by Z.N. Singer
Then he'd make it ten miles.
The Lord of Thyme was beginning to sympathize with the archetypal frothing-at-the-mouth frustration so many villains went through. He'd always thought they were over-reacting. I mean, what did you expect? Of course a hero would come along, and of course he might win a lot, since he'd come planning to get you. No sense getting upset. And he still wasn't. But he understood now: he'd never given them proper credit after all. Perhaps he'd been hasty in refusing the starter course that guy in a hood had offered. Or even throwing away the pamphlets Bargain Bad Guys had mailed him. All he had to go on now were his childhood comic books and television shows. He wasn't sure that was a good idea.
“Okayyyyy....I think....right about now...oh right! I flip out and call up my trump card and confront them in person.”
“No wait...or is it that first I call out my trump card, and then confront them in person if it fails...damn. I knew I should have looked up some re-runs when I started this. Decisions, decisions....ah hell, she's getting on my nerves anyway. Hey, minion number 393...whatever! Whoever's got the keys to the big cage. We're going Big Thyme!”
“They're filming us already? That's wonderful Lord T!”
“T-h-y-m-e. That Big Thyme. Now go get it.”
“Yes Lord T!”
“....what did you call me?”
“Er...L-l-lord....T—errible!”
“Liar. You called me Lord T didn't you?”
“.........” Said the minion, whose name was actually Tod.
“Well, okay, that's not so bad, but don't do it where those heroes can hear you okay? Go get the plant.”
“Yes Lord T!”
“Er, where are we going now?”
“Can't hear you back there you big wimp. Come up where I am already.”
Harry sidled about three feet closer and repeated his question. Gertrude gave up. “We're heading for the biggest room. There's got to be something there.”
“Er, yes. Er, mightn’t that something be, er....especially dangerous? Since the room is so big?”
“Now you're talking my language!”
“.....oh.”
“Oh thank goodness, they're heading for the big room. It's the only one this thing will fit in.”
“Okay, here we are. Let's have a...oh wow, that is awesome. Hey Harry, get a look at this! It's like fifty feet tall this thyme. How'd he do that?”
“I really couldn't say,” Harry's voice echoed from three turns back.
“Some sidekick you are. Come out and fight.”
“No.”
“Okay, okay, but don't complain when I won't give you part of the stem to take home. Hey, Lord of Thyme! Come out, wherever you are.”
“I'm right over your head, woman! Behold, above!”
“Behold, Lord T?” Tod murmured from their position on a balcony above and behind the Big Thyme's head.
“Hey, I'm allowed a little posing after all this frustration aren't I?”
“I suppose so Lord T.”
“Good man. Lo, Hero, here I am!”
“Heroine!” Tod hissed, horrified. They could get sued!
“Thanks,” the Lord of Thyme muttered. “Lo, Heroine, here I am!” He repeated. “You have caused me much frustration this day, and destroyed many of my floral minions. But it ends here!” Wow, the comic books had it right after all. This felt great. Nothing like just coming out and doing some grand shouting after a long day of fending off a stubborn hero – ine. “You may have defeated the plants that I sent to your town, and you may have passed my Bankruptcy bridge, and even defeated many within my own castle, but you won't escape this thyme! GO THYME!”
With a terrifying rustling sound, the giant thyme moved to attack.
“Go thyme?”
“Yeah, maybe I should have rehearsed it first,” the Lord of Thyme muttered. “Oh well.”
Plants are not the sharpest knives in the drawer.
In fact, despite a profusion of varieties sporting all kind of sharpened weaponry, and even various forms of chemical warfare, plants display not even the most rudimentary conception of evasion or offense. They will not get out of the way of your lawn mower, even with a twenty-four hour evacuation notice. They remain, despite millennia at their mercy, unconcerned by the approach of hungry bovines until the very act of decapitation. Their reaction times remain suicidally sluggish no matter how many times you slap them. They are just the slowest form of life you could ever wish to meet.
The Lord of Thyme had only marginally improved matters.
