Wasn’t long before we hit the door to the fire escape and crashed down a few flights of stairs. We eventually came out in the staff lounge, where everyone was watching re-runs of Friends and feeling guilty because they liked it, except SiL, who was running in circles trying to put the fire on his shirt out.

The problem, of course, being that Bob’s webbing was more springy than we anticipated. The couch bounced, as if on a trampoline, followed its original trajectory back up the side of the building, and flew right back in the bloody window. There was a yelp as it tackled SMID, who had undoubtedly turned to grab the cable and winch we were going to use to lower it the rest of the way to the street. Swearing, I climbed back up the fire escape to Beaver’s window and helped pull SMID out from under the accursed sofa.

That night, after I found a way to travel home via SMID’s dishwasher, I relaxed in Beaver’s apartment and watched a few more hours of M*A*S*H before calling it an evening. I drank the last of the apple juice and finished off the pumpkin pie Beav’s mom sent him for Halloween. Then I had a turkey sandwich. A big one. It’s probably a good thing the PlanetAvP building has its own walk-in freezer. I wouldn’t want six billion fresh turkeys to go bad, now would I?

Username: Black_Beauty
Describe Yourself: Prefers companionship with members of the opposite species. I mostly come out at night, though I am a people person, appetite and otherwise.

His height compared to the others was quite obvious, as the woman in the house dropped candy into each open bag. An expression of fear appeared on her face as her eyes met Bob's... as he drooled double-mouths. "Ahoy," he blurted out, accidentally shooting acid onto her face. She screamed in agony, toppling backwards onto the floor. Embarrassed, Bob hurried away from her property.

It all began, like every Christmas, with the usual seasonal decorations; a tree in each game-site's office, some lights, and a yummer-inducing Christmas Goose in all its delectable glory on the TV cooking shows. Meanwhile AuthorX, in the kitchen trying to mimic the TV Cooking Personalities, had set the place on fire again. One fire extinguisher shot later the question came out of the kitchen for the third time: "Are you sure he said the stuffing is supposed to be cooked?"

You would think, in this wide a time span, that the action-packed lives of the staff could be compiled into a massive volume of wit and enlightenment. People have come, people have gone; some people have thought of leaving, other people have not really thought of anything. Yet, in the end of our latest epic tale of action and romance, only one single unifying truth can be uncovered: Papa loves mambo.

After getting some coffee, I checked my E-Mail. There were 68 porn advertisements (I swear, I have no idea how I got on these mailing lists!) and a notice that, as of last night, I have officially been barred by court order from coming within 400 feet of any political function, including voting booths.

In an act of initiative, they shoved 60 bucks into my hand and had Luna run up and smack us until we left the building to go have an adventure. Chris and I sat on the curb for a little while, playing rock-paper-scissors to decide where to go. We were in the final round (Florida vs. New Orleans) when Chris ditched me for a hot girl who needed directions to a place I don't think he even knew.

Yogyakarta, 2165. There I was, frozen like a popsicle. I was freezing cold, watching them scientists walk around and chat as they plan to de-freeze me. What a drag, 'cause one of the things they didn't expect, was that I could still see, hear and think while I was frozen for all this time.

I sat in a grotty old leather chair while he prepared the clamps. "Say ahh," The mountain mumbled. So, naturally, I hissed. Then without any warning, the goliath sticks his fist straight in my throat and pulls my inner jaws. He then dragged me to the clamp and whirled the thing shut. The brute! The ugly guy was man handling me! I couldn't believe it. The guy grabbed what looked like a nail gun, only deadlier and positioned it over the halfway point of my jaw.

Hi folks. After the fiasco at the YMCA, and my capture, I was dragged back to the facility and put in a maximum security cell… So, here I am. Not much to do. I sit and twiddle my thumbs all day…. no easy feat, since my thumbs are a few inches long. The scientists stopped letting me “surf the Net”, ever since they discovered I was talking to mercenaries-for-hire hitmen in Yahoo! Chat rooms, trying to convince them to come break me out.

Firstly, I must apologize for the lateness of my electronic submission. I have have to insist that I'm not the responsible party... once again, a human "threw a spanner in the works". berno, that moron Dave forced me to work with decided to waste some of my time doing "exams", whatever the Bob they are (I heard that! - berno). Unfortunately, they gave him the job of reading and editing my work, which stinks like alien shit. See! I'm learning to use the coarse side of the human language already!