The Last Big Stick-Up

THE LAST BIG STICK-UP
The Puffy Stickers Edition
by Dave White
Gift of Inspiration - Jim Rondeau
Story Editor - Melody Rondeau
Music by - Mark Mancina
Engine Wrangler - TSgt. Ernie Burd, USAFR
Executive Producer - Ponsonby Britt, O.B.E.


Chip took careful aim with his sucker dart pistol as he considered the latest news. Gadget had rightly pointed out that she seemed to always end up using the sucker darts and plunger harpoons, and Chip could only agree that he should shoulder some of the burden of the Rescue Ranger’s protection. Monty was a good shot, but he preferred to use his muscles instead of a weapon. Dale was - well, Dale. Not to be trusted with loaded weapons, even non-lethal ones. And Zipper simply didn’t possess the size or strength. A bazooka his size would not even cause a decent distraction. Despite his so-far high target score, Chip was distracted by a story he had heard over the radio earlier that morning.

“Why would anyone steal fifty tons of flypaper?” Chip mused aloud as he shot the sucker dart onto the nine-ring, a bit low.


“Maybe there’s a shortage of Post-It Notes?” Dale volunteered.

Chip was so deep in thought he didn’t even try to bonk Dale on the head. “Someone is planning a bigger crime. But I can’t imagine what you could steal using fifty tons of flypaper.”

“Chipper,” Monterey Jack whispered, “go a little easy on that particular noun. Yer making me little pally queasier than a Swiss admiral in a spring storm.”

True enough, Zipper was hovering with one hand against the wall to support himself, looking considerably greener than his normal complexion.

“Oh! Sorry, Zipper,” Chip said. “I guess that would be a bit much for a fly.”


“Golly! This is terrible!” Gadget cried. She had been passing the T.V. set and a news item had caught her attention.

“What is it? What happened?” Chip asked.

“There’s an engine missing!”

“Maybe it just needs a tune-up.” Dale suggested.

Chip clapped his hand over Dale’s mouth without missing a beat. “Who’s missing an engine?”


“The Air Museum at Castle Air Force Base. They reported a B-36 engine missing this morning.”

“Don’t get all worked up, Gadget-luv,” Monty said. “They keep spare engines for all their planes.”

“Golly, Monty, there aren’t any more of these. There are only a few working B-36 engines in the world. They’re all antiques and parts are almost impossible to get. It’d be just awful to lose one.”

I’m not sure this is our kind of case,” Chip said. “The police should be able to find those crooks.”

“Not if they’re looking for human crooks,” Gadget said, pointing at the TV. “Look down by the detective’s feet.”

There, unnoticed by the humans, were a cluster of pawprints. Cat’s paw prints.

“You’re right, Gadget,” Chip cried, “I’ll bet it’s Fat Cat’s gang. But what could they do with a fifty year old airplane engine?”

“I know!” Dale declared. “They could use it with the flypaper and make the world’s biggest flypaper airplane!”

Chip nailed Dale between the ears. “That’s an entirely different case! The flypaper will probably turn up on some loading dock somewhere.”


“You’re just jealous because I can come up with reasons for stealing it and you can’t.” Dale stated.

“Those aren’t reasons!” Chip said, exasperated. “Those are the ravings of a lunatic!”

“And it’d be loony to steal all that flypaper,” Dale said smugly. “So I’m on the right track!” He gave Chip a generous raspberry.

“All right!” Chip said. “If your such a good loony detective, you go find out what happened to the flypaper.” Chip sidled over to Gadget and slipped his arm around her shoulders. “I’ll go with Gadget and find out who stole that airplane engine.”

“Hey!” Dale protested.

“It was your idea,” Chip reminded him.

“Then you should take Monty as a chaperone... er, in case you have to move somethin’ heavy,” Dale insisted.

“But that’ll leave you to look for that truck alone,” Monty said. “No, Monty,” Zipper buzzed. “I’ll go with Dale.”


