THE DUCKS OF DOOM
Chapters 1-30
An Internet Serial
by Robert Arthur Smith
www.duckparade.com
rasmithr@yahoo.com
THE DUCKS OF DOOM was a 2002 Independent e-Books finalist.
Copyright 2000-2005,
Robert Arthur Smith,
All rights reserved.
Chapter 1: Femme Fatale
Some people think ducks spend all of their time floating around in ponds, quacking at the neighbors and drinking lime fizzers.
This might be true on other planets, but not on Tockworld.
Things are different on Tockworld, a world that sprang into existence when an alien opened the wrong door in the Grand Imperial Chinese restaurant.
Anyway, ducks, being extremely clever at disguise and subterfuge, have invented decoys.
Decoys look just like ducks, but they aren't. They're bits of painted wood. They were designed to float around in ponds all day, fooling humans, while the real ducks took over the world and began running large corporations.
People in the know can always tell the difference between a duck and a decoy. Real ducks have feet.
If you don't believe the part about ducks running large corporations, take a look at your own workplace. Unless, of course, you work at home; then you should examine other members of your family to make sure they don't have any feathers.
If you find out one or more of your family members is really a duck, be grateful. Ducks will look after you when the aliens invade.
But that's another story; we'll talk about it some other time.
Anyway, there's no shame in working for a duck. You have to remember, it was a duck who saved the world from a fate worse than death.
This is how it happened.
A long time ago, a mild-mannered duck by the name of Macklin Macklino was sneaking a peek at the centerfold of MODEL RAILROADER magazine and thinking about a session with his train layout, when there was a knock on the door of his condo.
Who can that be? Macklin wondered. He hated interruptions when he was thinking about his trains. He had a really neat model of the Southern Pacific, down around Indio, California, with several fruit-packing plants, dozens of refrigerator cars, and a lot of golf courses.
Anyway, you're probably wondering what Macklin was doing at home at night, instead of toiling away in a stuffy cubicle like everyone else, forced to work overtime just to keep his job.
And where did he get the loot for this nice condo overlooking a park near Mount Pleasant, a block away from George's Trains, a hobby shop known in every corner of the civilized world?
Also, where was his mother? Why wasn't she calling him up, telling him how all of her friends were busy with their GRANDCHILDREN?
Why wasn't he hearing her voice sweetly rasping: "You aren't getting any younger, you know, Macklin. You can still find a good woman if you hurry, but if you wait too long, she won't even look at you; she'll look at your wallet. You'll be divorced two weeks after the wedding, and I'll have to get a court order to see my grandchildren, assuming she took enough time out from shopping to make any. And you know how much court orders and lawyers cost! I'll be a pauper after the lawyers get through with me! Instead of a nice old age surrounded by friends and GRANDCHILDREN, relaxing in my comfy apartment, I'll be stuck in a poorhouse with drug addicts and psychotics. It'll be all your fault if I'm found dead one day, clutching a picture of my son, who never even came to my funeral...."
Anyway, the reason Macklin was at home was this: he was a professional model railroader. He made model railroads for business people who had no time to make their own. You'd be surprised how many busy professionals hired Macklin to build and enjoy little railroad empires for them.
The knocking came again. Quickly Macklin thrust his copy of Model Railroader under his mattress, in case it was his mom at the door.
Who else would bother calling on him?
She was in Miami, of course, visiting relatives, but, as we all know, certain mothers can be in two places at the same time, so you can never be too careful.
Anyway, it was quite late. Thirteen minutes and thirteen seconds after midnight, if you want to be precise about it, and Macklin was always precise. "It's a feature," he would tell people, when they complained about this aspect of his character.
Be neat, be precise, and you'll never be sorry. That was Macklin's philosophy.
Who could be knocking after midnight? he wondered. Especially since it's Scary Pumpkin Eve, a time when all good little children are supposed to be in bed, so the Scary Pumpkin can come down the chimney and leave bundles of Durum wheat tied in ribbons.
He peered through the peephole, but all he saw was Bartholomew Augustus Hoopenthrasher's door across the hall.
Hoopenthrasher was not the sort of person who knocked on doors, only to flee in panic before anyone spotted him. Hoopenthrasher LIKED to be seen; he was a philosophy professor, and as you know, philosophy professors have doubts about their own existence. This is because nobody ever calls them up to fix broken philosophies. It's a little like the Maytag man....
We'll talk about that some other time.
Macklin, by the way, wasn't the sort of duck who opened his door after midnight for unseen strangers. You never know what you're going to get when you open your door late at night: it could be someone dangerous, like an armadillo or a freelance telemarketer.
But something changed Macklin's mind that night; some mysterious force penetrated the bright, orderly regions of his brain, spreading a little darkness.
He composed his face into a special 'Hi, mom; nice to see you!' smile, in case it really was his mom. Then he opened the door, and the smile froze on his face.
A femme fatale stepped out of the shadows.
Now that's a simple thing to say; A femme fatale stepped out of the shadows. 'So what!' you might be saying to yourself. Femme fatales are always stepping out of the shadows; it's what they do best.
Well, one of the things they do best.
This femme fatale, however, was different.
She wiped a bit of Black Magic chocolate from her beak and cocked a hip at Macklin, blowing every fuse in his brain.
Macklin never had a chance. He gazed at her in a stupor, taking in her slinky red dress, her ruby earrings, and her red high heels.
"Hello Macklin," she said in a throaty voice. "My name is Allura. I've come to invite you to a little party."
Macklin was stupefied. "Quack," he said.
Allura moved a little closer. Her red dress made slinky noises all over her ducky form. Her beak opened slightly and an exotic odor of wild rice and chocolate issued forth.
It wasn't particularly warm in Macklin's condo that night, but he felt a sudden hot flash as he watched Allura's flame-colored hair stir gently in the updraft from her internal convection oven.
A small voice in the back of his mind warned him to be careful: 'Don't go there! She's dangerous. Your mom wouldn't like her. Stay home and play with your trains!'
But Macklin was beyond help now. He was a drake possessed; the only thing that mattered to him was the seductive Allura, a vision of slinkiness luring him down a forbidden track into a mysterious tunnel.
She put an arm through his. He tried desperately to think of something charming and witty to say, but all he could manage was, "Do you like broccoli?"
Allura gave him a little peck on the cheek as if to say, 'I'd do anything for a cup of broccoli," and Macklin's brain exploded.
He was hers now; he would follow her anywhere.
At least until his mom called.
The Hippopotamus of Fate had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 2: THE SMOOCH OF FATE
Macklin had no idea why Allura would be interested in a shy, mild-mannered duck.
