For the photograph that appears on the label we decided to go with a 'product shot' that shows some of the key elements of the story. The ring that appears in it, by the way, is one of the set of rings made for us by Ralph's daughter, Taya, for the 3 Campbell brothers (and yes, there's a third one, and thank you Taya very much for that).
This is the label:
And here is the story:
What is magic? It’s a hard thing to explain. It’s like, well, magic, right? When a little magic and the Campbell brothers, Ralph and Colin, are brought together it’s like mixing the proverbial oil and water, the results can be disastrous. Magic is unstable most of the time, which is pretty much the state that the Campbell brothers are trying to attain for most of the time too.
The Campbells are sore, scratched, and tired. They’ve spent hours cleaning up the thorn bushes from around the tower, a left over from some old fairy tale before The Grand Wizard pSid (the ‘p’ is silent), the Wizard of Odd, took over residence. Technically Ralph was the handyman. Colin, wanting a title for himself, had settled on ‘puller brush man’.
When they thought the wizard was out they stole into the tower. As is something of a standard in tales involving wizards and magic, it was bigger inside than it looked from the outside. They wandered around until they found and entered the huge room that contained his magical library and lab looking for some, well, refreshment shall we say. They looked around. Along a long wall facing windows was the wizards work desk piled with strange apparatus: a bunch of those alchemical glassworks with liquids of various colours and consistencies bubbling and gurgling and dripping trough tubes. To the Campbells it looked like a giant still. At the end of a series of these tubes sat a small beaker on a beer coaster, into which green luminescent drops were falling; drip, drip, drip.
An old cat, sleeping high up on one of the windowsills, raised its head and opened one eye. He regarded the invaders into his space.
Ralph spotted the beaker first. “Hey, Colin”, he whispered in a hoarse voice, “over here.”
Colin came. They looked at the beaker for a while. Drip, drip.
“Smell it”, his brother said.
Colin did. “It smells kind of minty.”
“Taste it.”
“Whoa, packs a punch.” He takes a larger swallow.
“Save some for me”, Ralph said and grabbed the flask then downed the rest of the contents.
There was a moment of appreciation of the taste of the strong elixir, and then both brothers began to stagger about. They grabbed at each other for support, not necessarily the wisest of things to do in the circumstances. Colin fell backwards and as he did so his hand met the binders of a set of books on one of the shelves. There was a loud ‘prap’ (sorry, the closest I could approximate the sound) and the two brothers vanished in a puff of faintly minty smelling green smoke.
This happened on the Fifth of Tuesday. pSid’s little concoction cast them from the realm of the present, to Muddy Earth.
I would like to say that they hit the ground with a thud, but I can’t. It was more like a splash, thud, and groan. A big splash, thud, and groan at that. Both brothers landed in a small, quickly flowing, and luckily shallow, river. They hurried out of the water. The idea of being clean repulsed both of them. I would just like to add that if you had been there, and if you had the magic sight to see, it might have looked like the water itself helped to throw the brothers out, not wanting to be polluted by such filth.
As they made it to shore Ralph noticed, in a little pool cut into the near shore, a small package or pouch made of some kind of see through crinkly paper, impervious to the water. Ralph picked it up and looked at it. The wrapping was brightly coloured and covered with words and a picture of a sailor and a little dog.
Colin made a grab for it, stealing it out of his brother’s hand. He looked at it. Then Ralph stole it back. Then Colin stole it back a second time and quickly put it into his pocket. Ralph held his brother arms back and retrieved it from the other’s pocket and then put it in his own. Both Campbell brothers pushed and shoved at each other trying to steal and now hide the shiny package from each other.
“Okay, okay”, Ralph finally said, holding up both hands. “We’ll open the damn thing and see what’s in it.” They sat on the bank of the river on conveniently places rocks. Ralph retrieved the package and, with some effort, tore it open. Into his hand fell something like a small egg, it was yellowish and, when held up to the light, sort of translucent. There was a faint line or edge that ran around the middle. When it was shaken there was an audible rattle from the thing inside the thing.
“It’s mine”, said Ralph. “I saw it first.”
“No, it’s mine”, said Colin, “I saw it second.”
“Get stuffed” his brother replied.
Colin sulked. “Well”, he said after a short miff, “can you eat it? Is it precious do you think?”
“Don’t know. Couldn’t guess. We’ll take a closer look at it when we figure out where the hell we are. Here you can have this”, he said, passing his brother the remains of the package that it had sat in.
“Gee, thanks”, Colin said sarcastically. He thought about throwing it in the river but ended up pocketing it anyway (he was a bit of a pack rat that way). Then he came up to his brother and patted him on the back in a brotherly fashion while his other hand reached into his pocket.
“Now, let’s get going” Ralph pronounced. “And give me back the thing.”
“What thing?”
They wrestled on the ground for a while. Finally, when that struggle appeared to be going nowhere, they started off.
They found a small path that led away from the water and followed it.
The woods grew darker and quiet. Well, almost quiet. The only disturbance to the peace in this lush forest was sound of the constant bickering between the two brothers, that and trying to regain sole possession of the thing. After a couple of hours of this they lumbered (like a saunter but heaver) into a small village called, according to a person they asked, CheezWiz. He showed them to the tavern and guesthouse. The sign above the door said ‘The Studding Stallion’. The two brothers entered.
