Blue Kar-Nacky (Mythklok, Chapter 88)

[tikific]

Title: Blue Kar-Nacky (Mythklok, Chapter 88)
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Charles and his gang take a tropical vacation and confront the unspeakable, and some feathered friends visit Mordhaus
Warnings: Fake Victoriana, beach parties
Notes: Notes after the jump.




Mythklok: when you care enough to slash the very best.

In the last thrilling chapter: Sariel, Raziel and Ganesh traveled to a neighboring universe to borrow a cup of sugar and found an unexpected interloper hiding there. Meanwhile, The Boys played cards and received some unexpected visitors at Mordhaus.

Kar-Nacky Island is named for William Hope Hodgson's character, Carnacki the Ghost Finder. I've nicked Saa'itii from one of Hodgson's Carnacki stories. I don't think he'll mind, as he is currently dead.

As before, 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.



The crowded room smelled of smoke. And sweat. And a quiet desperation.

There were male beings, sitting around a table. And, as male beings of any stripe are wont to do, they were playing cards.

Mostly musicians they were, their instrument cases hastily pushed against walls or dropped in corners and then utterly forgotten. The time was late, after the last gig had ended, and all gentlemen of good reputation had retired for the evening. But as no timepieces were being pulled from waistcoat pockets, none appeared to care about dawn’s approach.

Cards were dealt, examined, and discarded. Chips were pushed. Drinks were consumed, and other stubstances were smoked, sniffed and snorted.

But it was all about the cards.

“Feck,” muttered one of them, pushing himself back from the table. Mr. Pickles, who was known for various and sundry musical occupations of greater or lesser repute, but who had formerly founded the much lauded quartet, Insinuation as Accompanied by Acceleration, and of late served as a percussionist for the Mortal Timepiece ensemble, watched as the chips heaped up in the center were engulfed and pulled away by the burly arms of another man. He sadly regarded the motley pile of chips near his place and heaved a sigh.

“Gen’lemen, Ah’m spent,” Mr. Pickles said, standing. There were some grave nods, but not much other acknowledgment as the remaining beings were already hunched over in anticipation of the next hand. And so, grabbing his top hat and situating it atop a balding pate, he reluctantly hefted a case laid beside the wall and departed.

He paused at the bottom of the stairs to light a cigarette. He stood and smoked for a time and watched the false dawn to the east lend a rosy hue to the grave and greasy night sky. Mr. Ofdensen would no doubt express great disapproval for his late return to the House of Insufferable Violence, as he would Mr. Pickles for eluding his Brotherhood of the Timepiece bodyguards. Mr. Ofdensen was an especially paranoid individual, thought Mr. Pickles. He silently cursed his Manager of Business Affaires for strictly limiting the amount of cash band members could carry on their person. Mr. Pickles’ stake tonight, as so many other nights, had run out far before his urges.

“Good evenin’ to you, cat. Or should I say, good mornin’?” Mr. Pickles turned to the unexpected sound of a voice. He hadn’t heard anybody leave with him, and the wooden stairs were worn and wanted for repairs, so the man’s approach was quite unexpected.

“Mornin’,” Mr. Pickles replied. The man was known to him: one of the other card players, though he hadn’t caught a name. Mr. Pickles narrowed his green eyes beneath the brim of his hat and squinted. Strange. He hadn’t been able to quite make out this man’s features during the game, as he had, rudely, kept his hat on throughout. No one had commented: it wasn’t that kind of a crowd.

The man was definitely afflicted with more than a touch of corpulence: you could see it even under all the layers of clothing which, though obviously expensively tailored, looked oddly as if the seams were all straining. Like there was another being inside struggling to get out.

Mr. Pickles shook his head, trying to shoo away the bizarre imagining. “Wut?” he asked.

“You got another?” he was asked, the man pointing to his smoke. Mr. Pickles felt into his breast pocket and once again withdrew the thin golden case, stamped with the likeness of a pocket watch whose hands extended from a skull in the center – the Mortal Timepiece signature – and from it extracted a cigarette. He handed this, along with the lighter, to the other man. Very briefly, as the flint struck and sparked and there was a flame, he viewed the visage: the stranger appeared to have an extraordinary snub nose.

“Would you care to make a wager, Mr. Pickles?” asked the man, handing back his lighter.

Mr. Pickles, who very much wished a wager, nevertheless commented, “Sahry, like Ah said upstairs, Ah’m tapped out.”

“Money? Money is only one of many possible matters for an agreement between gentlemen, don't you agree? There are many things of infinite more value to hep cats like us.”

“More valuable dan money?” asked Mr. Pickles. “Like wut?”

“Perhaps you could wager your talent?”

“Wut? Now I’m lahst, friend.”

“I have a good friend, a musician such as ourselves.” The man nodded towards the instrument case sitting beside him on the steps. “And he has, as it were, an engagement. A long term engagement. Which he have found of late to be … tiresome.”

“Yoo want me t’ step in fer yer friend?” asked Mr. Pickles, knowing Mr. Ofdensen would object to him playing in a project outside his Mortal Timepiece duties. But Mr. Ofdensen was an old nanny.

“Yes, in a sense.”

“Inna sense?”

“I could make it well worth your while, as it were,” the man told him. “Your original stake at the beginning of this evening? I could replenish it. All of it.”

“Yoo’d wager money agenst playin’ drums?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Pickles' eyes drifted back up the stairs, to the soft glow of light in the doorway. Cards. And chips. What was this fellow's angle? Perhaps he was suffering from intoxication. He eyed the man shrewdly. Yes, it was potentially a drunken rube, someone with too much money, and too little sense. “Soo, wut wud we set da wager on?” he asked.

“Ah, so you are a rare man, an adventurous man, a rockin’ cat! I am glad that my impression was not incorrect. I am always intrigued by a non-traditional game of chance. Why, I would bet on which way the wind will blow! Where that moth will alight!”

“Da wind?” asked Mr. Pickles.

“I would stake an amount of money on which direction the sun will rise! All might be subject of a wager.”

Mr. Pickles now cast his eyes to the burgeoning false dawn. East, the direction of the House of Insufferable Violence.

Home.

“Yoo'd make a wager on where da sun will rise?” Mr. Pickles asked.

“Why, is that what you would like to do? Is that what you would like to do, baby? Lay it on me straight!” Just for a moment, the man leaned in, and Mr. Pickles saw once again that weird, upturned nose.

“Uh,” answered Mr. Pickles. He took a step back, toward the east.

The man relaxed ever so slightly. The flash of something – was it hunger – seemed to recede. “A suggestion. Simply a mad suggestion. Or you might turn right now, and we may bid good morning, and part as friends.” He took out a handkerchief and dabbed a bit of sweat from his forehead.

