![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: A Most Improbable Adventure in an Extraordinary Universe (Mythklok, Chapter 87)
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sariel, Raz and Ganesh go visiting while the boys play cards
Warnings: Cravat-wearing, tiki’s Bollywood addiction again
Notes: Notes after the jump.
And here, for no apparent reason, other than I am in a bad mood, is a video of Hrithik Roshan dancing:
Mythklok: doctor-recommended, kid approved!
Soooo, last time: Ganesh and Raziel had some fun in Italy that didn’t involve a runway show, we managed to relocate a missing drummer, and Charles decided go to on a pig hunt.
And just one additional note: in order to keep myself from going completely bonkers, I’m referring to the Charles character in my main universe as “Sariel” throughout this story. You’ll soon see why.
“Why ams dat guy gots to peeks at my cards?”
“I'm Bert!” the colorful angel helpfully told Skwisgaar as he perched up on the chair next to him and leaned in just a bit too close to the Swede.
The smoke-filled room was filled with male beings: gods and demons and angels and lord knows what else. And, as male beings of any stripe are wont to do, they were imbibing freely of liquor, tobacco and a few stronger substances, snacking on anything that could be grabbed in one paw without messing the fan of cards in your other hand, and they – or at least most of them – were gambling, because that is a fine thing for men to do.
“Hims ams my cool angel pals!” attested Toki, sitting on Bert’s other side. Toki, who actually, and like Engelbert the angel, was not gambling, had just finished a row on what looked like it might be a scarf meant for a boy heading off to wizarding school.
“Hims ams da oversizzled Peacockles!” scolded Skwisgaar, ineffectively shooing the angel away.
“Do try and get along, boys,” urged Phanuel from across the table, peering at his cards. “I may – or may not – have been dealt my first decent hand of the evening,” he said, casting a grey eye at Pickles, the dealer, who merely grinned half-innocently.
“Hims ams not even playings da cards!” protested Skwisgaar.
“Dood. Toki's bin sittin' dere knittin' all night,” laughed Pickles.
“I ams makings da scarfs for Booms!” Toki said, displaying the colorful garment.
“Uh, Toki, dude,” said Nathan, “isn't that already like 40 or 50 times longer than THE KID.”
“He ams grows up! An' Ganoshes ams told me da scarfs ams da goods accessory for da dancings!” he attested, throwing a long end over a shoulder where it spooled out along the stone floor and nearly took out the eye of a hovering Klokateer.
“Eh, yeah, that Lord of the Dance stuff is a little gay, you'd think he'd stick to the voodoo stuff, because that's pretty cool,” mused a philosophical Nathan, wondering whether a pair of sixes was really worth shit.
“That little cocksucker will do it all!” announced Papa Jacque, pulling on his cigar. “My grandson can do anything!”
“The child in question takes after you, does he Jacque?” smiled Phanuel, who, one suspected, already knew the answer.
“He's a motherfucking chip off the cocksucking block!” attested Jacque.
“I am certain he is a priodigy,” agreed Phanuel, who was rather a doting grandfather himself.
“BOON sat in on DRUMS for us when SOMEONE was being a DOUCHE BAG,” grumbled Nathan, eyeing Pickles.
“Can yoo jest get over dat alreddy,” sighed Pickles, who knew they would probably hold it over his head until the end of the universe. Or at least until someone else fucked up major league. Which they were more than likely to do.
“Ofdenschen was going to make usch employ a drum maschine!” lisped Murderface, stabbing the table with his hunting knife in what one presumes would have been its belly, had it had a belly.
“Gahd,” grumbled Pickles, who threw his cards down and threw his hands up.
“And now Charles ams abandons us too,” sighed Toki. Bert draped a friendly wing around him.
Phanuel stifled a sigh, despairing of playing his hand, and quietly stacked his cards and set them down on the table. “My nephew has not abandoned you. They have rather gone. To seek out. Saa'itii.” He tossed back his shot of rum and held his glass towards Jacque, who happily topped him off.
“Yeah, who is THAT GUY?” asked Nathan.
“It is an old story,” said Phanuel, leaning back to enjoy his liquor. “Older still than me. And I am one of the oldest beings. You ever. Shall know.”
People started to pay attention. Phanuel had a pretty cool voice.
“You know of Our Father. The Creator. But had you ever wondered. From whence He came?”
“I don't usually worry about philosophical shit,” said Nathan, who nevertheless looked interested, as this was more intriguing than his crap hand.
“Yeh, dood, wut wuz dere before Gawd gaht here?” asked Pickles, who did wonder about philosophical shit. Usually when he was stoned out of his mind. But he was usually stoned out of his mind.
“It is said there was. A group. Saa'itii was just one of their number. Greatly powerful. And terrible. They are such, that a human mind cannot think of them, but fall into madness.”
“Ams dat what happens to you, Tokis?” snickered Skwisgaar, who got a glare and a wing ruffle from Bert.
“Wings down, please, Honored Engelbert,” cautioned Phanuel.
“Scho, what did thesche terrible god guysch do all day?” asked Murderface, who could on occasion be philosophical when it involved morbid shit.
“Why, they were musicians. Like you boys.”
“Metal!” said Nathan. “Uh, I mean, I think it was metal. They didn't do trance or anything gay like that, did they? Even though Ganesh dude sings that trance stuff which is OK when he has those sexy backup dancer chicks come out.”
“Music was first. And music. Shall be last,” said Phanuel. “There was music. Long before there were words.”
“Yeah, Lady Raz said something like that once! But I thought she was just bullshitting,” said Nathan.
“Ja, but what ams dis stuff has to do wit' us?” said Skwisgaar, holding his cards away from Bert.
“It is said that there was One amongst them. So great. Even the Old Ones feared him. They dared not speak his name.”
“But, wait, I thought you schaid there waschn't any schpeech yet!” said Murderface, raising his hand.
“WHO is TELLING this STORY?” demanded Phanuel, blade-grey eyes now piercing William Murderface's very soul.
“Ulp,” said Murderface, who suddenly appeared distracted by his knife.
“And this one's name,” continued Phanuel, “a name one dare not speak. Was. AZITOTH.”
Toki gave out a little shriek and Pickles hugged his knees as the room momentarily darkened, thunder crashing in the far distance.
Phanuel smiled thinly over his rum while Jacque tried very hard to stifle a chuckle.
“It is said he sleeps, even now. And while he sleeps. The universe survives. But. Were he to awaken. He would bring with him. The end,” intoned Phanuel.
“Um. Da ends?” asked Skwisgaar.
“The end. Of all.”
“Uh. That would be bad. Because I'm doing shit,” said Nathan. “Like, this weekend.”
“He is ever lulled to sleep. By the sweet music. Of Skarl the Drummer,” Phanuel told them.
There was a moment of silence.
“Wait, a drummer puts him to sleep?” asked Nathan.
“Yesch,” nodded Murderface thoughtfully. “That makesch schensche.”
“What?” asked Nathan.
“You remember the Schong Remainsch the Schame? The drum scholo?” asked the bassist.
“Oh yeah!” said Nathan. “We used to get real stoned and go see a midnight show of that movie, but then they’d do the drum solo part and we’d all go out and get beer or something so we wouldn’t GO CRAZY. So, if this Skarl dude ever wanted to quit, they could just play, uh, a Led Zeppelin movie....”
“That. Is the rumor,” said Phanuel, sipping his rum.
“Uh, what?” asked Nathan, who was lost for the 35th time.
“John Bonhams ams alives?” guessed Toki.
“Keit’ Moon wuz cooler,” maintained Pickles.
“Pffft! Ginger Baker ams kicks dere asses,” scoffed Skwisgaar.
“But dood, Ginger Baker is still alive,” said Pickles.
“I thought you said KEITH MOON was ALIVE?” asked a completely confused Nathan.
“The rumor. That Skarl. Would quit. Drumming,” Phanuel told them.
“Oh,” said Nathan, pausing for a bit to let the gears of his mind, which possibly somewhat wanted for WD40 lubricant, to turn and turn. “Hey, that sounds like a pretty bad thing! Is someone gonna do something about it? Because a big bad scary old guy coming and ending all and everything would totally suck.”
“ESPECIALLY,” said Phanuel. “If I never. Get to play. This hand. GENTLEMEN?” he asked, picking up his cards.
“I folds! I ams dispressed nows!” announced Skwisgaar. “Abouts da universes and philosophicockal stuffs.”
“Hee. You had da bads hands Skwisgaar!” laughed Toki, as a curious Bert had picked up Skwisgaar's hand.
“Pffft,” said Skwisgaar.
Phanuel placed his cards down once again as the Klokateer commonly known as Pie entered the room and leaned over to whisper something in his ear.
“I shall attend to it,” he said. Nodding at Jacque, he stood and exited the room.
“There you go,” said Raziel. “Just lean forward and keep pinching.”
“Isn’t he supposed to lean backwards?” asked Sariel.
“No, it’s forwards.”
“Is he going to die, Raziel?”
Raziel sighed. “Ganesh has a nosebleed, Sariel. You don’t die of a nosebleed!”
“You cad id rare cases!” piped up Ganesh, who was still pinching his nose shut.
“What?” asked Sariel.
“Oh good lords, Sariel,” said Raziel. “Doesn’t your kid ever get a nosebleed?”
“No, never!”
“That’s the trouble with having a perfect kid. Liam gets them all the time,” she said, holding her handkerchief to Ganesh. “He’s even found out it grosses out Abby, so he’ll go drip nose blood on her.”
“Abby will neber be a physiciad,” remarked Ganesh sadly.
“She’s gonna be a corporate lawyer!” insisted Sariel.
“Are you OK to stand up, dear?” Raziel asked Ganesh. “Sariel, my kid is gonna be a crusading photojournalist! Your kid can be a lawyer.”
“I’b OK!” Ganesh insisted as Raziel and Sariel helped him up. He removed his hand from his nose. “I think it stopped bleeding,” he said, checking the handkerchief for bodily fluids.
“Three lawyers in the damn family is too much,” grumbled Sariel, who was still gripping tightly to Ganesh’s arm. “You didn’t kill my husband, did you, Raziel? Because if you did … I’d be mad!”
“I am perfectly fine, I assure you,” Ganesh smiled. “I believe I simply got overexcited,” he said, once again looking around. “This is a new universe? This place seems somehow oddly familiar!”
“That’s what I was saying, before you took a nosedive,” said Sariel.
“Hey, it looks like we have a welcoming committee!” said Raziel.
“Crap!” said Sariel. “You stay back for now, let us deal with this!” he told Ganesh, who for once, did not protest, as he was staring curiously at the oncoming mass of people dressed in dark colors.
“We’re being attacked by a clown troupe?” Raziel whispered to Sariel. The attackers seemed to be all wearing uniforms of some kind, including black half-hoods that covered their faces down to their noses, odd-looking ponchos that partially covered bulky chain mail vests, black bloomers and heavy black boots. All carried old-fashioned heavy weaponry like axes and picks.
They did not look friendly. But as Raziel and Sariel very soon found out, they were also extremely clumsy in the heavy armor and boots.
“Hey, we just wanna talk!” Sariel shouted as he beheaded another one. “Raziel, can you talk to them?”
“I’ve tried English, French, Spanish, Italian, Greek, Russian, Hindi, Chinese, Japanese, Arabic and Swahili,” said Raziel, running a guy through. “And my sword. The sword works. Got any other suggestions?”
Suddenly, Raziel and Sariel looked at each other.
“Was that … trance music?” Sariel looked around. “Ganesh, what the hell-“
“Leave him!” said Raziel, holding out a restraining arm.
Ganesh, seemingly recovered, had jumped up on a rock wall and had started to vamp some dance moves. The attackers all seemed to pause, staring at him. Then Ganesh moved into an amazing Moon Walk, and began to sing.
Be my executioner
Do me great bodily harm
Oh behead me baby
I’d run the gauntlet of your charm
Sariel noticed that the rag-tag army was no longer attacking – that was mainly because they were hurrying to server as backup dancers for Ganesh’s song.
“The Join Us dance? He can do that here?” asked Sariel.
“Evidently!” said Raziel. Sariel nodded, impressed.
Death penalty!
Gas me in your chamber.
Death penalty!
Fire me in your squad.
Death penalty!
Ignore DNA evidence.
Death penalty!
I pay the price for your love....
