The Professionals Circuit Archive - Koala Magic	Koala Magic

 

by Nansi

  
 **A Cautionary Tail**

Other than the deep tan which tended to grate upon the nerves of his less
fortunate colleagues, Murphy appeared to have brought only himself back
from a month long holiday in Australia.

That was at first. As time passed disturbing incidents began to occur
which slowly but inexorably led Murphy to the conclusion that he was going
quite mad. He might need to reorient himself to the British mid-winter,
and his sudden liking for spending his spare few hours off duty perched,
shall we say, in elevated positions, might all be put down to a passing
bout of what his relatives referred to in quiet asides as "The Family
Eccentricity". (This had plagued several generations of Murphys, starting
with Uncle Binklee, who, in mid 1856 had suddenly become convinced he was
an armadillo....)

No, while all these things might easily be written off to the effect of
weirdly patterned DNA, what convinced him he was going mad was being
awakened, bright and early one Friday morning (by strange coincidence, it
was *not* the thirteenth, but the twenty-third of the month) by two
genial, smiling, kindly, delivery persons from a Famous London Department
Store. One was named Ken and the other, Phil. And as Murphy stood blinking
sleep out of his eyes, the meaning of their words began to filter through
and become clear.

"We've come to find out where it is you'll be wanting the trees, sir."

"Eh?" Murphy asked, trying to summon up a look of intelligence. (Phil it
must be noted, later recorded that he felt Mr. Murphy had failed
particularly miserably in that endeavor).

"The Trees, sir--you are Mr. Robert Graves Murphy, 1613 Herne Court,
London W.1?"

"Er," Murphy said, wincing over the full pronouncement of his name, which
he never used if he could help it, "Yes, I am, but...trees you said?"

Ken nodded firmly. "Trees it is, sir. Seven of them. Will you be after
wanting them in the sitting room or perhaps the bath?"

"*Seven* trees? You are telling me that for some reason Harrods has seen
fit to send me seven *trees*?"

Phil frowned, then showed him the written out bill of sale. "That is your
signature then, sir?"

"Robert Graves Murphy."

It was a signature all right, big as life, and indisputably his--although
to tell the truth, he couldn't remember ever having put a tiny, but
unmistakable paw print behind it before...still...his eyes ran up over the
rest of the page and saw, with a numb horror that it constituted a bill
for some L1,500 worth of "genuine, Australian Eucalyptus Saplings w/tubs."
Murphy closed his eyes, then opened them again. It was still there in
black and white.

Ken and Phil (an idle and frivolous part of Murphy's brain fleetingly
reflected that the one known as Phil looked more like he should be named
"Dave", but it was only a small and fleeting observation, and really
belongs to another story), in the meantime, were regarding him hopefully.
"Where would you be after wanting them put, sir?"

Murphy gathered his scattered wits together. "Er..." he said, "Just put
them in the bedroom. For the time being...."

*I am going utterly, completely, mad...I must be...what other explanation
could there be for not only buying seven trees, for god's sake, and on my
salary, but forgetting that I've bought them in the first place.... *

Ken and Phil were relieved to have the matter settled at last, and,
hurried to bring in the trees, roots neatly wrapped in soil and burlap,
tags outlining their proper care attached to their delicate branches.
Murphy stood for a long time, staring, trying to make some sense of it
all. Then he quietly gave up, got dressed and left for work. Cowley wanted
him front and center by 1100.

******

The first inkling Cowley, CI5 Controller, had that his third best agent
was in the throws of a major psychological crisis, was when Murphy, in the
middle of a briefing on the oil minister business began to change color,
eyes going black and cloudy. There was a strange haunted expression on the
agent's face, and Cowley halted mid-lecture to glare at the other man.
"What the devil is wrong with you?"

"Mmrrlffluggh..." Murphy gasped.

"*Murphy*...."

At this point Murphy further disgraced himself by bounding across the
table and attempting to climb up on the shoulder of George Cadwallader
Cowley. The old man was distinctly, as one may well imagine, not amused.

"For god's sake, man, get down...you're too large...." Cowley maintained
his renowned restraint under fire, despite the cold wet nose pressed into
his right ear. "Get control of yourself, 6.2."

