My long-lost uncle turned up in the middle of the night. His name was Garabond and he was a notorious swindler and cad, thought to have been killed when his plane went down over the Alps.
He wanted to talk.
"I need to talk," he said as I opened the door.
Okay, he needed to talk. I'm sorry for misleading you a few sentences ago.
"What about?" I hoped it would either be about buried treasure or where he had been for the last 8 years. Mostly the former, but I was going through a pirate phase at the time. But I was mildly curious about his whereabouts during his period of disappearance.
"I'm in love." Not what I'd been expecting. "He's a Nepalese biker I met last year, and we're thinking of getting married, and would you mind making a casserole for the reception?" He paused for a moment, then snapped his fingers. "Oh, also, would you mind telling your father? I lost his phone number and I'd love for him to be at the wedding."
At times like this, it's important to keep your cool. "I can tell him, or you can tell him yourself because he's in the living room." I was 14. This was my parents' house. And I was trying to distract from the fact that I had no idea how to make a casserole.
"Who's at the door?" yelled my mother from the living room.
"Uncle Garabond," I almost said, but my uncle looked terrified.
"They're here? I was really hoping they wouldn't be here." He was rummaging around in his coat.
"Where else would they be?"
"Tell her it's the mailman," Uncle Garabond hissed at me, pulling a large fake mustache from an inner pocket and sticking it to his upper lip, where it hung precariously.
"Um... the mailman?" I said, more to my uncle than my mother. Uncle Garabond nodded as he tried desperately to keep the mustache in place with both hands.
"At this time of night?" my father asked, and I heard him getting up from the couch.
"Special delivery," said my uncle in a muffled voice. Well, the voice was both muffled and in a terrible Cockney accent.
My father came into view, took one look at Uncle Garabond, and said, "No. Son, go in the house. Garabond, go away."
I later learned that my uncle and his Nepalese biker husband had moved to Fresno and opened a tapas restaurant. I sent them a casserole when I learned how to make them. It involved cream of mushroom soup.
It's Already Too Late
You wouldn't think it to look at Sophia, but she was just a coconut in a top hat. Everyone claimed it was eldritch magic, but she knew better. She was a spy, an international woman of mystery, and eldritch magic was just part of the cover story.
This story isn't about Sophia. Let her sit there in Prague, being fêted by financiers who longed to woo her but from whom she was stealing secrets and in return offering only vague promises of wild Caribbean nights. She may be the most interesting person in this story, for all that she is just a coconut in a top hat. But leave her there. We can't interrupt her.
This story is instead about the woman Sophia loved but could never be with. For all her globetrotting and espionage, Sophia could never overcome the traditions that bound her. She could never love a human. The coconuts wouldn't approve. And so Mimi, the shy pastry chef, could never know that she was loved. Sophia couldn't bring herself to tell anyone, least of all the object of her forbidden affections.
Mimi, the actual subject of this story, was deeply in love too. But she too couldn't tell anyone, not because they wouldn't approve, but because her love was an ancient wizard of great power who had placed a charm on Mimi forbidding her from ever telling anyone. And so Mimi suffered in silence.
The moral of the story is that sometimes you shouldn't tell people you love them if they're ancient and nigh-omniscient wizards.
Sophia looked at her watch (which she kept in her top hat), excused herself from the table, and five minutes later was rappelling down the side of the hotel toward the fourteenth floor to steal your secrets. Because she told you. Eldritch magic was just part of the cover story. Don't trust coconuts.
This story isn't about Sophia. Let her sit there in Prague, being fêted by financiers who longed to woo her but from whom she was stealing secrets and in return offering only vague promises of wild Caribbean nights. She may be the most interesting person in this story, for all that she is just a coconut in a top hat. But leave her there. We can't interrupt her.
This story is instead about the woman Sophia loved but could never be with. For all her globetrotting and espionage, Sophia could never overcome the traditions that bound her. She could never love a human. The coconuts wouldn't approve. And so Mimi, the shy pastry chef, could never know that she was loved. Sophia couldn't bring herself to tell anyone, least of all the object of her forbidden affections.
Mimi, the actual subject of this story, was deeply in love too. But she too couldn't tell anyone, not because they wouldn't approve, but because her love was an ancient wizard of great power who had placed a charm on Mimi forbidding her from ever telling anyone. And so Mimi suffered in silence.
The moral of the story is that sometimes you shouldn't tell people you love them if they're ancient and nigh-omniscient wizards.
Sophia looked at her watch (which she kept in her top hat), excused herself from the table, and five minutes later was rappelling down the side of the hotel toward the fourteenth floor to steal your secrets. Because she told you. Eldritch magic was just part of the cover story. Don't trust coconuts.
For Dorgistan
You haven't lived until you've flown a jetpack through the plume of an active volcano. That's what they told me as they were strapping the rocket onto my back, at any rate. I maintained that I wouldn't live long enough to appreciate my conquest, and also that this wasn't a jetpack and was more of a discount Lithuanian firework, but they predictably silenced those objections.
As they lit the fuse, I pondered the choices which had led me to this. Should I have joined the space agency of a country which no longer appears on any maps? Possibly not. Should I have believed them when they said that Dorgistan had once been a country but had been cruelly disenfranchised by the Treaty of Klimpt? Well, I certainly could have made a few checks in history books.
Should I have allowed them to give me aptitude tests for space travel which mostly consisted of pouring warm beer over my head and then pushing me down a flight of stairs? No, that was pretty stupid. Once I recovered from my injuries in the testing program, should I have insisted on being given flight status? I had felt I'd earned it at the time, but in hindsight, perhaps the patch on my shoulder wasn't worth it.
Should I have examined the so-called "flight status patch" for signs that it had been impregnated with dangerous levels of horse tranquilizers and black-market hallucinogens? That, with the benefit of knowledge gained, seems likely, but I hadn't known their predilections at the time. Should I have placed the patch on my bare skin? Even they told me that was a bad idea, so while I'm not sure I could have trusted anything they'd ever said, if I were going to have trusted one thing, that might have been it.
Should I have asked to be paid in advance? Yes. I did, in fact. Should I have checked to make sure they'd deposited the pay? Also yes, and also did. Should I have insisted on being paid in Dorgistani currency? No. That was a misstep. Should I have conducted salary negotiations while wearing my flight status patch? That might explain a lot. No, that was also a miscalculation on my part, though in fairness to me, I was extremely convincing to myself in the mirror even though my face was melting and winged demons were eating my skull. It was a power move to wear my patch, I told myself in a beautiful language of my own devising.
