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Bacchus and the Overborg:
 A Savage Journey into the Heart 
of Sonapanoma and an Alien Plot

Nightmare
By:  Bastardo

How long we were on the bus, I couldn't say for sure, but it must have been some days. The infernal whispering in my head never stopped, but at some point, I came out of my trance just enough to hear Bacchus imploring the driver to allow him and Miss Vicky to leave the bus and stretch their legs a bit. 

"No," replied the pilot in an emotionless, yet commanding monotone. "Return to your station. You will comply!" 

As toga boy slunk back to his seat, tail between his legs, I came to my senses enough to realize that If 6 Were 9 (or rather Madame) and I, along with the rest of the "seekers," were strapped into our seats with tubes from the ceiling attached to our mouths. 

We were being force fed "Borgundy..." 

I struggled against my restraints, which weren't that all that secure, perhaps because of our sedated state. Almost by reflex, I reached down into my knapsack and extracted a Canusi (already punched) and lit up. 

Almost immediately, I was invigorated by the cigar's gobs of rich leathery smoke, and began to regain my senses, as did Madame and those close enough to benefit from the 2nd hand smoke. It began to dawn on me that something was seriously amiss, and that this wasn't what we'd signed on for, but I never had time to ponder that ominous possibility. 

The pilot howled with rage and ordered Bacchus to extinguish my flame. The sniveling minion immediately approached me in a threatening manner, but I stopped him in his tracks with a well aimed blow to the forehead from a Rodent Ridge bottle. 

He shook his head, quickly regaining his senses, and sneered, "Nice try, you bastard." 

"That's Bastardo," I corrected him as I struck again, this time laying him low. 

I had no time to savor my victory however; the driver was now advancing towards me. 

He was no longer wearing the hooded over-garment, and I could see that he was covered from head to toe with some kind of leather body armor. His skin color was ashen and there were tubes running from a bulging area around his mid-section directly into his neck. He was mainlining a constant supply of Borgundy. 

He was on me before I could act, and with inhuman strength, forced me back into my seat whilst extinguishing the offending islander. As he did so, he droned, "I am the Overborg. Resistance is futile. You will be inebriated."

He strapped me down more securely, and as he began to reattach the feeding tube, it looked as if things would end badly. 

Just then, the door of the bus swung open, and the Canadian Wine Wankers stormed aboard, hurling raw hamburg and turmeric at my adversary. He turned his attention towards the wild Canucks just as a volley of steak tartar caught him flush in the face. Before he could recover, he was assaulted by 300 lbs. of of fury and muscle, as K-J, K-mus and Turdley, Bree's canine cavalry, bounded past the Canadians and tore into him like he was so much Science Diet. The force of their attack drove him back the full length of the bus and out the emergency window. The last I saw of that hideous form was his retreat from the unrelenting Dobermans, one rended tube spewing Borgundy wildly. 

As the Canadian Zinmonger helped me from my restraints, I flashed on the fact that I never would have thought that I would be so happy to see the swarthy Brit's face. I arsked him how he managed to control the savage Dobermans, and he replied, "Easy, mate, good Canadian beef!" He added, "Good thinking leaving the paper trail; that Monopoly money will go a long way back home." 

As the "seekers" began to recover, there was a brilliant glow from behind the No Tell Motel, and a craft that resembled nothing so much as a flying doughnut lifted quickly into the air and disappeared with stunning speed. 

The lads returned shortly, walking with exaggerated swaggers and carrying large chunks of leather in their mouths like trophies. They're fine beasts.

More later . . .

B

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