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Author's Chapter Notes:
MAY 18, 2009
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"Shit!" I exclaimed: "Not again! I swear, this frigging game must be rigged."

My name is Miles Stone. And, up until four years ago, I was a USAF captain, previously attached to NASA as an astronaut.

I had been playing "Camp Capers," the newest first-person RPG from Nakafusa Games. It was all about this guy (the teenage son of a widowed summer camp director) who gets shrunk to six inches tall by a kryptonite-like meteor. And, he spends the rest of the game trying to avoid everything from great horned owls to horny high school cheerleaders!

The only trouble is, I had already played it forty-nine times before. Yet, no matter what I tried to do differently, in each successive game, the outcome never varied. He--the little guy--still wound up being won, in a game of poker, by a card-sharp debutante!

[Hopefully, I'll have better luck when "Camp Capers II" hits department stores, next Christmas.]

That's when virtual reality reared the ugly head of Myron Meriwether; Director of Operations for the Multi-Agency Counter-Homunculist Organization. Better known as M.A.C.H.O., for short.

Four years earlier, I had been shrunken down to six inches tall as the unexpected result of an experimental space flight (yes, you read that right!). And, M.A.C.H.O. had rescued me from spending the rest of my life as a living dildo to some half-impotent druglord's nymphomaniacal mistresses.* Since then, I had been attending "Kleinmann University." A scale-model replica of Yale University that taught me, and other male "shrinkies," how to readjust.

Just yesterday, I had graduated with honors. So, I was expecting the customary down-time of one week before I would find myself being assigned to field work, alongside some female "normie" as my bodyguard-cum-partner. Evidently, however, Fate was against me in that regard.

"Sorry to interrupt, Captain Stone. But, I need to see you and Ned Fogarty in my office, right away. I'm sending Agent Belmondo to collect the both of you."

Melissa Belmondo, an ex-DEA agent of French Basque descent, was one of the two women who had rescued me from those coke-cartel cuties I mentioned earlier. And, Myron Meriwether had persuaded the three of us to join M.A.C.H.O. as field operatives.

Anyway, the moment I came out of my cyber-telepathic trance, I heard knocking on the detachable roof of my "dormitory." A second later, I went outside to see the smiling face of my favorite auburn-haired giantess.

"How's it going, Mel?"

"Same-old/same-old, Miles. How about yourself?"

"Can't complain! Meriwether doesn't allow it."

"Very funny," commented Ned Fogarty, the former investigative reporter: "But, you know how Myron feels about punctuality. So, could we please get going?"

Mel nodded, and gently picked us up. One in each hand. Five minutes later, we entered Meriwether's office, alongside Gladys Crabtree (an ex-cop from Miami, Florida). They sat down in regular chairs, while Ned and I were placed between them and atop the desk.

"Greetings, ladies and gentlemen," said the portly DOO: "I apologize for accelerating the pairing off process. But, an urgent matter has arisen. One involving this woman."

Meriwether turned to the flat-screen TV fixed to the wall behind his desk. He raised his right hand, and pressed one of the buttons on his remote control. The image that appeared on screen had apparently been reproduced from a driver's license photo. In this case, the picture of a beautiful woman, of Japanese heritage, in her early to mid-thirties.

"Meet Dr. Hana Nozama, of the California Institute of Technology."

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