“For initiation,” Liana answered, and she threw the stick halves into the Gouda river. “Also you look gorgeous.”
“Oh.” She smiled. “Well thanks. I don’t do this often.”
“I can tell.”
Patricia stopped. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Liana spun on her heel. “It was meant to mean that I’ve spent so much time adventuring and living with you, it was within my capacity to insinuate that, based on your lifestyle and daily habits—”
“All right all right,” Patricia pushed Liana lightly.
“Oh it’s fisty-cuffs, is it?” Liana posed for battle, though her face was all in good humor.
Patricia dismissed her with a back-handed wave. “Girl, I would lay you down where you stand, but this outfit took two hours to find.”
“Aww, why won’t you let me let you fight me!?” Liana cried.
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“Let’s not end on that note Mr. Doug.” The tour moved on. They rounded a corner of jeweled cave wall, entering a sphincter of lapis lazuli. A hall of chrome and prisms met them.
“Here,” the guide stated, “is where the dreams are amplified. They lose a lot of weight in the process, but can be then heard more vividly by those of the target realm.”
“Where’s the nightmares?” Mr. Doug asked. The tour members became spooked.
“Nightmares are more of an end result,” the guide answered patiently. He removed his checkered hat to exhibit his explanation. “We only produce dreams and broadcast dreams. It’s not our responsibility when certain dreams corrupt mid-transmission.”
“Corrupt how? How-how-how are they being corrupt?”
“Mr. Doug I’d rather you didn’t keep asking these lame questions.”
“I will when you give me an answer. I wanna know why these dreams turn into nightmares shouldn’t you know why?”
The guide frowned, the blush in his cheeks growing redder. “Mr. Doug it is not our concern when dreams are broken, corrupt, or given to the wrong people. It is only our business to produce and distribute them. End of story!”
“B-but nightmares, I’m talking about nightmares don’t you get it? They’re scary. I didn’t like that, and I’m sure no one else does.”
“No,” one of the tour members stated. “Not me.”
“I did,” another protested.
“Come along folks,” the guide said with a wave of his cane. The tour moved on.
But Mr. Doug lingered. He stared into the multi-chromatic walls that bent around the hall. Dreams were being spun within them by thousands of tiny, sort of triple-armed taffy machines. Mr. Doug’s nose sniffed as he frowned down at the many many yarns of soft pastel rainbow, in search of whatever he thought a nightmare might look like.
Then he found it. A brown thread. “Ah! Ahh! Aha! There’s a nightmare alright if I ever saw one.” He then thought he might save someone a troubled sleep, and tried reaching into the wall where the brown thread swerved.
His fingers touched a yarn, and he felt himself jolt.
Umar Vanjal Doug was born a healthy five waltzes later to the lucky sculptor Umar Hogao Doug, who birthed him from his chest on his way to market with his wares. The neighbors, in celebration, danced in the pathways to welcome and commemorate the new Umar Vanjal Doug.
Umar stood on two moist and fragile legs. He gazed upward, and let out a sputtering cry, followed by a string of foreign words. The onlookers cheered, and his father lifted him to his shoulder.
However, tragically, the party would crumble to a funeral, as a wasp flew itself straight into Umar Vanjal Doug’s breathing hole, and after forcing itself further in, stung relentlessly into his trachea. Umar’s father was terrified to watch helplessly, as Umar choked and bled from his mouth.
“I’d rather not end the tour on this note either Mr. Doug,” the guide said sharply, “but mind me, if we have any further trouble with your tampering manners, you will be cut short on the tour’s entirety. Understand me Mr. Doug?”
Mr. Doug gaped. “I had a father… He had me for… a long time. I was spoken to, I was—”
“Understand me Mr. Doug!?”
“N-wh…” he blinked, surprised to find his old spectacles on his old nose. The multi-chromatic wall of the dream hallway met his vision. That and the quite red face of the tour guide, who held his cane with menace. “Y-eah.”
Poopers the clown stepped off the trapeze. He landed head-down in a vat of wet cement. The audience cheered for the clown’s final performance. Le Cirque du Mort had surged from the underground once suicide had been internationally decriminalized. It consisted entirely of acrobats, clowns, lion tamers and the likes who had a death-wish, and neither feared, nor were instructed to avoid, accidental death.
Poopers, however, had been the exception. Holding no intent to take his life, Poopers had been the driving factor behind the scenes that kept spirits up amongst the circus cast between performances. Occasionally he’d make an appearance, but his main event was staged in the after hours, and his humor was so ironically laden in PG inappropriateness, it never failed to perk up even the mopey lion tamer Charles.
However, on the night he stepped off the trapeze, it had come to a surprise to everyone, especially the ring master. To his great dismay and economic horror, following Poopers’s sacrifice was each and every other cast member. Athletes, the strong woman, all two-dozen acrobats, Charles, and the other clowns. Even Qualm the elephant bludgeoned her own head in with a tent stake mallet, and died from internal bleeding because the on-site vet had given himself a lethal injection.
“This tree,” Olga said. She patted a stout, hunched bulbous tree, whose bark was covered in scales of thick wooden plates. It had two different leaves, one set being broad and round as dinner plates, the other being long and slender, like a hairpiece draped over the round leaves like syrup. Olga ran a lavender hand down the scaly bark. “I want this tree.” She was alone.
A passerby heard her, and came peddling over on a floating bicycle. She had a pair of goggles strapped to the brim of her fez, and a pair of pink translucent dragonfly wings buzzed behind her. “This plane has many interesting trees,” she said. “I favor the hourglass palms. May I ask why you prefer this humble tree?”
“It is not the species I prefer, but the individual.” Olga gestured to the many similar stout trees in the forest she walked in. “And no, you may not ask.”
“Fair enough.” The passerby proceeded down the forest path, her cycle making light squeaks as it floated steadily. Olga committed the tree to her memory, then departed.
