Slimy Underbelly

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Finally, Jody’s cape drooped and his shoulders slumped. He reached up with a gloved hand and pulled back the clinging hood to reveal his red hair. “Golly, I didn’t really think through the whole world-domination thing, Mr. Chambeaux.”

  “It’s all right, Jody,” I said. “Not many supervillains do.”

  The shadow webs enclosing the chamber dissipated, and I climbed the dais steps to pat the kid on the shoulder. He adjusted his black Spandex outfit, tugging at the folds. Although he’d worked hard on the automated self-donning feature, he hadn’t perfected the details of how to get the suit back off again.

  Outside the main entrance to the ceremonial chamber, I heard more splashing as people arrived. Sheyenne’s beautiful ethereal form flitted in first. “We’ve been looking all over the place for you, Beaux! These sewers are confusing.”

  Behind my ghost girlfriend came a determined-looking Robin, as well as Miz Mellivar from the Mad Scientists Patent Office. “There is no standardized map of the sewers,” grumbled the DAMP. “I’m going to file a complaint with the UQ Water and Sewer Highway Department.”

  Miz Mellivar seemed not to notice the broken altar stone, the crowded amphibious supplicants, the toppled porcelain throne, and the police still struggling to claw off the clinging tar globs.

  The Deputy Assistant Manager of Patents pointed at Jody. “You don’t fool me, young man. You’re the one who broke into my office and stole your records, design sketches, and prototypes.”

  Jody pouted. “I needed those X-ray Spex to find my stuff. Besides, they’re mine in the first place.”

  “They were submitted for patent applications,” Miz Mellivar said, “and they were currently under review, pending thorough testing in our special labs. Your evil powers and super weapons might have been dangerous.”

  Jody sighed. “Sometimes I just get impatient.”

  “You’ll have to surrender the items. Please take off your Dr. Darkness!!! suit and get back into your street clothes.”

  Robin said, “We’ll send a note to your camp counselor explaining that not only did your inventions work, you already used them to kick some serious demon butt.”

  “And I’ll write up a letter of recommendation from Chambeaux and Deyer,” Sheyenne added. “I’m sure they’ll accept you back next year.”

  Jody brightened. “Then I can go on to the advanced level.” He struggled to peel off the dark suit, but even though his body had shrunk from its previous muscular physique, the black Spandex was ruthlessly clingy. Robin and I helped him, and soon enough he was just a brainy, sheepish kid again.

  Jody handed over the wadded supervillain outfit. “I only wanted people to like me.”

  I tousled his hair; I couldn’t help it—he was the sort of wholesome young man who seemed to demand that treatment. “Don’t worry about it. I like you better as a nerdy kid anyway.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Stentor the ogre, who had been miserable for days, was now overjoyed to be reunited with his long-lost frog and, as soon as we could arrange it, with his long-lost voice.

  After I brought the frog back from the sewers, the contented spotted creature sat in one of Robin’s plastic lunch containers. When I held out the frog to him, Stentor gave me an exuberant thankful embrace that was going to require an earlier-than-usual restoration spell from the Wannovich sisters. I swung the plastic container out of the way to keep it safe (otherwise the ogre’s enthusiasm would have crushed the frog, resulting in an unsatisfying end to the case for all concerned, including the frog).

  Stentor also gave a huge, and intangible, bear hug to Sheyenne, who giggled and didn’t mind at all. When the ogre attempted to do the same to Robin, I intervened. “Our office has a strict no-damage-to-my-legal-partner policy.”

  “Sorry,” he said, still in his embarrassing squeak. He gingerly took the plastic container in his ham-sized hands and made little cooing noises down at the contented frog. “Hello there.”

  The frog echoed in a much more Stentorious voice, “Hello there.”

  The ogre looked up at me. “So how do I get my voice back? Do I swallow the frog again?”

  The frog eerily echoed the same words, although I don’t believe the creature knew what it was saying.

  “I suggest we leave that to the experts.”

  Because this was a happy occasion, we all went together to the Howard Phillips Publishing offices. In the lobby waiting area, two full-furred werewolves stood around, comparing each other’s pin-striped suits and lapel flowers; I assumed the marketing department was still taking auditions for the role of Lou Lupine, Werewolf P.I.

