THE DUCKS OF DOOM
Chapters 31-60
A WEEKLY SERIAL
by Robert Arthur Smith
rasmithr@yahoo.com
http://www.duckparade.com
THE DUCKS OF DOOM was a 2002 Independent e-Books Award finalist.
Copyright 2000-2009,
Robert Arthur Smith,
All rights reserved.
CHAPTER 31: VLOD IRONBEAK'S PROBLEM
Vlod Ironbeak paced the floor in a mood of bitter anguish.
How had it come to this! The irony of it! Everything he had ever dreamed of; all of his plots and schemes depended on a wimpy, air-headed canard of a duck.
WHY, WHY, WHY did Macklin have to be the ONE? Why was that fool the only one who could build a model of the model railroad Lenore had foreseen them in her vision!
And if he failed, who knew what disasters would follow! Things that had been foreseen would cease to exist, and could, therefore, not have been foreseen, which would mean that Lenore could not have existed, because of double negatives.
"Polydoor!" yelled Vlod. "Oh Polydoor!"
It wasn't unusual for the past to change, of course; archaeologists from the Museum of Strange Things meddled with it all the time. But that was different; archaeologists only changed the past to fit the artifacts they discovered.
They were trained professionals.
But an amateur like Macklin could wipe out an entire chunk of reality simply by neglecting to build a special model railroad while he went to work for a bunch of aliens disguised as quacking elephants.
"POLYDOOR!" yelled Vlod. "Fire up Sparkles the Wonder Computer please. I'm going to use the Macrohard Angst database to secure the past."
"You mean Macrohard Riddle, master?" said Polydoor. "The hideously complex software that mangles stored data-- "
"Precisely."
"Isn't that risky, master? Angst is a brand new version of a fiendish operating system, and Riddle has already consigned hundreds of stored facts to oblivion."
"The people at Macrohard have assured me that Angst is very stable and never crashes," said Vlod. "Everyone in the world will soon be using it."
"It'll never happen," quoth the raven.
"Why don't you just delete the aliens, master?" said Polydoor. "It would save time."
"Too risky," said Vlod. "I'd have to scan them in first. They might suspect something."
He sat at the input device in the rec room, beside his latest coffin--the off-road unit with GPS and a sonar device.
Vlod's input device was a medium size organ purchased from a bankrupt church.
He hesitated at the keyboard for a moment, his eyes resting on a picture of Lenore McBeauty.
Then he began playing variations on' How Much is That Doggie in the Window?'
The actual command, of course, was expressed in Caledonian, an old, but efficient computer language, once used to program Scotland's Mars Shuttle, the Bonnie Haggis.
The organ creaked and shrieked for a time, then it froze and turned blue.
Vlod pounded furiously on the keyboard, but nothing happened.
"I COMMAND YOU IN THE NAME OF MADAME DE STAEL TO BEGIN FUNCTIONING IMMEDIATELY!" he bellowed."
"It'll never happen," quoth the raven.
Vlod gave the raven a dark look. "Get me tech support immediately!" he roared.
Polydoor fumbled out his cell phone, wiped the mould from the mouthpiece, and dialed tech support.
The call was answered immediately by a cheery voice.
Some of you might be wondering about this. Normally tech support doesn't answer quite so fast, and the people who respond aren't always bubbly and positive.
But everyone in tech support knew about Vlod; he'd achieved international celebrity when he'd encountered his first automated telephone answering system and had paid a visit to the company that had perpetrated it.
Shortly afterwards, people calling that company began to complain that talking to its tech support gurus was like talking to the undead.
Now you know why.
Anyway, after that maddening little episode, Vlod hired his own tech support person.
Not just any punter off the street, either.
Vlod hired the genius who had once hacked into the computer system on the Alien Planet and placed an order for five million pizzas with dead-fish topping, llama cheese, and fossilized anchovies.
The people at Pizza Hut were a little perplexed at first, because none of their regular drivers could find the Alien Planet on their maps, so they FedExed the pizzas.
General Fumarole thought it was an invasion, and drew all of his flying saucers into a circle. When he saw the FedEx logo, however, he realized someone was sending him a present, and he got so excited he couldn't speak.
His assistant warlord, Teetot, had to root around in petty cash for forty million dollars.
That was a special discount deal, by the way, with a bit added to cover the cost of shipping.
No one on the Alien Planet had ever seen a pizza before. General Fumarole thought it might be a new kind of rain hat, but when Teetot pointed out the dead fish, he decided it was an inflatable codpiece and he strapped it to one of his attachments.
Anyway, Vlod was so impressed by the hacker's achievements, he immediately made up his mind to hire him.
The hacker's name, by the way, was Randomized Timer, or 'Random' for short.
After a lengthy search, Vlod and Polydoor found Random in a cluttered room on a decommissioned aircraft carrier, near a shipping container filled with spent fuel rods.
Vlod materialized in a pool of shadow near a sound system that was cranking out heavy metal bagpipes.
Polydoor materialized in a slouching way behind Vlod, and they stood watching Random as he peered at a computer monitor and beat time to the music with a dead-fish pizza.
He looked like a jittery fireplug with hair and a beak.
There were empty lime fizzer cans and sushi boxes strewn all over the floor.
Vlod approached the computer, crunching over various food particles and creepy crawlies.
"Don't mind the mess," said Random. "Gas Bar over there is supposed to clean up, but he's lazy."
Gas Bar was a robot sitting in the corner doing his nails and pretending to be an automated answering service.
"You now have two choices, " he said to the miserable wretch who had called Random for help. "If you want to speak to a sales person, press '1'. If you want to purchase stock in the company, press '2'. If you have a question for tech support, visit our web page."
Random wheeled his chair around to face Vlod.
"I thought vampires were supposed to wait until someone invited them in," he said.
"I anticipated an invitation," said Vlod. "I have come to make you an offer--"
"Hey dude; I have principles," said Random. "I don't work for a living; I just take what I need."
Vlod smiled and restrained Polydoor with a quick motion.
"Great minds think alike," he said. "My offer, by the way, includes free access to Sparkles the Wonder Computer, the most powerful computer in the world."
"A gift for the hacker who has everything," said Random, growing interested. "So who do you want me to destroy?"
"I would like you to customize Macrohard Riddle so that it does what I want it to do."
"I don't do databases," said Random, disappointed. "Hire a telemarketer."
"Bite him, master!" said Polydoor.
"It's going to be a magic database," said Vlod. "I intend to store my own version of the past, so it unfolds exactly as I wish it to."
"It'll never happen," quoth the raven.
"Cool!" said Random. "Magic is good, especially when my enemies are still using silicon."
