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[mbraun@urbana.mcd.mot.com: The *LAST* Thrilling Soup Story (VERY LONG > 7pp., 66lines/page)]

If you missed the previous soup epics, I have them stashed in the
archives somewhere.

Matt was a TA in a class I taught...and among other quirks, did
strange and sometimes sinister things with a hot pot and soup mix.
Here is the final chapter in his sordid tale....

------- Forwarded Message

Date:    Fri, 21 Sep 90 18:32:02 -0500 
From:    mbraun@urbana.mcd.mot.com
To:      bac, knies, sjm, flick, wenstrup, keilman, lane, mfn, dpm, rowland, wi
	  lson,
	 smb, wjg, spaf, mbraun@urbana.mcd.mot.com
Subject: The *LAST* Thrilling Soup Story (VERY LONG > 7pp., 66lines/page)

Well, here it is, at last.  I hadn't intended it to run quite this
long, but I figured if I ended it after the third page, it would be
far too abrupt a conclusion and having no denouement, or other stuffy,
French literary-sounding words, since I would have just awakened in
Castle Campbell, and that would be the end.

To make the story shorter, you may consider crossing every other word
out, but then it read a bit odd.  Especially the rhyming bits.
Skipping the dialogue does a fantastic job of shortening the story
without removing any of the violence or sex, so that's definitely a
viable alternative, too.

Some of these pages just clamoured to be written--unfortunately, most
of the clamouring was done between the hours of 1 and 4 am, so like
sour milk, the humour is a bit off.  No, I didn't make all of this up.
Parts of this story are true, such as far too much of the last page...

Apologies for the tomato soup joke, but not very many of them, and
the ones that are there aren't very sincere...

But what the heck, it's all in fun, right?  (There sure ain't any
money in it.)

                                        Have a better one.

                                        m@

- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

         	        THE *LAST* THRILLING SOUP STORY

	"Kinda hard to spend your time
 	   Keeping cans of soup in line
	      When you've been the west gunner on a B-17..."
							--Adam Ant,
							"Anger, Inc." (1990)

