[prologue] [chapter one] [chapter two, pt.1][chapter two, pt.2]

Reverend Turnbull poured himself a much needed drink of scotch, and wandered out onto his patio to enjoy the last rays of the evening sun. He hadn't had a particularly hard day, but traveling always took its toll on him, and the cab ride would have been a harrowing experience for anyone unused to the spectre of certain, extremely painful, death.

Reverend Turnbull didn't get out much in his advancing years. He preferred to sit in his garden, idly sipping whisky, and watching the mosquitoes breed, to experiencing the chaotic whirlpool of modern life. Over time he had accustomed himself to living at a slow, almost glacial, pace, wandering through life like a giant Galapagos tortoise, letting the world simply glide by him and get on with whatever unpleasant things it happened to be doing. The modern world, however, moved too fast and was too intrusive. As time went on, civilizations everywhere seemed less and less inclined simply to let things be. People were always hurtling back and forth, 'taking charge', 'being in control', 'asserting themselves', and generally just making a great big mess out of everything. Televisions pumped incomprehensible images at him twenty four hours a day. Mind numbing voices babbled nonsense like brain damaged howler monkeys from the radio and large surly men in dark suits hammered incessantly on his door demanding, in words of less than one syllable, that he pay for things that no one in their right mind would ever use in the first place. Things seemed to be getting a tad out of control. He was beginning to feel like a small piece of flotsam carried inexorable onward in the tsunami of time. This, he knew, was bad.

Naturally, Reverend Turnbull knew that everyone, at some point in their lives, feels that they have lost control, and that they are being pulled forward to their own inexorable destruction by the uncaring force of destiny. Bastable, he figured, felt like that all the time. Reverend Turnbull, however, was not subject to fits of vague confusion and personal uncertainty. He knew exactly who he was, exactly what he was doing, and exactly why he was doing it. He was, as many a mountain dwelling, wisdom spewing, lunatic has wished to be, completely in touch with the near infinite universe. He had, for various reasons, or rather for one hangover inspired and damn stupid reason, been cursed with a very unique and very unpleasant view of reality. He knew that if the world felt like it was moving out of control then this was fact and not paranoia. Without a doubt, something was up.

Reverend Turnbull was a very old man by any sane person's reckoning, and he had long ago realized that, no matter how confusing the situation, the facts, the possibilities, and eventually the solutions would present themselves to him. He had merely to wait, and while he was waiting it never hurt to have a drink or two.

As the Reverend was watching the sun slip slowly over the horizon, and was beginning to think that even he would soon have to withdraw or risk losing 85% of his blood supply to the resident mosquito population, the doorbell rang.

"It's open" he said to himself.

The bell rang again as the Reverend emerged from his lawn chair and wandered into the house.

"I said it's open you idiot" he mumbled, pouring himself another glass of scotch.

Dimly, he could here the sound of someone knocking.

"Try the handle" he suggested in a whisper as he sat down in front of the unlit fire in his favorite arm chair.

The unmistakable sound of a door opening traveled through the house. It was immediately followed by a voice.

"Hello?" it asked uncertainly, "I knocked, but no one answered."

The fire burst into flame, enveloping the room in a warm and comforting glow.

"I could see the lights on," continued the voice in the tones of some one who thinks he may possibly be making a very serious mistake, "and I..er...I thought some one must be here." the owner of the voice laughed nervously. "I mean, after all, lights don't just turn themselves on, do they?"

"Mine do." whispered the Reverend as he fumbled for his pipe. He had, he knew, merely to wait...

"and, well, I could here someone moving around, so I thought...Er..." said the voice, it's uncertainty increasing.

...the situation, the facts, the possibilities...

"I thought I would just come in and...I mean, the door was unlocked." warbled the voice.

...and eventually the solutions...

"I don't mean to intrude, but I thought maybe you didn't hear the bell."

...would present themselves.

