2.Ø2
Argust 15, 2124, 3:48pm
Clutching a wad of lecture notes Muddle unlocked his office door and nudged it open. The office, furnished in tasteful hardwood, was deplorably overstuffed with straggling heaps of junk--or what Muddle preferred to describe as valuable historical artifacts. Despite the best efforts of a first-rate ventilation system, a musty-attic smell pervaded the room.
After tossing the lecture notes on his desk Muddle plopped into a chair, unlocked a secure side drawer and shuffled through its contents: a multitude of brownish prescription bottles. Sifting through the containers Muddle eventually located a bottle in which a few tablets rattled. He wrestled with its cap. When the cap wouldn’t budge Muddle scrutinized the label to see if the bottle was, in fact, worth opening.
Snick...
A bank of fluorescent lights flickered to life overhead.
“Hey, Max, it might help if you had some light.” Muddle turned to discover Angellica’s bright eyes peeping around his door. She inquired, “Mind if I come in?”
“No. Not at all, Gellie, come right in.” Muddle waved toward a wingback chair that was occupied by a teetering stack of newspapers. “Don’t mind the papers, Gellie. I’m just going to recycle them.”
Angellica rolled her eyes and tipped the papers to the floor before flouncing sideways into the wingback. “So...” Angellica gushed, “What did you make of that whole ‘MAGA, MAGA, MAGA’ thing?”
“Ugh..." Muddle winced as his headache spiked, "It was like a bad dream.”
“Like a bad dream? Is that all you have to say, Max?” Angellica swung her feet to the floor and scooted her chair closer to Muddle’s, “C’mon, Max! You can do better than that. I mean...” She slapped Muddle’s knee, “Do you think Blowhard’s MAGA mania could have anything to do with that dopey theory of yours?” Gellie threw back her head and roared with laughter, “Wouldn’t that be hilarious, Max? I mean, you could finally say that your crackpot theory isn’t the dumbest thing since self-igniting matches.”
“Wha-…!” Muddle clutched a hand to his heart, “Crackpot theory…!?!”
Before Muddle could say any more, there was a heavy knock on his door, “BANG! BANG! BANG!”
Muddle and Gellie exchanged looks.
The visitor knocked again with greater urgency, “BANG!! BANG!! BANG!!” and then inquired, “Hello? Is anyone in there?” The voice, though growly and bear-like, also bore a note of good cheer, “Ahoy! I seek an audience with Professor Maxwell Muddle. Is this his place of work?” The visitor pounded again—this time nearly hard enough to bash the door off its hinges, “BANG!!! BANG!!! BANG!!!””
Fearing that the visitor’s door-knocking might soon bring the roof down, Muddle sang out, “Uhh, hello? Whom, may I ask, is calling?”
“Ah, good!” The cheery voice boomed, “Er...If it’s not too much trouble, professor, would you mind opening the door?”
Muddle cringed, “Well, I...don’t usually open the door to strangers. Especially strangers who sound like bears. I hope you understand.”
“Ah, yes.” The thundering voice conceded, “I get that a lot. To put your mind at ease, professor, I can assure you that I am not a bear. Also, I have been given a password that should convince you of my good intentions. Would you like to hear it?”
A password? Muddle glanced at Gellie. She shrugged, “Either way, you don’t have to open the door, Max.”
Seeing the sense in Gellie’s feedback, Muddle shouted to the caller, “Okay, my good man. Please tell me your password.”
“Ah, good…just...one moment...” There was a short pause followed by a sequence of growly grunts and groans. The next thing Muddle heard was the creepy sound of a bear panting beneath his door. The visitor puffed, “...I do apologize, professor, but my visit must remain a closely-guarded secret. Would you mind if I whispered the password into your ear?”
“Oh...ugh!” Muddle recoiled at the thought of a grizzly bear nuzzling his ear. Instead, he threw caution to the wind and, in spite of a frownie face from Gellie, opened his office door. To Muddle’s lasting surprise, he found a huge viking lying horizontally in the hallway.
