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Boston, Mass. April 13, AP-Last rites were held today for Mr. Abner Scrounge who was shot after being found in his garage attempting to remove the top of his Rolls Royce with a can opener.

The history of the gallant battle of Boston to retain its essential dignity would, alone, make up a large work. The story of how the intrepid citizens of this venerable city refused to surrender their rights, choosing mass suicide rather than submission is a tale of enduring courage and majestic struggle against insurmountable odds.

What happened after the movement was contained within the boundaries of the United States (a name soon discarded) is data for another paper. A brief mention, however, may be made of the immense social endeavor which became known as the "Bacon and Waffles" movement, which sought to guarantee $750 per month for every person in Los Angeles over forty years of age.

With this incentive before the people, state legislatures were helpless before an avalanche of public demand and, within three years, the entire nation was a part of Los Angeles. The government seat was in Beverly Hills and ambassadors had been hastened to all foreign countries within a short period of time.

Ten years later the North American continent fell and Los Angeles was creeping rapidly down the Isthmus of Panama.

Then came that ill-fated day in 1994.

On the island of Pingo Pongo, Maona, daughter of Chief Luana, approached her father. "Omu la golu si mongo," she said.

(Anyone for tennis?)

Whereupon her father, having read the papers, speared her on the spot and ran screaming from the hut.

1 John Gunther, Inside U.S.A., p. 44.

2 Henry G. Alsberg (ed.), The American Guide, p. 1200.

3 Symmes Chadwick, "Will We Drown the World?" Southwestern Review IV (Summer 1982), p. 1 ff.

4 Guillaume Gaulte, "Les Theories de l'Eau de Ciel Sont Cuckoo," Jaune Journale (August 1982).

5 Harry L. Schuler, "Not Long for This World," South Orange Literary Review, XL (Sept. 1982), p. 214.

6 H. Braham, "Is Los Angeles Alive?" Los Angeles Sunday Examiner, 29 Oct. 1982.

7 "Ellieitis: Its Symptoms," AMA pamphlet (fall 1982).

8 Fritz Felix DerKatt, "Das Beachen Seeken," Einzweidrei (Nov. 1982).

9 The Los Angeles Manifesto, L.A. Firster Press (Winter 1982).

10 L. Savage, "A Report on the Grand Teton Drive-In," Fortune (Jan. 1983).

11 "Gulls Creek Gets Its Forty-Eighth Theater." The Arkansas Post-Journal, 1 March 1983.

12 Maxwell Brande, "Altercation at Deadwood Spa," Epigram Studios (April 1983). Shock Wave

I tell you there's something wrong with her," said Mr. Moffat. Cousin Wendall reached for the sugar bowl.

"Then they're right," he said. He spooned the sugar into his coffee.

"They are not," said Mr. Moffat, sharply. "They most certainly are not."

"If she isn't working," Wendall said.

"She was working until just a month or so ago," said Mr. Moffat. "She was working fine when they decided to replace her the first of the year."

His fingers, pale and yellowed, lay tensely on the table. His eggs and coffee were untouched and cold before him.

"Why are you so upset?" asked Wendall. "She's just an organ."

"She is more," Mr. Moffat said. "She was in before the church was even finished. Eighty years she's been there. Eighty."

"That's pretty long," said Wendall, crunching jelly-smeared toast. "Maybe too long."

"There's nothing wrong with her," defended Mr. Moffat. "Leastwise, there never was before. That's why I want you to sit in the loft with me this morning."

"How come you haven't had an organ man look at her?" Wendall asked.

"He'd just agree with the rest of them," said Mr. Moffat, sourly. "He'd just say she's too old, too worn."

"Maybe she is," said Wendall.

"Well, I don't know," said Wendall, "she's pretty old though."

"She worked fine before," said Mr. Moffat. He stared into the blackness of his coffee. "The gall of them," he muttered. "Planning to get rid of her. The gall."

He closed his eyes.

"Maybe she knows," he said.

The clock-like tapping of their heels perforated the stillness in the lobby.

"This way," Mr. Moffat said.

Wendall pushed open the arm-thick door and the two men spiraled up the marble staircase. On the second floor, Mr. Moffat shifted the briefcase to his other hand and searched his keyring. He unlocked the door and they entered the musty darkness of the loft. They moved through the silence, two faint, echoing sounds.

"Over here," said Mr. Moffat.

"Yes, I see," said Wendall.

The old man sank down on the glass-smooth bench and turned the small lamp on. A wedge of bulb light forced aside the shadows.