A hand touched Gunther’s nuts. Not under the pants, but over them. He was inclined to let it happen, because it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. He laid somewhere, eyes closed, a comforting darkness settling over him; why not let the nut-touching commence?
Then, his nose caught a whiff: commingling aromas of Cheeto dust, fish guts, and body odor.
Suddenly, the hand got grabby. Surly. Fisty. Not entirely unpleasant became entirely unpleasant.
Gunther opened his eyes.
He was nose-to-nose with a horrible, foul-faced monster.
He shrieked.
•••
Sparky never stopped kicking. Or punching. Or pulling the trigger on the shotgun—even though the shotgun was no longer in his paw, his finger jerked reflexively, twitching like a worm on a hook. The memory of what had happened still flashed across his mind-parts—
A blocked elevator. Moaning office zombies. Mush-mouthed mentions of many cats—urinal cat, pillow cat, diaper cat, Blu-Ray cat versus DVD cat. Hands reaching. Black star-ooze. Bodies on all sides. Heat. Decay. Zombie mouths yawning wide; tendrils of turgid tar coiled around his neck, around Gunther’s neck, then it was in their mouths and one of the office zombies mumbled something about “Tentacle Porn Cat” around broken, crap-stained teeth, and then—
Here. Kicking, punching, trigger-pulling.
A terrible cloud of dust whirled around, no doubt caused by Sparky’s epileptic one-sided fracas.
He swallowed hard, and stopped freaking out.
The dust slowly settled. Through the sandy haze, an image began to resolve.
Tents. And kiosks. In every direction. A dusty, heavily walked path between them.
Ahead of him, a broad-shouldered paladin in glimmering, shimmering crystal armor stood smirking, tracing the pommel of a black-bladed sword point-down in the dirt. When Sparky looked askance at the knight, the man’s flesh and armor ghosted, and another image overlaid atop the original—a glimpse of a fat-bellied teenager with a headset tamping down his greasy hair.
“I’d like to trade in six plats for the Globular Helm of Duck’s Deep,” the knight-slash-fat-kid said to some hot blue-skinned chick in chainmail under the tent. Fatty McPaladin looked over and saw Sparky. His eyes lit up and his mouth formed an excited ‘o.’ “You one of the new races?”
Sparky frowned. “Racist what?”
“The new races in the new expansion.” Fatty McPaladin seemed in genuine awe, looking Sparky over the way someone might ogle a new spaceship, or a beautiful woman. “Are you part of the Goblin Throng?”
“Goblin Throng.”
“I’ve heard they’re going to be included.”
“You think I’m a fuckin’ goblin.”
“Sure. Are you?”
Sparky slapped the kid in the face with an open-palmed paw. Fatty McPaladin went down on his ass in a clang and clatter, sobbing.
The Wonder Weasel whirled the other direction, saw one of the tents behind him disappear in a sudden dispersal of fat pixels. It made a sound like when Pac-Man eats a ghost.
He blinked, and about crapped his fur. He suddenly felt dizzy. And queasy.
Further down, a unicorn was flipping through a catalog of Swedish furniture laying in the dirt, turning each page with his big teeth.
Next to the unicorn, a wide-eyed woman with a mane of crazy hair pressed what looked like some kind of wireless phone device to a satyr’s ear. Sparky heard some pop-beat that made his ears feel like they were chewing bubblegum.
“It’s my new ringtone!” she yelled, way too loud, way too excited. “It’s Kendra Shields’ new song! The one they play on that commercial for that search engine that lets you search for other search engines! The song’s called Kitty-Kitty-Bang-Bang (Back of the Limo UK Dubstar Virgin No Panties Ibiza Dance Mix)! Isn’t it awesome, exclamation point, exclamation point, one, one, exclamation point!”
Beyond her, a man in the regalia of Nigerian royalty handed out letters to any who passed.
And above them all, an empurpled sky with cloud-fingers stretched far. Behind the clouds, Sparky could see a tangle of pipes and tubes, blinking and winking like ever-shifting stars.
“Where the fuck am I?” he asked.
Suddenly—another Pac-Man arcade noise.
Where the one tent had fizzled away in an ejaculation of pixels, another one slammed down in similar explosion of glowy-bits. A pale man, sweaty, popped up within the tent like a Whac-a-Mole mole. He thrust a handful of photos under Sparky’s chin with a too-long arm.
“God Porn,” the pale man mumbled, woefully unexcited. “See Zeus turn into a water buffalo and tea-bag a sleeping Quetzlcoatl. Check out Hot MILF Demeter in a sexy 69 with barely-legal Corn Maiden. Subscribe now and get access to our mythic bestiality section, where the Humbaba and Enkidu—“
Sparky punched that guy, too. Pop.
