THE DUCKS OF DOOM
Chapter 121-150
A WEEKLY SERIAL
With all of the Boring Bits Left Out
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 121:QUICK LEARNERS
"How did it come to this?" Cohen said. "Not only am I being stalked by closet monsters, I'm caught in a love triangle with a radiant Scottish beauty and an academic pear."
"It's hard being part of a triangle when the other sides don't even know they're doing geometry," said Jerry.
"I'm doomed," moaned Cohen.
"Stop bleating about it and do something," said Jerry. "Buy her some rutabagas. Ask her out to the ritual sacrifices."
"I'm too shy; what if I make a fool of myself?"
"You won't notice the difference."
"Maybe not, but SHE will."
"So check the closet; that always makes you feel nice and anxious."
"What a wonderful friend YOU turned out to be!" said Cohen.
Then, because the closet had been invoked, he peered into it.
"There'd better not be any monsters in here," he said.
Gracie gave him an encouraging smile.
"That's the spirit!" she said. "You have to be firm with monsters. They'll hate you at first, but they'll soon learn to respect you."
Neville put a protective arm around Gracie. "Next time, let ME chase the monsters away," he said. "I can protect you."
"I know," said Gracie. "I feel much safer now that I've got my big brave Neville to protect me."
Cohen ground his beak, watching jealously as Gracie put an arm through Neville's and patted him on the tractor tire. "My big pear!" she said.
Smoke issued from Cohen's nostrils. He clapped a hand over his snooter and went cross-eyed trying to hold in the telltale billows, but even so, little tendrils escaped through his fingers, coloring the air blue.
"Smoke gets in your eyes," said Jerry.
"Ha ha ha; very funny!" said Cohen. "Have you no respect for my broken heart!"
"Not so loud," said Jerry. "The others will think you're flipping out. Talk about something important."
"Quite right," said Merlin. "Enough mooning about! We have important business to discuss."
"I AM NOT MOONING," said Cohen. Then he hid in the closet for a moment, because everyone was staring at him.
Seconds later, realizing where he was, he uttered a terrified squawk and leaped out again.
"Did you see a monster in there?" said Neville maliciously.
"No one believes I'm plagued by monsters!" said Cohen. "You'll all be sorry when they start breeding."
"Coming soon to a closet near you!" said Jerry.
"I can't think what it wanted with erasers," said Gracie. "Scottish monsters prefer haggis."
"Perhaps it was hoping to rub something out," said Neville.
"Oh you!" Gracie patted him on the arm.
Flames of jealousy shot up Cohen's spine, scorching it. He glared at Neville with murder in his eye. How dare that puffed-up tractor tire stand next to MY girl, he thought.
Then a sudden, ghastly sound broke into his reverie. It was the janitor listening to popular music again.
"Do you want to rip my T-shirt?" yelled a hideous voice.
"Oh listen to that, Neville!" said Gracie. "They're playing OUR song."
Cohen couldn't believe his ears. That was THEIR song?
"Do you want to rip my T-shirt?" screamed the singer.
The two lovebirds smiled tenderly at each other.
Cohen felt sick. His eyes turned green and little puffs of green smoke billowed out of his ears.
"Calm down, big beak," said Jerry. "She ain't the only fish in the ocean."
"She's the only fish for me," said Cohen.
At that moment, Sweet Gas trundled in from the hall, where he'd been examining a slab of granite some careless student had dropped.
"What's this about a monster?" he said.
"Took you long enough," said Digger. "What have you been doing?"
"Looking for a bowel. I thought I saw one running down the hall, but it was only a teacher fleeing a horde of parents."
"Oh that was Gollywogs," said Cohen, brightening up. Anything bad that happened to Gollywogs was richly deserved. "He's in charge of the school play. Some of the parents are a little aggressive about getting more stage time for their children. Personally, I think closet monsters are far more dangerous than mere parents."
Gracie looked at him in surprise. "Really?" she said. "How long have you been teaching!"
"The monster's gone," said Edwardian. "Gracie killed it."
"I don't suppose it had a bowel, did it?" said Sweet Gas.
"It evaporated," said Cohen, eyeing Sweet Gas nervously and hoping against hope the big rock pile wasn't planning on enrolling in one of his classes.
"You don't hide in closets, do you?" he said.
"Why should I do that?" said Sweet Gas. "Do you keep bowels in your closet?"
"I generally keep them in here," said Cohen, patting his abdomen.
Sweet Gas peered into the closet. "You never know," he said. "People are forgetful; they misplace things all the time."
"They misplace their bowels?" said Cohen.
"It's been known to happen," said Sweet Gas. "People are so stressed out these days!"
Cohen gazed in morbid fascination as Sweet Gas trekked deeper into the closet. Who was going to win this one? The monster, or the pocket mountain? At the very least, there'd be a rock slide of epic proportions, and perhaps a chilling scream, or a bellow of rage, or...
Cohen covered his eyes.
Then he heard a low, rumbling noise--the unmistakable sound of a troll in seventh heaven--and he peeked through his fingers.
Sweet Gas had found a plastic model of the organs of a sheep.
"Do you mind if I investigate this?" he said, holding it close to his chest in case Cohen tried to take it away from him.
"You might as well," sighed Cohen. "My students never look at anything that smacks of education. I'm glad someone will benefit from it."
"A bowel won't help you," said Neville. "After years of careful research, I've come to the conclusion that nothing is beneficial."
"You're telling me!" said Chester. "I've been wearing this false beak for ages, and what have I got to show for it? I ask you!"
"What I MEANT," said Neville testily, "is that NOTHING, meaning the total absence of SOMETHING, is, in fact beneficial."
"Nothing is better than something?" said Chester. "You must be a politician."
"What, precisely, does this have to do with a plastic model of a sheep's intestine?" said Cohen.
"Well, the intestine IS hollow," said Sweet Gas.
"Until you've eaten something," said Cohen. "Then it fills up rather quickly."
"What a horrible thing to do to an intestine!" said Sweet Gas. "You should cherish it and read bedtime stories to it during the long nights, to help it fall asleep."
"So THAT'S how you do it!" said Edwardian. "My old auntie always said the only way to put a restless bowel to sleep is to drown it in Scotch."
"I don't approve of medicating bowels," said Cohen.
"Anyway," said Neville testily, "Nothing is profitable."
"I could have told you that," said Chester. "I tried selling electronic books once, and--"
"I'm surrounded by capitalists," muttered Digger. "Nothing is real unless you can make money out of it!"
"What I mean to say," said Neville frostily, "is that you can make money out of nothing. You can package it in Self-Help kits for people who want to get ahead in life."
"Or they could just worship parrots," said Chester.