"Damnit Turnbull!" yelled the voice "Can we cut out the mystical sorcerer bullshit? I've had a bad day and I need a drink"

Reverend Turnbull giggled to himself

"The bottle's on the table, Zothso." he said rising to greet his, now irritated, demonic guest. "No strange news I trust?"

"Why do you have to do that to me? You know how my nerves are." asked Zothso, as he entered the room.

Zothso was a tall, well dressed man who, for once, was not carrying a dead fish. He was, however, wearing a very pained and beleaguered expression.

"Can't resist keeping you on your toes old boy" giggled the Reverend as he patted Zothso good naturedly on the back.

Zothso, looking for all the world like a man who had just survived fifteen years in a Japanese POW camp, poured himself an unhealthy measure of scotch and collapsed into a chair by the fire.

"You don't know what I've been going through lately, Rev." he sighed

"I'd heard you had a spot of bother. Rumor had it that you'd gone completely nuts. "

"What?"

"A leaping loon they called you." continued the Reverend

"Who called me that?" asked Zothso indignantly.

"Oh, you know, people" said the Reverend vaguely.

"I've just been under a lot of pressure lately. My work load keeps going up. I had to see a psychiatrist."

"Was he any help?"
"He said I'd gone completely nuts."

"Ah, well, you know how they are with this complicated technical jargon. I wouldn't worry about it too much."

"Neither would I, normally. The problem is that half the time I don't even know who I am. I wander around in a daze most days and I keep getting the weirdest ideas."

"Such as?"

"I'd rather not get into that, it's been a little embarrassing. I chased two people with a fish."

"Why were they carrying a fish?" inquired the Reverend.

"Er..." sputtered Zothso, "let's just forget I said that." Zothso paused for a moment "You know. I don't even know why I came here."

"Not for the hospitality I hope?"

"Most of the way here I was out of my mind. I just kept coming anyway, like I was on auto pilot. Maybe it was just habit."

"Maybe. you seem fine now though. What happened?"

"what do you mean 'what happened?' you act like I'm supposed to be crazy.'

"I thought that was part of you job description."

"No, just my general personality. I'm fine now though. When I can relax everything becomes clearer, kind of like I suddenly sober up. Not that you can relate to that of course."

"Don't disrespect your elders"

Zothso respectfully ignored the Reverend. "I'm just very susceptible to stress. I don't have an easy job you know. Oh sure, you might think it's all lying on beds of roses and being fed peeled grapes by scantily clad young maidens with overly firm buttocks, but I can assure you it's not."

"No, I can believe that. Bringer of strange tidings isn't a title that immediately brings to mind overly firm buttocks. Lots of other things might, but certainly not that."

"maybe you know better, but the kids of today, they all think it's glamour, and glitz: all day parties, fast cars, dancing till dawn and sipping champagne out of women's shoes."

"It must be all the mercury in the water supply."

"shut up"

"or maybe their mothers were taking to much prozac while they were pregnant."

"Look. The point I'm trying to get across here is that it isn't an easy job. People think it is. 'Sure' they say, 'you get to live forever.' 'You don't have to do your own laundry' they say. 'Your not the god of muskrats' they say. They just don't understand."

"Particularly that god of muskrats. Mean little bugger, he is. Did I ever tell you about the time he tried to..."

"Do you want me to tell you my problems or not?" asked Zothso, slightly miffed

"Not really, no." said the Reverend, who long ago realized that it was a waste of time to humor borderline psychopaths.

"Well I'm going to anyway, so if you'll just be quiet we can get done a lot faster."

"I'm listening"

"No your not, but I'm fairly used to that. What I was saying was the pressure of the job is getting to me. Of course, I know it could be worse. My brother in law used to be the bringer of horrendously bad news. But you should spend two thousand years going up to people and telling them "I'm sorry, I don't quite know how to put this , but your guinea pig is stuck in the dustbuster again." It begins to wear on you after a few millennia. Last week I had to tell some guy that he won a warthog in a raffle."

"Was he pleased?"

"He hit me with a snow shovel. They all do that."

