Scoundrels

By Monica Marier

One misty moisty morning,
when foggy was the weather,
I met a jolly gentleman,
all wrapped in leather.
With rings on his fingers,
And bells on his toes…

“…No hang on, that’s not right,” mumbled Marion Byrnes, scratching his stubbly chin. “I can’t remember the rest. Something about the fat git falling in a puddle and sinking to his middle.”

“What was the point of that, may I ask?” asked Heinrich Drechsler with a disdainful sniff. “Another one of your Irish wisdoms?”

“No, it’s just a nursery rhyme. The morning reminded me of it, that’s all,” said Marion lightly, looking around. 

The tropical forests of Chowra rose thickly overhead. Their boots squelched in the thick carpet of rotting vegetation, sending beetles skittering every which way.  Tendrils of fog curled from the ground, joining the wall of white mist that obscured everything.

Marion and Heinrich each held a lantern up, trying to cast a ray upon the impenetrable fog, but all they saw were fairy reflections upon the slick forest walls. The cloying scent of wet vines and trees stank in their nostrils.

“We’re lost,” grumbled Heinrich, in a deep rasp that Marion still found incongruous with the man’s slim girlish face and short stature.

“Nonsense. No one’s ever mapped this place, so there’s no directions… ergo, no place that we are supposed to be going to, nor anyplace we’re not. We’re exploring. That means we can’t be off-course, since we never had a course. So we are not lost.”

“Alright, we’re disoriented, then,” snapped the surly German.

“Yeah, there you go, mate,” nodded Marion in sheepish approval.

They continued in grim silence. The only sound above their squelching was the clank of their gear and the tink of glass upon glass.

“Are you sure we’re even going to find any here?” asked Heinrich after a while. “It’s rather remote. I’m sure these Islands are rather cut off from each other.”

Marion coughed in the damp air. “That’s what I’m counting on. I’m sure we could find a really unique specimen here—one that’s singular from the others on the Indian continent.”

“And what then?” asked Heinrich.

“We make sure they stay rare,” said Marion darkly, covering his mouth with a handkerchief.

“You know, I don’t quite agree with that,” said Heinrich stopping to wipe the beads of moisture that had formed on his wire-rim spectacles.

“It’s part of the business, Heinsy. You knew that when you took the job.”

“I took the job, because the money was good,” sniffed Heinrich. “But so far I’ve yet to see any of it.”

“Look,” said Marion spinning around. “It’s not my fault Mad Hippo got our last shipment out from under us, but we’ve got our legs under us again. MacGilleDhonaghart’s  got The Dachshund docked and waiting for us at Great Nicobar and then we scuttle off for Paris, got it?”

“It’s not the first time Mad Hippo’s gotten the drop on us,” said Heinrich with a frown at Marion.

“It won’t happen. I was very covert this time,” said Marion, tapping his nose.

Heinrich held the lantern up to examine his partner. Marion’s pale face belied nothing beneath his inky black ringlets, dripping with water. At any rate Marion thought he’d been covert, but Heinrich had his doubts. 

Marion was generally as subtle as a fish in a flower vase.

“So how did you hear about Chowra anyways?” asked Heinrich, plodding on in determination.

“A bird merchant told me about it at the market. I got him talking about his Nicobar pigeons. He was the only one selling them— a big chap with a scarred face.”

“And he willingly told you where he got his rare one-of-a-kind birds?” asked Heinrich incredulously.

“Of course not! I got him drunk first!”

“To find out where his birds came from?” asked Heinrich shaking his head.

“No, I asked if he’d tell me some stories of his hunting. Told him I was writing a book.”

“A book?” asked Heinrich.

Marion gave another lopsided grin. “I maaaaay… have led him to believe I was Rudyard Kipling.”

“There is a special Hell devised for people like you,” said Heinrich, mildly impressed.

“Anyway he told me stories about bird hunting, and he eventually let slip what I wanted.”

“What?” asked Heinrich growing eager.

“That while he was stalking a beautiful pigeon, he saw a cluster of bright orange flowers among the tree boles.”

“Orange!” cried Heinrich in excitement. “We haven’t seen any orange ones yet!”

“That’s what I thought! I asked more questions about them, and he let loose the name Chowra. I gave him some money and here we are.”

“Orange. I wish you had said that earlier. I would have known what we were looking for.”

“You didn’t see any, did you?” asked Marion nervously.