  For once, none of us caused any security problems, and we all trooped up to the thirteenth floor.

  The two witch sisters were waiting in their editorial offices; Alma sat in her kiddy pool filled with mud again, relaxing with a stack of manuscript pages off to one side. Both witches were extremely eager to hear how I—“Dan Shamble, Zombie P.I.”—had managed to solve another thrilling and undeath-defying case. They had even brought in Linda Bullwer, the frumpy vampire ghostwriter who wrote the series of novels “based on” my adventures, under the pen name Penny Dreadful. Bullwer had her notepad and a pointy-toothed smile ready for me when we entered the offices.

  “We have the frog,” I said, “as instructed.”

  Robin had offered to carry the plastic container, but Stentor wouldn’t let go of it. Now, he set the frog down on Mavis’s desk, while Linda Bullwer took notes and then embellished them with a flourish. “This is going to be very exciting! An explosive ending to another convoluted mystery.”

  “Explosive?” Stentor squeaked. “You’re not going to blow up my frog!”

  “The vocal reunification spell does not require that,” Mavis reassured him. “But be aware, the spell is experimental.”

  “What are the possible side effects?” Robin asked, always the lawyer. “Can I see the fine print in the spell?”

  Mavis handed her the dusty old book, and Robin studied the language, frowning as she concentrated. “It says the spell designer assumes no responsibility.”

  Mavis nodded. “You’ll have to absolve Howard Phillips Publishing of any and all blame. Alma and I are all too familiar with how a misprint can make a spell go terribly wrong.” Sitting in her mud-filled kiddy pool, the sow agreed. “Now that we’re on the other side of the editorial desk, we have to protect our company and our jobs.”

  Concerned, Robin turned to the ogre. “Mr. Stentor, I advise that you not agree to this until I’ve had a chance to review the spell and consider all possible ramifications.”

  The ogre, however, was anxious and distraught. “I need my voice back, and I need it now! I can’t stand this hell I’ve been living in.” The statement would have been dramatic, except for the breathy thinness of his voice, echoed by the frog.

  Robin seemed about to argue, but I put a hand on her arm. “It’s his choice. We know how much this means to him.”

  Sitting in its plastic container, the frog didn’t seem to have an opinion.

  Mavis made the spell preparations while Linda Bullwer took reference photographs with her camera. Alma climbed out of her pool, dripping mud around the office, as she went to the plate-glass windows that looked out on the sprawling jumble of the Unnatural Quarter. With her snout, the sow smeared designs on the glass.

  “What was that for?” I asked Mavis.

  “Protective spells to reinforce the windows.”

  “Why do we need that?”

  “Just in case.”

  I didn’t ask what “just in case” meant.

  After she had her candles lit and her spell designs drawn, Mavis bent over the printed verses, moving her lips as she silently practiced the words. She cleared her throat. “And now for the frog.”

  Gently, Stentor cradled the spotted creature, which looked resigned and dejected as the ogre placed him inside his mouth again. Mavis re-read the spell, then cross-referenced another passage. Stentor mouthed a garbled sound, care
ful not to crunch or otherwise damage the frog in his throat. I think he was saying, “Hurry up.”

  Mavis dutifully worked the spell.

  Sheyenne, Robin, Linda Bullwer, and I stood out of the way, watching the magical pyrotechnics—which were not nearly as impressive as Ah’Chulhu’s efforts to open a cosmic sewer grate and unleash the effluent hordes from the Nether regions. Nevertheless, I’m always impressed to see professionals practice something that I can’t do myself.

  When it was over, Stentor clutched his throat and began hacking and coughing, until the frog flew out onto the desktop. Though an amphibian should be accustomed to slime, the frog did not seem pleased by its intimate acquaintance with ogre mucus.

  The frog opened its mouth, flicked out its tongue, then let out a normal-sounding croak. I took that as a very good sign.

