"Okay, so you want a Coke and a sub? I'll give a discount, because you're my MVC, my most valuable customer. . ." Nelson Vendetta was a nice guy. I mean nice. Really nice. Say someone comes into his deli. They order anything, a Twix bar, or maybe even a sub. You never know. But anyway, he would give it to them half-price. It didn't matter if it was on sale already, but he said to everyone, even if it was a new person, they were a "most valuable customer". Anyway, I went his deli everyday, mostly because it was across the street. We lived in a quiet Boston neighborhood.

I was almost 21, and doing my post-doc at MIT. I was content, even though it was far away from my former home, in Germany, that I had left the year before. My girlfriend, Mercedes Jenson, was back in Germany, for she was 22 and already done. I lived in a duplex with an overly hyperactive family on the other side. It was that 'American Dream' they tried to live up to. They had two kids, a boy and a girl, who both were just like miniatures of the parents. And every so often they would decide to pick up their telephone and blast into my ear "HELLO CHAD! HOW ARE YOU?", and they were just insane. They always bugged me about how I was born in Germany. I was born in what was then, West Berlin.

In 1978, on a cold day in August. I mean cold. My mom always told me, (In German, of course) "Chad Müller. On the night you were born, it was freezing. . . " and I never believed her. But one day I looked back, in 1988, when I was 10, to see if it was true, and there it was. SNOWING IN AUGUST! Dated August 3, 1978. Wow. Anyway, I led a normal life, thanks to being on the west side of the wall. And then the wall came down, when I was 11 in 1989. But back to the story.

One fateful day, I got up, real sleepy, and looked at the calendar for no reason at all. It was August 3, my birthday. Who really gave? I thought. I supposed my college buddies would hold a surprise party. Duh. They were in Germany, and I barely knew anyone at MIT. Besides, I needed coffee, not beer. After a few glugs of coffee, I tromped across the street, narrowly avoiding one of the neighbor kid's balls. I hadn't even put my watch on, and only had a check for $50 bucks from who knows where, and $20 bucks change, because I never used anymore than $4 going to Nelson's.

He really woke me up, by throwing a gallon of hot chocolate over me and yelling "Happy Birthday!" I really didn't know how a 45-year-old could do this, but I felt the need to kill him. I mean, sarcastically. Who would want to kill a deli-shop owner anyway? So, I sat down, drenched, as he shut me up and gave me this big cake. I told him I needed to go to my classes at 10 and it was already 9. He blabbered on and gave me a present and stuff. He forced me to eat the cake, which tasted like hot chocolate because of me, and finally I was done. I opened the present, which turned out to be a mug of MIT, of which he said "For you to remember MIT when you are gone!" I tried to smile, said thanks, and walked out the door, this time NOT getting missed by the ball. Then I saw a figure walk into Nelson's store. I heard a bang, and I rushed in. There was Nelson, dead on the counter, with a little note that read- Find me in St. Louis, find me at the fair! There was something on the back, but I heard police sirens. How had they found here? No time for questions, I was outta there!

I had forgotten the note, and by the time I was out the back door, I remembered. I had gotten my fingerprints all over the body. I held my breath as my neighbors, the police, and some passer-by with a loud dog came in. The police had gotten my fingerprints at this fair, in Somerville, when I was 14 and visiting the U.S. They sprayed the body and found all my fingerprints. The front police guy, who's name tag said Howard "Fatso" Biggui (and lived up to his nickname) said "Let's see . . .Yup, that 14-year-old from the 1993 fair. He must of moved here. Oh well. He live 'round here?" There was a chorus of "Yes's" from the family trying to be good American citizens. Oh well. I was gone in a second.

Thankfully my car, a Merkur Scorpio, was parked out of their line of sight. Slowly I creeped over there, turned the key and stepped on the gas. Soon, I had two police cars following me. I kept repeating 'Find me in St Louis, Find me at the fair'. Sounded like a song. I put in Chumbawamba's On Top Of The World, and started humming. I felt uncannily relaxed for having two police cars chasing me around Boston. There was one difference. I had more gas.

"Yo, Howard, check this out!" The second officer, Quinn Miller, was 26. He loved playing with Howard and playing with Howard's mind. Howard was 47 and very experienced. He was the idyllic police officer. He ate loads of donuts, he weighed 450 pounds and was 5 foot 8. He had been with the police since age 16, and was really ticked. He was a background officer, and never did anything important, and started a habit, grumbling, when Quinn joined and started to wreck his life. But this was important.

