Copyright (c) 1994
 
                        RENDER UNTO RUBY . . . 
 
     THWOCK. The man in the grey leather jacket chuckled as the
dart stuck neatly between the eyes of the victim on the dartboard. 
He scooped another dart from the bucket by his desk, fired it
across the room at the back of the office door. THWOCK. He chuckled
again. 
     He gazed speculatively at the photo attached to the dartboard,
tapped his fingers on the desk. Rush Limbaugh looked good with a
couple of darts between his eyes, but he really needed . . . yes,
that was it. The man in the grey leather jacket flipped three darts
out of the bucket, sailed all three at the target with a nifty
flick of his wrist. THWOCK-THWOCK-THWOCK. A line of darts now
neatly sealed Rush's lips. 
     He chose another dart, lined up for the coup de grace, and
winged the dart toward the target . . . just as Ruby opened the
door. The dart flew over her shoulder, out of sight. From the outer
office came an angry "MRR-ROWR!!" and the sound of
rapidly-departing cat feet. Ruby watched the punctured pussycat
scamper away, then turned to the man behind the desk. "Ya really
oughta watch whatcher doin' with those darts, hon." 
     Michael Hahn sighed, waved Ruby Begonia to a chair. "What can
I do for you, Ruby?" 
     "Well, sugah, it's not for me, really. Freeman's got her
panties inna wad over some putz that's proclaimed himself Lord High
Mucky-Muck of the virtual universe. I figgered maybe you could do
something like that discl..., uh, license you did for me." 
     Michael steepled his fingers under his chin, leaned toward his
garishly-clad guest. "What the hell. I need a diversion. So, what
are the details?" 
     Ruby pawed through her "So many men, so little time . . . but
take a number" tote, pulled out a piece of paper. "Sludge made me
a hardcopy of the last press release, the one that had Freeman
tearing her hair out." 
     Michael took the sheet from Ruby, leaned back in his chair to
read it. 

                             *    *    * 
 
                The Associated Cyberspace Protectorate (ACP) 
 
Snark A. Boojum, Executive Director 
S. Abercrombie Boojum, Chief Financial Officer 
S. A. Boojum III, Procurator General 
 
August 13-- 
     The virtual universe has recently recognized ACP, the
Associated Cyberspace Protectorate, as the leading authority in the
protection of virtual morality and standards. A host of
nationally-known media personalities have praised the ACP and its
Executive Director, Snark A. Boojum, as the finest that cyberspace
has to offer. 
     In a recent interview, Boojum announced the ACP's latest 
initiative. "We here at the ACP feel that there just aren't enough
good, wholesome virtual personalities here in the land of
imagination, and we propose a series of educational seminars to
alert the public to this deficiency. As the leaders of the virtual
community, we feel it is our duty to bring this to the attention
of the community at large." 
     Possibly the most exciting news offered by the ACP was its
plans to offer membership to every citizen of the virtual universe.
For only $129.95, you too can become a member of the most important
organization in the world. If you act now, you will also receive
a complimentary set of authentic reproduction Ginsu knives, and 
matching faux pearl earrings, absolutely free. Join today! 
 
                                  --Snark A. Boojum 
                                    ACP-certified Huckster 
 
                             *    *    * 
 
     "Geez, Ruby, I've never even heard of this guy. What's all
the fuss about?" 
     Ruby shrugged. "Beats me, hon. All I know is it has Freeman
all worried. She gets worried, and she blames it on me." 
     Michael stroked his nose with an index finger. "Hmmm. Let me
think about this, and I'll get back to you. Fair enough?" 
     "Sounds good. Don't take too long, though, sugah--I got this
really great idea for Labor Day weekend . . ."  Ruby disappeared
into the night, muttering something about sand, fireworks, and blue
sequins. 
     The man in the grey leather jacket closed the door of his
office, returned to his chair, and scooped up a handful of darts.
THWOCK. Rush now had one in his left eye. THWOCK-THWOCK. One in
each nostril. CLINK. A dart glanced off the cuckoo clock as Michael
suddenly sat forward. He smiled. "Heh, heh, heh. Render unto
Caesar, that's the ticket." 
                               ***
     Two weeks later, there was a knock at the door of the ACP
world headquarters in Painesville, Ohio. Snark A. Boojum,
self-proclaimed arbiter of the virtual morals and Lord High
Mucky-Muck of the Universe, dropped the knife in the peanut butter
jar, licked the jelly off his fingers, and sprinted through the
living room. 
     On the other side of the door was a nondescript gentleman in
a very conservative business suit. He flapped a snapping-turtle
badge case at Snark, asked, "Are you Snark A. Boojum, Executive
Director of the Associated Cyberspace Protectorate?" 
     Snark threw back his shoulders, affected his best steely gaze,
and answered, "Yes, sir, I am. How can the ACP help you?" 
     The nondescript man in the conservative suit smiled a small,
cold smile and removed a stack of documents from his briefcase. 
"Mr. Boojum, your organization seems to lack sufficient
documentation. These official forms should make up for that
deficiency, however. If you'll simply fill these out in
quadruplicate, attach the required fees, and submit them to the
appropriate offices, I'm sure this little problem can be ironed
out." 
     "But, but, but . . ." Boojum stammered, the steel in his gaze
becoming styrofoam. 
     "But me no buts, Mr. Boojum. If the ACP wishes to join the
ranks of the truly official, there are rules to be followed. Fill
out the forms, attach the fees, mail them to the appropriate
offices."  The nondescript man snapped his briefcase shut, turned
to leave. 
     "Wait a minute," Boojum said, "all these offices have the same
address. Hey, and all the executive officers of the organizations
are the same guys!" 
     "Of course," said the nondescript man, smiling more broadly
now. "You think you're the first one to think of sending out press
releases and declaring yourself an industry leader?"  The
nondescript man slipped into a nondescript sedan with a logo on the
door. 
     Snark A. Boojum squinted at the logo. "OOO", it said, and in
small print beneath, "Organization of Organized Organizations." 
                               ***
     Around the corner from Boojum's house, the nondescript man 
stopped the sedan and pulled the magnetic sheet bearing the "OOO"
logo from the door. He tossed it into the back seat, along with
the briefcase and the business suit jacket. He loosened the tie,
unbuttoned the top button of the starched white shirt, and walked
around to the trunk of the car. He retrieved his grey leather
jacket, slipped it on, and got back in the driver's seat. 
     As he drove back to the airport to drop off the car, he hummed
to himself. "There's no business, like show business . . ." 
                               END
