Chapter Thirteen: Moises Worth More Than My Life

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

“Check it--I’m the muthafuckin’ man.

 Who the method?”

            --Method Man

            The road to Whitelodge, two days’ ride from Shaotang by horse, half that by Gangsta Truck (according to Miles’ calculations), was rough cobblestone, and looked as if it were rarely traveled, as the Stun Zeed rattled over an increasing number of holes.  Word fell out of the Truck once, and Miles found him hanging onto the back with both hands as the path narrowed and took a slight detour through an ill-kept cemetery and the sparse forest beyond.  Whitelodge was visible all the while, every bit as impressive as Blacklodge, rows of white stone towers rising above its white brick walls.  Night fell, and candles were lit inside the towers.  Miles pulled on Crackhorn’s reins and he stopped with a snort several feet into the tall reeds off the path.  This seemed as good a place as any to camp for the night.  Santa ignited a sufficient fire and roasted a pot of beans, and Fernando and Word sat outside the circle of small stones they had set around the fire with Fernando’s rock between the two of them.  Miles could have sworn it moved an inch closer to Word every time he looked at it.

            “Hey, um...” Miles said awkwardly as Nasty took a seat beside him and closed her eyes, warming herself by the fire.  She’s acknowledging my presence, he thought.  That’s a step in the right direction.  “So.  You still mad at me?”

            “I don’t think any of us would be able to stay mad at you for long,” she said.  “We all know you mean well.  For the most part.  They’re your people.  You have a people.  You’re luckier than some of us.  I don’t even remember my own, it’s all a blur.  I don’t even want to think of Bumpy’s family.  Santa’s, for that matter.  Fernando hasn’t got a home at all, or at least he hasn’t mentioned it.  But there’s something called tact, and the Shitty-shama don’t have an ounce of it.  We’re your people as well.  It may not be official, but it means just as much in the end.”

            “They’ve got a point though,” Miles protested.  “This clan thing just isn’t working, and they’ve got the raw strength to put it all to an end.  Maybe it’d be better after all if the clans just finally got together and fought it out once and for all.”

            “Wipe out everyone, let the survivors start over under Sergeant Fran and his manly men?” Nasty passed him a plate of beans and he shrank away from it, remembering his harrowing experience in the training cave.

            “It might sound harsh on the surface,” he said, attempting to remember how Fran had explained the situation to him, “but one clan is better than ten.  The strongest goes on, forges a path for the common people.”

            “What happens when the ‘common people’ get angry with Fran and come after him?” Nasty asked.  “What happens when they don’t want a path forged for them? We all split up again.  We’ll be back where we started.”

            “Is it better to languish, then? Look at us. All traveling together, we can fight off Rammsteiners, zombies, etc. Not everyone can fart fire. Not everyone can be killed and then pop up two minutes afterwards. What’s everyone else supposed to do?Stay in their hometowns until the day they die? Take their chances against the Tang clan every time they try to travel along the roads? Just because a functioning situation wouldn’t last forever doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try. Besides, how do you think Atlantis got to be Atlantis, and not just a bunch of people fighting amongst themselves?”

            Nasty looked at him for a few seconds before continuing eating.

            “It’s true, Miles. Order, countries, it’s all built on gallons and gallons of blood. I won’t deny that. I’ll just deny that it’s your place to do it. The Shitty-shama, maybe. They can at least try. But not you. Not someone who snuggles with large penguins and pees on midgets. Deep down, you know it’s not you.”

            “It’s the Shitty-shama. I am Shitty-shama. It is my way.”

            Nasty shrugged.

            “Infectious, isn’t it?”

            Miles ducked a bowl of beans flying in his direction. He grinned at Nasty for a moment before hearing a shriek come from behind him. He turned around and saw Bob floating over Fernando, still looking under the influence.

            “I saw that, Word! You tried to cop a feel! You....you...”

            “Word.”

            “Hey, don’t you give me that, you...you rotting little butt-head!” Fernando clutched his rock protectively, barely able to support its weight.  His entire body quivered with impotent, nerdish anger.  Miles doubted Word would give the summoner the same treatment he had given Billiam at the Shaotang tournament, but he kept on his guard, prepared to alligator-roll Fernando out of harm’s way if Word took a swing at him.  “I think it’s time someone other than me got his ass burned! Bob, teach this pervert a lesson!”

