THE DUCKS OF DOOM
Chapters 181-192
A weekly serial by
Robert Arthur Smith
rasmithr@yahoo.com
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 181:SHANGHAIED
The alien was nonplussed. In fact, all three of his heads were ticked off.
"This doesn't look like Kansas to me!" he said.
The carnie in charge of the presidential campaign ride was a little confused at first, and justifiably so.
If you've never heard three heads talking as one, it can take some getting used to. It helps if you've read any Uncle Scrooge comics--the ones featuring Hewey, Dewey, and Louie--but so few people read the classics these days!
Carnies, however, are nothing if not adaptable.
"Of course it's Kansas!" he said, quickly spelling out the name with a black marker pen on the side of the little Car of Death. "See--it says Kanssas."
One of the alien's heads peered at the crude lettering.
"Kansas is spelled with one 's'," it said piously.
"It is?" said the carnie; then he caught himself and winked at the alien. "I mean, that's what people from Kanssas WANT you to think. It helps weed out the telemarketers. When telemarketing computers dial the Kansas with one 's', their calls get redirected to the Bronx, and they wind up buying the Brooklyn Bridge on eBay."
"Surely there's only one Brooklyn Bridge!"
"Not if you sharpened your salesmanship skills in the Bronx, there isn't."
"Anyway," said the alien, "I don't want to go on this ride! I don't belong here. I'm an alien, mind you."
"So cry me a river! Tockworld is full of aliens these days."
"But I'm special; I'm a pastry chef from Haggis, the planet of culinary delights. They call me Glazed Buns."
"There's a planet named Haggis?" said the carnie in disbelief. "You're puttin' me on!"
"Actually it had another name once," said Glazed Buns, "But nobody liked it very much. One day, when we were all watching Nigella on Earth TV, we saw a commercial for haggis. We liked the name so much, we adopted it."
"You saw a commercial for haggis on NIGELLA'S cooking show!" gasped the carnie. "The lovely Nigella--"
"You have a problem with haggis?" said Glazed Buns.
"Are you kidding!" said the carnie. "Last March, my Aunt Maxine was trapped in an elevator with a haggis for three days. Her only weapon was an antique cassette player with ONE tape--a selection of the Monkey's greatest hits. The haggis kept asking for the 'Last Train to Clarksville'. It was a very near thing--another hour and my aunt would have committed suicide by jumping into the haggis."
"Don't be dissing haggis just because you had an unhappy childhood," said Glazed Buns.
"It was my AUNT's childhood, and she was eighty-seven."
"That's nothing!" said Glazed Buns. "When I was a kid, we had to walk forty miles through a blizzard to the nearest convenience store to get the ingredients for haggis, and then we had to rub sticks together to make a fire. That's how much we liked it."
"You're gonna love this ride, you nutbar!" said the carnie, tightening Glazed Buns' straps.
"But I don't WANT to be a presidential candidate."
"Too late!" said the carnie. "No refunds."
"But I didn't pay anything!"
The carnie clucked his tongue. "If you didn't pay anything, I can't refund your money, so you're out of luck."
"I don't want my money back; I want to get off. I can't go on the presidential campaign ride! I wasn't born in the US. I'm not allowed."
"A mere detail," said the carnie. "We can change that. We'll tell everybody you were first elected in California."
Glazed Buns squirmed in his restraints. "I don't want to be a presidential candidate; I want to be a pastry chef. I want to make fluffy, creamy delicacies that elicit howls of pure terror from the Atkins tribe."
"That's a bit sadistic isn't it! What did they ever do to you?"
Glazed Buns stared at the carnie in disbelief. "You really don't know, do you! You think those people are as pure and innocent as Normal Duckwell--"
"I never said that. I axed you what they ever did to you?"
"What they did? I'll tell you what they did! They cut into the sales of delicious, crusty baguettes, and wonderful, freshly baked loaves of cinnamon raison bread, and rye bread, and delicious croissants that fill your entire being with the essence of culinary artistry; and they're turning people against creamy, buttery delicacies lightly baked in pastry ovens--ahhhhhh! I shall expire! Must have chocolate éclairs! Must have custard delights; must have--"
"Stick a sock in it!" said the carnie. "Your needs don't matter. Your country needs you to go on this ride. We're short of candidates."
"But this is Canada."
"Yeah, right! That's why there's snow and ice all over the place, and glaciers, and the car dealerships all sell dog teams with SUV sleds and--"
"See that sign--it says General Motors of Canada. And that one--Toyota, Canada. And look, when you try to get on Yahoo--see it's Yahoo.ca. We're not in the USA anymore, Dorothy."
"My name isn't Dorothy; it's Carnie. Anyway, I MEANT this to be Canada. It's the best place to run your campaign for president. If you ran it in the States, you'd be torn to pieces by the media in seconds flat. It's safer up here."
"But Canadians can't vote in a US election."
"Exactly. That's why the risk is so much lower; it's not Canada's election, so Canadians have no reason to burn you at the stake. You'll be okay as long as you don't insult hockey players or try to privatize health care."
"Oh so! If it's so safe here, how come I have to ride in the Car of Death on a campaign ride featuring spring-loaded hammers and exploding booby traps?"
"There has to be SOME risk or it won't look authentic on Reality TV. They're the ones running this whole thing."
This was too much for Gracie, who had been growing increasingly irritated with the carnie's pitch.
"The Reality TV people have nothing to do with this ride," she said. "Arthur made it."
The carnie smirked into his sleeve. "Listen, sister," he said. "Maybe your noble Arthur cut a little deal on the side while the fat guy with the beard and the pointy hat was trying to figure out his report card. You can't knock capitalism; it trickles down like sweet rain onto the waterless desert."
"If it rained in the desert, the desert wouldn't be waterless," said Digger.
"So who wants to live in a desert, anyway," said the carnie. "You get what you pay for. Anyway, Arthur invented the ride, but Reality TV rented the equipment from him."
"Do all presidential candidates have to do this?" said Glazed Buns.
"Of course they do!" said the carnie. "The whole electoral system is a Reality TV program now. The last one standing gets to be president. What could be more democratic?"
"I don't like this," said Glazed Buns, struggling to release the straps. "I don't want to be real. I want to be ME."
"Relax, what could go wrong? If worse comes to worse and you're injured by attack ads or something, there'll be enough brain tissue and blubber left over so your family--should you have one--can extract your DNA and clone you--should they wish to."
"Well, okay, but I'd feel better if the troll came too."
"He wouldn't fit. Besides, he's busy looking for a big Johnson."
"He is? Why didn't he say so!"
"He's been saying entirely too much, if you ask me," muttered Digger.