Perhaps she'd mistaken him for his swashbuckling ancestor, the colorful Giseppe Macklino.
Giseppe, a Florentine gangster inhabiting the early renaissance, had been the sort of duck who knew exactly what to do when mysteries happened to him.
Once, while on a trade mission to Scotland, he'd been kidnapped by Scottish existentialists. He'd come to sell real estate; he was offering a special deal on a sunken piazza, a splendid place for raising sheep, with its abundance of tangy water, and its gently rippling features.
The Scots didn't know what to make of him, especially when they got a better look at his hat, which, in typical renaissance style, looked like a dented cookie tin, so they put him through the Inquisition of the Haggis. They gave him a tartan sash, a kilt, and a set of bagpipes, and told him to play 'Scotland the Brave'.
Giseppe had never heard of 'Scotland the Brave'. For all he knew, it might have been a documentary on haggis. So, always a quick thinker, he played 'How Much is That Doggie in the Window?'
The Scots muttered and grumbled for a time, and their headman painted himself blue and shook his basket of skulls, but Giseppe never missed a beat.
And then something magical happened. A few Scots began to hum along, then a few more, and before long, the entire clan was belting out the lyrics:
"How much is that doggeee in the window? The one with the waggely tale.... "
In the end, the Scots liked the song so much, they made Giseppe a clan chieftain, gave him the standard nine square feet of grazing land, a genetically modified cow, otherwise known as a bagpipe, and painted him blue.
Even now, on the blasted heaths and parking lots of Scotland, if you listen very carefully, you can hear the mournful wail of Giseppe's bagpipes, and a ghostly Scottish choir singing, "How much is that doggeee in the window....."
But enough of Macklin's colorful ancestor.
Allura was growing impatient while Macklin dithered. Sweeping him up in her arms, she carried him off to the elevator, held him tightly while they descended the twenty floors to the lobby, then bore him past the astonished doorman to her waiting Harley-Davidson.
Macklin, who panicked at the sight of mere ten-speed bikes, was terrified.
But Allura smiled invitingly, and when she flashed a bit of slinky naughtiness through the slit in her red dress, all thought of danger fled from Macklin's mind.
Quickly he jumped up behind her, held on for dear life, and away they sped.
There was an odor of swamp grass about her that drove him wild. Suddenly he didn't care anymore; he could face any danger as long as it involved holding onto an exciting duck!
It was a terrifying ride through the gridlocked streets of downtown Toronto. A dozen times, Macklin braced himself for instant death, only to find himself, moments later, still intact and facing an even scarier instant death.
At last, Allura veered off the road onto a narrow pathway that led through a Gothic forest in the heart of Toronto's sinister financial district.
Macklin glanced about nervously as they weaved their way through a maze of spruce, pine, and maple trees.
Bankers and financial advisors hooted like owls in the treetops, while accountants swooped through the gloom in search of prey.
Suddenly the path took a turning and Macklin found himself on the unkempt grounds of a Gothic mansion; a hulking, somber pile of stones that seemed to hoard the shadows, gathering darkness into itself like a malignant entity brooding on destruction.
A sign in front said: City Hall. All major credit cards accepted.
"We're not going in there, are we?" Macklin said nervously, his hand on his wallet.
Allura slinked closer and touched his forehead, burning a hole through his skull.
"No," she murmured.
Macklin breathed a sigh of relief and thought about smooching with his new friend.
"YOU are!" said Allura.
"I am?"
Allura touched Macklin's beak. "Of course you are, sweetie," she said. "That's why I brought you here."
Macklin couldn't believe his ears.
"You brought me here for this?" he squawked. "You had this evil pile of stones in mind all along? You used your feminine wiles to woo me away from...from--"
"Your toy trains?" said Allura.
Macklin blushed. "They aren't toys," he said. "They're models. Like in museums. Everything is realistic. The GP9 switchers, for instance, have dynamic brakes."
"Do you really think I used feminine wiles?" said Allura, cupping his beak in her hands. "All I did was ask you to come with me."
Macklin was on fire with passion. At the same time, he was trembling with fear. It was very confusing.
"You didn't just ask me," he said. "You slinked."
That's because I like you," whispered Allura. "I'll be waiting for you outside, when you're finished."
"Finished what?"
"Vlod wants to meet you. He's the one who sent for you."
At the mention of this name, Macklin's blood turned to ice. "Vlod?" he gasped. "As in Vlod Ironbeak, the evil mayor of Toronto?"
"Shhh!" Allura touched his feathers; then she kissed him, and their beaks clacked together in fiery passion.
"Ohhhh...." she moaned.
Macklin felt his DNA throbbing. Reason and logic seeped out of his brain like motor oil from a cracked block. He knew he was facing terrible danger, but he'd do anything Allura asked of him. He couldn't help himself; he wanted to be near her, he wanted to touch her and smooch with her.
Just then, the front door creaked open, and a mysterious figure stepped out into the eerie glow of the forest.
"Vlod will see you now," it said.
Macklin had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 3: BEAUTY MARKS
The mysterious figure approached Macklin through the shadows. It was the strangest looking duck he'd ever seen. There were feathers, of course. EVERYONE has feathers. There were two bloodshot eyes, and there was a beak twisted into a hideous grimace, with a bit of drool on the end.
The creature's moldy green feathers were set off by a moldy green corduroy suit blotched with port-wine stains. He wore shoes that looked like waffle irons, and a moldy blue bowler hat to go with his green suit.
When he turned to show his profile, Macklin glimpsed an enormous bulge high up on his back.
The stranger thrust his mottled, blue-green face at Macklin.
"Do you see anything unusual about me?" he hissed. "Hmmm?"
"Unusual?" quacked Macklin. "Um...IS there something?"
One bloodshot eye squinted suspiciously at him. "The name is Polydoor," the stranger growled. "I am Vlod Ironbeak's acolyte and chief financial officer."
"How do you do?" said Macklin. "I'm--"
"Enough small talk." Polydoor said, covering his ears. "Don't inflict your personal history, anecdotes, dreams and ambitions on me. I don't even want to know the names of people who die so quickly in there."
Macklin had the strangest feeling something bad was going to happen to him. He looked around for Allura, but she was gone. She'd melted away into the shadows like a bitterly disappointed date.
Then he noticed a pair of eyes watching him from deep within a suspiciously wolf-like patch of deeper shadow. Something glittered on either side, like two ruby earrings catching a stray bit of light, and there was a sort of beakiness about the front of this object.
My imagination is playing tricks on me, Macklin thought. Surely that can't be Allura!