It was a small smoky interior with a bar at one side and a few tables in the middle. Ralph, ever the optimist, headed towards the bar to try making a deal and score some drinks using his roll of Canadian Tire money. Colin had his back to the bar and was checking out the customers in the place when he spotted a lone figure sitting at a table near the fire with a string-less guitar across his lap. The two looked at each other for a moment and then Colin started to approach the table.
The bartender spotted this and shouted, “No, no. Don’t make eye contact.” But it was already too late. There was a large sigh from the bartender who then said in a resigned voice, “Well, there goes business.”
“What do you mean” asked Ralph?
Tears stared to come to the bartender eyes. “That’s Airgo, a De-Ranger, one of the last of the race of Dunnothings, and every time he makes eye contact with someone he ends up telling his sob story. The whole tavern goes quiet, everyone listens, everyone gets depressed, and they sort of sits there spellbound you might say, quietly crying in their beers. Then they stops drinking altogether and have to leave. He’s cleaned out the place five times this week. I’m going broke.”
“I have money”, said Ralph, a huge smile on his face.
He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and from it pulled a wad of Canadian Tire money.
“What’s your name”, he asks?
“Butterball.”
“Well, Mr. Butterball, have you gotten any of the new paper money yet,” he asked?
“The what?”
“Paper money.”
“Paper money you say. You must be joking. Never heard of such a thing.”
Ralph turned up his smile and began to speak. “Oh, yes, it’s all the rage. Butterball, you probably haven’t seen any of it before now because you’re, well excuse me for saying, way out here in the boonies.” He unfolded one of the bills and showed it to the bartender with a flourish. “This is a 5 cent Canadian Tire coupon. See? And on it, right here, see this writing? It says that’s it’s redeemable in merchandise, well, Butterball, my good man, you have merchandise, yes? And I’m interested in redeeming some of it.”
“But…”
Ralph talked right over top of him. “You know, of course, how heavy a bag of coins can be, right?”
“Yes, but…”
“Well, this takes care of that problem, doesn’t it? Feel it. It’s lightweight, it’s portable, and it’s worth 5 silver pennies.”
“It is?”
“Yes, my dear Butterball, it is. It says so right on it. See here?”, he said, basting him like a well cooked turkey.
He looked at the note skeptically and then asked, “What is this c with the little line through it?”
“It means it’s certified.”
“Certified?”
“Yes, it’s guranteed to be worth five pennies, so we call it a five cent note. Five cents.”
“Cents?”
“Yes, that stands for the Certified by the Engravers, Netters, Tanners, and Sentries association. C E N T S.”
“Well, I don’t know…”
Ralph was on a proverbial roll and wouldn’t be interrupted. “Yes, Mr. Butterball. It’s real; it’s right in front of your face. The netters originally thought of the idea.”
“Netters?”
“Yes, the fishermen. You see if you fall off a boat into the water and you have a big bag of coins, why the weight alone would drag you straight to the bottom. Wouldn’t it?”
“Well, I suppose so,” Butterball grudgingly admitted.
“It would. So this one netter, I mean fisherman, in fact the guy who’s pictured here on the paper,” he points to him, “went to the engravers with the problem and had them make up some of this paper money.”
“He did?”
“And they thought the idea was so good that they wanted to be a part of it.”
“This fella, he must be a very important man then.”
“Oh, he’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yes, dead. He fell off a boat and drowned. Couldn’t swim a stoke you see, poor guy. So they put his picture here on the paper as a sort of memorial thing.”
“Poor fella. That’s sad.”
“Yes, but the important thing is that he had paper money, and he would have lived if he had only known how to swim.”
“Oh, I see,” he dug some ear wax out of his ear, “but you said something about the tanners too?”
“Yes I did. You saw this wallet? The folded leather thing that I took the money from? Here, look.” He dug it out of his pocket again and unfolded it. Various bit of paper and other items tumbled to the bar top along with a used condom. Ralph hurriedly swept them into his pocket. “Well, Butterball, this,” Ralph waved the wallet under Butterball’s nose, “was another inspiration of our poor dead netter, I mean before he died obviously. He wanted to have something specially made to hold the paper money and important papers in. It’s very handy.”
“Ah, I can see that. It looks handy.”
“And the tanners all thought, hey this is a good thing. Let’s get behind it too.”
“And the other?”
“The sentries? Well, that should be obvious.”
“It should?”
Ralph nodded seriously. “Yes, with all this valuable paper money being produced, and all the people now wanting it, sentries had to be hired to protect it from people trying to steal it. And people were also bringing in their old, worn out, coins and trading them in for the new paper. So, Butterball, the sentries had to guard not only the new money but also the huge piles of old coins as well.”
“Well, I’ll be. And so they got involved, did they?”
“Right you are Butterball.”
Butterball picked up the five cent note and stared at it. There was an element of new respect to his gaze.
“So,” Ralph closed in for the kill, “I am going to make you the deal of your lifetime.”
A short while later Ralph headed over to the table where Colin and the De-Ranger, Airgo, were sitting and talking. He was carrying a huge platter filled with the best food of the house, and three large mugs of beer.
“Thank you. Thank you very much” Airgo said as he was handed a mug.
After they had gorged their appetites a bit and the consumption of food had slowed down so that they could take breaths between bites, Airgo began to tell his story again (Colin already had gotten an ear full while Ralph was busy at the bar). It truly was a sad, sad story, one of the saddest sad stories of all time. It was the story of how he had lost the key to his Chopper, of his never ending search of his pockets to try to find it again, of his constant fingering of the hole in the pocket of his jeans, of his wanderings in Muddy Earth searching everywhere for the key (because he already looked for it at home and couldn’t find it) and, finally, of what the future will hold when he finally finds the key again and he can become, once more, King of the Road.