Her stream of consciousness manifested in a maze of walkways, overpasses, bridges and boardwalks. Thin boomerang-like platforms and stairways were cluttered by several overlapping instances of others. Their appearance varied to such a degree they blended together like snowflakes, forming a soft spread of multicolored presence. Olga phased through thousands of others as she strolled towards an elevating platform, and rode it fifty six stories up. On the way up she passed colosseums, theaters, galleries and cafés, as well as hook-up joints, game rooms, libraries and museums, and a few public performers putting on a mind-warping display for the new ones.
At last, Olga’s lavender legs stepped off the platform, carrying her to a gallery in her name. It was in the same location as three other galleries, and she had to wait for the doorway to blink from one to the next before it showed hers. She entered. The room was a spacious preserve. Fields for miles, distant mountains, all dark with flora. Rain fell from a deep red sky. Olga approached a single building, letting the raindrops land and run off her lavender skin. It was a narrow cottage, with individual clouds of smoke puffing up from the yellow brick chimney. She went to the side of the house, and dug a hole in the field. There, she planted a near-exact copy of that stout scale-barked tree.
Its ebony horns punctured the low basement ceiling upon its summoning. Wafts of darkness shrouded its eye sockets, from which an unholy blood-light leered. Its cloven hooves, heavy set and black as pitch, charred the threadbare rug, scuffing the pink chalk pentagram. With a moment’s pause, the demon lowered its head, then glanced up at the twin holes in the ceiling. “Oops,” it mused. The glare of its eyes swiveled towards the small human sitting on a bed. “Should I sit down?”
“S-sure,” the human said, nodding, not looking away.
The demon’s long claw pulled a fold-up chair from the make-shift closet, and sat down in it backwards, its towering mass looming over the chair back. The horns still scraped the ceiling. “Hi,” its voice rumbled, sounding itself to the human’s ears from all directions. “I’m Kar. Short for… well, just call me Kar. Anyway what’s the deal?”
“Um…” The human was lost for words. Awe sat plastered on their face.
Kar smacked its jaw. “Power? You want power? Money? Somebody dead? What?”
Now the human’s face grew flushed. “Uhh… m-my name’s Max.”
“Okay. Hi Max.”
“I…” the human seemed very hesitant.
The room vanished, plunging the human into void, almost as if falling. In an encompassing cloud, the demon surrounded. Its voice was louder, speaking so deeply it was felt, rather than heard. “Look human, I’m kinda busy, so if you don’t know what you want…”
“I just wanna hang out!” the human peeped.
The room returned. Kar’s formless face clicked back a tad. “Hang? Like, what, watch tv or something?”
The human shrugged. “I dunno… I was lonely, but didn’t wanna leave the house or deal with other people, so…”
The demon leaned closer. “Well sure, I guess. But it will cost you.”
Max perked up a bit. “Wh-really? Wait what’ll it cost to hang out?”
“Um.” The demon placed a nightly claw against its darkness-dripping fangs. “I dunno. Never done this request before. Murder costs your humanity… money costs happiness… I guess hanging out with me will cost you your day’s time.”
“Deal.”
They started with browsing art on tumblr. The human sat criss-cross applesauce with a laptop in front. The demon sat beside the human on the bed to watch and comment. An hour passed. Then the demon reached over to show the human a vine compilation of persons being stupid, and the human in turn found one about pet hedgehogs.
“How ‘bout a board game?” the human suggested.
“Which?”
“I have candy land.”
“That one’s gambling,” the demon said with its eyes. “Do you really wanna gamble with a demon?”
The human didn’t think on that one long. “Nah. I have chess too.”
“Ok.”
The human got down to pull a dusty chessboard out from under the bed. They played it on the floor, the demon now matching the human’s criss-cross posture. The demon won by a lot, twice. “I’ve played this a lot, though the stakes are usually higher.”
“Is there a game you haven’t played?” the human asked.
The demon nodded its form. “Well sure, there’s new games coming out all the time.”
“How about Pandemic?” the human asked. “It’s a co-op game.”
They played Pandemic and lost. The demon was intrigued by the bio-terrorist game option, but for lack of sufficient players had submitted to the role of epidemiologist. After losing, playing again, and just barely scraping a victory, they turned on the SEGA Genesis and played Midnight Resistance. After that, the human got up to go to the bathroom upstairs.
Kar stayed to admire the human’s many figurines on display in the make-shift closet’s shelves. “Who’s this?” it asked when Max returned, pointing at one of the figures with a dagger of midnight.
“That’s Cringer from He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. My cousin gave it to me because they heard I like cats.”
“Do you?” the demon asked.
The human nodded. “I do.”
“Me too. But not really Cringer. I mean I guess a little, but… I dunno, I always thought he was kinda annoying.”
“Show me. I’ve never heard of He-Man.”
Youtube was opened up, and an episode of He-Man and the Masters of the Universe was put on. Whenever Skeletor showed up, the human leaned forward in a hungry gesture. At the end, the demon concurred that Cringer was not a character worth possessing a figurine of. Skeletor, on the other hand,
“Oh man, lemme show you my shrine.” Max scrambled back off the bed to push some clothes around in the closet. A cardboard box pedestal held a small platoon of varied Skeletors, backed by a Skeletor poster. One of the skeletors looked nothing like Skeletor at all, with goofy white-boned grin, fire-engine red boots, and a matching scarf.
Kar laughed. “Wow you sure like Skeletor.”
“Shush. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Ok.”
The human replaced the clothes, and returned to the bed. Half the day was gone already. “Running out of things to do now,” Max said with a mix of wist and ennui.
“Human,” the demon said. “I’m a fucking demon, c’mon let’s go look at hell or something.”
