From stage right, a familiar stocky character wearing a dark blue cabbie’s uniform strolled out onto the round stage, waved and blew kisses to the hooting crowd.

"Folks, lets hear it for Ralph Kramden, star of The Honeymooners II, Palm Beach, the number one reality show last season!"

The crowd stomped and yelled. Ralph took the first seat at the table.

"Our next judge, host of his own fashion show and President of Yo-Yo Records, put your hands together for RuPaul!"

The people stood, screaming mindlessly, just like the monitor said, as RuPaul, dressed smartly in basic black, danced and wiggled over to his chair, hugged Ralph, kissed into the air, and then sat down.

"Finally, ladies and gents, I present to you our third judge, noted author and activist, womens’ rights champion and president of the Free Your Captive Foundation, it’s Gloria Steinem!"

Dressed to the nines in a red A-line with matching shoes, she hobbled into center stage, nearly tripping herself with her cane, raised her right hand in a clenched fist, then took her seat, nodding to the other judges.

"Folks, let’s hear it for our judges!" The applause was scattered, light. "And now, for our first contestant." Clint squinted quizzically, reading the teleprompter. "She hails from Atlanta, she’s a full-time grandmother and part-time corrections officer, meet Doris Pearl!"

Doris looked like Frieda Kahlo with red hair, all mystique and eyebrow. She glided glistening onto the floor and up to the mike.

There was excitement in Clint’s voice and raw hunger in his eyes. "What are you going to sing for me, Doris?"

"The Homeless Child Blues, Clint." She cued the band and the opening refrain of the saddest song ever written flowed out and settled on the crowd. The listeners seized the music and tears rolled from their eyes as Doris’ sweet soulful voice wept and the guitars sobbed in perfect harmony.

As the final notes faded, the crowd, gasping and bawling, stood to a person and applauded with heartfelt ardor.

beginning to look for an escape route.

People had milled closer now, all staring at Lance’s rash, prayerfully mumbling, some dropping to their knees sobbing, others dialing cellphones.

Somebody called Ace on Air, and within twenty minutes a camera crew was on the scene, elbowing their way through the crowd which by now had massed outside the building, bring surrounding traffic to a stop.

Grant Fleese, Channel 3 anchor and his cameraman Stubby Michaels had covered accidents, riots, murders and natural disasters, but had never encountered anything like this.

"Look at the poor kid. He’s beseiged. Stubby, get a good closeup of his face, we’re going live. Ready? Three...two...one....

"We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you a live news update. This is Grant Fleese, Channel Three. We’re here at the Albertson’s on High Street, where a crowd has gathered around a young man who apparently has an image of the Virgin Mary on his cheek."

At that moment, the police arrived, a sea of blue shirts and black hats. They began breaking up the crowds, a little restrained, having the camera on them. They didn’t hit anyone with their nightsticks as hard as usual. In the chaos, Lesmerelda’s friend Vivian was gently clubbed and hustled into a paddywagon.

Lance and his mom held each other’s hand through the ordeal, relaxing only when the adulant horde dispersed and the television crew surrounded them. Grant interviewed Lance and his mom, and got an eyewitness statement from Lesmerelda.

Lance could only stammer that he was Lance McWuggan, and the whole thing was embarrassing to him and he just wanted to go. The cops cleared the crowds out and Lance and his mom were escorted home.

Two hours later, the yard and front walk filling up with media and onlookers, the Pope called. At least everyone was convinced that it was the Pope.

"Hello?" Cindy decided to personally screen all calls.

"Uhhhmm...whhummm...mmm..duhhhh....uhhh..."

"Who is this?"

Dillinger remained single his entire life, saying that he "would probably die, if, when an opportunity for a quick tryst presented itself, I had to say no." He was nearly bankrupted in 1986 when sued by a female employee of the Opryland theme park, who claimed that he promised to marry her, then backed out at the last minute, leaving her penniless and stranded in a Las Vegas hotel. A year later, the case was settled out of court.

In 1998 several persons came forward in a tell-all book, "Slim Dillinger Was My Daddy". Questions still go unanswered in several of the claims, and Dillinger has remained silent on details.

Dillinger’s contacts and experiences with major country music figures and recording labels were grist for his biographical publications. "His Brother Was His Sister", written in 1986, remained on the New York Times best seller list for over twelve months. In 1990 the blockbuster movie "Gone To Pieces Again", based on Dillinger’s book "House of Delusions", starring Rosalind Crewe and DelRoy Lindo, was nominated for an Academy Award in three categories, best screenplay, best music, and best actress.

Interviewed by Larry King in 1999, he decried the "new music", as he referred to anything other than pure country. He hated hip hop and wrote the best seller "Hip Hop Kills" in 2000, resulting in a rash of hip hop cd burnings throughout the Bible Belt.

