Twelfth Chapter — A Lack of Butter Knives

Seven Eleven and Kapono Cloudstalker arrived back at the hut, where Aolani and Mr. Chippie were playing gin by the fire. It was a very homey scene. “Woooo. Fail, you did, Young Cloudstalker,” Mr. Chippie ascertained.

“How did you know?” Seven Eleven asked.

“Mind waves, wooooo,” the rodent replied. “Now, a task there is before you.”

“What?”

“Woooooooo.”

“No, seriously, tell me.”

“Long road before you, there is. A long and winding road, it is. Wooooo.”

“Oooh, Aolani has all four aces,” was Kapono’s contribution to the conversation.

“Where does the road lead?” Seven Eleven asked.

“To the empty spaces in your mind, wooooooooo.”

“What?” Seven Eleven was affronted. She knew not what else to say, so contented herself with blinking.

“When the moon is up above, and Jupiter aligns with Mars, you’ll see the singing of the stars,” Aolani spoke up absent-mindedly, while discarding a four of diamonds. “Really, I thought everyone knew that.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“You shouldn’t have discarded that,” Kapono remarked. “Master Chippie has the three and the five of diamonds. If you had concentrated your mind on the Force, you could have sensed that…”

“Wooooo,” Mr. Chippie said, drawing the four of diamonds toward him through the air.

“What task is before me? I don’t get it! I just don’t get it!” Seven Eleven whined.

“When a red fox and a brown cow frolic in the ocean, you will know what the task is,” Aolani sighed, regretting that she had to explain such a simple notion.

Seven Eleven became hot and bothered. “I don’t see why you all have to be so mysterious all the time,” she pouted. She stormed out of the hut. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be down on the beach watching for livestock.”

“Wooo, hastily spoken that was,” Chippie remarked. “Livestock, a fox is not.”

She tromped through the jungle and came to the beach, where she encountered Marianne down by the seaside sifting sand. Seven Eleven was in no mood to sift sand with her, however, so she walked a little ways down the beach until she came to Sally, who was selling seashells by the seashore. The seashells were chipped and broken, however, and so Seven Eleven was not interested in these, either.

When she was finally alone, she thought she could detect the sounds of Marianne and Sally being attacked by the spectre, but as she could not be sure, she did not let it concern her overmuch. The ocean was empty and calm, with no trace of foxes or cows—not even hens.

She became philosophical. She pondered the great mysteries of life, such as why the chicken felt it had to cross the road. She contemplated the teachings of Socrates and Plato and various other quacks of notoriety. “Why is the sky blue?” she mused. “And why did Double Eleven conk me over the head and run away?”

All questions became unimportant when she realized she was sitting in quicksand. She leapt up with a curse and another when she had to leave her shoes behind. To make matters worse, the spectre came looming over the hill and forced her to flee in abject terror. She sprinted across the beach in bare feet, wondering if abject terror was the opposite of abstract terror or what.

From above she heard a strange noise, like unto but not exactly the sound of butter knives rubbing against each other. Seven Eleven looked up, and gasped when she saw Kapono Cloudstalker hovering above her perched on a floating carpet. He did not have any butter knives.

“What the…?” she huffed, nearly tripping over a sea turtle sunning itself in the moonlight.

“The Force,” explained the angsty padawan simply, tossing his braid in what she supposed was a proud movement. “Hop up.”

“You’re floating several feet above my head.”

“Use the Force.”

“If you say that one more time by golliwockers I’m going to turn right back around and fling myself at the spectre, damn self preservation and let it do its worst!”

Kapono sighed. “Unfortunately I have taken an irrational liking to you, Dirt Girl, so I can’t let that happen.” With that, he levitated Seven Eleven up onto the carpet. It took her a moment to realize she could stop flailing her arms and legs in a running motion, and she sniffed petulantly, feeling stupid. This was not uncommon.

The spectre, though able to float, was curiously helpless to thwart this little trick, and it hovered impotently on the beach, watching them soar away.

As they soared over the dark black of the ocean under the night sky, Seven Eleven asked a pertinent question, “Where are we soaring?”

“Look over there!” said Kapono, rudely ignoring her question.

She briefly considered peeling him like a potato, but instead followed his pointing finger with her eyes (as following with the rest of her body would have resulted in a nasty fall) too see what she could see.

“Is that a sea serpent?” she wondered, locking eyes on a large creature flailing about in the water.

“Fool,” said Kapono with his customary scorn. “It’s a brown cow. And look over there, at the red fox.”

“Are they…?”

“Frolicking?”

