The rising sun over the shores of Lake Eerie cast long shadows over a 
diverging pair of vehicles - a tank proceeding west and a hovercraft headed 
north.

	"Are you sure you won't come with us?" Vixen radioed towards the Rurouni. 
"We could use the backup."

	"No," hiro responded, "we have our own tasks to attend to. Though they 
were not involved in the project you are recovering components of, we must 
recover the crew and materials from the far-strung Otaku outposts in northern 
Canada. With the fall of Otakuland Prime's network they have lost all capability 
of requesting aid, and should be gathered as quickly as possible. Now that we 
are safely within Canadian territory we are capable of proceeding without 
Sherman's tactical support, and we shall not meet again until our arrival at 
Otakuland West. Farewell." The radio line went silent.

	Dave had mixed feelings as he watched the hovercraft pass out of sight. 
hiro and Kenishi had entrusted him, an ex-Pop Rocker, with a task they claimed 
was crutial to the future of Otaku 
everywhere. Did he have what it took to do the job?

	B1FF leaned back in his chair. "W311, it 100k5 1ik3 w3'73 0n 0u7 0wn fr0m 
h373."

* * * * *

FAQing Hostile:
Subcultural Mutant Otaku Versus the Mundanes
Chapter 18
By
J.M. Steadman and Clint Milton


(FAQing Hostile originally spawned by Twoflower)

* * * * *
	"What can you tell us about our current destination, Sherman?" Vixen 
asked.

	"The Otaku waystation we are seeking is attached to a factory run by 
Mechanized Propulsions Systems deep in the industrial zone of Old Detroit," the 
computer intoned softly. "MPS was one of the Otakuland's primary mechanical 
contractors during its construction stage and produced a number of Otakuland's 
early vehicles. All contact with the facility was lost, however, when the city 
was taken by the Dominion of Canada during the latter part of the war. 
Communicaton across the territorial lines being what it is, little is presently 
known regarding the city's inhabitants or the status of the factory."

	"A blank zone. I don't like it," Vixen muttered quietly. 

	"We had better make sure that all of our weapons are ready just in case. 
B1FF, take the newbie down to the weapons locker make sure everything is ready 
to use. Get those two K1boists to help, too."

	"7ight0, 5i5."

	"Vixen, I-"

	"Not now, newbie. I've got things to do," Vixen cut Dave off. Dave left, 
heading for the storage area. "Where are Rachael and Phreakachu?" 

* * * * *
	"Dave," Sherman called out.  Dave looked up from his stack of decoded FAQ 
pages.  He was beginning to feel discouraged.  So far, the revered document had 
contained nothing but obscure anime references, recipes, and odd one-liners that 
made no sense at all.  He sighed.

	"Yes, Sherman?"  Dave responded.

	"I've finished decoding the last four pages of the FAQ.  Would you like to 
see them now?"

	"So soon?  Ye . . . yes, I'll be back for them in a moment."

	"Understood, Dave."  This was the moment he had been waiting for.  With 
trembling hands he reached out and grabbed the last two pages.  His eyes scanned 
the first page, drinking deeply of the words written there.

	"So, you've finally made it this far.  The last two pages of the FAQ, 
decoded, lay before you.  All the meaningless silliness we've thrown at you 
haven't dismayed you.  Instead, it appears to only have fueled your 
determination to see this to the end.  Your determination is unmatched, your 
keen eyesight a definite asset to the team.  To congratulate you, we, the 
writers of the FAQ, have only one thing to say:
	baka."
	Dave blinked.  He didn't read that right, he was certain.  He looked 
again.

	"baka."  He read it right.  He kept reading.

	"baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka 
baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka 
baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka 
baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka 
baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka 
baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka . . ."

	With growing anger, he skipped to the middle of the page.

	" . . . baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka 
baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka 
baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka 
baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka 
baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka 
baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka 
baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka . . 
."

	Bile rising in his throat, Dave flipped to the second page.

	" . . . baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka 
baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka 
baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka 
baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka 
baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka 
baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka . . ."

	"All right, I get the idea!" Dave shouted.  He kept reading.

