Chapter Ten: Terrance--You’re Such An Asshole!

Real MFG's original story by Max Gardner and Travis Taylor

“Sit our ass in jail till our rhymes get even staler,

 Drinkin’ even more than Norman fuckin’ Mailer.”

            --Slow Children At Play

            “All right,” Nasty said the next morning, “whoever hasn’t gone to the bathroom, go now. Once we’re on the road, we’re not stopping.”

            “Don’t even think it, Miles.”

            Dammit.  Miles skulked off toward a nearby tree.

            A few minutes later, Miles returned, after marking his territory on a stunted palm.

            “We grab our victorieswhere we can, boys and girls. You coming, Santa?” Santa Claus looked like he was in the throes of a potentially deadly hangover.

            “Uh...hohoho. Yes. God, it’s bright out.” He climbed into the Gangsta Truck sluggishly. “Need to get one of these.”

            Bumpy climbed in after Santa, and took a seat next to him. Everyone else filed in, lastly Fernando, who still clung to his sizable rock.

            “Onward Crackhorn!” Miles cried. Crackhorn turned around, and smiled toothily.

            Wonder where Crackhorn got those dentures.  Miles shrugged. The past few weeks seemed to follow a certain moral: No matter what it is, don’t ask. It’ll only confuse you further.

            As the Stun Zeed pulled off, Miles saw a body being dragged off into the woods a ways ahead on the trail. When they reached it, they saw a lone figure standing over the corpse. The corpse had a matter of fact stab wound to the heart, no signs of rage or stylistic combat. It seemed to fit the man dragging him into the darkness.

            He was wearing green pants with several pockets, and wore a plain leather jacket. At first, his face was obscured by his black, broad brimmed hat. The man looked at Miles. He had a calm face, so calm, Miles wondered when the last time any expression dared cross it. Only his eyes gave him away. The eyes burned a furious green, the look of something that had killed plenty in the past, but was nowhere near sated. Miles found he couldn’t return this being’s gaze, and stared at his boots until the man was well behind them.

            “Hey buddy, where we headed?” Bumpy was now trying to cultivate a beard of some sort, and scratched at the one or two scrawny follicles protruding from his chin.

            “I’m going to the Sycamore Forest. There’s a town pretty close by to there. If you guys want, you can wait there until I’ve taken care of business.”

            “What business?” Nasty asked.

            “Those people who almost rode off with you were Shitty-shama. They were talking like I could have been one of them.”

            “It’d explain a lot.”

            Miles nodded, trying to ignore the lewd hand gesture Santa madein reference to him.

            “But still...it would leave a bit more unexplained.” Miles had to add it in. Chicks dig men of mystery.

            “Like what?” Nasty seemed a bit too inquisitive sometimes. Miles shrugged.

            “Hey, why don’t both of you supply us with some traveling music?” Miles said to the newly-soprano Jimmy Scott and the ever-bassy Midget. Jimmy gave Midget a spiteful look before starting on a soulful ballad about beer.

            Two hours later, Santa interrupted Jimmy.

            “Could you try a lower key, there, son? ‘There’s a tear in my beer’ sounds best when it’s good and low.” Jimmy’s eyes bugged out.

            “You want low? Here’s a low motherfucker! HAHAHAHA!!! Midget! Low!” He shrieked with high pitched glee. “Say bye to the midget!” Jimmy somehow used his scrawny arms to fling the midget out of the back of the Stun Zeed.

            The midget skidded through a muddy puddle before hitting his elbow on a rock.

            “Aw geez...”  He looked down at his skinned elbow and started crying.

            Everyone stood staring wide-eyed at Jimmy, jaws dropped. Even Crackhorn turned around and stared furiously at him.

            “What the fuck?” Wisps of smoke started flowing from behind Santa.

            “Miles, did you see that?” Nasty, for the first time since Miles had met her, looked furious.

            “Buddies, he just flung a midget.”

            “Jimmy,” Miles said, pointing the Bizkicka, “that was completely out of line. You...just...don’t....throw...midgets.”

            “But you piss on him all the time!”

            “That’s not the point. I urinate for another reason. You were cruel to a midget! A midget! Look at that skinned elbow! Here’s where we part ways, Jimmy.” The midget had gotten to his feet, wiping the tears from his eyes.

            “Me too. I’ve been pissed on and thrown from enough things at this point. I’ve had enough. I’m heading back to Blacklodge, where I’m respected.” 