The spell didn’t seem to affect the brothers the same way it did everyone else. They listened, they ate, they drank, they repeated the process. Then they began to tell tales themselves. It became a contest, a game, to try to outdo each other and see who could tell the saddest story of all.
“Why, when we were young, we had to eat rocks”, Ralph began.
His brother chirped up, “You had rocks. We would have died for rocks. We had to eat our own feet.”
“You had feet”, interrupted Ralph. “We had to go around on our bums all the time.”
“You had bums…,” and so it went on, and on, and on. You can say ‘ad nauseam’ if you like.
The effect on the bar was drastic if un-dramatic; all the former drinkers silently picked-up their things and left, tears running down their cheeks. Even the bartender prepared to leave. He looked at the strange script still in his hands, then sighed, and stuffed the wad in his apron pocket. He paused at the door and looked back, just once, at the trio in the corner before blowing his nose in the dirty rag he used for cleaning out the mugs. He shut the door behind him, leaving them alone. Once outside he stood in thought for a moment and then made his way to the village tanner, to talk to him about making a wallet.
Inside the now deserted bar, after all the tales had been told and silence had stretched it’s legs for a few moments, and after Ralph had helped himself and refilled their mugs, Airgo finally asked, “But what brings you here to Muddy Earth? And what is that thing that you keep taking from one another?”
“What thing”, Colin said?
“So, you have a thing. Tell me its tale.”
He didn’t seem hostile, and it didn’t seem that he wanted it for himself, and so Colin slowly drew it from some recess of his clothing and showed it to Airgo. Ralph patted a pocket and cast an accusing look at his brother.
There was a gasp from Airgo. “Do you know what you have here?”
Ralph plucked the thing from his brother’s palm. “No, what?” He stared at it, as if his eyes could penetrate it’s secret content.
“Unless I miss my guess you have found an ancient artifact, one of the Palantir, or Plans, of the Yelves. He rolled it in his hand and then said, “Some say that these were to be found in specially marked packages of Palantir’s Peanuts, plain or salted, but I believe this to be B.S., baseless supposition, thank you very much.”
“Then where did it come from,” asked Colin?
“I think that this was a gift exchanged for offerings of small pieces of silver money from something that was called, I believe, ‘the Gumme Ball Ex Machina.’”
Airgo studied it for a moment longer and then, grasping each end in one hand, twisted it in opposite directions. To Ralph and Colin’s surprise it opened. Airgo spilled the contents onto his hand. There was an unusual ring and a tiny bundle of rolled parchment. He placed the ring in front of him and began to unroll the parchment, and it turned out to be three tiny sheets rolled together, each covered with tiny cramped lettering.
Airgo put the parchments down and then thoughtfully scratched his nuts for a moment. He then pointed to the ring on the table with his finger. He poked it, tentatively, with one long, cracked, and filthy nail and said to the brothers, “This is a thing of great import. What you have found is possibly a ring of power. It could even be the secret decoder ring of the Big Eye himself.”
The brothers were speechless, which was a quality many people thought they should cultivate more often.
Airgo picked the parchments up again and looked at each page in turn. “These two are in code”, he says handing them back to the brothers. “I know not what they say. You will have to discover their meaning for yourselves, possibly by using the ring itself. This third, however, is a page full of mystic runes.”
“Mystic runes”, the brothers chanted.
“Yes, runes. They were once ordinary letters at one time, but somebody spilled wine all over them and now they are runed. Very few, now a day, have the patience to unlock their meaning.” He squinted at it a bit. “See if you can find something to write with,” he said. “More drinks would be nice too.”
Airgo spent a long time at the translation. When he was finally finished he sat back, took a long draught of beer, and farted. The flames of the fire momentarily flashed green. He said, “It is a part of the legacy of my ancestor, Dieseldorc, and holds the ancient verse.” He clears his throat.
“Three drinks for the Yelven-kings and see them stupefied.
Seven bowls for the Dwarp-lords to stink up their halls of stone.
None for Mortal Men, Don’t ask me why.
One Combo for the Big Eye, with fries and gravy on the side (extra catsup please).
In the Land of Fourdoor where the condoms lie.
One Combo to rule them all,
One Combo to find them,
One Combo to bow them all and in the outhouse find them
In the Land of Fourdoor where the condoms lie.
Thank you. Thank you very much”, he said as he finished reading.
Airgo then told them the story of Dieseldork’s Pain, of how Dieseldork managed to wrest the ring from the Big Eye, Sorehead himself, at the end of a huge custody battle. Of how he hid it and kept it as his own precious thing, hiding it in a package made by Dwarps and sealed by Yelves. “This package”, he said, “was placed in a small cardboard box along with candied popcorn where none should ever find it.”
He took up his air guitar and strummed a silent chord.
“Such was the talk around the hearth when I was but a lad. Unfortunately it seems that Dieseldork made and then ate too much of the cursed Combo himself and, after an excruciating bellyache, exploded. Anyway, the ring and the recipes vanished out of our knowledge, but it is said that the package shall be known by the sigil ‘Cracker Jack®’”.
Colin reluctantly removed the remains of the package from his pocket and looked at the words. They were the same.
Ralph, looking over the translation of the poem, asks, “Why none for Mortal Men?”