But the biggest mistake of all, if I'm being honest, was asking for a longer fuse, because it gave the drugs time to wear off and allowed me to have this lengthy internal monologue. Fear crept in, my rational brain was screaming, and when the rocket blew up as I had been reasonably sure it would, my last thought before the blackness was that I hoped the black box would survive so the noble Dorgistani people would learn something from my sacrifice and perhaps one day find a homeland among the stars, free from the tyranny of the tsar.
As they lit the fuse, I pondered the choices which had led me to this. Should I have joined the space agency of a country which no longer appears on any maps? Possibly not. Should I have believed them when they said that Dorgistan had once been a country but had been cruelly disenfranchised by the Treaty of Klimpt? Well, I certainly could have made a few checks in history books.
Should I have allowed them to give me aptitude tests for space travel which mostly consisted of pouring warm beer over my head and then pushing me down a flight of stairs? No, that was pretty stupid. Once I recovered from my injuries in the testing program, should I have insisted on being given flight status? I had felt I'd earned it at the time, but in hindsight, perhaps the patch on my shoulder wasn't worth it.
Should I have examined the so-called "flight status patch" for signs that it had been impregnated with dangerous levels of horse tranquilizers and black-market hallucinogens? That, with the benefit of knowledge gained, seems likely, but I hadn't known their predilections at the time. Should I have placed the patch on my bare skin? Even they told me that was a bad idea, so while I'm not sure I could have trusted anything they'd ever said, if I were going to have trusted one thing, that might have been it.
Should I have asked to be paid in advance? Yes. I did, in fact. Should I have checked to make sure they'd deposited the pay? Also yes, and also did. Should I have insisted on being paid in Dorgistani currency? No. That was a misstep. Should I have conducted salary negotiations while wearing my flight status patch? That might explain a lot. No, that was also a miscalculation on my part, though in fairness to me, I was extremely convincing to myself in the mirror even though my face was melting and winged demons were eating my skull. It was a power move to wear my patch, I told myself in a beautiful language of my own devising.
But the biggest mistake of all, if I'm being honest, was asking for a longer fuse, because it gave the drugs time to wear off and allowed me to have this lengthy internal monologue. Fear crept in, my rational brain was screaming, and when the rocket blew up as I had been reasonably sure it would, my last thought before the blackness was that I hoped the black box would survive so the noble Dorgistani people would learn something from my sacrifice and perhaps one day find a homeland among the stars, free from the tyranny of the tsar.
The Oldest
The oldest man in the universe was bored. Which made sense, really: if you've lived for as long as he had, you would probably have run through all the things you could possibly do in a life several times over.
He hired me to read the newspaper to him each morning. "My eyes aren't so good any more," he would have explained, but since he spoke a dialect of Akkadian, I wouldn't have understood him even if his vocal chords had still worked, which they didn't. Since his ears weren't so good any more either, it really didn't matter. Mostly he napped.
I went through the stuff in his house. Junk, mostly: moldy pieces of bread, the odd dusty clay tablet with cuneiform on it, and a shocking number of shoes. I guess he saved his shoes, and since he was so old that he'd probably been around since before shoes had been invented, that had given him plenty of time to collect them.
He tried to pay me in copper ingots, but I wouldn't take money. It was part of my community service for spray-painting things on fences. Mostly stuff like, "Hey, get a load of this fence," or, "I don't respect boundaries." Typical punk stuff.
The police only caught me because I got careless and put my name, address, and Social Security Number on a fence I was particularly proud of. I think it said, "Fences are tools of the state to keep us in our yards." Heady stuff.
Anyway, I guess I got my Social Security Number wrong, so the police wanted me to change it, but I claimed that it would lead to people stealing my identity, and then the detective pumped his fist and said, "Gotcha, scumbag!" like on TV. I was just happy to be part of it. They gave me 15 hours of community service and I had to repaint a few fences. Which is how I wound up reading the newspaper to the oldest man in the universe.
I didn't have the heart to tell him that newspapers didn't exist any more, what with the internet killing print journalism and all, but since he couldn't see or hear me, who was really fooling whom?
He hired me to read the newspaper to him each morning. "My eyes aren't so good any more," he would have explained, but since he spoke a dialect of Akkadian, I wouldn't have understood him even if his vocal chords had still worked, which they didn't. Since his ears weren't so good any more either, it really didn't matter. Mostly he napped.
I went through the stuff in his house. Junk, mostly: moldy pieces of bread, the odd dusty clay tablet with cuneiform on it, and a shocking number of shoes. I guess he saved his shoes, and since he was so old that he'd probably been around since before shoes had been invented, that had given him plenty of time to collect them.
He tried to pay me in copper ingots, but I wouldn't take money. It was part of my community service for spray-painting things on fences. Mostly stuff like, "Hey, get a load of this fence," or, "I don't respect boundaries." Typical punk stuff.
The police only caught me because I got careless and put my name, address, and Social Security Number on a fence I was particularly proud of. I think it said, "Fences are tools of the state to keep us in our yards." Heady stuff.
Anyway, I guess I got my Social Security Number wrong, so the police wanted me to change it, but I claimed that it would lead to people stealing my identity, and then the detective pumped his fist and said, "Gotcha, scumbag!" like on TV. I was just happy to be part of it. They gave me 15 hours of community service and I had to repaint a few fences. Which is how I wound up reading the newspaper to the oldest man in the universe.
I didn't have the heart to tell him that newspapers didn't exist any more, what with the internet killing print journalism and all, but since he couldn't see or hear me, who was really fooling whom?
A Traumatic Experience at Sea
I was haunted by a traumatic experience at sea.
Well, to be fair, the experience hadn't happened at sea. But it was within sight of the sea, on a boat. I could smell the sea.
It wasn't really a boat. It was more a pickup truck. But it probably would have floated for a few minutes if I'd kept the windows rolled up.
The truck wasn't running at the time.
In fact, I don't think the truck would have run even if I'd had the key.
Which I didn't. But really, since the engine was missing, there was no need for a key.
The truck was stolen. I admit that.
Not by me. I found the truck.
And it really wasn't a truck as much as it was the bed of the truck.
It was on fire.
I don't like to talk about why the bed of the truck happened to be on fire at that particular moment.
It was very traumatic, and if I couldn't smell the sea because of the fumes from burning plastic, I could have if the plastic had been less on fire at that moment.
And I wasn't really haunted by it. More in awe that I was able to steal that truck bed.