I had gotten on and passed the beltline. Quinn was still chasing me, but Howard had run out of gas awhile back. I threw Quinn off course, and headed to the nearest hotel, a buggy Motel 6. The guy there was nice, and let me off $20 bucks. I had my American Express card, so it didn't matter. He reminded me of Nelson a lot. The real problem was the flies and the bees. Yeah, bees. The place was infested with flies, and had a growing bee nest. No one was there except some rednecks with gnats orbiting their heads. I chose a room with more dead flies than live ones, and no bees. It was okay for the night. When I was about to undress, I realized two very important things. First, I didn't have any clothes except the ones on my back, and MIT was likely to kick me out if I didn't come, was on the run and was supposedly a murderer.

I had to find out one thing before I stopped and told the police the complete story. Who was the murderer? They would lock me up for life if I couldn't tell who did it, after a stupid Massachusetts law about that had been passed in December 1998. I slept on it.

I woke up to a fly buzzing in my face, obviously trying to tell me something in it's fly language. I swatted it with my hand, and washed up. At least they supplied a toothbrush and toothpaste here. I sleepily walked into the lobby, to get a magazine, and I noticed the cover of the Boston Globe. HOTSHOT STUDENT MURDERER, and a picture of me. I overheard the guy at the desk talking on the phone with Howard, and saw him giving me a dirty look. My time was up here. I dropped the newspaper and ran.

I refilled my gas tank and shot out of there. Quinn and Howard were parked at the entrance to the highway, so I kept going straight. They quickly started up their engines and started off. I picked up my really awesome Nokia cell phone/palmtop (sorry if I sound like Nokia paid me, but it really is cool) and called Mercedes. She was telling me all about her life in Germany, when the police caught up. I quickly notified her about my situation and hung up. I, Chad Müller, stepped on the gas.

I drove into a driveway when I was far enough away from the police, and looked at the map. I was in Providence, Rhode Island.

"Howard, look. I'm serious. I'm not kidding. I swear I saw the kid go into that driveway."

"Quinn, shut up. He is not a kid. He is only five years younger than you. And I swear on a stack of holy bibles he did not."

"I swear on a stack of holy bibles in a glass case in the Vatican blessed by the Pope four times, twice on Easter, and twice on Christmas that he did."

"Well, Quinn, um, uh, nice one . . ."

"Okay, Howard, let's go back."

"No!"

They had already passed me. I thought I had saw something fly out of Howard's window. I squinted and saw a piece of paper. I walked out into the middle of the road picked up the paper, and narrowly missed being roadkill. It said in scrawl, something like 'The Abyss Of The Melting Marshmallow-Chad Müller fas to do mith. After dealing with a really mad fat lady who owned the driveway I had parked in and going into an expensive parking lot, I decoded some of it. I decided then, it was The Myth Of The Melting Marshmallow-Chad Müller has to do with. So, after thinking, I decided to go to the Providence Library.

"There are no titles called The Myth Of The Melting Marshmallow. It sounds like you might be looking for something Chinese, though. Maybe go up to the third floor, go to section C, go to China, and it'll be under mythology. If not, check under section M on the second floor, and it would be under Marshmallow, and under a small section called Marshmallow Mythology. Or you can check on our handy computer terminal's located just down the hall! Thank you for your cooperation. . ."

I almost fell asleep. After that close one with the librarian, I was off. And after three hours, and 14 parking tickets, I found the Chinese Mythology section. And finally I found the closest one. The Myth Of The Sheltering Mushroom.

The Myth Of The Sheltering Mushroom

45 A.D.-The Ka'boom dynasty

The Myth Of The Sheltering Mushroom was decided upon by a council of Chinese councilmen who were to find out from the gods why the rabbit was lucky, why they liked the dragon, and so on. They eventually decided that the Mushroom was why, and came up with an extra long reason why, so this is just a summary, also because the myth was lost. Anyway, they gave it to King Big Ka'boom who got into a rage and pounded his fists on the table, as history tells us, first of all, because he didn't like it, and second of, because he couldn't read it all. He had the councilmen banished to Mongolia, and forced to eat Mongolian Barbecue every day while being tortured with chocolate by Genghis Khan himself. King Big Ka'boom was happy, and he made up his own version, which goes like this- In the beginning of time, a mushroom was made by the Big God, and it sheltered all the lucky things. When it died, those were the only lucky things. Nobody liked it, which was one of the reasons why he got overthrown in a joint effort by Genghis Khan and a young Chinese named Jer'ry "Springer" Ka'boom, who was related to the royalty.