"I don't like this, master," said Polydoor. "The Secret Order of Curators at the Museum of Strange Things have a monopoly on changing the past--"
"Fear not, Polydoor. They operate on a grand scale. I shall intervene on a small scale, making surgical strikes, so to speak."
Polydoor shook his head. "When you alter the past, master, one thing always leads to another."
"Pish!" Polydoor. "Calm your crackling nerves."
Then he handed Random a contract and the deed was done.
Gas Bar had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 32: SPIDER FOOD
In no time at all, Randomized Timer finished setting up the database.
Vlod logged on from his organ and waited impatiently for the software to load.
When he pressed the 'options' button, however, there was a crashing sound and the organ turned blue.
Polydoor inwardly gloated and began thinking up suitable punishments for Random.
Vlod smiled sweetly at Random.
"I wonder how much blood a hacker really needs in his veins," he said. "Perhaps you have too much, Random. All that extra work for your heart, pumping and pumping...."
"Hey, no problem!" shouted Random, jumping up and down on Sparkles.
Then he shouted some other things that peeled the paint off the utility coffins stacked up in the meditation room next door.
Vlod, unable to bear the suspense, retreated to the kitchen, where he paced nervously around the oven, watching Polydoor flash-roast something disgusting.
"I'll make a nice blood pudding to calm your nerves, master," said Polydoor, taking pity on him.
"It'll never happen," quoth the raven, hoping Polydoor would throw something squishy at him.
Vlod made a face as Polydoor dropped a writhing, tube-like object into a pot. "Are you sure that's quite dead?" he said.
Polydoor discreetly examined his master.
No doubt about it, Vlod was having a nervous breakdown. Computers made him feel so inadequate!
"I suppose you think I'm losing my edge, Polydoor," said Vlod.
"Not at all, master," sighed Polydoor.
He hated it when Vlod was like this. If people only knew the truth about vampires, how middle class they were; how pathetically eager they were to justify themselves!
And then there was Custer, the stupid raven!
Polydoor watched the raven suspiciously as it settled on the counter, where it could keep an eye on the unidentified crawling objects in the pudding.
"I suppose you think I'm not the vampire I used to be," said Vlod.
Polydoor sighed wearily.
"I think you're a genius, master. The original plan was excellent. But I think you should bite Random, just to motivate him."
"Perhaps," said Vlod, brightening a little.
The oven buzzed. Polydoor extracted the vulcanized pudding and carried it downstairs to the particle accelerator in the recreation room.
Vlod followed him down, humming to himself.
"Everything will turn out for the best," said Polydoor. "You'll see. Voltaire tells us so."
"I never liked Voltaire; he had horrible taste in hats."
Polydoor set the particle accelerator to 350 degrees and flipped the switch.
The cauldron glowed a cheery green, like the patches on his rotting jacket.
"Behold the Blood Pudding of Infinity," said a voice behind him.
It was coming from the dungeons, where a few incarcerated executives were playing Captain Zap, a board game based on the famous comic-book hero.
They'd turned the lights down low and started a nice fire in the fireplace.
The soft light glimmered on fine, McBowel's crystal and on several bottles of rich, port wine. Roast beef sandwiches stood on a platter on a sideboard.
Water bubbled in the hot pool in the next room.
There were portraits of famous chief financial officers on the pine-paneled walls, and the ceiling featured Michelangelo's depiction of a flock of spam artists descending to a virtual world controlled by their enemies.
The six Captain Zap players smiled at Vlod, showing pearly whites lovingly cared for by on-site dentists and orthodontists.
"You still here?" said Polydoor. "You can go now. Just remember in future to pay your taxes BEFORE you go bankrupt."
"Let them say for awhile," said Vlod, nodding happily. He liked company. It scared away the armadillos. "Dear me; there are quite a lot of you, aren't there!"
"Can't have a world without wrong, master!" said Polydoor. It won't do! Wrong makes right possible."
"I see. Then you believe in the existence of evil as an independent force, co-equal with good, and essential to the proper functioning of the universe?"
Polydoor disentangled the reasoning behind this with growing horror. "You mean Freddy Manichean Heresy, master?" he gasped. "The infamous bipolar heretic from the Fabulous Mists of Antiquity? I hate him! If I ever get my hands on him--"
"No need," said Vlod. "If he shows up here, I shall feed him to Babette."
"Babette?" said Polydoor. "The name doesn't ring a bell...."
"Did someone call," said a gentle voice.
Polydoor turned to see who this wimpy little intruder was; then his mouth fell open.
She was seven feet high. She had eight eyes, eight legs, a mouth like a hedge clipper, a body like a flying saucer, and a head like the turret on a battle tank.
"Hi sweetie!" she said, winking four of her eyes at Polydoor. "I'm so glad to meet the famous Polydoor at last!"
Something was being dragged behind her.
Polydoor risked a glance and saw a dozen large spider-web sacks trailing on a line of spider silk as thick as a ship's hawser. The sacks were nearly transparent, revealing a dozen spam artists trapped within their suffocating embrace.
It was a horrifying sight, even for an acolyte.
On the other hand, that Babette was one hot babe, with bits of rotting things all over her phosphorescent body, and something squishy and twitchy hanging from her mandibles!
Polydoor could really go for someone like that!
He felt heat rising up into his brain, and he smirked and glistened like a bit of irradiated fungus.
"Don't worry about the spammers," Babette said in a throaty voice. "They deserve everything they're going to get."
"I like the way you think," said Polydoor, growing much warmer now.
Babette giggled.
"Would you like to come into my parlor and see my greatly magnified images of dead parasitical robber flies?" she said.
Polydoor blushed so brightly, a Captain Zap player was blinded by the light and had to go and lie down in the oxygen chamber.
Vlod was pleased.
"We have some time to spare while we wait for tech support," he said. "Possibly a few weeks. I'll leave you two young lovers to bill and coo a bit while I check on Random."
The spammers had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 33: BABETTE IN LOVE
Polydoor was in love. All profound thought had fled from his mind; his entire consciousness had narrowed down to a few simple problems: What do I do NOW? Do I hold her hand? Which hand; she's got eight appendages! What if I make a mistake and grab one that's a dedicated locomotion device?
Should I play the romantic hero, take her in my arms, and kiss her?
What if she doesn't like me?
Polydoor, as you can see, had little experience of love, and none whatsoever of dating.
We've all been there, haven't we, my friends! Not with spiders, perhaps, though possibly with armadillos or llamas.
Anyway, Babette was trying to explain Spider Paradise as she led Polydoor to her parlor.
Babette's house was a nice place shaped like a party hat. It was hidden in a dark cave behind the dungeon, where the Captain Zap players were still deeply engrossed in their game.