I was tied up at the time, which is why I was in awe. Usually it's difficult to steal trucks that have wheels when you're not completely immobilized. But somehow I managed to steal just the bed, no wheels, without being able to move. Somehow.
I don't remember how.
This is a problem.
When the aliens showed up, they were impressed. I could tell, even though I couldn't understand their language. I suppose I'm a bit haunted by the beauty of their spacecraft.
Well, to be fair, the experience hadn't happened at sea. But it was within sight of the sea, on a boat. I could smell the sea.
It wasn't really a boat. It was more a pickup truck. But it probably would have floated for a few minutes if I'd kept the windows rolled up.
The truck wasn't running at the time.
In fact, I don't think the truck would have run even if I'd had the key.
Which I didn't. But really, since the engine was missing, there was no need for a key.
The truck was stolen. I admit that.
Not by me. I found the truck.
And it really wasn't a truck as much as it was the bed of the truck.
It was on fire.
I don't like to talk about why the bed of the truck happened to be on fire at that particular moment.
It was very traumatic, and if I couldn't smell the sea because of the fumes from burning plastic, I could have if the plastic had been less on fire at that moment.
And I wasn't really haunted by it. More in awe that I was able to steal that truck bed.
I was tied up at the time, which is why I was in awe. Usually it's difficult to steal trucks that have wheels when you're not completely immobilized. But somehow I managed to steal just the bed, no wheels, without being able to move. Somehow.
I don't remember how.
This is a problem.
When the aliens showed up, they were impressed. I could tell, even though I couldn't understand their language. I suppose I'm a bit haunted by the beauty of their spacecraft.
A Minor Skirmish in the Endless War Between Good and Evil
No one told him to be punctual, but there sat Grimp, Demon of the Third Circle, five minutes early. The kid hadn't even been born, but hey, traffic and all, and you never knew.
"Any ETA on that lady?" it asked the nurse. "I thought they were going to induce."
The nurse just shook her head. "I guess they're going natural."
"Pisses me off," growled Grimp, but there wasn't much it could do about it.
In the next town over, the actual target of Grimp, a nondescript baby who would one day defeat Satan's latest plan named Joe, was being born, but due to a mixup with forms, he was being born a girl whose parents would name her Sally. Grimp didn't know this.
Eventually, after what seemed like hours, the nurse finally let Grimp into the delivery room, where it raised its ceremonial dagger. "Take that, Joe Hildermink!" it cried, plunging the dagger into the baby. It ignored the panicked shrieking from the parents, nodded cordially to the nurse, and vanished in a gout of fire.
Twenty years later, in the front line of the battle to claim Cleveland for the forces of darkness, no one in the horde expected Sally Green. Odd how things work out.
The nurse went back to her coffee. She had served her dark master faithfully and well. Her story is much more interesting than this one, full of sex and violence, but most stories are, and you get what you get.
"Any ETA on that lady?" it asked the nurse. "I thought they were going to induce."
The nurse just shook her head. "I guess they're going natural."
"Pisses me off," growled Grimp, but there wasn't much it could do about it.
In the next town over, the actual target of Grimp, a nondescript baby who would one day defeat Satan's latest plan named Joe, was being born, but due to a mixup with forms, he was being born a girl whose parents would name her Sally. Grimp didn't know this.
Eventually, after what seemed like hours, the nurse finally let Grimp into the delivery room, where it raised its ceremonial dagger. "Take that, Joe Hildermink!" it cried, plunging the dagger into the baby. It ignored the panicked shrieking from the parents, nodded cordially to the nurse, and vanished in a gout of fire.
Twenty years later, in the front line of the battle to claim Cleveland for the forces of darkness, no one in the horde expected Sally Green. Odd how things work out.
The nurse went back to her coffee. She had served her dark master faithfully and well. Her story is much more interesting than this one, full of sex and violence, but most stories are, and you get what you get.
The Box
I bought a box which had no inside. Four walls, a bottom, and a lid which folded up, but when I tried to put something in it, even something very small, it wound up on the floor.
I looked in and saw blackness. I'm not sure what I expected to see, really. A wormhole to another dimension? No, because that would just mean that the box contained a wormhole. It didn't contain anything. It couldn't. It had no inside.
I was warned by the manager of the box store where I bought it. She said, "Be warned, nothing can go in this box." But I like a challenge, so I bought it and proceeded to try to put everything I owned into it. Somehow nothing fit.
Except that's not accurate. It wasn't that things didn't fit, although I suppose that's also true. It's true in an uninteresting way though. Things wouldn't go in the box because even with it open, there was no inside. From the outside, the box looked perfectly normal, but inside... well, there was no inside, so it can't be talked about.
Finally I put it on my shelf and forgot about it. I think it was supposed to teach me something, but whatever it was, I didn't learn it. It gathered dust for a few years, mostly because I don't dust, then I sold it to a used car salesman named Grant who had a wooden leg. Genuine wood too. I know because he let me knock on it by way of proof.
I looked in and saw blackness. I'm not sure what I expected to see, really. A wormhole to another dimension? No, because that would just mean that the box contained a wormhole. It didn't contain anything. It couldn't. It had no inside.
I was warned by the manager of the box store where I bought it. She said, "Be warned, nothing can go in this box." But I like a challenge, so I bought it and proceeded to try to put everything I owned into it. Somehow nothing fit.
Except that's not accurate. It wasn't that things didn't fit, although I suppose that's also true. It's true in an uninteresting way though. Things wouldn't go in the box because even with it open, there was no inside. From the outside, the box looked perfectly normal, but inside... well, there was no inside, so it can't be talked about.
Finally I put it on my shelf and forgot about it. I think it was supposed to teach me something, but whatever it was, I didn't learn it. It gathered dust for a few years, mostly because I don't dust, then I sold it to a used car salesman named Grant who had a wooden leg. Genuine wood too. I know because he let me knock on it by way of proof.
Once Upon a Time
Once upon a time, when animals could speak and humans were all still living in trees, the porcupine and the manta ray held a poker tournament to determine who got to live on land and who would be exiled to the ocean. The result is apparent.
Once upon a time, in a far-off kingdom, the evil advisor to the king tricked him into offering said evil advisor the hand of the beautiful princess, but she preferred to remain single and while she respected the advisor as a capable administrator, she couldn't have him usurping the royal authority, so she stabbed him several times and left him to bleed out in a ditch. Absolutely no one blamed her.
Once upon a time in a little cottage by the woods, a poor woodcutter and his wife realized that they couldn't afford to feed their two children on the meager earnings of a woodcutter, so the woodcutter and his wife both took night classes and got lucrative jobs in the financial sector. They sold their cottage to an artisanal haberdasher who did quite well, considering the location.
