THE DUCKS OF DOOM
Chapters 91-120
A WEEKLY SERIAL
By Robert Arthur Smith
www.duckparade.com
rasmithr@yahoo.com
THE DUCKS OF DOOM was a 2002 Independent e-Books award finalist.
Copyright 2000-2009,
Robert Arthur Smith,
All rights reserved.
CHAPTER 91:PHARAOH'S THEME PARK
The Camels of the Negev had been wandering for quite some time in the desert before they reached a McVlod's eatery. During that long period of hunger, thirst, blisters and grumbling, they'd begun to forget their sophisticated, urban manners.
They grew accustomed to goat-skin tents, snakes, vicious battles with their enemies, flesh-eating spiders, and water that ran away before it could be used for anything. They grew irritable and weary, and they stopped leaving artifacts for museum curators.
Some historians think there was a limit to their urbanity even before they left Just Ur.
Living in a family of 70,000 (actual quantity may vary from number printed on box) puts a crimp in your sophistication. You have to jump right into a conversation with both feet if you want to be heard, and you have to elbow your way to the haggis if you want anything to eat.
Not very delicate, but that's how it is in big families.
Anyway, by the time the camels arrived at a McVlod's eatery, they were a rough-and-ready crew.
The restaurant was soon a chaos of exuberant camels belting out chorus after chorus of 'On Top of Old Smoky', 'She'll be Coming 'Round the Mountain', and 'How Much is That Doggie in the Window?'.
They had food fights, they bonked each other with antique canopic jars, and they embalmed each other with the little embalming kits that were supposed to be party favors for young people.
They drank too much McVlod's Ambiguous beer and they threw up in incense jars and sarcophaguses.
A waiter dropped the check into the mess and departed. Hank put on his reading glasses and discovered that the camels owed an amount approximately equal to the gross national product of Denmark.
He summoned the waiter.
"This seems a little excessive," he said mildly. "What's this item here? Ten thousand shekels for Alpine water?"
"It's special water, sir," said the waiter. "From pristine Alpine streams."
"In a goat's eye it is!" said Hank. "I saw your water boy get it from a well in the back yard, next to the privy."
"That's our Alpine well. Didn't you notice the gentians growing in the shade of the privy?"
"And what's this item here? Fifty thousand shekels for Salade de Petrie Dish?"
"That's a house specialty, sir. Our chef designed it himself, in honor of Pharaoh Petrie Dish. It's made with fresh-picked greens garnished with natron."
"You picked it off the rocks in that pond by the stables! It's algae."
"Those are organic rocks, sir."
Hank shook his head. "I don't have enough cash," he said. "Will you take my IOU?"
Thus it was the camels spent forty days and forty nights washing baked-clay bowls and antique canopic jars at McVlod's.
When their term of service was up, an Egyptian overseer by the name of Amen's Tooter led them into captivity in the Land of Goshen, east of the Nile Delta.
As it happened, the place was full of Canaanites.
"Your job, Hank," said the overseer, "will be to build a theme park. We want it 5000 cubits by 20,000 cubits. Here are the blueprints."
Hank sighed. "Blueprints, blueprints!" he muttered. "What is it with these things? Doesn't anyone use baked-clay tablets anymore?"
The camels gathered around for a look at the mysterious squiggles.
"What's this?" said Thunderbags, pointing at a particularly odd tangle of lines.
"That's the Book of the Dead ride," said Amen's Tooter. "It includes the Crocodile's Revenge ride, the Judge with the Funny Hat ride, and the Pecked to Death by Bird People ride. We're hoping to draw in a lot of tourists from the Minoan empire."
"Does Disser know about this theme park?" said Hank.
"Umm, Hank...," said Thunderbags. "We don't believe in Disser. Don't you remember? We're camels of the Negev; we think Disser is just a cultural icon, like the Jolly Fat Llama in the red suit who brings toys to all the good children in the world."
"It's not a question of belief," said Hank. "It's diplomacy. Disser will be very angry if someone makes unauthorized copies the Underworld."
"But he doesn't own the Underworld anymore," said Thunderbags. "He sold it."
"Really?"
"It happened in the future. I foresaw it."
There was a silence.
"Nice work if you can get it," muttered Brubaker, the eternal complainer. "Making statements about things that can't be checked out until we're dead and gone."
Thunderbags turned the color of an overripe beet.
"Peace, brothers," said the gym teacher. "The future doesn't concern us. Whatever WILL happen has already happened."
Brubaker shuddered. "Don't say that!" he squawked. "I've seen the future in Thunderbags' crystal ball, and it's full of giant mushrooms in the sky. I'd rather stay in the past. I don't even like mushrooms."
"Oh, so!" said Thunderbags. "The old fake priest isn't so fake after all! Sometimes his crystal ball works."
"No one's wrong ALL the time," said Brubaker.
"I thought we decided crystal balls weren't kosher," said the gym teacher. "We get burning bushes, ladders, angels from the WWF and smitings, but no crystal balls or other bric-a-brac from primitive demon worshippers."
"MY crystal ball is merely an aid to reflection," said Thunderbags. "It all depends on your attitude."
"Anyway, If we're planning on staying here in the past, we're going to need a lot of mud bricks," said the gym teacher.
"Stones, you mean," said Amen's Tooter. "We Egyptians build our monuments in stone. The archaeologists insist on it."
"Stones are heavy," said Brubaker. "If you build with bricks, you can save money on workers. You won't have to keep reinflating the squashed ones."
"Listen, I don't like this anymore than you do," said Amen's Tutor. "But you have no choice. Pharaoh Petrie Dish knows you not. He feels you might be thinking of getting together with the Assyrians and attacking him."
"Are you kidding?" said Brubaker. "The Assyrians hate us! EVERYBODY hates us! Who are we gonna get together with? The Hyksos?"
"What are the Hyksos?" said the gym teacher. "Do they live around here?"
"They were immigrant shepherds who got fed up with sheep," said Amen's Tutor. "They started taking jobs away from our plutocrats, so Pharaoh Ahmose kicked them out and sacked their home cities."
"Are you sure that isn't US?" said Brubaker. "We're the ones who are always getting sacked."
"After the Hyksos, the Egyptians got antsy about ALL immigrants," said Amen's Tutor. "So he doesn't really have anything against you, per se; it's just bad timing. All immigrants have to build theme parks, temples, and monuments. They also have to toil in the fields and make mud bricks."
"I really hate mud bricks," said Brubaker.
"We could always leave this place and conquer Canaan," said Thunderbags.
"All in due course," said Hank. Then he gave his attention to the blueprints again.
