[Thenamir]

Grimy Hasbéen, son of Washtup, motioned the Itship forward with a hand the color and liveliness of flour paste. As their eyes adjusted to the strange lighting they could make out (through the pipeweed haze) Hasbeen outfitted in the traditional black ptôcksǽdo of the court of Improvas, accented beneath with a white tunic and a small black cravat tied in odd fashion around the throat. He would have been a dashing figure except that he had no figure to speak of. Had a corpse already liquid with decay arisen from the grave, arrayed itself in party finery, and splashed on some aftershave, the effect could not have been more hideous. *

The Itship had little choice but to obey the ghastly summons to the stage, as the massively built and nattily-dressed bouncer-corps outnumbered them 3 to 1. The half-lit, half-empty hall half-heartedly applauded the strangers as they shuffled forward with all the enthusiasm of a young child ordered to bed. Gateskeeper in the midst of the group kept his eye on Grimy, something familiar in his look, his manner…then he remembered.

Grimy had been a groupie of Sauerkraut, a hanger-on back at Dorktank who never quite got the hang of wizardry, either on or off the stage. But ol’ cabbage-head (as they used to refer to Sauerkraut during meetings because it made his eyes bulge) appeared to have found a use for him as a low-level Têch support assistant for Networkgaard (or “the Net” for short), making sure packets of information were correctly routed to destinations within the influence of the Net.

But what was he doing here? Was this the agent Môgul Bildûr mentioned who “had the King’s ear”? Gateskeeper continued to ponder, wishing he could surreptitiously make a call on his Cell-antir as the quest-ians mounted the stage and assembled beside King Théboleggen. Grimy Hasbéen joined them on the stage in seeming gesture of welcome and glaring at those in the audience whose appreciation seemed somewhat unenthusiastic.

At close range the King looked to Gateskeeper as more than haggard and old. He appeared as though something had drawn all the strength and vitality from him, as though his life had not worn away gracefully but had been systematically sucked dry like the kegs of ale from last night’s party. It looked like the work of his old mentor Sauerkraut, but the Dorktank of Networkgaard was many leagues away, and Sauerkraut was supposed to be in league with Môgul. Besides, there wasn’t a cell-antir antenna large enough to carry the image over the Ecru Mountains. Unless…it was then that Gateskeeper noticed a pair of small black lines that protruded out from under the King’s desk, leading away towards…the thighs.

King Théboleggen attempted to stand, but merely achieved a different slouch in his chair, shifting to look up at the newcomers. Looking out at the crowd he muttered, “What a great group, eh?” the old King wheezed, “Troupers. That’s what I say. Every one of them. And we’ll see how they do here on Sorethighhim Idol, right after this.” The little band that accompanied the drummer in the corner played a short tune as the stage light shifted to a very animated troupe of players who bounded onto the other side of the stage and began extolling the excellence of a brand of sodâpaup, Dorka-Cola, in a short skit.

Gatekeeper's mind was working at high speed now, for Dorka-Cola had never been seen outside the confines of Dorktank by him before. In the vast and putrid manufactories of Moredough the minions of Mogul turned out the #1 brand in Muddled-Mirth, Pukel-Cola. His monopolistic schemes had driven all competitors off the market, then driven up the price of the addictive caffeine-laden beverage. There could be only one conclusion: Sauerkraut was trying to undermine Mogul's plans to overrun Soreham. It all began to make sense now. Mogul, only recently escaped from his erstwhile prison had no idea of the advances Sauerkraut had made for reaching masses with the power of The Net. Mogul was mired in low-tech advertising such as billboards and such. With the power of the Great Thighs to carry his message, Sauerkraut would be a formidable advertising force to contend with, especially once he rediscovered the lost art of the pop-up. If Gateskeeper was to succeed in the task to which he was now bound by Mogul, Sauerkraut had to be stopped.

