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\title{One Smelly Gerbil}
\author{Frank Lemire}
\date{frankl@xrtll.uucp}
\maketitle

{\it
{\noindent \Large T}his story may not have much to do with
gaming, but then, we
suppose, that all depends on the sort of games you play. Not meant for
cloistered eyes, bewarned... \\}


{\noindent \Large I}t was a dark, moist night.
The kind of night where you just pull your
raincoat in real tight as some kind of futile gesture against the elements.
Spokes shuddered to himself as he raced down the slick steps.

  ``Goddamn weather.  Why the fuck do I live in Los Angeles anyway?"

   His head down, his non-descript rain coat pulled in close, as if he
might rust, Spokes hurried down the street.  A casual onlooker might have 
seen a frumpy, aging bachelor fretting about the weather, but to those who
inhabit the higher echelons, they would know.  He was a professional.
He was a man whose services could be called upon in the direst of emergencies.
He charged high and worked hard.  He was discreet and untouchable.  When
John Gotti had hemmorhoids, he called Spokes Legerdemain.  Yassir Arafat
needed liposuction... he called Spokes.

   Tonight, the call was from Richard Gere.

   Spokes was sitting in front on the box, trying to come down from a hard
day on the streets and in the buildings, when the phone rang.  The red phone.

   ``Shit," he muttered.

   ``Spokes."

    ``Need ya."

    ``Who the hell is this?"

    ``Look Spokes, get down to Labrea General."

    ``I'm not moving til I find out what the job is..."

    There was a pause on the line.

    ``Okay.  It's for Richard Gere."

    ``Again!!" Spokes shouted.

    ``Yeah, it's a gerbil this time... looks like a big one.  We really need 
you.... Spokes?  Spokes?  are you there, man?"

    But he was speaking into a dead line. Spokes Legerdemain was on his way.

    The hospital was busy, but this was L.A.  Spokes jogged past the crowds
of bleeding heavy metal musicians, over to the door marked {\em M.D. conference}.
He whipped out his access card, and the door slid silently open.  He stepped 
in.

   Gere was on the table.  Naked.  He was facing down, with his hairy buttocks
exposed.  A plaintive squeaking sound could be heard, muffled in pain and
agony.  As well, the sound of a gerbil could be heard from Gere's anus.

   Spokes Legerdemain shook his head in disgust.  ``Goddamn kids," he thought.

   Seizing the nearest forceps, he probed into Gere's colon until he had a 
firm grip on the terrified, shaven, rodent.  He pulled mightily, cheerfully
ignoring the yelps from Gere himself.

   With a sickening {\em plop} the rodent and Gere's anus parted ways.  Spokes
grabbed a cello-wrap, placed the still-wriggling rodent into it, and handed it
to Richard Gere.

   ``There you go, son.  Try to be more careful from now on.  And remember, 
don't put anything up your bum that doesn't want to go."

    ``Thank you, sir... and I didn't even get your name!"

    ``That's all right son," Spokes replied, ``you'll be hearing from my
collection agents.  If you don't pay up, this will be all over {\bf USENET}, and
pimply nerds will be asking for more information.  But if you pay, it'll
just be our little secret."

   And with his smile still hanging in the air, Spokes Legerdemain left, 
leaving behind a relieved actor and one smelly gerbil.

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