Australian Tales (part II)

By Richard Davidson

The Atlantic is a very big ocean, or at least that's what people say. Alphonz bolted out into the hallway like a rat on a skateboard, whistling something about the War. His lobster settled down under the bed with his dart gun, ready for anything.

Anything, that is, except Angela DuBois, who was now standing in front of him.

"Come out from under there, you," her every word oozed sex, forming puddles of adjectives on the freshly cleaned carpeting, "I wanna talk to you."

Alphonz's lobster stood up, and dusted himself off, trying his hardest to look like a foreign minister.

"What were you doing down there?" she asked, the sweetness in her voice attracting wasps.

Alphonz's lobster could only stare at her mutely, as he was unable to speak.

"Oh, don't speak English, huh?" she was sympathetic.

"What's your name? Oh, ah, El Namo? What you called? Ah, um, me Angela, who you?"

She quickly grew frustrated, and threw him down on the bed, making wild passionate love to him. He had never imagined such a thing possible, but he would from now on, believe me. But it was almost sunset. He had to get her out of there. He decided to play dead. It was one of the few natural defenses he had.

"Typical Frenchman," she laughed contempously, still somehow unaware of his crustacean status. She huffed out of the room, and didn't hear the click of his lighter, as he had a good smoke.

Alphonz was in the engine room, which really is too bad, as he had set out for the communications room. Alphonz couldn't tell time, but he had mastered tracing the source of a phone signal, and he really wanted to know who he was supposed to be meeting.

"I say, monsiuer, do you know, ah, could you tell me where ze communications room, where she is?" he asked an engineer with his best French accent, carefully stroking his fake moustache.

The engineer could swear this legionaire was only about two feet tall, but he thought perhaps it was a vision problem. He'd heard of that sort of thing happening, and frankly, was quite ready to believe anything, all of which worked in Alphonz's favor, as he led him down the hall to the communcations room.

The head communications officer, Lieutenant Howschnauzer, wanted to know what the French government had to do with his ship. Alphonz patiently explained that he was not there in an official capacity, and was definately NOT a wombat disquised as a legionaire, but was merely here to trace a communication which could cause danger to everyone on the ship.

"Even me?" Lieutenant Howschnauzer asked, his eyes growing wide as rotten oranges.

"Especially you." Alphonz spoke with great severity.

"Then, by all means, be my guest," he replied, shooting himself up with diaphrozene, which I'm pretty sure is a fictional drug.

Alphonz set to work, logging onto the master computer, and tracing all calls to and from his room for the past sixteen years. Since he didn't understand time, it was very hard to narrow the search. Luckily, the log only went back six weeks, which, ironically, saved Alphonz a lot of time in the long run.

Luckily, Alphonz's naturaly instincts enabled him to recognize the scent of an enemy, and using that method, he determined that the call had come from Room 24D. 24D! "My God," he thought, "that's on the upper deck!" He knew there were badgers up there, and everyone knows that the badger is the wombat's natural enemy. The French Legionaire disguise wouldn't help him up there, so he decided to change into his porcupine suit. A badger will no sooner attack a porcupine than a Scientologist will buy Jell-o with the marshmallows in it, and Alphonz knew it.

The sun was beginning to set, and Alphonz had a perfect view of room 24D. Slowly, the door opened, and what walked out was NO BADGER!

(to be continued)

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