Ganesh, whose body often seemed to be made of some rubbery substance rather than flesh and bone when he was in the middle of a dance, started executing a complicated series of very fly moves, including some crazy double-jointed high kicks and a series of pelvic thrusts. There were moans and cries as slowly, the backup dancers, who were all wearing heavy chain mail, tangled their feet or bonked into a guy nearby and, one by one, began to fall over.
“This is like being in Texas!” Sariel enthused.
Be my executioner
Slay me with your love bite
Put me in your guillotine
Draw and quarter me tonight
“That's better!” said Ganesh, who had leapt off the rock wall, efficiently knocking down the last two dudes with a well-timed split kick.
“You can use your earth powers here?” asked Sariel.
“I am actually feeling particularly perky,” grinned Ganesh, giving Sariel a saucy wink.
“OK, boys, no time for that now,” said Raziel, punching Sariel in the shoulder.
“Ow,” said Sariel, rubbing his arm.
“Ganesh, I enjoyed your number, and the choreography was stunning, but I was having fun slaying these dudes,” said Raziel.
“Yes. I intervened with a somewhat more benign strategy because we do not yet know if these fellows are truly in opposition to us!” said Ganesh.
“Yeah, I think Ganesh is on to something,” admitted Sariel.
“Whaddya mean?” asked Raziel. “They were trying to kill us with these medieval thingie dealies!” she said, holding up an axe.
“It’s called an axe handle,” explained Sariel.
“You’re an axe handle,” countered Raziel.
“But have you not noticed-” Ganesh began.
“Charlesch?” said an oddly familiar feminine voice.
The three bickering travelers turned, and gawped.
“Is that-?” asked Ganesh.
“WOW!” said Raziel.
“Uh,” said Sariel to the tall, imposing, woman in Victorian dress who had just strode up. “You know Charles, uh, Ma'am?”
“It is Missch! Missch Wilhelmina Murderface,” said the woman, patting her hair which, despite being pinned in a demure bun under a feathered chapeau, was obviously quite frizzy. Irregardless of her gender, her likeness in appearance and manner to Dethklok’s bassist was quite striking.
“I apologische for the mischunderschtanding, asch there is an unmischtakeable reschemblance between yourschelf and our manager of buschinessch affaires, Mr. Charlesch Foschter Ofdenschen,” she told Sariel. “I schee clearly now that you are not he. But, you have me at a dischadvantage, schirrah!”
“Oh, uh, you can call me, uh, Sariel. Mr. Sariel. I'm actually your Charles Ofdensen's … uh, relative.”
“Whoa! Do you think they're all girls here?” Raziel asked Sariel excitedly in High Angelic.
“Well, I'm obviously not,” grumbled Sariel.
“That sucks,” grinned Raziel, gripping his elbow. “We could go shopping!”
“I am not letting another me go shopping with you Raziel,” protested Charles. “We have stuff to do!”
“And thesche perschonages wuold be...?” inquired Miss Murderface, looking both Raziel and Ganesh up and down with a critical eye.
“I'm Lady Raziel, but you can call me Raz! And this is Lord Ganesh.”
“You are a heathen, Lord Ganesch?” inquired Miss Murderface. “You were dansching in a most wanton fashion,” she said, nervously patting her hair.
“Oh, did you like it? I have few new moves,” grinned Ganesh, who was always a bit vain about his dancing. He did a quick spin in place.
“Ulp!” exclaimed Miss Murderface. “I schuppose you would like to ravisch me now,” she said, closing her eyes and unbuttoning her collar.
“Oh, thank you kindly, but no,” Ganesh told her.
Miss Murderface opened her eyes a slit. “Isch thisch becausche of my corpulensche?” she said, patting her stomach, and seemingly strangely a trifle disappointed at this loss of a threat to her honor.
“Oh, no, Miss, but you see I am already married.”
Miss Murderface sternly regarded Raziel. “You are married to thisch wanton?”
“Wanton?” asked Raziel, raising an elegantly plucked eyebrow.
“Oh, no!” laughed Ganesh, slipping an arm around Sariel. “To Sariel.”
“Uh, Ganesh....” said Sariel as Miss Murderface covered her mouth in shock and disdain.
“You, schir, are a … schodomite?” she inquired.
“Well,” said Ganesh, despite several pokes in the ribs from Sariel, “I do rather enjoy sodomy, although I also indulge in oral sex, frottage, and mutual masturbation. But I am always intrigued to hear differing opinions, as I am co-author of the Kama Sutra-”
“GANESH!” said Sariel.
Ganesh looked curiously at Sariel. “Miss Murderface sought a discussion of sexual positions....”
“We should probably table this,” said Sariel, shaking off Ganesh. “Uh, sorry, Miss Murderface, but we're not from around here. We're from, uh, Mesopotamia!”
“Oh, Meschopotamia! Land of the wild Turkmen,” she said, eyeing Ganesh, and looking scandalized but also a bit intrigued.
“Uh, yeah, and we have strange ways. And, uh, we've come all this way, by camelback! Just to meet with my long lost relative, who I've come, uh, to see. By camel….”
Miss Murderface was still staring at Ganesh. “Uh, you wisch that I be your eschcort into the Housche of Inschufferable Violensche, Mischter Schariel?” she asked Sariel.
“Yeah, that would be great! I'll see my old, uh, cousin Charles. Yes, sir,” said Sariel, now gripping Miss Murderface by the elbow.
“You know if your friend Ganesch schtill intendsch to ravisch me, I carry a Derringer, and am prepared to usche it!” she told Sariel.
“Yeah, I think you're OK,” Sariel told her, hustling her off.
“Oh. Well, be aware,” she said, sounding perhaps a trifle disappointed.
“I am not surprised at the dislocation of gender,” Ganesh told Raziel as they followed the other two. “It is intriguing that the time course – technology and social mores – is so out of joint through with our own,” he mused.
“I'm still hoping Charles is a Charlotte or a Charlene!” Raziel brightly told Ganesh.
“I am inevitably intrigued by Sariel's parallel entities,” said Ganesh. “I feel he makes a fascinating human!”
“Parallel Sariels are usually in a better mood too,” mused Raziel.
Anna, who had been beckoned into Charles' office, was surprised to see Phanuel sitting behind the desk.
“Oh. I'm sorry Mr. Phanuel. I mean, Honored Phanuel. I was checking to see whether Charles was back,” she told him.
“I had been wanting an interview with you,” Phanuel told Anna. “Please do sit down,” he told her, politely indicating a chair. “So,” he said, leaning forward and steepling his hands in a manner that was not entirely unlike that of the owner of the desk, “how are you faring, since you have come here?”
“Oh, OK I guess,” said Anna. “Everybody’s been really nice to me, and they’ve found out I can possess people, which is pretty cool.”
“Yes. Chango and Orula witnessed this,” said Jacque. “They were quite impressed.”
“It’s sort of cool having a body back, actually, even though the vampires I possessed were sort of icky. Not everybody can see me like this. In fact, a lot of people can’t see me. I think actually most people can’t see me. And that’s a little frustrating.” Anna looked up at Phanuel. “Uh, I’m not boring you am I?”
“Well, that is something we may work on. Your appearance. I am certain Ganesh has told you he will assist you?”
“Uh, this is probably a stupid question, but Ganesh is a Hindu god, right? But he does your voodoo?”
“Yes, that is a fine question. The child, Elias, is Sariel's son, and Ogoun Sen Jacque's grandson. This makes him Jacque's heir. As Ganesh is a rather avid practitioner of magic, he has elected to assist with the boy's training.”
Anna nodded. She thought back to when she and Nelda used to make up fanciful backgrounds for Mr. Warriner – the name Charles had been using at the time. Even between the two of them, they could never have come up with something like this....
“Phanuel!”
Anna jumped at the booming voice. Her first thought at the appearance of the large being now standing shaking Phanuel's hand was, “Santa Claus.” His beard wasn't white – it was reddish blond – and he wasn't fat, but he just seemed … merry somehow.
“Nana!”
“Oh, hey Boon!” she said. The man was imposing enough she hadn't even noticed the three small children and an even smaller dog swarming at his feet.
“Oh, you're our spirit!” the man announced. “Lord Wotan! Fine to meet you. The wife has said good things about you!”
She shook his hand, which entirely swallowed her small one. Yes, another thing to remember: there really was an Odin and all those other guys.
“This is my son-in-law, Lord Wotan,” said Phanuel.
“Uh, hi Lord Wotan,” said Anna, knowing not what else you were supposed to say to a Norse god.
“And these two little rascals are mine!” said Wotan indicating the small children standing beside him. “Liam, I've told you it ain't polite to point.” Two pairs of sky blue eyes – an exact match for their father – peered up curiously at her. It was a little dark haired girl and a little redheaded boy, the latter of whom was hurriedly lowering his chubby finger upon his father's command. “That's Liam, and that's Abby.”
“Oh, she looks a lot like your wife!” said Anna. Still unspeaking, but smiling at mention of her mother, the dark-haired little girl suddenly brought out a doll. “Oh, Pretty Pretty Princess. God, I had all of these when I was your age,” Anna said, sitting down on the floor, her back to the chair, to be at eye level.
“Pwincess go an shop and pwetty an kill da owcs!” said Abby, suddenly bringing out a small, doll sized sword.
“Oh, uh, yeah, that's what I used to do. Kind of,” said Anna. But the little redhead was suddenly holding out a reading book. Funny, now that Anna thought of it, she hadn't really remembered either kid having anything in their hands when they came in.
“Bahawwa!” explained Abby as all three kids watched her take the book. Anna turned it over. The cover shot was a gorgeous castle in the middle of the woods.
“Oh, yeah, you guys live in Valhalla, don't you?” mused Anna. Wotan has rugrats, and they all live in Valhalla and play with Pretty Princess dolls she thought, opening the book. She was surprised at the first picture. “Oh. Uh. That's you, isn't it?”
“Uh-huh,” whispered Liam, who was evidently the shy one of the bunch. “Wooves!” he said, pointing at the animals romping with Liam and Abby in the picture.
“Derri an' Fweki!” corrected his sister.
“An' Geera!” put in Elias, who was now perched up on the chair in back of her. He pointed to something that looked a lot like a white tiger.
“Uh, you guys have a tiger?”
“UH-HUH!” they all answered in chorus.
“Anna, dear,” said Phanuel, who had been talking quietly with Wotan. “I really do not wish to impose, but could I implore you to read with the children for a moment or two longer. We have, er, matters.”
“Oh, no problem!” sang Anna. “I like kids!” she said. And she had to admit, it was cool being able to talk to someone who wasn't Skwisgaar.
“That's a special book,” Wotan chuckled. “Gifted to us by an old friend.”
“Really?” asked Anna as Phanuel and Wotan slipped into the next room, evidently to confer with the muscular receptionist guy. She turned another page and stopped short.
“Nana!” announced Boon.
On the page was a picture of Anna, sitting here on the floor in front of Charles’ desk, book opened on her lap, the three kids gathered around watching her read.
“This is some book,” she said.
“Who are these … bohemians?” demanded Mr. Charles Foster Ofdensen, nervously adjusting his cravat. “Miss Murderface, I must protest! Our ensemble will suffer yet more approbation of the public if you insist on consorting with these disreputable sorts!”
Sariel felt like he had walked into a dream. Or possibly a nightmare. The House of Insufferable Violence looked more like a genuine medieval castle than Mordhaus, perhaps (Ganesh guessed) due to the limitations of this universe’s technology. These guys had a moat – a moat! Sariel was silently glad that he had taken Ganesh (despite the bloody nose) and Raziel (despite being … well, Raziel) along instead of the boys. He couldn’t imagine having to reason with them why you wouldn’t need a moat (with what looked like some kind of horrible tentacled sea monsters writing within) when your whole fucking estate was a couple miles up above the ground. It was sort of cool, he had to admit. OK,it was very cool. But still….
This place had something else Mordhaus lacked – a dark authenticity. It was grimy and drafty and poorly lit not due to some sophisticated design courtesy scientists with glossolalia, but because of gas lamps and coal fires.
Sariel was somewhat accustomed to seeing the funhouse reflection versions of yourself who unhappily populated alternate universes. But he suspected Ganesh was on to something when the god remarked on the relatively primitive technology and corresponding social mores. Things were usually more or less in sync, sometimes off by a decade or so. Landing in the wrong century: that was weird.
He tried to quiet his mind and reply to the small, officious fellow sitting behind the desk, peering out of the darkness at them. “Uh, Mr. Ofdensen, I'm actually a distant relative of yours, and … Raziel, don't POKE him!”