The viking beamed, “Professor Muddle! We meet at last. I am Thud, the God of Thunder.” The viking tried to hug Muddle, but was thwarted by the Lilliputian doorframe. Following the failed hug, Thud inquired, “Professor, would you mind if I entered your office?
“Oh…” Muddle fell back a step and compared the viking’s shoulders to the doorway, “Sure, Thud. If you can squeeze through, be my guest.”
“Ha-ha! Not to worry professor.” Thud paused to direct a smile at Gellie, “As you might guess, I encounter this problem a lot, so…” The viking wheezed, “...I get plenty of practice.”
Thud was wearing a Minnesota Vikings jersey. As he wriggled through the doorway, the thunder god’s labors were accompanied by the sound of shredding fabric. By the time he finished, Thud's jersey was in tatters.
Once inside Muddle’s office, Thud sat cross-legged to keep his head below the ceiling tiles. Assessing the sorry state of his jersey, Thud addressed Gellie, “Dear lady, would you care for a souvenir?”
“Excuse me?” Gellie blinked.
“My jersey.” Thud indicated his demolished shirt, “Women find me irresistible and they are ecstatic whenever I remove my clothing, so....” Thud whisked the jersey over his head, “...I am always happy to oblige.” Every muscle in Thud’s torso rippled like corded steel.
“Ach! No, please!” Gellie averted her eyes, “Look, Thud, that’s kind of you, but I have a boyfriend, and he may not be a Norse god, but…” Gellie’s eyes gleamed at the thought of her beau’s antique slide rule collection, “...he’s my guy.”
“Nonsense!” Ignoring everything Gellie had just said, the viking balled up his shirt and tossed it to her, “I am Thud, the God of Thunder. No woman can resist me. You see?” Thud struck a pose and gazed rapturously at himself.
Gellie frowned at the jersey and, when Thud wasn’t looking, tossed it aside. Sensing the opportunity, Gellie made a beeline for the door, “It’s been a pleasure gentlemen, but I’ve got to go.”
“Wha-at?” Muddle’s voice cracked, “Aw, come on Gellie. Can’t you stay? I mean…” He gestured toward Thud, “Please!!”
“Professor?” Thud stopped flexing long enough to interpose, “I believe your associate is correct. It would be best to keep our conversation private.”
“See, Max?” Gellie suppressed a giggle, “You don’t want me eavesdropping on your man-cave bidniss, do ya’?” Gellie managed to get one foot out the door before Muddle bounded across the room and caught her by the shoulder.
Panting into Gellie’s ear, Muddle pleaded, “Gellie, I...I really wish you would stay.”
Deaf to his request, Gellie waved farewell to Thud, “See ya’ later, big guy. It’s been a pleasure.”
“Dear lady,” Thud blew a kiss, “The pleasure has been all mine.”
Gellie pretended to catch Thud’s kiss and then, as Muddle pressed close, wiped her hand on his shirt.
“Gellie, please!” Muddle whined, “You can’t leave me alone with this guy!”
“Max,” Gellie jabbed a finger into his chest, “Don’t you think it’s a little strange that only blippets after Uranus Blowhole arrives…?”
“Blowhard,” Muddle corrected.
“Who cares?” Gellie retorted, “Think, Max! There’s gotta be some connection...” She thrust Muddle back into his office, “...and it’s your job to figure out what it is.”
As Muddle stumbled backward, Thud snagged him by the shirt collar, “Gotcha, professor!” Hoisting Muddle like a prize fish, Thud beamed, “Guess who won the Asgardian fishing contest three years running?”
"Hah!" Gellie admired Thud's trophy, “See ya’ later, Max! Oh, and, Thud…?” She winked, “...not if I see you first, pal!” Without awaiting a reply, Gellie vanished like a Republican on tax day.
Meanwhile...
Shillary Claptrap was scribbling memos when a column of purple light erupted in the Oval Office. Out stepped Uranus Blowhard. The blob had traded his battle armor for an ill-fitting business suit.
“So, if it isn’t Crooked Shillary,” Blowhard sneered, “Still up to no good, I’ll bet.”