            It was a somber moment. Jimmy walked off into a grove of sycamore trees, where Miles could have sworn that he momentarily saw a series of red curtains hanging, and when he next looked back the embittered soprano had vanished from sight.

            “I’m sorry, Midget Sub-Woofer.” Miles said, and extended his hand in the muddied little man’s direction. He held it out to him for a few moments before feeling a warm wetness on his leg.

            “Apology accepted, fuckbake.” 

            “Word.” Miles turned around to see Word standing behind him, with yet another unlit cigarette in his mouth.

            Midget Sub-Woofer strode down the road.

            God, midget piss reeks.

            “Where’d you come from, Word?” Word shrugged.

            “We’re trying to find a training cave hereabouts.”

            “Word.”

            “Uh...would you like a ride?”

            “Word.” Word climbed into the Stun Zeed, and sat down next to Santa Claus.

            “What the fuck is this thing?” Santa asked indignantly.  Word looked the rotund man up and down before shrugging again. “Yeah, well fuck you too. Vengeance of legumes! Blowtorch!”

            A bluish burst of flame came from Santa’s anus, charring what few wisps of greasy white hair remained on the zombie’s decaying skull and inadvertently lighting his cigarette.  Word glanced down and his mouth became a lipless “O” of dull surprise.  The cigarette dropped to the floor, where Santa ground it out against the thick purple carpet which had been installed in the Gangsta Truck in Pimptown.  Word stared blankly for a moment before extracting another cigarette from within his right sock and placing it in his mouth, unlit.  Santa sighed wearily and began nursing a flask of some foul-smelling brew he obviously hadn’t picked up in Adirolf, whose citizens, Miles speculated, would undoubtedly suffer a stroke from anything stronger than wine cooler.

            “Word,” Word remarked.

            “You said it, pal,” Santa muttered, gnawing on a red-and-white candy cane he drew from his pocket.

            The Stun Zeed ambled on through the seemingly endless forest of sycamore trees, its rear portion somewhat heavierthan it had been two days ago as a result of Fernando’s newfound traveling companion (Miles shook his head in disbelief at the rock, which never left the summoner’s grasp, and Nasty looked on the verge of tears whenever she saw Fernando murmuring sweet nothings in whatever passed for ears in a chunk of granite) and Santa’s impressive girth.  The departure of Jimmy and Sub-Woofer had done little to lighten the load, as neither of them had weighed much in the first place.

            After another three hours’ ride, no cave had made itself evident, and Miles entertained the possibility that the Truck had simply passed it by unnoticed.  The others had dozed off, with the exception of Word, who trundled over to the harness, plucked Nasty Bitch out of her seat as if she were light as air, and set her down where he had been sitting a moment before.

            “Word,” he said, taking a seat next to Miles.

            “Think wemissed the training cave?”

            “Word.”

            “Word,” Miles replied, and a dry chuckle escaped Word’s half-decomposed throat.

            “Word,” he said, clapping Miles on the back with enough force to knock the breath out of him.

            “Ho, friend Miles!”

            The call had come from behind the Stun Zeed, and Miles drew back on Crackhorn’s reins as he glanced back and saw the row of nine armored men standing in a tight phalanx across the path the Truck had passed over just a few moments before.  A row of ten mad, grinning faces on a row of finely crafted breastplates stared him in the eye.  All ten men carried about them an air of heroism and the true code of the warrior.  Miles jumped down from his seat and shook the others awake.  They recoiled slightly at the sight of the Shitty-shama.

            “We are the clan called Shitty-shama,” the man in the lead said, his gruff voice booming majestically throughout the sycamore trees.  “We would welcome you and your friends, and would train you, our lost warrior, in the ways of our people.  Will youaccept our invitation?”

            “Sure,” Miles shrugged, shaking the leader’s hand.

            “Then come, friends, drink and eat with us.  We have much to talk about.”

            The tired crew filed out of the Stun Zeed and followed Miles and the lead warrior--perhaps a chief of the Shitty-shama--at a distance.  Miles noted that the other nine followed on either side of his companions, almost as though they expected some manner of foul play.  Bumpy and Fernando were left unattended, as the Shitty-shama apparently perceived no threat from them, but Santa and Nasty were flanked on either side by warriors.  Word, Miles noticed, had remained in the Gangsta Truck.  Nasty moved ahead, putting a few steps between herself and the Shitty-shama, and three warriors jogged to catch up.