	The university had had enough of me.  I had to leave.  Finals week
had come and gone.  It took with it any hope I'd had of sticking around for
another semester, since I'd failed to fail--academically anyway.  Earlier
that morning, I had faced my doom (i.e. attended graduation.)  Maybe if I had
decked Beering up there on the stage...Naw, he would have graduated me out of
spite.  I knew too much.
	Not about CS, though (yeah, right.)  I had been practicing, the
darkest of the culinary arts on my own--Soup Study.  Forbidden mixtures of
Lipton and Campbell's, and an occasional Wyler's, replacing ig-Knorr-ance
with expertise, I learned a *lot* about soup mixing the hard way.  Of
course, so did the people at the hospital, downtown.  I'd also done some
dabbling in sensory deprivation--usually, the sense being deprived was
common sense...
	One last time, I haunted my fourth-floor math building office far
too late into the night.  Well, only four a.m.  It was quiet--too quiet for
my liking.  I took care of that little problem by blasting Blue Oyster Cult
down the hallway.  Made me wonder, though, how I was going to get the umlaut
over the "O" in the word Oyster in the previous sentence.  A few
undergraduates populated the hallway, trying to prove that it's never too
late to bemoan failing a class.  Running the volume up to "9" got rid of
that riff-raff with wonderfully resonant devastation.  The Oyster Boys
were putting me in the mood for clam chowder for some reason.
	Tonight I was packing up my stuff for my new life away from school.
The boxes of comic books, source listings, text books, and news articles were
conspiring with 8 flights of stairs to give me a hernia.  I'd had enough of
college--after only six years.  I was actively considering leaving computer
science, in the hopes of finding something I was *really* good at.  Not soup
investigations, though.
	Beering and the rest of my crowd didn't know that I'd had enough soup
for a while.  I'd lost my taste for soup and it's related investigations
after that blonde walked into my life, and out of my window.  (It's always a
blonde, isn't it?)
	Somewhere, amid the sonic catastrophe of my music, I heard a pounding
on my office door.  It was another FORTRAN student.  My hand automatically
moved to the volume control, to try and blow this creep away--especially
since I recognised him.  This bozo made a habit of bugging me between 4 and 5
in the morning when assignments were due.  His programming was a mess--sort
of like brain surgery by Black and Decker.  I didn't pretend--seeing the
likes of him upset my stomach.  Unfortunately, the tape had finished, so I
had to talk to the creep.  Or listen to him talk at me.
	"I just wanted to say thank you for the help this semester--the 'D' I
got means a lot to me, this being my third time through the class.  I
couldn't have done it without you."  Poor slob sounded sincere, too--not a
trace of sarcasm in his voice.  He had an involuntary twitch I'd never
noticed before, though.  "So thanks.  Oh, and by the way, the Campbell boys
are looking for you."  And with that, he was gone.
	"Thanks for the warning" I shouted back to him.  The Campbell
Boys--uh oh.  I wasn't leaving town a moment too soon.  Maybe the guy wasn't
so bad after all, even if he did come from the destroy-and-decay school of
software design.  I mulled this over, but then heard his voice further down
the hall: "Guys, he's in 404!"  That little $#!t!
	"Thanks, kid.  Here's your soup."  I could hear the sound of a foil
packet being ripped open, and the contents being greedily devoured.  Just
like a new-age beer, he was trying to drink it dry.  The kid was a soup
junkie--that explained the twitch.  I heard him cough, and start to choke on
the harsh, dry powder.  "Should've cut it with some water," a voice in the
hall laughed.  The Campbell boys had been using undergraduate soup addicts
as informers.
	I hit the lights and dove behind a pile of boxes, desperately
looking for my piece.  But there was no time for that--I had to find my gun.
The BOC had finished.  Silence and darkness cloaked the room.  Two
silhouettes cast their shadows into my office--one big and hulking, the
other rather thin and skrawny.  Ben and Dennis Campbell--soup terrorists
extraodinaire.
	"EAT TRACER DISK, CREEPS!" I yelled as I jumped out from behind the
boxes, and opened fire, completely unloading the magazine at both of them.
The plastic disks my gun emitted bounced off the two men harmlessly.
	"What'd ya do that for?" Ben asked.
	"Uh, hoping someone would lose an eye, maybe?"
	"What, we don't want to hurt you, do we Den'?"
	"Naw...we don't want to hurt you.  m@er of fact, we got some business
to discuss.  Lot better money in in than you're making teaching."  I
thought it over for a minute.  My landlords, at Flesheater Rentals, were
breathing down my neck for that last month's rent.  It was the hot, steamy
breath of their secretary--the kind of breath that could really
turn a guy...uh...turn him back to the situation at hand.
	I agreed to breakfast, so we left my office, carefully stepping over
the (now) still and lifeless body of the nark.  I was really getting sick of
the soup game.
	 Ben drove the three of us to an all-night greasy spoon.  The car
seemed as if every block might be its last.  The greasy spoon was populated
by the usual late night crowd of human debris: a three-toothed loser in a