“Ha!” Claptrap countered, “The scummy pot badmouths the kettle.” She raked a reproachful eye over the blob, “You don’t have the necessary clearance for Oval Office visits, Blowhard, so I suggest you clear out.”
“Necessary clearance? Ha!” Blowhard plopped down on a settee, “Did you have the necessary clearance for that email server of yours?”
“Very funny.” Claptrap glowered, “You play dirty, Blowhard. I’ll give you that.”
“Speaking of which…” Blowhard snapped his fingers and his sidekick, Igor Lutin, popped out of another purple transport beam, “...Igor has reviewed the vote tallies from your so-called…” He twiddled his fingers, “...popular election. And, as I suspected, Igor has discovered a number of alarming irregularities…”
“Da!” The little weasel chimed in, “I spot chitting mile 'vay.”
“Chitting?” Claptrap rounded, “Don’t be ridiculous. I crushed Dimbulb Tramp by three million votes.”
“So? You admit it!” Uranus swatted Lutin’s arm, “See? I told you we would catch her out, didn’t I?”
“Da.” Lutin acceded, "Yoo zay, zhe zay.”
“What are you babbling about?” Claptrap ticked off a few of her unprecedented electoral achievements, “I am the first woman to be elected US President, the Amerrican people love me and I am sending thank-you cards to everyone who helped Shillary ‘The Hotrod!’ Claptrap pull off such an historic victory.”
“The people love you?! Don’t make me laugh!” Blowhard scoffed, “There’s no way you could get that many votes without cheating.”
“How dare you?” Claptrap was aghast, “I won the election fair and square.”
“That’s a lie!” Blowhard pointed at a stack of documents that Lutin was carrying, “You only won because millions of illegal aliens stuffed ballot boxes for you.”
“Hogwash!” Claptrap steamed, “Let me see that report.”
“Nyet! Nyet!” Lutin tucked the documents behind his back.
“Not so fast, Shillary,” The blob struggled to his feet, “Igor and I have just had a meeting with the Supreme Court. We all agreed that you are as crooked as a dog’s hind leg.”
“But…” President Claptrap appealed to the heavens, “...the Supreme Court has no jurisdiction…”
“Put a cork in it!” Blowhard barked, “Everyone agrees that my scheme is vastly preferable to having you in the White House.”
Claptrap was thunderstruck, “...your scheme?”
Blowhard whipped an envelope out of an inner pocket and slapped it on Claptrap’s desk, “Read it and weep, Shillary…” The blob savored each word like a bacon-wrapped weenie, “Yuhh fi-yuhhed!”
2.Ø3
Argust 15, 2124, 4:23pm
Thud smiled at his prize fish, “Gotcha, Professor! Now where shall I put you?”
“Dccchhnnn...plzzzz...,” Muddle choked as his collar cut into his throat.
“Oh, of course!” The thunder god released Muddle and the professor crumpled to the floor.
Concerned by Muddle’s lassitude, Thud tried to deliver a bracing whack on the professor's back. However, Muddle saw the brute coming and skittered out of range. “Forggcchet it, Thud,” Muddle rasped, “I’m fine. Juccht fine.” When his windpipe eventually snapped back into shape, Muddle struggled into his chair and urged Thud to sit in the furthest corner of his office, “I think you’ll find...hack-ack...that’s the most comfortable... hack-ack...seat I have…”
“Thanks anyway, professor...” Thud demurred, “...but none of your chairs are equal to the challenge. If you don’t mind...” Just as he had done in the hallway, Thud stretched out horizontally, “...this is the safest way for me to repose in a dollhouse.”
Muddle raised an eyebrow, but elected not to comment, “...so, Thud…what can I d-…?”
“Hold it right there, professor…” Thud cut in, “I’ll wager you are wondering why I’m here. Isn’t that right?”
“Yeah, okay.” Muddle bobbed his head, “You are the first Nordic god who has ever dropped in on my office hours. I can't wait to learn what would occasion a visit from someone of your eminence.”
