The Amazing Adventures of Doc's Henchmen (long)

[Corwyn]

I don't know how session write-ups are received here, especially at this level of detail, but "Johnny's" synopses are so cool (and in character) I just had to share. If asked to cease and desist I will.

 

A while back I asked about write-ups for the boys. This is the result.

 

The Exploits, Enterprises and Experiences of DOC's BOYS

Ham, Monk, Renny, Long Tom and Johnny

(as witnessed by your faithful correspondent, Dr. W.H. "Johnny" Littlejohn)

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

Our peregrinations took us to the untracked and uncharted Amazon Jungle in pursuit of the legendary Sacred Golden Chain of the Incan Emporer Koosko. The successful aquisition of this relic sparked a great deal of furore. Our flight to the coast did not proceed smoothly, being disrupted by mercenaries posing as crewmen, fighter airplanes and crates sprouting stowaway neo-Incan cannibal savages, all parties coveting the Chain. A lesson to be learned: it never behooves us to let our guard drop for an instant in this ataxiatic profession. Long Tom uses our vessel to literally ram the enemy predators from the sky whislt we deal with the undesirable boarders. The

process is made unduly troublesome by the constant barrel-rolling and

aerobatics of our battleground. Victory is secured and we return to

terra firma intact, if somewhat precipitously. Observing the approach of the verdant ground through gaping rents in the fuselage made the landing particularly stimulating. An item of singular curiousity was a tattoo worn by all the caucasian bandits in the aerial combat. Each sported a distinctive

green snake emblem on their wrist.

After that, it is a simple matter of constructing a cart from the salvage of the aeroplane and making our way across the breadth of British Guyana to the port of Georgetown and our ship. Soon the majestic spires of New York City greeted our travel-weary gaze.

There we meet our temporary patron, Baron Newcastle, a longtime acquaintance of Doc. We have barely accepted his congratulations and set off to enjoy the comforts of civilization, when the Baron approaches us with a request that is decidely queer from its wholly pedestrian nature. An enigmatic character named SILAS GREENMAN, whom the Baron has been monitoring, apparently has a smuggling arrangement with the scabrous COLLETTI MOB. He presents a fulsome, if vague, list of suspicions that convinces us this seemingly jejune criminal matter is beyond the scope of the local constabulary.

Thus, we find ourselves on the lower west side docks, observing the warehouses in question from a clandestine outpost atop a neighbouring rooftop. Nightscope binoculars and eavesdropping on telephonic communications provide tantalizingly cryptic intimations of nefarious dealings. Our ruminations are curtailed by the midnight arrival of an aquatic airboat, which is greeted by a veritable legion of the most disreputable, I believe the colloquialism is "mugs", I have ever clapped eyes upon. They begin to industriously unload cargo from the plane. A perspicacious tactical scenario is concocted. Long Tom and I enter from the road in an automobile altered to be a veritable calliope of imminent distress. With accompanying shouting and wailing, we hope to provide sufficient diversion for our stalwart

compatriots to ingress the nether side of the most distant warehouse

unseen.

Our motorcar antics seem to be succeeding when alarms are raised and dull reports of discharging firearms can be heard. Sigh. It only took them twelve seconds this time. (We are to later learn that Ham muffed his attempt at stealthily entering the warehouse most egregiously). All Hades reports for duty, alarums and curses filling the air.

Upon being made cognizant of the chaos, we seek to aid our clumsy compatriots straightaway. With Long Tom employing his daredevil motoring skills, we careen off the pavement and down the wharf proper, forcing dock labourers to promptly choose between a swim and collision with our clattering contraption.

While Long Tom keeps the engine running, I step inside the noisome warehouse to offer my comrades a clean means of retreat. It turns out that my comrades are not desiring of a retreat. Quite the contrary, in point of fact. I wade into the donnybrook, confident that our cause is just and warranted. (If I keep repeating this often enough, it will hopefully gain credibility). Long Tom chooses to disable the boatplane and any who stand in her defence. In all, several tension-filled moments where daring and wit are sorely needed. Fortuneately, ample supplies are at hand from we, the East Coast distributors.

Then the second, ominously silent, warehouse needs attending to. Colletti officers oversee the subitaneous loading of crates on to a truck. It seems an inordinate amount of effort for a few gallons of illegal spirits, so our curiousity is further spurred. A scintillating example of sharpshooting by my hand punctures their conveyance's rear tire, forestalling any easy escape. A Colletti blackguard takes advantage of my distraction and successfully creases my left anterior deltoid.

