| The Adventures of LuLu the Space Nun! That was what the deeply embossed golden-colored letters proclaimed to an uncaring world. These letters sat centered in a subtly grandiose display of brave contrast to an otherwise bland background (its color perhaps first cousin to the color one would think of when eating chicken, if color came to mind at all). And this bleek landscape, with it's three dimensional golden valleys, wrapped itself carefully and precisely around the hard (but slightly dented) cover of a mostly-empty diary.
This diary was so empty, in fact, that it had but a single entry:
5.January.1993
Dear diary,
Well, you certain have done it this time, Mark. A nun and you haven't even got the proper chromosomes. I hope you know what you're doing, because we sure don't.
This diary rested, as it had every Wednesday morning for the past five years, quite at home in a see of even more bland (if that was possible) fabric, the purest black and itchy fabric known to man. The fabric was proving its itchiness, as it did every Wednesday morning, to Mark's lap; specifically to the four spots on Mark's lap where the diary's corners disturbed his bland habit. Mark had often reflected that the fabric must be specially designed to only be itchy to men, in order to warn them not to get too close to any ravenously deprived nuns. The other nuns seemed to have no problems with the fabric's texture, and sometimes even seemed to enjoy it a little too much.
Mark sighed at the itchiness as he set down his unsweetened, decaffinated tea, put further thoughts of itches out of his mind, and calmly opened the newspaper. Like every Impurile Galactic Wreaker of Annoying Nuisance (IGWAN), Mark instinctively opened the Shepherd's Daily Herald to the Used Computer Classifieds and began reading intently. It always amazed him, the way nobody ever realized what a contradiction Used Computer Classifieds were. Computers don't get sold, they get passed on to that family member or friend who's living space is permeated by all sorts of no-longer-working electronics that seemed to be as old as sliced bread. In any case, the Impurile Galactics had been using Used Computer Classifieds in newspapers as a means of communication since the mid 1980's (Earth time) and hadn't been detected yet. It worked so much better than the previous method; IGWANs were often unable to resist instinctively hanging up telemarketers even when they knew an important message was on the way.
Mark read on... Pentium 71MHz 12KB RAM received a serious look... Multics mainframe elicited a suppressed giggle.... Unlike any other IGWAN, Mark had spent the last five years in a convent, answering to "Sister LuLu" and making no progress whatsoever (and also avoiding communal bathing like the dickens). His instructions were quite specific and he knew them well. They were part of his title, after all. The tricky part was the diary. Every IGWAN began each mission by making a new diary, choosing its title with great care. For, as all IGWANs knew, it was the title that determined the role. Mark had forgotten his next diary was due, until the night before when someone reminded him... after his fifth kiwi margarita. The next step, which Mark had carefully and nervously avoided for the past five years, was to author his first entry (after the usually encouraging message from Central written on the first page). This would define his official mission satisfaction criteria. In otherwords, what he had to get done to get out of this itchy habit. In order to do this, though, he had to be inspiried (no contrived mission satisfaction criteria were allowed)... and he just hadn't.
He hadn't, at least, until his eyes strayed over to the Editorals section of the January 7th, 1998 Shepherd's Daily Herald resting in his comfortable grip. Quitely, he picked up his diary, mentally cursed the itchiness, and (without writing for IGWANs needn't use such crude measures) he placed his very first entry: |