"Okay, we can do this," he said. "But afterwards, we're going to escape into the desert, wander around and starve for forty years, and then we're going to enter the Land of Milk and Honey and take part in a lot of messy battles. Many of you will be eviscerated or mutilated."
"Sounds good to me," said the gym teacher.
"I'm looking forward to it," said Thunderbags.
Just then, Hank's wife, Sari, ventured a bit of wisdom.
"Why don't we just ask the way at a gas station instead of wandering around for forty years?" she said.
"You're wasting your breath," said Michelle, Thunderbags' wife. "You know males!"
"The sooner we get started, the sooner we can wander off into the desert," said Hank.
"Don't forget the plagues, boils and frogs for the Egyptians," said Thunderbags. "They won't let us go unless we afflict them with something."
The overseer was impressed. "I really like you people," he said. "You have a very appealing theology with lots of pain and suffering. Can I join you?"
"Sure," said Thunderbags. "Got the scissors, Hank?"
Hank passed him the special bronze scissors with the little picture of a tent flap engraved on the haft.
"What are those for?" the overseer asked nervously.
"Well there's a small matter we have to take care of; it's a sort of initiation rite."
"What? Are you joking? I've already had it done. I'm an Egyptian. We Egyptians get trimmed at the age of fourteen."
"Aha, but you're not a natural-born Egyptian," said Thunderbags. "You're an immigrant from Mycenae. I can tell by all of the feathers you're wearing."
Amen's Tooter turned pale.
"Relax," said Thunderbags. "It's only a little thing."
"Speak for yourself. Mine is quite large."
"Anyway, we don't take the whole thing, just the tent flap."
"But that will hurt. And it's going to be cold afterwards."
"You can make a little toque for it. You can put signs on the toque."
"Yeah; you can sell ad-space for beer, bread, and haggis," said the gym teacher. "You'd be surprised how much money you can make."
"But who will see the ads?"
"Well, that depends on what sort of a social life you lead."
"Do you use anesthetic?"
"We have scotch. We traded a Phoenician some bagels for a barrel of McVlod's Hair-Raising Scotch."
"The Phoenician thought the bagels were a kind of flotation device," said the gym teacher. "They sink like stones, actually."
"It's not as if we didn't warn him," said Thunderbags. "He can always use them as ballast."
There was a sudden howl of pain.
Later, the overseer hobbled over to the canteen and drowned his agony in a barrel of fermented goat's milk.
"That wasn't so bad was it?" said Thunderbags. "Now you're one of us! You're part of a big, happy family."
"Well, we do have a bit of backbiting, feuding, civil war and such," said the gym teacher. "But it's no worse than anyone else."
"You'll have to learn our customs," said Hank, and he wheeled over a cart loaded with parchments and cuneiform tablets. "These are tech manuals, FAQ's, and articles on stuff like, How to be Persecuted, What to do When your neighbors start to like you, and One thousand and one answers to the question: Why Me, Oh Supreme Being? You also get your own copy of the Ten thousand food rules."
"Gosh."
And that was how the camels won over their overseer and began plotting their escape into the desert.
Pharaoh Petrie Dish had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 92:ANCIENT RADICALS
Now that the overseer had been recruited, Hank was beginning to feel better.
He had a plan.
"We'll have to continue being slaves and suffering for four hundred years, but we can handle it," he said. "The important thing is, we have a spy who can help us get ready to flee."
The other camels whined and groaned.
"Four hundred years! Do we have to! I'll be OLD by the time we get out of here."
Hank sighed. Even great souls get discouraged at times. It can be so difficult, explaining the necessity for long periods of torment and hard labor to people who have never acquired a taste for such things!
Meanwhile, Pharaoh Petrie Dish had problems of his own.
For one thing, the archaeologists couldn't make up their minds if he really was the pharaoh who had been so mean to the camels, or if it had been some other chap.
Perhaps it had been Tuthmose, or Ramses. Or had the camels made a mistake and shown up in the wrong era?
These were troubling questions.
If you're going to organize a gang of 300,000 unionized construction workers and set them to work building gargantuan monuments, you want to make sure you get your dates right.
It would be embarrassing if you spent all that money only to find out you'd built your monuments in the wrong era.
Also, it's very difficult to rub out mistakes in blocks of quarried rock.
For this reason, Pharaoh Petrie Dish's chief scribe, Beak Head, sent off a delegation to the Royal Ontario Museum, where many of these issues are decided.
This is not the ROM that once existed on Earth, by the way, when Earth itself existed.
The ROM on Tockworld is associated with the University of Strange Thoughts. Every scholar in the world pays obeisance to it, because the ROM is the final arbitrator in all matters having to do with the past.
The past, as you know, is never over and done with. It squirms around quite a lot, assuming now this shape, now that, depending on who is looking through the microscope.
It's a lot like organized religion--the infighting among curators is every bit as savage and bloodthirsty as it is among priests.
Anyway, pilgrim scholars from exotic places and eras are often seen at the ROM, lining up in processions and bearing tribute to the curators.
Adulation is one of the perks of the job.
There's an altar stone in the lobby, in front of a stock-market totem pole that features various ancestral heads of corporations. Visiting scholars can sacrifice politicians here before entering the museum proper and seeking counsel or an oracular pronouncement.
Vlod Dracula, by the way, the colorful mayor of Toronto, has figured out how to tax the past, so caution is urged.
Anyway, even as Pharaoh Petrie Dish waited upon the ROM curators for answers to the perplexing question--was he the correct Pharaoh or not?--he was forced to deal with other issues.
There was no shortage of pressing issues in ancient Egypt, as you know.
"My wife doesn't understand me," he said to one of his concubines--Lovely Luba.
"Of course she does," said Lovely Luba. "That's why she keeps a stable of lawyers on retainer."
Actually, Queen Klepto would have dissolved her marriage to Pharaoh Petrie Dish a long time ago, by having him assassinated, were it not for his vast treasury.
Queen Klepto needed ready cash; she had a lot of expensive hobbies.
She was especially interested in beautifying the land. She had begun with her own little portion of the land--her villa in Memphis, along with her other villa in Thebes, and her palace in Vegas.
She also liked things that glittered and glimmered. Jewelry of all kinds attracted her, and everyone who was anyone knew this. People just loved giving her expensive baubles.
Slaves in the gold mines only had to be told who they were toiling for and they'd settle down and stop whining.
The alternative was lunch with the crocodiles.
Everyone in ancient Egypt loved Queen Klepto. People thought about her constantly. They were especially interested in helping her in her perilous journey to the other world.