The entrance was cunningly disguised as an exercise machine.
"Oh that's good!" said Polydoor admiringly. "No one ever goes near an exercise machine! You're perfectly safe here."
Babette ushered him inside and he exclaimed with delight at the cozy interior.
I won't pester you with needless description. There was a kitchen, of course, with the usual items--fridge, stove, sink, etc.; there was a living room with some walls, a ceiling, and a lot of furniture; there were bedrooms done up in beige wallpaper with a pattern of rubber duckies; there was a bathroom; a rec room; and a basement area where Vittles, Babette's deceased husband had built an enormous model of the Rock Island Line.
There was a picture of Babette's deceased husband on the wall above his train layout; he was wearing his engineer's cap, a blazer and a school tie.
"He died before his time, poor fellow," said Babette, with a tear in her eye. "He told me I was getting fat, so I killed him and ate him."
Just then, there was a noise from the kitchen.
Heathcliff and Scarlet, her two little children, were getting hungry.
She set the table at once, putting out bowls of body parts liquefying in portable digestive acid.
"Food fight!" yelled the kids, grabbing their straws.
Polydoor watched in amazement as they sucked up huge quantities of pottage and blew out great, yellow-green gobs that sizzled and smoked wherever they landed.
"Now, now, children!" said Babette in a mild voice. "What will Mr. Acolyte think? Behave yourselves, please."
A bit of goop splatted Polydoor's arm, blending in nicely with the mold, and he licked it thoughtfully.
"It's good," he said, winking at the kids. "Tastes like chicken. You're a great cook, Babette!"
Babette blushed and batted her eyes at him.
Polydoor was fascinated by her.
"I hope you don't mind the little ones," she said. "They're so excited. We don't often have company."
"I think they're cute!" said Polydoor, watching them attack their desserts in a frenzy.
It was brain juice, of course, straight from the skull. Spiders just love brain juice.
Babette smiled shyly.
"You're so nice, Polydoor," she said. "I'll bet you have lots of girlfriends! I'll bet they're standing in line to ask you out."
Polydoor blushed shyly and hid behind his hump.
"Not really," he said in a small voice. "I haven't had much time for dating. Being an acolyte is a full-time job."
"I'm sure it is," said Babette. "I don't know how you manage!"
"Well it is very demanding," said Polydoor, feeling sorry for himself now. "People think it's easy, standing around drooling and rubbing your hands."
"That just shows how ignorant most people are!" said Babette.
"There's a lot more to being an acolyte than just basking in the glamour of it all," said Polydoor. "You have to strike a balance between true repulsiveness and dedicated sycophancy."
"I could never manage something like that," said Babette.
She smiled at him while she cleaned up her little ones, cleared the table, washed the dishes, and checked the latest figures on a steel mill she was operating in her spare time.
"It's really hard," said Polydoor, warming to his subject now. "For one thing, I had to teach myself how to build a particle accelerator."
"You're so clever, Polydoor!" said Babette, setting out a bowl of McBowel's mint-flavored spider treats. "I hope Vlod appreciates you."
The little ones gave a joyous cry and dived in, gorging themselves on the treats.
After the meal, Polydoor helped Babette put the kids to bed for a nap.
The little tykes were so excited, they kept jumping up and down on their bed, asking uncle Polydoor to read them a bed-time story.
Technically Polydoor wasn't their uncle; he'd only just met them, but deep down inside, he was a kind-hearted acolyte. He laughed with the little ones and read them a chapter from SCARY STORIES FOR LITTLE SPIDERS.
There were pictures of enormous humans squashing spiders with their special spider-squashing shoes, and humans mashing spiders with rolled-up magazines and newspapers.
It was so spooky, it even sent a tremor of fear up Polydoor's spine.
Fortunately, those humans had all evaporated in the great nuclear flash-fire on Earth, after they'd rotted awhile from plague bacilli, of course.
Anyway, Heathcliff and Scarlet were looking a little pale after the scary story, so Polydoor let them play with his hump for awhile.
By now, the little ones were in love with him, and Babette herself was feeling very tenderly disposed to him.
Soon the children fell asleep.
Polydoor tucked them in, and Babette kissed them goodnight.
Then the two lovebirds crept out to the rec room, where Babette prepared lime fizzers and set out a dish of chocolate-covered centipedes.
Polydoor was in heaven.
He was in awe of Babette. She had the mother of all humps, starting right behind her head and extending all the way back to her spinnerets.
The two lovebirds stretched out their feet and sat close together on the couch listening to 'How Much is That Doggie in the Window?'-- the good version, with Doris Day.
Polydoor blushed and looked down at his hands.
Babette blushed and looked down at some of her hands.
There was a silence.
Shall I do it now? thought Polydoor. Shall I put my arm around her? What if she gets really mad, pushes my arm away and then bites off my head and eats it?
At last, summoning all of his courage, he reached out behind Babette's glittering body.
He almost screamed when she moved, but it was only to get closer to him so they could cuddle.
Then they smooched for awhile.
Polydoor was so happy, he nearly fainted.
He could hear voices coming to him from another world: the Captain Zap players threatening each other with dismemberment and death, the particle accelerator humming and buzzing.
Then he heard Vlod calling softly: "Yoo-hoo? Polydoor? Are you there? I need you, Polydoor. I need some fawning and sycophancy. I'm not feeling perky and topped up with self-esteem. Where are you, Polydoor?"
Babette had heard it too.
She gave a big sigh, then she said, "Must you go, sweetie?"
"I wish I didn't have to, darling, but duty calls. There's a war on, and we must all do our part."
"Oh Polydoor, you're so brave! I shall hold you in my heart always. I hate the nasty villains threatening our way of life. They'll never prevail against our young warriors!"
"Ummm, I think Vlod and I might be the villains, actually," said Polydoor. "I'm not sure; things aren't very clear."
Babette thought about that for a moment.
Then she said, "Oh well; it doesn't matter, dear heart. Parting is such sweet sorrow! I'll be here, waiting for you when this nasty war is over."
Polydoor felt noble and virtuous, and clean. It was very disturbing.
"Adieu, my love!" he said.
"Adieu, dear heart," said Babette.
Vlod had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 34: POLYDOOR'S QUEST
"Yoo hoo, master!" yelled Polydoor. "I'm coming, master! Get ready for sycophancy and fawning! Here I come!"
According to the time-honored ritual, Vlod was supposed to answer, "Oh, YOU! Enough of this nonsense, Polydoor! Come and polish my fangs."
But Vlod was silent, and that could only mean one thing.
He wasn't there.
Had he found a new acolyte?
Was he pouting?
Had he gone through a special door into the past?