"We on the planet Haggis have thousands of big Johnsons," said Glazed Buns.
"I heard that," said Sweet Gas, lumbering over to the ride. "Hogging them, are you?"
"We grow them from cell cultures."
"Who forks over the cells?" said the carnie.
"We get them from the Jake Things, a small, rabbit-like creature with a big Johnson. Jake Things are on the endangered species list because they're so easily distracted by their big Johnsons, they hardly ever escape predators."
"What about the females?" said Gracie. "Do they have big Johnsons too?"
"They have big baz--"
"Enough small talk," said Chester. "I don't like soft porn."
"So, we're talking about a sex-mad species too fixated on its own organs to protect itself," said the carnie.
"Or to develop an advanced civilization with all-purpose kitchen gadgets and CD's available only on TV," said Edwardian.
"Precisely," said Glazed Buns. "So we protect them in zoos, where they can have all the CD's and all-purpose kitchen gadgets they want."
"And you steal their cells," mutter Digger. "Capitalism in its truest form."
"Only a few cells," said Glazed Buns, "And it doesn't hurt them."
"Where do you extract the cells from?" said Neville.
"Their buttocks. We have special enzymes that trigger the sort of growth we require."
"I suppose you show the cell cultures a picture of what you want them to be when they grow up?" said Digger. "Just in case they try to join a union or something."
"Something like that," said Glazed Buns.
"Where are these big Johnsons?" said Sweet Gas.
"We sold our entire crop to the Spam King. There was a shipment on my UFO. If I could just get back--"
"What exactly happened on this UFO?" said Sweet Gas. "How did you fall out of it? Did you trip over a pastry?"
"I was thrown out. The crew didn't like my pastries; they're all on Atkins."
"Enough small talk!" yelled the carnie, and he started the ride.
Sweet Gas gave a low, rumbling growl and leaped into the car beside Glazed Buns. The car nearly tipped over, but eventually it righted itself.
Every presidential candidate needs a running mate, after all.
Gracie had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 182:PESKY HUMANS
Everyone watched breathlessly as the Car of Death creaked up the nearly vertical slope of the Tower of Primaries in the Presidential Campaign ride.
Inside the car, Glazed Buns screamed in panic, and then Sweet Gas screamed in panic too.
Good running mates, as you know, take their cues from their fearless leaders.
"I can't believe I agreed to this!" said Sweet Gas. "The things a guy will do for a big Johnson!"
"I don't even want a big Johnson!" said Glazed Buns. "I want a chef's toque. If this ride gets any worse, I'm going to morph into something else."
"Into what?" said Sweet Gas, growing interested.
"Not a big Johnson, if that's what you're thinking. I'll probably morph into a human."
Sweet Gas turned to stare at Glazed Buns in shock. "A human?" he said. "Are you crazy? You actually want to be a human!"
"I can't help it," sniffed Glazed Buns. "It happens all the time on my planet. When we have intense, unpleasant emotions, we morph into humans. In fact, I'm changing as we speak, altering my form factor under the pressure of extreme fear."
Sweet Gas tried to shrink away from the disgusting spectacle, but there isn't much you can do when you're strapped into a Car of Death on a carnival ride, inching your way up the Tower of Primaries to unimaginable heights.
"Couldn't you pick something more socially acceptable to morph into?" he said. "A scorpion, for instance?"
"Too late," said Glazed Buns, and with that, a green cloud of smoke burst forth from the porches of his ears, swirling all around him until it enveloped him like a swaddling cloth.
Sweet Gas waved his arms, frantically trying to keep the noxious stuff from his body. In a matter of seconds, however, it was gone, and Glazed Buns raised his arms, palms outwards, to show off his new fashion accessory.
"Behold and lo!" he said. "I have become human."
Sweet Gas eyed him nervously.
True enough, Glazed Buns had changed, and there was a certain, human-like quality about him.
Like many humans, he now had only one head. And there was an absence of beakiness about the face, unless you counted the nose.
The eyes were pinwheeling a little, but Sweet Gas had seen that sort of thing in humans before. It had something to do with hockey.
The hair seemed to be standing straight up on top of Glazed Buns's skull, but again, that wasn't unusual for a human, particularly during tax-filing season.
The clothing seemed normal enough--low-rider jeans and a very baggy sweater, blotched here and there with mustard stains, ketchup stains, and a bit of fossilized linguini.
Sweet Gas had encountered this sort of costume often enough at software developers' conferences, though it was usually accompanied by some sort of cola, bubbling with extra caffeine.
He had no idea what presidential candidates wore, but he assumed it would be something chameleon-like, able to swiftly adapt to changing audiences.
So everything seemed normal.
Except for the feathers.
"Humans aren't normally covered with feathers, are they?" said Sweet Gas.
Glazed Buns looked down at his hands.
"Eek!" he said. Then he scowled at Sweet Gas.
"You have a problem with feathers, Mister Stick-in-the-Mud? I suppose you're a meat-and-potatoes troll too? And you only watch hockey when the Leafs are winning?"
"I like igneous rocks," said Sweet Gas. "Besides, humans don't have feathers."
Glazed Buns thought about this for a moment.
"They used to have feathers," he said. "But they lost them because of globalization. Anyway, it's a fashion statement, so get used to it."
The Reality TV cameras moved in for a close-up.
Audiences everywhere screamed for blood. The Zulus, meanwhile, taking advantage of this new distraction, smote the British at Roark's Drift.
Down below Neville and the others watched in amazement.
"The things people will stoop to, just to get elected!" said Digger. "Think how many soup kitchens Glazed Buns could build if he didn't waste so much time displaying his feathers!"
"Turning himself into a human WAS a bit excessive," said Edwardian. "That would never have happened in Edwardian times, in Tewksbury, on the trams."
"Is that so!" said Digger. "What about World War I, then? How do you explain that?"
"Wars are easy," said Edwardian. "A child could explain them. It's much harder to explain peace."
"Peace is the interval between wars," said Merlin, looking up from Arthur's report card. "A necessary pause to refresh, refit, and to design new weapons."
"That's all in the past," said Neville. "We've learned from our mistakes."
"Oh you!" said Gracie, patting him on his tractor-tire stomach. "If you'd been teaching children as long as I have, you'd know that no one ever learns anything. Teachers discover that very early in their careers."
"Still, it does seem a bit excessive, turning yourself into a human," said Neville. "Is that what you have to do to get elected now?"
"Not in Toronto," said Chester. "Look at Vlod Ironbeak! He's been the mayor forever, and there's nothing even remotely human about him."
"Well he does get violently angry at his computer," said Neville. "It's a touchingly human trait."