The land and the queen are one, after all.
But Pharaoh Petrie Dish was a party pooper. He'd decided that his queen's beautifying projects were diverting scarce resources form monument building and agricultural pursuits.
In fact, there was a shortage of manpower, because everyone was busy amassing loot for Klepto.
Temples lay in pieces in their open boxes, waiting for assembly. Peasants, taking advantage of a temporary shortage of inspectors, drove their herds into the desert to avoid taxes. They couldn't drive their crops into the desert, of course, so they disguised them as weeds.
The land was suffering.
PD was growing desperate. There was hardly enough money to keep the quarries going. Something would have to be done before Standard & Poor downgraded his debt to junk status.
He couldn't raise taxes anymore, because his people hated him and were already plotting rebellion. Everyone thought he was remote and unsympathetic.
The alternative to raising taxes was cutting costs.
But which costs?
"The military budget is enormous," said Lovely Luba. "You should downsize it and maybe even privatize it."
Pharaoh Petrie Dish thought about his army and what a drain on the treasury it was.
Did they really need all of those expensive war chariots? Too much larking about in chariots made warriors soft and lazy. The men needed exercise; marching would be good for them.
Anyway, it was force of will that led to victory, not equipment. The French knew that--it was the secret of their quick victory over the Goths in 1914.
Thus it was, the illustrious and battle-scarred Egyptian general, Crush Enemies, was sacked.
Mycenaean mercenaries, also known as Philistines, were hired to replace regular soldiers at a fraction of traditional pay rates. The promise of stock options and loot was enough for them.
Once Pharaoh Petrie Dish had downsized his army and camouflaged its debt, he looked for a buyer.
This part of things did not go as well as it should.
The Assyrians and the Babylonians were interested of course, but PD thought there might be a strategic problem down the road if he sold these people an actual, working army.
Eventually he managed to sell the army to a Pictish millionaire for considerably less than he'd hoped.
This, of course, explains the presence of bagpipes in ancient Egypt. Unfortunately, tomb artists never depicted them because the locals thought bagpipes were demons in a bag, screaming for blood.
Now that the army had been disposed of, PD discovered that he had other problems.
For one thing, he was going through a mid-life crisis. Gold had lost its luster, jewels their sparkle, etc. He'd even lost interest in his concubines, because they all wanted relationships.
And the ghosts of slaughtered enemies haunted him in his sleep. What if they were waiting for him in the subway entrance to the Underworld, beneath Yorkville?
Life was indeed turning sour for PD. Every night he tossed and turned, clutching his plush toy crocodile to his chest and crying for his mummy.
And then he learned it's not always a good thing when your mummy answers your call.
To add to his worries, there was the problem of his daughter, Secrets of the Pyramids. What a pain in the neck she was! No quiet submission to authority for her! It was all radical student jargon and demonstrations against the war in the Land of Milk and Honey.
And what was this 'Power to the people!' business? She wanted those little brown people in the fields to have magical powers, like Spidermummy!
Ha! Give the people power and there'd be a real mess.
And the music his daughter listened to! Gothic barbarians banging skulls together, jumping around on a dais like frogs on a hot tin roof, screaming about the pain they were in because their concubines had left them and they had no more shekels, and older people didn't understand them.
And they sweated so much on the dais, PD couldn't believe his eyes!
And of course they all smoked hemp and poppies, and ran around starving and naked in the crooked streets, moaning about Moloch.
Anyway, Secrets was obviously interested in stuffing her dear old dad into a mummy case as fast as she could, and then taking over the kingdom and setting up a socially useful government with organic food, equal treatment for animals, and cooperative decisions on how many tractors they should make this week, and who was on clean-up duty.
There's one born every minute, thought PD.
"Why me?" he moaned to his favorite priest, Corrupt Beans. "Where does she get these ideas?"
"She's been anticipating Thales of Miletus," said Corrupt Beans. "She thinks everything is made out of water."
"But that's what we believe too! First there was a lot of water, then the gods came along and--"
"Yes, but this is different water. It's made up of lots of little atoms."
"Oh, well, if you're going to get picky about it, you might as well trade in the afterlife for a lab smock."
PD was so upset, he went off and sulked for awhile.
Secrets, meanwhile, was busy rebelling against the older generation.
She thought her nice old dad was mean, stubborn, and flatulent. She was angry at him because he'd arranged to marry her to a decrepit and crapulous old king of the Moabites.
Moabites, as everyone knows, are vile and disgusting wash pots, and sworn enemies of the Camels of the Negev.
The Moabites didn't know this, of course; they thought they were just ordinary guys, living their lives, stealing what they could, trading for what they couldn't.
The Egyptians had taught them a lesson by slaughtering them, building forts in their land and fortifying the overland route to Damascus.
That showed them a thing or two!
Now it was time for PD to show what nice guys the Egyptians really were by sending Secrets of the Pyramids to the crapulous old king to be his wife.
Pharaoh Petrie Dish liked this arrangement. Secrets was a pain in the neck. She kept butting in during committee meetings, telling him to tax the rich, stop taking bribes, encourage community irrigation projects, pay a living wage, restrict the powers of the priests, and establish an independent judiciary.
Some people have no head for government!
Fortunately, the Moabite king would soon put her in her place--in a diaphanous garment, actually, in the harem quarters.
Secrets of the Pyramids knew exactly what was in store for her, but there was little she could do about it. She was trapped. She had no allies. None of her friends wanted to be feminists. The priests liked her even less than her father did. And the nerds hated her because she kept beating them on the Nin-Ten-Do board.
Just when she was falling into bitter melancholy and despair, however, the love-sick Assyrian archer turned up, sneaking into the palace disguised as a governess with forged letters of recommendation from Nebuchadnezzar.
PD was impressed, especially since Nebuchadnezzar hadn't been invented yet.
"You are the ugliest woman I have ever seen," he said. "Are all Moabite women like you?"
"Uglier even," said the Assyrian.
"Amazing. How is it you speak with an Assyrian accent."
"I was captured by Assyrians, who thought I was one of them, because of the beard. I escaped by shaving their beards while they were sleeping. This made them impotent."
"Oh good! I hate Assyrians! Nasty, disgusting people with huge beards, like yours."
"This? This isn't a beard. It's a lot of feathers."
Thus it was, the Assyrian was accepted into PD's abode, and might have continued indefinitely as governor to the royals, had he not melted into a puddle at the mere sight of Secrets of the Pyramids.
Once he was alone with her, he revealed himself.
Not, of course, in a literal sense.
