Goodgulf
P.S. How do you like the new stationery? Picked it up for a plainchant at Hambone’s Dept.!
Once again Frito’s Oink-Oink Burger rose to the occasion. Fighting down its untimely reappearance, Frito gasped, “Then we are not safe here.”
“Have no fear, lowly boggie,” said Stomper, “for I, Arrowroot of Arrowshirt,3 am with thee. Goodgulf must have spoken of me in the letter. I have many names—”
“I’m sure you do, Mr. Arrowshirt,” Frito broke in, panicking. “But it’s mud and then some if we don’t get out of here. I think somebody in this cheap joint wants my scalp, and not for a lanolin massage, either!”
Returning to the booth, Frito found the three boggies still feeding their faces. Ignoring the masked stranger, Spam grinned greasily at Frito. “Been a-wonderin’ where ye ha’ gone,” he said. “Want a bite o’ my Bow-Wow?”
Frito’s Oink-Oink sought repatriation with Spam’s Bow-Wow, but he fought it back and made room for Stomper’s long knock-knees under the table. The boggies looked at Stomper with torpid disinterest.
“I didn’t be thinkin’ it was time for trickin’ an’ treatin’ so soon,” said Spam.
Frito stayed Stomper’s wrathful hand. “Listen,” he said quickly, “this is Stomper, a friend of Goodgulf’s and a friend of ours—”
“And I have many names—” began Stomper.
“And he’s got many names, but what we have to do now is—” Frito felt a great hulk looming behind him.
“Youse jerks want t’ pay now?” rasped a voice hidden beneath a mass of blond hair and a paper snout.
“Uh, sure,” said Frito, “now your tip would be, aaah . . .” Suddenly Frito felt a strong, clawed hand reach into his pocket.
“Don’t bother, bub,” snarled the voice, “I’ll just ring this up! Haw haw haw haw haw!” With a shrill scream, Frito saw the wig fall from the head of the false piglet, revealing the burning red eyes and foul grin of a Nozdrul! As if hypnotized, Frito stared at the huge wraith’s slavering leer, noticing that each tooth had been sharpened to a razor point. Hate to have his dental bills, he thought. Frito looked around for help as the giant fiend lifted him and rifled his pockets, searching for the Great Ring.
“C’mon, c’mon,” the monster growled, growing impatient, “Let’s have it!” Eight other huge waitresses closed in, each flashing a menacing set of well-honed choppers. Cruelly they held down the three boggies, white with fear. Of Stomper there was nothing to be seen, save a pair of spurred heels shivering under the table.
“Okay, chipmunk, give!” hissed the evil one, drawing his huge black mace. “I said—yeeeeowtch!” cried the Nozdrul in pain, simultaneously letting go of Frito and jumping straight up in the air. From below the table rose a sharp, barbed blade. Stomper leaped up.
“Oh Dragonbreth! Gilthorpial!”4 he yodeled, waving his cleaver around like a madman. He lunged at the nearest wraith with his unwieldy sword. “Banzai!” he screamed. “No quarter asked or given! Damn the torpedoes!” Taking a vicious swipe, Stomper missed his mark by a good yard and tripped on his scabbard.
The nine stared at the writhing, foaming maniac with round, red eyes. The sight of Stomper filled them with awe. They stood speechless. Suddenly one of the stunned creatures began to titter, then chuckle. Another guffawed. Two more joined in, chortling loudly, and finally all nine were in the throes of hysterical, side-aching laughter. Stomper, puffing and enraged, stood up and tripped on his cape, spilling his silver bullets all over the floor. The whole dining room roared with unbelieving hilarity. Two Nozdrul collapsed to the ground, helplessly giggling. Others staggered about, great red tears rolling down their scaly cheeks, gasping for air and incapable of holding their maces. Haw haw haw! Stomper got to his feet, his face beet red with anger. He lifted his sword, and the blade fell off the handle. Haw haw haw haw haw! The Nozdrul rolled and writhed on the ground, clutching their ribs. Stomper replaced the blade, took a mighty windup, and firmly embedded the point in the cement pig. HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW!
At this point, seeing that no one was paying any attention to him, Frito picked up one of the heavy, discarded maces and calmly proceeded to beat some heads in. Moxie, Spam, and Pepsi followed his example and went among the gibbering wraiths administering random kicks to groins and breadbaskets.
