"I am very poor. Even my baby has to sleep in the box I bought
the VCR in."
LORD OF THE THINGS
by Richard Karsmakers
This story is one of about a dozen plots thought out in about
two rather inspired days quite a while ago. Originally it was
meant to be used as the background for an adventure, but with
this whole thing being iced there is no better thinkable
alternative rather than to use it for the thirtieth ever Cronos
Warning: This story has a passage where the word "SHIT" occurs
perhaps rather too frequently for those readers with a somewhat
The stars gazed at him intently but silently. He did not gaze
back at them, nor was he silent. He gazed intently at something
else. It was round, and increasing its size at an ever quickening
pace. He gazed at it intently, which was not unusual when taking
into consideration that his small space vessel, stolen on an
obscure planetoid about two days behind him, was on a crash
course with an almost insignificantly small but nonetheless
rather lethal-looking planet.
He had always hated auto-pilots. But now his hate had come back
and quadrupled. This was the first vessel equipped with a
suicidally insane auto-pilot. After he had insulted it for the
hundredth time, it had decided to plot a collision course. Death
before dishonour, that sort of thing.
Cronos Warchild, mercenary annex hired gun, swore never to steal
a Japanese-made space vessel again.
The auto-pilot sat staring at him, smiling smugly. A countdown
ran, the words "Stuff it" above it on the plasma display. It
obviously had a sense of drama. Warchild couldn't find it in his
heart to appreciate it.
Life had already flashed him by on many occasions. Rarely did a
month go by without him having a near-death experience - reaper
beckoning, light at the end of a tunnel, green meadows filled
with scantily clad valkieries running to and fro, the works. This
time it was made ever so more intense because there was no
reaper. No beckoning skeletal finger, no empty eyesockets into
which to see Time and The End Of All, no life flashing by at the
insides of one's eyelids, no nothing. All available mental slots
were occupied fully by the ever growing planetary orb, the lack
of a friendly auto-pilot, and the incredibly high likelihood of
his life genuinely discontinueing within the next...er...
"...44...43...42..." the auto-pilot's ignominious computer voice
Warchild's fist landed on the display. The countdown counted
down implacably. "And your mother, too," the display now read.
Just after the countdown had reached "1", the cacophony of
swearing, pounding and the fanatically absurd metallic laugh of
the Japanese auto-pilot transformed itself into the cacophony of
melting metal, breaking boughs, grinding glass and a very loud
but somehow quiet "thud".
Somewhere in that cacophony everything went black for a mere
mortal - and not just because it was around midnight.
Death owed Warchild a favour. Death didn't like owing people
favours. Death usually didn't go around owing favours to anyone,
not even to the very gods themselves. It simply wasn't done, it
wasn't proper procedure. Death, however, is not half as bad as
people think. Just to emphasize the exception to the rule, he had
lured himself into owing someone a favour, someone whose soul he
would normally have had to reap just about...now.
This pitiable human had once helped Death out. Not particularly
well, you had to give him that, but nonetheless it had warranted
Death liked drama, much in the way the now defunct Japanse auto-
pilot had. He would have loved to have his robes flap around him
dramatically in the midnight wind, but there just didn't happen
to be any. He beheld the wreckage amidst which sat an unconscious
mortal whom Death now owed no more favours.
He turned around on his heel - something he was rather good at -
and disappeared without a trace nor one of those proverbial puffs
Gfrzxs was born that night. So were about fifty of his kind.
Their birth was slightly premature, and not particularly peaceful
- it had involved something out of the air crashing into their
Tree rather violently, causing the commotion necessary for them
to be shaken free and submit themselves to the laws of gravity.
There was an unspeakable noise, followed by a lot of hissing,
like metal being cooled down by drops of dawn.
Gfrzxs opened his eyes unto the lap of an unconscious giant that
looked totally unlike him - an alien of sorts, certainly
something totally foreign to his tree. He sat silently,
bewildered, not daring to move for a while.
It is a universal aspect of all living things throughout the
entirity of the multiverse to recognize a thing that their
limited intellect can't understand and consequently label it
"God". A thought struck Gfrzxs. This alien, much larger than him
and certainly much more omnipotent, could not be explained.
Therefore it was God.
At that very instant, as if destined to happen by some kind of
divine intervention, the giant alien opened its eyes. Gfrzxs
startled but retained control over his limbs - all five of them -
preventing them from shaking. His awe-stricken eyes beheld God.