green sportscoat.  Sportscoat was endlessly talking to the waitresses and a
mean-looking trucker who had "Earl" stitched on his shirt.  All of them were
doing their best to ignore him.  We took a booth next to the windows.  A faint
glow was starting to light up the east.  A rather attractive waitress brought
us coffee and menus.  Thankfully, they weren't mixed.
	I ordered an omelet.  Ben and Den asked about breakfast cereal.
"We've got Cheerios, corn flakes, Cap'n Crunch and Rice Krispies," the
waitress said.  She was trying to take their orders without looking at them.
They were trying to look at her without giving their orders.
	"Darn...they don't have our favourite--nobody's got it these days.
Okay, make it a bowl of Rice Krispies."  Ben ordered the same.
	"What's your favourite?" I asked.
	"Kix.  Mom always made us eat 'em when we were kids.  We couldn't
stand them then."
	Ben piped up, "Now we both love them."
	"Don't it seem like Kix just keep getting harder to find?" I asked.
The brothers Campbell stared at me after that, and things got quiet (except
for Sportscoat, who was giving an exhaustive history of every tooth he'd ever
lost.)  I looked back at the impending sunrise.
	"Anyways, we got this offer to make you," Den finally said.  "What
do you know about soup?"
	"Nothing I'd care to talk about.  I've given up the soup business.
I've learned all I care to know about soup."  All I cared to know--and then
some.
	"Impossible.  You can never know enough about soup, can you Ben?"
Ben nodded in agreement.  Then he shook is head "No", also in agreement.
Ben was always more than a little on the confused side.  He had been opening
up the small plastic containers of creamer, and drinking them one by one.
"We heard from our...sources that you were mixing soups, with some
interesting results." 
	"It's all there in the hospital reports," I said.
	"Yeah, but there's one week missing," Den continued.  "And that week
happens to coincide with the start of appearances by a skrawny, costumed
crime-fighter."
	"I don't know what you're talking about."  I started to get up, but
Ben reached across the table, grabbed my arm, and roughly bounced me back
into the booth.
	"We think you do know about him.  We think there's a lot you can
tell us about...Souperman."  Den stopped talking as the waitress set our
food in front of us.  We ate in silence for a while.  I didn't want to talk
soup.  I'd kicked the addiction weeks ago, and had no intention of going
back.
	I tried to estimate my chances of escape from these goons.  Ben was
bigger than me and Den' put together.  Of course that wasn't surprising,
since Den' was rather skrawny.  Not nearly in my league, mind you, but
fairly close.  Den' would be easy enough to evade, but Ben would be a
problem.
	"So what can you tell us about Souperman?" Den asked once more.
	"What's there to tell?  I only know what I read in the papers."
	"Gee, that's a shame.  You'd figure a guy would do so much research
with soup, he'd learn something here or there--like how to publish his
`research', for the good of soup-kind.  Or recognise the right price for it.
I think it's time for a little drive, don't you Ben?"  I didn't like the
sound of that.
	We went up to pay the bill.  As our waitress was totaling it up, Den
was leering at her...eyes.  "Know what the biggest part of a skrawny guy is?"
he asked her.
	"Sure," she said.  "His ego."  She gave him his change, and coldly
walked away.
	"Ben, go back and pick up her tip," Den' ordered.  There was a
commotion over on the other end of the diner, as Earl had had enough, and
made his coffee mug a permanent feature of Sportscoat's face.  Den was
dividing his attention between the waitress and Sportscoat, who was down to
a single tooth.
	"I'll be back in a minute," I said to him as I made my way to the
restroom.  I made a quick turn by the door and walked out of the restaurant.
I ran to the car, and searched through my pockets quickly.  "Wyler's Chicken
Bouillon."  Perfect!  I emptied the contents of the jar into the gas tank
and got into the driver's seat.  It was an old car with a big engine--a
piece of cake to hotwire.  I pulled the ignition wires down, and shoved the
cake into the steering column, and the car came to life.  As the two
Campbells came running out of the diner the rear wheels sprayed them with
gravel, and I headed the car back to my office.
	Sportscoat had a decent car, I guess.  Or anyway somebody at the
diner did, because that's what the Campbells were driving when they pulled
up behind me.  They'd caught up with me easily.  But then the bullion kicked
in.  (That stuff does incredible things for your gasoline's octane
rating...)  With a roar of the engine, I left the two of them in the dust.
Even their sportscar didn't stand a chance against my souped-up roadster.
	I still had a problem, though--they knew where I was going.  I had
to restock, and prepare with what little soup was left in my office.  I
screeched the tires pulling into the parking lot, and ran up to my office.
What was left?  Green Pea, Onion, Cream of Chicken, and "Wild Vegetable".
And one packet with an infamous stylistic "S" on it.  I also had one phone
call to make.  "Give me the Thomas J. Lipton residence, Englewood Cliffs,
New Jersey!" I told the operator.  Just then, I saw Ben and Den' standing in
the doorway.  My phone connection completed, all I could say was "Campbells"
before everything went black.