"Psst," he said. "I'm not really a Moabite governess. I'm a handsome frog here to--I mean a handsome PRINCE--"
"I know what you are," said Secrets. "Be quiet and let me think."
Secrets, always quick to recognize an opportunity, was busy incorporating this love-sick fool into a new stratagem.
The Assyrian's heart burned with fierce love, but at the same time, he felt sick with anxiety.
He was utterly alone; there was no one he could trust. If PD found out about his little deception, he'd be fed to the crocodiles.
If he met another Moabite he'd be exposed as an Assyrian. If a delegation of Assyrians spotted him, they'd laugh themselves sick.
And he had nowhere to take Secrets even if he could get her out of the palace. He hadn't thought things through.
But Secrets was already working on that.
Could she flee with this strange, bearded, frog-like duck, establish a colony somewhere in the New World, and build a egalitarian tractor factory?
The Pharaoh, however, had other ideas.
He had seen through the Assyrian archer's disguise right away.
Who did this toad think he was fooling, dressed up like Robin Williams in a silly governess outfit?
But if he could be encouraged to elope with Secrets, perhaps to the Aleutian Islands, then PD would immediately become a tragic and sympathetic figure. He could go to his people and say, "Behold, an evil villain has made off with my daughter! I'm just like you, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief."
Then he'd get the sympathy vote and his people would stop plotting rebellion.
True, Secrets was promised to a Moabite king, but PD could send the old fellow a goat instead.
Moabites were fond of goats.
Then he could raise more money in taxes, buy his army back, and attack his wife.
It was a good plan, and it might work, but the army would pose a problem.
Once you've privatized an army, it can be difficult to regain control.
CHAPTER 93:BAGPIPE BLUES
Meanwhile, Polydoor and Angle Poise were still on a quest to find Freddy Manichean Heresy, who had been touched by Nurse Jane's magic cap and was burning with love for Melissa Manners, President of the Universe of Adjustable Manners.
Polydoor was desperate to find them; the thought of an alliance of separate-but-equal evil with perfect manners and charm made him shudder.
Who knew what deadly pastimes a charming Freddy would take up! Religion, for instance. Or advertising.
He had to be stopped.
But where to find him? The problem with quests is you never really know where to start. Usually someone gives you a hint by trying to disembowel you with a sword; however this doesn't always work.
Polydoor and Angle Poise were stumped. After a certain amount of tramping through burning-hot sand, they called a time-out.
"I'm bushed," said Angle Poise. "If we keep wandering in the desert like this, I'll start to have visions and hear voices. You know where that leads!"
"Forget it! We have all the Hollywood mystics we need right now."
Angle Poise sulked for a time. Then he said, "Shouldn't we be looking for a patch of mist or a mysterious door or something?"
"How about a lamp in a cave?" sneered Polydoor. "Rub it with a chamois and a guy in a loincloth pops out and offers you a pack of coupons, good at participating stores."
"I don't think you have the right attitude, Polydoor. When you're on a quest, you're supposed to empty your mind of petty thoughts and top up on purity and faith."
"I have plenty of faith," said Polydoor. "I believe that if you empty your mind of petty thoughts, a spam artist will immediately stuff it with links to exotic ducks."
"Exotic ducks?" said Angle Poise. "Are you serious?"
"You don't think ducks can be exotic?" Polydoor said in a dangerous voice.
Angle Poise chose not to respond to this, and a silence descended on the weary travelers as they started out on their journey again.
After much boring plodding, they came to a ruined city that had been sacked ages ago by Nubians.
Little remained but mounds of mud bricks, an old copy of James Michener's Novel, THE SOURCE, and a few derelict temples.
"Welcome to Egypt," said Polydoor.
"That's funny; I thought we were in Babylon," said Angle Poise. "Have we been going in the wrong direction all this time?"
"That's what happens when you empty your mind of petty thoughts," said Polydoor, smirking.
Angle Poise ignored this.
"I don't remember going through customs," he said. "Usually there's a fortified city blocking the way. Migdol, I think."
"The tomb paintings depict a big duck in a kilt," said Polydoor. "He seems to be playing the bagpipes. Maybe that's why the Nubians sacked this place."
"What are bagpipes?" said Angle Poise, fascinated by the paintings.
"A Scottish ritual device," said Polydoor. "The Scots keep their gods in them. Whenever they want an oracular pronouncement, they squeeze and blow on their gods."
Angle Poise gasped.
"They squeeze their gods! Unthinkable! Do you mean to say the gods actually permit this?"
"I'm sure they enjoy it," said Polydoor. "Otherwise they wouldn't speak in such melodious tones. Bagpipes can be very pleasant when manipulated by an expert. Amateurs, however, have been known to bring elephants to their knees."
"And what is this lump on the offering table? Is it some mystical part of a sacrifice?"
"Looks like a haggis," said Polydoor. "It's made from the stomach of a sheep. They stuff it with delicacies."
"Presumably it's the SCOTS who do the stuffing, not the SHEEP."
"Theoretically."
"I've heard of this," said Angle Poise. "It's called a pinata. You stuff it with toys and gifts; then you hang it from a branch and people take turns hitting it with sticks until it bursts open and drops delightful items all over the floor."
Polydoor turned away for a moment, nearly helpless with silent mirth.
"After the toys and gifts, there's some sort of joyous festival isn't there?" said Angle Poise.
"Yes, it's called 'The slaughtering of the Sassenachs'," said Polydoor. "They all rush out and pillage Tewksbury."
"They must be fierce warriors," said Angle Poise.
"Oh they are! They notch their bagpipes to show how many kills they've made."
Angle Poise gazed in awe at the mighty Scottish warriors depicted on the walls of the tomb.
"I'll tell you something else," said Polydoor. "There's a secret code in every Scottish tartan. If you figure it out, you'll learn who made the pyramids and what they're for."
"Everyone knows that!" said Angle Poise. "The pyramids were designed as a big windbreak, to keep the sand from blowing away."
Polydoor shook his head; there was no helping some people. "I've never seen bagpipes in Egyptian ruins before," he said. "I wonder if this is an anachronism."
"You mean someone came and put these ruins in the sand just to confuse people?" said Angle Poise. "Who would do a thing like that?"
"Don't you know anything?" said Polydoor. "The same people who went around burying dinosaur bones and making crop circles!"
"Oh. The Russians. But I thought the Cold War was over! We're all supposed to be friends now."
"We are friends," said Polydoor. "These are older than Glasnost."
Just then, a terrifying sound rose up from among the ruins. Angle Poise went as white as a Macintosh computer.
"What in Tockworld is that?" he screeched. "Have we blundered into the Underworld?"