Meanwhile, the Itship was now quite taken aback (abackstage, that is). Grimy, an insincere smile upon his leering countenance, told them, “So you think you can perform up to the high standards of our Mike, do you? Nay, do not start, word has reached me of you poor players strutting and fretting your hour upon the stage last night. A tale told by an idiot! You were all so full of sound and fury, yet signifying nothing. Well now, you shall have your chance to prove your so-called talent before our panel of one – King Théboleggen himself shall judge you. And woe to you if you fail to please him.”

“Oh, lovely!!” cried Vogonwe in utter delight, “An audience with a king! I shall recite a new poem I just composed for the occasion, if only I can figure out a way to get the words “toast” and “pomposity” to fit in this last line…” Vogonwe’s final comments went unheard, for by unanimous agreement Earnur Etceteron conked him out cold with the butt of his sword (which complained loudly of the indignity) lest he seal their demise.

Merisuwyniel, who had seldom known fear in times past, now found herself trembling (with fear or excitement she unsettlingly could not tell), for she now realized that the hall of Improvas looked uncomfortably like the places she had “performed” in that strange dream she’d had the night before. “We don’t have anything prepared for a real performance, what shall we do?” Merisu cried in a somewhat less than practical (but quite feminine) tone. Earnur, after setting the now-unconscious Vogonwe aside on a small cot, drew himself up to his manly height, drew his manly sword (which complained in the , and said in a manly tone, “we have no choice but to fight our way out…”

“No, wait,” Gateskeeper interrupted, and for the third time Earnur found himself taking the back seat to this upstart four-eyed freak from who-knows-where who kept preventing him from winning renown and glory in manly battle. His arm almost started to swing of its own accord, and would have cloven Gateskeepers spectacles in twain had not Orogarn stayed his hand. Earnur gave Orogarn a dirty look. Orogarn said, “Just hear him out.”

“Do even you not trust the arms of your own people? You’re all too ready to trust this vagabond.”

“There is no strength in arms that will avail us in this situation,” Orogarn said. “Now hear him.”

Gateskeeper explained, “I have seen this malady before. The King’s life is being drained away by the power of ‘the Net.’”

“The Net? But that is leagues and leagues from here! How can it be so?” questioned Pimpiowyn from around a mouthful of hors d’oerves from the backstage catering table. “Yes,” agreed Orogarn, “his bratwurst has grown long indeed if he can affect the king here in Improvas.”

“It is true, but Sauerkraut is crafty, and the power of his kielbasa is great. They say he walks about here and there, dressed as an old hot-dog vendor in white. The Net draws you in with delusions of great knowledge and wealth to be had, and then drains your life away in endless hours of online chat and games of Neopets and Checkers. We must perform a…disconnection.”

Merisu blinked back a tear at the sad story of the king’s entrapment, and nodded her assent to Gateskeeper’s idea, as did the others. “The only way Sauerkraut could maintain a connection with this realm is through the power of the great thighs in the center of the room,” Gateskeeper continued. There are magic lines that connect the king's desk top to the thighs, but they cannot simply be cut – the disconnection cannot be too sudden, or the king might be killed outright. This means two things. We must stall for time, and one of us has to get close to those thigh-lines without being noticed.”

Grrrralph, in his voice of miserable cheer, volunteered to go first when Grimy came back to fetch the first kôntestant for the show. And then the rest of the group dissolved into discussions of comedy routines, songs they might sing, or snatches of old plays they could remember. Orogarn and Gateskeeper stepped aside to discuss how to distract the crowd from their approach to the Great Thighs, and Grrrralph followed Grimy back to the stage.

When the poorly-tuned band played the advertising troupe off the stage, Grimy announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen of Soreham, Sorethighhim Idol is pleased to present, from parts unknown, the inimitable Grrrralph!” There appeared to be some renewed interest from the crowd and a smattering of real applause as the patrons settled in for the first performance of an outsider upon their stage. Once the applause died away, Grrrralph motioned with one hand to the band, who began a mournful tune. Then, with a slow deliberate motion, Grrrralph did something completely unexpected: he removed his hood…

*with posthumous apologies to C. S. Lewis, The Great Divorce

[ September 23, 2003: Message edited by: Thenamir ]