Friends, thought Mr. Pickles, momentarily sobered. I still don't know his name. He looked upstairs once more. Laughter, from upstairs. “Where da sun will rise, against dat gig yoo talked about? Sittin' in fer yer friend?” he found himself saying.

A hand had been extended. Well, OK, so it would annoy Mr. Ofdensen if Mr. Pickles had to complete this fellow's engagement, but that one was always annoyed. And besides, it was partially the manager's fault, sending Mr. Pickles off with the scant pocketful of money.

But just to make sure, Mr. Pickles first pointed towards the east. “Da sun will rise. Dere.”

“Indeed. It is a wager,” smiled the man. The hand remained out.

And Mr. Pickles took it.

He cringed. The hand was cold. Clammy. He withdrew his own as soon as the grip loosened, and steeled himself not to rudely wipe the hand immediately upon a handkerchief.

“And now, as to our bet,” smiled the man. His bottom canines: they were pointed. Like tusks, Mr. Pickles thought, not knowing why that should come to mind. Mr. Pickles tossed his cigarette butt to the ground, smashing it into the alley floor. He looked up to the east, expecting the pink hue to have warmed to red.

But it was dark. He saw only night sky and stars.

He felt the cold sweat – one drop – roll down his back.

He turned, spinning on one heel, to face the opposite end of the alley, the west.

To greet the dawn.

He turned to his companion. “Dat- Dat ain't possible.”

The man's grin widened, tusks glistening in the new dawn.

“Mr. Pickles has left the building!”



“Kar-Nacky Island,” said Mr. Ofdensen, pointing out a porthole. Three beings from a distant universe leaned over in the comfortable sitting room situated near the airship's bow and peered out the window, the only sound the distant chugging of the steam engines. “Wherein lies, according to my intelligence, Saa'itii.”

“We schould arm ourschelvesch!” suggested Miss Murderface.

“Hey, good idea!” said Raziel,

“I thought you brought a sword, Raziel,” said Sariel.

“I like things that go bang,” the little angel told him.

“Miss Murderface,” scolded Mr. Ofdensen. “I should hardly have agreed to convey you this distance! I must insist that you do not disembark when we land.”

“Mr. Ofdenschen, I have scharsche come this far to abandon the adventure, whatever it may entail!”

“Yeah, let Miss Murderface come, she's cool,” urged Raziel.

“Oh, Miss Murderface is your chum now?” Sariel grumbled to her.

“Yeah! Girls can do ANYTHING!” grinned Raziel.

“Perhaps we should all inspect Mr. Ofdensen's armament supplies?” suggested Ganesh, who, despite being a person of rather patient temperament, had quite grown bored of all the bickering.

Mr. Ofdensen gestured, and some hooded assistants brought out large cases, all affixed with the signage for Morbid Timepiece. He opened the first one.

“Cooooooool,” said Raziel.

“That's pretty impressive, actually,” agreed Sariel.

“I was a hussar in the Queen's regiment during the last war,” explained Mr. Ofdensen, picking up a rather awesome saber he had just pulled from the case.

“Hoo-hah,” agreed Raziel, who had somehow found a rifle taller than herself.

“You were in the military schervice, Mr. Ofdenschen?” inquired Miss Murderface, who had picked up a knife from the case. Without turning around, she flicked it, sending it flying across the room, where it came to rest in a portrait opposite, right between the eyes of the scowling gentleman appearing in the painting. “Oh, schorry.”

“Military service was an Ofdensen family tradition,” Mr. Ofdensen explained, a trifle sadly.

“OK, Raziel, you're gonna carry that rifle?” asked Sariel

“Damn straight.”

“You have noticed that it's bigger than you?”

“Lots of things are bigger than me. Even you are an inch or two taller than me.”

“I am- I am- I am AT LEAST six inches taller than you!”

“Sariel!” said Ganesh. Sariel looked at him. “Am I going to have to separate you two?” asked the god, gently pushing the two angels apart.

“Oh, yeah. I have to do this all the time with Abby and Liam,” said Raziel, grinning and sighting down the rifle.

“She started it,” Sariel told Ganesh, pointing to Raziel.

“Yeah, and they blame each other too,” said Raziel.

“I am NOT acting like a two year old!” Sariel told Ganesh, stomping a foot. Ganesh crossed his arms and raised and eyebrow.

“If all of you are quite ready?” asked Mr. Ofdensen, as his somewhat ragtag army gathered round. “We plan a brief landing, long enough only so we may disembark, and then the craft will be taken aloft again, out of range of the island. I believe this to be the safest course, as we have previously discussed, as the last few travelers to the isle of Kar-Nacky did not return: they, and their conveyances lost, to whatever fate this cursed place has to offer.”

“The other you is sort of a downer,” Raziel whispered to Sariel.

“Yoo ain't gonna return either,” laughed Skarl/Pickles. “Da Hogfadder will fry yoo t' pork rinds.”

“Personally, I am a vegetarian,” Ganesh told him.

“I do not wish to speak of these topics any more, Mr. Ganesch!” protested Miss Murderface, fingering the top button of her blouse, as she did when she stared at him.

“Hmmmm?” asked Ganesh.

“She thinks you mean-” Sariel whispered.

“OH!” said Ganesh, “well, on occasion, vegetables and fruits are employed-”

“GANESH!”

“C'mon, guys!” urged Raziel, as she descended the gangplank along with Mr. Ofdensen and Miss Murderface, holding onto a very annoyed Pickles by the scruff of the neck.

Sariel nodded to Ganesh and followed Raziel and the rest.

“Come to think of it, I often found myself to be quite … frustrated during this historical era,” grumbled Ganesh, who nevertheless hefted his weapon and proceeded down the gangplank, whistling all the way.



“Fools! You know not what you do.”

Phanuel the Grey and Ogoun Sen Jacque exchanged a glance. As Phanuel had remained politely Court Formed, the two men now stood roughly shoulder to shoulder in the courtyard at Morhaus. The being who was addressing them now was a True Formed Seraph, several stories tall. Above this Seraph, who in addition to being rather imposing seemed to be presently in a rather cross mood, hovered a sky full of at least a Legion-worth of angels, riding golden chariots, bows and arrows at the ready. They, too, appeared to be not in the best of moods.

“Greetings to you. As well. Little Brother Uriah,” smiled Phanuel, richly enjoying the insult, which always sounded best in High Angelic.

Uriah's expression did not change, but his one remaining flight wing ruffled.

“Where is Sariel?” rumbled Uriah.

“I'm Sariel's Papa,” said Jacque, flicking cigar ashes and adjusting the machetes he ever kept at his belt. “You can speak to me about my boy.”

“This is not your business, earth god,” Uriah told him.

