THE DUCKS OF DOOM
Chapters 61-90
A WEEKLY SERIAL
With all of the Boring Bits Left Out
By Robert Arthur Smith
www.duckparade.com
rasmithr@yahoo.com
THE DUCKS OF DOOM was short-listed for the 2002 Independent e-Books award.
Copyright 2000, 2009, Robert Arthur Smith, all rights reserved.
CHAPTER 61: THE TWINKLING GOALIE
The bats went into a feeding frenzy, chasing Hank of Ur and his tribe out of the cave in which they'd taken refuge.
Half-blinded by the savage, squeaking horde, the Camels of the Negev didn't realize they were surrounded by Philistines until they heard the blare of a ram's horn announcing the forthcoming slaughter.
The bats dispersed a little, but they didn't wander very far from the flock of camels; they were just getting a bit of exercise before moving in for dessert.
During the momentary lull, Hank was able to survey the Philistine ranks drawn up around them.
"Welcome to our world," said Bronze Fillings, their leader. "We're Philistines, mind you."
"More pain and suffering!" grumbled Brubaker.
"Take heart, Brubaker," said Hank. "We'll confuse the Philistines by attacking them. They won't be expecting that."
"Of course not!" said Brubaker. "That's why they're carrying swords, shields, and spears--they're NOT expecting a battle."
There was a silence while everyone looked at the Philistines' weapons.
"The bats will follow us when we charge," said Hank. "They won't want to lose track of their food supply."
"This helps us?" said Brubaker.
"We'll pretend the bats work for us. We'll pretend to summon them."
"Groovy," said Odd Camel. "How do you summon bats?"
"You open a vein," said Brubaker. "Works every time."
Hank eyed Brubaker irritably. There were times he wished he could smite him, but he always restrained himself. Brubaker was like a weathervane blowing this way and that with the mood of the camels. When his complaining grew loud and bitter, it was a sure bet the other camels were restive.
"Ready?" yelled Hank. "On the count of three, we charge the Philistines."
There was a lot of mutinous grumbling and muttering among the camels.
Hank stepped forward like Christopher Plummer at Waterloo.
For a long moment, he was alone, glaring at the Philistines.
This is the nightmare of every great leader. You turn around, and your troops aren't there--they've punched out for a coffee break, leaving you to charge the machine gun nest all by yourself.
Fortunately, the camels respected and obeyed Hank. Anyone who had regular chat sessions with the Supreme Being deserved at least as much respect as a bolt of lightning zipping down from a black cloud.
Besides, if they didn't move up and support him right away, Sari would remove their important bits and replace them with Granny Smith apples.
"Attack!" yelled Hank.
The camels charged, yelling their blood-curdling battle cry, WHY ME?.
The Philistines lapsed into stunned silence for a moment; then a large number of them fell on their backs on the sand, helpless with laughter.
The bats watched in shock and amazement as their dessert went haring off into the distance.
Then they charged, too.
"TO ME, MY LITTLE FRIENDS!" yelled Hank. "Attack the Philistines. Bite them. Drink their blood."
Philistine laughter quickly gave way to fear and amazement. Bronze Fillings had to act quickly, shoring up their courage with an impromptu speech:
"Stand heart not bolder the bravely here many mead halls feasting and crows eat doomed yes!" he boomed.
"Huh?" said Crystal Boulder, a Philistine general.
"I think he's trying to encourage us," said Granite Humps, another general.
"Run away, run away!" yelled the grunts in the ranks.
But it was too late to run away. The charging camels met the Philistines in a great shock of spear against spear, sword against sword. The bats didn't know what to make of this at first, accustomed as they were to a meager diet, however they soon joined in the fun.
In no time, Philistine and camel alike were slashing at the pesky bats, and the air was filled with curses.
The Philistines, inexperienced as they were with bats and their ilk, thought they'd been attacked by a bunch of crazed umbrellas.
"These camels have powerful magic," said Big Toe, the chief priest. "They can turn umbrellas into weapons of mass destruction."
"Those aren't umbrellas," said Bronze Fillings, "They're fresh-air sharks."
The bats, meanwhile, shocked by their reception among the clashing armies, withdrew to a quiet place and squeaked among themselves.
The Philistines eyed the bats warily. Spooked by this new threat, and bloody from myriad bites, they were slow to regroup.
"We can't go on like this," said Big Toe. "We must withdraw."
"Never!" said Bronze Fillings. "Heart shall be the feasts many in hall, wailing much those Valhalla who swords against."
"Would you settle for peace with honor? We could send out a delegation."
"Bold unto the chiefs, drinking much in feast hall."
"Right then," said Big Toe. "I'll find a delegate, shall I?"
The Philistines muttered among themselves.
"I don't like this," said Crystal Boulder. "It's probably going to cost a lot of money."
"Lo, up in the sky," said Granite Humps. "Behold, a twinkling platypus. "It is a sign! We must negotiate with these powerful foreign devils."
"A platypus? What kind of sign is that? It looks like a big duck to me."
"It's twinkling," said Big Toe.
"It's laughing at us," said Crystal Boulder.
"Oh that's bad! Never trust a laughing god," said Big Toe.
"Their god is a platypus?" said Granite Humps.
"What can you expect?" said Crystal Boulder. "They're foreigners."
"Be careful; don't do anything to cause offense or they'll send in more fresh-air sharks."
"Bold counting coup much we forth wandering frost-hard coast, far mead halls," yelled Bronze Fillings.
"Right!" said Big Toe. "Have we got any negotiators?"
"Clambake just got back from Assyria," said Crystal Boulder. "He traded five sheep for a map that shows where Gilgamesh parked his boat when the flood waters receded."
"Hmmm," said Big Toe. "Clambake will do nicely."
Clambake had other ideas, of course, but you don't argue with Bronze Fillings. He was given a little white flag to wave; then everyone hid behind a pile of rocks while he made his way into the kill zone.
Hank, watching the approaching Clambake, had no idea what the flag was for, but he did observe the telltale signs of the noncombatant: knocking knees, rolling eyes, and skin the color of goat cheese.
He met him alone, at the half-way point.
"How!" said Clambake. "Me Clambake. Big Philistine. Much power.
"Good afternoon," said Hank. "I'm Hank of Ur, leader of the Camels of the Negev, and I'm on a mission to take possession of the Land of Milk and Honey, from the Nile to the Euphrates, so that my people can build a mighty nation, as soon as we figure out what a nation is."
"You speak English?" said Clambake, pleasantly surprised.
"Not by choice. I'll never understand how the ravings of a barbaric tribe of Anglicized Germanic farmers and soccer fans could become the global language of commerce."
"People adopt it when they seek an escape from reality," said Clambake.