            “You have come far, then?” one of the three asked.

            “A few towns, a lot of road between them,” Nasty said, shrinking away from this inquisitive tribesman.  “Zombies, old people, Rammstein, pimps, that sort of thing.”

            “Aha!” the warrior laughed heartily.  “You are quite worldly, for a female! And an Atlantean, at that!”

            Nasty frowned sourly and fell back, walking beside Santa, who glanced at the various helmeted faces around him in a manner which suggested he was dangerously close to using his Ass Furnace, Comet of Doom, or some other fiery attack on the lot of them.  The Shitty-shama residence was simplistic but nicely rustic, a series of fine tents erected in a clearing near the heart of the Sycamore Forest, a large banquet table set out in the center of the encampment.  As they had been expecting Miles, a large feast of meat and wine had been laid out on a hand-woven tablecloth, and Miles found himself involuntarily drooling at such an abundance of food.

            “And we find the mighty Word in your presence Miles! We are indeed impressed!”

            “Word,” the zombie said, nodding at the man.

            “You know Word, then? Is he one of you? Who is he exactly?”

            “Word.” Both the man and Word said at the same time.

            “He is Word, Miles. We shall talk at some later time,” the chief warrior said, taking a seat at the table and stuffing a breadstick into his mouth.  “But now we eat.  Come, friends.”

            Miles and the Shitty-shama chief, whose name, he soon found, was Sergeant Fran, discussed various things, most of them relatively trivial, and night soon descended over the forest.  Miles turned to see his comrades standing indignantly behind the chief, who with a wave of his hand departed to attend to other business in the encampment.

            “These people are assholes, Miles,” Nasty said, taking no measures to mask her anger.  “They think I’m a complete idiot and they said I need bigger breasts.”

            “Well I don’t think so,” Bumpy remarked amiably.  Nasty planted a fist firmly in the side of his head.  “And they called me chicken man, I didn’t like that.”

            “They called me Round One,” Santa scowled.

            “They said I’m a geek,” Fernando sobbed, clutching his rock tightly.

            “They tried to put me out,” Bob added bitterly, appearing for an instant behind Fernando and then winking out again.

            “We’re heading on to the next town, Miles,” Nasty concluded, and the others nodded.  “We’ve had enough of these people.  I guess we’ll take the Truck and you can catch up with us, if it’s okay with you.” She paused.  “Is it?”

            “Yeah, go on ahead,” Miles agreed.

            A few minutes later, everyone was packed up and ready to go.

            “Take care of Crackhorn, guys.” Everyone nodded at him.

            “Careful, Miles.” Nasty Bitch said.

            “May all of you find the Way in life.” Sergeant Fran--who had appeared as silently as a trained assassin behind the group as they talked--said as they pulled off into the night.

            “Nice sentiment. What’s that supposed to mean, anyway?” Miles said to the elder man.

            “Well, the little chicken boy’s way would be serving me food. The round one’s would be crafting new things for our clan. The geek’s would be using his abilities to cook our food. And the woman’s would be producing a series of young Shitty-shama warriors, nursing them until they are ready to begin their training.”

            Miles shrugged. Fran looked him up and down.

            “You must be tired, Miles.”

            “Yeah, it’s been a long day.”

            “Good. Let us now begin your training.”

            Sergeant Fran gave Miles several articles of heavy plate armor, each of which had the face of the mad king on it.

            “What’s all this for?” Miles said, studying the helmet in the moonlight.

            Sergeant Fran responded with a vigorous blow to his stomach. Miles dropped to his knees, trying not to vomit.

            “’Kay.” Word shambled toward them, and stood staring blankly at Miles.

            “Here, mighty Word, let me light that cigarette.” Fran produced a match.

            “Word.” He nodded, as he puffed.

            Miles figured the only thing left for him to do was to simply put the armor on. He noted that every last piece of it fit him perfectly. The armor was heavy, yet comfortable, supplying a maximum amount of protection without sacrificing mobility.

            “Sweet.” Sergeant Fran stood analyzing Miles, before nodding slowly. Miles dared not ask any questions, and found that he didn’t need to. Fran was the sort of man who emanated authority.

            Without a word, Fran walked into the woods until stopping at a path. Miles had to jog to keep up with the older man’s pace.

            Damn, this armor’s hot.  Miles never really thought he’d have to deal with an armor wedgie before.