"You don't have to be human to do that," said Digger wrathfully. "I strapped my computer to the bottom of a pile driver the other day, just to teach it a lesson."
"Prime Minister Anne of Green Gables is certainly human," said Chester.
Yes, but she couldn't help it, the poor woman," said Edwardian. "She was born that way. Besides, serving as Prime Minister of Canada is really a kind of penance."
"For what?" said Digger. "Too much adulation?"
"This is Canada," said Neville. "You don't need a reason for penance; you just have it."
"Anyway, Glazed Buns had a choice," said Chester. "He could have morphed into something else. A dromedary, for instance."
"He'd never go for that," said Digger. "He'd have to look it up."
"The point is," said Neville testily, "Glazed Buns had a choice, and he chose to become a human.
"Kinky!" said Chester.
Maybe he thinks he'll get girls that way," said Edwardian.
"Not unless he straps on one of the big Johnsons from his UFO," said Digger.
"Great Scot!" said Neville, pointing at the Car of Death. "They've reached the top of the Tower of Primaries. What now?"
"What are those things with attack cameras at the top?" said Chester.
"Oh no!" said Neville, feigning horror. "It's a media scrum. They'll be torn to pieces." Then he whipped out his field glasses for a closer look.
Just then, Merlin threw down Arthur's report card in a passion.
"I'm a wizard, mind you," he said.
"We know that, Merlin," said Cohen. "But Arthur has to go his own way."
"A lot of good your school does! Arthur thinks I'm an old fogy."
"Did he say that to you?"
"Not in so many words. Actually he won't even talk to me, except in monosyllables. He's very impatient when explaining his shiny new technology. "
"That's normal, Merlin. Arthur wants to hang with his peer group and start a revolution, using new technology."
"For all I know, he could be eating mushrooms in class. I wouldn't know from his report card."
"He's doing fine," said Cohen. "He made this carnival, didn't he!"
"It's a start," said Merlin grudgingly. "But how's he supposed to get along in the real world with all of this sharing and teamwork business? It's a jungle out there. How will he ever get into the University of Strange Thoughts without marks?"
At the mention of 'marks', Cohen shuddered and withdrew into the mysterious depths of his chalk circle.
"Some things can't be measured," he said.
"It shouldn't be difficult getting into UST," said Neville. "All you have to do, really, is just show up. If you can find your way to a classroom, someone is bound to take you in. We're always on the lookout for fresh blood--I mean, hungry minds."
"I thought it was a very exclusive university," said Chester.
"Oh it is!" said Neville. "Getting in is the easy part. Surviving is the hard part."
Everyone stared at Neville while, high above them, the Car of Death teetered on the edge of the Chute of Political Gaffes.
"What exactly do you teach, Neville?" said Digger. "I mean, really."
"I teach people how to think," said Neville. "I've made up my own course pack, using modern rock videos and selections from Earth TV. There's much we can learn from the NHL.
There was a stunned silence. Then a light shone from Cohen's beak.
He was grinning.
Merlin was so angry, he turned himself into a demented Scot.
The haggis had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 183:HAGGIS, THE MOVER
Merlin soon found that life as a demented Scot was not all that it was cracked up to be. For one thing, he was forced to struggle with thoughts and feelings he'd never experienced before.
What did it mean, for instance, when you had a sudden craving for oatcakes? Was this what shrinks meant when they talked about a psychotic break?
And what was all this about Scotland being part of Great Britain? Who had allowed THAT to happen?
Possessed by rage, Merlin snatched up a heavy metal shot, crammed Arthur's report card into it, whirled it around his head, and sent it flying through a mysterious doorway in the sky.
"Hmm," said Cohen. "That's a wardrobe door. I wonder where it came from."
"Who cares?" said Merlin. "I feel much better now."
"What's that buzzing sound?" said Chester.
"Bees, I should think," said Neville.
"Coming from the invisible wardrobe behind the door," said Chester.
"Time for a refreshing change of scenery," said Edwardian, backing away from the smiting zone.
The buzzing grew louder.
"Who would be daft enough to build a wardrobe door without actually building the entire wardrobe as well?" said Chester. "And what's it doing in mid-air?"
"This is what comes of outsourcing," muttered Digger. "Lower wages, shoddy workmanship, wardrobes floating around in the air instead of sitting on the ground and doing what they're supposed to do."
"How does it work?" said Neville.
"You hang up your clothes inside it and shut the door, I should imagine," said Edwardian, still backing away. "Isn't that how all wardrobes work?"
"Do all wardrobes come with bees?" said Chester.
"It's a feature," said Neville.
"The bees aren't actually in the wardrobe," said Gracie. "They're somewhere beyond it."
"In another world, so to speak," said Neville, growing interested.
"Oh, so!" said Digger. "One world isn't enough for the capitalists to exploit; they have to go poking through wardrobes to find new worlds to subdue."
"It's a Sassenach plot," said Merlin wrathfully. "They're smuggling haggis through an invisible wardrobe."
"Perish the thought," said Chester.
"I think someone should close the door before the bees find out we're here," said Edwardian.
"Paff!" said Merlin, putting a shot through the open door.
There was a flash of green light, an anemic 'bang', and the wardrobe door disappeared.
The buzzing, however, persisted long after the wardrobe had gone, which proves that reality is where you find it.
Merlin waxed triumphant, drawing a lot of attention to himself. A demented Scot waxing triumphant is a sight to be seen.
"Why a demented Scot, by the way?" said Neville. "Why not an ordinary Scot, like McBowel? You could do something useful; you could invent the Enlightenment, for instance, and save us from another religious war."
"Ordinary Scots are too polite and nice for my purposes," said Merlin. "No one pays any attention to them."
"Oh," said Chester, without a trace of irony.
"Have you ever actually been to Scotland?" said Gracie.
"Why are you so angry?" said Edwardian.
"Because Arthur's wasting his time here," said Merlin, glaring at Cohen. "His report cards don't have proper numerical marks; and he's not studying quantum theology and business manipulation. He'll never get anywhere. He won't get a university education and he won't learn the proper techniques for destroying Van Von and restoring Disser to his rightful place in the Underworld."
"He doesn't need proper techniques," said Edwardian. "All he has to do is pluck a sword out of a stone and all England will kneel before him."
"Oh, so!" said Merlin. "That old chestnut! Look around! Do you see any stones with swords sticking out of them? Do you think Arthur can do a hostile takeover with somebody's flashy metal toothpick? Before he even got it out of its holster, the Sassenachs would fling hordes of lawyers at him. They'd pluck out all of his feathers like a lot of piranhas at a beach party."
