I have asked you on numerous occasions to cut the branch on your tree that hangs over onto my property. These have been very reasonable requests and your refusal to comply is indicative of very Dark Magic at play. I believe you are under the control of a dark wizard who has cast an Imperius Curse on you. As such, I will have to stupefy you should the branch still be in place by the end of the week. I assure you that you will thank me. You never appreciate your body so much as when someone else has possessed it to plunge property lines into anarchy.

Regards,

Harry Potter

*****

Dear Mrs. Markum,

This weekend you hosted a party at your house, which looked very nice although Ginny and I were not invited. However, your guests parked up and down the street, on both sides, making it extremely difficult to drive to the grocery store for our weekly food shopping trip. As a result, I had to cast reducio on the lot of them just to get around. Unfortunately, I was very busy and never got around to using engorgio to bring them back to their normal size. I apologize for rendering your friends’ cars unusable as automobiles, but I hear roller skating is becoming quite popular again, so perhaps the cars can be recycled as those. In the future, though, you may avoid this problem by not terrorizing the street with a horde of cars.

Regards,

Harry Potter

*****

Dear Mr. Taylor,

I never got around to welcoming you to the neighborhood, but Ginny and I were very glad that the new mailman lived so close. We thought it would be wonderful to have a mailman who knew everyone in the neighborhood and who wouldn’t deliver mail mistakenly. Sadly, this past week you seem to have confused our home with the Coopers across the street, as we received their phone bill. Such villainy will not stand! This is the type of service we were hoping to avoid by having a neighbor working for the post office. I recommend you learn who your neighbors are, Mr. Taylor, or else I will be forced to save our cul-de-sac by performing the Cruciatus Curse and inflicting great pain on your person. I think a little discomfort will be very effective as on-the-job training. As Merlin once said, “Wizards of ability demand service.” Consider this a friendly head’s up.

Regards,

Harry Potter

*****

Dear Ms. Townsend,

Yesterday I caught your dog relieving himself on my yard, the sixth time this month that this has happened. Clearly, this is indicative of a lair of giant spiders living underneath your home, as your dog is too afraid to crap on your property. Never fear, for I have burned down your house with Fiendfyre, almost assuredly destroying the giant arachnids at the same time. Please do not worry about thanking me. Knowing that I have rid the world of evil – and my yard of your pooping puppy – is all the reward I need.

Regards,

Harry Potter

————

Because John Frank Weaver could not stop for Death, Death kindly stopped for a bathroom break.

The basement was set up according to Mr. and Mrs. Vandemoor’s latest design epiphany (from page seven of the Sears catalog), and everything was beige except the maroon throw rug “accent piece” that sat under a polyurethane finished table. Susan pulled her blonde hair back into a ponytail as she took her seat on the rug, and wished for the tenth time that month that Mrs. Vandemoor had just left the old, squishy wall-to-wall carpeting alone.

Steve had already set up the game, and the two red dice shone like warnings. Neil sighed, set down the two-liter of Pepsi the bard was required to bring, and took a seat on the couch, adjusting his there’s 10 kinds of people in the world; those who understand binary and those who don’t shirt to cover his stomach. His narrowed his eyes. ”If Steve jumps out of that closet one more time, I swear…”

“If he jumps out of that closet,” said Targ, arranging his pirate coat around him, “Targ will swiftly exact an equivalent retaliation!”

“We’re not playing yet, Targ, you can relax,” said Susan, and then louder, “Steve! Don’t even pretend you’re not here.”

The laundry room door, equipped with a faded Hobbit movie poster (the only testament to Steve in the place) opened and Steve sauntered out, gripping an Anduril replica that had finally arrived in the mail. “Behold, fair questers, and also Susan! This day brings us together against the most deadly of foes, in the world of wonder that is REALM!”

Susan adjusted her glasses. “Yeah, brings us all together except Mark.”

“Paladin Susan expresses doubt,” Steve said, “and is punished ten health points. Cowardice is deadly!”

Neil sat back heavily on the couch and ran a hand wearily through his blond hair. “Steve, seriously – ”

“RealmLord.”

“RealmLord, seriously, we’re missing a ranger. He’s at the wedding, remember?”

Steve stepped back as if shocked. The big leather cuffs on his wrists banged together as he folded his hands around the hilt of the sword. “A ranger shirking his duty deserves to suffer! He contracts a disfiguring illness!”

Susan rolled her eyes. “Steve, come on, that’s – ”

“Paladin Susan contracts a disfiguring and FATAL illness! She perishes.”

Susan grit her teeth. “If you expect a dead paladin to pay for any pizza, you have something else coming.”

“I’ve got you covered,” said Neil, “I have enough money and one Resurrection Song left.” Susan smiled and gave him an air high-five.

Targ waved a silencing hand at them and rested his hands on the table. “Targ is impatient for the beginning of the quest! What is our goal, RealmLord?”