A doorway opened out of the bedroom wall, letting all the light out of the room, dimming the screen of the laptop and the nearly-expired scent candles placed around the pink chalk pentagram. Kar floated towards the doorway, a claw extended invitingly.
They were back in time for supper. Max never recovered from the things seen, which in a way was a good thing because man, there was some really crazy shit in that doorway. Enough to really shake your world up.
After coming back down from eating dinner, Max asked the demon if it was cool with hugging.
“Sure, why not.” They hugged.
Then after snugging and watching cartoons the human fell asleep on the demon, and had a nightmare about Cringer.
The demon tucked Max in and left through the pentagram.
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Herfst kicked a watering can. It was empty. He kicked it again, watching its rusty husk clank down the rocky bluff. “Herfst!” he coughed. The watering can hit a ponderosa pine, halting at the tree’s puzzle-bark trunk. Herfst left it down there, at the bottom of the bluff, just shy of the trickling mountain stream.
Behind him, a skeleton in pumpkin-orange workout duds came jogging up to him. “What’s up gnome dude?” the skeleton asked Herfst.
Herfst pointed at the watering can, and spat a “Herfst!” of disgust.
The skeleton nodded. “I getcha bro. None of us needs that kind of shit in our lives. Or in my case, hah, my uh…” it looked at itself. “…can’t think of a good— y’know what never mind I’mma go work these bones to the marrow.” It jogged valiantly on, toppling right off the edge of the bluff and landing in seventeen different places at the bottom. The skull hit the watering can, which reeked of urine. “Aw aww! Eww!”
“Herfst!” Herfst called in sympathy. Then he left.
You take a seat in the booth, finding the silk cushions soft yet structured. The air smells strongly of spices and hot foods. Abdullah takes a seat across from you. His transparent eyelids close for a moment as he stares at you.
“It is most kind of you to invite me to dinner,” he begins.
You nod, raising your brow. “Most kind to join me, Abs. Mind if I call you that?”
“My name is Abdullah, but you may call me Abs if it so fits your preference.”
Score. You scooch forward. “So what’re you into?” you ask, trying to sound casual.
Abdullah sits like a statue, his little lizard hands folded into one another, their spindly fingers locked around one another. Finally, “I am most interested in the history of human civilization. Particularly in ancient cultures and surviving indigenous peoples.”
“Cool!” you say, because that’s actually pretty cool. Nonetheless, you find it difficult to listen to him as he sits with his chest exposed. Your eyes run up and down his scaly bod. For a saur, he’d be considered a bit chubby. His legs are so short and low to the ground that his feet stick out to either side of his chair.
The server shows up to drop off a menu. You pick it up, looking for a meal that you can eat that would also please Abdullah. The Saurian Selection has all kinds of slabs of spiced raw meat. Mostly pork. “So Abs,” you ask, eyeing the raw salmon filet, “What’re you getting?”
“I have selected the Ham Hunk.”
“Hunk?”
He pointed a long finger to the menu. It was a big ol’ hunk of uncooked ham, warmed to body temperature. You look up to see him displaying a mouthful of razor sharp teeth. A deliberate effort to smile like a human.
You shoot him one back. “I’m getting salmon sushi.”
“I do not believe this establishment serves japanese cuisine.”
“No, but it has raw salmon. That’s like, pretty much sushi.”
“I see.”
He’s totally impressed, you decide. You lean back and prop your arm up on the booth back, which is kinda awkward since these booths are so tall, so you’ve just like, got your hand up there. Whatev’s. “Yeah,” you say, “I tend to eat stuff raw all the time. Cookie dough especially—”
“I have changed my mind.” Abdullah says. “I will also have raw salmon filet.”
You nod, as if you’ve already had it here before. “Sweet,” you say.
“Yes.”
A creeping three minutes goes by without event or conversation. Then the server shows up to take orders. The server prompts you for a beverage, and after a quick scan through the saurian selection you order a glass of fish blood. Abdullah orders a vanilla chai latte. You rapidly change your order just before the server leaves.
“So Abs,” you blurt, “what do you like to do for fun?”
“My recreation is conversing with humans, drinking chai tea, and reading primary documents of history.”
“Wow, I love doing at least one of those things!” You scoot further, taking your hand off the back of the booth. “How often do you drink chai?”
“Six times, every day. It is my only weakness.”
“Gee you must really like chai tea.”
“It is a rather strong addiction, but I am not ashamed of it.” He sits silent for a beat. “I much prefer it to hookah.”
“Me too.” You’ve never tried hookah, but would love to. “Hookah’s just, bleh.”
“It is quite harsh on my larynx, but the flavor is quite pleasant otherwise.”
“Totally.” New subject. “So, what’s your favorite thing about humans?”
“They are capable of original thought.” His transparent eyelids blink. “Also they do not mock my addiction to chai tea. I am quite the xenophile.”
“Really…?” you purr. “Would you ever, like, I dunno, kiss a human?”
“I am incapable of kissing, but I have made an attempt none the less.”
“Ever fallen in love?”
“No.”
“Ever… wanted to sleep with someone?”
“I sleep with humans frequently when in cold or temperate climates.”
You perk right the fuck up to that. “Yeah?” you ask feverishly. “You got someone to sleep with tonight? It’s like, gonna be cold. I heard it on the weather channel” you don’t watch tv
Abdullah stares for a moment. “No. I have been utilizing an electric heat pad as of late. They are most convenient, but I find them unreliable in the event of a local brown out.”
“Well…” your palms are sweaty. “If you—”
The smell of fish overpowers your nostrils as a plate of salmon flesh is clunked down right in front of you. The colorful scales are still attached to the vibrant red meat. If your ex were here he’d doubtlessly make a comment on the filet’s color. You glance up at Abdullah, banishing Turbo from your thoughts again. Now’s the last time you wanna think of that dweeb.