"You want to negotiate?" said Hank.
"Actually we were thinking of calling it a stalemate. Peace with honor and that sort of thing."
"You're free to withdraw," said Hank.
"Thank you. We want YOU to withdraw too. This is our land, after all. We went to all the trouble of taking it from the mysterious people who were here before us."
"Really? Who were they?"
"They came from Atlantis. They had all of these bright, shiny gadgets that were supposed to be powerful weapons. They told us they'd fry us as soon as they found some batteries. We had to kill them to make them shut up, and after that, we sacrificed their gadgets to Marvin."
"Wasn't that a bit excessive?" said Hank. "Why didn't you just cut off their thumbs and big toes?"
"We were on a tight schedule."
"I'm not passing judgment," said Hank. "We camels don't judge people by the abstract principles of the Justinian code. We prefer case law, which, as you know, is a lethal weapon based on precedent and random judicial opinions. So you'd better surrender."
"Oh yeah!" said Clambake. "You and whose army?"
Hank motioned to the bats, which were still flitting about in the distance.
"Oh, THAT army," said Clambake. "Right. Okay. We surrender. You win. How do we stop the bats?"
Hank wasn't prepared for this and hadn't worked out a contingency plan to deal with total victory. The camels weren't used to victory.
He went back to his tribe to discuss the problem.
By this time, there was a constant drumbeat of wings as the bats argued among themselves.
"What are we gonna do?" said Brubaker. "The bats are restless."
"We have to make them go away," said Hank. "We have to show the Philistines that we control them. Any ideas?"
"We could swell up like caymans and hiss at them," said Odd Camel. "It's very effective. I had this girlfriend once who did it whenever I asked her out for a date."
Everyone looked at Odd Camel for a moment.
"She didn't like me very much," he said.
Brubaker rolled his eyes.
"Enough small talk!" said Thunderbags, the new chief priest. "We can scare the bats away with preserved foreskins."
"Brilliant!" said Hank. "The ultimate weapon! All right everyone, fork over your preserved foreskins."
This command produced a certain amount of grumbling.
"But Hank, these are the only trade goods we have left. How will be buy vegetables to supplement our diet?"
"Consider it a war bond," said Hank. "A grateful nation will salute you. The Philistines will leave us tribute when they withdraw. We can eat the tribute."
"I wish I knew what a nation was," said Crystal Boulder. "He still hasn't explained it to us. Is it like a Scottish clan?"
"Clans are real," said Brubaker. "Nations are wishful thinking, based on personality flaws held to be common within specific geographical areas."
The camels thought about this for awhile, but none of them could figure it out, so they gave Hank their preserved foreskins.
Hank arranged the collection in a mud-brick salad bowl and set it out for the bats.
The bats eyed this offering suspiciously for awhile, whispering among themselves. Then a bat by the name of Save Alice, flew a little closer and scrutinized one of the offending items.
"Run away, run away!" he yelled. "Those are bat corpses, shriveled up and bleached in the sun. Run while you have the chance!"
The bats needed no second warning; they took off as one, flew back to their cave, and hid behind a flying saucer.
At this, Clambake's eyes grew as big as doilies. He made his way back to the Philistines and reported to Bronze Fillings and Big Toe.
"We're doomed!" he said. "These camels have magic foreskins!"
Bronze Fillings shook his head. "Go and see the priest," he said. "You need analysis."
Then, after brief deliberation with Big Toe, he gathered tribute from among the Philistines, packed it into a number of Tupperware containers, and presented it to Hank.
"It's not much," he said. "Goat cheese, tomatoes, lettuce, olives and cucumbers. I'm afraid we don't have any salad dressing."
Hank contemplated the tribute wordlessly. This unexpected surrender had presented him with a new dilemma.
"What do we do now?" said Brubaker. "They weren't supposed to surrender. You guys were supposed to slaughter them while I witnessed everything for posterity."
"We can still slaughter them," said Thunderbags.
"Must you?" said Bronze Fillings. "It's been a hard day."
"Oh whine, whine, whine!" said Brubaker. "Look at us! I don't have feet any more; I just have blisters. Tell you what; we won't kill you. We'll just cut off your thumbs and your big toes so you can't make war no mo'."
"That's not very nice," said Bronze Fillings.
"It's the human condition in a fallen world," said Thunderbags. "Violent aggression is part of our nature now."
"Aggression is NOT natural to us," said Bronze Fillings. "We learn it from our nannies. We need it to help us purify our tribe by killing everyone who disagrees with us."
"Where exactly do you get your nannies?" said Brubaker.
"Everyone is violent, not just nannies," said Thunderbags. "Look at weevils, for example."
"I'd rather not," said Hank.
"Terrifying creatures, weevils," said Brubaker. "They kill each other at the drop of a hat. And we inherited this evil proclivity. It's biological."
"Speak for yourself!" said Bronze Fillings. "There aren't any weevils in my family. Besides, weevils don't kill each other."
"Yes they do."
"They're too busy eating and making more weevils. It takes a lot of energy and self-delusion to make a weevil. Have you ever seen what a weevil looks like? How would you like to mate with something like that?"
"Weevils don't mate," said Odd Camel. "They just materialize."
"Of course they mate!" said Bronze Fillings. "The randy little beasts do it all the time. It's absolutely disgusting."
"Listen, Mister Cultural Tradition," said Brubaker, "If you only learn slaughter when your nanny teaches it to you as part of your cultural kit, what happens if she forgets to teach you?"
"You learn it from your peers, at soccer matches," said Bronze Fillings.
"Okay, we can live with that," said Hank. "You say nurture, we say nature. Nature, of course, was manufactured by the Supreme Being. So let's have a truce. We'll make a disarmament treaty and reduce our weapons stockpiles."
"Listen, we can't do that, Hank," said Thunderbags. "If we disarm first, they'll attack us and slaughter us."
"We could build a missile shield," said Thunderbags. "We could use very powerful torches and hold them up all the time, thereby blinding the Philistine spear throwers so they can't target us."
"In daylight?" said Hank.
"We tell them to postpone their attacks until nightfall," said Odd Camel.
There were snickers of laughter from various warriors; then the two sides got down to negotiating.
Just then, Demo's Leitmotiv materialized on the sand, all togged-out in his Toronto Maple Leafs goalie costume.
"Anybody seen any pucks here?" he asked. "I'm filling in for Demo, while he larks about the countryside, raiding tombs. You can call me Demo's Leitmotiv."
Everyone stared at him.
Bronze Fillings was stupefied. First the bats, now a weirdo who looked like he'd just stepped out of a Pickard Trilobite of the gods!
Hank had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 62: CHESTER'S QUEST
Big Toe contemplated Demo's Leitmotiv for a long time.
