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             RUNE'S RAG - Your Best Electronic MagaZine
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          Dedicated to Writers and Readers of every genre.
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Published by:
 Arnold's Plutonomie$, Ltd.                            Vol. 2  No.  2
 P.O. Box 243, Greenville,                             (FEB 1994)
 PA 16125-0243
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 And in his grave rained many a tear -- Fare you well, my dove! --
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   RUNE'S RAG is a representation of as many authors as I can coerce
into submitting high quality material. All genres are represented. We
will strive to present a useful vehicle -- where, You, the reader will
receive valuable reading pleasures. Some of the features will be pure
unadulterated escapism, to stimulate your pleasure centers -- while
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Take the time to netmail your comments -- You determine the content
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Thanks, see the last section of the magazine for more information.
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Welcome, To: "RUNE'S RAG - Bringing YOU the Best in fiction and more."
Your Editor - Evie Horine, Managing Editor - Rick Arnold
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Copyright 1994 ARNOLD'S PLUTONOMIE$, LTD., All Rights Reserved
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TABLE OF CONTENTS:

Some Beginnings.........................  Various..................02
JOLENE -- a story of youth..............  Dennis M. Havens.........02
DUROPA -- a serial space drama..........  Francis U. Kaltenbaugh...10
Poetry -- Thoughts For You..............  Various..................19
THE MONSTER MEN -- a serial.............  Edgar Rice Burroughs.....24
VALENTINE -- a story of love............  George Willard...........31
THE RONALD FRUMP STORY -- satire........  Dave Bealer..............38
WhatNots................................  Various..................39
Writer's Guidelines.....................  Editor...................41
Subscription Offer......................  RUNE.....................43
SYSOP Offer.............................  RUNE.....................44

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 2                        FEB 1994

Some Beginnings . . .
=-=-=-==-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  "Whether you think you can or think you can't, you're right." --
   Henry Ford

  "What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger!" -- An L.A. quake survivor.

  "I know half my advertising is wasted but I do not know which
   half." -- William Wrigley

  "Never talk about what you are going to do until after you have
   written it." -- Mario Puzo

  "Show me a man who says he knows little of nothing, and I'll
   show you a man who knows something." -- Francis U. Kaltenbaugh

  "It takes hard writing to make easy reading." -- Robert Louis Stevenson
----------------------------------------------------------------------

   "RUNE'S RAG is guaranteed to be the sum total of all of its bits
and bytes, compressed or expanded; however, there could be several
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drive; but yet and still, there is an one-hundred-percent money back
guarantee, and we all know the adage, most have experienced it before,
`You get what you pay for.'" -- RUNE

======================================================================

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
JOLENE
  by Dennis Havens
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

   It's that God-damned Elvis Presley," the Old Man muttered. Him and
the rest of those stinking purveyors of nigger music."

   "What's that God-damned Elvis Presley?" I asked back.

   "Watch your mouth, son. Your mother's in the kitchen."

   I lit up a Pall Mall and regarded my father with some curiosity.

   "That crap -- that rotten crap they play on the radio. Civilization
is going to hell in a bucket, and does anybody care? I've got half a
mind to complain to the FCC. There ought to be standards."

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 3                        FEB 1994
   "What's got you all riled up, Dad?" I inquired. "Elvis has been
around for over a year. I'd think Little Richard or the Everly Brothers
would be the targets of your ire these days."

   "They're no better," he observed. He focused on the cigarette in
my mouth. "I'm still not used to seeing you with one of those in your
mouth. You look like a God-damned punk."

   "Some people probably think I am. We know better, though, don't we?"

   "Do we? Then what's that evil-looking Ford of yours doing out in
the driveway? If you're not a punk, why do you drag race?"

   I blew out a cloud of smoke and squinted Dad's way; something had
him pissed, and I didn't really think it was Elvis Presley or my Ford.
"I drag race because shoot-outs like they had in the Old West aren't
allowed anymore. It's the same thing, you know. Remember last Saturday
when Jack Nye showed up and challenged me? It's a point of honor. When
that happens, you've got to go do it."

   "Do you have any idea how your mother worried?" Dad said.

   "I'm nineteen. I've got to have some fun."

   "Huh. Yeah. That's for sure, isn't it?"

   "What does that mean?" I asked. I knew the man was forty-five, but
had he forgotten everything about what it was like to be young?"

   He sat down at the opposite end of the couch. "Jack Summers called
me this morning."

   I felt a sudden chill of fear, not that I could explain why. "Yeah?"
Jack Summers was my sometime-girlfriend Jolene's stepfather. What the
hell was he doing calling Dad, for Christ's sake.

   "Jolene is two months' pregnant. Were I not so outraged, I'd offer
apologies -- or a horsewhipping."

   "Dad, hold on! Jolene and I never . . . ."

   "Never? Is it the Second Coming of Jesus we've got on our hands,
then? Give it up, Pat. You got caught."

   "I didn't get caught! I swear to you, we never did it. Never."

   "Pat, there is only one way a girl gets in that condition. Now stop
denying it and start acting like a man. A married man, sooner than you
think."

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 4                        FEB 1994
   I spread my hands in supplication. "Dad, listen to me. I swear to
you. I swear to God. I never did anything more than kiss her. I never
as much as felt her boobs through her sweater. We didn't have that
kind of relationship."

   "Then would you mind explaining how she got that way?"

   "How do you know for sure she is? I've heard of girls lying to get
guys to marry them before. But that doesn't make any sense either. She
knows we never did it. It took me five dates before she'd let me French
kiss her, for God's sake. She doesn't like me that way."

   Dad got a smoke of his own going; funny, it didn't make him look
like a punk. "Your mother is crying her eyes out in the kitchen."

   "Well, she can stop. I never did it with Jolene, and that's the end
of that."

   "You're always going out with her. . . ."

   "And I always have her home before curfew. She is only seventeen,
after all. We go see a movie, get a burger and a Coke afterward, and
that leaves us maybe fifteen minutes. A few good-night kisses.
Pregnant? Jeez!"

   Mom came out of the kitchen. She dabbed at her reddened eyes with
the bib of her apron. "I believe you, son."

   "I appreciate that, but it's not going to cut any ice with Jolene's
stepfather. He's one mean son of a . . . gun."

   "How do you like Jolene?" Dad inquired.

   "I like her a lot. It's just that we don't have much physical
attraction. She's fun to be with, she's got a great sense of humor,
and she always looks good. She's pretty cool."

   Dad took a reflective hit of his Viceroy and regarded me through
the smoke. "Jack wants a meeting this afternoon."

                              *  *  *

     "I've said it before, and I'll say it again," Chuck Weaver sighed.
"1957 was meant from Day One to be a terrible year. So Jolene's knocked
up. And she named you."

   We were in Chuck's bedroom with the door shut against his bratty
little brother and his dorky parents. "I don't have a clue," I replied.

   "Come on, Pat, level with me. We've been friends since the fifth
grade. You scored once, didn't you? And that once did it."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 5                        FEB 1994
   "No, Chuck, I never scored. I never even got close. Shit! Do you
know what this is going to do to my college education?"

   "You're not in college."

   "I was going to go, this fall. Now I can just forget that. I'll be a
husband, come June Fifteenth. A husband. Worse yet, a father. The
father of somebody else's kid."

   "Once the kid's born you can probably figure out who the real father
is. Then you can get it all straightened out."

   I flopped down moodily on the corner of Chuck's unmade bed. "Forget
it. She swears it was me. She has a whole story worked out. I was the
only guy she ever did it with, we'd only been doing it a week or so.
You believe that? The real father? What a joke! You think babies come
out looking exactly like their old man? He'll probably be a redhead,
like Jolene."

   "I warned you a long time ago that redheads are trouble. And they
have those yucky freckles. How'd you manage to get it up, fooling
around with a freckled girl? Or don't they show up in the dark?
Somehow I always figured they glowed."

   "Jerk."

   Chuck offered me a Camel; I took it, figuring the change might do
me good. "If you don't marry her the kid will be a bastard."

  "No chance of that. Her stepfather would come after me with a shotgun."

   "The kid'll technically be a bastard anyway, because you're not its
real father."

   "Yeah," I said. "And what really pisses me off is that somewhere in
this dead-ass town some guy, probably somebody I know, is laughing up
his sleeve about the whole thing."

                              *  *  *

   June Fifteenth was only a few days off. I woke up from the damndest
nightmare I'd ever had. Clammy sweat was all over my forehead and I
thought I was coming down with something fatal. She'd had the baby. It
was a nigger.

   Well, that would just about put the icing on the cake, wouldn't it?
A nigger baby. A pickaninny. I'd have to enlist in the frigging Army
and pray they sent me as far away from here as possible, somewhere on
the other side of the world. Maybe the Foreign Legion would be the way
to go. Jesus H. Christ, a nigger baby would really tear it. The
humiliation, the shame!
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 6                        FEB 1994
   I got a grip on myself. It wasn't going to be a nigger baby -- at
least I didn't think it would be. Probably some fly-boy from the nearby
air base that she sneaked out after curfew and did it with. The slut.

   That was another thing. The rest of the world might see it as two
horny kids that got caught but were pretty far down the matrimonial
road anyway, but I knew better. I knew my bride-to-be was a slut.

   Try living with that. Shit, I'd be afraid to work a night job,
wondering who might be sticking it to her in our -- my -- bed while I
was gone. A tramp. A whore. A scarlet woman. I'd be the only one who knew.

   No. She'd know. And whoever else was planking her would know.

                              *  *  *

   Funny, how we weren't encouraged to see each other. I mean, since
they'd all made up their minds that I'd gotten her pregnant, what were
they protecting her from now? This was our abbreviated-but-official
period of engagement. This was when we were really supposed to get to
know one another. But she was always home, always involved doing
something, never able to go out and even catch a movie.

   "There'll be plenty of time for that, after you're married." With
that, Jack Summers said his piece and dismissed me contemptuously from
his front door.

   To their credit, Mom and Dad found that more than a little strange.
"You'd think they would have at least invited me to discuss the
nuptials," Mom said.

   "Jack Summers is a jerk," Dad editorialized. "That wife of his --
she doesn't dare say boo without his permission. She would have been
better-off staying single after the first one left her."

   Strangest of all, I missed seeing Jolene. I liked her, after all. I
just didn't want her, pre-fertilized by a helpful stranger, as my wife.
I grew annoyed, both at Jack Summers for keeping me away and at my
parents for rolling over the way they did.