Abdullah has already bent his neck down to tear a slab of salmon with his sharp row of saw teeth. Gracefully, he swallows it whole, not once even touching the meat with his hands or utensils.
You do the same, minus the grace. Your face comes up with the shine of fish juices running up and down your nose. Bits of reddish pink flesh stick to the sides of your mouth. The flavor is very strong. Could use some rice, or seaweed or heck anything on the side, but this dish is just a big ol’ hunk of meat with nothing on it. Oh well, when in rome…
“Ah hem.” Abdullah deliberately imitates a human throat-clear. “You have chosen to neglect your eating utensils. I fail to see the purpose.”
“Oh, y’know,” you say, licking your cheeks. “I prefer eating this way. Easier, and feels more right.”
Abdullah says nothing, staring at you. You watch his elongated reptilian pupils run up and down your face, which is starting to flush with salmon tint in growing self consciousness. Then, “I see. Please excuse me. I will not further question your customs.” He bent for another bite, making it look as natural as scratching one’s nose.
You consider going down again too, but… it’s just raw salmon with nothing on it. Not really bad-tasting, but after that first big mouthful your stomach has been growing somewhat disgruntled. Plus you can practically feel the other restaurant patrons watching you, whether or not anyone even noticed.
“Eh,” you say as you reach for a napkin. “I think I’m full.”
Chai tea arrives in front of both of you. Abdullah sips his with an exaggerated head-tilt characteristic of saurians. You lean your head way back too, lifting the steaming tea cup to your chin and slurping it tentatively. As your head comes back you find Abdullah leaning over half the table, eyes trained onto yours.
“Where are you from?”
You mutter your exact mail address and zip code, and list off any other places you might’ve lived before.
“I see.” Abdullah leans back. “I am familiar with the cultural subtleties of many of those locations, but I am not familiar with the display you have given me.”
He’s noticed. “I, y’know, it’s just the way I…” there’s no getting out of it. He’s got you in a box. “I’ll come clean, Abs. I wanted to get you to like me, so I did things like a saurian would to impress you.”
“I do not understand. Please explain the necessity of my favor.”
“I wanna sleep with you tonight.”
“Very well, you may accompany me to bed.”
Ah! This is happening! “R-really!?”
“I am most intrigued by your urgency to please me, and wish to observe this behavior to study its means.”
“Cool,” you say, looking anything but.
Abdullah insists on paying for everything, you box your salmon filet, and both of you take a trolley to a quaint but respectable apartment complex. Along the way you admit that you’ve been meaning to somehow coax him into taking you home with him. He admits this is rather unusual, but is purely curious of your endeavor and not even a little bit weirded out.
His apartment smells strongly of incense and old books. You follow his long, bejeweled tail past a wall of tomes and actual scrolls of parchment. He wasn’t kidding about reading primary documents. He first fixes himself a cup of chai in the kitchen, whose ceiling is liberally decorated with strung sticks of cinnamon. You accept a cup to be polite, then follow him to his bedroom.
The bed is an enormous gold pillow with a maroon comforter on top. Abdullah removes his robe and turban, revealing his long lizard body for a brief moment. Your eyes flick straight to his balls because you’re only human. They’re just a couple shallow lumps protruding from his scaly crotch region. Then he slips into a pair of poofy green pants, and sits down into the bed facing you. “Please join me. I can provide guest sleepwear should you need any.”
You accept, stripping your totally rad 90’s memorabilia outfit in exchange for a pair of big poofy yellow pants. Guess I’ll be sleeping topless, you think, not really caring. You take a seat next to Abdullah, and the bed that’s a pillow causes you to slide right down next to him.
“Before sleep,” he says, not lowering his voice, “I usually enjoy reading government documents from centuries ago.”
“Not gonna lie…” you start, when you realize that as boring as any historic document may be, hearing it read aloud in Abdullah’s excessively polite indian accent would make them infinitely more interesting. Besides, you’re a bit distracted at the moment by the fact that your bare skin is touching his bare scales, and they’re very soft. And refreshingly cold in the heat of the apartment. He must have the thermostat cranked high.
“However for this night I will instead do whatsoever you desire, so as not to interrupt your curious plot.”
“A-any… thing?”
He dips his head in a nod.
Agh. Your mouth is dry. ANYthing, his reptilian eyes say, especially that thing you’ve been wanting done all evening. You eye his poof pants, you eye your poof pants, then you run your view along Abdullah’s mouth. From this close, you notice his razor teeth kinda stick out a bit from his upper jaw. You imagine his clammy lizard tongue against the tender flank of your thigh, and shiver a bit.
You part your lips. “Watch cat videos” you blurt. Fuck, no!
Abdullah reaches a plain black laptop from an end table, brushing a couple crumbling fragments of parchment off the top of it, and brings it between your laps. His pencil-thin fingers fly across the keyboard, typing at literally inhuman speed. You don’t recognize the symbols on the keys, nor the matching characters appearing fast as copy-paste in the youtube search bar. All the same, a compilation of cats jumping into toilets comes up. Too late now, you think, hating yourself.
Five minutes in, you’re giggling at the stupid wet cats. Abdullah watches silently, occasionally sipping his chai tea. “The purpose of these videos alludes me,” he says.
You point at the number of views.
“I see. I understand now.”
After cats, you watch cute snake baby videos, then a youtube poop of the presidential debate, and so on. Abdullah watches each video to the end, commenting politely and thoughtfully, no matter how stupid the video. At some point you mention that you’re actually starving and that the salmon in the fridge is not gonna cut it. Abdullah fixes you up a quick dish of cinnamon curry and vegetables while you leaf through the ancient books in his bedroom.