“HA-HA!!” Thud chuckled, “That is kind of you to say, professor. However, the honor is entirely mine.” Feeling duty-bound to reciprocate, Thud placed a hand over his heart and pronounced, “And you, Professor Muddle, are the first teacher with whom I have ever discussed anything but lost homework.”
Muddle smiled. The oversized puppy was difficult to dislike. Duplicating the god’s good cheer, Muddle invited, “Okay, Thud. Enlighten me...” The professor steepled his fingers, “...how can I be of assistance?”
“Ah!” The god tapped his nose, “Time for brass tracks, eh, professor?” Thud unsnapped the thigh pocket of his cargo pants and produced a travel-weary envelope. Holding the crinkled missive between thumb and forefinger, Thud presented it to Muddle.
The plot thickens!
Muddle’s expression remained blasé, but his heart pounded. Hoping that the message would shed more light on Thud’s unusual visit, Muddle accepted the envelope. But, before he even resettled in his chair, Muddle frowned and tried to return the letter, “Sorry, big guy, but you’ve delivered this to the wrong person. This letter is addressed to…” Muddle stifled a snicker, “...Dr. Stephen Strangelove.”
“No, professor!” Thud drew back as if the letter was made of rotten fish, “That letter is yours to keep.”
“Hmm...” Muddle tried to trick the thunder god into reclaiming the envelope, “...okay, Thud, but I just noticed my shoelace is untied. Would you mind holding the envelope until I re-tie it?”
“I am sorry professor…” Thud wagged a finger, “...but my supersister, the Black Window, cautioned me against that very ploy.” The god shook his head, “Nothing you can say will convince me to reclaim that letter. I’m sorry.”
Muddle gazed at the envelope. “Well…” He fussed, “...what am I supposed to do with it?”
“I beg you, professor.” Thud exhorted, “Read the letter. Though I cannot join your adventure, I am here to help you make the best possible start.”
Muddle’s eyes flitted between Thud and the missive. Though worse for wear, the envelope was made of a lustrous paper that added a certain gravitas to the dispatch. The professor shot one final glance at Thud and then reached for his letter opener. After slicing open the envelope, Muddle drew out a card that felt more like balsa wood than paper. The card’s outer face was devoid of markings.
When he opened it, Muddle was surprised to find nothing but splotches of ink. Not knowing what else to do, Muddle touched one of the ink spots and then, before his very eyes, the ink began to swirl and dance.
Watching the ink cavort, Thud advised, “Do not be alarmed, professor. The sender thought it best to encrypt the message.”
Muddle peered at Thud, “Encrypt?”
Thud nodded, “Give it a blippet.”
No sooner had Thud spoken than the ink began to resolve into a flowery script, “Ah…” Muddle settled a pair of reading glasses on his nose, “...here we go.”
Thud gazed warmly at the text as if at an old friend. “It is a remarkable form of encryption. No one has ever cracked the code because retrolactic splatter only decrypts when the person who is responsible for the mess tries to clean it up.”
If anything, Thud’s explanation only confused Muddle more. Setting aside the enigma of spilled milk encryption, the professor focused on the card’s now-legible message:
Dear Dr. Strangelove,
Universes are colliding. There is a great disturbance in the Farce. Much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it. And some things that should not have been forgotten were lost.
I hereby summon you to the Council of Ozland. The Council will take place this evening at the Crossroads of Humanity...
Muddle gawked at Thud, “Council of Ozland? Crossroads of Humanity? What is this?”
Thud shook his head, “Please read the entire message, professor.”
Seeing little alternative, Muddle huffed and then resumed reading:
...We believe that you hold the key to resolving this cosmic crisis. I implore you to attend tonight’s Council. We must act swiftly, or all will be lost!
Sincerely,
Lady Galahadriel & Co.
Muddle re-read the message and then looked Thud square in the eye, “Is this some kind of joke?”
“No, professor! It is no joke.” Thud replied, “I should have thought Uranus Blowhard’s untimely arrival would have made that obvious.”
“What?” Muddle gasped, “You mean, this has something to do with Blowhard?”
“Oh, dash it…!” Thud groaned, “...they told me not to divulge that. I am such a dunderhead!” He cracked a meaty fist against his skull.
