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They Don't Come Any Larger Chapter One in the continuing adventures of Mr.X It was a cold night in Sabre city. The kind of night when honest citizens huddled close in their homes, watching "Moonlighting" and drinking kool-aid. The wind blew threw the barren trees forming visages from the countless bad horror movies we all go to see. But a few people did dare to walk the streets. Yes, the geeks, noids, and depraved all dared, they didn't have the brains not to. Who could keep the teenagers, partyers, and criminals behind bars? But more insidious than the rest was doc Skin and his portly co-hort The Berg. Yea, It was up to me, Mr.X, the Sam spade, David Adison, and Dick Tracy; of this two-bit city, to keep these city slime in line. I was sitting behind my desk in my $100,000 office kicking back when a new case came bursting in. It was Ma Shlepberg, a local rep. for a sporting goods company. The company was an off-shoot of a mental brew-thru owned by none other than doc Skin. She was quick to talk telling me that the doc was trying to muscle her out of her new position because she new too much. Simple case, familiar plot. No sweat. I took the case, I was going to nail these lying bunch of non's once and for all! My first step was to gather dirt on these dweebes. I picked up the 'ol raprod and called the local P.W.N.B.T.D. (people with nothing better to do) office. Hell, I was going to need help and this was the best place to find it. I talked to a guy who gave me the names of a "few good men" willing to help. I called up the people on the list and told them what was up. Only four guys volunteered. Fine by me, I didn't need any wimps on my team, people who couldn't take the heat. We fanned out across the city to find what we needed. I grabbed my Nikon Super Automated Do-Everything camera, my all purpose 17 to 500mm lens, and of course my .50 Calibre auto pistol in case somebody wanted to give themselves trouble. I headed down to corporate HQ to confront doc Skin and his henchmen. As I drove up I noticed the sign on the building-Adolescent Instructional Brain Cramming Corporation- "We're good at what we do and we're fair too." I laughed at this as I parked and went up to see the big guy. The receptionist was just what you would expect, tall, blond, and perfect. Just the kind of girl you'd like to- no, later, back to the story. She wasn't to keen about letting me in but I persuaded her by just ignoring her and going right on in. "What's the meaning of this?" barked the doc. "I'm here on the behalf of Ma Shlepberg," "I know what you're up to but it won't work, you're through in this town bucko so pack your bags!" I snapped a few pictures as his head turned a bright red. He drew a Big Gun from the top drawer of his desk. This, I thought, would be a very good time to leave. I floored my car out of the garage with three old, black, Lincoln "biscanes" on my tail and a hail of bullets raining down on all sides. BOOM, was the only sound I heard as my 1965 Corvette Stingray lost a tire and careened off the road and into a large ice cream truck, sending tutti-fruti everywhere. I pulled my way out of the wreckage and watched with ddoouubbllee vision as cars tore off down the street in the opposite direction from which I came. Yes, I realized, my patented Acme Hero Anti-Death Suit had saved my life yet again. They were going to pay dearly for this, "they ruined all that tutti-fruiti and broke my camera," I thought, as I sunk into an black oblivion... The moist touch of a towel awoke me from my 72 hour sleep. My head felt as if an elephant with hiccups had sat on it. Take it from me, it's not a nice feeling. As I forced my eyes open to view my towel bearing savior, the words "ooh, dat eesh niice!!!!" came to mind. She was a vision. 5'6". Brunette. Brown eyes and a bod to match it all. "Move over Annete Funichello", I thought. "I'm Bessie", she purred. "Dont try to get up", she said, as I did just that. "you've got a terrible boo boo on your head". Well, following the rules of being a "tough guy" I ignored her pleas and forced my self back into my slick Anti-Death Suit. She fixed me a little breakfast (which the FDA would probably have put into quarantine) and told me just the facts. According to her, she found me trapped under only what could be described as a sickly looking, blue, 1976 Toyota Mark II. Using her "muscles in all the right places," she dragged me free and into her pink, convertible, volkswagon bug. She brought me home , cleaned the tutii-fruti out of my ears and put me to bed. As I strapped on my pistol and all the other nifty dyno gadgets I carry with me, Bessie slunk her way over to me. "Let me go with you, I've always wanted to live a life of danger," she said. I just couldn't tell her that eating her cooking was just that, so I consented to let her come along. We hopped into her other car, a slick looking Ford Tempo. A real get-up-and-go-nowhere-machine, 0-60 in 3.8 minutes. I used her "Cellular One" as we sped down route 66 back towards the big city. I called the guys that were doing my dirty work and told them to meet me at my office for a big pow wow-war council. After a long and dangerous trip (women drivers!), we made it back to my office. Sending Bessie out of the room, I got everyone's attention and got down to business. Lance Speedstick informed me that we could expect to get any aid necessary from the homosexuals and transvestites of the underground in cracking this case. And they would all love to "kiss ass" to help; scratch that area of info, definitely! Next was I.R. Cool, our liaison to the cities teens. They were smart kids, they new nothing and had learned it all in high school. Unless it dealt with parties and alcohol you could count them out. Biff Appleton had talked to the yuppies of the area. No good, they were all worried about what color wall paper to put up and paying off their new BMW's. Last but not least Senator J.D. Bedfellow had contacted the local politicians, all of which refused to comment unless they were being indited. This was a blow, it looked like I was going to have to do all the butt kicking my self! Lord knows I was just the guy to do it. I adjourned my meeting and took Bessie with me back to my apartment to get all my supper bad guy beating equipment. As we drove along I reflected upon my long career...well, so maybe this was my first case. I studied under Sherlock Holmes, yea, that's the ticket. We arrived at my penthouse to find it gone, along with the rest of the building. Forgot to lock it up...Well at least I knew what my next case was. That was the last straw, I was mad, and the only person to take it out on was doc Skin and The Berg. As we pulled up in front of their corporate office, I slipped into my new Acme-Battle Suit. With a hearty "Up, up, and gone!" I flew out of the car and into the 80th story window (I really wish they'd open the windows in these stupid stories!) to face my foes. "It's a pigeon, it's the Concord, NO! it's Shtupor Man!!!" I went right into action, with a giant "S" on my chest and a billowing pink cape. "Hold it right there you "Aunt Jamima" looking somebodies!" First, knowing that the bullets from my .50 cal. pistol would never penetrate the fat on the Berg, I lifted him up and threw him out the window to land with a large "splat!" on the roof of a taxi 80 stories bellow. Bang, the sound of a gun shot! Doc Skin smiles as a Ronco Mini-nuke smashes me in the chest doing full damage. Ouch! Faulty #