"Hit you with snow shovels?"

"Snow shovels, gardening implements. It's the rejection I can't stand. I mean, go up to someone and tell them that they're going to be killed in an avalanche and at least you get some respect, but go up to them and tell them that the meatloaf in their refrigerator has evolved into a malevolent super-intelligence and the first thing they do is set the dogs on you. It doesn't do much for your self image, I can tell you that."

"You already have"

"I'm sick of the whole thing. I can't stand strangeness anymore."

The Reverend suddenly sat bolt upright in his chair.

"Then I think your in trouble" he said

"What do you..."

Suddenly, and with no warning the room exploded. The door burst off its hinges and a short fat man shot in like a herd of charging rhinos. It was Zorgo, and he appeared to be at the center of a major war. A small dog was orbiting him at high speed, alternately taking bites out of his ankles and howling like a banshee with hemorrhoids.

"Help" screamed Zorgo, as he grabbed an umbrella and began blindly flailing at the dog. This action only seemed to further enrage the maddened animal which immediately leapt for his throat.

"get if off me" he yelled as he was dragged down by the sheer ferocity of the apparently psychotic creature.

"DOWN" snapped the Reverend

Zothso and the dog, immediately sat. Zorgo curled up into the fetal position.

"works every time" said the Reverend smugly

A faint whimper escaped from Zorgo.

"Damnit Turnbull" said the dog, "I've warned you about that"

Zothso, who had seen a great deal of odd things in his long life, and to whom the sight of a talking dog was nothing new, focused his attention on Zorgo

"Hey," he remarked "That's the same fat guy who ate my fish"

"What?" said Turnbull and the dog simultaneously.

"Er..It's a long story and not a particularly nice one at that. I was having one of my episodes and he snapped me out of it. I owe that guy a drink."

"I owe him a bite on the ankle. The great oaf stepped on my tail."

Turnbull peered at the prostrate Zorgo for a moment

"That great oaf is a god. You can't go around biting gods on the ankle, even ones like Zorgo. They can blight you with plagues of frogs or brimstone, or turn you into a pillar of salt."

"Zorgo!" exclaimed Zothso, "That's Zorgo? I didn't even recognize him." He paused for a moment, examining Zorgo. "He's put on a little weight since the last time I saw him"

"He's disguised, you idiot"

"You'd think that he'd be able to afford a better disguise, him being a god and all" said The dog conversationally

"Zorgo's not really much of a god" said Zothso "He's not the type to turn anyone into a pillar of salt, or to blight anyone with a plague of frogs. I don't think he's too well endowed in the mystical powers department"

"Nothing mystical about flattening my tail" offered the dog

"Mind you, he did put a lobster in my bed once. I don't think you could quite call that a plague though."

A low groan escaped from Zorgo.

"I think he's still alive" observed the dog, "Should I finish him off?"

"No," exclaimed Zothso, "he still owes me money."

Zorgo sat up and attempted to study the tableaux around him. His vision, still blurry from his collsion with the front door, mercifully saved him from seeing his environment. It was not a pretty sight. Reverend Turnbull, Zothso, and the dog, had they been the only entrants in a beauty contest would all have come in a distant second. The dog was easily the most offensive looking of the trio. Somehow, while being a mere 12 inches tall, it managed to cram the menace of an entire pack of half starved wolves into it's minuscule frame. Having so recently fallen victim to it's easily aroused anger, Zorgo was not inclined to move again until he was certain it was secured.

"The dog?" he asked, "has it gone?"

"It better not" replied the Reverend, "at least not on the carpet"

"Hey, I'm house broken" argued the dog

Zorgo wasn't quite sure what was going on around him. If his sense of hearing was any judge, which usually it wasn't, then the dog had just spoken. He peered at it closely, ready at the slightest provocation, to flee for his life.

"What are you looking at fat boy?" growled the dog

"Zorgo, meet Cerberus, Cerberus, meet Zorgo" said the Reverend

"Cerberus!" Yelped Zorgo "I've been looking for him!" He stared at the dog for a moment. "Isn't he missing a couple of heads?"