Polydoor stepped carefully over the Captain Zap game, anxious not to disturb the players.
There's a superstition on Tockworld according to which, if you spill a beaker of salt while stepping on a crack and breaking a mirror as you're walking under a ladder after a black cat has darted across your path on Friday the thirteenth, you'll be sorry.
Polydoor emerged from the dungeon and checked the rec room, the particle accelerator, and the werewolfery out in the garden.
Then he spotted him in the rose garden, in the shadow of a ziggurat.
There was a railway track running through this part of Vlod's domain, a siding extending down from the Orient Express main line, which parallels the CP tracks.
The tiny Gothic station loomed ominously out of an atmospheric fog bank. A passenger car waited on a siding, its gas lights glowing through the shifting fog.
Between the two steel rails of the main line, directly in front of the station and the siding, a stake had been implanted.
Tied to the stake was the wriggling figure of Randomized Timer.
"Master, what are you doing?" yelled Polydoor.
At that moment, they could both hear the mournful whistle of the Orient Express, racing towards them after its long journey from Constantinople.
Polydoor was beside himself. "Master, master!" he cried. "If the Orient Express mashes Random, you'll never get your database! The aliens will win!"
"Fear not, Polydoor," said Vlod in a soothing voice. "I shall take over the programming chores."
"YOU, master?"
The raven started to quoth, but Vlod gave it a look and it merely flapped its wings.
"Thhthtptthh," it said, enigmatically.
"This may come as a surprise to you," Vlod said, "but I do have a certain urge to write code. How hard can it be? You simply procure a large quantity of fine paper, some good pens, and a suitable desk."
"It'll never--" quoth the raven, catching himself just in time. Then he grinned. "It'll never be matchthed."
Vlod bowed.
"Thank you for your confidence, Cuther. You are a raven of true discernment. I shall acquire a middle manager for your dinner tonight."
Cuther smirked. "Ththth ththth ththth," he quoth.
Polydoor was growing frantic.
"Master, please, if you don't release him, we'll all be taken over by aliens and forced to work in crop circles."
Vlod sighed and shook his head.
"I suppose that's true," he said. "But I am so VEXED at my computer! Besides, I've already invited the traditional peasants with flaming torches."
"Peasants?" said Polydoor, surprised. "In Toronto?"
"They're financial workers, actually. Clerks from the banks and insurance companies. They have to supplement their wages so they can buy food."
Just then, a horde of financial workers arrived and began milling about. You could tell they weren't experienced peasants, because they didn't know what to do with their torches.
"Good heavens, there's a chap tied to a stake," yelled Smith, the first peasant.
"Ignore him," said Vlod. "I've changed my mind; you can all go home now."
"Suits me!" said Johnson, the second peasant. "Let's all go and shop for haggis."
"Haggis is banal," said Smith. "I'd rather do math homework."
"Haggis is NOT banal; it's primal matter left over from the Big Bang. If the ancient Romans had collected haggises, they could have traded them for food and saved their empire."
"Haggises ARE food!" said Smith.
"They are?" said Johnson. "You can eat haggises? I thought they represented something, like a symbol."
"What's so special about that? EVERYTHING represents something! Look at ME, for instance. I represent the riding of North Tewksbury."
A third peasant, by the name of Bunsen, scratched his chin with his pitchfork and said, "All this time I thought haggises were lawn ornaments!"
"Representing a riding isn't like symbolism," said Johnson, drying his wet socks over his flaming torch. "You can't elect a symbol."
"I put haggises all over my lawn," said Bunsen. "No wonder the Scots Greys came to see me! I thought they just wanted to talk about the Battle of Waterloo."
"Of course you can elect a symbol!" said Smith. "Look at Colonel Sanders!"
"Colonel Sanders is not a politician!" said Johnson indignantly. "He's not running for office."
"He isn't?"
"It hurt my feelings, you know," said Bunsen, scratching his back with his pitchfork. "I thought the Scots Greys came to see me because they liked my watercolors of Edinburgh in the rain. Now I know it was just for the haggises."
"I suppose you could say Margaret Thatcher is a symbol," said Johnson.
"They didn't EAT the haggises, you know," said Bunsen. "They just looked longingly at them."
"According to Jung, symbols are inherently ambivalent," said Smith.
"What did Jung know?" said Johnson. "He was a human! Look what humans did to Earth!"
"I suppose the Scots Greys were too polite to ask," said Bunsen. "I should have offered them haggis hors d'oeuvres. It's not as if I was short of them."
"Humans have no one to blame but themselves," said Smith. "They could have escaped in weather balloons, but they chose to hide out in crop circles instead. Look where it got them!"
"The Scots Greys probably thought I was keeping the haggises for Napoleon," said Bunsen. "I'd better phone their HQ."
"Jung should have read Locke on the assassination of ideas leading inevitably to the formation of an educated mind," said Johnson."
"Now there's an academic for you!" said Smith. "All talk and no action. He didn't assassinate a single idea. He collected them! And, as if that wasn't enough, he let them loose on an unsuspecting world. Look at the mess we're in now--pizzas with broccoli topping, value-added taxes...I ask you!"
"He did however, admit to an element of hazard in the association of ideas. Suppose you happened to look at a hippopotamus while your mind was still a tabula rasa, and in the same instant, you discovered a box of Licorice Allsorts on the kitchen table. You'd immediately conclude that if you wanted any more Licorice Allsorts, you'd have to get them from a hippopotamus."
"I wonder if that's why the Scots Greys had so much trouble at Waterloo," said Bunsen. "They thought I, a loyal Scot, was hoarding precious haggis to give to Napoleon. I suppose it wrecked their morale."
"Hazard is different from ambivalence," said Johnson. "Things can be quite precise and still conjoined by hazard. Symbols, however, become tarnished and unavailable for mystic imaginings once they've been fixed to a precise meaning. If you make a little statue of an elf, for instance, then it's no longer mystical; it's a lawn ornament."
"I suppose I could send the Scots Greys chocolate haggises for Llama's Eve," said Bunsen.
"Enough small talk," said Vlod, freeing Random. "It's back to the sinister bank towers for you people, and it's back to Sparkles the Wonder Computer for Random. We have work to do."
"I could offer to supply the Scots Greys haggises on their next outing," said Bunsen.
"We could always invest money in the derivatives market," said Smith. "That would solve everything."
"What's a derivative?" said Johnson.
"It's a sort of vapor, like steam," said Smith.
"What good is that?"
"Well you can make engines go if you have a lot of steam."
"Don't you need an engine, first?"
"A mere detail. I could lend you one of mine."
"That's very kind of you."
"Mind you, it's been dented. A hippopotamus bashed into it while it was foraging for Licorice Allsorts."