“Well, now, not to some motherfuckers,” said Jacque. “But me, I take an interest in my offspring's doings.”

“Modern parents,” sighed Phanuel, shaking his grey head.

“Want to be a cocksucking friend instead of an authority figure!” lectured Jacque.

“Not that we. Are helicopter parents,” put in Phanuel.

“It's a motherfucking balancing act, that's what I think.”

“Yes, 'tis very well put,” agreed Phanuel.

“I am running out of patience!” thundered Uriah, causing much wing rattling amongst the gathered host of angels.

Phanuel and Jacque exchanged another glance. “Patience. Little Brother. Is a. Virture,” lectured Phanuel.



“Wut. Da. Feck,” said Pickles, who was now on tip-toes, trying to peer out the window over Engelbert the angel's broad green and golden wings.

“Those are angels!” Bert told him helpfully.

“But wut are dey doin' here?” said Pickles.

“Those angels are ASSHOLES!” said Nathan. “We need to go YELL AT THEM. So they'll go away. Because they're assholes.” Nathan turned to go, Toki and Bert right on his heels.

“We ams go too and yells at da angels!” Toki put in excitedly.

“Wait! Nat'an. Toki. Doods,” said Pickles. The big singer turned, Toki and Bert nearly careening into him, and glared at Pickles. “Are yoo shure dat's wut Charles wud want us t' do?”

“Charles isn't here,” grumbled Nathan.

“Yeh. He's doin' somethin' important! Phanool jest explained....”

“More important than a FUCKLOAD OF ANGELS?”

“He'sch got a point,” said Murderface, running his thumb down the edge of his hunting knife. “Maybe we schould go schtab schome angelsch.”

“You wanna go stab angels?” asked Pickles.

“I'm juscht defending my territory! I am quite territorial.”

“An' it has nothin' to do wit' wut dey did t' Dick?” asked Pickles, narrowing his eyes.

Two amber eyes were glaring at him. “Why not becausche of what they did to Dick?”

“I am THOR, mighty god of THUNDER!”

“Oh, hey Thor,” said Nathan, as the handsome bearded god entered the room.

“I'm Bert!” the angel told Thor helpfully.

“Hail angel. I am Thor!”

“I'm Bert!

“I am Thor!”

“I'm Bert!”

“I am-”

“Okee, okee,” said Pickles, pushing the two apart. “I t'ink we geddit.”

“What ams you doings here, Thor?” asked Skwisgaar, who was not thrilled to see the addition of yet another irritating person to the vicinity.

“I had heard tell there was a card game in this vicinity!” said the mighty thunder god.

“Wul, yeh, but dat's been postponed due t' circumstances,” said Pickles, gesturing towards the window.

“What circumstances?” inquired Thor, helping himself to a slice of French toast from the snack tray.

“Those FUCKING ANGELS!” said Nathan. “Uhhhh. No offense, Bert.”

“I'm an angel!” said Bert.

“Of what angels do you speak, my tiny redheaded friend?” asked Thor.

Pickles merely glared, so Skwisgaar supplied, “You ams not sees da skies full of angelses?”

Thor glanced out the window. “Nay, for I have taken the back door.”

“Da back door?” asked Pickles.

“I told you he prefersch the back door,” Murderface whispered to Skwisgaar, who snickered and played a particularly snotty chord on his Gibson.

“Wait, what does that MEAN?” asked Nathan.

“Uh, you know,” said Murderface, who looked confused.

“Oh, look, here is Father!” said Thor. The others ran towards the window and gathered around, Pickles once again being blocked by Bert's broad wings. “By the way, this is rather splendid French toast,” commented Thor.



“This is a splendid beach,” commented Ganesh as the five intrepid adventurers, plus a rather reluctant Pickles the Drummer (ding dong doodily doo), who had been possessed by the Elder God Skarl the Drummer (doobie doobie doo) walked along one of the tropical island's stunning white, sandy beaches.

“We're not here for a vacation, Ganesh,” Sariel huffed. He disliked walking on sand. It made him irritable. Even more irritable than usual.

“Why don't you take off your shoes?” asked Ganesh, who tended to kick off his own at the drop of an Armani chapeau. “Feel the sand between your toes!”

“I hate the feeling of sand between my toes.”

“Who hates the feeling of sand between their toes!” laughed Ganesh.

“Sariel does,” said Raziel, tugging on Pickles' collar.

“It's not as if we're here to have a fucking beach party,” bitched Sariel.

“Hey everybody, SURF'S UP!” yelled a figure who had just appeared at the rise at the top of the beach.

“What the actual fuck?” Sariel asked Ganesh, who merely shook his head. The figure was dressed in an elaborate period Victorian bathing costume, but, oddly enough, carried a much more modern looking surfboard tucked under one arm.

The figure waved an arm, and quite suddenly was surrounded by dozens of similarly outfitted persons. They all proceeded to charge down the beach to the not terribly impressive surf, where they mounted their boards and began paddling out.

“This is most remarkable behavior!” commented Mr. Ofdensen. “What are those strange devices?”

“Those are surfboards,” Sariel told him. “But, they're not contemporary. Ganesh, you think-”

“Magic,” nodded the god. “And I believe we are about to see who is responsible.”

One of the stampeding surfers stopped in front of Sariel and the rest.

“Everybody! Surf's up! SURF'S UP!” he told them frantically.

“We were wondering,” Ganesh told him, “where did you obtain that surfboard?”

“You gotta go! We all gotta go!” the man told them. “You gotta surf for him!”

“Surf for WHO?” asked Raziel.

“Da Hogfadder,” grinned Pickles.

“The Hogge is coming!” screamed the man, who ran off throwing his board into the surf and frantically paddling.

Everyone looked back up to the beach where a remarkable figure had just appeared. He was clad head to toe in a tight leather outfit, which was showing the strain in several places, as it looked as if the figure had in his day consumed a few too many friend peanut butter sandwiches. He had an odd, extremely upturned nose, and when he grinned, you could see that his lower canine teeth were long and pointed, resembling small tusks.

His hair was coiffed up in an impressive pompadour, and as he watched the scrambling surfers, he took out a large comb and set it through. Then, pocketing the comb with a flourish, he began to gyrate, moving his hips and, as background music sounded from somewhere, he began to sing.


Stop, look and tremble baby
That's where you oughta be
I'm an elder god you mortals
Better worship me

Stop, drop and cower baby
Get down on the floor
Better prostate baby
Or you won't exist no more


As he waved his arms, the mild surf suddenly kicked up to tsunami heights. Some of the surfers managed to mount their boards, but it wasn't easy in the clumsy, wet bathing costumes, and there were a lot of spectacular wipeouts.

“He looks awfully familiar,” said Sariel, who was still looking up at the pudgy dancer.

