Jeremy Phillips sat back in his chair, feet propped upon the table, his eyes glued upon the news. On live TV police were busy lifting a colorful, drenched, serpentine creature out of the river. Upon resting the body upon the banks, one investigator lifted the creature's headpiece off, revealing the bloated and pale young man inside.

"This is Barbara Stanford coming to you live from the Potomac River, D.C. where police have just discovered the remains of Tony Lopez, found dead in the costume that made him famous to children all over the country. Known to many as "Derrick the Dragon", Lopez is the fourth kid's show emcee found murdered in the past five months . . . ."

The phone rang. Jeremy's wife Lana lifted the receiver and handed it to him. They both knew who it was.

"Hello?" said Jeremy.

"Kee-risst! Jeremy, are you seeing what I'm seeing on TV right now?"

"As a matter of fact, Bill, I am. Four in five months. How's Reggie handling it?"

"He's pretty shaken, I mean, like, who wouldn't be? We're taping a show right now, I guess he's doing okay with the kids and all. How about coming down so we can talk after today's run?"

"Sure, I'll be there within the hour." He hung up and looked over at Lana. "Bill's running headless about this murder thing. I need to go down and keep him and Reggie calm. Tuck the kids in for me, will you hon?"

"No prob, dear," she replied, sitting up and straightening her blouse. "It's almost their bedtime anyway. She leant over and kissed him. "Don't be up too late, now."

"I'll try," he replied, and made his way out to the car. The station wagon sputtered and farted black smoke, then chugged its way down the quiet lane.

Jeremy Phillips had seen quite a few strange things in his thirty-four years. He had lived through the Age of Barney (a.k.a The Purple Holocaust), which he felt could prepare him for anything. Once he had found Lana, fathered two beautiful kids, and landed a job as a programming consultant for a childrens' television station, he thought he could put it all behind him. But he had an uneasy feeling something was afoot. He parked his car at the station and walked into Studio C, filming area for "Chester Owl and Friends".

Reggie was downing a glass of bourbon when Jeremy walked in, still wearing his owl costume. He looked up and mumbled a nervous hello and stared ahead at the wall. Bill, the director and co-producer of the show approached Jeremy.

"There are only so many more kid-show hosts in this town," began Bill. "If they don't catch who's responsible, Reggie may be next. Then what? No more Chester Owl and television grants!"

"Let's get him out of town for awhile," whispered Jeremy. "We can carry the ratings on a few weeks worth of reruns. Kids love Chester, they'll get along fine until he gets back."

Jeremy never thought he'd be consultant for a kid's show of all things. Not after the horror that the Purple One had brought upon the world. But then Jeremy had figured that the whole problem was not a kids' show, but how it was done. It was his idea to have the emcee be modeled after a real creature, not a mythical or extinct one. The owl symbolized wisdom, common sense, and most kids liked the feathery, wide-eyed features of Chester. But most importantly, Chester never made false gestures of love or unconditional acceptance. This set him apart distinctly from the Beast of Purple, who had used such gestures to sway and warp children's minds until they were programmed disciples. Not to mention Chester didn't giggle excessively, smile idiotically, or talk in a moronic fashion. It was these qualities that had gained "Chester Owl and his Friends" tremendous praise from critics and families alike.

But now the recent kid-show murders had put a damper on things. First victim was Melissa Mouse, who was found beaten to death under one of the prop pieces for her show. A few weeks later came Magical Merlin of the Wonder Universe, who was pushed down an elevator shaft in his own apartment building. The last one before Derrick the Dragon was Doogie Dog, who had been run over consecutively by a heavy diesel truck. Who was doing this and why was anyone's guess, Jeremy was absolutely clueless.

Moments later they got Reggie into a van, the venerable owl was quite inebriated but insisted on driving home on his own. Jeremy demanded that he call upon getting home, then the next day they'd book him for a flight back home. As the van drove off, Jeremy and Bill became aware of someone else in the studio. They looked up and met the blistery gaze of Thorton Marshall, one of the creative consultants of "Chester" and the least liked employee of the staff.

"Take it easy now," he said with a mild sneer. He walked down the stairwell and fixed his thick glasses upon the two men. "I was just watching the great creative genius at work. Such concern you show for your employees, Mr. Phillips. Pity those other kid-show creatures didn't have you around, most may be alive today. But I imagine if you have the gall to blow away some fat purple dinosaur who never did you an ounce of harm I suppose-"

"What the hell are you chiming on, Marshall?" said Bill, his wrinkled brow flashing red. "How many times do I have to tell you never to bring up that bloated sack of-"

"Sorry, just forgot," smiled Marshall. "You know, Jeremy, there are quite a few people out there now who claim the so-called Great Act of Love and the Purple Holocaust never occurred. That it was all fabricated, and you are one of the biggest liars around."