Forty minutes to midnight, you’re feeling sleepy and resigned. Abdullah lowers the thermostat, then lifts the comforter so you can get in. Since the whole bed’s a pillow, there’s no clear orientation. You just kinda crawl in, and stick you head out near the end table. Abdullah scrambles in with you, wrapping his cold-blooded body around you. The coolness of his touch is relieving. The only sound is the flow of the wall heater.
“Thank you for accompanying me to sleep,” he says to your ear, still not lowering his voice.
You hesitate, then nuzzle him a bit. “I’m the one that wanted to.”
“It would seem we have a symbiotic relationship.” God he’s loud.
You nod in the dark, fondling his tail absently. A moment passes. “So, did you ever find out what I really wanted?”
“I believe it was fornication.”
“Yyyy… you’re not like, weirded out or nothing?”
“I am flattered and intrigued.” He rests his chin on your head.
“Okay.” You hear the heat shut off.
Silence.
“Honestly,” you say, “I thought that’s what I wanted, but now I think this is better.”
Horace Horsecollar’s hooves did not stop shaking as Donald had assured. “Ha,” he muttered through clammy lips. “‘Nothing more satisfying than the sound of a pump shotgun locked and loaded.’ My horse ass.” He trained the barrel to the shed door, fearing the idea of pulling the trigger more than the presence of the monster outside. The monster, Horace thought decidedly. The thing that shambled closer to that rickety, splintered door, which by all other means had the appearance of his old pal Mickey.
Not anymore, and especially if it received a hole between those telltale bowling ball ears. Horace heard it shuffling silently through the overgrown yard, making a shambling beeline for the old work shed. Horace prayed that Donald would return for him last second. Anything to avoid needing to do the unthinkable.
“It’s not Mickey…” Horace said to himself. The gun would not hold still. “It’s not even a person…” something scratched the door frame. “Like shooting cans out back with my pals!”
A fist drove itself through the shabby door, tearing a hole in the wood as though it were paper. Horace fired the shotgun, obliterating the hand. A second one came in, and delicately unlatched the hook. Then the door opened.
It shambled in. Minus one hand, Mickey looked just as he had when he’d been bit. Horace could still hear his voice, begging. Pleading for him to take his life. His hooves jerked the pump.
It jammed.
“Ohhhhh scalawag!” Horace threw the shotgun at the shuffling mouse, then ran backwards into the dimly lit shed. His head bonked against the oil lantern hung from the ceiling, and he tripped on a push mower. Horace fell into blackness, hearing only the sliding of Mickey’s shoes on the dirt-dusted floorboards.
“Wait!” Malfoy said. He then threw up. A sausage and spaghetti mess covered the entire classroom floor.
Harry twitched his eyebrow. “…for what, Malfoy?”
Everybody laughed. Then they threw their lunch boxes at Malfoy. Professor McGompers coughed. “M’y’no, I’m sorry that is not allowed.” He shot one of the students. Uh… Seamus Finnegan. The rest of the students groaned, and sat back down. A cloud of flies materialized above Seamus’s corpse. Harry ate one, chewed it, swallowed it, licked his lips, then frowned.
ermione was furious. “O ONESTLY! WOO TOOK MY LETTER ‘SES?”
“Your letter what’ses?” Dean Thomas said slyly. Behind his back he held the letter H in ermione’s name. His eyebrows were evil.
“Give it back!” ermione shrieked. Harry offered his own letter H. “No arry,” ermione said steadily. “Yours is stupid.”
Dean ran over to the window, and held the H out, fifty six and a half feet from the grounds below. ermione charged.
“One more step I’ll drop it!” Dean warned.
Professor McGomper’s pistol went off again. Dean dropped the H out the window, then fell dead. ermione screamed “NO!” and leaped out the window. The H was caught by Hermione, who quickly aperated herself back to the classroom before she could hit the grounds below.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t very good at it yet, and only managed to send her left shoe. Harry looked at it, and smiled. Then he frowned again. Then he pointed his wand at himself and shouted “Expelleramus!” His wand flew out of his hand faster than he could have thrown it, and it struck Professor McGompers straight through the forehead.
“aw man” the dead teacher said. He fell over and died.
Neville Longbottom farted on Malfoy. He deserved it.
Liana’s heels were off in two steps, and she was already jumping on the bed when Sebastian finished closing the door. Her hair was a dark blonde pendulum. “This, bed, is, awe, some, I, am, so, jell, eee!”
Sebastian gracefully removed his own boots, and cartwheeled across the shag rug, flipped up, spun in midair, and perched on his side atop the king sized bed, his perfect face propped up by a model hand.
Liana almost jumped on him, and fell backwards over his muscular abs. “Ackptsh!” she squawked. Sebastian betrayed no faze, gleaming fashionably as Liana wriggled off of him, brushed herself off, and straightened her hair. “You really DO do your own stunts!”
“That and more,” Sebastian winked.
“Really? What else do you do?”
Sebastian’s grin maintained.
“Where’s the remote?” Liana took a seat beside Sebastian Clefthammer. She eventually located a wireless PS4 controller, and began fiddling with it.
“You’re holding it sideways,” Sebastian commented.
“I was just… looking for secret buttons. Y’know how they…” Liana made vague gestures at the controller for a few seconds, then limply tossed the controller over.
Sebastian booted up the console, then opened up netflix. “And what show did you have in mind?”
“You get three guesses.”
“Hmm.” Sebastian’s eyes became speakeasy peep-slots. “Am I in it?”
“Too broad that’s cheating. No.”
“Well, that certainly narrows it down,” Sebastian said into the back of his hand. “Very well. It’s either Spongebob Squarepants—”
“Nope.”
“—or Guy’s Grocery Games.”
“Both wrong, it’s Guy’s… Hey!” Liana gave Sebastian a light shove. “You read my mind, that’s also cheating!”
“Not me, madam. I merely made a lucky guess.”
