by Orrin Grey
But by then the ghostlights had ignited the blood of the chaste. This sanguinary pyre heralded the long awaited Return ….
The clan who had conspired to put an end to the diabolism was small but among the most fanatical. They went out to the Fallows, now stripped, where the girls had claimed they had seen It.
There they waited, without benefit of fire or food. In a blackness as cold as the deep sea, they waited.
The ghostlights were the first manifestation they witnessed and, even then, with unbelieving eyes.
Then, seized with panic, they saw the goatish shape as it came bounding from an ugly patch of woods and into the clearing.
Nothing, they thought, could be more ineffable than the awesome bent giant who was now lumbering toward them, reeking of dread-sweat and olde lust.
But, one by one, they glanced upward to see the face of the unclad woman who rode upon the creature’s back.
More dreadful than the appearance of the Beast was the face of its Bride. Her aspect, the living emblem of unbridled Rapture.
TUBBY MCMUNGUS, FAT FROM FUNGUS
By Molly Tanzer and Jesse Bullington
Molly Tanzer burst onto the international scene of haute couture merkin making with her independent NetherFresh line, a bold fusion of classical lines, modern textures and a decidedly post-modern sensibility. Following a meteoric rise to the upper echelons of naughty bits high fashion, she quickly solidified her reputation as a mons pubis perruquier par excellence with her frankly challenging Cuttlefish Nightmare exhibition. Rather than deigning to address the baseless rumors of rampant catmint abuse that have dogged both the designer and her models, Tanzer has instead turned her attention toward a writing career, publishing short fiction in venues such as The Book of Cthulhu, Running with the Pack and Innsmouth Free Press’ previous anthologies Historical Lovecraft and Future Lovecraft. In September of 2012, her debut tome A Pretty Mouth was published by Lazy Fascist Press, and while it is brimming with historical weirdness, unchecked degeneracy, bizarre transmogrifications, unexpected allusions, ribald humor, and copious puberty horror, it does not have any talking animals or merkins in it. Unfortunately.
Jesse Bullington is the author of The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart, The Enterprise of Death and the forthcoming The Folly of the World, as well as assorted other fictions. A truly dedicated Brony, he could never pick his favorite My Little Pony, but he admires Pinkie Pie’s pluck, vim, and spirit. He also enjoys hoppy IPAs, Korean crime cinema and playing with ferrets. His longtime rivalry with Molly Tanzer’s cat Lemmy provided the authors substantial inspiration for this piece. He lives in Boulder CO, but you can find him online at www.jessebullington.com
THOUGH THE TIME OF the Great Itching is but a memory, if you venture into the Cheapside slums on a warm summer’s eve you can still hear the little rat-pups singing this skipping-song as they jump-rope:
Tubby McMungus, fat from fungus,
Spread the patch-plague all among us!
Fake-fur-bedecked,
Bald patches unchecked,
How many beasts did he infect?
One, Two, Three ….
And so on.
But there are few creatures outside our colonies who still remember that this rhyme shares a subject with another popular ditty:
Do you know the Merkin-Maker
The Merkin-Maker
The Merkin-Maker?
Do you know the Merkin-Maker
Who sells on St. James’s Street?
But they surely are about the same bad puss.
In the days following the Restoration, when the merrie monarch Chester II revived the glorious Cat Court, there lived a merkin-maker by the name of Tabby McMungus. McMungus was the proprietor of an exclusive boutique on St. James’s Street, where the noblesse would go to groom themselves sweet. His shop, Grimalkin’s Merkins, sat between Furcombe’s Perfumerie and Cattray’s, a high-end tobacconist, and on every day of the week, you could see gentlecats in their high boots and ruffs nimble-footing over to McMungus’.
McMungus was a smart businesscat and, thus, knew his clientele for the fickle creatures that they were. To that end, he crafted the greatest assortment of luxury merkins to be had in all of London-Town using scales and supple leathers, exotic furs and rarer feathers. He even crafted a merkin of living catnip for King Chester II himself when the monarch wished to seduce Lady Widdershins, Duchess of Portsmouth, who did indeed become his mistress. It was made of fertile earth held in place with mesh, sown with seeds; all the King had to do was water it regularly to keep it fresh and potent. With that sort of talent to be had for a price, none of the Court would ever be caught wearing any of the merkins to be had at the shops of Mrs. Mews or even the Bond Street Wig-Weavers.
Now, given the demands and diversity of his clientele, McMungus could hardly be expected to manage the work on his own! Nay, he employed an apprentice, an emigrant doe-rat called Miss Mousha. Underpaid, unappreciated and overworked, she did her best — but McMungus was as difficult a master as any in a fairy tale, or tract on the tribulations of the working classes.
“Oh, Miss Mousha,” we heard McMungus growl as he sat smoking his pipe and drinking a postprandial glass of sherry the afternoon it all began. “My belly is full and so is my pipe” (he pronounced it peep, a peculiarity of speech it had taken Miss Mousha some time to comprehend), “yet you’re still hard at work. While I dine on exotic mushrooms and smoke rare toback, you labour until your paws bleed. Is that fair, Mousha? Is it just?”
“I couldn’t say, sir,” Miss Mousha squeaked, her brow damp with sweat as she punched needle-hole after needle-hole in a patch of leather nearly as big as herself.
“Before you came, Mousha, my claws would cramp doing that sort of work,” said McMungus, flexing one paw as he puffed. “It is a great help, what you do.”
“Thank you, Mr. McMungus,” said Miss Mousha. Compliments from her master were rare and his unexpected kindness made her workload seem much more bearable.
“But sometimes,” he said, narrowing his orange eyes, “I do not know if employing you is worth it, for I am forever plagued by your ratty stench!”
“Oh, sir. I am sorry, sir,” said Miss Mousha. Sadly, that was more like it. She tried not to feel sorry for herself; she knew she was lucky to have a job. There were many rats who could not find any employment, so even though she had already developed acute rheumatism in her short tenure as Mr. McMungus’s apprentice, she tried to find the bright side of things. It was hard, though, especially when —
“Mousha, you dumb bitch!” McMungus yowled, startling the rat from her reverie. “I said crème leather for the backing, crème, damn your eyes!”
“Crème?” Miss Mousha blinked down at the leather. “But, sir, this is crème. I —”
“Balderdash!” McMungus cast his clay pipe into the hearth, where it exploded. Miss Mousha cowered as the tom stormed around his shop until he located a swatch of leather and, shaking it in her face, exclaimed, “This is crème! What you’ve got there is cream! Cream! Don’t you know the difference?”
Miss Mousha did know the difference and, so, she knew that what she was working on was crème in colour. It was just that the candlelight made it look paler … Not that Miss Mousha would correct him, of course. It was not wise to correct McMungus, not when he had been into his pipe and his sherry.
“Cream!” McMungus raged, casting the swatch at her feet and stalking to the door. Pulling his high boots on, he snarled, “You’ve ruined my mood — how shall I woo any new commissions at the Mad Menagerie tonight? If I look like a grumble-puss, no one will want to talk to me about my merkin-making!”
“You’re always so jocular and pleasant, sir. I’m sure —”
“Be sure of nothing! I warn you, Mousha,” he waggled a claw at her. “If I don’t secure enough orders tonight, I shall need to reconsider if I can afford an apprentice. And if I fall upon hard enough times, little Mousha, I might just use you for a merkin!”
And then
he whirled his cape around his shoulders and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Miss Mousha buried her face in the half-punched crème leather.
After this dramatic exit, we saw McMungus pause and listen at his door, just so he could be sure Miss Mousha’s tears were flowing. Perceiving a pathetic sob, he sallied forth to the Mangelwurzel, his favourite public house, where he restored his spirits with two pints of bitter and a nuzzle at the tuzzy-wuzzy of Calico Annabelle, a molly whose time was usually for sale. Though McMungus was not profligate — what good shopkeeper is? — he had not lied about needing to be in top form that night for the Mad Menagerie and, so, considered his coin that afternoon well-spent.
The Mad Menagerie, you see, was an annual entertainment, sponsored by King Chester himself, much anticipated by every member of the Cat Court. It was really more a high-stakes competition than an entertainment, we should clarify, as the Mad Menagerie has, like so much, passed into history.
