Comedic Fantasy Bundle #1: 4 Hilarious Adventures (Tales from the land of Ononokin)

by John P. Logsdon

  “Wasn’t like you had much of a choice,” said Teggins. “Now, get out of my carriage. I’ll speak with Grubby before he leaves.”

  Modacio stepped out without a further word.

  Grubby knew what this was all about. Teggins was always looking for ways to get the Dark Halfling out of the office. Grubby knew too much about the Thieves Union and that made him a threat. It wasn’t like it was his fault. How could he help but stumble upon information when he was thumbing around the offices in the middle of the night holding a tiny flashlight?

  “Before you go getting all riled up, Grubby,” Teggins said, “you’re the man for the job. I don’t trust very many people and I know that you trust even fewer.”

  Grubby sort of shrug-nodded, being that it was true.

  “But if she really does have access to the final step and she can really pull it together, we’ll be rich. I’m not talking wealthy, here. I’m talking rich. The kind of rich where wealthy people look at you in the hopes that you’ll drop them some of your table scraps.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Grubby, not believing that crap one bit. “Or it could be that you just don’t like me being around the office all that much.”

  “I’m sure that has nothing to do with it,” said Teggins with a cough. Then he clasped his hands and began rubbing them together. “Regardless of my motivation, you’re the man for the job. You might want to put an immediate halt on the removal of Modacio’s head since I’m sure any heads floating next to hers will be duly chopped off as a matter of course.”

  “Yeah,” Grubby said, purposefully opening his ePad, something that Teggins forbade in his carriage.

  There was a pause that let Grubby know it had indeed bothered his current boss.

  Finally, Teggins said, “once she brings back the pills and everything checks out, we’ll knock her off and be done with it.”

  “She’s not going to tell us anything,” argued Grubby. “If she does get the pills, that’ll be all we get out of her, I’d bet.”

  “We’ll get the info,” said Teggins with a ghastly grin.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I’ll have my key man there taking notes the entire time.”

  Grubby rolled his eyes and started to step out of the carriage. “You can double-cross her all you want, Teggins,” he said, “but if you try to stick a knife in my back, you know how that’s going to end.”

  “You being dead on account of a knife in your back?”

  “I think you know my capabilities better than that,” Grubby said coldly.

  “All right, little man,” said Teggins with a hiss. “You just remember who your boss is.”

  “For now,” Grubby said and then he jumped down onto the gravel road. “For now.”

  MAKING PROGRESS

  Depression was the leading cause of decay in Zombies, according to the research done by the renowned psychologist, Dr. Bunk Mozatto.

  The rest of the scientific community had found flaws in his research, pointing out that there was plenty of documented evidence suggesting that the real leading cause of physical deterioration in Zombies was, well, being a Zombie.

  Dr. Mozatto, an Orc by nature, disagreed, sort of. What he meant was that depression was the number one cause of accelerating their already accelerated rate of disrepair. To be fair, he noted, other races decayed over time, too, Zombies just did so in a near-eternal sort of way.

  In an effort to prove his theory, Dr. Mozatto had done a double-blind study where he took two blind Zombies and checked their emotional states and their average daily decay rate over a three week period. He’d had them “watch” soundless GnomeTube videos for three hours a day over the course of yet another three weeks while also keeping tabs on their flesh-drop rate. Then he compared those values.

  His findings suggested that having blind Zombies watch mute videos proved inconclusive.

  On a whim, he tried another test where he did the same measurements, but instead of using videos as a means of testing, he had one of the subjects smile for 20 minutes twice a day. His thinking was based on noticing that when some of his normal patients seemed happy on certain days, they were smiling more. After reading a few books on mood and smiling, topics that were not discussed all that much at the Orc Institute of Psychology, he thought that maybe there was some correlation. Sure enough, the Zombie that smiled more often had a significantly lower rot-rate than the one who didn’t smile at all. Lack of teeth notwithstanding, the act of twisting one’s face into a smiling pose seemed effective.