            “You probably have questions.” Miles nodded. “Come, and all will be explained. You are powerful, but you are not a true warrior yet. That will only come with the Test.”

            Sergeant Fran started jogging down the path. Miles trotted, or rather galomphed aside him, struggling against the weight of his armor, his fatigue, and the undigested food in his stomach.

            “You call yourself Miles. Is this your true name?”

            “Not...sure.” Miles wheezed.

            “I find it doubtful. Miles comes from our ancient pre-standard tongue. The word Mi-les meant soldier, hence the words militia, military, and so on.” The old man hadn’t even broken a sweat. “This leaves us with the question of your name. In this case, we shall not be able to refer to yourself by that name until you prove yourself worthy of it.”

            “’Kay.” Miles had noticed that a pebble had found its way into his armored boot.

            “The Shitty-shama are an ancient clan, and the once and future masters of the world. At one point, we controlled everything from one end of this land to the other. Many peoples were our servants, and rightfully so, for we are the strong, and hence deserving of the services of the weak.”

            Miles wheezed.

            “With time comes entropy, even for us. Under the mighty King Elevuhn-”

            “ELEVUHN!” Miles and Fran bellowed this at the same time.

            “Er...yes, under him came the final destruction of our empire. The midgets of Blacklodge, may they find a flowing river of urine and drown themselves in it, assassinated our noble king. The engineers and entertainers of Pimptown gave the Midgets the power and information they needed to break through the king’s defenses. And the treachery continued. Now, there is but a noble few of us left, and if and when you pass these trials, we shall have a batfighter among us, to teach us in the ways of the bat. This land shall bleed until we find ourselves at its helm once more.”

            “High ambitions,” Miles half-choked, feeling as though every joint in his body were slowly but surely falling apart, every muscle subjected for prolonged periods of time to Santa’s Blowtorch technique.  Sergeant Fran smiled satisfactorily and placed a finger decisively up his left nostril.  He raised a hand, motioning for Miles to stop and rest for a moment.  Miles frowned as he saw that Word had somehow arrived in this small clearing before the two of them and was leaning on a tree, puffing contentedly on his cigarette and thinking deep zombie thoughts.

            “But not beyond our grasp,” Fran said.  “Under the spirit of our King, we shall extract the flesh this land owes us for his death and in doing so we will come to rule over all the clans again.”

            “Wasn’t King Elevuhn--”

            “ELEVUHN!”

            “Wasn’t the...the King a little...?” Miles twirled a finger by his ear and crossed his eyes.  “Nasty told me once...he was the one who split us all up to begin with, that if he hadn’t given the midgets...a reason to bump him off he wouldn’t have...been....”

            “Little credence can be given to the words of a woman,” Fran laughed, a good-natured smile crossing his face.  “Especially one of her half-breed race.  They sunk their own city into the Great Ocean, you know.  Through the power of a particular artifact whose strength they attempted to harness....”

            “What would that have been?” Miles panted, a string of thick drool dropping from his lip.

            “I believe it was called, by its creators...the Orb of Wrath?” Fran’s eyes narrowed, and Miles concluded that he did not wish to speak further of the incident.  “But enough of such things.  The King’s mental state is beside the point--he died a noble man at the hands of...of a midget.  There is respect due in something of that magnitude.  Many men stronger than yourself have collapsed after such a rigorous exercise as you’ve just survived, Lucy.  Be proud, this may bean omen of your future direction among us.”

            “You just call me Lucy?” Miles scratched his head.

            “You cannot be called Miles yet,” Sergeant Fran replied.  “Lucy shall be your name among our people until such time as we may refer to you by your destined name.”

            Miles glanced up to find himself at the mouth of a yawning cavern which held only blackness within.  A large boulder rested to one side of the entrance, apparently moved there by some separate force.  The rock was perfectly rounded, perhaps a means bywhich to block the cave’s entrance.  Miles pointed weakly with a shaking hand to the cave.

            “What--what’s in there?” he asked.  “I find it hard to believe we’d just end up here without reason.”

            “If you have been truly raised by a Shitty-shama man,” Fran said, and Miles noted a certain tone of menace behind his words, as if he were a senile old grandpa telling a ghost story to his grandchildren, “you will know the resident of this area as...the Beast in the Cave.” He nodded.  “In time you will confront it.”

