[Bêthberry]

Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail

Somewhere not in a galaxy far, far away there was a deep, deep valley, overhung with a deep, deep gulf of shadow and despair, and all was dark and dreadful about it, in the most dreadfully dread way. And in this dark and dreadful shadow there rose a mighty fortress of rock and castellated gothic windows, corridors gloomy and cobwebbed, rooms ghosted and cursed, and towers windy and tall. It was lit not with imprisoned moonlight, but with a wavering phosphorescence, a florescence of crepuscular light, an ignuus fatuus if ever there were one. Its name was Minus Moreghoul and its Mistress was yet another who plotted all manner of vile and loathsome deeds of the vilest, wicked sort. Some of them really quite terrible too.

She was one who might once have had everything She could desire in the world, but certainly She no longer had it now and had been so long a boon companion of sadness that She had come to make a very obsession of it, watering her days and nights and evenings and morns and let us not forget the noon times also with tears and sorrows until her very soul had become a rotting bog of despair and most of her gowns o'ergrown with mold and mildew. And coming to enjoy this very despair and dread She naturally determined to share her desolation with others, She who had made a rash challenge and lived everyday to regret it. And so it was that She had first sundered the ent and spread its entience far and wide. She before whom time seemed to slow its pace, so that between the raising of a foot and the setting of it down minutes of loathing passed. (In short, She stopped clocks.) Yes, her name was She and She had not been amused when that fell fool Sourone had fallen. "Never send a wet to do a woman's job," she had sighed, and went about preparing a pretty darn big, foolproof assault of prudent propaganda and pugnacious pugilism upon the pusillanimous-not! Itship. This time She was bound there would be no mistakes. Well, not really bound. But you know what I mean.

* * * * * * * *

The day arriving finally when there could be no more backroom negotiations concerning disarming resolutions, She prepared to meet the press and her troups. Her maids, Mildew and Melancolia, arrived to array her in the worst manner of dress possible. Her corset was strung with not a little effort, her gown of gaudy black sequins taken out of mothballs, and her favourite houseslippers replaced with the iconic stiletto-heeled shoes. Let it not be said that she wore army boots although she led an army. Miss Carver the cosmetician coloured and rouged and buffed and toned her until she looked positively unnatural and the piteous wails and cries of resounding unhappiness of the worst hair day imaginable were silenced by the heroic ministrations of her stylist Miss Fingers.

And She was as beautiful and terrible as the daily thunderstorm, as fair as the thunderous falls of Niagara, which were yet to be discovered, as dreadful as forked lightning, stronger than seismic movements of tectonic plates. Faster than a speeding bullet, too. She was beautiful beyond enduring, terrible and worshipful.

Then She looked deep into the Cell-antir, which too had been brought under her thumb, and asked, "Who is the fairest of them all?" And it replied, "All shall love you and despair."

"I pass the test," said She. "I will exalt and see to my unilateral actions to disarm the Itship." So saying, She tripped over her pet, Thing, the horrible hand of harm who haunted the halls of Minus Moreghoul. "Out damned Hand," She cried and decided on the spot that its doom was to be the mascot for the MoreScenario troups.

*********
Cauldrons burned and cauldrons bubbled in the cavernous kitchens of the castle keep. She's chef, Hannibal, and her sous-chef, Fester, were in a pickle procuring and preparing the particular provisions for the political onslaught. Ragout of truth--always the first casualty of war--spiced with travesty, a fricassee of honesty, accompanied by a syllabub of self-fulfilling prophecy, and a cheesecake of dreadful prose, served with a soupçon of insanity, provided the main programme of provocation. She was pleased, whereupon Friday, the butler who kept the castle untidy, called her away for the photo op.

*********

With a very sigh, She strode into the Glass Room where so many treaties to end all treaties had been signed. There She met the MoreScenarios from Far Harried. She had gathered and trained as great a group of them as could ever be found beyond the reaches of Grundor. They were assembled, dissembling at the sight of her, resembling not swarthy pirates of a sub-saharan desert, for that would be racist, which becomes not this tale. Serfthrongs moving endlessly and restlessly: swordsmen, spearmen, bowmen, horsemen, chariot-riders and oarsmen, men not accustomed to doing the bidding of a woman, but as dogs may walk on their hind legs, so women may take the lead in Mary Sue parodies. They felt the fierce eagerness of She; it leapt towards them, a gaze fingering each and every one of them out, a gaze which would nail them if they disappointed She. She went among them, though, and they were gone over to She, ever ready to do the will of She.

And She spoke with Motley, Thudd, Thrush and Robespierre, their leaders, and sent them out to Park Galore, with instructions to bring back the Entish Bow to She unharmed and unspoiled. And Gravlox's wooden leg. And Kuruharan's Great Foozle. Well, actually, any piece of wood the Itship had knocked on. The members of the Itship themselves could be bound and trussed if need be. And she provided them with all manner of ordnance, weaponry and munitions. Massive flame throwers to fight Chrysophylax. Greeting trouts called Restraint and Bad Taste to engage in negotiation. And, especially, the subtle tools of control, Tickler, Collar and Cuff, with which to bind the Itship to her Will.

And they stood and posed and preened for all manner of photographs and interviews, obeying the biding of the gonzo journalist Bilbo S. Thompson until he was finally satisfied that Get Yer Ya-Yas Out would have the pulitzer-winning images it so desperately sought in its own war of competition against the Conniving News Network and the Baddest Broadcast Corp. The access didn't come cheap, but how else was She to pay for this pre-emptive strike?

Finally, shadows lengthened and gathered doom and gloom through the long windows as the sun played peek-a-boo with the timeframe of this post, acknowledging just how trying this post has been with the patience of the reader, who by now was seeing double. Then they drank the Cup of Parting and She commanded them to depart, telling them what part to take, hoping to keep apart all the parts of the Ent that had been parted.

And so ends the first part of the appearance of She.

[ March 15, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]