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

by John P. Logsdon

  “What about you?” asked Kone after Yeb walked up to the wheel.

  “Me?” said Bob, pursing his lips. “I think I’ve just found a way to make a living helping Zombies get their lives back. I have the unique perspective of knowing what they’re going through, and I know how to get them healed. Feels like I have little choice but to follow my new life’s calling.”

  “Gerd moon….gerd moon.”

  “What?”

  “Him says yer a good man.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Bob said, thinking back over his years, “but I do know that I’m a fortunate one.”

  EPILOGUE

  Modacio and Grubby shared the title of Employee of the Month more times than anyone ever had in the sewage system on Lesang. They’d even started a medium-sized family as the years went by.

  As a favor to Kone, Master Wizard Redler had gone to the Underworld to have a word with Teggins regarding the two former thieves. With the help of Kone, the wizard explained that if anything were to happen to either the Human or the Dark Halfling, he would personally put out a Wizard Bounty on Teggins’s head.

  Teggins begrudgingly agreed, but only after Kone’s particular skills were utilized to bonk the memories out of a few particular members of the law that had a lot of dirt on the Thieves Guild.

  * * *

  Bob and Perkder had spent the next 10 years working through the bureaucracy of getting the Underworld and Upperworld to a state of allowing Zombies to come up through Lesang and across to Flaymtahk Island in order to seek healing. With the help of the wealthy residents of Lesang, they nearly eradicated Zombieism from all the members of the Underworld. There were a few that had no interest in being healed, which was beyond odd, but some people just seemed to relish self-loathing.

  Perkder took his portion of the proceeds to take the CosPlay Posse to the next level, bringing it into the Upperworld and expanding it into many more regions in the Underworld. With a bit of backing and business acumen that he’d gotten from a few Lesang merchants, specifically Mr. White and his two new assistants, Bledstone and Johnson, Perkder was now collecting annual dues, running events, and making a killing on the market. He had gotten so wealthy, in fact, that he now had his own mansion in Lesang.

  Bob’s life had become one of legend.

  He was revered by many as being the Zombie savior. He had even written the book, Bob the Zombie, in an effort to show others what the life of a Zombie was really like. It hit #1 on the charts and stayed there for nearly a year.

  The only thing that Bob was missing was immortality, or at least something close to it.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” asked Perkder as Bob lay on the table in Viq.

  “It was a one in a million chance the first time, Perkder,” he replied with a smile. “To happen twice would defy the odds completely.”

  “Yeah, but if it does happen again, Red says that the lava treatment might not work.”

  “We don’t know that for certain.”

  “He seems pretty smart about these things.”

  Bob grimaced. “You have a lot of years ahead of you, Perkder. I’ve got maybe thirty. This will give me a shot at another thousand years.”

  “It’s your life, Bob,” Perkder said finally, patting his friend on the shoulder.

  * * *

  It happened again.

  Fortunately, Red was wrong. The lava treatment did work effectively.

  Bob tried once again each year through illegal channels since Vampires weren’t allowed to infect people with their disease except every 100 years, but he just kept contracting Zombieism every time until he finally gave up at the ripe old age of 83.

  “It’s been an interesting life,” he said to his old friend Perkder. “I hold the Milgness Book of Underworld Records for turning into and being healed from Zombieism more times than anyone else. That’s something, at least.”

  “Doubt that record will ever be broken,” Perkder said with a smile.

  “Hope not.”

  “You also gave Zombies everywhere a way to be healed; don’t forget that.”

  “Yes, true.”

  A shadow covered the doorway and a hulking figure came inside.

  “Kone?”

  “Yerp. It me. Sorry yer about ter die and all. Dat’s sad.”

  “Especially from my point of view,” admitted Bob.

  Red stepped inside a moment later, pointed at Perkder and Kone, and said, “Gert oot.”

  “What?”

  “Him said we gotta get out.”

  “Oh.”

  As they left, Red shut the door behind them. Then he darted around the room and shut the shades on all the windows and, for some reason, glanced up the chimney.

  He cleared his throat and pulled out a small vial.

  “Dreenk.”

  “What is it?” asked Bob suspiciously.

  It seemed to take a lot of effort, but Red slowly said, “Whut…dooo…yer…care? Yer…gorna…die…anyhoo.”

  “True,” said Bob, thinking how he’d spent years being bitten by Vampires, to no avail.

  He threw back the contents of the vial and felt heat radiate through his bones. The pain was incredible, but he felt life seeping back into his body.

  “What’s happening!”

  “Yer gooten yinger!”

  “What?!?!?”

  * * *

  Apparently, through the funding of everyone in both the old Zombie community and the residents of Lesang, Bob was given the gift of youth. His body had returned back to age of 23.

  They all felt he had deserved a longer shot at life because of all the good he’d done for the people of Ononokin.

  Bob took the opportunity to travel and see the world. He had decided that, instead of wasting his life constantly chasing immortality, he was going to focus his efforts on living a life of adventure, seeking thrills every chance he could.

  Unfortunately, he died a year later after being stepped on by a forty-foot Gorgan during a sight-seeing tour in the Gorgan Mountains.