   I suppose I could understand that they'd not want to make a federal
case out of it, considering Mr. Summers was capable of getting very
unpleasant and their own moral outrage was somewhat muted in the face of
what everyone seemed to believe was incontrovertible evidence against me.

   Why did Jolene go along with it? Who was she protecting?

                              *  *  *
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 7                        FEB 1994
   "She's protecting herself, stupid."  Chuck got a Camel going and
cranked up the volume of his bedside phonograph. Frankie Lymon and
the Teenagers. Why Do Fools Fall in Love? Good question.

   "I don't quite get it. Protect herself?"

   "The guy that nailed her, if it really wasn't you. Maybe he's
someone her folks would never accept. You they can forgive in five
years or so. You're respectable. The other guy -- maybe he isn't.
Maybe he's . . . . "

   "If you say `maybe he's a nigger,' I swear to God I'll kick your
teeth down your throat."

   Chuck produced an evil, smirky grin. "A nigger. That's a thought."

   "Let's drop it, Chuck. Do you know that old bastard Summers won't
let me come visit Jolene?"

   "That's weird."

   "I think so, too. You know what I'd like to do?"

                              *  *  *

   If it's good enough for Romeo and Juliet, it's good enough for me.
Buoyed by that sentiment, secure in the maturity of my nineteen years
that no cop was going to bust me for being out after curfew, I
approached the Summers house that midnight. After all, hadn't I seen at
least one hundred war movies in my eventful young life? Didn't I know
everything there was to know about getting past the guards and rescuing
the hostages from the evil Nazis?

   Apparently I didn't know quite enough. Raisin, Jolene's nasty little
black poodle, spotted me before I got through the ratty spot in their
hedge. His furious outburst of yapping was brief; once my adrenaline
settled down and I remembered to give him the Tootsie Roll I'd stashed
in my pocket for quick energy.

   Jolene's room was on the second floor -- I guess parents wanted to
make it as hard as possible for young sex maniacs to get to their
daughters. In this case, though, there was the attached garage just a
few feet away, a cruddy old thing with a sloping roof from whose eaves
I'd swung more times than I cared to remember.

   It's a good thing I'm in shape. Hauling myself up while hanging on to
a bunch of loose shingles is a lot harder than it looks. But I made it,
Jolene's window is just a few steps away, and her light's on.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 8                        FEB 1994
   I stretched myself as far as I dared to, using the rough wooden
molding around her widow as my support. One false step, me bucko, and
you'll be plummeting through the night to spatter your reckless young
brains all over the concrete driveway below.

   I heard sobs. Jolene's. She was crying, for God's sake! But was that
such a surprise? In something like forty-eight hours she was going to
marry somebody she liked but didn't love so her baby, fathered by
someone else, would have a name. A name other than bastard.

   Jolene was bright; she'd wanted to go to college when she finished
high school. Now she wouldn't even be able to finish high school.
Looking at the situation from her point of view, yeah, maybe she did
feel she had something to cry about.

   I will comfort her. I will come to her in her hour of need, hold her
trembling form in my strong, manly arms. I'll kiss away her tears.
Perhaps she'll be in a filmy nightgown -- after all, two months gone,
she won't even have started to show yet. Maybe she'll even be caught up
in the romantic aspects of the moment and invite me into her bed for what
is going to be the first of many, many encounters, once we're . . . .

   Have you lost your frigging mind, Pat? The whole idea is to see her
and find out why she named you, when . . . .

   The sobs turned to a whimper of pain. A shriek, almost. I craned my
neck a little more. I could see into the bedroom, just a little.

   There was Jolene, cowering on the bed. She wasn't wearing a silky
negligee -- she wasn't wearing anything!

   "Please," I heard her cry. "Please, no."

   Then I saw him. Old Man Summers. He weaved like he was drunk. I could
see his crazed eyes reflecting the light of her bedside lamp. His mouth
was half-open in a sick, sadistic grin.

   "One more," he murmured. He loosened his belt. "One more for old
times' sake, what do you say, baby?"

   "No, please, no," Jolene squealed. She started to back away, crablike.
Old Man Summers grabbed an ankle, held it tight while he forced her legs
open with his other hand. He knelt forward on the bed, his head disappear-
ing between her legs. The noises he made were enough to make me gag.

   "You like it, don't you, you little whore? Just remember, nobody can
ever know. Not ever. As far as the world's concerned, that brat you're
carrying is your boyfriend's. Your husband-to-be."  Jack Summers pulled
himself upright and worked his jeans halfway off. He was wearing no
underwear and his sexual excitement was impossible not to see.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 9                        FEB 1994
   "And when he's off at work, when your mother's taking a nap, I just
might drop by and pay you a visit. Keep that in mind, kiddo."

   I lost my footing then. Only by grabbing the windowsill with both
hands did I avoid falling off the roof.

   "What was that?" I heard Jack Summers say.

   "I didn't hear anything," Jolene answered weakly.

                              *  *  *

   The wedding went pretty well, I thought. I wouldn't want to wear one
of those stupid tuxedos every day, but it felt kind of nice to be all
dressed up for the ceremony. Mostly I work for a tire company, but I
pick up weekend work once in a while at the Texaco station down at Main
and Fourth. A couple of dirty, sweaty jobs, actually. There are
advantages, though. At two o'clock on a Sunday morning nobody was going
to notice when I filled my tank and then pumped five gallons of Sky
Chief into a can I carry in the trunk. A crazy hot-rodder like me, he
could have lots of reasons why he'd have an extra supply on hand.

   "I know," I told Jolene right before the ceremony started. "I
understand. As far as the world will ever know, it's my kid. I'll tell
my folks I just panicked for a few days."

   Mom and Dad and that assortments of aunts and uncles I call my family
were all impressed with how loving, how considerate I was to Jolene at
the wedding and afterward.

   "I think marriage must agree with him," Mom even said to Dad. "Who
would have believed it?"

   "I guess things are no different than they were when I was growing
up," Dad observed. "A boy becomes a man when life demands it of him."

                              *  *  *

   They figure Jack Summers must have been drunk -- word was he put the
whiskey away pretty regularly. There didn't seem to be any other
explanation why he'd gotten into his car, an open container of gasoline
on the seat next to him, with a lighted cigarette in his mouth. There
was barely enough left of him to bury, people said. Jolene and I never
talked about it.

   Her mother accepted it as fate, a tragic accident. "I guess I'm just
meant to be married," she told Mom a few weeks later. Few if any tears
were shed over Jack Summers.

   Jolene had a baby girl on December eighteenth. We named her Brenda
Marie.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 10                       FEB 1994
   Six months later she was pregnant again, and there was no doubt in my
mind who the father was this time. That's why we named him Pat Junior.

   That was a lot of years ago. We're still married.

   Funny, how things work out sometimes.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright 1994 Dennis M. Havens
=========================     #  #  #    =============================
Dennis Havens was born in New York and raised in Las Vegas, where
for many years he worked as a musician in showroom orchestras and
lounge groups. He also toured for two years as a singer with The
Modernaires.  He wrote his first novel in 1973 and has completed
twelve more, with four currently in various stages of construction.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

 Part 2 of the serialized:

DUROPA
  by Francis U. Kaltenbaugh
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
  . . . In the last issue, we found Eik-bhilo and Bel-onan on a
  mining asteroid searching for duropa, the serum necessary to purge
  a virus (QSVD), which had contaminated their ship. There were four
  days left before the QSVD would begin consuming their hosts. Failing,
  to obtain duropa meant suffering a certain cruel and agonizing death.

    The mining base and asteroid were ruled by Sol-ors, who controlled
  the inhabitants as if they were on a penal asteroid. They encountered
  GarThunes, the most peace-loving mortals ever encountered in space --
  dead and dying within the mining base -- BUT WHY? These creatures
  invariably accept death before harming another life form. Read on, as
  we return -- the ship, jointly owned by Commanders Eik-bhilo and
  Bel-onan, is held in a quarantine port area!

CHAPTER 2, CONFRONTATIONS


  "Oku-pri! Three of the passengers demand to leave the ship. The
Myrmidon is among them. He's trying to persuade others to join his
cause. He stated we don't have the right to quarantine him or the others.
The other passengers are in a very frantic state. He's convincing them,
he can obtain duropa," reported the subaltern, Esu-perd.

  "We had as much chance as a glacier in a supernova, for this scenario
to get better instead of worse. When restraining the others, we should've
secured all the passengers. Come with me, and we'll stop this mutinous
action."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 11                       FEB 1994
  "The other passengers are peace loving life forms and four humans. They
all fear for their lives. The Myrmidon will resist. You know how ferocious
and savage they are. For them, fighting to the death is more gratifying
than breathing. He is a huge one too, well over three meters in height and
weighs at least 250 kilos."

     "You know what they say. The bigger they are the higher you set the
phaser," quipped Oku-pri.

     "Do you know of Myrmidons?"

  "A little. They are fierce warriors, and dueling to the death is
their primary interest."

  "There is much more to their fighting than love of conquest. As a
warrior race, their primary purpose is to do battle. Their religious
conviction is that death during battle is the only way they can continue
assurance of their race. This is true, since it is the only time their
reproductive systems become active. Detecting the difference between
males and females is impossible. They only produce sperm and eggs --
after dying in battle.

  "The single microscopic male sperm produced, then travels to the
nearest unfertilized female egg. The body of the dead female Myrmidon
becomes a giant cocoon. If there is no female found within a few hours,
the sperm returns to the male that produced it and secretes an enzyme.
This triggers creation of an egg and then fertilization. The embryo
obtains sustenance by consuming its mother. Within forty-eight hours,
the process is complete, which produces a nearly full grown Myrmidon,"
Esu-perd explained.

  "I'm dying for a little sex myself," said Oku-pri.

  Esu-perd followed Oku-pri into the passenger's nacelle, where the
Myrmidon was arguing his case to any whom would listen. Towering over
the others near him, he was flailing his massive arms as he spoke
presenting a terrific spectacle. Standing near him were four others,
while the remaining passengers occupied lounge-chairs spread about the
room.

  The nine seated passengers were quite a distance from each other. With
only four near the agitator, quick and decisive action by Oku-pri would
be difficult. Subduing the five grouped closely together would be easy.
All eyes turned to Oku-pri.

  "Hold. What is the meaning of this dissension, Myrmidon? You are aware
of our quarantine. The Commander of this vessel, Bel-onan, has further
ordered us to remain here till his return. Upon his arrival, he will
process, and then dispense the duropa. Take your seats and await the
Captain's return," Oku-pri ordered, fearlessly.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 12                       FEB 1994
  "I, Yag-koro of Myrmidon, have concern for the essences of those aboard
this vessel and over my impending death without "honor". Unlike you, who
is a Crasis and afraid to determine his own fate. Little one, you can not
guarantee return of your Captain, or the duropa."