Steve adjusted his glasses, pushed up the cuffs of his black button-down, and perched at the head of the table, his legs folded under him like a bird. Targ,” he explained, rocking back and forth on the edge of the chair, “we set out today from the Slate Road Inn and head for the southlands, where we must navigate the Marshes of La’Prinsha and retrieve the Sword of Ashgaroth from the vicious dragon Mansbane.”

Susan raised a hand. “A dragon’s in the marsh?”

“Paladin Susan falls down the stairs of the inn and must continue with a broken ankle!”

Susan sighed. “Okay, look, I can just call Chris and get out of your hair.”

Neil brightened at the mention of Susan’s boyfriend. “Ooh, is Chris coming by later? Is he going to come down?”

“Maybe,” Susan said, “after his lacrosse practice we’re supposed to – ”

“So is he coming?” Targ asked sitting forward. “I mean, he can have some pizza with us.”

“Targ!” Steve snapped.

“Uh, I mean, Targ is ready to begin the quest! He dons his armor of impenetrable dragon scales!”

“Then we begin,” murmured Steve, and picked up the dice. “All awake the morning of the quest, except for the lazy, drunken ranger Dane, who cannot rouse.”

As he rolled, Neil leaned forward and whispered to Susan, “What the hell is Mark going to do?”

*

The seating arrangement was boy-girl-boy-girl, and Mark couldn’t help thinking back to every elementary school teacher he ever had and their attempts to force gender tolerance upon their students.

His brother’s fiancée-turned-wife-as-of-thirty-minutes-ago had made every decision regarding both wedding and reception on her own – presumably after spending the bulk of the wedding budget on her dress. The reception was being held outside, with decorations Mark would have realized meant something important to the couple if he had given two damns about those sorts of things. He tried not to stare at the enormous tiger carved from butter at the buffet table and let his eyes stray elsewhere.

The bridesmaid to his right was cute but distant – her name was Karen or Helen or some other name that ended with “en,” because that was the only part of the place card he could see. To his left was Lana, the bride’s cousin. She was attractive enough for Mark to look past the hideous orange explosion of a bridesmaid’s dress (had he heard the bride say the color was “Hawaiian sunset?”) and see her for what she really was: hot as hell. She was sexy in her discomfort, and she wore her eyeliner dark enough to piss off the new Mrs. Jenson and most of the older relatives.

He liked her immediately.

He gave her the kind of smile he imagined rockstars gave groupies, and tried to think of something witty to say.

Then the muffled theme music to Jurassic Park trumpeted from his pocket. The caller ID said “NEILS CELL” and there was a picture of Neil wearing a pair of boxer shorts on his head shooting the camera an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Mark’s smile faltered and his witty comment became an apologetic, “Uh, excuse me.”

“You’re drunk,” said Neil.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Mark whispered. “They’re just passing out the champagne now.”

“No… you are drunk. Your other you.” Mark could hear Steve muttering something in the background. Neil groaned in response, and then went on, a bit stiffly, “Rouse yourself, Dane Woodcombe, ranger of Ironroot Barrens. It seems you’ve had too much to drink, and there’s questing to be done.”

“Damn it! I thought you guys were going to wait until tonight!”

“Steve said-” more muttering “-the RealmLord said that it was urgent our quest began now.”

“Of course he said that.”

He could hear Steve again in the background, followed by what could only be Susan’s firm reply and the very clear, very curt command of “Subtract another five health points! And your other ankle breaks.”

“Great. Now we’ll need to go to the blacksmith and get a walker forged for Susan.” Neil’s tone because conspiratorial. “Come on, ranger. We need you to wake up or you’ll be stuck at Slate Road while we’re dragonslaying. There’ll be the Sword of Ashgaroth as the prize.”

Targ screamed “WOOOO!” in the background.

“I could use a bigger blade,” Mark said, and regretting it immediately when he felt the Karen/Helen bridesmaid scoot her seat a few inches away from him. Lana stayed put, and Mark prayed that she wasn’t paying attention to his conversation. He whispered, “Keep Dane on autopilot, okay? Call me for the important rolls.”

“Sure, sure. Only please tell me you have dice with you.”

“I was planning on coming over tonight, so yeah, I have dice,” he said, feeling like an idiot. “This is a constitution check, right? I need, what, a 12 to shake off drunkenness?”

“That would be correct.”

Mark reached into his pocket and pulled out the pair of black 20-sided dice. He tried rolling one as innocuously as possible. “I got a fifteen.”

“Thank the gods. Okay, now the RealmLord wants you to take a picture of the roll. As a sign of good faith.”

“Son of a-fine.” He did it quickly, wincing at the flash. He snatched the die up immediately and felt himself blushing when he caught the smirk on Lana’s face.

There was a pause from Neil’s end. “Alright, cool. We’re going to begin the quest, then. Hey, are there any hot girls there?”