“Yes.”

“It would appear so.”

“That’s just nasty.”

“Wait, now they’ve paused. They see us.”

“Did the cow just moo at us?”

“The fox is holding up a sign.” Kapono steered the carpet closer to that they could read the sign:

CONTENTED COWS COME FROM CALIFORNIA

“Well, that’s just not right,” sputtered Seven Eleven in protest. She pulled a rock from her pocket and threw it at the fox, seething with competitive pride.

“What are you doing, stupid?” Kapono stopped the missile mid-air and made it plop harmlessly into the water well away from the frolicking animals. “Do you want their help or not?”

Seven Eleven pouted, sitting back down on the airborn rug. “All they are trying to do is brainwash us with their propaganda, I—”

Her complaint was cut short when something hard struck her on the head and she passed out.

When she came to, she espied Cloudstalker sitting cross legged on the carpet, holding something dark and round in his hands. “Wassat?” she inquired, stifling a diatribe about how sick she was of getting knocked on the head.

“It’s a Magic 8 Ball,” he said. “Courtesy of the cow. I’m asking it important questions.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Will I become the most powerful Jedi ever?” He gave the ball a shake. “Oooh, it says I will be feared and loathed by many, but will have bad skin and respiratory problems.”

“Give me that,” Seven Eleven snapped impatiently, snatching the ball from his hands. “Why did Double Eleven conk me over the head and run away?” She gave it a shake and peered with great anticipation down at the triangular prophet.

“NO,” it said, “GUESS AGAIN.”

“What the…? Stupid thing’s broken,” she huffed.

“Ask it what you should do.”

“What should I do?” Seven Eleven obeyed. “And if you tell me to drink more Ovaltine I swear by my pretty floral bonnet, I will end you.”

“What bonnet?” Kapono asked, but was shushed as Seven Eleven gave the ball a couple shakes, rattles, and rolls.

“Huh. It says I must travel to the Mountain of the Most Unpleasant Things Imaginable,” Seven Eleven said with knit brow. Actually she said it with her mouth, but that is immaterial. “Why should I do that?” she asked the ball, but as she jiggled and jived it, it slipped from her fingers and rolled off the carpet, plummeting into the deep waves below.

“Drat!” she cried, and punched Kapono in the arm. “Why didn’t you use the Force?”

“I was busy staring at the way your hair falls over your face when you look down,” Kapono said absently, and Seven Eleven flushed awkwardly. That begs for a pun but nothing specific is coming to mind.

“Well, will you transport me to the MotMUTI on your magic carpet?” she asked, taking advantage of the moment to tuck a loose tendril of hair behind her ear.

“It’s actually a Force carpet, not a magic carpet.”

“Whatever.”

Luckily for Seven Eleven, young Cloudstalker seemed unmanned by her apparent beauty and agreed to fly her to her destiny. She was glad that he had been marooned on an island with only his sister for female company and was thus so easily entranced by her somewhat substandard feminine charms. It definitely helped move the plot along.

Next Chapter:
Khaos and Karnage on the Road to King Kandy’s Kastle

Tenth Chapter – A Stupendous Battle

As Mister Chippie’s hut filled with salt water, the atmosphere became even more uncomfortable. This was due to the water vapor rising from Seven Eleven’s tears, increasing the humidity.

“Stop crying, Dirt Girl,” Kapono said impatiently. “Just because you can’t think of anything scathing to say. What a baby.”

Seven Eleven wiped her face on her sleeve and walked over to Kapono, burying her face in his shoulder. He stood uncomfortably, the pain from his shoulder nearly unbearable. When Seven Eleven finished cleaning her nose on his robe, she backed up and said, “Thanks, Braid Boy.”

“Don’t mention it, Dirt Girl,” he replied. The tender moment was suddenly interrupted by the hideous sound of a spine-tingling, blood curdling, hair curling, freakishly morbid scream.

“Eee!” Aolani hid her head in her hands, “what was that?”

“Sounds like a Ringwraith,” Kapono declared.

“Woooo,” Chippie said.

“Not, it’s a spectre,” Seven Eleven said, “it came over on a boat.”

“That’s how these things usually get here,” Kapono said. “Annoying little blighters, they are. Leave this to me.”

Thus saying, he took what looked like a flashlight from his belt, and with a heroic pose he turned the device on. A vibrating sound filled the hut as a beam of green light burst from the weapon.

“Whoa,” said Seven Eleven.