Zipper was, in fact, quite articulate, and could make himself perfectly understood as long as his teammates weren’t overly stressed or panicking. He had begun to wonder if the language barrier he often collided with was all at the mammal end.

“Dale and I made a good team when we tangled with Bela Nogudnik’s spies,” Zipper reminded them. “And I think I’ve been too dependent on the rest of you. I’d like to find out if I can be a good detective on my own.”

“You won’t be on your own Zipper,” Dale said. “I’ll be right with ya.”

Zipper turned back to the other Rangers “Like I said...”

“Are you sure you wanna do this, lil’ pally?” Monty asked. “I mean, you’re going to be looking for flypaper.”

“What kind of Rescue Ranger would I be if I couldn’t face my fears?” Zipper buzzed.

“Okay, then,” Chip said. “Fat Cat wouldn’t have left many clues at the airfield. We’ll go check out his office at the cat food factory. You and Dale check out the Burns Brothers Truck Stop up on Highway 101. That’s the last place the flypaper was seen.”

“Just catch any truck heading, north, Dale,” Monty said. “None of ‘em will pass up the Burns Brother’s coffee.”

In unison they declared, “Rescue Rangers Away!”

* * *

In about an hour and a half, Monty’s prediction proved correct. The freight truck Dale and Zipper had hitched a ride on came to a stop in the vast parking lot of the Burns Brothers Truck Stop. They climbed down from the undercarriage and took a look around.


“Should we look for clues, Zipper?” Dale asked.

“We won’t find many clues with all this traffic,” Zipper hummed thoughtfully. “We should try to find a witness who saw the truck.”

“I know!” Dale said. “Let’s try the restaurant!”

“Dale,” Zipper warned, “we’re here to investigate, not eat.”

“Maybe a snack?”

“Maybe later.”

They made their way to the restaurant, ducking under trailers and avoiding moving trucks. Zipper saw a pair of pick-up trucks parked just outside the entrance. A golden retriever sat in one truck bed, a bloodhound in the other, watching the traffic.

“Excuse me,” Zipper buzzed. “Have you seen...?” The bloodhound took a lazy swipe at Zipper, which he easily avoided. “Hey!”

“Hmmmm?” said the bloodhound. “Dumpsters ‘er ‘round back.”

“Hi!” Dale said as he caught up. “I’m Dale, and this is Zipper. We’re Rescue Rangers.”

“I’ve heard tell ‘o you folks,” said the retriever. “Kind-hearted, helpful busybodies. I’m Harley, an’ that there’s Roy.”

“How do?” Roy said. “Sorry ‘bout taking a swing at ya there, Sonny. Force ‘o habit.”

“I've gotten used to it,” Zipper droned. “Are you two actually from the South? Your license plates say California.”

“Well, I’m from Pasadena,” Harley explained. “But Roy here is gen-u-inely southern. He’s from Anaheim.”

“Why do you sound like you’re from South Carolina?” Zipper asked.

“It’s from ridin’ in the back of a pick-up truck,” Roy answered. “Jes’ somthin’ ‘bout it.”

“Yep. Like the Highway Patrol.” Harley said. “Y’know how they all sound southern?” he confided. “It’s them mirror sunglasses and the ‘Smokey Bear’ hat. Any-hoo, what kin we do for ya?”

“We’re investigating a missing truck,” Dale said.

“Lil’ fella,” Roy said, “trucks don’t go missin’. They get lost, misdirected, rerouted, reassigned, and just plain parked outta the way. But a sixty foot semi tractor-trailer rig does not go missin’. It’s too dang big!”

“This one was carrying fifty tons of flypaper,” Zipper said. “Did you see it?”

“Sure, I seen it,” Harley said. “Eight and a third tons per roll. Six rolls on a double flatbed rig. Pulled by an orange ‘88 Freightliner, they was.”

“We notice pert’neer everythin’ that rolls through here,” Harley explained. “Not much else to do with the boss havin’ coffee inside. Oops, ‘scuse me.” Roy and Harley took up vigorous barking at a passing truck.