Every year for the Mad Menagerie, wealthy noblecats would attempt to outdo one another by paying game-hunters to capture the rarest, most unusual creatures. They would hire handlers to parade them before a panel of judges — and then take all the credit themselves, of course! The winner was awarded a gold-handled whip and given the appointment of Master of the Menagerie for the following year. So, you can see why everypuss who was anypuss would be at Whitehall to witness the spectacle.
Now, for those well-to-do merchants like McMungus, the Mad Menagerie was also an opportunity to showcase their wares and attract new clients. To that end, he hurried home so he would have plenty of time to make himself smart. He donned a short velvet cape, his best boots, his most impressive capotain, and — of course — a merkin he had manufactured especially for the event. Spring was coming and, so, he had sought to recall the colours of that season. The backing was a gold-green field woven of wool and hummingbird-wings, studded with lacquered holly-berries painted with black spots, and it was trimmed all around with blue feathers. The effect was that of looking upon a meadow thick with ladybugs on a cloudless day, and he knew it to be the finest merkin he had yet created.
It was with supreme confidence that McMungus jumped down from his coach that night and strutted up to the palace … only to be waylaid by his comrade, Captain Edwin, a sable ferret who had made a name for himself during the Second Battle of Newbury. Quite the fop these days, he was dressed elegantly in a stiff pink ruff and lace gloves, low buckled shoes, clocked stockings and — Mr. McMungus was pleased to note — a merkin of fine seal-leather that he had purchased barely a fortnight ago from McMungus’ shop.
“Ah, Tabby!” cried Captain Edwin. “You’re looking well — perhaps a little too well!” He poked McMungus in his wobbly midsection.
“Business has been good, Eddie,” replied McMungus, rubbing his tummy, “but tonight is about pleasure. I am so looking forward to the majestic display of nature’s curiosities.”
“Hogshit,” said Captain Edwin. “You’re here to peddle your dick-wigs by flattering the peerage. And why shouldn’t you? Got to stay current, or they’ll soon forget all about you and your merkins; move on to the next craze, what? Blast, there’s Lady Du Peltier’s father. I’d better scoot!”
As Captain Edwin bounded away, McMungus went in search of refreshment; after snagging a bowl of syllabub from the buffet, he wandered in among the gentlecats, noting who was wearing his merkins — and who was not. He was pleased to see his wares girding many an important loin and was feeling pretty good about his prospects. But then, just as he saw the major domo appear bearing the golden bell that would announce the start of the Mad Menagerie, he overheard a clowder of fops chattering about a certain “Seignior Chiazza”.
This stopped McMungus in his tracks. He knew this noble Italian was a manufacturer of merkins, but always felt them to be rather gaudy and pretentious … at least, by English standards. It was difficult to speak for Continentals. So, you can imagine his surprise when he heard these local gallants declaring how they would never be seen in anyone else’s merkins ever again!
“He’s the best; that’s all there is to it,” said Lord Delon. This wounded McMungus — over the years, Lord Delon had spent twice as many guineas at Grimalkin’s Merkins than any other noblecat, yet, tonight, he sported a merkin in the Italian style, all tinkling silver bells and crimson satin! “I can’t believe I used to settle for the merkins at that dive on St. James’s Street — I can’t recall was it called!”
“It is a lovely piece,” admitted Count Hubert. “But satin is so delicate. How does it support the weight of the bells?”
“This isn’t satin,” said Delon. “It’s the leather of an elusive creature from the Orient. That is why Seignior Chiazza is the best merkin-maker. His materials are always so luxurious! He would never consider anything so common as satin. This is Rumble-Bump skin.”
“Rumble-Bump? Rare?” McMungus interrupted, before he had thought what next to say. To buy himself time he faked a laugh. It sounded like he was passing a hairball — no, wait, we suddenly remember, he did pass a hairball, a large calico one. It landed on the carpet with a soft plap.
“Ah, McMungus,” said Lord Delon, his face contorting as he attempted to raise an eyebrow and wrinkle his pink nose at the same time. McMungus smiled back at him — he’d known the gentlecat had not really forgotten his name and took this acknowledgement as a small coup. “We were just —”
“Decrying the deplorable state of Italian merkin-making; yes, I heard,” said McMungus quickly. “Someone mentioned Rumble-Bump skin, which gave me quite the start — I cannot imagine even an Italian stooping to the use of such a common hide.”
This elicited quite the sniggering from the other gentlepusses, but Lord Delon dismissed them with a wave of his paw. “Rumble-Bump is anything but common. It is the rarest beast —”
“Poppycock!” sneered McMungus. “Rumble-Bump is thought to be rare in these parts, but only because most Englishtoms don’t realise it is cant for Crimson River-Eel. Pity the gib caught out in society with a peasant’s dinner framing his loins!”
The tittering of the nobles in Delon’s entourage was drowned out by the hiss of the lord himself as he said, “Tossssh! I wonder what exotic materials you’re making your merkins from these days, you shabby tabby, that you should slander real mastercrafters? Hen-feathers from exceptional Essex? Whelk shells from distant Dover?”
McMungus blushed red as a Rumble-Bump under his orange fur, for the mercurial nobles were once again laughing at him, but he quickly silenced them with a boast he regretted as soon as it left his lips: “My spring line, Lord Delon, is made of such luxurious, unique, priceless pelts, that were you to make me a reasonable offer for one of them, you should require a loan from a bank!”
Lord Delon’s green eyes widened and he growled, furious, but, before a glove could be thrown down, the golden bell rang across the hall. McMungus bade Delon a hasty farewell and nimbly scurried away; Lord Delon snorted a pinch of nip from his bejeweled nipbox and pretended not to care. None of the other nobles dared laugh, given the viciousness of McMungus’s insult, but very few failed to hold a handkerchief up to cover their wicked grins. Whatever sport the Mad Menagerie offered this year, it would be hard-pressed to compete with the display they had just beheld.
Unsurprisingly, McMungus had a devil of a time enjoying his evening. As strange and wonderful as the Cerulean Sea-Beast or the Plumed Wumpus surely were, during the whole of the spectacle, he could feel the baleful gaze of Lord Delon burning into him from across the hall. What on earth had possessed him to make such an enemy of his former patron? Bad a prospect as that surely was, a much grimmer one presented itself in the form of a message Captain Edwin delivered midway through the Menagerie.
“Is it true, Tabby? Say it is!”
“Only if it’s not,” said McMungus distractedly. “For God’s sake, be still. I can’t see the Pippletrix!”
“What?” Captain Edwin continued to duke in front of his friend. “Listen! Word�
��s out on your wager with Delon! The King’s to be the judge! Once and for all, we’ll show those oily spaghetti-slurpers what we think of their Papist merkins!”
“What?” gasped McMungus. “What wager?”
“Whether you or Seignior Chiazza can make the finer merkin before the Easter Ball. I should be the one to model it for you, don’t you think, especially with King Chester judging? He once —”
But McMungus had stopped listening, as his heart seemed to have seized in his chest. Delon, that villain! Gazing across where the Pippletrix was being led back behind the curtain, Delon met the merkin-maker’s eyes and waved his handkerchief in salute. Making matters even worse, King Chester noticed the exchange and raised a fuzzy eyebrow at McMungus. So, it really was true.
McMungus knew if he were bested by an Italian in front of the entire court, he might as well retire — no gentlecat would ever set foot in his shop again! He may have been proud, but he was no fool, and with Lord Delon financing the most ostentatious commission money could buy, the Italian merkin-maker held a devastating advantage. Might as well sack Miss Mousha, pack up the shop and run away to Holland, where his cousin made periwigs. Better to be an anonymous Dutch merchant than to face a courtly humiliation. All hope was lost; his life was in shambles. Nothing could save him, save —
“— tonight’s final exhibition,” the major domo announced as the saffron curtain parted, “thought to be last of its kind. Lady Widdershins presents a creature now unique on the whole of the face of the earth. For his majesty’s pleasure, here we have … the last living Truffalo.”
Even McMungus’ internal caterwauling could not compete with the sight before him and he went as silent as the rest of the normally cacophonous court. Even Captain Edwin stopped bouncing around, turning to gawp at the animal being led down the runway.