“Easy, big fella!” Muddle winced at the knuckle marks on Thud’s forehead, “Just forget it. Okay? I won’t, uhh....Hmm… Hang on a sekk...”
Silence.
Muddle reflected on the circumstances surrounding Thud’s visit and suddenly experienced an “Aha! moment.” His eyes flew wide, “Now I get it! The ‘they’ you just referred to is the Scavengers, isn’t it?”
Thud turned a whiter shade of pale, “...uh...I...uhhh....”
Muddle was too caught up in his excitement to register Thud’s woe, “What a great idea! The Scavengers are going swoop in and save the day! Oh, what a relief!!”
Muddle soon noticed that the Thunder god’s complexion had morphed from rosy to green. “Hey, Thud.” Muddle prodded, “What’s up? You look like there's been a death in the family.”
Thud winced when Muddle raised the issue of family mortality. Stiffening his upper lip, Thud blubbered, “Sniff-sniff. It is ironic that you should mention deaths in the family, professor, because…” Thud’s voice cracked, “...because…”
“Oh, no…!” Muddle clapped a hand over his mouth, “I’m so sorry, Thud. Is...it your brother? What’s his name...Loogi? Has he pretended to die again?”
“Would that it were so, professor.” Thud sobbed, “Unfortunately, Loogi is in perfect health. No…” The hulking Norge clambered into a sitting position and produced a god-sized pocket tissue, “...death has not claimed any single member of my family. Rather, death has robbed me of my entire superfamily. The Scavengers are…” Thud trailed off, “...no more…”
“What?” Muddle flew out of his chair, “Nooo!! The Scavengers can’t have disbanded! They’re the earth’s most profitable heroes, aren’t they? I thought the Scavengers had sworn to combat evil to eternity and beyond!!”
“Bah!” Thud flipped his hand, “That’s all a PR smokescreen. The truth is we can’t stand each other.” The god’s voice gnarled with wrath, “And the Iron Maiden is worst of a bad bunch!” He mocked, “‘Ooooh, look at me. I’m rich. I’m good looking. I can count to a thousand…’ Aaarrgghh!” Thud pounded an imaginary Iron Maiden into the dirt.
Muddle refused to give up, “C’mon Thud. Couldn’t you reunite long enough to kick Blowhard’s butt and then go back to hating each other?”
“No!” Thud growled, “It can’t be done. I’ve tried, but it’s no use. The Scavengers will not answer the call. Not this time.” Wistfully, he added, “Perhaps...nevermore…”
“So...” Muddle clutched two handfuls of hair, “...the Scavengers refuse to battle an intergalactic tyrant, and I’m the next card in your rolodex?”
Thud’s brow furrowed, “What’s a rolodex?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Muddle flopped face first across his desk. Without lifting his mouth from the desktop, he garbled, “My point is that I have nothing—and I mean NOTHING!!—to offer in the fight against Uranus Blowhard. Why come to me?”
“Actually, professor...” Thud parried, “...that is not true. Remember what Lady G said, You…” Thud rumbled his voice, “...hold the key!”
“The key?” Muddle kept his face mushed on his desk, “What key? I don’t have any key.”
“But that’s where you’re wrong, professor…” Thud ransacked his memory. As he did so, waves of heat radiated from the god’s overtaxed brain until... “Ah, yes! The Black Window said the ‘key’ is something you wrote.”
“What...?” Muddle perked up, “Something...I...wrote, you say? Wow. Did the Black Window say anything...else…?”
“Hmmmm…” Thud summoned every watt of brain power in his cranium, “...the Black Window said something about...a…a hyperbolic nativity,” Thud shrugged, “...but it didn’t make sense, so I didn't mention it…” .
“Hyperbolic nativity...?” Muddle’s heart thumped. Could it be?!? Smelling a rat Muddle scanned the room for hidden cameras. Seeing nothing untoward Muddle waded in ever so gently, “Sooo, Thud...do you think the Black Window might have said something like ‘historical transitivity?’”