	I woke up on a very new leather couch.  So new that it still smelled
like the cow they killed to make it.  I looked around the room.  There was a
roaring fire in the fireplace, which was a good place for it--I had no desire
to be in a burning building.  I recognized the room: the main library of
Campbell Castle.  Over the fireplace hung a painting of a man standing in
front of a British biplane.  A nameplate on the frame read "Sir Calvin
Campbell."
	"Yes, venerable old Sir Calvin.  He fought in World War I, you
know.  He was the one who really shot down the Red Baron, but he let another
man in his squadron take the credit.  Rather decent of him, wouldn't you
say?"  I turned to see who was narrating the history lesson: Dr. Ken
Campbell, patriarch of the Campbell clan.  "Recognise the Sir Calvin's
customised plane?"
	"Uh, Soupwith Camel, right?"
	"Excellent!  Yes."  Dr. Campbell seemed pleased.
	"How's the family?  How's Glen?"
	"The soup market in Las Vegas is under our control now."
	"Oh.  How about Wren?"
	"Studying zen"
	"Since when?"
	"Age ten."
	"And Jen?"
	"Studying men"
	"She's got the yen?"
	"Once again."
	"Ben?"
	"With Den', I should imagine.  They weren't very pleased with what
you did to their car.  Bouillon in the tank does terrible things to an
engine.  But, enough of this small talk.  I believe you have some knowledge
we are interested in."
	"I don't know anything about Souperman, if that's what you're after."
	"Ah, but of course that's what I'm after."
	"Even if I did know the formula, I wouldn't give it to you--you'd
use it on your farm workers--souper labor, at cheap hourly rates.  You'd
drive the price of your soups down, forcing other companies off of the
market--you'd have a monopoly, and ruin the free world's soup trade.  That's
too big of a threat to ig-Knorr."
	("You've already used that joke, you know."
	"It's a good pun."
	"Once maybe.")
	"But the world soup market--that's not why I wouldn't give it to
you.  No, the human cost is too great.  The rumours I've heard--and mind
you, they're only rumours--say that it's highly addictive, and it ruins
personalities, making a Hyde personna for every Jekyll.  Furthermore it
reduces both fat and muscle tissue."
	"A dieting drug!  We'll make millions!"
	"No way.  I don't know anything about it."
	"Well, perhaps we can change your mind.  Follow me please."  We left
the library, and proceeded into the hunting room, where the walls were lined
with trophies from big game hunts.  I didn't know bowling had a gun season.
	We continued on through a sitting room.  Strange thing was that
there weren't any chairs, and a large map of Norway coverered one wall.
Guests were expected to sit on the floor, I figured, like any Norwegian
would.  After that there was and walked through into another room lined with
aquaria of all sorts.  From there, we continued on into an expensively
furnished office.  On the wall was a Warhol original, of course.  A
beautiful picture window revealed the skeletal girders and construction of
Campbell's new cannery--literally a breathtaking view.
	"Ahh--Ahh-Ahh--close--the--curtains--ahh," I gasped, trying to look
away, and catch my breath.  
	"urrk--yes--uallgh--right--acchh-way--urahgh," he responded, also
falling victim to the window's asphixiative power.  Once the curtains were
closed, we resumed normal respiration.  "There, much better."  He pressed a
button on his desk, and his butler appeared at the door we'd just come
through.  "Ah, Jeeves.  Perhaps our esteemed guest would like some
refreshment.  Please fetch us some," I could see he was reading from a file
in front of him, "Goldfish and Bass, please."
	Jeeves looked uncertain for a minute, but then said, "Certainly,
sir."  Hmmm.  They had a file on me, and had obviously done their homework,
since they knew I had more than a liking for British ale and Pepperidge Farm
crackers.  He shifted through his desk for a minute or two, and pulled out
an envelope, and handed it over to me to examine.  Inside was a report card,
with straight A's.
	"There," he said..
	"Okay, so you've done your homework, but that still doesn't answer
the question of why you think I've anything to do with Souperman."
	"You're the logical choice for Souperman, at least according to our
computers.  Look, we are very interested in the formula.  We can give you an
offer that will be worth your while.  Money beyond your wildest dreams."  He
glanced down at the folder again.  "Well, maybe not your *wildest* dreams.
Like the one with the two girls and the vacuum cleaner tools--*that* would
take a *lot* of money to persuade anyone to... but anyway, most others, you
could certainly afford."
