“No,” said the Wizard, “for we have not yet found the evil Serutan.”
“Nertz,” said Gimlet. “It’s already past lunch.”
Together with Birdseye and Eorache, the company sought out the evil magician. Word spread that Serutan and his loathsome companion Wormcast had been seen in Isintower, the tallest parapet in Serutanland, famous for the rotating restaurant high atop the shaft.
“He’s up there,” a celery said. “He jammed the elevators, but he’s treed just the same.”
“Ho ho ho,” observed the giant.
“Shut up,” added Goodgulf.
High above them they saw the round, turning restaurant with its flashing sign that read SERUTAN’S TOP O’ THE MARK. Under it a glass door swung open. A figure appeared at the railing edge.
“Dot’s him!” cried Eorache.
In face he looked much like Goodgulf, but his raiment was strange to see. The Wizard was dressed in a full-length leotard of fire-engine red and a long cape of black sateen. On his head were pasted black horns and at his buttocks was attached a barbed tail. He held an aluminum pitchfork and wore cloven patent leather loafers. He laughed at the company below.
“Ha ha ha ha ha.”
“Come thee then down,” called Arrowroot, “and what to thee is coming, taketh. Open thy door and let us in.”
“Nay,” cackled Serutan, “not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin. Let us instead work this out like sane, reasonable people.”
“Vork-schmork,” screamed Eorache. “Ve vant your miserable schkin!”
The evil wizard drew back in mock fear, then returned to the edge and smiled. His voice was soothing and melodious, dripping with sweet intonations like a melting Fudgsicle. The company stood in awe of his sucaryled words.
“Let’s backtrack,” continued Serutan. “Here I am with my little concern making an honest farthing by the sweat of my brow. Suddenly a merger of competitors crash right through my corporate holdings trying to drive me out of the market. You have taken my liquid assets and nullified my small merchandizing staff. It’s a clear-cut case of unfair business practices.”
“Hey,” said the giant to Goodgulf, “that guy’s got a good head on his shoulders. No wonder he reaps so much cabbage.”
“Shut up,” Goodgulf agreed.
“Now I have a proposition,” said Serutan, gesturing with the point of his tail, “and though I’m not married to this idea, I thought I’d run it up the parapet and see if anybody pulls his forelock. Now I’ll concede that I wanted a piece of the action, but it’s that evil Sorhed who wants the whole ball of wax. As I see it, we form a new organization wherein I’ll sign over a controlling interest in Dickey Dragon and its subsidiaries for my old executive position and yearly stock options on any old Rings we may come across along the way. Throw in thirty percent of the booty we get in Fordor and I’ll let you have my partner Wormcast for free. He’s responsible for this little proxy fight anyway.”
An anguished scream came from inside the tower and a bowl of wax fruit just missed Serutan’s skull. A scrawny old man in a messenger boy’s uniform appeared for a second and shook his fist.
“Garrrsch!” he sputtered.
Serutan picked up the protesting Wormcast and casually tossed him over the railing.
“Aaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrgggggghhhh!” said Wormcast. The evil henchman hit the hard ground with considerable force.
“Never seen a red flapjack before,” mused Gimlet.
“There is my pledge of good faith,” Serutan went on smoothly. “Do we have a deal?”
“No deals,” said Goodgulf. “That knave is slipperier than a catfish in a jar of Vaseline.”
“Now wait,” said Arrowroot, “he did pledge controlling interest.”
“N-O spells no,” said Goodgulf, adjusting his hat. “I don’t want to wake up some bright morning with his pledge between my shoulder blades.”
Just then a small black object whizzed past Goodgulf’s head.
“This is getting monotonous,” Gimlet opined.
The round sphere bounced along the pavement and came to rest at Pepsi’s toes. He looked at it curiously and picked it up.
“We will leave you under guard in your foul tower,” said Goodgulf, “and the Vee-Ates will deal with you when your larder is empty of frozen cube steaks.”
Goodgulf turned and pointed to Pepsi.
“Okay, drop it.”
“Aw, I wasn’t doing nothing,” said Pepsi.
“Yeah, nothing,” defended Moxie.