  The Ononokin Psychological Society awarded him with a medal for his research, making him the go-to guy for Zombies who were seeking treatment. Unfortunately, this wasn’t exactly a boon to his business since the Zombie population was less than 500 in all of Ononokin, last checked, and most of them didn’t bother with learning about awards handed out by the Ononokin Psychological Society, especially not to an Orc psychologist who was practicing in the Dark Halfling land of Dogda.

  Bob had read Dr. Mozatto’s biography at least fifty times since he began visiting. There was not much else to do when sitting in a waiting room, after all, especially for a Zombie. He was discouraged from picking up magazines since other patients, and the general populace, believed the misconception that Zombieism was contagious.

  It wasn’t.

  The only way to contract Zombieism was the same way that Bob got it, which was to be bitten by a Vampire.

  The Coalition Against The Proliferation Of Zombies (CATPOZ) had sworn that the only way you could catch Zombieism was to bitten by a Zombie.

  This misinformation, and the CATPOZ organization itself, was due to a public relations firm hired by both Viq and Vaq—the two predominant homes of Vampires—that had been hired to work on the image of Vampires. It was the only thing that the two countries ever worked on together, as they thoroughly despised each other.

  But the CATPOZ statement was patently false. All one had to do to diffuse the logic was to look into the mouth of a Zombie. They had no teeth!

  CATPOZ argued that the undead rotters may be lacking in the way of teeth, but, being that deviousness was in their nature—provable by the fact that they’d obviously tricked death, at least metaphysically speaking, and purposefully exempting the fact that Vampires did the same thing—Zombies assuredly could have worked out how to have pointy gums.

  Bob recalled the day he was infected. It was some 17 years ago when he was nearing his 30th birthday. A stunningly attractive Vampire had come into town explaining the virtues and long-life benefits of Vampireness—an elite club of superior beings that could pursue most any dream because of their extreme length of life. All Bob had to do was sign the forms and take part in the ritual. It was a good time to be alive because the Vampires were only allowed to do induction rituals once every 100 years. Bob had signed the papers without reading them, paid the obligatory coins, and then felt the sharp, stabbing pain of fangs before he passed out.

  Two days later he awoke to sad-looking faces.

  “So rare,” they were saying. “Such a shame.”

  Instead of becoming a Vampire, as the salesperson had promised, Bob’s immune system had fought the Vampirism and converted the incoming virus into Zombieism.

  “One in a million chance,” the Vampire’s said.

  He’d tried to sue, but the fine print on the papers he signed had explained that this was one of the many risks of undergoing the procedure.

  “Bob!” the nurse chirped, bringing Bob back to the present.

  “Oh,” Bob said as he carefully got out of his chair so as not to leave any loose parts of his person behind. “Sorry.”

  She smiled in that not-so-friendly way that Bob had grown used to. “The doctor will see you now.”

  Dr. Mozatto peered over his wire-rimmed glasses as Bob walked in. It looked rather strange to see glasses on such a ghastly looking Orc.

  Orcs were, generally speaking, not the most kind creatures. Dr. Mozatto had always betrayed this stere
otype, once you got past the fact that he was exceedingly tall and muscular, had jutting teeth, a perpetually angry stare, an incessant habit of cracking his knuckles, a bit of that Orcish lack of verbal filter where they said what they were thinking regardless of the circumstances, and the fact that he grunted a lot.

  “Have you been doing your smiling exercises, Bob?” Dr. Mozatto asked in his doctorly way as he motioned Bob to lie down on the plastic-covered couch.

  Bob sighed and then gingerly lowered himself. He was envious of those who got to relax on the much larger couch that sat on the other side of the room. It was nice and leathery whereas his assigned lounger was tucked in the corner and was full of lumps.

  “Most of the time,” Bob replied, his mouth making a watery sound with each word. “I find it difficult to remember when so much of the world is, frankly, just horrible.”

  Dr. Mozatto grunted and started writing. “Stupid Zombie don’t follow directions,” he said, speaking as he wrote, which Bob often found only furthered his depression, “At this rate he’ll be completely rotted away in half the time of a normal Zombie.” He looked back up and said, “You gotta do the things I tells ya, Bob. If you don’t stick with the plan, you ain’t gonna get any better.”

  “I know,” Bob said as if he believed the good doctor, which he didn’t. “It’s just, well, imagine spending your days avoiding everyone because they all say how bad you smell.”

  “I’m an Orc, Bob.”

  “Oh, right. Well, okay, but do you wake up with pieces of your flesh missing?”

  “Rarely.”

  “It’s rare when I don’t,” Bob said tiredly. “And that assumes that I can even get to sleep.”

  “Sleepy pills not working?”

  “No,” Bob stated with a shake of his head. It had said right on the bottle that the pills would not work for Zombies due to their inability to absorb the chemicals needed to induce sleep.

  “Maybe try warm milk?”

  Bob wanted to argue, but saw no point. The man who was supposed to be the authority on Zombies had little clue in regard to their physiology, even if he was mildly helpful from a psychological standpoint. Mostly, Bob had decided to start these appointments because he believed it was a way for him to express his frustration to someone who would not judge him. Too bad for Bob that he had selected an Orc for a doctor.

  “Anyway,” Bob said, ignoring the suggestion, “the lack of sleep, the fact that people avoid me wherever I go, and the reality that I can barely hold down even the simplest job, just makes me wonder why I even bother to go on.”

  “Patient is showing signs of being suic…soo…s…o…u…” Dr. Mozatto paused his writing and looked around the room as if thinking, and then his brow furrowed and he refocused on his little book. He scratched at the pad back and forth and then continued his notes. “Patient wants to do himself in. Won’t, though, ‘cause he’s a chicken. Well, he’s a Zombie, really, but I’m just using the word ‘chicken’ to point out that he ain’t really gonna do himself in.”

  Bob sighed again. Truth was that Dr. Mozatto was right. Bob wouldn’t actually do anything that would end his own life. Not on purpose, anyway. As bad as life was sometimes, it was nothing compared to the lengths a Zombie would have to go to end it all.

  “You still having them pigeon dreams, Bob?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “They changed at all or are they the same?”

  “Recently the pigeons have stopped pecking at my eyes.”

  “Well, that’s something, at least.”

  “Now they peck at my brain instead.”

  “Hmmm,” the doctor said in a grunting way. “I will have to check with my dream specialist to see what that means.” He jotted something down and then looked back up. “How’s the paranoia going?”

  “It’s still there,” Bob answered. “Hard for it not to be when everyone looks at me the way they do, like they want me dead.”

  “Technically, Bob—”

  “I know, I know, but you know what I mean.” Against his better judgment, he plodded on. “And there’s that special that was on a few months ago about people using Zombie parts for medicinal purposes.”

  “We talked about this before, Bob,” Dr. Mozatto said like a father speaking to a child that was finding it hard to sleep due the absolute belief that there was a monster living under its bed.

  “Yeah,” Bob replied gloomily, “but it’s just…sick, you know? I mean, it’s like we’re second-class citizens.”

  “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Bob,” said the doctor, “but you’re kinda more like a dead citizen.”

  “Undead,” Bob corrected him.

  “Semantics,” Dr. Mozatto said with a shrug. “Point is that you ain’t quite even at the second-class level, if you catch my drift.”

  Bob did. It had been a struggle since day one of his infection. He’d tried to get a lawyer to represent him against the Vampires. His argument was that the print regarding the possibility of Zombieism was in a font so small that you’d need one of those fancy Gnome-built microscopes to even read it. Not a single lawyer would take the case, though, stating that there were no actual rights that they could defend for someone who had already passed on.

  “Besides, Bob, some of them medicines have made lives better. The living type of lives, I mean.”

  “Right,” Bob said, sinking down in his depressed way. “Who cares about the poor Zombie losing a finger as long as some snot-nosed Dwarf ends up with a clear complexion?”

  “See? Now you’re getting the contribution that you can bring to the table as a people.”

  “Sure, sure, sure,” Bob said with his hands in the air, “and let’s not forget about the improvement that one Zombie donated, via his entire leg, when the Ogres under the Greyogre transit system ran into that epidemic of a toenail fungus that caused them a bit of mild discomfort. And, it should be noted that when I say ‘donate’ what I really mean is that it was ripped from his person without so much as a how-do-ya-do?”

  Dr. Mozatto was beaming. “I gotta say, Bob, you’re startin’ to show signs of improvement today!”

  “Hard not to, doc! I mean, just think of how the Zomboner Corporation took all sorts of chunks out of Zombies in order to create their wonderful erectile dysfunction treatment pills.”

  “Elfagra,” Dr. Mozatto said slowly, with a faraway look. “It’s a shame they never got that product to work. The science for it was there. They just couldn’t, excusing the pun, pull it off. Poor guys that were part of the test-case, though.” The doctor shook his head mournfully. “Could you imagine waking up one day and finding your ding-ding was missing?”

  Bob looked at him blankly. “Couldn’t imagine it, doc.”

  “Horrible.”

  Ding!

  “Ah, well, time’s up,” Dr. Mozatto said. “Have a good week, Bob. Remember, you gotta do those smile exercises if you wanna slow down the, uh, shedding process.”

  As Bob walked out he could hear the doctor finishing up his notes. “Patient made decent progress today. Not on the hygiene front, of course. Still smells like a rotting corpse, which I suppose makes sense. And people tell me I smell bad!”

  Bob shut the door and found his way out of the building and into the overcast world that matched perfectly with the way he felt about his mere existence.

  It seemed that even the droplets of rain made right-angles to avoid touching his skin.

  A DAY AT THE PARK

  Perkder Stonepebble wasn’t the type of Dwarf that liked being underground. He found it dark and dismal, not to mention stuffy and somewhat smelling of Dwarf. His world was full of bright colors, long walks, beaches, dancing, sunshine, and a true love of wearing all sorts of costumes as befitted whatever the monthly activity was for the CosPlay Posse, a group of costume wearers of which he was a founding member.

  His shift at the famous Halfly’s Park was closing in and that was a sad thing for the likes of Perkder. Unlike the majority of employees at the p
ark, Perkder enjoyed the customers. He had fun helping them find rides and cakes and cones and whatever else they wanted to keep their chocolaty adventure going. Plus, he got to wear all sorts of costumes while on the job.

  “Perkder,” Finver Snickings, his supervisor, called out as Perkder was putting away his things.

  “Yes?” Perkder called back operatically.

  Finver sneered as he always did. “Get in my office.”

  “On my way!” Perkder said and then commenced to skipping toward the main building.

  He patted a child on the head as he bounced and twisted merrily through the crowds of people. They were all giggling or even outright laughing at the sight of a Dwarf acting so bubbly. Perkder felt his spirits soar at this because he loved nothing more than to make people smile. Well, except maybe wearing costumes.

  Perkder took the steps two at a time and glided in to Finver’s office, saying “Ta-Da!”

  Finver grunted, pointed at the chair in front of his desk, and said, “Sit.”

  Perkder sat and looked across at the gruff little man. While Perkder was a bit on the large side for a Dwarf, Finver was rather small for a Dark Halfling. He was completely bald, which was odd, and he was the only one of his kind that Perkder could recall seeing who was in constant need of a shave. It begged the question of whether or not Finver was fully Dark Halfling.

  “We need to talk about your behavior again,” Finver said tiredly.

  “Oh?”

  “You’re not upholding the tradition that built Halfly’s Park from nothing to what it is today. Everyone else does their job here like they’re supposed to. But you…well, you either have to get it fixed or get another job.”

  Perkder winced. What had he done wrong? He thought over the day to see if anything stuck out as odd. He’d saved one little girl from the log flume, where she’d fallen directly into the deep end of the spill off; he’d helped a young couple find true love by suggesting that they check out The Dastardly Dungeon, a ride that had a tendency of causing lots of hand holding; he’d led a small, makeshift parade from one end of the park to the other, bringing smiles to easily fifty people who had joined the procession; he’d helped a portly fellow find a few packets of relish….ah-hah!