  * * *

  One year after his death, Perkder, Red, Kone, and numerous people from Lesang had taken Bob’s ashes and spread them over the lava pits on Flaymtahk Island.

  * * *

  Rumor has it that, early in the morning on the island of lava, the voice of Bob Mermenhermen—the former Zombie who regained his Humanity, the man who had helped hundreds of Zombies be cured of their ailments, and the man who touched so many lives in such positive ways, some of whom didn’t even deserve it—can be heard yelling the final words he’d said on the day of his demise:

  “Don’t you dare step on me, you overgrown…urng….”

  A LETTER FROM DR. BUNK MOZATTO

  Hey Reader,

  Just a quick note to say thanks for picking up this book. Bottom line is my Zombie business went through the roof after Bob got all them Zombies cured and that only happened because you guys bought this book and helped make me famous.

  It turned out that a lot of Zombies suffered from PZSD (Post Zombie Stress Disorder). The once-Zombies got it in their heads that people were still treatin’ them like Zombies. Some of them even went as far as to pay people to call them names and throw stuff at them! Weird, right?

  Anyway, ‘cause of this and ‘cause I was shown in the book as being the go-to-guy for all things relating to Zombieism, I’m making a bundle at my clinic. At this rate, I’ll be able to pay back all of my student loans and retire within the next 20 years!

  But, listen, I also do other types of psychiatry, so if you’re ever in the area and in need of a shrink, look me up. Bring a copy of your book with you and I’ll even sign it…for a small fee, of course.

  Right. Well. Thanks.

  -Dr. B. M.

  INDUSTRIOUS

  Any other Gnome would have just accepted things as they were and moved on, but Gappy Whirligig was not any other Gnome. He was a Gnome with a vision. A plan. He was what you might call, industrious.

  “You’re indus
trious, Gappy,” his father told him as they sat in the dimly lit shed looking over Gappy’s latest design. “I’ll give you that. Your designs are certainly inspired.”

  Gappy nodded cheerfully as he pointed this way and that. “And here is where the rod would drop down from the top, you see? And on that I would affix blades at four points, or maybe five, I’ve not completed the mathematics on it yet.” He slid his finger to the tail section of the blueprint. “In the back would be another, smaller version. It would be used for steering and the like.”

  Hedger Whirligig sat back and rubbed his hairless chin with both hands. His goggles made his eyes look double their normal size. Gappy was envious of the way his father had balded in a semi-circle pattern with high-edged outcrops of hair circling the open field like a fence. Gappy reached up and felt the still thick mane that he’d sadly inherited from his mother’s side of the family.

  “Gappy, this is certainly … interesting.”

  “Thank you, Father. I just need a little money so that I can start …”

  “Gappy, Gappy, Gappy,” said Hedger with a heaving sigh, “you know that you’re not of age to be off tinkering on your own yet. It’s just not how things are done. Why, you’re barely even forty-two summers old!”

  “I just turned forty-two a month ago, Father,” Gappy said solemnly. “You missed the party on account of having to work.”

  Hedger adjusted his sitting position, scratched his neck, and chewed his lip. “It was a big account, Gappy. You know I wanted to be there, but since your mother passed on, may The Twelve rest her soul, I’ve been the sole breadwinner and—”

  “Father, you don’t need to explain. I know what you do for the house, mostly, but the point is that I can help.”

  “Not until you’re fifty, Gappy. That’s the rule. It’s all written up at the Guild of Inventors and everything. They couldn’t write it up if it weren’t for the best of all persons involved.”

  “It’s not fair,” Gappy said angrily. “You know as well as I do that I can tinker better than most of the lot in that blasted guild.”

  “Watch your language, young man, unless you’re itching for a time-out!”

  Gappy’s shoulders sagged and his face fell.

  Other than the fact that, statistically speaking, Gnomes under the age of 50 had more accidents per capita than those over 50, Gappy knew that this was due to most over-50 Gnomes blowing up while tinkering! While a pre-50 Gnome may have 5 or 10 accidents on his or her way to the grand Age of Tinkering, those at-or-post-50 only had, on average, a single accident. This was because those accidents were that final kind of accident, the ones where the accidentee doesn’t have the option for making any further accidents.

  “Now, I know you’ve got the heart of a tinkerer,” his father continued caringly, “but without the approval of the guild, you’ll get yourself in trouble, and that means you’ll get me in trouble. We just can’t afford such a mess, Gappy.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Chin up, now! Remember that when you turn forty-five you’ll be able to get your TLP. That’s only a few years away.”

  And it wouldn’t do much for Gappy, he thought. A Tinkering Learner’s Permit just meant that he’d be able to run about picking up supplies at stores that only actual guild members were normally allowed in. Sure, it would mean that he could puff his chest out and look down his nose at the younger Gnomes, and, yes, it would mean that he’d be given duties such as basic soldering and wire splitting, and possibly, as he edged closer to 50, he’d start working with metals and twinges of electricity, but his blueprints would just sit and gather dust until he reached the Age of Tinkering.