“Why, yes, those dance moves are a decade out of style,” huffed Ganesh.


Some people say I'm wasting time
Not seeing you all killed
I like playing with your lives
It give me such a thrill

When you wake in the morning 'til you sleep at night
Rest aware I'm everywhere, Saa'itii got you in sight


The waves continued to pound relentlessly. A couple of half-drowned surfers had dragged themselves back onto the beach. Saa'itii grinned and waved a hand, and, as they screamed, they were burnt to ashes.

“Wow! He is just like Elvis!” said Raziel.

“No he is not!” insisted Ganesh.

“Yeah, Raziel-” said Sariel.

“Look at how poorly he moves! He is an insult to the King's memory!” Ganesh concluded.

“Well, not exactly a memory,” said Sariel. “They haven't had Elvis here yet I think.”

“Oh, I hadn't thought of that,” said Ganesh.


Stop, scream and moan now baby
That will do the trick
If you don't amuse my darlings
You'll turn to cinders quick


The dance ended with some thunder cracks, and a rather huge pipeline-like wave, which managed to either drown or beach all of the remaining surfers.

“Hey, he controls the weather like you do,” Sariel told Ganesh.

“Hmpf! That dance routine is antiquated.”

“Who goes there?” grumbled Saa'itii, who had evidently just now noticed the party of strange beings on the beach. “Who are you strange cats? Why aren't you surfing? Are you a bunch of squares?” He drew nearer and noticed Raziel. “Uh. Hey, little lady,” he said, although he suddenly sounded hesistant.

“HOGFADDER!” yelled Pickles. Raziel released him, and he hurled himself to the feet of Saa'itii. “Dat wuz a great dance rootine, Hogfadder! Yoo were always da hippest of da hip.”

“Skarl, what the fuck are you doing here? And why did you bring her? You know the rules, no chicks on the party beach?”

“Dey forced me, Hogfadder!”

“Look, Saa'itii, we just have some questions, and then we'll leave your, uh, party beach,” Sariel told him.

“You're not from around here?” asked Saa'itii.

“We get that a lot. Uh, no, no we are not.”

“Well you know the other rule of party beach, LOCALS ONLY!” said Saa'itii, suddenly striking an Elvis '68 pose. The surfers on the beach started to rise and approach. Instead of surfboards now, though, they all carried swords and truncheons and axes.

“OK, we're gonna have to do this the hard way I guess,” sighed Sariel, taking out a sword. “Ganesh! Raziel! With me! Ofdensen and Miss Murderface-”

He paused at the sound of the report. Miss Murderface had just pasted one of their attackers with a shot from her Derringer. It had hit the attacker smack between his eyes.

“Uh, you guys help us too!” continued Sariel. He needn't have said anything, as Mr. Ofdensen too was now charging the attackers, using a saber in one hand and a pistol in the other.

“Whoa, those two are actually pretty badass!” cheered Raziel. An attacker loomed over her shoulder. Raziel punched up, knocking him out with one blow to the chin.

“Wait, they are escaping!” shouted Ganesh, as Saa'itii and Pickles used the distraction to make a hasty exit, stage left.

“I believe we can hold them off!” Mr. Ofdensen shouted back. He had one foot on a slain attacker as he pulled his saber out of the guy's chest, and meanwhile paused to fell another with his pistol. “Please, pursue Saa'itii!”

“You got it!” said Sariel. “C'mon,” he said, running up the beach after the fleeing Elder Gods. Raziel and Ganesh hurried after him, although Raziel, carrying the large gun on her small legs, soon fell behind.

“This way,” said Sariel, as they came to thick jungle vegetation. “I can still hear them.” He picked a path, and they ran for a time through the thick tangle of vines. They came, after some minutes, to a clearing. There was a looming stone edifice visible. It looked like a giant replica of the Easter Island stone effigies.

“You squares are ruining my scene!” Saa'itii called down from on top of the giant stone head. Pickles/Skarl was crouching at his feet.

“Saa'itii, look!” Sariel tried. “We just want to ask you some questions!”

“No heat nor light nor air. I'm gonna put away you squares,” sang Saai'tii.

“Yeah, Hogfadder, put 'em away!” urged Pickles.

“What?” asked Sariel.

“Sariel,” said Ganesh, who had just grabbed his arm. “His magical aura - he's drawing power from this place. A lot of power.”

“What the fuck?” puffed Raziel, who had just run up.

The light was blinding

“Those cats have LEFT THE BUILDING!” cackled Saa’itii.

In one last desperate gesture, Sariel's hand found Ganesh's arm. But his other hand grasped uselessly. “RAZIEL!” he cried.

And then all was darkness.



Wotan dismounted his horse, the eight-legged Sleipnir, and, tossing the reigns to an attendant, strode over to stand alongside Phanuel and Jacque.

The many multitudes of troops who had arrived at his back, hundreds of mighty mounted fighting men and women who had ridden through the sky, swarmed behind him, at the ready.

“King Wotan! What a pleasant surprise,” said Phanuel.

“I was in the neighborhood,” said Wotan.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Uriah.

“He's not the sharpest tool in the shed, is he?” Wotan confided to Phanuel and Jacque.

“Even for a fucking Seraph, he is one dumb ass motherfucker,” agreed Jacque. “No offense meant to fucking Seraphs.”

“None taken,” grinned Phanuel.

“There are matters of utmost urgency! I demand to speak to Sariel,” said Uriah.

“Uriah,” enunciated Phanuel. “Court Form. Now. Or I shall have my lovely daughter. See about. Your remaning wing.”

There was a standoff for a few moments, Uriah literally trembling with anger, staring down at Phanuel.

And then, in an instant, Uriah was more or less man sized. Phanuel and Jacque exchanged another glance, this one worried.

“Speak,” said Phanuel, all of the mirth suddenly gone from his tone.

“Sariel is once again meddling with things he has no knowledge of,” said Uriah. “If he would save his universe, he would stop. Now.”

“And how is he to stop meddling, precisely?” asked Phanuel.

“He should – what! Not …. you?” Uriah actually stepped back.

“We think you should take your FUCKING ANGELS and FUCK OFF,” boomed Nathan Explosion, who had just marched out onto the courtyard along with the remainder of Dethklok, one angel, and one mighty thunder god.

“We are just talking now, Nathan,” said Phanuel.

“If he's just come to TALK, why are those dudes all ARMED?”

“Well, he does like having a retinue.”

“Phanuel dude, you're telling me this is his POSSE?” asked Nathan.

“Well,” said Phanuel, who was distracted by a jab in the ribs from Jacque. Uriah was now whispering to an aide, and seemed to be pointing in the direction of the small knot of Dethklok members.

“What is he-?” Phanuel began.

“DADDY!”