The sound intensified until Polydoor thought his eardrums would burst like toy balloons. Then it settled down, and he began to recognize a kind of regular variation in pitch and tone.
"It's music," breathed Angle Poise.
"Approximately," said Polydoor.
"I'd like tae see ye play the pipes when there's sand in every part of the instrument, laddie!" boomed an angry voice.
Angle Poise immediately bowed down, pressing his forehead into the sand.
"It wasn't my fault, Oh Divine Purveyor of Exquisite Sounds," he whined. "Please don't remove my stomach and stuff it with toys and gifts."
Polydoor lounged against a sarcophagus.
"I can hear you, but I can't see you," he said. "I presume that means you're a ghost."
"Correct as usual, Polydoor."
After a moment, the piper managed to clear away the sand. Once that was accomplished, he played 'How Much is That Doggie in the Window?' with a degree of accomplishment that impressed even the cynical Polydoor.
"Well done!" he said clapping.
"Coming from you, that is high praise," said the piper.
"I'm so happy I want to sacrifice myself!" said Angle Poise. "At a later date, of course; when the time is propitious."
"Oh get up off your forehead, lad! I'm a Scotsman, not a Sassenach club doorman. Anyway, I'm just passing through. I was hired to entertain a flock of historical romance writers in Omaha, Nebraska, but I got lost."
"Just keep heading east until you come to a big ocean," said Polydoor. "Cross the ocean and you'll come to Lighter Than Air, California. Look for the drive-in psychics. You're bound to find one going out on tour; I'm sure you can hitch a ride."
"Can I ask directions there?"
"Ask somebody from Lighter Than Air where Omaha is? Ummm...you might get lucky."
There was a sensation of wind, then silence. The piper was gone.
"Well, that was amusing," said Polydoor. "Now it's back to work."
"I feel strangely refreshed," said Angle Poise.
"Relief after much suffering. I hope he gets his bagpipes properly cleaned."
"You're such a cynic, Polydoor. I'm looking forward to this quest. I feel almost... tolerant. I might even think about allowing laypeople to interpret one or two of the less important items in the Great Big Book of Facts. Perhaps the rules about decapitating people who use cell phones in Cineplexes...."
Polydoor tuned this out. He was fed up with questing. All he wanted to do was find the Power of Durable Evil, save the world, and get back to his sweetheart, the lovely Babette.
Was that so much to ask?
Why, then, did he have to waste time traipsing off after the love-sick Freddy? Was it his problem if Freddy and Melissa Manners got together and smooched their lives away?
Yes, it was, he thought. If he'd done his job properly and eliminated Freddy in one climactic battle, none of this would be happening.
"Why is it so hard to get rid of a god?" he said aloud.
"Because Freddy isn't a god," said Angle Poise. "He's a theological system. You can't destroy a theology once it's been released into the atmosphere; you have to store it in a museum. It's a well-know fact that things buried in museums disappear from public consciousness forever."
"No true," said Polydoor. "Some people will stop at nothing. They'll spend entire days in museums, looking for secret keys to ancient mysteries."
"You could always make it a required course in high school. Anything that people are forced to study in high school vanishes the moment they leave the classroom."
"Until someone comes along and repackages it as a new and better version," said Polydoor.
"You think?" said Angle Poise.
"Back to basics."
"Oh the horror!" Angle Poise turned an admirable shade of green and scurried on ahead of Polydoor, never once looking back to see if his new chum was following.
Polydoor was depressed.
Was there no end to niche theologies? Why couldn't there be one official religion with rites and doctrines that everyone committed to memory and followed precisely, like cogs in a watch?
There wouldn't be anymore inquisitions, holy wars, hatreds, etc. All you'd have to do would be to apply a little oil to the cogs once in awhile to keep things moving smoothly.
Actually, a dram of scotch would do the job.
Even so, there would be priests who'd make trouble; priests who would be sticklers for rules.
Their own rules, of course: rules about what you could say to the gods and when you could say it.
Just like protocol chiefs in embassies.
Every experienced acolyte knew that the gods should be left to work out their own arrangements, free of the mortal translation guilds.
On the other hand, who but a priest could understand a god?
Even when the gods tried to be nice, telling you to build arks and things when they were about to drown everyone, they weren't much help. Their instructions were usually conveyed in early Sumerian, a language understood by auctioneers and technical writers, but few others.
People receiving god communications frequently had to make educated guesses about what they meant. This quite often led to misunderstandings such as the following:
"Is that supposed to be an ark?"
"Well Shem, I don't care whether you like it or not; this is what the Supreme Being told me to build."
"It looks like a giant duck!"
"It's an ark, you idiot. See this curved bit--this is called a hull, and this flat part with all the cubits in it is called a deck."
"I think the hull is supposed to go on the bottom."
"No it isn't! It's meant to keep the rain off the flat part. We'll be nice and dry when everyone else is running around in galoshes and ponchos."
"If you think I'm going to live for an entire month inside a funny-looking barn with a lot of cubits and smelly animals, you're crazy!"
"You prefer living under water?"
"Are you kidding? The Supreme Being would never do a thing like that!"
"You might want to invest in a few swimming lessons...."
Polydoor carefully put this babble of voices back in its box and sighed wearily.
On the whole, it was better to ignore advice from the gods and shop at a hardware store. There were some good ark kits available now, because mortals had learned from their last experience with a deluge, and knew how to make their own now.
Just then, a patch of mist arose.
Oh, oh, thought Polydoor. "Don't go there, Angle Poise!"
But it was too late; Angle Poise, mistaking the mist for the entrance to their quest, stepped through without a second thought and vanished.
Polydoor heard a scream.
"Hmmm...." he said.
The Scottish piper had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 94:ROSE-PINK THEOLOGY
Polydoor eyed the patch of mist hovering in the desert air. It looked innocent enough but so did a lot of other things, until you got close to them.
Octopuses, for instance. Who would suspect a bag of sausages could jump on you like a pit viper, drag you towards its gaping beak, and....
And there had been that scream....
"Angle Poise?" he called. "Are you okay?"
There was no answer.
He walked around the cloud of mist, keeping a safe distance.
It moved a little, but it didn't leap out at him. It was quite small actually; easily circumnavigated, and not very threatening.
All the same, Polydoor moved cautiously, watching for booby traps.
Meanwhile, the sun burned his dome, the sand burned his feet, and the intense light burned his eyes.
Far off on the horizon a tiny dust cloud marked the progress of an advancing army of bloodthirsty warriors. Polydoor glanced disinterestedly at them. It mattered little who they were--Assyrians, Egyptians, British soccer fans--if they wanted to slaughter him, they'd have to wait in line.