“As the poem says, ‘Don’t ask me why’. Actually, no one is sure. All know that the combination of the wine and the chili is dangerous, but it is also said to be a wonder as well. The power of the Combo was said to be such that, if many partake, it could fulfill a wish shared by the people. Well, not just people but any race that tried it. But the result would have unexpected side effects?”
“Like what?”
“Again, it is never said. Maybe it has something to do with my ancestor exploding, or something, maybe not. Mortal Men, I heard, just got the worst of it.”
Airgo began strumming a soft melody on the guitar. It had to be soft; he had no damn strings on the instrument. Then he continued, “The story goes that if the Big Eye ever gets the recipes back then everyone will become addicted to his food and all will have to eat at his chain of restaurants all the time. He’s going to call it something like Mickey Dees or something.”
“Wow”, said Colin.
His brother agreed, “Yeah, wow. Now that’s planning.”
So now the brothers start in earnest, intent on solving the riddles of the coded pages, each one stealing the ring back from time to time to put on his finger.
When the ring was put on the letters on the page seem to float up from the parchment and re-arrange themselves in to something that made sense. The brothers copied down the translations on fresh pieces of parchment. When they finally completed the two pages, with much bickering back and forth, they showed the results to Airgo.
“This sheet holds the long lost recipe for the Chili of Power, the lost recipe of the Dwarps. Said to be the most delicious but the most vindictive food ever devised. SBD it is called. The effect is silent but deadly. It is a chili that would burn one’s very soul, leaving behind only ashes, and an unbelievably foul smell. Oh, and it is rumored to leave an after taste of cow dung.”
He picks up the other. “And this is for the Yelvish Wine of Density. You have to be thick to drink any of it. It’s the only alcoholic recipe ever to receive a jail term, but unfortunately it escaped by tunneling out of the prison in which it was kept and was thought lost to the ages.
So this ring and these parchments give the holder the secret of the two foods so that he can make both the chili of all chillies, and the wine of all wines, recreating the fabled Combo of old, which causes you to form and release the fart the fart of all farts, the smell of the universe.” He shuffled the pages. “The fortunate thing is that in most of Muddy Earth these spices are illegal (pointing at the eleven herbs and spices indicated on one of the sheets). There’s just one place where they all grow together. The people there, well they just don’t give a … something. They’ll grow anything there, legal or not. It’s called the WorcesterShire. I’ve been there a couple of times. Those Bobbits can be nasty, you know. The men are bad but the women are worse. It’s because of a mix-up at the endowment department, you know. They’re practically dickless.”
“But the chili”, said Ralph, a gleam in his eye.
“But the wine”, said Colin, a drop of drool ran and hid in his beard.
“Road trip”, both brothers shouted at the same time. They grab Airgo under his arms and begin to haul him from the bar.
“And you’re our new guide”, Ralph adds.
As they where leaving, Ralph turns to Colin and says in a whisper, as Airgo was taking a leak against the leg of a horse and couldn’t hear, “I’ve been thinking about what Airgo said right at the beginning, you know his sad story, losing this Chopper and all. How does chopping wood make you a king?” They both shrugged their shoulders and started waddling along, with Airgo now in tow.
Eventually they found themselves in the place called the WorcherShire and, soon after, fell over a young Bobbet named Fubar, who was sitting under a tree and, ah, concentrating on the fold out page of some sort of soft covered booklet that he had on his lap.
After awkward introductions were made the young Bobbit told his tale. Fubar, it seems, had lit out of town because he had forgotten to book the caterers for his Uncle Dildo’s sixty-ninth birthday party, which was this evening. And what was even worse was that he had also forgotten to get the alcoholic beverages. It was worse, he explained, because a sober Bobbit was worse than one who was well and truly smashed. And almost all the WorcesterShire would be in attendance. Fubar figured that he’d be lucky to get off with a lynching, his own of course.
“Well, we can make food. We even have a recipe”, Ralph offered.
“And we can make the wine for you too”, Colin added.
“Um”, said Airgo.
“And all you have to do is to get us this list of ingredients. You can do that, can’t you”, Ralph said.
“You will do this, and right away”, Colin added meaningfully.
“Yes, of course. Just let me, ah, finish this article. I love the articles in this publication. You go ahead to Uncle Dildo’s and I’ll be right there, honest. His home is called ‘Scrota’s End’. You can’t miss it, it’s just at the end of the path.”
So the food was prepared according to the ancient recipe, and the wine was made and left to stand for the required hour and twenty minutes as set out in the text before being served. The crowds of Bobbits were already a couple of hours into a really foul mood before the feast was presented.
And the results? Well, lets just say that after all the vomiting, and all the ‘letting flay of fartes’, and after all the small fires were extinguished from the flare ups of gas meeting fire, after all the groaning, all the shock that feet and hands were growing alarmingly (and growing hairy at that), after all the shoes were discarded, and after all the lying down in small groups across the party field (because it was too painful to walk), after all that there was a sudden silence, there was the silence of small people becoming intently interested in what the other had in their trousers. Then the moaning and the groaning took on a new tone and urgency, and Dildo’s 69th Birthday Party was forever known as the largest orgy in the history of WorcesterShire.
Well you know what they say about big hands and hairy feet.
In the morning Ralph sat up and looked out the window of the little room he shared with Airgo and his brother at Scrota’s End. He was alarmed to see most of the women from the night before heading their way, armed with scythes and knives, desperate looks on their faces. It appears that they were determined to keep the recipes for the chili and wine for themselves (in case the spell ever wore off). But, it was also seen, they were all walking kinda’ funny, and not just from the big hairy feet they now all had.