As the sweaty paleface tumbled, Sparky heard an all-too-familiar noise:
Gunther, shrieking.
Shit.
•••
The troll had yellow teeth with fish-scales caught between them. He wasn’t naked—but the pair of too-tight denim shorts over his green, scabby legs wasn’t exactly conservative dress.
Gunther squirmed underneath the troll.
The horrible thing withdrew its long-fingered hand from Gunther’s pants pocket.
The troll waggled a wallet in the air like a prize.
“I got your wallet!” the troll barked in triumph. “I have your credit cards! Your driver’s license! Your social security number!”
“Get offa me!” Gunther cried out, struggling in vain.
“Eat these!” The troll shoved a fist full of something into Gunther’s mouth—pills. The monster worked Gunther’s throat the way you might a dog, and the knot of pharmaceuticals formed a slow-moving clot in the geek’s throat. “Dick pills! I just made you eat dick pills!”
The troll cackled, then added:
“You’re a homo!”
“I don’t even know what that means!” Gunther whimpered, wheezing around his pilled-up throat. He tried a serious plea: “Please stop molesting me.”
“Evolution is a lie! Your favorite game-book-movie-recording-artist is a stupid piece of shit! What you like, I hate! What you believe in is wrong! Contrary information! Caps lock! Racist and prejudicial invective at your face, your face!”
Gunther was pretty certain he was dying, or was maybe dead. It explained everything. This was Hell. This had to be Hell. This wretched green monkey-creature—with the hooked beak nose and the nasty teeth and those nut-fondling, wallet-stealing, Cheeto-stained hands—was surely a devil, if not the Devil.
If this was Hell, Sparky had to be around here somewhere. Gunther yelled for his Wonder Weasel compatriot to come save his pale, tow-headed ass once more.
•••
Sparky always saved Gunther. That’s what Sparky did. Gunther wasn’t really supposed to be part of the team. He wasn’t a hero. He didn’t have the qualifications. He was always screaming and sweating. Okay, sure, he served some purpose—trap-tester, monster bait, punching bag—but Sparky sometimes wondered if the dipshit was just too much of a liability.
Still, when he heard his old pal scream somewhere across the tent tops of this lunatic marketplace, he kicked into old habits and went running. He pushed past the Nigerian Prince. He slung a furry elbow into the chops of a many-limbed male prostitute. He ducked a skateboarder ramping up over one of the kiosks (who promptly did a faceplant on a hard curb that wasn’t there ten seconds before).
But then, Sparky skidded to a halt.
A voice entered his mind. A low voice. Whispery. With a mrowling cat’s lilt to it.
Stop, the voice said. Turn to your right, Wonder Weasel.
He turned, and in the alley betwixt two video rental kiosks sat a slowly shifting pillowcase.
The fabric rose and fell, like a small, cottony tide.
A cat’s tail flicked out of the pillowcase’s mouth.
I am Pillow Cat, announced the voice in Sparky’s brain. I can help you. You and your friends are in great danger. The whole of the Storyverse is under grave threat. Follow me, and I can help you.
“But, Gunther,” Sparky said—and, as if on cue, Gunther’s squeaky shrieks once more rose up in the distance. “I have to save my pal.”
You must trust me. Come with me. We are similar, you and I.
Sparky’s stomach sank. Beneath the cat-ensconced pillowcase, a staircase appeared in the dust, and Pillow Cat immediately tumbled down them, thumpity-thump-thump.
The Wonder Weasel had never been religious. He took little on faith. Lots of weasels were stupid as shit. They believed whatever anybody told them—this urban legend, that political lie, this religious scam. “Here, eat these fat-burning sex pills, weasel, you’ll be svelte at the poolside before you know it! And don’t forget to vote against health care reform–it’ll put medical decisions in the hands of hungry Spider People!” “Oh, okay, thanks for the pills and the tip!” *gobble, gobble*
Sparky was never like that. Book-smart? Not so much. Good decision-maker? Not really. A forever-skeptic, yes.
But something about this cat spoke to his Wonder Weasel soul.
“Sorry, Gunther,” Sparky whispered, and ran down the steps.
•••
The troll grinned.
“I got you,” the troll said.
“Nuh-uh!” Gunther said—the best he could do, really.
The troll’s green flesh rippled. Then came the sound of bones breaking, tendons tearing.
Gunther watched the transformation—
The troll became pale. Blonde of hair—white-blonde. Dimpled cheeks. Beaming idiot’s grin.
White button-down shirt, short-sleeved. Pocket protector. Crisp khakis.
It was like looking in a mirror.
“I just stole your identity!” the Gunther-troll hooted. “Identity theft, for the win!”
Gunther whimpered.
Then passed out.