Sariel awakened on a stone floor that felt smooth and cold and unforgiving as a sheet of ice. He sat up, shivering, and looked around. Even with his keen night vision, it was dim in here. And cold beyond belief. Even in the darkness, he could see his breath.

“Ganesh?”

“Yes,” said Ganesh, who had also stirrred.

“How long were we out?”

“I don't know,” said Ganesh.

“I think we're sealed in.”

Ganesh crawled over to the wall and ran his fingers along the smooth curve. “I do not see any flaws nor cracks in the walls.”

“Wait, you can see in the dark?” Sariel asked.

Ganesh laughed softly. “Your magic. It is fairly easy for me to see in its reflected light.”

“Oh, that’s right! You can see magic. Right. Is there anything there?” Sariel asked hopefully.

“That trick would be useful here. However, as you know, I can only see magic fields as they are generated by living beings,” Ganesh said sadly.

Sariel’s mind was reeling. He had been stuck like this with Raziel once, and she had Walked them out of it – through miles of solid rock. He fumed. He didn’t even know which direction to try. “No heat, no light, no air. I can survive a long time, if he was telling the truth, but not happily.” He rubbed his hands together, thinking that at least the Victorians wore lots of layers of clothing. But he could literally feel the cold of the floor through heavy woolen socks and his boots.

“Yes, I don’t think…. I do not think I might fare as well,” said Ganesh.

Sariel put a hand on Ganesh’s shoulder. It was cold as the floor. “Shit! Shit! You’re already freezing.”

“Yes,” said Ganesh.

“OK. All right. I know what to do,” said Sariel, throwing off his jacket. “I’m more resistant to cold in True Form. Come on. Come here.” He yanked off his shirt, gathered Ganesh to him and sat down, nestling the god inside his great silver wings.

“Oh, yes. That’s better,” Ganesh assured him, though Sariel felt the god shivering.

“We just have to figure a way out of here. We’re smart. We’ll do it.”

“What happens to us,” Ganesh said softly, “will be our fate.”

“Look, don’t start with the fate stuff! Think!”

“I somehow do not think this is our time, Sariel.”

“It won’t be when we bust out.” Ganesh did not reply. Sariel noticed his breathing was getting shallow. “Ganesh?”

“Had I told you,” Ganesh whispered, “my dreams of us – you and I – when we pass on?”

“We’re not going to do that any time soon!”

“No. But all must pass on. Eventually…”

“Ganesh? Ganesh?” Sariel tightened his grip.

“Yes, jaanu?” the god finally whispered.

“OK. Yeah. What will happen when we croak. There you go. Tell me.”

“We’ll remain. In our universe. To watch over Boon. And his descendants. They shall be many. And they will be so beautiful….”

“OK. But he’s not grown up yet, we’ve gotta get back and keep him in peanut butter and put the bandaids on numerous boo-boos. Right?”

“And we’ll dance. Sariel. Such as they have never seen. The stars will sing….”

“Will there be scantily clad backup dancers? Nathan will wanna know.” Ganesh was cold as ice. Icy and brutal, thought Sariel. “Keep talking,” he urged, knowing not what else to do, listening for the heartbeat. It was getting fainter.

“And then we’ll journey.” Ganesh’s voice had gotten so soft, Sariel wasn’t even certain if a human would have been able to hear him. “You will show men many universes. Places I’ve never seen….”

“Don’t die,” Sariel told Ganesh, rocking him now. “Don’t fucking die.”

“It is not. Our time. Dear.”

“How can you fucking say that?” But then Sariel jerked up. It was such a tiny noise. Something had dropped. From where? Sariel cursed. “Stay here,” he said, reluctantly letting Ganesh go. He crawled over to pick pick up the tiny object.

It looked like….

“What … is it?” A ghostly whisper from Ganesh.

Sariel frowned. “A screw?”



Anna stood at the window, the three children and a wolf gathered around as well.

“DADDY!” said the twins, yelling and pointing as Wotan dismounted and strolled casually over to join Phanuel and Jacque at the parley.

“What's going on? Why are all these angels here?” Anna asked.

Anna felt the draft. She turned in time to see Abby and Liam, now in their little winged Forms, escaping out the open window like two weird moths.

“What- Kids! NO!” she screamed after them, grasping only air.

“Nana!” She looked over to Boon, who had now sprouted a pair of wings as well. He was standing on the windowsill, little dog clutched in one chubby arm, and holding out a hand towards her. Anna looked after the twins, now small fluttering things, and looked back to Charles' child. He was a beautiful kid, she noticed. His wings were amazing, the feathers dark, with silvery tips.

“Boonie p'tect Nana!” Boon told her. She looked out the window again. It was a long way down. On the other hand, she was already dead: what else could happen?

“OK,” she said, thinking, so, Charles' kid is Peter Pan? Great. She took the small hand in hers, and stood up on the windowsill.

And took a step.



Sariel stilled his breathing and listened with angel ears. Yes, there it was, so very small and soft, like the tiniest mouse, scratching.

And then another tiny impact. Sariel dove. “Another screw!” he said, holding it up for Ganesh. “Ganesh? Fuck.” He crawled back to Ganesh and wrapped around him. “Hold on hold on hold on.”

It seemed an eternity. But the soft sounds continued, and more small impacts.

Ganesh’s breathing had become inaudible, his heart beating only half a dozen times a minute now.

The screw holes formed a pattern. A rough circle. A door?

“WHOEVER YOU ARE, HURRY THE FUCK UP!” Sariel screamed.

And then.

It seemed from eternity away, down the deepest tunnel. The voice came from across the widest canyon.

“STAND. THE FUCK. BACK!”

He wrapped tighter around Ganesh. He heard a thud, and then another, and then another.

And then a thud, and a crack.

There was a whooshing of air, like the release of a great seal.

And then a thick section of wall came crashing down.

And the brightest light Sariel had ever seen.

“HA!” Raziel, standing at the door, laughing and brushing off a boot.

“Raziel!” said Sariel, his voice still rasping.

“Thanks, Miss Murderface!” she said. “I could never figure out how that thingie dealie works!!

Miss Murderface held up what looked very like a sonic screwdriver. “It is schimply technology, my dearesht,” she told Raziel.

“Where’s Ganesh?” asked Raziel.

“Oh!” said Sariel, who still had the god tightly clasped in his wings. “Here! He’s unconscious!” he said, unfolding silver wings.

“Come on, Ofdensen,” said Raziel, who punched a dazed-looking Mr. Ofdensen in the shoulder. He seemed to come to himself, and helped Sariel carry Ganesh out of the cold chamber. Mr. Ofdensen then fished something out of a coat pocket: a silver flask with a Morbid Timepiece logo upon it. He uncorked it and put it to Ganesh’s lips.