Luckily the women, accompanied by some of the men, were all tripping over their own feet, literally, which gave the company time to gather their things, pack some chili and some wine, a bag of spices, some rope, play a couple rounds of poker, pick their noses, make and consume breakfast, and just generally look about for things that might come in handy. They found a couple of huge packs, which they commandeered for the purposes of transporting their loot. Then they skipped town.
I would not classify what the brother did as running. It was more of a bump and stumble. They both felt sure that their heads were several sizes too large to carry on their bodies, each having consumed an amazing amount of wine the night before. They stumbled into each other and bumped into any object in their path. Even with that the sounds of pursuit faded behind them.
Airgo, for some reason unaffected by the night’s revelry, pranced and danced beside the two brothers and did air riffs and power chords on his guitar. He was pleased with himself because he had performed for the Bobbits last night, and had survived to tell the tale as they say.
Their fleeing led them out of the forest and into the mountains where they soon found caves and tunnels, and signs of habitation. Living within the caves were the Dwarps, an ancient and extremely short people who were, at the same time, extremely short sighted so that they could hardly make out what was a foot or two in front of their bearded faces. They worked tunneling and mining precious ores, which they traded for the goods to sustain themselves.
They found out that even their new hosts had trouble telling the guy Dwarps from the gal Dwarps. It was only because they were so short sighted that they occasionally bumped into a Dwarp of the opposite sex (although from all outward appearances they looked the same) and things would take that natural course that seems to be the only subject of real importance in nature’s curriculum.
They looked at the Campbells, and at Airgo too, in a kind of bleary awe.
Ralph said “They would be great people to be around if they weren’t so short.”
“I can see that”, agreed his brother, “too bad they can’t.”
But the Dwarps were friendly enough and invited the travelers inside. The Campbells were grateful for the shelter, and grateful to have left the Bobbits behind. The Canadian Tire money trick didn’t work on the Dwarps (they couldn’t see what was on the paper) so they made a batch of wine and chili for the Dwarps too.
It was quite a party. It went on till the wee hours, whichever ones they are, and they all passed out. The air was so full of gas that all the canaries in the mines went on strike and refused to return to work for days afterward.
In the middle of the night Colin threw a bucket of cold chilly over Ralph to wake him up yelling, “ Wake up, wake up. We got to get out of here. It’s the most horrid sight I have ever seen. GET MOVING.”
Ralph wiped some of the chilly from face with his fingers and licked it. “Needs more Tabasco definitely, definitely Tabasco” he opened his eyes and jumped to his feet.
There in the great hall where all the Dwarps, and they didn’t look too happy. In fact they were seeing all too clearly for the first time. Their eyesight was as sharp as needles. And they looked ridiculous, like little wrinkly children, only not so cute, and they were as hairless as they had been on the first day they had been born into this world because, unfortunately, during the night, all their hair had fallen out. A huge bunch of Dwarps was running around, nude as something without any clothes on, going through chili withdrawal and getting stirred up. It was horrible. And they were pissed at the Campbells because they could see how gross they actually looked.
It was like in the cartoons. The brother’s feet did triple time trying to get the traction to run. Since the entrance to the mine was now blocked (with several hundred angry hairless little devils, with acute eyesight) they realized that the only way out was to go further in and so they headed deeper into the mines of Gonorrhea. Airgo was way ahead of them. They could see the small flame of his Zippo lighter in the distance.
A new sensation stole over the brothers. The deeper they went into the mine, the greater the feeling came over them that something was following them (well, beside the Dwarps). It was Airgo who finally figured out who or what it was.
“We are being followed by a creature that is called Glumo. He has been seeking the ring for years and years and wants to get it back really bad. He once had the ring and had used the decoder to make for himself a lock that none could pick. Now all he desires is to get the ring back so that he can unlock his locker and get a change of clean underwear. Poor creature.”
They continued through the mine.
Deeper and deeper they went into the mountain, losing track of time and coffee breaks. Suddenly, as they rounded a corner of a vast hall, they were attacked by a creatire out of legend, Doornod. It was said to have come from the very depths of hell. It was the biggest thing ever. No it was bigger than a thing. It was so big they had to make a new name for it. It was a THANG.
They started to run. The THANG, Doornod, gave chase. Their only hope was to cross the narrow bridge over the chasm of Lorna Doom before the monster caught them.
Airgo, as always, was way in the front lighting the way followed by Ralph. Colin was having difficulty keeping up and puffed in the rear. Ralph turned his head for a moment to look behind him and saw the huge head of Doornod, with jaws agape, dip towards his brother and then Colin was lifted high into the air.
Colin screamed. Ralph screamed. They all had ice scream. Sorry, I don’t know where that came from. It must be the excitement of the moment.
Unawares to Ralph the creature Doornod had grabbed Colin by the backpack. As he lifted his huge head the straps to the pack gave way under Colin’s considerable bulk and he fell to the ground with a thud. The monster then tossed the pack into the air and bit down on it. He swallowed. He looked around for more.
Ralph had gone on a couple of more strides until the thought of his brother being eaten alive hit home. He stopped in his tracks and then searched in his own pack for something to use as a weapon. His hand chanced upon one of the jugs of wine. He brought his arm back and then threw the jug in a great high arc at the Doornod. The THANG merely opened its mouth and chomped the tidbit. Then it licked its reptilian lips with its great tongue in what appeared to be satisfaction. Its expression then changed to one of surprise as, with a puff of smoke, it changed.
