Itelebobaal Redux (Director's Final Cut)

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This is a sequel to Itelebobaal018 (Director's Cut). Although it is only a short story I am going to upload it in parts as I write it. Currently, my story outline has six main sections. Part I starts in the next post.

Looking forward to your comments! :howdy:

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Tropical Island Getaway. Warm Breezes. Palm Trees. Secluded Beaches. Romantic Sunsets. Paradise!

Such were the delightful words that gently beckoned from a crumpled and yellowing travel brochure clutched in the hand of a crumpled and graying man, with disheveled hair and a stubbly beard, slouching in a tall wood-and-canvas chair, a chair with the word DIRECTOR printed on its back in large letters.

The man had kept that brochure for years. Saving. Planning. Dreaming. Counting on a long vacation away from the long hours and endless problems of his chosen profession. Or, if he were to wait a few years longer, of an early retirement even. A well-deserved frolic among friendly faces in a beautiful corner of the world reserved just for him.

But paradise was not foremost in his mind right now. For in his other hand he held a telegram sent from the home office. Its words, far from delightful, foretold not of paradise but of doom:

Last Chance. Stop. Over-Budget. Stop. Behind Schedule. Stop. Union Threatening Strike. Stop. SPCM Threatening Lawsuit. Stop. Sponsors Threatening To Pull Funding. Stop. Screw Up One More Time And You Are Finished. Stop. FINISHED. Stop.

For a while the telegram hung from his hand like a soiled piece of toilet paper stuck to the heel of his shoe. Then it dropped, slowly weaving and winding its way down to settle on the rough-hewn volcanic floor. For a moment it lay still. Then a gentle gust of air lifted it, moved it several yards, and laid it down upon the pulsating surface of the River of Flame, where it flared, fizzled and vanished in the blink of an eye. Much as his hopes of a Tropical Island Getaway had fizzled when he read that telegram.

The man now filled his now-empty hand with his far-from-empty head, so full of worry. His head, heated and heavy, pounded with one heart-rending thought: “Finished!” Try as he might, he could not extinguish the fiery anguish that the telegram had burned into his mind. “Finished!” After all my years of hard work and service to the company. After all I’ve done for them! Finished. Finished. Finished!

Rumble.

“Is that you Fraze?” said the man gently over his shoulder. “Oh Frazier, it’s so unfair. Isn’t it? Haven’t I been a steady employee? Haven’t I always accepted the toughest pictures, and made successes of them? Well, except for that last one. It’s just a string of bad luck is all. Can’t they see that! Ever since that harlot got herself electrocuted. Blamed me, they did. Me! When I had done everything to make that picture a success. And since then, it’s been just one stroke of bad luck after another. Like this picture, what else can go wrong?”

Ruumble.

The man took no notice of the grumbling sound this time. “It was that sorc. That newb sorc! Making a game when she couldn’t tele, wasting all our time with her pathetic attempts at Baal-running. It wasn’t my fault her account got deleted. One of the technicians explained it all to the board. The lightening from the black souls shorted-out the character database. It was a freak occurrence. He said the odds of all twelve streaks of lightening hitting her at the same split-second was million-to-one. A million to one! How was I supposed to plan for something like that? It could have happened to anyone.

“But ever since it’s been one problem after another. First there was that freak blizzard that swept in off the Bloody Foothills and made the base camp at Harrogath impossible, forcing us to abandon the project. Then there’s this project. In all the nine-hells I’ve never seen so many problems. First the original crew gets ambushed by Abyss Knights. Then the star of the film gets poisoned by a blood maggot. And finally, now, just yesterday, the way point goes off-line. I didn’t even know that was possible! Is that my fault? I ask you. And what we are supposed to do now with no waypoint? Tyrael knows! We’re stranded. No supplies. No way home. I suppose they’ll blame me for not having any portal scrolls. Well it wasn’t in the budget, was it? What I am supposed to do, mint my own gold?! They’re the tightwads that insist on cutting costs at every turn!

“But I know now. This is no coincidence. There’s a magical force at work here. That newb sorc cursed me. Jinxed me. She put a spell of bad luck on me. I’ll never forget that look on her face. Just before she disappeared in that hail of lightening. Staring at me through the monitor. Blaming me! That look in her eyes. That’s it, I’m sure of it. Frazier my friend I tell you as I live and breathe it’s all that newb sorc’s doing. She’s out there right now jinxing me from beyond the realms.

Ruuumble!

“Oh be quiet you big oaf!” said the man, turning his head to look toward the pit lord sitting cross-legged on the floor. Then, seeing the huge olive-green demon sitting so obediently, holding its stomach with both claws, and seeing the pathetic look on its face, said: “Oh, I’m sorry Frazy-Wazy. Is that your stomach? Are you hungry boy? Did they forget to feed you again this morning? Would you like a nice corn dog?”

At the sound of “corn dog” the pit lord jumped up and ran over to the Director’s chair like a happy puppy. There was a time when the man would have been quite alarmed at the rapid approach of a pit lord, especially a hungry one, but he and this pit lord named “Frazier” had become fast friends during the first few weeks of the project. He knew its body language and felt he could even tell when it was smiling, not an easy task considering that a pit lords mouth consists mainly of a tangled bunch of fangs, which, no matter what its expression, are always tangled, always bunched, and always more fangs than anyone could gaze upon in complete comfort.

But threatened or not, having the half-ton demon bouncing around him was still a little too much for the man in the chair. “Down boy! DOWN! That’s a good boy. Sit. SIT!” The pit lord settled back down into a cross-legged sitting position next to the man’s chair, but was still evidently quite excited at the prospect of a corn dog. Its huge wings quivered and there was a feint motion around the hips as if, though tailless, it was wagging furiously.

“There’s a good boy,” said the man, reaching up and scratching the scaly cheek of the demon, which though sitting, still towered over him. “Now you stay right here while I get you a nice corn dog.” The man couldn’t resist saying “corn dog” again just to see its effect on the excited, though obedient demon.

At that the man set off in the direction of the corn dog stand. For the moment he had forgotten his dire circumstances and with a boyish grin contemplated the fun of returning to his simple-minded friend with a juicy corn dog treat. But he didn’t get far before he saw his assistant Hassan hurrying toward him with a worried look on his face, which brought it all back like a kick in the pants. Hassan, no doubt, had some new problem, some mess that only the director could solve. As Hassan approached, the director launched a preemptive strike.

“Hassan. Hassan!” yelled the director.

“Yes sir?’ said Hassan, puffing, as he jogged up to the director’s side.

“Who the devil is the SPCM?” demanded the director.

“The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Monsters, sir. They’re a very powerful lobbying group. They’re the ones responsible for that disclaimer at the end of all our films, you know, the no-monsters-were-harmed…”

“Oh sweet Tyrael don’t remind me. Did you know they are threatening to sue our company?

“Yes sir, it seems they object to our treatment of Frazier.”

“Treatment of Frazier? Why we practically treat him as a member of the family. He sleeps in my trailer. He eats the same food as the crew. I don’t see how we could treat him any better. Why just now, I’m off to get him a …, oh for Tyrael’s sake, what a bunch of nonsense!”

“Yes, sir, but that’s precisely their objection sir. They say we have taken him out of his natural habitat. They say he his forgetting his natural instincts and won’t be able to return to the wild if we don’t stop.”

“Return to the wild! But he’s with me now. He’s practically my pet. I don’t think I couldn’t bear it if he went away. “

“Yes sir. But have you thought about where you will live when this picture’s over? People tend to frown on dangerous wildlife in their neighborhood.”

“But he’s not dangerous! He’s a good boy! I’m telling you he wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

“Yes, I know sir, as you know I am quite fond of him too, but that’s their point of view. I’m just telling you their side of it.”

“I know Hassan, I’m sorry if I snapped at you. It’s just that I’m not myself lately, with all the problems we’ve had and the pressure from the home office.” And the director continued in a whisper, to himself rather than Hassan, “And that accursed telegram.”

“Oh, yes sir. It’s shocking! They had no right to …”

“WHAT? Did you read it?”

“Well, no, not really sir, I mean I wouldn’t have, but I was working the telegram machine when it came in. I’ve had to use it a lot with the waypoint being down and, well, I just happened to be the one using it when your telegram came in.”

“So I suppose everyone knows?”

“NO! No sir. I haven’t told, wouldn’t tell, anyone. I’m sorry I even did read it, but I didn’t know it would be such an awful …” Hassan broke off, looking quite hurt and sad.

Noticing the hurt in Hassan’s words, and realizing that his hasty words were an unjustified insult to his faithful assistant said “Nevermind, Hassan.” Then he laid his hand on Hassan shoulder and kept it there until Hassan looked up again. Smiling, the directed said “You’re the best assistant I ever had, Hassan. In fact, I’m glad you read it. Now at least I’ll have someone to complain to!”

Hassan smiled and said “Thank you sir.” Then they both had a little chuckle over it, but officious and serious as always, Hassan quickly got back to business. “Oh my goodness, sir, we have the crew meeting to go to, it started, um, about 10 minutes ago.”

“Oh, Diablo’s Boots! Do I have to? Don’t answer that lad, I know I do. Lead the way stout assistant. Lead the way!

To be continued...

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Part 2

The director followed Hassan through a series of twists and bends that followed the path of the River of Flame. After a few minutes they drew near what appeared to be a small mob. As they approached, the director realized he was still holding the Paradise Travel brochure in his hand. He hastily rolled it up and thrust it into his back pocket.

Stopping at the edge of crowd, the director wondered if the meeting had already started. Many of the crew seemed to be engaged in a lively discussion.

“Look! Maybe if you’d shut your stuffy trap for two seconds, you’d see that it really doesn’t matter if he’s technically a pit lord or not. People are going to think he’s a venom lord as soon as they set eyes on him. I would think that would be obvious even to an egghead like you,” said a man with reddened and ruddy face.

A tall man with a somewhat sallow complexion replied. “What is obvious to me is that you are a brainless dolt who can’t appreciate even the simplest point of demonical anatomical structure. Let me repeat…”

Now it was the turn of a plump, swarthy woman wearing faded overalls. “Oh, not again! If I have to listen to one more word about anatomical demononical whatever out of that pompous wind-bag I swear I’ll drop dead from boredom.” And she took a few dramatically wobbly steps which the women standing near her seemed to find amusing.

“Now madam is that any way to behave? I think the gentleman has something to say that we could all learn from,” said a gray-haired man with excessively good posture.

“Thank you sir. I’m glad there is at least one other person of refinement and intelligence here today,” said the sallow fellow with a nod toward the gray-haired gentleman.

The gray-haired man smiled and returned the nod. The swarthy woman rolled her eyes and turned her back on the speaker. The ruddy-faced man’s face got ruddier. The sallow fellow resumed his speech.