"Are you a sign from the supreme being?" he asked.
"What kind of a sign would that be?" said Brubaker. "We've already agreed to forgo slaughtering each other, at least until the Reformation. So what does THIS mean? We're supposed to wear a new kind of helmet and carry a big stick in a bag? We don't even have bags yet; we have serviceable pouches."
"It's not just any old bag," said Thunderbags. "It has cuneiform script on it. That makes it official."
"B-A-G-U-E-T-T-E," said Brubaker. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It's definitely not the Supreme Being."
"It's not any of our gods," said Bronze Fillings. "Maybe it's a foreign god, from Aberdeen."
"Dundee, you mean," said Brubaker. "Aberdeen is heartland."
"I wonder what he wants," said Hank.
"You mean you wonder what SHE wants," said Sari. "Women can be mysterious apparitions too, you know!"
"What kind of a god enjoys being carried around in a paper bag?" said Thunderbags. "It's not dignified. This proves the superiority of the Supreme Being."
"Good one!" said all of the subordinate Camels-of-the-Negev priests. "That showed HIM."
"Showed who?" said Bronze Fillings. Then he lapsed into silence, because the goalie was drawing near.
"Anyone seen any pucks around here?" asked Demo's Leitmotiv.
The camels and the Philistines examined this statement for hidden traps.
Then they tried to figure out what it meant.
"What's a puck?" said Thunderbags.
"It's a flat, hard disk that can be used for knocking out people's teeth," said Demo's Leitmotiv.
"Sounds like unleavened bread," said Hank. "But it's the wrong color. Do you suppose it rotted?"
"Why are you dressed up like this?" said Brubaker. "Are you an armadillo?"
"I'm disguised as a goalie. I have memories of being a seedy gangster trying to keep tabs on Macklin, the famous model railroader, but I think they belong to someone else. I don't think I'm actually me anymore, if I ever was. Anyway, I'm only a recurrent motif, so just ignore me and get on with your slaughter."
Everyone considered this new piece of information with puzzled brows.
"So the Supreme Being told you to be a goalie?" said Hank enviously.
"It wasn't the Supreme Being--"
"He told ME to trek across the waterless desert and be persecuted by hordes of enemies. I wonder why you get special treatment."
"It's got nothing to do with the Supreme Being. It MIGHT have something to do with Vlod Ironbeak, the powerful mayor of Toronto, but I can't be sure."
"Mayor?" said Hank.
"Must be one of the officials in ancient Babylon," said Brubaker. "Perhaps someone in charge of the fertility rites."
"Vlod is an enigmatic figure," said Demo's Leitmotiv. "He wants Macklin to build a perfect replica of a model railroad envisioned by Lenore McBeauty, lo these many centuries ago."
"Huh?" said Hank.
"I also have vague memories of being locked up in a dungeon for not paying taxes," said Demo's Leitmotiv. "I think I was let out in return for two hundred hours of community service, keeping an eye on Macklin. But I took a wrong turn on Mount Pleasant, near George's Trains, and I found myself in ancient Babylon, surrounded by a lot of Gothic ducks wearing horned helmets. When I explained what I was doing, the ducks gave me this map, but it's not a very good one."
"They were probably Nasties," said Brubaker. "Followers of Antler. They like to kill people to make room for more Goths. We don't get along with them, so we stay in the Fabulous Mists of Antiquity."
Demo's Leitmotiv showed Hank a cuneiform tablet.
Hank eyed it curiously.
"Here's your problem," he said. "This isn't a map of the ancient Near East; it's a map of the subway system in Toronto, showing the entrance to the Underworld."
"Drat!" said Demo's Leitmotiv. "Now I'll never get back home."
"Of course you will. Just follow the setting sun for several thousand miles. You'll probably need a boat of some sort when you come to the Pillars of Hercules, but I wouldn't worry about it just yet."
"Oh thank you!" said Demo's Leitmotiv. "How can I ever repay you?"
"You wouldn't happen to know of a land of milk and honey that was temporarily vacant and in need of a lot quiet and studious camels to look after it?" said Brubaker.
"Blasphemy!" said Thunderbags. "You dare trifle with the Supreme Being's explicit instructions? We were meant to enjoy suffering--"
"Yes, yes; I know," said Brubaker. "Sheesh!"
The argument went on for some time.
Demo's Leitmotiv, growing bored with these arcane theological matters, withdrew behind a convenient dune to consider who he was, where he was going, and what he could offer Hank in return for his kindness.
Meanwhile, taking advantage of the lull in boasting, cursing and general warlike carryings on, the Philistine warriors and the camel warriors were beginning to fraternize.
It started innocently enough.
The spears had fallen silent, and no one offered taunts or curses.
In the trenches you could hear plaintive voices here and there singing the famous soldiers' song: "How Much is That Doggie in the Window?"
More voices joined in, and soon a mighty chorus boomed out the words from both sides of No-Camel's-Land.
It no longer mattered whether you were Camel of the Negev or a Philistine. No one cared what you looked like, or what you believed in.
Peace descended on this little patch of inhospitable desert and for a brief moment in time, warriors on both sides were offered a hint of what life could be like if everyone was truly civilized and filled with empathy.
Birds tweeted, puppy dogs wagged their tails, sleigh bells tinkled.
One by one, the battle-weary warriors emerged from their trenches and crossed over into No-Camel's-Land.
"Curse all wars!" shouted a dazed camel.
"Peace, order and good government," shouted someone wearing a toque.
"Down with taxes!" yelled a Philistine.
"More chocolate."
"A haggis in every pot."
"Beer, beer, beer, beer!"
Then someone began singing the Jolly Fat Llama song, dear to the hearts of peace-loving shoppers everywhere:
For he's a jolly fat llama,
For he's a jolly fat llama
For he's a jolly fat llama
For he's a jolly fat llama.
After this, the erstwhile enemies exchanged dental chocolate.
The camels had little chocolate camels--with two humps, of course--and the Philistines had little chocolate Philistines with one hump.
Then they all stood around under the palm trees, showing each other pictures of their families, which really wasn't necessary, because all family members were present.
The Philistines had brought along their spouses and children to cheer them on while they slaughtered the camels, and the camels had brought their families along to help them build a mighty nation, as soon as they figured out what a nation was.
"I can't help thinking there's something wrong with this picture," said a Philistine warrior. "We weren't meant to have fun. Something terrible is going to happen very soon."
"Of course!" said a Camel of the Negev. "It's part of the camel condition. So enjoy."
The only discordant note came from the priests, who were upset by this unauthorized fraternization.