There were too many other things in this vale of tears that wanted him to join his ancestors.
He walked all the way around the little patch of mist without encountering a single enemy. He listened carefully, but there were no more screams from the other side; there was only silence, and an air of menace.
Actually, Polydoor had learned ages ago that almost everything in Tockworld had an air of menace.
He was sweating now and his hump was itching. He yearned to simply walk away, trek across the desert, catch a boat to Toronto, and rejoin his sweetheart.
But Polydoor's Victorian upbringing wouldn't let him abandon his quest. Mommy was always looking, even when she wasn't there.
He started off again, walking around the mist a second time.
Then he noticed footprints in the sand.
Big footprints, like waffle irons.
He froze, only his eyes moving as he peered from side to side. His ears strained at the silence. High overhead a vulture sailed on the thermals, watching him.
Lunch is served, it thought.
Then a black thunderbolt hurtled out of the empyrean, screaming "It'll never happen!" A beak slashed like a scalpel, and the vulture tumbled out of the sky, thumping lifelessly to the sand.
Polydoor looked up, startled out of his wits.
"Thorry!" quoth Custer, alighting on the corpse. "He wath poaching."
Polydoor had never been so happy to see the quothing raven. A wave of relief filled him with oceanic thoughts of good will and Llama's Day feasts.
At the same time, his cunning, acolyte's mind thought of a plan.
"I have a treat for you, Custer," he said silkily.
"Do tell."
"I was keeping it safe but an evil canary popped out of that clump of mist and snatched it away before I could give it to you."
"The cad!" quoth Custer, and without a moment's hesitation, he plunged straight into the mist, his wings beating like chopper blades.
There was another scream, then an angry voice.
"What do you think you're doing you stupid crow. That was my lunch."
"Finderth keeperth. Bethidth; I'm a raven."
"Huh? What did you say?"
"I thaid I'm a raven."
"You're not from around here, are you! Can't you speak English?"
"Why thould I? I'm a Thcot!"
"A Thcot?"
"You know--'Ye tak the high road and I'll tak the low road', etc."
That was the first Polydoor had heard of Custer's Scottish origins.
Shouldn't be surprised, he thought. Everybody who's anybody has Scottish origins! Take Imhotep,the great pyramid designer, for instance.
Few people knew that Imhotep was the first Scottish engineer, and that, when he built the pyramids, he was merely trying to work out the correct shape for a lighthouse.
Just like Edison and his light bulbs. If at first you don't succeed, build a pyramid.
Polydoor, however, had other things on his mind now.
It must be safe on the other side of the magic mist, he thought. Custer made it!
Unless, of course, an evil shape shifter had devoured Custer, garbed himself in the raven's feathers, and taken on his voice.
"Are you there, Custer?" Polydoor called.
"I think tho. I might be thomewhere elth, though. Thankth for the treat, by the way. Ith yummy."
"Is that really you?"
"Lath time I looked it was! Could be the Malteth Falcon, I thuppoth."
Polydoor was almost convinced, but not quite.
"Prove it's you," he said. "Tell me something only Custer would know; not something a terrifying beast would make up if it was pretending to be you."
"Hmmm. You could athk me what ith the firth rule of raventh?"
"I didn't know ravens had rules."
"A lot you know! Tho athk me!"
"Okay, what is the first rule of ravens?"
"There ithn't one! Rulth were made for victimth."
"It's you, old friend!" shouted Polydoor. "I've missed you!"
"And I've mitthed you. Ith been five minuth already. I wath afraid you'd died and given yourthelf to thomeone elth."
"Never! I've been saving myself for you."
"Polydoor! I never knew! My dear, dear friend! Come and join the party!"
And with that, Polydoor closed his eyes, held his breath and stepped through the magic mist.
Then a terrifying monster attacked him.
"Arrrgggh!" he yelled, flailing at the beast with every appendage.
For a moment all he could see were vividly colored limbs--dozens of them. Then a sharp explosion nearly deafened him and the monster shot away with a hiss and a phhhht and a pfffflllbbbbb!
Polydoor staggered and blinked as a bewildering, ever-changing form zipped back and forth, growing smaller and smaller with every passing second. Then it fell to the ground, a tangle of shriveled balloons.
"Har, har, har!" quoth Custer. "That wath a good trick."
Polydoor drew a deep breath, shaken to the very core of his being.
"That was rude," he said. "I might have had a stroke."
"You! Ha! That'll be the day!"
Polydoor was getting ready to strangle his chum when a dulcet voice said, "Welcome to Rose Pink, home of Melissa Manners."
A perfectly dressed fairy appeared in a pink skirt and creamy white blouse with a pink ruff. Before Polydoor could manage so much as a sneer, she had touched him with her wand.
A pink cloud of glitter dust blinded him. When he opened his eyes, he saw, to his horror, that he was dressed in a navy blue blazer, a charcoal tie, snowy white shirt, gray flannels with a razor-sharp crease, and polished black waffle-iron shoes.
His feathers were neatly combed, and he reeked of cologne.
Custer had been transformed into a respectable bird of omen, all togged out in a cute little blue blazer with brass buttons.
The two friends gazed disgustedly at each other.
Then they gazed disgustedly at their surroundings.
The magic wand had transformed a perfectly good patch of eerie mist into an eighteenth-century romantic garden, complete with grottos, gazebos, and a rose-pink mansion.
There were masses of roses everywhere they looked. There was a bar, a buffet, and a decorative pool stocked with decorative carp.
In the center of the fountain was a statue of Heidi.
Men and women strolled back and forth, smoking cigars and discussing Henry James.
In a rose-pink gazebo, a quartet played 'How Much is That Doggie in the Window?'
A caterer brought a tray of goodies. Polydoor absently reached for a cigar. Custer took two, tucking one under his wing.
"For potherity," he quoth, grinning at Polydoor.
"Where are we?" said Polydoor. "And where is Angle Poise?"
"You have been invited to Melissa Manners' cottage for the weekend," said the fairy. "This is a garden party to celebrate her engagement. There's the charming couple now!"
She motioned to a gazebo clotted with roses and orchids, where Freddy Manichean Heresy stood gazing ardently into his sweetheart's composure.
Polydoor couldn't believe his eyes. Freddy was decorated in a tuxedo, with a dazzling white shirt and a Fred Astaire hat.
The only thing distinguishing him from a penguin was a maroon scarf, which made him look vaguely exotic, as befitted a dangerous Persian heresy.
