"In time," says Bud, "such things will not concern you.  Like me, you will become so powerful that even death cannot eliminate you."

    "Cool," you say.  "Can Merv be on our side?"

    "Merv?" says Bud, sounding disgusted.  "His type of low-life scum have no place in the coming age of the true Powells.  ...Soon you will learn to forsake old friends so that you may devote all of your time to plotting and exacting evil diabolical plans -- and in your spare time you will smoke rigor mortis fishsticks as I do.  And as soon as I get the call from Gorton's I'll be back on the air as the Gorton Fisherman, and you can be my sidekick."

    "Your sidekick?"

    "Yeah, 'The Gorton Blubber Boy' or something like that.  I've got lots of ideas written down in the cottage somewhere."

    "Can I be on Webster instead?" you ask.

    "Webster?!" scoffs Bud.  "What a waste of programming time!  Time that could be used hocking fishsticks!"

    "Oh," you say.  "Uh, and what about chicks?  Do these diabolical plans include scoring with, like, Katie or at least, you know, Anna?"

    "The untrained mind has such distractions," says Bud.  "But soon you will learn to cleanse your mind of longings for such things.  Soon other people's harm and crusty fishsticks will be your only concerns."

    "Uh... what about donuts?  Do we get donuts every so often or what?"

    "Brad, you are a very disappointing son."

    "Well, sorry I don't live up to your standards... Dad!" you snap angrily.

    "Maybe I shouldn't have brought you out here at all," says Bud.

    "Maybe so," you say.

    Bud turns the boat around and brings you back to the shore.

    "Look," says Bud.  "If you don't want to follow in your father's evil footsteps... that's... that's your choice.  I wish it could have worked out, but clearly we value different things in life... and that's OK."

    "Sorry I won't be joining you in your evil mission of retribution," you tell Bud.

    "It's OK," says Bud.  "Here... take a fishstick for the road."

    He hands you a rigor mortis fishstick from deep inside his slicker pocket.

    "Thanks," you say.  "...Dad."

    He slaps your shoulder and nods.

    You walk off into the boathouse, and crawl through the secret passage back to the basement.

    When you emerge, Merv is there looking around.

    "Hi, Merv," you say.

    "Marty!  There you are!" says Merv cheerfully.  "...Hey, what's that you got there, a cigar?"

    "Sort of," you say.  "Wanna try it?"

    "I'm game," says Merv.

    You hand the rigor mortis fishstick to Merv.  He sniffs it, and looks at you funny, but then takes out some matches from his pants and lights the end of it.

    Instantly the fishstick explodes, blowing Merv's head right off.

    When the smoke from the explosion clears, you see Merv's body still standing.

    You approach it and discover that his neck has produced a small sheet of paper -- it's a print-out.

    It says:

        M. E. R. V. unit damaged.

         Please bring to Radio Shack for repairs.