Finally, the deranged Arrowroot accidentally cut the pulley ropes to the room’s main chandelier, simultaneously fixing the wagons of the semiconscious wraiths directly below and plunging the room into total darkness. The boggies dashed blindly for the door, dragging Stomper after them through the temporary blackout. Bobbing and weaving past the glowing eyes, they escaped and ran breathlessly down back alleys and past the snoring guards until they crossed the drawbridge and hit open ground. As Frito ran on he felt the curious eyes of the villagers upon him and his frantic companions. Frito hoped that they would not inform the tools of Sorhed. Thankfully he saw that they took little notice of them and went about their evening chores, lighting signal fires and releasing carrier pigeons.
Once outside the town, Stomper led them into a thick sedge and bade them to be small and quiet lest they be seen by Sorhed’s agents, who would soon revive and mount the hunt.
The party was still panting when sharp-eared Arrowroot adjusted the volume on his hearing aid and laid his head to the ground.
“Hark and lo!” he whispered, “I do hear the sound of Nine Riders galloping nigh the road in full battle array.” A few minutes later a dispirited brace of steers ambled awkwardly past, but to give Stomper his due, they did carry some rather lethal-looking antlerettes.
“The foul Nozdrul have bewitched my ears,” mumbled Stomper as he apologetically replaced his batteries, “but it is safe to proceed, for the nonce.” It was at that moment that the thundering hooves of the dreaded pig riders echoed along the road. Just in time the company dove back to cover and the vengeful searchers sped past. When the clanking of armor dwindled in the distance, five heads reappeared above the bushes, their teeth chattering like cheap maracas.
“ ’Twas a near thing!” said Spam. “Came nigh to a-spoilin’ me pantaloons.”
The party chose to push on toward Wingtip before the sun rose. The moon was swathed in a shawl of heavy cloud as they traveled to the lofty peak, a lone finger of granite near the southern base of the legendary Hartz Mountains,5 scaled by few save an occasional winded guttersnipe.
Stomper walked along in the cool night breeze without speaking, silent except for the faint jingling of his zinc-plated spurs. The twins were fascinated with the pearl-handled sword which he called Krona, Conqueror of Dozens. Moxie sidled up to the lean masked man.
“That’s a neat toad sticker you got there, Mr. Arrowshirt,” said the inquisitive boggie.
“Aye,” said Stomper, quickening his pace a bit.
“Doesn’t look like the regular issue. Must be a special model, huh, mister?”
“Aye,” replied the tall man, dilating his nostrils slightly with annoyance.
Quick as a pack rat, Moxie snatched the weapon from its holster. “Okay if I take a look?” Stomper, without batting an eye, let fly with a hand-tooled boot that sent the young boggie bouncing like a jai alai ball.
“Nay,” snapped Stomper, retrieving his blade.
“I don’t think he meant to be rude, Mr. Arrowshirt,” said Frito, helping Moxie to his archless feet. There followed an embarrassed silence. Spam, whose knowledge of warfare was limited to childhood torturing of the family pullets, nevertheless began to sing a snatch of song he had once learned:
“Barbisol was Twodor’s king
Whose foes his mighty blade did sting,
Till one day it got all rusted
And Sorhed’s parry left it busted.”
Then, to the boggie’s surprise, a fat tear fell from Stomper’s eye and his voice sobbed in the darkness:
“Thus gloried Twodor came to nothing,
Out of the king was bea
t the stuffing.
And thus we live in fear of Fordor
Till Krona’s back in working order!”
The boggies gasped and looked at their companion as if for the first time. With recognition they recognized the legendary weak chin and buckteeth of Barbisol’s descendant.
“Then you must be the rightful King of Twodor!” cried Frito. The tall Ranger looked at them impassively.
“These things you say may be affirmed,” he said, “but I do not wish to make a statement at this time, for there is another, oft-forgotten verse to this sad and doleful song:
“Against the True King Sorhed’s workin’
So play your cards close to your jerkin,
For fortune strums a mournful tune
For those whose campaigns peak too soon.”
Watching the newly revealed ruler trudge on in his lowly garb, the young Frito grew again thoughtful and pondered long on the many ironies of life.