“But he's so CUUUTE!” said Raziel, who, fortunately for a discomfited Mr. Ofdensen, was using a finger rather than a sword for probing purposes. “Is he human?” she asked as he irritably jerked his arm out of poking distance.
“He is most definitely human,” Ganesh told her.
“Young lady!” huffed Mr. Ofdensen, placig a gloved hand over his eyes. “Do you always go gallivanting about with your limbs on display like that!”
“I have great legs!” sassed Raziel, hand on hip. “Boy, you Sariel's are all alike!” she scolded a baffled Mr. Ofdensen.
“Look, Mr. Ofdensen, this is actually kind of important,” Sariel tried. “We are attempting to locate someone – an important someone – and we have information that you might know his whereabouts, or at least know how to find him.”
“Who might this personage be?” inquired Mr. Ofdensen, as Ganesh helpfully yanked a protesting Raziel back to a more appropriate distance.
“He’s called Saa'itii.” said Sariel. Mr. Ofdensen was silent, but Sariel noticed the color – what color there was – had drained from his face. “Uh, he sometimes goes by-”
“Charles. DOOOOD!”
“Mr. Pickles. Mr. Explosion,” grumbled Mr. Ofdensen, who immediately turned his attention, with a visible measure of relief, to the musicians. “Might I kindly remind you I have at my employ a secretary in charge of my calendar,” he said, wiping some sweat off his forehead with an embroidered handkerchief.
“We wanted to see our manager of business affaires, Ofdensen,” explained Nathan. “Because, in case, you know, we wanna have affairs. Good day, uh, attractive lady person. I'm Mr. Nathan Explosion by the way,” he said, doffing his hat to Raziel.
“Are you partaking of opium again, Mr. Pickles,” scolded Mr. Ofdensen.
“Jest a taste,” grinned the drummer, handing off a suspicious looking cigarette to Mr. Ofdensen, who quite eagerly grasped it and inhaled. “Hey, yoo ain't from around here, are yoo?” he asked of the visitors.
“May I preschent Mischter Schariel: Lord Ganesh, who isch a heathen; and the the Lady Razschiel, all reschently from Meschopotamia,” said Miss Murderface, who was scowling disapprovingly at Mr. Pickles.
“Oh, are you one of those suffragette type of people Lady Raziel?” asked Nathan, eyeing her up and down. “Because I think I need to more carefully consider my views regarding votes for females especially if you'll all start dressing like this.”
“Suffragette?” asked Raziel. “Is she a designer? This is Stella!”
“Schuffragettesch believe women schould be granted the right vote, Missch Razschiel,” Miss Murderface informed her.
“Yeh. Trouble makers,” sneered Mr. Pickles.
“Oh, I’m registered to vote in Liechtenstein! For tax purposes,” explained Raziel.
“They have women’sch rightsch in Liechtenschtien?” inquired Miss Murderface.
“Remind me never t’ go dere,” laughed Mr. Pickles.
“Hey that’s my ass!” barked Mr. Explosion, as one of a now slightly sloppy Mr. Ofdensen’s hands had strayed to his posterior. “I wish you wouldn’t feed Ofdensen this stuff, Pickles,” Mr. Explosion told Mr. Pickles as he stepped beyond groping distance.
“Aw, look at him, he likes it,” smiled Pickles.
Mr. Ofdensen smiled. He suddenly let out a small sigh and collapsed, face down, on his desk, hand-rolled cigarette still clutched in his hand. Ganesh rushed to his side. “Is he OK?” Sariel asked.
“Aw, he does dat,” shrugged Pickles. “Sumtimes.”
“He's been drugged,” said Ganesh, who had now picked up Mr. Ofdensen in his arms and was carrying him over to one of the overstuffed divans.
“Well, no fucking kidding,” grumbled Sariel, who picked up the discarded smoke and smelled it. He coughed. Just the smell made his eyes sting.
“What exactly was in that cigarette, Mr. Pickles?” asked Ganesh, who was opening Mr. Ofdensen’s collar.
“Aw, nuttin' special. Dood cud never hold his dope,” laughed Pickles.
“We needed to talk to him,” complained Sariel.
“Why don't yoo talk t' me?” asked Pickles. “I'm gud t' talk to. Nat’an?”
“What?” asked the singer distractedly, as he was rather obviously trying to peer down Raziel’s top.
Pickles suddenly grabbed Nathan and pushed him into Mr. Ofdensen's chair. The singer’s eyes seemed to unfocus. Then Pickles hopped up in Nathan's lap, where Nathan obediently wrapped his arms around him.
“Wow, I guess there are other things different in this universe!” said Raziel as Sariel gawped.
“Seems t' me it might be nice if yoo doods left da House o' Insufferable Violence right now, so I don't gotta call in da Brudderhood o' da Timepiece doods t' t'row yer asses out,” grinned Pickles, reaching back to put a hand through Nathan’s hair.
“The guys dressed like clowns? We already met!” said Raziel.
“The Brotherhood is, schadly, moschtly unconschious in the courtyard at the preschent time, Mr. Picklesch,” said Miss Murderface.
“Uh, wut?” said Pickles.
“Ganesh invited them to dance,” said Raziel, narrowing her dark eyes. “And they didn't know the steps.”
“An’ who eggsactly are yoo?” demanded Pickles, staring at Sariel. There was something dark behind the green eyes.
“It doesn't matter,” said Sariel. “We came here seeking information. We wanna know the whereabouts of someone named Saa'itii. He also goes by the Hogfather.”
“Da Hogfather?” laughed Pickles. “Do yoo jokers come frum Mesopotamia or Old MacDonald's Farm?”
Nathan chuckled. “Yeah, they’re douche bags or something.”
“Just cooperate,” said Sariel, his face getting its own dark look, “and we'll leave.”
“I ain't feelin' particularly cooperative,” said Pickles.
“How about this,” said Ganesh, coming to stand before the desk. “How about you cease this nonsense now and tell us what you are really up to … Skarl?”
It happened in the blink of an eye: Pickles was up over the desk, arm around Ganesh, dagger at the god’s neck.
“Whatta douche,” sighed Raziel.
Anna had lost track of time. First Abby had insisted on a Pretty Pretty Princess story, so she had read a tale of how the doll had gone shopping for fashionable clothes (all pink and sparkly of course) and then stabbed some demons.
And then they read a meandering story about another band that seemed to be Dethklok. The egotistical lead guitarist, who bore a distinct resemblance to Skwisgaar, kept falling down a lot and having buckets of mud and other such things dropped on him.
Next there had been a demand for a pirate tale, so they were in the middle of reading a story about a wily pirate (who looked a lot like Papa Jacque) versus a horrible giant squid and then some other pirates who reminded her of some band she couldn’t quite bring to mind.
Anna was quite enjoying it. All of the stories, of course, were contained in the same book, which was sort of like the world’s coolest iPad thingie. It looked like a bound book, but the pictures seemed to change on demand. There weren’t any words – she was beginning to think this might be because the kids couldn’t spell yet – but they seemed to enjoy the stories she had been making up. Anna didn’t mind acting out stuff or doing voices.
But the coolest part was, she thought, maybe coming directly from the kids. It had first happened in the middle of this latest tale. The boys were giggling, but she hadn’t done a funny voice, so she had looked up to see, to her surprise, a ghostly pirate ship drifting through Charles’ office. And then Abby had scolded, “No maddick, Weem!” and the ship had disappeared to more giggles.
She had remarked, “That was sort of cool,” and then went back to the book. And then there was another ship, she suspected from Boon. And then two were battling, and then it appeared that Abby, despite being a little bit of a tattle tale, had whipped up a kraken.
They had cringed at the sound of cannon fire, and all screamed as the evil kraken tried to drag the ship down. But fortunately there was a big pie fight, and this seemed to drive the monster away.
Anna now glanced up as the sky darkened outside, wondering if the kids were doing it as well. Was it really getting that late? She thought back. Phanuel had said he was only going to chat for a minute. She thought of going to the reception area and asking the hunky guy if he knew where they’d gotten to. The kids were a lot of fun, but she was getting a little hungry, and Ganesh had left her with strict instructions to keep up her blood sugar.
She returned her attentions to the book. She turned the page. And once again was taken aback by what she saw.
She looked around at the kids, and noticed Boon’s little dog had gone to sniff at one of the windows. Curious, she got up as well and went to the window.
“Sariel, dood! Yoo gaht yerself a smart little eart' gawd.”
Skarl/Pickles pulled Ganesh down, grinning and running the knife down his chest. “Yoo might be a tasty snack, eart’ gawd,” he said, licking his lips.
“Oh for-” said Ganesh. “Raziel!”
And it was quicker than a wink. Pickles – or Skarl, or whatever he was – was now down on the floor, Raziel on top of him, her sword on his neck.
“Hey I'm Raz!” she announced. She leaned in closer. “The Goddess's daughter.”
“Da Goddess! NO!” screamed Pickles, squirming uselessly under her.
“And … I've inherited her unpredictability, plus her bad temper! Hey, you're not looking up my skirt, are you?”
“I rather doubt it,” chuckled Ganesh.
“Why do you have to wear a skirt that fucking short anyway, Raziel?” groused Sariel.
“This is Stella McCartney!”
“But your limbsch are schowing,” protested a scandalized Miss Murderface. “In a moscht schandalousch manner!”
“I have great legs,” protested Raziel. “Wotan likes my skirts short.”
“An…. An…. Yoo doods are gonna let dis chick do yer fightin for yoo?” asked Pickles.
“Yeah, I’m fine with it,” shrugged Sariel.
“I am comfortable in my masculinity,” Ganesh told him.
“Besides, she could beat us up. Even in those heels,” said Sariel.
“So you admit that you are indeed Skarl?” asked Ganesh.
“Yeh, dood, yoo cawt me.”
“What the hell are you doing here? And where the fuck is the real Pickles?” asked Sariel.
“I gaht bored. Can yoo blame me? Azatot’ wants t’ do da same freakin’ bullshit every year. I ain’t da kinda guy who’s sweatin’ to da oldies, if yoo git mah drift.”
“Oh no. You didn’t leave Pickles in your place, did you?” Ganesh asked.
“Hey, he agreed t’ it!”
Ganesh looked at Sariel. “Bad?” mouthed Sariel. Ganesh nodded.
“Why do yoo doods care about dis shit anyway?” asked Pickles. “Hey, quit pokin’ me, gawdess daughter dood!”
“Keep your neck away from my sword,” answered Raziel.
“We’ve intelligence that Azitoth intends to make a move against another universe. Our universe,” Sariel told him.
“Yer yooniverse? Huh. Well, I ain’t heard nuttin’ about dat. If she’s da gawdess’s daughter, den yoo doods are from da Creator’s part o’ da world, ain’t yoo?”
“Yes, we are,” Sariel told him.
“I dunno den. Saa’itii might know, but I ain’t sure whether he’d tell da likes o’ yoo,” Pickles grinned.
“We could convey you.” All in the room turned to the sound of Mr. Ofdensen’s voice. He was sitting up, though he looked pale. “To Saa’itii. His whereabouts are known to us.” Pickles glared at him.
“That sounds like the best course,” said Ganesh. “Though if we are to travel in this universe, I might recommend changing to something, er, a bit more fashionable,” he said, holding his own lapel. “We don’t want to attract any more attention than is absolutely necessary.”
“There are probably suitable garments on the premises,” said Mr. Ofdensen. “You look to be more or less the same size as our Mr. Skwisgaar, Mr. Ganesh.
“I would have more schuitable rainment for Missch Razschiel in my armoire,” offered Miss Murderface.
“I’d look like I was wearing a tent!” protested Raziel, to a glare from Miss Murderface.
“Come on, Raziel….” urged Sariel.
“I’m not going anywhere if I can’t look cute!” insisted the little angel.
“Our Mr. Wartooth is quite clever with the tailoring scissors, Miss Raziel,” offered Mr. Ofdensen.
“No way! Your Toki sews? OK, we’ll give that a try.” She wrested Pickles up by the scruff of the neck. He gave a little cry.
Mr. Ofdensen, who was still sitting on the couch where Ganesh had put him, moaned and put his head in his hands.
“Why don't you go take care of yourself?” Raziel told Sariel.
Sariel regarded his alter ego. “So in this universe, I'm a loser.”
