While many people have suspected that the world is against them, very few of them are right. Those of them who are right probably figure that the world is meeting in dark corners or lofty towers. Tan wallpaper in a New Jersey brownstone doesn’t usually figure into it, which shows you just how much they really know. "Joe!" yelled the orderly, pushing through the crowds of spiky armor and dark suits amongst the potted plants and tasteful paintings of the Nemesis Union’s lobby. "Debatable Joe!" An arm stuck out of the crowd and waved. The orderly changed course and kept yelling. "The political group is ready for you!" He ducked under a massive shoulder spike, coming up in front of Debatable Joe to offer a slip of paper. "Room 2169, Mr. Joe." Debatable Joe took the paper, folded it once, and slid it into his pocket beside his impeccably folded handkerchief. "Thank you," he said. The orderly nodded. "Have a nice day," said the orderly. "Bwahaha." He disappeared into the crowd as Debatable Joe sighed and began to stroll towards the elevator. Jack as president was more of a complication than he’d expected. Joe’s lip twitched as he dodged a madly grinning girl with an offical Nemesis Union nametag: HELLO MY NAME IS Devilot BOW BEFORE ME. A World Dominator, he thought, and his lip twitched again. World Dominators made him edgy; they tended to be touchy, neurotic people who spoke like bad comics and built overly gothic Fortresses of Dominion. And now he might get stuck with them. Joe stopped in front of the elevator, which opened as he arrived. Joe had been content with a cushy condo on Miami Beach, enjoying the sun as a member of the Personal Tormentor group with full Nemesis pension. Nemesis was wonderful that way; the group had been founded to help villains who couldn’t hold full time jobs due to their evil commitments, and the steering committee always held true to that goal. The Personal Tormentors were one of the original factions, and Joe had always been comfortable in their ranks; if nothing else, the HELLO MY NAME IS Debatable Joe MUAHAHA nametag suited his personality nicely. Then the Union heard about Jack becoming President and it all went downhill. First, the Political group decided that they should take charge of his case, since he was now Personal Tormentor to the President. Of course, the Dominators heard about the cultists and the whole potential world destroyer thing, and now they wanted charge of Joe’s case. They didn’t even control the cultists, thought Joe sourly. He adjusted his tie as the elevator stopped and the door slid open. "Second floor," said the elevator. "Bwahaha." Joe walked down the hall towards room 2169, pausing to check his reflection in one of the wall mirrors as he went. He opened the door, revealing nothing but darkness. Great, thought Debatable Joe sourly. As soon as the door whumped shut behind him, a spotlight clicked over a single wooden chair and table set in the center of the room. Melodrama, he thought. The political group usually went for nice conference rooms with comfortable office furniture; the Dominators had to be involved in this. "Debatable Joe," boomed a voice from the darkness. "Nemesis to Controversial Jack, former fruitcake at large, current President of the United States, and nominee for Antichrist. Despite your somewhat checkered record, we continue to support your efforts." Joe pushed his glasses up with two fingers and folded his hands. "I have always been prepared to drive Controversial Jack further beyond the edge." "It seems," rasped another voice, "That you are frequently more prepared to ‘chill’ on Miami Beach. However, the Jack question has come to demand a greater response." Papers shuffled in the darkness. "I am not certain that I see any record of you actually doing anything to torment Controversial Jack," said the booming voice. "However, your experience with his modus operandi does render you uniquely qualified to continue your campaign against the President." Joe continued his confident stare into the darkness, ignoring the ache of an impending case of eyestrain. "Controversial Jack cannot stand in a position of power. Soon enough, an enraged public will remove him. It’s a matter of time." "Nevertheless," said a new voice, deep and clear, "He cannot be removed without an impeachable offense. No mere lynch mob can penetrate the Secret Service. He must be stripped of his office before our contract can be fulfilled, or we must accept the collateral damage of a strike against the President in office." The rasping voice joined in. "Controversial Jack must be eliminated before he can change those modern circumstances which have proven so