	"By now, we feel you've gotten the idea, so we'll explain what happened.  
The FAQ Code was written to weed out newbies and keep them busy.  We feel that 
newbies, while important to a growing Otaku society, can be a hassle.  While 
this happens mainly to converts from other Tribes, Otaku Newbies tend to try to 
force themselves into society without paying too much attention to the set order 
of things or to the very society they're trying to join.  The FAQ Code gives 
them something they can work on while at the same time it allows them to learn 
more about Otaku society in order for an easy transition into said society.  Is 
it a dirty trick?  Probably, but we feel in a few months or so you'll look back 
on this and laugh.  Well, maybe not laugh.  Maybe it'll be a small chuckle under 
your breath or something to that effect.  The point is this:  you're done, and 
hopefully you've learned about our wonderful society in the process.  Keep the 
FAQ close, and you can't go wrong.

	Newbie."

	Dave let the two pages slip from his grasp and fall to the ground, 
processing what he read.  He couldn't believe it.  His treasure, his new 
discovery, his passion . . . a joke?  A cruel hoax played on ALL newbies?  Even 
the writers of the FAQ thought he was a newbie?  They hadn't even met him, and 
had him pegged.  The words "hook, line, and sinker" revolved in his mind.  His 
hands balled up into fists.  Everyone's words flew back to him, "Idiot, baka, 
wanna-be. . ."  Faced with all this, Dave did the only thing that seemed 
natural.  He screamed.

	It was a loud, long, anguished scream that echoed all through Sherman.  In 
this scream, Dave poured all the emotions he was feeling.  All his anger, his 
sorrow, his feelings of rejection were released.  Each time he thought he was 
done, those words would surface again and he'd find new energy to pour into the 
scream.  When he was finished, he crumpled to the floor.  Gasping for breath, he 
managed to mumble a simple sentence over and over.

	"I'm not a newbie . . ."

* * * * *
	Deep in the living area for the Goth Tribe, their leader sat burning 
incense.  Suddenly he stiffened.

	"Trouble, sir?" a younger Goth asked, not quite managing to hide the 
concern on her face.

	"You didn't feel that," the elder replied.

	"Feel what?"

	"A wave of pure emotion.  I've never felt anything like it.  I barely 
managed to fortify my Aura of Apathy in time.  Even so, I wonder what could 
inspire such emotion . . ."  He shrugged, and went back to his incense.

	"Aren't you even curious, master?"

	"No, and you shouldn't be either."  The younger one shrugged.

	"Whatever."

* * * * *
	"AND, IN CONCLUSION, I WOULD LIKE TO SAY TO ALL MY OPERATIVES THAT . . . 
bzzzt."  The robed figure looked up at the screen to see snow.  Something has 
disrupted the feed between his computer and the Master's.  He tried to re-
establish contact, to no avail.  Sighing, he pressed Control-Alt-Delete to 
reboot his computer.  It was times like this he really wished he had been born a 
part of another Tribe -- something cool like the Pop Rocks.  At least they 
didn't have to worry about their Master having to be debugged.

* * * * *
	B1ff, Phreakachu, and Vixen were sitting in the cockpit of Sherman when 
they heard the scream.  Vixen looked at the screen in front of her while B1ff 
managed to get the girl in the poker game he was playing to remove her skirt.

	"H3 f1nn4ly m4n4g3d t0 d3c0d3 th3 F4Q," B1ff said, wiping the blood from 
his nose.

	"Yup," Vixen replied.

	"W3 pr0b4bly sh06ld h4v3 t0ld h1m."

	"Yup."

	"b6t h3 h4d t0 f1nd th3 tr6th f0r h1msl3f, r1ght?"

	"Yup."

	"Th1nk h3's m4d?"  There was a loud thunk, followed by the longest stream 
of curses any of them had ever heard.  Vixen was impressed when the curses had 
lasted five minutes without repeating a word.  She had even considered writing a 
few of those down.  She then went back to her screen.

	"Yup."