	"What do you mean, `vacuum cleaner tools'?"
	"Well, you need a reversible vacuum cleaner, and you take the girls,
and..."  He stopped for a minute.  "Do you hear a blender?"
	"Finished, Sir!"  Jeeves proudly exclaimed, throwing the door open.
The glee, pride and blood shown on his face, as he placed one glass of
frothing fluid in front of each of us.  I could see bits of gold floating
amid the blood and fins.  All at once, my omelet came rushing back.
"Goldfish and Bass sir!  Both fresh from the aquaria, sir!"
	"Err, thank you very much Jeeves.  That'll be all."
	"Yes, sir!" he proudly exclaimed.  He marched across the room, but
hesitated at the door. "I believe the blender may need a bit of maintenance,
sir."
	"Uh...yes, Jeeves, later."  Jeeves left us.  "I do apologise for
this...this...`drink.'"  He tried to laugh it off, with a lame chuckle, but
failed miserably.  He paused for a moment, fascinated by the shredded
pieces, suspended in the murky brine.  "Still, it does have good colour, and
fair body...It's probably *very* healthy.  High in protein, yum-yum.  Sort
of like liquid sushi."  He brought the glass up to his lips, saw I wasn't
having anything to do with mine, then put his back down.  "No, no, of course
not.  Totally disgusting drink.  Terrible.  Probably get worms, or
something."  He got out the chequebook.  "Well, how much would it take, for
the formula?"
	"I don't know it, and even if I did, it wouldn't be for sale.  I
couldn't let that happen to unsuspecting farm workers."
	"Well, that's a shame.  Because we can't risk the formula falling
into others' hands, either.  And we'd much rather see you leave with a big
cheque than in a small box."  I stared at the ceiling, looking for
inspiration.  "It'll never work, I had all the inspiration cleaned off of the
ceiling last week.  Good help's not that hard to find."  Another moment
passed, and when I looked to him, he once again had the glass in the general
vicinity of his face.  He noticed my disgusted stare.  He hurriedly set the
glass back down, and pointed at it, "Unique bouquet."  Another moment passed.
	"Here, tell you what I'll do.  I'll let you fill in the amount at a
later date.  Just take the blank cheque, and tell us what the formula is.
You certainly don't want to give it to those others, the..."
	"Liptons?  Why not?"
	"Oh, come on...We know you too well.  You're a Campbell at heart.
Your family used to grow vegetables for us.  You root for our baseball team,
you--"
	"Root for your baseball team?  I like the White Sox.  They're not
your baseball team."
	"They're our team.  Hadn't you noticed, the 'C' on their caps is the
Campbell's soup 'C'?"
	"Ummm... It may look similar, but I thought it stood for Chicago."
	"Don't be silly.  What about the Cubs, or Cleveland, or Cinncinati.
If they all had 'C's on their caps, how would you tell the teams apart?"
Well, that was true.  "I suppose it could stand for Chicago.  It could stand
for any number of things!  It could also stand for Cheque.  And I'd like you
to take this one.  It also stands for ChemicalFormula, and I'd like the
Souperman formula.  Now, if you please."  His voice was getting very
insistent.  As was the rest of him.
	"Okay, okay!  Give me a piece of paper, and I'll write it down."  He
withdrew paper and a pencil from the desk, and handed them to me.  He was
smiling grandly now, and walked back behind the desk.  I started writing
nonsense.  "1/2 Packet Peanut Butter soup, mixed with 1/4 packet Roadkill
Raccoon Roast-Sauce"...  He chuckled a little chuckle, and took a big
healthy swig from his glass.
	It was the choking-gasping noise that made me notice Dr. Campbell
crumpled over in pain.  "Damn...>>whheeeezzee<<...fish bones...told...him..to
use...fillets..>>gasp!!!<< KA-THUD!"  Campbell was dead--choked to death on a
fishbone--and I was much the luckier for it.  Suddenly Ben and Den' burst
into the room.
	"What are you two doing here?!?"  I yelled to them.
	"We heard the silent alarm--Dad's cry for help."
	"How could you hear it if it was silent?"
	"Ummm," was all Ben could manage.
	"Don't confuse the issue with logic!"  Den shouted.  What've you
done to our father?  You'll pay for this!"
	I flashed the bank draft at him. "Will you take a cheque?"  He
shouted incoherently, and dove at me.  I sidestepped his dive, and ran to
the curtains.  Facing my attackers, I opened the drapes.  The sun was just
now topping the hills, and the view was more spectacular and breathtaking
than ever--at least that's what I suspect, as the two brothers fell to the
floor gasping and choking, breathtooken.
	I dashed out of the room, and continued down the hall.  I pulled the