"A sword can give you a nice edge," said Edwardian.
"Arthur doesn't need an edge," said Merlin. "He needs savage lawyers, merciless accountants, and ruthless investment bankers."
Everyone turned to stare at the bank towers in the financial district, where bankers and lawyers hooted and howled like dangerous predators.
Edwardian made the sign to ward off evil.
"It's a bit early for hostile takeovers, don't you think?" said Chester. "Arthur and his chums should go to the University of Strange Thoughts first, to acquire a thorough grounding in witchcraft and illusion."
"No time like the present," said Neville. "Let's go."
"Wait! What about the carnival?" said Gracie. "Shouldn't Arthur finish that first?"
"The carnival can wait," said Merlin.
"You should always finish what you start," said Gracie, shocked.
"Finishing what you start drives up costs," said Merlin. "It's better to sell whatever comes off the assembly line and let tech support handle the complaints."
"Typical," muttered Digger. "Tech support is in the Sahara Desert, I suppose?"
"Off-planet," said Merlin. "It's safer that way."
"We can't just leave the carnival behind," said Gracie. "It's part of Arthur's resume."
"She's right," said Neville. "And what about the Presidential Campaign ride? We can't just leave Glazed Buns and Sweet Gas in their hour of fun."
"Bring them along," growled Merlin, who was getting a headache. As if haggis wasn't bad enough, he'd developed an intense craving for shortbread cookies and kippered herring.
"So how do we transport the carnival to the UTS campus?" said Neville.
"We could hire a circus train," said Chester. "I've always wanted to ride in a circus train."
"I thought you wanted to be a parrot," said Digger.
"So?" said Chester. "I can want two things at the same time, can't I?"
"It's people like you who cause inflation," said Digger. "Soon our money won't be worth anything at all."
"You could always buy one of my poems," said Edwardian. "For lasting value."
"There, there," said Gracie, giving him a lollipop.
"We'll never get this carnival to UTS on a train," said Neville. "And the roads aren't wide enough. We'll have to float it over to the campus."
"How do we levitate a carnival ride?" said Chester.
"We could use a UFO," said Digger.
"Where do we get one of those?" said Neville, looking distractedly around. "I don't see any...."
"Tsk!" said Edwardian. "The woods are full of UFO's when you don't need them, but the moment you want one, they vanish."
"Ask one of your students, Neville," said Chester. "They're all aliens, aren't they!"
"Some, perhaps," said Neville.
"Ha!" said Digger. "How would Neville know? He outsources his professoring to graduate students in Constantinople."
"I can't be all things to all people," said Neville. "I have my research to tend to."
"So every student between the ages of say, twelve and twenty-one is an alien?" said Chester. "That would seem about right."
"I thought it was everyone over thirty," said Digger.
"No, it's actually the pre-teens," said Edwardian.
"Toddlers," said Merlin grumpily.
"I think that covers everyone nicely," said Gracie. "So we're all aliens here?"
"Aliens on an alien planet," said Neville.
"Oh, you!" said Gracie, patting him on the tractor tire.
"If we're such hotshot aliens, how come we don't get UFO's?" said Digger.
"They're expensive," said Merlin. "And parking them is impossible. Crop circles don't grow on trees, you know."
Just then, a Zeppelin bumped against the school flagpole, and the pilot tossed down a line.
Digger tied it to the flagpole.
The pilot, a human who had been looking all morning for a fare, lowered his Zeppelin to the grassy verge. Then he looked over the astonished company and exulted inwardly.
Rubes! he told himself.
"We need to move this carnival to the UST campus," said Neville. "Can you help us?"
"Haggis, the Mover, at your service," said the pilot. "Moving carnivals is our specialty."
"But your cabin is full of rutabagas," said Gracie.
"Those?" said Haggis. "Oh, those are nothing; just a load of rutabagas for the College of Artistic Thoughts. They're planning an action art exhibition to celebrate the financial community's great victory over the Viking invaders."
He motioned furiously to his copilot, a Gazabian deserter, and a door popped open, spilling rutabagas all over the lawn.
"Oops!" said Haggis. "They're spoiled now! Rutabagas begin evaporating as soon as they're exposed to the air."
Gracie peered through a cabin window.
"Well I suppose there's room for us," she said. "But what about Arthur's carnival?"
"That's what shipping containers are for," said Haggis. "I'll order one from Pizza Hut. They keep a few around in case they get another order from the Alien Planet."
Thus it was, the little band of heroes found themselves humming through the air on their way to the University of Strange Thoughts.
The carnival, which had been crammed into the Pizza Hut shipping container--extra large pizzas for those pesky software deadlines--continued operating.
Inside, trapped on the Presidential Campaign Ride, Glazed Buns and Sweet Gas considered their options.
Then, high over Yonge Street, the Zeppelin was attacked by a little dog flying a WWI biplane.
Merlin had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 184:Saved by the Penguin
The little dog in the WWI biplane flew a lazy circle around the Zeppelin, laughing hysterically at what it saw through the cabin windows.
"I believe he's laughing at us," said Chester.
"Is that who I think it is?" said Neville.
"Steve Canyon?" said Chester.
"How should I know," said Merlin. "I'm a wizard, not a mind reader."
"I don't think it's one of my pupils," said Gracie. "It's hard to tell with the goggles, though."
"You teach dogs at your school?" said Neville, interested.
"Of course we do," said Gracie. "Don't you?"
"Well, not as such," said Neville. "I get ducks mostly. A few humans, the odd platypus, and plenty of aliens, of course."
"Oh, everyone gets aliens," said Gracie. "I suspect they come to our school for the hot meals. Oatmeal for breakfast, haggis for lunch, eels for supper, and as much kippered herring as they can eat."
"Whatever doesn't kill you, comes back and tries again," said Digger.
"Proper nutrition is important for young children," said Gracie.
"Hot meals foster devilish minds," said Neville.
"Oh, you!" said Gracie, patting his tractor tire stomach.
"Why don't we send the Sea King after him?" said Cohen. "A Sea King gives you a nice edge."
"I'll fly it," said Edwardian excitedly.
"You'll fly the Sea King?" said Digger. "Have you been eating Gracie's haggis?"
"What's wrong with my haggis?" said Gracie.
"I LIKE the Sea King," said Edward, lasciviously.
"I thought you were peeved at it," said Neville.
"Lovers' spat," said Chester. "They can't wait to kiss and make up."
"I like your haggis, Gracie," said Digger, nervously. "In small quantities, on festive occasions."
"This time, I'll show her who's boss," said Edwardian.
"You're quite sure the Sea King is female?" said Neville.
"Of course she is," said Edwardian. "I know every inch of her."