            Word stumbled and fell backward, landing on Santa, who produced a blast of flatulence which ignited a path through the reeds.  Nasty wearily set about putting out the fire with a bucket of water.  Bob smacked into the ground where the zombie had been standing a moment before, setting the carpet of dried winter leaves on fire.  Miles threw a blanket over the fire, smothering it, and kicked Fernando’s feet out from under him.

            “Calm down, Fernando,” he said sharply.  “Lucky if we don’t attract the Tang Clan, I’m sure they’d love to ambush a few unsuspecting peasants camping by the road, and I’m sure they’d love even more to find us fighting amongst ourselves.  Fernando, it’s a rock.  You can’t fucking cop a feel on a rock, you got me? Now shut up and sit down.  Eat your beans.”

            “Eeeeeeeee....” Fernando replied, the wind knocked out of him.  Bob vanished in a puff of smoke, returning to whatever plane in which he existed when not at Fernando’s side.

            “Yeah, Fernando, this is how you cop a feel!” Bumpy added enthusiastically, lunging in Nasty’s direction in an attempt to demonstrate the proper method.  She grabbed his collar and used his momentum to propel him into the growing fire, where he quickly burned to a crisp and collapsed into a roughly man-shaped pile of ashes.  Word scooted himself along with his legs, face-down, until he reached Santa, who helped him to his feet and brushed him off.

            “Word.”

            “No problem, pal.” Santa returned to his beans.  Miles vowed to sleep on the other side of the camp tonight.

            “I would’ve thought you’d be glad to run into the Tang,” Nasty teased, having put out the fire in the reeds and scattered Bumpy’s ashes in a manner which would hopefully appear accidental to the next band of travelers which happened along the campsite.  “Paul would be with them.  One more pebble on your path to greatness, hm?”

            “When the clans battle it out,” Miles said, “Paul will be there.”

            “Miles, what’s he want from you?”

            “He sees me,” Miles replied, and stopped shoveling beans into his mouth as he realized that he had spoken the same words as the balding milksop from his dreams.

            What does this mean?

            “What is it?” Nasty asked, concerned at his sudden silence.

            “Don’t worry about it,” Miles replied, eating another spoonful of beans but tasting nothing.  Did the bald man work for Paul, or was he Paul in some psychically projected form, or was Miles seeing a connection where none truly existed? He shrugged, deciding to pursue some other avenue of conversation, if only to take his mind off of this one.  “So, um...what are you going to do when we finish? Going back to the first church we come across, or...?”

            “Dunno,” Nasty shrugged.  “But let’s let TRAVIS write the rest of this conversation, he hasn’t written an awkward emotional scene in a while.  Not since we were on the road to Raccoon Village, anyway.  And can you believe he called Stephano an Egg McMuffin?”

            “What?! What a loser! Lemme at him!”

            I don’t think so, came an extremely manly voice from above.

            Miles felt severe testicular agony, kind of like a million needles were all bitch slapping his nutsac with a passion unseen before.

            “S...sorry.”

            Suddenly, everything returned to normal, or at least what passed for normal.

            “I really don’t know what I’m going to do,” Nasty said, still nervous about some sort of divine punishment striking her from above. “There’s so much I can’t remember. I mean, I look like an Atlantean...I should probably head that way at some point.”

            Miles nodded.

            “You know, you could always stick around after all this...” Miles said.

            “Yeah, and be the serving wench to Chief Miles, phallocentric ruler of the Shitty-shama.”

            “Uh...not exactly what I was thinking...”

            Nasty turned and looked at Fernando, who stood off in the distance, sanding his rock gently.

            “Whatever. I’m going to practice in the woods, then. I guess. Shit.” Miles stalked off in search of a furry animal to brain with the Bizkicka.

            “Hey buddy! What happened when I was go-” Miles swung heartily.

            Okay, that was pretty good, came a booming, penguinlike squawk from the gathering rainclouds overhead.  But Stephano isn’t an Egg McMuffin, you ass goblin.