"What's so special about nothing?" said Cohen sarcastically. "You can't even see it unless it's part of a donut."
"Precisely," said Neville, beaming. "Obviously you're a heron of genius, Cohen; you have an intuitive grasp of Irregular physics."
Cohen's opinion of Neville pivoted on a dime. He beamed back at the big pear, modestly.
"I've seen lots of donut holes," boasted Chester.
"I've got a plastic sheep's bowel," said Sweet Gas.
"But THIS donut hole is special," said Neville. "It's the foundation of the universe."
"Ha, ha, ha!" said Digger. "The foundation of the universe is a donut hole? And you capitalists want to sell it!"
"They can't have my plastic bowel," said Sweet Gas.
"No wonder my poetry disappears so quickly," said Edwardian. "People lose track of it while they're gobbling donuts."
"This is no time for trivial digressions," said Chester irritably. "I'm very upset; I've just learned that all of this busy, crowded world is merely the filling around a donut hole! All of these blackboards, pictures of clowns, bits of old pizza and scraps of art are little more than window dressing."
"Strange but true," said Neville, puffing out his chest.
Cohen glanced furtively at the closet in case Darkest Nothing was closing in on him; then he stepped into a chalk circle.
"There aren't any monsters in this big donut hole are there?" he said.
"Not as such," said Neville.
"I'd be safe inside a donut hole," Cohen said dreamily. I'd never have to sleep with one eye open again.
"Who invented this super hole?" said Edwardian. "He must have been a loony."
"The Supreme Being invented it," said Neville, quickly stepping away from the Smiting Zone.
"Why would he want a hole?" said Edwardian.
"For the god who has everything," said Jerry.
"Isn't it obvious!" said Neville. "You can't have something without nothing."
"Yes you can!" said Edwardian. "If you take the hole out of the donut, you've got a bun."
"Not a very nice one, surely!" said Chester. "You bite into it expecting a nice hole in the middle, and all you get is more fat and cholesterol."
"No theology in the classroom, please," said Cohen. "You'll start a religious war. Many people will be burnt at the stake and tortured to death."
"For eating donut holes," muttered Digger. "First they take away the proletariat's donuts, then they burn us at the stake for trying to eat the holes."
Cohen ignored him and peered into the closet to make sure there weren't any theologians hiding in the shadows.
"We're all doomed, don't you know!" said Merlin. "Dr. Wacker knows all about the donut hole. He's planning on stealing it."
"It's invisible," said Neville. "You need special 3D glasses to see it."
"I should think you'd need more than three dimensions," said Chester.
"These glasses are powered by MacroHard Angst," said Neville. "They crash when you find something interesting."
"Does he want the hole with or without the donut?" said Edwardian.
"He can't have my plastic bowel," said Sweet Gas.
"I knew it!" said Digger. "First the capitalists leave you with nothing, then they take THAT away too."
"We'd better stop this villain before he destroys all of Tockworld, said Neville.
"My hero!" said Gracie, patting Neville on the tractor tire again.
"First things first," said Merlin. "We have to finish bringing up Arthur so that he can destroy Van Von in a corporate battle and regain control of the Underworld for Disser. The boy needs a proper education."
"The gloves are off!" said Digger.
"What sort of a curriculum did you have in mind?" said Cohen.
"Business intimidation, sleight of hand and advanced conjuring, I should think," said Neville.
"If it's education you want, you've come to the right place," said Cohen.
"You can teach him all of this?" said Neville.
"Oh we don't actually teach anything here--we don't need to. We just provide the proper learning environment and make sure our students don't send each other into parallel worlds."
"But surely the foundations of knowledge are important," said Gracie. "You have to teach them SOMETHING. You can't cook a haggis without a recipe."
"My, my!" said Jerry. "Competence rears its attractive head."
"Be quiet!" said Cohen, smiling all around to show that, in spite of appearances, he wasn't the one who had spoken. "Anyway, we summed up all of the wisdom of past ages and printed it in a teeny-tiny book. I'm sure you've seen it on countertops in bookstores and gift shops."
"So you're the ones responsible for those evil little books!" said Edwardian. "'Selections from Dickens', 'Happy Thoughts for a Happy Day': that sort of thing."
"Yes, well...to an extent," said Cohen. "Anyway, each child gets one copy and is expected to read all twenty pages before graduating."
"Gosh!" said Edwardian.
"Some of us toil in the mines for the sweat of our brows," said Digger.
"How very biblical!" said Cohen.
"Be that as it may," said Merlin, "Do you think you can educate Arthur and his chums in such a way as to foster ruthless competitive behavior?"
"Of course!" said Cohen. "This is the art department! You only have to look at our graduates!"
"I see what you mean," said Neville.
"Be careful what you wish for, though. Arthur may go beyond the limits you have set for him."
These words cast a pall over the happy band. As one, they made their way out onto the playground to check on Arthur and his chums.
They found their young charges in the sandbox, busily assembling various bits and pieces of wrecked equipment into something bizarre and frightening.
"What are they doing?" gasped Edwardian.
"They seem to be building a carnival," said Neville.
"It's a pocket carnival," said Cohen. "I've read about this kind of thing in horror comics. There's The House of Endless Car Commercials, the Tunnel of Spam, and the Pavilion of Telemarketers."
"Brilliant!" said Merlin. "They'll take on Van Von with brutal competition."
"I don't see how...." said Neville.
"Do you see the sign out front?" said Cohen.
"The one that says, 'It's Not Our Fault'?," said Neville.
"No, the one that says, 'Carnival of Lies, franchises available; enquire within.'"
"Diabolical!" said Edwardian. "I never knew you could do that with machinery."
"Capitalism without a mask," said Digger.
"They're not using my bowel in one of their rides," said Sweet Gas.
"You did want him to learn something about commerce," said Cohen. "This is fiendish. They don't have the capital to take on Van Von alone. But hundreds of franchise owners could do it. It would be death by a thousand cuts."
"They'll never get insurance," said Gracie. "One tiny scratch on a child's finger and the parents will sue."
"That's part of the attraction," said Cohen. "People come to these things to get rid of inconvenient family members."
Gracie and Neville inspected the wobbly rides.
"If this carnival is so good, won't it bankrupt the Underworld?" said Edwardian.
"Disser's no dummy," said Merlin, "As soon as he sees how the flames are burning, he'll do a corporate merger. It's called synergy; it'll give him a presence in the World."
"Doesn't he already have one?" said Neville.
"You're thinking of Old Nick, the corruptor," said Merlin. "I wouldn't bandy his name about, if I were you; he's liable to come and tempt you with something."
There was a silence. Cohen stepped into a chalk circle.