“Very similar to our own universe!” grinned Raziel, to a glare from Sariel. Raziel caught Sariel's arm and whispered in his ear, “Come on, help him out.” And then she was off with Miss Murderface, dragging a reluctant Pickles along.
“Come along, Nathan, you can show me to Skwisgaar’s room,” said Ganesh.
“Oh,” said Nathan, who seemed oddly as if he were waking up from a trance. “Uh, can’t I go with the cute chick too?”
“Why don’t you come with me now, and we may chat with Raziel later.”
“Oh, OK. She had a nice bosom,” muttered Nathan.
Sariel smiled after Nathan. He looked at Mr. Ofdensen and thought for a moment. He leaned down. Ganesh had loosened some of the innumerable layers of clothing around Mr. Ofdensen's neck, so he popped a few more buttons on the unprotesting manager and lifted the shirt. As he had suspected: ribs jutting out everywhere.
“I do apologize,” Mr. Ofdensen whispered as Sariel helped him to stand up. “I was quite overcome.”
“Rule number one with these guys; be careful of Pickles' special blend,” Sariel told him.
“Do you consort with musicians, Mr. Sariel?” asked Mr. Ofdensen.
“Just Sariel is fine. I’m not one for honorifics. And, yeah, I have my own bunch back home. Can you walk?”
“I believe I am capable of perambulation,” Mr. Ofdensen told him, though he put an arm around Sariel's shoulders.
“Uh, you just need to walk, actually.”
“Shall we proceed to my chambers?” asked Mr. Ofdensen. “I believe you shall find some suitable garments there.”
Sariel frowned, wondering exactly how much of the previous conversation Mr. Ofdensen had caught. “No, show me to your kitchen first.”
Mr. Ofdensen began leading Sariel down a somehow familiar corridor. “Oh, I apologize. I should have offered.”
“Not me, you. When I get stressed I stop eating. Which means you stop eating. And I assume it’s been more stressful than usual with a masquerading Elder god as your drummer.”
“Mr. Pickles has been acting more erratic of late, now that you make mention of it. Ah, here we are. Chef de Cuisine Jean-Pierre is from the Continent, but he is a good lad.”
Charles helped Mr. Ofdensen into a seat at the ornate dining room table, and then sat down next to him, not quite knowing what to expect. Was this chef sewn back together wrong? He flinched as he heard the heavy treads. He turned and stared in wonder at the mechanical man who was now marching up to them.
The robotic man, whose head was crowned with a high golden chef’s hat, reached out and pulled what seemed to be a gear shift, slowing himself down. And then, with a release of steam from vents in his chef hat, he ground to a halt.
Mr. Ofdensen leaned over and whispered, “He had an unfortunate occurrence with one of our Malevolent Gyro-copter flying devices. Kindly do not mention this circumstance.”
“Uh, no,” Sariel whispered back. “Uh, Chef Jean-Pierre, do you have any pie?”
“Why of course I have pie!” came a weirdly human, French-accented voice. “I have every sort of pie for my beloved masters. Will you have a slice?”
“No, bring a whole pie. And two plates.”
“I do not indulge in sweets,” protested Mr. Ofdensen.
“Trust me,” said Sariel. “Let’s see. And some steak sandwiches maybe?” He rubbed his own stomach. Yes, that sounded good.
“And, uh, some port wine?” suggested Mr. Ofdensen.
“No. Two black coffees,” said Sariel, glaring at Mr. Ofdensen, whose eyes were red-rimmed. Mr. Ofdensen nodded his reluctant assent. Jean-Pierre made a clinking, clanking bow and, with a crank of the gearshift, marched off. The two were soon surrounded by more men dressed like their attackers outside the castle.
“The Brotherhood of the Timepiece,” said Mr. Ofdensen, brushing some pie crumbs from his chin.
“Aren’t those uniforms a little heavy?” asked Sariel.
“I would tend to agree. But my boys most were insistent upon this dire appearance.”
“You can indulge them too much. Believe me, I know,” said Charles, grabbing another steak sandwich. “Someone has to tell them “no.” That’s what you’re here for.”
“I do feel I have been remiss in my duties of late,” admitted Mr. Ofdensen, who looked a bit abashed as he stuffed his mouth with more Dutch apple pie.
“Pickles … isn’t exactly what he appears to be.”
“And neither are you, are you, Mr. Sariel?”
So I’m not a complete idiot in this universe, Sariel thought. Don’t underestimate yourself.
“OK. We’re not from Mesopotamia,” admitted Sariel.
“If you will forgive me, I meant that, like your companions Lord Ganesh and Lady Raziel, you are not yourself human.”
“No,” said Sariel, wondering, how much can I trust myself? “I’m something else.”
“Sadly, and unlike the members of the ensemble of which I feign management, I am myself a mere mortal. Perhaps this is why the task has overmatched me.”
“I don’t think you’re overmatched,” said Sariel, not entirely certain why the words had come out of his mouth. “I’m going to give you more unsolicited advice. “The guys in your band – you’re there for them. Not the reverse. They’re not gonna tell you you need to eat or sleep or not get fucked up on drugs. That’s not how it works. Raziel and Ganesh, they’re my friends. They tell me stuff: sometimes stuff I don’t wanna hear. You need someone like that. Or you’re not gonna make it. Believe me, I know.”
“That is sound advice, Mr. Sariel. It is true, I haven’t a confidante here. My family has not surprisingly disowned me upon the commencement of this most non-Christian of enterprises.”
“Oh, here you are, stuffing your face, and your other face!” laughed Raziel, who entered holding a fuming Pickles by the scruff of his neck.
“Wait, you’re ready?” asked Sariel, who expected Raziel to indulge several hours in assembling a new outfit.
“Their Toki is fabulous!” she announced, twirling around. She did indeed look fashionable, although she was wearing several yards more of fabric than Sariel had ever seen her in. “Can we steal him?”
“No.”
“Miss Murderface?” asked Mr. Ofdensen. Sariel turned his attention to the bassist, and blinked in surprise. She looked … well, she looked decent.
“We did a little work on her hair and makeup. I couldn’t resist,” grinned Raziel.
“You are looking … most approachable, if I might be so bold, Miss Murderface,” commented Mr. Ofdensen. Sariel grinned and nodded. That was a good way of putting it.
“Mr. Ofdenschen, you flatter me,” demurred Miss Murderface, fluttering actual eyelashes.
Sariel cringed, hoping to gods he wasn’t seeing what he thought he was seeing.
“We are ready as well,” said Ganesh, who entered looking, of course, insufferably chic.
“I quite lost track of time,” apologized Mr. Ofdensen. “Thank you for the conversation, Sariel. You are an honorable man. Please now accompany me to my chambers, and we will see if we can outfit you too in an appropriate manner.”
“Oooo! Can I help?” asked Raziel.
“No,” said Sariel.
“Why he ams drags dat angel dudes around wit’ him? Hims ams crazies in da head places!”
Pickles poked at the French toast he had loaded on his plate and sighed. He had spent the past week since his return like this, listening as, one by one, every member of the band had detailed to him how every other member of the band was basically annoying the fuck out of them.
Which was annoying the fuck out of him. He had bitched to Charles about it, and Charles had gone into his usual “I can’t hear you,” mode. And Ganesh had launched into some complicated bullshit about the dynamics of the band, which basically boiled down to asking him to just cool it.
Why had he come back to be with these dumb douches?
He did a very uncharacteristic thing and actually checked the clock. Phanuel had stepped out of their game for a moment, but it seemed like hours now. And then Jacque had split as well. It seemed rude, here Charles had dragged his sorry ass back here and then the very first thing the evil bastard did was grab his husband and split. Why didn’t they at least take him along on an adventure? He was a good adventurer! He had saved their fucking godly asses before. Did they not trust him any more?
“Looks at hims, rattlsings da wingses!” raved Skwisgaar.
“Who?” grumped Pickles. But then he stared. Bert looked more agitated than usual. He was rushing over to the window, along with Toki.
He tossed the plate with the soggy French toast down on the table and went over to the window to see what the hell Bert was pointing at.
“Wut da feck?”
Sariel had threatened Raziel upon pain of death to quit fussing over him, so she relented, for a time. He had to admit, now that he was outfitted in one of Mr. Ofdensen’s suits (Mr. Ofdensen had apologized profusely that it was an older outfit, one that he had not bothered to have Mr. Wartooth take in after his recent weight loss), the resemblance was unmistakable. Mr. Ofdensen was thinner (to the point of seeming frail) and kept his hair neatly parted in the middle, as was evidently the fashion. And he wore smaller but thicker spectacles, the lenses fashioned of real glass.
But Sariel recognized the green of his own Court Formed eyes behind the distorting glass. Now that Pickles’ dope had worn off they bespoke of a keen intelligence.
Sariel sat now with Mr. Ofdensen in a comfortable seat inside their Fantastickal Airship of Murderous Design while some shirtless Brotherhood of the Timepiece types stoked the coal fire. It was a dirigible, much smaller than Pickles’ ship, but large enough to transport the band and several attendants.
“One thing I don’t understand,” Sariel told Mr. Ofdensen. “Uh, I’m not exactly a trusting person. I suspect you’re the same. Why are you helping us?”
Mr. Ofdensen smiled thinly and inclined his head. “You are correct that I do not easily grant my trust. You should agree, however, that we presently have in common certain motivations. My ensemble consists – and has always consisted – of five persons, all of distinct personality and temperament, all parts essential to the whole.”
“Yeah, I know. Believe me, I know.”
“Then you will see that it is essential that I seek a resolution to Mr. Pickles’, uh, present situation. And from what I have observed, you and your traveling companions possess certain talents which may prove profitable on our adventure. We have several of the Brotherhood resting in the infirmary – not to mention the morgue – as a result of your actions.”
“Oh. Uh. Sorry about that,” said Sariel, now pulling at his own cravat. “You know, uh, I know this won’t make up for your Kloka- I mean, your Brotherhood guys. But we might have some suggestions about the uniform? Lady Raziel is sort of a nut about clothing.”
“You are an honorable man, sir,” nodded Mr. Ofdensen.
“That’s … a matter of debate,” sighed Sariel, rising. He nodded and walked towards the front of the ship, where he found Ganesh standing alone, looking thoughtful.
“Sariel. I can’t help but think Saa’itii has gravely altered this universe somehow, for his own purposes.”
“He’s a fan of Victorian crap maybe?” cracked Sariel, pulling at the cravat again.
Ganesh smiled and started to readjust Sariel’s neckwear. “Did you perhaps note his reaction to Raziel?”
“Hey, that’s everybody’s reaction to Raziel….”
“Specifically, to mention of the Goddess?”
Sariel considered as Ganesh retied his tie. “Yeah, he seemed shit scared of her.”
“I have been conversing with Miss Murderface. The social position of women in this society is … regrettable.”
“The Hogfather is afraid of women? Huh. Maybe why they call ‘em pigs.”
“But is there something else?” asked Ganesh.
“Ganesh, I got a bad feeling. About back home. Something happening there.”
“I cannot lie to you. Your intuitions are generally valid. However,” Ganesh continued as Sariel tried to speak, “kindly remember we left things in the care of your father, and Lady Raziel’s. They are both highly capable beings.”
“Capable? Yeah, but so are our enemies.”
As it happened, a universe away, the two beings in question, Ogoun Sen Jacque and Phanuel the Grey, now walked together, shoulder to shoulder, into the courtyard at Mordhaus. The sky was darkened, but neither from inclement weather nor from the late hour.
“That’s a lot of motherfucking angels,” commented Jacque, giving a low whistle.
“Oh, do you think so, Jacque?” answered Phanuel, calmly scanning the skies.
“I’ve seen a lot in my time,” said the Ifa,”but this is one fuckload of angel bastards.”
Phanuel regarded the legions of winged warriors who now hovered in the skies over Mordhaus. “I have, in my time, commanded similar ranks,” he told Jacque.
“You were one cocksucking big cheese in the Legion, weren’t ya?”
“That I was,” agreed Phanuel.
There was a large, True Formed Seraph standing opposite of them, surrounded by many attendants. As did all Seraphim, he had three sets of wings: two which migh cover his face, two on his feet, and a pair – the largest and most fearsome – of flight wings which attached between the shoulder blades.
But he was missing one of his flight wings.
“Well, you suppose we gotta talk to the big asshole?” puffed Jacque.
“If I am ever to get back to my card game, I suppose so,” sighed Phanuel.