* * * * *
	It was about this time that Dave was joined by Rachel.
	"Well," she said, noncommittally, "that was loud."  Dave looked up.
	"Don't you have some candles to burn or something?" he spat out.
	"Aren't we in a snit?  Well, if you don't want company . . ."  She turned 
to leave when Dave stood up.
	"Wait!  I'm . . . it's just that . . .  well . . .  I'm sorry.  It's just 
that I've finally finished this project I was working on, and it was worthless.  
All this time, all my work, all for nothing."  His head slumped down in defeat.  
Rachel slowly walked back to him.
	"Look, if I cared or anything, I'd probably say something like `it's going 
to be okay,' or `just because your project was a failure doesn't mean that you 
are one.'  But I don't care -- don't forget that -- so I'm just going to say 
that Phreakachu and I are watching some tentacle anime, and you're welcome to 
join us."  Dave looked up into her eyes.
	"You're watching anime?"  Rachel stepped back and brought her right hand 
up to her mouth.
	"Er, well . . .  This stuff reminds me of home, and helps me understand 
some of our old rituals.  Phreakachu just likes the incense I burn.  Now are you 
going to watch, or sit here and wallow in self pity?"  Dave thought on this for 
all of five minutes.
	"I wish I could, but I've got to talk to Nick."
	"You could come by later.  We'll make it a . . . private session.  You 
know . . . one on one?"  Rachel narrowed her eyes and smiled sexily.
	"Sure, that sounds like fun.  Uh . . . is there something wrong with your 
eyes?"  Rachel sighed, and walked out.
* * * * *
	"So Nick, what's so special about this 'Evanston' place that you and 
Zircona are searching for?" Dave inquired as he compared the various racked 
weapons with a checklist B1FF had given him.

	"Evanston was once the capital of our people long ago," replied Nick as he 
nervously sorted through a crate of hand grenades. "But we were forced to 
abandon it when a great disaster of some sort struck. The details aren't fully 
clear, but we do know that it was the catalyst for the separation of K1boism and 
NeoK1boism. Father Ass-master believes that if we can find the 
Artifact of K1bo contained in Evanston's temple, we will have a new chance at 
defending ourselves against the surrounding tribes and at making peace with our 
lost brethren."

	"And all you know is that this place is somewhere in Chicago's general 
vicinity?" asked Dave. "Sounds kind of ambiguous."

	Nick grimaced. "Yes, well, quite a lot of K1boism is like that, 
unfortunately. That's another reason why we want to find Evanston again. It will 
give us a fresh look at our lost art."

	"Not unlike what we're doing."

	"In a sense."

	"Where are B1FF and Zircona?"

* * * * *
	"Ha!" Zircona said, laying down another tile.  "Play off that, I dare 
you."
	"1t41," B1ff  moaned, "4ll 1'v3 g0t 1s 0n3's."
	"Tough luck for you, I played a six/three.  Come on, cough `em up."  B1ff  
cursed and removed his pants.  Zircona accepted them and put them with the rest 
of his clothes -- in a pile next to her.  B1ff assessed the situation.  Another 
round like this, and he'd be completely . . .  He smiled briefly at the thought.  
She, on the other hand, had only lost her socks.  He didn't quite know if he 
could prove it, but he suspected her of cheating.
	"1'v3 h4d 3n0ugh."
	"Don't blame me, it was your idea to play strip dominoes.  Shall we just 
finish this game?"  She grinned evilly as he considered this thought.
	"0nly 1f y0u l3t m3 w1n."
	"We'll see."
* * * * *

	Sherman rolled through the streets of Detroit unchallenged. The landscape 
was pockmarked with the signs of many, many battles, yet the city itself seemed 
deserted. 

	"D00d, wh373 did 411 the p30p13 g0? Th353 ru1n5 a73 1n p73tty good sh4p3," 
B1FF mused aloud.

	"Aside from all of the cannibalized machinery," Vixen pointed out. "There 
are still people here, the question is, what are they doing?"

	Then the factory came rose into sight, and both questions were answered. 

