Bill Palmjob, Net Defective.

     It was a grimy night in the city, could have been any city,
had to be my city.  I climbed out of the shower, said hello to
Victoria Princible.  I could see she was expecting someone else.

     Well babe, you must have a problem.  Tell old Bill about it.

     Mister Palmer, It's my sheep, it's, it's run away!

     Baaah, no problem, I can find your sheep, what's really
bothering you babe?

     Bill, you are so perceptive, it's not really my little lamb
I'm worrying about it's. . . (a shot rang out)

     No!  Victoria fell against me smearing red deathmarks down
my side.

     I pulled my 38 out from the concealed holster in my towel
and thundered down the hall, the elevator had just reached floor
one, it was a clue.

     Er, Er what's all this then, it was officer Hannigan, many
the times I had made fun of the fact that he was from Brazil, now
I could use his help.

     Hannigan, I suspect the Housmanns in this plot.

     Na, Bill, all the Housmanns are accounted for at present,
they have all posted to your newsgroup within the past hour.

     It's a plot, Hannigan, I have ordered the Housmanns to never
crosspost into my newsgroup.

     No, it must be the dread Spamwise.

     Spamwise, it couldn't be!  I took all of the spam out of my
newsgroup before I went after the Housmanns.  Besides Hannigan
he's just a fictional character out of _Bored of the Rings_.

     Ah, laddie, he has your number, you're just a fictional
character too.  Spamwise is certain to do you low.

     Never, I gritted as I hitched up my towel, the Spamwise will
never desecrate my newsgroup.

     But as I turned to go back in to my office, I noticed that
Victoria had disappeared, she had been replaced by the oily
Sidney Housmann!

     Bill, you have to give us the bird, I know that me and
Wilfred (and a bunch of others) have given you the bird in the
past.  Now, to survive you must give us the bird.

     My mind racist, what bird could Sidney mean, was it the
Parrot that I'd been keeping for bilbert these last weeks, no, it
was dead.

     I thought of my dead partner, Karl Malden, at the end he had
been obsessed with birds, green birds, red birds, black birds.

     It will go much easier on you Bill, if you give us the Black
bird.

     Black bird!, a clue, a definite clue, but what could it
mean?

     The Bird, Bill, Sidney said as he clouted me in the head.
Wake up palmer.

     Oh, yes, the bird.  He had to mean the falcon, the bird that
raised
me.  How could I give up mama?

     I cannot give up my mother, I screamed.

     Wilfred, the sheep, If you will.

     No!  The little man in the trench coat led in my father,
(his wool coat was gritty from the city, but it's a gritty city
isn't it) not my father Sidney, please not my father.

     Baaah, this is too easy, Wilfred; kill them both.

          (end of part 1, will Bill survive, will he find his
mother, will I care?)
                    (and who, oh who wilhelp?)

     A close one indeed, Bill, said Hannigan as he pulled my head from
the dead sheeps ass.
     What had happened?  Oh no, I remember, as Wilfred Housmann
had pulled his 45 automatics from under his trench coat, my
father had grabbed me and jumped through the window.  Poor old
dad would never be able to pull the wool over my eyes again.

     Hannigan and I made our way back into the building, and up
the twenty flights of stairs, unfortunately the elevator in the
cheesestone office block only went down.

     God, look at this!  My 5 gigabyte usnet archive of flame was
scattered wall to wall, well at least the Housmanns hadn't
trashed the place.

     Picking a single paper from the floor, Hannigan said, Bill a
clue, the free psychics have the answer!

     Not good enough Hannigan, they want money, spam always wants
money.
     Still, they may have left something behind, hmmm, free
picture of sheep butt, no that's not it.

     This one may be it, said Hannigan, If you want to see your
mother alive, you must do exactly as we say.

     Just another spam message Hannigan, we look for real clues
here.  Wait the telephone book!  Kicking papers aside recklessly
I found the phone book and opened it to the H's.  Here it is!
John Housmann.  But there was no number.

     I'm sorry sir, said directory assistance, every one in our
exchange seems to be listed as John Housmann, which John Housmann
did you wish to speak to?

     God, Hannigan, what can I do?

     We must find Spamwise, we can get the truth from him.

     Yes, that's it, Spamwise, for only spam may save me and my
beloved newsgroup!

     (Stay tuned in, will bill palmer find Spamwise, can they
shake the truth from him?)
          (And if not, who, oh who, wilhelp?)

I shoved my lord britash special into my armpit holster, this gun
has both a slide and a  cylinder, I got it off of an English
mystery writer, the advantages of a weapon like this are obvious,
it never runs out of bullets (but it does jam a lot)
     Now we are prepared for the Housmanns, Spamwise and
whatever.  I told Hannigan, Now let us find Spamwise.
     We rode the elevator to the first floor, I wondered as
always, how does the elevator get to my floor if it only goes
down.  iLrEleVeNt, I decided.  The plot must go on.

     We went into the street and caught a cab, it bit me
severely.
     (end of part 3, will bill survive a bite from a taxi?)
     (do taxis have rabies?)
     (do I care?)
                    (and who, oh who wilhelp?)