Wild Vegetable soup packet out of my pocket, and emptied it into my hand.  I
ran into Jeeves, and we both went crashing to the floor.  With the utmost
formality and manners, he picked me up, dusted me off, apologised profusely,
and then proceeded to deck me.  Luckily, the playing cards had little effect.
I threw the Wild Vegetable soup mix into his eyes.  Those exotic salts and
spices began to work their magic, and Jeeves went down.
	I continued my way out of the castle, and found the exit without any
problem.  There was a limo waiting just outside of the castle gates.  It
wasn't one of the Campbell cruisers, however.  I recognised this as one of
Lord Lipton's Limos.  Perfect timing.  My phone call from my office *had*
gotten through!
	"In here, boy, quickly!" I heard Lord Lipton beckon from the Limo.
Or was it Lady Lipton?  They were both so old, it was hard to tell their
voices apart.  Then again, they were so old, it was hard to tell *them*
apart.  I've heard that the longer people are married, the more they look
like each other.  These two looked like they were married before their
respective parents were.  
	I'd known the Liptons for only a few years.  They'd been sponsoring
some of my soup research--free packets in the mail, an occasional soup mug
as a Christmas gift, replacement hot-pot when I wore my first one out.  If I
owed anyone the formula, these were the people.  But then again, they were
just feeding my addiction.  I got the feeling that they were using me the
way the Campbells wanted to--they just paid better.
	Yeah, I did know the Souperman formula, but I wasn't going to give
it to the Campbells'--not for money, anyway.  If I could help it, I wasn't
going to give it to the Liptons, either.  It was too dangerous for any one
company to possess.
	 "You got my phone call.  I'm surprised you were able to place my
voice."
	"Well, Lucy answered the phone.  The only word you said was
'Campbells', so at first she thought it was an obscene phone call.  But then
she recognised your voice, and we came over here immediately."  Ah yes,
great-granddaughter Lucy Lipton.  She *was* great too--maybe not at being a
granddaughter, but...  [WARNING--horrible sexist joke approaching:] Lipton's
best recipe for tomato soup: Lucy and a hot tub.  [tried to warn you...]
	The limo took us a few miles away from the Lipton's Lakeside Lodge.
Sort of an "office away from the office."  It wasn't nearly as nice as the
main offices in New Jersey, but is was...different.  Employees could come
here, conduct business, possibly relax, and enjoy a good Cup Of Soup.  The
Liptons had a weird idea of employee "benefits."
	The chauffeur led me up to an office within the lodge, and then went
back for the elder Liptons.  Young Larry Lipton was about my age--possibly a
little older--first heir to the vast Lipton empire.  He stepped forward to
shake my hand.  "Good to see you again."
	"Nice leisure suit, Larry."
	"Like it?  I'll have one sent to your place!"
	"Uh...thanks, but...  Look, I really appreciate the Limo ride here.
I don't mean to seem ungrateful, but I've got a lot of packing to finish up,
and..."
	"Yes, we wanted to talk to you before you left town.  You called New
Jersey, they called us, and here you are.  It's worked out for both of us,
so far."  He sat down behind the wide particle-board desk.  "You have
something we want--the formula.  But you don't want to give it to anyone;
you feel it's too dangerous for just one company to possess."
	"How did you know that?" I asked.
	"Easy--I read the previous few paragraphs."  I was impressed.  This
story was getting way too long, and he was getting to the point immediately.
"And if you ever say anything like that about Lucy again, she'll paste you."
	"That'd be great!  I just love toma--"
	"Don't say it!  We also have spies among the students.  It's amazing
what a little soup can do--make 'em jump through hoops without any trouble
at all."
	"Big Deal."
	"Or through windows."  Wait a second--the Blonde.  Was she planted
by the Liptons?  "And yes, she was planted by us."  Curses--he was reading
my thoughts off of the page as fast as was writing them. "First, we got her
addicted to soup, and then we taught her FORTRAN."
	"You bastards!"  I lunged for Larry, but was suddenly restrained.
Lucius and Lawrence, two of Larry's cousins, twice removed (surgically) had
silently entered the room, and held me back--keeping me from attacking
Larry.  "Oh, come on!  Don't feel sorry for her, she was only a student!
What do you care about students?--you're a TA."
	"Touche'."  He had a point.  Sadly for him, it was on the top of his
head.  "Why should I give you the formula?"