And God moved and cursed.
The sounds uttered by God can't be understood by mere mortals.
One has to provide oneself with years of dedicated theological
training, hour after hour of sincere meditation and the studying
of libraries filled with Godly - or at least Divinely Franchised
- tomes. Alternatively, of course, one can also just rent a TV
channel and make other people believe you've done the
aforementioned, which usually proves much more financially - if
not theologically - feasible.
Gfrzxs didn't understand anything the God said. He hadn't gained
a lot of life experience and thus, much in the way humans tend to
do, he interpreted that which he heard and saw the way it seemed
best to him: God was happy.
He asked for a divine sign. Remarkably, he got it several
In reality, of course, God was far from happy. Even though he
was still alive, his vessel has been utterly wrecked and he knew
that chances of life on any given planet are, as has been capably
and frequently demonstrated by many scientists and authors alike,
insanely close to zero. He brushed the small furry ball off his
lap and folded himself out of the wreckage. It would take an
entire team of talented engineers weeks to repair the thing, he
guessed, and a new kind of time reckoning would certainly have to
be conveived to estimate the time it would take if Warchild
himself were to do it, for obviously the chances of finding any
talented engineers here would be smaller than the chances of
finding a TV Preacher in Heaven.
Also, he found the air rather foul-smelling. Though not in any
particularly definite ways, it seemed a bit toxic. Not deadly, at
least not instantly, but nonetheless a bit toxic.
Gfrzxs was caught off guard, drooling exultantly in Divine
Bliss, when the God swept him off his Divine Lap. He landed
amid several others of his kind - his own brothers and sisters,
that had Parted from the Mother Tree at the same time.
When he had regained full awareness - after all, one does not
get brushed off the Godly Womb every day - he found his kindred
looking at him in utter awe.
"Hail," one of the awestricken fellows ventured when he saw
Gfrzxs seemed not about to say anything.
"Er...hail you, too," Gfrzxs replied, nonplussed. Whence came
this sudden display of respect? His life had barely started and
already he seemed to have acquired some sort of status. And all
he had needed to do was to get brushed off Heavenly Loins.
"What's it like?" another of the enawed creatures now asked.
"What's what like?" Gfrzxs wondered.
"Him," the other creature indicated, his voice hushed in as much
veneration as it could muster, "the giant, er...God, you know."
"He's sortof big, isn't he?" another now added.
"They're supposed to be, Gods, aren't they?" yet another asked.
None of them seemed to know for sure. It did sound logical
though. Power came with size. Gods had lots of power, so they
were bound to be big. Seriously big. Or perhaps they just had to
wear a beard and a robe. But this one didn't seem to, at least
not from where they were standing. He surely was big.
For a while none of them said anything.
"What are we to do, oh High Priest?" a particularly light green
ball of fluff asked, scratching his bit on top where only minutes
ago a branch had been.
Gfrzxs was getting nervous. And embarrassed.
"Gfrzxs will do fine, thank you," he muttered, "I am no High
"But you've, er...touched God!" someone said.
Surely, mere mortals weren't allowed to touch the Gods. You had
to be a Priest to be able to talk to them, so you'd definitely
have to be a High Priest to be permitted to touch them, or to
have the Gods touch you - let alone have them unceremoniously
brush you off their laps!
"I seem to, don't I?" Gfrzxs now said, fumbling his chin (which
was located where, logically, his groin would have to be). He was
about to say something that would have inspired several of his
kind to pick up pens and paper and start writing down gospels
when a most terrific sound came from Warchild's spacecraft.
It was the sound of teeth gritting and joints cracking,
intermingled with some crafty curses the likes of which this
planet had never heard before in its billions of years worth of
So it happened that Cronos stretched his limbs, roughly rubbed a
few bruises, uttered another few curses just for the hell of it,
and beheld approximately fifty furry balls of various colours
that were lying, for lack of a better word, prostrate on the
ground before him. He had seen Muhammedans doing this sort of
thing before, only they usually didn't direct their attention at
him - nor were they usually round, furry, and of various colours.
Quite the opposite actually.
"Whattaf...," he said, bewildered as usual.
One of the furry creatures, he could see most distinctly, was
scribbling down something short.
"Huh?" he added.
The furry thingy scribbled something more. A bit shorter this
Gfrzxs considered the time ripe to erect himself and say
something on behalf of his people.
