COPYRIGHT INFO
The Sporadic Verses are copyright 1992, 1993 and 1994 by
Jeff Berry and Ben Baron.  They may be reproduced in any
SCA publication so long as this copyright notice is retained, they are
not sold for profit, and the authors receive a copy.
   If you want to sell them for profit, or buy the
nice bound collected editions, contact Jeff Berry, nexus@panix.com
END OF COPYRIGHT INFO - Date: 11/25/97
          The Sporadic Verses - an epistle in n parts
            Being a Satire of nothing in particular.
	        For the people who thought real
	      life was getting stranger than the
			Verses.
		
           From the life-imitating-art pens of
              Louis-Philippe Mitouard and
                Alexandre Lerot d'Avigne

                    Episode the Fifteenth

Chapter Forty

	"Allow me to gloat," boomed the new master villain.  Robin
hurried forward with an ornate chair and a kitty-carrier.  The villain
settled down in the chair as Robin offered him a white-haired cat to
pet.  The cat had a collar marked "Super-villain Felines Ltd."

	As the conspirators (Jasper, Sven, Cyrano and John for those
who have lost track) gazed with wonder, he continued, "I see you gaze
in wonder, which is not surprising since mine is a tale of wonder
and unlikely coincidence.  Boffo, as I said, is my long lost son."

	Boffo puffed his chest in pride and straightened his tin-foil
crown.  In truth, although he knew only the rudiments of his father's
plan, with the same innate cunning that tells a tapeworm which end of
the gastrointestinal tract is which, he was willing to play along and
throw in his lot with the person who seemed to be in control at the
moment.  Boffo laughed again (ha, ha), "You fools, you should not have
chosen me to be King.  Now we shall rule forever!"  He edged over to
stand next to the villain's chair.  Even the master villain seemed
tired of his son's gloating, but all was put right when he stood and
delivered the errant son a quick left across the chops with his
black-gloved hand.  Boffo quickly silenced, nursing his bruised face.
 
	"Sorry," said the villain, sitting down, "I hate a poor
winner.  Anyhow, to continue.  It is true that his mother was a
lawyer."

	"We had guessed as much based on the venality of his attacks,"
interrupted Sven.
	
	With some irritation, the stranger continued, "But what of his
father?  I am his father but who am I?  I, the mystery figure, the
man in black, the caped enigma?  Who am I?"

	The conspirators shared a long-suffering look, "... uh, you're
the genius with the plan, you tell us." John mumbled grumpily.  

	The soliloquist must have noticed for he broke off his rant.  "I am 
Count Montgomery Crisco!"

	"What?" said John.

	"Of course," replied Cyrano, "the Man in the Iron Cup!"

	"Exactly!" exulted the stranger (or the Count rather),
striking his crotch with a gloved fist and producing a resonant e
below middle c.

	Cyrano continued, "If I remember my history, and I always do,
he was once the undisputed ruler of all the Imperium, the King of
Kings.  When the Imperium was ruled to have no control over the Realms
directly, he stepped down and was given a mercy County.  Before the
ink on the scroll was dry, he had been seized by anti-Imperial
factions who still feared him, welded into an Iron Cup and thrown in a
deep dank dungeon."

	"That's right!  There I suffered for many long years, plotting
and planning, worrying and waiting, debating and debauching, bingeing
and purging, hiding and jeckylling ..." said the Count.

	"We get the idea," interjected John.

	"Hmm, oh, yes, and finally my chance came.  I persuaded a
Puritan lass who was my jailer that I was wrongly imprisoned.  She
fell in love with my roguish handsomeness and undisputable chastity,"
he paused here to tap our a short aria on his cup.  After the
others had finished their polite applause, he resumed his tale.  "She
freed me, and I fled my prison.  Slowly I worked my way back to the
Wastelands, secure in the knowledge that the search for me would never
come to such a backwater.  Here I pursued my alchemical studies, in
pursuit of the Philosopher's Touch."

	"The what?" whispered Sven to Jasper.

	"I have no idea."

	"The Philosopher's Touch!" cried the Count, who was afflicted
with that selective deafness endemic to Master Villains, whereby plots
to escape and so on are never heard, but any little question which
might advance the plot is heard with perfect clarity. "You have heard
of The Philosopher's Stone, a tool to turn base metal into gold."

