“Oh, sorry. When you catch him, could you send him back over here? I really need a two-legged donkey. It’s an emergency.”
I took a step forward, then stopped. “Did you say a two-legged donkey?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why a donkey with only two legs?”
“Well, donkeys are more stable than horses, especially on uneven terrain, and I need to haul some stuff over the mountains.”
“OK, but why one with two legs, instead of the standard four?”
“Well, this is the Two-Legged Donkey Store. It says so on the sign.”
The hundred questions rolling around in my head completely subsumed any other thoughts. I completely forgot I was supposed to be chasing someone. I decided to let the first one out and let the others roll out as they came to me.
The questions had to come out, or my mind would overload.
“Why come here? Couldn’t you get a better donkey with more legs at another store?”
“Two-legged donkeys are the best. It says so in the store’s jingle. ‘Two legs are better than four. Get one at the two-legged doooonkey store.’”
“How are they better?”
“The jingle says so.”
“You can’t believe everything you hear in a jingle.”
“Sure you can. It says so in the jingle for jingles. ‘Everything in a jingle is truer than the truest true.’”
I decided to run as far away as fast as I possibly could. I was afraid I might catch his stupid. I know you can’t actually catch stupid, but why chance it? As I exited through the back door, I remembered I was supposed to be chasing someone. What a coincidence that I was already running, and in the right direction, to boot.
I entered a yard with patchy grass enclosed by a tall white fence with a gate. Neither Jackal nor the pimply-faced boy could be seen anywhere. There were a few donkeys milling about, doing normal donkey things: eating grass, staring into space, and passing gas. They did, in fact, all have only two legs—one in front and one in back. I stopped and stared, mesmerized. How did they move? How could they even stand up? Were they actually defying gravity? I wished I had a physicist or whatever type of scientist this phenomenon required to explain this to me. There should be studies done on these donkeys. They might unlock the secrets of the universe, or revolutionize chair-making.
“Harry, some help?” Jackal yelled from nearby.
“Where are you? I’m behind the store.”
“Come out the gate, then make a right.”
I did as instructed and found Jackal standing with one foot on the chest of the boy from the store. She had her crossbow pointed at his head. A few feet away, the Tickling Bandit was giving Jackal a rather spectacular glare.
“Let go of my cousin, and I’ll let you live,” Thysla said.
“Only if you tell us where our item is,” Jackal replied.
“Why would I do that? I could knock you out easily and still have it.”
Jackal pressed her boot down harder on the boy. He began to whimper rather pathetically, though not as pathetically as I would have. Whenever I see a child whimpering to get a toy, I whimper back. I’m so good that the parents usually buy me a new toy.
Thysla’s face was bright red. “Leave him alone! I’ll give you three seconds, and then I’m coming for you. One . . . two . . .”
Jackal pressed down harder, and the boy screamed. “Give us our package, or I’ll start breaking things in him.”
Thysla took a few steps back and paused. She was surprisingly worried. I’d had her pegged as someone who didn’t care about anyone. “All right. I’ll get it if you stop hurting him.”
Jackal released the pressure a bit. “You’d better hurry. My stomping foot is starting to feel extra stompy.”
Thysla ran off at her typical ridiculous pace.
“I’m here, Jackal,” I said.
She turned slightly. “Good. I’ll need you to get the package from her while I stay on top of Pimples.”
“You can stand on me as long as you like, beautiful,” the boy said. “The view from down here is spectacular.”
She pressed her foot down harder.
“Worth every broken rib. The pain will go, but the images will never leave me.”
She rolled her eyes. “Why do men always have to be so disgusting?”
Thysla appeared in front of us carrying our box and anxiously eying Jackal’s foot. “Here’s your stupid package. Now, stop hurting him. Are you all right, Banthin?”
“I’m fine, Mula.”
“Mula?” Jackal said. “That sounds like a cow’s name.”
“Shut up. I was named after my great-grandmother.”