     It could have been worse, I decided as I tied off the artery
in my neck, I could have been falling down drunk as I wrote my
last post.  (a close one folks, you will never know).
     In moving through the streets of the city (which was much
grittier than normal) I had found that every minority that I had
ever made fun of in a post had became my enemy.  For some reason
even the Alaskans hated me, I truly don't remember making fun of
the Alaskans.
     (editors note, the Alaskans hate everyone, including
themselves.)
     I checked my gun, received the ticket from the gun check
girl and went into the club.  Well, fast Eddie, the games about
to begin.  No, I'm Bill Palmer, is this the wrong club?  I ducked
as the club flew past my head and ran like a rabbit.  Things were
growing too sureall.
     As I fell out of the obligatory back door into the
obligatory line of garbage cans I wondered, why did I ever begin
this quest, can I make it as a writer and (this one is short,
yes?(ob last Viking)) who, oh who.
                         wilhelp?

     This is part 5 for alt.flame and part 4 for the 'Nose, mess
w/the headers sometimes it don't crosspost right.

     The streets were mean tonight, J Shirly and W Gibson had
gotten mugged earlier by subtechs, strange people the subtechs,
refused to even maintain an email account.  No good at all to
have a massive spam filter when you are dealing with knobblers.

     For some reason both sides of the Israeli/Palestine debacle
have called me racist, don't they understand sarcasm?

     Read _The sheep look up_ by John Brunner, I was looking for
clues, Baaa.

     For some reason, the Brazilian, Hannigan, has abandoned me,
this is probably why I'm writing this from under an overturned
garbage can.  I had hoped to end this quest by July 4th, nope.
The Housmanns are still out there, Spamwise has went to the
extreme of burning my office building down.  My newsgroup is now
under a negative attack, (please crosspost, please, please,
please!)

     Oh god, please, oh who, oh who wilhelp?

     It was time to end it.  I had tracked my fathers cloned
double to a warehouse on the lower east side.  I was disguised as
a polar bear, bits of fur flew past my eyes and floated in the
wind.  It was hot, but well worth it, as against the white wall I
was damn near invisible.

     The damn seals were a nuisance though.  Suicidal residents
of the lower east side, they crowded around me with the stupid
balancing balls and indian clubs going like mad.  Perhaps my
disguise was too perfect.

     Suddenly a number of elderly men in black pinstripe exited
the warehouse acrossed the street.  About time that Mafia meeting
broke up, I thought, now the Housmanns can have their secret
meeting.  Slipping past the last of the dons as he left the
building I went directly to secret meeting room number 3.

     The staff were already preparing for the clandestine
meeting, stacks of nametags saying Hi, I'm Don ......You got a
problem with that? were being put into bags and replaced with new
more sinister name tags.

     You'll have to use the right closet tonight Bill, said one
of the staff, The left one won't hold you that bear suit and all
those seals.

     He was right, even the larger closet was cramped, but I
managed to change into my new disguise and stuff the discarded
bear suit full of seals.  The smell was awful but the damn seals
would have to bear it.

     Now it was time for work, the Housmanns were filing in, the
warehouse was soon packed by people wearing Hi, I'm John Housmann
name tags.

     Suddenly, Woolly Houseman, the sheep clone that John
Housmann had used against me again and again, stood up.

     Bill Palmer is disguised as a polar bear and hiding in the
left hand closet, he screamed.

     Don't shoot, screeched a high pitched voice, we're coming
out unarmed, we left our wits at birth.

     Out of the closet ran a group of kids dressed in little bo
peep outfits, Gareth Gee and the HFW, throwing away their dresses
they streaked for the door.

     I was glad that they had decided to come out of the closet
but that left.
     The center closet, he's in the center closet!

     Don't shoot, screeched a high pitched voice, I just wannabe
a flamer.  Wide eyed and clutching an aol account he backed to a
side wall.  Zeeberex, what was he doing in this tale?

     It has to be door number three, screamed the deranged sheep.
     Thinking fast I threw the door open and tossed the polar
bear suit directly at the sheep, You'll never take me alive, I
screamed.

     There was a rolling tide of gunfire, when it subsided and
the smoke cleared.
     Clealy, a dry voice said, We seem to have not only killed a
perfectly innocent sheep, but we've probably just alienated green
peace, come out of the closet Bill.

     I stepped out, maybe they wouldn't recognize me in my new
disguise.
     It's Batman, screamed zeeb.

     I will personally gum to death the next person who mentions
Batman on this newsgroup.

     I knew that voice, if he'd become John Housmann, then my
goose was a well done mallard.  He would leave no tern unstoned.
Only one chance.

     I held my last kitchen match high over my head.
     Stand back Housmann, or I'll flame the lot of you!

     I had them, Housmanns were falling over right and left, they
seemed to be going into some kind of laughing fit, all were down
except for one old fellow in the back, oh god.  A flame thrower,
who would have thought the old codger would be so well armed.

     And then they tied me to a stake, they seemed to be piling,
papers around me, NO, not my 25 gigabyte flame library.

     Then the match.

     (but of course the Housmanns made one slight mistake)
     (in 25 gigabytes who could have thought, nary a flame)
     (in the entire stack, so they shot him)