It still had its fiery head, it still had its horns, but now, instead of the great reptilian body, it was soft and squishy, had bunny ears, and a fluffy white tail. It also, somehow, had acquired a big bass drum, which it started to beat frantically. And it kept moving forward. It tried to halt its progress but, for some reason, it just couldn’t. It kept going, and going, and going, until it dropped over the edge and plunged into Lorna Doom. As it went over a voice boomed, “Is this the way to the Mariposa Carrot Festival?” and was gone.
Colin picked himself off the ground with some difficulty. Ralph blinked at him. He said, “Hey, you haven’t been eaten.”
“No, it appears that I haven’t.”
They ran to one another and embraced, brotherly of course, until they each realized that they were in a clinch together. They hurriedly backed away from each other.
Ralph, in a moment of inspiration, patted his pocket. “Give me the damn ring”, he said.
“What ring?” came the reply automatically. And then, with a shy grin, he delved into his own pocket and took something out. He gave the ring of power back to his brother.
They continued on and stumbled out of the caves and down the mountainside. They entered a lush green forest, with Airgo skipping and singing in the lead. They soon came, just outside of the city of Livinhell, to a giant woodland outlet mall called the ‘Everything You Want and More Valle’. This was the home of the famous ‘Ye Olde Yelvish Haberdashery and Dancing School’, There was a sign in the window, ‘Special Half Price TUTU SALE One Size Fits All’.
The brothers looked at each other and said, at the same time, “ We got to try that.”
Well, what resulted was a sight for sore eyes. NO, NO!! It wasn’t a site that should be seen by anyone’s eyes, sore or not.
Inside the shop the Yelf Fastbuck met them. He was way under quota set by the head Yelf of Livinhell, Elrond Hubbard, and under a lot of stress. He desperately needed to make a sale. The brothers told him, or yelled at him, what they wanted and, once the message had gotten through, then took their tutus into fitting rooms and eventually, after many a groan and the sounds of slight tearing, came out to look at and admire themselves in the mirrors.
Fastbuck, after seeing the brothers emerge in tutus and leotards, and trying to prevent his insides from spewing and becoming the outside (all over his nice clean display cases), yelled back, “Ah, guys, if you two take off those tutus and put your old clothes on we can take a break and talk price over dinner. How’s that?”
The Campbells agreed and reluctantly dragged themselves away from the mirrors.
Airgo, looking over a rack of shoes, found a pair of blue suede shoes that he liked. He shouted at Fastbuck, “Do you have these in my size, thank you very much.”
They proceeded into Livinhell.
The Yelves, it turned out, live in a type of commune. It is true that they only have one pot to piss in but it’s a very big pot. The brothers, over a beer or three, haggled with Fastbuck over the price of the clothes. Their voices were becoming rough. The negotiations were really tough because all of the Yelves are practically deaf. You needed cannon fire to get their attention. Finally they settled on another mitt full of Canadian Tire money and, (here it comes) they offered to supply chili and refreshment for all the Yelves to clinch the deal.
You might have thought that the Campbell brothers had learned their lesson by now, but I guess that they’re hard of learning. They made the crap, sorry I mean chili, in the giant cauldron and put together a batch of wine. And, as before, everyone got stuffed and then got hammered. And again the results were disastrous. Bad stars seem to follow the Campbells wherever they go.
So again we find the Campbell brothers scurrying for their lives, tutus in hand (and Airgo clutching his blue suede shoes). The Yelves where trying to catch them but, although they had regained their hearing and could hear a tack fall at a hundred paces, their ears looked like something you might find on a basset hound, only larger. They were so big that the Yelves kept tripping over them allowing the travelers to escape. Colin turned and looked at the elves one last time and, between gasps of air, said, “Hey, they look like hound dogs.”
”There could be song in there some place?” said Airgo.
And, keeping to form, were, a day or so later, captured by Dorcs. Several of the ugly little buggers ate up most of the remaining supplies that were stashed in the packs. They drank most of the wine as well. They whole tribe were going to finish off by eating Ralph, Colin, and Airgo when the Dorcs who had eaten the chili and drank the wine suddenly sprouted white plastic pocket protectors and spectacles appeared on their faces held together by pieces of tape. They had become Nyrds. In the confusion caused by the Nyrds looking for sticks to make into slide rules and looking for paper to write stuff down, Airgo and the Campbell brothers narrowly escape.
In years to come the Nyrds became a tribe of their own. They didn’t get laid very often either.
By now, word of the Campbells’ brothers traveled like lightning ahead of them. Everywhere they went they were harried. It seemed like all the races of Muddy Earth were uniting against them. Living trees, called Dents, threw squirrels at them to drive them away. Ralph found out first hand that squirrels made good missiles (as well as excellent bait for muskie fishing, but that’s another story) when one nasty rodent went for his nuts. Then the legendary hog riders of the Rumdumb chased them off the plains. Finally they had to hide for days in the ancient Dwarp defensive moat and cesspool of Crotch Deep in order to avoid being captured.
Well, the company finally arrived at the city of Minus Truth, Airgo’s hometown, where he had said they would be made welcome. Much to their surprise people again surround them with several types of sharp pointy things which they insistently pointed at them, meaningfully and menacingly. They were stripped of all their possessions and their clothes, taken to a deep dungeon, and locked inside. They were given back their tutus to wear. Airgo was clad only in his purple long johns, the back door flapping. Over the inside door some other unlucky soul had scraped in the stone ‘The Heartbreak Hotel’. “Hmmm”, Airgo murmured, looking at it.