  "While a passenger, you are under the command and control of our
Captains according to U.S.C. laws."

  "I do not abide by the U.S.C. laws. I am a Myrmidon. We have only
The One Law: `Ensure continuation and passing of our individual essence
at any cost'," countered Yag-koro.

  "I do not wish to use force. However, if you do not comply, you are
begging for constraints for your mutinous actions."

  The last word had not left the mouth of Oku-pri. Yag-koro leaped the
four meters separating the two. He grabbed Oku-pri's neck with both
hands. Oblivious to anything else, he was intent on paralyzing Oku-pri.
But he wasn't quick enough. Oku-pri fired the stungun at once. Because
of the Myrmidon's rage and dense mass, there was little effect. He
fired four more times in rapid succession. From his enormous weight,
Yag-koro fell to the deck with a loud thud. The stungun held power for
only five more bursts. If all attacked at once, Oku-pri knew he may
face defeat.

  Fortunately, the others backed away, and all were sitting with
anticipation of what would happen next. Taking down the biggest, quieted
their rebellious attitudes; they were no longer eager to cause further
dissension without aid from Yag-koro. A human stood and nervously looked
at the others, then to Oku-pri.

  "Will your Captains return in time?" asked the earthling. Oku-pri
nodded affirmatively in his direction, then departed followed by the
subaltern. They accessed the main computer and secured all exits from
the compartment holding the passengers.

  "Perhaps, we could reduce the life-support systems, and soon have
them enjoying dreamstates," offered Esu-perd.

  "I may accidentally harm one of the aliens. I'll engage the computer
to refashion a minimum support system. That should be safe enough."

  "I worry for our Captains. I've heard terrible reports about the
cruelness of Sol-ors, and how he rules the asteroid as though it were
a penal planet."

  "Sol-ors merely thinks he's a Ruler of a solar system. But I think
he's a few gigabytes short of a full CPU," retorted Oku-pri.

                              * * *
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 13                       FEB 1994
  Arriving at the approach tunnel for the last rec center, provided a
very unusual display. I couldn't believe my eyes, virtually the entire
population of Bohunkia was flooding the tunnel and all were on foot. All
were traveling in the same direction, toward the last recreation center.
Standing on the carrier improving my view, I looked for a guard. None were
in sight.

  "What is happening?" asked Eik-bhilo.

"It has to do with the deaths of the GarThunes. How it relates, I'm
unsure. But, I have an inkling as to what is transpiring," I said.

  "What thoughts do you have on this?"

  "I'm sure it has to do with black market trade in duropa."

  A GarThune neared the carrier. Jumping down and landing in front of
him, I extended both arms before me, palms up -- the universal gesture
of peace. He stopped before me.

  "I am Captain Bel-onan, Commander of KerpO' Peku. May your great-
grandchildren feed you well."

  "Giving is the way. May your great-grandchildren shelter you well and
speak to you often. I am Bhad-Dens, of the orb Stei-Weik, of GarThune. "

  "I question the activities taking place. Will you please enlighten us
to what is occurring here?" I asked.

  "Word is passing by mouth, and may not pass by other means, to all on
the asteroid to meet at recreation area number three. It is a matter of
life or death to all whom reside upon Bohunkia. All are to travel by
their natural locomotion to the recreation area to avoid a horrible
death. You have received the word and must give it to those without."

  "Thank you, Bhad-Dens. Passing the word is now our duty. May your
great-grandchildren shelter you well. Giving is the way."

  I turned to Eik-bhilo, as I thought about this information and what
it may mean to us. "We better travel on foot. Getting a carrier through
this mass of entities, will be impossible. From what the GarThune told
us, Sol-ors is trying to get the populace of Bohunkia to the recreation
area in a staggered fashion. They are to receive, or do something; then
return to work."

  "What do you think they are to receive?" Eik-bhilo asked.

  "Would you believe, duropa and the antidote?" I said.

  "What? That means someone introduced QSVD into the life-support systems
of this planet. Or, they are going to, but why?" she asked.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 14                       FEB 1994
  "Perhaps I'm being paranoid, but I think there is a new strain of
QSVD in this galaxy. That would explain how our ship received
contamination so easily. Of course, a passenger of ours may have
been a carrier of QSVD. How he received authorization for travel,
without detection, is beyond my comprehension."

  "We must concern ourselves with saving the mortals on the ship, as
well as ourselves. Getting duropa to our vessel is our primary goal.
If you are right, we will find the needed duropa at the recreation hall."

  "Running should easily get us there ahead of this crowd. They are
traveling very apprehensively, since they're unsure what'll take place
at their destination. Upon arrival, we should be able to enter the front
of the queue, because of our rank. Stay close to me."

  Our running didn't arouse interest in the creatures around us; we
increased speed. Passage became difficult through the throng of bodies.
About one-half kilometer from the recreation area, running became imposs-
ible. I thought of a ruse allowing us passage through the mass of beings.

  "Make way for the guards. Make way for the guards," I shouted. I pushed
on the backs of the creatures directly to my front. They quickly moved to
one side or the other making a path Eik-bhilo and I could use. I continued
chanting, "Make way for the guards," as we briskly walked the remaining
distance.

  We covered the half kilometer in a few minutes. Arriving at the
recreation area doorway, we discovered it protected. Ten guards, all
human, formed a semi-circle standing before the entrance. Behind them
stood ten SPS-bots. Gaining entry, without causing a turmoil, wouldn't
be an easy task. There was no queue as I thought there would be,
instead all were standing in extremely crowded conditions.

  "What should we do?" whispered Eik-bhilo.

  "I must think a moment. Stay to the right of the doorway. We need to
create a diversion, which allows us to gain entry without arousing the
guards. Speaking to one may give us our needed information."

  I noticed four Myrmidons standing a few meters left of the doorway and
just beyond the guards. With them, I could probably create a distraction
for the guards. Moving near the closest guard, positioned right of the
doorway, I studied his face. He looked grim and determined; the type who
would follow his orders to the letter. I stepped before him. "I am Captain
Bel-onan, Commander of KerpO' Peku. Report what is taking place, for we
received the word," I said in a very commanding voice.

  "Captain, we are to secure the entrance until we receive orders from
Sol-ors, then allow a line entering the room. There is to be no entry
till then. We're to protect the entrance with battle phasers at full
power. That is our mission."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 15                       FEB 1994
  "What is the purpose of the queue?"

  "Captain, I do not know. However, we're to receive relief and enter
the line ourselves," replied the guard.

  "Thank you, guard."

  Returning to where Eik-bhilo stood, I explained what the guard had
said and what I was going to do. I joined the Myrmidons, then milled
about them attentively. All vehemently complained of the delay they
were enduring. I spoke with each quietly for a minute or so, starting
with the largest, then the others in turn.

  Returning to the largest, I motioned him to bend down so I may speak
with him alone. I whispered in his three ears, "Your smallest companion
stated your parents are peace-loving weaklings and they were born on
GarThune. He also mentioned, you were a lover and never have been a
warrior." I quickly joined Eik-bhilo.

  "I see results of your handy work already. Look," she said, and
motioned toward the Myrmidons.

  The biggest Myrmidon was pushing the smallest, and then trumpeted a
challenge, which echoed through the tunnel. The challenge call commences
with a very low bass hum. Then increases steadily to an extremely high
pitched whine lasting over a minute. The high whine is very irritating
to all beings who can hear it. Unfortunately, it's within the range of
human hearing. We covered our ears with our hands. The answering call
erupted. Two of the guards and their SPS-bots moved toward the source
of the cacophony.

  "The two remaining Myrmidons will chose sides, when the head-butting
of the ritual begins, then join the fray. If the guards attempt
intervening, all four Myrmidons will turn on them, and should bring the
additional guards and SPS-bots into the melee. Thus, creating our
opportunity to gain entry," I said.

  "Well done," shouted Eik-bhilo.

  I could see gathering Myrmidons, forcing their way down the tunnel
toward the sounds of the duel. At least thirty, in a tight group, were
moving to our position. I heard a loud thunk, as the first head butting
started. The guards commanded them to cease their activity and were
gesturing frantically to the two engaged in dueling.

  Touching the smaller Myrmidon, was a terrible mistake for the guard.
Both Myrmidons ceased their fighting, and then turned on the guard, who
was interrupting their ceremonial and sacred rite. The guard found
himself grabbed by his arms, one for each combatant, then flung high
above the crowd. It happened so quickly, as he sailed through the air,
the other guards did nothing but stare. The ruse I started quickly
escalated much beyond my expectations and intentions.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 16                       FEB 1994
  Recovering quickly, the guards began blasting the Myrmidons with
battle phasers. A moment before there had been two beings, now there
were two wisps of billowing vapor and two piles of ash. Now, tightly
grouped in our immediate vicinity, were over fifty Myrmidons. Seeing
the denial of their comrades to complete the ceremonial ritual sent them
into a rage. Their bellowing drowned out all existing sounds and started
causing us pain. All guards faced the group moving toward them. Raising
his arms, the senior guard, signaled them to halt.

  The guard's lips moved; hearing his shouted warning was impossible
over the piercing bellowing. Moving toward the approaching group, the
other guards and SPS-bots followed his movement. Raising his phaser, he
aimed center mass at the Myrmidons. All the guards followed suit, so did
the SPS-bots. He fired, and almost in unison every phaser was blasting the
oncoming mob.

  The center of the onrushing crowd received a horrific blast. This
allowed a large number, at the edge of the swarm, to rush the guards.
The Myrmidons also formed attack lines, several of them following
directly behind one another. They formed four attack lines. They did
this, attempting to defeat the phasers. It even takes a battle phaser
a few seconds to eliminate a mass, as dense as, a Myrmidon.

  During the melee, we seized our opportunity. Racing through the
doorway, we found the large room deserted. There were forty tables
arranged to form aisles between them. This was surely where the
inoculations of the antidote and duropa were to take place.

  "Check the tables on this side. I'll check the other side. There
should be duropa and the antidote at each table," I said.

  "There are several satchels under that far table," said Eik-bhilo.

  She ran to the table and checked the satchels. "Just as I hoped, the
inoculation kits of duropa and the antidote. There are a hundred sets
in each satchel," she said, joyfully.

  I ran to her and picked up another satchel. "We need to get out of
here quickly. Let's check the rear for an exit."