“This will warm you up, sir,” said Mr. Ofdensen.

Ganesh suddenly choked.

“Are you OK, Ganesha?” asked Raziel, patting his back.

Ganesh’s eyes fluttered open and he frowned at the flask. “You are administering alcohol to a … hypothermia victim?” he said disapprovingly.

“What?” asked Sariel.

“It is an inappropriate remedy!” protested Ganesh.

“He’s better,” laughed Sariel.

Ganesh frowned, grabbed the flask, and took a huge swig.

“He’s definitely better. OK, let’s leave some for Mr. Ofdensen,” said Sariel, laughing and standing up.

“Sirrah.”

“What?” asked Sariel. He noticed Mr. Ofdensen and Miss Murderface were staring, both obviously too surprised to act properly Victorian.

“Your wings are showing Sariel,” Raziel laughed.

“Oh, these,” he said, looking back and giving the wings a rattle. “Yeah, this is what I look like.”

“I have never been in the presence of such a thing,” said Mr. Ofdensen, adjusting his glasses. Miss Murderface, perhaps unconsciously, but perhaps not, had gripped Mr. Ofdensen's elbow.

“I'll change back-”

“No, please don't,” said Mr. Ofdensen, holding up a staying hand. “At least.... At least not for a while.”

“Raziel,” asked Ganesh. “Were you confined as well?” He was now examining the stone edifice where Saa'itii had stood. They had evidently been sealed inside, and there was now an opening where Miss Murderface had uscrewed the doorway and Raziel kicked it in.

“No, I didn't get trapped. It was weird!” said Raziel. “I actually felt the spell, but it seemed to just bounce off me! I saw the door closing on your guys, but I could never figure out how to work this screwdriver thingie dealie, so I went to get these guys.”

“How the hell did you end up with a sonic screwdriver, Raziel?” asked Sariel.

“Oh, one of Wotan's eccentric friends.”

“Alas, I fear our mission has failed,” sighed Mr. Ofdensen. “Saa'itii and Mr. Pickles have 'scaped us.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Ofdensen,” said Ganesh. “I believe Saa’itii’s power is rooted to this spot. If I am correct, I believe we have only to wait, and he shall return here.”

All turned at the thwack-ing sound. A flaming arrow had come from somewhere in the jungle and landed by Raziel's foot. “I don't think we gotta wait long,” she said.



“Daddy!”

“Now, you two,” scolded Wotan. “Didn't I tell you to read a book?” he asked, as Liam took his hand.

“Bad man!” said Abby, standing boldly in front of Uriah and pointing up at him.

“Now, princess, what did Daddy tell you about pointing?” sadi Wotan.

“Nat'an, dood, we shud get everyone an' get back inside,” Pickles told Nathan.

“What? I'M NOT GOING ANYWHERE while these DOUCHE BAGS are in my YARD,” barked the singer.

“Yab! Yeem!” yelled Elias, who had also just alit, together with his dog and Anna the ghost.

“Besides, EVERYBODY is out here now!” Nathan pointed out. “I don't wanna be inside all alone like a bunch of homos.”

“I am so sorry,” Anna told Wotan. “Your kids … got away from me.” She gripped her stomach, which was openly rumbling now.

“They'll do that, dear,” Wotan told her. “Angels! You two!” he scolded his children. “Giving the this nice young spirit trouble?”

“Noooooo....” the twins chorused, although not terribly convincingly.

“Now, your daddy is very busy right now, if you'll go back in the house, we can play later.”

“I am tiring of this nonsense!” protested Uriah.

“I cud take 'em back inside fer yoo, Wotan,” said Pickles.

“You're not going back inside!” said Nathan. “We're staying right here until these assholes leave!”

“Will ye go with your Uncle Pickles?” asked Wotan.

“We cud yoose T'or's hammer t' make sparks agen!” Pickles the twins.

“Oooo!” said the twins.

“WHAT!” asked Thor, as Murderface and Skwisgaar snickered.

“Wotan! This is not a time nursery school!” thundered Uriah.

“You don't have kids, do you, Uriah?” said Jacque.

“Uriah?” asked Anna, stepping back and scowling. She held her stomach, which was rumbling.



“Arrows!” grumbled Sariel, peeking out as yet another flaming projectile whizzed by. “Why does it always gotta be fucking arrows?”

The group was now pinned down under a flurry of flaming arrows. They had taken shelter behind the stone effigy.

They could not see their attackers, but from a distance, heard a familiar voice singing.


Gods almighty
I see your temperature rising
Crisper and crisper
Gonna burn you to pork rinds

Puny mortals
I'm gonna set you on fire
'Til your brains are flaming
And your ass is charred to a cinder, yeah

'Cause crisping makes me higher
I love setting shit on fire
You'll light my island sky
Burning corpse

You're just a hunka hunka burning flesh
Just a hunka hunka barbecue
A hunka hunka charred remains
A hunka hunka hunka hunka buring flesh....


“Well, at least we don't have to view that horrid excuse for a performance this time,” Ganesh huffed.

“Ganesh!” said Raziel. “Your dance moves! You can out-dance this idiot!”

“Why, of course I can out dance Saa'itii! I am Lord of the Dance. Tsk. It would be a trifle.”

“You're like young sexy Elvis to his fat Elvis!”

“Yes, 'tis true.” Ganesh then stopped being vain for a moment and started to think. “Oh, my dance magic!”

“I bet you could get these idiots out of the trees!” urged Raziel.

“Wait! No!” said Sariel. “Wouldn't he have to go out in the open?”

“Yes, so you will have to supply some cover fire,” Ganesh told him.

“COOL!” said Raziel, who was already cocking her elaborate rifle.

“Ganesh!” said Sariel, but the God had already jumped out of cover and cued up his own music.


You're caught in a trap
You can't get out
Because my moves are better baby

Why can't you see
You can't defeat me
When you can match the way I'm steppin'


The flurry of arrows had already slowed, and Sariel noticed a few of the evident snipers had already dropped from the trees to serve as Ganesh's backup dancers.


I'm getting sick and tired
Of you elder gods (you elder gods)
Just try and match my moves old man
Un-fly elder god


“Come on, Sariel, we gotta help him!” urged Raziel.

“I thought young, skinny Elvis beat fat Elvis?” Sariel groused.

“Come on! Get up there!” she urged, emphasizing the point with a small boot in his ass. Sariel, who was actually rather less scared of flying arrows that the indignity of dancing in public, nevertheless gritted his teeth and tried to follow along


So if I do a backflip
And throw in a high kick
Will I see you end up on your ass?