"Hey, wait a minute" said the dog, recognition suddenly setting in, "I know you. You came over to feed me last year. You're the one who kept giving me kibbles and bits."

"That's right. I even took you for a walk. We went to that park down on the Lethe and you attacked Yoyubo the God of Flatulence"

"Weren't you a little taller back then?" asked the dog, "and didn't you have the head of a caribou?"

"Goat" corrected Zorgo, "I'm in disguise"

Zothso gave Zorgo a friendly pat on the back "Sorry about that whole fish incident. I didn't recognize you either"

"Oh my god, It's you!" screamed Zorgo

It is always awkward to meet someone socially who recently asked you to worship a fish. Experts in the field of manners generally recommend two courses of action, the first of which consists of ignoring the faux-pas and engaging the errant psychopath in meaningless small talk until the exact level of his derangement can be accurately assessed. Zorgo took the course of action which involved grabbing Cerberus by the tail, flinging him at Zothso, and fleeing towards the nearest available exit. It was not the best choice he had ever made.

Cerberus collided with Zothso at eye level and, not having much perspective on the situation, let his canine reflexes take over. Canine reflexes being what they are, he immediately sunk his teeth and claws into every available part of Zothso's anatomy. Zothso fell backwards, screaming madly, and crashed into Reverend Turnbull's liquor cabinet. Bottles, glasses, swizzle sticks , and two unduly distressed creatures of the netherworlds flew about the room like motor homes in a tornado. Reverend Turnbull, his reflexes, succumbing to his overwhelming desire for good liquor, made a diving catch and prevented the loss of an irreplaceable bottle of 200 year old cognac. Unfortunately he came to rest directly in the path of Zothso and Cerberus. The three collapsed in a tangled and liquor soaked heap in the middle of the Reverend's carpet. Zorgo, unfortunately, was not so lucky. He opened the door and, blasting through it like a supercharged hippopotamus, collided with Bastable.

Bastable and Zorgo caromed off each other and landed in a tangle on the front steps. Bastable began to work his way down a mental check list in order to find out what hit him. He got as far as # 45: enraged water buffalo, when he opened his eyes to see Zorgo lying inches away. Under the circumstances, his reaction was reasonably restrained.

"AAAAARRRGGGHHHHHHH!" he screamed

Panicked by the unexpected sight of Zorgo, the survival circuits of his mind cut in. Bastable, in the space of perhaps four seconds, descended back to the level of a primitive hunter gatherer, faced by a ravenous, and ill tempered, sabre toothed tiger. He had two options:flight or fight and, since Zorgo was lying on his leg, he had little choice but to take the latter. Imediately grabbing the nearest weapon, which unfortunately happened to be an innocent garden gnome, he lashed out at the beleagred Babylonian. Zorgo instantly dissapeared, and the gnome came crashing down on empty air, narrowly missing Cerberus, who had rushed out in pursuit of Zorgo.

"Watch where you're throwing your lawn ornaments, you psychotic neanderthal."

The sight of Cerberus, whom he had begun to think of as an unpleasant psychological reaction to stress, on top of his near fatal collision with Zorgo, whom he had begun to think of as simply unpleasant, pushed Bastable about twelve miles beyond the last toll booth on the great highway of Sanity.

"AAAAARRRGGGHHHHHHH!" he screamed, once again.

Cerberus winced in agony.

"I told you not to do that" he yelled, "I have sensitive ears."

Bastable seized the Gnome and lunged at Cerberus who narrowly missed having his sole remaining head severly dented. Cerberus, in turn, leaped for Bastable's throat. The two rolled, screaming and snarling, into a nearby bush. Bastable was unable to get a good swing out of his gnome, but was assisted in his attempts to stay alive by the sudden appearance of Reverend Turnbull.