“If I’m not back in 5 minutes, write me a nice eulogy,” Cloudstalker directed. Then he amazed Seven Eleven by parting the bamboo poles with a flick of his eyelashes. And what long, pretty eyelashes they were. He darted out into the night, and the poles drew back together again.

“I think I’m in love,” Seven Eleven said. “You don’t mind, do you Aolani?”

“Mind? He’s my twin brother—don’t be disgusting,” Aolani replied, crawling out from under the table. She twirled her umbrella and asked, “Don’t you see the resemblance?”

“Scowl,” Seven Eleven replied. “Ah, yes, now I see it.”

There came a series of unpleasant noises from outside—screams, screeches, growls, snarls, ripping, spitting, and a sudden burst of polka music. Then all was silent.

“Didn’t you mother teach you that opening an umbrella indoors is bad luck?” Seven Eleven said.

“I don’t remember anything about my mother. She was beautiful, and sad, but she died when I was very young,” Aolani told her.

They heard an explosion, and the sound of trees falling.

“4 minutes, woooo…” Chippie declared.

“Hmm… on his head was a braid…in the earth he is laid…” Seven Eleven pondered.

“Ne’r will his memory fade?” offered Aolani.

More sounds from outside.

“Should someone go out and lend Braid Boy assistance?” Seven Eleven suggested.

“Volunteering, you are?” Chippie asked with a wise gleam in his beady, wide-set eyes.

“No,” Seven Eleven denied. “I was just out there a little while ago. Besides, I don’t like pain—it hurts me.”

“A lousy secret agent, you are. Woooo.”

Seven Eleven pretended that she did not hear that last insult, and she helped herself to another monkey paw.

“5 minutes, 10 seconds. Woooo.”

“All right, all right,” Seven Eleven snapped. “I’ll do it!”

“Look both ways before you cross the stream,” Aolani said helpfully, jotting down Kapono’s eulogy on the back of a playing card.

Seven Eleven wriggled out under the tunnel she had dug. Once out in the moonlight, she glanced around with a keen eye.

The jungle was strangely silent, and as Seven Eleven crept away from the hut, the moon disappeared. She assumed this was because of clouds, but still it gave her an unsettled feeling. The feeling deepened as she began hearing growling sounds from the undergrowth, and she thought of groping back to the hut. But then she remembered the feeling of brown, coarse robe on her nose and so she pushed on toward her destination.

Then she stopped. Where was her destination? She felt some compelling force gently urging her on, but she didn’t understand. But she continued, and soon she beheld a fearsome sight. For, there in the trees above her, there hung a great big stuffed teddy bear clad in leather.

She stood there wondering what this meant, if anything. But then she heard a hiss from the undergrowth. “Dirt Girl!”

“Is that you, Braid Boy?”

“No, it’s Humphrey Bogart—of course it’s me! You are interfering with my snare, come in the undergrowth before my quarry arrives!” responded the bushes.

“What is your quarry?” Seven Eleven inquired.

“The spectre, of course. We battled long and hard, until for fear of me, it fled into the night,” Kapono explained. “Now I am lying in wait.”

“And the teddy bear?”

“Is the bait! Everyone knows that spectres love teddy bears. It will try to pluck the plush biker bear from the tumtum tree, unawares of me, and I, crouching here, will ensnare it using the Force.”

“And then what will you do with it?”

“I am tiring of this dialogue! Come into the underbrush before you ruin my plan, Dirt Girl.”

Seven Eleven crawled through the briars and arrived under the bush where Kapono was crouching tensely.

“M&M?” he offered.

“Plain, peanut stuffed, or crispy?” Seven Eleven asked.

“Monkey & Mutton, is what I meant. I keep a stash under this log, because Aolani eats the whole thing without thinking.”

This tedious discourse was mercifully interrupted by Kapono sighting the spectre floating toward them. Seven Eleven choked on her Monkey & Mutton as fear climbed up her esophagus like the itsy bitsy spider. A greenish glow permeated the air as the foul fiend, that spooky spectre, that hideous wretch, floated forward through the formerly inky blackness.

“Did you know,” she whispered to Kapono, “that the state motto of Wisconsin is ‘Forward’?”

“Do I care?” Kapono replied.

“No, but—“

“Silence,” Young Cloudstalker snapped irritably. “Do not disturb me, I must concentrate on the Force.”

“Okay, fine,” Seven Eleven said petulantly, crossing her arms.

“Ummmmmm…” Kapono intoned impressively. “Hroom, hrum, hmmmm…”

Seven Eleven, meanwhile, went back to crunching upon her M&M. The spectre continued to float, obliging creature that it was.