prosperous for us. To insure your success, Debatable Joe, we are providing you with an advisor. He is a veteran nemesis; in fact, he was your predecessor as Personal Tormentor to the President." A gray-haired figure in a dress shirt and tie stepped out of the darkness. He carried a simple leather attache case, with a small seal of the President of the United States on its side. A black ‘X’ ran across the center of the seal, and there was plenty of room left beside it. The man stepped forward and offered his hand to Debatable Joe. "Debatable Joe, Kenneth Starr," said the booming voice. * * * * * Improfanfic / Fan Art HQ / Spoof Chase Productions presents: CONTROVERSIAL JACK AND THE FALL OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION Part 4: The Jack Gazes Also By Tim Harahan Based on Controversial Jack, created by Yves Belanger Improfanfic created by Stefan Gagne All C&C appreciated to harahan@uiuc.edu Most resemblance to persons living or dead is quite intentional, but that's parody for ya. ______ | You must be at least this tall to read this story. | | | | | | * * * * * The interrogation cell may have been dark, Tim Jenkins’ smile was trying to brighten it up. Not very well, but it was a good effort, and Tim always believed in making the best of a bad situation. Heck, President and Destined Master Jack had even come to his interrogation, and PaDM Jack still had the cool black robes Tim had dressed him in at the ceremony. "So," said Agent Rocksteady. "Let’s review. You kidnapped the President because your cult felt it was his destiny to rule the world?" Tim nodded. "His [DESTINY]," he said. "Rule with our dark lord." "That’s really cool," said Jack. "How do you talk in brackets like that? Even Mr. Duck can’t talk in brackets." "It just happens." Tim’s smile grew. "Anybody can do it if they really believe." "Ah-HA!" Jack struck a pose, one hand pointed skywards. "So, if I believe hard enough, I can say brackets for anything!" Agent Rocksteady ducked a stray spike of hair as Jack spun around and ducked out the cell door. "Guard! Get in the kitchen and bring me some [CHEESE]!" Jack nearly fell over laughing, a mad grin on his face. "YES!" Tim got a warm feeling inside, even though Agent Rocksteady told him he’d be in jail for the rest of his life. * * * * * Mavis elbowed Wendy as she walked behind the counter of Clyde’s Diner. "Check out table three." Wendy looked up from her tray. "What, the business types?" "Yeah." Mavis jerked her head towards a table by the window, where two men were arguing over coffee. One wore a simple dress shirt and tie, while the other was dressed in an impeccably pressed tan suit. "They’re getting better." "Reporting on his personal life won’t help," said the suit. "He’ll just laugh and demand cheese. If you don’t grab his duck, you’ll never get his attention." "Forget the duck; he’s got interns. You don’t need ducks if he’s got interns." "That was a one time opportunity. Another approach is required now." "That Jane’s more than enough. Just watch her, and you’ll get him." "You do realize that it’s in our best interest to get the duck and be done with it." "You can’t report on a duck! The media will never go for ducks! That’s what interns are for!" "It’s like ping-pong," whispered Wendy. Mavis grinned. "Yeah." She picked up a fresh pot of coffee. "We should be taping this." * * * * * "Sure," said Miss Jane. She got up from the desk in the Oval Office’s anteroom and waved Anne in. "Go right in; I was just going on break." Anne Lysias stared at the love beads in the Oval Office’s door frame, wondering if she should really be here. Miss Jane’s high-heeled footsteps receded behind her. For years, she’d lived with Jack, bailing him out of trouble and trying to get him into a normal job. Now, though, she wondered if there hadn’t been a little bit of overkill in the job hunt. McDonald’s, she could see, even if the little hat wouldn’t fit; maybe a nice sales job, though, or Sears. Jack could really be very persuasive when he wanted to be. She sighed, picked up the lunch tray of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and pushed through the love beads. At least with Tim Jenkins gone she could get him to have normal lunches instead of those harp seals patties. Agents Rocksteady and Granite nodded slightly to her from the far wall, while Jack waved as she entered. He was still wearing those black robes, though they were open in the front, revealing his usual shirt and tie. Anne’s mind jumped up to several thousand RPM rationalizing, before explaining to her that, since he had a job, he could wear a uniform. Yeah. "Look, it’s not that hard," said Jack. Anne’s brain looked