By Gus Wacki

That was the corniest Chinese myth I had ever heard of. It was sillier than the end of the classic book A-9, and I didn't believe half of it, and that Gus guy was sure wacky. And what in the heck did it have to do with me being chased around the nation by two policemen who were pretty wacky themselves. I decided to go back to pick up my car, where I found 23 parking tickets and a personal letter from the parking lot guy to get my butt out of there. I went with his advice and scrammed.

I traveled across Rhode Island and Connecticut, without much happening, other than a sighting of Howard and Quinn, and 4 stops for gas. Finally, at the border of Connecticut and New Jersey, I had a run-in with Howard and Quinn. I was going down a quiet road in the middle of the night, contemplating the myth, when some lights appeared in front of my car and behind me. I rolled down my window and yelled into the freezing night "Go away!" which was really dumb, but I was bored. Finally, the cars stopped. I saw Howard get out of his car, and turn his sirens on. I stared at him, and noticed I was low on gas. I quickly hid in the bushes. Howard yelled to Quinn

"He's not here! This is his car though."

"Howard! Check out his Chumbawamba CD! Maybe it's evidence? Can I keep it in my car?"

"No!"

That was it. I loved that CD and had paid a smuggler $3,000 bucks to get it from England, where they only sold it. I got up and said "Hands Up!" They were unarmed, so they did what I said. I then yelled "Close your eyes!" They did. I got in my car, and Quinn opened his eyes and said "Hey!" and jumped in his car. I swerved out of the way, and he crashed into Howard. He swerved out of Howard's trunk, and his smashed up car followed me. Howard yelled quite a few swear words.

Soon I was travelling along the New Jersey turnpike at 1:00 in the morning. I turned on Chumbawamba. I wondered why I was doing this. I turned over in a truck stop when Quinn was far enough away. I thought, where was I going? St. Louis. Yup. I got gas and looked at my finances. I had zip cash and my American Express card. Here I go again. I had dinner at a seedy truck driver restaurant filled with a bunch of cigarette chewing rednecks with gnats orbiting their heads. Some Garth Brooks country crap was playing. I ordered some eggs, which appeared to be popular with the rednecks. I tried it.

I threw up, paid the bill and left. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Howard steal my car with Quinn and say "Evidence" and chuckle. My $50,000 Scorpio and $3,000 CD! I was gonna kill that guy! I ran towards him, but they were gone. I hailed some truck driver and got in. He grumbled at me in his own language and offered me a cigarette. I turned the offer down. He stared at me and grumbled to me "Hi. My name is Fred Addrek." I said

"Hi. Yo, thanks for the ride. My name is Chad Müller. Where ya goin'?"

"Iowa."

"Uh, where is Iowa?"

"The middle of the country"

"Where in Iowa, then? Where is it near?"

"Iowa City. Near Chicago."

"Okay, so the corn state? The cow cud state?"

"Yeah"

"Okay. I get it."

Next we stopped in Dover, Delaware, for a late lunch. I had gotten a headache from the smoke, and didn't want anything. But halfway through, Howard and Quinn walked in and ordered some donuts. They must of seen the note! And they must of seen me. Howard pointed at me. Quinn shook his head. Whew. I nudged Fred, who was loudly chewing something that looked like a cow's cud and said "Let's go." He agreed and we left. I was really scared. I realized Howard and Quinn had stole my Nokia too. I kept quiet about it though. For the next 24 hours we rolled on to Iowa. We stopped finally in Cincinnati, where Fred had to drop off some stuff. I waited in the sleeper compartment. Quinn and Howard drove in with five more cars. I was dead. I stayed where I was. The seven officers walked out and marched towards the truck. Then the funniest thing I ever saw in my life happened.

Fred walked out and mumbled "Gwayh!" and came up to them and the most seedy, smoky and portly truck driver I had seen in my life karate kicked one of them way up in the air. The guy came back down with a thud. They backed off. Quinn uncovered a pistol and said "Hands Up" and uncovered a badge. Fred said "Hah" and held Quinn up by his ears. Quinn yelped. I laughed. Some police scrammed. But Quinn, Howard, and a Cincinnati police officer named Sarah Masen. She yelled "Stop!" Fred drove away with me. Howard yelled "Sarah!!??"

We kept driving until I was sick. It was really boring, just sitting in a smoky truck watching a redneck smoke cigarette after cigarette after cigarette, mile after mile after mile after mile . . . Until Iowa City. I stared at Fred's map. He was to drop 909 pounds of stuff that helped corn syrup be corn syrup and not just mashed up corn outside Iowa City. It was at this plant that Howard, Quinn, and Sarah did not turn up. I hitchhiked to St. Louis, starting with a family, the Molnars. There was the dad, Larry, the mom, Cindy, and the kid, Chris. They were about to pass by, when Chris insisted. So I sat in the back with Chris. Chris was writing a story called The Myth Of The Sheltering Mushroom, which reminded me of all of my questions.