“Yes.”

“Really? Are you going to bring home a phone number?”

“That depends. How many times do you guys plan on calling me?”

*

Nice hair, nice eyes. He’s cute, Lana thought when she first met Dan’s brother Mark. But he had started tapping his feet a lot and was staring at his cell phone like it was a bomb. Perhaps an emotional disorder. Less cute. But before she could lambaste herself for sounding like the latest I’m Just A Girl! Magazine, her blue contact had popped out of her eye.

“Gorgonspiel!” she yelped-this is what she got for rubbing at her fake eyelashes through the whole ceremony.

“What did you just call me?” Mark asked.

“Sorry, sorry,” Lana said, bending down to peer into the grass. “I lost my contact,” she squinted up at him, “What, did I say something offensive?”

Mark crouched done next to her. “You basically said ‘screw you and your dwarf loving mother.’” He sat back up and handed her the glittering disc of her contact. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” she said. The contact was ruined and she was a little depressed she’d have to walk around with regular brown eyes instead of “Lightening Blue Phenomena.” 

She opened her clutch and placed both contacts in their container. Mark was still looking at her, and a bunch of other people were looking, and Lana held back the urge to stick out her tongue out at them.

“My brother,” she explained. “He plays this game called Realm. The cuss words are pretty cool.”

Mark sat straight up like someone had smacked him on the back with a racket. “How old is your brother?”

“Twelve.”

“Oh.” 

There was an awkward silence and Lana found herself staring at the butter tiger. It was beginning to melt. 

“Uh, I like your dress.”

“Vomit orange.” 

“What?” 

“The color. It’s like-vomit orange don’t you think? Karen says it represents ‘the exact moment in time Dan proposed-when Hawaiian orange bled from the sky.’ But I think it looks like puke.”

Mark chuckled.

Lana rubbed at a heavily lined eye. “I mean, it makes as much sense as that damn tiger.”

“My brother was a Lit. major.”

“Well I’m sorry but your brother is an idiot. A William Blake poem turned into a pile of lard that looks like Tony the Tiger? Is there any justice?”

Mark said nothing. He sort of agreed, especially after Dan had told him he had always been under the impression that the tiger just symbolized a really hot chick: “It says fearful symmetry, dude! That means she’s got curves that can kill.” 

Lana was still talking about the butter tiger, and some other things Mark wasn’t really paying attention to, because wow she seriously was pretty cute, even without the blue eyes. 

“So,” Lana sighed, her fork digging into a plate of sesame steamed chicken with limp green beans. “Tell me more about this Realm game.”

Mark’s phone answered with a sharp ring.

*

“Neil, hang up the phone – the game waits for no one.”

“Oh, so, you mean like the time you went to the 7-11 and wouldn’t let us progress in the game until you got back forty-five minutes later?”

Steven frowned. “What are you implying, Bard?  The marsh is treacherous, and it would be all too easy to fall into the disfiguring Slime of Thagarh Dannin – the RealmLord should not be distracted.”

Neil sighed and glanced down at the phone. “Nothing.”

Susan sighed and grabbed the phone. “Oh, for – hey, Mark, it’s me.” She stood up and walked over to the laundry room, “Okay, I can talk.”

Steve held a hand over the board and shouted, “Paladin Susan’s walker snaps, and she falls headfirst into the STD!”

Targ gasped quietly for his fallen comrade.

Susan ignored them. “Okay, you have to roll for safety through the Slime Pits, and maybe you could get me out of the slime, while you’re at it. Do you have your Second-Life Talisman still, or….uh, is that Can You Feel the Love Tonight?”

“My brother’s lost his mind.” Mark’s voice was strained. “And dude, STD? Did Steve give you that? I mean. Um.”

Susan didn’t understand why he sounded so embarrassed. “Of course.”

Mark’s voice was muffled for a moment, like he was covering the phone. “No, no, I don’t call it Steve – oh God.” He came back on the line. “You know, Steve just – I mean, I’m in the middle of a wedding, and he KNOWS that!”

Susan looked over at Steve, who held out the dice in his hand and glared at her.

“Don’t get me started,” she said. “I’m only talking to you because I’m dead already. Neil’s teetering. Targ’s totally fine, of course.”

“Targ abides by the proclamations of the RealmLord,” Targ said primly.

Mark sighed through grit teeth, and muttered, “We should have taken care of this before the Naked Peaks.”

“Easy for you to say,” said Susan. “You weren’t the one who got impaled by a lava stalagmite. Or impaled by an ice shard,” she added, with a nod to Neil. Neil didn’t glance up, but he had the grace to look a little ashamed, and when he rolled he said, “I use my magical lasso to summon Paladin Susan out of the STD.”

Susan smiled, then turned back to the phone. “Mark?”

“Yeah.” He sounded distracted.

