There it was, not far now. The cracked and nearly broken neon sign flashed brightly as Tom neared the building. Nothing more than a shell, therein lay his objective. Scanning the street in all directions, he crept towards the door.

Good, he mused, as he gradualy approached the rusty, barely functioning screen door, it appeared untouched. Slowly, ever so slowly, Tom opened that screen door. Hurridly looking around himself again, to make sure none would see, he pulled forth a small key dangling from a chain around his neck. Inserting it into the lock, still glancing about, he turned. With an audible click, the tumblers gave and Tom opened the door.

Once inside, he quickly shut the door. Keeping low, he crawled along the floor. It was a route he'd taken several times before, worked out through months of personal practice by both himself and others. Tom evaded the numerous booby-traps. Just at the last second, though, his hand accidently brushed something-he didn't see what, and an arrow thudded into his thigh.

Barely suppressing a scream, Tom stood and hubbled as fast as he could. Arrows flashed around him, just barely missing. Finally, he made it to his goal. Lifting a glass pot from within his backback, he pressed it to the large machine in front of him. Imm ediately the sacred fluid streamed into the vessel. Once it was full, Tom slowly retraced his steps, resetting all the traps he had set off, and painfully drew himself to the door. He opened it, exited, and locked it in a heartbeat.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Tom was running.
It was a beautiful day. The sun was up, the fog had burned off, the birds were singing, winter was over.
Tom was running.
It was an ugly day. The sky was filled with smoke from artillery units. The sound of mortar shells whistled through the air, followed by the loud rumble of explosions. Birds dropped from the sky right and left.

Tom was running. He was dodging the numerous holes made by the bombs-and the raining birds-and all the while trying not to spill a drop. His master would be very displeased if he spilled even a single drop.

Tom was running because he was being chased by a number of armored midgets. They were waving pitchforks in the air, slobber was hanging from their mouths, open to scream threats of painful death to the criminal. Tom was lucky they had been too surprised to load their rifles, or he would already be dead.

Faster, faster Tom ran down the ravaged streets, all the while blood flowing from his thigh. Painfully, spots flashing before his eyes, he kept on. There was no way he could keep up his pace for long. Rubble lay strewn about in his path, and he had to be careful not to spill his precious cargo.

The midgets were closing on him.
It was amazing. Every day Tom went through this daily ritual. He had almost been caught twice, but had escaped both times. Tom was proud of himself, though. He had reason to be proud, he had lasted for three weeks. That was longer then any of his predece ssors had lived. Old Nick Badger had hung in there for two weeks, but even he had been captured by the deadly forces of the midget army.

Times were hard. Ever since the end of World War XVII, the midgets had been striving for control of the planet. They already held Europe, Africa, Asia and most of the Americas. There remained only pockets of resistance here and there, too scattered to be any real threat. However, one man, John Condor, was staging a rebellion movement. It was towards this man that Tom was running.

Suddenly, the fortress reared up in Tom's sight. Just a little farther and he would be within the walls.
The midgets were right on his heels. Just a little closer and they would have him. Tom could actually hear their high-pitched promises of pain and torture. Waving his free arm, Tom got the gate-keepers to raise the gate. Snipers on the wall began to thro w rotten vegetables at Tom's pursuers. After years of research, it was the only thing that had been found to stop the pint-sized terrorizes.

Finally, he was past the gates. Looking back, he could see the midgets going down in a blaze of over-ripened zucchinis. He was safe...for the time being.

Something was wrong. Tom could feel it immediately. His hands began to shake, so he set down his load. Glancing fearfully at the glass container, he knew it. He had spilled some of the precious liquid. It was a minuscule amount, a thousandth of an ounce, but it would be enough for Him to notice.

Slowly, Tom's lower lip began to tremble. He was doomed.
Picking up the pot with care, Tom began to hope ferverently that he would be spared. There was no use in avoiding his duty, he must still deliver his charge.

Trembling more and more with every step, his lips threatened to fall off. Sweat began to pour down Tom's neck and forehead in torrents. He soon found himself a spring of salt-water. Still, though, he went on. His courage would be sung of as legendary.

Finally, his bodily fluids exhausted, his lower lip muscles strained, Tom found his way to the Man's office. He was sitting there, some kind of control in his hands. He was staring intently at a T.V. screen. His hands seemed to be alive on the small cont rol clutched in his fingers.

Quietly, fearing to disturb the great John Condor from his religiously hard work, Tom entered the office. It was all for naught, however, for the man at the desk suddenly tore his eyes from the screen. Glaring up at Tom, hate in his eyes, he bellowed, "YOU FOOL. YOU @#$#@ FOOL. Look what you made me do." He turned the screen to face Tom. On it flashed GAME OVER over and over. Under it were all sorts of shapes and lights. "I had almost learned how to get past those damn midget defenses and into their main grid. Thanks to you I may never get that far again."

His eyes caught on the glass pot in Tom's arms, cradled their so as not to be dropped. He completely missed the huge wound in Tom's leg. "Ah," he began, his mood softened instantly, "you have returned from your secret mission. Come, bring the sacred flui d here. I have need of it in my plans."

Tom hesitated, terrified. "Come here, come here," he motioned Tom over. "That which you hold may be the thing that shall save our race from extinction." With a single sweep of his hand, he cleared a table. Past pots and all sorts of things crashed to the ground. "Here, set it here. Then go back to work, I must do this in private, lest enemy eyes be watching." Again he gestured, but this time to the many scientific test tubes and racks and devices which littered the cramped little office.

Tom did as he was told, feeling small after the tongue-lashing he had received. Mr. General-Captain Sir John Condor spent all his time in that little office, fighting with that little computer of his. He spent all day and night in his attempts to coax th e secrets to win the war from that computer. Quickly, fearing further words of anger, he placed the fluid upon the table as indicated and swiftly hobbled out of the office. No one knew what he did with the liquid, only that it must be vital to the cause i ndeed. John sent out a soldier every day to fetch at least one container full of it. The word was that he was developing some secret weapon that would be even more potent than rotting vegetables.

Tom closed the door as he left. Seconds later, the commander sealed the blinds and went to work. For hours nothing could be heard except curses and fist pounding. Then, suddenly, there was a loud crash as the TV was ejected from the generals office.

Bursting through the open door, the commander pointed at the now useless piece of machine and explained, "It tried to kill me! It almost succeeded, too, but luckily I was able to fend it off." He sighed there and continued, "Get me another one, quickly. I've almost got something. And get me some more Coffee Element."