Murphy rolled to the floor, the outlines of his body seeming, in George's
eyes, to be blurred, like an image seen through a thick mist. Cowley
blinked, and the image righted itself, lines sharpening back into Agent
6.2's familiar contours. Murphy got gracefully to his feet, feeling a
profound sense of gratitude that none of his fellow agents were
present--what on earth was he doing rolling about on the floor during a
briefing? "Sir?"

"What on earth is *wrong*, 6.2?"

"Sir?" Murphy turned genuinely puzzled eyes on his commanding officer.

Cowley glared hard at his agent, but was unable to detect so much as a
flicker of amusement anywhere in 6.2's expression.

"That was not an amusing practical joke, 6.2."

"Joke, sir? We're discussing Mr. Kamadhi."

"You just tried to perch on my shoulder, 6.2."

"I never...." Murphy's handsomely sculptured mouth hung open. "Sir I
wouldn't fit...would I?" He stood there looking stricken.

"You certainly did," Cowley fastidiously brushed some dust from his
coatsleeve. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

Sinking into the nearest chair, Murphy put his head in his hands.
"Eucalyptus trees, sir?"

Cowley hadn't been expecting an arboreal reference and he blinked. "Eh?"

"Trees sir. Ken and Phil brought them this morning. Seven of them. I'll
never be able to pay for it on my salary."

"Who the devil are Ken and Phil?" Cowley demanded.

"The Harrods delivery men."

"What have eucalyptus trees got to do with anything?"

"I don't remember ordering them."

Cowley shrugged. "I prefer not to recall a great many idiotic things you
have done, 6.2. I fail to see the dilemma."

Murphy's aching head throbbed. "You don't understand. I signed my *full*
name to the bill."

Cowley straightened, attention caught. Murphy had never liked his complete
name, had to be ordered to use it on the CI5 application.... "All of it?"
he asked aloud.

"All of it." Murphy mouthed miserably, while the author lapsed into a
mercifully minor attempt at alliteration.

"This is serious," Cowley thought hard for a moment. "Did anything unusual
happen to you recently?"

"Just my holiday."

"Well?"

"I got a tan."

"This may surprise you, 6.2, but each year many British people get tans
without either trying to climb onto their commanding officer's
shoulder--or buying trees that are delivered by Ken and Phil of Harrods."

"Yes sir."

"What *did* happen *on* your holiday 6.2?"

Murphy wrinkled his brow, searching his memory banks for an unusual
incident. He reviewed and rejected the
lobster-up-the-waitress's-dress-fiasco there was another restaurant which
never again allow him in. For a supposedly easy-going country, Australia
certainly had some odd restraints about shelled sea creatures. He thought
harder. "There was the koala bear sir."

"Koala bear?"

"At the game park. Cute looking buggers, like live teddy bears. But
temperamental. George bit me."

"I beg your pardon?"

Murphy struggled on, "The koala's name was George. He bit me."

Cowley sighed. "I can't say that I blame him," he muttered, then,
suddenly, an idea dawned. "That explains it!"

"Explains what, sir?" Murphy, bewildered, watched as his chief's face
seemed to be illuminated.

"Don't be obtuse man."

"No sir."

Cowley gathered his files together. "We must go at once."

His third best agent attempted to conceal his total lack of comprehension.
"Yes, sir."

"Well, come along, 6.2--we haven't got all day for you to sit about."
Cowley's glare got Murphy out of his chair and moving.

"But sir," he felt bound to protest, "where are we going?"

"Follow me, 6.2, and keep quiet." Cowley swept from the room, a very
unhappy Murphy in tow.

******

The cottage was smothered in the largest pink cabbage roses imaginable. A
white picket fence covered with thick virginia creepers surrounded the
yard. Murphy thought it resembled nothing so much as a great lump of
spinach souffle. He watched fascinated as a curl of smoke rose from the
chimney. Its brickwork looked a lot like gingerbread.

Cowley headed briskly for the front gate. "Here we are."

"Where?"

"*Here*. Do you always natter on this much, 6.2?"

Murphy felt that this wasn't quite fair, but said instead, "No sir, but,
where are we? I didn't know places like this existed outside of fairy
tales."

Cowley smiled. "Exactly. I knew you weren't as obtuse as you acted."

"Are you seriously telling me that we are in...well...."