What did the myth have to do with me? And who murdered Nelson Vendetta? I remembered two things. The St. Louis 1999 World Fair was going to be in two days, and the murderer had a license plate that said 1999. I settled back in the Mazda 323 and wondered under what coincidence did this kid write a story called The Myth Of The Sheltering Mushroom starring Chad Müller? Oh well. Next thing I knew I was being dropped off in Des Moines, Iowa.

I was then picked up by a pack of German 20-year-olds who were touring the U.S., who were very grateful to have a German 21-year-old who knew the way to the St. Louis World Fair. (Well, I sort of did.) Next thing we knew, we were partying in a packed VW Vanagon. There was 6 of them, and just enough room for me. There was Mitch, a kid who got arrested for partying too much when he was 10 and the Berlin Wall came down. I thought I remembered him. Anyway, there were the twins, two guys who I never caught the names of, who were the guys who brought the beer, and Georg Jenson, and apparently was Mercedes brother (It's a small world). There were also two girls who stayed in the back, giggling to each other in German. It was awesome.

Finally, as dawn broke on the day of the World Fair, we got out of the cramped VW. Mitch stretched as the fair started. We headed off. The girls and the twins headed off one way, while me, Mitch, and Georg headed off another. First we stopped at this French guy's breakfast place that didn't have anybody there. I ordered Orangina and this strange looking omelet that had eggs, bacon and cheese on it with extra-burnt toast on the side. The guy thanked us. We ate our breakfast and moved on.

I saw a shadowy figure ahead of us. Mitch and Georg were heavily in conversation about this painting Mitch had got. The figure creeped toward us. Suddenly Howard, Quinn and Sarah appeared. Howard yelled "There he is!" and they ran us. Mitch swore in German and we took off. We jumped into this South African potter's tent and Georg said "So this is how you've been living for the last few days!" I whispered back "Yeah" as we were given a dirty look from the potter, because we had smashed his precious pottery. Howard and Quinn jumped in and yelled "Your dead!" and Quinn pointed his gun at my head. He recited "You have the right to remain silent . . ." I knew I was totally dead.

Mitch was experienced at this though. Georg huddled in the back with Mitch's painting as Mitch jumped up and grabbed the gun from Quinn and said "Not so fast!" I ran. I never saw Mitch or Georg again, for a very long time. I was safe for a bit. Then, as I sneaked into a puppet show, I remembered the myth. The backside of the murderer's note! It must of said the myth, and the torture part of the myth probably applied to me! Gulp. The figure appeared again, just as the puppeteers started to notice me. I jumped.

I came through the puppet screen, jumped into the horrified audience, and I blacked out. Next thing I knew, I was in a half nelson (get it?) in a dark tent. The shadowy figure took off it's mask and said "Hi!" It was Mercedes.

I was speechless. All this time, I thought this was the murderer, but it was Mercedes! She let go and I swore at her. She was sort of taken aback, but explained the situation, and she understood. Now who was the murderer? Or maybe Nelson hadn't gotten murdered . . . I asked Mercedes. She didn't know.

If Nelson was murdered, then I could write a book and get enough money to get out of jail if I was caught. If he wasn't then I could sue Howard and Quinn. I remembered. Howard never called a cleanup crew, and never declared him dead. Then I thought, I could still write a book. (This one) Mercedes woke me up. She said "Remeber Nelson? I nodded. She said "There he is!" He was at the booth across from me and Mercedes. I ran over there. Nelson said "Hi!" I yelled, seriously "I am going to kill you!" It turns out the note was a fake, as well as the gunshots. But this time I heard real gunshots. Howard had missed me and shot Nelson.

I nudged Mercedes and we ran. Soon we were in the parking lot (one of them) Mercedes headed for a 1999 Corvette. Apparently, she had bought it for me. We argued until Howard appeared out of nowhere with Sarah and Quinn. Now I needed to get to the proper authorities before Howard killed anyone else. And here came the authorities. Four squads of Fair police were after us. Sarah, Quinn and Howard were in the Scorpio, chasing me and Mercedes in the Corvette, while four police cars trailed behind Howard.