As the sun’s rim broke on the far horizon its first tentative rays illuminated Wingtip. After an hour of strenuous climbing they reached the top and rested gratefully on the flat granite apex, while Stomper scrounged around for some sign of Goodgulf. Nosing about a large gray rock, Stomper stopped and called to Frito. Frito looked at the stone and discerned the crude skull and bones etched into its surface, and with it the X-rune of the Old Wizard.
“Goodgulf has passed this way recently,” said Stomper, “and unless I read these runes awrong, he means this place as a secure camp for us.”
Nevertheless Frito bedded down with nagging misgivings. But, he reminded himself, he is a king, and all. The bridge across the Gallowine and the way to Riv’n’dell were only a short distance; there they would be safe from the marauding Swine Riders. Sleep was now long overdue, and he sighed with pleasure as he curled up under a low shelf of stone. Soon he was falling fast asleep, lulled by the soft snuffling noises and the clanking of armor below.
• • •
“Awake! Awake! Fiends! Foes! Flee!” someone was whispering, waking Frito from his dreams. Stomper’s hand jostled him roughly. Obeying him, Frito peered down the slope and made out nine black forms inching stealthily up the mountain toward their hiding place.
“It seemeth that I read the signs awrong,” muttered the perplexed guide. “Soon they will be upon us unless we divert their wrath.”
“How?” asked Pepsi.
“Yes, how?” joined in Guess Who.
Stomper looked at the boggies. “One of the party must stay behind to delay them while we dash for the bridge.”
“But who—?”
“Never fear,” said Stomper quickly. “I have here in my gauntlet four lots, three long and a short for him we throw to the—er—for he who will have his name emblazoned in the pantheon of heroes.”
“Four?” said Spam. “What about you?”
The Ranger straightened with great dignity. “Surely,” he said, “you would not wish me an unfair advantage seeing that it was I who made up the lots?”
Mollified, the boggies drew the pipe cleaners. Spam drew the short.
“Two out of three?” he whined. But his fellows had already disappeared over the lip of the peak and were racing down as fast as they could. Panting and puffing, a fat tear rolled from Frito’s eye. He would miss him.
Spam looked down the opposite slope and saw the dismounted Nozdrul picking their way toward him quickly. Crouching behind a rock, he screamed courageously at them. “If I were ye,” he called, “I’d not come any closer! Ye’ll be sorry if ye do!” Unheeding, the fierce knights drew even nearer. “You’re really a-goin’ t’ get it!” yelled Spam rather unconvincingly. Still the Riders grew nearer, and Spam lost his nerve. Taking out his white handkerchief, he waved it about and pointed toward his retreating friends. “Don’t be wastin’ your time with me,” he cried. “The one with the Ring is hightailin’ it thataway!”
Hearing this from below, Frito winced and pumped his fat legs harder. Stomper’s long and gimpy shanks had already brought him across the bridge and onto the safety of the other bank, the neutral territory of the elves. Frito looked behind him. He wouldn’t make it in time!
Stomper watched the deadly race from the cover of some briars on the bank of the stream.
“Hie thee faster,” he called helpfully, “for the evil ones are right behind thee!” Then he hid his eyes.
The rumble of pigs’ feet grew louder and louder in Frito’s ears, and he could hear the lethal swish of their horrible Nozdrulville Sluggers. He made a last, desperate burst of speed, but tripped and skidded to a stop only a few feet from the border. Cackling with evil amusement, the nine surrounded Frito, their squint-eyed steeds grunting for Frito’s blood.
“Blood! Blood!” they grunted.
Frito looked up, terrified, and saw them as they slowly closed the ring, only an arm’s length from death. The leader of the pack, a tall beefy wraith with chrome-plated greaves, laughed savagely and raised his mace.
“Hee hee hee, filthy rodent! Now is the time for fun!”
Frito cowered. “Maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t,” he said, pulling his favorite bluff.
“Arrrgh!” screamed an impatient Nozdrul, who, by coincidence, happened to be named Argh. “C’mon, let’s cream this little creep! The boss said take his Ring and croak him then ’n’ there!”
Frito’s mind raced. He decided to play his last card.
“Well dat’s sho’ nuff fine wit me, ’cause ah sho’ doan wan’ you t’ do the bad thing to’ po’ li’l me!” said Frito, bugging out his eyes and rolling them like ball bearings.