Once upon a time, there were three brothers who were left various items when their father died. The eldest got the farm, the middle got the cow, and the youngest got a handful of beans. The eldest was crushed by a falling plow, the middle killed the youngest in a fight over the farm after the eldest died, and the cow ate the beans and lived happily ever after.
Once upon a time a fairy godmother was on her way to visit her god-daughter when she was hit by a bus. It was sad, but that's what you get for crossing against the light. Later it turned out that she was drunk at the time.
Once upon a time, St. George and a dragon had a protracted argument, and St. George wound up doing a dime in dragon prison for manslaughter. He saw some stuff in the joint. It changed him.
Once upon a time, in a far-off kingdom, the evil advisor to the king tricked him into offering said evil advisor the hand of the beautiful princess, but she preferred to remain single and while she respected the advisor as a capable administrator, she couldn't have him usurping the royal authority, so she stabbed him several times and left him to bleed out in a ditch. Absolutely no one blamed her.
Once upon a time in a little cottage by the woods, a poor woodcutter and his wife realized that they couldn't afford to feed their two children on the meager earnings of a woodcutter, so the woodcutter and his wife both took night classes and got lucrative jobs in the financial sector. They sold their cottage to an artisanal haberdasher who did quite well, considering the location.
Once upon a time, there were three brothers who were left various items when their father died. The eldest got the farm, the middle got the cow, and the youngest got a handful of beans. The eldest was crushed by a falling plow, the middle killed the youngest in a fight over the farm after the eldest died, and the cow ate the beans and lived happily ever after.
Once upon a time a fairy godmother was on her way to visit her god-daughter when she was hit by a bus. It was sad, but that's what you get for crossing against the light. Later it turned out that she was drunk at the time.
Once upon a time, St. George and a dragon had a protracted argument, and St. George wound up doing a dime in dragon prison for manslaughter. He saw some stuff in the joint. It changed him.
How That Mountain Got There
It was decided after careful consideration that Alima the Destroyer was not a good queen.
"It's not that I mind our eternal subjugation," said Gregor the Weaver. "It's almost comforting, in a way, to have that level of stability. Before Alima, cruel despots came and went, but you never knew when the next one would be popping up."
"True," said Famke the Cobbler. "And yet I can't help thinking that maybe, if we didn't have a cruel despot at all, we might be better off."
"Alima's been quite good for the economy," Hester the Grave Digger put in.
"You would say that," scoffed Gregor. "Sure, plenty of graves need dug, but just wait until she runs out of the skulls of the barbarian tribes and needs to shore up her mountain of skulls with local stock."
"I'll still dig graves for the bodies."
"But without the head, people won't want holes as big and they'll pay less for the work and then where will you be?" Gregor had a point, and they all knew it.
"I don't care for her laws," said Jurgash the Thief.
"You don't care for anyone's laws," said Famke.
"Well, under Grugg the Horrible, property crime was punishable by flogging, but I could get behind that because I could bribe the guy doing the flogging to go easy," said Jurgash.
"He did many a time," laughed Jillian the Flogger.
"But now Alima instituted a mandatory amputation for theft, to be carried out by herself, and I'm worried," said Jurgash.
"To say nothing of the loss of flogging jobs," sighed Jillian. "How will I feed my family when there's no thieves bribing me?"
"Frankly, I'm for the law and order stuff, mostly because I was tired of Jurgash always stealing my money," said Gregor.
"I still think we might be better off without a cruel and omnipotent despot," said Famke.
"Well who do you suggest? A lizard? A pot of ale? Come on, someone's got to rule the kingdom," Hester said with a degree of sarcasm in her voice.
"Well, why not one of us?" Famke asked.
She was being facetious, but the idea sounded so good to everyone that a riot started, the castle burned to the ground with Alima in it, and Jillian the Flogger found herself God-Queen of the realm. She didn't really want to be queen, but the masses wouldn't take no for an answer. As she embarked on a reign of terror by beheading Jurgash the Thief in the city square, she wondered just what had been so bad about Alima the Destroyer after all.
The seasons changed, the plague came and went, and when the elements had stripped Jurgash's skull to the bone, Jillian the Flogger added it to the pile. It wasn't a mountain, per se, but she wasn't trying to prove a point. It just seemed a pity to waste skulls.
"It's not that I mind our eternal subjugation," said Gregor the Weaver. "It's almost comforting, in a way, to have that level of stability. Before Alima, cruel despots came and went, but you never knew when the next one would be popping up."
"True," said Famke the Cobbler. "And yet I can't help thinking that maybe, if we didn't have a cruel despot at all, we might be better off."
"Alima's been quite good for the economy," Hester the Grave Digger put in.
"You would say that," scoffed Gregor. "Sure, plenty of graves need dug, but just wait until she runs out of the skulls of the barbarian tribes and needs to shore up her mountain of skulls with local stock."
"I'll still dig graves for the bodies."
"But without the head, people won't want holes as big and they'll pay less for the work and then where will you be?" Gregor had a point, and they all knew it.
"I don't care for her laws," said Jurgash the Thief.
"You don't care for anyone's laws," said Famke.
"Well, under Grugg the Horrible, property crime was punishable by flogging, but I could get behind that because I could bribe the guy doing the flogging to go easy," said Jurgash.
"He did many a time," laughed Jillian the Flogger.
"But now Alima instituted a mandatory amputation for theft, to be carried out by herself, and I'm worried," said Jurgash.
"To say nothing of the loss of flogging jobs," sighed Jillian. "How will I feed my family when there's no thieves bribing me?"
"Frankly, I'm for the law and order stuff, mostly because I was tired of Jurgash always stealing my money," said Gregor.
"I still think we might be better off without a cruel and omnipotent despot," said Famke.
"Well who do you suggest? A lizard? A pot of ale? Come on, someone's got to rule the kingdom," Hester said with a degree of sarcasm in her voice.
"Well, why not one of us?" Famke asked.
She was being facetious, but the idea sounded so good to everyone that a riot started, the castle burned to the ground with Alima in it, and Jillian the Flogger found herself God-Queen of the realm. She didn't really want to be queen, but the masses wouldn't take no for an answer. As she embarked on a reign of terror by beheading Jurgash the Thief in the city square, she wondered just what had been so bad about Alima the Destroyer after all.
The seasons changed, the plague came and went, and when the elements had stripped Jurgash's skull to the bone, Jillian the Flogger added it to the pile. It wasn't a mountain, per se, but she wasn't trying to prove a point. It just seemed a pity to waste skulls.