“Ooh, what a beauty,” Gertrude observed, taking a slow, leisurely half step backwards. “Magnificent stem, nice green leaves no mold or holes or spots or anything – hey, Lord of Thyme, what kind of fertilizer do you use?”
“Haven't you got other things to worry about?” The Lord of Thyme responded.
“Nah, not yet – I've got plenty of thyme, see? Come on, answer the questions, I'm dying to know.”
“You're supposed to defeat it!”
“Yeah, well, I appreciate the time to plan and all, but I don't think I'm gonna bother. This guy's too slow to worry about.” Gertrude grinned, ran lightly forward, leaped up and grabbed the end of one of the Big Thyme's branches. The Big Thyme made a sorry attempt to shake her off that was actually a belated attempt to avoid being grabbed in the first place. Gertrude used the motion to get the rest of the way on.
“Sorry Lord T,” she said, crouching.
“Hey! Only I'm allowed to say that!” Tod yelled.
“Shut up!” Lord T yelled. “That was a secret!”
Gertrude leaped up, grabbed the very end of a higher branch, and then let herself hang: the branch stretched downward until her crouched legs hit the floor, pulling the entire plant into a temporary bow shape.
Very temporary.
“Guess you should have picked minions with – spiiiiiiiinneeeesssssyyyyyeeeeehaaaaaaaaaaaaa oonnononononononononOUCH!"
“And let that be a lesson to you,” The Lord of Thyme said sternly to Gertrude's spread-eagled form, then plastered to the ceiling over his head. “To never try anything genuinely dramatic in a comedy.”
With a grim, groaning wrench, Gertrude broke out of the half mold of herself that been keeping her up. The Lord of Thyme stepped judiciously aside so as not to obstruct her fall.
Gertrude hurt. She hurt all over. Plaster was tougher than it seemed in movies. But she knew what she had to do. She got up. She used the rail and slipped twice, but she got up. She stood straight, and looked straight at the Lord of Thyme with fire in her eyes.
“Lord of Thyme!” She cried.
Lord T sighed. He supposed she was entitled to her own speech too. “Yes?”
“Lord of Thyme,” she repeated, her voice ringing proud through the room. “Be informed that The Father Daughter Plants and Fodder Shop is a distributor only. All of our products are legal when they leave the store and we are not responsible for any further action taken by or with them, legal or illegal, regardless of the means. As such you, the customer, are fully responsible for all repercussions, consequences, and legal ramifications for any actions you may undertake that involve any of our products in any way!!!”
The echoes died away to make room for one of its evolutionary successors, the awkward silence. Finally the Lord of Thyme said, “Um. Okay. So?”
“So nobody can sue us!” Gertrude declared triumphantly.
“So? I was going to conquer them all anyway, remember?”
“Oh yeah...but I'm going to stop you anyway! So there!”
“But you aren't going to stop me anyway, so there.”
“Am too, so there!”
“Am not, so there!”
“Am too!”
“Am not!”
“Am too!”
“Am not!”
By now, The Lord of Thyme and Gertrude were face to face – red face to face. They were locked in a fierce and ancient form of the battle for dominance. Only one could win.
“Am too!�
��
“Am not!”
It looked desperate. The Lord of Thyme was winning.
“Am too!”
“Am not!”
It is impossible to explain how someone could get the last word in such an exchange, but without question, somebody does. And this time, it was the wrong one.
“Am too!”
“Am NOT!”
His fight ending shout echoed through the room and brought sudden silence. Smug triumph lit the evil plant lord's face.
It made Gertrude mad.
“Ammmm,” she shouted, bringing the Chrome Weed Whacker of Dest-in-ee up over her head. The Lord of Thyme was in reach, the Lord of Thyme was off guard. He didn't even have time to shout 'no fair'. “TOO!” She bellowed, and cracked the flat end down on his head. He crumpled like a desiccated twig.
Tod rushed over to fall to his knees next to his Master's prostrate form. “No! Lord T!”
“Oh shut up. Don't make me hit you too.”