	"Wow," said Dave.  The entire place was lit up.  Smoke and fire billowed 
from two giant smokestacks.  The drone of machinery was heard even through the 
walls of Sherman.  Numerous beat up old cars were seen driving in and out of the 
facility.  As they pulled closer, they could see people.  Lots of people.  
Oddly, most of them wore shirts with blue collars.  Less common were sights of 
people wearing shirts with white collars.  It was assumed that these folks were 
in charge, but this was only because they would point in one direction and the 
blue collared ones would head off over there.
	"I'd say," Rachel stated, barely managing to hide her awe, "they're busy 
working."
* * * * *

	"Sir," a white collared person said, kneeling before a rather large man in 
a Lay-Z-Boy recliner, "it appears we have visitors."
	"Visitors?" the large man replied.
	"Yes, Hoffa.  They came in a tank."
	"A tank?  God bless America!  Quick, fly the Union Label and bring them to 
me at once.  Send some Blue Collars to greet them properly."
	"At once, Hoffa."  The White Collar left quickly and the Hoffa 
straightened his chair.
	"Visitors . . . and in a tank.  They'll want to join us, I'm sure of it.  
America will be the great country it once was.  God bless America."
* * * * *

	Vixen and the others were led into a large chamber covered with numerous 
posters bearing strange words like IBEW or IBP.  The largest and most prominent, 
however, was an emblem bearing two horses behind a wheel of some sorts.  On the 
wheel was written "International Brotherhood of Teamsters."  Directly beneath 
this sat a huge man on a recliner.
	"You who are outsiders," a White Collar started, "bow before our 
Illustrious Hoffa; leader of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters, 
Protector of the American Way, and soon to be the Reuniter of All America."  
After this, numerous people shouted "God Bless America."  Vixen and the crew 
bowed in greeting.  The Hoffa laughed a deep, booming laugh that echoed in the 
room.
	"Travelers, huh?" he said, wiping his nose on his massive right arm.  
"What brings you to this neck of the woods?"
	"We were looking for a factory," Vixen replied.  Her eyebrows drew closer 
together in thought.
	"You seem puzzled.  What can I do ya for?"
	"That -- White Collar? -- called you Hoffa.  I thought Jimmy Hoffa ran the 
CAB out of New York."
	"The CAB?  Never heard of `em.  Anyway, Hoffa's not my name, it's my 
title.  My name's William, but friends' call me Billy.  You can call me Hoffa."
	"I . . . see."
	"My title's taken from the name of our greatest President.  Under Him, the 
Teamsters saw our greatest accomplishments.  We were united.  We were strong; 
indeed we were never stronger.  After the Great Split, we knew what it was like 
to be out of order, in chaos.  Then we received a prophecy: `A Hoffa will rise 
and mend what was torn.'  Since then, all our Presidents were called Hoffas.  
It's our goal to reunite all the Good Old US of A and bring back the glory of 
the American Way!"  Upon hearing this, the room broke once again into shouts of 
"God Bless America!"  Vixen, B1ff, and Dave tried very hard not to show their 
disdain for this idea.  The Hoffa looked down at the group.
	"That's our story, what about your's?  Tell us of your travels through 
this Great Land of ours."
* * * * *
 	"So you came through Lake Eerie, did you?" the Hoffa asked. "That's an 
impressive feat given the local patrols. And on a barge, no less. Good American 
ingenuity, that."

	Dave got up. "If it's alright with you, I'd like to see more of the 
factory. These machines you use are fascinating."

	"Sure," the large man agreed, taking a swig from his beer mug. "Dick can 
give you the full tour if you like." He waved a paw at another man who looked up 
from his pretzels.

"But Boss, I-"

	"No buts, Dick. It's in the union rules," the Hoffa interrupted. "Besides, 
these people have done us a favor by taking out some of the Canadians' fleet. We 
ought to indulge them just a little."

	"All right, this way." Dick grumbled as he led Dave off.

	Turning back to the rest of the Strike Team, the Hoffa continued, "I'm 
particularly interested to know how you managed to deal with the armored 
carriers on the lake. Nothing we've tried to date seems capable of breaking 
through the exterior plating."

	"Our tank wasn't able to break through it either, so we compromised," 
replied Vixen. "We rammed the carrier, blew a dent open in the side of their 
armor, and then fired a live shell into the dent. The heat from the shell killed 
off the crew inside the carrier, and we were able to escape." 

	"It w45 f7igging k001!", cried B1FF, holding the black box the Teamsters 
had given him aloft. "Th3 b4ttl3 w45 w0n in th733 hit5 - bump, b4ku541 t3nk3t5u, 
bl4m!"

	"I'm sorry, I didn't get all of that," said one of the teamsters. 
"Baksawahat?"