"Lots of strange things in the woods," said Polydoor, grinning hideously at him. "She'll be there when you get back. IF you get back. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"
Macklin smiled politely, to show that he liked a joke as much as anybody else, but inwardly he was tremulous and perplexed. He sensed hostility emanating from Polydoor.
How could he make Polydoor like him?
This preyed on Macklin's mind, even as he followed the strange duck up the flagstone path to the door. Macklin wanted everybody to like him. He had to find a way of ingratiating himself. Should he prostrate himself? Or should he just compliment him on something?
But what?
Macklin's ancestor, Giseppe Macklino, never had to worry about things like this; people who didn't like him became part of the raw material in his glass factory.
"Thank you for taking the trouble to lead me to the door," Macklin said to Polydoor, still trying to be liked. "It's true what they say, isn't it; 'ducks of a feather stick together!'"
This gambit didn't work at all. In fact, it enraged Polydoor.
"Are you calling me a duck?" he hissed.
"Pardon?" said Macklin. "You're not a duck?"
"Of course not, you idiot! I'm a canard."
"Oh, I see," Macklin said nervously. "What's a canard!"
"Canard is French for Supreme Being, you fool!"
Macklin was at a loss for words. Fortunately, they'd reached the door. Polydoor tore it open with an irritable gesture, revealing an enormous hallway.
Flambeaux lined the marble walls. In the ghastly, shifting light, Macklin glimpsed a reception area with a few nervous petitioners rotting on wooden benches.
A tremor went through him; he wished he were at home in his cozy apartment, operating his museum-quality model railroad.
At this very moment, instead of trying to ingratiate himself with a hideous acolyte, he could be switching little freight cars in the yard at Vulture's Breakfast. Or he could be talking on the phone to Gladys KindHeart, the only real friend he'd ever had.
Gladys was a gentle, caring duck who always listened to Macklin's stories about switch motors that kept burning out, and freight cars that kept derailing. She held his hand when he was sad, kept him company, let him play with her caymans, and listened patiently to his tales of woe.
So he'd rejected her as a girlfriend.
Macklin thought anybody who was interested in HIM was either a loser, or secretly plotting a nasty surprise.
He was deeply absorbed in these fascinating thoughts when, all at once, he heard a strange, haunting sound.
It was Giseppe, his terrifying ancestor, gnashing his bill.
A ghostly voice whispered inside Macklin's skull: "Forget about being liked, ye wee Willie wimpy! Sell this Polydoor fool some real estate. We still own that sunken piazza."
This was followed by ghostly bagpipes, and a few mournful Scottish voices singing, "How much is that doggeee in the window; the one with the waggely tail...."
Macklin was staring in horror at a spectral haggis, when Polydoor broke into his reverie.
"What are you looking at?" the acolyte snarled.
Suddenly Macklin realized the spectral haggis had been superimposed on Polydoor's hump.
"Like my hump, do you?" Polydoor whispered.
"Yes I do, very much," said Macklin. "It's...um...noble. It fills out your jacket very nicely."
Polydoor leered and twitched, and shook his knobby fists at Macklin. "So you DO think I have a hump?" he hissed. "I suppose you think I'm a nothing but a camel with an entire canard pond stuffed into a hump, in case I have to cross a desert!"
"Good grief, no!" exclaimed Macklin, sweating now. "The thought never crossed my mind!"
"This thing on my back is a mole," said Polydoor.
"Umm...you must be very proud of it," said Macklin.
"Any time I want, I can have it removed. I'm only keeping it because females find it irresistible. They come after me in droves! Masses of them!"
"I see," said Macklin.
"You get to choose when you go into the acolyte business," said Polydoor. "It's either a monk's cowl or a big mole."
"You made a wise choice," said Macklin.
"I chose both, but I only use the cowl in budget meetings, when we have sacrifices and beheadings. Nasty things, cowls! They make me break out in spots. And they attract masses of armadillos. MASSES of them! A hump is much better, don't you think?"
"Yes, much!" said Macklin. Then he clapped a hand over his beak. "I mean--"
"Aha!" said Polydoor triumphantly. "So you DO think I have a hump!"
Macklin wiped the spray from his face and looked around desperately for Allura.
"Looking for help, are we?" jeered Polydoor. "Think your smarmy Allura's going to leap through a stained glass window, take you in her arms, and carry you away to safety, do we?"
"No, I--"
"That sloat! That flozzy! She thinks she's so special, slinking around the master, showing her ankles, mincing and prancing like a hippopotamus!"
Polydoor began slinking around the room, mincing and prancing like a hippopotamus, batting his eyes, and puckering his beak.
"Kiss me, you fool!" he rasped.
Then a deep, powerful voice said, "That will do, Polydoor. You may scratch your fleas some other time; we have work to do now."
The rotting taxpayers had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 4: VLOD STAKES A CLAIM
Macklin found himself transfixed by the penetrating gaze of a very tall duck dressed in a black frock coat, black, stovepipe trousers, and a black cape.
It was the mayor of Toronto!
Macklin had heard of him, of course, but he'd always assumed Vlod was a remote, mythical figure like Margaret Thatcher.
In real life, he was more frightening than a mere politician.
His staring red eyes were set into a bone-white face, like two drops of Tabasco sauce on Scarlett O'Hara's wedding dress. His beak glimmered in the flickering light, looking every bit as deadly as a the spike upon which a bankrupt's petition for clemency is skewered.
He slipped a blood-red smart phone into a pocket of his frock coat, and twitched his beak in what might have been a smile, or a summons to an executioner.
Then he turned to Polydoor.
"Polydoor?"
"Yes, master."
"Go and prepare a snack for our guest. In the Agony Room, I think. And this time, try to remember--the silverware goes on the table, NOT in our guests."
"Yes, master."
"The haggis, I think. We'll have that, along with blood pudding, blood sausage, and the special tomato sauce."
"Yes, master."
"Anything you don't understand, look it up in the Martha Stewart book."
Polydoor crabbed through the door, an evil look on his face.
Macklin watched uneasily as the acolyte clumped away. Polydoor was nasty, but at least his nastiness was rational. It had something to do with self-esteem.
There was nothing rational about Vlod.
And where was Allura?
"So Macklin; we meet at last!" Vlod said. "Vlod Ironbeak at your service. I've been looking forward to this. I know your ancestor."
"You do?" said Macklin, momentarily stunned. "Which one?"
Vlod's beak twitched. "You have only one ancestor."
"Oh you mean Giseppe!" Macklin said quickly. "But he died centuries ago!"