“No,” admitted Heinrich. “But then, I couldn’t see a rhinoceros if it were an inch in front of me.”

“Are there rhinoceroses in tropical forests?” asked Marion, uncertain.

“No. They live on the veldt,” said Heinrich.

“Oh,” said Marion.

“Do you hear that?” asked Heinrich.

“Hear what?” asked Marion.

Heinrich screwed his eyes up as he strained his ears, pondering what it could be.

“A crackling sound,” he said. “Sounds like someone cracking nuts.”

“Monkeys, maybe? Do monkeys—?”

“Yes, monkeys live in tropical forests,” interrupted Heinrich. “How do you know so much about birds, but nothing about zoology?”

“I take interest in what I take interest in!” snapped Marion. “Anyway—!”

“Shut-up!” said Heinrich. “It’s getting louder. Is it getting warmer too?”

“Yes, and less drippy. But I still can’t see a thing— the fog’s getting worse.” Marion dissolved into a fit of coughing again.

“That’s not fog, that’s wood smoke!” shouted Heinrich. “The forest is on fire!” Heinrich panicked and dropped the lantern. The glass smashed and the wick guttered and went out— smothered by the spongey undergrowth.

“On fire?” cried Marion. “Don’t be stupid! Everything here is covered with water!”

“Campfire?” suggested Heinrich.

“We’ll see,” coughed Marion, the smoke was burning in his throat and making his eyes water. “Let’s get out of the smoke’s path and see.”

“Pistols?” asked Heinrich, pulling out his colt dragon.

Marion didn’t answer but nodded, while covering his streaming eyes. Heinrich squinted in the smoke while guiding Marion away from the suffocating clouds. As soon as they were out of the way, they noticed that the fog had cleared and the crackle of burning wood was growing louder.

Marion blinked the tears out of his eyes to see a fringe of green leading to an open field. Handing his lantern to Heinrich, he kept his pistol at the ready, and pulled out his machete. Making awkward left-handed swipes at the vines, he managed to cut his way through to the clearing beyond.

Heinrich and Marion stood, mouths agape at the sight beyond. Nearly two acres of forest were reduced to smoldering ash. Marion was right in that the flames seemed reluctant to consume the saturated undergrowth. 

A second odor was now prevalent over the dull sting of smoke.

“Kerosene,” said Heinrich dully.

“Yeah,” sighed Marion, feeling sick to his stomach. “I think we’ve been had again.”

“Actually, I was wondering… ” said Heinrich.

“Yes?”

“You don’t speak a word of Hindustani, do you?” asked Heinrich. Marion had specifically hired him due to his ease in learning languages.

“I told you, I take interest in things that interest me,” shouted Marion, his fuse burnt down. He kicked a clump of dead wood that dissolved into rotten wood pulp.

“So how did you talk to the bird-catcher?” asked Heinrich.

“Because he…” Marion stopped, eyes wide. “Spoke… English.”

There was the sound of deep gravely laughter behind them. Marion and Heinrich spun around in terror. A large silhouette towered over them, topped in a wide-brimmed hat. It cast a shadow over the scarred, lantern jawed face of Hippolyte Jones.

“Mad Hippo,” gasped Marion.

“G’day,” said Hippo. Under his arm was a Wardian case; nestled in the black soil was an orange orchid. In his free hand was a Winchester rifle.

“There was an orange orchid!” cried Marion.

“There were over five hundred of them,” said Hippo. “But I only had ten cases with me, so the rest had to go. Sorry mates. You had a good run, but you’re not gonna get these’un.”

Marion sagged in defeat.

“So you’re going to kill us then?” asked Heinrich. “So why make sure that we came out here?”

“Kill you?” said Hippo with a condescending grin, “Why would I do that… when you lot are making me one of the most famous orchid hunters in the world? With every defeat that you complain about at the pubs and salons, I become more infamous… and my prices go up. Nah. You failures and your drunken boat captain are what’s keeping me in expensive boots and fancy beers. And if you pathetic excuses ever manage to land an orchid to sell, that’ll be a true rarity worth a king’s ransom. See? Help eachother, we do.”

Heinrich was the only one who felt the sting in this. Marion was too happy at being allowed to live to feel any insult.

“So you’re going to let us go?” asked Marion, giddy with relief.