"Oh Divine Being from outer space!" he yelled at the top of his
voice, "Hearken your humble servant!"
It is another multiversal habit of people to address Divinities
in a typical and somewhat silly way.
Warchild was glad he had bothered to visit planet Lobia
recently. The inhabitants of that particular planet were
particularly deft at designing hearing aids - and rather fast,
too, especially when you were ineptly fumbling with a killer
gadget that could kill someone (say, a hearing aid manufacturer)
quickly and as effectively. He could hear the little orange furry
ball say something in a high piping voice just within the hearing
limits of the human ear.
English is probably one of the least popular language when
compared at a universal scale. A language spoken by approximately
forty-three times as many people is Second-Dynasty Klatchian, but
then again this particular language is dwarfed by the amount of
people who speak Chinese - and not just on earth.
Therefore Cronos was relieved but also rather puzzled at the
fact that these furry little balls, no bigger than a fist and
living on a world multiple light aeons away from Earth, spoke
English rather well. Without a trace of accent, even. Had he
ever, he would have found it oddly similar to listening to the
Nine O'Clock News.
He didn't get far beyond thinking, "Hey, that's cool, they think
I'm God," for at that instant there was a lot of light and a lot
of noise (like "ZAP", only louder) followed by a tremendous lot
of smoke, after which a rather unsightly space vessel was found
to have located itself just behind the batch of little furry
creatures. A simple and rather silly tune was playing in the
Warchild uttered his by now familiar phrase of bafflement.
A ramp extended itself from the spaceship, and upon it stood a
most horrible creature that looked like it consisted mostly,
indeed almost only, of wings, eyes, and sphincters. He had seen
this kind of monster before, but his mind had difficulty making
the right connections.
The horrid monster extended a leathery wing that clutched an
elongated piece of metal and pointed down at the gathering of
furry round things. About half a dozen of what seemed to be its
minions came flying awkwardly out of another opening in the
vessel's meteorite-pocked hull. Without losing time, they hoarded
together about thirty of the furry little cute round creatures,
their little voices piping with panic, and drove them onto the
ramp. The boss-monster swiped once with a particularly evil
looking wing, grabbing hold of a furry purple ball. Huge jaws
parted slowly but eagerly, dark yellow stained fangs gleamed
dolefully, saliva dripped and drooled expectantly. With a casual
movement the screaming little cutesy-wutesy was flung inside the
oral pit of death. The jaws snapped shut mercilessly and the
monster's eyes closed as if it was enjoying some particularly
rare delicacy. There was a short muffled noise of life being
squashed out of a living creature, then nothing.
The furry balls left on the ground, lucky enough not to have
been hoarded aboard on the ramp that was already folding back,
were hopping around excitedly.
"Now you've gone too far!" one of them, violently red with
purple dots, yelled.
"We will have you suffer under the wrath of God!" another cried
at the top of its voice. It was Gfrzxs. The little round thingy
looked at Warchild expectantly.
Some others shouted in agreement. The monster seemed not to find
it necessary even to look back over its hideously malformed
shoulders as it strode back into the spaceship, spitting out some
fur and licking its wart-ridden lips.
"Up," the monster signalled just before the ramp flapped up and
sealed off the craft.
It takes much to damage Cronos Warchild's sense of justice.
Usually that just means a lot of money, sometimes not
particularly much. But now something inside him screamed out in
anger - maybe his female side, always suppressed but now finally
rearing its feminine head.
"Hey," Cronos thought out loud, "this can't be right."
He looked at the furry balls left over, yelling and screaming
just within the specified limits of his hearing aid. He looked at
the space craft.
Already there was plenty of smoke. It seemed odd, but the smoke
in some eerie way made the air seem less oppressive, less toxic,
fresher even. Really weird.
The craft would probably take off any minute now, taking with it
a bunch of frightfully cute creatures that had proclaimed him
"God" just moments ago. And those monsters hadn't even noticed
him, not heeded him even in the slightest possible way.
He felt he had to do something. But what was there to be done?
His own spacecraft was smashed beyond repair. He had no weapons
on him. His killer finger nail hadn't grown dangerous enough yet.
Then an idea hit him. It hurt, but pain could be switched off by
those trained the way Cronos Warchild, mercenary annex hired gun,
had been trained.