"You are absolutely pathetic, Thorton," stammered Jeremy. "Get out now if you want to have an office tomorrow. One more word out of you and you can kiss your poorly-earned paycheck goodbye!"

"Point taken, Mr. Phillips," said Marshall, backing towards the rear of the studio. "I don't know what made me say such terrible things." The next instant Thornton had gone downstairs.

"You gonna be okay, pal?" asked Bill, resting his hand on Jeremy's shoulder.

"I'm gonna be fine."

"Let's go grab a small bite and drink," suggested the older man, "then we'll call Reggie later on and see if he made it back okay." The two went outside and down to a roadside tavern.

Thorton Marshall was by definition, a fanatic. Not drugs, not cars, not women, not even money. Though he was rich, he didn't exclaim his wealth upon such material items or possessions. Rather, he was an eclectic gatherer of forbidden objects, items that were banned or prohibited from cultured society. When he had heard his two co-workers leave, he scampered down to the vaults, where voice/retina access scanners opened up his private cache. He leeringly fingered the contents inside, and pressed them tightly against his face and body in the darkness of the deserted studio. He lit an antique torch and looked the doors outside the vault. Again he cradled himself against the vault's contents . . . .

A plush, purple Barney doll. A Baby Bop blanket. Several pirated Barney and Friends videos. A "Barney's Greatest Hit's" CD. Barney balloons, lunch boxes, tote bags (with the infamous lead paint), books, comics, figurines, party favors, and of course, the ever-lovin' Barney SONGBOOK and TAPE. He pulled out a recorder and placed the tape in. Syrupy, flimsy music chimed out of the speaker and flooded the vault . . . . I love you, you love me, we're a happy family, With a great big hug and kiss from me to you, won't you say you love me too?

"Yes, yes, oohhh Gooddddd, YES!! I love you Barney, I love youuuuu!!" squealed the man, reeling in orgasmic frenzy and sweating excessively. "Oh do I love you, let me love you for now and forever, my friend Barney, be mine, be mine forever!!"

The next instant, Thorton Marshall shrieked in ecstatic abandon and collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

It wasn't until he saw passing motorists' amused expressions that Reggie realized he was still wearing Chester Owl's bodysuit. Damn, he thought, how embarassing. Still, he was almost home and then he could let his bosses know he had made it home okay. In some ways he hoped the police could be more available, the idea of an armed patrol surrounding his house sounded comforting.

Suddenly, he felt the car lurch from under him, and he heard a tremendous hissing sound. The van fought him for control and weaved into a thick old tree by the side of the road. The collision shook Reggie out of the seat and onto the floor. When the dust cleared, he picked himself up and went out to review the damage. Both front tires where shredded to thick shards of rubber.

"Damn, damn, why now?" grumbled the emcee. As he was ready to start walking home, he saw a pair of headlights approaching in the distance.

Within seconds a huge purple van had pulled up alongside the wreck. There were two people (?) in the front, but it was so dark Reggie couldn't make out their features. The driver seemed to be pretty obese, though.

"My goodness, it appears that you're in a wreck!" said a low, dopey voice. It sounded faintly familiar to Reggie.

"Good drivers and passengers always wear their seat-belts!" giggled another voice. It was oddly familiar as well.

"Uh, hey, do I know you guys? Maybe you could give me a ride home or something?"

"Why, absolutely!" chirped the bigger passenger. "I sense you and I are going to be Special Friends. And do you know what I want to give you?"

"Uh, look man, all I want is a ride, I don't need any gifts," muttered Reggie, who was still trying to remember where he had heard that voice before.

"I want to give you a stuuupppeeennnddouuuss hug! Then we'll take you home, won't we?"

"Oh yes, I weally like to wide in cars!" squeaked the shadowy passenger.

"Oh cripes, let's just do it. Here's your hug and let's go . . . ." the man walked over to the driver's side and leaned into the window. Fat purple arms enveloped him and Reggie caught a glimpse of gleaming, perfect white teeth. On the passenger's side beamed a pair of bright blue and starry eyes. Weren't there a couple of dinosaurs on television a long time ago who had-

"Oh God, let me go you fat purple bastard!"

The man was pulled in through the driver's window, his legs thrashed desperately against the door. His cries were quickly drowned out by the sound of ominous laughter and as the immense white jaws closed upon his head, all sound was drowned out as his skull was crushed and chewed to hard, grainy chunks. The two passengers feasted upon the dying man's twitching body, and were someone to observe from a safe distance, they might suspect they heard singing . . . .

An hour later the purple van drove off into the night, leaving a puddle of blood and feathers upon the road. Meanwhile, up at the young man's house up the grade, a telephone was ringing into the dead silence.