Polydoor had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 35: DEMO'S LEITMOTIV
That night, with Sparkles the Wonder Computer still out of commission, Vlod took to his bed and wrote a letter of complaint to Macrohard.
It was a cold and miserable night.
Downstairs, among old bottles of lime fizzer, something groaned and began dragging a heavy chain across the floor.
A doorknob sneezed in the freezing air.
"And another thing," Vlod wrote, "Why does that stupid Macklin get to be The One? It doesn't make any sense! He's a wimp! He has no brains, no chutzpah. I, Vlod Ironbeak, should be The One. I have brains, I have an acolyte and a quothing raven! I AM THE MAYOR OF TORONTO!"
Just then, something shimmered on the air for a moment in Vlod's chambers. Then a ghostly figure materialized, moaning and wailing outside the gauzy curtains drawn around Vlod's bed.
"Have you seen any pucks?" it moaned.
It was dressed in a Toronto Maple Leaf's goalie costume. It wobbled a little as it approached the bed, supporting itself with a hockey stick and carrying a rubber duckie under its arm.
Vlod didn't even bother looking up.
"What are you doing here, Demo?" he snapped. "You're supposed to be shadowing Macklin, making sure he keeps his nose to the grindstone and finishes the model railroad I ordered.
"I'm tired of being a hockey goalie," complained Demo. "I want my old life back, with Sally Popoff and Spot of the Negev. I've started having nightmares."
Vlod held up his hands. "Please--not here. Other people's dreams put me to sleep."
"Nightmares about a rubber duckie," Demo said.
"That's an easy one; it's a symbol of bathtubs, meaning you haven't washed your outfit since you started wearing it."
"SQUEAK!"
"I beg your pardon?"
"That wasn't me; it was my rubber duckie."
Vlod looked up as Demo flung away the rubber duckie in disgust.
"Rather a small thing to be haunting your nightmares," he said.
"That's not the duckie I dream about," said Demo. "I bought it because I thought it would help me sleep at night. But it doesn't. Last night I woke up with the little beast sitting on my chest, staring at me."
"Were you sleeping in your goalie's outfit?"
"Yes."
"Maybe it was admiring the maple leaf on your sweater."
"It wasn't; it was staring at me. It knew about my nightmare. It was communing with the rubber duckie in my nightmare."
Vlod considered this for a moment, trying to recall the little he knew about hockey. Was there some connection between hockey and madness? Was it possible to go insane simply as a consequence of donning a Toronto Maple Leaf's outfit?
"Other people have nightmares about monsters and wild beasts," said Demo. "I have nightmares about rubber duckies! I ask you!"
"Does it squeak?" said Vlod.
"NO, IT DOESN'T SQUEAK! IT'S AN EVIL RUBBER DUCKIE THAT GLOWS IN THE DARK."
"Goodness, gracious me! How long has it been since your last vacation, Demo?"
"I can't remember."
"Take some time off. Take six weeks. Relax. Read some Captain Zap comics. Shop for scotch."
"Don't you need me to keep an eye on Macklin?"
"Not as such. I have a supply of tax evaders in my dungeon. Polydoor will do a nice clone of your personality and download it into one of my prisoners."
"I won't have that!" yelled Demo. "I don't want any duplicate Demo's milling around, jostling for primacy."
"It won't be that sort of duplicate; it will be more of a leitmotiv, symbolizing the eternal quest for the perfect model railroad."
Demo eyed Vlod suspiciously.
"Really?" he said. "You can use a ringer? I can go back to being a seedy academic? I can join Sally Popoff and we can ride Spot of the Negev off into the sunset?"
"Of course! As long as you consent to having a leitmotiv functioning independently of your control."
"You mean a doppelganger?"
"I most certainly do not. Doubling a Toronto Maple Leaf goalie would accomplish nothing. A leitmotiv, however, will keep up the pressure on Macklin."
Demo wasn't so sure about this part of the bargain--what if his leitmotiv got carried away and tried to set the agenda for both personalities?
On the other hand, anything was better than wobbling around on skates all day long!
"Done!" he said.
Moments later, Polydoor led a miserable wretch of a tax evader out of the dungeons and into his lab, where he strapped him down on a metal table.
Copper cylinders glittered in the light filtering through a high window. Static electricity crackled and hissed. Cuneiform script flashed across a computer screen; then it vanished beneath a little sign that said: 'This application has unexpectedly quitc.'
Polydoor uttered an oath.
Custer had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 36: SALLY REDUX
Demo was congratulating himself on his bargain when Sally Popoff materialized with her basket of rutabagas and her camera.
"Hello sweetie," she said.
"Oh Sally!" exclaimed Demo. "I'm so glad to see you!"
"Oh Demo!" said Sally. "Me too!"
"Oh dear," said Spot of the Negev, who was trying to pretend he was with someone else.
Demo rushed to embrace Sally and the two sweethearts smooched for awhile.
After a long moment, Sally said, "I think it might be better without the goalie mask, sweetie," and Demo hurriedly doffed it.
"And you might want to change out of those silly clothes," she added.
Demo at once cast off his goalie's outfit and changed into his Armani academic costume.
Everyone was amused by the rubber duckies on his underwear.
"Never again will I complain about the life of a seedy academic," he said.
"That is good, my love," said Sally, "because there's something I want you to do."
"Name it, sweetheart."
"I want you to go into the Fabulous Mists of Antiquity with me and help me find a new and exciting venue for my next work of art."
"I'll be glad to, my dear; it will help me forget my nightmares of an evil rubber duckie."
"Of a what?"
"An evil rubber duckie," said Demo irritably. "A big one."
Sally looked at Vlod.
"Is this your doing?"
Vlod lifted his arms in a gesture of helplessness.
"A little vacation time should do the trick," he said. "But there's always electroshock, if everything else fails."
"We don't need gadgets; we have rutabagas."
Sally embraced Demo again.
"You just forget about the nasty rubber duckie, sweetheart!" she said. "I'll look after you."
Vlod shook his head. He was beginning to feel dizzy. Life was so complicated now that people felt free to talk openly of their fetishes! Why couldn't they just bite each other and drink each other's blood?
"Catch!" yelled Sally, playfully tossing him a rutabaga.
Then she climbed up onto Spot of the Negev and rode away with Demo, through the Gothic forest, into the noonday sun.
Vlod offered Polydoor the rutabaga.
"No thanks," said Polydoor. "I gave at the office."
Hours later, Polydoor found an entry for the Rubber Duckie of Evil in THE GREAT BIG BOOK OF THINGS TO SAY AT PARTIES.
He immediately showed it to Vlod, who turned a whiter shade of pale.