Liana smiled. “Well, bring it up already. Work those magic thumbs of yours!”
Sebastian worked his magic thumbs. “Was there a particular episode you had in mind?”
“Yeah. The Marathon episode.”
“Hmm, I’m unfamiliar—”
“It’s all of them, dummy. All. Of. Them.”
Without batting an eye, Sebastian selected ‘play all’ on the wall-sized screen. Then he leaned over to dim the lights. They pulled up pillows to sit against, and by the end of season one, Liana was drooling on Sebastian’s shoulder. Sebastian scooped her up and tucked her into the bed. Then, after shutting off the PS4, he silently exited the penthouse suite.
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The vanilla chai was delicious. After taking a sip, Sebastian allowed Liana to finish it off. The pineapple chai was… interesting. Having downed their tea, and a complimentary dish of fried shrimp, the two mall-goers departed the rainforest café.
The hotel turned out to be a block away from the mall, and Sebastian’s room was at the tip top fifteenth floor. He’d rented the penthouse suite, of course. Liana ran out of the elevator doors as soon as they opened, and bounced on the balls of her feet outside the room’s locked doors. “I haven’t been this high up since that time a griffin left me in a spruce tree with nothing but a blindfold over my eyes.” She stopped bouncing, reliving needles jabbed into her every square inch of goose-bumped skin. “Spruce trees are not fun.”
“Well,” Sebastian said as he unlocked the door around Liana’s hip. “I certainly hope this will be a more positive experience.” He grinned, keeping his arm around her with the key still in the lock.
Liana nodded. “Egads, me too.”
They entered the suite, and Liana immediately threw her hat sailing across the immense room frisbee-style. The television set took up an entire wall, across from which a king-size bed stood proudly clad in pink and red sheets. Posters of Sebastian Clefthammer had been framed and hung anywhere they could be hung. Many were advertisements for products and plays, others came from the covers of magazines. In all of them, Sebastian’s chin seemed to pop right out of the wall. His many expressions all had a coy, confident undertone to them.
Liana’s heels were off in two steps, and she was already jumping on the bed when Sebastian finished closing the door.
Together they stooped beneath the interlaced paper machete branches and leaves, surrounded by plastic beasts and animatronic birds. Sebastian took a seat at a table that was neither too close to the center, nor too distant from the others. Abdullah himself arrived seconds after they were seated, and passed them each a menu.
“Pineapple chai tea?” Liana chirped. “Sweet!”
“Excessively,” Sebastian agreed with a wink. He surveyed his own menu with a resonating hmm. “I don’t recall ‘chai’ being on the rainforest café menu.”
Liana looked in his eyes. “Um. It’s in every single item? Hello?”
“Hm’yes I see. Jasmine chai, Mint chai, Oolong chai, Panther’s blood chai…”
Abdullah appeared again, his little lizard fingers locked around a notepad and scribbler. “May I suggest the vanilla chai tea.”
“Pineapple chai for me!” Liana cheered her order, complete with arm gestures.
“Vanilla chai,” Sebastian said with a twinkle. “And the bill’s on me.”
“I must insist,” Abdullah said flatly, “you retrieved my bird.”
“Yes yes, of course,” Sebastian bowed out. To an unseen audience, he sided “Old habit.”
“Old habit?” Liana asked.
Sebastian flicked his locks. “Never mind. Tell me,” he said. “What’s it gonna take to get you to come to my hotel room with me?”
“Depends,” Liana replied, slanting her eyes. “Wha’cha got planned?”
“Netflix and chill?”
“I call first show.”
“Of course,” Sebastian purred. “Ladies always first.”
Abdullah. “Here is your chai pineapple tea, and your vanilla chai tea, which is better in my opinion but I will allow you to form your own.”
Sebastian flexed a calf. “Well sir, they’ve got my approval.”
“Darling,” Mettaton drawled, matching Sebastian’s grin, “your legs would make art out of any old scrap of fabric.”
Liana blushed, and fluttered a hand. “D’aww shucks Mr. Robot, you’ve got some pretty spiffy legs yourself—”
“So tell me,” Sebastian said, “What is the inspiration for the deliberate fraying displayed here.” He pointed a masculine, manicured finger at the shredded denim in his pants.
Mettaton smiled. N’then he frowned. Abdullah’s Rainforest Café had a parrot shrieking from across the mall, causing a squabble of customers to grow anxious. On the intercom, the saur’s voice buzzed from the Café’s jungle canopy. “Please remain calm. The bird is in our custody. We’ll have—”
The parrot escaped, invoking a scream from the clumping audience. It flapped and flailed out onto the mall floor, shrieking and flapping.
Out of the rainforest café, a saur in a royal blue robe and deep navy turban came sprinting, head low, eyes pointed. Abdullah lunged at the parrot with carnivorous speed, but captured only a grasp of downing feathers. The parrot evaded in a single bound, and swooped around the mall trees to alight on a bench. Undaunted, Abdullah fell in pursuit. His pointed-toe genie shoes slipping silently around a parlor-tricks kiosk. The wise old parrot, shrieking once more, flapped up again shortly before the saur came in reach. It sailed around the hanging lamps, and perched on a beam in the mall’s stain-glass skylight. Abdullah stood straight up, staring into the light. His scaled face betrayed no emotion.
Then came a magnificent whistle! Abdullah’s face shot towards it, and saw Sebastian Clefthammer, standing center spotlight, clad in torn jeans, and grinning up towards the parrot. The parrot shrieked a reply. Clefthammer gave the parrot a hand gesture. A moment passed before the parrot cocked a brow, turned its beak, shrieked again, then swooped down towards the entrance of MTT. It glode around Sebastian’s golden canopy, and perched tentatively on the arm of a young woman, who then repeated the whistle.
Abdullah approached Sebastian Clefthammer, then leaned his head around his stance to address Liana. “You have retrieved my bird. I am most grateful.”
