Pinkboy's head atop a youngish-looking Suessian-crittur's body

whizzes past an armchair. There is sitting in the armahair a large,

shaggy, sleeping Yeti of indeterminate sex. Pinkboy is aboard a

loud, 2-stroke-powered skateboard belching great gouts of pink

exhaust. He swervingly steers the contraption perilously close to

the elder Yeti's toes with one hand while holding aloft a covered

tray atop outstretched fingers.


The old Yeti starts awake. S/he is wearing a tatty sweater with a

sort of emblem on the breast. Sort of shield-like, but not entirely

unlike an artistic representation of a blob of sputum, for that

matter. In *GOLD*.


Yeti: "That Spam-I-Am! That Spam-I-Am! I do not like that



Pinkboy: (pharting by on the return trip thru the living room) "Then

I shall make you eat more SPAM!

"I'll make you eat it on a plate! I'll make you eat it, no debate!

I'll make you eat it with a scam! My Kenlow name is Spam-I-AM!"


Yeti: "I SHALL NOT eat it on a plate! I shall not eat it, no

debate! I shall not eat it with a scam! You know this means war,



Page Two:

Pinkboy has by now scooped up Yeti, who is now perched perilously

atop the skateboard's handlebar. They are heading out the door -

Yeti, Pinkboy, covered tray, and all. An astonished Yeti looks on

as they whiz outdoors. A portrait of Pinkboy hangs from a bent nail

near the door.


Pinkboy: "Eat it now, before my portrait! Eat it here, or face a

court date!"


Yeti: I shall not eat beneath your portrait! Serve instead your

yummy court date! Hire lawyers if you can! Your name shall be


(Pinkboy's face falls momentarily at mention of lawyers... then

brightens again.)


Page Three:

A public picnic grounds near the center of town. The tray, on a

picnic table, is uncovered to reveal Hideous Pink Meat with Squiggly

Smellies a-rising into the air. Yeti is seated, pushing away the

platter with a look of great distaste on his face. Pinkboy holds

forth a large teacup, heaped with more smelly stuff, from a stump

nearby. A curious crowd is gathering... Most of the faces reflect

repugnance. Others are laughing. One winks at another.


Pinkboy: Then you shall have it cup by cup! For if you don't we'll

fuck you up! My friends and I have LOTS of spam! We'll make you

eat it, zip-zap-zam!


Yeti (roaring, with teeth): I shall not eat it cup by cup! Your

friends shall not my SLACK disrupt! Alt.SLACK shall never eat your

spam! The war is on NOW, SPAM-I-Am!


Page Four:

Pinkboy is seated alone on a low stool, wearing an eyeshade. The

candle at his elbow is unlit. He sits at the console of an outdated

mainframe with whirring tape drives, a green-screen monitor and No

Mouse. Pink-gloved hands, extending from the tape drive and such,

hurl great gouts of the Unclean Meat from a huge hopper on the

ground in the general direction of the high stone wall that

separates him from the rest of the population. (Pinkboy's working

space is cramped, compared to the rest of the page.) Not all of the

meat makes it over the wall. A large pink button marked, "CANCEL"

protrudes from the console. Pinkboy's finger, of course, hovers

just above the button. Imagine his expression... with teeth...


Facing Page, extending into previous:

Five Yetii wearing Famous Golden Badges, including our friend from

Page One, sit at consoles *with* mice. Yeti One is seated within

the comfy recesses of the SubNectivity Interface. Yeti Two is

saving many things to many disks. Yeti Three is on the phone. Yeti

Four has a walkie-talkie. More Yetii and a lone postman approach in

awe. Yeti Five, seated at a high Scrivener's desk, applies a

Scribe's quill diligently to paper. The writing on Yeti Five's

Document is quoted verbatim:

"We eat no spam. It would be wise, Mike Enlow, to a-pol-o-gize!"


Page Six:

Back to the House. Yeti One has just opened the door to receive

mail from a large pink weasel (still looks mostly like Enlow). The

Subnectivity Interface is seen in the background, tentacles

extending in every direction. An unhealthy-looking potted magnolia

sits by the door; Pinkboy's picture is turned to the wall, but the

nail is straight now. The mail from the Pink Weasel reads:

"Apologize, I might, it's true. But FIRST I'm gonna CANCEL you! My

Me-Goes-WHEEEE! will make you SCRAM - or else my name's not



Page Seven and Page Eight (facing):

Yeti One and four friends in a large room. The SubNectivity

Interface and the rest of the console from Page Five are in full

view, none the worse for wear. One huge streaming tape drive by

Networth Precision Industries dominates the scene. Cut Magnolia

blossoms enhance the decor, tho' some are wilted and dying... as

tho' Magnolia thingies are a-gettin' kinda old by now...

"He CANCELLED us, that horrid pup! Good thing we have our

Back-'Em-Up! He cancelled half of UseNet too! And now he says he's

gonna sue! This has to stop! This place has rules! No Enlow blow

shall nix our tools!!! Moreover, now HE's in a jam! CRY HAVOC

'till he eats his spam!"


Page Nine:

Outside the entrance to Enlow's "bunker", which consists of a

'Sixties vintage A-bomb shelter tank buried in his back yard, Yeti

warriors of both sexes and many children celebrate with feasting and

many drums. Their enemy and tormentor has gone to ground... with

ample rations, to be sure, but with one fatal flaw in his

would-have-been Master Plan to Take Over all Webdom by bearing clear

and evident Malice and Assault against alt.slack and

alt.binaries.slack. It's the Law of Return. Diminishing, at that.

No matter where this worm turns, he shall find no escape. Oh, he's

safe enuf... until the food (or the _friends_) he feeds on run

out... and the water... and the air... or he can come out with a

*genuine* apology... but as long as the "food" 'n' all holds out...

The "food" on the table in the eerily Seussian cutaway of the

"Shelter Tank" cum-bunker is as pink as the Pinkboy-faced wurrum

that gnaws pensively away at it... A lone 640K PC/XT with two

floppy drives is on the table, its power cord plugged into a

tricycle. Under the table is a great heap 'o' oblong tin cans. The

candle on the table is growing short.


Pinkboy: "I'm in a scrape, now, I tell you! For ONCE the thing I

say is _true_! Those Yeti folk'll have my hide! I must confess

what I've denied! I'd better think this over well! BoB DAMN that

UCE to Hell! I sure was DUMB to run that scam! I guess my name is

SPAM-I Am!""

Fade to black amid the sound of drums and keening howls of savage

joy. An occasional rock goes, "Plonk!" against the bunker's hatch.