at the mind, shook its cerebellum sadly, and flicked the rationalizer into smile and nod mode while she put the tray down and took a seat. "You don’t need to find the Chicago Bears’ passing game! Just a duck, an ordinary extraordinary rubber duck! Except she’s a she, really, not like my friend Jane." Anne paused, brain and mind snapping back into normal action, remembering Jack asking about the FBI’s phone number yesterday. Sears, she thought. He would have done so well at Sears. "Look, it’s love! True love! You can get the drugs later, it’s time for a happy break. Get ducks, not schmucks!" Jack threw the phone in the air, watching it spin end over end three times before clacking neatly into the cradle. He pumped his arm and spun around in his chair triumphantly. "Boo-yah!" Anne blinked, counted to three and back (this wasn’t serious enough for a tenner), and offered Jack a sandwich. "Do you want some peanut butter and jelly, Jack?" "Thanks." Jack grabbed the sandwich and took a bite. "Not bad," he said. "Not like Tim’s, but at least I’m not getting psychedelic without my permission on these." Anne nodded. "So how’s the Presidency going?" "Pretty wacky," said Jack. "America knows me, cults love me, and the FBI is on a mission of love and justice for Mister Duck. He’s been pining, lately." Like most of America, Anne smiled and nodded, just as the phone rang again. Jack snatched it up, hanging the remaining half of his sandwich on a convenient spike of hair. "Hello?" He grinned and looked up at Anne. "Oo. Sounds evil; I’m gonna put it on the speaker." Jack punched a button on the phone, and a smooth voice came out of the Oval Office’s sound system. "Is this the office of Controversial Jack?" asked the voice. "Oh yeah, baby." Jack kicked back and wedged the top of the phone in his hair, letting it dangle next to the sandwich. "The man, the plan, the canal. Panama!" There was a pause on the other end of the line. Jack crossed his arms behind his head. "You do seem to be doing pretty well, Jack," said the voice. "Tell me, now that you have the United States, what’s next?" "Hard to say." Jack shrugged. "I mean, I shot the moon, did the cult thing, and now it’s lunchtime. Tell me, do you dig on dolphin or tuna in your sandwich? Tim’s gone and we’re out of harp seal, so I’m not sure what to stock up on." "Ooo." The voice oozed sympathy thick enough to use as hair gel. Jack grabbed some and reinforced the spikes holding his phone. "Such tragedy. I’d think that the leader of the free world should be able to get what he wanted for lunch." "Damn straight!" yelled Jack, plucking the sandwich half out of his hair and brushing it off. "You should go to the Canadian embassy and demand more harp seals," said the voice. "As tribute to your reign." Jack blinked. "Yeah, and then I could demand that Mexico make shoes! That was one of my campaign promises, you know, when I was lying to the evil corporate wage slaves to win their support or get chased. That’s fun." "Can you speak up?" said the voice. "My tape recorder’s not catching all of this." Anne jumped out of her chair. "Jack-" "I said I could demand that Mexico make shoes, like I said in my campaign," repeated Jack. "As long as Canada was giving me harp seals. So they wouldn’t feel left out." Oh my God, thought Anne. We’re in trouble now. "Thank you," said the voice. "Now, I would recommend that you settle this at the United Nations, so you can speak with them both at once." "Actually, the United Center’s cooler," said Jack, taking a bite out of the sandwich. A sigh came through the phone. "Address the world at the United Nations, or you and your duck are on CNN." "Wuh?" said Jack. There’s no place like Sears, thought Anne frantically. There’s no place like Sears. "Tape, Jack." The voice slowed down and enunciated every syllable like a mildly psychopathic English teacher. "I’ll send this tape to CNN, and you can answer the allegations yourself. Your administration will crumble under international outrage, and you will be forced to resign. You will live in misery, Jack! If I get bored, I’ll steal your duck, too! MUAHAHAHAHA!" Jack sat bolt upright in his chair, sending the phone receiver thrashing dangerously in his hair. "Joe?" The voice coughed. "No, no, no Joes here. It’s rather arguable that there even is a Debatable Joe." "You sounded just like my old pal Debatable Joe," said Jack. "He knew all these guys in New Jersey with name tags that sounded like that, except they weren’t so enthusiastic." "So you will address the UN?" "Hell yeah!" said Jack. "I’m not doing anything Monday. See you there, unJoe!" The voice cackled with triumph. "Excellent. Oh, and Jack?" A