At the precise instant when the enemy spacecraft experienced
lift-off, Cronos took a mother of all breaths and leapt onto the
vessel's landing gear.
He reckoned it might take a while before he could breathe again.
He closed his eyes, lowered his body temperature and slowed down
his heartbeat to an almost inhumanly low rate. He drifted off in
the area of consciousness only preciously few people ever
Which is probably just as well.
Short after the captors' departure, with Cronos Warchild
clutched to their landing in semi-hibernation, another spacecraft
landed on the planet. Out of it stepped a man wearing a raincoat
and hat, carrying with him a vacuum cleaner and one volume of an
encyclopaedia. He looked around him, studying the trees. Some of
them had fluffy balls hanging on their branches. These balls
seemed, in some extraordinary way, alive.
A wide smile found its way upon the man's features. He took from
a pocket of his raincoat a small phone, dialled a number and
talked agitatedly for a while. After that he replaced it in the
pocket whence it came, he took out another device with which he
sampled the air around the place where the Captors' space ship
had just left. His smile broadened. He got back to his ship and
left with what could not be anything other than haste.
As if to relieve the tension, it started to rain.
There was a light at the end of the tunnel. And this time it
wasn't an on-rushing train. The light seemed reluctant to want to
come closer - teasingly so. He tried moving his fingers and toes
but found himself unable to. Usually this was the time when one
would shout a bit. Warchild didn't. He was trained to suppress
pain, but he could also keep himself from feeling any weird
emotions. He did.
Mysteriously, there was for an utterly brief instant the scent
of honey. Immediately afterwards there was a totally different
scent. More like a stench actually. And he knew it. His
olfactory lobe has sensed it before on numerous occasions. Once
deep within the bowels of a castle on Sucatraps, for example.
Another time, longer ago, in the lavatory of a Thai Boxing
It was the unmistakable stench of the creatures to smell most
viciously in the known universe, and most likely beyond - the
Mutant Maxi Mega Monster of Multifizzic Omega. Some way or other
he always turned out winding up in the vicinity of these
That was what tore him from his self-induced hibernation, much
in the way a nuclear holocaust would a thoroughly enjoyable dream
involving innumerable scantily clad members of the opposite sex.
He didn't like it when he saw what caused the vile stench.
Not at all.
"Me keep him?" she asked her father, trying hard to appear as
ravishing and enchanting as she could, which was difficult given
the fact that she was basically one pussed-over wart with
leathery wings, plenty of eyes and about half a dozen anal
muscles too many.
"Please? Me keep him?"
Her father's body language spoke volumes; a few arseholes
opened, excreting something that looked like it was liquid and
gaseous at the same time. His eyes rolled around, his wings
flapped in an intricate pattern.
No. She couldn't.
"But he ever so cute," she insisted.
Her father's body excreted, rolled and flapped some more. No
way. Deirdre was not going to get her way. She usually did, but
not this time. He, Frothgar the Merciless, would make sure she
wouldn't. He casually removed a remnant of purple fur from
between two of his yellowed fangs, then told his daughter to lose
The stench was positively nauseating.
Those monsters surely knew how to tie a good boyscout knot. He
hadn't been able to resist much against his bondage, what with
him still being in his hibernative state. If he had, he would
surely have taught them a lesson or two. One didn't need any
gadgets to kill at least a few, as a warning. But they had him
meticulously bound and gagged before he had a chance at restoring
his own physical state of being.
And once he had, Deirdre had given him quite a nasty shock.
Evidently she had taken up an instant fondness towards the
rather squarely built human. Perhaps she wanted to keep him as a
pet, or perhaps...shivers ran down his spine at the mere hint of
a thought about what she might want to do with - or to - him.
Of course Warchild was not one to complain or have objections
against interest from members of the fair sex, but the problem on
Multifizzic Omega was the fact that the principle of natural
selection seemed to have gone out of its way to produce a race of
positively ghastly creatures in which the worst bits of anatomy
were the only ones present in omnipotently copious and
berzerkedly glorified abundance.
Never had he had anything against voluptuous maidens with folds
of flesh aplenty, and not even the sight of zero-grav modules
needed to keep humongous flaps of fat off the ground gave him
enough reason to lose interest in a girl - but a vastly
disproportioned monstrosity the likes of Deirdre could not be
rated at any logically conceivable scale of bad taste. Visions of
anything more than casual social intercourse with this loathsome
creature - and that preferably by means of interplanetary
communication - filled him with dread and disgust. And that was
even before he had seen her eat. Positively off-putting, that
Even so, he wasn't sure where he'd be better off: With Deirdre
or with her genuinely evil father, Frothgar the Merciless, who
seemed to have some kind of leading position among the
Multifizzians. Also, Frothgar's name didn't bode well.