“Whatever, Muuuuuuuula. Was your grandmother also a cow?”
“Stop antagonizing her, Jackal,” I said. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but be careful, or she might tickle you.” I think my IQ dropped three points from saying that.
“Sorry, it’s a funny name. Muuuuuuula. Go get the package from her, Harry.”
“If I ever see you again, you fashion show reject,” Thysla/Mula snarled, “I’ll tickle you till you wet yourself, and then kill you.” She handed the package over without even looking at me, so intent was she on glaring a hole through Jackal.
“Is the box still locked, Harry?”
“Yes.” I gave it a shake. “And it’s the right weight, too.”
“Good. Now run around the corner to the main street.”
Thysla/Mula stomped her foot. “Hey, we had a deal.”
“I’ll get off of him when Harry’s safely around the corner. You won’t attack Harry in broad daylight with witnesses around.”
“And what about you, Jackal?” I asked. “You know she’s going to go for you when you let go of her cousin.”
“Let me worry about that. Now, go.”
I considered doing the brave thing and telling Jackal I’d take on Mula to save her, then I remembered that they were only actors. Taking on a toddler who tickled people as her primary method of attack didn’t strike me as worthy of my bravery, especially not a second time. So, I did as instructed and ran around the corner. Fortunately, even though it was getting late, there were at least fifteen people in full view. This part of Jackal’s plan would probably work, but I wasn’t sure how she could get herself out of there. I wondered if her safety just wasn’t important to her.
“Now, get over there, Banthin,” I could hear Jackal say from around the corner, “and if I ever catch you giving me that creepy glare again, I’ll put a bolt through your eyes.”
“Just like the love arrows of The One’s flying accountant,” Banthin said.
“Come here, you loud-mouthed pixie. Time to get your medicine,” Mula said.
“No, stop. I love her.”
I heard either the sound of two bodies crashing into each other, or someone smacking two sacks of mashed potatoes together. Don’t ask how I know what that sounds like. I wasn’t the culprit behind the Great Mashed Potato Explosion in middle school; someone just told me what that sounds like.
Jackal came sprinting around the corner. “Run, Harry! That couldn’t have bought us much time.”
I pushed myself hard, but Jackal quickly outpaced me. Evidently, I was not in as great a shape as I’d thought, though, to be fair, I was carrying a five-pound wooden box.
“Hurry up. We need to find the others and get out of here,” Jackal said.
“I think I saw them somewhere across the street.”
“Let me take the box. It’s slowing you down.”
My exhaustion overpowered my manly instinct to not let a woman carry something heavy. Then, from a block away, we saw a large man fly through the door of the tavern. That had to be where Cat was.
“And stay out!” Cat said through the door.
“Cat,” Jackal said. “We need to get out of here fast.”
Cat stuck his head out the door. “Oh, hi, guys. I was just teaching this guy how rude it is to let me ogle his woman.”
Cat looked up and down the street. “I don’t see her.”
We both turned around. No small girl or teenage boy was chasing us.
“Maybe she’s waiting for us to leave town,” Jackal said.
I finally recovered enough to begin speaking. “There’s no way she’s going to let you go unpunished, Jackal. You really got her mad.”
Cat pouted. “Hey, that’s my job.”
The others came out of the bar. I would have thought they’d come out sooner to check on Cat. Wolf must have been well-used to Cat getting himself into trouble by now and knew he could handle himself.
“Any luck?” Wolf asked. “Not much to report here, other than that we really shouldn’t take Cat into a bar, whether he’s been drinking or not.”
Jackal held up the box.
“Nice job,” Cat said, “but you said we really need to start running, right?”
“Yes, the bandit—whose real name is Mula—is around here somewhere.”
“Mula,” Cat echoed. “That’s great. Muuuuuula.”
“Stop it, Cat. She might be able to hear you, and I’ve already ticked her off.”