The next day they were led out into the great courtyard where it seemed that every race of Muddy Earth had gathered together: Bobbits (the women protectively holding their hands over the men’s crotches, some had their hands actually in the trousers) and Yelves (ears nattily tied under their chins in bows; it had become a kind of fashion statement how these ear bows were tied and decorated) and Dorcs (including the pocket-protector Nyrds) and Dwarps (all wearing dark, and I mean really dark, glasses; in part to screen out the daylight but mostly because then they wouldn’t have to really look at one another) filled the space. No one looked pleased to see them. Actually no one looked at them at all, tutus or no. Strangely, they were ignored, another novelty for the two brothers.
On one side of the courtyard, on a raised dais, sat two old men, Gandolfo (the Grabby) and Solomodo (the Whiner), two second rate wizards. Floating between them was the huge fiery eye of Sorhead, the Big Eye himself. They were squabbling among themselves, trying to decide on how best to execute the Brothers (in the most painful way).
On a trestle table set up in front of the dais were the clothes that they had worn and meager remains of the sacks, including the last pot of left over chili and the last jug of wine. The entire assembled multitude stared at what remained of the food, all hating themselves desperately for it, but all wanting to eat more of the chili, drink more of the wine, no matter the consequences.
Gandolfo got up to speak. First he turned to Airgo. “As you are a son of this city and, as far as we can tell, only served as guide to these, these, these, perverts, you are free to go. But let this serve as a warning to you, not to involve yourself with the plots of the wicked. Pick-up your things and go.”
Airgo looked at the brothers, shrugged, and approached the table. He picked up his pants and his shirt and grabbed his boots and stuffed them under his arm. To his surprise a key dropped out of one of the boots and hit the ground with a tiny ‘ting’. He looked at it. He smiled a crooked grin and then bent and picked it up. His steps seemed to take on a new purpose as he strode from the assembly. “Thank you very much,” he said under his breath as he left.
Gandolfo spoke again. “Now as for you two, we’ve decided that death is to good for you (the brothers sighed in relief) but we also decided that it would just have to do (they un-sighed), but, in your honour we shall make those deaths particularly gross and spectacular.”
A ragged cheer went up from the assembled audience.
Solomodo, speaking from his chair on the dais continued, “Were it not for you the secret of the Combo would likely not have been discovered as soon, and for that we thank you.”
Gandolfo added, “But, unfortunately, as the ones responsible for making the chili and the wine we can’t afford to let you live. You might remember enough of the recipes for you to become our, what would you say, competition, and we don’t want that.”
Solomodo finished for him, “As far as it goes, though, you did an excellent job of, shall we say, testing the market. All who consumed the Combo have gathered here and crave more even though they hate themselves for it.” He cackled to himself. People who cackle to themselves are usually four fifths of the way to being outright bonkers.
The Big Eye spoke, “Get on with this. We have some cooking to do and some plans to make. And if we have any time left over I’m hoping to create some Onion Ring Wraiths for the weekend.”
“Ah, yes your Bigness.”
Solomodo stood up, pointed a rather grubby finger at the table in front of him and said, “We have the last of the chili, and we have the last of the wine. We have recovered the translation of the recipes and so we can make more, but where is the ring?”
“What ring, we got no stinking ring”, chorused the brothers.
“And where are the original parchments?”
“I think”, offered Colin, “that you should ask Doornod. He ate my pack after all.”
“Ah”, said the wizard, “so that’s another loose end taken care of then.” He sat back down.
Gandolfo continued, “So the only thing remaining, it seems, is to, ah, deal with you.” He chuckled to himself. It wasn’t a pleasant chuckle.
You can never trust people who cackle and chuckle to themselves; they’re just up to no good.
Just then there was a commotion at the back of the throng. It made its way incredibly swiftly through the crowd. The people, and the other kinds of people, threw themselves out of the way just in time as a huge hog roared through the courtyard, smashing and grunting and thundering as it rushed the dais. It wore a studded silver and leather collar, the handle of a key could just be seen jutting from its lock. There, sitting on the saddle on its back, guitar slung over one shoulder, was Airgo.
Chopper reached the dais and came to a hoof squealing stop. He butted the platform and knocked it over backward tumbling the two old men into the cesspit. At the same time, in one graceful motion, Airgo lept from Chopper’s back onto the tabletop. He unslung his guitar and, using it like a, well, guitar shaped golf club, he drove the pot of chili into the Big Eye’s, um, eye. It shattered on contact and bits of pottery shard punctured the eye. The chili, streaming into the wounds and over the eye, steamed and oozed. The eye turned pink like the worst case of pinkeye in the world, and there was a horrendous scream.
Then, with a second mighty swing Airgo did the same with the wine. It too shattered when it made contact with the eye.
The Big Eye tried to blink the stuff away, but of course, having no lid, it couldn’t. Abruptly the flame went out with a poof and the eye exploded sending aqueous humor, or vitreous humor, or whatever the hell that gooey inside the eye stuff is, and bits of pupil, throughout the crowd.
Airgo stooped, picked-up the pages of translation, took his trusty Zippo from his pocket and set the sheets alight. He held them aloft as they burned and shouted at to crowd, “There shall be no Mickey Dees while I am King.”
