripped from Stephen Donaldson's
'Chronicles of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever'?"
Cronos failed both to recall ever having heard of the author's
name before and connecting all of it with the current situation.
He tried to express naive innocence, something which
unfortunately only caused his mouth to drop open and his eyes to
stare at no particular point somewhere in the distance.
"Thought you didn't," the llama said, more to itself than to
Warchild. The silence that followed lasted the better part of
The South-American animal broke the silence first.
"So what size would you like to be?"
"Dunno," Cronos said, not quite prepared to answer a question as
intrinsically complicated as that, "I guess I don't care that
much, really. I'd basically like to be able to stay the same size
for a while, you know."
"I don't," the llama said, dryly.
"I don't," it repeated.
"Know," replied the llama.
"Yes. I don't know."
The animal rolled its eyes at the human's obvious stupidity.
"You don't know what?" Cronos insisted.
"I don't know that you'd basically like to stay the same size
for a while," the llama explained more elaborately.
"You don't?" Warchild asked incredulously.
"Well, now I do but when you started about it I didn't."
"Ah. I see," said Cronos, unsure.
"No, you probably don't," the llama disagreed.
"I don't what?"
"This conversation is getting nowhere", the llama broke off.
Cronos fell silent, already quite having lost trace of it way
"I'd like to be slightly bigger than I am now," he said finally,
"four inches is such a darned lousy height to be, or should I say
The llama snorted, standing up on its hind legs, precisely four
inches tall. "No it isn't," it said, hurt.
Cronos had another attack of guilt again, but somewhere along
the relatively infinite line of nerves and synapses it got nipped
in the bud. His face remained utterly void of expression.
Another silence followed. It lay on the ground, writhing,
pleading, as if almost begging to be broken.
"One side will get you bigger, the other will get you smaller,"
the llama finally said, "You sort it out, Jeff."
Cronos hated being called 'Jeff'. He also wondered of what one
side would cause growth and the other shrinking.
"The mushroom, you git," the animal said, reading his mind.
"That's all we need," Cronos thought to himself, annoyed, "A
"I heard that!" the Llama said, again sounding hurt. Amid a huge
fractal explosion it disappeared off the mushroom, leaving behind
only the scent of burned herbs.
Now Warchild faced a dilemma he had faced the last time during
the first grade at Mercenary Academy: Mathematics. His tutors had
at the time insisted he learn basic arithmetic - Cronos had found
it inescapable to fail. Now he had to face the consequences:
Which side was which? After all, the mushroom was as round as it
could possible be, so there was no way to determine which side
would be one and which other.
A pain crashed through Warchild's consciousness - he had another
lucid moment. The total amount of these occasions during his
life had been very, very rare. The fact that he had had two
lucid moments this day seemed to indicate he was making
This all just serves to prove that statistics can be wrong quite
During the time the lucid moment spent in Cronos brain, he
picked two pieces off the mushroom - one on either side. He hoped
it would work.
Of course, the bit he first tried was the wrong one - Murphy's
law works rather effectively even for those who often seem immune
to the laws of causality and faculty.
The shrinking that resulted from eating the wrong bit of
mushroom was rather devastating. One moment Cronos was still
about four inches tall, and after the blink of an eye he was
suddenly very small. The mushroom towered above him like a vast
monument of the first nuclear explosion - only much, much bigger
and at this particular moment vastly more impressive.
"Oops," the mercenary annex hired gun said.
A beetle, that had been about as large as his fist until about
one second ago, now looked at him even more threateningly than
the frightfully cute and flawlessly yellow giant chicken had done
before. It moved its antennas, as if probing the air for
molecules that had had the audacity to pop off Warchild. It
seemed to like what it sensed, and came closer for a first bite.
Cronos swallowed most of the other piece of mushroom, wishing to
become big as soon as possible. There was a very short crunchy
sound, not unlike that of a black boot crushing a beetle, and
after that there were only the strange feeling of an elevator
quickly gaining upward momentum, and clouds.
He tried to feel his head, but couldn't. His hands simply
weren't long enough to reach his head that now seemed to be
balancing on a neck quite resembling some sort of nutty snake. He
was having problems breathing, which Cronos reckoned had
something to do with space being much closer now - and wasn't
He looked down. Now and again the clouds around him would tear
up for a moment, allowing a brief glimpse at the scenery below.
Most of it was green with a spot of blue here and there - which
he assumed were lakes of sorts. A bit to his left he saw a small
cottage with a thatched roof. In its garden he saw a White
Kangaroo, a badger dressed as a butler, and a Skunk that seemed
to be out cold. On a road, way off before him, he saw a toad
driving a car rather more rapidly than it should.
