ABDUCTED!

Yes, well, Mr. Finn is very clever. He succeeded in making us disappear for a few weeks. All of us, I mean. But we are back, and we are better than ever I KNOW THAT'S A CLICHE MR HOLMES! THAT'S WHY IT'S FUNNY!

Anyway, I have for whatever reason been selected to relate the story of the tale.

It was between Christmas and New Year's, that wonderful week you just lay around and do whatever you feel like (Mr Holmes if you yell at me any more about generalizing I'm going to generally throw you out that window). Seeing that Mr Holmes, Mr Watson, Mr Stormfield (it's Mr when I say so, sir, and what are you going to do about it?), and I had all, in the main, recieved gifts of one kind of alcohol or another, we may or may not have been sitting around the apartment in a sort of stupor. Even those of us with twelve rock hard abs have our limits.

There was a knock at the door. Stormfield, having the best sea legs of all of us, went to answer it. Standing there was a tall man, in knights' dress. We were all very impressed by his appearance, and as I hinted, a bit too out of it to be suspicious when he said, "Did my preciouses have a nice Christmasss?"

We said yes, we had, and would he like any kind of alcohol? He named it, we had it.

But no, he said, he was just stopping in for a minute. He would, however, like it if we would all step into the sack which he opened and spread on the ground for us. So, being good Americans, and wanting to oblige our neighbor, we stepped in and arranged ourselves as he instructed. Then (but I'm sure the intelligent reader can see this coming) he tied up the sack. The last thing I remembered hearing was something about a time warp, and then:

"Now my preciouseseseseses, I'm going to send you straight to HELL!"


I woke up with a splitting headache. The sack was still around us, but of course there was enough strength in my fingernail to shred that. I stood up, and woke the others up. They moaned. Holmes said, "Where are we?"

And Watson said, "Hell, didn't you hear?"

"Wasn't there something about a time-warp?" said Stormfield.

"Are we in... future Hell?" said Watson.

"Ah," Holmes said, as if something had just made sense. "We are. Mr. Finn sent us to Hell in the future, to prevent someone from pulling a descent into Hades and bringing us back."

I was confused.

"Ancient mythological plot device," said Holmes. "The descent into Hell to rescue somoeone who died before their time. However, Finn seems to have arranged it so that if someone did attempt that (and I don't know who would), we would not be there-here-yet, so the attempt would fail. I must say, he's covered all his bases."

So we began to wander future Hell. We wandered past Hillary Clinton, and Bill, who let out a girlish yelp at the sight of me. Barack O'Bama was there, and the Dixie Chicks--and tehre was Lucifer himself, forked tail curling, sulphur shimmering off him. But he was staring... at a gigantic big-screen TV. And suddenly Mr Holmes exclaimed:

"This isn't Hell! This is the Democratic Convention!"

Which explained the wailing and gnashing of teeth.

After that, of course, things were simple. I had a jewel buried in my sword, The Dread Gem of Ancient Lost Commikon, which had the unique quality of being able to undo a time-warp. Soon we arrived back here, plotting our revenge.

A CONAN FAMILY CHRISTMAS

So, Stormfield (Yes, yes, I know, it's CAPTAIN) has been all hot on this Christmas thing. 'We've got to get a Christmas tree,' he says. 'We've got to give each other presents,' he says. 'We've got to drink eggnog and get in the holiday spirit,' he says. 'We've got to give money to the poor.'

'Give money to the poor?' I say, in what I think of as my normal voice, but which others APPARENTLY consider bellowing. 'Why just do that now? Why not the rest of the year?'

Stormfield looks at me like I'm a small child who's just been used by Krakechokahawa to say something profound. 'Look at it this way,' he says, after a moment of floundering. 'DO you give money to the poor the rest of the year? Do most people, that you've noticed?'

I consider. 'No.'

He nods as if that explains things. 'Very well, then.' (As far as I can tell that expression is not so much a meaningful phrase as it is a verbal or conversational hiccup. (Mr. Holmes said I should put that in. And also not to tell that it was him.))

Anyway, I set out from Stormfield's flat, bearing my broadsword, wearing my best loincloth, to look for the best tree to cut down and bring home. Naturally, such a tree would lie in Central Park. But APPARENTLY chopping down a tree in Central Park is against one of those ridiculous 'ordinances' that this "civilized" country sees fit to enforce.

Thus, Conan (meaning me) had to cut down approximately 742 policemen, several squadrons of infantry, and several rather large helicopters, before the Army and I officially signed a truce.

I went back to the flat and set the tree up. I didn't mention the Central Park debacle, because Stormfield has this habit of getting ridiculously angry over the stupidest things. But after the tree, Stormy in his wisdom (O how I make myself laugh) goes, 'Well, we need ornaments! And have you bought everyone presents?'

I have to buy EVERYONE presents?

'Yes,' according to him.

Even that LITTLE GREEN FREAK who runs around butchering grammar and dispensing wisdom?

'Yes.'

Even that HIDEOUS little Sir Darth...

'No, not him. We'll put some dog food outside the door for him.'

So I go out and buy things I think people will like. I find the people in this city very courteous: they don't arrest and imprison barbarian wanderers: they trip over themselves to give him help and 'perks'; by perks, I mean they do things like let you skip right to the front of the check-out line, etc.

I passed by a lady ringing a bell, asking for change for something called the Salvation Army. Figuring this to be one of Stormfield's 'charities', I dropped the Amorphous Jewel of Samarkand into the kettle (it's liquid half the time, so It went in rather easily), and turned to go. Just then I heard a shout behind me. I turned to see somebody running off with the charity kettle!

Quickly I took out one of the throwing knives from under my loincloth (causing some lady to faint, I know not why), and threw it, taking the villain in the back of the leg. I handed him over to the authorities, as they would be nicer to him than I would. I was hailed as a hero, and thanked profusely, but I walked home in a funk.