And so they walked on.
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sariel, Raz and Ganesh go visiting while the boys play cards
Warnings: Cravat-wearing, tiki’s Bollywood addiction again
Notes: Notes after the jump.
And here, for no apparent reason, other than I am in a bad mood, is a video of Hrithik Roshan dancing:
Mythklok: doctor-recommended, kid approved!
Soooo, last time: Ganesh and Raziel had some fun in Italy that didn’t involve a runway show, we managed to relocate a missing drummer, and Charles decided go to on a pig hunt.
And just one additional note: in order to keep myself from going completely bonkers, I’m referring to the Charles character in my main universe as “Sariel” throughout this story. You’ll soon see why.
“Why ams dat guy gots to peeks at my cards?”
“I'm Bert!” the colorful angel helpfully told Skwisgaar as he perched up on the chair next to him and leaned in just a bit too close to the Swede.
The smoke-filled room was filled with male beings: gods and demons and angels and lord knows what else. And, as male beings of any stripe are wont to do, they were imbibing freely of liquor, tobacco and a few stronger substances, snacking on anything that could be grabbed in one paw without messing the fan of cards in your other hand, and they – or at least most of them – were gambling, because that is a fine thing for men to do.
“Hims ams my cool angel pals!” attested Toki, sitting on Bert’s other side. Toki, who actually, and like Engelbert the angel, was not gambling, had just finished a row on what looked like it might be a scarf meant for a boy heading off to wizarding school.
“Hims ams da oversizzled Peacockles!” scolded Skwisgaar, ineffectively shooing the angel away.
“Do try and get along, boys,” urged Phanuel from across the table, peering at his cards. “I may – or may not – have been dealt my first decent hand of the evening,” he said, casting a grey eye at Pickles, the dealer, who merely grinned half-innocently.
“Hims ams not even playings da cards!” protested Skwisgaar.
“Dood. Toki's bin sittin' dere knittin' all night,” laughed Pickles.
“I ams makings da scarfs for Booms!” Toki said, displaying the colorful garment.
“Uh, Toki, dude,” said Nathan, “isn't that already like 40 or 50 times longer than THE KID.”
“He ams grows up! An' Ganoshes ams told me da scarfs ams da goods accessory for da dancings!” he attested, throwing a long end over a shoulder where it spooled out along the stone floor and nearly took out the eye of a hovering Klokateer.
“Eh, yeah, that Lord of the Dance stuff is a little gay, you'd think he'd stick to the voodoo stuff, because that's pretty cool,” mused a philosophical Nathan, wondering whether a pair of sixes was really worth shit.
“That little cocksucker will do it all!” announced Papa Jacque, pulling on his cigar. “My grandson can do anything!”
“The child in question takes after you, does he Jacque?” smiled Phanuel, who, one suspected, already knew the answer.
“He's a motherfucking chip off the cocksucking block!” attested Jacque.
“I am certain he is a priodigy,” agreed Phanuel, who was rather a doting grandfather himself.
“BOON sat in on DRUMS for us when SOMEONE was being a DOUCHE BAG,” grumbled Nathan, eyeing Pickles.
“Can yoo jest get over dat alreddy,” sighed Pickles, who knew they would probably hold it over his head until the end of the universe. Or at least until someone else fucked up major league. Which they were more than likely to do.
“Ofdenschen was going to make usch employ a drum maschine!” lisped Murderface, stabbing the table with his hunting knife in what one presumes would have been its belly, had it had a belly.
“Gahd,” grumbled Pickles, who threw his cards down and threw his hands up.
“And now Charles ams abandons us too,” sighed Toki. Bert draped a friendly wing around him.
Phanuel stifled a sigh, despairing of playing his hand, and quietly stacked his cards and set them down on the table. “My nephew has not abandoned you. They have rather gone. To seek out. Saa'itii.” He tossed back his shot of rum and held his glass towards Jacque, who happily topped him off.
“Yeah, who is THAT GUY?” asked Nathan.
“It is an old story,” said Phanuel, leaning back to enjoy his liquor. “Older still than me. And I am one of the oldest beings. You ever. Shall know.”
People started to pay attention. Phanuel had a pretty cool voice.
“You know of Our Father. The Creator. But had you ever wondered. From whence He came?”
“I don't usually worry about philosophical shit,” said Nathan, who nevertheless looked interested, as this was more intriguing than his crap hand.
“Yeh, dood, wut wuz dere before Gawd gaht here?” asked Pickles, who did wonder about philosophical shit. Usually when he was stoned out of his mind. But he was usually stoned out of his mind.
“It is said there was. A group. Saa'itii was just one of their number. Greatly powerful. And terrible. They are such, that a human mind cannot think of them, but fall into madness.”
“Ams dat what happens to you, Tokis?” snickered Skwisgaar, who got a glare and a wing ruffle from Bert.
“Wings down, please, Honored Engelbert,” cautioned Phanuel.
“Scho, what did thesche terrible god guysch do all day?” asked Murderface, who could on occasion be philosophical when it involved morbid shit.
“Why, they were musicians. Like you boys.”
“Metal!” said Nathan. “Uh, I mean, I think it was metal. They didn't do trance or anything gay like that, did they? Even though Ganesh dude sings that trance stuff which is OK when he has those sexy backup dancer chicks come out.”
“Music was first. And music. Shall be last,” said Phanuel. “There was music. Long before there were words.”
“Yeah, Lady Raz said something like that once! But I thought she was just bullshitting,” said Nathan.
“Ja, but what ams dis stuff has to do wit' us?” said Skwisgaar, holding his cards away from Bert.
“It is said that there was One amongst them. So great. Even the Old Ones feared him. They dared not speak his name.”
“But, wait, I thought you schaid there waschn't any schpeech yet!” said Murderface, raising his hand.
“WHO is TELLING this STORY?” demanded Phanuel, blade-grey eyes now piercing William Murderface's very soul.
“Ulp,” said Murderface, who suddenly appeared distracted by his knife.
“And this one's name,” continued Phanuel, “a name one dare not speak. Was. AZITOTH.”
Toki gave out a little shriek and Pickles hugged his knees as the room momentarily darkened, thunder crashing in the far distance.
Phanuel smiled thinly over his rum while Jacque tried very hard to stifle a chuckle.
“It is said he sleeps, even now. And while he sleeps. The universe survives. But. Were he to awaken. He would bring with him. The end,” intoned Phanuel.
“Um. Da ends?” asked Skwisgaar.
“The end. Of all.”
“Uh. That would be bad. Because I'm doing shit,” said Nathan. “Like, this weekend.”
“He is ever lulled to sleep. By the sweet music. Of Skarl the Drummer,” Phanuel told them.
There was a moment of silence.
“Wait, a drummer puts him to sleep?” asked Nathan.
“Yesch,” nodded Murderface thoughtfully. “That makesch schensche.”
“What?” asked Nathan.
“You remember the Schong Remainsch the Schame? The drum scholo?” asked the bassist.
“Oh yeah!” said Nathan. “We used to get real stoned and go see a midnight show of that movie, but then they’d do the drum solo part and we’d all go out and get beer or something so we wouldn’t GO CRAZY. So, if this Skarl dude ever wanted to quit, they could just play, uh, a Led Zeppelin movie....”
“That. Is the rumor,” said Phanuel, sipping his rum.
“Uh, what?” asked Nathan, who was lost for the 35th time.
“John Bonhams ams alives?” guessed Toki.
“Keit’ Moon wuz cooler,” maintained Pickles.
“Pffft! Ginger Baker ams kicks dere asses,” scoffed Skwisgaar.
“But dood, Ginger Baker is still alive,” said Pickles.
“I thought you said KEITH MOON was ALIVE?” asked a completely confused Nathan.
“The rumor. That Skarl. Would quit. Drumming,” Phanuel told them.
“Oh,” said Nathan, pausing for a bit to let the gears of his mind, which possibly somewhat wanted for WD40 lubricant, to turn and turn. “Hey, that sounds like a pretty bad thing! Is someone gonna do something about it? Because a big bad scary old guy coming and ending all and everything would totally suck.”
“ESPECIALLY,” said Phanuel. “If I never. Get to play. This hand. GENTLEMEN?” he asked, picking up his cards.
“I folds! I ams dispressed nows!” announced Skwisgaar. “Abouts da universes and philosophicockal stuffs.”
“Hee. You had da bads hands Skwisgaar!” laughed Toki, as a curious Bert had picked up Skwisgaar's hand.
“Pffft,” said Skwisgaar.
Phanuel placed his cards down once again as the Klokateer commonly known as Pie entered the room and leaned over to whisper something in his ear.
“I shall attend to it,” he said. Nodding at Jacque, he stood and exited the room.
“There you go,” said Raziel. “Just lean forward and keep pinching.”
“Isn’t he supposed to lean backwards?” asked Sariel.
“No, it’s forwards.”
“Is he going to die, Raziel?”
Raziel sighed. “Ganesh has a nosebleed, Sariel. You don’t die of a nosebleed!”
“You cad id rare cases!” piped up Ganesh, who was still pinching his nose shut.
“What?” asked Sariel.
“Oh good lords, Sariel,” said Raziel. “Doesn’t your kid ever get a nosebleed?”
“No, never!”
“That’s the trouble with having a perfect kid. Liam gets them all the time,” she said, holding her handkerchief to Ganesh. “He’s even found out it grosses out Abby, so he’ll go drip nose blood on her.”
“Abby will neber be a physiciad,” remarked Ganesh sadly.
“She’s gonna be a corporate lawyer!” insisted Sariel.
“Are you OK to stand up, dear?” Raziel asked Ganesh. “Sariel, my kid is gonna be a crusading photojournalist! Your kid can be a lawyer.”
“I’b OK!” Ganesh insisted as Raziel and Sariel helped him up. He removed his hand from his nose. “I think it stopped bleeding,” he said, checking the handkerchief for bodily fluids.
“Three lawyers in the damn family is too much,” grumbled Sariel, who was still gripping tightly to Ganesh’s arm. “You didn’t kill my husband, did you, Raziel? Because if you did … I’d be mad!”
“I am perfectly fine, I assure you,” Ganesh smiled. “I believe I simply got overexcited,” he said, once again looking around. “This is a new universe? This place seems somehow oddly familiar!”
“That’s what I was saying, before you took a nosedive,” said Sariel.
“Hey, it looks like we have a welcoming committee!” said Raziel.
“Crap!” said Sariel. “You stay back for now, let us deal with this!” he told Ganesh, who for once, did not protest, as he was staring curiously at the oncoming mass of people dressed in dark colors.
“We’re being attacked by a clown troupe?” Raziel whispered to Sariel. The attackers seemed to be all wearing uniforms of some kind, including black half-hoods that covered their faces down to their noses, odd-looking ponchos that partially covered bulky chain mail vests, black bloomers and heavy black boots. All carried old-fashioned heavy weaponry like axes and picks.
They did not look friendly. But as Raziel and Sariel very soon found out, they were also extremely clumsy in the heavy armor and boots.
“Hey, we just wanna talk!” Sariel shouted as he beheaded another one. “Raziel, can you talk to them?”
“I’ve tried English, French, Spanish, Italian, Greek, Russian, Hindi, Chinese, Japanese, Arabic and Swahili,” said Raziel, running a guy through. “And my sword. The sword works. Got any other suggestions?”
Suddenly, Raziel and Sariel looked at each other.
“Was that … trance music?” Sariel looked around. “Ganesh, what the hell-“
“Leave him!” said Raziel, holding out a restraining arm.
Ganesh, seemingly recovered, had jumped up on a rock wall and had started to vamp some dance moves. The attackers all seemed to pause, staring at him. Then Ganesh moved into an amazing Moon Walk, and began to sing.
Be my executioner
Do me great bodily harm
Oh behead me baby
I’d run the gauntlet of your charm
Sariel noticed that the rag-tag army was no longer attacking – that was mainly because they were hurrying to server as backup dancers for Ganesh’s song.
“The Join Us dance? He can do that here?” asked Sariel.
“Evidently!” said Raziel. Sariel nodded, impressed.
Death penalty!
Gas me in your chamber.
Death penalty!
Fire me in your squad.
Death penalty!
Ignore DNA evidence.
Death penalty!
I pay the price for your love....