Job Application
You wouldn't think that being an expert on ancient Sumerian greeting cards would have much market value in the current world, and you'd be right, which is how Gordon Primpt found himself applying for a job with MaximoCorp, world-wide seller of pornography to tapirs. He regretted everything as he sat in the waiting room, waiting, as should be tautological, for his number to be called. He sat and he waited and he regretted everything.
It wasn't that he'd had a bad life up to then, nor had he made any truly incorrect choices other than being interested in historical greeting cards in an era when most people thought greeting cards were for the elderly and/or insanely wealthy. In fact, had that been true, Gordon might have found a patron for his fascination. The reality was that greeting cards of ancient Sumer weren't applicable to modern life, mostly being about hoping the terror of life ruled by capricious and cruel gods would be short. No one wanted them.
So Gordon Primpt was forced into seeking a job with global tapir-pornography concern. It wasn't that he felt it was immoral. Tapirs need pornography too, and MaximoCorp was well-regarded for their fair business practices and their ethical treatment of their actors. And this job would have nothing to do with the production of pornography anyway. It was an accounting job. For a global tapir-pornography concern, it is true, but beggars can't be choosers.
No, Gordon regretted everything leading up to this moment because he was a profoundly unhappy person and was unable to admit to himself that he would have been happier as a forensic dentist, but also because forensic dentistry had been widely debunked as junk science and so he'd gone into ancient greeting cards, which had been his minor in college until the aforementioned debunking.
Then his number was called and he walked through the door and found himself face to face with an all-powerful sorcerer.
"I am Vomana the Burned, Keeper of the Sacred Runes of Rakhesh," said the sorcerer. She was wearing traditional ermine and sable robes of her calling, carrying an orb in one hand and a staff in the other, and the air about her crackled with invisible flames.
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Gordon Primpt." He could never afterward recall why he'd said it, or how he'd managed to overcome his surprise at seeing her. Perhaps he'd merely thought it and her almighty puissance had plucked it from his brain.
"Gordon Primpt, you seek audience with me to ask a boon." Then Vomana paused. "Hold on. Gordon Primpt from East Grinnell?"
"Um... Yes?"
"Do you have a mole on your left shin that changes color with the tides?"
"No, afraid not."
"Ah. My mistake. I must have been thinking of someone else. Well Mr. Primpt, I'm sorry to say that the vacancy has been filled, but we'll keep your resumé on file. My apologies for wasting your time. Unavoidable." And with that, Vomana the Burned, Keeper of the Sacred Runes of Rakhesh, snapped her fingers and the office faded away, leaving Gordon Primpt standing alone near the front door of his house.
The mole on his right shin, which changed color with the position of Venus, was a particularly brilliant blue that day.
It wasn't that he'd had a bad life up to then, nor had he made any truly incorrect choices other than being interested in historical greeting cards in an era when most people thought greeting cards were for the elderly and/or insanely wealthy. In fact, had that been true, Gordon might have found a patron for his fascination. The reality was that greeting cards of ancient Sumer weren't applicable to modern life, mostly being about hoping the terror of life ruled by capricious and cruel gods would be short. No one wanted them.
So Gordon Primpt was forced into seeking a job with global tapir-pornography concern. It wasn't that he felt it was immoral. Tapirs need pornography too, and MaximoCorp was well-regarded for their fair business practices and their ethical treatment of their actors. And this job would have nothing to do with the production of pornography anyway. It was an accounting job. For a global tapir-pornography concern, it is true, but beggars can't be choosers.
No, Gordon regretted everything leading up to this moment because he was a profoundly unhappy person and was unable to admit to himself that he would have been happier as a forensic dentist, but also because forensic dentistry had been widely debunked as junk science and so he'd gone into ancient greeting cards, which had been his minor in college until the aforementioned debunking.
Then his number was called and he walked through the door and found himself face to face with an all-powerful sorcerer.
"I am Vomana the Burned, Keeper of the Sacred Runes of Rakhesh," said the sorcerer. She was wearing traditional ermine and sable robes of her calling, carrying an orb in one hand and a staff in the other, and the air about her crackled with invisible flames.
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Gordon Primpt." He could never afterward recall why he'd said it, or how he'd managed to overcome his surprise at seeing her. Perhaps he'd merely thought it and her almighty puissance had plucked it from his brain.
"Gordon Primpt, you seek audience with me to ask a boon." Then Vomana paused. "Hold on. Gordon Primpt from East Grinnell?"
"Um... Yes?"
"Do you have a mole on your left shin that changes color with the tides?"
"No, afraid not."
"Ah. My mistake. I must have been thinking of someone else. Well Mr. Primpt, I'm sorry to say that the vacancy has been filled, but we'll keep your resumé on file. My apologies for wasting your time. Unavoidable." And with that, Vomana the Burned, Keeper of the Sacred Runes of Rakhesh, snapped her fingers and the office faded away, leaving Gordon Primpt standing alone near the front door of his house.
The mole on his right shin, which changed color with the position of Venus, was a particularly brilliant blue that day.
Slightly After the Training Montage
He was ready for everything except mollusks.
Years of training and preparation against every foe he could be expected to face. Even foes he couldn't expect to face. Foes so unexpected that his trainers assured him that he was wasting his time. That no one would ever need to know combat techniques against vampiric headgear or weremarmots. The Arena was tricky, certainly, but there were limits.
And yet he prepared for them all, with the single-minded intensity that drove away all his friends, his lovers, even eventually his teachers. He had been forced to leave his Master behind to be devoured by the very radioactive beet creatures that said Master had scoffed at. Because that Master wasn't prepared. Not like he was.
It had taken its toll on him, physically and mentally. He couldn't sleep until he sought out a new method of dispatching a wildebeest with fire breath. He lay awake listening for the telltale sounds of a piano coming to life and bearing down on him wielding twin katanas. He had forgotten everything in life but his preparations for the Arena.
And when he entered that dark gate and stepped into the blazing sun, the chanting of the crowd hitting him like a bear wrapped in infected bandages, he saw his mistake, for there, sitting before him, was a clam.
As he panicked and searched his memory, realizing that he had left out one vital section of the animal kingdom from his calculations, his former Master, who had not in fact been eaten alive by radioactive beet creatures, sneaked up behind him.
"You're a giant jerk," said the Master, and efficiently removed his head from his shoulders by slicing a large sword through his neck.
And as he fell, his last thought was, "Well damn, I should have been ready for that."