What was Christmas worth, I thought, if some sneak thief coukld dispel its joy so easily? What was the point, if the magic of the season fades so fast, on opening the door to recieve a sharp blast of cold reality? In Cimmeria, we celebrated the winter holidays by dicing the rear left paw of every sheep in the land, and offering them up to our gods of stone and wood. But here-- here you had to have magic.

I walked back into Stormfield's flat. the TV was on; I went to turn it off. But I stopped. There was some cartoon on, the typical kid's show designed to fill their head with fluff and give them a skewed view of reality. Or so I thought. One of the poorly animated characters, holding a blue blanket, was saying thus:

"And lo," he said. "There were in the same country shepherds, keeping watch over their flocks by night. And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them, and they were sore afraid.

"And the angel said unto them, Fear not, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the City of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; you shall find the babe wrapped in cloth, and lying in a manger."

And suddenly (says Conan), there was a great multitude of heavenly hosts singing, Glory to God in the highest, and peace on earth, good will toward men.

And if the cartoon characters can be joyful, and if the angels (who watch over men, and see their faults enumerated), can be joyful, I may as well be too.

'Yeah,' said Stormfield, shifting the cigar to the other side of his mouth. 'That's real neat. Now help me get this blasted tree set up.'

So there is but one thing left to say: Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night... I mean fight!"

Conan writes. The pages fly from his notebook as he realizes he does not know how to write. He now develops a complex system of pictograms to make you beleive he writes. He does write.

He talks in present tense, becaue he is writing like on of those WEIRD ARTY FARTS who write in present tense.

Conan writes.

(Notice my chiasmus?)

I agree with Watson, sans the "shut up Holmes" thing. I cannot ask for Holmes to shut up. He taught me how to use the word "sans."

I shall write a novel come November. Probably on the issue of how the poor can cast off their poverty and rise up to the very heights of human greatness, but I shall tackle other social issues as well. It should be fun. And I expect all of you to read it and give me honest feedback when the month is over.

STOP EDGING AWAY, STORMFIELD! HERE, ALLOW ME TO SHATTER A MUG ON YOUR FACE!!!!!!!!

Now, I only hope I can deal with that Darth Merlin what's-his-ugly-face character before I have to spend all my time writing...

And I must say this:
BRING IT ON!

No literary amalgam will threaten Stormfield and Watson and the others, NOT WHILE CONAN STILL BREATHES! YOU THINK YOU'VE GOT WEAPONS? CHECK OUT THESE PECS! THEY WILL BREAK ANYTHING YOU CARE TO THROW AT THEM!

Sir Darth Berlin silbolbum... Dir Garth Sirrah etc... Dir Sarth, oh...

You! PARASITE! NAME YOUR TIME AND PLACE AND WE WILL HAVE THIS OUT!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh dear... help us... Professor Challenger, can you explain this? Here... in this... this- place. All my seperate literary identitieses seems to be seperating. Curse us and crush us! -but not us. How incovinient. Maybe Tom could help us. Only Gollum's happy that he now has full right to speak of himself, us, in the plural now. But apart from the binding mind of Aaron, we're becoming -UnBound!!!

I shall formally challenge whoever is responsible for this mess! He shalt be changed into a toad! Eventually, I will reveal myself to that half-Jedi and have our revenge! Curse you and crush you, you writerses! You burns us!

Conan Gets Angry



Everywhere I go, people want to know........

GRAHHH!!! Not that song again! Play something else! PLAY SOMETHING ELSE!

pantpant......

Ahh, Bee gees... To love somebody, the waaay I love you...

WHAT'S THAT, STORMFIELD? NO, I WILL NOT KEEP IT DOWN! HERE, HAVE A SALAD PLATE TO THE HEAD!

As I was saying. You Americans pride yourselves on keeping 'open minds', but I don't buy it. You can't seem to stand the sight of an innocent barbarian hulking down the streets in a leapord skin vest. I was wearing a loin-cloth, for Crom's sake! But nooooo, y'all had to point and laugh, and whisper, and make me feel baaaad. Yes, my cheeks were burning! My cheeks turned pink!! Maybe you people don't understand this, but CONAN'S CHEEKS DO NOT TURN PINK! This is greatly disturbing. It may require contemplation.

And furthemore, for a people who pride themselves on keeping an open mind, you sure are close-minded about your money. What are these puny green scrolls? In Cimmeria, you would have been gutted for trying to pass this off as money!

Of course, in Cimmeria our god Crom demands an annual sacrifice of boogers.

Back to the topic at hand. I tried to pay for this apartment with a couple of the Cursed Jewels of Samrakand. You know what they told me? "That's not money."

THAT'S NOT MONEY!!!! KINGS HAVE FOUGHT WHOLE CRUSADES OVER THESE JEWELS! CIVILIZATIONS HAVE RISEN AND FALLEN AROUND THEM! AND YOU'RE GOING TO SIT THERE AND TELL ME THAT'S NOT MONEY?!?!?!?

The lady at the desk sat there for a couple minutes while the echoes of my nearly inhuman roar died away, and the devilish aspect went out of my face, and the bar of iron I was bending came to a screeching halt. And she said,

"Yes."

GRAAAHHHHH!!!!!!

But there was nothing to be done. The authorites, the many many many authorities who soon showed up there, were on her side, and they said the lawyers would be too. At that point I knew it was time to haul out my sword and cut my way out of there; for if there is one thing I hate worse than people who don't accept precious stones as money, it's lawyers!

So I have to hide out in Stormfield's flat for a while, till things calm down a bit. Then I have to to the untinkable. The thing that Conan pledged as a young man he would never do, but which your close-minded society has forced upon him: Get. A. JOB.