Ganesh, whose body often seemed to be made of some rubbery substance rather than flesh and bone when he was in the middle of a dance, started executing a complicated series of very fly moves, including some crazy double-jointed high kicks and a series of pelvic thrusts. There were moans and cries as slowly, the backup dancers, who were all wearing heavy chain mail, tangled their feet or bonked into a guy nearby and, one by one, began to fall over.
“This is like being in Texas!” Sariel enthused.
Be my executioner
Slay me with your love bite
Put me in your guillotine
Draw and quarter me tonight
“That's better!” said Ganesh, who had leapt off the rock wall, efficiently knocking down the last two dudes with a well-timed split kick.
“You can use your earth powers here?” asked Sariel.
“I am actually feeling particularly perky,” grinned Ganesh, giving Sariel a saucy wink.
“OK, boys, no time for that now,” said Raziel, punching Sariel in the shoulder.
“Ow,” said Sariel, rubbing his arm.
“Ganesh, I enjoyed your number, and the choreography was stunning, but I was having fun slaying these dudes,” said Raziel.
“Yes. I intervened with a somewhat more benign strategy because we do not yet know if these fellows are truly in opposition to us!” said Ganesh.
“Yeah, I think Ganesh is on to something,” admitted Sariel.
“Whaddya mean?” asked Raziel. “They were trying to kill us with these medieval thingie dealies!” she said, holding up an axe.
“It’s called an axe handle,” explained Sariel.
“You’re an axe handle,” countered Raziel.
“But have you not noticed-” Ganesh began.
“Charlesch?” said an oddly familiar feminine voice.
The three bickering travelers turned, and gawped.
“Is that-?” asked Ganesh.
“WOW!” said Raziel.
“Uh,” said Sariel to the tall, imposing, woman in Victorian dress who had just strode up. “You know Charles, uh, Ma'am?”
“It is Missch! Missch Wilhelmina Murderface,” said the woman, patting her hair which, despite being pinned in a demure bun under a feathered chapeau, was obviously quite frizzy. Irregardless of her gender, her likeness in appearance and manner to Dethklok’s bassist was quite striking.
“I apologische for the mischunderschtanding, asch there is an unmischtakeable reschemblance between yourschelf and our manager of buschinessch affaires, Mr. Charlesch Foschter Ofdenschen,” she told Sariel. “I schee clearly now that you are not he. But, you have me at a dischadvantage, schirrah!”
“Oh, uh, you can call me, uh, Sariel. Mr. Sariel. I'm actually your Charles Ofdensen's … uh, relative.”
“Whoa! Do you think they're all girls here?” Raziel asked Sariel excitedly in High Angelic.
“Well, I'm obviously not,” grumbled Sariel.
“That sucks,” grinned Raziel, gripping his elbow. “We could go shopping!”
“I am not letting another me go shopping with you Raziel,” protested Charles. “We have stuff to do!”
“And thesche perschonages wuold be...?” inquired Miss Murderface, looking both Raziel and Ganesh up and down with a critical eye.
“I'm Lady Raziel, but you can call me Raz! And this is Lord Ganesh.”
“You are a heathen, Lord Ganesch?” inquired Miss Murderface. “You were dansching in a most wanton fashion,” she said, nervously patting her hair.
“Oh, did you like it? I have few new moves,” grinned Ganesh, who was always a bit vain about his dancing. He did a quick spin in place.
“Ulp!” exclaimed Miss Murderface. “I schuppose you would like to ravisch me now,” she said, closing her eyes and unbuttoning her collar.
“Oh, thank you kindly, but no,” Ganesh told her.
Miss Murderface opened her eyes a slit. “Isch thisch becausche of my corpulensche?” she said, patting her stomach, and seemingly strangely a trifle disappointed at this loss of a threat to her honor.
“Oh, no, Miss, but you see I am already married.”
Miss Murderface sternly regarded Raziel. “You are married to thisch wanton?”
“Wanton?” asked Raziel, raising an elegantly plucked eyebrow.
“Oh, no!” laughed Ganesh, slipping an arm around Sariel. “To Sariel.”
“Uh, Ganesh....” said Sariel as Miss Murderface covered her mouth in shock and disdain.
“You, schir, are a … schodomite?” she inquired.
“Well,” said Ganesh, despite several pokes in the ribs from Sariel, “I do rather enjoy sodomy, although I also indulge in oral sex, frottage, and mutual masturbation. But I am always intrigued to hear differing opinions, as I am co-author of the Kama Sutra-”
“GANESH!” said Sariel.
Ganesh looked curiously at Sariel. “Miss Murderface sought a discussion of sexual positions....”
“We should probably table this,” said Sariel, shaking off Ganesh. “Uh, sorry, Miss Murderface, but we're not from around here. We're from, uh, Mesopotamia!”
“Oh, Meschopotamia! Land of the wild Turkmen,” she said, eyeing Ganesh, and looking scandalized but also a bit intrigued.
“Uh, yeah, and we have strange ways. And, uh, we've come all this way, by camelback! Just to meet with my long lost relative, who I've come, uh, to see. By camel….”
Miss Murderface was still staring at Ganesh. “Uh, you wisch that I be your eschcort into the Housche of Inschufferable Violensche, Mischter Schariel?” she asked Sariel.
“Yeah, that would be great! I'll see my old, uh, cousin Charles. Yes, sir,” said Sariel, now gripping Miss Murderface by the elbow.
“You know if your friend Ganesch schtill intendsch to ravisch me, I carry a Derringer, and am prepared to usche it!” she told Sariel.
“Yeah, I think you're OK,” Sariel told her, hustling her off.
“Oh. Well, be aware,” she said, sounding perhaps a trifle disappointed.
“I am not surprised at the dislocation of gender,” Ganesh told Raziel as they followed the other two. “It is intriguing that the time course – technology and social mores – is so out of joint through with our own,” he mused.
“I'm still hoping Charles is a Charlotte or a Charlene!” Raziel brightly told Ganesh.
“I am inevitably intrigued by Sariel's parallel entities,” said Ganesh. “I feel he makes a fascinating human!”
“Parallel Sariels are usually in a better mood too,” mused Raziel.
Anna, who had been beckoned into Charles' office, was surprised to see Phanuel sitting behind the desk.
“Oh. I'm sorry Mr. Phanuel. I mean, Honored Phanuel. I was checking to see whether Charles was back,” she told him.
“I had been wanting an interview with you,” Phanuel told Anna. “Please do sit down,” he told her, politely indicating a chair. “So,” he said, leaning forward and steepling his hands in a manner that was not entirely unlike that of the owner of the desk, “how are you faring, since you have come here?”
“Oh, OK I guess,” said Anna. “Everybody’s been really nice to me, and they’ve found out I can possess people, which is pretty cool.”
“Yes. Chango and Orula witnessed this,” said Jacque. “They were quite impressed.”
“It’s sort of cool having a body back, actually, even though the vampires I possessed were sort of icky. Not everybody can see me like this. In fact, a lot of people can’t see me. I think actually most people can’t see me. And that’s a little frustrating.” Anna looked up at Phanuel. “Uh, I’m not boring you am I?”
“Well, that is something we may work on. Your appearance. I am certain Ganesh has told you he will assist you?”
“Uh, this is probably a stupid question, but Ganesh is a Hindu god, right? But he does your voodoo?”
“Yes, that is a fine question. The child, Elias, is Sariel's son, and Ogoun Sen Jacque's grandson. This makes him Jacque's heir. As Ganesh is a rather avid practitioner of magic, he has elected to assist with the boy's training.”
Anna nodded. She thought back to when she and Nelda used to make up fanciful backgrounds for Mr. Warriner – the name Charles had been using at the time. Even between the two of them, they could never have come up with something like this....
“Phanuel!”
Anna jumped at the booming voice. Her first thought at the appearance of the large being now standing shaking Phanuel's hand was, “Santa Claus.” His beard wasn't white – it was reddish blond – and he wasn't fat, but he just seemed … merry somehow.
“Nana!”
“Oh, hey Boon!” she said. The man was imposing enough she hadn't even noticed the three small children and an even smaller dog swarming at his feet.
“Oh, you're our spirit!” the man announced. “Lord Wotan! Fine to meet you. The wife has said good things about you!”
She shook his hand, which entirely swallowed her small one. Yes, another thing to remember: there really was an Odin and all those other guys.
“This is my son-in-law, Lord Wotan,” said Phanuel.
“Uh, hi Lord Wotan,” said Anna, knowing not what else you were supposed to say to a Norse god.
“And these two little rascals are mine!” said Wotan indicating the small children standing beside him. “Liam, I've told you it ain't polite to point.” Two pairs of sky blue eyes – an exact match for their father – peered up curiously at her. It was a little dark haired girl and a little redheaded boy, the latter of whom was hurriedly lowering his chubby finger upon his father's command. “That's Liam, and that's Abby.”
“Oh, she looks a lot like your wife!” said Anna. Still unspeaking, but smiling at mention of her mother, the dark-haired little girl suddenly brought out a doll. “Oh, Pretty Pretty Princess. God, I had all of these when I was your age,” Anna said, sitting down on the floor, her back to the chair, to be at eye level.
“Pwincess go an shop and pwetty an kill da owcs!” said Abby, suddenly bringing out a small, doll sized sword.
“Oh, uh, yeah, that's what I used to do. Kind of,” said Anna. But the little redhead was suddenly holding out a reading book. Funny, now that Anna thought of it, she hadn't really remembered either kid having anything in their hands when they came in.
“Bahawwa!” explained Abby as all three kids watched her take the book. Anna turned it over. The cover shot was a gorgeous castle in the middle of the woods.
“Oh, yeah, you guys live in Valhalla, don't you?” mused Anna. Wotan has rugrats, and they all live in Valhalla and play with Pretty Princess dolls she thought, opening the book. She was surprised at the first picture. “Oh. Uh. That's you, isn't it?”
“Uh-huh,” whispered Liam, who was evidently the shy one of the bunch. “Wooves!” he said, pointing at the animals romping with Liam and Abby in the picture.
“Derri an' Fweki!” corrected his sister.
“An' Geera!” put in Elias, who was now perched up on the chair in back of her. He pointed to something that looked a lot like a white tiger.
“Uh, you guys have a tiger?”
“UH-HUH!” they all answered in chorus.
“Anna, dear,” said Phanuel, who had been talking quietly with Wotan. “I really do not wish to impose, but could I implore you to read with the children for a moment or two longer. We have, er, matters.”
“Oh, no problem!” sang Anna. “I like kids!” she said. And she had to admit, it was cool being able to talk to someone who wasn't Skwisgaar.
“That's a special book,” Wotan chuckled. “Gifted to us by an old friend.”
“Really?” asked Anna as Phanuel and Wotan slipped into the next room, evidently to confer with the muscular receptionist guy. She turned another page and stopped short.
“Nana!” announced Boon.
On the page was a picture of Anna, sitting here on the floor in front of Charles’ desk, book opened on her lap, the three kids gathered around watching her read.
“This is some book,” she said.
“Who are these … bohemians?” demanded Mr. Charles Foster Ofdensen, nervously adjusting his cravat. “Miss Murderface, I must protest! Our ensemble will suffer yet more approbation of the public if you insist on consorting with these disreputable sorts!”
Sariel felt like he had walked into a dream. Or possibly a nightmare. The House of Insufferable Violence looked more like a genuine medieval castle than Mordhaus, perhaps (Ganesh guessed) due to the limitations of this universe’s technology. These guys had a moat – a moat! Sariel was silently glad that he had taken Ganesh (despite the bloody nose) and Raziel (despite being … well, Raziel) along instead of the boys. He couldn’t imagine having to reason with them why you wouldn’t need a moat (with what looked like some kind of horrible tentacled sea monsters writing within) when your whole fucking estate was a couple miles up above the ground. It was sort of cool, he had to admit. OK,it was very cool. But still….
This place had something else Mordhaus lacked – a dark authenticity. It was grimy and drafty and poorly lit not due to some sophisticated design courtesy scientists with glossolalia, but because of gas lamps and coal fires.
Sariel was somewhat accustomed to seeing the funhouse reflection versions of yourself who unhappily populated alternate universes. But he suspected Ganesh was on to something when the god remarked on the relatively primitive technology and corresponding social mores. Things were usually more or less in sync, sometimes off by a decade or so. Landing in the wrong century: that was weird.
He tried to quiet his mind and reply to the small, officious fellow sitting behind the desk, peering out of the darkness at them. “Uh, Mr. Ofdensen, I'm actually a distant relative of yours, and … Raziel, don't POKE him!”