"Just a minute here," said Thunderbags. "What's this about the Jolly Fat Llama?. We're camels of the Negev. We worship facts, like the principle exports of Gabon, including cacao--"
"What's cacao?" asked a Philistine. "I've always been meaning to ask, but I keep forgetting."
"It's what you make dental chocolate out of. It grows on vines, like artificial crabs."
While the shrink priests quarreled, Hank and Bronze Fillings renewed their negotiations. If their warriors could get along so well, then they, too, should be able to get along.
Hank was especially subtle and polished at negotiations, having learned the art of diplomacy from his father, who was so good at it, he'd managed to avoid the long trek to the promised land.
"Listen, why can't we settle this peacefully?" said Hank. "The Supreme Being told us he was going to give us this waterless desert, complete with sand dunes and flesh-eating spiders, but we're quite willing to pay for it."
"Sounds good to me," said Bronze Fillings.
Then he turned to Abacus, his accountant.
"Psst, what should we charge them?" he demanded. "We haven't subdivided this place yet."
Abacus, was the accountant because he was the only Philistine who could count higher than 'many'.
"Umm, lots," he said. "They don't know about the freeway going through here from Memphis to Damascus, so we should be able to get a good price."
"The freeway is a feature," said Big Toe. "There'll be roadside fruit stands, gas stations and places where you can buy synthetic coffee and artificial food."
"It's what travels ON the freeway that counts," said Bronze Fillings. "Assyrian conquerors, Babylonian conquerors, Egyptian conquerors, Greek conquerors, Roman conquerors, roving bands of telemarketers."
"Shhh," said Big Toe. "What they don't know won't hurt them."
This, by the way, proves once and for all the venal nature of the Philistine priests. Unlike other flavors of priests, these priests were only interested in money, power, personal gain, nice robes, large retinues, flashy rings, eternal life and persistent and unwarranted happiness.
"How much should we charge?" said Bronze Fillings.
Abacus shrugged. "Umm, thirteen dollars, some beads, some copper pots."
Bronze Fillings turned to Hank and relayed this information.
Hank gloated inwardly for a time, then his good nature got the better of him. Although he was a sharp trader, he was an honest camel, and it didn't sit well with him to cheat anyone.
"That's a VERY good price," he said meaningfully.
Then he said "Ouch!" as Thunderbags kicked him in the shins.
"You should think about it a little--Ouch!"
Hank glared at Thunderbags, who was so agitated he was hopping up and down.
"It is a good price, for a lovely patch of desert with amazing potential," said Bronze Fillings. "We are, however, a simple people, with no talent for trade. Friendship and good neighbors are more important to us than gold heaped up in useless mounds."
Big Toe groaned and rolled his eyes. Both priests were now commiserating with each other.
"Can you believe these guys?" said Thunderbags.
"Tell me about it!" said Big Toe. "You try so hard to create a theocratic state, and they go and ruin it with good will and kindness."
"Charity and good deeds are okay in their place, but you need balance," said Thunderbags. "The troops have to be fed."
"If people start being nice to each other, we'll be out of a job very soon," said Big Toe.
"Not really," said Hank. "People still die. They need to be told about the biting, stinging things waiting in the afterlife for anyone who ignored priests."
"Yes, there's that," said Thunderbags. "But is it enough? It's a well known fact that when people are feeling happy and prosperous, religion drops off their radar screen and they take up unhealthy pursuits."
"Yes, they behave very oddly, with various unlikely implements," said Big Toe.
The two priests wandered off to a convenient temple bar and drank each other's health over a barrel of the finest Scotch whiskey.
Some things are more important than petty theological differences.
Meanwhile, Hank, troubled by his conscience, made Bronze Fillings a wonderful offer.
"Why don't you join our tribe?" he said. "You'd like it. You get hundreds of new enemies all in one go. You get to wander around in the desert because the Supreme Being has something really painful in mind for you as a special treat."
"Sounds good to me," said Bronze Fillings. "How does it work? Is there an initiation rite?"
"Well, you need extra humps. You people only seem to have one each."
"Where do we get them?"
"We could make you some out of mud bricks. They're quite useful, actually, because you can store extra chocolate in them. And they're very fashionable; everybody wants two humps now. People go to great lengths to acquire them. They pay fortunes to surgeons to open them up and stuff humpy things inside their skin."
The Philistine thought about this.
"Let me get this straight," he said. "We get extra humps, we get pain and suffering, we get famine."
"I think that about sums it up."
"Hmm... I don't see any downside."
"There is one other thing," Hank said. Then he whispered in the Philistine's ear.
The Philistine listened with growing horror.
"You're kidding me," he said, covering the threatened part of his anatomy. "You want to snip THAT!"
"It's only a little thing," said Hank.
"Speak for yourself! Mine is quite large."
"I meant the protective covering. Anyway, it's not the size that counts, it's the preparation, the ritual. That's what Sari always tells me, before she kicks me out of the tent."
"It's dangerous going around without the covering. Spiders might eat it."
"You could make special outerwear for it if you like."
"What kind of outerwear?"
"Toques, for instance."
"You mean like the Canadians wear on their heads? Where do we get them? What do you make them out of?"
"Mud bricks, I think."
"Oooh, that would be itchy."
"You could use papyrus. You could fold it into little paper toques and stick them on with double-sided Pictish tape. You could even write little messages on each toque and give them out at parties, or in Llama's Eve crackers."
"What sort of messages?"
"Oh things like, 'Good fortune comes your way if you give your money to the camels'."
Bronze Fillings eyed Hank suspiciously, wondering if he was being tricked.
"Hmmm. Can we have a time out?" he asked.
"Of course."
The Philistines whispered among themselves.
"Why don't we just slaughter them?" said Thunderbags.
"We can't. There are 14 of us and 27 of them," said Abacus.
"That can't be right," said Bronze Fillings. "Count again."
"Okay, there are a few of us and a lot of them."
"That's better."
"If we fight them, they'll send in more bats, and then they'll cut off our thumbs and big toes."
"So? If we join them, they'll cut off our protective coverings and make us wear toques on the exposed parts."
"But we can write little messages on the toques."
The Philistines thought about this for awhile. They liked the idea of joining Hank's tribe and submitting to his authority.
It's a well-known principle of psychology that people under great stress will seek a leader to whom they can turn over all responsibility for thinking and moral judgment. It's like handing over a pile of old, dead rutabagas that wasn't much good to anyone anyway.
They didn't like the part about the snipping, but they did like the idea of the little messages they could write on their new protective coverings, and they immediately began discussing this.
"I'm going to write all of the cheat codes for FINAL FANTASY on mine," said Brubaker.
"That could be embarrassing if you decide to have a look at them while you're playing in an arcade," said Bronze Fillings.
"I'm going to write the words to 'How Much is That Doggie in the Window?' on mine," said Big Toe.