            The night passed without incident, excepting of course their daily dose of demon beast, which was resolved easily enough by creeping up behind the creature and strapping on the facemask while she was distracted with Bumpy’s mangled corpse.  Miles slept soundly, left unbothered by the balding man, and the disembodied voice from the Shitty-shama training cave (had it been a hallucination after all?) didn’t reveal itself either.  When he awoke the following morning, the rain had put out the campfire, but the supplies in the Gangsta Truck were dry.  It was the curious structure at the edge of the campsite which drew his attention.  He at first assumed it to be a trick of the morning light--he rarely woke this early--but, after rubbing his eyes and blinking a few times, he decided that it was in fact real: it resembled a colossal silver dinner plate, roughly twice the diameter of the Stun Zeed, and perched on a trio of spindly metal legs like a spider’s.  A number of solid bricks had been tied to the underside of the alien object, several of them stained with dried blood.  An opaque dome topped the circular structure, which Miles concluded might have been some sort of flying vessel.

            The dome popped open, and three blue skinned figures came out, climbed down from the ship, and approached them at a cheerful trot.

            “Greetings,” said the man in front. “I am of the Atlantean Bricklayers. Stephano, for the record, doesn’t look like an Egg McMuffin, he looks like he eats to many of them. In fact, he looks like Grimace wearing a toupee.”

            “Okay.” Miles said scratching his head. Sometimes he felt like a pawn in the struggle between two Gods, one manly and deep voiced, the other an aquatic bird nerd who, nonetheless, spelled the word “too” with two O’s, unlike the irritatingly manly god, who doubtlessly spent many hours in his celestial habitat reading ethereal magazines which reassured him of his ultimate masculinity.

            The Atlanteans were dressed in an armor which changed color depending on which angle the light caught it at. Evidently, Miles thought, there were a whole lot of angles, because he was feeling particularly seasick all of a sudden.  Perhaps it was the beans--he wondered if he hadn’t developed an allergy to them as a result of his training.  The first two were nearly identical, both sturdily built and graceful, the sun glinting off of their blue scales as brightly as it did off their armor.  Their faces were covered by a pair of bone masks which left no part of their features uncovered except for their oversized eyes.  The third Atlantean, standing between the two others, resembled Nasty, though slightly taller and a bit more developed in certain areas.  Miles punched himself in the arm for traveling such base avenues of thought.  Maybe a little of Fran had rubbed off on him after all.  The female Atlantean’s face was unmasked, and an elaborate tattoo of red encircled one eye.

            “Actually,” she added in an accent similar to those Miles had heard in the streets of Alcotown, “Stephano is a fuckin’ vampire.  He’s the fuckin’ Anti-Wendt.  Can’t mess with Stephano.” She cleared her throat.  “But I digress.  Atlantean Bricklayers, Third Squadron.  I believe you’ve encountered one of our own.  We’ve come to...collect her.”

            An anvil fell from out of the sky and landed on her. One of the Atlantean males looked down at the corpse, trying to conceal his evident astonishment.

            “This sort of thing happens to us all the time,” Miles reassured him. “So what’s this about?”

            “Er...we...uh....heard that you have one of our number in your company. Someone important...” He turned around for a moment, and his eyes grew wider. “I see she has been in good company, if she has been traveling with the mighty Word, champion of Atlantean poetry dueling!” Miles turned toward Word, who was now shambling over.

            “Word?”

            “Word,” Word added with a shrug.

            “Mighty Word.” The Atlantean corrected them both.

            GENE WOLFE’S A WUSS!!!! came two voices from overhead. Miles was glad to see the two deities in agreement, even though any disagreements between the two didn’t matter. Verily, the manlier one would be the one to regulate all disputes.  And neither of them would stand a chance against the all-powerful Stephano.

            “Hey,” Nasty interjected sleepily, rubbing her eyes.  The two Atlanteans fell to their knees and she recoiled slightly, taken aback.  She glanced at the female Atlantean with the anvil embedded in her skull.  “This is going to be one of those days.  I can just tell.  We’d better get going to Whitelodge, Miles.  I can’t deal with this crap this early in the morning.”

            “But--but Princess!” the first Atlantean uttered.  Nasty crossed her arms impatiently, eager to return to her tent and sleep this rather odd turn of events away.  “You must end this debate before any more lives are taken! Is Stephano a loser or does he kick ass, Your Highness?”