	"Bakusai tenketsu," Vixen corrected. "It's a Japanese attack capable of 
breaking through most stone and many common metals." 

	Silence fell across the gathering.

	"Um. Did you say... Japanese?" asked another of the Hoffa's men. The Hoffa 
himself said nothing.

	"Yes," replied Vixen, blinking. "We Otaku are students of the way of life 
exemplified by Japanese art and animation."

	That was when things got ugly.

* * * * *

	"You just HAD to tell them you were followers of a Japanese lifestyle, 
didn't you?" Rachel shouted, just barely audible over the numerous curses and 
harsh bursts of gunfire.  She was the last one into Sherman before the door 
closed.
	"Right," Vixen responded bitterly, "like we knew they'd react that way."
	"I think that would have been obvious, given their unswerving dedication 
to all things American."
	"S0 th3y'r3 b1g0ts, b1g d34l," B1ff stated, reading Sherman's main cannon.  
"1t's n0t l1k3 w3 c4n't t4k3 th3m d0wn."
	"Like it's that simple," Rachel replied dryly.
	"Shut up," Vixen snapped, "if you don't have anything constructive to say, 
just shut up.  Now we've got to find a way out of here."  Thunder rolled from 
the factory.
	"Funny, there wasn't supposed to be a storm today," Rachel mused.  Vixen 
opened the hatch and looked off toward the factory.
	"That's no storm."  She slammed the hatch shut.  "Sherman, power up and 
get ready.  Things are about to heat up."
	"Understood, ma'am," Sherman replied as thousands of little buttons lit 
up.  Motors hummed, and everything kicked into high gear.  The main screen fired 
up and the Otaku saw what was causing the sound.  Chevy trucks with heavy 
weapons mounted on the hoods led the charge, followed closely by various 
construction and dock working equipment loaded up with even heavier weapons.  
Vixen had a sinking feeling.  Her heart fell further when she suddenly 
remembered something.
	"Sherman, where's Dave?"

* * * * *

	Dave watched from the control booth as teamsters scrabbled throughout the 
factory, screaming about the "damn Japs who DARED encroach on their territory 
with their aluminum and plastic etc etc". Taking stock of his situation, things 
did not seem good. He was trapped in a building controlled by a hostile tribe 
while the rest of the otaku were blasting away at said tribe with heavy 
artillery. Not good, nope nope.

	It was nevertheless tempting, however, to listen to the voice buzzing in 
the back of his mind, to take up the gun Vixen had given him before the bonfire 
and strike a blow for Otakukind. But regardless of his impulses, he knew that it 
would do him little good. He was not a chosen warrior of the Kami. He was not a 
martial artist who could dodge angry Union bullets. He was not well-trained for 
fighting one-on-one, let alone twenty at a time.

	He WAS, however, thrown back against a control panel when a shell flew 
through the open gate of the factory, destroying a truck-tank that had been 
about to join the battle.

	"EZ Self-destruct sequence initiated. Core overload in thirty seconds," 
chimed the computer. "God bless America."

	Dave looked down at the red button beneath his palm and sweatdropped.

	"Crap." 

* * * * *

	"4n0th3r 0n3 b1t3s th3 du5t, s1s," B1ff called out.
	"Don't get cocky," Vixen snapped back, "this can't be all of them."  She 
was right.  The Hoffa's voice was heard over the loudspeaker.
	"You Jap-lovin' pukes!" he called out, "You make me sick.  How could you 
betray your country and turn your backs on the American Way?  Well, now you'll 
see what good, old-fashioned American ingenuity can do!  Let's fire up the 
Spirit of America!"  A huge tank rolled into view.  The main gun was an energy 
weapon unlike any that the Otaku had encountered before.  It did, however, seem 
oddly familiar.
	"Sherman," Vixen shouted, "what are the schematics on that gun there?"
	"It's a Matter/Anti-Matter cannon capable of doing significant damage once 
fired."
	"Define `significant'."
	"Unknown and not really relevant, as we won't be here to find out."
	"That bad, huh?"  The tank had no response.  "Sherman, if we pulled out of 
here at top speed, could we get away?"
	"Negative."  There was a low whir that steadily built in volume and pitch 
as the Spirit's main gun slowly began to glow.
	"This is it, folks, brace for impact!"  The whir built up to an extremely 
loud pitch, then suddenly died down.  The Hoffa's voice came over the 
loudspeakers again.
	"What's the problem?  What?  Those parts are from where?  JAPAN?!?"  About 
that time the hatch flew open.  Dave dropped into Sherman.
	"Folks," he shouted, "we got problems."
	"Wh4t d0 y0u m34n," B1ff replied, "th3 m41n gun'5 4 dud.  Chr1s1s 
4v3rt3d."
	"Uh, not quite."
	Ma'am," Sherman interrupted, "I'm detecting a huge energy surge in the 
factory.  Recommended course of action is a quick EVAC."
	"Take us out of here, Sherman, top speed," Vixen quickly responded.  They 
pulled out of Detroit just in time to escape the oncoming fireball.