“Shucks,” Liana said, approaching the blue robed saur tenderly. The parrot’s talons really dug in her arm. “Never hurts to help.”
“How may I repay your service to me?” Abdullah asked as he gently collected the parrot.
Liana shook her head. “Aww, that’s okay! I don’t—”
The parrot shrieked. “Table for two! Table for two!”
Abdullah stared conspiringly at his white parrot, then returned his gaze to Liana and Sebastian. “I must insist. A table for two at the Rainforest café. Anything you want. I will provide free of charge. Might I—” he turned, treading back towards his café “—suggest the vanilla chai latte.”
Liana chanced a glance at Sebastian. Her enthusiasm matched his. “Shall we?” she asked.
At MTT, amidst the brilliant gold, black, and purple decor, and a platoon of brand-name clothing displays, there was a clearance pants rack. To this, Liana strode. “Here’s pants,” she said aloud.
Sebastian Clefthammer gazed over her shoulder at the display of torn jeans, neon leggings, and satin slacks. “Hummm,” he said. His fingers played the rack, pulling out a pair of factory-destroyed denim, with tears all the way up to the thigh. “This one appears my size.”
Liana found an identical pair of jeans, one size shorter. “Let’s see who wears it better,” she suggested. Her nerves had calmed down now, accepting Sebastian for what he truly was; an actual guy in need of pants, and not some demigod. They both entered adjacent changing stalls, and came out to admire the pale blue torn shreds of fabric on their legs and waist.
“Wow,” Liana said. “You really make them work.”
“Do I?” Sebastian popped a hip in a seductive yet publicly-appropriate pose. “They’re quite comfortable, despite their rugged appearance.”
Liana copied Sebastian’s stance. “Yeah, they kinda are! I honestly hate them, but…” she wiggled her caboose. “These fit super good.”
A black chrome leg shot up between them, propping a metallic five-inch heel platform against Sebastian’s changing stall. “Glad you like them dear,” a smooth electronic sonnet addressed Liana.
“Miss?” A golden voice asked. Liana looked up from the mall directory, lifting the wide fold of her hat from her eyes. Posed in his signature hero’s stance, a glimmering grin beneath a sunrise of curls, it was Sebastian Clefthammer. In the flesh? Was he real? Liana cautiously poked his robust abdomen through a pink silken shirt. They felt unreal, but not in a cardboard cutout sort of way. He spoke. “Yes, it’s me.”
“I thought you were dead!” Liana cried, stepping backwards. The real deal Clefthammer? Here? At Pamnal Mall? Something was definitely fishy, ain’t no doubt about it. “Yeah, you’re dead, there’s no way you’re still alive.”
“I’ve survived a hundred deaths, miss, and am no worse for wear.” He turned his head to its good side. The profile of his chin was nothing short of beautiful from this close up. No magic could make up for the real deal.
Liana remembered to breathe. Questions bubbled up in her mind. What does one ask a celebrity? “Y-ah, I, ah, what brings you here?” she stuttered with lame casualness.
“Shopping for pants,” Sebastian sung. “Autumn’s coming, and I’m fresh out of appropriate leg-wear.” His cyan eyes scanned the directory. “Thought I’d use this map to ease my quest, but alas, I am unfamiliar with these clothing store names.” His chin turned to face Liana. “And you?”
“Helping Sebastian Clefthammer shop for pants…” she heard herself say. Her fingers tingled from the sweaty death-grip on her hat’s brim. “I uh, was gonna browse through MTT, they’ve got lots of fun stuff. Pants too.”
“Pants, you say?” Clefthammer said. “Mind if I accompany?”
“Not at all!” Liana bubbled. She spun on her two-inch heel, and stopped facing an arbitrary direction. “This way!” she called, and began marching through the mall. Sebastian floated behind her, his black buckled boots kissing the polished tiles. An unseen draft maintained his hair in a waltz.
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“All righteo!” Liana bellowed. She leaped atop a hay barrel and struck a heroic pose. “We’re off to go solve you guys’ Troll Problem!” She blinked. “Wait. Who’s we?”
The village crowd shuffled their feet awkwardly in the muddy plaza. Rain drizzled down onto half a hundred thatched houses. No one stepped forward.
Liana spread her arms. “C’mon guys! Who’s with me?”
“Well,” an older gentleman began. “We won’t stop you lass, but none of us are quite that, err, courageous. We’d rather go on paying to keep them away, no matter the expense it stresses.” A nod passed down the crowd.
Liana shrugged. “Just bein’ polite. Right then, off I—”
“i’ll go.” A guy stepped out of the crowd. He had a helmet that covered almost his entire face, and it was an old one. In his hand he gripped a rusted spear. Otherwise his attire was pretty much standard soldier garbs.
A unanimous hmph of acceptance sighed from the crowd. Liana bounded down to greet her brave companion. “Name’s Liana, what’s yours?”
“hatt.”
“Put ‘er there Hatt, we’ll be unstoppable!” She shook Hatt’s hand, then went to admiring his in-ornate helm. “Nice hard hat, Hatt. Probably a good idea, where we’re going.” She pulled out her closet key, and turned it in midair. Then she stuck her hand into an unseen hole and pulled out some protective headgear. As she did so, a second member of the crowd approached her and Hatt.
They were skinny as a scarecrow, and dressed like one too, complete with a bag of burlap covering their face entirely. Although they had no weapon, in an earth-encrusted glove sat a handy looking mattock. A wood cookie hung over their twig neck read “Talos.” They extended a hand.
Liana plopped her utilitarian headgear on, and took ahold of the scarecrow person’s salutation. “You comin’ too, err, Talos?”
Talos nodded silently.
“Well, great! Let’s go give these trolls a talking.”