"Well, well," Frothgar the Merciless said, flapping one or two
wings nonchalantly after his hideous daughter had finally left
the room, sulking, "Me know your kind. You look for easy buck,
He nudged Warchild, who gritted his teeth and gave the monster a
killing look, trying not to breathe in more than was strictly
necessary. He tried not to breathe through his nose, but the
stench could actually be tasted, too. Horrible.
"Your kind tasty, you know, yes?" Frothgar continued, as if
partly reading Cronos' thoughts, producing a knife from
somewhere. It caught a beam of light that glinted off its edge.
You didn't need to be a seasoned mercenary to see that it was
razor sharp. Frothgar opened the lid from a box that stood near
them, and a blackened wing took from it a fluffy yellow ball.
Warchild heard it piping in panic at the edge of his hearing.
Frothgar cut off a slice. He opened his horrific jaws and tossed
it in an casually as he could - which was not very. The piping
stopped after another few slices had been ravenously devoured.
The remainder Frothgar threw back in the box. The lid fell shut.
Frothgar laughed the laugh of the insane.
Warchild was getting very angry. Kidnapping the cutesy-wutesy
creatures was one thing, eating them with relish was another. God
or not, he would come to their rescue. Even Cronos himself didn't
stoop that low. Kidnapping, yes. Killing, sure. Torturing, why
not. Eating, no way.
He flexed his muscles, ground his wrists together. He had to
tear the rope. The hemp cut his flesh. He felt the warmth of his
own blood - more steroids than anything else - running across his
So far the rope didn't budge. Veins stood out on Warchild's head
and arms. There was a sound, barely audible. The sound of tiny
strands of hemp breaking. Then a few more. And more still. It was
getting louder now, the rope giving up the struggle it was doomed
to lose just because ropes generally do in this kind of story.
Frothgar the Merciless beheld the struggling human and grinned
with satisfaction. His minions had all been boyscouts. They knew
how to make knots.
He was about to eat his thoughts. A good thing thoughts
aren't famed for their substance, for one would have found it
hard to eat them with most of one's fangs knocked out by a human
who had just found ways of getting untied.
Ex-boyscout heads were going to roll.
Warchild had no idea where he was. He did know he needed to get
himself back in order again. His artificial hibernation had
wrought havoc inside his body. His heart beat incontrollably, he
sweated rather more than he would usually have, and he panted as
if he had just run a marathon on a quadruple grav planet.
He breathed in and out deeply several times. He looked around
him. Nobody seemed to be in pursuit - yet. The stench was still
vile. Frothgar's palace didn't appear to be particularly big but
the way out still seemed either too far off or too inconspicuous.
There was a sound coming from a adjoining corridor. Cronos
fumbled with the latch of the first door he saw, opened it and
dashed in. He closed the door about half a microsecond before a
couple of heavily armed Multifizzians rounded the corner.
Interestingly, the door had a large "D" engraved on it.
It was dark. Cronos fumbled around in it. He sincerely hoped
these creatures had invented light switches. Approximately three
seconds later, when his probing hands touched something like
leather which resulted in someone, or some thing, starting to
croon excitedly, he withdrew that hope. Whatever was in here -
and even a dimwitted person such as he had some startingly
definite ideas as to who it might be - he would like it a lot
better when unseen.
As if Deirdre had read his thoughts she deemed that moment
opportune to light a few candles. They shed their playful light
on a table set for two, located in the centre of what could
now be seen to be her boudoir. She had tried hard to think of
what a human might like for dinner. Half of it was still writhing
in a bowl, however, so it was rather obvious that her knowledge
of terrestrial gastronomy was, to put it mildly, utterly
nonexistent. Her sense of romance, too, seemed not particularly
well-developed - or else she would not have put on the pink party
dress she had masochistically squeezed herself into, nor would
she have put on what she obviously considered the epitome of a
nice background tune - Fart'n'Belch in Phrygian C Major by Tama
Bitegarden, Chief Composer to the Multifizzian Imperial Court.