With a sniffle, Tod obeyed. He'd been beginning to really like this new evil Lord. He'd heard about it happening sometimes. Never get too attached to your boss, they told you at the agency. You never know when he's going to lose and you'll be back here and re-assigned. Oh well.
Down below, Harry, who had stationed himself up until then at what he'd considered a sufficiently safe distance down the hall, crept uncertainly back into the room to check that the cessation of loud noises did indeed mean that the violence was over with.
“Er...is everything all right up there?” He called hesitantly.
“Yeah we're fine.”
“We?”
“I mean, I'm fine. The Lord of Thyme is out cold and his assistant buddy is having a sniffle over him.”
“I'm pretty sure he's supposed to do that.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I think. Either that or he's supposed to fall on his knees and thank you for saving him. I forget. I, um, didn't really read much about it.”
“I think it depends on the bad guy. Hey, weepy minion guy, was this a mega-cruel tyrant type bad guy or a miss-understood genius guy?”
“He was a really great megalomaniac who let me call him nicknames. And, uh, I'm pretty sure he was miss-understood.”
“Oh okay, keep crying then.”
“Thank you.”
“Uh, Gertrude?”
“Yes? Oh for heaven's sake, it moves like molasses, stop cowering like that.
“You're quite sure it's safe?”
“If you're not a turtle, yeah.”
“Oh. Er, so, do we just let it loose then? Or...do we also need to protect turtles?”
“Let it loose? Are you crazy?”
“Well, I did think it would be a bad idea. Fifty foot plants would cause all kinds of traffic accidents.”
“No kidding it's a bad idea! Who'd pass up that kind of opportunity huh? Why, I'll bet we'll be the only plant and flower with a real fifty foot high plant for a mascot in the history of the universe! It's gonna be great! We'll make mega bucks and open up a chain! Rich, rich, rich and famous, yahoo! Hey waterfall, how did Lord T make them do things?”
“Er, I think he had some sort of device on him...agency beginner classes said to never learn too much about how your employers power works because he'll either kill you or you'll be captured and tortured to tell someone else. It's bad rep for the company if one of us is responsible for a client's defeat.”
“Makes sense,” Gertrude said absently, already rifling through Lord T's clothes. “Uh, no, wait no, that can't be it, yuck that's gross, boys and their pockets I swear...oh, here we go! Thyme plant control module, keep on person and think green. Okay, I can do that. Awesome! National brand name publicity, here I come!”
“Uh, aren't there a lot of, um, smaller ones around too?”
“They'll work at the stores as advertising and free help,” Gertrude said blithely. “I mean really, what better work conditions could they ask for than a plant shop? Man, I like this hero stuff, it totally pays off! Not like crime. Okay, we're done, good luck with some other bad guy Sniffle-man.”
“Thanks. I hope to get a Marvel deal next.”
“Yeah, well, good luck with that. Come on Harry, we're leaving...hey, wait a minute! How do you get this giant thing outta here?”
“Er, I'm sure I couldn't—”
“I'm not talking to you useless, I'm talking to the minion guy! Hello? This is my ticket to the big-time we're talking about here.”
“Er, he was grown in the building...I don't think Lord T actually ever meant to take it out...it was just supposed to guard the really important stuff.”
“...like what?”
“Well, the lab, his office, the new home media system—”
“The what?”
“Apparently being a megalomaniac is very boring.”
“Cool, what size screen did he – no! How do I get him out? Come on, I'm serious, I need that plant!”
“You could always make do with the little ones.”
“No, no, NO. Just a bunch of small ones is not good enough. Look at that guy, what could possibly compete? There's gotta be a way...I've got it! I'll cut him up and replant the pieces! We'll have even more Big Thyme! The only question...”
Harry began to back away.
“Is where to start...”
Gertrude's attention was fixed on the victim. The former right hand minion didn't care. Harry ran for it.
The quest was over. He didn't have to watch anymore.
“And so the Lord of Thyme was stopped by the mighty hero - INE! - with her Chrome Weed Whacker of Destiny and Thyme restored to its normal functions, that of adv...er, was restored to innocent cooking material and...happily ever after!” The Seer snapped, and turned off the dictation software.