“As I was saying, the difference between pit lords and venom lords is well established by the scientific study of anatomy. Contrary to the so-called common wisdom of the unwashed masses…”

Ruddy-face called out, “Unwashed masses, eh? Look mate I’m warning you!”

“… the true species differentiation has nothing to do with skin color. While their skin color does provide a ready indication of the species, olive-green for venom lords and…”

Swarthy-woman feigned a loud snoring sound to delight of her giggling friends.

“…midnight blue for pit lords, the designation ‘pit’ in the name pit lord is the real differentiator, referring to…”

Now another man broke in. “Pits of Hell! Duh! They’re lords of the pits of hell. Everyone knows that,” he said, appealing to those around him with a shrug of his shoulders.

Sallow-fellow interrupted his explanation to reply to the previous speaker. “Indeed. That’s just what I was talking about. That popular notion is indeed common, indeed obvious and indeed wrong! If the less-educated in the crowd would just listen perhaps they would learn something,” and with a leer toward the ruddy-faced man, “especially the low-brow elements.”

“Low brow! That does it! I warned you!”

The sallow-fellow continued unabashed: “As I was saying, the word ‘pit’ in pit lord is a reference to the presence of unusual and distinctive pits lining the underside of a pit lord’s genitals…” At this point his speech was suddenly interrupted by the ruddy-faced man’s fist, impacting, as he might himself put it, his facial anatomy in the specific region of his jaw.

Swarthy-woman opened her eyes wide and feigned a shocked expression for her friend’s amusement. “Genitals? Pits? Now that is just a bit more information than I needed to know!” Laughter erupted around her.

At the same time, small-scale warfare erupted around the ruddy-faced man and the sallow fellow, who, for a pompous windbag, had a surprisingly good left hook. At least five other men also joined the fray, punching and wrestling with anyone at hand, and one small wiry woman jumped on the ruddy-faced man’s back, yelling “Death to the infidels” at the top of her lungs.

Such was the scene that unfolded before the director and Hassan. Hassan was stunned. The director just fumed. And he began to pace.

“Where in the realms did you find this crew, Hassan?”

“Um, well, mostly the local unemployment bureau. You know, sir, after our usual crew was ambushed by the A.K.’s, we needed to find replacements fast, and, er, we couldn’t be too choosy.”

“I hate Abyss Knights. Hate them. Always have. Always will. Foulest things in all the realms. If I had a gold piece for every time I’ve said that…” the director’s voice trailed off and he stopped pacing. “Well I guess it’s up to me to sort this out. Oh Hassan, remind me to burn myself at the stake later won’t you?”

“What? Oh.”

The director stepped forward into the crowd, which parted like the red sea before him. He was a large man, standing a full head taller than some of the crew. In his youth he had been quite a bruiser and still had the broad chest and shoulders of the great-maul-wielding warrior that he once was.

“Enough! EEE-NOUGH!” he bellowed.

His words were indeed enough to gain the attention of those who had been laughing, but pockets of fighting continued. He walked straight toward the center of the fight throwing to the ground anyone in his path still fighting and warning them to stay-put.

When he got to source of the disturbance he found the ruddy-faced man, the sallow fellow and the wiry woman locked in a furious knot of punching, swearing, scratching and biting. The wiry woman got the back of his hand and fell hard on the ground. The two men got his palms.

He sunk his hands into the long manes of hair that each of the two remaining combatants possessed and with a firm grip jerked them apart, spreading his arms wide to either side. For his part he really didn’t care if the men’s heads came with the handfuls of hair or not, but apparently the men did, for their response was immediate. They released each other and focused all their efforts on moving in tandem with the powerful hands dragging them apart.

“Do I have your attention,” said the director in soft, controlled voice.

“Ow! Leggo!” said the ruddy-faced man.

Still gripping the man’s hair tightly, the director gave his hand a shake.

“OWWW!”

The director shook his hand again and said, almost whispering, “Do I have your full attention yet?”

“…”

“Thank you.” He looked over at the sallow fellow who said not a word, moved not a muscle, but stared upward at the director’s bear-like hand. The director now spoke loudly enough for the whole crew to hear.

“Now then gentleman. I think I can clear this up. If the subject of this, er, argument is the star of this film, which I assume is a safe assumption…,” both men nodded (carefully), “… then let me say, for the record, that the star of this film is most definitely a pit lord, not a venom lord, a pit lord, with olive-green colored skin just as the title says: Frazier the Olive-Skin Pit Lord.”

“That’s simple enough isn’t it? After all this is a children’s story not a documentary. We won’t be showing any genitals in the picture, certainly not in the close-up view that would be required for the inspection of any pits, wouldn’t you agree?” Again both men managed a slight affirmative nod.

“Good,” he said releasing the men. He gave them both a long look to make sure they would not start fighting again, but both of them seemed interested only in the tops of aching heads. “Good,” he repeated.

Then he turned to face the whole crew and, waving Hassan over to him, said in a projected voice, “Perhaps now would be a good time to review the script.” He extended his hand which Hassan filled with a copy of the script.

“Now then. The name of this project is Frazier the Olive-Skin Pit Lord. It is a children’s special feature and will run in a 60 minute time-slot on television, not in theatres. It’s the kind of short film that used to be done in Claymation, but which the trend is now to do in live action. It’s a simple story, told almost entirely by the theme song.

“Listen carefully. The first stanza goes like this.” The director read aloud from the script.

Frazier the olive skin pit lord,
had a very greenish skin.
And if you ever saw it,
you would say ‘a venom lord’s kin!’


“So you see the fact of his being an olive-green pit lord is well established. It’s what makes him different, a misfit you might say, intended to appeal to a child’s sympathy. Now, the second verse refers to the scene we will be shooting today.” Again he read aloud from the script.

All of the other pit lords,
used to laugh and call him names.
They never let poor Frazier,
join in any pit lord games.


“This stanza introduces the main conflict, which provides the dramatic tension. As the tale unfolds we see Frazier become aware of his difference, explore his sadness and follow him on a personal journey of isolation and sadness. Eventually, with the help of a quirky, perky sorceress, he accepts his uniqueness, returns to the pack and achieves acceptance through a heroic act that only he, by virtue of his green skin, can perform. Happy, happy, happy.

“So! Today’s objective is to shoot lots of footage of the regular midnight-blue type pit lords which will be used later to create scenes for the film. The voice-acting and special effects will all be done back at studio headquarters long after we’ve finished here.

“For those of you who may be unfamiliar with pit lords remember that they do not exactly act. No. In fact they are extremely dangerous and should not be approached for any reason. When you find a pack of pit lords set your cameras up on the other side of the river and zoom in as needed to get the shot.

“It will be the job of the pit lord wranglers to stimulate the pit lords into performing interesting actions for the camera. Now this is not an exact science. Mainly this type of filming involves turning on the cameras and waiting for the wildlife to do something. For this reason I will not be attending the pit lord shoot. Good luck.”

“Sir, excuse me sir, but we have one other scene to film today.” whispered Hassan in his boss’s ear.

“Ah yes. Listen up everybody. We are also filming the scene where the innocent young sorceress, herself a misfit due to her love of rhythmic gymnastic rather than sorcery, befriends poor Frazier and they set out together across the River of Flame to find a new home. Is the sorc here? Halloo? Are you out there sorc?”

“Sir, remember the original sorc we cast was accidentally poisoned last week. We hired a replacement but she hasn’t shown up for work yet this morning.”

“I see.” The director said to Hassan. Then addressing the whole crew: “Alright everyone that’s pretty much it. Any questions?”

About half the hands in the crowd went up. (Do the math!) The director was actually in no mood for questions, complaints or problems of any kind. And he knew how to handle this bunch. He rolled up his sleeves and held out his hands out in a kind-of hair-grabbing position.

“Yes, please ask your questions, I will be happy to answer every one of them – just as I did before.” All hands dropped. “No questions! Well, we are a clever crew aren’t we! This meeting is over.”

The crowd slowly began to break up. Hassan asked the director what they would do about the missing sorceress. He replied “Hassan, I think it’s time I gave you some more responsibility. You figure it out.”

“But sir!”

“Now, now, Hassan. How many films have we done together? Five, six?”

“Seven sir.”

“Seven! And you’ve been my right-hand man on every one haven’t you.

“Yes sir.”

“And I must say in all that time you’ve never failed me once. You’re organized, always well-prepared, you have a head for details, and, I think, a true love for this business don’t you?”

Hassan nodded.

“See? In fact I want you to do more than find that sorc, I want you to direct her scene with Frazier too.”

“But sir! I couldn’t possibly…”

“There, there, Hassan. You know the script. You’re good with Frazier. You’ve seen me do it hundreds of times. Do you mean to say that none of my skills and techniques has worn off on you?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that sir, I mean, I have thought about directing…”

“See! Then it’s all settled. You have the script, the set, the know-how. Make some movie magic, Hassan, make me proud!”

“Well…” Hassan looked searchingly up into the director’s eyes and somewhere therein found the confidence he needed. “Allright sir, I’ll do it!”

“Good, splendid!

“But, sir, if I should need you for something, you will be nearby won’t you?”

“Well at the moment I have an, er, urgent errand to run, but I’ll look in on you later. Alright? By the way Hassan would you happen to know where the nearest corn dog stand is?”

“Corn dog stand? Um, yes sir, there’s one up by the waypoint, which is in that direction. But why…”

“Thank you Hassan. Good luck!” And with that the director strolled off toward the waypoint leaving a puzzled and worried assistant in his wake.

To be continued...

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Part 3

The director took his walk easily and did not hurry. It was hot beside the molten river and the light, which glowed rather than shone from it, could play tricks on the eye. He had no particular desire to bump into a wandering abyss knight or a ranging pit lord if he could help it, especially as his walk was taking him away from the rest of the crew.

So as he walked he worried a bit, and that little bit of worry was enough to remind him of his other worries, and that combined with the silence and loneliness of his momentary solitude was enough to restore the bitter and desperate mood that had enveloped him earlier.

“Good luck,” he thought. “Hmph! He’ll need it on this project. As if I could bestow any such thing in the first place. Imagine me wishing anyone good luck. Like a pauper wishing him good fortune. Maybe I should have wished him bad luck. Coming from me it would probably have the opposite effect.

“Oh what’s wrong with me? I don’t believe in jinxes and such things. I’ve been through tough times before. Maybe not like this. No. Not like this. But I’ve always found a way. Maybe things are about to turn around. You never can tell. Things look up, then down, then up. After all, how much worse can things get? As bad as thing are things are I can’t imagine what else could go wrong.”

But as if in betrayal of his very thoughts, the very next moment the director found himself struggling against the suddenly treacherous pull of gravity and cursing his proximity to the river’s edge. His last footfall had had the feel of something lumpy, something unsteady and something wriggling. Instinctively he broke his step to avoid putting his full weight on whatever it was he had stepped on, and succeeded in that effort, while also succeeding in turning his ankle and losing his balance.

