HEAVEN'S GATE

   The Three met in council, to discuss the situation.  It had been six 
months since Dokannen had emancipated himself from their control, and it 
was time to move on.  Plans had to be made, plots had to be laid.
   "What about the Elite?" one of the shadowy figures queried.
   "Captain Redmore has asked that they not be called that.  Unlike our 
former employee, Ms. Anson, he feels that using such a title fosters too 
much arrogance, and not enough discipline." came the reply.
   "Understandable...what name does he prefer?" the third added.
   "He rejected most of my suggestions, but after further discussion, we 
have settled on the Watch,"  the speaker sighed, "simply the Watch."
   "Very well, what about the Watch?" the first speaker re-iterated.
   "They are too busy to undergo the full treatment.  What with recent 
events, we cannot afford to pull them out of deployment for such a long 
time period."
   "If they are merely human, they will be eaten alive!" the third 
cried, spilling his Zima.
   "That is why I have asked Vasily to work on new hardware for them, at 
our Connecticut installation.  At last report, the new suits were ready 
for field testing."
   "Ah, good.  Then we have nothing to worry about..."
 
   Then, the room exploded into flame.  A mile away, an armored figure 
let loose a howl of triumph.  "All units...Cease fire.  Cerberos is no 
more....vengeance is mine."

MAYHEM, INC. #3: Connections

   Dokannen rode his motorcycle down the highway, reveling in the 
evening breeze blowing through his hair.  Life was good.  With CJ's 
help, he'd been able to put together a new identity, one his former 
captors had no hold over.
   And now, he was free.  He gunned the engine, speeding down the 
interstate like a bat out of Hell[TM].  There were a few minor 
difficulties, such as a lack of gainful employment, but he was sure a 
man of his abilities could come up with something.
   The glow of neon caught his eye, and he slowed to just over the speed 
limit.  The sign signified that the small building was Ambler's Place, 
and promised to be a welcome place for Dok to quench his thirst.
   The bar fell silent as Dok entered.  As he gazed at the smoke-filled 
interior, it became clear to him that he was cleaner than most of the 
bikers, oil workers, and other assorted rednecks who frequented the 
establishment, but his leather vest and pants did not mark him as too 
much of an outsider.
   Smoothly, surely, he made his way to the bar, and plunked himself on 
an empty stool.  A sudden gasp filled the room, a reaction so unexpected 
it made him turn.  
   "What's the matter?" he grinned, "haven't you ever seen a man sit 
before?"
   "M-M-ister.." the barkeep stammered behind him.  "That's Gaston's 
seat.  *No one* sits in Gaston's seat.  He just went to take a leak, 
he'll be right back."
   Dok grinned wider, as he turned back to face the tender.  "I'm sure 
we can discuss this like two mature gentlemen."
   "GET OUT OF MY CHAIR!!!" came the roar behind him.
   "Then again, maybe not..."  Once again, he turned, and found himself 
face to face a giant of a man, who's black Fallus T-shirt strained 
mightily to contain his rippling muscles.
   "I *said* get out of my chair!"  the newcomer, evidently Gaston, 
demanded.  Dok merely returned his gaze to the TV over the bar, which 
was showing highlights of the NY marathon, and requested another large 
draught of ale..
   "You heard me...get out!!!" Gaston repeated, sounding a bit shrill.
   Dok drained his mug, and murmured.  "Listen, Gas-head...I came here 
to drink, not to fulfill your petty notions of power.  Sit down, and 
shut up, before you get hurt."
   "I am Gaston...Gaston Paipaveu!  You ask for a fight, and *no one* 
fights like Gaston!!!!"
   Dok stood, and looked up [slightly] at his opponent.  "Oh, a wise 
guy, eh?"
   "I'm going to enjoy this..." Gaston sneered.  Dok's only reply was to 
drive the side of his fist into Gaston's chest, knocking him back into 
some tables, which, according to tradition, shattered completely on 
impact.  Gaston picked up a table leg, and charged, bellowing in fury.
   Dok stood waiting.  And waiting.  At the last possible moment, he 
stepped aside, allowing Gaston to run himself directly into, and over, 
the bar.  Several shelves of liquor crashed to the ground, shaken loose 
by the impact.  Amid shards of broken glass, Gaston stood.
   "You clearly don't know who you are dealing with." Dok advised.
   Gaston grunted, "Neither do you..."
   Energy crackled along his clothes, as they, and the skin beneath, 
spilt wide, revealing smooth metal beneath.  Gaston grew in stature, 
until his head nearly brushed the ceiling.
   "I am *Overkill*!!!" he thundered.  His right arm shimmered, shaping 
itself into a proportionately-sized cannon.  In other words, a 
ReallyBigGun[TM pend.]  Dok stared at him, then at the gun, then at him 
again.
   "Finally," he smiled, "A challenge!"
   Ululating a battle cry never heard in Santa Fe [or anywhere else on 
the planet] he leapt at his foe, bounced off his chest, and crashed into 
the wreckage of the bar. "Ouch," he commented.
   He peered over the counter, ducking quickly as a globe of energy 
whizzed over his head, striking the wall.  At the point of impact, the 
wall rippled, and a circular portion collapsed into a small chunk of 
rubble.
   "What is that thing?" he asked rhetorically.
   Rhett answered. "It's a compression gun.  It kills by increasing 
gravity in the target.  I once saw it crush somebody's head..."