Do Not Go Into the Basement
Do not go into the basement.
No, really, do not go into the basement.
If you're thinking that you probably should ignore this warning because there's something cool in the basement, rest assured that there is not. There is nothing cool in the basement. I'm not saying this because I want to keep cool things from you. Do not go into the basement.
Now you're wondering whether you can trust me. You don't have to trust me. I have signed affidavits from various important people which cannot be displayed here but which I will show you at a time convenient for both of us. They will tell you that I speak the truth when I tell you do not go into the basement.
You are perhaps thinking this is a Pandora's Box situation. That there may not be anything cool in the basement, but rather that there is something horrible down there that must not be seen. Either it's something which might escape if you go down there or it's something that you cannot unsee. A terrible knowledge which cannot be removed from your brain once it's in there. Perhaps I'm telling you this for your own good, but do not go into the basement.
I don't have affidavits attesting to my sincerity when I say that there is nothing down there which can escape and no horrible knowledge which the basement contains. I should have anticipated your inability to listen to reason and procured them, but I was busy and tired and really, it's my basement and I don't give a damn what you think. Do not go into the basement.
You're going into the basement, aren't you?
I don't know why I bother. I probably shouldn't have put these signs up.
Certainly not on the stairs leading to the basement, where their bright colors and fancy typography would attract attention.
Well, I didn't warn you. I commanded you, and you ignored my commandments, so hey, go ahead, go into the basement. Wipe your feet please.
No, really, do not go into the basement.
If you're thinking that you probably should ignore this warning because there's something cool in the basement, rest assured that there is not. There is nothing cool in the basement. I'm not saying this because I want to keep cool things from you. Do not go into the basement.
Now you're wondering whether you can trust me. You don't have to trust me. I have signed affidavits from various important people which cannot be displayed here but which I will show you at a time convenient for both of us. They will tell you that I speak the truth when I tell you do not go into the basement.
You are perhaps thinking this is a Pandora's Box situation. That there may not be anything cool in the basement, but rather that there is something horrible down there that must not be seen. Either it's something which might escape if you go down there or it's something that you cannot unsee. A terrible knowledge which cannot be removed from your brain once it's in there. Perhaps I'm telling you this for your own good, but do not go into the basement.
I don't have affidavits attesting to my sincerity when I say that there is nothing down there which can escape and no horrible knowledge which the basement contains. I should have anticipated your inability to listen to reason and procured them, but I was busy and tired and really, it's my basement and I don't give a damn what you think. Do not go into the basement.
You're going into the basement, aren't you?
I don't know why I bother. I probably shouldn't have put these signs up.
Certainly not on the stairs leading to the basement, where their bright colors and fancy typography would attract attention.
Well, I didn't warn you. I commanded you, and you ignored my commandments, so hey, go ahead, go into the basement. Wipe your feet please.
Eggs
You've got to be very careful with eggs, particularly when they're eggs produced by chickens to whom you've been feeding a steady diet of nitroglycerin and gunpowder. These are things you learn in the sausage industry.
Bev Macklegruber didn't learn these things because she wasn't in the sausage industry. She was in architecture, and business was booming. Literally, because she threw eggs at a competitor's building site and learned the lesson with which we began this story.
Or rather, she would have learned it, but it's difficult to learn something when you only have a split second to absorb the knowledge before you are reduced to a fine mist of particles which had used to be a woman who wasn't careful with dangerous eggs. Can it be said that she learned it at all? She certainly didn't take any tests on it, so her retention cannot be known.
Don't blame her too much though, because in fairness she didn't know that these eggs were in any way more dangerous than your garden-variety egg from your garden-variety chicken. She had purchased them several hours previously for a suspiciously low price from a vendor who had only one eye and was missing several fingers, and who smelled strongly of sulfur and saltpeter, but how was Bev to know?
That this vendor had not warned her of her need to be careful is also somewhat suspicious. It almost makes one think that Bev Macklegruber was the intended victim of this accident. Almost. But we are not here to point fingers. Of which we are in possession of ten. We promise. This eye patch is for a skin condition.
Be all of that as it may, you've got to be careful with eggs, even the normal variety which haven't been infused with enough powerful explosives to level several city blocks. So whose fault is it really?
Bev Macklegruber didn't learn these things because she wasn't in the sausage industry. She was in architecture, and business was booming. Literally, because she threw eggs at a competitor's building site and learned the lesson with which we began this story.
Or rather, she would have learned it, but it's difficult to learn something when you only have a split second to absorb the knowledge before you are reduced to a fine mist of particles which had used to be a woman who wasn't careful with dangerous eggs. Can it be said that she learned it at all? She certainly didn't take any tests on it, so her retention cannot be known.
Don't blame her too much though, because in fairness she didn't know that these eggs were in any way more dangerous than your garden-variety egg from your garden-variety chicken. She had purchased them several hours previously for a suspiciously low price from a vendor who had only one eye and was missing several fingers, and who smelled strongly of sulfur and saltpeter, but how was Bev to know?
That this vendor had not warned her of her need to be careful is also somewhat suspicious. It almost makes one think that Bev Macklegruber was the intended victim of this accident. Almost. But we are not here to point fingers. Of which we are in possession of ten. We promise. This eye patch is for a skin condition.
Be all of that as it may, you've got to be careful with eggs, even the normal variety which haven't been infused with enough powerful explosives to level several city blocks. So whose fault is it really?
Milk
I was hired to do graphic design for a company specializing in ant-lion milk. They claimed it was the next big thing, that all the entrepreneurs of the world drank it every morning to get big ideas, and that it would increase the size of your secondary sexual characteristics by a factor of fifty.
I thought, going in, and based on the promotional material, that it was simply a cute name for a protein shake or something. "Ant-Lion Milk! Be Focus!" It seemed like your typical start-up crap.
But when I visited the factory, there were thousands of giant ant-lions. Giant. Big as horses. And while I'd never really given much thought to the implications of the fact that ant-lions aren't mammals, I put plenty of thought into those implications right then and there.
Turns out there's a delicate process to milking something that's not a mammal, and the resulting product isn't so much milk as a secretion of various glands. I mean, so is milk, but this "milk" could only charitably be called "milk" and a lawsuit later in the process enshrined those quotation marks in stone, let me tell you. The FDA have very strict rules about what can and can't be called milk, and while this company maintained that those rules were ignorance being promoted by Big Dairy, thus far no judge has sided with them.