“What’s all that about?” Dale asked as he pulled his fingers out of his ears.

“Tradition,” Roy said. “That’s a Mack truck. We always bark at Macks ‘cause of the hood ornament.”

Dale turned and saw that the huge truck’s hood was adorned with a chrome plated bulldog as big as he was.

“What about the flypaper?” Zipper whirred, trying to get back on track.

“It was on the truck,” Harley said.

Zipper slapped his forehead in frustration. He resolved then and there to let Chip absorb the aggravation of questioning mammals.

“Bet you don’t remember where the truck went,” Zipper said.

“Bet I do,” Roy responded.

“Betcha don’t!”

“Bet I do!”

“You don’t!”

“I do! I remember the Second Battle of Bull Run an’ I hadn’t even been born yet! They was re-die-rected to Tehachapi Pass. I seen some scraggledy gray cat switch the bill ‘o lading.”

“That sounds like Mepps, and that means Fat Cat!” Dale exclaimed.

“How can we get there?” Zipper asked.

“Hitch a ride on Billy Bob Joe Jean Wilson’s Peterbuilt, yonder,” Harley said. “He’s got a tanker fulla’ apple juice an’ he’s a’ headin’ up there any minute now.”


“Apple juice?” Zipper thrummed, his tongue lolling out at the mention of his favorite beverage. He took off toward the truck which was just beginning to pull out of the lot. “Thanks for your help! Come on, Dale!”

“What about a snack!?” Dale protested.

“Have some apple juice!” Zipper called. They both dashed for the truck.

* * *

Gadget landed the RangerPlane atop the head of the giant smiling cat that secretly housed the offices of Fat Cat’s criminal empire. The Rangers quickly made their way to a vantage point above Fat Cat’s office.

“It’s so quiet,” Gadget said. “I don’t think anyone’s here.”

“Too right, Gadget-luv,” Monty said. “It’s still as a frozen sloth.”

“Let’s get down there and look for clues,” Chip said. “They must have left some evidence of what they’re up to.”

The three Rangers slid to the floor on a length of twine and fanned out to search. Gadget checked Fat Cat’s desk.

“Chip! Over here! This is part of the technical order for a 3,800 horsepower Pratt & Whitney R-4360-53 radial!”


“I’ll bet that’s very important in English,” Monty huffed.

“It’s the manual for the B-36 engine,” Gadget retorted. “Fat Cat must have stolen it.”

“Maybe it’s hidden around here,” Chip said.

“I don’t think so,” Gadget said. “The propeller alone is over eighteen feet across. It couldn’t be here.”

“Here’s something, Chipper,” Monty called. “It was stuffed under the pool table.”

“It’s a highway map,” Chip said, as he smoothed out the wrinkles. “Or a part of one. The top corner’s been torn off.”

“It’ll take forever to search all that territory,” Monty said. “Can’t we narrow it down?”

“Maybe,” Chip said. “This curving pencil line out of the northwest from the Central Valley must have something to do with it. A weather front, or maybe an airplane route. These other two pencil lines look like they’d form an ‘X’ on that part of the map.”

“Golly, Chip. That’s grid location B-14 by G-49!”

“Ya only need I-5 for a Bingo,” Monty said flatly.

“Oh, no, Monty,” Gadget assured. “Interstate Five is too far west to figure into this.”

“What’s at that grid location, Gadget?” Chip asked.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she answered. “But we can fly there and take a look.”

“Okay!” Chip said. “We’ll find that engine and beat Dale. I mean, alert the police. Rescue Rangers Away!”

* * *

Fat Cat was indulging one of his favorite pastimes. Premature self-congratulations. He had scheme and he was going to enjoy every second of it. His gang toiled to bring his plan into readiness before he lost his temper. On one side of pass sat the purloined Pratt & Whitney engine on a makeshift engine mount. On the other were rank after rank of crudely built wooden frames with giant sheets of flypaper stretched between them.