  Eyes wide with hope, the ogre tried to speak, but only a tight noise came out. He frowned, cleared his throat with great vigor, picked up the plastic container, and filled it with an ogre-size wad of phlegm. Then he spoke again in a loud and deep voice. “Ah, that’s better!”

  His large lips inflated with a smile. He pounded his chest and hummed a loud thrumming note; then with immense exuberance he let out a continuous caterwauling that sounded like a banshee being strangled.

  The office windows shuddered during this atonal ear-piercing wail, as if trying to cringe out of their seals. The protective wards Alma had snout-smeared on the plate glass glowed bright, reinforcing the panes—and the windows held.

  By the time Stentor finished his hideous sonic torture and fell silent, my ears were ringing. I groaned at the two witches. “Now what went wrong?”

  “Why, nothing, Mr. Chambeaux,” said Mavis. “His voice has been restored perfectly.”

  Stentor had a huge grin on his face. “Just the way I used to sound!”

  Sheyenne drifted close, shaking her head as if it was all she could do not to give up on me. “That’s opera, Beaux.”

  On the day of the Wuwufo election, Thunder Dick returned to our offices, tense and fidgety as he waited for the results, but he forced himself to be optimistic. His wizard robe had been freshly laundered, and the colors were bright and vibrant. It was strange to see him without the tuxedo cat at his ankles.

  Sheyenne suggested, “Have you thought about getting another kitten, Mr. Thudner?”

  “Right now the pain is too fresh,” he said with a loud sigh. “Morris left me, and with the pressure from the campaign, I’m afraid—heck, I’m petrified—but I will survive. I can do just fine without him. In fact, I’ve given up on relationships. I’ve had my heart broken by a cat and by Ma’Chulhu. I’ll be a lone wolf from now on.” He happily showed us his portable sundial talisman, which now hung where it belonged at his throat. “I’m focused on my political ambitions. I can promise clear skies and a sunny day for the Wuwufo election. That’ll encourage a high turnout at the polls.”

  “How did you get your talisman back from the frog demon who swallowed it?” I asked.

  Thunder Dick self-consciously wiped the small sundial on the front of his robe and dropped his voice. “Don’t ask.” He prepared to leave. “Wish me luck. I still have some last-minute campaigning to do—don’t forget to cast your vote.”

  “Only full Wuwufo members are allowed to vote,” I reminded him.

  “Well, I hope you’ll watch the election returns tonight. It’ll be on all the weather channels.”

  “We wouldn’t miss it,” Robin said.

  Later that night, after the polls closed, we turned on the station to watch as the vapid brunette and the smiling Ken Doll reported the results . . . which did not, after all, take very long to tally. The weather networks made the call.

  “With all precincts reporting,” said the brunette, “the total vote count is one vote for Alastair Cumulus the Third.” She giggled.

  “And one vote for Thunder Dick,” Ken Doll added. “The Wuwufo election is a draw.”

  We switched to the other networks, but they all announced the same results. Their reporters scrambled out to get interviews, reactions from the average creature on the street. A group of investigative meteorologists spoke with the erudite and pompous Alastair Cumulus III. “My foggy bottom! Wuwufo was never a large organization, but most members don’t even bother to vote.”

  When they talked to Thunder Dick, he was miffed but determined. “I’m going to demand a recount!”

  Alastair Cumulus vowed he would take the matter all the way to the Supreme Court, if necessary.

  Outside, through no intervention whatsoever from the weather wizards, it began to rain.

  With Junior Mad Scientist Camp over for the season, it was time for Jody Caligari to return to his mundane life doing small-scale experiments with a chemistry set in the garage, and going back to school, where he would have to endure gym class, cafeteria food, and talking to girls. He also promised to take a civics class, so that he could better understand world domination and megalomania, as well as the related infrastructure and logistics, should he decide to pursue that as a career path.

  Robin gave the boy a big hug. “You keep up with your studies and get good grades in school. I wasn’t kidding—we all see a lot of potential in you.”

  “I know I’m smart,” Jody said, without sounding smug about it. “The other kids always tease me, call me a brain.”

  “What’s wrong with having a brain?” I said. “Lots of zombies like brains.”