Reflexes honed in dance halls on youthful nights with tireless ladies saved him from a painful fall, but in his gyrations he managed to bring his other foot down hard on the very same spot that he had so deftly avoided just a moment before. And this time it had the feeling of something crunching, something spurting, as well as the sound of something squealing.

As the region of the director’s anatomy normally reserved for his tall canvas chair came to settle on a conveniently placed, if not conveniently shaped, crag, the director began to unravel the plot of his last few dizzying moments.

Now began the Tale of Two Footies, perhaps with the subtitle Adding Insult to Injury. He did not need his eyes know that his one foot had sustained a somewhat painful, if minor, sprain. Nor did it require a lengthy inspection to observe that his other foot had become attached to a rather large and gooey mass, with legs. So large, in fact, that he could be forgiven for perceiving that his foot was attached to it, rather than vice-versa.

“A baby blood maggot. Ugh!”

He surveyed the ground for something with which to scrape clean the bottom of his shoe. A discarded old dagger, a bone, even a sharp stone would help. Finding none of these he settled for scraping it along the rough ground and striking is sharply on the crag to try to dislodge some of the chunkier pieces. But with his wobbly ankle it was a tricky business and eventually he settled for removing just the carapace and head along with most of the ooze.

What remained was somehow both slippery and sticky, and his shoe now made a wet sound as he walked. Of course he also had to favor his other foot, so his walking was more of a hop, tug-slide, hop, accompanied by loud smacking sounds. Hurt and tired, with renewed enthusiasm for cursing his abominable luck, he plodded doggedly toward the now visible corn dog stand while thoughts of an unprintable nature chased their tails in his brain.

One thing did puzzle him: the presence of just a single baby maggot. Normally blood maggots were found in large groups, and that was even truer of the young larvae. Yet there was not another one in sight. “Where in Duriel’s shell did this one come from?”

But one puzzle replaced another as the director hobbled up to the corn dog stand. He had expected to find a polite vendor in a clean smock and white cap standing attentively behind the stand.

And what to his wondering eyes should appear?
Not a vendor or corn dog was anywhere near.


But a cage full of maggots, and a vat full of foam
And pile of short sticks, were all that was home.

And off a short distance with a net and a stick
a fellow was stooping and moving right quick!

And then he could see that the man looking-for
Was a one-time wrangler with the name of Raynor

“Ahem.” said the director, but the man paid no heed.

“AHEM!” he said again and this time he lifted the foot with the sticky shoe up and brought it down roughly on the edge of the corn dog stand, which made a load slamming sound.

Startled, the man stopped what he was doing and looked over toward the director.

“Looking for something?” called the director.

“Hey you! Whatchoo doin’ to my stand?” said Raynor walking quickly toward the director. About half-way he caught site of the mess embedded in the bottom of the director’s shoe.

“Say! That’s me missin’ maggot. Why don’ you watch where your…” Raynor finally recognized the director for whom he had worked very recently.

“Well, by Haphaestos burning hammer, it’s you sir! Oh forgive me sir, I didn’t recognize you! How are you sir?

“Hello Raynor. Would you mind telling me what you’re doing with baby blood maggots on my set?

“Actually sir I don’t believe I’m exactly on the set of your movie. This area around the waypoint is explicitly reserved for public use, you know, vendors and the like.”

“Really.”

“Oh yes sir, see I’ve got the proper license and everything,” Raynor said, pointing to a certificate posted on the side of the corn dog stand.

“I see. But surely they didn’t give you a license to allow dangerous wildlife to wander around?”

“Oh, well, that. I am sorry about that, sir,” he said starting to pick at the remains of the hellish insect on the bottom of the director’s shoe, “yes, sorry indeed. Looks like that was quite the little beastie too! I must say I am impressed, sir. A lot of folks wouldn’t know how to handle a fellow of that size.”

“What? Oh really, I…”

“Now don’t be modest sir. I knows grown men that woulda’ run from this thing like a little girl. Tell me, did you have much trouble with it?

“Me? Er, a little, well no, not really, I had the jump on it from the very beginning, you might say.”

“I’ll bet you did, I’ll bet you did. Still. These bugs are quite vicious aren’t they? And once they latch onto you, well, you might as well say goodbye to whatever they have a hold of, ‘cause they won’t be letting go!”

“Really?” said the director, looking at his shoe with a bit more concern than before.

“Oh yes. These things are born killers. And I mean born. From the moment they’re hatched they’ve got but one reflex: bite. What’s more, and very few know people this, they can only close their mandibles. It’s true! They’ve got no muscles for opening them. So once they bite, they’re committed, it’s either eat or starve to death. The mandibles sort-of grow their way open again after a while, of course.”

“I didn’t know that,” said the director, lowering his shoe to the ground and trying again to scrape off the remaining bits.

“’Course they’re not much of a challenge for a former Rat-Man wrangler like myself.”

“No, I suppose not. So what brings you here, Raynor? I don’t remember seeing your name on the crew list.”

“No, well you wouldn’t sir. It’s not wrangling that brings me here, it’s me new line of work: corn dogs. I’m running this stand right here.”

“You’re joking.”

“No sir, it’s true! See, ‘Raynor’s Corn Dogs’”

“Well, look at that. How in the…”

“It was old Nihlithak’s stand in Harrogath that inspired me. After the last movie closed down I began to re-evaluate my lifestyle choices. Not that I regretted my days of wrangling in any way – much to the contrary. But to everything there’s a season, ain’t that right sir. I thought maybe it was time to move on.

“After all I didn’t want to end up like one of those old geezers who had wrangled one too many Rat-Man. Didn’t want to become one of them fellers like in that old joke. You know the one sir? How does that go now? Oh yeah: I’ll never feed those darn rat-men again, he-said-offhandedly. Naw. Didn’t want to end up that way.

“So I went down to the corn dog vendors union, local 666, and made some inquiries. Turned out there was a spot available here, and well, as they say, the rest is history. Plus I thought I could always fall-back on pit lord wrangling if it came to it.

“Pit lord wrangling? You know we could use a good…”

“No, no, sir, not interested. Thank you but not interested. I’m doing fine. Seems I’ve got talent I never knew I had. And I’ve got everything a corn dog vendor could need, right here.”

The director looked around at the shockingly harsh and desolate landscape. “Everything you need?

“Sure. See the company provides the sticks and batter-mix. All you need is the deep-fry equipment and, of course, the dogs themselves.”

“Forgive me, Raynor, if I seem a bit slow. Dogs?”

“The meat, sir - the inside of the corn dog? The company doesn’t provide the meat. See, in the first place that’s the costliest part of the ingredients, plus refrigerated shipping’s not cheap either. But the real reason has more to do with tradition.”

“Tradition?”

“Yes. You see sir, it turns out that the phrase corn-dog is actually an idiom, which, in most all the dialects of the realm, means mystery-meat. Yeah! It’s true. It’s the tradition for corn dog vendors all over the realms to use whatever local meat is readily available. So, in honor of the ancient traditions, and taking stock of what I found readily available, I chose…” Raynor’s voice trailed off and he let his gaze linger on the director’s messy shoe.

“Blood maggots?” blurted the director after a second or two.

“Yes sir!”

“Are you crazy? Who in their right mind would eat these disgusting things?”

“Well now sir, do not be too hasty in your culinary judgments. These critters do indeed seem a little unsavory at first, and they are quite vicious believe-you-me – they’ll take off a finger before you can say pass-the-mustard, but….”

“Pass the mustard,” someone called.

The director practically jumped out of his sticky shoe at the unexpected sound. He turned his head to see a sorceress standing just to his left, who did indeed seem to be asking him for the mustard. Startled, he spent the next few moments collecting his wits and puzzling over why he had not noticed her before, rather than actually handing her the bottle of mustard that he was indeed standing right next to.

“Well, nevermind then,” said the sorceress. In a blink she disappeared. Then the director heard a splurting sound just to his right, and looking over, he saw the sorceress applying liberal amounts of the yellowish ooze to her half-eaten corn dog. A second later she was gone again, the squeeze bottle landing with a gentle thud on the tabletop and wobbling for a gyration or two before coming to a complete rest.

“See, sir! There’s a satisfied customer. That’s her third one today. See, as I was saying sir, it’s understandable to dismiss the young blood maggot as just another icky giant bug, but discernin’ chefs, of which ol’ Raynor humbly counts himself a member, appreciates the finer points of the young demonic crustacean.

“The key is getting them young. First there’s the shell. In the baby maggots it’s thin and crispy, not tough like the adults, so it provides a pleasing crunch. Then there’s their poison. Again, because they are so young it merely provides a nice hot and spicy flavor, while not being at all dangerous. And finally there is the intriguing flavor, which many compare favorably to a Lordaeron Lobster.

The director was absolutely aghast. But here was the former rat-man wrangler-turned-corn-dog-huckster standing in front of him, extolling the virtues of the idea in complete seriousness. For the moment it was a bit too much for the normally ready-for-anything director. “But. But. But, look at the size of this thing,” he said pointing to his boot, “how could anyone eat a whole one? Much less three,” he said looking over his shoulder.

“Well the one that attached itself to your shoe was actually quite a jumbo specimen, sir. I was actually considering that one for me breeding farm. Most of the ones I serve are not much larger than your hand. A sizable snack, for sure, but then that only makes them that much better of value, now don’t it sir?” and he smiled broadly as he made that last point.

“Corn dog!”

The director jumped again at the too-close and too-loud sound of the sorceress’s voice. She had materialized right behind again and yelled over him to Raynor. He turned around to face the sorceress. He didn’t say anything but stood watching her as she worked at removing something from her teeth.

Like all sorceresses, she was slender and fit, slightly dressed with those alluring cat-like eyes. This one also exuded an eerie calm and an almost masculine confidence, which rubbed the director just slightly the wrong way. After a few seconds she tossed what looked like a small mandible to the ground.

The director kept staring at the sorceress as she wiped her glistening hands on her clothes. It took her a moment to find a clear spot. Most of her gown seemed to be already smeared with the corn dog’s oily residue.

“You looking at something, tubby?” said the sorceress.

“Hmmm? Oh, no, just wondering. Are those corn dogs a bit greasy?” said the director.

The sorceress finished wiping her hands and stepped up close to the director.

“Are you being smart with me gramps?”

“No, not at all madam. You’re…”

“Don’t you madam me. One more word out of you and I might just go hostile on your flabby butt. Maybe singe that stupid grin right off your wrinkled face.” They both stood silently for a few seconds, eyeball-to-eyeball, neither flinching in the least.

“Are we clear?” said the sorceress.

“Crystal,” replied the director.

“Corn dog up!” Raynor walked up with the steaming corn dog and extended it toward the sorceress. She took it, flipped him a gold coin and said thanks. Then with one more long look at the director she vanished again.

As soon as she was gone Raynor said, “Now don’t you mind her none, sir. It’s just high spirits. This is rough country as you know well, sir. A girl’s gotta be a little tough now and then.”