            “Can we just do it now?” Miles asked.  “I’ve got to get to the next town before the others start to worry about me, and there’s this guy I’m after.  I don’t want him to get too far ahead of me.”

            “In time, Lucy,” Sergeant Fran replied, placing a hand on Miles’ shoulder.  “Come on, boy.  We’ve got a long run back.  I trust you’re up to it.”

            Miles collapsed in a heap of sweat-drenched armor plating and scarves as he and Fran reached the Shitty-shama encampment, and he was allowed a small drink of water.  The following two days were spent in similarly grueling exercises, and Miles found that his arms had become nicely muscled as a result of them.  He discarded his scarves after the first day, as he found that they grew itchy with sweat when they rested against his face, and clipped the ends of his formidable hair, which often hung in a lank, wet slap in his eyes.  He learned much of the Shitty-shama and their ways from Sergeant Fran and his underlings: they had subdued an ancient civilization which had ruled from what was now a battlefield made legendary by the clash between this ancient race and the Shitty-shama, and had come to rule far before Miles’ birth.  At the assassination of the eccentric King Elevuhn and the subsequent rebellion by the allied clans which had risen from the various towns under the control of this stronger tribe (the Tang Clan of Woe had arisen from a large city, while the Navarone, like the Shitty-shama themselves, had roots in various forest folk, and the Rammstein had crossed the seas to take up residence in as dilapidated a town as humanly possible), the Shitty-shama quickly faded into legend, eventually becoming, as Miles remembered them, a story told by parents to their children.  Following the great battle, the clans had disputed the ruling position which had made itself available, and had inevitably claimed their own territories, defending them with fierce, pointless loyalty.  Towns stood, as they always had, perhaps a bit worse off than before, due to frequent raids by clans such as the Tang.

            Miles lay in bed at night wondering why he had so suddenly taken an interest in this rather boring history.  He had never concerned himself with bloodlines and the like before.  It was a sense of nobility, he concluded, derived from the revelation of his ancestry in so powerful a clan as this.  He had slept well these past few nights, and he had expected his training to take a little longer than it had--he had completed all but one of the tests these people had set for him, surpassing even their greatest warrior.  Fran had mentioned one last test to be endured when the sun rose, a test far more grotesque than any Miles had heretofore endured.  Miles thought it odd at the time that his dinner that night consisted solely of large bowls of beans.

            “Tomorrow, Lucy,” Fran promised, his face telling of great secrets, “you will discover what sets you above your...companions.” He paused for a moment and then added, “Or below them, should you fail.  Mightier warriors than you have died screaming, or gone mad.”

            A bard entertained the tribe as the moon rose high above the sycamores, a spindly, green-skinned creature with a broad face and heavy-lidded eyes.  It wore over most of its body a cloak of doeskin, and took measures to conceal its face.  Its song was remarkably upbeat, something Jimmy Scott and Sub-Woofer wouldn’t have dared to play.  Something about it sparked a memory in Miles, and he thought of the song he had recited in order to keep control of his bladder when the Arm of Galvatron had visited his cell in Blacklodge Dungeon.

            “Ribbit, ribbit, I can’t hold it.

             Last toilet me had, me already sold it.

             Me talk to you, you talk to me,

             When I see a midget, I really gotta pee-ee.”

            Fran explained that this unfortunate creature was doubtlessly born of a race predating Nasty’s but related in some way, an evolutionary cousin.  He spoke of both races with contempt.  Miles drifted off into a deep sleep, the minstrel’s words resounding in his ears.  He had gained many of the answers he had sought, but was still no closer to his goal.  There would be a reckoning with Paul, and soon.

            He sees y--

            Shut up, I gotta sleep.  Test tomorrow.

            ‘Kay.  See you tomorrow night.

            Loser.

            He woke the morning after to find Sergeant Fran and a trio of lesser Shitty-shama warriors standing over him, each carrying an article of Miles’ suit of armor. Miles rose, and wordlessly donned his armor. An encounter with the Beast in the Cave would probably be a dangerous one, and he had no intention of going unprepared. He walkedover to where the Bizkicka lay.

            “Your weapon,” Sergeant Fran said, “you will not be needing it.” Miles looked at it for a few seconds before shrugging. “The cave awaits.”

            They all parted for Miles in a respectful silence. The armor covering his stomach felt a little tight. Why in the name of Wendt did they give me so many beans?