Vlod closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they were bigger. "Yes," he said. "I meant to say, MY ancestor, Vlodzille the Reptile, knew him."
"Oh, good!" said Macklin, greatly relieved. "We're practically family, then.
Surely this powerful duck wouldn't hurt a descendant of the man his ancestor had known and loved!
"Vlodzille and Macklino loved the same Scottish princess," said Vlod. "A certain Lenore McBeauty."
"That's wonderful!" said Macklin. "It's like a romance novel. Like WIND IN THE WILLOWS."
"WIND IN THE WILLOWS is not a romance novel," Vlod snapped. "It's a book about psychotic toads and the mistreatment of weasels."
Macklin decided to keep his mouth shut. Everybody was so touchy around here! How he wished he was back home with Gladys KindHeart!
Dear, dear Gladys. So kind hearted, so loyal, and her caymans were okay too, as long as they stayed in the pond in her living room and....
Vlod cleared his throat. "Vlodzille and Macklino loved Lenore with a rare, unearthly passion. My ancestor's passion was more worthy than your ancestor's passion, of course."
"This is so dramatic and eighteenth-century!" said Macklin, trying to ingratiate himself with this new object of terror. "How did they work it out?"
"Badly," said Vlod. "One day, in an attempt to avoid savage conflict, the two rivals urged Lenore to choose. She was much too sensitive for this. She couldn't bear the thought of inflicting pain and sorrow. She loved both suitors with a mad passion."
"I love this story!" said Macklin. "Does it have a happy ending?"
"It does not!" said Vlod. "The beauteous Lenore, unable to face the prospect of hurting either of her suitors, threw herself in front of a flying haggis at the Highland games."
"That's amazing," said Macklin. "It should be a movie--"
"It was horrible," said Vlod. "Horrible! I grieved...I mean my ancestor grieved for weeks. He was inconsolable. I, VLOD IRONBEAK, am inconsolable for him."
"I'm so sorry," said Macklin. "Have you tried grief counseling? You could check in the yellow pages...."
A look from Vlod silenced him. "It gets worse," Vlod said. "In the midst of my ancestor's terrible grief, YOUR ancestor treacherously drove a stake through his heart and burned his entrails in a potting shed."
"Oh my!" squeaked Macklin. "I'm sure he didn't mean to!"
"It was infamous! My ancestor never got over it. He moped around for WEEKS brooding on it! He swore he would never rest until his enemy was paid back in full, and he bound all of his descendants by a tremendous oath to wreak a terrible vengeance on Giseppe's descendants."
"Umm, I should be going," Macklin said.
"Ha, ha, ha!" said Vlod. "Enough small talk. That's not why I invited you here."
"It isn't?" said Macklin, still eyeing the door.
"But what is a meeting without sustenance?" Vlod said. "The spilling of blood to symbolize our undying friendship."
Macklin felt the Tabasco-sauce eyes scorching his feathers for a moment or two, then Vlod propelled him by sheer force of will through a small door, into a freezing cold meeting hall.
There was an enormous stone table, suitable for lunch or a sacrifice.
"This is where the budget committee meets," said Vlod.
The table was set for one.
How Macklin wished he were with Gladys! She'd be in her little garden now, with her John Deere tractor, planting Durum wheat. Or perhaps she'd be in her garage, cleaning out the cayman stables.
Gladys's caymans were always pooping over everything. They couldn't seem to grasp the idea of flush toilets. But Macklin didn't mind. The caymans were okay. They were fun-loving creatures.
Fluffy, for instance, liked to bite people's fingers off, but everyone always laughed. It was just playfulness.
Anyway, Macklin was really surprised at how much he missed Gladys.
Then he noticed that Vlod had stopped to admire an enormous portrait of a duck.
At first Macklin thought it was just another boring ancestral portrait of a duck with fangs; when he moved a little closer, however, he saw that it was a gorgeous female.
She had flowing, golden locks, and wore a gauzy, romance-on-the moors style of dress.
She also had honking great webbed feet--the biggest webs Macklin had ever seen. You could surf across the Atlantic Ocean on webs like those.
"Beautiful, isn't she!" said Vlod.
"Umm, yes" said Macklin. "That was the word I was searching for."
"Notice anything else about her?"
Macklin couldn't help himself. Before he could clap his hands over his beak, he blurted out, "Her feet...."
"YES?" said Vlod in a frosty voice.
A doom prepared itself for Macklin. High above, in the Celestial Sphere, the Hippopotamus leaned forward in her rocking chair, waiting for his next words.
"Um, they're so...quintessentially FEET!" he managed to say. "The very essence of footdom. Eternal forms such as Plato imagined, but never saw. I, however, now have the privilege of viewing--"
"Don't get any ideas. She's taken."
"She is? I mean, of course she is! With feet like those--"
"That is Lenore McBeauty."
"Really?" gasped Macklin. "She of the flying haggis?"
"Indeed," said Vlod. "She was loved by my ancestor, who was cruelly and treacherously staked by a vile, slimy, armadillo-like fiend, known to the world as Giseppe Macklino."
Macklin felt no comment on his part was called for.
"I hate armadillos," said Vlod. "Come! Sit!"
Then he noticed the table setting.
Polydoor had worked quickly, but not well.
"Didn't you consult Martha Stewart?" roared Vlod. "The water glass goes HERE! Use the crystal, not this plastic Daffy Duck glass. Now go and fetch the condiments for the blood pudding."
Polydoor gave Macklin an evil look as he made his way out the door.
"You don't deserve the crystal," he hissed. "I don't like wasting it on ducks who are about to DIE."
Macklin slipped uneasily into a big, leather chair, studded with rivets and wired to a set of coils and cylinders on a sideboard. He picked up a lime fizzer with trembling hands.
Vlod stood behind his chair, as silent and watchful as a Venus flytrap.
Then Macklin noticed movement outside a window. A frightening shape peered in at him from the edge of the forest.
The shape was vaguely wolf-like, with a beaky sort of muzzle and two ruby earrings.
"A wolf!" Macklin squawked.
"What?" said Vlod. "Oh, that's not a wolf; it's a big, furry duck."
The wolf eyed Macklin with an expression that seemed to imply a certain urgency. It made him think of Allura for some reason. Had the wolf eaten Allura and put on her earrings?
Macklin had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 5: VLOD MAKES HIS PITCH
"You have a problem?" Vlod said.
Macklin twisted nervously around. "No sir...I mean VLOD," he stammered.
When he looked back, the wolf had gone. Perhaps it had never really been there.