Gracie had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 122:TROJAN HAGGIS
Cohen's first official act as Arthur's teacher was to explain the meaning of art to him.
"Creation is the easy part," he said. "Anyone can make a work of art! The hard part is creating a demand. Today we are going to learn about the most important aspects of art--publicity, commoditization, and brand management. Shall we begin--"
"Will it never end!" muttered Digger. "Have the capitalist armadillos invaded even the sacred precincts of the muses!"
"I don't think armadillos are any more avaricious than the next fellow," said Neville.
The children ignored this little spat. They sat quietly in a glade on the bosky campus as Cohen explained marketing plans.
Meanwhile, in another part of the wasteland, Hank of Just Ur stopped at the very edge of the Land of Milk and Honey and raised his arm.
Thunderbags, who had been stumbling along in a pleasant dream of absolute theocracy, bumped into him.
"What's going on?" he demanded. "More smiting?"
"Don't tell me we're lost again!" said Brubaker. "My feet can't take any more wandering."
"STILL lost, you mean," said the gym teacher.
"We are now at the border of the Land of Milk and Honey," said Hank. "There's a rumor I might not make it across. I'm doomed to expire on unpromised land, forever excluded from the verdant acreage of our hopes and dreams."
"What border?" said Brubaker. "Borders are supposed to have grog shops, tourist traps, and greasy spoons. I don't see any of those things; all I see is a lot of sand. I'm really tired of sand."
"Who started this rumor?" said Thunderbags.
"The Supreme Being," said Hank.
"Good grief; more smiting!" said Brubaker, taking a step back in case there was something horrifying in the offing.
Everyone followed his example, until Hank was all alone in a little island of emptiness and silence.
Then the camels repented themselves and closed in on their leader, choosing to share his fate rather than abandon him.
Loyalty and devotion will often trump caution.
"It's not fair," said the gym teacher. "If it wasn't for Hank, we'd never have gotten this far."
"Amen, bro," said Odd Camel. "We'd be back in Just Ur, having fertility rites."
There was a bonking sound as a heavy clay pot ended its useful life in a spectacular collision with Odd Camel's head. Only fragments remained, some of which eventually made their way into the Museum of Strange Things, where certain curators assumed it had been dropped by a careless Canaanite.
The handle, however, remained firmly attached to Sari's fist.
No one else mentioned Just Ur and the fertility rites again. The Supreme Being was a distant threat; Sari was close at hand, like a volcano.
"I don't see any clouds," said the gym teacher. "Smiting is usually associated with big clouds."
"Not as such," said Thunderbags. "It's the thunderbolt that counts. Any time SB feels like it, he can hurl down a thunderbolt and flash-roast your organs to the consistency of McBowel's Porridge Briquettes."
"Must you be so graphic?" said Hank.
"I can't help it. I'm an iron-age poet, not an academic."
"I suppose there might be such things as clear-air thunderbolts," said the gym teacher doubtfully.
"Out of the blue empyrean, you mean," said Thunderbags.
"Sure," said Odd Camel. "They hit you when you least expect it. There you are, taking your seat in the privy, or sneaking along in the desert, hiding from the dish-washing committee and munching on a bit of haggis, when a clay pot smites you."
"Thunderbolt, you mean," said the gym teacher.
"Same thing."
"That's what you get for eating haggis," said Secrets of the Pyramids. "Meat is bad for you. It oppresses the poor beasts who contribute their flesh, and it attracts thunderbolts."
"It does?" said the gym teacher.
"You should avoid meat and eat organic fruits and vegetables."
"What other kinds of fruits and vegetables are there?" said Bad Cabbage.
"We aren't birds, you know," said the gym teacher. "Red meat builds muscle. Think of Bob the Barbarian! He eats one cow a day, and then goes out and smites dozens of big warriors, knocking them right off their big Clydesdales, eviscerating them and placing their organs in canopic jars; then chopping off their heads and extracting their brains through their nostrils."
"I think you're confusing him with the Egyptians," said Thunderbags.
"The desert sands are littered with the bones of Bob's victims," said the gym teacher. He should be a lesson to all of us."
"Bob is just a fictional character invented by a reclusive Babylonian genre writer," said Secrets. "Besides, he's eaten so many cows, he moos during moments of intense emotion."
Bad Cabbage gave Secrets an intense look.
"How would you know, my dear?" he asked.
Secrets blushed. "I asked him," she said.
"Really?"
"I met him at an embassy cocktail party. He wasn't mixing very well, so I engaged him in polite conversation."
"This is polite conversation? Asking him what sounds he makes during moments of intense passion?"
"It's so hard to think of anything to say at these embassy functions!"
"Hmmm."
"So if you don't want to moo while you're spooning with your sweetheart, don't eat cows," said Secrets. "Eat fruits and vegetables."
"Do you see any fruits growing around here?" said Brubaker. "Any pear trees in the sand? Any apple trees on the dunes?"
"Enough small talk," said Thunderbags. "It's time for evasive action. If we know that SB is thinking about hurling thunderbolts at our fearless leader, we have to resort to disguise. We have to smuggle Hank across the border."
"How?" said Odd Camel. "Disguise him as a platypus?"
"Blasphemy!" gasped Thunderbags. "Everyone knows the platypus is one of the most important symbols of the Supreme Being!"
"What do we do about his humps?" said the gym teacher. "They're a dead giveaway, you know!"
"We could attach little bits of silver foil to them," said Odd Camel.
"I didn't hear that!" said Sari, picking up another large, clay pot.
"When you have a feature that sticks out, don't try to hide it," said Bad Cabbage. "Call attention to it."
"To his humps?"
"We can disguise him as a hunchback sheep, dress him up in an acolyte's robe and cowl, put a lightning rod on his head, and call him Igor."
"Hmmm; not bad," said Brubaker. "Do hunchbacks normally run to two humps? That's a bit excessive, isn't it!"
"Some people are more generously endowed than others," said Bad Cabbage. "It's nothing to boast about."
"Do you really think this will fool SB?" said the gym teacher.
"Not as such," said Odd Camel.
"You wouldn't want the Supreme Being to take offense and smite Hank out of pique, would you?" said Thunderbags.
"We could sacrifice something by way of propitiation," said the gym teacher.
"Sacrifice what?" said Odd Camel. "Another sheep? SB must be getting sick of sheep by now."
"You're just trying to weasel out of it because it's your turn to supply a sheep," said Thunderbags.
"I've only got one left and he's my friend," said Odd Camel. "We tell each other jokes at night and we comfort each other in our affliction."
Everyone stared at Odd Camel.
Secrets of the Pyramids patted him on the shoulder.
"It's okay to have a sheep as a friend," she said. "It shows you're sensitive."