"These things happen, 6.2," Cowley walked resolutely up the path towards
the front door. This was an elegantly traced piece of art, the wood also
resembling gingerbread. Murphy leant forward to examine large red crystal
hearts studding the door's center panel and was greeted with a whiff of
scent, distinctly cherry in nature.

Cowley rang the bell, listening--with evident enjoyment--to the resulting
first eight bars of a tune Murphy identified as being "That Old Black
Magic". Time passed--eventually Cowley was heard to mutter, "Oh, stop
staging an entrance!" Just as Murphy was about to give in to the
temptation to take a taste of the cherry hearts, footsteps could be heard
approaching with measured tread. The door swung open, revealing one of the
oddest figures Murphy had ever seen. It was about five feet seven inches
tall swathed from head to foot in indigo gauze. Lavender sneakers peaked
out from beneath the "hem" of this curious garment, and a pale orchid
sweatband kept the veiling around the head in place. As it nodded at
Cowley, stepping back to allow them to enter, the words "Ye Ehdd" glowed
into ghostly silver being on the headband.

Somewhat hesitantly, he followed Cowley over the threshold, into the
entrance hall, where he was nearly overwhelmed by the smell of orange
blossom and vanilla. The figure led them silently down the hall and
through another doorway, leading into a large sittingroom that ran the
entire length of the cottage. Large glass doors at one end opened onto a
rambling expanse of garden. The figure sat down in a wing chair by the
fireplace, motioning Cowley and Murphy onto the sofa. "Well?" she said.

"6.2 has been having some difficulties, Ehdd."

"So?"

*Talkative old bird, isn't she?*, Murphy thought.

One gimlet eye turned on him. "I am not old and I do not become
excessively talkative until I have all the facts." Ehdd turned back to
Cowley. "Do all your agents natter on like that, George?"

Cowley's disapproving gaze raked over Murphy, who was unsuccessfully
attempting to appear small. "This is the worst of the lot."

She nodded. "His difficulties?"

"Bitten by a Koala bear on his holiday last month."

"I see. All the usual symptoms, I suppose? Eucalyptus trees, perching,
unsuccessful and sudden attempts to sit on people's shoulders."

"Aye. All of the above."

The combined stares of Ehdd and Cowley made Murphy feel like a specimen
under a microscope.

Ehdd nodded again, then reached out a hand and rang a small bell which
reposed on the table next to her chair. "Any indication of actual shape
altering?"

Murphy spoke up for the first time. "My nose gets very cold and wet."

"That's disgusting," Ehdd said quellingly. "See that this does not occur
on my carpet." To Cowley she added, "Yes, he's quite definitely been had."

"What's to be done?"

"Of course I have already asked Fassington to bring in a herbal libation
which, when ingested by 6.2, will enable him to achieve a degree of
control over his unfortunate affliction." Ehdd sighed gustily, "It's a
cruel world, George--these stupid bastards *will* insist on trying to
cuddle them as though they were stuffed animals."

Murphy was about to protest this unfair aspersion being cast on his
character (he had, in actual fact, been trying to get George the Koala to
*return* to his perch at the time he was bitten. George had been outraged
at this cavalier treatment and felt he was quite justified in exacting
revenge...), when a butler--presumably Fassington--made An Entrance.

"The potion, madame." He placed the tray on the coffee table with a
flourish. "It is especially nasty this time, madame."

"Thank you, Fassington."

"You are quite welcome, Madame. Is Mr. Murphy the unfortunate?"

"Yes, Fassington."

He stared at Murphy for a long moment, then went out saying "I removed all
the breakables from the sittingroom."

"Excellent, Fassington." Ehdd leaned forward, picked up the goblet and
held it out to Murphy. "Drink up."

Murphy eyed the rising steam. It was silvery, shimmery, green and smelled
awful. "I really don't think I need...."

"Nonsense, drink up. Do you want to go about for the rest of your life
with a nose involuntarily cold and wet? Show some backbone!"

"That's an order, 6.2." Cowley handed him the goblet.

Reluctantly, Murphy had to admit there seemed to be no escape. He lifted
the steaming cup to his lips and drank until it was empty. Despite the
smell and color, its taste was very pleasant--sort of mint chocolaty with
a twist of something he couldn't identify.

He put the cup down and smiled at them. "Well, that wasn't so...errrp...oh
my...."