“Let me have it,” said the Wizard impatiently, “you can’t eat it, so you have no use for it.”
The young boggie handed the black ball over glumly.
“Now,” said Goodgulf, “we must move quickly. Though the lands of Isinglass and Roi-Tan are safe from Serutan’s power, they will not long be thus unless Twodor itself is saved from Sorhed’s malevolence.”
“What must we do?” said Moxie.
“Yes, do?” asked Pepsi.
“If you’ll belt up for a second I will tell thee,” Goodgulf snapped. “The fair city of Minas Troney is threatened by Sorhed’s eastern armies. The foul city of Chikken Noodul lies near, and any day the black cloud will fall upon her fairer sister. We must gather all our forces and defend her.” He beckoned Arrowroot. “You, Stomper, must take it upon yourself to gather your subjects in Twodor and anyone else who will come to shore up the ramparts of Minas Troney. Eorache, you must bring all the riders you can spare and Birdseye, too, must lead his valiant Vee-Ates to Twodor. The rest will proceed with me there directly.”
“A hundred words without a punch line,” said Gimlet. “The old crock must be sick.”
The party bade farewell and rode from the broken fortress of Isinglass with heavy heart, knowing that still more trouble would plague the land. Goodgulf, Moxie, and Pepsi mounted their complaining bleaters and spurred on in the evening shadows toward the fabled capital of Twodor. As they left, two fair young carrots waved their greens after the boggies and jumped hopefully up and down upon their dainty taproots, somewhat hindered by already noticeable swellings in their middles. Moxie and Pepsi had not been idle since Goodgulf had seen them last.
• • •
All night and half the next day Goodgulf and the two boggies rode, ever watchful for Sorhed’s spies. Once overhead Moxie saw a black shape flapping eastward between the clouds and thought he heard a low, vile croaking. But he had been on pipe-weed for several hours beforehand and wasn’t sure.
Finally they rested. Goodgulf and Moxie conked off immediately after a quick game of craps (Moxie lost), and Pepsi, too, lay down as if in a deep snooze. But when his companions’ snores became regular, he slowly slithered from his pup tent and rifled the Wizard’s saddlebags. There he found the round, black ball Goodgulf had so carefully hidden.
It was smaller than a muskmelon, though larger than a pool ball. Its surface was featureless save a small, circular window into the black interior.
“A magic wishing-ball!” he exclaimed. “That’s what it is.”
The boggie closed his eyes and wished for a keg of ale and a barrel of breaded veal cutlets. There was a small foof and a puff of fiery smoke, and Pepsi found himself staring into the face of a monstrous, unspeakably vile visage, its jowls quivering with malevolence and rage.
“I told you to keep your paws off it!” shrieked the Wizard, his bell-bottoms flapping angrily.
“Aw, I was only looking at it,” Pepsi whined.
Goodgulf snatched the ball away from Pepsi and glowered. “This,” he said harshly, “is no plaything. This ball is the wondrous mallomar, the magic watchamacallit of the elves, long thought lost in the Sheet-Metal Age.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” said Pepsi pointlessly.
“With mallomar the Old Ones probed the secrets of the future and looked deep into the hearts of men.”
“Sort of like a Ouija board?” said Moxie sleepily.
“Watch closely!” Goodgulf commanded.
The two boggies
watched with interest as the Wizard made mysterious passes over the sphere and muttered a weird incantation.
“Hocus-pocus
Loco Parentis!
Jackie Onassis1
Dino de Laurentiis!”
Before their frightened eyes the boggies saw the sphere glow. Goodgulf continued to mutter over it.
“Queequeg quahog!
Quodnam quixote!
Pequod pea pod!
Pnin Peyote!
Presto chango
Toil and trouble
Rollo Chunky
Double Bubble!”
Suddenly the globe seemed to burst from within with a sparkling radiance, and a quavering sound hummed through the air. Pepsi heard Goodgulf’s voice through the shimmering glow.
“Tell me, O magic mallomar, shall Sorhed be defeated or shall he conquer? Shall the black cloud of Doom fall on all of Lower Middle Earth, or shall there be sunshine and happiness with his fall?”