A hush went through the crowd as the spell of the chili and wine was broken. All the people sighed in what we assume was relief.
Shortly thereafter, a couple of smelly old men quietly made their way out of town, hooded, staffs clutched in their hands. They were literally heading for the hills. One turned to the other, “And I was going to be a Regional Manager too.”
“Yeah, me too. Best not to think of it. Well, back to the drawing board.”
“Know any good towers to rent?”
Once they left the confines of the city of Minus Truth, Gandolfo started to hum a walking tune. Soon both figures were measuring their strides and singing old Wizard school songs. They sang ‘That Old Black Magic’, they harmonized ‘My Friend the Witch Doctor’, and they skipped and sang together, ‘We’re off to be the Wizard’.
They wandered out of the pages of this narrative.
A day or so later Ralph and Colin are finally taking it easy, sitting back and enjoying the view from one of the terraced bars of the city. A rather familiar looking and foul smelling waiter served them drinks and then tried to stay close enough to the brothers to overhead their conversation.
“Who would have thunk it,” Ralph said? “He really was the King.”
“Is the King”, corrected his brother. “The thing that really got me though was when that delegation of Yelves and Dwarps came up to him and presented him with those guitar strings made out of, what did they call that really precious metal? Oh yes, Minstral.”
“Yeah, and then he played two whole sets at his coronation.”
“Too bad he can’t play guitar worth shit.”
“Yeah, you can say that again. Although I did kind of like that song about, what was it, Jail House Rocks?”
“Yeah, that was okay. I didn’t at all get the ‘Viva, Lost Wages’ thing though, did you?”
“Nope. Not a clue.”
Colin lowered his voice. The waiter leaned in to hear. “Say, Ralph, now be honest. Do you still have the ring?”
“What ring, right? Well”, he smiled, looked over his shoulder and completely missed seeing the waiter hovering nearby; “I sort of put it where the sun don’t shine. Yeah, I still have it. Too bad we don’t have the parchments though.”
“Who says we don’t. I did the same as you. I put them back in that plan thing container and stuffed it up the old wazoo.”
“You conniving bastard”, Ralph laughed, “So it looks like a couple of assholes hold the secrets of the Combo.”
“Right you are”, his brother agreed.
“You know, I think I can get used to this.” And then with a pop he disappeared. Colin just had an opportunity to look over at the empty chair and have his jaw hit the table when he too vanished.
They were back in a kind of familiar space.
“What in hell are you two trying to do?” It took a moment or two before the brothers realized where they were. They were sitting on the floor of the library in the tower back in the world they had left, and over them was bending the angry figure of the Grand Wizard pSid. Then they knew then they were home. They also knew they were in deep shit, only they didn’t know now deep yet. They slowly got up.
“Us!! We!! Me!! You!! Him!!” Both brothers began their excuses, pointing at one another.
“Now we’ll have to change the books.”
“What books?”
“These damn books”, he said indicating a hardbound set of volumes on the table. “You know, ‘The Fellowship of the Ring’, only now it reads ‘The Followship’ and it’s about how the people of Muddy Earth band together, both the good and the evil, to get rid of the Campbell Brothers.”
“Um”, said Ralph.
‘And then there’s The Two Towers, only now it reads ‘The Two Bladders, and it has something to do with you two and your feces spotting the landscape.”
“Ah”, said Colin.
“And then there’s ‘The Return of the King’.”
“Well, at least the name is right.”
“Yes, but this book is about a concert tour. Something about The King live on stage with his magic guitar playing, what does it say here? Oh yes, Music with rock in it. What the hell is that?”
“Uh”, said both brothers together.
“But the worst, and I mean the really worst, is what you did to this poor thing, ‘The Hobbit’. You weren’t even in that story but because of the laws of retrograde narrative…
“Huh,” they asked?
“Look, never mind what it’s called, just know that because you screwed up the later story line, and you really did screw that up, the first book had to re-write itself in kind. What was once a kid’s story about dragons and gold has become a porno. ‘In and Out Again, a Bobbit’s Tale’ indeed.”
“Sorry”, the brothers intoned.
“You two really know how to screw up, don’t you?” He sighed. “I guess it only goes to show that a good story will always suck you in.”
“Sorry”, they said again.
“If it wasn’t for Nigel, my Overly Familiar…”
“Your what?”
“Nigel the cat. I’ve had him far too long for him just to be Familiar. Anyway, if he hadn’t seen what you had done and where you had gone and told me I might still be looking for you. As it was I had to waste a whole day going through the books to see if I could track you down. Idiots.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s going to take me ages to restore the books to their proper form.”
“Sorry.”
“Ah, and you’re giving me a such a headache. I think I need to eat. Tell you what, we’re going to go down to the pub and you”, he said pointing, “are going to pay for lunch.”
“Yes pSid.”
“And then I’m going to come up with a proper punishment for the two of you. You know, I think maybe you can start on cleaning out the privy.”
“No shit?”
“No, plenty of that I’m afraid. And speaking of shit”, he turned to the figure that was lurking behind the two brothers, “go and change your underwear, will you?”
“Glumo”, it said and looked down sheepishly.
“Then you can help them.”
They start for the village. The brother’s begin arguing about who is going to pick-up the cheque. They were both, by this time, short on Canadian Tire money.
“And knock that off or I’ll turn you into something unpleasant. More unpleasant even than being a Campbell.”
“Yes pSid.”
“Glumo.”
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