Zool III: Footnotes not included
                                             Episode 12: by Ralph Lovegrove

     AT what point does a gigawatt herring become a kipper?
     IS there such a thing as centipede/human duality?
     WHEN was the last public mule hanging in Britain?
     SHOULDN'T I be doing some work instead of writing this?
     PLOT? What plot?

     And now_

     "GM! We need a GM!" The conclavosaurus attempted to  lock its  frontal
lobes together between its head and buttocks and failed miserably.
     "Do not waste your time, foolish, slow, unlovely creature!" The  voice
came from a man-sized  bipedal lizardine  creature. "The  GM's are  arguing
with each other over system mechanics. I can now take control  - roll  over
conclavosaurus! Make way for the Psigeniraptor!"
     It was true. The next generation of manic paranoid schizophrenics,  in
a  streamlined,  lean,  mean,  sexy  package,  it could  carry on  paranoid
muttering for days without pause for breath. It could lie. It could  cheat.
And it plotted in packs unlike the  slow conclavosaurus:  which was  having
trouble  agreeing  between  its  personalities  what  it  would  have   for
breakfast.
     It was also completely irrelevant to the plot, so Glamorous shot it.
     "I've been waiting ages to shoot this off," she  said brandishing  the
discharged Phall-o-matic(TM).
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     With  a  deafening  row  that  sounded  like  Led Zeppelin's  farewell
concert, the huge yellow ships appeared over the ice-rink.
     "This is the Ministry! Come out with your psyche levels down!"
     "Holy  irrelevant  plot  device  from  an  alternate  reality!"  mused
Molin-Cax. The penguin  desperately searched  his alcohol  soaked brain  to
remember his last turnsheet. The claw-gloved  psychlo smiled  enigmatically
as her tall companion garrotted a hamster.
     "It's worse than I imagined: the author's psyche  is leaking  directly
into the storyline -" Clute stopped in mid-sentence and tore off the  latex
mask, "For I am not John Clute at all - I am_ Mrs. Miggins!"
     Somewhere in the distance pervaded the sound of many feet.
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     And on Zool death  planet where  the intractable  criminals of  10,000
worlds etc. the old woman tore off the latex mask,  crying "For  I am  none
other than_ John Clute!"
     "I suppose a cup of tea is out then," said the man in the pig-nose.
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     Glamorous picked her way through  the four  brawling figures,  getting
their attention with careful shots to the knee caps.
     "Look you lot, aren't you supposed to be advancing the plot?"
     "The plot doesn't need advancing! If we create enough tension  between
the characters we can slip out to the pub," said one of the figures.
     "No, no,  no. we  need a  firm logical  basis for  the environment  so
everything is consistent," said a second.
     "Have you seen the dice and tiddlywinks?"
     "I don't care about the bloody dice. I just want to cross-dress."
     "This is all your fault. We  were supposed  to attack  Earth and  thus
prevent 20,000 scientologists from going to the Brotherhood of Man  concert
causing a psychic death-surge  that sends  magenta power-waves  coruscating
into  the  ley-lines,  which will,  ultimately, cause  the re-emergence  of
flared trousers and sideburns_ do you know how badly  magenta clashes  with
turquoise?" David Icke pointed an accusing finger at Glamorous.
     "I thought you were attacking Earth in order to advance some  hideous,
inhuman plot that  defies definition.  At least  that's what  my Good  Guys
Megadeath Inc. brief was," said the galactic special agent.
     "Who  do you think resurrected ABBA?  It was  so bizarrely  improbable
that they would be popular the second time around that it warped the  whole
space-time continuum into a complete fashion change.  People simply  forgot
how crap it was the first time."
     "It's true! Already the forces of RAVE have  begun amassing,  sweeping
the northern hemisphere," said Lord Evil.
     "Are  you  trying  to  tell me  you're one  of the  good guys?"  asked
Glamorous, "Your name's Lord Evil, for goodness' sake!"
     "You're not exactly Mother Theresa yourself. Why  do you  think I  was
publicly  disgraced  by Terry  Wogan all  those years  ago? He  was a  RAVE
agent!" said David Icke.
     "If we don't  turn around  now we'll  miss the  rendezvous with  those
middle-eastern nutters," said Lord Evil.
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     Outside the concert, a group of  shady characters  dressed in  leather
armour with Def Leppard streaming out of  the earphones  of their  walkmans
conducted a heated argument.
     "This is all your fault, you and  your short-cuts.  We've missed  them
completely."
     "Don't talk to me like that. The memory moss incident was Lou's fault.
I lost a perfectly good horse. It was ecru."
     The  third  member  said  nothing,  taking  a  heavy  sniff  from  her
hankerchief.
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     "If  that's  the  four  horsemen  of  the  apocalypse, they're  riding
chickens," said Molin-Cax. Sure enough on the horizon  loomed four  figures
mounted on giant and many-legged forms of poultry.
     "Hah hah, now my master plan will be realised! Does anyone want a  cup
of tea before I start ranting?" asked Mrs. Miggins.

     CAN the end of the world be averted?
     CAN Glamorous take a hint?
     CAN anyone remember the plot?
     CAN anyone have ever enjoyed ABBA?
     CAN Matt make a coherent mess out of this?

     Read on...