grumble crept into the voice. "Your intern’s hot," it said quickly. "Only the best!" Jack polished off the last of the sandwich. "Bye!" The phone clicked, and Anne exhaled. "Do you realize what you just did?" yelled Anne, smashing the lunch tray over Jack’s head. Peanut butter and jelly hung impaled on its spikes, dripping over the phone receiver. "You agreed to demand tribute from Canada! And Mexico! You’re going to start a war!" "Nah." Jack waved her off, skimming peanut butter out of his hair with one finger. "I just told the unJoe that. I’m just going to speak my mind, sis. What’s wrong with that?" Anne buried her head in her hands as Agent Rocksteady’s grip closed on her arms. "What?" "I’m sorry, ma’am, but we can’t permit random assaults on the president." "See ya, sis!" called Jack, as Agent Rocksteady dragged her back to her suite of rooms. "Don’t worry," said Rocksteady as they passed through the love beads. "You’re family, so I’m just taking you to your room; the President left instructions about this." Anne drew a red line through her mental image of happy Sears name tags. * * * * * "Did you mention interns?" "Yes, all right? Are you happy now?" "Excellent. Soon, the report will begin, and he will be mine!" Wendy and Mavis stood next to the counter, with several patrons watching next to them. One patron edged closer to Wendy. "Can you save my spot?" he asked. "I gotta tell my brother about this." All right, thought Wendy. "Five bucks." The patron forked over the cash, pulled out a cell phone, and walked over to a quiet corner. "We are dealing with the man himself here; can’t you think of anything besides interns?" "Who needs more? They're politics." The microwave dinged, and Mavis took out a bowl of popcorn. It went on the counter, next to the tip jar. Dollars dropped into the jar, and hands dipped into the bowl. "I’ll make this crystal clear for you; rubber ducky is the one!" "Don’t tell me about your bathtime." The patrons started bobbing with the beat of the suit’s head hitting the table. * * * * * Dank waters trickled through the sewers of Washington D.C. as five superdeformed shoggoths wriggled from their cards at the leader of the Hawaiian chapter of the Cult of Armageddon. He considered them carefully, fingering the ritual lea that rested on his woven-grass ceremonial robes. "I want two," he said, dropping two of his cards on the table. The SD shoggoths on the backs of his cards warbled their displeasure at being discarded, while the brown robed Washington representative dealt him two more. "Two you get." The Washington representative glanced around the table, flicking the deck between his hands. "Anybody else?" A rainbow of colored robes around the table failed to nod. "All right, then, let’s see them." Those who consider the superdeforming of eldritch horrors unusual have never seen a chapter meeting of the Cult of Armageddon, or the poker night which inevitably follows. Tonight was quite normal, for people who delve into the mysteries of hell on slow weekends. "Wait," said a voice from the corner. The local representative sighed as Imelda Marcos leaned out of the shadows in the corner. Candles burned to either side of a tiny altar before her. A small heap of Nikes lay on it, next to an empty cocktail glass. "Tell me, when do we strike against Controversial Jack?" "Later," snapped a blue-robed Chicago cultist. He shook his head. "Who exactly nominated her for Antichrist?" The Hawaiian cultist raised his hand. "Patience, my friend. In time, she’ll do her spinny-head thing for you, and you too will believe." "I still feel that brother Jenkins was right," said the Washington cultist. "Controversial Jack is the true Antichrist. Does Imelda even have the birthmark?" The Hawaiian cultist ignored him. "Check this out, brothers." He lifted a large bag of high-heeled shoes from under the table. Imelda eyed him as he bowed before her altar and poured the shoes out onto it. "Behold, great one," he said, "I give unto you this sacrifice." The Hawaiian cultist’s lea somehow remained clean as he kowtowed on the grimy floor. The cultist sat up and pulled a bottle from underneath his robes. He pulled its cork, and wine flowed into the cocktail glass. "In additional devotion, I freshen also thy drink. Ia, ia, Imelda fthagn." Imelda stared at him suspiciously, sipped her drink, and gasped as the room began to swim. She barely noticed the shoes on the altar catch fire, and only faintly caught a dim voice, fading away. "See?" it said. "The spinny thing. Is that evil or what?" - - - It is often believed that the power of a sacrifice is related to the exact way in which the offering is sacrificed. Thus, cultists