Almost immediately, Mula came charging around the corner from a few houses down. “I was going to let you guys get out of town before I smacked you around, but now you’ve really pissed me off. No one makes fun of my name. My great-grandma was a saint.”
Her cousin came up behind her. “Stop it, Mula. You can’t use that here. We need to keep it secret. Remember the family legacy.”
“Yeah, remember your legacy,” Cat said. “Muuuuuuuuuuula.”
Within half a second, Mula had Cat lying on the ground, laughing his head off. “Stop it. Ha-ha-ha. I’m really ticklish. Ha-ha-ha. Oww, my lungs hurt. Ha-ha-ha. I think I’m going to burst.”
“I’m going to make you suffer, you big jerk.”
“Not if we have anything to say about it,” Wolf said as he drew his sword.
A local in a black hat with the word “Sherrff” written on it in chalk came running over. “What do you think you’re doing there, missy? I’ll have no violence in my town.”
“Just giving him a friendly tickle, officer.”
“Well, he doesn’t seem to like it much, little one. You need to stop.”
“Ha-ha,” Cat said. “Yeah, Muuuuuula.”
Mula tickled him so hard that he vomited.
Funny, I didn’t remember him eating any rutabagas. And how had he eaten them whole?
“That better not be what I think it is,” the Sherrff said as he turned toward another villager. “Tumis, some help. I think she’s using Tickle-Shen.”
“That’s right, Sherrff. I’m a Tickle-Shen master,” Mula said. “If you interfere, you’re next.”
“Mula, you’ve ruined everything,” Banthin wailed.
“Not if I use the tickle of forgetfulness on them.”
“I was afraid of that,” the Sherrff said. “You really picked the wrong time of day to try something here, missy. I’ll bet you’re no match for us when we transform.”
As much as I love the Transformers cartoon, those characters had no place in my world. Although, it would be kind of neat to see Optimus Prime take the witness stand in the ensuing lawsuit.
The Sherrff, Tumis, and all of the other townspeople started to howl.
No. No. No. This had better not mean what I thought it meant. As I stared, transfixed in horror—though not for the usual reason someone would in this situation—a bright light flashed, blinding me.
When my vision returned, the Sherrff and all of the townspeople had been replaced with soft, adorable puppies. The puppy that had been the Sherrff began to nibble on another puppy playfully.
I had explicitly stated in the foreword of Storms of Sculan that there were no werewolves, vampires, or orcs in Vyenra. I’d thought it was implied that there were no were-anythings. Evidently, the writers on this show thought “no werewolves” didn’t include werepuppies.
Really, puppies? Not werecats or werebears. No, those would be too scary. I figured werebunnies and werebabies were coming up next.
Mula, who was just as confused as the rest of us, completely stopped tickle-torturing Cat. “Well, that was anticlimactic. Who should I tickle next? Not you, stick girl. I’m saving you for last. How about the older guy who thinks his sword is even slightly threatening?”
From behind Mula, we heard a high-pitched scream. Somehow, several of the puppies had taken Banthin to the ground and were nuzzling him aggressively. The puppies didn’t appear to be biting or clawing him; they were just rubbing their noses on him and occasionally licking him. It would have all looked rather playful and adorable if Banthin hadn’t been screaming and thrashing about like he was being strangled. The kid was either a really good actor or terribly allergic to dogs.
“Banthin,” Mula said, “how the heck is that hurting you? They’re only puppies.”
“The pain. The pain! Make them stop!”
“Seriously? Oh, all right. This had better not be one of your impractical jokes again.”
She ran over and tried to pull him out from under the puppies covering him. There was the possibility, I realized, that he was in danger of suffocation. As she pulled his arm out, a look of pure horror spread across her normally unflappable face. While his hand was perfectly fine, the rest of his body was nothing more than bone, picked clean of any skin or muscle.
“Ha-ha . . . huh?” Cat said.
“How about, we don’t find out?” Wolf said. “Run!”