	The conspirators nodded, John remembering several small fortunes
made by selling fake stones to gullible nobility.

	"The Philosopher's Touch works under the assumption that there is
sufficient gold in existence, it's just in the wrong hands.  I have
succeeded in discovering this power.  But to use it requires a facade
of power and authority, something I have been lacking recently -- until
now."  With an evil leer, he turned his gaze upon Boffo.


Chapter Forty-One

	"You see," said the Count, "I was the last emperor of the
Imperium.  Ours was a benevolent reign.  We ruled the kingdoms wisely.
Taxes were low, hemlines were high, things were good.  And, we had not
only the most efficient, but the friendliest tax collectors known to
man.  But, alas, the Imperium fell into disfavor.  Kingdoms stopped
paying money -- they thought they could do better wasting their money
on their own.
	"Now, with Boffo as King, and using the power of The
Philosopher's Touch, We can restore the Imperium for your own good.
Imagine it!  A world where there is no war, it would be unaffordable
for liability insurance reasons; where there is no greed or poverty
since the Imperium will manage all your money."

	The company marveled, not only at the story, but also at the Count's
breath control.  John had met many villainous types in his time, but
never one who could deliver a monologue like this one.

	"The Philosopher's Touch?" John said, "what is that?"

	Cyrano said, "An old fairy story.  It was said that an 
ancient race of tax farmers used that special magical power to
raise enormous amounts of money, but it is just a myth."

	"No myth", said the Count, "watch."  The Count stood and drew
a deep breath.  He intoned the magic words, "Caveat emptor, no tickee
no shirtee," and tapped Boffo on the shoulder.  Boffo smirked and walked
toward Jasper, who was standing quietly next to John and Cyrano.  
There he intoned the magic phrase, "We know what is best," in a kindly
if somewhat patronizing tone.

	Jasper began to twitch, then slowly began to reach for his purse.  As if
a puppet on a string, he began to walk over to the Count, then emptied the 
purse at his feet.  John couldn't help but notice that Jasper had pocketed 
several of his florins over the course of the last several days.  "Hmm, I'll 
have to be more careful with my money," he thought.

	The spell was then released.  Jasper walked back toward the
heroes, woozy. "I couldn't help myself," he said.  He looked humble,
beaten and forelorn, "I felt this great urge to overpay."

	"Your petty disputes among kingdoms will be swept away -- made
illegal under the new Imperium," chimed in Boffo.

	"... uh, we rather liked our old petty disputes," said John.

	"Yeah, at least we knew whose back to stab," Jasper added.

	Finding himself in the rather unfamiliar role of hero, John
had to compose a new speech.  He was familiar with the standard
villain litany, but he had to think about this one, "You'll never get
away with this,"  John finally wrestled up from the inner reaches of
his tortured brain.

	"And why not?" inquired the Count.  "With my new-found wealth, 
I can hire a team of publicity agents and ad-writers.  With enough money, 
we can persuade anyone ... maybe even you."

	"He does have a point," thought John.  He was suffering a
quite new thing for him -- a crisis of conscience -- for once he found
he had one; it was rather limiting.  Afflicted with this new problem,
he found his usually crafty mind rather void of clever angles.  He was
depressed to find he could think of nothing better to do but whisper
to his cohorts, "Time to make a break for it."

	As a man, the company broke and ran.  Boffo and the Count made
no attempt to stop them, but as they went, they heard maniacal
laughter at their back and the Count's sound-effect aided voice.
"You'll be back -- you'll owe me money," the villain screamed shaking a
fist!


Chapter Forty-two

	That night, from a hilltop several miles away, Reginald Miyamo
and Queen Barbie stood on the picturesquely ruined battlements of
a recently aged tower and watched the campfires from the Crown
Tournament Encampment.  With a strange sense of threeboding (much like
foreboding, only not quite as bad) they watched the campfires dim and die
one after the other.

	"Miyamo-san," squeaked Barbie, "What can it mean?"

	"I fear, my little bamboo shoot, that it means the beginning
of a cold, dark time for the Imperium."

	And with that, a cold dark time came for the Imperium.