He was surely feeling spaced out - which is a fairly accurate
description of what a bite of the growing side of a mushroom can
do to you if you've previously inhaled the smokes of certain
mind-expanding herbs. When he closed his eyes, his head seemed to
be rollercoasting. When he opened them, it still seemed to.
The feeling wore off just in time for him to be aware of some
creature of the sky flying into a part of his neck. He looked
down to his neck that seemed to hang below him like a rope from a
balloon. He couldn't quite see his body.
A small flying thing circled around him, towards his head, up
from the spot where it had collided with his neck.
"Can't you watch where you're going?" a voice said, now close to
his ear. It was fairly obvious that the voice wanted to sound
enraged, but it totally failed in obtaining the objective.
Instead the voice radiated infinite love and passion.
The owner of the voice flew around him, so that in the end
Cronos could see it straight before him, fluttering and
complaining. It was a small angel, no, a flabby baby with Pampers
on. It had a golden bow in its tiny hands, and a very small arrow
container was located on its back, attached to a strap.
"Oh no," the tiny winged form said when seeing Warchild, "you."
"I'm afraid you've got the advantage," Cronos said, having heard
this sort of dialogue in a film once, "I have never seen you
The baby angel tried to put on a scornful face, but only
succeeded in showing infinite dedication and friendship.
"You big lummox," it said, gayly flapping its wings now and
flying to and fro in front of Warchild's face, "Don't you
remember Loucynda? Or Penelope? And what about Klarine
Cronos had fleeting visions of a most beautiful shaped breast
upon which hung a name plate, of coal-powered engines hidden in
folds of flesh that functioned to pump around gallons and gallons
of blood, and of a rusty-locked chastity belt.
"Sure I remember them," he said to the little angel, "But I
still don't remember you."
Warchild had not been really sure of many things in his life -
but he had been sure the Virgin had had no tail and he was sure
he didn't know who the hell this little angel was.
"I see," the angel said in a tone that was supposed to convey
sadness and hurt but that only spread warmth and devotion, "You
really, honestly don't know me."
Cronos shook his head. "No."
He didn't even feel sorry, nor did he feel slightly guilty.
Quickly, the flying marksbaby changed subject.
"I've seen you look better, Cronos Jehannum," it said as if
visiting an old friend, "Much better than this huge ugly thing
with a neck like a spaced-out snake and breath smelling of weird
herbs, raspberries and tobacco icecream."
"I'm no ugly thing with a neck like a spaced-out snake and
breath smelling of weird herbs, raspberries and tobacco
icecream," Cronos said, "I'm but a small mercenary annex hired
gun." It seemed that a tear welled up in his eye. It was visible
for an instant of a nanosecond, then Warchild blinked his eyes
and it had vanished.
"If you flew into me just to insult me," Cronos said in as
menacing a tone as he could manage with half of his speech
apparatus a rough two hundred feet below him, "I'll have to
insist you leave."
Another quote from a film he'd forgotten to forget.
"OK," the minute angeloid muttered, "If that's how you want to
play it. Fine. Don't expect me around when you need me, though."
It flapped its wings somewhat more intensely, after which it
flew off into a cloud and vanished from sight.
Warchild remembered the pieces of mushroom he should still have
in his hands, a long way down. He bent his neck in a huge arc
until it almost formed an "O", with his head close to his chest -
which was quite like a spaced-out snake indeed. By biting off
small pieces off each bit of mushroom he eventually reached his
right height - or at least he got the surroundings to the sizes
he seemed to recollect from before he'd made the jump into that
hole under the tree in the park near his motel. He stuffed the
bits of the mushroom he had left in his pocket.
It felt strange being in a world that had its usual size again.
He checked his neck. It was still there - or, rather, it was
still as always hidden between his broadly built shoulders and
his square head with the long sideburns.
He walked away from where he had seen the White Kangaroo's
cottage - he had no intention of ever having manure hurled at him
again, certainly not if the manure had the tendency to transform
into raspberries, of all things!
Within a few minutes he found a small house. It was scarsely
more than a yard high, however, so he reckoned it would be best
to eat some more of the mushroom bit that could make the world
He did. The world grew.
The text of the articles is identical to the originals like they appeared in old ST NEWS issues. Please take into consideration that the author(s) was (were) a lot younger and less responsible back then. So bad jokes, bad English, youthful arrogance, insults, bravura, over-crediting and tastelessness should be taken with at least a grain of salt. Any contact and/or payment information, as well as deadlines/release dates of any kind should be regarded as outdated. Due to the fact that these pages are not actually contained in an Atari executable here, references to scroll texts, featured demo screens and hidden articles may also be irrelevant.