“Now then,” Fat Cat considered. “The airplane engine is fueled and in place. As soon as you three finish unrolling that flypaper on to the supports, we’ll be ready to spring my trap.”

“But what are we gonna do with a bunch of flies?” asked Mepps, the same scraggledy gray cat that had diverted the flypaper.

“We aren’t going to trap flies, you lame-brain,” Fat Cat snarled. “We are after a rarer delicacy whose untimely end should be just in time for a timely luncheon.”

“What about the Rescue Rangers, boss?” Mole asked.

“Those wretched Rangers don’t even know we’re up here,” Fat Cat said.

“They’ll know as soon as they see us, boss,” he replied, pointing into the sky.

“WHAT!”

Fat Cat spotted the RangerPlane sailing up the pass from the south and smiled wickedly.

“Oh, this is just too perfect,” he said gleefully. “It looks like we’ll get to test my plan before the main event.” He turned to his gang and pointed to the stolen Pratt & Whitney. “Gentlemen, start your engine!”

“These are the map coordinates, Chip,” Gadget reported. “The Tehachapi Pass.”

“Kinda desolate,” Monty observed. “Dry, brown and empty. Makes a fella homesick.”

“I don’t see any sign of Fat Cat,” Chip said, scanning the ground with binoculars. “The pass must run for miles through the mountains. We’d better... Gadget! Nine ‘O Clock!”

“No, Chip. It’s only quarter past one.”

There wasn’t time to tell Gadget he meant an “on the clock,” direction, not the chronograph. A cloud of dust and hurricane-force wind tumbled the RangerPlane out of control. The wild ride slipped the Rangers free of their seat belts and sent them plunging toward the ground. They were saved from a fatal impact by a vast area of off-white paper. They stuck to it instantly. Tugging and struggling didn’t gain them an inch.

“We’ve got a problem,” Gadget said. “We’ve been attached to an enormous sheet of highly adhesive insecticide alternative.”

“Does that mean we found the missing flypaper?” Monty asked.

“You got it, Monty,” Chip said. “It looks like I won my bet with Dale.”

“I hope you get the chance to collect,” Monty said. “Look who’s comin’”

Only one thing got Fat Cat to move faster than a chance to gloat over a helpless enemy. That was the chance to take revenge on a helpless enemy. He danced in utter delight as he approached.


“Wonderful! Marvelous! And any other vintage song cues I might come up with,” Fat Cat raved. “Rescue Rangers right where they belong. On the menu.”

“You won’t get away with it Fat Cat,” Chip boldly insisted. “Whatever ‘it’ is.”

Fat Cat smiled wickedly. “It, you annoying chipmunk, is the culinary coup d’ etat of decade. We are right alongside the flight path of one of the Earth’s great flying delicacies, the Thumbnail Hummingbird.”

“They’re an endangering species, aren’t they?” Gadget queried.

“You mean endangered species, and they AREN’T.” Fat Cat stated. “There’s millions of them. They’re almost never caught because they’re masterful fliers, as small as my paw and fast as lightning. But with MY brilliant plan, I’ll be able to stuff myself with the little flitters and floss my teeth with their snooty little scarves!”

“They wouldn’t be migrating at this time of year,” Chip insisted.

“They’re not,” Fat Cat said. “They’re following the air show circuit. They attend every air show on the west coast and spend the winter in Florida.”

“But if they’re such little squirts,” Monty asked, “how are you gonna catch enough to make a meal?”

“By working in volume, my rotund rodent,” Fat Cat replied. “That big airplane engine will blast them right out of the pass and into my flypaper traps. All I have to do then is...” he struck a match, squirted lighter fluid from a can, and ignited it like the stream from a flamethrower. “...Flaming Death! Once they’re nicely flambéd, I’ll enjoy them at my little bistro table with clarified butter. Maybe some fava beans and a nice Chianti.”

“Ordinarily, I’d be very angry with you Rescue Rangers for trying to, heh heh, ‘foul’ my plans. But in this case I guess I can afford to leave a little space in the flypaper for your obituaries.” He held up the burning match like a tiki torch, an inch from their faces. “You’ll make a nice crispy appetizer!”