	"Oh, its not for me, it's for Lord and Lady Lipton.  They're getting
old and feeble.  It's rumoured that the Souperman formula would restore them
to their former youth--their former glory--so that they can lead this
company into the 21st century, just as they lead it into the 20th.  Besides,
they're so old we're having trouble telling them apart these days."
	"I think Lord Lipton has more hair, and it's not as blue as Lady
Lipton's.  But suppose I did allow them to be restored--what would follow?"
	"Oh, the usual:  our advances in soup technology would end
world hunger;  we would end Campbellian terrorism; increased soup
sales would spur on the US economy; we might take over the world, but
then we could live with that...the list goes on and on."
	"Through soup?"
	"Well, no--through your formula.  So, we all would appreciate it if
you would give it to us, without forcing us to resort to torture or pain, or
similar unpleasantness.  The formula is a Good Thing.  Why are you so
reluctant to give it out?"
	"Because it alters personalities.  If you're normally Dr.  Jekyll,
it WILL turn you into Mr. Hyde!  There are horrible side effects--with the
massive strength comes massive depression..."
	"The Incredible Sulk, so to speak."
	"So to speak.  It's just not worth the power."
	"I'd rather be the judge of that.  You will tell me the formula now,
and I shall try it, and if it works, you shall leave a very rich man."
	"I don't know any rich men, not that I'd want to live with one, and
leave him.  Don't change the subject."
	"You know what I mean.  If you do not tell us, we can always loosen
your tongue with torture, and get the formula."  Larry started pulling out
packets of soup from the desk drawers.  He went over to a counter, and
brought over a pot of boiling water.  "Now, what do I mix?"
	I took a deep breath.  "Okay, Larry: this is what you mix: 1/2
packet of Onion soup--"  He ripped open the onion soup packet, and poured
half of its contents into the mug.  "--1/2 packet of split pea soup--"  He
poured in 1/2 packet of split pea soup.  "--add the water, and 4 ounces of
prune juice.  Betcha don't have that.  Gosh, Larry, too bad.  Oh well.  I've
gotta be going."
	"You're not going anywhere!  Sit down!"  I sat down.  Lucious and
Lawrence were guarding the door.  He went over to the refrigerator, and
pulled out a small can of prune juice.  He poured about 4 ounces into the
mug, added the hot water, and stirred.  The mixture began to bubble and
froth.  "Cheers, gentlemen!  Here's to a new generation of Soupermen!"  He
drank deeply from the mug, and fell back into his chair, barely choking down
the contents.  I hadn't intended for him to have a coughing fit.
	While he was trying to recover his breath, I reached into my pocket
for the "S" soup packet.  I was afraid of this--hoping I wouldn't have to
eat it dry.  Oh well...  I took a small handfull, and quickly crammed in
into my mouth with the utmost sophistication and refinement.  (They couldn't
hear my piggy noises above Larry's hacking.)
	"How long does it take effect for?"  Larry asked.
	"Oh, I should imagine about 6 hours--but you don't even know what
the effect will be."
	"What do you mean?"
	"That's not the real formula I gave you.  m@er of fact, I doubt that
formula will do anything, except..."
	"Except what...?"
	"You won't be able to run or Hyde."  Now it was Larry's turn to
lunge at me.  I could feel the soup already taking effect.  I picked up
Larry by the shirt collar.  "LEAVE ME ALONE!  GOT IT?" I yelled and bounced
him off of the wall.  I remember Lucius and Lawrence attacking me
viciously...or were they cowering in fear?..I can't seem to remember much
more than violent blurs.  Like I said, bad side effects...  The paper didn't
have much of anything to say...

	I woke up in my office.  Looks like I had decided to sleep in there
one more time, I guessed.  It was almost three-thirty in the afternoon.  I
had 1/2 hour to return my keys, test papers, and forms, and carry my stuff
down to my car in the parking lot.  By now, there was a ticket on the
windshield.  My last day in WL, and I got a parking ticket.  Considering how
the rest of the day went, I thought I was doing pretty well.
	
	The soup companies haven't bothered me much lately.  I stayed a
while in Wisconsin, until the heat was off, then headed to Illinois, to try
to find some kind of a job.  First day there, a bum asked me for some change
for a cup of soup or "something".  I emptied my pocket, giving him what
change I had.  Among the coins, was a tracer disk.  I gave that to him "for
luck".

	I told him to stay away from the soup, though.
	

	
	
	
	

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