"There IS a big rubber duckie, master," said Polydoor. "Or perhaps a mud-brick duckie--no one is sure. It was forged by twelve angry wizards to collect all of the evil thoughts and wishes in Tockworld."
"Good grief!" said Vlod. "It's like the Jolly Fat Llama; it knows whether you've been bad or good."
"Correct as usual, master. The wizards wanted to draw our evil thoughts into a receptacle and then destroy the receptacle so we'd all be much nicer."
"Don't tell me; let me guess," said Vlod. "Something went wrong."
"Yes Master. There were too many evil thoughts in the world. The mud-brick duckie quickly filled up, and then the evil thoughts were squeezed and compressed."
"Into the Power of Durable Evil?"
"Precisely, master. It soon took on a life of its own and began to influence people, to make them do nasty things."
Vlod listened in a stupor.
"A rubber duckie?"
"A mud-brick duckie, master--at least initially. It soon began influencing artisans to make other, smaller duckies--the sort of rubber duckies you see in bathtubs."
Vlod glanced over his shoulder at his collection of decoys, confiscated from the humans who had taken refuge on Tockworld after they had blown up their own planet.
Was it his imagination, or had they taken on a sinister air?
"What happened to the wizards?" he demanded.
"It says here they were killed, master. One by one. By an evil presence."
"By the Big Rubber Duckie?"
"By it's acolyte--Freddy Manichean Heresy."
Vlod shuddered. "Freddy wanted to accentuate his evil side, I suppose."
"I'm afraid so, master."
"I was hoping to use the Power of Durable Evil for my own ends, Polydoor. But I never imagined it would take the form of a monstrous rubber duckie. If the wizards couldn't stop it, I don't see how we can."
"But we have the model railroad Lenore envisioned, master. She would not have foreseen it if it did not offer some means of thwarting the Rubber Duckie of Evil."
"We don't have it yet, and we may never have it if the aliens subvert Macklin."
"Then we must redouble our efforts, master. We must ensure that he completes the model railroad."
"Where is this Rubber Duckie of Evil? Does it say in the book?"
"It's in the Fabulous Mists of Antiquity, master. The author thinks it's somewhere in ancient Babylon."
"That is precisely where Demo, Sally and Spot have ventured," said Vlod. "The Rubber Duckie of Evil must be influencing them."
"I'm afraid so, master."
"I wonder if Demo and Sally mean to betray me, Polydoor. Hurry after them. Be the first to find this monster duck and there'll be a nice treat for you in your Llama's Eve stocking."
Polydoor had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 37: PARTING IS SO MUSHY
Polydoor was in a foul mood.
Demo and Sally had only just departed the scene, but already they were far, far away.
How was he to find them?
He began his search where so many important quests have begun; at the University of Strange Thoughts.
Criminals always return to the scene of the crime he reasoned, and what could be more criminal that Demo at a lectern preaching philosophy to a lot of helpless undergraduates.
True, he hadn't perpetrated a lecture since joining his little gang of stooges, but there was always a chance he'd maintained an office there.
It wouldn't be the first time an absentee professor had conned his students with a virtual presence. He might have used the old Inflatable Professor trick, using a complete sound system, a course of lectures on a CD, and a graduate student to field questions.
If he was careful, and scheduled all of his classes for early in the morning, the undergraduates would undoubtedly play along, glad of the chance to sleep off their nightly debauches.
Anyway, If you've never seen the University of Strange Thoughts, you're in for a treat.
It was a sprawling place, of course, dense with strangler figs and phosphorescent undergraduates decaying among the trees.
There were lots of ivory towers; there were mobs of unruly social consciences, and there was even a pauper's cemetery, where flocks of unpublished academics were buried in unmarked graves.
Like many self-contained institutions, the University of Strange Thoughts had a caste system.
The richest academics, the researchers in biochemistry, computers, and financial derivatives, lived in ivory towers, which were festooned with corporate logos.
The poorest academics, those who examined literature in hopes of enriching the lives of Tockworld's downtrodden masses with empowering visions of meaning and beauty, taught in pup tents, telephone booths, and old shipping containers.
These poor souls got grants by begging on Queen Street, where street musicians sometimes took pity on them and dropped a few loonies into their shabby briefcases.
The more enterprising among them managed to eke out a living by converting their lecture notes into rap lyrics, and performing in special clubs.
Demo, a mere philosophy professor, belonged by rights among the lowest of the low, with three or four deranged students, a bit of canvas for a home, and a can of beans for supper.
But Demo was an exception to the rule; Demo taught EXPERIMENTAL philosophy, which involves finding the right ends to justify the means, and has military applications.
Not, alas, for the Canadian military, which has been forbidden by the government to buy ammunition because it's too expensive and might hurt someone, but for Vlod.
The mayor of Toronto, unlike members of parliament, is forced to deal with the harsh realities of life on Tockworld.
Anyway, Demo had, in fact, kept his old corner office, with a view of a golden statue of a platypus, symbolic of the university's mission.
Polydoor enquired at the desk on the mezzanine floor.
A crew of graduate teaching assistants carried him up the stairs in a sedan chair and deposited him in the reception area, outside Demo's office.
There was a framed photograph of Demo's sinister criminal pals on the wall.
When you have something in your past that makes you cool, it's a good idea to rub people's noses in it.
Aliens came and went, talking about Michelangelo.
A receptionist got up from behind her desk and pointed a cattle prod at him.
"Get out!" she said. "He's busy until the end of the decade."
She was a big, tall, Viking dressed in leather and bronze.
The name engraved on her name plate was Gerda. She looked tough enough to chew up a Pickard Trilobite and spit shrapnel at Polydoor.
But she made one mistake.
She noticed his hump.
"Are you staring at something?" Polydoor said in a dangerous voice.
Gerda was stupefied. It was an enormous hump; it made him look like a camel. And yet, it was not without its strange attractions.
"Ummm, I was looking at your nice jacket."
"Were you staring at my hump?"
"Hump? Is there one?"
"It's a mole. I could have it removed if I wanted to, but I've grown attached to it."
"Hump!" quoth the raven. "Get it right, humpy!"
There was a brief silence. Custer vibrated on Humpy's shoulder as a shockwave passed through the air.
"I believe in calling a hump a hump," quoth the raven, winking at Gerda. "It maketh you dithingithed."
Polydoor thought about this.
"It doth?" he said.
"Oh yes, it doth!" said Gerda, lowering her cattle prod. She really wanted to--but NO! MUST SUPPRESS ALL WEIRD DESIRES.
"You should think about exposing it," she said. "Perhaps with an off-the-shoulder shirt. You might want to have it pierced; you could wear a really good-sized chain through there!"
