Norm Nowrecki had been sitting at his desk for six months, waiting for
the latest James Krenov book to be published that would give meaning
and purpose to his life, when his cell phone peeped out a tinny
version of the NYW theme, signaling an incoming call. This came as
quite a shock to Norm, as he had not paid his cell phone bill for
three months, having spent all his money on a particularly attractive
investment in Jatoba, well it wasn't - look, we'll come back to that.

Norm peeled the much duct taped Motorola from his belt, banged it
reflexively on the desktop and spoke,

"Norm Nowrecki, Troll Tracker."

The line was full of weird clicks and unintelligible disembodied
voices, added to the electronic howling of distant modem handshakes,
it seemed as though dozens of crossed lines were feeding into his
ancient Motorola. A wheezing sepulcharal presence spoke above the
racket,

"SMEGMA."

The line went dead.

Horrified, Norm punched in *69.

Nothing, nada, zippo. The unfunded Motorola was mute.

Could it be true? Was his old nemesis again up to its vile tricks?

SMEGMA (Silly Morons Engaged in Generating Malicious Assaults) was
thought to have been disbanded after Norm's last attack on their
headquarters, where Norm had captured their leader (Fetus Fudgepacker)
and subjected him to his patented Mobius Looped PowerPoint
Presentation of Hoadley's, Identifying Wood, with a background track
of a MIDI version of TOH bumper music. Norm thought of it as, "The
Cure."

"Fudgepacker must have escaped"

Breathed Norm to the fetid, uncomprehending air of his office.

Norm looked at the frosted glass of his office door and read the
inscription, "rekcarT llorT - ikcerwoN mroN", which made him chortle
as he thought of Firesign Theatre, which made him guffaw as he...

"Get a grip. You've got a case."

It's probably time to deal with the Jatoba Incident.

Norm had two passions, computers and wooddorking. He'd found his
calling in the marriage of the two during the great Crossposting
Doggie Doo Troll War, in which he had succeeded in neutering the
Doggies and in cancel ling all of the accounts that the Trolls had
posted from. He'd been well compensated for his efforts by grateful
members of the afflicted groups and his lifestyle had blossomed to the
point where he could afford a girlfriend, every other Friday night,
for about a half an hour. Life was good.

Then he'd had that tremendous success in bringing Fetus Fudgepacker to
bay, actually to Ebay, where Norm dangled the indescribable carrot
that became the ineluctable trap. Norm had offered for auction the
unmunged email addresses of those on the group that Fudgepacker
considered to be his particular prey. Norm was able to increase his
time with his intermittent girlfriend to forty five minutes, based on
the resolution of that case. Life was better than good.

One night shortly after, while Norm was wandering the docks in an
attempt to catch the scent of the forbidden South American Hardwoods,
that he knew to be nestled in the shipping containers of certain flag
of convenience vessels, he came upon a small man wearing a large coat.

"Brazilian Cherry, Honduran Mahogany, Jatoba.", hawked the
little man in the large coat.

"Did you say, Jatoba?", growled Norm, backing the little man
against a dock post.

The little man was flapping his coat open and closed, like a fishing
bird drying his feathers, like a rooster greeting the dawn, like
a...well, he mostly looked like a somewhat hesitant flasher.

"What's this about Jatoba?", barked Norm to the little
flashing man.

"Check it out.", smarmed the little flashing man, as he opened
his coat to reveal a collection of wood samples, sewn into his coat
lining, that would have held, in a more sober culture, a transient's
display of offshore Rolex knockoffs.

"Jatoba, in the bole, kiln dried, all FAS."

Norm's head was spinning.

"How much?"

"A dollar two ninety eight a board foot."

Norm broke out in a sweat, knowing that he had only enough money to
pay for his cell phone and the 56K line that fed his business. He
lifted the little flashing man four inches off of the ground and,
breathing the remains of his sardine poor boy sandwich into the little
flashing man's face, said,

"I want all of it."

That transaction had sealed Norm's fate. He lost his access to his
intermittent girlfriend. His Motorola was numbed into silence. He
was able to keep up his troll tracking business only by tapping into
the phone line of the office next door to his. He'd hit bottom. Norm
was a wood junky.

The heavy breather who'd pronounced the word, "SMEGMA" into his
heretofore dead Motorola, held out the only promise of redemption. He
was on the case.

In his excitement and in the anticipaaaaation of the hunt, Norm had a
double epiphany - it was Fudgepacker - it was always Fudgepacker - the
voice on the phone - the little flashing man...

"Aaarrrrgggghhhhhh."

Norm fired up his trusty 133mhz beige nonamebox, engaged his balky
winmodem...

The chase was on.



(to be continued)



Regards, Tom
Thomas J. Watson-Cabinetmaker
Gulph Mills, Pennsylvania
http://users.snip.net/~tjwatson