Bad Cabbage was consumed with jealousy. "I like sheep too," he said. Then he tried to pat a nearby sheep, but it growled and bit him.
"Why don't we sacrifice some of the fruits of the land we've been passing through?" said Odd Camel.
"Like what?" said Thunderbags.
"Scorpions, flesh-eating spiders, rocks...."
"How do you sacrifice a rock?" said the gym teacher.
"You pound it with a hammer until it shatters."
"That could be dangerous; what if you hit your thumb, or get splinters in your eyes? People are not generally known for their biblical language on such occasions."
"I wouldn't be so sure," said Odd Camel. "A curse is still a curse."
"Enough small talk!" boomed Hank. "I am Hank of Just Ur. I will not stoop to disguise, nor will I engage in subterfuge in my dealings with the Supreme Being. Whatever my fate is, I embrace it."
Everyone clapped and cheered.
"Good old Hank!" said Odd Camel.
"We could always disguise somebody else as Igor the Sheep," said Thunderbags. "It's called a scapegoat. Any volunteers?"
Surprisingly, there were none.
"Very well, then," he said, producing a fistful of straws. "We'll draw for it. Short straw gets a near death experience."
The camels reluctantly snatched straws from Thunderbags' hand.
Bad Cabbage drew the short straw.
"Why me?" he moaned.
"Well said!" grinned Thunderbags. "You've learned the mantra already; you'll make an excellent Camel of the Negev."
"Too bad I won't be around to enjoy the distinction."
Thus it was, Bad Cabbage got himself up in fancy togs like Igor the Sheep, and prepared to venture forth and draw the ire of the Supreme Being away from Hank.
Thunderbags sacrificed nine scorpions, eight centipedes, seven cactuses, and six rocks.
"Wagons, HO!" roared the gym teacher, and the camels set out.
But Hank, being a natural leader, would not let another suffer the fate meant for him. Girding up his loins like Charlton Noble Brow, he strode across the desert sands, a few paces in front of the hapless Igor Bad Cabbage.
The rest of his flock marched apprehensively behind the two clay pigeons, waiting for a doom to strike.
Much to their surprise, however, they crossed into the Land of Milk and Honey without incident.
Unfortunately, the incident joined them after they'd been trekking for an hour or so through the promised land.
"So this is the Land of Milk and Honey?" said the gym teacher.
"It looks just like the place we left, if you ask me," said Brubaker. "Sand, sand, sand, and sand."
"I don't see any honey trees," said Odd Camel.
"I don't see any milk bushes," said Brubaker.
"Maybe we're supposed to plant our own," said the gym teacher.
"You mean earn the sweat of our brows with our haggis again?" said Brubaker. "We could do that back in Just Ur."
"Can I change out of this ridiculous Igor costume?" said Bad Cabbage.
"I like it," said Secrets. "I find it strangely provocative."
"You do?"
"You should dress up in strange costumes more often."
"Shhh," said Thunderbags. "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"Laughter. Somebody's laughing."
"I hear it too," said Odd Camel. "It's coming from up above us."
"It's very deep laughter," said the gym teacher.
"No camel laughs like that."
"It takes up the whole sky."
"Run away, run away!" yelled lots of camels. "It's the Supreme Being!"
"SB has a sense of humor?" said Odd Camel.
"Of course!" said Thunderbags. "He made humans, didn't he!"
"SHE made humans," said Sari.
"That's true," said Odd Camel. "You have to have a pretty good sense of the absurd to make humans."
"So maybe he enjoyed our little charade," said the gym teacher.
Just then there was a glimmer in the sky, then a bolt of lightning hissed out of the empyrean and struck the lightning rod on top of Bad Cabbage's noggin.
The air around Bad Cabbage turned crimson. Sparks flew out. Pinwheels and roman candles whizzed about, scorching various camels.
Thunderbags leaped into the air as a spark burned his posterior. Odd Camel howled when a bit of fire torched his scalp.
The sheep, who had been trudging along behind the camels, laughed and laughed.
When it was over, all of the camels lay prostrate, their heads in the sand like ostriches.
The mysterious laughter rolled away into the distance, and the last of the sparks faded.
Hank was the first to stand up.
Sari got up next and applied soothing balm to Bad Cabbage's wounded noggin.
"Is this the afterlife?" said Bad Cabbage.
"It better not be," said Odd Camel. "It looks exactly like the beforedeath."
Bad Cabbage got to his feet and carefully felt various parts of his body.
"That was a warning," said Hank. "Don't try to pull the wool over SB's eyes. Don't disguise yourself as a sheep. And don't try to evade thunderbolts with lightning rods."
Just then, what was left of the lightning rod fell from Bad Cabbage's conker and turned to dust.
From that day forth, all of the Camels of the Negev put up lightning rods on their rooftops as a token of their respect for the Supreme Being.
"I guess it was just a false rumor about you not making it into the Land of Milk and Honey, Hank," said Thunderbags.
"An echo of some previous episode on a parallel world," said the gym teacher.
"What's this mark on Bad Cabbage's scalp?" said the Odd Camel.
"What mark?" said Bad Cabbage, alarmed.
"This one," said Odd Camel, pointing.
Bad Cabbage was growing frantic. "I can't see it!" he said. "It's on top of my head."
Everyone gathered to look.
"Oooh, I'll be that smarts," said Brubaker.
"That's never going to come out," said the gym teacher.
Bad Cabbage was going crazy.
"Will somebody please tell me what it is," he said.
"Looks alien to me," said the gym teacher. "What do you make of it, Thunderbags?"
"Well the round, yellow thing is a circle," said Thunderbags. The two little dots look like eyes, and that big curving thing looks like a smile."
"A very big smile," said the gym teacher.
"Why is it smiling?" said Odd Camel.
"It's a sign from the Supreme Being," said Thunderbags.
"What does it mean?"
"It's theological. Smile and the whole world smiles with you."
"I don't think that's what it means," said Brubaker.
"Why not?" said Thunderbags.
"Because those Canaanites aren't smiling."
"What Canaanites?"
"The ones guarding that city on the hill."
Everyone turned to look.
It was a fairly large city, strategically located on a rocky eminence overlooking a sheep.
There were a lot of mud-brick houses, there was a temple to Marvin, and there was a high stone wall.
Guards occupied the top of the wall.
Hank checked his map, fumbling through a dozen or so cuneiform tablets before he found the one he wanted.
"That's Bucket," he said. "An important Canaanite city situated on a rocky eminence, overlooking a sheep."
"What kind of a name is Bucket?" said Brubaker. "There's no glory in attacking a placed called Bucket."
"It's the Canaanite word for Pail," said the gym teacher. "It's named after the sacred Pail that Jack and Jill dropped."