            Miles entered the cave, somewhat alarmed by the Shitty-shama rolling a boulder in front of its mouth.

            Alone in the dark.

            Most caves Miles had been in were cool, damp places. This one was damp, all right, but it was extremely humid. It reminded Miles of the time in which George had tried a headlock on him, and he found his face intimate with his former cellmate’s armpit.

            Where is the Beast?

            Miles stood in a readied position, waiting for danger to come from any direction. He slowed his breathing, and tried to make a minimal amount of noise, in order to compensate for his inability to see in the dark.

            I must not fear. Fear is the Miles killer, the little death that devours you, balls first.

            Unable to contain the aftereffects of last night’s bean feast any longer, Miles released a flatulent burst, relieved at first. The smell wafted up toward him, amplified by the moist, warm air of the cave.

            Oh. My. Wendt.

            Miles dropped to his knees, whereupon he released even more of the noxious fume. He curled into a fetal position, wishing for a means to ventilate the cave.

            Most coming of age rituals involve a distinct physical or mental challenge to initiate manhood. Most were restricted to vigorous beatings...this was a...novelty.

            He groaned, and tried to fall asleep.

            The bald little twerp approaches me.

            “He sees y- oh man....what the hell...that really reeks.” He grabs his nose and runs back deep into the corridors of my mind, where all the dreams and memories that I can’t quite recollect dwell.

            Perhaps Miles woke up after a few minutes, or maybe his dreams continued for hours. He didn’t know, seeing as how both dreams and reality seemed to entail being in a small, pitch black cave with only a mighty fart cloud for company.

            There’s me too.  A woman’s voice appeared in Miles’ mind.

            Who?

            Don’t worry about it. I’ve just been floating around for a bit, and saw you here. Those who are half dead are easiest to speak with.

            Half dead?

            You haven’t been breathing much in the way of oxygen here, if you hadn’t already noticed.

            Hm.

            I’m glad I don’t have nostrils sometimes.

            Great, even my hallucinations gloat.

            Who says I’m a hallucination?

            I do.

            Point. If it stinks so bad in here, why do you keep only making it worse?

            Hurts otherwise.

            But you’re hurting anyway.

            Point. But between an agony that I can spare myself from and an agony that I have no choice other than to deal with, I choose the latter.

            Freak.  Miles could see why the Shitty-shama were so fond of being respected.

            Maybe they have a point. Maybe we will reclaim the world.

            Maybe depending on your surviving this.

            True...

            Even so, I’ve led forces against the Shitty-shama. Very well trained, tight discipline, but they’re not too clever. They prefer out and out fighting to subterfuge and tactics.

            It is the way of the warrior.

            Not the way of the survivor.

            I get this from a ghost?

            Hell, I’ve been a strategist for more armies than you could count. Even dead, I’m still more lively than the macho little boys I’ve sent into battle.

            Who...are you?

            Don’t worry about it. It looks like your buddies are opening the cave.

            But...who are you?

            I’ll meet up with you later. You might need my help at some point, when you decide to think with your brains instead of whatever phallic symbol it is that you’re clutching.

            Hey!

            Loser.

            Miles looked up at the crack of light that was appearing at the mouth of the cave. In a painful, joyous burst of brightness, the boulder was moved away. He could barely make out the masked faces coming for him.

            “Greetings, Miles.” Fran said. “Welcome to the Shitty-shama.”

            A feast had been prepared in honor of his transition from “Lucy” to “Miles,” and he sat at the right hand of Sergeant Fran, apparently his adoptive father in accordance with the laws of their clan.  Miles chased the battle against the dread Beast in the Cave into the recesses of his mind with excessive quantities of chilled red wine, permitting himself one night of pure drunkenness in light of his various findings.  The lesson had been made clear, as Fran explained it--oneself, more often than not, was one’s own worst enemy, and Miles was no longer one to mock the idea.  Nearly an entire day had somehow been passed from the time he had entered the cave to the time he exited it a wiser man.  He recalled his various hallucinations and wondered if that last one might have had something to do with his survival in such a methane-rich environment.

            He left the following morning chased by the accolades of his people, his progress somewhat slowed as a result of Word’s staggering gait.  The zombie had been provided with an elegant tunic with a carefully embroidered portrait of mad King Elevuhn on the torso, and in his mouth was a newly lit cigarette.

            “Wonder if the others waited for us,” Miles said.

            “Word.”

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Chapter ELEVUHN!