Perhaps Macklin, himself, wasn't there. It was all a trick of the mind. Something to do with John Locke, and the association of ideas. If you start with an idea of bagpipes, for instance, you wind up by a process of association with the Flying Scotsman, a bowl of McBowel's Inflammable Porridge, and a dead squid.
"Eat!" said Vlod. "Meanwhile, I will tell you why I invited you here."
Macklin glanced down at his vittles. Blood pudding. Goodness how it reeked! And it moved, too, as though some ravenous parasite was swimming excitedly around the bowl, just waiting for the opportunity to leap into a vital part of Macklin's plumbing and bite it.
"I want you to build a model railroad for me," said Vlod.
Huh?" said Macklin. He was so astonished, all thought of gulping down the pudding fled from his brain.
Actually he hadn't been thinking of that, but....
"Yes," said Vlod. "I've had my eye on you for a long time. I read your entire series of articles in RAILROAD MODEL CRAFTSMAN on building a model of the Spokane International, including the sawmills at Coeur d'Alene, the Bonner's Ferry bridge, and the crossing point at the Canadian border."
"You did?" gasped Macklin, pleased and terrified.
"It was brilliant!" said Vlod. No one could have done it better. Not Renoir, not Duns Scotus; not even Roy Rogers."
Macklin was embarrassed. "Well, maybe not Renoir or Duns Scotus," he said. "But Roy Rogers could have done it. I always sort of liked his theme song: 'Happy trails to you, until we meet again--'"
"Dale Evans wrote that," said Vlod. "Anyway, enough small talk! I want you to build me an exact replica of a famous model railroad."
"Hmm," said Macklin, wiping the spray from his neck. "Um--"
Before Macklin could stutter another syllable, Vlod tossed him a copy of SMALL RAILROADS YOU CAN BUILD. It fell open on a double-page spread featuring a tiny HO train layout on a 4-ft by 6-ft sheet of plywood.
"I'm sure you know this layout," said Vlod. "It's the model railroad Gordon Varney commissioned, ages ago, to display his line of model railroad equipment. It was in Macy's shop window."
"Oh, EVERYONE knows THAT model railroad," said Macklin. "But I don't see--"
"I want you to build it precisely as it is depicted here," said Vlod. I WANT IT EXACT IN EVERY DETAIL! DO NOT FAIL ME."
Macklin wiped another spray of droplets from the back of his neck. "Um, some of the structures and equipment may be hard to find--"
"Money is no object," said Vlod. "You will have everything you need."
"Everything?"
Macklin was terrified, as usual. But if there's one thing that gets a model railroader's blood up, it's the offer of unlimited funds to build an entirely new model railroad.
"Accuracy is crucial! I have extra drawings and plans. Lenore foresaw everything."
"She did? I mean, She of the haggis? She foresaw the Gordon Varney line of model railroad equipment?"
"Everything!" said Vlod. "It was an act of pure psychic genius. There were no railroads in her time, of course. None whatsoever."
"That's horrible!" said Macklin.
"I know. I found it--my ANCESTOR, that is--found it inconvenient. But the radiant and beautiful Lenore was not so easily thwarted by mere temporal forces. She had a vision.
"I see," said Macklin, yawning. The minute anybody started talking about their dreams or visions, he nodded off.
A violent shaking woke him up.
"Comfy?" said Vlod, twisting his beak in an evil simulacrum of a grin.
Macklin nodded vigorously to ward off evil.
"Good," said Vlod. "Lenore, of course, was unable to construct the model railroad herself, not having any track, switches, or rolling stock; however she had the presence of mind to record her vision before she met the fateful haggis."
"Gosh!" said Macklin.
"Precisely. Lenore foresaw everything, even plastic baggies for left-over haggis. When I think so much intelligence, so much radiant beauty was destroyed in a split second by a flying HAGGIS, and all because your ancestor couldn't admit that he had lost out to the better drake!"
"I'm terribly sorry," said Macklin. "I'm sure it was all my fault. I'm not worthy."
"Anyway," said Vlod. "Imagine my surprise when I discovered the source of her vision--the famous Gordon Varney model railroad."
"But if it's already been built--" stammered Macklin.
"It doesn't count," said Vlod. "In art, Macklin, intention is everything. The original builders could not have known they were honoring the memory of a rare and radiant maiden. Hence, the little train layout remained merely a model, lacking in magic."
"Gosh," said Macklin.
"YOU, however, KNOWING FULL WELL the significance of this model, will honor Lenore with every piece of track you stick together--"
"Actually--" said Macklin.
"Something on your mind?" said Vlod, hovering like a guillotine blade over Macklin's trembling frame.
"Umm, no," said Macklin.
"Good, because this is important. The model railroad will be a tribute to Lenore. It must be perfect. It must be laid out exactly as you see it here. I will provide all of the funding you'll need. Allura will take care of the details."
"Allura?"
Vlod leaned closer. There was a smell of dead things about him. Long-dead things, like ancient eggs, and bits of pizza lost under the sofa in the TV room.
"You like Allura, don't you!" Vlod said.
Macklin was embarrassed.
"Come on, Macklin!" said Vlod. "Be a drake! Admit it--you like Allura a lot."
Macklin found himself compelled by the implacable force of Vlod's will, as though he were a balloon being squeezed by a child's ruthless fingers.
"Yes," he gasped. "I like her. I LIKE HER!"
Then a small voice whispered inside his head. NO, Macklin! What about Gladys KindHeart? You can't do this to her!
Vlod's beak twisted in an evil grin.
"Good!" he said. "Because you will be seeing a lot of Allura. She will be your assistant. Tell her what you need. Money, supplies, grief counseling. Anything at all! Do you agree to these terms?"
Macklin knew he had a choice: painful death, or lots of fun building a neat little train layout.
"I can buy anything I need?" he said, pretending not to shiver with excitement and terror.
"Yes. Anything except armadillos. I won't have any armadillos on my model railroad."
"Agreed," said Macklin, wondering what an armadillo was. Some sort of winged creature native to tropical climes, perhaps. Or a kind of ostrich.
"Good," said Vlod. "It is done." He tried smiling again. It was an eerie thing to see. He got the curve of the beak right, but there was something subtly wrong. Macklin had seen pit vipers with more feeling in their smiles. That was just before they ate the mouse, of course.
But he really WAS excited. An unlimited budget, and Allura at his side. What could go wrong? Lots of ducks sold their souls to the devil. It happened every day. Look at the stock market!
All at once, ghostly bagpipes broke into Macklin's train of thought, and a mournful Scottish choir chanted, "How much is that doggeeee in the window...."
Then a familiar, harsh voice cut through the fever mist in Macklin's brain.
"Don't even think about turning him down, laddie!"
Macklin recognized his ancestor at once.
"You don't think I should back off, ancestor?" he said.
"Och! What a wee brain it has! Listen to me, Wee Willie Wimpy; Vlod is plotting something nasty, and I want it all for meself."
"You mean the model railroad, ancestor?"
"Vlod doesn't care a hoot about little toy trains!" said Giseppe. "He's got some trick up his sleeve."
"MODEL RAILROADS ARE NOT TOYS!" said Macklin peevishly. "They're museum artifacts."
Giseppe ignored this outburst. Everyone ignored Macklin's outbursts, actually, because they were always about how his toy trains weren't really toys: they were museum pieces.
"I want you to play along with old Tinbeak," said Giseppe. "Do exactly as he tells you to do, but report to me."
"Why is this model railroad so important to Lenore, ancestor? I mean, she's dead, after all. She must be pretty busy."
"You mean Big Webs? Oh, aye; she's busy enough, laddie; she was going out with Elvis, the last I heard."
Macklin was horrified. "She's DATING somebody? If Vlod Ironbeak hears of this--"
"Don't you worry about old Tinbeak, laddie! I have big plans. The world is going to be a much different place when I'm through with it. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"
Macklin thought this was some sort of joke, so he ignored it.
"Hop to it, laddie," said Giseppe. " Allura is waiting--she of the torn skirt and the checkbook. Tell her to buy herself a decent Scottish kilt. They don't tear so easily, and you can use them as weapons in a pinch."
"Ancestor?"
But Giseppe was gone, vanishing into the wailing skirl of the pipes and the mournful chant of the ghostly Scottish choir singing, "How much is that doggeee in the window...."
Macklin had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 6: ALLURA'S FLAME
An unpleasant voice startled Macklin out of his ghastly reverie.
"Are you going to eat that blood pudding, or are you just going to puke all over it?"
It was Polydoor. He of the mole.
"Um, would you like it?" said Macklin.
"Tsk! Wastrel! Lucky for you I can't bear waste."
Polydoor snatched up the bowl, sucked up the entire pudding in one clotted mass, gulped it down, and ate the bowl.
Then he smacked his beak.
"Delicious appetizer," he said, glaring hungrily at Macklin. "But I find I'm still ravenous."
A bit of blood dripped from the end of his beak, splattering the lacy white table cloth. His breath stank of ancient haggises.
In a flash, Macklin was clawing at the front door, trying to get it open.
At the sound of Polydoor's approaching footsteps, he turned.
"Umm..." he said. "Vlod asked me to get started on his model railroad right away. It's very important to him."
"IS it?" said Polydoor, crabbing closer.
"Yes, he was very clear about it. He said he'd kill anyone who interfered. AFTER he ate them."
Macklin was a very poor liar. He blushed, coughed, shuffled his feet, blinked, and nearly blurted out the truth.
Polydoor smiled. "Shouldn't tell lies, if I was you," he said. "The Jolly Fat Llama's watching. He knows who's been bad or good."
Polydoor was quite close now. There was a terrific smell of moldy broccoli about him. Macklin wondered if it was meant to keep the elves away.
"I don't know why the master chose YOU," hissed Polydoor. "ANYBODY can set up toy trains. You just go to a toy store, buy a nice set with an engine, some cars, a bit of track, and a power pack. A child could do it!"
"Those aren't good enough for serious modeling," said Macklin. "The track isn't to scale, and the engines aren't the best quality. You have to weather everything and add details, and--"
"Smarty pants!" hissed Polydoor. "Are you saying I couldn't set up a nice toy train? Are you saying people with moles can't build model railroads? PEOPLE WITH MOLES AREN'T AS GOOD AS EVERYONE ELSE?"
"It's got nothing to do with moles," Macklin said.
"ARE YOU A MOLE-IST, YOU CROMWELLIAN! DO YOU BURN ACOLYTES AT THE STAKE?"
A hand reached for Macklin's throat. A bit of oily drool leaked from Polydoor's beak.
Macklin tried frantically to open the door, but it would only budge a fraction of an inch or so before stopping. Then, too late, he realized he was blocking it.
He was doomed! He was about to be plunged into the spectral world where his fierce ancestor would be waiting with a killer haggis. There was no escape anywhere.
Macklin's last thought was of Gladys KindHeart in her rubber boots and her coveralls, discreetly spotted with cayman poop. Oh how he missed her! He even missed Fluffy.
If only he'd resisted the slinky Allura! If only he hadn't cast his eyes on the slit up the side of her red dress!
Then a sudden, terrifying growl startled him out of his terror. The evil Polydoor froze. One of his fangs dropped out and he stooped to pick it up. In that instant, a stained glass window shattered as though a bomb had been tossed through it, and a figure leaped into the gloomy hall.
It was Allura!
Macklin gaped at her in astonishment. She'd changed into a big fur coat, furry boots and gloves, and a fur hat that seemed to cover all of her face and neck.
There was a slit up the side of her coat, revealing the slit up the side of her skirt, which revealed a furry ankle that stirred up Macklin's blood even now, as he cringed in the shadow of the unspeakable Polydoor.
Polydoor released his grip and turned to hiss at the intruder.
"There's ANOTHER mole-ist!" he shouted. "Keep away from me, you vomp!"
With that, he bolted out of the room.
Macklin sagged with relief. He could hear the evil acolyte's voice echoing down the hall. "I'll sue and I'll sue and I'll sue...."
Allura gently pulled Macklin away from the front door and opened it for him.
Her motorcycle gleamed in the night air like the Flying Scotsman.
"Go and wait on the Harley," she said, in a throaty voice. "I'll be out in a second. There's something I have to do."
Macklin obeyed at once. He could see eyes watching him in the eerie phosphorescence of the Gothic forest. He climbed nervously onto the big motorcycle and tried to make himself invisible.
All thought of Gladys KindHeart had fled from his heart. His brain shook and trembled with feverish thoughts of the slinky, furry Allura.
Then Allura came out of the house and slinked onto the Harley. She'd discarded her furs and was clad only in her scarlet dress--the famous one with the slit. Macklin couldn't see her ankle, but an image of it flashed through his turbulent mind. He could think of nothing else.
Stop this nonsense! he thought. She doesn't want you; she wants your model railroading skills. Don't let her corrupt you! Show a little backbone! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!
That was an inward laugh, of course. Introverts rarely laugh out loud, unless they've been into the scotch. And even then, it's usually a thin, barely audible laugh, like the sound a small animal might make in the safety of its burrow, after a few glasses of ale.
There's no shame in being an introvert, by the way. Big tough guys like Robin Hood and his Merry Men may have spent a lot of time laughing, but look what happened to THEM! They never existed!
And what about Attila the Hun! He was the quintessential introvert; he spent all of his time on his horse because he was too shy to mingle with strangers. In fact, he was so painfully shy, he killed anyone who wasn't a Hun so he wouldn't have to make small talk. Don't tell ME introverts are weenies!
Anyway, Allura started the Harley, and they roared away, out of the eerie forest and through the sinister financial district.
After a brief, terrifying ride, they pulled up outside Macklin's condo. Allura leaped down and tied up her steaming Harley.
Macklin stood awkwardly at the door, wishing he was the strong, silent type, like Clint Eastduck. He'd boldly seize the moment, invite Allura up to his condo, and offer her a seductive lime fizzer.
The mere thought of it made him sweat with anxiety.
"Um...how do you like your broccoli?" he asked. "Steamed or fried?"
Allura ignored this conundrum and touched the glass entrance door, which popped open as if by magic; then she strode past the astonished security guard and raced up the twenty floors to Macklin's apartment.
Macklin puffed along some distance behind her, arriving exhausted and bewildered at his door, which was already open.
He found Allura inside. She slammed the door shut behind him, then seized him and held him tightly in her arms.
"Kiss me, you drake!" she breathed, and their beaks clashed together.
It was a long, passionate kiss. And it was painful, too, because Allura was treading on Macklin's feet, and she had pretty good webs on her. Not in Lenore Big Webs' league, of course, but they were a considerable size.
Then she released him, and he slumped back against the door.
"Wowsers!" he murmured.
At the same time, a dark thought crossed his mind, filling him with stark terror, an emotion not unfamiliar to him.
"Um...about Vlod...." he stammered. "Will he exhibit the sort of jealousy that leads to acts of violent retribution?"
Allura was astonished. "Vlod? Jealous?" Then she threw back her head and laughed. "Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha."
Macklin waited politely until the last 'ha' had faded away.
"I take it that means 'no'?" he said.
For answer, Allura cupped Macklin's face in her hands. "Listen to me, my little duckling," she said throatily. "Vlod is dangerous. Keep your distance from him and do nothing to anger him. I'll take the meetings!"
"I won't fail him," Macklin said nervously, and once again, he thought of Gladys KindHeart.
How he wished he could be with Gladys right now!
Then Allura took him in her arms, and his treacherous glands deleted Gladys from short-term memory.
"You're so cuddly!" Allura whispered. "Like a teddy duck."
Macklin kissed her gently on the beak, and they quacked for a time.
"Don't worry about Vlod," she said. "We have a business partnership, nothing more. I kill people, and Vlod drinks their blood. It's a privately owned business. We keep emotions out of it because I'm not very good at sharing power. I usually tear people to pieces when they disagree with me."
"Um, it's a good thing we agree," said Macklin. He laughed nervously. There was something oddly exciting about Allura.
She kissed him again.
"It's different with you," she said throatily. "We have the same business model."
"We do?"
Just then, there was a knock at the door.
Macklin stiffened. It had to be Gladys! No one else ever called on him, except the cult people from the weird temple down the street, a few desperate politicians, the people from downstairs yelling about his overflowing bath tub, and the rubber duckie salesman.
There was another knock at the door.
Macklin had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 7: EVIL TONY CAD
Meanwhile, Gladys had been worrying.
She hadn't heard from Macklin for several hours, and this bothered her.
Macklin was the sort of duck you spent a lot of time worrying about. A few hours away from him, and questions started popping up like firecrackers: why is he so quiet? Has he glued his beak shut with model railroad glue again? Has he eaten something nasty?
Usually Macklin would call Gladys in the evenings for a bit of soul-searching and whining. "Do you think I'm a complete failure?" he'd ask.
"Compared to what?" Gladys would say, and they'd chat about that for awhile.
Gladys was a down-to-earth, homespun sort of duck who didn't spend much time worrying; if there was a problem, you got out your tool box and fixed it.
When Macklin didn't call, she thought he must be having a problem, so she decided to pay him a visit and fix whatever was ailing him. Being a practical type, she thought she'd kill two birds with one stone, and take Fluffy along for a bit of exercise.
The thing about caymans is they're a lot of work. And Gladys's caymans weren't your ordinary, garden-variety caymans, the sort people buy on a whim at pet shops. These were SHOW caymans, very finicky and nervous. If Gladys didn't spend a lot of time grooming them and fussing over them, they'd sulk for hours at a time.
Not only that, she had to check them daily for ear mites.
Anyway, Gladys was a real sweetheart, a cheerful, down-to-earth duck, who worked hard, loved her caymans, never felt sorry for herself, and had strange, mixed-up feelings about Macklin.
These feelings really puzzled her.
Long ago, Gladys had decided that drakes weren't worth the trouble, but Macklin intrigued her. There was something different about him. He wasn't much good at sports, for instance. Anybody who thought the Super Bowl was something from Tupperware was in deep trouble, sports-wise. But this only endeared him to Gladys; she would spend hours and hours trying to explain what quarterbacks do, and how they manage to get back into the game after being mashed and broken to pieces by enemy panzer divisions, but none of it would sink in.
Macklin would just nod his head while she talked, and go on with his daydreaming about engines and track.
The caymans liked Macklin too, now that he'd learned not to run screaming in terror when Fluffy gave him a playful nibble.
There's something about him, Gladys thought to herself as she pulled Fluffy away from a terrified pit bull. Something cuddly. He's such a teddy duck!
And Gladys had no trouble handling Lucretia, Macklin's fierce, grandchild-deprived mommy.
Lucretia was so desperate for a grandchild, ANY grandchild, she'd tie Macklin up in blue ribbons and deliver him personally to any female who showed the slightest interest. She'd even print out instructions on how to go forth and multiply.
Of course, when the grandchildren arrived, things would be different.
Two children would be about right, thought Gladys. She could teach them football and Kung Fu, and how to repair broccoli harvesters, and she could show them how to groom caymans.
Goodness! she thought. Here were are at Macklin's door! How did we get here so soon?
The doorman seemed to be in a state of shock; he was squatting on the floor plucking at his lower lip and muttering something about Wonder Duck.
Gladys checked herself in the lobby mirror. She wasn't very happy about her appearance. She'd put on her best rubber boots--the brown ones that didn't show the cayman poop so much--matching brown coveralls, and she'd combed her crinkly, brown duck hair, but of course that didn't do any good; it just kept right on being crinkly.