"The one that got them kicked out of Valhalla?" said Odd Camel.
"The same," said the gym teacher.
"We don't call it Valhalla; we call it Paradise," said Thunderbags.
"Anyway, what's it doing here?" said Bad Cabbage. "The sacred pail belongs in Paradise."
"There was a hole in it, remember?" said Odd Camel.
"That doesn't make any sense," said the gym teacher. "How could a divine pail have a hole in it? Things are supposed to be perfect in Paradise."
"Not since the Great Dropping," said Thunderbags. Why, oh why did those fools drop the pail?"
"It was Jane's fault, wasn't it?" said the gym teacher. "She wanted a pet snake."
Just then, Sari loomed out of the desert.
The gym teacher hid behind a sheep.
"Umm, of course we all know it was Dick, really," he said. "You know what they say about snakes and puppy dogs' tails!"
"There was no prohibition against fraternizing with snakes in Paradise," said Sari.
"But this was old Nick," said Thunderbags.
"In the guise of a snake," said Odd Camel.
"Some of us believe he pretended to be a hose," said Thunderbags. "He was a deceiver."
The camels gathered around Thunderbags. They knew there was a sermon coming, involving one of the good old stories they loved so well.
Thunderbags drew himself up to his full height, wiggled his humps, and began the sermon: "Old Nick, who was also known as Auld Nick said unto Jane: 'Why bearest ye that heavy pail of water like beasts of burden? Are ye not in Paradise?"
"When do we get to the slaughtering part?" said Odd Camel.
"Later," snapped Thunderbags. "There was no slaughtering in Paradise."
"Were Dick and Jane really naked?" said the gym teacher.
After some hesitation, Thunderbags consulted a cuneiform tablet. Then he said, "Yes."
"Cool! Are there any woodcuts in that cuneiform tablet?"
Thunderbags hastily stuffed it into a pocket of his robe. "But NOT naked in the same way you and I become naked when we bathe in fresh water," he said.
"I should hope not!" muttered a young camel named Wanda. "I'm not getting naked with an old fart like him."
"Tell us about the snake!" said the gym teacher.
"No; tell us more about the nakedness," said Odd Camel. "We need to contemplate this for the good of our spiritual development."
"There was no raiment in the garden," said Thunderbags.
"None?" said the fascinated camels.
"None whatsoever."
"Not even a Gucchi bag?"
"Not a stitch. Dick and Jane were appareled in the glory of celestial approval."
"Oh that's nice, that is!" said Darlene, a filing clerk. "Hides the wrinkles, don't it!"
"You have wrinkles, Darlene?" said her friend, Eliminator Jean.
"I was speaking hypothetically."
"There are no wrinkles in Paradise," said Thunderbags. "Neither are there any jowls, nor any cellulite--none whatsoever. Nor is there any getting of your haggis with the toil of your sweat."
"Oh yeah! Why were Jack and Jill toiling up and down that hill with a bucket of water if there's no toiling?" said Brubaker.
"Yeah, it says in the Great Big Book of Things That Really Happened that we were created in the Supreme Being's image to be his servants and help out with the chores," said Odd Camel.
"Just a minute," said Bad Cabbage. "What was that Thunderbags said?"
"You mean about the chores?"
"No, I mean the part about SB's image."
"We were created in SB's image," said Thunderbags.
"The Supreme Being has TWO humps?"
"He made us in his image, did he not?"
"But some of us only have one hump."
"Well you get the extra one when you go to Paradise. It's like a gold star."
"Really?"
"It happens when SB summons us from our resting places and glues us back together."
"Fawww; that's gotta stink!" said Brubaker. "Especially the recently deceased."
"You dare to make fun of SB?" said Thunderbags. "He made us from the dust of the ground. Re-assembly is nothing to the Great One."
"I don't know about this," said Brubaker, wrinkling his nose. "Some of you guys already smell pretty bad. I can imagine how you're gonna reek while you're waiting in line to be reassembled for the afterlife."
"There's always the Underworld," said Thunderbags.
"Okay by me! Disser has a carnival. You don't have to stand around singing in choirs or doing the chores in the garden. You can go on the rides as many times as you like."
"The Underworld is for those among us who wish to save themselves by repenting," said Thunderbags. "Those who merely wish to prolong their sinful pleasures go elsewhere."
"Oh, you mean the Inferno, where old Nick tortures people."
"Old Nick doesn't torture anyone," said Brubaker. "That's just a myth perpetrated on a gullible populace by cartoonists."
"Whew! I'm glad of that," said Odd Camel. "Now I can get back to--"
"He does something infinitely worse," said Thunderbags. "He reveals your innermost being so that you can see exactly what you are. Usually it's some sort of crawling, scuttling, beetle-like thing."
"Ooh, nasty!" said Brubaker.
"It's never too late to repent," said Thunderbags.
There was a silence while everyone examined the ground for creepy crawlies. You can never be too careful. The centipede in your boot might be an ancestor.
Thunderbags surveyed his tribe with a tear in his eye. He had spoken well today. He had affected even himself.
And yet, there remained the Canaanite City.
"Why are the guards on that wall making faces at us?" said Brubaker.
"Because they know we're going to attack them, sack their city, slaughter all of the males, and enslave the women," said Thunderbags mildly.
"Gosh," said Odd Camel. "Isn't that a bit excessive?"
"This is no time for bourgeois sentimentality," said Secrets of the Pyramids. "Those people are counter-revolutionaries. The minute you turn your back on them, they'll start privatizing things."
"Gosh, she won't let us eat sheep because it hurts the sheep, but she doesn't mind slaughtering people who disagree with her," said Odd Camel.
"Do we really have to do this?" said Brubaker. "Some of us will come out of this with a lot of spears sticking out of our bodies."
Hank spread his hands. "Ours not to reason why."
"So how do we sack a city, Hank?" said the gym teacher. "We've never done it before."
"I picked up this book at a roadside stand," said Hank. "It's called THE BIG BRONZE BOOK OF SIEGE WARFARE FOR DUM DUMS. There are lots of diagrams of useful military equipment. Do you think you could help us with this, Bad Cabbage?"
Bad Cabbage eyed the book.
"We'll need an increase in the military budget," he said.
"How much?" said Hank.
"Well, when you're building a weapon, you can't just use ordinary wood and ropes and stuff. You have to buy special, one-off ropes that cost a lot more."
"Hmmm," said lots of camels.
Thus it was the camels set up their tents in the desert, below the city of Bucket, and the defense contractors waxed wondrously jubilant.
In tent no. 51, a black tent set some distance apart from the rest, so that no one would notice it, Bad Cabbage worked with a secretive group of camels, devising a new type of catapult.
It was a catapult with very expensive parts.