Pepsi and Moxie were astonished to see fiery letters begin to form in the air, fiery letters that would foretell the fate of the coming struggle with Dark Lord. It was with wonder that they read the answer: Reply hazy, ask again later.
* * *
1 Wife to John F. Kennedy, Jackie Onassis captured the public’s heart as First Lady, at least in comparison to Kennedy’s many First One Night Stands.
VIII
Schlob’s Lair and Other Mountain Resorts
Frito and Spam clambered out of breath to the top of a small rise and gazed out at the landscape that stretched before them, unbroken save for sudden depressions and swiftly rising gorges, to the slag mines, dress factories, and lint mills of Fordor. Frito sat down heavily on a cow’s skull, and Spam produced a box lunch of cheese and crackers from their bags.
At that moment there came the sound of falling pebbles, stepped-on twigs, and a nose being violently blown. The two boggies leaped to their feet, and a gray, scaly creature crept slowly up to them on all fours, sniffing the ground noisily.
“Mother of pearl,” cried Frito, recoiling from the sinister figure. Spam drew his elvish pinking knife and stepped back, his heart in his mouth with the gooey glob of crackers.
The creature looked at them with ominously crossed eyes, and with a little smile, rose tiredly to its feet and, clasping its hands behind his back, began to whistle mournfully.
Suddenly Frito remembered Dildo’s tale of the finding of the Ring.
“You must be Goddam!” he squeaked. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, well,” said the creature, speaking very slowly. “Not much. I was just looking for a few old pop bottles to help pay for my sister-in-law’s iron lung. Of course, ever since my operation I don’t get around like I used to. Guess I’m just unlucky. Funny how life is, up and down, never can tell. Gosh, it sure is cold. I had to pawn my coat to buy plasma for my pet geese.”
Spam tried desperately to keep his leaden eyelids open, but with a great yawn, he slumped heavily to the ground. “You fiend,” he muttered, and fell asleep.
“There I go again,” said Goddam, shaking his head. “Well, I know when I’m not wanted,” he said, and sat down and helped himself to the boggies’ elvish melba toast.
Frito slapped himself in the face several times and did a few deep breathing exercises.
“Look here, Goddam,” he said.
“Oh, you don’t have to say it. Not wanted. I know. I never was. My mother left me in a twenty-four-hour locker in an enchanted forest when I was two. I was raised by kindly rats. But I guess every cloud has its silver lining. Why, I knew a troll once, name of Wyzinski . . .”
Frito swayed, drooped, and was snoring before he hit the ground. When Frito and Spam awoke, it was already night, and there was no sign of Goddam anywhere. Both boggies felt to make sure that they still had their original complement of fingers, legs, and the like, and that no cutlery had been inadvertently left in their ribs. To their considerable surprise, nothing was missing, not so much as a hangnail or a cufflink. Frito felt the Ring still securely fastened to its chain, and slipping it quickly on his finger, he blew through the magic whistle and was relieved to hear the familiar flat E.
“I don’t get it, Mr. Frito,” said Spam finally, feeling with his tongue for missing fillings, “that one’s a pigeon fancier or worse.”
“Well, hello there,” said a large rock suddenly, becoming Goddam by degrees.
“Hello,” said Frito weakly.
“We were just leaving,” said Spam quickly. “We have to close an arms deal in Tanzania or pick up some copra on Guam or something.”
“That’s too bad,” said Goddam. “I guess its good-bye for old Goddam. But he’s used to it.”
“Good-bye,” said Spam firmly.
“Good-bye, good-bye, parting is such a brief candle,” said Goddam. He waved a great stained handkerchief listlessly back and forth and, grasping Frito by the hand, began to sob softly.
Spam took hold of Frito’s other arm and bodily dragged him away, but Goddam remained tightly attached, and after a minute or two, he gave up and sank exhausted on a rock.
“I hate to see an old friend go,” said Goddam, applying the handkerchief liberally over the cup custard he had by way of face. “I’ll just see you on your way.”
“Let’s go,” said Frito dejectedly, and the three small figures set off at a quick pace across the hot-blooded moors.