Then she helped the doorman back to his desk and gave him a glass of broccoli juice, which brought him to his senses immediately.
"What a duck!" he murmured.
Gladys knew at once he couldn't be talking about HER.
"She met me, Stranger, upon life's rough way, And lured me towards sweet death...." said the guard.
"There's no need to be like that!" said Gladys. "Act sensibly, wear a good pair of rubber boots, dress warmly in layers, and there's nothing you can't accomplish."
Then she bounded up the steps with Fluffy at her back. She took the stairs because Fluffy occasionally got nervous on elevators and ate the other passengers.
Once she reached Macklin's door, she gave it a good, sharp rap.
"Won't Macklin be surprised!" she chuckled, and Fluffy giggled and hissed.
There was a faint sound of voices coming from within, but the door remained closed.
"I wonder if he's with a client," said Gladys.
Fluffy snapped his jaws as if to say, What's a client? Do you eat them with garlic or with mint?
By now, of course, you're probably wondering about Gladys's background, her past lives, her old boyfriends, her marks in high school geometry, etc.
Well, here it is:
Some people think they have it tough!
Gladys could beat them in a hard-luck contest hands down. Born without any parents at all, poor Gladys had no time for dolls and cruelty to other little girls, etc.
She brought herself up by hand in Tewksbury, aided only by a long-dead aunt, the Marchioness of Tewksbury, who advised her on where the salad fork went etc., and how to talk as though you had a hot rutabaga in your mouth.
She did have an illustrious family, but they were all dead, including the ones who were still living, and, anyway, they were so exhausted from roulette and taxes, they only existed as weary voices.
Gladys worked her way through an exclusive Swiss academy by mucking out the stables, killing and cooking the haggises, and teaching survival skills.
Upon graduation, she moved to Toronto in search of a place to make her mark and raise caymans.
She was working as a veterinarian's assistant when she met and married Tony Cad, a flashy duck with a pocket full of credit cards and a lot of fancy talk about index funds and privatizing ancient Egypt.
Little did Gladys know, Tony Cad had been fired from his job as a technician in a Mister Tasty Chocolate factory. She soon found out, however, that Tony Cad was really only after her caymans, which he planned to sell to a wallet factory.
Their relationship quickly deteriorated, until, one ghastly night, under a horned moon, when low ragged clouds scudded across the sky, driven by a wind that moaned among the gloomy financial analysts, Tony Cad tied Gladys to the railway tracks.
"HA, HA, HA, HA, HA," he said. "Soon all of your caymans will be made into wallets and stuffed with credit cards and death threats. I never loved you, Gladys! I can't stand caymans, and I hate broccoli soup. I'm sick and tired of sleeping with caymans on the bed and I hate the name Fluffy, and your cayman shows are stupid, and you're NOT a beautiful slinky model with bones sticking out everywhere like twigs and a bruised look and the latest jogging outfit, SO THERE!"
Gladys sobbed.
Then she heard the whistle of an approaching train.
Gladys had a bad feeling about this....
CHAPTER 8: VILLAINS GATHER
Macklin was still reminiscing, in a state of shock after the sharp rap at his door, when Vlod Ironbeak crept down into the cavernous City Hall basement to operate his model railroad.
Vlod understood the difference between toy trains and museum-quality model railroads.
At the same time, three stealthy figures made their way to the service entrance, beyond the rutabaga garden. They were wearing black trench coats with the collars turned all the way up.
Polydoor opened the door for them, confiscated their rubber duckies; then checked everyone for concealed stakes, silver bullets and garlic before leading them down the stone stairway into the dank basement.
The three stood at a respectful distance while Vlod finished operating his model railroad. They watched him hiss with delight as he brought his HO-scale death train to a slow halt at Usher Station, where little plastic models of vampires waited hungrily for the bewildered passengers to disembark.
Then he turned and nodded to the others.
"I have commissioned Macklin Macklino to build a model railroad," he said.
His visitors, whose names were Herman, Demo, and Loopy, by the way, said nothing. It was never a good idea to say anything at all in front of Vlod until you had determined what sort of mood he was in.
"You three will have the task of following Macklin," said Vlod. "Keep him in sight at all times. He must not fail in his assigned task."
"You can count on us, Vlod," said Loopy.
Loopy was anxious to redeem himself after botching his last mission, which had been nothing more than a shopping expedition to pick up rutabagas.
Certain vampires have an unaccountable taste for rutabagas. Redemption, by the way, is not usually associated with the wishes and desires of an agent-of-evil dressed in black jacket and black pants, and festooned with a Yankees cap.
A more accurate term, perhaps, might be currying favor.
"You, Demo," said Vlod, "will disguise yourself as a hockey player and follow Macklin on his daily rounds."
"A hockey player?" said Demo. "What's hockey, Vlod?"
Demo had managed to get through a Canadian childhood without noticing hockey. That tells you a lot about him.
"It's a form of mortal combat," Vlod explained. "You'll find everything you need at a sporting goods shop. Skates, pads, odd-looking short pants, sweaters, and a goalie's mask. You must wear a goalie's mask so Macklin won't recognize you."
Demo was perplexed. "Won't people notice the goalie's mask, Vlod?"
"This is Canada, you fool! Thousands of hockey players walk the streets every day, looking for pucks. No one will notice you."
"What about me, Vlod?" said Herman. "What should I do?"
"You, Herman, will disguise yourself as an existentialist, and observe Macklin from some convenient sidewalk cafe."
"Right, Vlod. What's an existentialist look like these days?"
At these words, Demo held up his hand. He knew all about existentialism; in fact, he knew a little about every subject EXCEPT hockey.
Vlod shook his head, ignoring Demo's hand. It was hopeless! Hopeless!
"Existentialists carry baguettes," he said. "Big ones. And they recite poetry; usually their own."
Demo urgently waved his hand.
"What is it?" Vlod demanded.
"Just a thought, boss. Because I was a seedy academic before I became a seedy gang member, I know a thing or two about existentialism. In fact I know more about existentialism than I do about hockey. I should be the one who pretends to be an existentialist."
"This is a democracy, Demo; you do what I tell you to do. Besides, café existentialists are all students; if any of them found out that you had actually read books on the subject, they'd know you were a fake."
Demo withdrew his objections; years of experience as an academic had taught him the truth of this, after all.
Besides, while it was true he had once been a seedy academic, he'd given it up for a life of adventure, and had forfeited all perks and appurtenances of his former life.
Now it was Loopy's turn.
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