NOJ LANDING, NEW MITCHELL

   "Hey, wait one minute!" Saga bellowed, armor clanking, as she moved 
over to the shade of the palm tree.
   "Yes?" Author PenDragon replied, quill hovering over the rune-covered 
scroll.
   "Who's that Rhett person?  He isn't in the list of character's you'll 
be using!"  she demanded, hefting an iron mace to give her statement 
more import.
   "Oh, that's Rhett Torquelli.  He's just a cameo..."
   Saga cast about for a Mark 11[TM, pat. pend.], before looking out the 
screen. "Attention, fellow Musae...PD is due a thwapping.  Please ask 
your Authors to comply."
   PD looked up at her fear flickering in his eyes. "Did you have to do 
that?" he mumbled.
   "Yes, I did.  Now get back to the story, the readers are waiting..."

AMBLER'S PLACE [Or what's left of it.]

   Things were not going well.  Dok was running out of places to hide, 
and he had no desire to die due to intense cephalic pressure.   Several 
strategies bubbled up from his memories.  Unfortunately, most of them 
required he be armed.  There wasn't anything in the room that would be 
of much use.
   The Jukebox he was presently using for cover imploded, silencing the 
strains of "Achy-Breaky Heart" forever.  While Dok approved of the 
musical criticism this implied, he was less than supportive of the lack 
of protection this left him with.
   "Do you have any last words?" Overkill growled menacingly.
   Dok thought furiously, as the large form of Overkill moved closer.  
"Don't hurt me" was tops on his list, but he didn't think it would do 
much help.  In truth, there was only one more thing he could try.
   "I'm sorry..." he stated.
   Overkill paused, "Excusez-moi?"
   Dok stood up, brushing dust off his legs, "I said, I am sorry.  I was 
rude, and should not have taken your seat.  I apologize unreservedly, 
with abject contrition."
   "Oh.  Very well then, apology accepted."  Overkill shrugged, as his 
body collapsed into it's more normal form.  As the CCA requires, his 
skin and clothes also reformed about him, leaving him dressed as he'd 
been before.
   Inwardly, Dok grinned.  The memories he'd acquired from Cerberos had
included a fairly recent British comedy, and one scene had taught the 
use of apologies.  A virtual light bulb kindled in his mind, 
illuminating an additional wrinkle the film had not considered.
   "To show no hard feelings, why don't I buy you a drink?" he 
suggested.
   Gaston looked at him, eyes wary. "Certainment.  However, there may be 
a slight difficulty"  He motioned about them, forcing Dok to note the 
lack of potables, waitstaff, customers, walls...
  "That does put a slight damper on the idea, my friend."
  "Pas de probleme.  I know a wonderful establishment nearby.  Why do we 
not ride there, and you can buy me that drink, Mr...ah.."
  "Cannon.  Duke Cannon."

SIX HOURS LATER, NEAR DAWN.
 
   Dok [O.K., Duke], wandered down the road, singing mightily, if not 
distinctly, an epic he'd learned about two mercenaries, and their 
encounter with a maiden of the far north. 
   A small band of young business entrepreneurs, specializing in 
collection, began to follow the valiant, and highly intoxicated warrior, 
as he staggered down the street.  Several small, easily-concealed 
implements of destruction, were extracted from their waistbands and 
pockets, and they closed in.

NEW MITCHELL

   "Hold it!!!"
   PD sighed.  "What is it now, my dear Saga?"
   The Muse/Valkyrie clanged into view, eyes aflame.  "How many times 
are you going to do the hero-gets-mugged-but-dramatically-kicks-butt 
routine?  I have a reputation to uphold."
   "Saga, babe.." A dark look from his armored inspiration made him 
pause.  "Milady...It is a tradition with me. It's effective..."
   "And cliched" she interjected, "I command that you do something else, 
or I'll withdraw my influence."
   "Very well."

DOWNTOWN SANTA FE

   Not cognizant of the forces arrayed about him, Duke continued his 
wobbly path toward the quarters he shared with CJ.  His original 
transportation, less than functional after being ridden into a culvert, 
had been long forgotten, and only one thought remained in his beer-
soaked brain.  He wanted some sleep.
   The leader of the gang motioned to his bros, and they closed in.
Before he could make his opening pitch, however, Duke bumped into a 
lamppost.
   Now, this was nothing special.  It happenned a lot to people in his 
present state.  What was new was his reaction.  Enraged that someone 
interfered with his path, Duke lashed out with his full strength, 
shattering the pole into flinders.
   His shadowers quickly convened a meeting, and decided it wasn't worth 
it.  Moments later, Duke was the only sentient being in the area [unless 
you count the cats.]
   In his daze, he swore he heard a female voice say, "That's 
better...now finish this up."
   The headlights of a car shone in the darkness, momentarily dazzling 
him.  He stood transfixed, as a short, dumpy figure exited the rear seat 
of the limo, tsking slightly.
   "Mr. Cannon, I presume?" the balding figure asked, in a slightly 
Slavic-tinged accent.
   Duke nodded woozily.
   "My name is Vasily Kuriakin.  I need your help."

TO BE CONTINUED...

WHO IS VASILY?

WILL WE EVER FIND OUT WHO OVERKILL WAS?

WILL PENDRAGON EVER GET THROUGH A STORY WITHOUT INTERRUPTIONS?

WHY AM I SHOUTING?

THESE QUESTIONS, AND MANY MORE, NEXT TIME ON MAYHEM, INC.  COMING R.S.N.