“But he's so CUUUTE!” said Raziel, who, fortunately for a discomfited Mr. Ofdensen, was using a finger rather than a sword for probing purposes. “Is he human?” she asked as he irritably jerked his arm out of poking distance.
“He is most definitely human,” Ganesh told her.
“Young lady!” huffed Mr. Ofdensen, placig a gloved hand over his eyes. “Do you always go gallivanting about with your limbs on display like that!”
“I have great legs!” sassed Raziel, hand on hip. “Boy, you Sariel's are all alike!” she scolded a baffled Mr. Ofdensen.
“Look, Mr. Ofdensen, this is actually kind of important,” Sariel tried. “We are attempting to locate someone – an important someone – and we have information that you might know his whereabouts, or at least know how to find him.”
“Who might this personage be?” inquired Mr. Ofdensen, as Ganesh helpfully yanked a protesting Raziel back to a more appropriate distance.
“He’s called Saa'itii.” said Sariel. Mr. Ofdensen was silent, but Sariel noticed the color – what color there was – had drained from his face. “Uh, he sometimes goes by-”
“Charles. DOOOOD!”
“Mr. Pickles. Mr. Explosion,” grumbled Mr. Ofdensen, who immediately turned his attention, with a visible measure of relief, to the musicians. “Might I kindly remind you I have at my employ a secretary in charge of my calendar,” he said, wiping some sweat off his forehead with an embroidered handkerchief.
“We wanted to see our manager of business affaires, Ofdensen,” explained Nathan. “Because, in case, you know, we wanna have affairs. Good day, uh, attractive lady person. I'm Mr. Nathan Explosion by the way,” he said, doffing his hat to Raziel.
“Are you partaking of opium again, Mr. Pickles,” scolded Mr. Ofdensen.
“Jest a taste,” grinned the drummer, handing off a suspicious looking cigarette to Mr. Ofdensen, who quite eagerly grasped it and inhaled. “Hey, yoo ain't from around here, are yoo?” he asked of the visitors.
“May I preschent Mischter Schariel: Lord Ganesh, who isch a heathen; and the the Lady Razschiel, all reschently from Meschopotamia,” said Miss Murderface, who was scowling disapprovingly at Mr. Pickles.
“Oh, are you one of those suffragette type of people Lady Raziel?” asked Nathan, eyeing her up and down. “Because I think I need to more carefully consider my views regarding votes for females especially if you'll all start dressing like this.”
“Suffragette?” asked Raziel. “Is she a designer? This is Stella!”
“Schuffragettesch believe women schould be granted the right vote, Missch Razschiel,” Miss Murderface informed her.
“Yeh. Trouble makers,” sneered Mr. Pickles.
“Oh, I’m registered to vote in Liechtenstein! For tax purposes,” explained Raziel.
“They have women’sch rightsch in Liechtenschtien?” inquired Miss Murderface.
“Remind me never t’ go dere,” laughed Mr. Pickles.
“Hey that’s my ass!” barked Mr. Explosion, as one of a now slightly sloppy Mr. Ofdensen’s hands had strayed to his posterior. “I wish you wouldn’t feed Ofdensen this stuff, Pickles,” Mr. Explosion told Mr. Pickles as he stepped beyond groping distance.
“Aw, look at him, he likes it,” smiled Pickles.
Mr. Ofdensen smiled. He suddenly let out a small sigh and collapsed, face down, on his desk, hand-rolled cigarette still clutched in his hand. Ganesh rushed to his side. “Is he OK?” Sariel asked.
“Aw, he does dat,” shrugged Pickles. “Sumtimes.”
“He's been drugged,” said Ganesh, who had now picked up Mr. Ofdensen in his arms and was carrying him over to one of the overstuffed divans.
“Well, no fucking kidding,” grumbled Sariel, who picked up the discarded smoke and smelled it. He coughed. Just the smell made his eyes sting.
“What exactly was in that cigarette, Mr. Pickles?” asked Ganesh, who was opening Mr. Ofdensen’s collar.
“Aw, nuttin' special. Dood cud never hold his dope,” laughed Pickles.
“We needed to talk to him,” complained Sariel.
“Why don't yoo talk t' me?” asked Pickles. “I'm gud t' talk to. Nat’an?”
“What?” asked the singer distractedly, as he was rather obviously trying to peer down Raziel’s top.
Pickles suddenly grabbed Nathan and pushed him into Mr. Ofdensen's chair. The singer’s eyes seemed to unfocus. Then Pickles hopped up in Nathan's lap, where Nathan obediently wrapped his arms around him.
“Wow, I guess there are other things different in this universe!” said Raziel as Sariel gawped.
“Seems t' me it might be nice if yoo doods left da House o' Insufferable Violence right now, so I don't gotta call in da Brudderhood o' da Timepiece doods t' t'row yer asses out,” grinned Pickles, reaching back to put a hand through Nathan’s hair.
“The guys dressed like clowns? We already met!” said Raziel.
“The Brotherhood is, schadly, moschtly unconschious in the courtyard at the preschent time, Mr. Picklesch,” said Miss Murderface.
“Uh, wut?” said Pickles.
“Ganesh invited them to dance,” said Raziel, narrowing her dark eyes. “And they didn't know the steps.”
“An’ who eggsactly are yoo?” demanded Pickles, staring at Sariel. There was something dark behind the green eyes.
“It doesn't matter,” said Sariel. “We came here seeking information. We wanna know the whereabouts of someone named Saa'itii. He also goes by the Hogfather.”
“Da Hogfather?” laughed Pickles. “Do yoo jokers come frum Mesopotamia or Old MacDonald's Farm?”
Nathan chuckled. “Yeah, they’re douche bags or something.”
“Just cooperate,” said Sariel, his face getting its own dark look, “and we'll leave.”
“I ain't feelin' particularly cooperative,” said Pickles.
“How about this,” said Ganesh, coming to stand before the desk. “How about you cease this nonsense now and tell us what you are really up to … Skarl?”
It happened in the blink of an eye: Pickles was up over the desk, arm around Ganesh, dagger at the god’s neck.
“Whatta douche,” sighed Raziel.
Anna had lost track of time. First Abby had insisted on a Pretty Pretty Princess story, so she had read a tale of how the doll had gone shopping for fashionable clothes (all pink and sparkly of course) and then stabbed some demons.
And then they read a meandering story about another band that seemed to be Dethklok. The egotistical lead guitarist, who bore a distinct resemblance to Skwisgaar, kept falling down a lot and having buckets of mud and other such things dropped on him.
Next there had been a demand for a pirate tale, so they were in the middle of reading a story about a wily pirate (who looked a lot like Papa Jacque) versus a horrible giant squid and then some other pirates who reminded her of some band she couldn’t quite bring to mind.
Anna was quite enjoying it. All of the stories, of course, were contained in the same book, which was sort of like the world’s coolest iPad thingie. It looked like a bound book, but the pictures seemed to change on demand. There weren’t any words – she was beginning to think this might be because the kids couldn’t spell yet – but they seemed to enjoy the stories she had been making up. Anna didn’t mind acting out stuff or doing voices.
But the coolest part was, she thought, maybe coming directly from the kids. It had first happened in the middle of this latest tale. The boys were giggling, but she hadn’t done a funny voice, so she had looked up to see, to her surprise, a ghostly pirate ship drifting through Charles’ office. And then Abby had scolded, “No maddick, Weem!” and the ship had disappeared to more giggles.
She had remarked, “That was sort of cool,” and then went back to the book. And then there was another ship, she suspected from Boon. And then two were battling, and then it appeared that Abby, despite being a little bit of a tattle tale, had whipped up a kraken.
They had cringed at the sound of cannon fire, and all screamed as the evil kraken tried to drag the ship down. But fortunately there was a big pie fight, and this seemed to drive the monster away.
Anna now glanced up as the sky darkened outside, wondering if the kids were doing it as well. Was it really getting that late? She thought back. Phanuel had said he was only going to chat for a minute. She thought of going to the reception area and asking the hunky guy if he knew where they’d gotten to. The kids were a lot of fun, but she was getting a little hungry, and Ganesh had left her with strict instructions to keep up her blood sugar.
She returned her attentions to the book. She turned the page. And once again was taken aback by what she saw.
She looked around at the kids, and noticed Boon’s little dog had gone to sniff at one of the windows. Curious, she got up as well and went to the window.
“Sariel, dood! Yoo gaht yerself a smart little eart' gawd.”
Skarl/Pickles pulled Ganesh down, grinning and running the knife down his chest. “Yoo might be a tasty snack, eart’ gawd,” he said, licking his lips.
“Oh for-” said Ganesh. “Raziel!”
And it was quicker than a wink. Pickles – or Skarl, or whatever he was – was now down on the floor, Raziel on top of him, her sword on his neck.
“Hey I'm Raz!” she announced. She leaned in closer. “The Goddess's daughter.”
“Da Goddess! NO!” screamed Pickles, squirming uselessly under her.
“And … I've inherited her unpredictability, plus her bad temper! Hey, you're not looking up my skirt, are you?”
“I rather doubt it,” chuckled Ganesh.
“Why do you have to wear a skirt that fucking short anyway, Raziel?” groused Sariel.
“This is Stella McCartney!”
“But your limbsch are schowing,” protested a scandalized Miss Murderface. “In a moscht schandalousch manner!”
“I have great legs,” protested Raziel. “Wotan likes my skirts short.”
“An…. An…. Yoo doods are gonna let dis chick do yer fightin for yoo?” asked Pickles.
“Yeah, I’m fine with it,” shrugged Sariel.
“I am comfortable in my masculinity,” Ganesh told him.
“Besides, she could beat us up. Even in those heels,” said Sariel.
“So you admit that you are indeed Skarl?” asked Ganesh.
“Yeh, dood, yoo cawt me.”
“What the hell are you doing here? And where the fuck is the real Pickles?” asked Sariel.
“I gaht bored. Can yoo blame me? Azatot’ wants t’ do da same freakin’ bullshit every year. I ain’t da kinda guy who’s sweatin’ to da oldies, if yoo git mah drift.”
“Oh no. You didn’t leave Pickles in your place, did you?” Ganesh asked.
“Hey, he agreed t’ it!”
Ganesh looked at Sariel. “Bad?” mouthed Sariel. Ganesh nodded.
“Why do yoo doods care about dis shit anyway?” asked Pickles. “Hey, quit pokin’ me, gawdess daughter dood!”
“Keep your neck away from my sword,” answered Raziel.
“We’ve intelligence that Azitoth intends to make a move against another universe. Our universe,” Sariel told him.
“Yer yooniverse? Huh. Well, I ain’t heard nuttin’ about dat. If she’s da gawdess’s daughter, den yoo doods are from da Creator’s part o’ da world, ain’t yoo?”
“Yes, we are,” Sariel told him.
“I dunno den. Saa’itii might know, but I ain’t sure whether he’d tell da likes o’ yoo,” Pickles grinned.
“We could convey you.” All in the room turned to the sound of Mr. Ofdensen’s voice. He was sitting up, though he looked pale. “To Saa’itii. His whereabouts are known to us.” Pickles glared at him.
“That sounds like the best course,” said Ganesh. “Though if we are to travel in this universe, I might recommend changing to something, er, a bit more fashionable,” he said, holding his own lapel. “We don’t want to attract any more attention than is absolutely necessary.”
“There are probably suitable garments on the premises,” said Mr. Ofdensen. “You look to be more or less the same size as our Mr. Skwisgaar, Mr. Ganesh.
“I would have more schuitable rainment for Missch Razschiel in my armoire,” offered Miss Murderface.
“I’d look like I was wearing a tent!” protested Raziel, to a glare from Miss Murderface.
“Come on, Raziel….” urged Sariel.
“I’m not going anywhere if I can’t look cute!” insisted the little angel.
“Our Mr. Wartooth is quite clever with the tailoring scissors, Miss Raziel,” offered Mr. Ofdensen.
“No way! Your Toki sews? OK, we’ll give that a try.” She wrested Pickles up by the scruff of the neck. He gave a little cry.
Mr. Ofdensen, who was still sitting on the couch where Ganesh had put him, moaned and put his head in his hands.
“Why don't you go take care of yourself?” Raziel told Sariel.
Sariel regarded his alter ego. “So in this universe, I'm a loser.”