“Yes I know Raynor.” The director had not been frightened by the fiery sorceress; he just did not need any more trouble. Besides he had been wondering if this could be the sorceress that Hassan had hired and wanted to maintain a professional decorum, despite his almost instantaneous dislike of her.

“Now sir, what do you say I whip you up a hot and fresh corn dog – on the house? I know that once you try one you’ll just love them.”

“Alright Raynor, I’ll take one. I’ll be right back.”

“Good, very good sir, I’ll just get one started.”

The director noticed this time when the sorceress had teleported away that she had materialized leaning against one of the mounted statues lining the path the led north from the waypoint. He walked in her direction now.

The sorceress noticed him coming toward her. She glanced up at him occasionally as he approached but did not stop eating. Smoke seemed to seeping from the end of her fingertips. He could smell the cloying aroma of corn dog as he walked up to her.

“Pardon me. I don’t mean to bother you but I would like to ask you something.”

The sorceress did not respond.

“I happen to be directing a film that’s being shot today and I was wondering, would you happen to be the sorceress that was hired for today’s shoot?”

The sorceress took one last bite and tossed the half-eaten corn dog on the ground.

“Yeah, that’s me.” she said.

“Oh good. You had us all a little worried. Do you think you are ready to get started? Know all your lines.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Well, very good,” he said and then looking at his watch, “umm, you know actually I think they might be starting about now, and …”

He had been just about to ask her if she knew where the shoot was located when she vanished again, leaving only the slightly smoky, somewhat greasy, but distinctively corn-doggy smell behind her. Something about that bothered the director, but just now he couldn’t put his finger on it.

To be continued

[0xDEADCAFE]

Part 4

“No problem indeed,” thought the director as he walked back toward Raynor’s corn dog stand. “No, no problem at all. To talk to your director that way. Who does she think she is? Why, if I were a few years younger,” and his thoughts at this point trailed away into incoherent ramblings.

“Back already sir!”

The director only grunted at Raynor’s greeting when he got back to the stand. He stopped at the edge of the stand, hands in pockets, frowning, not looking Raynor in the eye, but more toward his feet.

“Everything alright sir?”

“Fine,” said the director to Raynor’s feet.

“Very well then sir, I was just getting started. Care to pick one out yourself? Sir? No? Alright then sir I’ll just choose one for you.”

Raynor lifted the lid of the large cage containing the baby blood maggots and started rooting around inside with one of the long corn dog sticks.

“Let’s see now, which one of you is going to be the lucky one?”

The director began to take notice of Raynor’s activities and, thinking of Frazier, said to Raynor, “Better make it a large one.”

“A large one it is. Hyah!” And with that Raynor lifted the corn dog stick out of the cage to reveal a large baby maggot clinging to the other end. “What did I tell you sir? See this little devil? He’s stuck good. Once they bite, they’re helpless.”

The director saw a baby maggot, nearly the size of the one he had stepped on, clinging to the end of the stick, its mandibles and all six legs firmly embedded in the thin sliver of wood.

“Well you don’t say. He is stuck isn’t he?”

“Completely, sir. And it’s good thing too. He won’t be liking this next bit none too much.”

Raynor then stepped over to the vat of batter and dipped the struggling maggot in, completely covering it with the oily and doughy foam. He then lifted it out and gave it a half-spin to catch the drips and smooth-out the coating. He repeated this action several times; deftly adding layer upon layer of the thick liquid until it the buglike shape was completely obscured. To the director’s amazement, by the time Raynor was done dipping, it had the familiar cylindrical shape of a corn dog.

“The big ones take more batter,” said Raynor, stepping back from the batter. “Now, how would you like it sir?”

“How…”

“Well done, medium or rare?”

“Oh, well done I should think. Yes. Very.”

“Very good sir.”

Raynor took the uncooked corn dog over to the river’s edge, put on a pair of heavy gloves, and, kneeling, plunged the battered end into the river. He held it under surface of red-hot liquid, looking at his watch, counting. After just a few second he lifted it out and held it up to give the director a good look at the golden brown color of the newly crisped batter.

“Uh, Raynor, I did say well done.”

“Yes, I know sir. If I leave it in any longer the coating will burn. But don’t you worry sir, we’ll let it cook a while longer.” Raynor then slid the unbuttered end of the stick into a rack he had mounted right on the edge of the river. The battered part extended out over the river at a height of a few inches.

“That’ll just be a few minutes now sir.”

“A few minutes. Yes, okay.”

Raynor strolled back over toward the stand and took off his gloves. The director began to whistle. For several seconds no one spoke. It seemed like the beginning of an awkward pause, but before the silence could get a firm grip, Raynor spoke.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Sir, I wonder if I might ask you about that last picture. Now I don’t mean to pry sir, but there were some rumors going round that the studio was, well, that you were, what I mean to say sir is, well is everything quite … alright with you?”

“What! Why of course they are. I can’t imagine what you have heard, Raynor, things are…, are just…” and the director heaved a heavy sigh, “just terrible. That’s what they are, just terrible. Oh Raynor. I don’t even know where to begin. After that last picture, what with that sorceress’s character getting deleted, did you hear about that?”

Raynor nodded.

“I suppose everyone has. What a disaster.” The director ran his hands through his hair and started to pace. “Disaster. I suppose I don’t need to tell you that the company executives were not pleased. And now this picture. Oh, what’s the use! You know Raynor, the worst thing is, I’m not sure I even care anymore.

“After all the years I’ve spent pulling rabbits out of the hat. Making pictures in some of the most heaven-forsaken places you can imagine. I tell you there were times…, but somehow I always managed to pull through. Just lucky I guess. Maybe that’s it. My luck’s all run out. All used up. I’m overdrawn! And the bill collectors have shown up with a vengeance. My run of good luck is finally over.

“Well why not? I’ve put my time in. And no one can say I didn’t work for everything I got. But everyone’s got to go sometime. I didn’t think it would be so soon, but… Why not? What am I Raynor, but a used-up old has-been with a gaping hole in the pocket where my lucky charm used to be?”

“Oh, I dunno sir. While I wouldn’t presume to know better than you, sir, I somehow can’t see an old champion such as yourself throwing in the towel just yet. If there’s one thing ol’ Raynor has learned, it’s that you never can tell what’s around the corner.”

“No, not this time, Raynor. I feel all used up. I’m not sure I even want to find a way out this time.”

“Well, you never can say sir. Look at me. If you had told me a year ago I’d be toasting maggots for a living I’d o’ called you crazy. Yet here I am.”

“Somehow I don’t picture myself selling corn dogs Raynor.”

“I don’t mean that sir. It’s just that life is so full of surprises. Take this here.” Raynor reached under the stand, took out a small dagger and laid it on the table top. The dagger was in fine condition but seemed to be quite old. It had an unusual finish, with runic carvings up and down the blade, and a strange glow came from it.

“Now where do you suppose I got that?”

“Actually Raynor I was always more partial to mauls and great axes. I’m afraid I don’t know a thing about daggers.”

“Well I know a thing or two about this dagger, sir. It’s quite unusual. But the strangest thing is where I got it. Where do you suppose that was?”

“How should I know Raynor?”

“Go ahead sir, give it a guess.”

“Oh alright. You found it?”

“Nope.”

“Bought it?”

“No”

“Stole it?”

“Now really sir.”

“Well…, um, let’s see, where else might you get it. A gift perhaps.”

“Not quite sir, no.”

“Did a customer give it to you?”

“Yes indeed. It was a customer; traded it in fact for a corn dog. But not a typical customer - a pit lord.”

“What! A pit lord? Oh come on, Raynor, what do you take me for.”

“You see sir, that’s my point. Life is as strange as it is unpredictable. You see not a week after I set up this stand, I had my first pit lord as a customer. It was late at night. I had a few corn dogs left over from the evening’s dinner hour and I was just thinking about closing-up when I noticed a large midnight-blue shadow skulking around the river’s edge.

“At first I thought it was young troublemaker, out to scare me off and wreck my stand. But he didn’t charge or anything. He just sort of came wandering up, sniffing the air and trying to get a look at the corn dogs.

“Well, I know a thing or two about handling demons, so I just watched him, waiting to see what he would do. When he came up close I jumped out with my crossbow, ready to fire, but he just held his ground, and I could see him looking over to the corn dogs. So, on a hunch, I picked one up and kind of waved it in front of him. He watched it like a hawk. So I threw it to him.

“And he loved it! I swear I’d never before seen a pit lord actually look happy. He was like a big puppy dog. And he wanted another. But I wouldn’t give him one. After all I’ve got my business to think about. And he wasn’t too pleased about it. But I held my ground and after a while we came to a sort of understanding.

“Now don’t ask me how I did it, sir, I guess I have a sort-of knack with demons, but after a while we worked out a trade of sorts. He had an old helmet, taken off of some poor adventurer no doubt, and it looked like fairly good quality, so he gave that to me and I let him have another corn dog. Then he wanted another but I wouldn’t give him one and he had no more items to trade with. So after that I chased him off.

“But the next night he was back. And this time he had a sack with him. He showed it to me and inside was quite a nice little haul: some magic items, a pile of gold, a few gems. I let him eat his fill that night, but it was worth it. See I think he must have told his friends, ‘cause ever since then I get pit lords here every night. They’re my best customers!

“Seems like every one of them has got a small fortune in gold or items that they have collected over the years. And they are really none too savvy about knowing the worth of it. Now I try not to take advantage of them, but they really do have huge appetites, so the tab is usually pretty large. I never dreamed I’d do so well.

“And then last week one of them brought in this. I knew it was special right away, but it wasn’t until I had it identified that I knew how special. It’s the Gull dagger.” Raynor said the word gull with an almost religious reverence and wiggled his eyebrows as he said it.

“I’m sorry, gull dagger? What is it some kind of sea bird weapon?”

“Sir. You’ve never heard of the Gull dagger?”

“Well no, why would I. I mean look at it. What good would a tiny weapon like that be in a real fight.”

“Not much good I’ll give you that, but that’s not its real purpose. Some adventurers develop their other abilities to the point where they don’t need a strong weapon. And some devote their energies mainly to finding magic items, the so-called MF runners.”

“I’ve heard of MF running. Always seemed like a bunch of nonsense to me. What’s the fun in killing lots of weak monsters just to scrounge through the remains? The local vendors always had everything I needed. Always seemed like a silly waste of time.”

“Well legend has it that there are some truly wondrous items out there, somewhere. The MF runners are those with a lust for the ancient, the powerful, the Uber items as they say. For them this dagger is quite precious, see it increases the bearer’s chance of finding a magic item by one hundred percent.”

“A hundred percent, you say? Well I suppose that’s nice if you go in for that sort of thing.”

“I’m not sure you quite understand sir. It’s a lucky dagger. It adds one hundred percent luck.”

“Lucky? A hundred, one hun-, did you say one hundred percent lucky?”

