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It will all have started (English tenses really hate the requirements of Adrian's) when Adrian dropped in (literally; Adrian's has trapdoors in its skylights) on his way back from a conference he'd organised in a little universe that was just the other side of the colour giggle. (He claimed the conference was just a temporal tax dodge – something to do with the charitable status and care in the community. I'm not sure I approve of using charity legislation to avoid paying taxes, but the one bit I do remember from the upcoming Christmas party makes me think that at least most of his hearts are in the right place, so I'll let him off this time.)
Now this conference was, apparently, for Mad Scientists and Surrealist Authors (did I say both counted as charity cases?), entitled "Colourful Routes to Universe Domination". Adrian had it liberally provided with ZCDs, montsmags enterprises version of lego mindstorm (think what lego mindstorm would have been, if the trades descriptions act had been rigorously enforced by the ACME company of Wile E. Coyote fame) and large bowls full of every possible flavour of hyperstring (it's unclear if Adrian intended these as nibbles, construction materials or attire; given it was Adrian, probably all three). The excuse for all these provisions (which of course he profitably charged himself to supply) was "to help the creative juices flow into working prototypes" (my thanks to pshrynk for the translations of Adrian's words, though I must admit it very worrying when he (yes, either of them) said it).
Whilst Adrian passed through, Pshrynk asked him how the conference had gone, causing Adrian to backflip sideways onto a stool for a quick chat. According the pshrynk's translation, the conference was a great success, or to quote Adrian "the resultant cross-fertilisation was exceptionally fecund." Adrian then headed off to consult with his IPR lawyers, his back pocket containing several hundred huge crates from the conference. However, when he'd stopped to chat with Pshrynk, a small box had fallen out from between the crates in his back pocket.
"Oh, look what fell off the back of an Adrian," said Slite as he reached down to open the box. This was despite the fact that, sitting on his shoulder, his common sense jabbering manically and desperately whilst wildly beating him about the head with a huge foam cluebat. But ultimately all his common sense attempts were futile.
"Oh goody, a toy!" he exclaimed as he took out what looked like a gun with a helmet in place of a barrel, and a USB port in place of a magazine. At this point his common sense gave up, uttered "I'm never working with that again", headed over to the bar, drank two ZCDs and one ZCP in quick succession and proceeded to try and chat up the squid (much to Verencat's annoyance). I always had my doubts about Slite's common sense (as does Slite himself, if the rumours are true). Meanwhile, while Slite's common sense was failing in its cephalodopic romantic intentions, Slite was fiddling with his new toy, fortunately without much success.
"Why don't you try putting something into the USB slot?" I said (it should be pointed out that my common sense eloped to Hawaii well over a year ago.)
"Oh thanks" and with that he fished out a USB key from his pocket and plugged it in.
"I wouldn't point it at Zel---"
BANG. The helmet flew off the gun and landed on Zelda's head, adjusting its size and orientation for a perfect fit, whilst turning into a little red beret that perfectly matched her liseuse. WHirrRR. Spark. Four little helmets spun off and landed on Ralph Sir Edward, Bilbo1967, MoeJoe and Nate the Great. And then all the helmets flew straight back to the gun turning back into their normal singular form en-route.
"Well that was a bit disapp-" Slite stopped abruptly as he looked at Zelda who seemed to be turning even more glowing green than usual, and adopting a sparkling fairy outlook that was getting Mindy very tempted to complain about avatar infringement. Then Zelda suddenly flew into the air and started singing, trailing green dust as she went.
"Would the USB key have some of your movie collection on it?" I asked.
"The hills are alive with the sound of….." Interjected Zelda very musically.
"Yes? Why? Oh. OHHH, " said Slite, before concluding (in dangerously mischievious tone, whilst fishing in his pocket for more USB keys.) "Hmmmm."
"We'll fight for Freedom! Beauty! Truth! and Love!" Ralph Sir Edward, Bilbo1967, MoeJoe and Nate the Great interrupted tunefully.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" I said to Slite. (It is possible some faint echo of my common sense was still left bouncing round in the vacant spaces of my skull).
"Does that matter? I laugh in the face of gods! I giggle uncontrollably at the three Fates! I'm not even perturbed by squirrels!" shouted Slite (it is just possible he had been in Adrian's sampling Marc's concoctions for more that a few minutes).
"Children of the Revolution…" concluded Zelda repeatedly, before she, and her backing singers, started all over again.
"And please don't point that at me…" I don't actually remember any more for a fair bit (and no, I don't want to know more), but both Marc and Slite seem unable to look at me and not start laughing anytime the JukeBox starts playing anything by Shania Twain (which thankfully is rare).
The next thing I do remember is myself and about fifteen other guests of Adrian's in rather unnatural poses and postures, and Marc saying "You know, a karaoke or music night might be quite good fun."
"What…" I asked, somewhat more disorientated than normal (and for Adrian's, that is saying something!).
"What do you feel like?" asked Slite, giggling.
"A drink. ZCD ple—oh, thanks Marc."
"Drat; he's back to normal."
"What happened to the gun thing whatdymacallit?"
"We have top people looking after it," said Marc, in a tone that closed the discussion.
"I still haven't forgotten about that tipper truck load of squirrels," I muttered, glaring at the two of them, with the mental image of a crate being wheeled into a warehouse. Come to think about it, it is slightly worrying the number of potential weapons or deadly "substances" (and I'm not talking about Marc's concoctions) that seem to make their way into Adrian's and promptly disappear. Anyone might think someone was worried about a potential future fracas of frightening ferocity.
<At this point, once again please, imagine the cheesy wavy line thing and shake your head a bit. Thank you. (Though I'd be worried by the rattle when you shake your head like that – maybe you should see someone.)>