This was to much like a cop movie. Except for Howard. In cop movies, the cop was like, a Sylvester Stallone, and the cops were always the good guys. This was different. Howard was like 400+ pounds, ate billions of donuts and was really clumsy. Anyway, the chase ended in Iowa City, with Howard and friends spinning out of control into a ditch, me and Mercedes spinning into the ditch too, and the one remaining squad car get very, very lost, thinking we had spun away. Mercedes' Chumbawamba album, 1992's Shhh, played Snip, Snip, Snip quietly.

Mercedes was bleeding from various places and I was stuck in an uncomfortable position. I saw Sarah swear, Howard lay in his place, unmoving, and Quinn yell a gurgled mixture of sounds and swear words. Howard was probably dead, and I didn't know about the other two. Eventually, I creeped out with Mercedes. We hitchhiked through Iowa City, and eventually ended up at 609 Manor Drive. There was this kid with nice Airwalks skateboarding in the front. He squinted at me and said

"You're the guy in the news, Chad Muller!"

"No, Chad Müller."

"Whatever. So you're the guy who was blamed for the murder of Nelson Vendetta, the owner of a Boston deli, but he faked everything, and eventually a policeman killed him at the Worlds Fair!"

I was amazed at how the press was keeping up with this. Mercedes yelled "WATCH OUT!" as a fleet of reporters on motorcycles, the head three with Howard, Quinn and Sarah, came careening down Manor Drive. The kid, who's name was Daniel, gave us bikes, tied a rope from my bike and he held on, and we skidded into the park, City Park, and hid in the concessions stand. The fleet of motorcycles and mo-pads came down, stopped, and began searching. I said "Thanks" to Daniel. We stole three mo-pads. Howard, of all people, noticed. Soon, we were being chased after again. We lost them, and next stop was Grand Rapids, MI.

Our mo-pads broke down halfway down the main stretch, 28th St., and we walked down to 342 Aurora St., where Daniel said the Molnar family who had picked me up lived. Mercedes stopped at a BP, but soon we were off. When we got there, we found Chris playing with this kid named Joey. Chris told his mom the situation, and all five of us biked off, on the Molnars bikes, and Joey brought his. They showed us down to a creek, where we ditched the bikes and hid. Soon, Howard and Quinn (Sarah had stopped in Ohio) came down. Chris had a cell phone, and he called 911. Soon, Howard was under arrest, as well as me, Mercedes, Quinn, Daniel, Chris and Joey. In not too long, we were all being tried in court.

Daniel, Joey and Chris were all off the hook pretty quick, and they all found their way home somehow. Mercedes was off, and she went back to my house. Quinn found his way back to the police force in Boston, but me and Howard were transferred, after we were both equally found guilty by the Jury. We went to Boston.

The lawyers argued, I fell asleep, I was awakened, I told my story, I fell asleep again, and Howard was found guilty, in that order. I was let go. Mercedes was waiting for me at the courthouse. We drove off in the rental car Mercedes had. Soon we were back on good old Northern St., the street I was on. But Mercedes knew something I didn't; the paparazzi was eager to get the story. Half of the motorcycles were parked in front of that family that, in being "good American citizens" told the reporters a bunch of lies about me being a German spy, a neo-nazi, and a gang leader. Thankfully, those were just the tabloids. The newspaper people crowded around my house had done permanent damage to my front door, killed my doorbell, and were chanting "Let Us In!!" Me and Mercedes snuck in the back door and rested.

I thought, though, everything was okay, but what about The Myth Of the Sheltering Mushroom. I also thought about something else. I had worked at the volunteer police force, and The Myth Of The Sheltering Mushroom was a code word (sorry, but I can't tell you here. The Boston Police would sue me.). Duh!! Then I got an idea. Mercedes was asleep, so she wouldn't mind if I borrowed her MxPx CD. I got my two mega surround sound speakers, put them in front of the door, turned up the volume to max, ran into the attic, dragged Mercedes with me, and using the remote, I turned it on. Many a reporter lost their hearing that day.

I could here the song "I'm Okay, You're Okay" more than clearly up in the well insulated attic. Mercedes woke up. She glared at me, and with the remote, I turned it off. We went down, opened the door, and saw mo-pads blown into the deli's windows, disgruntled and deaf reporters, and the American family, all of them needing hearing aids. What wonders MxPx could do. If those reporters dared to come back, I would book MxPx for a concert.

Mercedes, though, had been talking with me about our wedding. MIT had mailed me, saying I could finish my post-doc later, so me and Mercedes wedding was the next day, September 1. It was a great wedding. MxPx was the main attraction.

To go to my actual website go to: http://www.oocities.org/SunsetStrip/Birdland/7659/chris.html