“Indeed I did, sir.”

“But that’s one hundred percent luck. Raynor, do you realize what that means? That means you’re lucky one hundred percent of the time!”

“Uh, actually sir, I’m not sure that’s exactly…”

The director snatched the dagger off the table and held it up before him in both hands, ogling it like it was the gift from Tyrael. “One hundred percent luck! One hundred percent luck!”

“… actually the calculation of magic find is a bit complicated sir. Now while it does increase your…”

“One hundred percent luck! One hundred percent luck!”

“… chances by one hundred percent, I’m not sure it actually means you’ll be lucky one hundred…”

“A hundred percent luck! Oh Raynor, do you know what this means? Maybe it’s not over, maybe… Raynor, you’ve got to let me borrow this. Please Raynor, I’ll do anything, just let me have this for a little while, I promise I’ll return it to you.”

“Of course, sir, of course. Keep it as long as you like, sir. I thought you might…”

But the director was already beating a path back up the river: half-walking, half-running, with the occasional hop, skip and jump, shouting, “Maybe there are still some rabbits left in that hat after all! Thank you Raynor!”

“No problem sir,” Raynor yelled, “glad to be of - oh sir, your corn dog!” Raynor ran over to the rack and retrieved the nearly overcooked corn dog. He ran back to the stand and called out to the director, but he was already out of sight.

“Well what am I going to do with this corn dog,” he mused to himself. “It would be a shame to let it go to waste. No we can’t do that. Well, it’s about time for my lunch anyway, so, well I don’t mind if I do.”

To be continued

[BlueNinja]

This has got to be one of the oddest stories I've ever read. And yet ... I still kept reading. I like the style, just the setting and characters will never quite seem real to me.

And now I can picture Diablo, hanging out in the Chaos Sanctuary, with a rack of jumbo blood maggots on sticks, dipping them in batter and frying them in the River of Flames one at a time. I wonder, does poor Raynor there ever lose one to the skeletons beneath the surface?

[0xDEADCAFE]

This has got to be one of the oddest stories I've ever read. And yet ... I still kept reading.
Odd yet readable. Or is that oddly readable, or readably odd? Whatever, I'll take it! It sure beats being predictable and unreadable. Thanks. Although I've been having a bit of a hard time getting started on Part 5, I've got the main actions worked out. With any luck, the readable oddness will continue...



And now I can picture Diablo, hanging out in the Chaos Sanctuary, with a rack of jumbo blood maggots on sticks, dipping them in batter and frying them in the River of Flames one at a time.
Shucks, I hope I didn't ruin anything for you!



I wonder, does poor Raynor there ever lose one to the skeletons beneath the surface?
Hmmm. I might just be able to use that idea ...



Thanks for the comments. :clap:

[0xDEADCAFE]

Part 5

It didn’t take long for the director’s middle-aged metabolism to catch up with his youthful exuberance. Winded and overheated, his frenetic dance of joy had become a mad march of desperation. What enticing image baked his fevered mind? What lure, what siren call, drove him forward through pain and fatigue?

Whatever he had expected to find when he got back to the base camp, he was thoroughly unprepared for what he encountered.

He fell to the ground gasping for breath. The air felt like a stinging salt water spray against his chapped lips, and hot glass pouring down his parched throat. His unwatered eyes were reddened past rubbing, but rub them he did before believing the vision before him.

Pandemonium.

The sound and fury of a mob engulfed by sheer panic: the sound of cursing, swearing, yelling, and weeping; the fury of people running every-which-way, bumping together, knocking each other down and fighting to get up again.

There was clearly a source of universal terror, and just as clearly no destination of universal salvation. The base camp was no fortress. It consisted of a collection of movie-making equipment, various items of personal baggage, numerous chairs and tables, but no actual buildings of any kind. Resembling far more a company picnic than a company headquarters, it offered no real shelter.

Outside the camp the prospects were no better: the winding avenues leading away in all directions offered only the danger of random encounters with all sorts of horrors. So it was that anyone running in one direction for very long would soon stop dead in their tracks, reverse direction and run back to camp again. But as irrational as it was, they would continue running, for the icy fist of terror that gripped them allowed no respite.

To a zoologist it may have appeared like some frantic herding behavior. To an astronomer it might have suggested retrograde orbital mechanics. To a hungry demon it almost certainly would have looked like lunch. But to the faint and fading director it just seemed like the last straw.

The crowd spoke with many voices:

“Aaaaaaaaaagh!”

“The end is near! The end is near!”

“Get out of my way!”

“Help me! Somebody help me!”

The director spoke first with his body language. He looked at the ancient artifact in his hand and felt the dagger of betrayal in his heart. From his knees he held up the dagger and shook it in an angry fist. His face, contorted with rage, spat angry words.

“Worthless, piece of crap! Is this supposed to be good luck? Worthless, piece of crap!”

He stood up and threw the dagger to the ground, imagining it shattering into a million pieces that he could grind into the ground a million times.

Instead it bounced.

And as it soared upwards it rang with a sound that stopped everyone dead in their tracks. The tone was pure as from a bell and soft as from a tuning fork, and it penetrated the ear as if it came from within.

The dagger soared upwards on a high trajectory over the crowd. It did not tumble, but flew upwards with the tip pointing steadily downward, spinning rapidly along the axis of the blade. At the apex of its arch it hung in the air unnaturally long and on its descent it seemed to fall too slowly. It landed several yards away from the director, who had to push his way through the crowd to get to it.

Everyone had noticed the graceful, almost ghostly, passage of the dagger and for the moment all eyes were on the ground where it fell. The director reached the spot first. The dagger was upright, its point stuck in a notch in the ground. It stood perfectly upright as if it had perched on that spot rather than landed. And right next to it was something that no one had noticed before.

The crowd saw it before the director:

“Look!”

“Where?”

“What is it?”

“A scroll!”

“It’s a scroll of town portal!”

“We’re saved, we’re saved!”

The director retrieved the dagger and then quickly snatched the scroll. It did indeed seem to be a scroll of town portal. He considered the dagger a bit more kindly and slid it into his back pocket.

“Read it!”

“Hurry!”

“They’re coming, they’re coming! Look!”

The director looked out over a narrow section of ground that lead out across the molten river and spied the pack of approaching abyss knights. They were still a safe distance away, but approaching rapidly. He became a leader once again.

“Alright everyone don’t panic. This does seem to be a scroll of town portal, so there’s no reason to panic. We’re all going to be alright. But before I read it I want everyone in a line. Is that understood?”

Immediately the loose crowd formed itself into a snaky line of jostling fugitives.

“No pushing or shoving! Anyone I catch will be sent to the back of the line. Is that clear?”

One could do no better to picture the response of the crowd than to imagine a sea of bobble-heads set into motion.

“Alright. Here we go.”

The director unrolled the scroll. To his surprise it was quite unusual. There was the familiar blue script of the runic incantation, but underneath were faded images and what seemed to be a title. It seemed familiar. Given the urgency of the situation he resisted the strong temptation to ponder its meaning.

“Once the portal opens I will give the word to start through. No one enter before I say so.”

The director then read the words that he had said a hundred times before. He spoke them from memory and while doing so stared at the barely discernable images and words beneath the runes. There was a figure of a tall, lean man on horseback, with a wide brim hat and spurs on his boots. He felt he knew that man.

When he had finished recitation a thin blue oval, tall and wide enough for someone to pass through opened next to the director. There were a few gasps from the crowd. The director opened his mouth to give the order to start the evacuation when a man stepped out of the portal, which then silently closed, drawing a chorus of louder gasps from the crowd.

The man’s boots clinked with an iron sound as he stepped through. He stood silently regarding the crowd and the director through narrow slits of eyes. He held a thin and stained cigar in his teeth, which he chewed from side to side as he surveyed his new location.

The director looked at the man and then back at the scroll. The runes had vanished now and the picture underneath became clearer. Again he looked back at the man and then back at the scroll.

The new arrival spoke in a soft but unsettling voice that sounded like sand blowing across hard leather.

“The name’s –“ he started.

“Graves,” said he and the director together.

The director could not believe his eyes or ears. The picture was clear now. It was an old movie poster. A movie that the director had seen as a boy a hundred times: “Wands and Wenches,” the story of M. T. Graves, the fastest wand in the west, and hero to every boy of his generation.

“You the head honcho ‘round here?” hissed Graves.

The director could only stare dumbfounded at the new arrival. There he was, the necromancer who could tame the ugliest demon with his deadly wands, and the most beautiful woman with his ruthless charm and rugged good looks. How could he be here? Even the actor who had played him was long dead. But M. T. Graves was just a character on celluloid. He didn’t really even exist.

The flesh-and-blood Graves was not the most patient of men. After waiting a moment for the director’s reply he began to pace around him in a slow circle, clinking roughly with each step.

Clink. “What’s the matter hombre?”

Clink. “Cat got ‘cher tongue?”

Clink. “Or have you never seen a necromancer before?”

The director doubted if anyone had ever seen a necromancer like this before, outside of a movie theatre. Instead of bones and arcane trinkets he wore a Navaho poncho and chaps. Instead of carrying a bone wand and a shrunken head he wore two pearl-handled bone wands in holsters on either side of his brass-buckled belt. And of course there were the spurs.

But while his dark, close-shorn hair stood in stark contrast to the flowing white mane preferred by most necromancers, the face had the distinctive gaunt and deathly pale aspect that identified all purveyors of the necromantic arts.

Graves stopped his pacing in front of the director and struck a dramatic pose, looking away from the director, even though speaking to him.

“I’ll get right to the point. I hear you’ve got a problem with abyss knights.”

The director finally regained his wits enough to answer.

“Yes!”

“So then that’s why Ah’m here,” said Graves, turning his head toward the director and taking a step closer. “See, demon-control is something of a specialty of mine,” he said, and then pausing for effect, continued with, “I could take care of your little problem, but …”

“But what? What?”

“But I don’t see any reward posters. See, I don’t usually work for free.”

“Well I’m sure the company will be happy to pay, I mean, with the lives of the crew at stake.”

“How much?”

“Well, I couldn’t say, the usual, er, reasonable fee, I’m sure.”

“Uh-huh.” Clink, clink, clink. “I’m only going to say this once. I get grumpy when folks try to weasel out of paying. And you wouldn’t like me when I’m grumpy,” he said, widening his eyes to reveal jet-black irises framed in bloody red.

“Uh-"

“I don’t want to tell you your business, but before you hire me you should know that when I take a job, I always get paid – one way or another.”

“I-I-I’m sure you do.”

“So, do we have a deal?”

By now the crowd was beginning to get rather agitated about the disappearance of the portal as well as the arrival of the threatening-looking stranger. The director decided he had better get them under control before things got out of hand again. He started to take a step towards them, but froze in his tracks when Graves laid a cold hand on his chest.

“Allow me. No charge,” Graves said grinning.