  Moving to the back of the room, we discovered a corridor with several
doors along each side and a cul-de-sac at its end. I feared splitting up,
but there was no alternative. "Check the doors on the left of the hall
and I'll inspect the right. If anything looks promising, call out," I said.

  I found three dead-ends in a row and was becoming anxious about finding
egress from this chamber. Checking the fourth room, I heard a muffled
cry from Eik-bhilo. Quickly, I retraced my steps to the hallway.
Listening attentively, I didn't hear a repeat of the call that would
determine her location. Crossing the hall, I entered a doorway into a
large room and saw nothing of her.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 17                       FEB 1994
  "Bel-onan!" shouted Eik-bhilo, in warning. I turned and saw a monster
sized GarThune rushing toward me. Seeing another six meter tall GarThune,
made me wonder if there was a special breed. I took only a split-second
to ponder its lineage. The distance between us closed in two giant
strides. If I had my phaser drawn and at the ready, this GarThune would
be space dust. It halted less than a half-meter from me. Instead of
battling, with the giant before me, I saw four outstretched hands, with
palms up -- the universal gesture of peace. Shocked, I stood there, my
mouth agape.

  "Greetings," was all I could stammer, instead of giving the customary
mention of great-grandchildren. I waited for a reply.

  "Giving is the way. I am Yag-pes, Commander of the Great Guardians of
GarThune. May your great-grandchildren feed you well and furnish you with
many wondrous gifts of life. Our quest will not meet denial. Earthling, I
can tell you are a human that is benevolent. Your inner-self reveals your
external actions."

  Eik-bhilo had joined us and heard the exchange. She looked at me
with a puzzled expression. Both our faces openly displayed confusion.
This GarThune was female, evidenced by the small blue circles above
both her eyes. A female GarThune never reaches four meters in height,
or so I had thought. We turned to Yag-pes anticipating further explanation.

  "Sol-ors is seeking his death," said Yag-pes.

  We anxiously waited for her to continue. In the excitement, I forgot
that whenever a GarThune mentions anything of death or loss of essence,
they silently pray for their ancestors. She gave a barely perceptible nod.

  "What has he done to seek death?" I asked, breaking the silence.

  "You must be aware of his actions!" vociferated Yag-pes.

  I explained our situation of receiving contamination with QSVD. Also,
how we had been traveling for three days at hyper-warp to find duropa,
and could not communicate, because of our older ship.

  "Upon arrival, our ship entered quarantine restrictions, and we've
been seeking Sol-ors and duropa. We have not communicated with our base
port, or U.S.C.  What news have you of Sol-ors?" I asked.

  "Sol-ors is out to conquer this galaxy, in which our home planet
resides. He has recruited a group of denizens, from his guards and
workers, who will share in the spoils. He plans to contaminate all
planets of this galaxy with a new biogenetically engineered strain
of QSVD, which can penetrate all known closed life-support systems.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 18                       FEB 1994
  "Demanding payment for the duropa, has placed a financial strangle
hold on all beings in this system. If they do not follow his demands
-- all face complete annihilation. Five of the ten planets are facing
QSVD contamination already, GarThune is among them. Four can meet the
demands, while the fifth, JeJune, can not. Multitudes from JeJune have
banded together and taken to piracy. They are raiding the uncontaminated
planets to obtain the ransom for their group only. These planets are
very poor and are unable to afford the duropa. There will be galactic
war. Sol-ors does not care. His predetermination is extracting riches
and making himself the most powerful," explained Yag-pes.

  "He is mad," exclaimed Eik-bhilo.

  "Since QSVD affects virtually all intelligent beings, this is merely
a test of his grand scheme, to rule all universes. Then he claims the
title, Deiwos-Ayro, Lord Ruler of the lesser gods. The Great Guardians
of GarThune have made their way here to stop his madness. There were
forty of us, at last mental union thirty-two survive. We fear further
telepathic uniting, due to possible discovery. Many have mingled with
the workers to infiltrate and obtain duropa. Then we are to assassinate
Sol-ors," said Yag-pes.

  "But . . . ," I stammered, "I thought a GarThune incapable of
killing another being?"

  "The Great Guardians of GarThune consumed an ancient mind altering
palliative, which allows us to accomplish forbidden and unthinkable
deeds -- not unlike Earthlings. Some of us will not survive the
dastardly actions we must perform. It will destroy our psyche. Those
of us, so affected, will wither and return to the Great Guff,"
responded Yag-pes.

  Eik-bhilo and I exchanged glances. Both of us knew, we would help
Yag-pes. But first, we must insure the safety of our ship's passengers
and crew.

  "Yag-pes, the entry we took is under guard. Is there another exit
we may use?" I asked.

  "Yes. The one I used to gain ingress is farther down this hall. It
enters an inter-connecting tunnel to a smelting complex. There was no
one there, when I made my way here."

  "If Sol-ors has such a grand scheme, there must be ships ready to
deliver the duropa when he receives payment. We can make those ships
ours," said Eik-bhilo.
========================      ? ? ?     ==============================
Copyright 1993 Francis U. Kaltenbaugh
----------------------------------------------------------------------
  Get the next issue of RUNE'S RAG for the exciting conclusion of
DUROPA and the adventures of Bel-onan and Eik-Bhilo.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 19                       FEB 1994
======================================================================
Francis U. Kaltenbaugh is a 40 something computer enthusiast,
who enjoys video stimulations. Two children keep things interesting,
one an 18 year-old Marine, and a ten year-old girl, whose only
response is, Why? Francis, who has two books in progress and articles
out everywhere, feels fiction is a mainstay of life for everyone.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=
                     *=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=
                        POETRY SECTION
                     *=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=
<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=>=<=



<=><=><=><=><=><=><=><
Some Thought Provoking
Valentine Poetry:
<=><=><=><=><=><=><=><




Sonnet 116
  by Bill Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come.
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
but bears it out even to the edge of doom.
  If this be error, and upon me proved,
  I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Copyright 1585 William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
----------------------------------------------------------------------

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 20                       FEB 1994
She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways
 by Bill Wordsworth

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
    Besides the springs of Dove.

A Maid whom there were none to praise
    And very few to love;

A violet by a mossy stone
    Half hidden from the eye!
-- Fair as a star, when only one
    Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
    When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
    The difference to me!

Copyright 1793 William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Love Is Not All: It Is Not Meat nor Drink
  by Edna Millay

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well  may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.

Copyright 1909 Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Annabel Lee
  by Ed Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
            In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
            By the name of Annabel Lee; --
And this maiden she lived with o other thought
            Than to love and be loved by me.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 21                       FEB 1994
_She_ was a child and _I_ was a child,
            In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love --
            I and my Annabel Lee --
With a love that the winded seraphs of Heaven
            Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
            In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud by night
            Chilling my Annabel lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
            And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
            In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
            Went envying her and me --
Yes! -- that was the reason (as all men know,
            In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud chilling
            And killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
    Of those who were older than we --
    Of many far wiser than we --

And neither the angels in Heaven above,
    Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: --

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
    In her sepulchre there by the sea --
    In her tomb by the side of the sea.

Copyright 1829 Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)
----------------------------------------------------------------------


RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 22                       FEB 1994
Untitled Poems
  by Don F. Cross

Untitled

Her voice is but a whisper
Shattering the loud silence
of the cold night . . . .
It travels upon the chill air
To deliver her love and comfort
To his open and awaiting ears . . . .

Copyright 1993 Don F. Cross
===========================

Untitled

Bright sunny day
The chill wind starts to come
The chill wind blows
Penetrating the weak defenses of her flesh
The clouds gather and storms brew
She wanders around for refuge
But it is too late for the rain starts to fall
Along with her tears
She is fed up with existence
Fed up
Fed up with life
The rhythm of the thunder is in tune with her heart
Soon the loud thunder stops
All that is left is the chill penetrating wind
She shivers from cold and fear
She is afraid but not afraid due to the knowledge of release
The heart starts to hammer
Cold blue steel shines with the lightning and matches the sky
Bitter taste of iron in her mouth
The hammer in her heart pulls back
The hammer on the implement of destruction pulls back also
Eyes focused on the knowledge of freedom
Her heart leaps forward
Moments after the hammer on the implement of destruction lurches
   forward
Loud explosion drowned out by thunder
A hell-spawned demon flies down a tunnel of darkness
Light for a brief second the darkness returns for the demon
She falls forward and drops the implement of destruction
The demon feeds off of as much as he can for he is expelled
Into the light
As she falls into the darkness
For she is happy not sad
Happy with the knowledge of freedom . . . .
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 23                       FEB 1994
Copyright 1993 Don F. Cross
===========================

Untitled

Chilled winter night

Snowflakes falling carelessly through the sky
Arriving at their final destinations on the ground
I walk the lonely streets of my life on this night
Taking time out only to say HI to the few in my life

On this endless walk of mine

Soon those few are gone and once again I am left alone
To wander the empty streets that fill my life
Every now and then one comes along to fill the emptiness
But soon like all the others the one is gone

I still search the streets for one who will never leave me
"Will I ever find this person?"  The question goes
And the answer is not up to me
But to the one who will make the lonely streets not so lonely

On this never-ending walk of my life . . . .

Copyright 1993 Don F. Cross
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Love's Warmth
   by Francis U. Kaltenbaugh

Searching to fill the void I feel,
Striving to place there all things,
Which are supposed to be real.

Living not in vain, can be a true fright.
Waiting patiently,
Knowing there's got to be my: light.

Wait. Oh no, not me; I actively seek,
Lighting the flame.
Igniting to blaze, that which is quite meek.

Too near, playing with emotion's fire.
Slightly burnt,
Perhaps in vain, but onward,
Till at last, my final pyre.

Copyright 1993 Francis U. Kaltenbaugh
=========================     #  #  #     ============================
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 24                       FEB 1994


(Part 2 of the Serial THE MONSTER MEN)

  In the first installment, we ended with the pirates attacking.
Fortunately, they were driven away -- but so easily? Are they
regrouping for a finishing charge. Read on.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
THE MONSTER MEN
  by Edgar Rice Burroughs
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
CHAPTER 2, THE HEAVY CHEST


 Virginia and Sing were compelled to narrate the adventure of the
afternoon a dozen times. The Chinaman was at a loss to understand
what had deterred the pirates at the very threshold of victory.
Von Horn thought that they had seen the reinforcements embarking
from the shore, but Sing explained that that was impossible since
the Ithaca had been directly between them and the point at which
the returning crew had entered the boats.

 Virginia was positive that her fusillade had frightened them into
a hasty retreat, but again Sing discouraged any such idea when he
pointed to the fact that another instant would have carried the prahu
close to the Ithaca's side and out of the machine gun's radius of
action.