"I don't like this, Hank," said Thunderbags. "They've already blown half our budget and all they've got is this tent."
"Patience," said Hank. "We have to make sacrifices."
Several weeks later, a delegation of camels paid a visit to Bad Cabbage to see what they were getting for their money.
"Why is the catapult so expensive and so far behind schedule?" said Hank.
"This is just the prototype," said Bad Cabbage. "These things take time."
"And what's this bill for two million shekels for a lot of stones?" said Brubaker "Are you crazy! Stones I can get you for free!"
"Careful," warned Bad Cabbage. "Those aren't ordinary stones. They're haggis bombs, imported from Scotland."
Bad Cabbage and his team pulled the catapult outside onto a secret proving grounds.
While they were setting up, Hank examined the obscure writing on the frame.
"'Acme Catapult'," he read. "This is the creature's name?"
"Umm, it's the name of the chief contractor," said Bad Cabbage, and he gave the signal to release the catapult.
A haggis flew straight up into the air, then dropped straight down again, smashing the catapult.
"Needs work," said Brubaker.
Bad Cabbage dusted himself off.
"We do have something else," he said. "It's still in the experimental stage, mind you."
His team pulled a goatskin cover away from an odd-looking device on a stand.
"Behold, a bagpipe!" said Bad Cabbage.
Everyone contemplated it with fascinated attention.
"How do you aim it?" said Brubaker.
"What kind of missiles does it fire?"
"Where do you put in the batteries?"
"Oh ye of little faith!" said Bad Cabbage. "Used properly, this will shatter a wall."
"Ha, ha, ha!" said Odd Camel. "I've heard everything now."
Bad Cabbage fumed.
"Do you know the story of the three Canaanite pigs and the big bad wolf?" he said.
"You mean the one about the wolf who got boiled in a pot because he couldn't blow down a brick house?" said Odd Camel.
"That's the pig version," said Bad Cabbage.
"There's another one?"
"Yes there is; it involves a wolf with a bagpipe and the shattered walls of a brick house. History is written by the victors."
"So if the wolf was the victor, how come we get the pig version?"
"Because it's politically correct."
"Wait a minute," said Brubaker. "How would you know? We don't associate with pigs."
"I should say not!" said Odd Camel. "Have you seen what they eat?"
"Have you seen what fish eat?" said Brubaker.
"Fish are clean; they take a lot of baths."
"I think we'll need a backup plan, Hank," said Thunderbags. "That bagpipe is not going to shatter a wall."
"Is there anyone here who can play a bagpipe?" said Bad Cabbage.
A camel named Jock MacGolfbag stepped forward and picked up the weapon.
"How hard can it be?" he said. "You blow into this thing and put your fingers on the stops here."
"What's the bag for?" said Brubaker.
"It's just a decoration," said Bad Cabbage. "We copied this from a rune stone we found in Egypt. We suspect the engineers needed some place to stick the colorful tartan, so they made a bag. They probably keep snacks in it, in case they get hungry while they're blowing down walls."
"Okay, give it a try," said Hank.
Everyone ducked down behind a wall.
Jock blew into the weapon.
"Good grief, that bag is swelling up like a camel at a bean fest," said Odd Camel. "Run away! Run away!"
"Somebody should warn Jock," said Brubaker. "He's turning as red as a red, Red Tse."
"How come there's no sound coming out of it?" said Hank.
"Squeeze some air out of the bag before it explodes," said Bad Cabbage.
Jock looked back in surprise, then he reached down and squeezed the bag.
A sudden, ear-splitting wail issued from the bagpipe. It was like the cry of a demon expelled from a video arcade.
A short distance away, behind the stout defensive walls of their city, the Canaanites gazed at each other in wonder.
"Can such things be?" said a Canaanite slacker.
Jock made a quick recovery and picked up the bagpipe again.
"I think I'm getting the hang of it, Hank," he said. "I'll give it a try now, shall I?"
"Isn't there something about this in the Geneva Convention?" said Brubaker.
Thus it was, Jock marched out into no camel's land, between the camels and Bucket, and the soldiers of the camel tribe followed in a ragged line, whimpering a little as the first uncertain notes of the piper's song commenced.
Then it rose to the full power and majesty of the pipe, and the camels belted out a rousing chorus of 'How Much is That Doggie in the Window?'
The Canaanites screamed. Walls cracked, clay pots shattered, altar stones trembled etc.
But the wall girdling the city remained intact.
"Amazing, sir, but not quite powerful enough," said Jock.
"We can't go on like this," said Brubaker. "We'll do as much damage to our own army as to theirs."
"We do have one more weapon, sir," said Bad Cabbage.
Everyone limped back to Tent 51, and Bad Cabbage whipped the goatskin covering off an immense, mysterious blob on wheels.
"Good grief!" said Hank. "What in the name of Charlton is that?"
"It's a Trojan haggis, sir," said Bad Cabbage.
The camels had a bad feeling about this...
CHAPTER 123:ABORIGINAL CAMELS
An eerie silence descended as the camels stared in awe at their new weapon.
At length, Hank mastered his superstitious dread and approached the device, prodding it delicately with a finger.
"What is a Trojan haggis?" he said.
"It's a very special haggis, sir," said Bad Cabbage. "It's hollow, of course, and made out of mud bricks. There's a door...."
Bad Cabbage tugged at a small door, which eventually popped open, revealing the mysterious interior.
"Bring the machine oil!" he yelled. "And next time, we make the hinges out of bronze instead of mud bricks."
Hank peered through the doorway into the clotted shadows.
"Where's the meat?" he said.
Bad Cabbage grinned.
"This is the good part," he said. "We select a few volunteers, they climb into the haggis, and then we close the door."
"I'm sure they'll be very grateful for the experience," said Hank. "In what way does this solve our problem with the Canaanites?"
"Wait, sir; there's more! Once the soldiers are nice and comfy, we tow the haggis to the walls of the city. Then we pretend to leave this place and creep away in defeat, singing anti-war songs."
"Have you been eating something peculiar, Bad Cabbage?" said the gym teacher.
"Very funny!" said Bad Cabbage.
"I've been eating lots of peculiar things," said Odd Camel. "How come nothing ever happens to ME."
"That's because it already happened in a big way," muttered Thunderbags.
"Negative waves, Thunderbags! You should learn to relax before the mainspring pops right out your brain and skewers someone."
"ANYWAY," said Bad Cabbage, "There's more! The Canaanites will think we're offering them a gift, you see. They'll have a big party, with lots of drinking and fertility rites."
"Some people have all the fun!" muttered Brubaker.
Bad Cabbage cast a nervous glance in Sari's direction, but she was busy straightening Hank's tie.