            “Oh, come on,” the second Atlantean muttered under his breath.  “I think we can all agree that Stephano is a complete hoser.  Brainwashing John Black into thinking he was Doc’s husband--even I could do better than that.”

            With that, a large grand piano descended from the clouds, crushing the two into a pair of armored blue pancakes.  Miles noticed a shoe protruding from beneath the shattered instrument.  Guess Bumpy must’ve gotten caught under there too, he thought, and shrugged.  Oh well.

            “Was that really necessary?” Nasty yelled indignantly, turning her eyes skyward.

            She’s got a point, the manly voice boomed.  I guess we should bring ‘em all back. Goddamn, Max, why are you always making ‘em so damn chesty? What, pray tell is on your mind?

            I am an artist.  I worship beauty.  I will destroy everything that is not beautiful in mine eyes--bit by bit, and slowly....  Anyway, let’s keep innocents out of the whole Stephano debate, it’s far too complex for their minds to grasp its significance, the squawking voice answered.  A moment later all three Atlanteans vanished from beneath the objects of their demise and reappeared, intact, from what Miles could see, beside their craft.

            “I think I’ll go back to my tent,” Bumpy said.  “Everybody’s out to get me, this is starting to piss me off.”

            The last word must be all Travvystyle. YO MAMA!

            As Bumpy approached his tent, he tripped over one of the stones around the fire and lurched forward, impaling himself through the chest on one of the tentpoles.  The three Atlanteans winced.

            “So,” Miles began, hands in his pockets.  He kicked aside a small stone with his foot.  “Um...what’re your, um...names?”

            “Moe.”

            “Curly.”

            “Larry,” the female said through clenched teeth.  Her armor abruptly became entirely red, similar to the color in Bumpy’s cheeks.  “Don’t even ask.  One goddamn senile old grandpa can ruin your entire life, trust me.”

            “Got that right,” Miles said, and suddenly burst out laughing.  Senile old men, he thought.  Funny.  “Now, what was it you wanted with Nasty?”

            “She was taken from us,” Moe explained.  “Several years ago.  We heard tell she had escaped her captivity, but with little or no memory of her former life.  We have been searching the world since, and we would have her rule over us once again, as did her mother before her.” He scratched his head.  “You guys can hitch a ride with us, if you want. We’ve got some wicked brew in Atlantis.”

            “Kick ass,” Miles nodded, motioning to Santa, Fernando, and Bumpy.

            “Wait a second here,” Nasty interrupted, waving her hands frantically.  The three Atlantean Bricklayers (whatever that title might entail) stooped to one knee in deference once more.  “Don’t I have a say in this?”

            “Not really,” the three said in unison.

            Miles shrugged.

            Well, either way, the Voight Beast is pretty damn ugly, huh? It was the manly deity speaking.

            Yeah, let’s show it to ‘em again! the penguin god suggested.

            A moment later, the hideous, crescent-mouthed, leering creature which had leaped in front of the Stun Zeed on its way to Pimptown shambled out of the bushes, its arms outstretched.  The three Atlanteans’ armor went berserk in terror, becoming prismatic and blinding.  The leering beast stood its ground in the center of the camp, a long runner of drool hanging from its lower lip as it cast its beady eyes at Nasty.

            “Nice to see you again, Little Baby Bird,” it said.

            “Everybody into the ship!” Miles ordered as Santa, Bumpy, and Fernando edged their way around the creature.  Even Word, normally so calm and collected, seemed agitated at this horror.  Nasty stood trembling, paralyzed by the thing’s evil eye.  “Nasty, come on! Fight it! For the love of Wendt, get to the ship! Run like the wind!”

            Nasty, galvanized into action, darted past the beast and up the ramp, closely followed by Word, Bumpy and Santa.  Fernando glanced back at his rock.

            “I can’t leave her here, Miles! I’ll take care of Crackhorn and meet you guys at Whitelodge.  Don’t worry about me, I’ll be all right!”

            Miles shrugged and leaped into the ship after Santa and Bumpy.  The ramp folded into a small door on the craft’s underside, and the last thing Miles saw as it hovered unsteadily above the field, wobbling slightly as if suspended from a string, and sped off toward the horizon was Fernando closing the distance between himself and the Voight Beast, attempting unsuccessfully to summon Bob, who had apparently fled in terror of this abomination.  Damn, Miles thought.  Lost Fernando and Crackhorn too.  Paul, you’re gonna pay for this.