Here we go again
I do a backspin
And you're just left splitting your pants
(Splitting your pants)


Suddenly, up on the head of the effigy, it was Saa'itii again. He tried striking a pose and singing, “You're just a hunka hunka burned up flesh! A hunka hunka charred remains!”

But Ganesh answered:


I'm getting sick and tired
Of your poser moves
Now sit back and watch
As I bust a groove


Ganesh launched into a series of crazy double-jointed moves.

Saa'itii, to counter him, dropped into a splits.

Even from down below, the sound of the Hogfather's pants ripping was clearly audible.

“Oops!”

“Freeze, Schaa'itii!” The god painfully turned around to see Miss Murderface had ascended to the top of the edifice, and was now pointing her Derringer straight at his heart.

“Beware my magic, puny human,” bragged Saaitii, “I may be defeated by no man!”

“I am no man!” declared Miss Murderface, waving the gun.

“What really?” said Saaitii.

“I am a female perschon,” sight Miss Murderface.

Saaitii cocked his head. “Because, you look pretty masculine.”

“I am a woman!”

“Then why do you have a moustache?”

“A lot of women have little mouschtasches!”

“It’s not little. It’s pretty noticeable actually. Aiiiiii!” Saa'itii now found himself with Mr. Ofdensen's saber point at his neck.

“I will ask you politely to cease such familiar talk regarding Miss Murderface,” said Mr. Ofdensen, pressing the saber enough so a small drop of blood appeared at the tip. “Lest I take great offense.”

“Oh, Mr. Ofdensen, thank you for defending my honor!” trilled Miss Murderface, in the world's huskiest trill.

“I have only the greatest admiration for you, Miss Murderface,” replied Mr. Ofdensen, politely doffing his hat.

“Oh, gods, tell me I'm not seeing what I'm seeing,” Sariel, standing below, told Raziel, who only giggled.



“I demand to speak to Sariel!” Uriah thundered. And suddenly, he was back in his tremendous True Formed shape.

“All right then,” said Phanuel. And then, just as suddenly, there was another full sized Seraphic warrior in the courtyard, this one with two full, grey flight wings. “You are trying my patience, now, Little Brother.”

“Phanny!” said Jacque. “Aw, shit.”

But quite suddenly, Uriah reeled back, looking as if he had been struck. And then, oddly enough, he held his own hands up, staring at them. “Whoa, cool!” he said, flapping his one flight wing.

“What?” asked Phanuel.

One of Uriah facial wings got in his mouth. “EWWWW!”

“Anna? Anna, is that you in there?” called up Jacque.

“Yeah! Hey, what happened to this dude's other wing?”

“Oh, my,” said Phanuel. “My dear, you should come out. I do not think that is a healthy place for you!”

“Yeah, this guy is worse than the vampires,” agreed Uriah/Anna.

“See? This is why we didn't go inside!” said Nathan triumphantly.

“Nathan? Wait, I need to say something to you!” said Uriah-possessed-by-Anna.

“WHAT?” asked the singer.

“You gotta stop walking through me! I don’t care that you can’t see me! It's really ICKY!”

“Oh, sorry,” said Nathan.

“Ha, she ams yells at you,” laughed Skwisgaar.

“And you need to quit being so stuck-up, Skwisgaar! It's really getting on my nerves,” Anna told him. “Oh, and Toki! Do not sneak away again!”

Toki, who actually had been sneaking away, was stayed by Bert's hand on his shoulder.

“I ams not sneaksing,” grumbled Toki.

“I'm NOT scary! I'm just a ghost!” Anna told him. “You need to quit running away from me! It hurts my feelings!”

“What about me?” shouted up Murderface.

“You're OK,” said Anna.

“No complaintsch?” asked Murderface, who sounded disappointed.

“No!”

“What the HELL is going on here?” demanded Sariel.

“Mummy!” squealed the twins, who leapt to the arms of Raziel, who had just appeared in the courtyard along with Ganesh and Sariel, still in period dress.

“No wonder Valhalla seemed deserted, you guys are all down here,” said Raziel.

“Why is this bastard in my courtyard?” demanded Sariel, pointing at Uriah.

“That's what I'VE been saying for the past HOUR!” agreed Nathan.

“And what the hell are you doing out here, Nathan?” asked Sariel, rattling his wings (for he had not yet bothered to Court Form). “I left my papa in charge specifically to protect you guys!”

“See wut I told yoo!” taunted Pickles.

“No on likesch a tattle tale,” grumbled Murderface.

“What has come over Uriah?” asked Ganesh, who was now holding on to Elias.

“Anna got in there when we weren't looking,” Jacque told him.

“Anna, is that true?” Ganesh shouted up at Uriah.

“Uh, yeah. Kinda,” said the angel, looking a bit abashed.

“Well, that's no good,” said Ganesh, putting down Elias. “All right. ANNA, LISTEN TO THE SOUND OF MY VOICE, AND WALK TOWARDS ME.”

“Guys!” shouted Sariel. “Stand back now!”

And as various beings either ran or were dragged back, Uriah's eyes rolled back, and the giant Seraph suddenly toppled to the ground, like a might redwood tree being felled, only with more feathers and less bark.

“You maybe shoulda had her Court Form him first,” Sariel told Ganesh, who was now holding a dazed looking Anna's ghostly hand.

“Wow, that guy is creepier than the vampires. What's an Azitoth?” she asked. She turned around and suddenly gave Uriah’s limp body a kick. “MURDER ME! I WANTED TO GO TO GRADUATE SCHOOL, YOU ASSHOLE!”

“Are you fucking angels gonna get the fuck outta my fucking courtyard right the fuck now?” Sariel shouted up at the hovering angels, not minding at all that he was ruffling his wings like crazy. There was a brief discussion in Angelic, and then a group of angels came, lifted the unconscious Uriah, and bore him away. The rest of the angelic troops retreated as well.

“That's telling 'em, boy,” grinned Jacque, putting an arm over Sariel's shoulder. Wotan gave a signal, and his troops too dispersed.

“Would you like to get home, my Raven?” Wotan asked Raziel as the twins excitedly fluttered around him. “I think our two are overdue for a nap.”

“Noooooo nap!” the twins whined.

“No, no one is leaving! Not yet!” said Phanuel, who had once again returned to Court Form. “I need to finish my hand of cards!”



Phanuel grinned, going for the chips. After a quick round of folding as the stakes were raised, and raised again and again and again, there had been a short standoff with Nathan, who had finally (though not happily) folded as well.

“WAIT!” boomed Nathan. One of Phanuel’s grey eyebrows raised a millimeter. “Come on, I gotta see your hand.”

Phanuel stole a glance at Jacque. The Ifa’s expression was unreadable behind a pale cloud of cigar smoke, but he nodded.

Phanuel extended an elegant hand towards his pile of cards on the table.

All beings now silently leaned forward.