"No more naughty things, please," said Chester, covering his eyes. "I'm pure."
"All good unionized workers eat a plate of haggis a day," said Gracie.
"Do they?" said Digger. "I knew there had to be a reason for our declining numbers."
"The Sea King is packed away in the shipping container, isn't it?" said Neville.
"No it isn't!" said Gracie. "I folded it up and packed it into the rear storage compartment while you gentlemen were arguing about whether this was a Zeppelin or not."
There was an embarrassed silence; then everyone trooped down the corridor into the rear storage room.
It was the work of a moment to unfold the Sea King and reassemble it, connecting all of parts the B to C, D, and E, being careful not to put on top of part the Z the part F, where E are having our base.
"Did Arthur write these instructions?" said Neville.
"Not as such," said Merlin. "He outsourced them."
Once the Sea King had attained its full majesty, Edwardian strapped himself in and started up the engine. Then Neville opened the rear door and everyone pushed the beast out into the void.
"There he goes," said Neville. "Off to do battle with the dog of war."
They watched in fascinated horror as the Sea King plummeted towards the ground. They could hear Edwardian's screams for a long time afterwards.
"Isn't he supposed to actually fly that thing at some point?" said Chester.
"Theoretically," said Neville.
"Are you sure that's the new version of the Sea King?" said Merlin.
"It worked before," said Cohen. "It must be the new control system Arthur installed. "It's based on Macrohard Angst."
"Gasp!" said Merlin. "That fool installed Macrohard Angst in a Sea King!"
"Double Jeopardy," said Neville.
"It's like roasting marshmallows in a methane pit," said Digger.
Neville leaned out the rear door of the cabin and yelled a warning to Edwardian:
"Quickly, Edwardian; install Linux and reboot! There isn't much time."
There was an eerie silence. The Sea King was only inches from the ground when an enormous inflatable penguin ballooned out of the cockpit, tugging at the lines securing it to the fuselage.
Slowly, very slowly, the Sea King rose up into the sky beneath the penguin.
The little dog in the WWI biplane spotted the Sea King bobbing gently beneath the inflatable penguin and burst into hysterical laughter.
"I wonder what's got into that little dog," said Gracie.
"This has been happening a lot lately," said Chester. "It's because of the violent comics we're getting these days. Impressionable people try to emulate their comic-book heroes; they think it's perfectly all right to climb into biplanes and shoot down innocent Zeppelins."
"So we should keep the funnies away from impressionable little dogs?" said Neville.
"Or ban all running dog capitalist comics," muttered Digger.
"That's a bit extreme," said Neville. "I like the funnies."
"ARE there any capitalist running dog comics?" said Gracie.
"The Bay Street Journal," said Chester. "A genuine comic book, if I ever read one."
"There's nothing funny about business," grumbled Merlin. "It's a blood sport."
There was a silence while everyone thought about alligators in a swimming hole.
"Why exactly is that little dog attacking us?" said Chester.
"I don't think it is," said Gracie. "It seems to be veering away."
"By gad, you're right, Gracie," said Neville. "It's going after that fifty-foot platypus."
"What fifty-foot platypus?" said Merlin.
"The one on top of the Golden Delicious Bank tower," said Neville. "It's holding Faye Wray."
Merlin peered at the new target through a convenient pair of field glasses. "That's not Faye Wray," he said, disappointed. "That's a penguin."
"Quick," said Chester. "Now's our chance to get away, while the dog is distracted by the fake Faye Wray.
Everyone rushed back to the control deck. Haggis, the pilot grabbed the wheel and pushed the throttle all the way to the 'broccoli' position.
After a tense moment during which nothing much happened, Merlin aimed a magic finger at Haggis.
"What happened?" he demanded. "We're not moving."
"Yes we are," said Haggis. "We've increased our speed one nautical mile per hour."
"Gads, the acceleration is killing me!" said Chester. "I wonder if the Sea King will be able to keep up."
"You can always get out and walk," said Haggis.
Just then, in a different part of the recording studio, the slinky Allura discovered a second surprise package buried beneath the bubble wrap that had sheltered the first surprise.
"I wonder what's in here," she said, plucking it out of the box.
The Vikings had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 185:A Woman's Burden
In a crowded market in downtown Toronto, Allura delicately clawed at the gilt paper wrapping covering her second surprise package.
Everyone gathered around, at a safe distance of course, watching intently through field glasses and telescopes to see what would happen next.
Even the cold, evil piccolo players in her entourage kept their distance.
"I had a surprise package once," said Quaking Aspen. "It was full of hand-knitted socks from my aunt Blood Gutter. They were all two sizes too big, so I stuffed rocks into them and used them for bashing Britons."
"That's nothing," said Bruce, a cold, evil piccolo player. "I had a surprise package from my girlfriend once, when I was on a road trip. There was a pop-up lawyer inside. I've never been so scared in my life! I'm still in therapy."
"Pipe down!" said Quaking Aspen. "Allura's torn off the wrapping. Now she's hacking the box to pieces with her Swiss Army cutlass."
Allura tore impatiently at a layer of tissue inside the box, until her surprise package lay exposed for all eyes to see.
It was a mint-condition copy of the 1960 edition of 'Small Railroads You Can Build', featuring a collection of articles from Model Railroader Magazine.
"Oh my gosh!" she said, nearly swooning with delight. "So many wonderful memories are coming back, I almost feel happy."
Then she opened the book at random and her gaze fell upon a double-page spread, a picture of the famous train layout that Gordon Varney commissioned to display his line of model railroad equipment.
Perhaps you saw it in a display window at Macy's.
"I can't believe it!" she gasped. "It's the model railroad Lenore McBeauty saw in a vision. This takes me right back to my childhood. The present is fading away like a dream. The clock hands are spinning back so quickly, they've become a blur."
Tears came to Allura's eyes. Suddenly she was a little girl again, the burden of the intervening years cast off like a sack of rocks.
When you're a werewolf, casting off the intervening years and slipping back into childhood innocence is a big deal.
The demands of being a werewolf in modern Tockworld are too much for all but the strongest of ducks. For one thing, there's the constant problem of finding special makeup to hide those telltale bloodstains. Then there's the need for extra large toothbrushes, combs and fur brushes, and the extra strong magic tape needed for cleaning up after embarrassing bouts of shedding.
Plumbers make a fortune out of werewolves, what with the clogged drains blocked by matted hair.
Worst of all, of course, is the problem of static cling. Any werewolf who has ever worn a seductive red dress for any length of time knows only too well the effect of nylon rubbing against dry fur.