“Ash nazg…uh…er…ash nazg…”

“What’s the matter?” Seven Eleven inquired around a mouthful of mutton.

“I can’t remember the rest of the incantation,” Kapono moaned.

“Use the Force, moron.”

“Okay.”

The spectre, meanwhile, had apparently tired of this tedious discourse, for it resumed its forward momentum, and began looming, besides. Seven Eleven became concerned. “Should I do something?” she asked worriedly. Kapono made no response. Seven Eleven decided to take things into her own well-manicured hands.

“Mellon!” she cried, jumping up out of the bushes. The spectre, nonplussed, howled. This brought Kapono to his senses, and he valorously rose to the defense of the lady.

“Hara kooma bluna ya!” he shouted ferociously. The spectre howled again, showing how very nonplussed it was becoming.

After this, things started happening very fast. Conveniently, Seven Eleven wasn’t sure exactly what transpired, but she had the impression of being thrown off her feet and into the bushes. When she regained her composure, she found out that this actually is what happened. She extricated herself from the foliage, and found Kapono standing alone in the silent jungle.

“What happened?” she asked perplexedly.

“It was a stupendous battle,” Kapono boasted. “A pity you missed it.”

“Where is the spectre?”

“He, um, escaped,” Kapono admitted.

“Drat. Tell me about the battle.”

“Maybe when you’re older,” Kapono replied deprecatingly. “Come on, let’s go home.”

“Older-smolder. You’re just a Padawan learner, whereas I’m a secret agent and have been known to kill boatloads of people,” Seven Eleven said hotly.

Kapono was already walking away, however, and did not hear a word she spoke. Seven Eleven could do nothing but follow, muttering expletives under her breath. Much like Yosemite Sam, only with less facial hair.

Next Chapter:
Schizophrenia Under the Sun

Sixth Chapter — Which Witch is Which?

In the top secret control room aboard the Phantom Yacht (as Seven Eleven had taken to thinking of it) Double Eleven’s imprisoned counterpart snoozed underneath the bearskin rug. All of a sudden, she was jerked awake by a foot stepping carelessly on the small of her back. She cursed under her breath, but otherwise fought to ignore the intense pain that shot along her spinal cord, sending alarming distress signals to her brain. Seven Eleven was trained to ignore her brain, and so she did what any top-notch secret agent would do—she lay completely still.

She peered out between the slimy synthetic teeth and saw that the room was empty and the computers were silent. A lone janitor was mulling about, picking up scraps of paper, bubble gum wrappers, discarded cigarettes, cigars and other trashy paraphernalia. Seven Eleven looked out at him with a revengeful gleam in her eyes, as the nerves in her spinal cord told her to kill, kill, kill!

She took a deep breath and cleared her mind of such vengeful impulses, in true secret agent fashion. Then she carefully slithered out from under the rug and tiptoed up behind the janitor, who was whistling snatches of “These Boots Were Made for Walking”. Seven Eleven’s eye twitched, and she took care of him.

Ah, well, even secret agents cannot resist their human impulses all the time. Seven Eleven rifled through his garbage bag, looking for any interesting bits of information she could obtain from the bits of discarded paper he had retrieved from the floor. She found a note that read, “Call me at 711-1111”.

Seven Eleven went over to a telephone and picked up the receiver. The dial tone sounded ominous in the quiet, darkened room, and she stood there debating what to do, with the phone pressed to her ear. Slowly she extended her index finger toward the touch tone base, and hit the number 7. Then she moved her finger up, passing the 4 and pausing over the 1. Resolutely, she hit the button six times. She waited for someone to pick up, cold sweat running down her forehead.

A breathy female voice answered, “Seven Eleven here.”

Seven Eleven paused and reflected. There was something not quite right about that greeting. “Hey!” she exclaimed, but then quickly regained her wits. Of course, she remembered now, that was her own phone number she had just dialed! But who was the imposter on the other end?

“Who is this?” the breathy voice asked suspiciously.

“This is your mother calling,” Seven Eleven said sweetly. “I was just calling to check up on you, dear.”

“Oh, hello…Mother,” the vile doppelgänger replied. “How are your bunions doing?”

Drat, Seven Eleven thought, she knows about my mother’s bunions! Where did she get that information about me? But then she remembered Double Eleven’s treacherous actions, and seethed. Collecting herself, she answered, “Oh, they’re painful, sweetie, but I’m getting on all right. How are you doing? Did you…um…look into that thing I wanted you to look into?”

Seven Eleven gloated at the uncomfortable silence on the other end. Let’s see how she dodges that one, she thought to herself smugly.

“No, sorry, Mother. I didn’t have time.”

“Drat!” Seven Eleven accidentally said out loud. “I…I mean, I wish you would, dearie. You do remember what I told you about it, don’t you?”

“Er…no, I think I forget.”

Dang, she’s good! “Well, it had to do with that thing we always talked about.”

Another long pause, then, “Oh, right! Listen, Mom, I’m sorry about that whole grandchildren thing, but you’ll just have to wait until I meet the right man and—”

“Oh, shut up,” Seven Eleven snapped with annoyance, chastising herself for giving the imposter such an easy out. “I don’t care about grandchildren.”

“But…the file said—” the phony woman on the phone stammered, then gasped involuntarily.

“File, what file?” Seven Eleven said, trying to mask her triumphant emotions.

“The…fingernail file…my telepathic fingernail file…it tells me the wishes of those close to me,” the flustered fake flubbed failingly.

“Seven Eleven, darling, I think you’re going insane. Perhaps I should stop by and see you,” Seven Eleven said, choking on a malicious giggle.

“DON’T!” the fraudulent female freaked out. “I…I mean, I haven’t cleaned my bathroom in months and I’ve got rotting banana peels in the sink and I broke my last cup yesterday so now I drink everything out of the carton! You wouldn’t want to see me like this.”

That moron broke my last cup? Seven Eleven thought angrily. “I don’t care, sweetie pie, I’m coming over. I’m worried about you. You need to get out more!”

“I do need to get out,” the impersonator said feverishly.

“If I run to the bus depot right now I can be there in under two hours,” Seven Eleven said brightly. The line went dead.

Seven Eleven replaced the receiver with a self-satisfied smirk, but her satisfaction quickly faded as she contemplated the fact that her last cup was now broken. The last trace vanished when she realized that the crew had come back, and several men were aiming guns at her vitals. She thought quickly, and jumped in the air, and time froze. Then she kicked them all. The guns flew from their hands, chirping happily, and she swiftly took care of everyone in the room. She stashed them all behind a row of computers and set out to scour the rest of the ship.

Seven Eleven ambled down the hall, opening doors as she went. Restroom, restroom, scullery, restroom…aha! Jackpot. She found the janitorial closet, well-stocked with cleaning chemicals and mops. When she finished scouring the ship, she went on deck to get her bearings. Gazing to the north, she saw water. Gazing to the east, she saw rolling sea-billows. Gazing to the south, she saw warm, azure waters. Gazing to the west, she beheld a tropical island in the moonlight. She was glad the ship was headed due west, because she didn’t know how to steer it.

Fifteen minutes later she dove over the side, being close enough to out-swim the ship. She backstroked, being in no hurry, and blew fountains of water up into the night air, like a whale surfacing to expel water from its blowhole.

Finally, she came to the beach and drew her name in the sand, adorning it with flowers. As she looked back at the ship, she realized that she had not out-swam it so much as she had thought. In fact, it was bearing down upon her at an alarming rate. She turned and stumbled, tripped, scurried, scampered away toward the jungle. She paused at the edge of the trees to glance back. She saw the ship, in a cascade of waves, ram ashore, shudder, and explode in a burst of flaming glory. As it disintegrated, she saw, to her horror, a tall, spectral figure emerge from the flames unscathed and glide silently up the beach.

Seven Eleven turned, and made an undignified retreat through the forest of ferns and vines, bouncing off of trees and tripping over roots. She veered away from snakes and jaguars, making for the little puff of smoke peeping over the treetops. As a secret agent, her eyesight was keen, to say the least. Don’t trouble yourself with details.

Next Chapter:
The Tulgey Wood

Fourth Chapter — Vainglory

High above the Desert of Even More Unpleasant Things, the Huey carrying our beloved Double Eleven was experiencing technical difficulties. Tuck was switching switches and toggling toggles in a frenzied manner that alarmed Double Eleven.

“Is something wrong, Tuck?” he asked with trepidation.

“Uh, the chopper isn’t responding and we’re running out of fuel,” he responded.

“Is that bad?” Double Eleven asked helplessly.

Tuck turned around and looked at him. “That depends,” he drawled. “If you’ve always wanted to die in a fiery explosion of metal and sand, then no.”

Double Eleven’s eyes grew wide, and he threw his arms around Tuck’s neck with tears streaming down his jubilant face. “The old gopher was right,” he cried, “you are da man!” Tuck extricated himself from Double Eleven’s grip and reached into a steel cabinet next to the door.

“Uh, yeah, well, I recommend you get yourself into this pretty quick,” he said, handing him a parachute while struggling into his own.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Double Eleven replied, drying his tears and striding to the door. “I travel prepared for such emergencies.” He flung open the door and flung himself out. Tuck followed with aplomb, consternation stamped on his face. Below him, Double Eleven activated his ACME BatMan wings and glided safely to the ground. When Tuck landed, they took stock of their surroundings. The black sands stretched in all directions farther than the eye could see.

“Ooooh, aaaah,” they chorused as the Huey exploded in the distance. When they finished applauding, they began their trek in the general supposed direction of the Mountain of Unpleasant Things, spirits high and morale likewise.

* * * * *

As darkness fell, their spirits were low and their morale was lower. Double Eleven dropped in the sand and mumbled through the grit, “We’ll camp. Here.” He reached into his pocket—it was a rather deep pocket—and withdrew a large rubbery bundle. He struggled upright and began shaking it out. Opening a valve, he put his mouth to it and blew. Half an hour later he staked down the tent and opened the door flap. “Entrez vous, monsieur,” he said with a bow.

Tuck did so, asking over his shoulder, “So, Ex, what is the whole point of this mission, anyway? The old rodent neglected to tell me.”

Double Eleven paused, trying to remember. After a moment’s consideration, he answered darkly, “That I cannot divulge, for security reasons.” Then he brightened up and asked, “What do you think of our quarters?”

Tuck looked around, felt the carpet, and walked to the window. “It’s quite nice,” he replied, “but why didn’t we just visit that Gothic castle over there? It looks spacious enough.”

Double Eleven looked out the window. “You dolt!” he said, “why didn’t you say something before I hyperventilated over this lousy vinyl/rubber/velour contraption?”

“You didn’t ask,” Tuck answered simply.

Double Eleven kicked the tent and stalked away in the direction of the ominous looking fortress. As he neared the gate, a strange gust of wind rumpled his coiffure, giving him an unsettled feeling. He glanced over his shoulder to ascertain whether or not Tuck was following him, and to his dismay saw that the tent was nowhere in sight. So, he continued on toward the edifice. He looked down and noted with satisfaction that his forearms were nicely tanned. This was not surprising, due to the fact that he had been walking out in the hot sun all day, but it gladdened his heart to see it.

“Ha, I wish Seven Eleven were here to see this,” he gloated. “She burns so easily.” This thought, however, sobered him and he reflected soberly on his present mission. He tilted back his head to gaze in awe at the imposing turrets. Then a thought struck him. With a whump, he fell to the ground and gasped as the air slowly returned to his lungs. He struggled to his feet and turned in the previous direction of the tent. His eyes strained in the gathering gloom to catch sight of his comrade, but in vain. He began to fear that his vainglory would cost them both dearly, and he looked at his forearms with less satisfaction. “Drat, they’re burning,” he muttered, “which means they’ll soon peel in a most disgusting fashion.” Then another thought struck him, an unpleasant thought. How could he be getting sunburned in the gloaming?

“Drat!” he quoth again. “This is the Desert of Even More Unpleasant Things, so it goes without saying that unpleasant things such as this shall occur with increasing frequency!”

He turned and ran back to the deserted tent site. He was just in time to witness a rumpled fedora sinking into the sand. “Quicksand!” he screamed, and fell to digging madly at the sandy spot. Sand flew about his head as he put himself to the task of freeing his pilot. Slowly but surely, Tuck began to appear. This prompted Double Eleven to dig with increased madness.

In a short while, Tuck was free, and he struggled to his feet. “Do you think next time you could wait a little longer before deciding to do something?” Tuck commented.

“More sarcasm? Where were you hiding it all that time?” Double Eleven exclaimed sincerely.

“Under my hat,” Tuck responded with more sarcasm, picking his fedora out of the sand and slapping it against his leg. “Sooner or later we’re going to have to get inside that castle,” he added.

“Maybe if we knock on the gate it will open by itself,” Double Eleven said hopefully.

“You first,” Tuck told him.

They marched intrepidly up to the massive oaken doors, Double Eleven leading the way with his head held high and his forearms reddening. Tuck brushed sand out of his hair and stroked the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. He was looking at Double Eleven’s arms and wondering if they would burst into flames eventually. Just as he had that unlucky thought, Double Eleven screamed and threw himself onto the sand, where he rolled about like a madman.

“My arms, my arms, my beautiful bronzéd arms!” he cried in agony. As he struggled to his feet, he stared at his blackened forearms in consternation.