He took a few steps toward the crowd and, waving his hand, said “Now why don’t all you boys and girls just behave yourselves.”

Almost instantly the crowd quieted down.

“What-“

“Now don’t you worry none, they will be just fine in a few minutes. So, do we have a deal or not?

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll leave you to work out the details with my agent.”

“Agent? Where…”

Graves waved his hand again and immediately a pile of dirt erupted from the ground next to the director. The vertical earthen flood rose to about the height of a man and then sprouted arms, legs, a head, a clipboard and a pen.

“Sign here please,” it said.

The director quickly perused the top sheet, which looked like familiar legalese, until he found the amount of the fee. Grunting through a deep frown, he took the pen and signed where a muddy finger pointed.

“Press hard please.”

When he had signed the agent turned to another page, and then another, and then another saying, “And here. And here. And here.”

After the director had finished signing the contract in triplicate and then some, the agent took back the clipboard and briefly checked all the signatures. Then it ripped off one page, handed it to the director and nodded affirmatively to Graves, who waved his hand once again, reducing his agent to thin layer of dust at the director’s feet.

“I’ll be on my way then,” said Graves and he started walking towards the approaching pack of abyss knights.

The director looked over the crowd. Everyone seemed to be tired and confused. Many had sat down on the ground while others were ambling aimlessly, but he decided they were fine for now. Then he followed Graves.

Despite the strangeness of it all he could not help feeling a boyish excitement at the prospect of seeing M. T. Graves in action once again. “If only I had a camera,” he thought. “What a shot that would make. M. T. Graves rides again after all these years – for real!” And despite his lack of equipment the director watched it all unfold as if through the lens of movie camera.

Graves walked swiftly, but without hurrying, taking long confident strides, almost swaggering in his self-assurance. He approached the abyss knights directly, sizing them up as he went. There were about a dozen in groups of three and four. Two groups of three were closest to him and he went in their specific direction.

When he reached a certain distance he stopped, threw back the flap of his poncho to expose the holstered wands and waited.

The six abyss knights at the front saw him and stopped. They looked at each other and then back at Graves. A sound like laughter came from them. Graves just adjusted his stance, moving his right foot a little to the right. Clink.

The six stared at Graves and he stared right back under his broad brim hat, through narrow slits of eyes. The whole time he had been slowly chewing his ragged dark cigar. Now he stopped chewing and opened his eyes wide.

An eerie silence settled over the river as Graves and the six stood stock-still, waiting. Then, as one, the six reached back with bony hands filled instantly by elemental orbs of death, and, as one, hurled their hellish magicks toward the foolish human that had come to challenge them.

Graves waited until just before the deadly bolts reached him. Then he crouched and rolled to his left, barely avoiding the Technicolor barrage, coming up on one knee with both wands blazing, sending six perfect spears of pearly magic ripping gaping holes through the chest of each of the six knights. As one, their bodies erupted in hellish fire and fell to the ground leaving only ashen stains. Three more knights, who had been standing behind the six, were also caught by the magic spears as they passed through their targets and continued undiminished: three more ashen stains.

The remaining group hesitated for a moment and then, as one, fled the scene.

The director was hopping with glee. He ran right up to Graves.

“That was great! B-choo, b-choo,” he said pretending to fire bone spears from his fingertips. “Look at them run! Back to Hell with you, you lilly-livered cowards.” And he laughed looking over at Graves for approval.

But Graves regarded him gravely, saying only, “You’d best have my money when I get back. Now I’ll just gather up those last few, but I’ll be back soon.”

Graves waved his hand and again earth poured upwards from the volcanic floor. This time the pile was long and as it reached its height it sprouted four legs, a long head with a mane, a thin tail, and a saddle.

“Wo, girl, wo!” Graves said taking it by the bridle and stroking its neck. Then he climbed up on the saddle and putting his spurs into the clay sides of his horse-like golem said. “Away, Dusty! Ride!” And with that they galloped away in the direction of the knights and were soon out of sight.

The director couldn’t help smiling. “That was really something,” he thought. He watched them ride away and then turned back toward the crew. He turned the thrilling scene over and over in his head as he walked, relishing and reliving it until he got back to where the portal had appeared.

The crowd was waking up from whatever curse Graves had put them under and he explained that the abyss knights had been dispatched and that they could get back to work. Everyone was quite relieved and with a few comments like “Tyrael preserve us,” the folks soon dispersed to their various tasks.

It then occurred to the director that the subject of payment was still very much up in the air. He knew the company would be good for it, but he did not have that much cash on hand, and Graves did not seem the most patient of men.

He paced back and forth over the spot where the dagger had landed. After a few circuits his foot brushed something that made a sound like “ch-ching.”

“Hello. What’s this? Well , why didn’t I notice this before?”

At his feet was a little pile of gold. He picked it up and counted it, and as he finished he smiled and reached around behind him to give the dagger in his back pocket a friendly pat. The gold was the exact amount of the hero’s fee.

To be continued...

[0xDEADCAFE]

Part 6

The director put the gold in his pocket and began the short walk back to his chair. He was feeling tired again. “What a day!” he thought. “Well let’s just hope today doesn’t get any more interesting than it’s already been.”

When he reached his destination he turned and climbed into his tall chair, which brought his gaze back towards the direction from which he had walked. At once he noticed a tall, dark figure coming towards him.

It seemed to be moving quickly, but not to be running or even walking. It was hard to tell because of the distance, but it seemed to glide across the ground without any discernable gait at all. As it came closer the director could make out a cowl and cloak and a long object held upright in one hand. And it still seemed to be gliding. In a minute the figure was standing right before him.

It wore a pin-striped doomsday cloak. In its bony right hand it held a long-bladed, long-handled scythe, and in its left hand was a thin briefcase. The tips of a pair of wing-tipped shoes protruded from beneath the hem of the cloak, and a rolex watch clung to the one exposed wrist. The cowl-darkened face was invisible but for a long crooked nose that the director would swear supported a pair of thin spectacles. In all the realms this could be only one character type: a lawyer.

“Ahem,” the dark figure coughed.

“What’s the problem?” said the director.

“I have come directly from the managing board. As you have previously been informed there are certain matters of your participation in company business in which the board has a particular interest. While the board reserved and retained its full rights with regard to redressing these matters it had, temporarily, and completely at its own discretion, decided to defer executing its rights, opting instead to allow you some flexibility in meeting your obligations under your employment contract.”

The director yawned.

“Ahem. I believe you received a telegram earlier today.”

“Did I? I suppose it’s possible that I did.”

“Ahem. That was a registered telegram which I believe was received by you earlier today.” With a slight of hand that any carnival magician would envy, the lawyer opened his briefcase, produced a slip of paper, closed the briefcase, propped the briefcase under his arm and waved the slip of paper before the director’s face – all before finishing his sentence.

“Alright, I got the damned telegram! What of it?

“Ahem.” With similar facility the slip of paper disappeared back into the briefcase. “Circumstances have now changed.”

“What?” The director was shocked as much by the lawyer’s sudden brevity as by the gravity of the statement. “What’s changed?”

Now it was the lawyers turn to yawn.

“What’s changed? You mean about me, the picture? Dammit man! At least tell me whether it’s a change for the better or worse!”

“Ahem.” The lawyer produced a multi-part form, stapled, and stamped with a variety of official-looking insignias. “We have received a report of a most disturbing incident occurring on the set of this motion picture just a short time ago.” He held the form out to the director. “Please read.”

The director took the form. It was a jumble of legalese, check marks, and badly scrawled hand-written text struggling to fit into the provided boxes.

“Oh, you must be talking about the exterminator I hired to clear up a demon problem we had. I assure you-“

“Please read.”

The director frowned and looked back at the form but couldn’t make any sense out of it. Some of it seemed to be in a foreign language and he found the hand-writing completely unreadable. But not to let the lawyer think he couldn’t understand it he perused it thoughtfully, furrowing his eyebrows and producing the occasional “hmmm” and “I see” for effect.

There was one thing about the form that was clear. The lawyer had left a set of greasy fingerprints when he handed it over. Amidst his frowning and furrowing, the director said “By the way, you didn’t happen to come by the waypoint on your way here did you?”

“Ahem. Of course, I came by waypoint from the main office,”

“The way point is back online!” thought the director, but he hid his surprise and delight from the lawyer; the less this lawyer knew the better. “I hear that Raynor makes one fine corn-dog.”

The lawyer said nothing but burped involuntarily and rubbed his fingers on his cloak nervously. The director felt sure that he had succeeded in annoying his adversary when the lawyer snatched the form back abruptly.

“The board is not presently concerned with your questionable hiring practices. No. Ahem. But a fatality is quite another matter.”

“Fatality?”

The director wondered if he was referring to deaths of several abyss knights by the hand of M. T. Graves. The SPCM would certainly be unhappy about the actions of the silver-screen icon, and they did have influence. What else could it be? But before the lawyer could comment further a distant, plaintive voice joined the conversation.

“Sir!”

Both the director and the lawyer looked toward the alarming cry.

“Sir! Sir!” It was Hassan. “Oh sir! It’s Frazier! Poor Frazier!”

“Ahem. Indeed. Frazier,” said the lawyer making a note on the greasy form.

The director was nearly unglued by hearing the words “fatality” and “Frazier” in such suggestive juxtaposition.

Hassan, out of breath from running, came to a heavy stop alongside the director’s chair. He leaned on an arm of the chair and held his chest gasping for air, but the director gave him no time to recover.

“What about Frazier? Hassan! What about Frazier?”

“He’s gone sir,” Hassan finally managed to squeeze out between breaths.

“No!” said the director, jumping down from the char. Unnoticed by anyone the dagger slid out of his pocket and fell soundlessly to the ground.

“I’m sorry sir.”

The director’s heart sank. After several seconds Hassan was able to get enough of his breath back to attempt an explanation.

“I tried to stop him sir, but I couldn’t. There were pit lords everywhere. And the sorc’ was in the middle of them all, reeking of corn dogs. I really don’t think it was his fault, sir, after all he hadn’t eaten all day and you know how much pit lords love corn dogs. He was holding his stomach and the sorc’ was being impossible, not listening to anything I said about how to act with Frazi-“

“Wait, is Frazier-“

“-and then the next thing we knew Frazier had her in his claws and then there was blood everywhere and-“

“Is Frazier-“

“-then the other pit lords swarmed around Frazier, tearing at the sorc’s body, and Frazier was in the middle of it fighting with the other-“

“Hassan!” The director grabbed Hassan by the shoulders and shook him. “Is Frazier alright?”

“Why yes, sir, at least the last I saw of him. But, the sorc, sir, well she’s dead.”

The director’s face danced with glee. “The sorc is dead! The sorc is dead!”

“Sir!”

“I mean, Frazier’s alive!”

“Oh, yes, sir why-“

“I thought Frazier had been killed, Hassan, oh my word you did give me a fright just then.”