With no hesitation, our group followed his lead toward the main road out of town. After a few hundred yards, I glanced over my shoulder. Some of the puppies were indeed chasing us on their stumpy little legs at a surprisingly fast pace. I had hoped that since Mula was the one who had angered the Sherrff that they would leave us alone.
An idea of pure brilliance came to me. If I “killed” myself on this stupid TV show, they would have to let me leave it. Screw my agreement with Hammurabi. I wasn’t going to look heroic anyway if the only opponents they were going to offer me were puppies and toddlers.
I came to a stop and lay down to let the puppies have me. Besides, having a dozen puppies nuzzle and lick me sounded like a lot of fun. Someone should get a bunch of puppies together and charge money for that. If any of you readers do that, I’d better get a cut.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the village idiot charging toward me. He had finally stopped his fountain impersonation, it seemed, though he was soaked from head to toe. I was glad I wasn’t his dry cleaner.
The idea of being tackled by a man covered in urine wasn’t at all appealing, so I stood. Why was it that the weirdos were always the ones who were attracted to me? And why did they always have to be male?
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
He bravely stood with his back to me and faced down the angry, adorable horde. When they got within a few feet, he cried, “Yarrrrrgggggghhhhh!” and began to spray their ranks while twisting slightly back and forth.
The puppies stopped their charge immediately and began to whimper in heartbreaking unison. I really hoped no children would watch this scene when it aired, or I’d be getting psychiatrists’ bills until the day I died.
As I stood watching in horror, Cat grabbed my arm. “Come on, Harry. He can’t hold them off forever.”
So flabbergasted was I that I followed without resistance. In retrospect, I missed a golden opportunity to “kill” myself, but then again, I probably wouldn’t have wanted to jump into a pile of pee-covered puppies, no matter the result.
When we caught up to the rest of the group outside town, I finally turned back. There were no puppies in pursuit, nor were Mula or the village idiot anywhere to be seen. I should have known that whoever was running this show would make me look heroic in the dumbest ways possible. Of course, everything else about this show had been idiotic, so why wo
uld that be any different? They might have even been legitimately trying to make me look good but were just really bad at it.
I hunched over, breathless.
“Did you guys see that?” Cat said. “Harry tried to sacrifice himself to save us. Maybe he can join us, and we can be the Fanged Fouro?”
“The word’s’ ‘quartet,’ moron,” Jackal said, “but you do have a good point. I’d like to have Harry around after this mission.”
“Let’s talk about it later,” Wolf said. “Jackal, do you still have the package?”
She nodded.
“Good. We need to move fast.”
We ran down the road as quickly as we were able, with a few breaks, mostly for Mr. Plot Device and me to catch our breath.
During one of those breaks, I finally got out the question that had been burning a hole in my mind. “Who was the guy who saved me, anyway? I mean, besides the village idiot.”
“Oh, he’s a government agent,” Cat said.
“You mean the man in clothes as dirty as your mind?” Jackal said. “There’s no way he’s a professional spy. He chases dogs and pees himself in public.”
“Nope. He definitely works for the government. All government agents have mustaches.”
Jackal rolled her eyes. “Just because someone has a mustache doesn’t mean they’re a government agent. My elderly grade school teacher who could barely walk had a mustache. Are you telling me he was an agent?”
Cat gave her a coy smile. “The perfect cover. No one would suspect him.”
“And what about the Iron Workers’ Guild? It’s a sign of their guild to have a handlebar mustache.”
“Remember the Great Strike of ’89? They were on strike for six months. It was a cover so the government could use them to suppress the revolts in Western Shranmel. The strike ended a week after the revolt stopped.”
“And what about women?” Jackal asked. “I know there are women who work for the government, and they don’t have mustaches.”
“I think it’s optional for them,” Cat said. “I mean, we can’t have all of those ugly government chicks trying to be mustache beautiful.”
“Your theory is probably the dumbest thing you’ve ever come up with, which is saying something since you once said all trees are left-handed.”
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