“Hysterical transistery? Hmmm…” Thud stroked his chin, "Noooo...I don’t think so...”
“Transitivity, you...er... great guy...!” Muddle barely bit off the insult in time. He took a deep breath before trusting his voice again, “Admittedly, transitivity doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue…”
“No! It doesn’t, but...” the thunder god hedged, “...it’s not the sort of word you’d easily forget, is it?”
“No…” Muddle’s voice cracked, “...no, it isn’t”
“Well, that settles it!” Thud boomed, “Now that you mention it, I clearly recall that the Black Window subscribes to your theory of horizontal relativity. If…” Thud deferred to Muddle, “...that means anything to you, professor.”
“Oh, yes…” Muddle sniffled, “Yes, it does.” With that, Muddle rose to his feet and pronounced, “After giving the matter all due consideration, I have decided to attend tonight’s Council of Ozland.”
“Hooray!!” Thud whooped, “You have no idea how happy that makes me, professor.”
Strutting around like he had just won the Monaco Grand Prix, Muddle beamed at Thud, “So, where is this Crossroads of Humanity, anyway?”
“Ah, how could I forget?” Thud rattled the loose screws in his head, “The Crossroads of Humanity, my dear professor.." He swung a hand skyward, "... is located on the moon.”
Muddle choked, “On the moon!!!”
“Indeed.” Thud chucked Muddle playfully on the chin, “And the best part is that I have personally arranged your transportation...”
Meanwhile...
Back in the Oval Office, there was a knock on the door.
Blowhard sang out, “En-Tahhh!!”
The geeky plumber poked his head through the door, “You called, sir?”
“Da.” Lutin beckoned, “Vee spick you, Edfarrht.”
As he shambled over to Blowhard’s desk, the Plumber stammered, “Hey, Igor, it’s not a big deal or anything, but would you please stop calling me Edfarrht?”
"Vat?" Lutin blinked, “I zay, Edfarrht. Ees problem?”
The Plumber wrung his hands, “Look, Igor, I don't mind if you call me Edward, or Snowjob, but please don’t call me Edfarrht. Okay?”
Lutin was lost, “You zay Edfarrht ees problem?”
Snowjob nodded, “Yes, it’s embarrassing when you call me Edfarrht."
“Ah, zo…” The weasel struggled to wrap his head around the problem, “I zay Edfarrht? Ees feex?”
“No, no, no…!”
“Enough!” Blowhard interrupted, “No one cares, Edfart. Now take a seat.” As Snowjob settled into a chair, Blowhard got straight down to business, “Igor tells me you’re the best plumber in the business.”
“Da.” Lutin broke in, “Edfarrht ees beast. Trust, Igor. He know.”
“Course, I trust you.” Blowhard patted the rodent’s head, “I never make a move without you, do I?
“Da. Doan moof teel I feex.”
“Edfart, I have a very important job for you.” Blowhard directed Snowjob’s attention to a door several meters from his desk, “The toilet in the executive washroom is woefully inadequate. I need you to install an upgrade.”
“Inadequate, sir?” Snowjob cringed, “How so?”
“Let me put it like this…” Blowhard laid his cards on the table, “...I eat twelve full meals per day, Edfart. So, when it's howdy-doody time I need a high-capacity fixture. Get it?”
“Oh…” Snowjob looked confused, “...but you know I’m not that kind of plumber, don’t you?”
Blowhard stared daggers at Snowjob, “Igor told me that you have the necessary skills to handle this job, Edfart. Are you saying Igor is wrong?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Snowjob saw Igor slash a finger across his throat.
“No!” Snowjob shrieked, “I would never say that! Of course, I can handle the job. You can count on me!”
“Good.” Blowhard shifted his attention to other matters, “You need to get right on this, Edfart. I haven’t saddled up all day and it’s almost high noon. Capish?”
“Sir!” Snowjob bolted to his feet, “Yes, sir! I’ll have that toidy flowing like Victoria Falls before you can say, Deep State Conspiracy!" Then Snowjob raced over to the washroom, flung the door wide and dove headfirst into the commode.
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