And then there's the problem of shampoo and moonlight romances, and those embarrassing moments that always seem to occur during a smooching session--your teeth grow a few inches, your snout telescopes out, and your soft, seductive feathers turn into bristly wool.
Some males don't notice, of course, preoccupied as they are with the age old conundrum--does size really matter? And if it does, how does mine compare?
Allura laughed maniacally as she shrugged off these onerous burdens and plunged directly into the warm bath of childhood, free of responsibilities.
It was the golden time before she had Become the Best Werewolf She Could Be. She was happy again, a sweet little girl dressed all in cute black, building a model railroad on a sheet of 4-foot by 6-foot plywood.
The kits of trackside industries flew together beneath her practiced fingers--the Purina Chows feed mill, the Black Bart mine, the Valley Lumber Company.
Brushes swirled with special weathering materials, adding dust and rust and must to her newly assembled kits.
But wait! A nagging voice rose up in the back of her mind, spoiling her cozy little virtual world. Was this a real memory? Could she trust it?
"Where are my parents?" she said aloud. "I don't see them in this cheerful little vision."
"Huh?" said the Vikings.
Everyone looked assiduously under tables, behind counters, and in the cash register, but there was no sign of Allura's parents anywhere.
Quacking Aspen called up Philip Napoleon, catching him in the middle of a long smooching session with Josephine.
Luckily, Philip's telephone was set to 'speaker phone', so he could answer from across the room.
"I'm busy," he said. "Call back in five minutes--"
"What!" snapped Josephine. "What do you think you're doing? Boiling an egg? Tell him to call back in two hours."
"Eek," said Philip. "We've been at this for an hour; I'm not a machine."
"Real ducks don't notice the time," said Josephine. "That's why size doesn't matter."
"It doesn't?" said Philip. "I mean, are you saying mine is not quite the right size, but it doesn't matter because--"
"Um," said Quaking Aspen, breaking in on the couple at a delicate moment. "This is about Allura. She's talking to imaginary parents."
"Oh we all have those!" said Philip. " real parents can be so difficult!"
"So we should just ignore them?" said Quaking Aspen.
"Tell her size doesn't matter," said Josephine.
"Size doesn't matter. Just a minute, I'll get a pen. How do you spell--wait a minute. Is that true?"
"Are you quite sure you aren't referring to mine?" said Philip.
"How would you like a session on your electro-shock table?" said Josephine, annoyed.
"Oh yes, please!" said Philip. "Punishment is entirely necessary."
"Anyway, about Allura," said Quaking Aspen, "What do I tell her?"
"Tell her she's lucky," said Josephine. "Most people don't have the opportunity to make up their own parents; they have to cope with what they've got."
"About the size thing," said Philip.
"Just tell Allura to stop complaining," said Josephine. "Tell her to enjoy being a werewolf. At least female werewolves don't have to waste time reassuring male werewolves about their dimensions."
Quaking Aspen put his hand over the receiver and told Allura what Josephine had said.
There was a burst of hysterical laughter; then Allura came on the line.
"They're all the same," she said. "They all worry about it."
"Mine is quite large," said Philip.
"I'm not worried," said Quaking Aspen.
"We can't find your parents anywhere," said Decibel. "Can you remember where they were the last time you saw them?"
"I don't remember," said Allura. "I don't even remember HAVING parents. I'm not even sure the memories coming to me now are real. I mean, what kind of little girl plays with model railroads instead of Shamash and Nonni dolls?"
"Aha!" said Philip. "How long have you hated Shamash and Nonni dolls?"
"I never hated them," sniffed Allura. "I hated the nasty little girls who kicked sand in my face because I played with model railroads."
"I don't believe it," said Quaking Aspen. "Someone actually kicked sand in your face and lived to tell the tale?"
"Well, not as such, but still--"
"That's my little girl!" beamed Quaking Aspen. "Corpses the many on fields of blood, shields glittering, feasting in mead hall the merrier while crows and ravens defenestrate the victims--"
"Defenestrate?" said Josephine. "Does that have anything to do with Macrohard Angst."
"Anyway," said Philip, "Why don't you try building a replica of your first model railroad?"
"You mean the one they showed in Macy's?" said Allura.
"Macy's is still around," said Philip. "Maybe you could get them to put it in one of their display windows."
Allura was silent. It was true, Macklin was supposed to be doing this job, butc.
Somewhere overhead, a platypus glittered briefly in the sky and vanished. Several ducks flew south for the winter. Then the climate changed abruptly, making everyone nervous.
Allura had a bad feeling about this...
CHAPTER 186:Taxing Moments
A Zeppelin can give you a nice edge in combat, provided your enemies don't have any weapons.
It is not, however, designed for quick getaways.
The pilot held the throttle wide open, but just as they began to make headway, there was a loud bang.
"Hmm," said Neville.
"What was that?" said Edwardian, who had delicate nerves. "Have we got a flat tire?"
"Call tech support," said Chester. "Ask them how to reboot a Zeppelin."
"Carefully, I should imagine," said Neville. "Particularly when it's the only thing holding you up."
"You mean we don't have a backup?" said Gracie.
"We do," said the pilot. "But it doesn't work; it crashes all the time."
"You know it doesn't work, but you keep it anyway?" said Gracie.
"I never needed it before."
"So where is it?" said Merlin.
"I'm not sure. I'd have to look."
At these words, Merlin grew wrathful and threatened everyone with his bagpipe.
"If something goes wrong and I'm killed in a Zeppelin crash, I shall be very angry," he said.
"Relax, everybody," said the pilot. "This Zeppelin is unsinkable. It has lots of watertight compartments. What could go wrong?"
There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of Edwardian's voice as he recited a few of his poems.
Then the Zeppelin began oscillating like a sausage dangling on a copper wire in a thunderstorm.
"Oh, oh!" said the pilot.
"Typical capitalist ploy," muttered Digger. "Get the workers of the world trapped in your capitalist balloon, and then blow it up."
"It's not a balloon," said the pilot. "It's a dirigible. There's a difference, you know; you can't steer a hot air balloon."
"Of course you can," said Merlin. "CEO's do it all the time. Look at any large corporation!"
"That's why they have golden parachutes," said Digger. "So they can jump out when the balloon pops."
The pilot ignored this. "It's just what I've always said," he exclaimed. "There's no difference between a Zeppelin pilot and a chief executive officer. They're both steersmen--"
"You aren't doing any steering," said Digger. "You're rummaging in that closet for a lifeboat."
"It's not a lifeboat," said the pilot. "It's a jet pack. One of us is going to have to go out there and do a Zeppelin walk to check for damage."
"One of us?" said Chester. "That's your job, isn't it? You're the pilot."