“Very similar to our own universe!” grinned Raziel, to a glare from Sariel. Raziel caught Sariel's arm and whispered in his ear, “Come on, help him out.” And then she was off with Miss Murderface, dragging a reluctant Pickles along.
“Come along, Nathan, you can show me to Skwisgaar’s room,” said Ganesh.
“Oh,” said Nathan, who seemed oddly as if he were waking up from a trance. “Uh, can’t I go with the cute chick too?”
“Why don’t you come with me now, and we may chat with Raziel later.”
“Oh, OK. She had a nice bosom,” muttered Nathan.
Sariel smiled after Nathan. He looked at Mr. Ofdensen and thought for a moment. He leaned down. Ganesh had loosened some of the innumerable layers of clothing around Mr. Ofdensen's neck, so he popped a few more buttons on the unprotesting manager and lifted the shirt. As he had suspected: ribs jutting out everywhere.
“I do apologize,” Mr. Ofdensen whispered as Sariel helped him to stand up. “I was quite overcome.”
“Rule number one with these guys; be careful of Pickles' special blend,” Sariel told him.
“Do you consort with musicians, Mr. Sariel?” asked Mr. Ofdensen.
“Just Sariel is fine. I’m not one for honorifics. And, yeah, I have my own bunch back home. Can you walk?”
“I believe I am capable of perambulation,” Mr. Ofdensen told him, though he put an arm around Sariel's shoulders.
“Uh, you just need to walk, actually.”
“Shall we proceed to my chambers?” asked Mr. Ofdensen. “I believe you shall find some suitable garments there.”
Sariel frowned, wondering exactly how much of the previous conversation Mr. Ofdensen had caught. “No, show me to your kitchen first.”
Mr. Ofdensen began leading Sariel down a somehow familiar corridor. “Oh, I apologize. I should have offered.”
“Not me, you. When I get stressed I stop eating. Which means you stop eating. And I assume it’s been more stressful than usual with a masquerading Elder god as your drummer.”
“Mr. Pickles has been acting more erratic of late, now that you make mention of it. Ah, here we are. Chef de Cuisine Jean-Pierre is from the Continent, but he is a good lad.”
Charles helped Mr. Ofdensen into a seat at the ornate dining room table, and then sat down next to him, not quite knowing what to expect. Was this chef sewn back together wrong? He flinched as he heard the heavy treads. He turned and stared in wonder at the mechanical man who was now marching up to them.
The robotic man, whose head was crowned with a high golden chef’s hat, reached out and pulled what seemed to be a gear shift, slowing himself down. And then, with a release of steam from vents in his chef hat, he ground to a halt.
Mr. Ofdensen leaned over and whispered, “He had an unfortunate occurrence with one of our Malevolent Gyro-copter flying devices. Kindly do not mention this circumstance.”
“Uh, no,” Sariel whispered back. “Uh, Chef Jean-Pierre, do you have any pie?”
“Why of course I have pie!” came a weirdly human, French-accented voice. “I have every sort of pie for my beloved masters. Will you have a slice?”
“No, bring a whole pie. And two plates.”
“I do not indulge in sweets,” protested Mr. Ofdensen.
“Trust me,” said Sariel. “Let’s see. And some steak sandwiches maybe?” He rubbed his own stomach. Yes, that sounded good.
“And, uh, some port wine?” suggested Mr. Ofdensen.
“No. Two black coffees,” said Sariel, glaring at Mr. Ofdensen, whose eyes were red-rimmed. Mr. Ofdensen nodded his reluctant assent. Jean-Pierre made a clinking, clanking bow and, with a crank of the gearshift, marched off. The two were soon surrounded by more men dressed like their attackers outside the castle.
“The Brotherhood of the Timepiece,” said Mr. Ofdensen, brushing some pie crumbs from his chin.
“Aren’t those uniforms a little heavy?” asked Sariel.
“I would tend to agree. But my boys most were insistent upon this dire appearance.”
“You can indulge them too much. Believe me, I know,” said Charles, grabbing another steak sandwich. “Someone has to tell them “no.” That’s what you’re here for.”
“I do feel I have been remiss in my duties of late,” admitted Mr. Ofdensen, who looked a bit abashed as he stuffed his mouth with more Dutch apple pie.
“Pickles … isn’t exactly what he appears to be.”
“And neither are you, are you, Mr. Sariel?”
So I’m not a complete idiot in this universe, Sariel thought. Don’t underestimate yourself.
“OK. We’re not from Mesopotamia,” admitted Sariel.
“If you will forgive me, I meant that, like your companions Lord Ganesh and Lady Raziel, you are not yourself human.”
“No,” said Sariel, wondering, how much can I trust myself? “I’m something else.”
“Sadly, and unlike the members of the ensemble of which I feign management, I am myself a mere mortal. Perhaps this is why the task has overmatched me.”
“I don’t think you’re overmatched,” said Sariel, not entirely certain why the words had come out of his mouth. “I’m going to give you more unsolicited advice. “The guys in your band – you’re there for them. Not the reverse. They’re not gonna tell you you need to eat or sleep or not get fucked up on drugs. That’s not how it works. Raziel and Ganesh, they’re my friends. They tell me stuff: sometimes stuff I don’t wanna hear. You need someone like that. Or you’re not gonna make it. Believe me, I know.”
“That is sound advice, Mr. Sariel. It is true, I haven’t a confidante here. My family has not surprisingly disowned me upon the commencement of this most non-Christian of enterprises.”
“Oh, here you are, stuffing your face, and your other face!” laughed Raziel, who entered holding a fuming Pickles by the scruff of his neck.
“Wait, you’re ready?” asked Sariel, who expected Raziel to indulge several hours in assembling a new outfit.
“Their Toki is fabulous!” she announced, twirling around. She did indeed look fashionable, although she was wearing several yards more of fabric than Sariel had ever seen her in. “Can we steal him?”
“No.”
“Miss Murderface?” asked Mr. Ofdensen. Sariel turned his attention to the bassist, and blinked in surprise. She looked … well, she looked decent.
“We did a little work on her hair and makeup. I couldn’t resist,” grinned Raziel.
“You are looking … most approachable, if I might be so bold, Miss Murderface,” commented Mr. Ofdensen. Sariel grinned and nodded. That was a good way of putting it.
“Mr. Ofdenschen, you flatter me,” demurred Miss Murderface, fluttering actual eyelashes.
Sariel cringed, hoping to gods he wasn’t seeing what he thought he was seeing.
“We are ready as well,” said Ganesh, who entered looking, of course, insufferably chic.
“I quite lost track of time,” apologized Mr. Ofdensen. “Thank you for the conversation, Sariel. You are an honorable man. Please now accompany me to my chambers, and we will see if we can outfit you too in an appropriate manner.”
“Oooo! Can I help?” asked Raziel.
“No,” said Sariel.
“Why he ams drags dat angel dudes around wit’ him? Hims ams crazies in da head places!”
Pickles poked at the French toast he had loaded on his plate and sighed. He had spent the past week since his return like this, listening as, one by one, every member of the band had detailed to him how every other member of the band was basically annoying the fuck out of them.
Which was annoying the fuck out of him. He had bitched to Charles about it, and Charles had gone into his usual “I can’t hear you,” mode. And Ganesh had launched into some complicated bullshit about the dynamics of the band, which basically boiled down to asking him to just cool it.
Why had he come back to be with these dumb douches?
He did a very uncharacteristic thing and actually checked the clock. Phanuel had stepped out of their game for a moment, but it seemed like hours now. And then Jacque had split as well. It seemed rude, here Charles had dragged his sorry ass back here and then the very first thing the evil bastard did was grab his husband and split. Why didn’t they at least take him along on an adventure? He was a good adventurer! He had saved their fucking godly asses before. Did they not trust him any more?
“Looks at hims, rattlsings da wingses!” raved Skwisgaar.
“Who?” grumped Pickles. But then he stared. Bert looked more agitated than usual. He was rushing over to the window, along with Toki.
He tossed the plate with the soggy French toast down on the table and went over to the window to see what the hell Bert was pointing at.
“Wut da feck?”
Sariel had threatened Raziel upon pain of death to quit fussing over him, so she relented, for a time. He had to admit, now that he was outfitted in one of Mr. Ofdensen’s suits (Mr. Ofdensen had apologized profusely that it was an older outfit, one that he had not bothered to have Mr. Wartooth take in after his recent weight loss), the resemblance was unmistakable. Mr. Ofdensen was thinner (to the point of seeming frail) and kept his hair neatly parted in the middle, as was evidently the fashion. And he wore smaller but thicker spectacles, the lenses fashioned of real glass.
But Sariel recognized the green of his own Court Formed eyes behind the distorting glass. Now that Pickles’ dope had worn off they bespoke of a keen intelligence.
Sariel sat now with Mr. Ofdensen in a comfortable seat inside their Fantastickal Airship of Murderous Design while some shirtless Brotherhood of the Timepiece types stoked the coal fire. It was a dirigible, much smaller than Pickles’ ship, but large enough to transport the band and several attendants.
“One thing I don’t understand,” Sariel told Mr. Ofdensen. “Uh, I’m not exactly a trusting person. I suspect you’re the same. Why are you helping us?”
Mr. Ofdensen smiled thinly and inclined his head. “You are correct that I do not easily grant my trust. You should agree, however, that we presently have in common certain motivations. My ensemble consists – and has always consisted – of five persons, all of distinct personality and temperament, all parts essential to the whole.”
“Yeah, I know. Believe me, I know.”
“Then you will see that it is essential that I seek a resolution to Mr. Pickles’, uh, present situation. And from what I have observed, you and your traveling companions possess certain talents which may prove profitable on our adventure. We have several of the Brotherhood resting in the infirmary – not to mention the morgue – as a result of your actions.”
“Oh. Uh. Sorry about that,” said Sariel, now pulling at his own cravat. “You know, uh, I know this won’t make up for your Kloka- I mean, your Brotherhood guys. But we might have some suggestions about the uniform? Lady Raziel is sort of a nut about clothing.”
“You are an honorable man, sir,” nodded Mr. Ofdensen.
“That’s … a matter of debate,” sighed Sariel, rising. He nodded and walked towards the front of the ship, where he found Ganesh standing alone, looking thoughtful.
“Sariel. I can’t help but think Saa’itii has gravely altered this universe somehow, for his own purposes.”
“He’s a fan of Victorian crap maybe?” cracked Sariel, pulling at the cravat again.
Ganesh smiled and started to readjust Sariel’s neckwear. “Did you perhaps note his reaction to Raziel?”
“Hey, that’s everybody’s reaction to Raziel….”
“Specifically, to mention of the Goddess?”
Sariel considered as Ganesh retied his tie. “Yeah, he seemed shit scared of her.”
“I have been conversing with Miss Murderface. The social position of women in this society is … regrettable.”
“The Hogfather is afraid of women? Huh. Maybe why they call ‘em pigs.”
“But is there something else?” asked Ganesh.
“Ganesh, I got a bad feeling. About back home. Something happening there.”
“I cannot lie to you. Your intuitions are generally valid. However,” Ganesh continued as Sariel tried to speak, “kindly remember we left things in the care of your father, and Lady Raziel’s. They are both highly capable beings.”
“Capable? Yeah, but so are our enemies.”
As it happened, a universe away, the two beings in question, Ogoun Sen Jacque and Phanuel the Grey, now walked together, shoulder to shoulder, into the courtyard at Mordhaus. The sky was darkened, but neither from inclement weather nor from the late hour.
“That’s a lot of motherfucking angels,” commented Jacque, giving a low whistle.
“Oh, do you think so, Jacque?” answered Phanuel, calmly scanning the skies.
“I’ve seen a lot in my time,” said the Ifa,”but this is one fuckload of angel bastards.”
Phanuel regarded the legions of winged warriors who now hovered in the skies over Mordhaus. “I have, in my time, commanded similar ranks,” he told Jacque.
“You were one cocksucking big cheese in the Legion, weren’t ya?”
“That I was,” agreed Phanuel.
There was a large, True Formed Seraph standing opposite of them, surrounded by many attendants. As did all Seraphim, he had three sets of wings: two which migh cover his face, two on his feet, and a pair – the largest and most fearsome – of flight wings which attached between the shoulder blades.
But he was missing one of his flight wings.
“Well, you suppose we gotta talk to the big asshole?” puffed Jacque.
“If I am ever to get back to my card game, I suppose so,” sighed Phanuel.
And so they walked on.