Polydoor was pleased. He reached up and patted Custer on the head.
"Treats for you tonight," he said. "A whole easy-rock DJ, complete with play list."
"Yummy!" said Cuther.
Gerda, realizing she'd come into the presence of a superior force, decided to be ingratiating. She was itching to caress Polydoor's hump. Her fingers stretched involuntarily towards it.
"Professor Demo isn't home," she said. "But his office is."
Polydoor ignored this while his Machiavellian brain did a quick inventory, checking off the marble walls, marble floor, marble desk, and rococo ceiling.
There was a special reading chair for Spot of the Negev, and a box of camel treats.
On the wall was a large, framed Sally Popoff work entitled 'Norman'.
There was the standard, Peake's Commentary on Sartre, in nineteen volumes.
Demo had written volume XI, an analysis of the famous scene in which Roquentin, the hapless narrator, receives a vision while staring at the roots of a chestnut tree.
All in all, it was an impressive office, if you like offices.
But Polydoor noticed a certain absence in the Demo department.
In fact, Demo didn't seem to be there at all.
"There's no one here," he said.
"That's what I told you," Gerda said. "I know how disappointed you must be. Perhaps if I caressed your hump, you'd feel better."
Polydoor moved away. Only Babette could touch his hump. He was a one-spider duck.
"Where is he?" he demanded.
"He's off raiding tombs in ancient Babylon. He wants to find out who invented philosophy, and kill him before it gets any worse."
"Hmmmm," said Polydoor suspiciously. "So he's already left for ancient Babylon? That was quick!"
Then he noticed something else.
It was a corpse, to be exact; a dead duck in a green silk kimono.
"There's a dead duck on the floor," said Polydoor.
"DIBS!" quoth the raven.
The receptionist knelt beside the rapidly cooling duck.
"Oh my goodness, that's his secretary!" she said. "I'd better tell the dean. What a mess! I suppose I'll have to put in a request for a new secretary now. This is going to take masses of paperwork. MASSES! You wouldn't believe the forms you have to fill out."
"Look, she was playing with her Nokia," Polydoor said. "I've never seen a tortoise shell Nokia before. I wonder if she was playing DOOM."
"There's blood all over it," said Gerda. "Yech!"
"Yummy!" quoth the raven, licking his chops.
"Wait, she's written something in blood on the screen," said Polydoor.
"I can just make it out," said Gerda. "There's an 'F' an 'M' and an 'H'."
"Fu Manchu Himthelf," quoth the raven. "I'm not eating thath! Ith probably poithoned."
"I thought Fu Manchu was just a literary figure," said Gerda, looking around nervously.
Polydoor glanced at her, a cold feeling going up his spine.
"Not Fu Manchu," he said. "Freddy Manichean Heresy. The most dangerous creature in all of Tockworld. If he's mixed up in this, we're all in trouble."
Then he found the secretary's 'to-do' list:
1.Search for delicious food that can be eaten in great quantities and has no calories.
2.Find a slightly used male with clean fingernails.
3.Book ticket for D. and S. to fabulous mists of antiquity. Economy class.
Just then, an evil laugh echoed through the room, and a shadow loomed over the little group of interlopers.
Then all was silence again, except for the lonely whistle of the Orient Express pulling into the campus station, near Inquisition Hall, where the final exams were in progress.
Final exams were always in progress at the University of Strange Thoughts
Polydoor had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 38: POLYDOOR'S PERIL
Polydoor glanced out the window at the golden platypus. He had to get going, but he was in a tight spot. If anyone discovered the corpse on the floor of Demo's office, they'd think he'd put it there.
Granted, the receptionist was a witness to his innocence, but what if she wanted to blackmail him so she could goose up her retirement fund a little?
Custer's Last Stand was no help; the raven would probably turn him in for a share of the corpse.
Meanwhile, back in Vlod's dungeon, Polydoor's girlfriend, Babette, sensed his anxiety. A tremor of fear went through her.
She knew immediately this meant Polydoor was in danger, because the only other time she'd felt tremors was when she'd discovered a spam artist trapped in her web.
Polydoor's in danger, she said to herself. Must help Polydoor!
So she called him up on her cell phone.
Polydoor answered at once.
"If this is a telemarketer calling," he said, "I'm going to find out who you are and where you live, and I'm going to send a ravenous werewolf to your door!"
Babette was momentarily tongue-tied. Her heart went thump-a-lump, thump-a-lump, and she felt dizzy with love.
"If this is the dean," said Polydoor. "I didn't do it! She was already dead when I got here."
"Thath right," quoth the raven. "I thaw him do it."
"I love you, Polydoor," said Babette.
At the sound of Babette's voice, Polydoor melted.
"I love you too, sweetie," he said.
"So what are you doing, Polydoor?" Babette asked.
"Oh nothing much. Trying to avoid being found with a dead body and an evil master criminal and assassin while I start out on a quest for Demo."
"That's nice," said Babette. "I was just thinking about you, Polydoor. I love you."
"I love you, Babette.
"I really love you Polydoor."
"I really, really love you, Babette."
"Thith ith thickening," muttered Custer.
Fortunately, the connection eventually fell apart, as they so often do with cell phones.
Gerda, meanwhile, had been calling the dean. She put down the phone and smiled inappropriately at Polydoor.
"We'll have to get out of here until this blows over," she said.
Polydoor sighed wearily.
There was nothing for it; he'd have to go into the Fabulous Mists of "Antiquity and find Demo. But where in the FMA? Nineveh? Eblis? Ancient Tewksbury?
If Freddy Manichean Heresy was involved, that probably meant ancient Persia. Perhaps he could start with Babylon and work his way east. Anyone who was anybody went to ancient Babylon!
He wondered if the ancient Babylonians had cell phones. They were probably on a different system, so his phone wouldn't work. Or there'd be an enormous roaming charge for trying to dial out from the ancient world.
He'd just have to send carrier pigeons.
Meanwhile, the aliens disguised as quacking elephants were having doubts about their plans to build a model railroad with Macklin's help.
They decided to consult a management guru.
Thus it was, while the main force of quacking elephants remained at their posts in front of Macklin's condominium building, Bessemer Converter and a select few went off to see Felix Unman at his magic shop (It used to be a tent).
The magic shop was conveniently located in a park right next to George's Trains, where tennis players threatened each other with ghastly deaths.
Felix greeted the quacking elephants irritably. He'd just taken off his port-wine colored corduroy jacket and was busily examining it for ketchup stains.
"Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to show me what you brought?" he said.
Bessemer whispered to the others, and they handed over a large, angry creature.
"We offer you this," he said.
Felix eyed it suspiciously.
"That's an ostrich."