 The old Chinaman was positive that the pirates had some ulterior
motive for simulating defeat, and his long years of experience upon
pirate infested waters gave weight to his opinion. The weak spot in
his argument was his inability to suggest a reasonable motive. And
so it was that for a long time they were left to futile conjecture as
to the action that had saved them from a bloody encounter with these
bloodthirsty sea wolves.

 For a week the men were busy constructing the new camp, but never
again was Virginia left without a sufficient guard for her protection.
Von Horn was always needed at the work, for to him had fallen the
entire direction of matters of importance that were at all of a
practical nature. Professor Maxon wished to watch the building of the
houses and the stockade, that he might offer such suggestions as he
thought necessary, and again the girl noticed her father's comparative
indifference to her welfare.

 She had been shocked at his apathy at the time of the pirate attack,
and chagrined that it should have been necessary for von Horn to have
insisted upon a proper guard being left with her thereafter.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 25                       FEB 1994
 The nearer the approach of the time when he might enter again upon
those experiments which had now been neglected for the better part of
a year the more self absorbed and moody became the professor. At times
he was scarcely civil to those about him, and never now did he have a
pleasant word or a caress for the daughter who had been his whole life
but a few short months before.

 It often seemed to Virginia when she caught her father's eyes upon
her that there was a gleam of dislike in them, as though he would
have been glad to have been rid of her that she might not in any way
embarrass or interfere with his work.

 The camp was at last completed, and on a Saturday afternoon all the
heavier articles from the ship had been transported to it. On the
following Monday the balance of the goods was to be sent on shore and
the party were to transfer their residence to their new quarters.

 Late Sunday afternoon a small native boat was seen rounding the point
at the harbor's southern extremity, and after a few minutes it drew
alongside the Ithaca. There were but three men in it -- two Dyaks and a
Malay. The latter was a tall, well built man of middle age, of a sullen
and degraded countenance. His garmenture was that of the ordinary Malay
boatman, but there was that in his mien and his attitude toward his
companions which belied his lowly habiliments.

 In answer to von Horn's hail the man asked if he might come aboard and
trade; but once on the deck it developed that he had not brought
nothing wherewith to trade. He seemed not the slightest disconcerted
by this discovery, stating that he would bring such articles as they
wished when he had learned what their requirements were.

 The ubiquitous Sing was on hand during the interview, but from his
expressionless face none might guess what was passing through the
tortuous channels of his Oriental mind. The Malay had been aboard
nearly half an hour talking with von Horn when the mate, Bududreen,
came on deck, and it was Sing alone who noted the quickly concealed
flash of recognition which passed between the two Malays.

 The Chinaman also saw the gleam that shot into the visitor's eye as
Virginia emerged from the cabin, but by no word or voluntary outward
sign did the man indicate that he had even noticed her. Shortly
afterward he left, promising to return with provisions the following
day. But it was to be months before they again saw him.

 That evening as Sing was serving Virginia's supper he asked her if
she had recognized their visitor of the afternoon.

 "Why no, Sing," she replied, "I never saw him before."

 "Sh!" admonished the celestial. "No talkee so strong, wallee have
ear all same labbit."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 26                       FEB 1994
 "What do you mean, Sing?" asked the girl in a low voice. How perfectly
weird and mysterious you are. Why you make the cold chills run up my
spine," she ended, laughing. But Sing did not return her smile as was
his custom.

 "You no lememba tallee Lajah stand up wavee lite clothee in plilate
boat, ah?" he urged.

 "Oh, Sing," she cried, "I do indeed!  But unless you had reminded me
I should never have thought to connect him with our visitor of today
-- they do look very much alike, don't they?"

 "Lookeelike!  Ugh, they all samee one man. Sing know. You lookee
out, Linee," which was the closest that Sing had ever been able to
come to pronouncing Virginia.

 "Why should I look out? He doesn't want me," said the girl, laughingly.

 "Don't you bee too damee sure 'bout lat, Linee," was Sing's inelegant
but convincing reply, as he turned toward his galley.

 The following morning the party, with the exception of three Malays
who were left to guard the Ithaca, set out for the new camp. The
journey was up the bed of the small stream which emptied into the
harbor, so that although fifteen men had passed back and forth through
the jungle from the beach to the camp every day for two weeks, there
was no sign that human foot had ever crossed the narrow strip of sand
that lay between the dense foliage and the harbor.

 The gravel bottom of the rivulet made fairly good walking, and as
Virginia was borne in a litter between two powerful lascars it was not
even necessary that she wet her feet in the ascent of the stream to
the camp. The distance was short, the center of the camp being but a
mile from the harbor, and less than half a mile from the opposite shore
of the island which was but two miles at its greatest breadth, and two
and a quarter at its greatest length.

 At the camp Virginia found that a neat clearing had been made upon a
little tableland, a palisade built about it, and divided into three
parts; the most northerly of which contained a small house for herself
and her father, another for von Horn, and a common cooking and eating
house over which Sing was to preside.

 The enclosure at the far end of the palisade was for the Malay and
lascar crew and there also were quarters for Bududreen and the Malay
second mate. The center enclosure contained Professor Maxon's workshop.
This compartment of the enclosure Virginia was not invited to inspect,
but as members of the crew carried in the two great chests which the
professor had left upon the Ithaca until the last moment, Virginia
caught a glimpse of the two buildings that had been erected within this
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 27                       FEB 1994
central space -- a small, square house which was quite evidently her
father's laboratory, and a long, low thatched shed divided into several
compartments, each containing a rude bunk. She wondered for whom they
could be intended. Quarters for all the party had already been arranged
for elsewhere, nor, thought she, would her father wish to house any in
such close proximity to his workshop, where he would desire absolute
quiet and freedom from interruption. The discovery perplexed her not a
little, but so changed were her relations with her father that she would
not question him upon this or any other subject.

 As the two chests were being carried into the central campong, Sing,
who was standing near Virginia, called her attention to the fact that
Bududreen was one of those who staggered beneath the weight of the
heavier burden.

 "Bludleen, him mate. Why workee alsame lascar boy? Eh?" But
Virginia could give no reason.

 "I am afraid you don't like Bududreen, Sing," she said. "Has he
ever harmed you in any way?"

 "Him? No, him no hurt Sing. Sing poor," with which more or less
enigmatical rejoinder the Chinaman returned to his work. But he
muttered much to himself the balance of the day, for Sing knew that a
chest that strained four men in the carrying could contain but one
thing, and he knew that Bududreen was as wise in such matters as he.

 For a couple of months the life of the little hidden camp went on
peacefully and without exciting incident. The Malay and lascar crew
divided their time between watch duty on board the Ithaca, policing
the camp, and cultivating a little patch of clearing just south of
their own campong.

 There was a small bay on the island's east coast, only a quarter of a
mile from camp, in which oysters were found, and one of the Ithaca's
boats was brought around to this side of the island for fishing.
Bududreen often accompanied these expeditions, and on several occasions
the lynx-eyed Sing had seen him returning to camp long after the others
had retired for the night.

 Professor Maxon scarcely ever left the central enclosure. For days
and nights at a time Virginia never saw him, his meals being passed
in to him by Sing through a small trap door that had been cut in the
partition wall of the "court of mystery" as von Horn had christened
the section of the camp devoted to the professor's experimentations.

 Von Horn himself was often with his employer as he enjoyed the
latter's complete confidence, and owing to his early medical training
was well fitted to act as a competent assistant; but he was often
barred from the workshop, and at such times was much with Virginia.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 28                       FEB 1994
 The two took long walks through the untouched jungle, exploring their
little island, and never failing to find some new and wonderful proof
of Nature's creative power among its flora and fauna.

 "What a marvellous thing is creation," exclaimed Virginia as she and
von Horn paused one day to admire a tropical bird of unusually
brilliant plumage. "How insignificant is man's greatest achievement
beside the least of Nature's works."

 "And yet," replied von Horn, "man shall find Nature's secret some day.
What a glorious accomplishment for him who first succeeds. Can you
imagine a more glorious consummation of a man's life work -- your
father's, for example?"

 The girl looked at von Horn closely.

 "Dr. von Horn," she said, "pride has restrained me from asking what
was evidently intended that I should not know. For years my father has
been interested in an endeavor to solve the mystery of life -- that he
would ever attempt to utilize the secret should he have been so fortunate
as to discover it had never occurred to me. I mean that he should try to
usurp the functions of the Creator I could never have believed, but my
knowledge of him, coupled with what you have said, and the extreme
lengths to which he has gone to maintain absolute secrecy for his present
experiments can only lead to one inference; and that, that his present
work, if successful, would have results that would not be countenanced
by civilized society or government. Am I right?"

 Von Horn had attempted to sound the girl that he might, if possible,
discover her attitude toward the work in which her father and he were
engaged. He had succeeded beyond his hopes, for he had not intended that
she should guess so much of the truth as she had. Should her interest in
the work have proved favorable it had been his intention to acquaint her
fully with the marvellous success which already had attended their
experiments, and to explain their hopes and plans for the future, for
he had seen how her father's attitude had hurt her and hoped to profit
himself by reposing in her the trust and confidence that her father
denied her.

 And so it was that her direct question left him floundering in a sea of
embarrassment, for to tell her the truth now would gain him no favor in
her eyes, while it certainly would lay him open to the suspicion and
distrust of her father should he learn of it.

 "I cannot answer your question, Miss Maxon," he said, finally, "for
your father's strictest injunction has been that I divulge to no one
the slightest happening within the court of mystery. Remember that I
am in your father's employ, and that no matter what my personal
convictions may be regarding the work he has been doing I may only
act with loyalty to his lightest command while I remain upon his
payroll. That you are here," he added, "is my excuse for continuing my
connection with certain things of which my conscience does not approve."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 29                       FEB 1994
 The girl glanced at him quickly. She did not fully understand the
motive for his final avowal, and a sudden intuition kept her from
questioning him. She had learned to look upon von Horn as a very pleasant
companion and a good friend -- she was not quite certain that she would
care for any change in their relations, but his remark had sowed the
seed of a new thought in her mind as he had intended that it should.

 When von Horn returned to the court of mystery, he narrated to
Professor Maxon the gist of his conversation with Virginia, wishing to
forestall anything which the girl might say to her father that would
give him an impression that von Horn had been talking more than he
should. Professor Maxon listened to the narration in silence. When
von Horn had finished, he cautioned him against divulging to Virginia
anything that took place within the inner campong.