The Reverend reached a bony hand into the bush and, clamping his fingers around the scruff of Cerberus' neck, yanked him from the enveloping shrubbery. Bastable, even armed with a garden gnome, didn't quite feel safe enough to follow. The bush may not have been comfortable, but it beat having his throat ripped out by a rabid dog.

"That would never have worked if I still had three heads" complained the dog.

"Shut up" retorted the voice of the Reverend. "Bastable, if you could just come out of the bush for a few minutes this would all be a lot easier to work out."

"I'm not going anywhere. I like it in here." Bastable pointed out. "It's the only place I've been all day where no one's attacked me or harrased me with a fish"

"If you come out, I promise that no one will attack you or harrass you with any kind of marine life."

"If he comes out of there I'm going to rip out his spinal chord" growled the dog.

"See!" Said Bastable, his point, he felt, clearly illustrated

"No one is attacking anyone" said the Reverend firmly.

"What about that damn Zorgo?" asked the dog.

"With the possible exeption of Zorgo" clarified the Reverend.

Bastable weighed his options and decided that life in the bush, while blissfully free of talking dogs, and other assorted psychopaths, was, without a doubt, a little on the uncomfortable side. A sharp branch was persistently poking him in the small of the back, and an unruly army of ants had apparently confused his pant's leg with one of their superhighways. All in all, it didn't seem like such a bad idea to trust the Reverend for a change. After all, he still had the gnome and, if worst came to worst, he could always leap back in.

Bastable hauled himself out of the bush to face his tormentors.

"I'm warning you." he said, brandishing the gnome in a menacing manner, "I'm armed"

"Look out!" cried the dog "He's got a gnome"

"Put it down Bastable, you're perfectly safe."

"As long as that dogs around, I'd feel safer holding on to it, if you don't mind."

"Whatever suits you best." said the Reverend, "But I assure you, you're in no danger."

"Who's in no danger?" asked Zothso, who being the bringer of strange tidings, had a knack for appearing at unpleasant and unusual moments.

"AAAAARRRGGGHHHHHHH! The maniac!" Screamed Bastable.

"which one?" asked the dog

"Oh it's you again," began Zothso "I'm sorry about..."

The gnome whistled by Zothso's head, and ricocheted off the door frame. Prudently, he dove for the the ground.

"Bastable!" snapped the Reverend in his most commanding tone.

Bastable, as unequipped as he was to deal with one maniac at a time, was being sorely stretched by the appearance of three of them at once. He hadn't previously suspected that they might all be in cahoots, and was begining to feel outnumbered. He was also a little confused about what business they might have had with Reverend Turnbull. He always thought of the Reverend as slightly unstable, but was begining to think that he had hitherto grossly underestimated the extent of the man's lunacy.

"That's the guy who attacked me with a turbot." he explained, hoping to set the record straight.

"Yes," said the Reverend calmly, "I figured all of that out. It isn't a problem now."

"Yes it is!" corrected Bastable. "The man's a menace. He could have a flounder in his coat pocket even as we speak."

The Reverend stared at Bastable for a moment. Cerberus idly scratched a flea.

"Bastable!" said the Reverend, "I'm getting the feeling that things have been a little strange for you recently."

"A little?" blurted Bastable

"I think I can clear things up for you, and take some weight of your mind. But first, your going to have to promise to stop throwing gnomes at people."

"They started it!"

"Well, we're all friends now, so if we can just go inside and sit down I'm sure that we can work everything out." The Revered, towing Bastable behind him like a rapidly sinking garbage scow, slid back into the house, leaving Zothso and Cerberus on the front steps.

Zothso slowly sat up. "Has he gone?" he asked.

"For the moment"

"Did you see that. He threw a Garden gnome at me." said Zothso, outraged at the whole affair.

"Yeah, it's a habit of his. He has a thing for lawn ornaments. Starts flinging them round with the least provocation. One minute your standing around peacefully minding your own business and the next, bamn! a garden gnome bounces of your skull. I'd keep an eye on him if I was you."