So the Philistines agreed to become Camels of the Negev, and they were initiated in the usual fashion, at a joyful ceremony.
Well it was joyful for the original Camels of the Negev, the ones who didn't have to go through the snipping.
Other Philistines heard the lamentations of their buddies and said among themselves, "Lo, behold what it means to join the Camels of the Negev. Pain even unto the smallest part of your being."
"Speak for yourself! Mine is quite large."
"We shall not easily yield that which we have nurtured for so many years. Let us prepare for sustained and bitter warfare."
"Even so shall it be, as it should, therefore verily."
"Yea verily."
"Death to all telemarketers!"
These other Philistines girded their loins for battle.
Some of the Philistines were a bit behind the others, because they had to look up 'girding your loins' in Clauswitz to find out what it meant.
Clauswitz proved unhelpful, so they peeked while the other guys were doing it.
Demo's Leitmotiv, who had been observing this initiation ceremony for a time, fainted.
When he woke up, the ceremony was over and the Philistines were immersing themselves in barrels of Scotch whiskey to drown their pain.
Their new chums, meanwhile, were regaling them with humorous stories about the great privations and suffering they could now look forward to.
"Everyone on Tockworld will hate you," they said. "They will all secretly wish for your destruction even as they pretend to be nice to you."
"Hmmm," said Bronze Fillings, who had absorbed an entire barrel of whiskey into his hair follicles and was almost back to normal. "That was fun! Let's try it on someone else!"
Demo's Leitmotiv, fearing for his bodily integrity, fainted again.
The next time he woke up, he was being licked by a dragon. A big green dragon with red wings.
There was a huge parrot beak tied to the dragon's forehead.
"You're a dragon!" said Demo's Leitmotiv.
"No I'm not," said the dragon. "I'm a parrot."
"You're not a parrot!" snorted Demo's Leitmotiv. "I know what a parrot looks like. It's a small, cuddly Australian creature that lives in trees and looks like a teddy bear."
"That's a koala bear, you idiot! Do I look like a koala bear? I'm a parrot. Can't you see my beak?"
"You tied that beak to your nose. It doesn't belong to you. You're a dragon."
I'm a parrot, I tell you! My name is Chester. Chester the parrot. What kind of a dragon has a name like that? Real dragons are called Tiamat, or Miss Grimes, the grammar teacher."
Demo's Leitmotiv eyed Chester suspiciously.
"If you're a parrot, what are you doing in the waterless desert, where there aren't any crackers; there aren't any pirates, and there is a complete absence of pieces of eight?"
"I'm looking for the lost city of Camelot. Want to help me find it?"
Demo's Leitmotiv pondered this for a moment; then he said. "Why not? If I hang around this place any longer, the guys with scissors might take an interest in me."
Chester knelt down and Demo's Leitmotiv climbed up on his back.
"Comfy?" said Chester.
"Just don't hit any sudden updrafts; I'll impale myself on your spines."
Chester laughed and shot straight up into the air like a Harrier.
Demo's Leitmotiv decided to stand tall in the saddle.
Abacus had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 63: THE ALIEN HANDCAR
"Did you see that dragon take off with the duck in the funny costume?" said Bronze Fillings. "Did that really happen?"
"Maybe it's something from big league wrestling," said Thunderbags. "You know how those guys like to dress up in weird costumes and sacrifice each other to the ratings gods."
"I prefer watching the women wrestle, actually," said Big Toe.
Everyone stared at him for a long time.
Big Toe blushed furiously. "I find it strangely soothing and oceanic, like shopping festivals," he said.
Just then, Loopy flew down from a the sky in an Orient Express handcar.
He was still wearing green face paint and a green, trademarked Spandex alien costume.
Exhausted after pumping the handcar all the way from Constantinople, he jumped down from the handcar and staggered over to the watching camels and Philistines.
"Have you guys seen any aliens around here?" he asked.
Hank peered at him, wondering if this was some new type of exercise machine sent by the Supreme Being to keep his camels from getting too fat.
A quick inspection failed to uncover any dongles or jacks, however, which meant the creature was just another weirdo.
"You look like a rutabaga with a bill," he said, not unkindly.
"Nice talk!" said Loopy. "Is this any way to handle First Contact? How would you like me to play the first four notes of 'How Much is That Doggie in the Window?' very loudly on my alien sound system?"
There was a silence.
The Philistines went into a huddle.
Bronze Fillings held up his hand.
"Normally we'd have slaughtered you by now, rutabaga person," he said. "But we're part of Hank's tribe now, and so we have to be nice. We're going to share our famines, boils, plagues, locusts, earthquakes, fires, floods, volcanic eruptions, and wars with you."
Loopy tried to make sense out of this, but it was hopeless. The modern mind simply cannot comprehend the simple pleasures of the ancients.
"Okay," he sighed. "Bad start. Let's try this again. Greetings, ancient people. I come in peace. Anyone seen any aliens around here?"
"Aliens?" said Hank. "You mean ducks from Aberdeen?"
"Dundee," said Bronze Fillings. "Aberdeen is foreign."
"I meant aliens from outer space," said Loopy. "Where no boldly go there we before went."
"Huh?" said the camels.
"I think he's been listening to Bronze Fillings," said Big Toe. "It must be a speech to encourage his troops."
"What troops? All I see is a handcar."
"Maybe the handcar is an army in disguise.'
"Pretty small army."
"It could be a magic army."
"Armies aren't magic; they're made up of hundreds of guys marching around with sixty-pound packs, while a bunch of old farts in the government try to figure out how to pay for them."
"Some countries have magic armies," said Big Toe. "They're bigger on the inside than they are on the outside."
Everyone stared at Big Toe.
"It's okay," said Bronze Fillings. "His mind has been deranged by pain and suffering."
"Oh, right!" said Loopy. "That explains everything."
Other Philistines and camels made a circle around the handcar, trying to spot secret weapons.
A camel by the name of Ratchet climbed into the handcar and began fooling with the controls.
Technically handcars don't have controls. You push the handle down and that makes the wheels turn.
Flying handcars, however, are a little different.
Ratchet accidentally touched a special, magic control , and the handcar shot up into the air.
"Help, it's abducting me!" he yelled. "I want my mommy!"
"Good riddance!" said a female camel. "He's fifty-seven years old and he's still a graduate student, living at home. He won't even clean up his room. Honest to Pete--"
"Help, mommy!"
The female camel sighed.
"Would you mind getting him down," she said to Loopy. "He is my son, after all, though I don't know where he got the gene for incompetence. Probably from his father."
"Help!"
"Press control-alt-delete!" yelled Loopy.
"Which one is delete?" yelled Ratchet. "I can't find it!"