“’Course I am,” said Hippo with another scarred grin. “But, since I don’t want you two buggering up my operation either…” He let the comment hang. Sun mottled arms the size of tree-trunks swung a shovel towards their heads.

The last thing Marion felt before slipping into unconsciousness was a Nicobar pigeon landing on his head and tugging at his hair.

The Dagger (teaser)

This is the first part of an upcoming short-story featuring the heroes of CRIT! For more adventures of Linus and his team, check out CRIT! at www.tangentartists.com “Does it ever bother you that we searched the pockets of the people we’ve just killed?” asked Kiyana. Her educated brain was wrestling with philosophy that the others would have just as soon ignored. “Well, it does when you put it that way,” said Linus, the senior member of the party. The middle-aged Ranger frowned at the blonde buxom wizard. “I mean, it’s not as if we killed them just to rifle through their possessions. That’s just barbaric.” “Hey!” cried Quince the barbarian. He looked ready to cry at the accusation. “Present company excluded,” added Linus hastily. “But yes, killing people for their gewgaws is wrong… but looting the pockets of the people who’ve just ambushed us? I’d say that’s restitution.” “Besides, sometimes they have cool stuff!” added her brother, Bart. The ten-year-old rogue was holding up a severed ulna which was sporting a diamond-studded bracer. The little Elf had actually pulled out a jewler’s eyeglass was examining the cut and water of his find. “Thanks for backing me up there,” sneered Linus. “Wotcher,” said Bart. “From the mouths of innocent babes…” quoted Kiyana with a smug smile. “If he’s innocent I’m a bloody penguin,” said Linus dryly. “Morfindel, what’s your take on this?” Kiyana whined to the Cleric. Morfindel, Elven Cleric of the Ardellan Mission, stepped over the bodies of the dead Scath A Dannen. These particularly nasty Fallen Elves from the Dark Dimension had popped up out of nowhere and Morfindel had unleashed his holy fury upon them. The Cleric was smiling grimly with satisfaction at a smiting well done — so much satisfaction in fact, that the others were giving him a wide berth as they searched among the pile of limbs and entrails. He wasn’t blood-thirsty by nature. The Elf had an easy-going temperament that bordered on “wishy-washy” at times; that would disappear the moment that duty called. Morfindel performed his duties with a glad heart. “Morfindel?” Kiyana ventured a second time. “Huh?” asked Morfindel, lost in thought. “I said what’s your take on our ghoulish tendency to steal from the dead?” asked Kiyana. The others groaned at her grim exaggeration. “I don’t really care so long as they’re not proper Elves.,” said Morfindel, and that was basically that. The world came in two flavors for Morfindel: “Elves”, and “everything else.” Morfindel’s holy duty was to protect all Elves from harm and to do no harm to Elves himself. This included Elves who wanted to kick his ass and/or do very bad things to him. It didn’t matter. Morfindel knew he was a racist—he’d often commented on the fact—but that didn’t give him one moment’s pause when it came to blows. Unfortunately it forced Linus to pause quite frequently. Bart and Kiyana were exempt from fighting Elves, being High Elves themselves, but Linus was only Half-Elven and given no leeway. During battles amongst the pointy-eared Children of the Sun, Morfindel would often shout to Linus, “Don’t kill any Elves or I’ll have to kill you! Sorry!” There were a few loopholes in his dogmatic law, but Morfindel was often forced to search for them in the heat of battle. Linus was currently nursing a sizable gash on his bicep that he’d received while fending off blows from the Scath A Dannan and shouting, “CAN I PLEASE HIT THEM BACK?” By the time Morfindel had answered in the affirmative, the battle was half-over. Now that Linus knew that Scath A Dannan were fair game, he filed that information away for future use. Maybe I should write them all down on an index card for quick