She hated filing reports.
***
***
The Cooking House
***
Bernard lived in a good house. But you wouldn't have known it to talk to him.
It was very homey, warm and inviting. It was large but never felt empty. It had nice land around it. In fact, most people would have happily decided it was perfect, or at least close enough.
Bernard was an inventor, or so he fancied himself. He believed it could be improved.
Actually, what he believed was that houses could be improved in general. It was the year 1889, in England, and the bounds of what was and was not possible were being stretched daily: society was turning itself inside out about the various wondrous innovations that were being brought into the world. It was a time of exciting possibilities, and Bernard – with the help of a small private income – had his notions about how to bring this to the home.
The problem with homes, the eternally single man had decided, was that the people living in them had to do all the work.
Cleaning, cooking, and all the rest, what good was a home that didn't do it for you – he asked of the world in general and his home in particular – instead of relying on those females who didn't even understand his life's passions? None, he imagined the humble response to be. Yes, that's right. You're useless now, like all the rest. But it isn't your fault. It's mine. I haven't finished my invention yet. Then you will be perfect.
His automated home, being a product of the late nineteenth century, involved a great deal of cogs and wheels. He'd experimented with steam and the like but found that trying to run such a thing in a home made for an atmosphere that distinctly lacked peace and relaxation. So, clockwork it was, and a complicated mess it was turning out to be. And of course winding the mass of contraptions was still quite a chore: he supposed a certain amount of regulated effort to maintain it was acceptable, as nothing was going to make the house take its own initiative, but ideally this process should not take too much longer than it would to, say, eat a piece of toast in the morning.
Ah, toast. Yes. That was his one great success so far. The clockwork for cleaning, laundry, pest control, and all the rest still plagued him like th
e Devil's Advocate, but the cooking mechanisms – ah, those had worked marvels from the start. No matter how the rest of the house confounded him, he had only to look at that culinary success to know he would eventually succeed with the rest too. How could he not? He merely had to properly understand what had gone right, and apply it. Indeed he spent nearly as much time studying the cooking mechanism to solve this mystery as he did tinkering with the rest of it. For it still seemed to him, no matter how he pondered and tweaked and poked, that there was no significant difference or reason why the cooking machinery should work so well while all the others merely spat back oil at him, or threw parts of themselves about their respective rooms. It was simply beyond him, at least for the moment. But it was his own creation, and he was sure he would get there in time.
And while all that was going on, at least he had three meals a day, plus teatime, exactly as man should: served and waiting for him, done to perfection, and without the nuisance of some fawning thing to thank or acknowledge or otherwise bother with. Yes, this was how life should be. And once he'd had his way, this was how all of his life would be. And everyone else's. And then he'd see what those snarky fellows at the pub had to say.
It was his friend who gave Bernard his first clue. His dedication and focus were far out of proportion to his talent, with the results that he forgot to actually insert ingredients into and wind the gears of the machine three times out of four. But the only way he ever noticed his absentmindedness was when he found himself suffering the consequences of it, and so he never realized that most of his meals were actually happening in spite of himself. In addition, his shopping trips had always been last-minute binge affairs triggered by an empty cupboard, and so the fact that he hadn't had to buy food for over a year never quite made it through his head. In short, Bernard was quite capable of ignoring all the myriad signs that something unnatural was going in his everyday life, and, theory, could have continued this blissfully oblivious pattern for infinity – but then one day he invited his friend to dinner.
Bernard only had one real friend in the village. Everyone else just labeled him a nut, but Frankie was different. Frankie had been willing to consider that Bernard might be capable of what he said, and for that he had become the sole witness to Bernard's success, and had eaten its creations several times in the past. Whenever Bernard felt the need to restore his confidence or spirit – not often – he would invite Frankie over and, over the course of the meal, watching someone else enjoying and praising the fruits of his labors, he would be restored. Frankie, in turn, enjoyed being the only one to know. They got along quite amiably. Today the machines he had been working on had been so rebellious as to undo weeks of work, and Bernard felt the need for an emotional pick-me-up. He went out to find his friend.