"Bottom right of the keyboard, near the number pad."
"Oh, I see it."
Ratchet performed the three-finger-salute.
The handcar turned blue, then it crashed.
"Ouch, ow!" yelled Ratchet. "What kind of tech support is that?"
Loopy helped him climb out of the handcar and he made the sign to ward off evil and limped away.
His mom put down her spear, her shield, her battle axe and her scalp belt, and tended his wounds.
"Poor baby," she said. "You got a bruise."
"IT HURTS MOMMY!" wailed Rachet. "IT REALLY, REALLY HURTS. I BANGED MY HEAD ON THE NASTY HANDCAR. NOW I WON'T BE ABLE TO HELP WITH THE DISHES."
"Here you go, pretty baby. Here's the Bobo Bunny."
His mom took a frosty camel toy out of her hump and pressed it to his forehead.
Ratchet stopped sniffing.
His mom shook her head.
"Males!" she snorted. "They think they're so brave, then a little bump comes along and they all moan and wail. Look at those big Philistines, crying over a little thing that got snipped off.'
"Mine is quite big," said Big Toe.
"WAS quite big."
"That was just the protective covering. I still have a rather big--"
Suddenly Big Toe realized all of the female warriors were looking at him and snickering.
He crossed his knees and blushed.
"Nice weather we're having, as long as it doesn't rain," he said.
Loopy, meanwhile, had made an alarming discovery.
"Ratchet broke my handcar," he yelled. "It doesn't work anymore. How am I going to get back to Toronto--ummm--I mean, the ALIEN PLANET?"
"Relax," said Hank. "You can stay with us and share the pain and suffering."
"That's very kind of you, but I already have lots."
"Are you sure? We're settling in the Land of Milk and Honey so we can start a great nation, have a famine, and exile ourselves to Egypt, where they have bigger storage containers."
"I need another UFO. Maybe I could use that big mouse thing up in the sky; the one that's covered with tin foil."
"That's not a big mouse; it's the platypus in the sky. And it isn't tin foil; it's glitter dust."
"Whatever. Maybe I can use it."
"You can't have that!" said Thunderbags. "It's a symbol. Haven't you read Jung on the collective unconscious?"
Loopy peered at the twinkling platypus.
The platypus looked at Loopy.
"What does mean?" demanded Loopy. "No one who isn't a platypus is allowed to stay here?"
"We don't know what it means," said Thunderbags. "That's the beauty of symbols; they can mean anything you like."
"Who decides?"
Thunderbags and Big Toe put their arms around each other's shoulders and puffed out their chests.
"Behold," they said as one. "Deciding what symbols mean is what priests do best."
"Well, ONE of the things they do best," said Hank. "Telling other people to go out and slaughter enemies is another thing they do best."
"Yeah, and guess who decides who the enemy is?" said Bronze Fillings.
"ANYWAY," said the two priests, "It's important to get it right when you decide what a symbol means. One mistake and POOF! No more camels or Philistines."
"So what does the platypus mean?" said Loopy.
"It means, give lots of cattle, sheep and goats to Thunderbags," said Thunderbags."
"Yeah!" said Big Toe.
Then he looked at Thunderbags. "Hey!"
"What?"
There was an argument about this, of course.
If you bring up the subject of symbols among a lot of camels, you can expect a certain amount of debate about what they mean.
Meanwhile, in another part of the desert, but higher up, Demo's Leitmotiv was busy holding onto Chester the dragon as they winged their way towards Camelot, which lies in yet ANOTHER part of the desert.
A short time later, they landed in Wales, and discovered Welsh road signs.
"I can't make any sense out of these signs," said Demo's Leitmotiv. "They have too many syllables."
"Don't give up so easily," said Chester. "Try again."
"I'm not a linguist! I just want my own identity."
"Asking rather a lot, aren't you?" said Chester.
"No I'm not. I'm tired of being a leitmotiv. I want to BE someone for a change. I want to be a duck among ducks. I don't want signs that can only be pronounced by twelve people singing in a choir."
"You're not meant to read the signs," said Chester. "The Welsh invented this language to discourage the Saxons."
Just then, a party of Welsh miners popped out from behind a rampart of dirt and empty ammunition cases.
A sign on one of the cases said 'The Real Roark's Drift'.
The miners approached, singing 'Ducks of Harlem'."
"Those are ducks," said Demo's Leitmotiv. "Leave the talking to me."
"How," said Digger Jones, the chief miner. "Me Jones. Seen any Zulus around?"
"How do you do?" said Demo's Leitmotiv. "I'm Demo's Leitmotiv, and this is Chester, the simulated parrot. No Zulus here, just a hockey goalie and his dragon. Are you Richard Burton?"
"Never heard of him. What can we do for you?"
"Well, I'd like a new identity, and Chester wants to be a real parrot, with feathers and everything."
"I AM a real parrot," said Chester, miffed. "I just haven't had the operation yet."
Digger and his friends gave them some Welsh Rarebit."
"What's this?" said Demo's Leitmotiv suspiciously.
"Welsh rarebit."
"Oh, that's all right then. As long as it isn't quince."
"I can't eat cheese," said Chester. "It makes me fart."
"None of that now," said Digger. "We have quite enough methane as it is. Now tell us what you're REALLY here for."
"I'm looking for Camelot," said Chester. "Demo's Leitmotiv is just tagging along because he can't find any pucks."
"I want to become real," said Demo's Leitmotiv. "I'm sick and tired of being a leitmotiv. I want a fresh start; I want to be rich, powerful, and loved by all."
"You can order a new identity from the department of agriculture," said Digger. "It's covered under Medicare; you get to choose between a chicken and a cow. Or you can come along with me and look for Cleopatra. I'm going to ask her to join our union. It's always good to have celebrity backing."
"Merlin will help all of us," said Chester. "We just have to find Camelot."
There was a snicker of laughter from somewhere among the group of miners, then a scream.
Chester had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 64: TROLL GAS
There was a silence while everyone checked to see who had screamed and why.
Then a miner dressed in Edwardian plus fours strode into view.
"I hate scoffers," he said. "I tried to read one of my poems to him and he ran away screaming. My name is Edwardian Jones, by the way."
"Have you seen any pucks around here?" Demo's Leitmotiv asked.
"What's a puck?" said Edwardian. "Is it something rude?"
"Depends what you do with it," said Demo's Leitmotiv.
"Ah; it's like spaghetti, then."
Demo's Leitmotiv fell silent, wondering what you could do with spaghetti that would be considered rude.
"And what do YOU want from Merlin, little fellow?" said Chester.
"I want to be a popular Edwardian poet," said Edwardian. "I tried mining, but I don't like it. I want everyone to buy my poems about the trams in Tewksbury, in the rain."