"No it isn't," said Bessemer.
"Yes it is."
"Well, technically it's an ostrich, but it has self esteem."
Felix examined the ostrich.
The ostrich batted her eyes. "I like you too sweetie," she said.
It was love at first sight.
"Okay," said Felix. "It's a deal. What do you want in exchange?"
"We have a problem," said Bessemer Converter. "We're supposed to invade Tockworld, enslave its inhabitants, despoil it, and force the survivors to stop recycling. Unfortunately, we don't want to do these things."
"Have you got a business plan?" asked Felix.
"We don't need one. We'd prefer to live here peacefully and help people select attractive floor coverings, but we don't know how to deal with our boss, General Fumarole. We need phony ID so we can disappear and blend into the crowds."
Felix eyed the elephants skeptically.
"What you really need is a goal," he said. "People on Tockworld all have goals now; it's the latest thing."
"We were thinking of having a model railroad built," said Bessemer. "Does that qualify as a goal?"
"Barely," said Felix. "EVERYONE wants to have a model railroad built. It's not very original."
"We could start a model railroad club."
"That's a little better. I can work with that. I'll design some official documents for you, and a logo, of course. Perhaps an elephant in a caboose."
"I like that," said Bessemer.
"Good. Here they are."
Felix handed Bessemer a package of official forms, signed by the prime minister of Canada, Anne of Green Gables.
"Now you're safe," he said. "No one can extradite you."
Bessemer flapped his trunk in delight. All of the elephants waxed exceedingly joyful. Then they bid their farewells to the grumpy wizard and his beautiful ostrich girlfriend, and went skipping out into the park.
When Bessemer looked back, however, the magic shop (it used to be a tent) was gone.
In its place was a privy, currently occupied by someone who was singing 'Moon River' at the top of his voice.
"I wonder who he was, really," said Bessemer.
"Doris Day?" said his staff officer, Cordless Screwdriver.
"Doris Day is a lovely woman, very attractive, with a marvelous singing voice," said Bessemer. "Don't insult her."
Just then, Bessemer noticed something odd in the grass.
"Look, there's something odd in the grass," he said.
"It's a small, fossilized thing," said Cordless.
"Holy armadillos; it's a hockey puck!" said Bessemer.
"What's a hockey puck?" asked Cordless.
"It's a votive object. This is a good omen. We're going to succeed!"
The elephants headed back to George's Trains in high spirits, thinking they were about to find a solution to the problem of how to avoid invading, looting and pillaging Tockworld.
Meanwhile, Randomized Timer, master of Sparkles the Wonder Computer, and programmer and tech support to the stars, was perplexed.
Sparkles kept crashing.
Maybe she needs some new parts, he said to himself.
Male computer experts sometimes think of their computers as females, and sometimes they think of them as evil entities.
Random was on good terms with Sparkles, so he went out on a quest for parts.
Naturally he went to George's Trains, the famous model railroad shop.
Pushing his way past a mob of aliens disguised as quacking elephants, he became curious.
The quacking elephants were all looking at track plans.
Just then, a group of young ducks who happened to be passing by began yelling at each other.
"What's that noise?" said the quacking elephants, alarmed.
"It's a Game Wart," said one of the youngsters. "We got it from this weird magic tent (It used to be a shop). It comes from the future, when everybody worships hockey pucks."
The quacking elephants all gathered around for a look at the Game Wart.
Random was curious. The young ducks were playing a version of Death Hockey, a game of skill.
He'd played Death Hockey on the Game Wart Mark X, of course, but this was different.
"What are they doing?" said the elephants. "What's the Stanley Cup?"
"You get the Stanley Cup when you've sacrificed all of the players on the opposite team," said Random. "It gives you super powers."
Bessemer peered closely at the screen. Lots of tiny hockey players were beating each other to death with sticks.
"We could use this as a signaling device," he said.
The young ducks were growing excited.
"Kill that one, eh!" they shouted.
"This is war, eh!"
"His head fell off, eh! That's a penalty!"
"No it isn't; he's gluing it back on."
"I really don't understand this hockey thing," said Bessemer.
"It's a primitive ritual," said Random.
"Primitive people believed in video games?" said Bessemer.
"They still do," said Random.
"Our people were never that messy when they sacrificed.
"Yeah, but we only sacrificed broccoli," said Cordless.
"Will you guys shut up!" shouted Static Charge, the communications officer. "General Fumarole is on the line."
"Again?" said Bessemer wearily. "Give it to me, please."
He took the intergalactic cell phone, expecting anger and recriminations.
Instead, he got the honeyed tones of a contented psychopath.
"You were discussing sacrifice?" said General Fumarole. "Blood and gore? That's encouraging."
"Umm, yes," said Bessmer.
"Now you're talking, Bessemer! To be frank, I was worried about you. I thought you were turning into a wimp. What do these hockey players do?"
"They hit each other with sticks."
"Really? It's remarkably like a Captain Zap episode. These people would make good allies. What's the little black thing?"
"It's their god. Every so often they take a break from bashing each other and hit it. The object is to kill another player with it. They try to avoid getting it into those net things."
"They hit their god? What chutzpah!"
"Maybe you have to hit it to get its attention," said Cordless.
"The net thingy must be an altar," said Bessemer. "Look at all the worshippers in the pews. They must be really devout!"
By now, a crowd had gathered around the Game Wart.
" I think we attracted some worshippers," said a young duck.
"Kill him!" shouted another duck. "Stuff marmots into his ears. Make him eat mashed turnips and beets until he explodes."
"Holy Rutabagas, these people are dangerous," said General Fumarole. "This is going to be an exciting invasion. I can hardly wait."
"Look, they're bashing each other again," said Bessemer, horrified by the game. "There's blood all over the screen."
"They're playing some stock brokers from New York. That one has a bone through his nose."
"What's New York?"
"A suburb of Toronto, I think."
Suddenly, one of the elephants who had been watching the game shouted excitedly, "LOOK, LOOK, SEE, SEE! ZAMBONI DRIVERS! THEY HAVE ZAMBONI DRIVERS HERE! I DON'T BELIEVE IT!"
"Oh my gosh, they're real!" said Bessemer. "They're not fake. Pinch me! I've never seen a real Zamboni driver before. Only in pictures from the Lost City of Atlantis. They must have come right here after they lost Atlantis."
"That's possible. Remember the stories we used to hear from the old guys at Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Game Shop? When Atlantis got lost, a few Zamboni drivers survived by building a bunch of huge Zambonis, each one eighty cubits by ninety cubits."
"Yeah, and they built the pyramids to park their Zambonis in."
Several of the elephants fainted.
"My life is complete," murmured Bessemer Converter.
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