reference, he thought. Elves: No. Elf Assassin bent on my destruction: No Brainwashed Elves controlled by a vampire: No Fallen Elves from Dark Dimension: Go nuts. While Linus was mentally writing this out he became distracted by the flicker of reflected sunlight. Looking for the source he spied a dagger lying a few feet near its owner’s severed hand. Linus bent down (to a chorus of popping noises from his knees) and retrieved the weapon. He immediately recognized that this was a dagger of superior workmanship. It was light, well-balanced and practically new, judging by the flawless sheen and the fresh leather wrappings. It mimicked the shaped of a typical naval dirk with a reversed guard (somewhat fancifully executed) and had a large red cats-eye jewel at the junction of the hilt and blade. The blade was both artful and diabolical. Hooks, serrates and barbs had been stamped into the metal that spelled instant disaster for internal organs and ribcages. The metal itself was like nothing Linus had ever seen —he couldn’t guess its name or its origin— it was a dark black that glistened with a purple sheen when held to the light. The light played on the greasy purple cast, giving the blade the illusion that it was in constant motion, like liquid. Linus was a practiced dual-wielding fighter, currently favoring a spatha and a ballock dagger. The latter was giving him trouble; the blade was notched and dull, the point had been snapped off, the wrappings kept coming loose, and the blade was off-balance after a plethora of re-sharpenings. It was small wonder then, that Linus made experimental swipes in the air with this new dagger, tossing it in his hand a few times to get a feel for the balance and the weight. After a few minutes he seemed well pleased with it. The old ballock was unceremoniously chucked among the corpses. Linus hunted up the dirk’s scabbard and was strapping his new conquest onto his leg when he heard a shrill voice pipe up behind him and curl the hairs on his neck. “You’re not keeping that, are you??” cried Kiyana. “It would appear that I am,” said Linus. “You’re not serious!” protested Kiyana. “I generally am,” returned Linus, arching an eyebrow. “Why?” “’Cause it’s evil!” Linus blinked. “Run that by me again.” “The dagger is eeeevil!” repeated Kiyana, waggling her fingers for further emphasis while her voice trilled like a sibyl. This gave Linus genuine pause. Kiyana was a university-educated woman which meant that she didn’t have enough imagination to outright lie. She was prone to exaggeration, however, and Linus wanted to know more. “What makes you say that?” asked Linus. “Just look at it! It’s got hooks and squiggles and a big red eye on it!” “Ah. So we’re just arguing about aesthetics, are we?” said Linus relaxing. “I got it off a Scath A Dannan. They just like to put their own little eldtritch stamp onto everything that’s all.” “Evil,” insisted Kiyana. “Look!” grunted Linus, growing annoyed with her. “It’s a tool, alright? A tool can neither be good or bad. It’s all in how it’s used. Now I don’t want to hear another word about it!” “Fine,” said Kiyana coldly. “What do the rest of you think?” she asked the other men. “I don’t care,” said Morfindel with a shrug. “It’s not my call.” Linus smirked at Kiyana. “Bart? ‘Talky-Tim’? What do you think?” he called to the other two. Quince said nothing until realization dawned. “Me? Oh I—I’m ‘Talky-Tim’?” he said eventually. “Yes,” said Linus. “You needed a new dagger, didn’t you, Linus?” asked Quince. “Yep.” “That’s alright then,” said Quince with a shrug. “Bart? How ‘bout you?” called Linus, trying to find where the boy had got to. “Would you shut up?! I’m trying to count up here!” Bart shouted from atop a tree. “The vote stands four-to-one. Motion carries,” said Linus. “Two-to-one with two abstentions,” corrected Kiyana, pointing to Morfindel and Bart. “Not saying ‘no’ doesn’t count as saying ‘yes’.” “That’s a double-negative, princess, so in point of fact: IT DOES,” crowed Linus. “Put that in your thesis and mark it, Miss Coed!”

The Shooting Party

“So what the hell is a ‘cockadoodle?’” asked Kelly. His voice was muffled by the thick scarf wrapped around his face.

He and Lynald were seated by the crumbling wall of an ancient stable on the edge of Leandir’s field, giving them a clear view of the tree-line. Lynald's cousins were behind similar half-walls and rocks in various states of disintegration. Their breath hung in the air as each man shivered in the freezing dawn. The sun was in hiding today and the pearlescent morning made the dying trees and mown wheat-stalks look tired and old. Kelly fought another wave of sleep as Lynald took another long pull at his flask of coffee.

“I thought I was on this holiday to recuperate,” grumbled Kelly. “How does freezing my bollocks in a field at six in the morning fit into that plan?”

“You’re getting out in the fresh air and taking exercise. That’s how,” said Lynald.

“That’s what walks and outdoor luncheons are for!” complained Kelly. He eyed the long rifles next to him warily. “You know I don’t like guns.”

“Come now, don’t be such a spoil sport,” said Lynald yawning. “This will be jolly fun.”

“You can have jolly fun, Ly-o. I’d rather stay in bed and read a book. Wish I’d brought one now. What’s taking so long anyway?”

“Would you just shut up for two minutes together? I’m trying to enjoy the morning and it’s rather hard with your constant stream of whinging.”

“Oh, pardon me for ruining your morning. Never mind that you’ve already ruined mine.”

“SHUT UP!”

“Git.”

“Ass.”

Just then there was a loud and rather wounded-sounding horn blast from the tree-line. A large orange cloth was being waved by Phelps the gamekeeper.

“That means we’re about to start.”

“You still haven’t explained to me what a cockadoodle is.”

“It’s a cross between a cockatrice and a dog,” replied Lynald.

“Good eating on ‘em?” asked Kelly.

“Of course not!” sniffed Lynald.

“Good fur?”

“No.”

“Then why are you hunting them?” asked Kelly.

“For the sport of it,” said Lynald with a snort. “Besides, it’s the one species in the forest these days that isn’t in danger of growing extinct. They’re a damn nuisance and they breed like rabbits,” said Lynald.

“Then why have a gamekeeper and fosterers?” asked Kelly.

“Oh, that’s one of Leandir’s little ambitions. He’s trying to improve the breed.”

“How?”

“He’s trying to breed a species of cockadoodle that can actually fly.”

“They don’t fly?” asked Kelly in astonishment. “Then how do we shoot them?”

“Ah, well, that’s the other reason for the gamekeeper and fosterers.”

“Huh?” asked Kelly.

“On your marks gentlemen!” came Cousin Leandir’s booming voice across the bare fields. “When you’re ready, Phelps!”

Lynald shouldered his rifle, but Kelly held back, desirous to see what was going on first.

“PULL!” shouted Phelps.

There were a series of twangs and simultaneously five feathery floppy creatures with beaks and long ears leaped into the air like they had been stuck with pins. There was a loud explosion as twelve rifles reported and clouds of smoke drifted across the foggy field. Kelly squinted, trying to get a better look at the proceedings when the wall next to him exploded. He felt a sharp sting on his cheek as he fell over backwards in his chair. Looking up, he saw a large bullet hole, the size of an apple in the crumbling stone wall.

“Nice shot, Cousin Algie!” cried Lynald in a dry unconcerned voice.

“Damn thing got away from me!” grumbled Algernon. “Alright there, Kenny?”

“Oh absolutely spiffing.” sneered Kelly under his breath.

“Tip top! No harm done!” said Lynald.

“Jolly good!”

“PULL!” shouted Phelps, and again there was a twanging sound and a chorus of gunshots.

Through his safe spot on the ground, Kelly took advantage of his position and watched at a low hole in the masonry. There were a few more explosions of mortar and crumbling brick, this time Kelly could see that every shooting station was affected. Shots were hitting walls and landing in the dirt several feet from their guns, and a few set a couple of trilby hats spinning. Most of the cockadoodle, apart from the two shot stone dead by Leandir, had landed without incident, waddling unconcernedly on the ground. Occasionally they were forced to leap out of the way of a gunshot, but they fluttered heavily back into place and to continue scratching at the frozen ground.

Kelly tried to get a look at the fosterers and noticed that they were all wearing very heavy leather clothes and wore metal helmets on their head, like jousting knights. At their feet were several hundred cockadoodle milling about and preening good naturedly. A fosterer would then seize a bird-dog in his leather gloves and load him into a device. The device looked something like a large crossbow or slingshot with a stiff leather compartment near the stock. The animal was placed in the compartment and a crank was wound. When Phelps’s cry of “PULL” echoed across the field, the fosterer pulled a lever and the bird was shot ten feet into the air to land with a soft feathery “plop” in the dust. The survivors waddled back to the other cockadoodle by the fosterers.

Whether there was food over there, or they sought out the familiar fosterer, or whether they simply liked being flung into the air was anyone’s guess. It was clear after the first six volleys that there was no imminent danger. Kelly judged that only 10% of them were doomed to die in this exercise, those being the unfortunate birds under Leandir’s keen eye. The kills by his kinfolk however, were esoteric at best and included trilby hats, a straw bonnet, a rifle barrel, a box of cartridges, a pocket watch, six clumps of sod, a folding chair, three walls, and a chipmunk. There was one moment of family camaraderie when all the men and ladies took up arms to decimate a burlap sack that had been caught up by the wind.