“Oh, I see. I’m sorry sir no. But he is gone, sir.”

“Gone, what do you mean?”

“I’ve told you most of what happened already sir. Frazier… ate the sorc. Or most of her anyway, the other pit lords jumped in to get a share. But they didn’t get much. You should have seen him, sir. He stood up to the whole pack of them. Fought them off like he was king of the pit lords, indeed he did sir. But then, afterwards, he went off with the others. He gave me one last look as he went away, kind of like a goodbye. I think he’s gone wild sir.”

“Wild?” The director took it in slowly, his face turning sad at first but then smiling. “Well, maybe it’s for the best, aye Hassan? It’s what those bastards at the SPCM wanted all along isn’t it?”

“I suppose so sir.”

“That must have been some scene. What I wouldn’t give to see that nasty sorc’s face just before Frazy took a bite out of her… were the cameras rolling? Hassan, tell me the cameras were rolling!”

“Why yes, sir we got the whole thing!”

“Hoo-hoo! What a shot! This is fantastic. Hassan do you know what this means? The heck with a half-hour child’s story, we can do an hour-long news special. ‘Sorc Eaten by Venom Lord” – with actual footage of her being eaten.”

“But sir, it all happened to quickly. I don’t think there could be more than two minutes of it in all.”

“Then we’ll just show it over and over! It’ll be sensational! We can mix-in interviews with the crew and other background stuff. People will love it. The networks will eat it up. I’ll be back, back on top with a number one. We’ll be rich!”

And the director, still holding Hassan by the shoulders, began to dance a jig. Singing “We’re gong to be rich” he and Hassan bounced in a little circle a few feet away from the lawyer.

“Ahem.”

“AHEM!”

Both the director and Hassan felt a sudden chill and stopped dancing.

“Ahem, I must repeat. The management is extremely unhappy about this incident, your second fatality in your last two films. I am sure you are aware that body retrieval is quite impossible when one is devoured.”

The director had not thought of that.

“Furthermore the rights to any footage taken on company equipment, by company employees on company time is expressly owned by, ahem, the company.”

The director hadn’t thought of that either.

“In any case we come to the decision of the board in light of recent developments…”

The lawyer droned on in his dirge-like tone but the director had stopped listening. He removed his hands from Hassan’s shoulders and stuck them in his pockets. He gazed at the ground and began pacing, as was his habit when confronted with a difficult problem.

He hadn’t taken many steps before noticing the dagger oddly perched upon the ground. As before, it had come to rest perfectly upright, point down, on the ground. On a whim he reached out with one foot and gave it gentle kick. The dagger moved a few feet, not tumbling, but gliding smoothly for a couple seconds before coming to a stop. And just where it stopped was another scroll.

“… in addition to which any monetary damages shall be added to the criminal penalties incurred-“

“Ahem!” coughed the director.

The lawyer stopped, apparently impressed by the use of that particular word.

“Yes, I said Ahem. Ahem! I don’t think there is any problem here.”

The lawyer regarded the director as one having taken leave of his senses.

“Please listen. You are in serious trouble. Ahem, serious!”

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think so at all.”

“Delerious,” said the lawyer, more to himself than to the director, shaking his head and looking toward Hassan for aid.

“Sir, I think what the lawyer is trying to-“

“Never mind Hassan, I’ve got this completely under control. These lawyer types think they are so-o smart and all-powerful, strutting around with their “the company this” and their “the company that. It’s flesh-and-blood people like me that built this company, not emaciated death merchants like this character!

The director continued, “You think you know everything, don’t you? Think you’re so impressive with your company briefcase and your company Rolex. They didn’t give me a Rolex did they! No, not me. But this leech here stands dressed to the sixes in company awards. Mmph, mmph, mmph. Well anyway.

“What would you say, your boniness, if I told you I could make this all go away just like that,” he said, snapping his fingers in the lawyer’s face. “All the troubles that your precious board is so worried about, just like that,” snapping again. “I can do it! How? The same way I’ve made troubles go away my whole career – a little directorial magic.”

“Really,” the lawyer droned.

“Really,” the director spat.

The director walked over to the dagger, picked it up and put it back in his pocket, and fetched the scroll. He walked back over to the lawyer, held out the scroll, and waved it under the lawyer’s nose.

“With this.”

“A scroll of town portal? Ahem, Listen to me. We are not so easily evaded. You can run, but-“

“I’m not running. This is the answer to all our problems.”

The lawyer gave Hassan another long, pleading look.

“Sir, I-“

“Hassan! Enough! Now I told you I would handle this.”

“Yes sir.”

“Enough chit-chat, step back everyone and watch some movie magic.”

Despite their conviction that the director had loosened some vital mental screw and was now perilously close a breakdown, Hassan and the lawyer stepped back as if something might actually happen.

The director unrolled the dried and yellowed paper and, just as before, saw that it was a most unusual scroll of town portal. Under the blue inscription was another unreadable title and faded picture. But this time there was something about the barely visible movie poster that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He knew one thing for certain: whatever it was, he didn’t like this movie. But undaunted, he recited the sacred words in the full confidence that they would result in some sort of miraculous salvation.

A shimmering portal melted out of the air right next to the director. He stepped back and waited, but not for long. Almost immediately, someone, or was it something, stepped through.

The director stepped sharply away from the portal. He glanced down at the image on the movie poster becoming clearer by the moment. “Oh no!”

The newcomer was partly human. Undoubtedly it had been wholly human at some point, but due to what appeared to be evidence of advanced decomposition, large parts of it were either already missing or dropping off as they watched. A big fat worm was sticking out of one of the eye sockets and the rest of the body appeared to be similarly infested. Wherever a substantial mass of flesh still remained it was shockingly bloated and writhing with the movement of maggots wriggling under the skin.

A lock of hair still hung, almost mockingly, from a remaining piece of scalp. It was long and brittle but still braided. In the midsection was a sparkling jewel barely hanging from a notch in the flesh that was once a navel. Reading the now clear title, ‘Revenge of the Bodiless Undead’ the director knew instinctively who it was – the electrocuted sorceress from ‘Itelebobaal018.’

“I… want… my… body…,“ it moaned. Somehow it recognized the director and extended its flesh-dripping-arms and bone-protruding-fingers toward him, as it began to slowly convey itself forward on its insubstantial legs and feet.

The director turned white and backed away stumbling and breathless. This movie had scared him half to death as a boy, and even now, after all these years, the memory of that intense fear was almost palpable. He grabbed Hassan and pulled him in front of him like a shield, wrapping his arms around Hassan’s neck and chest like a drowning man clinging to a buoy.

As the barely corporeal sorceress staggered towards him, it was only by an exertion of sheer will that the director was able to force his paralyzed legs backwards, matching step-by-step the progress of the advancing specter of doom. Hassan, almost equally frightened, was helpless in the director’s suffocating death grip as he was dragged back just inches from the cold outstretched fingers, from which danced arcs of electricity close enough to tickle the end of his nose.

The lawyer did not speak but under his concealing hood was a face livid with anger. The presence of the undead was, in itself, not upsetting to him, but to his calculating mind the desecration by a company employee of this woman’s dead body meant only one thing: lawsuit. If the relatives of this woman found out about this they could take the company to the cleaners.

Mesmerized by the tortoise-paced pursuit of the loathsome, animated corpse, no one noticed that the portal had not yet closed. And close it would not, until it had admitted another member of the recently dead club.

The next guest did not so much step as hop, plop and slither through the portal. First a hand, then a part of an arm, and then a whole parade of pieces, some no more than what appeared to be large mouthful-sized chunks flesh. Finally a head emerged, at which point the portal did close.

This body, though in pieces and partially chewed, seemed to be quite fresh. And in particular the mouth.

“I see you gramps. Yes I am looking at you, you yellow bastard! You don’t seem too happy to see me. Nor should you be, seeing as I am about to rain fire and brimstone all over that saggy butt of yours.”

Hassan recognized the head before the director. “It’s her! Sir, the other one, the fire sorceress from this film, the one that Frazier ate. It’s her!”

“That’s right you little weasel. You’re the one who got me eaten! Now what do you have to say for yourself before I go hostile all over you.” But neither Hassan nor the director uttered a reply, and as the dead sorceress’s mouth worked these words her eyes began to burn with real fire: “What, you think I can’t burn you a new one from over here?”

As she said these words the sorceress’s maimed and shredded remains began to smoke. One by one each piece began to sizzle and then ignite in an unconsuming fire. Soon flames were licking from every bit of her, until the whole floor over which the sorceress’s body was spread was ablaze with an army of writhing and dancing flames, each one a burning fragment bouncing or wriggling its way toward the director and his captive assistant.

This fiery spectacle could not increase the director’s terror, as intense as it already was, but as the blaze spread any thoughts of escape he might have had dimmed and vanished. He began to realize that the location he had chosen for his personal chair was a most unfortunate one. It was a small peninsula set apart from the larger area occupied by the crew. He had selected it for the modicum of privacy it had afforded him and for the fact that, by facing his chair towards the only exit, he could see anyone coming long before they arrived.

But now the small square of ground nearly surrounded by molten river seemed like a deathtrap. For now he was backing toward a corner with no exit, staring aghast at twin faces of doom, one, a worm-ridden corpse, coming straight for him, the other, a flood of fire and smoke flanking him on all sides. The two faces mocked and menaced him as they threatened him with death by both lightening and fire. He could feel the space between him and the encroaching specters of ghastly vengeance, slowly, but irresistibly eroding.

By now Hassan had managed to twist in the director’s grasp enough to clutch him in return. He knew, as he shared the director’s overwhelming fear, that he would most likely share his fate as well. They were as one then, with four legs, but one body, one fear, one direction. As time slowed almost to a halt, the cowed and desperate duo took their final step to the very edge of the river.

The director looked across the river to another sliver of dry land, so near yet so far. He felt the oppressive heat from the river as he and Hassan teetered near its edge, recoiling from the fire and smoke nearly at their feet, and the static electricity that danced on their skin. They were out of room and out of time. A maggot-infested hand reached out and grabbed the director’s throat. As he felt the first tingle of an electric surge he closed his eyes and was flooded by visions, memories of his long life and career...

(Pop!) He was in a warm room under a table over which his mother had thrown a velvety blanket. It was a secluded and twilight place where he and his sisters would huddle and giggle as they moved from one imaginary location to another. It would get warm and his older sisters always sat very close or held him in their laps but he didn’t mind. He loved the warmth of their bodies, the sound of their voices, and the excitement in their laughter. And when they sat together under the table and dreaming he felt happier and safer than at any other time in his life. (Pop!)

He was awakened by the sound of horse shoes pounding hard ground. The sound came from across the river and was rapidly approaching. He felt a rush of air and opened his eyes just in time to see the lightening sorceress vaporize in the blinding flash of a bone spear flying from across the river. He looked up at the underside of an earthen horse soaring over him and landing several yards away.