Tuck, meanwhile, took the initiative and rapped a resounding tattoo upon the gates, which opened silently of their own accord. The happy duo sauntered into the courtyard, jauntily surveying the crumbling ruins as the doors silently crashed shut. Double Eleven unhurriedly approached what appeared to be the main doors of the keep. He raised his fist to knock upon them, and they fell in upon themselves, crumbled to dust, and wafted away.

As he was about to enter, Tuck’s voice cut the stillness like a whip. Or perhaps it was his bullwhip. Whatever it was, it arrested Double Eleven’s progress and he gasped as a gigantic, bloodstained battle axe sliced into the floor in front of his toes.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Tuck muttered.

“Are you—hey, watch out!” Double Eleven dove and caught hold of Tuck’s bullwhip just as he fell through the yawning gap that had suddenly opened in the courtyard cobblestones. Double Eleven hauled him back up with some difficulty, just in time to save him from being crushed as the pit closed up again.

“Let’s get inside before something else happens,” urged Double Eleven. He helped Tuck though the doorway and onto an antique swooning couch. “You stay here and make yourself comfortable,” he told him kindly. “I’ll go up this seemingly endless flight of stairs and try to find the guestroom.”

True to his word, Double Eleven started up the seemingly endless flight of stairs, which was actually quite well-lit. At regular intervals along the wall, there were oil portraits of stuffy old ladies and gentlemen, each flanked by two candelabras, mounted on the wall. Double Eleven wisely broke one off of the wall, in case all the others were suddenly snuffed out by some foul gust.

He paused to read the nameplate of the portrait above the now empty spot on the wall where the candelabra had once hung. “Mordecai D. Mentedbaum,” he read out loud. “Hmm, wasn’t that the name of my sixth grade English teacher?” But then he shrugged away the thought, since the visage peering down at him from the painting did not resemble his old teacher in the least. He could not resist, however, studying the other portraits. They were all exceedingly ugly personages, and Double Eleven wrinkled his nose distastefully.

It was rather unsettling to find that, as he went up, they became less and less human in form. While not becoming bestial, per se, there was something in the expression of the eyes, the knit of the brow and the hunch of the shoulders that denoted denigration. Not the denigration caused by aging, but of a different sort, which Double Eleven couldn’t quite put his finger on. So he decided to stop caressing the canvas with his fingertips, and continued up the stairs.

Finally, he came to the top of the stairs. He stood still and peered down the darkened corridor that stretched before him for an indiscernible distance. There were no candelabras to light his way, but luckily he still clutched the one he’d ripped from the wall. He took a deep breath and was about to venture into the inky unknown, when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the last painting at the top of the stairs was that of a spectral form.

He gasped. It was none other than the insolent fiend who had kicked him in the pants and sent him sprawling over the side of the yacht! He rushed forward to read the plaque under the painting. But just as he got close enough to shine the light upon the bronze surface, a foul gust barreled down the corridor and snuffed out not only the candelabras on the walls, but the one in his hand as well.

“Drat!” he exclaimed. But then, to his horror, he noted that the form of the spectre was still visible, as it appeared to give off its own unearthly glow. He did have to admit it was interesting. Then he stumbled back and ran, tripping and slipping down the corridor, heading for certain doom.

Next Chapter:
Zenvieva

First Chapter — The Dream of a Dream

Double Eleven (1111) and Seven Eleven (711) were sitting on the dock of the bay, wasting time, when all of a sudden Double Eleven caught sight of a suspicious looking boat drifting aimlessly across the bay.  Seven Eleven did not care, as she had just caught sight of a suspicious airplane drifting aimlessly over their heads.  “Forsooth, ‘tis a strange craft,” she exclaimed.  “Dost thou think it means to do us harm?”

Double Eleven squinted up into the sunny sky and conjectured, “Happen chance they are only sight-seeing.  That boat, on the other hand, worketh upon me strangely, as if I have seen it before, in a dream, or a dream of a dream.”

“What is a dream of a dream?” inquired Seven Eleven.

“Sleepwalking, my dear,” Double Eleven replied.  “You see, one night I was strolling about on the dock under the light of the silvery moon, and I saw a lone boat meandering through the crystal waves of the shimmering sea.  Methinks it was this same boat.  Shall we pursue it and find what it is about?”

“In good time, Double Eleven, but first, methinks that plane is a crop-duster, which is about to dust us,” Seven Eleven said with great trepidation.

“Dive into the water!” Double Eleven ordered.  He leapt from the edge of the pier and sliced through the water like a well-sharpened knife.  Seven Eleven followed suit.

Up in the pristine blue sky the pilot of the airplane cursed under his breath.

The two agents did the butterfly through the glassy water.  “Double Eleven?” Seven Eleven sputtered.

“Yes?” he replied.

“Where are we going?”

“To the ship, of course.  We shall climb aboard and slit the throats of everyone we find.”

“But why?”

“Dolt!  The plane and the ship are in league with each other, and surely they both have our doom in mind.”

“But, Double Eleven…”

“Yes?”

“We don’t have any knives,” Seven Eleven pointed out.

“Then we shall bite their necks and suck the blood from their bodies,” Double Eleven explained patiently.

“Oh, yes, quite.  Why did I not think of that?”

“Because you are a dolt,” he told her.  “Now, let’s backstroke.”

They continued on in this manner until Seven Eleven hit her head upon the prow of the ship. “Aha, here we are,” Double Eleven said as he heard the hollow clang.  They climbed up the side, using their ACME SpiderMan gloves.  Then they peeked over the side and surveyed the crew going about their work.

“Double Eleven?”

“Yes?”

“Isn’t this a small yacht?”

“Yes.”

“Then why is there a crew aboard?”

“That is what we shall endeavor to find out,” Double Eleven explained.  They clung to the edge of the yacht until darkness fell, then they slithered aboard, using their ACME SnakeMan bodysuits.

Double Eleven slunk along the wall, and skulked along the scullery. Seven Eleven stood next to a floor lamp very, very still. “This lamp could be a clue,” Seven Eleven said to herself, rather loudly.

“What are you doing?” hissed Double Eleven in her ear, appearing noiselessly beside her. “Do you want to get us all killed?”

“All?”

“Don’t be difficult.” They separated and scoured the ship, but there were a few spots they couldn’t get clean. They met back at the lamp.

“Double Eleven?”

“Yes?”

“Where is the crew this whole time?”

“That is what I have been endeavoring to find out,” he replied. “Stay here.” He disappeared without a squeak over the side of the ship.

Seven Eleven sat in suspense, or rather stood, until a hand was clapped over her mouth and she was knocked on the head with a small anchor. She bit it, and went out like a light.

Fifteen minutes later, Double Eleven came up for air. “Seven Eleven?”

“Yes?”

“Have you seen the crew?”

“No…”

“Why do you sound so hoarse?”

“I don’t know.”

Suddenly the impostor felt a strong hand clapped over his mouth, and a medium sized anchor hit him on the head. He bit his tongue and went out like an unconscious person. Agent Double Eleven picked him up with one hand and flung him carelessly into the briny sea.

“Double Eleven?” came a voice.

“Yes?” he answered cautiously, picking up the nearest weapon and moving into position.

“Where are you?” came the voice again, more distinctly.

“Right behind you!” replied Double Eleven, bringing the heavy blunt object to bear upon his unseen foe. He heard a crumpling sound and flipped on the floor lamp.

“Seven Eleven!” he gasped, aghast.

She made no reply.

He put down the lifesaver with which he had struck his fellow agent, and hastened to the side of the boat with a bucket.  He bent over the edge to fill it with water, but before he could straighten he was kicked in the pants and propelled into the salty liquid.  When he surfaced, he saw the gigantic figure of what might or might not have been a man looking down upon him in disdain.  “Speak, fiend!” he spoke demandingly, spitting out a stream of water.

“Know this, mere poopsie-daisy,” the spectre replied.  “You will never look upon the countenance of she you call Seven Eleven again, unless you bring me the Catalytic Converter of Doom!”

“But…but…”

“But?”

“What I mean to say is, that is an impossible task!  The Catalytic Converter of Doom is located on the Mountain of Unpleasant Things, in the Desert of Even More Unpleasant Things!”

“That is why I demand it of you,” the fiend replied.  “You are the only living thing who is more unpleasant than the Mountain of Unpleasant Things!”

“What about the Desert?”

The fiend just laughed maniacally.   Then he turned and left the edge of the boat, calling into the thin night air, “Remember Seven Eleven!”

Double Eleven was left dog paddling in the water, debating in his mind what course of action he should take.  The yacht, meanwhile, sped away with super-yacht speed.

“Drat,” Double Eleven muttered, “there is a jellyfish entangled around my legs.”

Luckily for him, he was wearing his ACME JellyMan pants.  He kicked the jellyfish aside disdainfully, and did the breaststroke back to the shore.

Next Chapter:
Of Rodentia and Men