Sometimes flashy to excess, Slim Dillinger was rumored to be the model and inspiration for the look that Elvis Presley adopted in the early 70’s. It was widely known that Dillinger always wore outlandish suits and aviator sunglasses, even to bed. His private collection of sunglasses were kept in a bulletproof glass case at Heartville, his mansion in Stone Holler, and included glasses worn by Ben Franklin and Hermann Goering. His bright yellow ‘63 Ford Thunderbird, Lulu, was well known on the streets of Memphis and Stone Holler. Beloved by many, but claimed by no one, he will be interred at the Forgotten Musician’s Cemetery in Roseview on Tuesday.

"It would be a nice three-day getaway for you two, travel and accommodations are on me. Oh yes, it will be fun and interesting. You’ve never experienced Extreme Tiddlywinks unless you’ve seen a match live." Larson had a dollar or two squirreled away, and he could well afford to pay. The noted author of "Extreme Tiddlywinks for Dummies" and the wildly popular sports murder mystery action thriller "Big Stink Tiddlywink", his fortune enabled him to pick and choose, come and go as he pleased. "OK, buddy, talk to Lesmerelda and gimme a buzz back."

"Si, señor."

He called back ten minutes later. Lesmerelda was excited. She’d never been anywhere, let alone the Midwest in fall. She had read that the people were hospitable to a fault and everyone in Nebraska outweighed her by a minimum of at least fifty pounds. She was easily able to take time off; she just rescheduled her stint at the Cucaracha Club.

El Pinche settled for an extreme emergency-only status while he was out of town. Mayor Tony Crandall wouldn’t call him except in the event of catastrophic calamity, such as a plague of something or mass alien abductions.

The A10 touched the runway, tires smoking, thrusters reversed, seats in the upright position. The afternoon sojourn from North Bergen had been short and the stewardesses were pleasant, and, thank God, the air traffic controller’s strike was over. El Pinche and Lesmerelda retrieved their luggage from the conveyor and walked out to meet Larson. He stood in the Ace Airways lobby, looking fit and happy. Redheaded and blue-jeaned, his neck, biceps and plaid shirt left an unforgettable image of a lumberjack. People who saw him noticed that something was missing, perhaps an axe or crosscut saw. Pleasantries exchanged, hugs all around, they headed for the cab and the Hilton.

It was full-on autumn in Omaha. Crisp knife blade air invaded the lungs. Maple forests wore bare twigs, saving their new buds for spring. Heavy liquid sunlight wrapped itself around glistening wet buildings and slickened streets.

El Pinche and Lesmerelda checked into their suite at the Cass Street Hilton and

"What? I’m sorry mi amor, what did you say?

I’m ready, sweetie. Let’s eat on the way, OK?"

"OK" El Pinche placed his competition suit into the duffel bag, crossed himself and reverently laid the Revenger X into its custom carrying case, looked in the mirror one last time, then both walked out into the morning and drove down the poplar lined cobblestone streets of North Bergen toward Denny’s.

The First Annual World Alternative Martial Arts Championships were officially underway. The contestants had been fêted and interviewed incessantly during the week leading up to the televised competitions. Each individual fighter was surrounded by a cheering squad of gagglers and hangers-on that followed the celebrities about, each adoring groupie hoping for his or her own two or three minutes to bask in the national media limelight. All the major networks were there, communications vans with satellite uplinks activated jammed the parking areas. Parties roared at a twenty-four hour clip, beer and tequila flowed freely, and in later years, some would claim not to remember the First Annual World Alternative Martial Arts Championships at all.

Unlike other athletic competitions, the WAMAC rules were rather elementary. Weapons of choice, not to include firearms, lethal gas or sharp things. Bludgeons were acceptable, but protective gear was required for both contestants. If an opponent was rendered unconscious or simply humiliated, the match was over. Each fight took place in a thirty foot diameter round padded arena, and was only three minutes long. Participants were judged according to several critical criteria. First, the costumes were rated on a ten point scale for originality, color, and style integration. In other words, the fighter had to look the part. Those who used bolo nets, for instance, wore arachnid-themed outfits, the huge stick experts dressed as denizens of Sherwood Forest. Other major judging points were the impressive uniqueness of weaponry, the artistic quality of the entrance to the fighting arena, and fan response. When the points were tabulated, if the audience liked the fighter, if his weaponry was suitably eccentric but effective, and his entrance and costume were killer, he could be physically beaten by his opponent, yet still win the match on points.

The lights of CurryCorp Arena shone dimly onto a restless, noisy crowd as they

The arena lights dimmed and the focused spots lanced down. The music was El Pinche’s cue. The beginning notes of "Disco Cucaracha Mambo" boomed out, signaling him to open the door in the arena’s west wall, displaying his finest entrance technique. With practiced dexterity, El Pinche opened the spotlighted door slowly, raising tension, titillating the crowd. The scream level in the arena heightened, and El Pinche opened the door all the way then, letting the fans feast their eyes on him. A brilliant red jewel, his sequins reflected laser light in every direction as he dashed to the center of the battle circle, cracking the Revenger X in rapid succession. The crowd stood as one, shouting "El Pinche! El Pinche!" Several women in the front rows fainted when he flashed them his toothy yet devastating smile.