“Wo, Dusty, Wo!” cried M. T. Graves as he leapt form his saddle even before his golem horse had landed. He blew over the ends of twin smoking bone wands and deftly spun them into their holsters.

“Well, what have we got here?” He surveyed the ground, catching sight of the fire sorceress’s head and her burning remains encircling the director and Hassan.

“Well, little missy, you have made quite a mess haven’t you. I may just have to do something about that.” And then he began to laugh, or at least it seemed that way, but it wasn’t a laugh at all.

Graves’s mouth widened slowly into a nasty smile, and then widened even more into a hideous mask of distended cheeks revealing a sea of pearly white teeth wriggling under blood-red lips and gums. A light shined from his hideously stretched mouth and all at once a multitude of teeth-like shards poured from his mouth, flying toward the fire sorceress’s disparate remains. The glowing cusps hovered momentarily like a swarm of heavenly hornets before diving for the ground, each one choosing its own target. As the teeth bit, burning flesh exploded into puffs of smoke which settled to the ground as thin layer of ash. In a moment only the head remained, mute with rage and raging with immolation.

Graves walked up and looked down on the fuming and furious head.

“Sorry little lady. It’s only business. This here fella owes me a pile of gold. Can’t have him dying on me before I get paid, now can I.” And with that he waved his hand and stepped away just as the head burst with a sickening sound into a liquid plume of red and gray.

“So, do you have my gold?” Graves called to the director without looking at him as if to give him the chance to extract himself from his unmanly embrace before setting eyes on him.

The director was too weak for any sort of reply. Releasing his death grip from the equally craven Hassan, he reached into his pocket, took the gold and held it out in his upturned palm.

Graves walked up and took it, counting carefully the gold from one hand to the other. When he was finished he held up the hand with the gold and said: “Much obliged. I’ll just be on my way then.”

He took a step towards his horse but then paused to regard the two stains of ash on the ground. He looked at the gold in his hand and then back to the ashen stains as a man considering the solution to a problem.

“You know, those two were a couple of fine fillies. A fella can get kinda lonesomes sometimes.”

He stood for a moment more, considering. He chewed his cigar thoughtfully from cheek to cheek and rubbed his chin while examining the remains all around him.

“There’s not much to work with here, but…”

He unholstered both wands, one in each hand, and raised them on either side of him, stretching his long arms and arching his back. He closed his eyes and seemed to be muttering a slow and unrecognizable incantation. After a moment the hair on his head began to rise and simultaneously the ash that had been the two sorceresses began to stir.

Two spots on the ground began to heave and crack like small volcanoes preparing to erupt. There was a sound like a tree branch being torn lengthwise in two as two heads popped through the surface of the ground. The necromancer’s chanting intensified and his body tensed and twitched with increased effort. The heads shook violently from side to side as if being tugged rapidly from many directions.

The sound grew louder and soon necks and shoulders were writhing their way up through the cold flooring. And then chests and hips and legs and finally feet, the ground gradually giving birth to two fully-fleshed women who looked remarkably like the two recently disembodied sorceress.

At first neither spoke nor breathed, but stood glistening and motionless, dripping with a slimy liquid, pink and naked as newborns. Grinning, Graves walked up and gave them each a sharp slap on their bare asses, one with each hand. Together they both gasped and opened their eyes, each seeing the face of Graves as their first sight. He smiled and put his arms around their shoulders.

“Hel-lo ladies,” he said seeming quite pleased with his handiwork.

As for the reborn sorceresses, their feelings appeared to be mutual as they gazed up into his eyes adoringly and returned his embrace.

“Well, like I always say, there’s no point in having a pocketful of gold without a lady on your arm – or two.” And with a wry grin and nod toward the director he led his two charmed and charming escorts away toward parts unknown.

It took some time for Hassan and the director to lift their jaws up off the floor. But upon achieving that metaphorical feat all they could do was stare after Graves in exhausted disbelief.

“Ahem.”

“…”

Realizing the bewildered and befuddled state of the company employees, the lawyer opted now for a sharp tap on the director’s shoulder.

“Wha-“

“Ahem.”

“Yes?”

The director’s demeanor was uncharacteristically pleasant. “I regret that we will be unable to conclude our business at this time, as the facts surrounding the respective demises of the two sorceresses have changed considerably. I will have to report back to the board but it may be that your case has considerably improved.”

The director was dimly aware that the lawyer had said something good for him, but he was equally sure that under that dark cowl there would not be even a hint of a smile.

“Still there are some loose ends to clear up, some forms to sign, and I will need certain pieces of information-“

The director looked wearily at Hassan, “Hassan, would you mind?”

“Yes, of course, sir,” said Hassan regaining his composure. Then to the lawyer he said, “Sir, if you would follow me, we have an office set up just a short way off, and I’ll be happy to answer all your questions.”

“Very well,” replied the lawyer.

Hassan took the lawyer by the elbow and led him away, the two speaking in quiet and businesslike tones as they left the peninsula. All the players had now left the scene save one, who was alone with his thoughts and his chair.

To be continued…

[0xDEADCAFE]

Part 7

Climbing back into this director’s chair he thought of earlier in the day when he sat here complaining to Frazier. “Good old Frazier.” he thought. “I will miss him, but I guess it’s for the best – exactly what those SPCM bastards wanted. Still.” Looking out over the orange and black horizon he said “Take care Frazy.”

He sat back into his chair and rubbed his eyes. They burned from the smoke and fumes that constantly roiled off the river. He was hot and tired. He could feel the slimy sweat under his clothes and his ankle still ached.

The landscape was ugly, gloomy and foreboding. He thought of the unfinished work yet to do on this picture. He frowned. He thought some more. He slumped. And he thought some more.

After a few minutes of thinking and frowning, thinking and slumping, he had more or less resumed his depressed and slouched posture of that morning. He reached into his back pocket to retrieve the rolled-up travel brochure, ready to kill some brain cells dreaming of that paradise vacation. He had to remove the dagger first, which he had unintentionally slid into the roll of the brochure the last time he had put it into his pocket.

But when he started to unroll the brochure it seemed strangely different. It was no longer a pamphlet but a scroll. Large runes appeared to have been written over it. He sat up and considered this change. The glossy pictures of the secluded beach and palm trees, the glorious sunset were still there, but quite faded and the arrangement was different. No longer a series of snapshots, the images were all woven together in a single scene spread out over the whole scroll. It was hard to make-out, so faded and obscured by runes, but there was something familiar about it…

“Paradise Island,” he whispered

He remembered now. There was a movie he saw when he was very young called ‘Paradise Island.’ And he would swear that the hazy picture on the scroll before him was the movie poster. His hands began to shake as he realized this. Getting up from his chair he took one step and then read the runes.

A portal opened right before him. He waited, staring into the glimmering, watery surface of the portal, impenetrable to his gaze. No one emerged. He waited some more, but no one and nothing came through.

“What the devil?” he thought. Then his eyes widened at a new thought. “What if,” and without hesitation he stepped through the portal…

… onto a beach.

It was all there. The foamy, blue-green ocean. The salt air that felt like a cool drink against his sweaty face. The palm trees swaying over the golden sand that seemed to extend endlessly up and down the coast. And girls. Beautiful, young, and coming his way.

A crowd of them. Dark-haired and tanned, wearing grass skirts and little else, flowers in their hair and in their hands. All coming towards him, preceded by a chorus of soft giggles and laughs.

Instinctively the director thought to comb his fingers through his hair, but in his hand he still held the Gull dagger. “Raynor,” he thought. He looked at the still-open portal and reached into his vest pocket for a pen and notepad. He quickly scrawled “Property of Raynor – please return” on a sheet of paper and wrapped it around the dagger. Then he tossed it through the portal, which, as he hoped, silently closed.

“Thank you Raynor.”

And then they were upon him. He felt flowered wreaths around his neck and kisses upon his cheeks. And then he felt their hands upon him, tugging at his boots and gloves, his belt and tunic. They were all around him and if there had been anyone else on that beach it would have looked as if they had swallowed him up.

But the only onslaught was that of gentle hands, blushing cheeks and bubbly giggles. In a minute they had him barefoot and bare-chested, dressed only in a silky sarong. A minute later he was reclined with a cold drink in his hand, a cool towel on his forehead, and not a worry in his mind other than the pleasing choice of whether to have a pedicure first and a foot massage after, or vice versa.

“Paradise,” he thought, taking a sip of the frosty, fruity nectar in his glass. He let the taste of it linger on his tongue as he considered his good fortune.

He stared into the waning sun and thought of his career. The years. So many memories. Yet it seemed so short. He had once burned brightly, but like the sun, he had run his course. And watching the mellowing sun set gently on the welcoming ocean he found he was content.

A gentle hand touched his cheek, wiping away his tears. But he was smiling. Taking the soft hand in his he said. “Thank you my dear. I have only one thing left to do now: one last directorial act, my final word.”

“Cut.”

[0xDEADCAFE]

I posted parts 6 and 7 at the same time, so if you've been reading along make sure not to skip part 6.

Well that's it, my longest and most satisfying (for me) work yet. I hope some of you can make it all the way though, and I look forward to your comments and criticisms.

:howdy:

[RevenantsKnight]

Well...this sort of work is well out of my usual line of writing and preferences. As you might have gathered, I have a strong affinity for Diablo as a darker fantasy world torn by conflict, etc., so I was a bit reluctant to read this through all the way. Also due to this, there were a few parts where I couldn't really get into what was happening in the nameless director's world.

Despite this, though, I enjoyed your story very much. Your style is pleasantly light-hearted, and the humor made me smile a good deal; who ever dreamed that Pit Lords might like corn dogs? :) I especially liked the director's rip on MFers...I've never been a big fan of turning Diablo II accounts into items businesses. And the powers of the Gull! I must say that I was impressed by this decidedly original interpretation of finding magical items and "one hundred percent luck"...

A final note: I appreciate the fact that your writing is very clean and well proofread; having no spelling or grammatical errors jump out at me when I'm reading always helps.

So, thanks for posting this; it was enjoyable to read, and most of what I didn't like stems from the highly subjective realm of my personal preferences.

[0xDEADCAFE]

So, thanks for posting this; it was enjoyable to read, and most of what I didn't like stems from the highly subjective realm of my personal preferences.

You're welcome. I appreciate your comments very much. I had a good time writing this but I realize its not for everyone. My goals were to be imaginative, amusing, surprising, perhaps even preposterous, and, basically, to have fun. Hopefully some readers will find it so. I don't expect anyone to take this stuff seriously - it's not.

I enjoy reading serious fiction and have been thinking about trying something dark and serious. I started a Diablo II story a few years ago that I never got very far with, but I may just try to resurrect it and exercise my creepier side a bit.

Again, thanks very much for your thoughts.

[Hunt3r_kill4]

this is awesome!! I enjoyed reading this story and immersing myself in the world of the director...

Gull dagger :lol: