[prologue] [chapter one]

Chapter Two: Part 1

A Boy and His Three Headed Dog

Accompanied by the shrill shriek of tortured metal, and the cacophonic clanging of a thousand couplings, the train came to a grinding halt in the station. Bastable, however, did not. Being connected to the toilet seat by nothing more than a slight friction, he catapulted forward, struck sharply against a towel dispenser and rebounded, with an enormous thud, into the sink. This wasn't the most pleasant way to arrive at one's destination, but as with air travel, even the most unpleasant landing can soon be forgotten when one is confronted with the sheer relief of being on the ground.

Bastable had not enjoyed his three hour sojourn in the toilet, but then again, neither had the other passengers, some of whom had actually threatened his life, and various sensitive body parts, if he didn't open the door. The pregnant woman had sounded particularly irritated. Bastable wasn't sure what business she had traveling on her due date, but he certainly didn't want to be around when she came out of the hospital.

The bathroom did, however, have its advantages. It had an interesting soap dispenser which had provided a very full three minutes of entertainment, and it was completely lacking in the category of fish wielding lunatics. Even the constant pounding on the door, and the anguished wails of the other passengers were preferable to being accosted, once again, by that veritable maestro of madness. All in all, it was something of an understatement to say that Bastable was glad to have reached his destination.

Returning to his original compartment, and braving some remarkably hostile stares on the way, he retrieved his bag and left the train. The platform was deserted except for a small rapidly gesticulating figure, surrounded by baggage, who appeared to be initiating hostilities with, if not actually declaring outright war on, two porters. It was, of course, Reverend Turnbull. Luckily the maniacal fish worshipper was still nowhere in sight.

Bastable was considering the best route of escape from Reverend Turnbull, when his attention became distracted by what sounded like the death screams of a thousand hamsters.

"Yipe Yipe Yipe Yipe Yipe." they chorused, hitting notes so high that Bastable was amazed they could be produced inside the earth's atmosphere.

He looked down just in time to see a blazing white streak shoot through his legs.

"Yipe Yipe Yipe." it said, circling him counterclockwise at what must have been a very near approximation of light speed.

Bastable leapt back out of the rapidly narrowing circle of death, and was instantly pounced on by the small white blur. It affixed it's teeth to the hem of his pants and proceeded to emit what could only be described as a growl. It appeared to be a dog.

Bastable, never having a high regard for anything four legged and carnivorous, was, once again, rapidly becoming worried. Perhaps it was a mistake leaving the bathroom after all. There could still be seconds of entertainment left in that soap dispenser, and he had hardly even begun to explore the hand dryer.

"Nice Doggie." he said experimentally.

The dog immediately released his pant leg and glared at him with what could only have been canine contempt.

"Nice doggie?" it said "What the hell kind of comment is that? Would a nice dog try to rip your leg off on sight?"

"AAAAARGGGGGHHHHH" yelled Bastable as calmly as he could.

"Jesus Christ! don't do that you moron. I have sensitive ears."

"You spoke!"

"No kidding laughing boy. What did you want me to do send you a telegram?"

"You... you... you..." stuttered Bastable, his brain doing back flips inside his head.

"Articulate, aren't you?"

"Dogs can't...dogs can't...dogs can't..."

"Talk?" suggested the hell hound.

"Talk" agreed Bastable, nodding violently.

"No kidding? Well now that you've cleared that one up I can go back to barking and howling at the moon."

"Oh my god, I am insane. Why did they let me out?"

"Beats me. But now that your here, I've got something for you to do."

"I'm a complete lunatic." remarked Bastable "I'm worse than the guy with the fish."

Bastable had, until the last few seconds of his life, been wondering how things could get any worse. Unfortunately, he had just found out.

"This can't be happening," he said in a futile attempt to reassure himself, "It's like one of those demented Disney movies. Next thing I know, you'll be running for the Senate."

"What?" asked the dog, perplexed.

"Or is this one of those hidden camera shows?"

"This is real life, fat boy, get used to it."

"Real dogs don't talk," Bastable pointed out, "they go 'bark bark bark'."

"Have you every heard a dog go 'bark bark bark'?" asked the dog.

"Well....maybe they don't go 'bark,' but they don't talk either, except for Goofy, and that goddamn Spuds McKenzie character. Man I hated him."

"Get a grip psycho."

"Do you know Spuds Mckenzie?" Bastable asked, as his last drop of sanity drained away through the coffee filter of his mind.

"Will you pull yourself together. You're not going nuts."

"Yes I am. Without a doubt, I can confidently state that I have now gone completely and utterly mad. The next thing you know, I'll be wearing a propeller beanie, and joining the Church of Scientology. I'm talking to a dog for Christ's sake"

"Be quiet, your going to start attracting attention."

"I'm attracting attention? Do you have any idea how rare talking dogs are around here?"

"I know exactly how rare talking dogs are. No one else can know that I talk or all kinds of hell will break loose. So be quiet before I have to rip out your jugular vein"

Bastable had learned few things in his time in the institute. He had not, for example, learned how to basket weave. He had not learned how to stop the big fat crazy guy from room 101 from drooling on him, and he had not learned what the mystery meat that they served on Tuesday nights was. He had, however, learned that when everything became too overwhelming, the best thing to do was to shut yourself down and ignore the entire universe. Usually, he failed to do this, and, as recent circumstances showed, he generally fled from insanity like a nervous cat from an eager veterinarian. This time, however, he knew that the dog could outrun him. Sensibly enough, Bastable adopted the classical cartoon method for ignoring someone; he immediately began to stare blankly into the air and whistle.

"What the hell are you doing now?" asked the dog

Bastable began to wander aimlessly in a circle whilst trying to whistle 'Singing In The Rain'.

"Cut that out. It's irritating, and you can't carry a tune."

Bastable continued in his attempt to whistle.

"Stop ignoring me damnit," protested the dog.

Bastable switched to 'Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round The Old Oak Tree'.

"Damnit, cut that out!" yelled the dog, his ire beginning to rise above flood levels. "I hate Tony Orlando."

Bastable hit the second verse.

"I'm warning you! I don't have time for this crap. I didn't come all this way to have some pimply buttocked sub-moron whistle muzak at me."

Bastable hit the third verse.

" Knock it off or I go for the throat," growled the dog.

Bastable hit the fourth verse.

The dog immediately exploded and, reenacting his impression of a killer tornado, leapt at Bastable's head.

"Why you little..." he growled, his mouth full of Bastable's collar.

"Get the hell off of me," screamed Bastable, as he tried to get a grip on the squirming mass of teeth and claws. The two flailed round in a circle for a brief moment, until Bastable, his foot coming into contact with a badly placed cigarette machine, fell backwards. His head struck the ground with what could only have described as a sickening thud. Bastable was particularly sickened. The dog, seizing it's opportunity, went for the throat.

Bastable's scream was surpassed in shear panic potential only by the reflex that made him cover his face with both hands, and then try to bury the combination into the ground.

"Help! Help! It's got me!" He yelled, thrashing like a squid in a blender.

"Get it off me! It's trying to eat me!" he screamed. He was expecting, any minute, to hear the grinding of it's ferocious jaws, as they clamped around his jugular vein, tearing into his flesh, shattering his bones, and draining the very life from his body. Instead he heard Reverend Turnbull. It wasn't much of an improvement.

"Er....Bastable, my boy. Are you feeling all right?"

Bastable suddenly noticed, that the world was very still, and that despite the presence of a slight pressure on his chest, nothing at all seemed amiss. He therefore felt very silly after he said:

"The dog! It's trying to eat me."

The dog, as if in answer, licked his face.

It said "Yap!"

There was a long pause. Broken only by the slow panting of the dog.

"Have you been taking your medication my boy?" asked Reverend Turnbull.

"I'm not on any medication" replied Bastable indignantly. Once again, he was beginning to feel a little unfairly put upon.

"Perhaps you should..."

"It said it was going to rip out my jugular vein." Said Bastable, emphatically, as he rose to his feet and tipped the dog onto the ground.

One of the porters immediately picked it up and scratched it behind the ears.

"Nice doggie" he said

"It's possessed. It tried to rip my legs off. The creature's a menace. You wouldn't believe the things it said to me"

The Porters and Reverend Turnbull looked vaguely embarrassed, none of them wanting to make direct eye contact with Bastable.

"Nice doggie" someone mumbled.

Bastable had just about reached critical mass. "Look, It was..."

"Bastable," interrupted Reverend Turnbull, "perhaps you could help me with a problem?"

"Er..yes?" asked Bastable, his train of thought momentarily de-railed.

"These gentlemen here seem unwilling to help me transport my baggage to the taxi. Could you oblige an old man?"

"Sure, of course." said Bastable, as usual, without thinking.

The Reverend led Bastable to his personal baggage mountain, and retired to a bench in the shade while Bastable began his own personal, and rather clumsy imitation of Sisyphus.

Being away from the dog for a few minutes gave Bastable some time to think. He knew for a fact that dogs don't talk, and as insane as he sometimes felt, it was clear, upon reflection, that even he wasn't that badly off. He'd had a rather tough time lately, and his nerves had been strained beyond belief. The dog was obviously simply a symptom of those strained nerves. He just need to get a little rest and everything would be fine.

It took perhaps twenty minutes of painful, chain gang style labor to load the Reverend's baggage into the trunk, back seat, and onto any available flat surface on the cab. The driver was not particularly interested in lending assistance.

"Get yourself a hernia moving that lot." he said helpfully.

"Yes, thanks" replied Bastable, as he strained under the 200 pound weight of the last of the Reverend's trunks, "if you could just get the door for me."

"My brother had a hernia once."

"That's nice" groaned Bastable, his ligaments tearing themselves from his bones.

"Screamed like you wouldn't believe."

"Naturally, now if you could..." Bastable's shoulder joints creaked achingly in their sockets.

"Still has to wear a truss"

"Yes, now..."

"Got it lifting a squid, he said"

"Damnit, open the door!" screamed Bastable, with what he felt was certainly his dying breath. The driver grudgingly complied.

"All you had to do was ask. I mean there is such a thing as politeness. Simple enough. If you ask me to..."

He stopped when he saw the expression on Bastable's face. It was very difficult to push Bastable too far, but talking to him about squid when his spine was compressing like a broken slinky was coming far far too close.

"Ah! all ready to go are we?" asked Reverend Turnbull, as he, for once in his long life, chose the right time to arrive.

"All packed up and ready to go sir." said the cab driver. A sudden thought descended upon Bastable like a truckload of anvils.

"Squid?" he asked, "How can you get a hernia lifting a squid?"

"Giant squid, sir. Giant squid"

"Where the hell can you find a giant squid here. We're two hundred miles inland for Christ's sake. What is the matter with you people?"

Silence once again descended on the picturesque station of Weasel-in-the-Wold.

"Bastable?" asked the Reverend calmly.

"Yes"

"Get in the cab. Please."

"But..."

"Get in the cab Bastable" Bastable, all of his energy draining out of him, did as he was told, and carefully wedged himself between two large suitcases.

"And don't forget your dog." called the cabdriver.

The dog leapt into the cab and glared menacingly at Bastable.

"Move over lard butt, " he growled

"He seems to like you" said the Reverend, climbing in after them.

Accompanied by Bastable's tormented screams, the cab pulled out, into the road, and left the station just as a tall, immaculately dressed man, carrying a briefcase, rounded the corner. He stared blankly at the departing cab.

"Damn," he said, and wandered back into the station.

If, at this time, anyone had happened to have been standing in a small clearing in the woods, about a mile from the Weasel-in-the-Wold station, they would have seen a very unusual sight indeed. If they were lucky it would have caused them to faint immediately, thus saving them from dying of fright.

The clearing stood still in the afternoon sun light. Birds chirped in the distance, and a fluffy gray rabbit hopped through, and finding a promising clump of clover, sat down for a late lunch. It had been a pleasant day for the rabbit. He had eaten some Luscious lettuce for breakfast, spent most of the morning basking in the sunshine, and had even found some ripe gooseberries for a snack. The clover was just what he needed, and he was beginning to think that this was going to be one of the most enjoyable days of his life when suddenly 600 lbs of angry goat-headed demon plummeted from the sky and landed directly on his skull.

"Damnit, Damnit Damnit" cursed Zorgo, as he picked himself up off the ground. "why can't they learn to aim properly? sure, the executives get to travel first class. But me ? They may as well shoot me out of a cannon next time. 'We'll put you within half a mile of the contact' they said. 'Right in an abandoned clearing' they said. 'Right over a little clump of clover' they said. Why didn't they mention that they were going to put me sixty thousand feet over it? That's what I want to know? Damn travel agents. What's this?" Zorgo had noticed what remained of the rabbit. Unfortunately for the rabbit, very little of it remained.