"Hmmm," said everyone else.
There was a snicker of laughter from a portly miner leaning against a mine cart.
Digger smiled encouragingly at him. "And what about you?" he said "Who are you, and what do YOU want from Merlin?"
"Neville is the name," the strange miner said. "I'm an academic, from the University of Strange Thoughts. I blundered into the mines while I was thinking about Anaximander, and I haven't been able to get back to my office."
"You don't look like an academic," said Edwardian. "An academic always carries the scalps of his colleagues in a belt around his waist."
"I don't need those things; I have tenure."
"Tell you what," said Digger. "Seeing as how we're all going off to meet Cleopatra--"
"Merlin!" said Demo's Leitmotiv.
"Whatever. Anyway, seeing as how we're all leaving the mines, why don't you come with us? Merlin will help you get back to your life of ease and luxury."
"Do you think so?" said Neville. "I'm beginning to think my students cast a spell on me to get out of writing a term paper. Can Merlin put a stop to this?"
"Merlin can do ANYTHING," said Edwardian. "Haven't you read Tennyson?"
And so the little band of merry companions set off on the yellow brick road to Camelot.
Moments later, a troll attacked them.
It was a sneak attack, and it happened this way:
The troll had cunningly disguised himself as a heap of rocks. As Demo's Leitmotiv and his chums approached, the troll began inching towards them.
Demo's Leitmotiv was the first to notice it.
"Don't look now, but I think that heap of rocks is attacking us," he said.
Digger glanced at the troll land laughed.
"That?" he said. "That's not a heap of rocks; it's a slag heap. They don't attack unless you encroach on their land. They don't like anyone living near them."
"This one is attacking," said Demo's Leitmotiv. "We should run away."
Everyone turned to look.
The troll, being a cunning sort, went perfectly still.
"It's got a funny way of attacking," said Neville. "It just sort of stands there."
"Yes, but it's standing in an aggressive way," said Demo's Leitmotiv. "It's going to attack us when it thinks we aren't looking."
"Are you feeling quite all right, old fellow?" said Neville. "Perhaps you should have a session with Doctor Philip Napoleon, the famous shrink."
"He's too far away," said Demo's Leitmotiv. "He lives in Toronto."
"He offers extension therapy, you know. He has a long-distance analyzer."
"There; it moved again!" said Demo's Leitmotiv.
This time they all saw it.
"It's very slow," said Edwardian.
All at once there was a deep, rumbling sound that made the earth move.
"Oh, oh; what was that?" said Chester.
"It came from the troll," said Demo's Leitmotiv.
Digger handed out gas masks.
"What are these for?" said Demo's Leitmotiv. "Are we going on a space ship?"
"You'll see," said Digger. "Tell your dragon not to breathe any fire."
"I'm not a dragon; I'm a parrot."
The noise grew louder. Everyone clapped their hands over their ears.
At last the rumbling faded away and there was a long sigh of contentment.
Then a vast, horrible stench rose up, like the putrescent miasma arising from Victorian moral sincerity. It was so powerful it seeped right through the gas masks.
Chester panicked, and a flame started in the back of his throat.
"Oh, oh!" he said. "I think I'm going to scorch something."
"No Chester!" everyone yelled. "You're a parrot, not a dragon!"
"I can't help it! I'm not just any old parrot; I'm a fire parrot. Fire parrots are hot, hot, hot!"
The flame reached out from the pilot light in the back of his throat.
"Run away, run away!" yelled Digger.
Then a ribbon of fire whipped out from Chester's open mouth. Demo's Leitmotiv watched with fascinated attention as the air around the troll seemed to crackle and glow.
The explosion that followed blew him off his feet.
When he picked himself up, he could see the troll lying flat on his back, looking like an arrangement of scorched stones.
"Och!" he rumbled. "That was a powerful one! I feel much better now."
Chester was hanging upside down from a niche in the slag.
The miners were sitting behind a protective overhang, pouring a cup of tea.
"Pardon me," rumbled the troll. "I tried to hold it in, but nature will have her way. It's the methane, you know. Coal is famous for it."
"Are you okay?" asked Demo's Leitmotiv.
"I'm fine, NOW. The scorch marks will wash away when it rains. The name is Sweet Gas, by the way. Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Do you know the way to Camelot?" said Edwardian.
"Sure; it's right next to San Jose. You can't miss it."
"But--" said Edwardian.
"The Welsh San Jose; not the one near Toronto."
"Oh, I see," said Edwardian, not really seeing anything at all."
Demo's Leitmotiv had a bad feeling about this--
CHAPTER 65: MAGIC BOWELS
"I'll take you to Camelot," said Sweet Gas. "I've been thinking of going to see the wizard myself."
"Whatever for?" said Edwardian. "You're a troll. You have everything you could possibly want. You're big and um...BIG, and if anybody tries to mug you, all you have to do is start a rockslide and fall down on them."
"A lot you know!" said Sweet Gas.
"What could you possibly want?"
"I want a bowel."
"You do? Whatever for? You can have mine if you want; all it ever does is twitch around like an electric eel, rejecting everything I try to feed it. What do you want a bowel for?"
"You shouldn't make fun of bowels," said Neville. "They're very important, and when they don't work properly, they make you suffer."
"Tell me about it," said Edwardian. "We Edwardian poets have always wondered why people were created and released into the universe with so many unreliable accessories. I mean, we don't even come with warranties. There's no telling when some vital part is going to break down and play havoc with your system."
"It's the duck condition," said Neville. "We were meant to suffer. It's because of the Great Dropping, when Jill dropped the pail."
"How do you know it was Jill?" said Edwardian. "It could have been Jack, or even the snake in the pail."
"It doesn't matter," said Digger. "There was a hole in the bucket."
"Well Jack should have fixed it, dear Digger," said Neville.
"With what should he have fixed it?" dear Neville?" said Digger.
"ANYWAY," said Sweet Gas, "I want a bowel so I won't blow myself up every time I pass gas."
"He has a point," said Neville. "That could be embarrassing, you know."
"You don't know the half of it!" said Sweet Gas. "Just once, I'd like to able to fart silently and blame the efflorescence on the person beside me, like everyone else in the world does. That way, I might get more than one date with a girl."
"Some people are never satisfied," muttered Digger.
"How do you blame it on the person beside you?" asked Chester. "Do you tell everyone?"
"You look significantly at the person beside you and proffer a furrowed brow," said Sweet Gas. "Like someone suffering in silence."
"I can't believe you don't have a bowel," said Demo's Leitmotiv. "How do you manage to create such thunderous ovations? Do you have gas heating?"