  “My parents want me to be a doctor—not even a mad doctor.”

  “I was a med student,” Sheyenne said. “The skills are pretty useful, and you could always add the ‘mad’ part later.”

  “Or, you could become a lawyer,” Robin suggested.

  “We should let the kid make up his own mind,” I said. “You don’t have to set the entire course of your life yet, at least not until puberty.”

  “I’m almost to puberty,” Jody said, and his voice cracked ridiculously.

  I tousled the kid’s hair again, because I simply couldn’t resist. “I’ve set up a surprise for you. Come down to the street, and we’ll send you home in style.”

  Mystified, Jody followed me down the stairs and out onto the front steps. We waved hello to Mr. Renfeld, who slouched in the hallway like a pile of rags in a folding chair.

  Outside, McGoo was waiting for us in full uniform, leaning against a squad car. Seeing us, he lifted a hand and came to greet the blue-eyed, freckle-faced kid. “Hello, young man,” he said in his best Officer Friendly impression. “I have an important question for you.”

  The boy blinked his eyes. “What’s that, Officer?”

  “Why did the Cyclops professor stop teaching?”

  Jody was puzzled. “Why?”

  “Because he had only one pupil.” He, too, tousled the boy’s hair.

  “McGoo, don’t scare the kid,” I said, then turned to the young man. “How would you like a police escort out of the Quarter? It’ll impress your parents.”

  “Oh, gee, will it ever! I’ve never ridden in a police car before.”

  McGoo gestured to the squad car at the curb. “If you do decide to become a supervillain, you’ll have plenty of chances to ride in the back. Today, you can sit up front with me.”

  McGoo was in good spirits, since he had heard nothing more from his ex. He also felt good because he had managed to help C.H., who had been left homeless by the destruction of the Recompose Spa. Since wandering hands cause a lot of trouble, McGoo had arranged for C.H. to get a job with the UQPD working in the precinct station to help fingerprint suspects. “He’s now a member of the police force,” McGoo had said. “Get it, a member—”

  “Got it right away,” I had said. At least it wasn’t one of his worst jokes.

  Jody was beaming with anticipation for his squad car escort. The kid gave Robin another hug, tried to hug Sheyenne, and firmly shook my hand. “Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

  “Work hard at saving the world, Jody, and make us proud,�
� I said.

  He climbed into the front seat of the cruiser next to McGoo, who drove away, turning on the sirens and flashers just to thrill his passenger.

  “And that,” Robin said with great satisfaction, “is why we do pro bono work.”

  CHAPTER 48

  It was opening night at the opera house, and we attended the first performance of Cats—because we had to, according to Sheyenne. She told me that it wasn’t an actual opera by any means, but it was a start. Baby steps.

  I wore my best suit, my burial suit, and Sheyenne manifested a sexy green cocktail dress, which certainly made my spirits rise. She wore special elbow-length gloves, which allowed us to hold hands. And in her glittery white dress Robin managed to appear less like a hardworking lawyer than a presently undiscovered supermodel. Those two ladies looked damned good, and with them accompanying me I felt like the luckiest zombie in the Quarter.

  I didn’t know much about the musical Cats other than the fact that it featured actors singing and dancing while dressed up in cat costumes. What could be better? The Phantom’s new revival was a unique production, though, because it included a cast of actual cats as well as the costumed ones. (And many of the performers were also unnaturals.)

  As part of my continuing cultural education, Sheyenne instructed me that we would have to see a true opera one of these days, something like Don Giovanni, which had made Stentor famous. Cats, though, was supposedly more of a crowd-pleaser, something more comprehensible to the layman, you know, like people in cat costumes singing and dancing.... Well, at least it wasn’t in Italian. The Phantom insisted that art was all well and good, but he also needed to make a buck to keep the doors open, especially now that he had lost Ah’Chulhu’s patronage of his private singing school for girls.

  As the crowd settled for the show, I spotted Thunder Dick in one of the front-row seats. He still wore his bright multicolored robe, but he had added a bow tie for the formal occasion, because bow ties were cool. He clung to one of the program booklets, flipping through, then going back to the page that showed the supporting cast.