 "She is only a child," he said, "and would not understand the
importance of the work we are doing. All that she would be able to
see is the immediate moral effect of these experiments upon the subjects
themselves -- she would not look into the future and appreciate the
immense advantage to mankind that must accrue from a successful
termination of our research. The future of the world will be assured
when once we have demonstrated the possibility of the chemical
production of a perfect race."

 "Number One, for example," suggested von Horn.

 Professor Maxon glanced at him sharply.

 "Levity, Doctor, is entirely out of place in the contemplation of the
magnificent work I have already accomplished," said the professor
tartly. "I admit that Number One leaves much to be desired -- much to
be desired; but Number Two shows a marked advance along certain lines,
and I am sure that tomorrow will divulge in experiment Number Three such
strides as will forever silence any propensity toward scoffing which you
may now entertain."

 "Forgive me, Professor," von Horn hastened to urge.

 "I did not intend to deride the wonderful discoveries which you have
made, but it is only natural that we should both realize that Number
One is not beautiful. To one another we may say what we would not think
of suggesting to outsiders."

 Professor Maxon was mollified by this apology, and turned to resume his
watch beside a large, coffin-shaped vat. For a while von Horn was silent.
There was that upon his mind which he had wished to discuss with his
employer since months ago, but the moment had never arrived which seemed
at all propitious, nor did it appear likely ever to arrive. So the doctor
decided to broach the subject now, as being psychologically as favorable
a time as any.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 30                       FEB 1994
 "Your daughter is far from happy, Professor," he said, "nor do I feel
that, surrounded as we are by semi-savage men, she is entirely safe."

 Professor Maxon looked up from his vigil by the vat, eyeing
von Horn closely.

 "Well?" he asked.

 "It seemed to me that had I a closer relationship I might better assist
in adding to her happiness and safety -- in short, Professor, I should
like your permission to ask Virginia to marry me."

 There had been no indication in von Horn's attitude toward the girl
that he loved her. That she was beautiful and intelligent could not be
denied, and so it was small wonder that she might appeal strongly to any
man, but von Horn was quite evidently not of the marrying type. For years
he had roved the world in search of adventure and excitement. Just why he
had left America and his high place in the navy he never had divulged;
nor why it was that for seven years he had not set his foot upon ground
which lay beneath the authority of Uncle Sam.

 Sing Lee who stood just without the trap door through which he was
about to pass Professor Maxon's evening meal to him could not be
blamed for overhearing the conversation, though it may have been
culpable in him in making no effort to divulge his presence, and
possibly equally unpraiseworthy, as well as lacking in romance, to
attribute the doctor's avowal to his knowledge of the heavy chest.

 As Professor Maxon eyed the man before replying to his abrupt request,
von Horn noted a strange and sudden light in the older man's eyes -- a
something which he never before had seen there and which caused an
uncomfortable sensation to creep over him -- a manner of bristling that
was akin either to fear or horror, von Horn could not tell which.

 Then the professor arose from his seat and came very close to the
younger man, until his face was only a few inches from von Horn's.

 "Doctor," he whispered in a strange, tense voice, "you are mad. You
do not know what you ask. Virginia is not for such as you. Tell me
that she does not know of your feelings toward her. Tell me that she
does not reciprocate your love. Tell me the truth, man." Professor
Maxon seized von Horn roughly by both shoulders, his glittering eyes
glaring terribly into the other's.

 "I have never spoken to her of love, Professor," replied von Horn
quietly, "nor do I know what her sentiments toward me may be. Nor do I
understand, sir, what objections you may have to me -- I am of a very
old and noble family."  His tone was haughty but respectful.

 Professor Maxon released his hold upon his assistant, breathing a
sigh of relief.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 31                       FEB 1994
 "I am glad," he said, "that it has gone no further, for it must not
be. I have other, nobler aspirations for my daughter. She must wed a
perfect man -- none such now exists. It remains for me to bring forth
the ideal mate for her -- nor is the time far distant. A few more weeks
and we shall see such a being as I have long dreamed." Again the queer
light flickered for a moment in the once kindly and jovial eyes of the
scientist.

 Von Horn was horrified. He was a man of little sentiment. He could in
cold blood have married this girl for the wealth he knew that she would
inherit; but the thought that she was to be united with such a THING --
"Lord! It is horrible," and his mind pictured the fearful atrocity which
was known as Number One.

 Without a word he turned and left the campong. A moment later Sing's
knock aroused Professor Maxon from the reverie into which he had fallen,
and he stepped to the trap door to receive his evening meal.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=     ? ? ?     =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
  End Chapter 2 -- THE MONSTER MEN. Get the next issue of RUNE'S RAG
for the exciting continuation of this story by Edgar Rice Burroughs.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
  Edgar Rice Burroughs has influenced writers and readers for the past
three generations, with well over 100 million books produced because of
his fertile imagination; this offering is a presentation to those who
are unfamiliar with his work -- other than the TARZAN series.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
VALENTINE
  by George Willard
=-=-=-=-==-=-=-=-=-

  "Son of a bitch!"

  The once-heavy backpack banged against my knees as I slipped in
the roadside mud.

  "Damn," I thought, too tired to vocalize my frustration, "hope it's
still okay."  I could have opened the flap and checked, but I needed
both hands to regain my feet and scrape off the worst of the yellow
Missouri clay. I was getting close to home. I'd take it on faith that
the Gods wouldn't shit on me _again_.

  There was no particularly good reason for faith, and the recent past
surely contained no Deific-crap-free pattern . . . but there it was. "
Hope springs eternal."

  Life seemed to be on an ever-upward spiral just weeks ago when I left
for a weekend convention in Southern California. I kissed Val goodbye
and wiped the corners of her eyes with a fingertip.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 32                       FEB 1994
  "Don't worry, My Funny Valentine! I'll be back in a few days and I'll
bring you something special from the Coast."

  She tucked her head into the hollow of my neck, I hugged her, then
climbed into my cold pickup, shivering in the icy predawn January fog. The
heater would barely get warm by the time I arrived at the little airport.

  The airline should have been my first omen of coming doom. When I
arrived in St. Louis, I was told my flight had been canceled. I had to
wait three hours for another, screwing up my ground-transport arrangements
out on the Coast. Sure enough, Larry and Chris had long since left, it
never having occurred to them to check with the TWA counter to see what
flight I was actually on. What can you expect of writers, though --
practicality? Certainly not in many cases I've seen.

  After griping with the airline service desk over their delays, they
finally agreed to give me a shuttle-bus coupon to the hotel where the
Jacksonville West Writers' Punathon was scheduled. I knew it had to be
the right place when I spotted eight overweight women dressed in nun's
habits dancing in a conga line, singing "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" to
a calypso beat. The hotel staff seemed to be frozen in shock.

  Stage two of the "shit on Mark" process began at the front desk. "We're
sorry, Mr. Matthews, but we show your reservation as canceled."

  "CANCELED?! That was a prepaid reservation!"

  "Sorry, sir."

  "Sorry don't cut it. Just get back into your computer and UN-cancel me!"

  "We'd love to, sir, but we're full up, sold out for the weekend. You
  could go next door and they'll honor our convention rates."

  "Swell. YOU have my money, y'know."

  "No, we don't. We mailed a refund back to Missouri yesterday."

  Damn! MasterCard and Visa were in their usual state of nearly-maxxed-out,
and I knew that touching American Express would bring a flying hit-squad
down on me. I carefully calculated, and decided I could still get a room
and survive the weekend if I was frugal with my cash.

  I smiled at the desk clerk. "Thank you for your assistance. Now I
understand why people out here take Ak-47s to schoolyards. They're
afraid the kids will grow up into Californians."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 33                       FEB 1994
  The Gods seemed to have found a different toidy-target for most of
the weekend. Puns flew fast and thick through the hotel, prompting a
run on barf bags. Karen Rhodes, Guest-of-Dishonor, had 'em puking in
the aisles at the banquet. A local TV news crew came to do a report
and left in a state of nausea. Strangers recognized me: "Hossie? The
prime horse-pun _artiste_?"  I could usually dodge the sucker-punches
aimed at me although one kid with a ball-bat got closer than I liked.
Known as the best when it comes to leading people into pun-traps, I won
the Master Baiter award.

  Sorry. I almost forgot this is supposed to be a tale of pathos and
romance.

                              *  *  *

 Anyway, things went well -- until time to leave. I even had enough money
to buy Valentine the present I'd promised to bring her. The airport gift
shop had a small heart-shaped box of oat-bran chocolates . . . only in
California, huh? I knew Val would appreciate the goodies and the thought
behind them.

  With almost an hour before boarding time I checked in the luggage
and just kept my backpack with the candy and a few items of
personal jewelry that I didn't wish to trust to TWA's tender
mercies. I went outside where there were a few designated
smoking areas and chatted with the skycaps. The first time a bus
passed and made the structure rumble I jumped in alarm. "Was
that an earthquake?"  Rodney, a middle-aged black 'cap smiled at
the ignorant "Missouri mule."

  "Naw, that's the way the building's designed:  to give a little
instead of cracking up. Don't worry, sir, you're perfectly
safe."

  He pointed to the busses and I felt the rumble each time they
passed a particular point. I settled my nerves and lit another
cigarette in a foredoomed attempt to load my bloodstream with
enough nicotine to last four hours in the air. I took my first
drag when the biggest bus in history must have driven by.

  By now you know that the earthquake of '95 was "The Big One"
everyone had talked about for years. At least, I hope it was. I
can't see how there could be a bigger one without totally
wrecking the planet.

  After an eternity of noise and motion, the world went nearly
silent. The air was clogged with dust, the sun making only a
sickly-yellow glow in the haze.

  By some perverted miracle I found myself still holding my
cigarette, still lit, only half burned away. The quake couldn't
possibly have lasted such a short time.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 34                       FEB 1994
  The terminal buildings were rubble, all the high-rises I
remembered seeing only moments before were gone, the highway
overpasses lay flat. As the dust began to settle, the glow of
flames became visible all around the area. Jetliners, cars, gas
mains, filling stations -- all seemed to ignite at once. My
hearing returned and I realized the silence had been illusion.
Fires roared, people screamed; the earth and the city groaned.

  I had no idea how far the damage stretched, or how big a quake it
was. People on the East Coast knew a lot more about the quake a
lot sooner than the people who were in it. Although it took a
couple of hours, the news vultures were eventually flying over
three utterly-devastated counties. "Greater Los Angeles" was
wiped out. Lacking their aerial viewpoint or a means to receive
their live telecasts I could only see what was in my immediate
vicinity.