Fassington carried Murphy out to the car and placed him gently in the back
seat. The agent was a trifle over tall, in Fassington's opinion, and he
gave up an attempt to stuff Murphy's feet into the car. They dangled
gracefully out a side window. Cowley and Ehdd stood nearby, talking.

"How long will he be out?"

Ehdd shrugged. "Twelve hours or so. It allows the body to complete the
biochemical transformation, and carries encoding messages to the brain
which tell him how to change back and forth with ease and without a lot of
tiresome exposition or tedious descriptions of his fumbling attempts to
master a new form in a world he never made." She wrinkled her nose, the
veiling tickled it even more; she pulled it away from her face
impatiently. "I do so hate that sort of thing."

"Aye, well, sometimes it can't be avoided." Cowley put on his hat and
turned to get into the car.

"It can *always* be avoided, George," Ehdd said severely.

Cowley laughed, then climbed into the driver's seat. When he looked up
again, she--and the cottage were gone. He sighed, allowed that she did the
showy stuff pretty well, and put the car in motion.

******

The alarm woke Murphy. 0600, sun shining, birds chirping...he yawned. A
more sickeningly cheery morning would be hard to find. He lay in bed for a
few minutes, recalling the unusually detailed and vivid dream of the night
before. Cowley had taken him to see a purple gypsy who made him drink
something that packed three times the kick of the rawest Kentucky white
lightening. Murphy laughed aloud at that, bounded out of bed, running his
foot smack into one of the artistically placed tubs housing the eucalyptus
saplings.

"M%%o*%#@#@()*&%&*d(**%%$!!!!!!" Hopping about on one leg, he spun a layer
of profanity that--as far as anyone knows--floated up into the ozone layer
and is hanging over the Irish Sea to this day. As the pain receded, he
ceased hopping. The intensely disagreeable feeling that none of it had
been a dream washed over him in nauseating waves. He limped back to the
bed and sat down on it with a thump. A were-koala. How did he explain that
one to his mother? She'd had a difficult enough time with him killing
people; what was she going to say to a son who periodically changed into a
fur-muff with a mind of its own?

*This kind of thing never happens to bloody Bodie and Doyle. Maybe a
little torture, another one of their illegitimate kids shows up, but they
don't turn into things...there is the odd bit of amnesia, a little
time-travel here and there,...and that one time they came back from the
dead...perfectly ordinary stuff. Of course, there were those rumours about
Doyle, but no one took them seriously--personally, I've always felt there
was a rational explanation for him breeding mice. *

******

When he checked in at the CI5 headquarters security desk an hour later,
Fred eyed him curiously, but merely said, "Cowley wants you in his office.
Ten minutes ago."

Murphy's heart sank further, until it lodged somewhere in the vicinity of
his left femur. Now what? There was probably some kind of clause in his
contract which stated that werkoalas had to take a fifty percent pay cut.
He formed an immediate and fierce resolve never to go on another package
tour as long as he lived.

Cowley eyed him with all the welcoming warmth of a blizzard.

"You're late 6.2. I trust you're not still having difficulties with your
shape."

Murphy slid onto a hardbacked chair without waiting to be asked. "No, sir.
Not that I haven't been hoping its all some sort of horrible nightmare.
But it doesn't seem to be."

"Stop talking nonsense. You really should be practicing. I have an
assignment for you."

Murphy didn't particularly care for the way Cowley said "practicing" and
"assignment" in almost the same sentence. Aloud he questioned, "Er,
assignment, sir?"

"Yes . We've been trying for some time, to get a foot in the door of the
Duggan crime family. But the security at Duggan's country retreat is so
tight that no one can get within seventy miles of the place unless he
knows their bloodtype and what they had for breakfast. The two agents we
tried to slip undercover were spotted almost immediately and barely
escaped with their lives."

"How does that involve me?" Murphy was well aware of the nature of the
Duggan case. The two agents who had barely made it out again had been
Bodie and Doyle.

"We can't send in an ordinary agent...."

"Yes?"

"But who would notice a nice, fluffy, furry, cute, little, koala bear?"

6.2's jaw dropped. "You want me to go undercover in that den of iniquity
as a *koala bear*?"

Cowley impatiently shuffled some files, regarding Murphy over the tops of
his half-glasses. "I do."