through the ages have sacrificed animals and even people when dealing with darkness, believing that the destruction of life would please the powers of disaster. What they never realized is that objects have power beyond just fulfilling the event; the object being sacrificed played a much greater part than simply getting burned or chopped on the altar. Take the modern high-heeled shoe, for instance. Fashion touches the shoe, demanding that women wear it. Pain touches the shoe, as the wearer inevitably suffers from the unnatural posture her foot is forced into. Science touches the shoe, in its increasingly technical design, as does environmental damage from some of the materials. Throw in a pinch of human cruelty on the part of the labor, and here and there high-heeled shoes can be found which reek of humanity and evil much more strongly than foot powder. Few cultists actually use high heels, as shoe burning lacks the glamour of a nice virgin sacrifice, but liberal-minded cultists have found shoe burning quite useful as more and more virgins carry mace and learn karate. Two dozen such shoes have just been sacrificed to Imelda Marcos, and the powers under earth are pleased indeed. - - - The sewer was gone, lost somewhere in the abyss of foggy water molecules long left behind. Imelda saw the world as a kaleidoscope of interwoven chances, suffused with a reddish glow. Maniacal laughter and damned screams drifted from somewhere beneath her, while clockwork gears ticked of the seconds between now and not-yet. She flew through space, coming out of a tunnel lined with anteaters of the soul into another tunnel. The bells of a train crossing dopplered past her at the junction. The walls were tiny flickering dots, forming a massive pixelscape around her. Letters formed around her, keeping pace with her flight as she shot down the tunnel. RL: WHAT WILL TURN CONTROVERSIAL JACK TO EVIL? Imelda wanted to laugh; it seemed so simple, on the edge of her mind. Breaks appeared in the tunnel, each containing a tiny human outline, its hair spiked as only one man’s could be. Pentagrams and mystic symbols encircled some; demons and angels stood by others. The outlines were attacked, bound, struck down, and hounded in every way known to the underworld. The pixels of the letters broke up, vanishing in a flare of sparks behind her. New ones formed, only to her right and left this time. Outlines in torment occupied the rest of the tunnel. RL: DON’T TAKE MY CARDS. It was fascinating. The outlines stood, in every case, continuing to crawl, walk, run from their tormentors. Pentagrams broke, demons fell into their own traps, angels vanished, their missions complete. RL: RELAX. Imelda shuddered. Over half the outlines around her were free of their tortures. Some dropped back, but all were turning towards her as she went. Breaks began to appear in the tunnel, with pinpoints of starlight and black black space coming through them. RL: THE TROUBLE IS MEANS. THE VIBE-O-METER DOESN’T SHOW EVIL IN THE WHITE HOUSE. THE NEEDLE STICKS ON TRIPPY, RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE SCALE. They really don’t know, she thought. They really really don’t know. "He’s a man," she muttered. "Just a man, just a man, can’t turn him like a devil, have to turn him as a man." She began to giggle as the outlines turned towards her, almost all free now. They were laughing, too. Staring at her and laughing. Not with her, either; each and every one had a tiny Jack-smile which said, quite clearly, I Know Something You Don’t Know, And You’re About To Find Out. RL: I DON’T UNDERSTAND IT. "Just a man," she repeated. "Man man man. Turn a man, buy a man, take a man; can’t ward or seal man." The outlines, nodded, laughing, encouraging. CJ: SO WHAT? Imelda shuddered. The tunnel shattered into abyss around her, leaving the figures behind. It was cold, so very very cold. "Man." Light streamed past her oscillating in width from zero to one; probability, she thought, and wondered how she knew. The streams shot past her, growing thicker, forming a constellation before her. It was stopping in front of her, slowing its advance, and she hurtled towards it. Tiny red spikes throbbed in and out of the threads of light, like some twisted rose’s stem. More and more threads whipped past her, almost a tunnel of their own, claiming her even as she discovered them. "The promised day approaches," she whispered. The streams whipped apart and curled around each other, forming double helices of fact which streamed into the tangle before her. It twisted, broke apart, and began to congeal into a titanic spiked hairdo, drifting in space. Towers of red rose into