* * *

Billy Bob Joe Jean Wilson’s Peterbuilt delivered Zipper and Dale to the rest stop at the summit of the Tehachapi Pass exactly as Harley the retriever had said. The pair took to the high ground of a light pole to get a view of the area.

“I don’t like this, Dale,” Zipper whispered. “I feel cold. Death.”

Dale gasped. “Is it a tremor in the Dark Side of the Force?”

“Worse. It’s flypaper.”

“Are you sure?”

“There’s two things no fly ever mistakes,” Zipper confided. “The fragrance they put in ‘Raid,’ and the smell of flypaper.”

“Look up there!” Dale cried, pointing into the distance. “I can see Fat Cat, and he’s got Chip, Monty and Gadget stuck to the stolen flypaper!”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s either the flypaper or another pop sculpture by the guy who did ‘Running Fence.’”

A deep, rhythmic thrumming began to rise, so powerful Dale and Zipper could feel it vibrate their insides. Just becoming visible in the distance, endless waves of Thumbnail Hummingbirds started up the pass. Clad in goggles and military style crash helmets, they held perfect formation.

Zipper looked at the birds, at the gigantic trap, saw what Fat Cat’s intentions were, and came up with a way to stop him. Maybe.

“Dale!” Zipper buzzed urgently. “Get up there and get the others loose. I’ll try to stop Fat Cat’s gang.”

“How!?” Dale hollered. “How am I going to get them off that flypaper? I could hurt ‘em pulling them loose!”

“I don’t know,” Zipper responded. “Think of something!”

“Zipper! I’m not smart enough to think of somethin’!”


“Pretend you’re smart! Most people won’t know the difference!” With that, Zipper flew up the pass at top speed. Dale, with desperation his only guide, headed for the flypaper.

Fat Cat’s mismatched thugs had shut down the engine after the Rangers had been captured. Zipper flew directly to the nearest one, Wart the lizard, and gave him a thumbs-by-the-antenna raspberry to start the party.

“It’s that bug Ranger!” Wart shouted. “Get him!”

True to form, the inept crooks grabbed the nearest thing to swat at Zipper with. They tore off big sheets of flypaper and began swinging. Flypaper left quietly on a surface was a silent and dangerous trap for a fly. But when used as a flyswatter, it was slow and easy to avoid and a much greater hazard to the swatter than the swattee. In a few seconds of speedy maneuvering, Zipper had the crooks well stuck to their own flypaper and out of commission. He looked across the pass with a sense of urgency. If only Dale had the rest of the Rangers loose...

Dale had charged up the slope constantly chanting a mantra that was new to him. “Gotta think of somethin’! Gotta think of somethin’!” and sounding a bit like a tiny steam engine in the process. He climbed the leg of Fat Cat’s bistro table, the closest high point to his friends, and looked around frantically for inspiration.

“Dale!” Chip shouted when he spotted his partner, “get us outta here!”

Dale ignored the call. “Salt, pepper, melted butter, French mustard, Bearnaise sauce... There’s nothin’ here but food!”

“We’re going to be food if you don’t get us off this flypaper!” Chip bellowed.

Dale was the very picture of chipmunk frustration. “Just a second! I gotta think of somethin’!”

“That’s done it,” Monty said. “The poor lad’s as cracked as a roasted chestnut.”

“Dale!” Gadget yelled, “Look out! Behind you!”

Fat Cat was on his tiptoes, closing in silently on Dale. All at once, Dale did the unexpected. He thought of something. “That’s it!” he shouted, and took off running across the table. He sprang off a serving fork and made a fine high-degree-of-difficulty swan dive into a shallow pitcher. Fat Cat dashed up and fished him out a moment later.


“Nice try, you stripy hors d’oeuvres,” Fat Cat said. “Now, join your friends on the buffet line.” With that, he gave Dale a sidearm toss straight for the flypaper.