They headed out of the village, and into the hills, where a honeycomb scattering of caves sat. The team did not get far before a pack of trolls leaped down from the a cliffside, and surrounded them. Many more watched from still above, holding boulders like javelins.
“What have we here?” asked the largest and darkest troll, licking its gray lips in a menacing manner.
“My name’s—” Liana started, when the troll poked her in the chest with a finger thick as a kick.
“This one look tasty,” it said, sniffing the air. “This one too,” it added with a finger at Hatt. It glared disapprovingly at Talos. “This one all bone.”
Liana frowned. “S’matter with eating rocks? I thought you guys hated meat.”
“That racist,” the troll said. “Just because we trolls no mean we ‘hate meat.’”
“But—”
“Oy,” another troll interjected. “You three hate arsenic? You hate bleach?”
Liana shook her head.
“Why should we hate meat?”
“You guys can’t eat it.”
“Joules ate meat last year,” yet another troll shouted. “Not here because, but tch, Joules still prove you wrong!”
“So what arrogant humans doing in our neck of foot hills,” the first, and largest troll said. “Discriminating helpless trolls.”
“Well, gee mister,” Liana said, feeling like a butt. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to insult you, I just… thought it was weird you called me’n Hatt tasty.”
The troll scoffed. “Cousins,” he announced. “Where we hear that line? The ‘tasty’ bit?”
“Bandits!”
“Human rogues!”
“Yeah,” the troll said. “But when human thieves call people ‘tasty’, their diets questioned?”
Liana squinted one of her eyes. “Well, I would probably question—”
The other trolls drowned her words, chanting “NO!” angrily.
“We tired of being treat like savage beasts,” the leader troll snarled. “Village pay us handsomely to keep to our hills, but indignity of bribe start to really get to us.”
Liana felt small as a mouse, but not because she was surrounded by nine-foot trolls. Not really. “B-bribe?” she asked. “I thought the village was paying a toll or something—”
“A toll? Really, you go there? A toll.”
“W-well…”
“Suppose you expect us live under bridge too?”
“N-no, I just, the villagers made it sound like—”
“Like what, bite-size?” a very small troll the size of a bush yapped. “Like we coerce them to pay us?”
“They practically beg us,” the leader troll said. “On condition we no go town, and stay off roads. Free income was welcome first, but troll community has grown, and we need access to trade. That mean the road, and that mean village market. Meantime, in desperation, we take to banditry.”
“Well,” Liana looked at Talos. Talos scuffed the road with their boot. “Well…” Liana thought. “What if you guys made your own Troll road and market, and—”
“Suppose you willing to dig road.”
Liana shook her head. So did Hatt. Talos nodded.
“Do no good anyway,” the troll said, wringing its huge gray wrists. “We need access to wider market. That mean desegregating trade! You humans wish us trolls to keep to hills, live in caves like animals.”
“Oh gosh,” Liana said. “You guys don’t even like living in caves…”
The troll took a deep breath. It seemed to be calming down a bit. “We… we do love live in caves. It more matter of human perspective. Look,” it took a knee. “I no help notice how different entire exchange has gone from usual raid.”
“Me too,” Liana admitted. “I thought I was off to reason with some troublesome trolls. Boy was I wrong.”
“Look, miss ah…”
“Liana,” Liana curtsied.
“Liana. Thank you for listening. You literally first human to actually show interest in troll viewpoint, even if you ignorant racist.”
“And thank you,” Liana said. “For not smashing us against those jagged rocks.” She pointed to the cliffside.
The leader troll smiled a little. “Waste of good rock.”
Hatt took his helmet off. His face could’ve been any other blond haired, square-faced anybody. With a half-bored expression, he asked “hey, why were Talos and I even in this story?”
“Let’s see now…” Liana muttered as she skipped down the scatter-brick road of Chisel. “Old creepy wizard tower, old creepy wizard tower, old creepy wizard tower… aha!” She spied a grain storage tower, which had been (poorly) magified with a pointed top, windows, and a fake brick pattern indented into its pale wood walls. There were no buildings in the tower’s immediate vicinity, save an unfinished barn and abandoned ranch house. Curiously, a ring devoid of falling cottage cheese surrounded the tower with a hundred foot radius. Liana hopped along a windy path, and stood before the narrow door of the makeshift tower, beaming with excitement.
“This tower is so cool,” she said, touching the fake wood bricks. A sign on the front door read “Morgan the Tilted,” which had been hastily scratched over. New words, in vivid scarlet and hovering a couple inches in front of the sign read “Phlemn the Magnificent.” Above the word Phlemn, yet another word, brilliant purple, read “Andesite.”
Liana knocked. She heard a bump from inside, followed by the sound of furniture being knocked over. A glass something shattered. The door peeked open a crack.
“Hi there, is this Phlemn’s joint?” Liana asked the crack.
With a snap, the door flung open. A man wearing blue and white stripes running up and down his entire suit leaned suavely in the doorway. His bowtie was twice the width of his golden-topped head, and he wore white gloves and blue shoes. “This is he,” he said.
“Hi Phlemn! Name’s Liana. You can call me Li.”
“And please,” said Phlemn, “call me Andy. Short for Andesite, because I rock.”
Liana giggled. “That’s so lame. I’mma call you Loogie because your name sounds like Phlegm—”
“Do not.” The wizard stiffened his stance. “Do. Not. And besides it is pronounced ‘Fleem,’ not ‘phlegm.’”
“Everyone in Chisel says it ‘phlegm.’”
“Twits and losers, I assure you.”
“N’so did Mama Mycelium the two-thousand year old mushroom who sent me here.”
Andy Phlemn glared around at the quiet cheese-befallen village. “Come inside, miss.”
“Liana.”
“Now.” Andy took hold of Liana’s wrist and dragged her into the grain storage. The door slammed silently behind her.