the heavens, and the massive construct began to turn. It was grinning, Imelda knew; he was always grinning, and his [DESTINY] would be a grinning disaster. She saw the truth, for an instant, and screamed as she sailed towards the giant head’s mouth. Courses of action began to dance before her as the vision began to form words, giant and soundless. FUNKY VISION, IMELDA. "I will destroy you, Controversial Jack," she screamed. I LIKE. "And all that you hold dear!" - - - The cultists glanced from their cards to Imelda and back as she slumped over the altar, scattering the remains of heels and muttering unintelligibly. The New Yorker raised one hand to point at her. "No more shoes for that girl." "Does she always do that?" asked the Washington cultist. The Hawaiian nodded. "Ayup." "Does she really mean anything?" "Usually." The Hawaiian cultist twiddled his ceremonial leia. "Not to worry, my brothers. We have heard her warnings before, and dispatched appropriate forces." "Don’t hurt him." The Washington cultist frowned under his cowl. "He may still prove the Antichrist." The Hawaiian waved one hand idly. "However. Controversial Jack will be watched at the United Nations tomorrow; perhaps his conduct will prove to you once and for all the superiority of Imelda." He lifted his cards. "Now, I require your souls." "Excuse me?" asked the Sunnydale cultist. The New Yorker dropped his cards and folded his arms. "You are aware that I know the mystical secrets of W’hup-Asz." "Kidding, kidding." The Hawaiian cultist slapped his cards face-up on the table. "But you better beat a full house, or I’m taking the robes off your backs." * * * * * Across town, almost in the opposite corner of the sewers, a collection of men in red robes milled about. Red robed caterers worked tables set up below a large 'Welcome Illuminati of the Globe' banner, working sign-ins for out of town Illuminati and handing out 'HELLO MY NAME IS fnord’ nametags. Lesser initiates, marked by their bright red sweaters, handed out drinks to the brothers as one of them stepped up to a podium with ‘The Truth is Right Here’ etched on it. "Brethren," he announced. "Your attention, please, my fellow masters of the world." He put his cup of water down on the podium as the assembled Illuminati turned to face him. "It has come to our attention that our pawn, known to the masses as Controversial Jack, has gone underutilized in recent months. With this gathering, we correct that error." The room grew quiet as he continued. "Power, as every initiate, knows, is a matter of means and will. We have granted Jack the means; we need simply direct his ample will to our task." The lights dimmed slightly as a spotlight snapped onto the podium. "Our brethren of Sunnydale have granted us the means to begin this latest reshaping of the world, if we can only direct the assembled might of the Illuminati to accomplish it." A handful of robed figures raised their hands and waved. The speaker noticed and extended an arm to them. "To our Sunnydale chapter, our thanks." Dramatic classical music began to play softly in the background, piped through the sewers with all the secret knowledge of Illuminated stereo buffs. "Gentlemen, the world awaits the flapping of a butterfly’s wings to launch a new era. The butterfly’s name is Jack, and tomorrow, our agents will insure that his wings flap true." Cheers echoed through the sewers of Washington D.C. * * * * * "Fine. First the intern, then the duck. Happy?" "Quite." A pause. "Maybe this will work out after all," ventured the suit. Mavis sniffed and handed a napkin to one of the hot dog vendors, who had broken out sobbing. "They made up," said the vendor. She hiccuped, blew her nose into the napkin, and tucked it behind her cash belt. "I thought they’d never make up." "Let’s go," said the grey-haired one in the shirt and tie. "We have a big day tomorrow." A chorus of ‘awww’s broke out, and the two men, troubles behind them for the moment, turned slowly to stare at the crowd. The crowd stared back for a moment, then began applauding. * * * * * The main chamber of the United Nations echoed with displeasure as Controversial Jack and his entourage stepped onto the floor. Rumors and leaks had spread news of his plans, which, depending on who you asked, ranged from American declarations of world peace to plans for global seal-clubbing parties. Regardless, Jack had arrived, and was marching to the podium, flanked by Agents Rocksteady, Ferrite, Granite, and Smithers. Television cameras from dozens of stations worldwide turned their cameras on him, capturing every detail of his dress shirt and ceremonial robes, not to mention his stars and stripes