            “W-wait!” Nasty cried, struggling in the grasp of the three Atlanteans.  “We can’t just leave Fernando! He doesn’t stand a chance against that thing!”

            The interior of the flying saucer was plain and largely devoid of any sort of controls Miles would have expected to see in such a vessel, the only means of steering a lever set into the wall at the front of the small, cramped space.  The walls seemed to ripple like the surface of an ocean, and the effect made him slightly nauseous, as did the blue light which bathed every surface, as he could detect no light source of any kind.  The pressure inside this control center became increasingly uncomfortable as the brick-laden ship hovered above a town which Miles recognized as Adirolf.  A group of senile old men had gathered on the beach and were pointing skyward.  A moment later Miles was pushed back into his seat as the craft plunged at a direct angle into the sea and vanished beneath the waves.  Nasty and the other three Atlanteans showed no signs of discomfort, but Santa looked as though he were on the verge of vomiting and Bumpy’s teeth were clenched.  Word frowned.

            “Hey, what--?” Miles began, and slumped forward in the seat as blue gave way to darkness and the world faded around him.

            Remember me? It was the woman’s voice again.  Better company than the bald guy, Miles had to admit.

            Mind explaining a few things to me now?

            Shoot.

            Who the hell are you? I’m getting tired of my hallucinations ignoring me whenever I ask that.

            I am Leela.  That is all.  But you, Miles--you are a fool.

            What the hell did I ever do to you?

            Not a thing.  So long for now--connection’s a little fuzzy, you’re about to wake up.  Enjoy the brew while you can.  The world doesn’t stop for you.  Neither does time.

            Miles awoke slowly to the sound of lapping water somewhere closeby.  He was lying on a bed, or rather some pretentious pseudo-nihilistic poet’s interpretation of a bed: nothing more than a featureless, sterile slab of white stone, raised perhaps three feet off the ground in an equally featureless and sterile room.  On either side of him were small pools of water in which swam a variety of fish he hadn’t known existed, some glowing, some with teeth which resembled those of the demon beast.  The door was a rectangle of blackness in a limbo of white, and he wondered for a second whether he was dreaming.  His clothes had been folded neatly at the foot of the bed, and he set about exploring his odd surroundings after throwing on his baggy pants, tunic, and King Elevuhn scarf.  He hesitated and then reached for Bizkicka, which had been propped against the far wall.

            The corridor outside, like the room he’d just come out of, was rough white stone, although a variety of ornate masks and hangings adorned the walls and along the floor ran a three-inch-deep river of clear water, cold on his feet.  His knees nearly gave way beneath him as he glanced up and saw that the ceiling above had been fashioned from some clear material which provided a frightening view of the seemingly endless ocean beyond.  Assorted fish and other aquatic creatures darted back and forth, scales gleaming, and from time to time an Atlantean swam past, silhouetted by what little sunlight reached this far under the surface.  Miles scratched his head.  He might have been unconscious for minutes, or for hours.  He remembered the untimely demise of Fernando and Crackhorn and cursed himself.  He could have fought the beast off with the Bizkicka, had he not been so abjectly terrified himself.

            The others must be here somewhere.  Have to find them.

            He spent the next hour traversing the labyrinthine corridors of Atlantis and took note of a gradual alteration in their walls as he neared the source of an odd sound, a deep, low, thrumming, perhaps a source of energy the likes of which Miles had never seen--Atlantean technology, even later, after he’d witnessed its power, confused him endlessly.  No longer smooth white, the walls had been carved with a series of hieroglyphics and murals depicting what he assumed to be the sinking of the city.  He noticed one which covered the entire length of one wall, a scene in which a group of Atlanteans (presumably royalty, as all wore that same tri-pointed crown that Nasty had ever since Miles had first encountered her) were gathered around what appeared to be some kind of spherical device set atop a pedestal.  The Atlanteans were shielding their eyes from a halo of piercing rays which emanated from within the orb.  Miles remembered what Sergeant Fran had told him about the “Orb of Wrath,” the artifact which had sent Atlantis into the sea.