"I see," said Hank. "You're hoping the Canaanites will get drunk and smite themselves."
"Not exactly, sir. This is the good part. While the Canaanites are sleeping off the effects of too much fun, Jock MagGolfBag will sound a blast on the bagpipes. That will be the signal for our warriors to pop open the door--"
"Assuming it can, indeed, be popped open without a crowbar," said Thunderbags.
"It's the contractor's fault, not mine," said Bad Cabbage. "Anyway, no worries, it'll be fixed in time. The warriors will jump out of the haggis, open the gates, and let our army in."
"The army that left this place," said Thunderbags.
"PRETENDED to leave this place," said Bad Cabbage, making a tremendous effort to stifle his rage. Why was it always so hard to explain military strategy to civilians!
Hank shook his head. Why were military strategists so eager to try out their new toys!
"I suppose we do have to do SOMETHING," said Thunderbags. "This larking about in the shade of a tumtum tree is sapping our moral fiber. Have you seen what our young people are doing?"
"Reading our FAQ and our book of ten thousand food rules, I should imagine," said Hank. "They have a lot to learn."
"Umm, Hank...."
Hank sighed wearily and rubbed his eyes. Why ME, he thought. So many camels to choose from, and the Supreme Being has to pick on an old, tired camel who just wants to relax in a hot tub and pretend he can't feel the arthritis and the blisters and the spider bites!
"We can't go on like this," said Thunderbags. "Our young people have begun fraternizing with the Canaanite young people. They're wearing flowers in their hair and bones in their noses, and they've formed a rock group called Bronze Camels. They're singing subversive songs."
"They are?" said Hank. "Our innocent young children?"
"Can't you hear them?" said Thunderbags.
Hank listened carefully.
"You mean that screeching, wailing sound?" he said. "I thought it was one of our sacrificial offerings."
"Ha, ha, ha!" said Thunderbags. "It's the young people. They're singing something very strange.
"Screeching, you mean," said Hank. Then he cupped his ear, straining to make sense out of it.
"Do you want to rip my T-shirt?" yelled the camels.
"Do you WANT to rip my T-shirt?
"DO you want to rip my T-SHIRT?"
"Good grief!" said Hank. "What kind of song is that? And what's a T-shirt?"
"See what I mean, Hank! And that's not all. They're rolling up our tent ropes into sheets of papyrus, setting fire to them, and puffing on the smoke."
"Horrors!" said Odd Camel, hiding his smirk.
Hank stared at Odd Camel, who was now holding his breath for some reason.
All at once a puff of smoke issued from his lips, and he smiled beatifically.
"Apostate!" muttered Thunderbags.
"Take it easy, Thunderbags, baby," said Odd Camel. "Those are beautiful people out there."
Hank gave his attention to Bad Cabbage's new toy again.
"You really think this will work?" he said.
"What could go wrong?" said Bad Cabbage.
Hank was dubious. He knew a lot about scientists.
"What happens if it breaks down?" he said.
"It won't sir. We've gone over every part of the haggis very carefully."
"Except the door."
"That will be fixed."
"And this hole in the side?"
"What hole? Oh, that hole. Umm; it's a feature."
"It's a hole," said Hank. "Three of the bricks fell out; I can see them right here, in the sand."
He nudged the bricks with his foot, and impaled Bad Cabbage with a look familiar to anyone who has ever submitted an underwhelming science project for evaluation.
"Umm, it was--"
"The contractor?" said Hank.
Bad Cabbage grinned. Then he yelled at a subordinate.
"Get a tube of Mighty Glue," he roared. "And some more mud bricks."
"You should really keep an eye on your contractors," said Hank. "They cut corners."
"Yes sir. I'll have them eaten by lions, shall I?"
"Only a little bit, Bad Cabbage. You'll need them for other projects, won't you?"
Bad Cabbage looked down at his feet like a small boy caught in the act of launching a nuclear weapon.
"Yes sir," he said in a tiny voice.
Hank patted him on the head.
"Very well," he said. "We shall try your new toy. How long will it take you to complete your repairs?"
"Five minutes, sir. You won't regret this. Bucket will be in your hands very soon."
Thus it was, Hank agreed to a daring new strategy.
That night, under low, scudding clouds, by the light of a horned moon, a small band of camels towed the gigantic haggis to the gates of the Canaanite City.
Then they pretended to leave.
"I GUESS WE'LL NEVER BE ABLE TO SACK THIS CITY!" yelled Brubaker. "MIGHT AS WELL GO HOME NOW."
"YOU GOT THAT RIGHT!" yelled Bad Cabbage. "WE CAN'T EVEN TRICK THEM WITH CLEVER SURPRISES. I HOPE THEY LIKE THE NICE PRESENT WE'RE LEAVING THEM TO SHOW THERE'S NO HARD FEELINGS!"
Then the camels folded their tents and sneaked into a convenient hiding place, behind a sand dune.
"Okay, synchronize your watches," whispered Bad Cabbage.
"Synchronize our what?" said Thunderbags.
"Umm, it's a new thing I made. An hourglass that you can wear on your wrist."
"Don't you have to hold your wrist a special way?"
"Well, it's a small price for enjoying the convenience of a wireless clock."
"But you have to keep turning your wrist every few minutes."
"Like I said, it's a small price to pay."
"And you have to keep staring at it, to make sure you know when the sand runs out so you can turn your wrist again."
"Hey, it's in beta, okay. So it has a few problems; give it time!"
"Shh!" said the gym teacher. "It's working. The Canaanites are interested."
"They're laughing themselves sick!" said Brubaker.
"Send in the pipes," said Bad Cabbage.
Hank signaled Jock MacGolfBag, who climbed over the sand dune and advanced on the wall, blowing into the pipes for all he was worth.
"Why aren't they making any noise?" said the gym teacher.
"SQUEEZE THE BAG!" yelled Bad Cabbage.
"What?" said Jock. "Oh, aye. I forgot."
Then he squeezed the bag.
The preternatural silence was shattered by an alien wail.
"Holy cats!" said Brubaker. "This will bring about global warming!"
"Take it easy," said Odd Camel. "The pipes make a lovely sound when they're played by someone who knows what they're doing."
"What's happening now?" said the gym teacher. "Why haven't our warriors jumped out?"
"What's that hammering noise?" said Thunderbags.
"I think they're trying to open the door," said Hank, gazing fixedly at Bad Cabbage.
Bad Cabbage offered a sickly grin.
All at once the door popped open with a loud screeching noise, and the warriors jumped down.
"There's something wrong with this picture," said the gym teacher.
"Aren't they supposed to be INSIDE the city walls?" said Thunderbags.
Bad Cabbage stood up and gaze in stupefaction across the sand.