tie. Illuminati agents exchanged secret signs in the audience, while cultists watched from their hiding places as Jack stopped beside the podium, waiting to be announced. "The chair recognizes Controversial Jack, President of the United States of America." Controversial Jack nodded to the chairman, adjusted his name tag (HELLO MY NAME IS Jack PEACE KICKS ASS), and took his place at the podium. He didn’t bother arranging his notes; he didn’t have any. "People of the world," said Jack, "I come before you today to point out a heinous lack in our modern society. Through shortfalls of the world economy, society, hegemony and stereophony, honest citizens like me can’t even get the harp seal patties we want for lunch!" He looked pleadingly at the cameras. "That’s really sad, isn’t it? But we have nothing to fear but fear and cigarettes, so let’s correct this tragedy!" Diplomats glanced uneasily at each other. "I’m in charge of America, so I say we use Canada as a chicken and seal ranch with part-time hockey camp, and let Mexico get rich making shoes for our brave chicken ranchers. Extra space can be exploited for nerf herding, so lunch will be safe forever!" The assembled diplomats shifted uneasily. They had seen hot wars, cold wars, and grown men banging shoes on the tables whenever they felt like it, but never anything quite like the individual now before them. "Any questions?" asked Jack. A hand rose tentatively, and Jack waved to it. "What’s up?" "The chair recognizes the ambassador of Canada." "Just what was that speech on?" yelled the Canadian ambassador. Jack grinned. "I’m high on life, baby! And Pepsi! If everybody was high, Columbia would be rich, and people would have cool visions all day long! Until they died. But drugs are bad, so that is too, and Columbia makes coffee, so it won’t happen. Mister Duck will now elaborate." Jack pulled out the Vice President, who squeaked obligingly. The squeak echoed in the chamber. A nasty suspicion that the Americans had finally gone over the edge began to seep into hundreds of diplomatic minds, many of which had the ears of world leaders. "Thank you, Mister Duck! Mister Duck, everybody; this guy knows what he’s talking about." Another hand went up in the audience. "The chair recognizes the ambassador of Djibouti." A tall black man with glasses stood in the audience. "Yo," said Jack. He grinned lazily. "What’s shakin’?" The Djibouti ambassador adjusted his glasses. "Mister President, could you explain how you see fit to make these declarations, especially in such a ridiculous outfit?" "Ridiculous?" Jack’s fist slammed into the podium, and a tingle began to build in the pit of his stomach. "You of all people, except for my Satanist assistant Timmy who hooked me up with his own robe collection, should realize the importance of spanky robes in global domination! The world is secretly run by people who wear funky robes to work, some of whom live in the sewers of Sunnydale, California!" The tingle grew. A moment was coming. "And they get these cool swords and things, too!" A moment greater than his first lynching at Sister Marie’s Finishing School. "It’s only appropriate that controversy come in the spanky robes of genuine non-imitiation world rulers!" Jack leaned over the podium. "Especially when those spanky-ass robes are made in America, because we do cool cars." His fist shot into the heavens. "Buy [AMERICAN], commies!" The Illuminati grinned; their moment of chaos was imminent. The Armageddon cultists began to chant softly, preparing, just in case someone tried to interfere with Jack. Antichrist or not, evil like this demanded protection. Debatable Joe fingered his fake press pass and turned to Kenneth Starr. "See?" He pointed to the podium. "No interns necessary." Sweet, thought Tim Jenkins, watching CSPAN in Leavenworth Prison’s TV room. He's really wearing the robes, and I gave them to him. Hundreds of trained diplomats felt their training fade into the background, replaced by a growing urge to set aside their differences in a common goal; the elimination of Jack. Being diplomats, fighting was not necessarily the first thing that sprang to mind, though some did begin entertaining thoughts of war. And in a neatly furnished sewer chamber beneath Washington DC, Imelda Marcos clutched her head and moaned. "No," she groaned, "It begins." HAS CONTROVERSIAL JACK STARTED WORLD WAR III? WILL THE COMMIES BUY AMERICAN? WHAT ARE THE ILLUMINATI PLANNING? JUST WHAT WAS IN THAT DRINK IMELDA HAD, ANYWAY? WILL WE EVER KNOW? FIND OUT NEXT WEEK, SAME JACK TIME, SAME JACK CHANNEL, ONLY ON CONTROVERSIAL JACK AND THE END OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION!