'Twas early in Autumn, the time when everything dies, of the Fifty-Eighth Year of the Rising Cheese, called by the blasphemers 1996. Our hero, a stick-figure of a decidedly gargoyle nature perched on the edge of a new life. His earlier adventures were many and daring, but shall not be told at this time. (Rather, we intend to produce a prequel to this saga, probably in about twenty-odd years.) The dark figure entered the borders of an unknown land, known to the natives as Helser, seeking adventure, comraderie, romance, and Black Lemonade. Sadly, the Black Lemonade was not to be found, for Helser lay in a place called Iowa, which knows naught of such things.

The brave stick-figure originally took up residence in the lower regions of Helser, a quiet village called Davidson. There he shared space with an amiable serf from the somewhere out in the featureless limbo which stretches between the bastion of higher education and, well, anything else. The two of them got along reasonably well, but lacked common interests. The only real problem was the serf's strange affinity to hideous, mind-destroying things which humans call "rap" and "country." Life in Davidson, while not actively aggravating, was not very interesting for our hero, for he was surrounded by common villagers. Normalicy and boredom encroached him from all sides, but things would soon take a drastic change...

After only a few days of lurking around Davidson, during a blessed astrological event whose celebrations rival those of the Caffeinal Equinox, that this story began to change it's course. During one evening of this joyous ritual, which may be known to the reader as a "weekend", the stick-figure noticed a group of the local villagers gathering for some sort of expedition. He inquired as to the purpose, and learned that they were preparing to participate in Olympic competition on the great plain to the west of Helser. The villagers spoke of the event with much enthusiasm and invited him along.

As anyone who's heard of our hero's other exploits doubtlessly knows, gargoyles are generally ones to perch and observe, and are not overly fond of athletics. What made this particular event different was the unimportance of the games themselves, for these games included the magic word, "Co'Ed". For those unfamiliar with the arcane runes of college, Co'Ed is one of the Power-words. It ensures that many people will show up for the event, at least momentarily, to see if there are more interesting sorts of games to be played. So our hero went to the Olympic competition, as he was eager to meet other inhabitants of the land of Helser, and was hoping to find opportunities for further adventure.

Of the competition itself, little will be said here. Many brave victories weren't won, many daring feats weren't attempted, and many adoring crowds weren't astonished. Of some note, however, is one of the final events, which recquired the combatants to accomplish the heroic feat of stuffing their mouths with marshmallows and saying "chubby bunny" repeatedly. This is not, of course, because the storyteller gives a rat's ass about what morons say when their mouths are full of marshmallows, but it is naturally of considerable import that there were marshmallows present. Our hero won some events, lost some events, determined that the whole thing was poorly planned and unorganized. All in all, he successfully killed an evening.

But then, after the Competition had died down and refreshments were being served on the plain, that the true battle for survival began. Somebody had parked a metallic beast of burden near the field, to use its radio to assist in the post-gladitorial celebration. (A radio is an invention which provides a sense of comfort and security by providing you something to listen to for hours every day without any fear of hearing something you hadn't heard the day before.) While the stick-figure was waiting in line to get at the ice-cream, a dreaded assault on his mind and soul struck. One of the most dreaded and foul of all magic spells began its disharmonic recitation. Its name shall not be spoken here, for fear of drawing its attention, and being forced to hear a portion of it. (To this day the Executioners of Popular Idiocy stalk the fools who are responsible for unleashing this hideous fad unto the world. We pray that justice will soon be done.)

The weaker-willed villagers, their minds already laid to waste by the hideous magic, marched out to an open area of the field. Like some unnatural form of conformist zombies, lacking the maggots, rot, and flesh wounds of the more intersesting undead, they began the insideous dance that perpetuates the destructive force of this spell. The defenseless gargoyle clutched at his ears in agony and unleashed a psionic cry for help.

A bag of marshmallows, being passed around the crowd so that all could partake of the gooey fruit within, was placed in our hero's hand. He knew immediately, without a single moment's hesitation, what he had to do. ZING - a marshmallow soared through the air, with all the speed a whip-like are could give it! It impacted solidly on the back of one of the automatons who dared to refer to their synchronized, repetitive, emotionless gyrations as "dancing." Even before the first projectile found it's mark, more volleys followed. There were other bags of marshmallows, and other brave and hearty warriors joined in the battle. The marshmallows rained down on the feeble creatures whose individualities had succumbed to the foul magic and been crushed.

The spell was broken, as more and more of the automatons allowed their anger to build, their sense of true fun to return, and forcefully returned the marshmallowsat their feet. The ensuing battle continued for a goodly while. The stick-figure, sensing that his duty had been done, let out a triumphant cry of "I have come here to spread chaos!!" Then, sensing that the surrounding humanoids's attentions were occupied, crept over to the serving table and provided himself with ample supplies of the glorious ice-creamy treasure.

Satisfied with the knowledge that he had thwarted a disgusting mainstream music-spell and enjoying a throbbing ice cream headache, our hero rested on the sidelines to watch the spreading anarchy and conflict he had caused. All was right with the world.

It was then that the stickish gargoyle first made contact with two high-planar creatures who would become very important in his new life. They too were filling themselves with ice-creaminess, and called to the gargoyle to talk with them. They recognized him as the instigator of the marshmallow battle. The extra-planar beings told him that they were also sworn enemies of such foul magics, and were pleased to see marshmallows fulfilling their true destructive purposes.

The first of the extra-planar creatures, who would later become more important in the story of the gargoyle, was the tallest Mexican Leprechaun our hero had ever seen. His name was Jeff, and he was well-versed in the ancient lore of heavy metal and skilled in the art of Atari.

The other being was Riatch, a rare hybrid of mad scientist and punk rocker who glowed with a heavenly aura that suggested divine wisdom and power. That night Riatch would take the stick figure, something known as "Eggie", and a stoic gentleman named Maus on a sacred quest whose noble goal was "old friends, a party, or women." This legendary night was by far the greatest time our hero had since setting foot in the strange land of Iowa.

During this holy expedition the stick figure was also shown Riatch's home, Castle Radiation, which lay in the hallowed halls of Livingston, the most interesting portion of a higher plane known commonly as "Third Floor." The mad scientist explained that his castle earned its name from the massive amounts of arcane electronics and rare computers that had filled it floor to ceiling in the previous year. This was also the source of Riatch's everpresent "heavenly aura."

Thus did the gargolyian stick figure, whose coming was foretold by the drunken prophets in the gutter, first ascended to the wonderous and mystical realm of Livingston, where he and his newfound compatriots would have many a strange adventure and from where they would launch a multitude of historic expeditions in noble attempts to gain prestige, wealth, love, and slushies, and still to this very day bravely strive with all their might to someday, if all our prayers are answered, end this sentence.

Up next: A Faustian Pact, or I'm Not Fat I'm just Big Boned.