            “Word.”

            Miles jumped, clutching his heart, as he turned to find Word peering over his shoulder at the scene carved into the wall.  The zombie nodded as if he were about to disclose some incredible truth.

            “Word,” he said, and sauntered off down the corridor.

            “Hey, where’s everyone else?” Miles asked, catching up with him.

            “Word.”

            “Thought so.”

            Miles continued on his way, whistling softly. He had to think.  Fernando and Crackhorn were gone. He was in Atlantis. Nasty was a princess. Something was starting to click.

            Fernando-gone. Me-some sort of royalty of the Shitty-shama. Nasty-Princess. Shitty-shama/Atlanteans-could be brought to peace. Fernando-gone. With his friggin’ rock.

            A slow smile spread across his lips.

            “Who’s the spiky haired Shitty-shama that’s a...sex machine to all the chicks? Miles! Y’ daaammmn right.” He continued with this new song down the hallway before running into Bumpy.

            “Who’s the cat who won’t cop out when there’s zombies all about?”

            “Buddy!”

            “Can ya dig it?” Miles kept on walking at a trot, not even savoring the fact that he had, for once, confused the hell out of Bumpy.

            “Buddy!”

            “Shut yo’ mouth!”

            “Nasty’s looking for you.” Bumpy said, still looking a bit confused. Miles stopped his ballad in mid-lyric.

            “Really? Where is she?”

            “She’s in the throne room.”

            “Hm. Where would that be?”

            “You just passed it while you were singing.” Miles was very glad to be wearing his scarf at that moment.

            “Miles?” Nasty poked her head out of a doorway.

            “Hello, Nasty. How are you?” Nasty looked at him confusedly.  “Y’know, you’re looking great today.”

            Miles tried flashing a grin, before realizing that his face was covered, and he could very well have been making a face like the Voight Beast they had encountered earlier for all she knew.

            “What the hell’s wrong with you, you freak? And what was with that song?”

            “He’s just talkin’ ‘bout Miles,” Santa Claus said from behind him. Nasty and Bumpy exchanged another glance. “What’s going on, guys?”

            “My coronation’s in an hour,” Nasty said distractedly.

            “Hm. Aren’t you already a princess?” Miles never really understood what constituted a leader, other than the ability to look really cool, and beat the hell out of anyone else who had any sort of aspirations.

            “I left here before my official coronation. Midnight apparently rolled around, and...”

            “And you wound up serving the Great Wendt on dry land,” Santa said, releasing a small burst of flame.

            Miles did a few squats, attempting to make sense of this situation. Bumpy twisted at his one or two chin hairs.

            “So...” Nasty said, looking around. No one really had anything to say.

            “Coronation, huh? How ‘bout that?” Bumpy sat in a corner.

            “Hey, if you’re not officially a princess yet, how come you have that crown?” Miles inquired.

            “That’s not a crown, that’s my hair,” Nasty said, ruffling the three impressive spikes in which her sea-green hair terminated.  She took a swig from a bottle of Atlantean beer she held in one hand, a small bottle with a blue ribbon of paper wrapped around its neck.  Miles scratched his chin--he couldn’t imagine she could have a sturdy resistance to the effects of alcohol, and perhaps, given the correct conditions, the Pimptown bartender’s style might work for him as well.  He stood in awe of Santa’s unusual abilities, tolerated Bumpy (to a certain extent, after which he simply killed him), was now somewhat scared of Word...but he liked Nasty.  A leader took action, Miles reminded himself.  Surely she deserved some place in the ordered world which was at hand.  He would speak on her behalf to Sergeant Fran.

            “Oh,” he said, scratching his head.  Damn, he thought.  She could impale somebody with that hair.  “Guess I can relate to that.”

            The ceremony was more a drinking contest than a coronation, and Bumpy took to the festivities wholeheartedly, as did Santa, who was loathe to pass up an offer of free alcohol.  Miles did little drinking himself, although he made sure Nasty always had a bottle in front of her.  Strategy, he told himself confidently.  Strategy and determination reward the noble.  She looked at him strangely from time to time, as though she suspected him of some particularly heinous crime but hadn’t the heart to tell him, and he glanced away, instead striking up a conversation with Word (an action which must have appeared suspicious in itself).  Large bowls of odd-looking spiked fruit and roasted land animals were set out on the long stone table which had been brought into the throne room, and Miles found that the inside of the fruit was yellowish and tasted somewhat like celery, a disturbing combination which caused him to quickly shun the spiked fruit in favor of the roast meat.  Word had taken to a bowl of custard which had been placed before him, planting his face in the center of the bowl and emitting a noise rather like a pig as he inhaled the stuff.