The warriors, meanwhile, hurried back to their own lines.
"Well, that was interesting," said Thunderbags.
Now the quarrelling and recriminations began.
Hank, meanwhile, girded his loins and prepared himself for a chat session with the Supreme Being.
When he returned the next morning, scorched and dazed, he met a delegation of Canaanites trooping across the sand under a flag of truce.
The most impressive of the lot, a portly Canaanite wearing an official mayor's hat, with lots of feathers dipped in purple die that had been a gift from a Phoenician defense contractor, raised an arm in greeting.
"More taxes!" he said, which, is the universal civic language for 'Welcome to Our City; Did You Bring Your Credit Cards?'
"Thank you," said Hank.
"I am NimHaHa, the mayor of Bucket," said NimHaHa.
"We came to offer you safe passage through a Philistine City, one hundred miles away."
"We can't accept your offer," said Hank. "This is where we're supposed to be."
"What do you want from us?" asked NimHaHa. "We're busy getting ready for the fertility rites."
"We need your city; we've been told to sack it."
NimHaHa looked crestfallen. "Why would you want to sack our city?" he said. "I ask you, is that a nice thing to do! We spent hours and hours building it. Besides, you scared away our sheep with that wailing platypus of yours. We loved that sheep; it was our claim to fame. People come from all over Tockworld to admire it."
"Sorry," said Hank. "You can have the haggis, if you like. It's hollow, but no one will know if you close the door."
"Psst; It's a few bricks shy of a load, Hank," whispered Thunderbags.
"But Bad Cabbage told us that was a feature."
"We don't want your haggis," said NimHaHa. "We want our sheep. It's written up in the guidebooks. Bucket is situated on a rocky eminence, overlooking a sheep."
"Well you could overlook a haggis," said Hank.
"I suppose," said NimHaHa grudgingly. "But it's not the same."
"We'll throw in some unleavened bread."
"With marmalade?"
"Scottish. The best. And once the sheep realizes the haggis hasn't been attacked, I'm sure it will come back."
"Well, okay, we accept. But why exactly do you insist on camping in front of our city?"
"I'm sorry," said Hank. "The Supreme Being said we could live here; it's the land of Milk and Honey."
There was a snickering among the delegates.
"Tourists!" muttered Raging Nom, NimHaHa's acolyte. "They think honey grows on trees!"
"But your people already live here, Hank," said NimHaHa. "You're indigenous."
"Really?" said Hank. "Since when?"
"Ha, ha!" said Brubaker. "That's why I have blisters on my feet; from marching on the spot!"
"See those archaeologists over there, in the midden?" said NimHaHa. "They told us about you people being indigenous.
"Nonsense," snorted Thunderbags. "We came from Just Ur."
"Ha, ha, ha," said NimHaha. "Nobody comes from Just Ur. You think a sophisticated urban camel is going to leave the shopping malls and the espresso bars of Just Ur to set up tents in a wilderness and be slaughtered by a lot of Canaanites?"
"Hank," whispered Brubaker. "He has a point. "Let's go and check into a Best Eastern and rack up some R and R."
"Of course I have a point," said NimHaHa.
"I'm sorry," said Hank. "We have no choice. We have to seize your city; it's in our contract."
"What contract?" said NimHaHa.
"It's invisible because it was drawn up by the Supreme Being. There's lots of 'thou's' and 'thee's' in it."
The Canaanites looked up apprehensively. Then they discussed the matter among themselves.
"This could be bad," said NimHaHa. "They are lean, hungry and muscular from wandering around. We, on the other hand, are pear shaped."
"But we have an army," said Raging Nom.
"A privatized army."
"So what do we do?"
"Negotiate."
"Drat. I hate negotiating over my own future."
Thus it was, the camels and the Canaanites parleyed.
"Look, we don't mind a bit of slaughter," said NimHaHa. "We all do it from time to time. "
"Well said," agreed Thunderbags."
"Truer words were never spoken," said Odd Camel, between puffs of something.
"There's no life like it," muttered Brubaker.
"But a warless economy leads to corruption," said Raging Nom. "We have to cleanse our communities. Our children are sneaking out here and smoking tent ropes and putting flowers in their hair."
"Tell me about it!" said Thunderbags, glowering at Odd Camel. "The only tent ropes we have left are the ones that aren't made out of hemp."
"Have you seen how much food they eat after they smoke those ropes!" said the gym teacher.
"Big Snyderman's is making a killing selling boxes of unleavened bread with bits of dead fish and peppers and stuff on top," said Brubaker. "I think we should all get a piece of the action."
"Have you see the poetry they write?" said Thunderbags. "Look at this!"
He showed them a very long cuneiform tablet with lots of strange symbols.
'It's called 'On the Caravan'," he said. "It's about a bunch of camels who hop on caravans and ride all the way out to the coast."
"What coast?" said Raging Nom.
"Umm...what's that bit on the other side of the Pillars of Hercules?" said Thunderbags.
"Oh, you mean the Bermuda Triangle!"
"Anyway, they don't work; they just get together and eat fermented yogurt and read these hockey poems."
"Haiku," said Odd Camel.
"Whatever," said Thunderbags. "Anyway, the Supreme Being is going to be very angry about this."
"Marvin is going to have a fit," said Raging Nom.
"We have to do something about these wretched young people or there won't be any more slaughters," said Thunderbags."
"Tell me about it," said NimHaHa. "And who's going to work in the cubicles, tending sheep?"
"They won't listen to their priests," said Raging Nom. "They'll start going to each other's temples, taking a little bit of this and a little bit of that."
"They won't pay taxes," said NimHaHa.
"There was a collective gasp."
"Draft them!" yelled the gym teacher.
Hank shook his head.
"Do you chaps mind if we have a time out?" he said.
"Of course," said NimHaHa. "Feel free. We brought you some snacks."
He waved his arm and one of the Canaanites offered a picnic basket.
"It's not much; some bits of lamb squashed between pieces of bread, with some squished weeds and things. We got the idea when one of our camels sat on a lunch basket. We call them Big Buns."
Hank offered some unleavened bread in return. The Canaanites puzzled over this for a time, then they began gluing pieces together, making scale models of mud-brick houses and temples.
"So what do we do?" said the gym teacher. "We're indigenous. This whole thing was a waste of time."
"I don't believe it," said Thunderbags. "This is something our descendants worked out as a practical joke."
"We could ask for proof that we're indigenous," said Hank.
"I'm here, you're here; that proves it," said Odd Camel.
Thunderbags snatched away his burning rope.
"You need a brain transplant," he said.
Thus it was, the camels returned to the parley with renewed skepticism.
"Show us," said Hank firmly. "Prove it."
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