EDITOR'S NOTE - As all of our columnists are still among the missing, we have once again had resort to Drastic Measures to find someone to fill this space (which would otherwise be given over to the [largely unintelligible] fortnightly report of First Selectman Wenny Snowjob, for which there seems to be even less public enthusiasm than there is for this column). As your Editor has better things to do than to strong-arm reluctant citizens into writing a column read by only nine people, he deputized Fire Chief Nylon and his confrere, Third Constable Gulliver Waffleblaster, to act in his stead and to sweep the gutters and back alleys of this fair burg for likely candidates - which they were only too happy to do upon payment (in advance) of a large cask of rum.

As the results of the dragooning were somewhat less than promising individually, your Editor commanded that two of the soberest miscreants be manacled at the ankles and chained to a loveseat in front of the office typewriter, there to remain until they produced at least 600 words of something resembling prose. Their output follows.

ANOTHER FISHING MISHAP - Chief Nylon, it will be remembered, was the instrument by which an Unfortunate Angler was saved from certain dismemberment in the intake tubes of the Vermont Cranky Ante-Nukular Power Plant several weeks ago. The Chief reports, with no little disgust, that he was again called upon to save the selfsame angler from another mishap, also of his own devising.

Whilst taking his monthly bath in the upper lower Dog River just below the outflow pipes of the power plant, where the temperature is a balmy 98.6 degrees year-round, the Chief heard a sound reminiscent of a Seneca twoengine aircraft backing its motors for landing. Lifting his eyes, he beheld the spectacle of what appeared to be an inflatable life raft hurtling over the top of the power dam. Clapping his telescope to his best eye, the Chief discerned that the raft was, in fact, a set of inflatable waders enclosing the caterwauling corpus of the Angler of Frost Road. Not only that, but attached to the angler by 50 feet of 250-pound test line was the Bung King of Northfield wearing a jetpack on his back and water skis on his feet, chortling and whooping.

With a mighty splash the angler landed a mere 38 feet from Chief Nylon, raising a geyser that doused the Bung King's rocket and sent that worthy plummeting into one of the Pet Casket King's wickiwacki trees on the opposite bank. As the Chief was wiping water from his eyes, the inflated angler sped past as though propelled by a jet pack. Reaching for his ever-present harpoon, the Chief speared the blubbering object and hauled it to safety. When the angler ceased his noise-making, he advised Chief Nylon that he had donned the second pair of waders purchased from the late lamented Milly Bays and set out to reduce the piscine population of the upper lower Dog. For protection from pyrates known to have been observed in the stretch of river in which he intended to frolic, the angler continued, he had tucked his trusty .357 magnum into his waistband - a mistake, as things turned out, for, turning his ankle on a rock, the angler lost his balance, and flailing his arms and legs, managed to pull, yet again, the red strap which led to instant inflation (and set off another round of flares), and, far worse, to cause the pistol to fire. The bullet tore a hole in foot of the waders, causing the angler to spin 180 degrees and head down river headfirst, straight for the intake tubes.

Fortunately for the angler, the Bung King was in the yard of his mill leading his employees in their daily round of calisthenics (which were always accompanied by the company cheer). Hearing the shrieking and seeing its source, the Bung King hastily donned his jet pack, grabbed the emergency fishing pole from its case outside the front door, and blasted into the air to save the day. Casting his line, the Bunk King snagged the foot of the waders, but the dead weight of the angler and the speed of his deflation failed to stop the onrush toward the tubes, and all appeared lost. In desperation the Bung King gave a last hard yank on the line and swerved his catch into the only clear channel between the tubes - which, unfortunately, caused him to shoot over the top of the 50-foot high dam. Luckily for the angler, there was enough air left in the waders to prevent him being dashed to pieces upon impact.

After hauling the angler to shore and bringing down the Bung King from the tree (again by means of his harpoon), the Chief returned to the pleasure of his bath and his monthly frolic with the rubber duckies.