* * * * *

	B1FF sagged with relief in his chair as Sherman passed beyond Detroit's 
city limits. "D00d, th4t w45 t00 int3n53." 

	"pika pika."

	Vixen shook her head. "We should consider ourselves lucky that it wasn't 
worse. Otaku technology can be unimaginably dangerous when in the wrong hands. 
Fortunately it doesn't look like they'll be building anything else soon. I 
wonder what we could have hit that could have caused an explosion like that." 

	Dave suddenly looked up. "Vixen, I-"

	"Not now, newbie, I'm busy," Vixen interrupted quickly. "Sherman, what's 
our projected course from here?"

	"It will take us two days to reach Chicago in order to drop off our 
passengers, Vixen," replied Sherman, "but there is no otaku waystation there. 
Once we have concluded our business 
there we will have to fight our way across the Canadian border defenses again in 
order to reach the next collection point in Des Moines, Iowa."

* * * * *

Sak's Notes: I don't have a whole lot to say here, partly because I have a 
couple of final exams in eight hours but mostly because preparations for said 
exams have allowed me precious little time to write much. I should have known 
better than to have signed up without double-checking the 
date, and Clint's really saved my behind by agreeing to tag-team with me. I'd 
like to extend to him my most heartfelt gratitude in preventing me from (yet 
another) skip.

Mechanized Propulsion Systems (MPS) is an actual organization working to build a 
functional anime-styled biped mecha.  Visit their web page at  for more 
information.

Clint's Notes: Well, folks, there you have it.  The first Tag Team Impro Chapter 
for FAQing Hostile.  I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it.  
Yes, some of the jokes were pretty bad.  I don't apologize for bad jokes, 
though.  That's just part of my sense of humor.

	In the interests of keeping the chapter (mostly) factual I did some 
research on the Teamsters.  Yes, that is their actual logo.  I think it looks 
cool, actually.  As for historical, it's pretty much true that the Teamsters hit 
their peak with Hoffa and haven't been as big since (thought they'll probably 
not admit it).  Most of my views on Unions managed to stay hidden, I hope.  If 
I've offended anyone in any way, shape, or form, I sincerely apologize and hope 
that the subject doesn't overshadow the fact that it's all in fun.

	As for my thanks, I thank Sakurambo for giving me a bit of a reprieve, as 
all I had planned was the end to the FAQ Code joke (running gags are good, but 
only if they have an end).  I also thank Blade Runner, Mad Max, and Monty Python 
for being constant sources of inspiration and entertainment.  The usual crew I 
always thank get thanks here too (you know who you are).  In closing, I'd like 
to thank the FAQing Mailing List (faqingauthors@egroups.com is the addy.  Sign 
up today if you're thinking about writing.  I'm not just the Moderator, I'm also 
a writer) for having some great fun and keeping me on that fine line between 
sanity and . . . normality.  That's all for now, catch you all on the next 
chapter of . . . well, whatever it is I'm going to be writing for next.

* * * * *

	The helitransport alighted in the center of the battlefield, and a swarm 
of recruited CAB mutants poured out, primed and ready to kick serious ass. 
Unfortunately, given the lack of any readily available targets, they had little 
option but to turn around and beat upon one another.

	Toby looked out silently over the landscape, from the flaming buildings to 
the groaning bodies strewn about, and sweatdropped.

	"It would seem that I'm a tad late."