It may have something to do with the consistency of the "milk," which must be treated with various solvents in order to be made liquid enough to be put into bottles. To say nothing of the reagents which must be used to keep the "milk" from eating through glass, plastic, metal, and ceramic when it's in a liquid state. But, "Be focus!" and so forth, and apparently a big part of "being focus" is screaming and retching.
In any case, I didn't keep the job long because I was eaten rather quickly by one of the giant ant-lions. I'm typing this from inside its stomach, in fact. If you read this, please send help, or at least don't drink ant-lion milk.
Sorry, "milk."
A Lot of Money
Maximilian Grout and I decided to have a beard-growing contest. "I just think a beard would really make my jawline pop," was his explanation. I just wanted to win.
We set the stakes at $3, which was a lot of money at the time. In fact, I'd take $3 right now. Hey, $3 is $3. But at this point, that was a lot of money because you could buy a ferry ride to Fun Island for a quarter and milkshakes were two cents and a strange coin that they don't use anymore. It was called "the grig" and it was worth $15 but couldn't be exchanged for real money, so it was basically worthless. The milkshake place really seemed to like them though. We'd find them on the street and then go looking for two cents.
But I didn't really like milkshakes, so the loss of money didn't seem all that big a deal to me. I mean, I liked having money, because Fun Island was indeed fun, and I liked the ability to purchase a milkshake even though I didn't actually do it. I suppose there was some kind of mental inertia in me which made me desire something I almost never actually wanted. But isn't that the way with money?
"We're pretty young to be growing beards," I said. "I guess we should give it a week."
"A week," replied Maximilian Grout, because it seemed like the thing to say in agreement. Just so we could be sure that there had been no loss of information in the transmission. Once, a woman on the streetcorner told me I would be a great king over all the Andals, but it turned out that she had just asked me directions to the nearest phone booth, and I really annoyed her by cheering and walking away to go hunt for a suitable crown, so she cursed me. It was a minor curse. I grew out of it.
So we gave it a week and then reconvened. Maximilian Grout had a beard that was two feet long and bright blue. I had nothing.
"So I guess I win," we both said at the same time.
"What do you mean, 'I win?'" we both asked at the same time.
"Look, saying exactly the same thing at the same time is really going to cut down on our ability to communicate," we both said at the same time.
Maximilian Grout held up his hand. I waited. "I'll go first," we both said at the same time.
There was more of this, and it involved tigers, but I'll skip to the point where we both decided that since we hadn't really specified what the rules of the contest were, we couldn't determine who had won. Maximilian Grout pulled off his fake beard at one point and said, "Well, if you win by having the shortest beard, then I was just faking it, so I win."
To which I replied, "Well, if you win by having the longest beard, you were cheating, so I win."
Like I said, there was more of it. The tigers didn't appear until fairly late in the story, but they weren't important. In the end, we both felt like we'd lost. Which is a parable for competition if there ever was one, I suppose.
Since neither of us actually had $3, we couldn't take the ferry to Fun Island anyway. Which was fine, because Fun Island is really more an ideal than a place. That's what the sign at the ferry said anyway.
We set the stakes at $3, which was a lot of money at the time. In fact, I'd take $3 right now. Hey, $3 is $3. But at this point, that was a lot of money because you could buy a ferry ride to Fun Island for a quarter and milkshakes were two cents and a strange coin that they don't use anymore. It was called "the grig" and it was worth $15 but couldn't be exchanged for real money, so it was basically worthless. The milkshake place really seemed to like them though. We'd find them on the street and then go looking for two cents.
But I didn't really like milkshakes, so the loss of money didn't seem all that big a deal to me. I mean, I liked having money, because Fun Island was indeed fun, and I liked the ability to purchase a milkshake even though I didn't actually do it. I suppose there was some kind of mental inertia in me which made me desire something I almost never actually wanted. But isn't that the way with money?
"We're pretty young to be growing beards," I said. "I guess we should give it a week."
"A week," replied Maximilian Grout, because it seemed like the thing to say in agreement. Just so we could be sure that there had been no loss of information in the transmission. Once, a woman on the streetcorner told me I would be a great king over all the Andals, but it turned out that she had just asked me directions to the nearest phone booth, and I really annoyed her by cheering and walking away to go hunt for a suitable crown, so she cursed me. It was a minor curse. I grew out of it.
So we gave it a week and then reconvened. Maximilian Grout had a beard that was two feet long and bright blue. I had nothing.
"So I guess I win," we both said at the same time.
"What do you mean, 'I win?'" we both asked at the same time.
"Look, saying exactly the same thing at the same time is really going to cut down on our ability to communicate," we both said at the same time.
Maximilian Grout held up his hand. I waited. "I'll go first," we both said at the same time.
There was more of this, and it involved tigers, but I'll skip to the point where we both decided that since we hadn't really specified what the rules of the contest were, we couldn't determine who had won. Maximilian Grout pulled off his fake beard at one point and said, "Well, if you win by having the shortest beard, then I was just faking it, so I win."
To which I replied, "Well, if you win by having the longest beard, you were cheating, so I win."
Like I said, there was more of it. The tigers didn't appear until fairly late in the story, but they weren't important. In the end, we both felt like we'd lost. Which is a parable for competition if there ever was one, I suppose.
Since neither of us actually had $3, we couldn't take the ferry to Fun Island anyway. Which was fine, because Fun Island is really more an ideal than a place. That's what the sign at the ferry said anyway.
A Koan
The Master Joshu was walking in the garden of the Emperor when he was approached by a woman in white. "You are the master?" she asked him.
"You have sought much, yet you ask little," he replied, this being the typical thing for Zen masters to respond.
"Why are Zen masters so damn inscrutable?" the woman asked.
"The tree that stands in the garden hears all, yet says nothing."
"Not really an answer to my question," said the woman, growing irritated. "I'm out here trying to find Master Joshu so I can tell him his dinner is ready."
"Oh, why didn't you say so?" said Joshu. "I'm really hungry." And he went in and ate dinner. Absolutely no one was enlightened. In fact, a few people who had been enlightened got stupider. But such is the way with Zen masters. You win some, you stand silently under a waterfall and think about spring.
"You have sought much, yet you ask little," he replied, this being the typical thing for Zen masters to respond.
"Why are Zen masters so damn inscrutable?" the woman asked.
"The tree that stands in the garden hears all, yet says nothing."
"Not really an answer to my question," said the woman, growing irritated. "I'm out here trying to find Master Joshu so I can tell him his dinner is ready."
"Oh, why didn't you say so?" said Joshu. "I'm really hungry." And he went in and ate dinner. Absolutely no one was enlightened. In fact, a few people who had been enlightened got stupider. But such is the way with Zen masters. You win some, you stand silently under a waterfall and think about spring.