"I have microorganisms like everybody else," said Sweet Gas indignantly. "They're very good at turning food into socially unacceptable byproducts."
"But what do you keep them in if you don't have a bowel?" said Demo's Leitmotiv, glancing nervously around. "Surely you don't let them run wild! Microorganisms are supposed to be on leashes."
A sudden, itchy feeling came over him, and he began scratching frantically at his goalie pads.
"There are other means of containment," said Sweet Gas. "You can use theatres, office cubicles, and salad bars."
"You have a salad bar in there?" said Jones, pointing at Sweet Gas's craggy midsection.
"You'd be surprised what I keep in there! Haven't you ever heard of Fort Knox?"
"That's for gold," said Neville. "I read about it in BEOWULF."
"The government would certainly like you to THINK it's for gold," said Sweet Gas.
"I suppose you're going to tell me the government really uses it for storing old farts, in case we ever need them again?" said Digger.
Sweet Gas offered a knowing smile, but said nothing.
"What about fossils?" said Edwardian. "Have you got any fossils?"
"Only high-class fossils," said Sweet Gas. "Trolls are nothing, if not discriminating."
Edwardian grew excited and began fingering his tungsten carbide drill. "Do you mind if I extract a few," he said. "For my collection."
"I have a lot of fossilized spam artists," said Sweet Gas. "People come out and embed them in solid rock as a reward for their many gifts to living creatures."
Edwardian put his drill back in his miner's briefcase.
"Crumbs!" he said. "Spam artists are as common as hairballs. I thought you meant something interesting, like a fossilized nudist colony."
"I'm not hearing you!" yelled Chester, covering his ears. "I don't like naughty things; they make you go blind."
"What about toxic waste?" said Neville. "I bet you don't have any of that!"
"Of course I do!" said Sweet Gas. "I have a whole box of medical waste, and a rusty drum of mercury from a major corporation whose name I dare not mention for fear of a lawsuit."
"Isn't that a bit wimpy?" said Neville.
"You can't be too careful," said Sweet Gas. "The Serengeti is a dangerous place. Behind every bush there lurks a savage, duck-eating lawyer, wirelessly integrated into a major corporation."
"This isn't the Serengeti," said Neville. "The Serengeti is southeast of Toronto."
"I'm not talking about THAT Serengeti," said Sweet Gas. "I'm talking about the WELSH Serengeti. Wales has a bit of everything, you know, including lots of Welsh people. It's a magical place."
"Anyway, you should write poetry," said Edwardian. "Become an Edwardian poet and girls will flock to you."
"They will?" said Sweet Gas.
"Of course. Masses of them. It says so in the brochure I got from the Edwardian Poets' Book Club."
"Don't believe everything you read," said Neville, suspiciously.
Neville, being an academic, often came into contact with poets, but he was always careful to wash his hands afterwards.
"Anyway, it doesn't matter," said Edwardian. "The wizard will take care of me, and he'll take care of YOU, too. Why don't you come along with me and be an Edwardian poet, sitting in the grapefruit trees in lovely California, watching all the girls go by."
"Grapefruit trees?" said Neville. "Is that really necessary?"
"Hmmm," said Sweet Gas. "Do you think I can ask for TWO things? I do have to ask the wizard to help me stop farting, you know. I would like a more discreet internal mechanism."
Then he burst into tears, which, in a troll, is really a sort of grinding and cracking process.
"There, there, old chap!" said Chester. "The thing about gas is it always passes in the end."
"So what about it?" said Edwardian. "Do you want to be an Edwardian poet?"
"I think it might be fun," said Sweet Gas. "Could I write poems about igneous rocks? They're my favorite kind."
"Of course. Anything you like, as long as it rhymes and it has a nice tum-te-tum-te-tum rhythm to it. That's how we recognize poetry, you know."
"I'm your troll!" said Sweet Gas.
Fortunately, Edwardian had the presence of mind to duck the impending backslap, so he was relatively intact when they set out on their quest for the wizard of Camelot, otherwise known as Merlin, or 'M', for short.
Five minutes later, Sweet Gas said, "Are we there yet?"
"Soon," said Edwardian. "Have some Welsh Rarebit."
"I told you, it makes me fart."
"This is special Welsh Rarebit, made with Scotch whiskey and a plum."
Sweet Gas thought about this.
"Okay," he said, "If you say so."
Meanwhile, in another part of the Serengeti, the real Demo was beginning to feel a little odd.
"I think I'm coming down with multiple personality disorder," he said. "I have this feeling there's another version of me running around in a hockey goalie's outfit."
"That's a relief!" said Sally Popoff. "We thought you were doing something literary. You were raving about Camelot and epic farts."
Hanging Gardens made a 'tsk, tsk' sound. "I should consult Doctor Philip Napoleon if I was you," he said. "Can't have multiple personality disorder when you're off raiding tombs. It upsets the archaeologists. They'll make you pay for more than one admission ticket."
"Philip Napoleon is in Toronto," said Demo. "He can't analyze me until I get back."
"You could appoint one of your personalities as a sort of king and send him back to speak for the rest," said Hammurabi.
"He does have a long-distance analyzer," said Sally. "Why don't you ask him to hook it up?"
Just then, Philip Napoleon called, and Demo answered him on his cell phone.
"Is this the Pizza Hut?" said Philip.
"Ummm, no...."
"I want two pepperonis, two bottles of Perrier, and an assortment of whips and chains."
"This isn't the Pizza Hut," said Demo. "It's a multiple personality disorder and we want analysis."
"You do? I wonder why. Can't you all just get along?"
"We don't sleep together anymore."
"Really? I'm afraid you can't be punished for that. You have to do something naughty before you can be spanked."
"Are you interested in therapizing us? We pay well."
"I should warn you that you don't own therapy," said Philip. "You lease it. You sign a lease for a specified term and at the end of the term you get a certificate for perfect attendance."
"Will that help us?"
"You can use it to get a driving license and social security number. Give me your credit card number and I'll set things in motion. You can trust me, by the way; I'm authentic."
Demo recited his Visa number and expiry date.
"When can we start?" he said.
"As soon as the transaction is approved. There we go; I'm all ears."
This took Demo by surprise. He was hesitant at first, reluctant to discuss intimate matters while everyone in the palace was eavesdropping, but at length he got into the swing of things and invented a lot of exciting quirks that had everyone listening with baited breath.
Then he told Philip all about Demo's Leitmotiv, his leitmotiv.
"Aha!" said Philip. "Imaginary companion disorder."
"But he's not imaginary; he's real. Other people can see him. He goes around in a hockey goalie's outfit."
"How long have you hated hockey goalies?"
"I don't--"
"Was your mother a goalie? Did she often trek off to foreign lands to play hockey?"
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