Further shots are fired, the more physically robust of my allies make merry by wielding bandits as bludgeons and Long Tom makes the aircraft his own. We carry the day (or night, as the case may be).

We are startled to discover the Green Snake emblem stenciled on certain crates. Prying them open reveals contents far more flabbergasting. The gold, silver and gems are more than mere lusterous lucre. The cups, plates and artifacts are all recognizable as treasure from the nigh-mythical Spanish galleon "ANTOCA", lost those centuries ago. My pulse races as I recall the Antoca reputedly went to ocean depths with (MYSTIC CROSS).

The punctured tire is replaced and the Snake crates are loaded. We depart forthwith.

[Corwyn]

Re: The Amazing Adventures of Doc's Henchmen (long)

 

The Exploits, Enterprises and Experiences of DOC's BOYS

Ham, Monk, Renny, Long Tom and Johnny

(as witnessed by your faithful correspondent, Dr. W.H. "Johnny" Littlejohn)

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

Empire Club member MAXWELL COLBERT entreats us to rescue his daughter

CLAUDETTE COLBERT from the dastardly clutches of an East Indian Rajah. How the winsome actress came to be in such dire straits is not germane to the situation. The crux is that the damsel is in distress and the Corps du Savage shall not be found wanting.

 

It is thus that we find ourselves in pellmell equestrian pursuit through the Punjab, gaining slowly on a brace of vehicles bearing both villain and victim. Our hopes are kept aloft by the inferior grade of the winding trail, which galloping hooves are negotiating far more precipitiously than rubber tires.

 

With exhortations of encouragement and application of roundels to heaving flanks, our valiant chargers bring us withing striking distance of the truck and weaving car. Volleys of gunfire are exchanged. The blackguards succeed only in snapping my second-favourite fedora (one doesn't take one's best to the wilds of Asia) from my brow. Our shots strike with greater consequence,

wounding and felling the wicked wogs left and right. I feel not unlike Mr. Hopalong Cassidy in one of his western escapades.

 

The Ham and the Monk occupy the perceptions and minds of the trailing car. Long Tom enters the cab of the truck, efficiently disabling the driver. The less salubrious byblow of this action is that the truck is now unguided as it approaches a sharp left turn. Renny and I maintain our saddles and aid where tactics dictate.

 

The master of motorcar maneuvaring perhaps lets suspense escalate a

trifle high before bringing the careening vehicle to heel. The slowing of the truck causes the rear car to strike it and send the vehicle posterior over anterior,spilling the occupants.

 

We close in. The mayhem raises the bedlam more than somewhat. Shots

and shouts echo off the hillsides. Kukri blades flash and gleam, fists lash out and dust cakes into perspiration.

 

In typical cowardice, one of the miscreants threatens Miss Colbert in exchange for his life. A gesture both pathetic and moot as Ham and Monk enjoy their traditional berserkgang in the claustrophobic confines of the canvas-covered cargo compartment.

 

Now the sole member of our band astride his horse, I fetch Miss Colbert on to the saddle behind me and away from the chaos engendered by my comrades settling final accounts.

 

Our return voyage to America allows Miss Colbert ample time to impart provocative and valuable intelligence on her recent adventure. Her father was not paying ransom in mere currency, but rather in raw materials. She learned the rendezvous coordinates for the oil tankers and freighters. She also presents a scrap of paper emblazoned with the acroamatic Green Serpent logo. Most disconcerting.

 

Further intelligence gathering and discreet conversations in New York

reveal no less than five major industrialists were being similarly extorted for their connections to fundamental resources! This dark web of wickedness stretches further than we speculated, and seems to center on the acquisition of the Cross of Antoch. It seems utterly incredible all this effort and material focuses on a trite superstition. Psychotic, but that makes the hidden mind behind this cabal all the more dangerous.

 

The history of the Cross and recent investigations all point to Cuba.

We embark forthwith.

 

We identify a freighter that is a promising link to our shadowy opponent. In a hired power boat, we discreetly trail the venerable old steamer to its destination. A miniscule, wildly lush, island rises above the horizon in the dying light of the sun. A penninsula is both developed and heavily guarded. After a circumspect navigation of the coastline, we set to closer reconaissance of the compound. Indeed, the uniforms of the guards sport the vile viridian ophidian crest. Our course is now clear and our hearts are pure.

 

A...spirited...debate ensues as how best to penetrate the defenses.