Kelly dodged away from his section of wall as another chunk of it was blown into powder and debris. The only sound that could be heard above the reports was the occasional “sorry.”

“Dear God, it’s like a war zone!” cried Kelly gripping his hat and lying in the dirt.

“Pretty much. Better vittles though,” said Lynald taking a pull at his flask of coffee. It was shot from his hand by a sheepish-looking cousin in the next “foxhole” struggling with the weight of his rifle stock.

“Sorry there!” he cried, dropping the gun causing it to fire into the air. There was a soft thump near Lynald as a dead squirrel landed on Kelly’s bowler hat. “You alright?”

“I’m fine, Neelan?” called Lynald sighing. “Just a tip: don’t point a rifle at anything you don’t want to die.”

“Right-o!” answered Neelan, shouldering the rifle again, backwards. There was another shot and when the smoke cleared one of the servants near the chafing dishes had keeled over.

“Did he just kill a man?” gasped Kelly.

“No,” said Lynald. “He just dove for cover the big baby,” sniffed Lynald.

“He alright?” called Kelly.

“He’s fainted, sir!” replied one of the servants attending to a young man whose face was the colour of cold porridge.

“Well pick him up and send him to bed,” Neelan said to him. “But none of you lot get any ideas about falling over like big nancies. The next man to go under is getting shot in the foot.”

"Bloody Elves," moaned Kelly and decided to curl into a ball unpon the dusty ground until they went in to lunch.


Like?> Read book one! Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid is now available for pre-orders HERE!

An Excerpt from Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid

The following is an excerpt from my upcoming novel, Madame Blustocking's Pennyhorrid now available for pre-order Through Hunt Press.

“Misters Wingaurd and Kelly to see the council.”
The young doorman nodded and slipped through a servant’s door at the side. After a moment the main doors were muscled wide open with the assistance of four men. A young man, in judiciary black robes and a powdered wig, beckoned to Lynald and Kelly and they were ushered in through the towering archway. The two gentlemen exchanged nervous glances. They didn’t have a clue what was going to happen now.

“So how did they know we were coming?” Kelly asked the Elf in a barely audible whisper.
“I have no idea,” came Lynald’s answer, eyeing a sort of arena ahead of them. Some public forum was in session, consisting of a council seated at ornate wooden desks. These were tiered in a wide circle around a sunken dais.
“So we’re just going with this?” asked Kelly.
“Pretty much,” said Lynald. He seemed to have pulled himself together and was striding purposefully behind their guide. Only Kelly noticed Lynald’s slightly fixed grin; a testament as to how nervous the Elf really was.
“Grand. Bloody grand,” muttered Kelly, shaking his head.

“Announcing Misters Lynald Wingaurd and Evelyn Kelly! Blindsmen, Costermongers, Duffers, Dowsers, Factors, Fulkers, Legerdemainists, Limners, Noontenders, Machinists and makers of fine Wigs!” announced an undersecretary as the two travelers approached the council. The council consisted of about twenty fat middle-aged gentlemen with impressive sideburns; all were dressed in somber black and starched collars. They nodded grimly.

Kelly nudged Lynald. “’Makers of fine wigs?’ Why the hell did he say that?” he hissed.
“I thought it had a nice metre,” said Lynald with a shrug.
“You changed our business card again, without asking me! You always do that!” growled Kelly in frustration.
“Oh hush.”
“Have you ever made a wig in your life?”
“How hard could it be?”
“I bloody hate you sometimes,” said Kelly through gritted teeth.

“Gentlemen,” said one of the councilmen with white hair. Kelly thought he looked like the senior official. “On behalf of the town council I bid you welcome to Poulipolis. What brings you to our fair city today?”

Kelly and Lynald exchanged glances. They hadn’t gotten a “story straight” yet and weren’t even sure if they needed one. Kelly would have been less worried about this if they hadn’t been in a city submerged in the Undine Ocean. Before he had a chance to whisper this to Lynald, the Elf had stepped forward and was speaking to them in his pleasant tenor.

“If we may be so bold, I must admit that we are at a loss. We had no outstanding plans to visit Poulipolis–no purpose in coming. It was a whim we acted on, only this morning. That being the case, we must ask you: how did know we would arrive today?”

Kelly watched the council anxiously. The black-robed gentlemen seemed a trifle perturbed and mumbled a bit amongst themselves. Finally, the white-haired gent spoke again.
“You yourselves do not know? Well that really is puzzling. It seems we are all wrapped up in this mystery. By any chance… did you receive a note urging you to come here today?”

Lynald hardly needed to answer, “yes”. The astonishment on his and his partner’s face told the council already.
“Yes, I have the note right here,” said Lynald, offering the scrap of paper to the councilman. “Did you receive a note yourself – er – m’lords?”
“Yes. It told us that the renowned team of Wingaurd and Kelly would visit us… and that the city is doomed.”

PRE-ORDER YOUR COPY OF MADAME BLUSTOCKING'S PENNYHORRID HERE!

Free Tuxedo

By Monica Marier

This is based off a comic I started in 1999. It was called "Tomorrow the World" and was basically chronicling the personal lives of employees working for a Bond-ian villain with aspirations of global domination. I put the comic on the back-burner for now, but I plan to pick it up again later. (MUCH later.)

Stone Fox, AKA Jonny Fawkes, secret agent, pulled the diving mask off and climbed out of the shark tank. Floating in the tank were the mutilated remains of the two henchmen who had tried to jump him, and the sated sharks were docilely sleeping off their heavy dinner.

Fox kicked aside the fins and oxygen tank as he unzipped his diving suit to reveal his flawless tuxedo. Shaking the water droplets out of his luxurious hair, he looked around the secret underwater lair. On a platform was a large computer console — a jungle of screens, dials, and keyboards. And at the centerpiece, the computer mainframe… was a beat up DELL with a cracked screen. The screensaver was cycling through pictures of Christina Hendricks in provocative poses.

Stone Fox rolled his eyes as he logged in (using the password he’d gotten in his fortune cookie) and accessed Agent W’s desktop. He dragged the folder from the Dell to W’s drop box and watched the progress bar count down.

28% completed.

“I was wondering when you would arrive, Stone Fox,” came a sonorous voice from the far corner of the lair.

Drawing his Walther PPK from his tailcoat, Fox spun around to face... THE SCHMITZ.

The Schmitz stepped into the light, flanked by his two right-hand men, Erik Sigurd and Osamu Hidekei.  Schmitz was trimly dressed in a caramel-colored jacket with a mandarin collar, his face still carefully in shadow. He wasn’t stroking a white Persian cat, but that was simply due to allergies.

“You’re finished Schmitz,” said Fox, eying the beat-up laptop —  41% completed. “We’ve got all the evidence and schematics we need to shut you down!”

56% Completed.

“However did you get past the whirling knives?” asked Schmitz, impressed.

“You should have gone with Ginsu, Schmitz. I found the knives to be rather… dull,” Fox quipped.

62% Completed.

“And the laser net?” asked Schmitz.

“I discovered the pattern immediately,” bragged Fox. “Nothing like a little hopscotch game.”

76% completed.

Schmitz nodded . “And poor Gregory. He couldn’t stop you?”

“Gregory? I found him rather ‘armless,” quipped Fox.

84% completed.

Shmitz and Fox stood in mutual silence.

92% completed.

“Sigurd? Hidekei?” said Schmitz. His two male-model cronies stepped forward.

“Sir?” they said in unison.

99% completed.

“Shoot,” said Schmitz.

Both men raised their glocks and fired. Sigurd hit Fox in the head. Hidekei shot the Dell.

The last thing Fox said as the world went red was, “That’s… cheating….”

***

“DUDE! I found another one!” shouted August. He yanked open the gym locker as far as he could. His quarter jangled in the key-slot. Keeping the spring-loaded door ajar with his shoulder, August reached in and pulled out a soft bundle wrapped in shrink wrap.

“Another tuxedo?” asked Rosario (called Zari).

“Yeah! This is like the third one, Zari!” shouted August, trying to peel off the sticky tape seal.

“Where do they all come from?” asked Zari peering in the locker with suspicion. It was like every other locker in the Employee Fitness Center. It was just a coin-operated metal locker with razor-sharp corners. No secret panels, no gateways to Narnia, just petrified gum and an old Band-Aid.

“Maybe some guy keeps leaving his dry cleaning in here,” suggested Zari.

“Then why is the key back in the lock?” asked August. He was now trying to bite through the cellophane.

“Maybe he didn’t want it anymore,” said Zari.

“Hope not, cause this is mine,” said August finally freeing the clothing from the bag and shaking it out “Ooh! Armani! Ver’ nice!” It smelled freshly laundered and the rich fabric shimmered under the florescent lighting.  He examined the tag on the trousers.

“Aw MAN! 32 waistband,” he moaned.

“I wonder who it belonged to,” mused Zari.

“Whoever he was, he didn’t eat Lil’ Debbie’s Oatmeal Cream Pies for breakfast every day,” sighed August.

“Like you?”

“Well crap, I’m never going to find a 36.” sighed August. “You want it?”

“I’m a 34,” said Zari. “You can at least keep the jacket.”

“What the hell am I gonna do with a jacket and no pants?” said August in annoyance.

“You could wear a kilt with it.”

“A  KILT?”

“Yeah, like Sean Connery.”

August snorted. “My family’s Dutch/German. We don’t do kilts. Well I already paid my quarter for this locker, so let’s cram our stuff in and hit the pool.”

August shoved his spare clothes into tight space and tried to cram his shoes in the upper shelf with no luck. “There’s something up there.”

Zari stood on a bench to peer in. “Oh, I see what’s doing that,” he said reaching in. “This was in the way.”

August glanced up as Zari pulled out something off-white and round. Zari proffered it to August to examine.

It was a human skull.

“Oh. That explains it,” said August nodding. “Is it clear now?” he asked, indicating the upper shelf.

“No, there’s a bunch of other bones. Femurs and junk.”

August sighed in frustration. “Forget it. I’m not cleaning all that crap out.” He tossed his shoes in and slammed the locker door shut before they tumbled out. Wrenching out the key, he shoved the elastic band over his bulky wrist.

“Come on,” said Zari. “We’re wasting valuable pool time.”

“That reminds me. Did you finish collating those mailing fliers for Monday?” asked August.

“I’ll do it Monday morning,” grumbled Zari.

“You better. Riggs will have my ass if they don’t go out before the new insurance packages take effect.”

“Aw come ON! Like SchmitzCo really hinges on the insurance benefits briefings.”

“I dunno. This company has a LOT of employees. We’re going global next week.”

“Big deal,” said Zari. “Do you even know what the hell this company does?”

August pondered this for a moment. “Bonds?” he looked at Zari questioningly.

Zari only shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I dunno either.”

August shrugged. “In the grand scheme of things, it probably has nothing to do with two cubicle monkeys like us.”

“Yeah. Remind me to steal  some more pens when we get back on Monday.”

“Will do — Hey, Erik! Hey, Ossy!” August waved to Hidekei and Sigurd as they came in from the lobby, gym bags on their shoulders.

“Hey,” said Erik with a slight smile.

“Sup!” said Ossy, grinning.

August and Zari walked across the slick tiles to the pool.

“I like them. They’re so nice,” said August in admiration.
He tossed the skull in the wastebasket.

BOOK 2 IS NOW ON SALE!!

UPDATED, 9/6/2011
'Runs in Good Condition' by Monica Marier is now available in paperback and e-book formats from lulu.com

Linus is back from his travels with money to burn and a grateful family. Only now he finds himself swept up in a danger worse than dragons and kobolds: Politics. Nominated for Union President Linus goes toe to toe with crooked leaders, a tank of water, dancing slippers, pop singers, corsets, and even a werewolf or two. That is if he even passes the qualifying rounds… and if he can avoid planting his foot in his mouth every two seconds.

Whether you’re liberal, conservative, or nihilist, there’s nothing as impolitic as Linus Weedwhacker: Candidate at Large!

Praise for Must Love Dragons (Book 1 of ‘The Linus Saga’)

**“…A dungeon crawling adventure with heart and a sense of humor. Five stars all the way.”

**“Linus [is] 'John McClane in Middle Earth.'... a real page-turner”

**“A Fun Fantasy Romp! With great characters and terrific plot twists, this book was fun, from start to finish.”

**“It's a wonderfully witty book, that pokes fun at growing older, dealing with impudent newbies and wondering just how good were the 'good ol' days.'”

**“This is a beautifully written story full of truly likable characters.”

**“A fun satire of the classic 2-d fantasy character turned three dimensional… I'd recommend this to any humor/fantasy and especially any Pratchett/Discworld fans.”

**“It takes a good sense of humor as well as a stiff upper lip... Highly recommended.” ~ Midwest Book Review

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