"Exactly," said the pilot. "Which is why I can't go outside. I have to stand here at the controls--"
"In case something happens to your golden parachute," said Digger.
"We could draw straws," said Gracie.
The pilot, who was prepared for just such an emergency, in spite of not having a proper backup, produced a box of party straws.
Before he could distribute them, however, there was a bump, and a shout from down below.
"Great Scott; it's a ziggurat!" yelled the pilot. "We're doomed. We've plunged back in time. We'll never get back. We'll be forced to watch those people doing their fertility rites!"
"Relax," said Neville. "That's the Department of Experimental Theology. We've reached the University of Strange Thoughts. And it's not a ziggurat; it's a Mayan temple, complete with a jungle."
"That's a little excessive for a university theology department, don't you think?" said Gracie.
"Fertility rites are the opiate of the masses," said Digger, pressing his nose against the window so he could get a better look at the fertility rites and convey the proper amount of disgust.
"It's a very popular department," said Neville. "They do, in fact, have a ziggurat as well as a Mayan temple, but it's located in their desert, not in their jungle."
"Just exactly how big IS this campus?" said Chester.
"Bigger on the inside than it is on the outside," said Merlin. "Universities are scholarly institutions; they don't bother with conventional notions of geography."
"I'll bet you don't pay taxes on all your extra geography," said Digger.
"Why should they?" said Chester. "It doesn't exist in this world, so it isn't taxable."
"It's not enough the bourgeois scholar plutocrats hog all of the extra dimensions for themselves," muttered Digger. "The workers have to make up for all of the lost tax revenue that would otherwise go to the community."
"Ha, ha, ha," said Neville. "Dream on, Digger! Vlod Ironbeak is the recipient here. No one, not even the gods, know where he puts all of his tax revenue."
There was another shout from down below. Several graduate students had affixed the Zeppelin to a metal pole, and wanted everyone to slide down so they could clean out the cabin and restock the bar.
Thus it was, the passengers slid down the greased pole, landing just in time to watch a ritual sacrifice in the courtyard in front of the temple.
"Monthly sacrifices to make the taxes grow," said Neville. "It keeps the priests in Vlod's good graces."
Then he led the way to his office.
Graduate students hacked a path through the jungle for them, around the rim of an enormous crater.
"That's the site of last year's Interfaith Dialog," said Neville. "There was a disagreement about the meaning of the armadillo symbol. Some thought it should be rampant; others thought it should be clothed in white samite."
Soon enough the jungle gave way to a wasteland, full of vitrified sand. In the middle of it was a smoke-blackened concrete bunker.
"Chemistry department," said Neville. "You never know what you're going to get when you open up a box of chemicals."
"Are we there yet?" asked Chester.
"Almost," said Neville, motioned to a door suspended in mid-air.
"That's the Physics Department. Most of it is somewhere else, but nobody is quite sure where."
The path took them through a Gothic forest, where a druid priestess was leading another ritual sacrifice.
"That's where our new presidents sacrifice our old presidents to make the crops grow," said Neville.
"You don't have any crops," said Digger.
"Shh," said Neville. "Mum's the word. We've been drawing huge grants from the Department of Agriculture to keep our crops growing."
"How much farther?" said Chester. "I'm tired and hungry."
"We're almost there. Just past those pup tents."
"You have gypsies here?"
"That's the English Department. The professors supplement their income by pushing around little carts loaded with popcorn and trinkets."
"What about student life?" said Gracie. "I don't see any dorms."
"Oh, those," said Neville absently. "We had them built in a parallel world. You know how it is with students."
"They're almost as bad as professors," said Gracie, patting him on the tractor tire.
Neville motioned to a carnival midway, complete with a hall of mirrors and various rides.
"Behold, the philosophy department," he said proudly. "Where I teach."
"It's a pretty big department," said Digger.
"We share it with the Departments of Business Manipulation, Witchcraft, Black Magic, and Accounting," said Neville. "That's why you see all of those people lounging about with green eyeshades."
Just then a black helicopter swooped low overhead, landing on a crop circle.
"What's the Bureau of Advanced Manipulation doing here?" said Digger. "Checking up on who's been naughty and who's been nice?"
"They have an office here," said Merlin. "They recruit impoverished English graduates, teach them Gazabian, give them false lobster shells and appendages, and send them out to Gazabia to check for people illegally downloading music."
Neville ushered them through a turnstile into a hall of mirrors.
"The Philosophy Department," he said. "Follow me closely and hold hands; it's easy to get lost here."
They passed the dehydrated corpses of several expired graduate students as they turned this way and that, bedeviled by the odd reflections leering back at them from distorting mirrors.
At last Neville stopped.
"My office," he said, beaming proudly.
There was a door.
There was a sign that said, The Professor is: In. Out. Both.
Neville stood aside and motioned to the others to enter.
Once everyone was inside, the door closed of its own accord, and the room was plunged into darkness.
A pair of red eyes glittered in the darkness.
A deep voice said, "I have a question about your tax return, Neville."
Neville had a bad feeling about thisc.
CHAPTER 187:MEDIA DEMONS
There were two piercing screams when the Zeppelin transporting Neville and his friends bumped against its docking station at UST.
Glazed Buns and Sweet Gas, feeling a sudden jolt inside their shipping container, thought the Presidential Campaign Ride was trying to kill them.
Actually it WAS trying to kill them (A little bit of gore is good for ratings on Reality TV), but, luckily for the two victims, the sudden jolt they had felt wasn't part of the ride.
Someone had lowered the rope too quickly, dropping the shipping container heavily onto the pampas grass bordering the cayman-infested river that flowed through the University of Strange Thoughts Campus.
Caymans, as you know, enjoy higher education as much as the rest of us do. They acquire advanced degrees by eating graduate students who have been studying too hard in the campus pub and have lost their way.
Once the container had settled into the pampas grass, its sides and ends fell away, and its spring-loaded roof shot across the campus and smashed through a window of the Golden Delicious Bank.
The bankers immediately converted it into a debt instrument and sold it on the Toronto Stock Exchange.
Glazed Buns and Sweet Gas looked around dazedly, not quite sure what a tropical forest was doing in the middle of the Gothic forest in the heart of Toronto's financial district.
Neither of them having graduated from UST, they had no idea what the campus was supposed to look like.
Glazed Buns had purchased his higher education from a street vendor in Slubb, his native city.
Sweet Gas, like many students around the world, had acquired his education from a collection of old fossils stuck in a bit of Precambrian rock.
The carnie, who knew a lot more about real life than either Sweet Gas or Glazed Buns, didn't stick around long enough to enlighten his customers; he fled the scene the moment the container opened up.