"Spirited" in the sense of stopping short of outright fisticuffs. I fear without Doc as our final arbiter, democracy is playing us false.

 

A clandestine approach seems optimum, in order to gather what data is

available with minimal distractions from infernos and explosions. Eventually a viable strategem is concocted. We set off to our positions with all alacrity.

 

Long Tom begins by sniping from the floating power boat, causing

consternation among the guards. Then a creeping Renny slips from the water and launches our grenade supply into the enemy's fuel dump. This ignites in the appropriate manner, spilling havoc on to the nearby generator, further drawing the fervid attention of the guards and camp. Monk, Ham and myself scale the wire fence and furtively scamper for the only permanent structure on the island, hoping valuable documents and artifacts will be found within.

 

Combat, commotions and general alarums commence upon our ingress.

Fists and firearms in the caliginous cavern of the building slow our advance. Will the forces of evil rally in time to stop us?

[Murrkon5]

Re: The Amazing Adventures of Doc's Boys-Final Chapter

 

The Exploits, Enterprises and Experiences of DOC's BOYS

Ham, Monk, Renny, Long Tom and Johnny

(as witnessed by your faithful correspondent, Dr. W.H. "Johnny" Littlejohn)

 

CHAPTER THREE: Endgame

 

A flock of hand grenades bounce into the room we occupy. As a result, we depart the premises with consummate, but dignified, haste. Fortuitously, the contractor enrusted with the construction of this structure used substandard window glass. I clasp the sand and coarse sea grass outside to my bosom as consecutive detonations tear the room and night apart.

 

The bombardment does not cool our determination. Even as Renny and rise from the ground, we hear Monk's happy chortle punctuating the stacatto reverberations of his beloved tommy gun from within the abused edifice. Renny proposes an alternate maneuvar to re-entering and in a trice, we are on the roof of the first level, approaching the second floor windows. Below, Ham and Monk can be heard squabbling as they finish the last of the dastardly grenade lobbers.

 

It is therefore a nigh-simultaneous event when vertiginous waves crash through all our cerebrums, inciting pain and hallucinations of a woebegone girl. The fantastic visions and disorientating paroxysms of pain drive us to our knees and then oblivion.

 

Roughly five minutes later, we escalade from insensibility to congnizance. The unexplained assault is gone, leaving only a fading migraine. I begin to suspect the Cross of Atocha's powers are not the poppycock and superstition I had conjectured.

 

We return to our search of the building,only to discover all enemies fled and files aflame. We quench the destroying fires as fast as we are able, and salvage the following from teh scorched remnants:

- Plans for a stupendous zeppellin aircraft carrier, far larger than the US Navy's USS Macon or USS Akron.

- A fragment of a letter bearing a date three days hence.

- An empty chest containing customized slots for a large and a small cross.

 

Renny recalls a special event hosted by the President and his upper echelon advisors is scheduled three days from now in Washington, DC. The coincidence is too dire to elide.

 

Further rummaging discovers the secret access to the inaccessible and ulterior first floor wing. Descending, we find an armoured bunker housing its own light source and a sinister laboratory of vivisected bodies.

 

Before we can comment on the horrific experiments, we are again the subjects of the psychic onslaught upon our ego structures. Ham is cerebrally poleaxed at the manifestation before us. While we three are none too steady, we retain our rationality to try and puzzle the phantasm before us. The young girl returns, still as desperately despondent as before. However, this vision alternates with a vile lizard demon. Both images wear a miniature of the Cross of Atocha about their neck.

 

Physical responses from my comrades prove fruitless. I pummel my brain for 17th Century Spanish idioms, hoping to match the era of the Cross. I speak in the language of the Iberian Penninsula, speaking calmly and politely. Astonishingly, I capture her attention.

 

In a manner pointedly discombobulating, her replies echo in my very skull. She pleads for aid and succor, but is frustratingly unresponsive to on details. We can only deduce the Cross is the source of her malaise, but it remains spectrally elusive to our grasp. Finally, in desperation, Renny makes a masterful shot with his firearm and shatters the evil antiquity. The lizard abomination fades in silent rage. The beatific expression of release on the young girl's face makes all our travails worthwhile. Her ascension to a Better Place engulfs us in a transcendent, and restoring, inundation of euphoria.

 

Words fail me. This will require a great deal of rumination in future days.

 

For now, haste is of the essence if liberty is to be preserved. To Washington!