The loosely strung flypaper gave like a sheet of rubber when Dale hit, then snapped back. Rather than stick to it, Dale rocketed back at Fat Cat like a rifle shot. Few things short of battleship armor could come out the better from a collision with Dale’s noggin, and Fat Cat wasn’t an exception. The impact of rodent vs. feline heads sent Fat Cat tumbling part way down the slope. Dale landed back on the table near his starting point.

“Dale!” Chip cried in astonishment. “How on earth did you do that?”

“I’ll show you!” Dale replied. He grabbed the handle of the pitcher he had dunked in and began to spin himself like a discus thrower. When he had enough speed, he let the pitcher fly. It struck the flypaper just above his friends, dowsing them with its contents.

“Easy, pally,” Monty yelled. “ You’ll drown us before Fat Cat can eat us.”

“Wait a second,” Gadget said. “I’m coming unstuck! This is melted butter! We're too slippery to stick to the flypaper now! We’ll be free in a jiffy.”

Sure enough, the three Rangers slid swiftly down the sheet to a safe landing. Dale joined them a moment later.

“How’d ya like the plan I thought up!” Dale said.

“I can hardly believe it,” Chip said. “It was brilliant!”

“Ha! fooled ya!” Dale laughed. “I couldn’t think of a brilliant plan. I just pretended I could!”

“You pretended you were brilliant and it worked?” Monty said. “I’m gonna need an aspirin later.”

Dale suddenly looked strangely at Gadget and took several curious sniffs. “Is there something about hot buttered mice?”


“You’re a hero right now,” Gadget warned. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Uh-oh,” Chip said. “Fat Cat’s coming back! What now?”

“RE-lax,” Dale said nonchalantly. “Zipper’s got it covered. Reeely covered.”

Across the pass, Zipper saw his chance. The B-36 engine had been built for a strategic bomber. It was complex, but it started like lightning. Zipper flew up and landed fanny first on the start button. Pistons the size of paint buckets began to cycle. Blue smoke and incredible noise blasted across the landscape. And the biggest piston engine ever to fly put forth its power as Zipper firewalled the throttle. He grabbed onto and spun a control wheel and traversed the engine mount until it pointed at a nearby eight and two-third ton roll of flypaper. The roll spun like a crazed cat toy and the flypaper, for once, flew.

“Oh, Mr. Fat Cat!” Zipper buzzed. “Your paper delivery!”

The unwound roll, blown by 3,800 horsepower, snagged Fat Cat’s mobsters and careened across the pass after the boss himself. The flypaper tangled him into what was fast becoming the world’s stickiest and largest tumbleweed. Flypaper, unfortunately, was meant to hold flies, and it worked acceptably for small rodents. Zipper knew Fat Cat and his mob would be loose in a few seconds, but Zipper wasn’t through yet.

He flew to meet the approaching hummingbirds. He spotted one bird near the front of the formation who wore a gold helmet and whose wings were gray with age, the Air Marshal. Zipper headed for him, flew alongside, and gave a snappy salute.


“Hummingbird-eating bandits at three o’clock, sir,” Zipper reported. The Air Marshal quickly took stock of the situation, saw the trap intended for his fliers, and returned Zipper’s salute with a wink. He gave a wing waggle and peeled out of the formation, tucking his wings into a dive. In their thousands, the squadrons of hummingbirds followed suit. Zipper followed the Air Marshal as well. This was a moment he didn’t want to miss. He sounded the “Charge!” Not the football stadium version, but the rousing cavalry call.

Fat Cat and his henchcritters had barely managed to pull loose from the sticky sheet and get their footing when they became aware of a loud, enraged roar closing in on them. The hummingbirds streaked down on Fat Cat and his gang, using their long needle sharp beaks like lances and driving the gang into the desert.

“Well, Gadget,” Chip noted. “You did warn Fat Cat that Thumbnail Hummingbirds were an endangering species.”

“The hummingbirds are safe,” Gadget said. “Does anyone have an idea how to return the engine to the museum?” At that moment the still-running engine broke loose.