Some time later, he purchased a law degree from an online university and took up a highly-paid position with a gang of rebellious accountants--Hell's Auditors.
That's enough about the carnie.
Glazed Buns tried to get out of the Car of Death, but the ride was still functioning nicely. In fact, now that it had plenty of room to grow, it was expanding along the cayman-infested river, growing into a substantial carnival, complete with its own entrance to the Underworld, and plenty of organic food skimmed from mushy things in the back of a fridge.
Glazed Buns and Sweet Gas screamed at each other as they sped wildly down the track.
Evil media people popped up at every turn, tormenting them with questions like these:
"Who were you smooching with in the broom closet on your UFO on Jan 4? And where was your wife?"
"We weren't smooching," screamed Glazed Buns. "We were looking for brooms."
"And why did you take money from a notorious lobbyist and use it to buy a new Pickard Bloated Deluxe Touring Car?"
"I don't remember!" screamed Glazed Buns.
"And why did you force the Acme Hydro Electric Company to hire every single one of your relatives, even though they only have one brain among the whole lot of them, and they have to keep taking time off to pass it around?"
"Would you repeat the question, please?"
"What is your campaign platform?"
"How should I know? I'm only the candidate, not the pollster. How about 'A haggis in every pot'?"
"Bigger Johnsons for everyone!" said Sweet Gas.
Everyone turned to stare at him.
"Well, not as big as mine, of course," he said. "And the ladies can opt out if they want to. They can select big baz--"
That was as far as he got, because, just then, a human female descended from a black helicopter into the Car of Death and whacked him on the back of the head with a policy book.
"Don't say anything that makes people think," she said. "You don't want anyone thinking AT ALL."
"Who are you?" said Sweet Gas.
"Cindy Igorina, your new campaign manager."
"But we don't have a campaign," said Glazed Buns.
"Of course you do. People are already threatening you with soggy pies and rotten tomatoes, so you must be making an impression."
"But we haven't even made any promises yet," said Sweet Gas.
"Which is why you don't show up in the polls," said Cindy. "But I'm going to change that, starting right now."
"I don't like the sound of this," said Sweet Gas.
"YOU don't like it!" said Glazed Buns. "On my planet, campaign managers sacrifice losing politicians in the tar pits."
"And well they should," said Cindy, making a note on her Nokia.
Meanwhile, as the two politicians whined and moaned, and Cindy answered her cell phone, her Blackberry, her walkie talkie and her smoke signals, the Car of Death sped away from the Vale of Media Demons, towards the Vale of Media Gnomes.
Some time later, a black helicopter swooped down on them, dropping a second Car of Death onto the tracks. This one was filled with ducks in black suits.
"More media!" screamed Sweet Gas.
"BAM agents," said Cindy. "They'll protect you in case someone tries to send you into a parallel world."
"I thought EVERYONE was trying to do that to us."
"Those were just media people. Wait until you meet the actual voters."
"I don't even want to meet any voters," said Glazed Buns. "Can't the lobbyists just appoint someone president? I don't even want to be in this car."
"Good, good!" said Cindy. "I like it. Reluctant campaigner, drawn in against his will to save the country from the evil which arose from the previous corrupt and incompetent administration. It has a nice ring to it."
"At least we've escaped the media scrum," said Glazed Buns. "That's a relief."
Then the car stopped dead over an enormous, bubbling pool of lava filled with leering demons.
"What now?" moaned Glazed Buns.
"You have to give a speech," said Cindy. "If they don't like it, they'll dump you into the lava and you'll be boiled alive."
"Eek. I don't know what to say."
Cindy handed him a set of bumper stickers.
"Here, this is your speech," she said. "Stick to the topics, don't say anything that isn't written down here, and don't say anything controversial. Smile, look relaxed, make 'em laugh, make 'em passionate, and ignore hecklers. And don't think about the demons and the lava."
"Ha ha ha," said Glazed Buns.
Cindy shook her head. This was beginning to look hopeless.
"Here," she said, handing him something squishy and grey. "This should help you."
"What is it?"
"A dead squid. It's cute and loveable. Every presidential candidate needs a loveable pet for photo ops showing compassion and love and all that junk. Here."
"A squid is loveable?"
"Oh, so! Prejudiced against squids are we?" said the squid. "You're supposed to be dead," said Glazed Buns.
"Only temporarily. I'm waiting for an operation. It's been two years now, so it shouldn't be much longer."
"Do you have a name?"
"Scaramouch. I'm only here to raise money. I'm going after a certain Captain Nemo and his pathetic submarine, and this time, no more Mr. Nice Guy. Why is it human stories always make it out that humans are more important than squids?"
"How would I know?" said Glazed Buns. "I'm not even human."
"Oh good!" said Scaramouch. "The perfect candidate. If anything goes wrong, you can blame it on the aliens and pretend you really are human."
"Enough small talk," said Cindy. "The incumbent is on the other side of the lava pit; he's about to give a speech."
"I can't make him out," said Glazed Buns. "He's all blurry."
"Of course he is," said Cindy. "He keeps morphing into different things, and you should too. A moving target is harder to blame."
Glazed Buns squinted at the blurred candidate.
"What's that behind him? A dragon?"
"That's his campaign manager."
"Has she had her rabies shots?" said Sweet Gas.
"What's he saying," demanded Glazed Buns. "He's talking about me."
Cindy turned on a convenient spy cam, and they listened and watched.
"I personally don't believe what people are saying about Glazed Buns," the incumbent said. "I don't believe for one minute that he stole candy from lots of babies, tied dozens of helpless young virgins to railroad tracks, and foreclosed on starving widows. Others may resort to that mean sort of attack, but I personally refuse to."
"Lies!" shouted Glazed Buns. "This is slander! Sue him!"
"Of course it's slander," said Cindy. "Where on Tockworld would you find so many virgins?"
"I'm sure Glazed Buns will deny these rumors," said the incumbent. "But he should have the courage to stand before you today and talk about them, so we can all get on with more important things--the issues I've been raising in my campaign."
"I'm quitting," said Glazed Buns.
"You can't, or people will think you're a cad and a rotter. You have to counter attack."
"I don't even want to be president."
"We'll counter attack by telling everyone the president wants to raise taxes," said Cindy. "People will put up with almost any sort of deviant behavior, but not that."
"Does he really want to raise taxes?" said Glazed Buns. "Would we be telling the truth if we said that?"
Cindy stared at Glazed Buns in shock, wondering what planet he was from. She could see the demons slavering below, grinning with anticipation.
She had a bad feeling about this.....
CHAPTER 188:HIPPO LAUNCHER
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