  I looked down into Rodney's smiling . . . dead . . . face. A
piece of concrete canopy had landed on him. I could see the
reinforcing rod which had pierced his brain, likely killing him
before it pushed him down. I couldn't see anyone else still
erect. I couldn't even see human movement.

  I shit my pants.

  Fantasies are very human things. Idle moments are spent
daydreaming of the perfect love, winning millions of dollars,
revenge, or even Rescuing The Fair Maiden. I'd whiled away a few
hours visualizing what I'd do if I was nearby a disaster:  how
I'd dig through the rubble with bare hands and save an infant and
his grandmother from Certain Death, how I'd brave the flames of a
burning building to bring out a 7-year-old girl's kitten, or
apply CPR to the President after all his guards had been wiped
out in a poison-gas assassination attempt. In every case I would
graciously accept the kudos of officials and public with obvious
modesty and heroic mien.

  Somehow fantasies aren't real. Hmmm. . .

  Maybe it might be different if I was on the outside of a
disaster, looking in. Maybe then I would summon hidden reserves
of courage and selflessly risk life and limb to Do The Right
Thing. Maybe. But in the '95 Quake, I was no hero. I hadn't
grown up on shaky ground, didn't have any idea what to expect
next. Give me a tornado, give me a flood; I know what to do.
Car wrecks? No problem. But I was stranded in a city which had
frightened me _before_ it fell down. Too much traffic, too many
roads, TOO MANY PEOPLE!

  People. People! They would be scared, too. They'd be hungry.
They would rob me, kill me, eat my fat-marbled flesh.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 35                       FEB 1994
  I ran as best I could. It was really pretty easy now that the
urban terror had been instantly converted to wilderness. Years
of deep woods hunting experience, years of fence-jumping at night
while dodging farmer's watchdogs and rural patrol cars--I made it
to the edge of the city intact, although it took a few days. I
hoped Val was all right. She'd be worried about me, but the
neighbors knew where I was going and would look in on her, making
sure she had all she needed, doing the things she couldn't do for
herself. I hoped so, anyway.

  I ran until I encountered a National Guard aid post at the edge
of the destruction. I later found out I could have gone a few
hundred yards west to the beach and been picked up right away,
but instinct made me head east towards home. The Gods were doing
their number again.

  I still carried my backpack. Tobacco was long gone, but the
Guardsmen gave me a hard time about the jewelry until I showed
them my initials engraved in it. They said they'd started
shooting looters on sight two days before.

  I got a bowl of hot soup, a quick medical checkover, and a truck
ride to a refugee camp in the Valley. I waited in line for six
hours for the chance to send a message via ham radio to the
neighbors, telling them I was alive and trying to return home,
asking them to make sure Valentine was eating okay. I hoped it
would get through. There were no phone cables, most microwave
links had been broken, and the few satellite channels available
through portable uplinks were reserved for official business and
the news media. Publicity Hath Its Privileges.

  At the camp, I learned that it could take weeks before transport
was available since all traffic west of the Rockies was under
Federal control, limited to essentials due to fuel shortages
caused by the quake.

  I couldn't face the thought of such a delay. I listened to the
rumors of plans to form the refugees into "voluntary rescue
brigades" and couldn't face the thought of going back into that
massive graveyard, either. Again I put my stealth skills to work
and found a railroad switching yard. Most of the eastbound
trains were empty cars, so I had little trouble sneaking a ride.
The switchman who found me was nice enough about the whole thing
and even shared his lunchbox with me, but that only lasted until
Eastern Arizona where yard detectives gave me the bum's rush.

  Even Arizona was under modified martial law as far as food
supplies and traffic were concerned. I managed to trade my
diamond ring for a couple of pounds of black-market beef jerky
and a ride in the back of a cattle truck. It wasn't so bad once
I got used to the stink, and the warm bodies were welcome as the
road climbed.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 36                       FEB 1994
  I must have gotten close to one percent of the ring's value. I
was satisfied with the deal.

  It would have been nice if my coat hadn't been checked in with my
baggage -- but it would have been nicer if the quake had hit two
hours later than it did, or never happened at all. I stole a
coat I found hanging in a Texas barn.

  The beef jerky held out to Oklahoma City. My watch brought a
better return at a pawn shop, enough to buy a bus ticket home.

  I lost it.

  The Gods were still playing with me, I suppose.

  I counted the few dollars that remained, shrugged, bought a pound
of bologna and a loaf of bread, a pack of cigarettes, and headed
for the turnpike. Home was only four hours away.

  Like hell.

  Three days of sleeping under bridges, short rides, hiking,
dodging Highway Patrol cars, and muttering at fate brought me to
Joplin. I called a friend with my last quarter. He gave me a
ride to the airport where I found my truck still parked, still
intact. I had my wedding ring, my backpack, my clothes, a stolen
coat, and that silly box of candy for Val. I was alive, and had
a wealth of material to write about. My ordeal was over.

  Until the engine locked up, a blown piston two miles from home at
three in the morning.

  I pounded my forehead against the steering wheel a few times,
sighed, and began to walk. It was warm for the middle of
February -- warm enough to thaw the ground and turn it into slime.

  I walked on the blacktop. I almost made it when a drunk driver
came swerving down the road, inspiring me to make closer
acquaintance with the roadside ditch.

  Back on the road, I paused to recover my breath, then began
laughing. The Gods' plans must not have included killing me,
because another drunk driver -- or a sober one -- could have knocked
me off as I staggered down the last mile, laughing crazily.

  One last hill up the private gravel road and into my driveway.
Home at last! Scrape the mud from my battered tennis shoes,
unlock the door, step over the cats demanding a treat, and walk
back to the far end of the trailer.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 37                       FEB 1994
  I opened the door and turned on the light. Val awoke with a
start, blinked, then stood and walked away. She stopped, turned,
and glared accusations.

  "Val! My Funny Valentine!"

  Silence.

  "It wasn't my fault. Honest!"

  Silence.

  "Look, I even remembered to bring you a present. Candy! Today's
St. Valentine's day, and I brought Valentine some Valentine's
candy in a Valentine's heart."

  Silence.

  I opened the box and held a piece out for her to see.

  Finally, she slowly approached. She sniffed the oat-bran
chocolate then snuffled it from my fingers, munching
appreciatively. At last she broke the silence with a low
whicker.

  We shared the candy there on the back porch stoop, then she again
rested her head in the hollow of my neck. I rubbed her ears and
scratched her mane.

  My Pretty Pony; My Funny Valentine.

Copyright 1994 George Willard
=========================     #  #  #     ============================
Rather like the description of the Marquis deSade in some dictionaries,
George might be defined as "an American writer and pervert," but he'd
rather be known as someone with a twisted, curmudgeonly sense of humor.
42-going-on-ninety, he lives in rural Joplin, MO with two cats, three
horses, and the occassional stray writer or other pets.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 38                       FEB 1994

The Story of Ronald Frump
by Dave Bealer

Ronald Frump was born on December 7, 1941.  Frump calls this an
interesting fact, although his business opponents have been known to
refer to it as prophetic.

Leaving his childhood home of Fort Scott, Kansas, at the age of
sixteen, Frump made his way west, eventually settling in Soccorro,
New Mexico.  After spending many years selling used yachts in New
Mexico, Frump tired of the fast and reckless lifestyle of Soccorro
and made for the calmer waters of Las Vegas.

In 1963 Frump landed his first job as a dealer at a small club off
the strip.  His business savvy and bloodthirsty tendencies soon saw
him safely ensconced as owner of three small clubs, The Frump Sphinx
Club in Las Vegas, the Frump Coliseum in Reno and the Frump Colossus
in South Lake Tahoe.

But Ronald Frump is a dreamer, and a man not accustomed to making do
with what he already has.  He conceived of a huge strip hotel, larger
than any then in existence.  The result was the Frump Pyramid, two
blocks long and 50 stories high.  The Pyramid's 4,500 hotel rooms
were filled constantly with customers for the three casinos, two
nightclubs,  five restaurants and numerous shops contained on the
lower levels.

Opened in 1971 with the aid of money invested by a group of well-
heeled New Jersey olive importers, the Frump Pyramid cleared more
than $6 billion in its first five years.  With this kind of success,
it was only a matter of time before further expansion took place.

The Frump Boardwalk Pyramid in Atlantic City was opened in 1983 with
the help of new partners, a consortium of sugar importers from Miami.
The Boardwalk Pyramid's 3,800 rooms and two casinos make it the
largest casino/hotel on the east coast.

With profits of better than $2 billion a year from the two Pyramids,
Frump has been playing a real-life game of Monopoly, buying every
hotel which comes up for sale in both cities.  But why is it that
Ronald Frump is prospering when other casino operations in Nevada and
New Jersey are foundering?

Many experts attribute his success to his extra-ordinary sense of
what people will find entertaining.  For instance, one of the
mainstay attractions of both Pyramids is the "Frumpies," waitresses
clad in fuzzy pink bathrobes and slippers, their hair up in curlers.
Many guests seem to like this homey touch, and are willing to
overlook the "Frumpies" usual surliness, the extent of which has
prompted more than one observer to nickname them the "Grumpies."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 39                       FEB 1994
The Twerpus Maximus Room at the Frump Coliseum is one of the most
popular cabaret spots in Reno.  Retired and burned out Frumpies strut
their stuff there every evening in front of sellout crowds.

Another major innovation brought to casinos by Ronald Frump is the
"Robo-Dealer," a mechanical dealing robot built by RCU, the Robotics
Corporation of Ukraine, located in Minsk.  These wise-cracking
mechanical dealers not only save large amounts of payroll expense,
they are also able to more effectively spot players who cheat, while
themselves performing tremendous feats of automatic dexterity while
dealing.  A Robo-Dealer has begun appearing in recent Frump Casino
ads, and its early popularity has led some pundits to make the gloomy
prediction that Robo-Dealer may attain pop-culture icon status
similar to that enjoyed by Max Headroom and "Mr. Whipple."

Despite his success, Ronald Frump's life has not been without its
trials and tribulations.  He ended up spending millions outfitting
the new Boardwalk Pyramid with huge fans to blow away the fog which
would periodically obscure the fifty foot high letters proclaiming
the FRUMP name to all of south Jersey.