  “You’ll need to scoot along now, Gappy,” said Hedger while gently folding up Gappy’s blueprints. “I have to finish this project or Mr. Glassgivins is going to have my nose hairs for breakfast.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Look,” Hedger said with a smile, “head on back to the house now and crack open one of my engine books.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Don’t tell anybody, of course.” Hedger winked through the lens of his goggles. “I may just go ahead and forget I mentioned it, too.”

  “Thanks, Father,” Gappy said, feeling a spark of joy.

  “And, Gappy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell me, what are you going to call this contraption of yours?”

  Gappy cracked open the blueprint again and looked down at it. Then he reverently folded it back up and slid it under his arm, stood as tall as a Gnome could, and said, “I’m going to call it a Whirligig!”

  § § §

  As Gappy walked back to the main house there was a briskness in his step. His father had not only called him industrious, he had also given Gappy the go-ahead to read through one of the tinkerers’ sacred tomes: an engine book.

  Hedger hadn’t specified which one, either, so Gappy was free to choose from any in the list, and there were many: Water ZoomZoom, The Crank & Piston, Deadsetter’s Gears, and the one that Gappy was planning to snap up, The Spinbolt Schematics. Of all the available writings on engines, that was the book everyone talked about. It was even intimated that all the other books used The Spinbolt Schematics as a reference in more places than one.

  Gappy approached the door anxiously, but he abruptly stopped.

  Something felt wrong. Like there was a static in the air that shouldn’t be there. He’d heard this feeling described before, but he couldn’t quite place where.

  Stepping up, he saw his reflection in the glass on the front door. His hair was standing on end. That was odd, yet also familiar.

  “Oh no!”

  He spun around and started running with all his might back to his father’s shed.

  “Father!” he called out. “No! You have to get—”

  Gappy’s world suddenly split apart as the shed splintered into a million pieces. The shockwave of the blast alone had knocked Gappy over, causing him to bang his head on one of the stones that lined the walkway.

  Everything began to fade as he reached out towards the shed with tears in his eyes.

  “Father,” he whispered one last time before the darkness overtook him.

  THE AFTERLIFE

  Hedger Whirligig stood confused as a Gnome woman with a large smile helped to steady him. Something had obviously happened, but he was too disoriented to determine precisely what that was.

  “Welcome to the Afterlife,” the woman said sweetly. “Are you okay?”

  Hedger tried to bring things into focus. He remembered speaking with his son Gappy about a flying contraption that the boy wanted to build, but then it was all blurry.

  “Sir?”

  More came to him.

  He had given Gappy permission to read some of his engineering books and then sent the boy on his way. Hedger had needed to finish a project for Mr. Glassgivins and there were still a couple more hours of work to do on that.

  “Sir?” the woman said insistently, but Hedger was intent on figuring out what had actually happened to him and why he was no longer sitting in his workshop. He had work to complete before the next day!

  The image of a metal rod came into focus. Oh yes, that’s right, he’d been preparing himself to connect the flat sheet to the main rod assembly.

  Suddenly it all came back to him like a movie.

  His son had walked out the door and Hedger shook his head at the boy’s industrious nature. Then he’d clamped the flat sheet into the grip and set the rod into an adjacent grip and lined them up. Next, he’d grabbed the flame gun, adjusted his goggles to dim the brightness, stopped for a moment as he’d thought he’d smelled gas, shrugged it off as one of the normal, everyday smells that permeated his workshop, ignited the torch, heard a loud whooshing sound, and then …

  He looked up in shock. “Am I dead?”

  “Indeed, you are,” the woman said with a satisfied smile.

  “Where am I?” he asked worriedly.

  “Again, sir, you’re in the
Afterlife,” she answered, moving her arm gracefully to show the area. “This is the land of The Twelve.”

  Hedger looked around. There were lines of people from all races, mostly conglomerated with their own kind. Above each line there was a sign that listed the name of the god that the people were going to live with. He saw all twelve races represented on those placards.

  He swallowed nervously. “What happens now?”

  “It used to be that you just went through a quick security check and then off into your god’s particular area,” she said in her perky voice, “but that was changed when a wizard showed up with a Dwarf, a Giant, an Elf, a Human, and a lizard—who was actually a Dragon, but that’s another story. Anyway, they ended up getting into the Ascendant area before they were supposed to. A few of them may never be allowed in, but that’s still up for debate.”

  “This sounds familiar, actually,” Hedger said. “I think I read something about that in one of those awful novels that was on the Dakmenhem Post’s Bestseller list a couple of years back. I thought it was fiction, though.”

  “That was their book, all right,” she said with a nod. “Because of that little troop, The Twelve decided to change things around. We now greet each person who arrives in the Afterlife, ask them a few questions, and then direct them accordingly.”

  Hedger closed his eyes for a moment as the dizziness came upon him again.

  “It takes some folks time to adjust to the change,” the lady said, “but your head will clear up in no time.”

  Hedger looked to his left and found a sign that was written in a different color. It read “Agnostics.”

  “Where does that lead?”

  “To a place with sandy beaches and beautiful weather,” the Gnome host replied. “They can travel, meet people, have unfettered relationships, eat whatever they want without gaining weight, drink whatever they want without overdoing it, and just generally have a wonderful time.”