“Har har har!” chortled another Rider. “What can you think of that’s worse than what we’re gonna do with ya?” The fiends drew closer to hear the terrible fear Frito harbored in his breast.
The boggie whistled and pretended to play the banjo. He then sang a verse of “Ole Man Ribber” as he ambled back and forth on shuffling feet, scratched his woolly head, and danced a cakewalk while picking watermelon seeds from his ears, all with natural rhythm.
“Sure can dance,” muttered one of the Riders.
“Sure gonna die!” screamed another, thirsting for Frito’s throat.
“Sho’ I gwine t’ die,” drawled Frito. “Yo’ kin do mos’ anythin’ t’po’ li’l me, Br’er Nozdrul, so long as yo’please doan throw me in dat briar patch ober dere!”
At this all the sadistic Riders sniggered.
“If that’s what you’re scared of most,” bellowed a voice full of malice, “then that’s what we’ll do to you, ya little jerk!”
Frito felt himself lifted by a horny black hand and flung far over the Gallowine and into the scrubby bush on the other side. Gleefully, he stood up and fished out the Ring, making sure it still hung on his chain.
But the crafty Riders were not long deceived by Frito’s ruse. They spurred their drooling swine to the bridge, intent on recapturing the boggie and his precious Ring. But, as Frito saw with surprise, the Black Nine were halted at the foot of the crossing by a figure robed in shining raiment.
“Toll, please,” commanded the figure of the startled Riders. The pursuers were again dumfounded when they were directed to a hastily lettered sign tacked to a support:
ELFBORO MUNICIPAL TOLL BRIDGE
SINGLE WAYFARERS . . . . . . . . . 1 FARTHING
DOUBLE-AXLED HAYWAINS . . . . . . . . . 2 FARTHINGS
BLACK RIDERS . . . . . . . . . 45 GOLD PIECES
“Let us cross!” snapped an angry Nozdrul.
“Certainly,” replied the attendant pleasantly. “Now let’s see, there’s one, two . . . ah, nine of you at forty-five apiece, that makes . . . uuuuhh, four hundred and five beans, exactly, please. In cash.”
Hurriedly, the Nozdrul searched their saddlebags as their leader cursed angrily and shook his slugger with frustration.
“Listen,” he stormed, “what kind of dough do you think we make, anyhow? Ain’t there some sorta discount for civil servants?”
“I’m sorry—
” smiled the attendant.
“How ’bout a Wayfarer’s Letter of Credit? They’re as good as bullion anywhere.”
“Sorry, this is a bridge, not a countinghouse,” replied the figure impassively.
“My personal check? It’s backed up by the treasure rooms of Fordor.”
“No money, no crossee, friend.”
The Nozdruls quivered with rage, but turned their mounts around, preparing to ride off. Before they left, however, the leader shook a gnarled fist.
“This ain’t the end of this, punk! You’ll hear from us again!”
Saying this, the nine spurred their farting porkers and sped away in a great cloud of dust and dung.
Observing this near impossible escape from certain death, Frito wondered how much longer the authors were going to get away with such tripe. He wasn’t the only one.
Stomper and the other boggies ran to Frito, extending their congratulations on his escape. They then drew close to the mysterious figure, who approached and, espying Stomper among them, raised his hands in greeting and sang:
“O NASA O UCLA! O Etaion Shrdlu!
O Escrow Beryllium! Pandit J. Nehru!”
Stomper raised his hands and answered, “Shantih Billerica!” They met and embraced, exchanging words of friendship and giving the secret handshake.
The boggies studied the stranger with interest. He introduced himself as Garfinkel of the elves. When he had shed himself of his robes, the boggies regarded with curiosity his ring-encrusted hands, his open-collared Ban-Lon tunic, and his silver beach clogs.
“Thought you would have been here days ago,” said the balding elf. “Any trouble along the way?”
“I could write a book,” said Frito prophetically.
“Well,” said Garfinkel, “we’d better make tracks before those B-movie heavies return. They may be stupid, but they sure can be persistent.”
“So new?” muttered Frito, who found himself muttering more and more lately.
The elf looked doubtfully at the boggies. “You guys know how to ride?” Without waiting for an answer he whistled loudly through his gold teeth. A clump of high sedge rustled and several overweight merino sheep bounded into view, bleating irritably.
Bored of the Rings Page 6