The object of his affections was a rather strict looking duck in an Edwardian dress.
Her hair had been arranged in an elaborate French coiffure, and set with carpenter's glue.
She looked like a glamorous Scottish elementary school teacher; the possessor of an invisible ruler that could snap out an ear-splitting tattoo at the slightest provocation.
But love had softened her, making her complexion glow like a fish tank under ultraviolet lights.
This was Melissa Manners.
Polydoor listened in astonishment as Freddy courted his beauty.
"I can only hope," said Freddy, "that on this special occasion, you will permit me to engage in the merest hint of osculation."
"You may," said Melissa, offering her cheek.
Polydoor felt sick.
"Where's Angle Poise?" he demanded. "This is disgusting!"
Miss Manners tapped her invisible ruler on an invisible desk.
Everyone fell silent, waiting to find out if there was going to be a test.
"I would like to announce my engagement to a wonderful heretical artifact," she said. "A duck among ducks."
"Pssst! Psst!" hissed a voice.
Polydoor nearly jumped out of his skin. Was he being attacked by another balloon monster?
"Psst! Over here!"
The only thing close to him was an enormous angel food cake perched on a rosewood table.
"Is that cake talking to me?" he demanded. "Did you hear it, Custer?"
"It wanth to be eaten, I thould imagine," quoth the raven.
"In honor of this happy day, and in keeping with our dear and ancient custom, I have ordered a magnificent cake," said Melissa.
Polydoor gaped at her with his mouth open.
"She knew!" he exclaimed. "She knew Freddy was going to pop through a magical misty door and ask her to osculate. She had everything ready. She had the cake, the guests, the little cards announcing her engagement, and an optional extra balloon monster. Did she peek into the future? Has this disgusting event already happened at least once?"
"Nothing is impossible if you have good manners," said the fairy.
"Hsst! It's me!" said the cake.
"I don't talk to smarmy angel food cakes," said Polydoor. "I sit on them."
"You should try the icing before you complain; it's sinful."
This time, Polydoor recognized Angle Poise's voice.
"Is that you, Angle Poise. Have they turned you into a cake? Is that why you screamed?"
"I'm INSIDE the cake, you idiot!"
"But you were killed when you went through the mist! I heard you scream, I tell you!"
"That was because I fell into a bowl of vichyssoise. I hate cold soup. I was dripping with the stuff! I had to worm my way into the cake before anyone realized I didn't fit in. Now I'm covered with cake goo as well. hate this! It doesn't go with my theology."
"Stop whining. Now that we're together, we can attack Freddy and kill him once and for all."
"Don't even think about it. Melissa has super powers. She can freeze you with a look. And one touch of that invisible ruler of hers and you won't have any knuckles left."
"What can we do?"
"Hmmmm," said Angle Poise. "We could take action, lose the war, and spend the rest of our lives being forced to behave with perfect manners, or we could leave this place."
"If we leave, Freddy will kill me and tear my corpse to pieces," said Polydoor.
"YETH!" quoth Custer, his eyes shining. "Dinner at lath!"
Polydoor was shocked. "I thought you were my friend," he said. "One for all and all for one."
"Oh I am, I am! A good friend will never leave a dead comrade to rot on the pavement."
"What shall we do?" said Angle Poise. "I hate dilemmas! It's much easier just to anathemize people."
Polydoor was desperate now. Attacking Freddy was one thing, but fighting off a Scottish elementary school teacher in charge of manners and deportment was quite another.
He reached into his pocket for a pencil, and that was when he found the can of McBowel's Exploding Haggis.
"Gentlemen, I have a weapon," he said.
Everyone gathered around.
"You can't use that," said Angle Poise scandalized. "It's been outlawed by the Geneva Convention."
"Only when applied internally," said Polydoor.
"Give it to me," said Custer. "I'll dithpothe of it."
"We'll put it in the cake," said Polydoor, ignoring him. "When Melissa tries to cut it, the haggis will burst like a party balloon. Everyone will go crazy trying to stuff as much haggis into their gullets as possible. There'll be corpses everywhere! No one will have good manners! Her party will be ruined; she'll call off the engagement and make everybody memorize The Great Big Book of Perfect Manners.
"Thoundth good to me," said Custer.
Angle Poise was silent. The idea appealed to him, therefore it had to be sinful.
That's the trouble with being a priest--even a rebel priest. You're not allowed to have any fun unless you have guilt as well. They go together like a horse and carriage.
Melissa had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 95:FROGS ON PARADE
"You're going to stuff a whole can of McBowel's Exploding Haggis inside an angel food cake?" said Angle Poise. "Isn't that overkill?"
"Hey, don't knock it!" quoth Custer. "Road kill for everyone!"
"You can't be too careful where Freddy is concerned," said Polydoor.
"What's this little key on the can? Is it the opener?"
"Noooo!" yelled Polydoor. "That's the firing pin, you fool! Wait until we get it into the cake."
"How are we supposed to do that? It's a self-sealing cake; the hiding place I carved out of it is already gone."
Custer smirked and hopped up onto the cake. The icing sugar looked a little hard, but food was food, and it would make a nice appetizer.
"I'll dig a hole for the can, thall I?" he said, and he cocked his beak, aiming it at a spot near the middle of the cake.
Then he laughed maniacally and stabbed at the glittering prize.
There was a sound like a chisel hitting a brick.
"Owww my beak!" quoth Custer. "Thith cake ith made out of concrete, like a bunker."
"Try again!" yelled Angle Poise. "I can hear a clicking noise coming from inside the can. I must have accidentally pulled the firing pin. We're all doomed!"
"Idiot!" muttered Polydoor. "For a rebel priest, you're not very well prepared." Then he rummaged in his pockets and found an Acme cordless pneumatic drill, with extra bits in case one got lost.
"Hurry!" said Angle Poise. "I can hear the can ticking."
"I can't get this stupid bubble wrap off the drill," said Polydoor.
"Use this," said Angle Poise, handing him a pair of shears. "They're for sheep, actually, so try not to blunt the edges."
Polydoor cut the bubble wrap and extracted the pneumatic drill.
"Some assembly required," he muttered. "When I get back to civilization, I'm going to have a word with the Acme people.
"Acme ith bankrupt," quoth Custer. "Too many returned itemth."
Polydoor looked at the instructions.
"What language is this?" he asked.
Everyone gathered around and peered at the strange markings.
"Put part the A if B the lugs match C turning, being not careful the part D on top first."
"That can't be right," said Angle Poise. "There's a diagram here; maybe it makes more sense."
The diagram had been photocopied onto smudgy fax paper. It was an exploded view of the pneumatic drill, with most of the parts missing.