With a quick gesture, Phanuel flipped over the cards.

Nathan stared.

“YOU WERE BLUFFING!” thundered Nathan, regarding the pair of twos.

“That’s my pop,” grinned Raziel, putting an arm around Phanuel.

“So, you see, my dear, as I have told you, it is possible to succeed without cheating,” Phanuel told her.

“Aw, but cheating is so much fun!” said Raziel.

“I have had. A not unpleasant time,” Phanuel told her, taking a cigar from Jacque.

“HE WAS BLUFFING!” Nathan wailed.

“Dood, yoo were playin’ cards wit’ da lord o’ Hell,” Pickles reasoned.

“So, what did our friend Saa'itii have to say?” asked Wotan, as he Ganesh and Sariel sat out on the adjoining balcony, watching the card players.

“We're in a world of shit, Wotan,” said Sariel, sipping his Scotch.

“So, same as ever,” laughed the god.

“No, you don't understand. We all assumed it was the Creator who always kept those bastards away.”

“And that's not the case?” asked Wotan.

“The person they're all scared of isn't the Creator. It's the Goddess.”

“Terrified of my mother-in-law? Well, I can't say as I blame them.”

“But there is one other matter,” said Ganesh, who was sitting up on the balustrade, looking off to the distance.”

“More? You boys are a bundle of fun tonight!”

“I believe Pickles' absence in that other universe has destabilized it. To save them, we will need to find him, and return him to them.” Ganesh turned to face Wotan and Sariel. “They need their Dethklok. Or their, er, Mortal Timepiece.”

“We didn't tell Mr. Ofdensen and Miss Murderface yet,” confessed Sariel.

“Miss Murderface?” asked Wotan.

“Yeah,” laughed Raziel, who had just come out to the balcony. Wotan draped an arm around her. “And Sariel liiiiiiikes her.”

“WHAT?” boomed Wotan.

“The Charles Ofdensen in THAT universe,” grumbled Sariel, who had turned beet red.

“I thought they made a rather fetching couple myself,” grinned Ganesh.

“Pleeeeeease don't tell the boys,” Sariel pleaded.

“What will you give us?” asked Raziel.

“You know, some day,” said Sariel, “we'll find another Raziel, and she'll be DOWDY!”

“Not a chance!” declared Raziel.

“What aren’t you gonna tell us?” demanded Nathan, who had just marched out to the balcony as well. “And what the fuck were you guys up to again? Did you go to a costume party?”

Sariel, Ganesh and Raziel regarded their own clothing, which none had had time to change, not even Raziel, who generally switched outfits on a regular rotation. “We were playing Victorians, but then we went to the beach,” said Raziel.

“Victorian? Including the knickers?” asked Wotan.

“Maybe!” said Raziel, winking at him.

“Oh, gods,” sighed Sariel.

“I think we need to get back to Valhalla!” said the Wotan. “KIDS! We’re going! Where did they run off to?”

“We’re taking off!” Raziel told Liam and Abby as they came flying out with Anna at their heels. “Say goodbye!”

“BYE NANA!” the little angels, who now both wrapped wings and arms around the ghost.

“I said say goodbye, not tackle the poor thing!” Raziel scolded.

“No,” said Anna as the hugs were released. “Actually, this was pretty fun!”

“We’ll have you up to Valhalla soon,” said Wotan.

“Yeah, you should meet their nanny, she’s a goddess of the dead,” said Raziel. And then with a wave, they were gone.

“Whoa, a goddess of the dead? That’s so goth!” said Anna.

“Anna? You ams comes has da snacks now?” asked Toki timidly from the doorway.

“Oh, uh, hi. I guess so.”

“I ams in charge of da snacks,” said Toki, adding darkly, “And you ams yelled at me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” said Anna, going with Toki. “I get bitchy when I haven’t eaten.”

“You ams not haunts me?”

“Uh, I’ll try not to, I guess,” she told him as they went off.

“She might haunt him when she tastes his snacks,” Sariel laughed.

“So I have been informed,” Phanuel told Sariel as a rather large party gathered in the doorway. “That the winner of the pot. Is obliged. To escort his fellow players. To an, ahem, strip club.”

“That’sch the rule, bub,” agreed Murderface.

“Ams tradicksional!” added Skwisgaar.

“Uh, actually, Phanuel,” said Sariel, “that’s true. Because the guys actually end up at a strip club for just about everything: birthdays, funerals, weddings, bar mitzvahs, Groundhog Day….”

“I do not. Customarily. Frequent. Such establishments,” enunciated the Grey angel.

“Don’t be such a Seraph, Phanny,” said Jacque, leading Phanuel off, a great crowd, including a still pouting Nathan, trailing after them.

And then Ganesh and Sariel were left alone on the balcony. But not for long. “DADDY!”

“Oh, I was wondering where that one had flown off to,” chuckled Ganesh as Elias dove into Sariel’s lap.

“Looks like they’ve all abandoned us. What do you wanna do?” asked Sariel, wrapping arms and wings around his kid.

“DWAGON!”

“You wanna see How to Train Your Dragon? Again?”

“TWAIN DA DWAGON!” Elias shouted, his small wolf yipping for emphasis.

“Consider yourself fortunate he does not wish an actual dragon,” laughed Ganesh.

“Yeah, the kid’s a bit more mature than Skwisgaar. OK, let’s see if Jean-Pierre can rustle up some popcorn?”

“Uh-huh! Pop!” agreed Elias.

“Hey, you know something I’ve been wondering, Ganesh?” asked Sariel, hefting Elias and heading inside.

“Yes?” asked the god,

“I wonder if their robot Jean-Pierre can pop popcorn inside himself?”

“I do not know, although I would probably hesitate to ask,” laughed Ganesh. “Perhaps if he sits on a stove burner?”

“DOOOODS!”

“Oh, Pickles, I am sorry, I did not see you there,” smiled Ganesh, turning around. “You did not go along to the strip club?”

“Hey,” said Sariel, ruffling his wings, “We’re all gonna see a movie, did you wanna-“

“An ANJUL!” cried the redhead, now prostrating himself at Sariel’s feet.

“Uh, Pickles, what have you been smoking tonight?” asked Sariel.

“Oh mighty anjul! I prayed an’ prayed fer an anjul t’ appear t’ me! Help me, anjul dood!” He looked up, tears in his eyes.

“An not Unky Bickuh!” said Elias, pointing at the prostrate figure, as his wolf sniffed curiously at the man.

“What?” asked Sariel.

“Oh!” said Ganesh, stooping down. “Er. Mr. Pickles, I presume?”

“Yoo gaht t’ help me!” pleaded Mr. Pickles, grasping Ganesh by the arm.

“Hoo boy,” said Sariel.