Murphy shook his head. "No. Its bad enough I've got to deal with lavender
mummies who make me drink vile potions...it's bad enough I've got L1500
pounds worth of trees dropping leaves all over my flat...but to go into a
place like Duggan's in koala form? No way. Where would I put my gun?"

Cowley was frowning. "You won't need a gun, 6.2. Bodie and Doyle will act
as your primary back-up; they will be armed. Duggan's only child is a nine
year old girl who loves all sorts of animals, and her doting papa has
provided her with quite a menagerie of them. You will fit in perfectly."

"No."

"There is a substantial hazard bonus in this for you."

"No."

"The department will consider some funding of your trees."

"Some funding?" Murphy hid his surprise at this amazing display of fiscal
generosity on the part of his chief. The running bet at CI5 was that
Cowley had a coin meter on his own loo. "Only *some* funding?"

"Well...."

"I'm told Koala's eat a great deal of eucalyptus leaves, sir."

"6.2."

"Pounds and pounds of them. They die without them. Now, I--of course--can
eat other things, even whilst in my altered state...."

Cowley nodded. "Exactly."

Murphy sailed on. "However, I still require the leaves at regular
intervals. Or I will become ill."

"Er...."

"Too ill--Far, Far Too Ill--To Work."

Cowley sighed. Expert penny-pincher though he was, he wanted Duggan behind
bars more. "All right. We'll pay for the trees in full."

Murphy smiled. "When do I start?"

******

Bodie figured the Cow had finally gone completely round the bend.
"Murphy's a *what*, sir?"

"A wer-koala."

Doyle grinned. "Pull the other one."

Cowley rolled his eyes heavenward at this piece of ignorance. "Such things
are hardly unknown--at least to those of us who can read."

Doyle's grin went out like the tide. Cowley went on, "Despite what you may
think, 4.5, I've got considerably more in my basement than the remnants of
last year's overly exhuberant Yuletide revels. Therefore, if I say that
Murphy is a wer-koala, he bloody well *is*."

"Yessir."

Cowley picked up a sheaf of papers, continuing in his most dignified and
austere manner. "Now, if we may get back to our discussion of the case in
hand."

Bodie and Doyle exchanged speaking looks.

******

Little Clara Duggan had fallen for koala/Murphy with satisfying speed. CI5
might not be able to get past Duggan's front door using conventional
means, but they had no difficulty persuading a minor associate of Duggan's
to present Murphy to Clara as a gift.

So it transpired that Murphy found himself seated at a child-high solid
oak dining table, with a Paddington Bear on his right, a mongoose on his
left, and Clara across from him happily dispensing tea from a miniature
Wedgewood service. Murphy estimated the china had cost at least 250. The
mongoose was named Theobald and possessed atrocious table manners.

Murphy held his cup between his claws, sipping delicately. He hoped Bodie
and Doyle weren't looking--Clara had dressed him up in a bright blue
playsuit with a matching Royal Naval cadet hat, streamers down the back
and all. He found the outfit an abomination, though the tea was Earl Grey,
the cookies straight from Harrods and both were quite good.

He sighed loudly. Clara, doubtless thinking him to be pining for the
Outback, came round the table, scooping him up for a bone crushing hug
which she fancied was consoling. Murphy, forgivably, did not find being
smooshed lifeless and called an "ootsie-wootsie-baby-bear" in the least
comforting. However, he patted her head with one paw; she was a spoiled
but rather nice little girl. Her main drawbacks were her tendency to dress
him in silly outfits, bone crushing hugs, and an unfortunate propensity
for baby talk. Apart from these, his assignment hadn't been perilous at
all.

As a koala, Murphy had carte blanche to go anywhere in the house or
grounds that he pleased. He'd already transmitted a wealth of
incriminating information to Cowley via Bodie and Doyle. Most of it was of
a serious enough nature that it outweighed the misgivings he had about
helping to put Clara's father behind bars. Clara had a predilection for
dressing him in outsize nightshirts with lots of lace ruffles, claiming
these made "Mr. Murphy Bear" too cute for words. He found them
unspeakable, but just the thing for concealing the papers he was
microfilming in bits and pieces. While the days passed he suffered yards
of ecru, often contemplating the sad fact that the rate paying public had
so little idea of the sacrifices their civil servants made for the
security of England.

******

Bodie sighed loudly for the twelfth time in an hour (Doyle was counting).
"He's late."

"Maybe he tripped over one of those bonnets Clara is fond of making him
wear."