Miracle Weight Loss
I tried a miracle weight loss cream once which claimed that by application to the thorax, one could reduce one's weight until one looked like a popular movie star. They didn't specify which movie star, but I figured they couldn't mean anyone but the greatest actor of our age, perhaps of any age, Morvan Cringlefanx. Anyway, I liked the odds.
The first application went smoothly enough, although I did have some trouble figuring out whether to put any inside my belly button. I have a very deep belly button, or so teams of spelunkers have told me. They lost a few good men down there, mostly to lint, but apparently there's also a side passage which fills with water when the tide is in. I let them hold memorial services every year at the appropriate time. Least I can do.
But I decided that if it didn't work without putting it in my belly button, I didn't want it to work at all, so I slathered it all over my thorax and ate a hearty meal, as pictured on the box. I slept and dreamed of Morvan Cringlefanx in Destruction on Peak 20, which isn't some of his best work but really showcases his abs.
It turns out that this was a weight loss cream for insects. The "thorax" really should have given it away for me, but I was desperate for a fix, as my meals are perhaps more hearty than is strictly necessary. But my exoskeleton has never looked shinier, so while Morvan Cringlefanx might still be out of my league, I am dating a very attractive wasp. I say "dating," but really she just stings me. A lot. Please send help.
The first application went smoothly enough, although I did have some trouble figuring out whether to put any inside my belly button. I have a very deep belly button, or so teams of spelunkers have told me. They lost a few good men down there, mostly to lint, but apparently there's also a side passage which fills with water when the tide is in. I let them hold memorial services every year at the appropriate time. Least I can do.
But I decided that if it didn't work without putting it in my belly button, I didn't want it to work at all, so I slathered it all over my thorax and ate a hearty meal, as pictured on the box. I slept and dreamed of Morvan Cringlefanx in Destruction on Peak 20, which isn't some of his best work but really showcases his abs.
It turns out that this was a weight loss cream for insects. The "thorax" really should have given it away for me, but I was desperate for a fix, as my meals are perhaps more hearty than is strictly necessary. But my exoskeleton has never looked shinier, so while Morvan Cringlefanx might still be out of my league, I am dating a very attractive wasp. I say "dating," but really she just stings me. A lot. Please send help.
Testing
This is a test of the Emergency Broadcasting System. It is only a test.
If it weren't, this would be a fine time to panic. But it is, so no need to panic.
No, really, don't panic. There's no reason for alarm.
I don't think you're really understanding the message. We're just testing it so if there is an actual emergency, we'll know it works.
Well, I suppose it could stop working between this test and the next catastrophe, but if we never test it, we'll have even less chance of catching errors before the next catastrophe.
No, we cannot simply take over the airwaves and broadcast nothing but this until a catastrophe actually occurs. People would get bored. And that noise we play at the beginning... have you thought this through?
Have you stopped panicking?
Okay, how about we tell you a nice story. Once upon a time, in a far away kingdom, there was a dragon who was rampaging through the land, but...
No, there is no dragon rampaging through the land currently. See, this is what we get for trying to be helpful. Now all those people who just tuned in in the middle of this think that we're under attack by dragons, when in fact this is merely a test of the Emergency Broadcast System and there's absolutely no reason to panic. None whatsoever. Please believe us when we say this. We're just testing.
If this were an actual emergency, you'd all be dead right now because we wouldn't have gotten around to telling you what the emergency was. Are you happy?
This concludes our broadcast day. Play the anthem, Jerry, I don't give a damn.
If it weren't, this would be a fine time to panic. But it is, so no need to panic.
No, really, don't panic. There's no reason for alarm.
I don't think you're really understanding the message. We're just testing it so if there is an actual emergency, we'll know it works.
Well, I suppose it could stop working between this test and the next catastrophe, but if we never test it, we'll have even less chance of catching errors before the next catastrophe.
No, we cannot simply take over the airwaves and broadcast nothing but this until a catastrophe actually occurs. People would get bored. And that noise we play at the beginning... have you thought this through?
Have you stopped panicking?
Okay, how about we tell you a nice story. Once upon a time, in a far away kingdom, there was a dragon who was rampaging through the land, but...
No, there is no dragon rampaging through the land currently. See, this is what we get for trying to be helpful. Now all those people who just tuned in in the middle of this think that we're under attack by dragons, when in fact this is merely a test of the Emergency Broadcast System and there's absolutely no reason to panic. None whatsoever. Please believe us when we say this. We're just testing.
If this were an actual emergency, you'd all be dead right now because we wouldn't have gotten around to telling you what the emergency was. Are you happy?
This concludes our broadcast day. Play the anthem, Jerry, I don't give a damn.
Locusts
When the locusts came they were very polite. "Excuse us," they said, the endless susurations of their legs rubbing together a constant background noise behind them.
I had been elected by the townsfolk to negotiate. They had covered me in warm sulfur paste to protect me from being eaten. "I have come to plead for our lives," I said to the locusts, as it seemed rather foolish to pretend we had any bargaining power.
"Why do you smell so terrible?" they asked me. I explained about the sulfur paste, which got a good laugh. "We don't want to eat you," some of them said while the others were laughing. "We're here about the plumbing."
It turns out they were really good plumbers. Widow Gorblatt had called a service because her toilet wouldn't flush, and the service sent locusts. These days, everything is subcontractors.
I felt rather foolish and smelled terrible, but the locusts assured me that they understood. And they sold me a grease trap at cost, so they were alright in my book.
Of course, once they left, we discovered that rats had made off with most of our grain stores while we were distracted, and we all starved that winter, but at least the drains were clean.
I had been elected by the townsfolk to negotiate. They had covered me in warm sulfur paste to protect me from being eaten. "I have come to plead for our lives," I said to the locusts, as it seemed rather foolish to pretend we had any bargaining power.
"Why do you smell so terrible?" they asked me. I explained about the sulfur paste, which got a good laugh. "We don't want to eat you," some of them said while the others were laughing. "We're here about the plumbing."
It turns out they were really good plumbers. Widow Gorblatt had called a service because her toilet wouldn't flush, and the service sent locusts. These days, everything is subcontractors.
I felt rather foolish and smelled terrible, but the locusts assured me that they understood. And they sold me a grease trap at cost, so they were alright in my book.
Of course, once they left, we discovered that rats had made off with most of our grain stores while we were distracted, and we all starved that winter, but at least the drains were clean.
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