Copyright 1992 Dave Bealer, All Rights Reserved
------------
Dave Bealer is a thirty-something mainframe systems programmer who
works with CICS, MVS and all manner of nasty acronyms at one of the
largest heavy metal shops on the East Coast.  He shares a waterfront
townhome in Pasadena, MD. with two cats who annoy him endlessly as he
writes and electronically publishes Random Access Humor.  He can be
reached at - Internet: [e-mail]  FidoNet> 1:261/1129
=-=-=-=-=-=-==-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
                        ******************
                        =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WhatNots, Why not? =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
                        =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

News you can Use
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Old Ways?
=-=-=-=-=
  Are you one of those individuals who enjoys clinging to the old
ways? Do you have your first briefcase hiding in the closet, knowing
you will get the handle fixed. Its only been there for about eight
years. Hmm. Do you have a box full of dishes that are just odds-and-
ends that you never use, but you may use them some day.
  If you fit these categories, perhaps you should take a look at your
telephone. Are you still using a dial phone? Perhaps you are still
paying Ma Bell or one of her subsidiaries for rental of that phone!!!
Maybe it's time you go to the local merchandise mart and take a look
at those $5 to $10 phones. That is what you are probably paying for
rent on that old phone you are leasing. The charge is probably not
even listed on your phone bill.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 40                       FEB 1994
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Win that Contest
=-=-=-=-=-=-=--=
  Are you a writer who thrives on the contests that are announced
in the writer's magazines? But you receive the information just a
little late for most of the contests. Perhaps you would be interested
in the publication by PEN American Center, GRANTS and AWARDS --
Available to American Writes, is probably what you need. This book is
published every two years and the 1994/95 version should be available
now.  There are over 160 pages of information of interest to you.
Write: PEN American Center, 568 Broadway, New York, NY 10012. The cost
for the 1992/93 edition was $8.00 for individuals and $12.50 for
libraries and institutions. A valuable resource for writers.

=-=-=
StuFF
=-=-=
  There is a creeping deterioration of basic moral values taking place
in today's America. What can we do to change the attitudes of those
whose moral fiber has and continues to lack direction? I feel some of
us can aid others by simply following an old adage: Treat others as
we would like to be treated.

 It may not cure the world, but it could make another persons day.
Something as simple as a greeting to an older person, who is filling
out their check and recording the entry. Of course, this will be while
they are standing in front of you in the check-out line, but it can make
a great deal of difference. Take the time to care about others, time is
really not that precious! Let that driver make a right turn into the traffic
lane; during traffic jams, she's not going to get that far ahead of you!

=-=-=-=-=-
More StuFF
=-=-=-=-=-
  There is a revolutionary, new, improved, fantastic, updated, FDA
approved product available for you -- who use dentures. Want to remove
those nasty raspberry, nicotine, fungal, boysenberry, cherry, and other
stains from your dentures -- hence from your mouth? This product has been
tested for a couple of centuries now, and is available for home use! Bleach.
What? Yes, Bleach. You say, I'm crazy. Well don't drink it, there are many
safety warnings on the labels, so strict compliance with them is advised.
But, try adding one teaspoon of bleach to your normal cleanser and minimum
6 ounces of water. If it is not the best thing since sliced bread, don't
send a dollar. If it IS, well, hey, you have the mailing address! -- RUNE
=========================     #  #  #    =============================
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 41                       FEB 1994
   RUNE'S RAG -- Your best Electronic Literary Magazine

This electronic magazine (no paper save a tree) is RUNES'S RAG,
a general interest magazine, published monthly (however, a hiatus
is to be established). The issues, some with a small text reader,
are displayed in READROOM.TOC (tm) format, also a version which is
TEXT (ASCII) based, where the magazine should display on most
machines, other versions may be published in the future.

Writer's Guidelines:
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
RUNE'S RAG, %ARNOLD'S PLUTONOMIE$, LTD., P.O. Box 243, Greenville, PA
16125-0243. Phone: 1-412-LUV-RUNE. Editor, Evelyn Horine; Managing
Editor, Rick Arnold. 95.3% freelance written. A monthly international
Electronic Magazine (save your tree), publishing the best in fiction,
non-fiction, poetry, satire, reviews, religion, interviews (anything
relevant to our readers)... humor noire, and more. Bio given, publishes
within 3 months of acceptance. Reports within 4 weeks on queries. Takes
First North American Serial Rights. Previously published material is
accepted for second, third, etc. rights; please provide the previous
publication, publication editor, and date published. Pays within 90 days
after publication. Pays $2.00 per article. Length: 100-50,000 words
(Works of apx. 10,000 will be serialized).

TIPS: Send your ms(s) by modem, First Preference, to: 1:2601/522
1-412-LUV-RUNE  Fax: [phone], should be same number (try it).
Second Preference Mail: Disk media: 360, 720, 1.2m, 1.4m. in unarced
/uncompressed format, PURE ASCII text format on disk media. Provide
two copies on the disk; name the file with as much of the ms title
as possible, and use your initials as the file extension, (for ex.
THEBIBLE.GOD, where Gene O. Dixon is author). LEAST Preferred medium:
paper, however, if the ms is apx. 1,000 words -- it will be considered
-- we hate to perform data entry. Eager to work with NEW Authors, as
well as inveterates.
*********************************************************************
ENSURE you PROVIDE a contact BBS with Fido Node number for NetMail, or
other E-mail address, home phone and your Postal Address, and always
send/include a SASE, *especially* if you can not receive Netmail.
**********************************************************************
LAYOUT: Standard submission format, flush left margin, ragged right,
with 65 column max right margin, blank line between paragraphs, spell
checked, edited, and proofed by YOU! Pure ASCII only, please. We do
virtually no editing to your ms, except for layout into the e-mag to
fit format needs.
*RIGHTS: Copyright of each separate contributing article is held apart
from the collective work as a whole, and vests initially to the
author of the contributed article. The copyright holder of the
collective work acquires the right of reproducing and distributing the
contributed article, as part of the collective work, any revision of
that collective work, and any collective work in the same series.
In other words: The Authors retain copyright to their work! And have
only sold the first serial rights for publication purposes.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 42                       FEB 1994
 So dig out those moldy oldies, dust them off and submit.

  This electronic magazine will attempt to remain a vehicle for new
authors to demonstrate their works to their most valued critic -- the
Reader.  RUNE'S RAG is OUT_ware, a SHAREWARE concept, not FREEWARE, to
the end user -- the Reader. If warranted, a semi-annual or annual may
be produced in hardcopy form. The hardcopy issue will be marketed for
sale and the proceeds will go towards supporting the continuation of
publication and payment to authors.

  I hope to obtain grant monies, as well as solicit from patrons of the
arts, so we may be able to pay contributors a better rate. RUNE'S RAG
will be released into as many bit streams as possible for the widest
dissemination.

 RUNE'S RAG is a member of EPubNet, which supports Electronic Publishing.
For more information on EPubNet -- contact (via data) Mike Taylor @
(1:273/937) 215-923-8026 or N.L. Hargrove (1:317/317) 505-865-8385.

SUBSCRIPTIONS: You can have RUNE'S RAG delivered to your doorstep --
on disk, monthly. You will also get a FREE E-Book or other electronic
publications added to your monthly disk. The Book, usually one of the
Classics, will be added to your disk FREE of charge. FREQ SUBSCRIP or
download SUBSCRIP.TXT @ (1:2601/522) (412-LUV-RUNE) 412-588-7863.

SUPPORT AUTHORS and the ARTS -- Send donations to RUNE'S RAG to ensure
continuation of this publication; monies, hardware, and/or software is
accepted and may be tax deductible -- contact your tax advisor. Or,
you can take a subscription to RUNE'S RAG, see the file SUBSCRIP.TXT.

RUNE'S RAG is copyrighted to Arnold's Plutonomie$, Ltd., with all
rights reserved.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 43                       FEB 1994
SUBSCRIPTIONS: You can have RUNE'S RAG delivered to your doorstep,
on recycled disk -- MONTHLY. You will also get a FREE Book on disk
and/or other electronic publications. The FREE Book, usually one of
the Classics, will be added to YOUR disk FREE of charge!

SIZE:            5.25" Floppy       3.50" Flippy

DISK TYPE:      [  ] 360K DOS      [  ] 720K DOS

                [  ] 1.2M DOS      [  ] 1.44M DOS
COST:
1 Month Test Subscription......... $ 8.00   [  ]

3 Month Subscription.............. $21.00   [  ]

6 Month Subscription.............. $40.00   [  ]

12 Month Subscription............. $69.95   [  ]

Hey, if nothing else, you get something in the mail, a reusable mailer,
stories to read to your kids, and an extra disk. ;-) Support the ARTS.
SAVE a TREE, NO paper -- use Electronic Magazines!

*** If OUTSIDE the Continential U.S. add $1.00 per month.***
*NOTE: A 12 month Subscription includes a 6 month PREFERRED MEMBER
STATUS on WRITERS BIZ BBS. FidoNet, EPubNet, Echos, Files, and more!

INTERNET Addr: [e-mail]
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Mail Check/Money Order and Form TO:

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PRICES and FREE offers subject to change. See current issue for details.
RUNE'S RAG is copyright 1994 Arnold's Plutonomie$, Ltd., ALL rights reserved.
=========================     #  #  #     ============================
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 44                       FEB 1994
For Sysops, and others:

   SYSOPS, would you like a hassle free new door each month? Get
RUNE'S RAG delivered to your BBS or Mailer System, formatted and
ready to go on-line simply by unzipping the new monthly file.
RUNE'S RAG will be delivered to you on or near the 1st of each
month formatted in READROOM.TOC format. All you need do is unzip
the new file into a unique directory and it is ready to go on-line.

  I will send RUNE'S RAG via modem to your system as soon as each
monthly issue rolls from the electronic press. This saves you time.
Time is money. All you need do is initially install the READROOM Door
(RDRM30.ZIP produced by EXHIBIT A COMMUNICATIONS), which allows on-line
viewing and downloading from the door (your option). Works on most any
system, which can produce DOOR.SYS, or with a conversion program of
your choice to produce a DOOR.SYS file.

  The cost of this service is ONLY $48.00 per year. If out of the
continental U.S., please add $12.00. You will be able to provide your
users with something unique, each and every month -- hassle free. Download
RUNE9401.ZIP or FREQ RUNER. Examine it and you will find there is a great
deal to this Electronic Magazine. The magazine features work from authors
around the country, fiction, non-fiction, essays, poetry and much more. A
general interest magazine for young and old alike.
Save a Tree -- read RUNE'S RAG.

 The plain ASCII version is also available for delivery.

To participate in this exciting offer, please print and fill out the
information form below:
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 45                       FEB 1994

(Please Print)

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Mail this form and
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12 Months Service: $48.00

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 3 Month  Service: $17.00 (Trial)

Sysop Signature: ____________________________________ Date: _____________

Any unused portion of the subscription service, if terminated by the
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the balance of the subscription fee will be refunded upon mutual
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