Bodie laughed *most* unkindly. "Looks like a muff with lumps of coal for
eyes."

"Or worse."

Bodie suddenly jumped, yelping loudly; one hand went to a stinging ear.
Murphy sat perched on the car's window frame and smirked. Bodie had asked
for it, but getting furry claws slammed into one's ear did tend to hurt a
bit.

"What was that for!?"

"Fur muffs," Murphy said in a small, piping voice while scratching his
nose.

"Easily upset aren't you?--what'd you have to tear my ear off for?"

Bodie glared at Murphy, then took in his appearance for the first time.
Murphy was particularly resplendent in a frothy lavender nightshirt,
voluminous in design; on his head reposed a lace baby cap trailing ribbons
and he looked quite amazingly cute with it tilted at a rakish angle.

"Love the outfit," said Doyle--from a safe distance away.

"Never you mind. I had real *lobster* for supper." Murphy added
maliciously, "What did you lads have to eat, eh?" Knowing perfectly well
that what they'd managed was probably a couple of
surprise-spread-of-the-week sandwiches and warm soda. A couple of swiftly
concealed grimaces bore this supposition out.

Enjoying himself, Murphy began tossing the latest batch of microfilm into
the car. "Here it is. And you can tell George if he can't get an arrest
out of those, there's no hope. And tell him I want to come in."

"I can imagine," Bodie killed an insect which had dared to bite him,
looking down his nose at the koala bear as he did so. "I believe you've
got fleas, old boy."

The koala's reply was colorful. "It's that pompous boring ass Theobald.
Always on about the good old days in India. Shocking table manners."
Murphy rubbed his ear with an absent-minded paw, "I suspect he hangs about
with that great oaf of a dog, Cecil."

"Menagerie," Doyle opined.

"It certainly gives a fellow a new perspective on life." Murphy hopped
gracefully across Bodie, bounced with deliberate lack of care on Doyle's
lap and went out the other window with a shout of "see you Tuesday,"
floating gently back to Cowley's and First and Second Best Agents' ears.

******

As luck would have it, these last bits of information combined so well
with the other data he had passed on, that Cowley was not only able to
arrest Mr. Duggan on several nicely airtight charges, but was also able to
sneer loftily at his compatriots from MI5 and Scotland Yard. Neither of
these worthy gentlemen possessed operatives with the forsight to get
themselves turned into wer-koalas; they had therefore been handicapped in
*their* efforts to crack the case.

Cowley, who enjoyed a good sneer whenever he could get one, was mellowed
by the turn of events (it was rumored that there was a knighthood in the
offing at the next honours list) and relaxed sufficiently to grant Murphy
a rise in salary. He even saw to it that the trees were paid in full.

Bodie and Doyle--who came out of the whole business with only Cowley's
brusk "be here at 0600 Monday, I've a new assignment for you..." were
understandably disgruntled. Had they not been the first to attempt going
under cover? Had they not risked pneumonia and permanently flat posteriors
from sitting in the freezing Devonshire air, night after weary night,
waiting for Murphy? And here they were, with chapped lips and scant
thanks.

"I know what we should do," Doyle said after much ruminating.

"Yeh? Skin Murph?" Bodie brightened at the thought.

"No. Get ourselves into this shape-changing line."

"Go on. As what?"

Doyle thought hard. "Mice!"

Bodie snorted. "Think again, sunshine."

"Cats!"

His partner considered it carefully, then shook his head. "Nah. I'm
allergic to fleas--and face it Doyle, you'd make an awfully scruffy, ratty
lookin' cat."

Reluctantly Doyle agreed. "I despise milk."

"I," Bodie said firmly, "hate cats worse than I hate dogs--which means I
put being one just after eating pruning shears on my list of fun things to
do."

They were silent for some minutes, then Doyle sighed. "That is it then. I
can't think of anything I'd really like to change into--perhaps
furniture...a sofa...."

Bodie was unimpressed. "And do what? Solve the case by having the chief
suspect sit on you?"

Doyle wasn't listening "...who ever heard of a wer-cat? What about a
fur-lined airing cupboard?"

"You're already that."

They argued on. Unseen, under the dilapidated table in the CI5 ops room,
Murphy scratched a furry little ear and smiled.

-- THE END --

*New Year's 1987*

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