And that still left out the Eau De Pigswil that wafted through
the room, clinging to her form.
"Finally," she purred in a way that would probably appear
exceedingly enticing to any Multifizzian, "me have you alone,
She moved in on him. Cronos retreated, not quite knowing what
he'd have to do to get out of this predicament alive - or at
least to get away unmolested.
"Do you find me...sexy?" she asked, lifting a few eyebrows in
wonder. The quality of her voice, some may have ventured to call
it 'husky' in a particularly Multifizzian way, could have made
the entire male population of the planet squirm in their seats.
She folded a wing behind her head and blinked about half a dozen
"Er..." Cronos said. He had never been good at giving
compliments - even worse now, what with there not possibly being
any to give.
This girl was very persistent. "No" wouldn't do for an answer.
She lifted her skirt somewhat, uncovering some more square inches
of leg - including some sores that appeared to be frothing,
oozing a dark yellow thick liquid of sorts.
Cronos Warchild hated having to hit women. He closed his eyes
for a second. Angry faces flashed by. Female faces, connected to
bodies with feet and hands that had hurt him, shattered his macho
self-confidence. An itch yanked through his groin for a fleeting
moment. It wasn't a pleasurable one. His fist flashed furiously,
fangs fell feverishly and a dress tore unsubtlely and rather too
Warchild had to tear his gaze off her - like many humans he was
as fascinated by sheer hard-core ugliness as by beauty - and
legged it. She followed him outside into the corridor,
staggering, muttering, trying to stop the blood pouring from her
lips from staining her now tattered dress. There was the sound of
armed guards close by.
"Me wanth hith headth," she bellowed inarticulately, "on a
The walls of the corridors rushed him by. They seemed too much
like a maze - but, then again, to someone with the mental
capacity of Cronos Warchild a T-crossing already resembled one.
He had to get out, and get out fast. He heard the clatter of
armour somewhere not too far behind him. Already the stench was
A couple of moments later he stood eye to eye with what was,
even to Multifizzian standards, one helluvan ugly mutha. This
particular specimen wore nappies and a NKOTB T-shirt. He was fat
- extremely so. When he saw Cronos he set his legs apart a bit,
put a wing on each knee, and began to hop slowly and
hypnotizingly from one leg to another, letting go of some gaseous
matter occasionally. Frothgar's personal minions had closed in
and were about to incinerate Warchild when the big fat ugly mutha
shook his head.
"No," he intoned with authority, "he mine, yes?"
The others lowered their weapons, but hesitantly. At least they
were in for some splattering and stuff.
Far away in space, on the Smelliest of all Planets, Cronos was
challenged to a match of Sumo Wrestling. To the death, most
His challenger licked his lips. There were no fangs, but instead
some kind of metal denture, the likes of which Warchild had seen
in a James Bond film once.
The fat ugly mutha grinned asininely. Someone was going to get
hurt seriously, and it surely wasn't going to be him.
Or at least that's what the monster thought.
Cronos decided he would have to take the initiative. No hopping
was needed. Instead he launched his ever tremendous bulk at the
beast. The collision shook the corridor, and after the laws of
physics had done some contemplating the both of them crashed into
- and through - a wall.
Well, at least they were outside now. It would do better for
this clash of the titans. Had Warchild finally found a matching
opponent? Frothgar's guards stepped outside after them.
The mutha shook his head, dazed slightly. A brick or two were
stuck between some of his wings. He shook them off.
"Wow," he said, "you strong, yes?"
Cronos nodded. This was going to be tough. Very.
Now the Multifizzian charged for the attack. A collision might
prove fatal, so Warchild stepped aside. The monster crashed
headlong into another wall. This time the particular bit of wall
against which he crashed appeared to have been made rather more
sturdily - it got damaged seriously, but didn't budge.
The monster got up and again shook his head. He checked himself
for wounds, only to end up gazing at his T-shirt, a fingered wing
pointing at the torn NKOTB logo, trembling.
"Now me angry," the beast bellowed, "and me kill you now, yes?"
This time the big mutha walked up to Cronos rather more
strategically and grasped our hero in an inescapable killer
embrace. Ribs could be heard, virtually cracking, still holding -
but not for long. Warchild couldn't breathe. He kicked the
monster in what he hoped would be a groin. The Multifizzian,
crying with pain and anger, threw the mercenary against the wall.
A scent of Incandescent Orchids spread itself.
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.