Zipper saw the engine shudder. The improvised mount Fat Cat’s gang had assembled couldn’t restrain the powerful engine at full throttle. It began to drag the mount down the hillside, rapidly gaining speed. Zipper flew to the controls and tried to reverse the throttle, but it had jammed against the stop. The runaway device skidded across the pass, through the lanes of the highway, and charged up the opposite slope, straight for the Rescue Rangers.


The Rangers scattered in time to avoid the propeller, but Dale didn’t get far enough away. The slipstream from the engine caught him and picked him up, dragging him through the air toward the propeller even as his friends tried to catch him. Chip played his final card. He drew his spring pistol and fired. The sucker dart caught Dale and plastered him to the engine mount, out of danger. Zipper began pushing all the buttons on the control panel, cutting the ignition, shutting off the fuel, and shooting off the fire extinguishers for good measure. The engine spun to a halt and slid back down the hill, coming to rest in the middle of the highway and setting off a chain of rear-end collisions.


Gadget framed the scene with her hands, squinting one eye. “Okay! That’s good! They ought to find it there.” The horn blowing and bumper bumping continued.

“Well, Chipper,” Monty said, “what’s the verdict on the bet?”

“I’ve got to hand it to them,” Chip said admiringly. “Zipper and Dale solved both cases and saved the hummingbirds and us to boot.”

“You were the one that saved Dale, though,” Gadget said. “That was great shooting. I told you those sucker darts came in handy for all sorts of things. But where were you carrying that pistol?”

“A good detective,” he answered, “doesn’t reveal his sources. But I’ll tell you what. I’ll tell you where I hid it, if you’ll tell me where you stash your glasscutter.”

“Hummph! Mind your own business!” Gadget huffed.

Chip took a couple of sniffs of the air with a puzzled expression, then leaned over and sniffed Gadget’s hair. “Is there something about hot buttered mice?”

“Don’t you start.”

Dale pulled loose from the sucker dart and shook Zipper’s hand vigorously. “Great work, partner! We really do make a good pair!”



“A good pair will win in a pinch,” Zipper answered. “But the Rescue Rangers work best as five of a kind!”

THE END

COPYRIGHTS AND DISCLAIMERS: Gadget, Chip, Dale, Monterey Jack, Zipper, Fat Cat, Mepps, Mole, Wart, Bela Nogudnik and the Rescue Rangers are © and T.M. The Walt Disney Company and all were employed without permission. Of course, they only agreed in order to get off the flypaper. Post-It Notes is T.M. the 3M Corp. Not recommended as a substitute for flypaper.

All other characters, locations, equipment and situations are © 2001 by David D. White. Permission to copy and redistribute without charge is granted, provided the work is not altered, edited, overreved, saddled with a southern accent as bad as the ones herein, or otherwise fiddled with.

By the way. A chenin blanc is much better with hummingbirds.


www.monikalivingstone.com

AFTERWORD - “The Last Big Stick-Up” came about through an act of generosity. Jim and Melody Rondeau, longtime friends and keepers of Hollywood history, learned early of my indulgence in Rescue Ranger fan fiction. From the misty depths of their garage, Jim uncovered three sets of Rescue Ranger “puffy stickers” made by the Imperial Toy Corp. in Canada, dating back to the original Disney Afternoon run of the series in 1989. He and Melody presented these to me, and I resolved to put them to good use.

I decided to use the images in the same way as a school English assignment where the task was to write a story using all the words on that week’s spelling list. I aimed to write a stroy using all the images in the sticker sets as illustrations. Using a scanner, I could digitize the images without opening the packages. A few stickers had discolored with age, and required touch-ups with Photoshop. Some of these images may be new to Ranger fandom, so I have used high resolution JPEG’s as much as possible.

I hope you’ve enjoyed the story and these illustrations out of the past. Send an E-mail with your comments, good or bad, on any of the stories offered here. This is a labor of love, and a few words from the reader is the only applause we writers ever get.

Dave White

Scribbler At Large

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