 

We telegraph the capital with our dire news and suspicions, but we have too much savvy to expect the monolithic bureaucracy to act precipitously in the matter. We put our own plans into motion. An aircraft is outfitted with armaments and an ingenious anchor attachment up top. Essentially, we intend to patrol the skies, battle through any defending air support and board the zeppelin via their own docking procedures. Simplicity personified.

 

Two hours of enervating watching and searching and circling pass before a radio broadcast provides the clue we require. Adventitious cloud cover masks our approach to this leviathan of the skies. It is quite startling how such an enormous thing can float serenely in the firmament. Then admiration is rudely replaced by needs of survival. Ham and Monk man our offenses, duelling with flitting fighter craft. The thunderbolts of the gods could not match the power modern mortals wield in casual carnage. It is difficile to maintain personal morale clutching naught but binoculars as our mechanized pegasus fills with the hot tang spent chordite and light beams pierces the fog from new holes in the fuselage.

 

However punctured and maimed our craft becomes, the enemy suffers a greater portion. Soon the skies are open for our boarding attempt.

 

Adrenalin continues to flow freely as Renny and I squat atop our wounded bird, several hundred feet above ground, listening to the fusillade of gunfire around us, applying wrenches to lock dock to anchor.

 

Secure and safe (though "safe" is an altogether relative term), we scramble, jump and rappel thru the aluminum buttressing and interior superstructure. Echoes of shouts, screams and ringing ricochets abound.

 

We regroup as the immediate hangar is won, just in time to witness the mass of our aircraft overwhelm the the strength of the docking arm. Plane and assemblage vanish in a single, sharp protest of squealing metal. This could be a concern. The alarm klaxon rumbles through the brobindangnian vessel and we press forward to the Bridge.

 

I am uncertain whether it is the incessant running battle that saps endurance or the sheer grueling distance. Any air ship of these proportions should provide a taxi cab service.

 

The final rampart to scale, the door to the Bridge itself. Bursting thru debouches on to a tiny balcony. The capacious space stretching away gives us all a moment's pause. A vast opera house of a cockpit, filled with intense flight crew and veritable horde of Green Serpent Elite Guard at parade rest. Standing with his fellow officers of evil stands another snake demon shifting ethereally with the form of a distinguished man in uniform. The Cross of Atocha gleams prominently on his chest.

 

The mental assault experienced on the Caribbean Island crashes into our cerebrums anew. The occult miasma clouds our perceptions to a terrifying degree. To our subjective senses, we go from aloft high over Washington to grounded with the debarkation ramp lowered in an eye's blink. Fortuneately, whatever acroamatic forces manipulated us in such a fashion also safeguarded us from harm. We fight our way to normalcy still perched on the entry balustrade.

 

The Serpent Captain vanishes into thin air before our first offensive effort is begun. The initial exchange is a harrowing event, forcing nimble evasion on our part. Our gas grenades are less than efficacious, but our bullets wreak the necessary violence to allow us to depart our beachhead.

 

Into the fray!

 

The savagery of my purloined Thompson Machine Gun is boggling to my civilised sensibilities. Grim necessity forces me to allow the brutal warrior within to stay dominant.

 

As enemy bodies fall, the implacable force of evil grips Monk in a cerebral vice. His sub-vocalizations reveal the mental invader is commanding him to attack Ham. Fortuneately a first rate brain exists within that simian cranium and Monk mutinies in fine style. The extrasensory dictates fly like machine gun volleys. Ham is ordered to kill Monk. Renny is commanded to kill me!

 

The unseen mentalist learns that Doc's Boys are unshakeable comrades with pure hearts. Such contemptible commands are ignored with the disdain they deserve. The craven miscreant takes to the physical and stabs Renny treacherously in the back. As I sweep the area behind my stricken ally, I am savagely clawed across the trapezius and spine. I collapse into darkness.

 

The luck of the Irish, a bucket of horseshoes and the grace of the gods brings me lurching to my feet ere too great a time has elapsed. Monk and Ham are in a martial waltz with a demonic dance partner. A calculated burst draws blood on the monster. A surgical sniper shot from Long Tom drops him to the deck. Victory!

 

Removing the flagitious Cross of Atocha from around the fallen villain is a ticklish business, but it is secured as USA troops and agents arrive to secure the ship.

 

The day is saved, the President is spared (we learn that while we fought, the mental puppeteer had attempted to attach strings to the commander-in-chief), and the sun will dawn on a free country.