Before long, they came to a place where the ground, well watered by a vivid green stream, became damp and squishy, and Goddam slogged ahead of them. In a few hundred feet the way was completely blocked by a thick, fetid bog choked with well-smoked briars and lily cups.
“It is the Ngaio Marsh,” said Goddam solemnly, and Frito and Spam saw mysteriously reflected in the mucky pools eerie visions of bodies with ornate daggers in their backs, bullet holes in their heads, and poison bottles in their hands.
The little group plodded forward through the foul fen, averting their eyes from the grisly corpses, and after an hour of heavy going, they came, wet and filthy, to drier land. There they found a narrow path which led arrow straight across an empty plain to a huge arrowhead. The moon had set, and dawn was coloring the sky a faint brown when they reached the curiously shaped rock.
Frito and Spam dropped their bags under a little ledge, and Goddam settled down behind them, humming a gum jingle.
“Well, we’re right in the old ballpark,” he said, almost cheerily.
Frito groaned.
• • •
The boggies were awakened in the late afternoon by the clash of cymbals and the harsh sound of trumpets playing “Busman’s Holiday.” Frito and Spam sprang to their feet and saw, frighteningly close, the great Gate of Fordor set into the high mountain wall. The gate itself, flanked by two tall towers topped with searchlights and a vast marquee, lay open, and an enormous line of men was pouring in. Frito shrank back in fear against the rock.
It was night before the last of the hordes had passed into Fordor, and the Gate had closed with a deep clang. Spam peeped out from behind a stone outcropping and slipped over to Frito with a frugal meal of loaves and fishes. Goddam immediately appeared from a narrow crevice and smiled obscenely.
“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” he said.
“That’s just what I’ve been thinking,” said Spam, fingering the hilt of his sword.
Goddam looked mournful. “I know how it is,” he said. “I was in the war. Pinned down in a deadly hail of Jap fire . . .”
Spam gagged, and his arm went limp. “Die,” he suggested.
Frito took a large loaf of raisin bread and crammed it into Goddam’s mouth.
“Mmmmf, mfffl, mmblgl,” said the beast darkly.
The little party set out once more into the night and walked for many long liters into the south, always skirting the stony ring that surrounded Fordor with a ring of stone. The road they followed was flat and smooth, the remnant of some ancient linoleum-paved highway, and by the time the moon was hig
h in the sky, they had left the Gate of Fordor far behind. Around midnight the stars became obscured with a great many clouds the size of a man’s hand, and shortly after a tremendous torrent swept through the land, pouring wet, annoyed pointers and retrievers on the miserable travelers. But the boggies pressed on behind Goddam, and after a bruising fifteen minutes, the storm passed and, dropping a few last Chihuahuas, moved westward.
For the rest of the night they journeyed under dimly visible stars, numbed by the cold and Goddam’s endless stream of knock-knock jokes. It was very late at night when they found themselves at the edge of a large forest, and heading off the road, they took shelter in a small grove. In a moment they were fast asleep.
• • •
Frito awoke with a start to find the little grove completely surrounded by tall, grim-looking men clad from head to toe in British racing green. They held huge green bows, and they wore shaggy wigs of bright green hair. Frito rose unsteadily to his feet and kicked Spam.
At that point, the tallest of the bowmen stepped forward and approached him. He wore a propeller beanie with a long green feather and a large silver badge with the word Chief and some recumbent pigeons, and Frito guessed that he must be their leader.
“You’re completely surrounded; you haven’t got a chance; come out with your hands up,” said the captain sternly.
Frito bowed low. “Come in and get me,” he said, making the correct reply.
“I am Farahslax, of the Green Toupées,” said the captain.
“I am Frito, of nothing in particular,” said Frito shakily.
“Can I kill them a little?” squealed a short squat man with a black nose patch, rushing to Farahslax with a garrote.
“Nay, Magnavox,”1 said Farahslax. “Who are you?” he said, turning to Frito, “and what is your evil purpose?”
“My companions and I are going to Fordor to cast the Great Ring into the Zazu Pits,” said Frito.
At that, Farahslax’s face darkened, and looking first at Goddam and Spam, then back to Frito, he tiptoed out of the grove with a little smile and disappeared with his men into the surrounding forest, singing merrily:
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