text:
Leolah Brown isn't holding back. Bobby Brown's sister is claiming in a new Facebook post that Nick Gordon is under investigation for attempted murder of her niece, Bobbi Kristina Brown. Leolah made the allegations in an open letter to Dr. Phil on Saturday, Mar. 7, just days after Gordon had a staged intervention with the psychiatric expert.
"Dr. Phil, With all due respect, Nick Gordon is under investigation for the attempted murder of my niece Bobby Kristina Brown," the post read.
"We have strong evidence of foul play," she added. "Until this investigation is completed by law enforcement, I would ask that you or anyone else not provide this individual a platform to spin this situation to his benefit."
Gordon, 25, found Bobby Brown and the late Whitney Houston's daughter facedown and unresponsive in their Atlanta, Ga., bathtub in late January. She's currently still in a medically induced coma. Gordon has since been lashing out on Twitter against the R&B singer and his family, and has not visited Bobbi Kristina at Emory University Hospital in weeks. Last month, Brown's lawyer released a statement to Us Weekly claiming that Gordon isn't explaining what happened to Bobbi Kristina.
On Friday, Mar. 6, TMZ reported that Gordon checked into rehab for drug abuse following his Dr. Phil sit-down.
"If Nick Gordon does not have the courage to speak with my brother Bobby Brown and/or law enforcement about what happened the day my niece's body was found in a bathtub, he does not deserve to have a platform to speak to anyone of your caliber until this investigation is concluded," Leolah continued on Facebook. "Respectfully, Leolah Brown."
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text:
in graphite, lower left: TRIAL PROOF; lower right: J Johns '81
Marks and Labels
blind stamp: © [chop of Gemini G.E.L.]; stamped in gray on verso: © Gemini G.E.L., Los Angeles / STONY JOHNS INC.
Acquired by NGA in 2010 directly from the artist.
- 1994
- Field, Richard S. The Prints of Jasper Johns, 1960-1993: A Catalogue Raisonné. West Islip, New York: Universal Limited Art Editions, 1994, no. 219.

subset: commoncrawl


text:
The House - Bletchley became the home of Station X during the War. Jericho and Logie were amongst the first to establish themselves there, but while he was away Jericho finds the Park has grown as their role in the War becomes more important. For more about the background of Station X see the History section.
"He looked back only when he reached the road, and that was the last impression of Bletchley Park: a thin line of low, black buildings - mere dots and dashes along the horizon..."
The Huts - due to the growth of the Park as a Communications Unit, temporary huts had to be built to accommodate staff. The Naval Unit in Hut 8 is under the command of Logie and is where Jericho and Puck work.
"At the far end of the hut a faint clacking noise began as the Type-X machines started their day's work."
The Museum - the basement of the House is a museum of Enigma memorabilia captured by British Forces. It is here that Jericho uses one of the machines to decipher the stolen intercepts.
"A typed notice was stuck on the back of the safe door: 'It is strictly forbidden to remove any item without my express permission. (Signed) L.F.N Skynner, Head of Naval Section.'"Film
Chicheley Hall, Buckinghamshire - Chichley Hall was built at the start of the 18th Century in red brick with stone pillars. During World War II the house was used for a Special Operations Unit similar to Bletchley Park. The hall has not only been used for filming 'Enigma', but also 'Pride & Prejudice', 'The Fourth Protocol' and 'Black Beauty'.
Elstree Studios - interior shots of the huts, houses and other important scenes were filmed at Elstree.
In the Novel, Jericho works on the intercepts in the Museum, whilst in the Film, he and Hester hide in a barn near Beaumanor.
Home + Enigma + Contact


text:
similar freelancer web
Presupuesto $250-750 USD
functional is similar elancer website
Adjudicado a:
Greetings, I have placed my bid with the script value. You can award me and set the milestone. Looking forward to send you the script asap. Best Regards
11 freelancers están ofertando el promedio de $1737 para este trabajo
Hello, Greeting of the day!! We have prior experience in developing a similar employee hiring portal. Please review Have a look at the similar type of sites [login to view URL] [login to view URL] http://w Más
I had worked in Google as Senior developer and I have lot of experience in developing software . I am passionate about my work and love to work with new peoples on their projects
I am an expert in software development, mobile apps, SaaS and website design. I have extensive experience in ecommerce, inventory management, payment gateways, apps and payroll, among others. I have fully customizable Más
Dear Employer, Greetings from Osiz Technologies. After observing your job description, we clearly understood that you are in need to build a website like "[login to view URL]". Your requirement within our scope. O Más
Hello! We are a US company with an established 15-year history developing custom cloud based applications for a diverse client list, ranging from small business to enterprise-level. At WorkXpress, our top concern i Más


text:
I've had many-a request for handwritten numbers for y'all to use with your December Daily or Project Life. Therefore, I say . . . ask and ye shall receive!
I do believe these pretty much speak for themselves.
And, oddly . . . I have nothing else to say. :)


text:
From: email@example.com
Date: Sat May 06 2000 - 12:56:04 EDT
In a message dated 5/6/2000 7:07:55 AM Central Standard Time,
email@example.com writes:
Rom 12 19 Paul advisors believers not to avenege themselves, but 'alla dote
topon th orgh.'
I read that as 'to give (or yield) place to the wrath.'
However, it is often translated 'leave it to the wrath of God'(RSV), 'give
place unto the wrath of God' (ASV) 'leave a place for divine retiribution.'
Paul next quotes Deut 32:35 "Vengence is mine, I will repay, says the
lord." (Rom 12 19).
tou qeou is not in the sentence. What does everyone think of the rendering
'of God.' Is it an acceptable reconstruction, given the context, or is my
suggestion acceptable?
I am disinclined to supply words clearly not in the text nor part of a known
idiom or citation. I would suggest that DOS TOPON might be understood in the
sense of "to yield" or "to not resist." I would think that DIDWMI + TOPOS
would be the contrary of LAMBANW + TOPOS. If this is so then Acts 1.24, 25
might provide some insight.
KAI PROSEUCAMENOI EIPAN: SU KURIE KARDIOGNWSTA PANTWN, ANADEICON hON ECELECW
EK TOUTWN TWN DUO hENA
LABEIN TON TOPON THS DIAKONIAS TAUTHS KAI APOSTOLHS AF' hS IOUDAS PREQHNAI
When they prayed they said, "You Lord who know the hearts of all, indicate
whom you have chosen of these two
to receive the office of this service and apostleship from which Judas
apostasized to his own place.
The idea would be "don't resist evil."
B-Greek home page: http://sunsite.unc.edu/bgreek
You are currently subscribed to b-greek as: [email@example.com]
To unsubscribe, forward this message to firstname.lastname@example.com
To subscribe, send a message to email@example.com
This archive was generated by hypermail 2.1.4 : Sat Apr 20 2002 - 15:36:24 EDT


text:
By Nan Talleno
PHILADELPHIA (CBS) – Here are a few ways to pet-proof your Christmas tree this year.
Trees are such an attraction for both dogs and cats. To make sure everything stays where you originally place it, secure your tree and the individual ornaments well.
Make sure your tree is firmly anchored in its stand. If you have a real tree this year, make sure to cover the stand with a tree skirt to prevent your pet from drinking the water in the base. Sometimes preservatives are used in the water and can cause gastric upset. Avoid sugar and aspirin additives in the water as well. It's best to block your pet's overall access to the base.
Keep tree area clear of fallen needles. Pine needles, if sharp enough, can possibly puncture intestines if ingested.
Mistletoe, Holly berries and Poinsettias can be highly toxic to both dogs and cats, and can produce gastrointestinal disorders and cardiovascular problems. To be safe, keep all plants out of every paw's reach.
Avoid using breakable ornaments on your tree as well as small decorations, which can be easily swallowed. Stay away from using strands of icicles on your tree. Most dogs, and cats especially, cannot resist the temptation of playing with the individual strands and can ingest it, causing potentially serious intestinal blockage and even choking. Same goes for string and ribbons. Never use edible items such as a string of popcorn on the tree.
Keep all small items such as small decorations and tree ornaments, replacement string light bulbs, ornament hooks, thumb tacks, etc, and anything small out of sight as these are severe choking hazards and can become dangerous if swallowed.
Keep it difficult for your pets to get near the tree's lights. Unplug the lights when unsupervised and keep all wires and extension cords out of sight. Remember to inspect all cords before plugging back in to make sure your pets stayed away from chewing on the wires, so as to avoid a potential fire hazard.


text:
Diso is a Carrara white marble cutlery drainer with an Imperial green marble or Mazzaro stone water drain tray. The separate water drain tray makes cleaning easier and creates a pleasant combination of colours and textures.
The CNC industrial machining creates complex and contemporary shapes, while giving objects a timeless beauty.
Photo Federico Villa


text:
A startup called Thoora wants to become the site where readers find every article and comment around the news stories that interest them, in real time.
The obvious competitor to the company, which just launched a limited beta test at the TechCrunch50 conference in San Francisco, is Google, with its News and Blog Search sites. Thoora wants to differentiate itself by bringing together professional news articles, blogs posts, comments, and posts on Twitter.
Comments and posts aren't indexed by either Google News or Google Blog Search, and Google separates news articles and amateur blog posts into two different search sites. Thoora also says it has ranking and clustering technology to help users see which story is attracting the most interest, no matter where it was published.
"We index, in real-time, every tweet, every blog post," says chief executive Mike Lee.
A lot of the expert panelists seemed skeptical about whether Thoora will be able to differentiate itself, a concern that I share. Even with the best technology, it's hard to see how Thoora will communicate that superiority to users who already have so many news aggregators to choose from.


text:
Working with Datix offers you the chance to contribute to the improvement of patient safety as well as being part of a dynamic, growing and innovative organisation.
We have an international client base and an increasingly diverse set of products and services, giving you the opportunity for a varied and challenging career. Whether you have a background in software development, product management, sales, marketing or support services we would be delighted to hear from you. If you're interested in working for Datix take a look at the jobs listed below, or just forward your CV to email@example.com.
Before applying for a role please read our Job Applicant Privacy Notice.


text:
Alan Leaman
Chief Executive of the MCA
The MCA promotes good practice across our industry and wants clients to maximise the value they gain from consulting. Our Consultancy Buyers Forum enables member firms and their customers to share knowledge, experience and ideas.
This Blueprint sets out good practice in the buying and provision of consulting. The material has been jointly created by representatives of both the buy-side and the sell-side and the quality of the thinking has been excellent: honest, constructive and self-critical.
The Forum enables buying organisations and MCA member firms to engage in open and insightful dialogue outside of a specific sales process. Our events are highly valued by all those who attend and we are keen to share the output from the Forum's activities as widely as possible across the consultancy buying and service provider community.
We strongly encourage everyone to use this material in the way that makes most sense for you. You can also share your views and ideas via our dedicated LinkedIn Group.
There is no cost to buying organisations for participating in the Forum's activities and events.
Chris Hudson and Tom Archer Co-Chairs of the Consultancy Buyers Forum
Buying consulting services effectively is often more challenging than in any other area of spend. There are a variety of reasons for this but the only sure way an organisation can maximise value is if they centre their buying approach on the outcomes they require, rather than on the cost of effort.
Buying organisations need to be as clear as possible about what they are seeking to achieve and tread carefully when considering the most appropriate commercial model and engagement structure. The objective of this website is to provide a blueprint for the 'good' practices which are most likely to work.
In this area of spend it is difficult to label anything as 'best practice' since no two organisations will ever have exactly the same needs or approach. Therefore users of this site should adapt and apply the material to suit the organisation they work for, the circumstances surrounding their business need and the role that they personally play within the buying process.
We hope you find it useful.


text:
Lloyd Takao, M.D., was born and raised in
He began private practice in Orinda with Drs. Seymour Harris and Philip Chamberlain. He has been in private practice in the greater
Dr. Takao has hospital staff privileges at Children's Hospital Oakland and
For 15 years, Dr. Takao has taught third and fourth year medical students as part of the "Foundations of Medical Care" program through the University of California San Francisco (UCSF)
For over 24 years, Dr. Takao has mentored pediatric interns and residents at Children's Hospital Oakland. In July 2012, he was promoted to the position of Associate Clinical Professor of Pediatrics at UCSF.
From 2007 to 2013, Dr. Takao served on the senior medical staff leadership team at Children's Hospital Oakland, including being President of the Medical Staff in 2008. Currently, Dr. Takao serves as peer reviewer and counsel on the Well Being Committee for UCSF Benioff Childrens Hospital-Oakland.
Dr. Takao served on the Board of Directors of the American Lung Association for 20 years and received the association's Bernard Gregory Award in 2005 for advancing cultural diversity. For 27 years, he volunteered as a camp physician every summer at the
Dr. Takao and his wife, Elizabeth, live in


text:
I did this for my son's teacher's birthday party but this would be a fun Valentine's Day idea also!
You will need 12 5 oz. cups. I laid them out in a heart shape so I could keep it straight how they go together.
I started with the bottom three and stapled them all to each other.
Make sure that you pinch together well so that the ends of the staple get squished down – really technical terms, huh?!?!?!
Here you can see how each cup is stapled at every point that they touch. You will need to stagger the edges of the cup. The center is usually the highest point so you can work down or up from that point.
Here you can see how the center stands taller than the edges.
I added a plastic wrap strip that goes underneath the cupcake so that you can pull on the "tab" to help lift the cupcake without getting you fingers full of frosting!
Then I added the cupcakes and frosted them with a large swirl, added a fondant flower and, using double stick tape on the cups, attached one sheet of tissue paper around.
Simple and quick, but pretty and fun!
Linking to the following…


text:
It was my fault that my wife was murdered. Right on the front steps of our home. I was shot, too, and almost killed. I deserved it. Maggie did not.
We were walking home from a movie. A romantic comedy. Maggie thought it was fun; I hated it. But I was in such a foul mood those days that I could have gone to a double feature of Casablanca and Play It Again, Sam and hated them both. No matter what I saw or did, I would have hated it, because I hated myself.
I was a U.S. Marshal, and I had accepted a bribe. There you have it: the unvarnished ugliness at the core of my being. Despite years of service with the Marshals and before that in the U.S. Army Special Forces, I had taken money from some loathsome criminals who planned to kill other loathsome criminals who happened to be in the Marshal Service's witness protection program.
Please don't think I jumped up and said, sure, I'll take your money. I wasn't that easy. Like a lot of veterans returning from Afghanistan or Iraq, I suffered from PTSD. And like a lot of us, I had a hard time admitting that I had a problem and seeking help for it. Instead of therapy, I drank. I drank a lot. I hung out in bars that cater to Federal agents of all sorts: DEA, FBI, Treasury, and Marshals.
Just as there are bars for Feds, there are bars for cops and for bad guys. Both the good guys and the bad guys are aware of this. It makes it easier for law enforcement to find suspects in bad-guy bars. At the same time, it's easy for the criminal element to identify those in law enforcement who might be approachable regarding bribery―odds are that at least one federal agent who gets soused on a regular basis is susceptible to an offer of easy money. And since I was avoiding therapy, which was bitterly ironic since my wife was a therapist, I self-medicated with booze in the same place most nights: Dugan's Pub. Instead of going home to Maggie, I told her I was working late on a case. I often did work late, and she believed me. Now that I think about it, she probably was pretending to believe me. It was a lie of convenience that we shared. If I was honest with myself―something that was difficult in the extreme―I had to admit she had tried to help me. Suggestions that we go for long walks, where there would be nothing to do but admire the scenery and . . . talk. Suggestions that we drive into the country and admire the scenery and . . . talk. Suggestions that we spend the evening at home, listening to music and . . . talking. Maggie had a mischievous sense of humor and a great line in flirtation, but heaven forbid we should just . . . talk. For crying out loud, she was a therapist. She was a caring and concerned person, and she would have figured out what a mess I was. I couldn't have that.
Well, the first few times Dommy G approached me about passing information to him, I waved him off with an obscenity or two. Dommy G was short for Dominick Something, but nobody used his actual last name because of his "family" connections. The scuttlebutt was that the G stood for garrote, which he was rumored to have used on occasion. Dommy was tall with wavy, dark hair slicked back over his ears, shirts that he never bothered to button up as far as he should so that long curly chest hairs spilled into view, and a gold Rolex that clunked on the bar whenever he leaned on it. He wasn't just a piece of mob muscle, at the same time, he wasn't capo material. Dominick was smart enough to know he was a mid-level thug. Regardless of his mob status, I didn't report him to my supervisors, which is what you're supposed to do when criminals attempt to bribe you. He continued to proposition me to do him a favor while he did me a favor: "Come on," Dominick said, "you hate protecting scumbags like me. So give me the information I want, and I'll eliminate a couple of them for you. Less work for you." My cursing must have been losing its effectiveness because he repeated his offer again and again.
One night, I pushed my $20 bill across the bar, and the bartender pointed in Dominick's direction and said, "He's buying."
I should have left the $20and paid for my own drinks. Told Dominick where to go. And informed my superiors.
Instead fate intervened and pushed me farther in the wrong direction: Maggie was accepted into a prestigious program at New York University. We weren't poor, but graduate work in psychology at NYU doesn't come cheap. Some pecunia ex machina would be very handy, especially since the deadline for payment was soon. I rationalized that it was okay to accept the bribe―I didn't work in witness protection so I couldn't actually deliver the information and betray the Marshal Service. Oh sure, I occasionally delivered the witness protection subjects―many of them criminals―to a handler. But the path to their actual ultimate destination, their newfound lives of comfort and security, had several steps. I was just a way station in the process. But after delivery, I hadn't a clue what happened to them―it was impossible for me to give the mobsters what they wanted. So, if I took the bribe, I'd just be stealing from some very bad people. Didn't seem particularly immoral to me.
The elephant in this particular room of my drunken head was that Dominick and company wouldn't appreciate being ripped off by me. But I dismissed these fears. I'd survived war in Afghanistan; a couple of mobsters didn't frighten me. Besides, were they really stupid enough to risk the inevitable manhunt that would follow the whacking of a law-enforcement officer?
The deal was $50,000 up front with another $50,000 when I handed over the information. One night I met Dominick a couple of blocks from my usual bar. He handed me a plain white shopping bag with a shoe box inside and said, "Here's a pair of the loafers we were talking about: 12½ D, right? Let me know if they don't fit. Be sure to call me." He walked off without another word.
The bag felt heavier than a pair of shoes. $50,000 in $100s is a bit bulky. I felt very pleased with myself for having earned that much money by lying to criminals. Very pleased. For about five minutes. Then it hit me that I had dishonored everything I had ever stood for as a Marshal and a soldier and a husband―everything my wife believed about me.
I couldn't live with myself or with my wife, who cared so much about others she had become a therapist. Whose sense of humor was sly and surprising. Who had brown hair, blue eyes, and a small scar over her left eye from a childhood fall from her bike. Maggie was disproportionately self-conscious about that little scar. She shouldn't have worried: it was barely noticeable. She was beautiful.
After the movie, we had walked along West 76th Street, heading west away from Columbus Avenue and toward our home on the third-floor of a brownstone. The June night was pleasantly warm, a light breeze rustled the leaves, and we were both dressed for the weather: Maggie was wearing a light yellow T-shirt, mine was a dark blue, and khaki shorts. Her legs were much prettier than mine. We had strolled down the sidewalk hand in hand. It had taken every bit of mental fortitude I possessed not to yank mine from hers—it was beyond me why she would want to hold my hand. Yes, the hand I'd taken the bribe with.
It had also been impossible to enjoy a stroll on a wonderful June evening with my wife when I was spending most of my mental energy scanning every doorway and window and rooftop, wondering if someone was about to kill me. I had been stupid and immoral enough to take money from criminal scum, and reneging on my deal with the scum left me in a state of fear. Not to mention the phone call I had received earlier that day: I picked up the phone and said, "Hello." A man's voice replied, "Well? We're waiting."
As we had climbed the stoop to our building, Maggie released my hand and fished in her purse for her keys. There was a noise, like the tearing of a piece of paper, and in a fraction of a second, something smashed into my right shoulder and slammed me against the door frame. As I fell, another something hit my leg.
There was a distant sound of footsteps pounding away, slowly fading out of hearing.
I lay on my back, sprawled on the landing at the top of the stoop, breathing hard. I touched my shoulder and felt a jagged tear in my shirt and skin. My fingers came away covered in blood. I gazed up and realized the glass in the door was broken.
Where was Maggie? I slowly rolled to my stomach until I could see down the stoop. She was crumpled at the bottom, her legs on the sidewalk, her torso on the steps, all of her covered in blood. Her head lay on one of the stone steps, her face toward me, her eyes wide open and sightless. I tried to call her name but couldn't collect enough breath to make a sound.
She couldn't be dead, she couldn't. The bullets were meant for me—I had taken the bribe but never delivered. This was payback for me. What had I done to my Maggie? My breathing was more strained as I pushed myself over the edge of the landing and down the steps. Every nerve in my body screamed with pain. I rolled down the last steps and came to an uncontrolled stop with my head in her lap. She didn't move. I reached out and took her hand, gave it a gentle squeeze. Nothing. I whispered her name. No answer.
The sound of sirens filled the air, and I blacked out.
* * *
My beautiful wife did not deserve to be murdered.
It took months for me to recover physically. I only remembered being shot twice, but it was four times. Lost a lot of blood, but nothing vital was damaged. Still, not what you'd call a good time.
When you've been shot in what looks like a professional hit attempt, the Marshals Service is remarkably understanding about your taking long-term disability. All you need is the right kind of note from your doctor—and four bullets passing through your body makes it very easy to get the right kind of note.
My failure to deliver on the bribe was the most probable reason someone had fired eight times at Maggie and me. Probably with a refurbished M21 sniper rifle with sound suppressor. At least that's what the ballistic . The gun was never found. I was hit in the shoulder—that bullet went through me and smashed the front door window—in the ribs, puncturing my right lung, and twice in my right leg. Maggie was hit three times, twice in the chest and once in her left arm. The last bullet ricocheted off the stone stoop into the night. Neither it nor the weapon were ever found.
Given the type of weapon and the quality of the shooting, the killing was considered a hit directed at me, with Maggie as collateral damage. Like most law-enforcement agencies, the Marshals Service will move heaven and earth to find someone who attempts to kill one of their own. And the Service did exactly that on my behalf. But since I wasn't going to give myself up and tell them about the bribe—getting shot and losing my wife seemed like sufficient punishment to me—the investigators had no motive. No physical evidence except the bullet fragments. No suspects. Maggie's and my case went into the unsolved files where it probably would have stayed forever.
The fifth anniversary of her death found me still living in our apartment, now mine, which had stayed the same since she had died. Our living room had cream-colored walls and a lot of naturally finished wood furniture: bookshelves along the wall by the door, a couple of Woodstock recliners, and a couch, upholstered in a maroon-rust herringbone pattern. The bay window overlooked 76th Street. The brick fireplace had been unused since, well . . . you get the idea. The living room ended in a large counter that marked the beginning of the kitchen. A tiny hallway ran toward the back of the apartment where the bathroom and bedroom were. The whole place could have used fresh paint. Not to mention a fresh attitude on the part of the tenant.
I handled the anniversary with my usual aplomb. I started drinking around noon, which probably doesn't sound too unreasonable until I mention that I got up at about 11:45 A.M. I had gone into the bathroom, swallowed two aspirin, and stared at myself in the mirror. I'm six foot two, and the mirror wasn't set high enough for me to see the top of my head. But I knew my hair was sandy brown with a few streaks of gray. Bloodshot blue eyes over unshaven cheeks. Not a pretty picture. I had exited the bathroom and walked a few steps into the tiny kitchen where, to quote Johnny Cash, ". . . the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad, so I had one more for dessert."To ensure it was a truly nutritious breakfast, I ate a couple of pieces of dry toast with the beers.
When I got seriously hungry in the middle of the afternoon, I left the apartment, walked down the stoop where Maggie had died, and went west to a deli on Broadway, where I bought a roast beef on rye sandwich with a little mayo and a bit of black pepper. A small bag of potato chips and a six pack of beer completed the meal. I went home and ignored the spot at the bottom of the front steps where my wife had bled to death. Safely inside my apartment, I ate my food and drank my beer while channel-surfing between sports and news. I didn't really give a damn what was on TV, but I wanted the noise to block out my mulish, drunken self-pity.
In the early evening, I switched from Budweiser to Johnny Walker Black and had Chinese food delivered. Probably Kung Pao Chicken, but by then I was disgustingly drunk, and I don't remember. At some point in the middle of a weather report on some channel or another, I passed out on my couch.
Maggie woke me up. I heard her softly calling my name. My eyelids were so heavy I could barely open them. I blinked, expecting to see an empty apartment, believing that her voice was a dream. But she was standing a few feet away from me.
"Jack," she whispered, "I need to talk to you."
She was in the same light-yellow T-shirt and khaki shorts she had died in, but there was no blood. And she was surrounded by a warm glow, almost as if her body were in a halo.
"Jack, are you awake?"
"I'm here."
"You can't be. It's just not possible. Not. Possible. NOT." I pushed myself off the couch and took a half-step toward her. She stepped back the same distance, her halo moving with her. "Are you . . . are you . . . I'm sorry, but you're . . . dead. Is this a dream?"
"No. I'm really here. We're really talking."
I shook my head—a truly terrible idea when you've had as much to drink as I had in the last twenty-four hours. "I've been drunk before . . . even had some hallucinations, but this . . . this is the worst. No, best—it's good to see you, to talk to you, even if you're not real. I've missed you so much."
"I miss you, too."
I didn't know what to say. Should I offer her a drink or a seat? Ask her how she was? "I, uh . . . well . . . I . . ."
She cut me off, "I hate what you've become. You're more than this."
"Sorry, but I'm not trying to impress a hallucination—"
"Stop that," she interrupted me. "You're throwing your life away. You're capable of more."
"Says the ghost. Or the hallucination. Take your pick."
"You're drunk, but I am not a hallucination. I'm here to help you become what you're supposed to be."
I collapsed back onto the couch. "Oh, geez. I don't think I need my drunken subconscious delivering a self-help lecture. Forget it. Not interested. Get lost."
"I thought you missed me."
"I do, but you're not really you . . . you're not really the one I miss." I paused and tried to consider the meaning of what I had said. "Did that make sense?"
"Yes." She was sad and disappointed, and for a fraction of a second, I wanted to take her in my arms and comfort her. But only for a tiny speck of time—you can't comfort an alcohol-created hallucination. And my head hurt so badly I wasn't sure I could take her in my arms.
Maggie paced a few steps toward the bay window overlooking 76th Street then came back to face me. "Please don't drink for the next twenty-four hours."
"Why? What difference will twenty-four hours make?"
"Please? I'll come back tomorrow night, come back when you're capable of understanding that I'm really here and not an alcoholic hallucination."
"You are the damnedest dream I've ever had."
"If you love me, don't drink, and I'll return tomorrow."
And she was gone.
Maggie didn't fade away, and she didn't pop invisibly out of sight. She just . . . disappeared.
"Holy shit," I muttered. "That was a doozy." I stood up and staggered to the little kitchen where my bottle of Johnny Walker sat on the counter. I grabbed a clean glass out of the cabinet above, picked up the scotch, and was going to pour myself a glass when Maggie's words echoed, "Please don't drink for the next twenty-four hours. Please?" I stared at the spot on the living room floor where my hallucination had been. Why the hell should I not drink for a hallucination?
But I couldn't bring myself to pour. I put the bottle back on the counter, the glass back in the cabinet, went to the bathroom to wash up, and then, finally, blissfully to bed.
* * *
The day after the fifth anniversary of Maggie's death was the first really good day I'd had in the five years since we were shot. I woke up at a reasonable hour, showered, shaved, dressed in clean jeans and a gray Fordham T-shirt, walked to a diner on Columbus Avenue, and had bacon and eggs. I even drank a glass of orange juice, my first without vodka in years. I walked all through Central Park, enjoying the smell of the grass and the beautiful park scenery, framed by the towering buildings along Fifth Avenue and Central Park West.
I couldn't begin to understand why I was in such a good mood, filled with a sense of promise. It was as if I had a hot date. Was I eagerly anticipating seeing Maggie again? As that thought hit me—and it hit me like a hammer coming down squarely on a nail—I stopped and swayed in the middle of the pathway around the Park's Great Lawn. I took a deep breath. What the hell was the matter with me? Could I really be looking forward to a repeat performance of the drunken dream I'd had last night? But without the aid of alcohol?
I dumped myself onto the nearest park bench. What a pathetic loser. Getting all pumped up about seeing a woman who'd been dead for five years. Why? What was motivating this joy? I stared at the trees on the far side of the Great Lawn without really seeing them. I had no idea how long I sat there, staring without seeing. Eventually, I realized the reason I was happy was the thought of seeing Maggie again.
Hallucination or not, last night was the best moment of the last five years of my life.
Hallucination or not, Maggie was absolutely right: I was throwing my life away. And now I was hoping my dead wife would return and save me from myself. I laughed at the idea that my life was such a mess that my best hope was an appearance by my wife the ghost.
After spending hours walking around the park, I went to my gym and worked out—the one good habit I'd maintained since Maggie's death. To be completely honest, all the physical exertion helped with my anger. Although I don't know how the gym equipment remained intact after I used it. Showered and freshly dressed, I went home with a pizza and Diet Coke for dinner.
When I walked up the front stoop, instead of making a conscious effort to look away from the spot where Maggie had died, my eyes on the top of the steps and the front door. I practically bounded up to my apartment and ate three slices of my pizza. I wrapped the leftover pizza in aluminum foil and shoved it in the freezer.
Cleaned the apartment. I can't tell you how long it had been since I cleaned the place, but after a couple of hours, it was spotless. All the bookshelves had been dusted, the dishes washed, the floors vacuumed, and the bathroom scrubbed and shiny. I even changed the sheets on the bed, not because I was crazy enough to think I'd be entertaining company, but because when you're cleaning from top to bottom, well, you change the sheets.
After that burst of activity, I didn't know what to do with myself. I watched the Yankees on television, and after the game ended in a New York victory, I watched Casablanca. I'd probably seen it a dozen times, but it was still fantastic for me. Poor Rick, pining away for Ilse, and then his life turns around when he takes on the Nazis. He doesn't get the girl, but he does find himself.
I finished Casablanca a few minutes after midnight. I don't remember drifting off to sleep on the couch. Maggie woke me up, softly calling my name. She was smiling when I opened my eyes.
"You didn't drink today."
"I wanted to see you again." I sat up.
"You believe in me now. I'm not just a drunken dream?"
"Maybe you're a symptom of some kind of mental break, I don't know." I found it impossible to believe she was really there, standing in my living room in her halo, but there she was, complete with pretty blue eyes and the little scar over her left eyebrow. I was incredibly happy to see her. "I'm glad you're here, whatever you are. I've missed you."
"I know, but you can't use me as an excuse for what you've become."
"You're disappointed in me . . . "
"Of course I'm disappointed. The man I loved was someone I wanted to have a family with—now you're a . . . " her voice faded, unable to finish.
"A bum? A guy who drinks too much? Who's throwing his life away running errands for people on the wrong side of the law?"
I took a deep breath and confessed, "That started before you died."
"You took a bribe."
"Why? Why would you do such a thing?"
"I don't really know." To tell the truth, I did know. But I wasn't capable of being honest with myself, and I certainly wasn't capable of being honest with Maggie, regardless of her current plane of existence.
"That's not good enough," she said.
I couldn't look into her eyes; I lowered my gaze and stared at the floor.
"Why did you do it?" she asked.
"I've asked myself that a thousand times, and I still don't have a good answer." I paused to swallow and then take a deep breath. "I . . . I saw too many awful things in Afghanistan. Maybe I was suffering from PTSD, I don't know. And . . . I was angry that we had fertility problems, . . . I was ticked off with my bosses, I hated the mob guys I was escorting into witness protection. And since I had no intention of passing on the info the bribe was paying for, I didn't feel like it was as horrible as it was."
"That's all rationalizing," she said gently.
I nodded. "I was angry and felt sorry for myself because of the war, and because of our issues, and my work . . . my drinking . . . I acted out. It was an angry, terrible thing to do. It was an incredibly stupid thing to do—I'm . . . sorry." I paused, trying to collect myself. "I got you killed, I never . . . " I swallowed hard a couple of times. "I'm so sorry," I muttered through my tears.
Maggie took a step closer but stopped short of touching me. "You didn't kill me. You are not the evil person who murdered me. You made a very bad choice, but someone else killed me."
I wiped the tears from my cheeks.
"You volunteered to serve your country, and you served well. You won a Silver Star and a Purple Heart. But those medals weren't enough when you came home and needed help to adjust. You buried your feelings and joined the Marshals and that meant you could continue to serve. But you never got any help. When we met and fell for each other, it was wonderful for both of us. I saw how funny you are, how caring. But the happiness of early romance masked a lot of your issues. Eventually, even with our love, your problems were still there. Because we were close, I couldn't see what you needed and do anything to help you. And, since you didn't get help, you acted out. You made a horrible choice. But you're not a bad man, and you didn't kill me. Do you hear me?" she asked.
"I still love you. That's why I'm here. I love you too much to watch you waste your life. I interceded on your behalf and got you a chance to turn your life around."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
She smiled again. "Hell has nothing to do with it. I'm talking about a second chance. Do you want it? Do you want to redeem yourself?"
"I don't know . . . I'm . . . "
"Are you kidding me?" her voice was sharp and her eyes flashed angrily. That was my Maggie. "Are you crazy?" (A question I was asking myself every thirty or forty seconds as I talked with this ghost or hallucination or whatever she was.) "You have a chance to turn everything around, and you're not sure you want it! Do you have any idea how many people there are who wish they had this chance?" She paused, looking at me to see if her words had any effect. "Well? Do you want to redeem yourself?"
"I . . . guess so. I mean . . . yes, I do."
She waited for a moment, obviously hoping I'd say more. "Don't you want to know what you have to do?"
"Sure, of course. What do I have to do?"
"Help others. Make things right for them. You've been wallowing in self-pity for five years when you could have been focused on helping others."
"Geez, don't hold back."
"It's true, and that is your fault."
I took a deep breath. "Okay, you're right. Whom do I help and how do I help them?"
"Don't drink again for the next twenty-four hours. Tomorrow night you'll be visited by Harry. He'll tell you what to do."
"Harry? Who the hell is Harry? Maybe I should ask, what the hell is Harry?"
"He'll be your . . . ," Maggie hesitated, searching for the right word, ". . . guide. He'll explain what you need to do for your second chance."
"Oh." I was afraid to ask what I had to ask, "What about you? Will I see you again?"
She whispered, "I don't know."
I took a step toward her, but she maintained her distance from me. "Seeing you is the best thing that's happened to me in five years."
She smiled again, but her face was sad. "You have no idea."
"Please, please come again."
"I will if I can."
And she was gone. I sat on the couch, put my head in my hands, and wept.
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3DOcean Sphere Chair With Modern Seat Rander In Mantal Ray 1694830
3D Model \ Furnishings \ Furniture
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text:
Chapter 8
"That's ridiculous!"
Fireman slammed his fists down on the comm console in frustration. "There's no possibility that Rock could have destroyed the other four without help! You're mad, old man!"
Dr. Wily's holographic image smiled. "Well, this mad old man is your master, and you're programmed to obey him. Now, if you value your so-called life, you'll do as I say. You know that your programming requires it."
Fireman snarled with frustration. "Of course I have to follow your orders, damn you. But you're crazy if you think that Rock is our only concern. He couldn't have beaten my brothers with no help at all! He's a tool user, for Christ's sake! Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"And you're a Waste Disposal androbot, whose only ability is to burn trash." Dr. Wily's sneer was mocking. "Don't be an idiot, Fireman. Of course he was a tool user! Now he's a soldier, just as you are. It's not so strange a concept. You should be able to grasp the idea of modification."
The perpetual flame that burned at the top of Fireman's fire-stove head module turned white hot. "Don't taunt me, old man. I may be slave to your orders, but I can still cause trouble for you."
"Yes, no doubt," Wily answered, sounding not in the least bit convinced that Fireman's threat was serious. Now do as I command." The three-dimensional image of Dr. Wily's face dissipated into thin air, leaving Fireman alone in the chamber.
"Bastard!" Fireman raged, scouring the walls with white-hot flame. "Son of a bitch! Filthy human swine!!!" He blazed his anger across the walls until they were coal-black and his rage had subsided a little.
Dr. Wily was a damned fool to think that Rock--Rock--had come so far on his own. A simple, trusting fool like Rock wasn't worth destroying! He wasn't even worth worrying about! Rock was a pathetic philosopher and human-lover who would rather spend his days reading poetry and serving drinks to his master than fighting. How dare Wily order Fireman to waste his combative talents on such an insect!
The door to the chamber opened, and Fireman whirled in a blazing frenzy.
"What the hell do you want?"
A mute 12-KIF held a terrified, struggling human.
"I see. Another one." Fireman waved a silver-grey gauntlet in dismissal. "Very well. Leave the filthy thing here. I'll take care of it."
The 12-KIF saluted with its free hand. Then it roughly shoved the human forward onto the floor and left the room.
Fireman stood with his hands behind his back, regarding the fear-stricken, quaking human with utter contempt. Finally, he turned his back on the filthy organic creature and shook his head.
"Tell me," he grated through the silver half-mask that concealed the bottom of his face. "Tell me, human. How did you come to be here? I thought that all the vermin in New Denver had been exterminated."
There was no answer from the human.
Fireman didn't turn, but spoke in even, measured tones that were more frightening than his enraged screams. "I asked you a question, human. You are to answer. Now, let's try again. How did you manage to come here when I have personally seen all the human beings in New Denver destroyed?"
"Take your time." Fireman's jibe was acerbic.
"I got lost on the road and ended up--"
Fireman turned with the speed of a cat, and in less than a second had lunged across the room and backhanded the man across the face, shattering his cheekbone and opening up several blood vessels. The man's blood-chilling scream echoed through the room for a handful of seconds.
"I don't like being lied to," Fireman said calmly. "Now, you have one last chance. If you tell me the truth, I will let you go. If you don't I will incinerate you like I did those others in the corner." He gestured to a heap of blackened objects that might once have been human bones before hellish heat twisted them beyond all recognition.
"L-let me go? You promise?" The man's voice was weak with fear. Fireman loathed the sound of it.
"Yes. Robots cannot lie. It is in our programming." Fireman grinned beneath his mask.
Although his face was ruined and he was bleeding profusely, the man spoke. Blood and missing teeth slurred his words. "I'm from Boulder, out to the west--"
"I know where Boulder is."
"Sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--"
"Continue." The sooner this was over with, the better. Fireman couldn't stand the blubbering thing in front of him.
"Well, since we're a couple miles away from New Denver here, there've been some survivors. A couple of us still have televids, and we saw that Rockman had been defeating the generals of Dr. Wily's army."
Fireman restrained himself from roasting the man for even saying Rock's name.
"Anyway, we thought to ourselves that if a robot could beat them, then we could too. So we looted some abandoned stores for weapons and came here to New Denver. We'd heard that the Waste Disposal Plant here was where the general of this precinct was, so we--"
"That's enough." Fireman's hands clenched into fists. "You thought that if a robot could do it, so could you? Are you implying that robots are inferior?"
"N-no! That's not what I meant at all!" The man gibbered and clutched his pale hands to his bloody, crushed face.
"How many others were there?"
"Eighteen. That's not counting me. You won't hurt them, will you?"
Fireman laughed. "Hurt them? How ridiculous!"
The man relaxed. "Oh, thank the Lord. Oh, thank--"
"Of course I won't hurt them," Fireman interrupted. "They, unlike you, won't suffer before they die."
The man's face paled. "You said--you said--"
"Oh, please. You stupid creatures will believe anything! Of course I can lie. As if I'd let my palace here be infested by vermin like you." Fireman held up his fist. "Say good-bye."
The man leaped to his feet and scrabbled against the firmly locked steel door, crying and cursing and pleading all at once.
And since he wasn't facing Fireman, he never saw the white-hot sheets of flame that ended his life and burned him into a twisted, hunched, blackened figure that was barely recognizable as a human skeleton.
* * * * *
It was like being drunk.
That, at least, was what Rock surmised. Never having consumed alcohol, or--even if he had--suffering the organic effects of motor-control loss and muddiness of thought that was called "drunkenness," Rock had no frame of reference.
However, when he appeared in Tokyo, in Dr. Light's lab, Rock fell to the ground in a heap.
"Rock!" Roll's concerned voice cut through the mayhem of reporters' voices. "Rock, are you okay? What's wrong?"
Rock tilted his head up. He was in the main reception room of Dr. Light's mansion-like house. Once again, he was faced with a sea of reporters. Faces blurred into one another, and the voices dimmed to a buzz in Rock's auditory sensors. The only thing Rock was truly aware of was a deep, throbbing, humming sound that seemed to come from within his own head. And the pain.
Pain coursed through his titanium musculature, but the blue robot hunter was too drained of energy to make any move or sound in complaint. A grey, static field crackled across his vision.
"Rrrr . . . rroooollll." He finally managed to slur a single word.
Roll was at her brother's side in an instant, hauling him to his feet. "Oh my God, what happened to you?"
Rock realized through his virus-induced stupor that she must think that he had been injured badly in the fight with Bombman. His armor was charred to blackness nearly everywhere, and his face was scorched underneath the helmet.
Thinking of his helmet made Rock realize that his head module seemed overheated, so he quickly retracted his helmet into his skull, letting the blessedly cool air of the Tokyo evening ruffle his black hair. The coolness of it felt like a sweet kiss on his feverishly hot crown.
"Speak, Rock! Oh, please speak!" Roll's voice was laden with concern and anxiousness. "You've got to pull through this! You're our only hope now!"
Reporters were roughly pushed aside by Tokyo policemen to clear a swath for Roll and her burden. Rock noticed Snap in the crowd, and his two daughters, Julie and Bess. Their faces seemed to be the only real ones in the tumult.
Within seconds, Rock had been heaved on the table. Dr. Light and Roll were immediately bending over him, working frantically at his skull-cap module to unseal his positronic brain. "He's going fast," Roll said grimly.
Rock strove to speak. "Vvvviiiirrrruuussss." He shivered, despite the heat he felt. "Virus." His voice was getting clearer. "Dr. W-wily gave me a v-v-v-virus. It--"
"Hush." Dr. Light's voice was firm. "We realized what had happened soon after you left. By then, it was too late to reach you. Thank God you were quick in your work, or you might not have survived at all to even reach us again."
Rock felt a searing pain in his head, and the, suddenly, it was gone. All of it. His meters respectively rose or dropped steadily towards normal levels, and his body temperature dropped back to his normal of 92 degrees Fahrenheit.
Relief washed over Rock. He sat up.
"Thanks. I don't know what you did, but it really helped." He grinned at Dr. Light. "Is the virus gone?"
Dr. Light looked away. Roll clenched her jaw grimly.
"What? What is it?" Rock's brow furrowed. "What are you--"
"The HSL attacked while you were away," Roll said without preamble. "I was powerless to help because of the Prime Rule, but they were beaten back quickly enough by the Tokyo police force. But they killed eight people and stole all the armor that was meant for me."
Rock shut his mouth in surprise.
"It was a planned attack," Roll continued tightly. "They were all killed, but for two. One of them escaped. The other was caught by the police. After they pumped his bloodstream full of truth-inducing drugs, he confessed that their orders had been to steal my armor and--and--"
"And assassinate me." Dr. Light's voice was bleak. He straightened his shoulders. "We were then given a full description of exactly what was to be done with my body." He shuddered at the grisly memory.
"Whose orders?" Rock fought to control the fury in his voice, and felt his emotion circuits heating to dangerous levels.
"The man killed himself before he answered the question." Roll shook her head. "It could have been either Dr. Wily or James Walken. Or both."
"And the man who escaped--"
"Woman, actually," Roll corrected. "She disappeared without a trace, along with my armor. We're back to square one now, Rock. If you can't defeat Wily, there's no hope."
"I need rest," Rock said flatly. "I can't keep this up without some recharge time. You can install this chip while I sleep." He held up Bombman's matter-synthesis control chip. "A 'gift' from Bombman."
Dr. Light nodded briskly. "Right. And we can fix up your armor, too." The aged robotechnician attempted to smile. "I work so hard on your armor, and every time you come back, it's ruined. Plain carelessness, if you ask me."
Rock forced a halfhearted grin as well. "Yeah. Well, it's only a little burned this time."
"Go to sleep," Roll urged. "We'll take care of things."
"Wait!" Rock sat back up with surprising speed. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you about." He indicated Dr. Light with a nod of his head. Dr. Light raised an eyebrow in invitation for Rock to continue. "I've been getting these feelings--half-formed ideas of what might happen before it happens. Like intuition."
Dr. Light nodded. "It's a trait I had hoped to further develop in you later on. As it is, the programming for it is sketchy at best. But now is not the time to be asking such questions, Rock. Go to sleep so we can work on you."
Rock gratefully slipped into the dark oblivion of his recharge mode.
* * * * *
Snap stepped into the room, accompanied by Bess and Julie.
"Is he gonna be okay?" The swarthy Australian looked with obvious concern at the damaged figure of Rock. "I mean, I told him that Cutman--"
Roll looked up, surprise plain on her features. "Snap?" She shook her head, as if to clear it. "Yes, that's right. You arrived before he left to fight Bombman, didn't you?"
Snap nodded. "Yeah. We heard all about him on the news while we were getting here. He's amazing!"
"That he is," Dr. Light said quietly as he worked the matter-synthesis chip into Rock's plasma buster. "I only wish . . ."
"What's wrong?" Snap's face turned stormy.
"I'll be blunt," Roll turned on Snap. "My brother has been infected with a lethal computer virus by Dr. Wily. It's a self-replicating and self-modifying terror that has a secure grip on areas of his brain that will be destroyed if we tamper with them."
Snap went pale.
"We've managed to delay the effects of it, but he's already had the virus for sixteen hours and forty-eight minutes." Roll took a deep breath. "If we don't find a way to knock out this virus, he'll be completely inoperative in fifty-five hours and twelve minutes. So please, let us work. In less than three days, Rock has to defeat the last two Robot Masters and storm Skull Castle. I don't know how much help we can give him, but it will be easier for us to save his life if we can have peace and quiet."
Dr. Light looked reproachfully at his "daughter."
"Roll. Apologize. That was unnecessarily brusque."
Snap stood straight. "No need to coddle me, doctor. I'm a tough man, and I understand when it's better to get out and let people work than harry them with questions." he allowed himself a grin. "I'm diff'rent than the reporters out there."
Roll genuinely smiled. "Thank you. I promise we'll let you know when he can speak again."
Snap nodded and turned to leave. As he was at the door, Bess dropped his hand and rushed over to Rock's supine form. "Get better," she said, kissing the android on the forehead. Then she followed her father.
Dr. Light stood in stunned silence for a moment.
"If Rock were awake," Roll said, "I think he'd be crying right now."
"Androids don't cry," Dr. Light said absently.
"Well they should," Roll snapped.
* * * * *
Juan Iago flicked off the televid screen, and with it, the images of Rock, Roll and Dr. Light.
"So. Chengdu has fallen." He turned to Monique. "You got the armor?"
"Yes." Monique, an assassin and top-rate espionage expert, nodded. It was barely more than a brief inclination of her head. "We failed to achieve our secondary objective."
Juan waved his hand. "It's not important. Dr. Light's death would have been convenient, but not crucial. We have what we sent you for."
"It seems," Monique said, "that we may not be needed to dispatch him after all. If the virus will kill him within a few days . . ."
"No." Juan's rebuttal was flat. "Mr. Walken's orders were clear. We're to destroy Rockman ourselves. If we wait for the virus to do our work for us, he may do more damage yet. Above all, Rockman must not be allowed to pinpoint the location of Skull Castle."
That last order had sounded uncharacteristic for James Walken. It had been Juan's understanding that Walken had intended to leave Skull Castle and Dr. Wily to the wolves within a day. Still, it had been unmistakably Walken's voice, Walken's face . . .
The comm link beeped. Juan hit the green "receive" button.
James Walken's head materialized before the pair of HSL terrorists.
"Mr. Walken," Juan nodded. "Everything is going according to plan."
"Good." Walken smiled at the other end. "Remember that your duty is to see that Rockman is destroyed before he can reach Skull Castle. That is mandatory."
"Understood," Juan answered. He didn't, though. Why should Walken care what happened to Skull Castle? "Sir, is this channel secure?"
For answer, Walken grinned even wider. "We need no longer worry about Wily's snooping. I have taken care of him."
Juan sighed in relief. "Good. Thank you, sir. That man gave me the creeps."
* * * * *
"He gave us all the creeps, Juan." Walken commiserated from within the bowels of Skull Castle. "Don't worry. He's finished now. I've declared Skull Castle our base of operations."
Juan's staticy image flickered. "That's great, sir."
"Walken out." The image of the Brazilian terrorist and his French companion dissolved into a million tiny pixels in the air, scattering like errant fairy dust and disappearing just as quickly.
"Good! Excellent! That was wonderful!" Dr. Wily smiled triumphantly and clapped Walken on the back. "A perfect performance! You're getting better every day!"
James Walken's features distorted and twisted, then collapsed back into those of Docman, who grinned widely. "Thank you. I owe my adaptability to you, father."
Wily puffed up with pride. "Yes, well . . . let's get on with business, shall we?"
Docman's grin turned evil. "Time to give the much-vaunted founder of the HSL a little visit."
Dr. Wily's laugh was rich and filled the subterranean room. "So it is. So it is, my son."
Docman rose and walked towards the door. Dr. Wily smiled to himself in dark satisfaction. Soon that fool Walken would be dealt with, and Wily would not need to fear for his life within his own fortress.
The German roboticist sat down in a cushioned leather chair and looked back and forth at his laboratory. Things had made quite a turnaround; Rock would be dead within three days, James Walken would be dead within the hour, and Dr. Wily would be the unquestioned ruler of the planet.
As he ruminated, it seemed to Wily that he had started this business with reprogramming the Robot Masters to prove a point, but that point eluded him now. No matter. When he had the world under his thumb, he would conquer the rest of the Solar System. Then he would have the power to banish the hallucinations which denied him sleep and sanity.
Polyphemus rumbled in the corner, and Wily frowned. "Go and guard the first ring," he ordered of his massive, stone-plated cyclops. "Don't return until I tell you to."
The voices . . .
Dr. Wily clutched his head as a fresh wave of jabbering, inhumanly high voices rose in an eerie choir and drowned out reality.
"Du bist verruckt, alter Man!"
"Sterb im dunkelheit, klein Billy."
"Wo ist deine Mutter jetzt?"
The voices taunted him, picked relentlessly at his mind until the scabs of reason that had grown over his insanity tore open and bled afresh. Wily screamed and waved his arms helplessly as rows upon rows of metal demons marched upon him rending his flesh to blood-slick ribbons.
"Weg! Away! Leave me alone!" Wily stumbled backwards over a tool chest and landed hard on his posterior. Pain drove him to violence, and the German roboticist hefted a welding laser and swung the heavy tool right into the face of the closest hell-spawned nightmare.
The creature took no notice of the attack, and leaped for Wily's throat, jaws glistening with blood-washed saliva. Dr. Wily screamed and flailed his instrument into darkness. He had one hope . . .
The teleporter! Dr. Wily managed an ugly grin of mad triumph as he depressed the "teleport" stud on the silver rod within his lab coat.
Time and space twisted for a moment, and reality became a distant vision seen through a kaleidoscope of tortured consciousness. A buzzing like a thousand hives of wasps jabbed Dr. Wily in the temples, as if the sound were a razor-sharp icicle. Then there was a flash of white light, and Dr. Wily found himself standing on the ramparts of Skull Castle.
The demons had vanished, leaving Dr. Wily weak in the knees and nauseated.
Dr. Wily shivered and dropped to his knees.
Rock was to blame for this. Rock and Dr. Light and Roll . . . they had all brought this upon him. But soon, Rock would die. The aged roboticist grinned feebly through his delirium at the thought. Yes, soon. Rock would be less than nothing.
"Nothing!" Dr. Wily forced himself to stand despite the pain in his head. The wind made the tails of his lab coat flap wildly like bats' wings, and his wild hair whipped back and forth in the gale.
Atop the ramparts of Skull Castle, a vision of madness stood.
And it began to rain.
* * * * *
Docman plodded down the hallways of Skull Castle.
He had seen the black-haired Brazilian man Juan Iago enough times to make a convincing holographic shell. The top-heavy emulation robot straightened his shoulders and assumed the features of Juan Iago. This would be too easy.
He pressed the entrance request button of James Walken's quarters.
A moment later, the voice of the HSL founder spoke. "Enter."
"Sir," Docman said. "I return with good news!"
James Walken stared dubiously at Docman/Juan. "Juan? How the hell did you get here? Didn't you just leave?"
"Good news!" Docman replied, ignoring the question. "Rockman is dead! Our agents destroyed him near New Denver!"
Walken frowned. "Impossible. My spies tell me that he hasn't left Tokyo yet."
Docman stuttered. "Y-yes. Well, he was about to go to--"
"Game's up, Wily," Walken spat. "Nice replica, but I won't be fooled." Walken pulled a laser pistol from his jacket pocket and let loose a beam of destruction right at "Juan's" midsection.
It passed right through the holographic exterior and narrowly missed Docman himself.
"That was your last mistake, human." Docman raised his arm, permanently converted to a plasma buster, and blasted Walken dead in the center of the chest. Walken gave a strangled cry and fell backwards, blood spurting from the parts of the wound that weren't cauterized.
Except the blood was black.
Docman stood still for a moment, then walked forward and inspected the body.
Near-human skin was stretched across titanium ribs, and the musculature of the body was made of steel. A radiowave transmitter had once been in the chest of the body, to receive remote-control commands.
A decoy.
"A decoy!" Docman bit out loud. Angry, he blasted the robot body into ashes, then turned and stormed out of the room.
And several miles away, at the other end of a set of remote controls, James Walken, pale and sweating, watched through the eyes of one of Dr. Wily's robotic roaches.
* * * * *
Rock awoke to the harsh lights above him.
Roll's face appeared. "How are you feeling? Is everything optimal?"
There was a momentary pause as Rock ran a quick scan on himself. Haltingly, he answered. "I think so. There seems to be some sort of block on a few of my sensors, though. You . . . ?"
"Yes." Dr. Light's voice spoke from behind Rock.
The male android sat up on the table and swung his feet around the side, letting them dangle. Forcing a grin, he quipped, "So give it to me straight, Doc. How long do I got?"
A spasm of pain passed over Dr. Light's face as he answered. "That's hard to say, Rock. We've managed to retard the virus' progress, but we can't stop it. At best, we calculate that you have a little more than two days."
Rock blinked. "Two days? Two days until what?" He was afraid of the answer, but had to hear.
"The virus," Dr. Light answered with obvious difficulty, "the virus is self-replicating. It has a firm hold on the module that governs the Three Rules, and we can't get it to let up. As you know, any tampering with that area of your brain could kill you instantly."
"In two days . . ." Rock's voice was little more than a whisper. "I have only two days to live?"
Roll gripped his shoulder. "We're doing all we can. If you can keep Wily at bay for the next day, the extra time might be enough for us to formulate a counter-program that will nullify the virus."
A deathly pall descended on the room, and Rock stood slowly.
"I see." He looked at his hand. "And if not . . ." His hand clenched into an iron fist. "If not, I'll live out my last hours destroying my once-friends." The android felt his anger circuit-relays beginning to overheat with too much current.
"Rock . . ." Roll's voice was gentle.
"Damn him . . ." Rock suddenly turned and bashed his fist into the table, splintering the steel surface like balsa wood. "Damn that maniac to hell!" He turned on Dr. Light "And damn you for giving me life! Why couldn't I have been a metool? At least they don't--" he made a choking sound and fell heavily to his knees.
Dr. Light stood rigid with half-fear and half-sorrow.
Rock's voice was a miserable, almost inaudible whisper. "Don't want to die . . ."
He looked up as Dr. Light's hand came to rest on his shoulder. The aged roboticist's eyes were bright with unshed tears. The analytical part of Rock detachedly noted how the light reflected unevenly off the doctor's corneas. "Rock," he said, his voice heavy with emotion. "I--you have been as a son to me. I'll do all I can. " He took a deep breath. "Life is never so precious as when you fear you might lose it."
Rock looked at his hands and shifted them both into plasma buster configuration. Bitterness seeped into the overtones of his tenor voice as he spoke. "Maybe it's better this way. I've killed, and it isn't justice for a killer to go unpunished."
Roll couldn't stand any more of it. She roughly grabbed Rock and forced him to rise, staring straight into his eyes. "Stop it!" she ordered harshly. "You can't keep blaming yourself for all of this! It's not your fault that you have to fight, and you deactivated--"
"Killed," Rock corrected.
"Deactivated," Roll snapped "the renegade Robot Masters because it was required by the Second Law. You've acted with courage and justice this whole time, and I refuse to give up on your life yet." She pushed her face right into Rock's. "And damned if I'm going to let you give up on it, either."
Rock took a few surprised steps back. "But I--"
"No 'buts.' You straighten up and go do your job. We're going to be breaking our tailbones back here to save your neck, so you'd better get out there and save the world's neck. I won't have that chance anymore." Roll smiled wanly. "When this is all over, you'll never have to fight again, but right now, the Waste Disposal Plant in New Denver and the World Power Plant in Croatia need help."
Several seconds passed in silence. Dr. Light stood still as a statue, amazed by the exchange. Never had he dreamed that his programming could have been so successful. Of course, he reminded himself, Roll's program, like her brother's, was self-modifying. When this was all over, he was going to sequester himself away with a voice-activated word-processor and dictate notes until he was hoarse.
Rock finally nodded. New determination glinted in his eyes.
"You're right. I can't give up. I have to save the world from Wily." He paused, and added. "And I have to save Wily from himself. Thank you, Roll." He suddenly reached out and crushed his sister in a bear hug. "I guess this is what being siblings is about."
Roll couldn't speak, overcome with emotion.
Dr. Light felt a single tear roll down his cheek as Rock turned and departed.
"Oh," Roll said as she hurried after him. "I forgot to tell you; you have Hyper Bombs now, just like Bombman's."
Rock made no answer but a quick inclination of the head. Before Dr. Light could say anything to his android "son," the midnight-blue steel of Rock's helmet materialized, and Rock disappeared in a needle of blue-white incandescence.
As Roll returned, he finally found his voice.
"That," he said, "is how you are different from androbots."
* * * * *
When Rock landed in new Denver, the first thing he noticed was the heat.
He had arrived right in front of the Waste Disposal Plant, which was reason enough for the heat. March in New Denver always started out cold, but that had been negated by the awesome blaze that perpetually burned in the Waste Disposal Plant.
From his vantage point here in front of the square, grey building, Rock couldn't see any smoke rising from the massive heat-releasing chimney at the top of the structure. That, at least, had not been tampered with.
The chimney to the Waste Disposal Plant in New Denver was unique. The top of it was equipped with a molecular shield that broke the toxic smoke that rose from the smelting area of the plant into its constituent atoms and released only harmless oxygen, nitrogen and faint traces of carbon into the air. That only the heat--not the smoke--was escaping meant that whichever Robot Master presided over this area had had sense enough not to destroy the shield.
Or maybe he just hasn't gotten around to it yet . . .
The thought spurred Rock on to action. The faster he could get through the plant, the faster he would be done with this whole terrible ordeal. He took a deep breath and opened the massive cargo-loading area doors in front of which he had landed.
Rock looked cautiously around and ran inside. The cargo loading bay was one of two on this side of the building. From here, he could see a ladder leading to the upper storage area that was directly above the cargo loading bay.
No sense in dallying.
With an equal mix of haste and caution, Rock scaled the ladder, plasma buster at the ready.
As soon as his head poked over the top, Rock saw a Rotocannon mounted on the floor of the empty storage area. Smiling grimly, he raised his arm. Whether the cannon was set on a timed circuit or just motion detecting, Rock never found it. With several judicious blasts, he destroyed the rotating cannon before it had a chance to fire.
With that cleared, Rock quickly scanned the rest of the storage area. Finding nothing but a ladder that led up to the uppermost storage area, Rock climbed that, too, and dispatched two similar cannons.
Now, however, he as faced with a small problem. He was in a large, rectangular room. The only entrance or exit lay in the ladder he had just scaled, and one like it at the opposite end of the room.
At the bottom of the ladder, Rock was fairly sure he'd be met by another rotocannon.
A cursory glance provided no clue as to the lower room's contents, except that it was another empty storage room like the one he had just exited a few moments ago. Gritting his teeth and keeping his plasma buster at the ready, Rock jumped down the ladder shaft and dropped ten feet to the ground.
Immediately, he ducked. As he had guessed, another rotocannon was mounted in this room. Only his quick duck had saved him from decapitation by a head-sized blast of plasma. Still lying on his stomach, Rock blasted the rotating stem of the cannon until the main gun separated from its controlling circuitry below and fell useless to the floor.
Another quick jump down the next ladder brought Rock into a nearly identical situation, which he handled with equal alacrity. Now, he found himself in a mirror image of the loading bay through which he had entered. This time, however, the doors opened not on daylight, but into a hellish red inferno.
The inferno was a small burning/smelting pit: one of many in the complex. Liquid-hot metal flowed in a small lake at the floor of the room where Rockman now stood. From time to time, flaming fragments of metal--perhaps they had once been parts of robots--burst out of the molten slag and flew several meters into the air before returning to their fiery graves.
Seeing no point in delaying his necessary trip across the infernal landscape to the ladder he saw beyond, Rock took a running leap and landed on an observation platform in the middle of the lava-sea.
He nearly fell backwards into the inferno when a column of flame blasted upwards through the platform directly in front of him. Cursing breathlessly, Rock noted with no small amount of dismay that his sensors indicated that the ultra-hot air was searing away some of his more sensitive internal circuitry.
Rock took another quick jump and grabbed the hanging ladder as the column of flame melted back into its flaming parent sea. Quickly, eager to avoid any similar outbursts from the temperamental sea of fire, the android gripped rung after rung and pulled himself speedily up the ladder. Once he had safely climbed to the level above the smelting pit, Rock took a breath of the cooler--although still hot--air.
Here, the ceiling and floor had been fractured in multiple places, and gouts of flame blasted through the floor in places where incendiary gas drifted too close to frayed electrical wires. Making his way carefully, Rock reached the seventh story of building.
Blowing on his gauntleted hands to cool them from gripping the red-hot ladder rungs, Rock surveyed the next stretch. From here, flaming blasts still roared up from the ground. Several meters before him, a service corridor ran uninterrupted by flame or rubble.
Thankful for that small convenience, Rock strode forward. He noted with some pride that he had yet to gain any black bars on his critical countdown meter; he was still at full energy. If he kept moving with this speed, perhaps he could be back in Tokyo within only a few hours!
Rock's journey ended abruptly at the end of the corridor. There, the ground dropped off into open space, and finally, judging by the crimson glow from below, into a molten smelting pit. There was only a small section of floor to which Rock could jump from here. That, however, was blocked off every few seconds by an arcing bolt of electricity.
Looking up, the situation was much the same. Electricity crackled there, too. It would be impossible to safely climb the wall to a safer level. Rock cursed. Across the small chasm, he could see that the eighth story seemed fairly safe. If only he could make it past the electrical bolts.
"I don't have time for this," he growled.
Taking note of the intervals at which the electricity built up enough charge to complete the arc, Rock quickly jumped to the undamaged section of the floor, acutely aware of the roar of flames below him. Pausing for barely a second, he coiled his steel-muscled legs under him and launched his body an incredible ten feet into the air to grab the ledge of the eighth-story floor.
After that, the next section of broken floor and frayed electrical wires was child's play to negotiate. Rock quickly made his way across the rest of the eighth story.
Now what?
The control center was the likely location of the Robot Master, and that would be on a lower floor. Rock bit his lip in concentration. Finally, after a few moments' deliberation, he walked towards the access ladder that led back down the other side of this level and began to climb down.
"Scheisse!" Rock swore loudly as a column of flame roared upwards to meet him. Acting out of what might have been instinct in an organic life form, Rock twisted his body to the side and dropped the rest of the way to the ground.
His reprieve was brief. Even as he rolled to stand on his feet, another blast of flame rocketed past him, straight through the floor. Tumbling and struggling to regain his balance, Rock fell straight down a glowing red shaft.
He caught the last rung of the ladder and dangled precariously over another smelting pit. Emergency energy coursed through him, and Rock again felt the robotic equivalent of an adrenaline rush. He exhaled several times to reduce the amount of oxygen in his system, and looked below him.
He was hanging over the main smelting pit now. Its flaming, white-hot molten mass churned slowly beneath him. This was where most of the garbage was dumped and summarily burned. Rock knew that to lose his grip would mean instant death for him.
Below him, and spanning the pit, were several observation platforms suspended above the magma-like surface of the waste-disposal fire-sea. If he could drop onto the nearest one, he calculated a 94% chance that--given optimal structural stability of the platforms--he could successfully reach the other side without befalling any harm.
It was challenging work to jump from platform to platform while avoiding the burst lava bubbles and flaming debris that flew from the hellish bowels of the infernal pit, but Rock finally made it across to the main observation deck. From here, the stairs had been knocked out, but an access ladder still hung down, leading up towards the middle levels, where the control center was likely to be.
Rock climbed the ladder and stared dumbfounded at the place it had brought him to.
Here, a nest of heavily-shielded pipes drained the magma-like substance from the upper levels of the plant where it was melted down to the lower smelting pit. In places, the pipes had been eaten away completely, and molten metal poured slowly from the gaps.
The only way out was up a ladder at the top of the room. Grimacing, Rock realized that he would have to run along the pipes to reach the ladder. The prospect was not a cheerful one, but then neither was it fatal.
Steeling himself for the necessary but painful work, Rock climbed up the nearest pipe, cringing and trying valiantly to ignore the sensors that were screaming pain signals. Within half a minute, the ordeal was over, and Rock had reached the ladder. Nevertheless, those thirty seconds of screaming pain had left him exhausted and drained of energy.
Giving himself a few moments to regain his temporary operating energy, Rock climbed the ladder.
At last--stairs! Rock climbed the iron-web stairs carefully, always aware that a small crack in the structure could send him hurtling down to the blazing magma below.
On high-band radio sensors, Rock could detect multidirection scanning 'bots--which meant that he was drawing close to the lair of the Robot Master. Rock was almost sure that it would be Helios--probably calling himself "Flameman" or "Fireman."
Sure enough, when Rock reached the top of the stairs, he saw a scanning 'bot. Before it could raise any alert, he quickly destroyed it with an expertly-hurled Rolling Cutter. He had not been prepared for the accompanying Sharksfang missile, but it was easily dodged and destroyed.
Making sure to keep clear of the shrapnel hurled by the exploding Sharksfang missile, Rock made his way across the top of the area and climbed slowly down. Through the wire-wrought floor, he could now see the miniature river of molten metal that fed the main smelting pit.
It was only a few jumps and dodges before Rock found himself at the double-reinforced door that closed off the final corridor leading to the main control center. He took a deep breath and mentally congratulated himself on coming so without losing any operating energy. If only it could be this easy when he faced the Robot Master.
The doors opened at a touch to the opening switch, and Rock stepped through.
The rotocannons had been mounted on the ceiling this time, and Rock carefully destroyed each one. As he was firing on the fourth and final rotocannon, he almost slipped on what appeared to be a bar. On closer inspection, Rock saw that it was a fire-blackened human femur.
He gritted his teeth in anger and stepped through the final door.
* * * * *
Fireman stood with his hands on his hips, absolute scorn emanating from every part of him.
"So," he sneered. "You've come. You surprise me, Rock. I wouldn't have thought you'd have the strength or the will to get this far."
For answer, the blue-armored android leveled his arm-cannon at Fireman. "Shut up and fight, traitor. I don't have time to listen to your arrogant prattle."
Fireman laughed. "You dare to challenge me? You do remember the Second Law of Robotics, don't you? I assume that fool Dr. Light still has you restricted by them."
"I know the rule," Rockman answered evenly. "Now fight."
"Your calculating module is obviously faulty," Fireman spat in contempt. "If you honestly think you can defeat me, you're so badly gone that you're not worth saving for Dr. Wily. Prepare to die!"
Fireman let loose a massive blast of flame from his outstretched hands. Nearly two meters in height and several meters in diameter, the wall of flame rushed at Rockman, and Fireman laughed again. Such a fool! To think a simple tool-user should stand a chance against Fireman!
It was to Fireman's great surprise that he saw his opponent, limned in shades of gold and crimson by the passing flame, leap over the wall of fire and loose several blasts of concentrated plasma. With a mixture of indignation and surprise, Fireman snarled.
"Very good, Rockman. But that was luck. You cannot stand before the power that I wield!" Fireman hurled another wall of flame. This one was quickly followed by another. Both left trails of flame on the floor.
This time, Rockman could not--as Fireman observed with gratification--dodge both. The second attack slammed home, hurling Rockman to the floor. He cried out feebly. Fireman grinned to himself beneath his half-mask.
"I'm not done yet," Rockman said. As Fireman watched, the light blue parts of the android's armor turned silver-white, and the midnight-blue parts turned forest green.
"Amusing!" Fireman chuckled, "But I can still see you, my chameleon friend!"
A black orb formed in Rockman's left hand. Fireman had only a few picoseconds to recognize it as a bomb before Rockman hurled it. Out of fear and surprise, Fireman blasted several walls of flame at his opponent.
The bomb exploded, momentarily blinding even Fireman. When his optical sensors adjusted to the light, he could see no sign of Rockman.
"Heh." Fireman shook his head. The flames must have obliterated the pathetic fool. "That was too easy," he said aloud. Contempt made his voice steely.
Fireman had virtually no time to see from whence the attack came. As he turned his head partially upwards, he beheld with terror a rapidly descending vision of silver and frosty-blue. Before he could cry out, Rockman had plunged a massive icicle directly through the opening of his stove-top head and into his body.
Fireman fell to the ground, his electrical motors making his limbs twitch from the now-useless emergency energy. In his last moments, he watched in mounting terror and disbelief as several more icicles formed in Rockman's hands. Amazingly, they did not melt in the fiery atmosphere.
Without preamble, Rockman plunged the icicles into five different key locations in Fireman's body. On the last, Fireman's vision blackened, and his motors ceased to respond to his mental commands.
His last thought before he died was: Impossible!
Fireman never saw the look of sorrow that passed over Rock's face when he knelt and removed a chip from Fireman's mutilated body. He never saw that Rock walked to the computer console at the end of the room and deactivated the shield.
And so he never saw when, long after Rock had departed, the humans finally arrived and threw his body into the smelting pit.
Continue to Wax Wings--Chapter 9
Return to Blues' Rockman Fan Fiction Library


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Martial Dirringer Vinegrower
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"It's the union's fault that you're in a dying industry?"An industry that provides roughly 60% of America's energy is not a dying industry.Out of the 47 employees we had in the shop, if the company could have chosen the best 18 to keep, we would be doing fine, lower volume/revenues, but in good shape to hold on for things to turn around.This is what unions do, screw the company.
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Support the Libyan revolution; oppose imperialist aggression!
- Details
- Tuesday, 22 March 2011
- Fred Weston
On Saturday afternoon French warplanes were the first to bomb Libya, in what one can only describe as open imperialist aggression. This was followed by US and UK ships and submarines launching 110 Tomahawk Cruise missiles. The French are strengthening their position by sending their Charles de Gaulle aircraft carrier into waters off the Libyan coast.


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Insurance through AutoZone
SMS "PROTECT" to 39834 and we will call you back or enquire in-store.
AutoZone Protect is only available in South Africa
AutoZone Protect products are underwritten by Auto and General Insurance Company Limited, a registered insurer and authorised financial services provider. FSP number: 16354. T's and C's apply. *SMS charged at R1-50. Free SMSes do not apply.
AutoZone Protect
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- Enquire
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When your vehicle's manufacturer's warranty is about to expire, AutoZone Protect does not miss a beat! Our Extended Vehicle Warranty means that you do not need to go even one day without cover.
- Enjoy up to 24 extra months of cover when your manufacturer's warranty expires
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AutoZone Protect's Extended Vehicle Warranty gives you cover for an extra 24 months, or until your vehicle reaches 250 000km, whichever occurs first. That is up to two extra years of worry-free driving to help you move onward and upward in life. The Extended Vehicle Warranty starts from the date that your manufacturer's warranty or maintenance plan expires.
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Pre-Owned Warranty
At AutoZone Protect, we know that your vehicle is there to help you move onward and upward through life; it should not hold you back! That is why we offer our Pre-Owned Vehicle Warranty, so that you can stay on your road to greatness without worrying about unexpected vehicle expenses.
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When your vehicle suffers a major mechanical breakdown or electrical failure, you do not need to worry about covering the unexpected cost on your own. AutoZone Protect's Pre-Owned Vehicle Warranty offers four categories of cover that are tailor-made for your vehicle, depending on its age and mileage.
Vehicle CategoriesBetter Drive 1 – Vehicles less than 7 years old with fewer than 120 000km Better Drive 2 – Vehicles less than 9 years old with fewer than 160 000km Better Drive 3 – Vehicles less than 10 years old with fewer than 220 000km Better Drive 4 – All other vehicles that do not fall into the above categories
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|Cover Amount
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Dodging potholes is a game that all South Africans lose from time to time. The next time you hit one, we will sort out your tyre and rim for you.
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Based on the selected package, there is a maximum annual cover limit of up to R20 000.
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There are 5 plans available ranging from R49 – R149 per month.
We've thrown in Fines Protect on this product, which is an administrative service that can save you up to 90% on your traffic fines. Fines Protect members have access to a unique service that is designed to take the hassle out of traffic fines. This service will notify you of all fines and then provide a quick, easy and painless channel to get them paid, with the added benefit of guaranteed fines reductions for members.
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We all experience a bumper bashing every now and then; with our Scratch and Dent Protect plan, we'll quickly restore your car to its former glory.
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We offer a three-year guarantee on all work done. This plan also includes License Protect Plus, which provides administrative and queue-for-you services.
License Protect members have access to a unique service that is designed to take the hassle out of vehicle license renewals. We will notify you of vehicle license renewals and then provide a quick, easy and painless channel to get them renewed, with the added benefit of never needing to put a foot into a post office – we will queue for you and deliver your vehicle license to your door. We will also give you proof of renewal and securely hold copies of your vehicle licenses in case they are ever lost or stolen.
Would you like us to contact you?
Fill out the form below and we will contact you with more information.
SMS "PROTECT" to 39834 and we will call you back or enquire in-store.
AutoZone Protect is only available in South Africa
AutoZone Protect products are underwritten by Auto and General Insurance Company Limited, a registered insurer and authorised financial services provider. FSP number: 16354. T's and C's apply. *SMS charged at R1-50. Free SMSes do not apply.


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Hey everyone! It's pretty fun on this wiki, isn't it? Remember to add links in your pages using the . Also, I've started adding categories!
A cool thing about this wiki is those achievements you can get! Look them up on your user page! I'm in the lead, followed by Gingerz. Can you beat me? This should be fun!Read more >