"Can't you just wing it?" said Angle Poise. "The ticking is getting louder."
"It'll never happen," quoth Custer.
Polydoor glared at him, but the wily bird had taken the precaution of flapping up to the top of a nearby grotto.
The can of McBowel's was about to go off with terrific force.
At the same time, Melissa Manners and Freddy were drawing near, smiling and nodding politely at their guests as they crossed their perfect lawn.
It's good manners to keep your lawn perfectly green and free of dandelions, by the way; otherwise the neighbors will wax wondrously wroth.
"Do something!" yelled Angle Poise.
"Okay, okay!" muttered Polydoor. Then, closing his eyes and holding his breath, he put part A on top of part B, added part C, and ignored part D.
Angle Poise eyed Polydoor's handiwork critically.
"That doesn't look anything like the pneumatic drill on the label," he said. "It looks like a turkey vulture with botulism."
"DIBS!" yelled Custer excitedly.
Polydoor ignored this. He hauled the drill over to the cake, took careful aim at the side, and pressed the 'on' button.
There was a sound like a jet engine with a sack of rocks caught in its fan blades, but the drill worked. Polydoor hung on for dear life as it roared and shook, plunging through the diamond-hard icing.
Moments later, a large quantity of vaporized angel-food cake shot out of the hole, covering everyone for a distance of twenty feet.
Polydoor hit the 'off' button and tossed away the drill.
Then he stuffed the McBowel's can deep inside the cake, and jumped down, shaken but not stirred.
The cake looked like the surface of the moon, with a crater where the drill had done its work.
"I thought you said it was self-sealing," said Polydoor. "How come the hole is still there?"
"Maybe it used up all its life points filling the first hole."
"I could teth it for you," said Custer. "If I eat one half of the cake, and it doethn't theal the hole, we'll know it doethn't work anymore."
Polydoor didn't bother replying to this. He rummaged in his pockets and found an Acme plasterer's trowel, an aluminum container, a bag of McBowel's Quick-Setting Icing Sugar (just add water and run away!), and a bottle of McBowel's Special Water for Icing Sugar (Ask about our discounts for bulk purchases).
Then he donned a plaster's cap, mixed the ingredients, and slathered a layer of the goop onto the cake.
"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" said Angle Poise.
"Relax; I've used this before. It's very strong and durable; you could plaster your walls with it if you wanted to."
"Well hurry it up, willyou! Melissa and Freddy are almost here!"
"Are they still osculating?"
"Like two leeches in a medical kit. They're holding hands too."
"I'm going to be sick," muttered Polydoor.
Angle Poise inspected Polydoor's masterpiece.
"That cake looks lopsided," he said.
"Of course it does; it's a magic cake! It's bigger on the inside than it is on the outside."
"It's the wrong color. Have you got any pink paint?"
"What's wrong with orange? I LIKE orange."
"I have some pink nail polish," said Angle Poise, and he handed a fancy bottle to Polydoor.
Polydoor gave Angle Poise a long, hard look.
"Just happened to have some, did we? In case we wanted to do our nails while we were preaching a sermon on the slaughter of the innocents?"
Angle Poise flushed. "I was going to use it to paint my model of the Babylonian ziggurat."
Custer, meanwhile, was salivating over the cake.
"Get away from there!" said Polydoor. "You can lick the bowl."
"It needth body parth."
"There'll be plenty of body parts soon enough if we don't take cover," said Angle Poise.
"I hope the two lovebirds get over here before it explodes," said Polydoor. "What are they doing now?"
"Politely disengaging themselves from a chatty old woman."
Polydoor turned to look, and his mouth dropped open in shock.
"That isn't just any old woman!" he gasped. "Look at her shoes!"
"What about them?" said Angle Poise.
"Red shoes! Do you know what that means?"
"Isn't there a TV show about lascivious women with red shoes?" said Angle Poise. "I've never seen it, of course, because Hank hasn't invented TV yet, but--"
"No, no, no!" yelled Polydoor. "Don't you know anything? Haven't you read 'The Wizard of Oz?'"
"Oh my gosh!" said Angle Poise. "The Wicked Witch of the West. What's she doing here?"
"The Wicked Witch of the East you mean," said Polydoor. "The Witch of the West is good."
"No, ith the Wicked Witch of the North," quoth Custer. "The Witch of the Eath liveth in the Land of Nod, where all good boyth and girlth go to meet the Jolly Fat Llama."
"The Jolly Fat Llama lives at the North Pole," said Polydoor. "Everybody knows that."
"Look, look; see, see!" yelled Angle Poise. "What's the Red Shoe Witch doing NOW?"
"She's putting a curse on Freddy," said Polydoor, awed.
"Here they come; they finally broke away."
"I like red shoes," said Polydoor. "I wonder if she'd let me borrow them. Melissa Manners wears snow-white shoes with little stars on them. What sort of a person wears snow-white shoes? And a snow-white dress, and a snow-white scarf? Who does she think she is, an albino?"
"Maybe she's a virgin," said Angle Poise. "People with excessive manners hardly ever get beyond the osculation stage you know."
"She couldn't be a virgin," said Polydoor. "Disser's got them all in the Underworld."
"Look out!" yelled Angle Poise. "She's going to cut the cake. We have to save the Red Shoe Witch from a fate worse than death!"
"Angle Poise!" said Polydoor, shocked. "What happened to you? Have you fallen in love?"
Just then, Nurse Jane materialized, smirking like a capuchin monkey at a tea party. She reached over and snatched away her magic cap, which had been perched like a robber fly on Angle Poise's head.
"Excuse me; this is mine," she said.
"You touched me with your magic cap!" wailed Angle Poise. "Now I'm in love with the Red Shoe Witch!"
"I love this job," said Nurse Jane, winking at Polydoor.
"Get away from me!" yelled Polydoor, making the sign to ward off evil.
"Got a problem with love, humpy? It makes the world go around, you know. Besides, I happen to know about a cute spider who's pining away, waiting for her sweetheart."
Polydoor shrank from her and hissed.
"Don't worry, lover boy! You don't need a magic cap. You're just naturally overflowing with tender feelings."
"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me," said Polydoor.
Nurse Jane shook her head. "I see. The Gary Cooper of the acolytes, are we? Strong, silent, and wooden. Well I wish you all the happiness of your suppressed emotions."
Then she eyed Custer.
Custer made the sign to ward off evil. "Get away from me," he quothed. "I'm a rethpectable bird of ill omen. Bethidth; I have bad breath; I'm a carrion eater."
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