            “Mwuhrnd,” he said, glancing up from the dish with a dry, dusty laugh which said: Mmm, that’s good custard.

            The Atlanteans took no note of his foul manners, as he had apparently done them some noble service in the past, and was, as Larry, Curly, and Moe had informed Miles, a champion of Atlantean poetry dueling, whatever that might be.  Miles didn’t particularly want to know.  Nasty was fitted with a crown of gold which covered the three imposing spikes at the front of her scalp (great importance was placed on hair in Atlantis, and the spikier the hair, the higher the social class), but it did little to change her appearance.  Miles took note of the hair distinction and once again smiled to himself--his own hair rivaled Nasty’s.  Small children in the streets of Alcotown had run from it screaming in terror.  This would serve him well in future endeavors.

            “So, when do you think the clans’ll meet up and fight?” Miles asked Nasty by way of conversation.

            “Doesn’t matter,” Nasty shrugged, her movements slightly disjointed and loose as a result of the blue ribbon brew.  Miles considered putting an arm around her shoulder and decided against it.  In time.  “They’ll fight one way or another, if the Shitty-shama have anything to say about it.  And then everything will change.”

            She abruptly cried out in pain and lurched forward, spilling her beer and toppling a nearby bowl of fruit.  Miles glanced about and saw with dawning horror that he had lost all track of time and that it was, according to the large, ornate clock face above the throne, midnight.  The crown fell from Nasty’s distorting skull, and a severely drunken Bumpy, attempting to steal her brassiere again, impaled himself on one of the bone spikes which had torn through the skin of her elbows.  The demon beast flicked the stone chair aside with its powerfully muscled tail as if it weighed nothing, and crouched back on its haunches, swaying back and forth slightly.  It lunged at the nearest Atlantean, who dodged easily and let the beast crash into the wall.  It rose to its feet, shaking its head, and Miles realized that it was pissed as a faert.  Larry leaped onto the demon beast’s back with a tank of meth and slapped on the facemask, whereupon the beast fell onto its side, its barklike skin giving way to blue scales.

            Bumpy took the opportunity to somehow snatch the Atlantean guard’s brassiere, the strap of which he tied beneath his chin.  He danced across the table like a trained monkey, cackling gleefully as Larry pursued him around the perimeter of the throne room, brandishing a serrated spear in one hand and holding the other across her chest.  Word staggered to his feet and tossed the unfinished bowl of custard at Moe, who returned the attack with one of the spiked fruits.  Nasty, having regained consciousness, dove for cover under the table as a flying bottle narrowly missed her head.  Milessighed, crossing his arms and pondering his next move.

            “Chaos kicks ass,” Santa remarked, downing the last of his sixth bottle.

            Wendt, Miles thought. Strategy and determination don’t do much when you’re dealing with sociopaths.

            “Y’know, buddy, y’ got a nice ash.” Bumpy said. Miles turned around and hit him over the head with the Bizkicka before realizing that he was referring to a fine cigar Word had somehow procured.

            Miles shrugged. Nasty, still in an alcoholic daze, and somewhat disoriented from her demon beast transformation, approached him.

            “C’mon, Mr. Shitty-shama. I got something to show you...” She took Miles by the hand and led him out of the room.

            WOOHOO! IT WORKED! I got the method.

            She led him down a corridor and stopped outside of a bedroom.

            “Open th’ door, Miles. It’sy’r room. The bed accommodates two.”

            Miles entered the room, and saw a beautiful blue four poster bed. Sitting on satin sheets was a sizable lichen encrusted rock.

            “Worked f’r Fernando, so I told them to get you one too. Maybe then y’ll knock it off...” Nasty left the room, cackling drunkenly.

            Shit.

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Chapter Fourteen: Hey, MacLeod, Get Off My Ewe!