“You’re up next, I’m out of the swamp, but Steve’s going to make you do something – we’re getting close to Mansbane and you’ll need to act. You have Targ’s extra weapons, everything in our magic sack, and your spear.”

“I’ll spear it,” Mark said, and then, “No, wait -”

The call disconnected.

*

Mark cursed and started stabbing Neil’s number into the phone.

“Is Susan going to be okay? I mean, not to eavesdrop, but -”

He looked ready to fall through the floor, but after a second he said, “It’s not what you think.”

After the dice, she believed him, and hey, at least he wasn’t trying to look down her dress, which was more than she could say for the best man. “You want to dance or something?”

“Excuse me?” Mark seemed to forget what he was doing.

“Dance. People do that at weddings right after the bride and groom make asses of themselves.” Lana nodded toward the dance floor, which looked ridiculous in the middle of the lawn. “I’m bored, you’re tense, and I think I hear a David Bowie song coming on. It’ll do you some good. Plus, if I hear you yell something about goblins or chainmail or saving throws versus poison again I’m seriously going to reconsider even talking to you.”

The phone slid into his pocket. His dice were abandoned beside an empty champagne glass. Lana’s hand took his. Screw Mansbane, Scourge of the Marshes. That stupid dragon could impale himself. And crush Steve in his death throes. Assuming that were possible.

Mark lost track of time. He and Lana danced until caterers wheeled steaming silver trays across the grass. The buffet had begun, and wedding guests stood in line to eviscerate the butter tiger and scrape its creamy entrails across their dinner rolls. Mark stuffed himself on salmon in dill sauce, multi-colored string beans, garlic mashed potatoes, and other foods that were supposedly symbolic of his brother and his sister-in-law’s undying love for one another.

It was easy to forget, among the beans, the butter, and the Bowie, that somewhere in some twisted man’s fantasy world his friends were about to fight against the most ferocious imaginary dragon that ever lived in a swamp for some reason. Or were they? Had they even made it that far? Neil and the others hadn’t called back, and Mark assumed that whatever they were doing, it wasn’t important enough to include him.

“Your friends done playing?” Lana said as they walked back to the dance floor. “It’s been a while since they called.”

“Steve’s probably killed our characters off.” He tried not to sound sullen, but there was something depressing about a lunatic like Steve having that much control over you. Or rather, an imaginary you. It was the same general principle and pissed him off just the same. “He likes doing that.” 

“So why play with him?”

“It’s hard to explain. We… gamers, I mean… we like to game, you know? We want the best experience out of it. Steve used to come up with these incredibly detailed scenarios, puzzles, monsters… he made Realm worth playing. Then he got this god-complex and started finding ways to make life impossible for our characters. Now we game with him out of habit, I guess.” He got thoughtful for a moment. “And because no one else wants to be the RealmLord.”

The phone buzzed from his pocket. There was Neil, the Mad Hatter of boxer shorts, giving him the thumbs up. “Neil? What’s going on, man?”

“Hello, Ranger of Ironroot Barrens.”

“Steve?”

“It would be wise of you to call me the RealmLord, ranger.”

“Shut the hell up. What’s going on? Why haven’t any of you called?”

“I have confiscated Neil’s sorcerous listening device and have claimed it as my own.”

“Dammit, Steve, give Neil his phone back. And don’t call me if it doesn’t have anything to do with the game. Or have you killed all of us off already?”

“I think you’ll find the rest of your party is alive and well. But, if they wish to defeat mighty Mansbane, then they’ll do it without technomancy.” Steve practically spat the words, and Mark grimaced. “They’ll never defeat the dragon without your help, ranger. You’ve doomed them all.”

Mark could hear something going on in the background. It wasn’t like Steve’s basement at all. He couldn’t here the clack of dice against old pizza boxes. He couldn’t hear Susan, or Neil, or Targ. He couldn’t hear Steve’s mom asking anyone if they wanted more Mountain Dew.

What he did hear in the background was something different altogether.

Bowie.

“Steve…? Where are you…?”

* 

Lana watched as Mark hung up the phone. He had turned albino-clown white, and Lana found herself a little confused. Sure, she had accepted Mark’s gamer status as placidly as she had accepted the other groomsmen drunkenly calling her “Layla” at the reception dinner the night before (okay maybe she hated it, especially when they all started singing that Eric Clapton song with unbridled joy), but now she was having trouble deciding if Mark was just a cute, dorky guy, or fucking insane.

Mark was now staring at his phone as if it were a bomb that had gone off and killed hundreds of people-or runesmen-dunesmen? “What a stupid game,” she muttered.

He was still staring, lost to the world.

“Are you okay?” Lana finally asked. Mark had gone from shifting back and forth to jingling his car keys.

“What? Why do you ask?” Mark stood on his tiptoes and peered over the swathes of black tuxedos and taffeta.

“Because you look like you just kidnapped Karen, decapitated her and stuffed her under the buffet table and now you’re waiting to get to your getaway car.”

Mark stopped jingling his keys and fixed Lana with an incredulous look. 

Lana shrugged. “I don’t like her.” 

“Isn’t she your cousin’s best friend?”

Lana pointed at her dress, which in the deepening sunlight looked like an orangutan’s ass. “Can you see my cousin has no good taste?” 

Mark laughed, but just as quickly he started to twitch. His phone was ringing. 

“Are you going to get that?”

“No.”

The ringing stopped, and then immiedelty started up again.

“It’s really annoying.”

“I said no, okay?!” Mark shoved both hands in his rented tux pockets. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m just-”

“Totally insane?” Lana was ready to ditch this dude and head to the open bar. She opened her compact, and noticed that while her eye makeup still looked great, there was something strange behind her. 

Lana turned slowly around. There was some guy at the buffet table, poking the melting tiger with gloved fingertips. He was wearing huge sunglasses and a long black coat as shiny as a trash bag.

“Who the hell is that?” Lana asked to no one in particular.

Mark turned, and his expression was one of true horror. 

“Steve.”

*

As a RealmLord, Steve was suitably angered that one of his players had abandoned a quest for a mundane party, but the garlic potatoes did smell pretty good, and as he heard his name and turned he had all the satisfaction any RealmLord would have in realizing that his prodigal ranger was the traitor he’d always suspected.

He flicked his coat behind him and crossed the dance floor.

“Ranger,” he spat, hoping the name stung as it should. “I must say, your fellow questers have been foolish but persistent in protecting your interests – what a shame I’ll have to tell them you’ve been wooing some mundane.” 

“Dude,” Mark said quietly, “you are a crazy person, and we should go inside if you want to talk to me, because you’re scaring my grandma.” 

Of course, Steve thought, catching sight of the bridesmaid. As if he wouldn’t notice the mundane woman. It was bad enough with Susan, but now Mark?

“Are you sure you can stand to leave your lady friend?” he asked sharply. 

“Who are you calling a lady,” the girl started, but Mark stepped in (ever the gentleman) and said, “So what’s going on?” 

“All questers have been taken captive by the evil one, save one rogue ranger who was not helping revive foolish Squire Susan because he was too busy stuffing his face with chicken cutlets!” 

“Steve, I’m serious.”

“Well, so am I!” Several people looked up from a Marvin Gaye song, and Steve took a breath and tried to get his voice under control. “This isn’t a GAME, you know.”

“Um, different opinion,” said the girl.

Steve ignored her (it was easy to ignore mundanes, he’d been doing it to Susan’s boyfriend Chris since the first moment he’d met him) and held out the black dice. 

“Now, you find a place that suits, you, ranger, and you’d better make the best quest of your life, because if you can’t rescue everyone, this is the last quest those poor souls will ever see.” 

He had the satisfaction of seeing Mark turn pale. He’d known the ranger was hidden in there somewhere. 

“Where are the others? Neil, Susan, Targ?” 

The girl made a face. “Targ? Seriously?”

“Lana, look, I’m really sorry, just one second.” Mark turned to face him again, his expression stony. “Steve, seriously, if you’ve locked them in the basement I’m calling the police.” 

“The mundane is bringing them in the station wagon,” Steve muttered. “They’ll be here just in time, I think, to witness their own demise.” 

The girl raised an eyebrow. “Do you need a moustache to twist or anything?” 

Steve sneered. “Spoken like someone who’s never had lives hang in the balance.”

The girl propped a hand on her orange hip and gave him the stinkeye. “And that’s spoken by someone who shouldn’t be wearing dark colors in direct sunlight lest his brain boil over.” 

Steve sucked in a breath. Upstart, foolish girl! 

“Ranger,” he said, trying to tone down his normal volume so that he wouldn’t scare the old people at the buffet, “having recovered from your terrible blow to the head -” 

“You let someone hit me in the head?” 

” – you wake to find that your companions are captive, their muffled cries from deep within the dragon’s cave growing ever fainter and more hopeless. You are armed only with your sack and your spear, having lost the rest in the swamp, and you are charged with the rescue of your fellow questers, and a fair maiden long ago sacrificed to the demon but of such beauty that the dragon could not devour her, and instead made her his constant prisoner.” 

“WHAT?” The girl stepped forward, but glanced at Mark and stopped short. 

Mark frowned, but didn’t object, and Steve bit back a smile at his victory. Mark might like mundanes to a point, but if a mundane was good, the game was always better.

“Even though you can’t see her, even though you can’t see a thing past the dark mouth of the cave draped in vines, her voice is music to you. She calls you.”

” – calls you a deludenoid, maybe.”

“Lana, hang on one second,” Mark said, “I’m so sorry, Lana, really – RealmLord, can I use the vines?”

“You may,” Steve said, “but only to rescue your friends, not to fight the dragon.”

He held out the dice again.

“Take them and roll, if you dare.”

*

Mark snatched the dice from Steve’s greasy outstretched hand. “We’re doing this. But not out here.” He jerked his thumb toward the quaint Victorian-style bed and breakfast that was hosting the reception. “We’re going in there.”

Steve looked at it disdainfully.

“It’s either in there,” Mark said levelly, “or the tool shed. And I guarantee the last place you want me to be right now is within reach of a pair of pruning shears.”

The three of them-yes, Mark was also surprised that Lana had decided to follow along-walked into the Victorian. Sitting on a claw-footed couch between some skirted tables were Susan, Neil, and Targ, who happily smiled and waved. Targ cradled Steve’s Anduril replica in his arms as if it were a newborn baby. 

“We’re eating tea cakes!” Targ said happily.

“What are you doing here?” Steve hissed. “I thought I told you to stay in the car!”

“We were going to, but then your mom wouldn’t stop talking, so Susan came up with a polite excuse to leave and we came up here to hang out.” Neil crammed a cake into his mouth. “She’s in the parking lot with the windows down, listening to Peter Frampton.”

The dice clacked in Mark’s fist. “Listen up. Mansbane is about to go down.”

“I think you will find it is mathematically impossible for a ranger to defeat a dragon on his own,” Steve said with smug satisfaction.

“Then the cosmos are about to collapse in on themselves. Lana, I suggest you plug your ears. What I’m about to say may confuse and terrify you.”

She smiled. “It’s almost cute the way you think you can tell me what to do.” 

Mark took a deep breath. “The dragon’s lair is in the swamp cave, the inside of which is covered in vines, correct?”

“Yes.” 

“Then I can blend in,” Mark said, shaking the dice more vigorously. “I’ll test off my fieldcraft value of 15 to become camouflaged…” 

The dice tumbled onto the nearest table. Steve grinned. “…Resulting in an 11. Mansbane sees your pathetic attempt to hide and-”

“Shut up and let me finish. I’m wrapped in a cloak gifted to me by the queen of the sylvan fae, granting me a +4 to my camouflage rolls. I blend in. You bastard. And now I’m going to release the cow.” 

“What cow?!” 

“The cow Targ insisted we take from our last quest. Don’t tell me you forgot already? Remember? You spent twenty minutes on Wikipedia trying to get the exact dimensions of the cow because you swore it wouldn’t fit into the opening of my magic Sack of Holding Everything. But the internet failed you and the cow went in, along with a week’s supply of food. It’s been in magic sack limbo all this time, munching happily away on hay. So, I release the cow.”

“This is ridiculous. You can’t do that!” 

“I can. I just did. Mansbane can’t see me because I’m camouflaged, but he can see the cow. And he’s going to eat it.” 

“Not if I roll-”

“-An 18 on a single d20. He can’t fight his animal urges and you know it.” 

The RealmLord rolled. Six. His faced purpled with rage, and Mark could see that, even in his fury, he was trying to find a way to use the dice roll in his favor. But there was nothing he could do with a six. He tried to regain his composure and resumed the narrative that he, as RealmLord, was expected to continue, but his heart wasn’t in it, and all he said was, “Mansbane clutches the cow in his talons.”

“Good. Now I throw my spear. At the cow.”

“Why in the hell are you doing that?!” Steve cried. “These choices you’re making are completely against the spirit of the game and out of synch with the storyline!” 

“I throw the spear at the cow,” Mark said again. He rolled an 18, grinned as broadly as possible, and continued. “I hit the cow. I’m not even going to bother rolling damage because that’s not the point. As you know, venerable RealmLord, my spear is poisoned with bilewood viper venom, the third most deadly poison on page 53. There’s no way I’d succeed a penetration roll against dragonscale, but I can poison a cow just fine. Mansbane’s going to eat poisoned meat, and he’ll die.” 

“He’ll die,” Steve consented with a grunt. “In fifteen hours.”

“Yeah? So? He can’t see me. I’ll sit here and wait for it to happen.”

Susan laughed with a mouthful of tea cake and spit crumbs all over Steve’s shiny black coat.

*

Lana felt the tinge of a horrible headache coming on. Maybe it was from the drunken wedding band’s off-key cover of Mustang Sally or the fact that Cuteandalittlenerdyokayoffhisrocker Mark had just managed to use a bovine as a way to win a game her brother would play when he wasn’t picking his nose over the latest and lamest Frank Miller creation. 

Still-this was so much better than sitting through a boring bridal shower, or her cousin’s awful foray into the city for her bachelorette party (Lana was the only girl who had staunchly refused to wear anything phallic on her head). 

Lana reached down and picked up a tea cake. She shrugged off this moment of comfortable delusion, and promised to tell all her friends it was the result of being totally and utterly smashed.

*

“So,” Neil ventured after a moment, “are we really going to wait the fifteen hours? I mean, Chris is in the car and he might get tired. He needs his sleep.”

Susan frowned. “Thanks for being so concerned about my boyfriend,” she said, and when she looked over at Mark he shrugged. Nothing he could say to her; she would never understand that Chris was the normal boyfriend to them all.

Steve snatched his Anduril from Targ’s grasp. “We will not wait the fifteen hours. Mansbane will be able to metabolize the poison using his healing factor, and ranger Dane has failed.”

“Wait, what?” Susan sat up. “He doesn’t have healing factor.”

“Sure he does,” said Steve, getting very interested in the sword suddenly.

“When you listed his qualities,” Neil added, “you never mentioned a healing factor.”

Steve huffed. “I’m sure I did, and you just weren’t listening because you were too busy calling your stupid friend.”

Mark looked at the one guy he knew who had eidetic memory. “Targ?”

Targ blushed, twisted his hands in his lap, and said, “The RealmLord is mistaken.”

Steve stood up. “Targ, don’t you dare -”

“‘The dragon Mansbane is a fearsome foe’,” Targ recited, “‘and you will all have to beware his impenetrable scales, his fiery breath, his iron claws, his wings that span the night sky! Smoke pours from his nostrils, and he swims like a fish in the sea! His coloring is one with the marshes, and lo, his temper is short!’ End quote.”

“Wow,” Lana said. “His temper is short. Way to be fearsome, Steve.”

“What do you know,” Steve started, but at the look on Mark’s face he closed his mouth over the rest of his comment. “And you, Targ! You suffer from clawpiercing and perish!”

“He’s in the captive cave,” Susan pointed out. “He’s nowhere near the dragon. He can’t be pierced.”

Steve looked around wide-eyed, with the expression of a captain whose crew is on the verge of mutiny.

Neil raised his hand. “I vote that fifteen hours have passed, and that Mark has defeated the dragon.”

Susan and Mark raised their hands at the same time. After a moment, Targ sighed and halfheartedly held up a hand.

Lana raised a hand, too, and when Steve looked over she raised her eyebrows. “I have a hand, dude. I can vote.”

Neil jumped on the unanimous vote. “I, the bard, begin at once to compose a song honoring Ranger Dane and his defeat of the dragon Mansbane, his rescue of his friends, and his attainment of the Sword of Ashgaroth.”

There was a long moment where everyone looked at Steve.

“Fine,” Steve muttered finally, shoving the sword at Mark, “but you wait and see. I’ll win this back on the very next quest.”

“Dude,” said Mark’s brother from the doorway, “we’re about to do toasts, and…uh, what are your friends doing here?”

A light went on behind Mark’s eyes, and he stood up with a smile.

“Dropping off my wedding present for you guys,” he said, and held out the sword on two open hands. “This is to remind you that you have to fight to keep love alive.”

Mark’s brother pressed a hand to his heart. “Wow, dude. That is so…deep. Thank you.”

Susan nudged Neil and Targ, and they stood up, mumbled congratulations, and slipped out the door.

The groom disappeared, sword in hand, and after a moment Lana followed, with an expression that could mean anything from Stockholm syndrome to acid reflux. Mark figured that would take the rest of the night to figure out.

“Thanks for the quest,” he said brightly to Steve, who stood like a cartoon villain in the toile-printed parlor of the bed and breakfast, and without another thought he turned and headed out the open door.

There was a girl to rescue and a butter tiger to vandalize. The celebration of his victory had just begun.

————

Our bio is as follows: “If you don’t know who we are by now, shame on both you and our slipping fame!”

The only security this small rural town enjoyed was a lone town marshal who was either lax or drunk. To make things hopeless Marshal Earl Sanders found himself popular with these little people and delighted in their company, but the Mayor only regarded them as a public nuisance. He knew this town could not support their livelihood. He even contacted other agencies including the county sheriff’s office and state police, but of course they both thought he was crazy. They claimed they couldn’t possibly be Munchkins but were likely only a troupe of midget actors out to promote one of their plays. Mayor Fleming implored this was not the case, but they declared midgets entering any community created no specific crime or misdemeanor such that no law enforcement was justified. They insisted Daleville’s marshal could handle the problem. Why be afraid of an influx of harmless midgets?

That’s why the Mayor turned to his friend and fix-it man, Big Sam Miller. Sam stood a giant of a man inventive and practical enough to solve about any problem. Of course, Sam had seen the Munchkin invasion and didn’t like it as well. He said he’d address the problem at a community meeting in the town hall. He had already devised a plan.

About sixty of the locals attempted to attend this meeting, but there was only seating capacity for thirty, such that the hall filled to capacity. People were talking and complaining when the mayor went to his podium and addressed the situation. He promptly introduced Sam, looking formidable in his bibbed overhauls and barrel-chest with a chainsaw in his hand. The spectacle of this violent power tool created some alarm.

However, Sam stood prominently and sure and said, “My fellow citizens, the mayor has asked my help in solving this Munchkin infestation that Daleville has suffered over the past couple of weeks. I agree the emergence of these little people has created a pest problem in need of control as surely as if they were rats or mice.”

People murmured. Was Sam implying that Munchkins amounted to mere rodents?

Sam continued, “I searched the books and found no scientific evidence that claims Munchkins are human beings or a species of Homo Sapiens that would grant them protection under the law. We have no determination that Munchkins have any rights or privileges. In fact, as you might have supposed, they’re not even recognized as a legitimate species! As far as I’m concerned, they’re only alien creatures from an alien realm, not within the United States or even the entire planet, that would render them protection of any kind. In respect to the interests of Daleville, they only amount to the status of pests, and should be treated accordingly.”

More people murmured though Sam was making his point.

“That’s why I offer this town a pat solution. For the past few days, I’ve whittled out a viable flute and have devised a catchy tune sure to capture their interest. Like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, I pledge to draw the entire colony of Munchkins out of Daleville and into my country acreage located just outside of town. There they’ll remain for a maximum of ten days until my ransom of one million dollars is paid in full and at this juncture, I’ll begin mass slaughter of these little creatures with this little baby I now have in my hand!”

Alarm spread through the entire town hall. Sam turned on his chainsaw for a demonstration, and proceeded to saw the podium in half into streaking meteors chips and sawdust.

“It comes equipped with special bone shattering and flesh ripping features, courtesy of the Mob, that will make the Munchkin extermination complete!”

At this point, the podium collapsed into two distinct pieces.

The Mayor cried, “Sam, that was my podium!”

Sam nodded his head and said, “Now you have two…But if my ransom amount isn’t paid within the allotted time, I’ll have no choice but to return these critters unharmed back to town where the entire community will have to deal with them again. It’ll again turn Daleville back into a virtual Munchkin Land. This concludes my offer!”

The Mayor cried, “But Sam, Daleville doesn’t have one million dollars in funds available!”

Sam said, “Okay, half a million!”

The Mayor complained again.

Sam said decisively, “One hundred thousand dollars, and all local gambling debts owed me paid plus my liquor bill at Sherman’s and bar tabs at Jimmy’s and Rowdy’s taverns as well. That’s my final offer!”

The Mayor reluctantly agreed. Though the citizens in attendance thought the solution was barbaric they wanted this problem fixed as well. After all, there was no scientific evidence or confirmation that Munchkins were even human. Within a couple of days Sam had a jester’s cap and a motley suit of clothes sure to attract any Munchkin. He stood within the center of town, a lone street with businesses and residences on either side, and proceeded to play his flute. The locals of Daleville recognized the song as Follow the Yellow Brick Road, and sure enough Munchkins began to gather and follow Big Sam Miller out of town as he lightly skipped towards his rural property. When he had them all herded within a barbed-wire fence that surrounded his thirteen acres, the residents breathed a sigh of relief though a few still found them adorable and missed their company and entertainment. Meanwhile, the Mayor scrambled to make deals and to collect personal contributions and loans to pay Sam’s ransom demand.

Sam discovered that his Munchkin community was afraid of the campfire he’d started. They cried out that a wicked witch was about to appear. Thus he felt that the threat of fire gave him a measure of control. As he cooked his meals, the Munchkins picked fruit off trees and ate berries and wildflower blooms. They even played mindless, incomprehensible games Sam thought were stupid. They didn’t sleep either but sang songs all night as though to ward off evil. For Sam, their singing made soothing lullabies. Several times a day a few of them approached him in a group, claiming they represented a particular guild, and politely made a request of him. Sam had even developed a fancy for one ballerina who represented the “Lori-ly-lee.” But he minded his own business, and scolded them when they got on his nerves. Often when he said something they found funny or strange, he was obliged to hear their familiar giggle of “Hee, Hee, Hee, Hee, Hee!” At least they represented no danger or resistance and would succumb easily to his trusty chainsaw. Their bodies would likely make good fertilizer.

Three days passed and no ransom was paid. Sam believed Clyde would manage to get the money even if he had to resort to his old shenanigans. He didn’t particularly relish the thought of slaughtering these little creatures, so utterly innocent and vulnerable, but it was business. Sam regarded them as any rabbit or deer he hunted in the wild fit to kill without sentiment. Another four days passed, and Sam grew restless. He attempted to fall asleep, but was interrupted by a Munchkin handing him a curious rock. Sam examined it in his kerosene lamplight. Perhaps it was more than curious?

“Where’d you get this?” Sam asked exiting his sleeping-bag and standing up.

A few of them led him down a path they’d made, through some oak trees, and down a ravine, and at the bottom of it, gaping like the mouth of a whale, Sam discovered a burrow-like cave he never knew existed. He crawled inside and searched about. Yes, this wasn’t just a random piece of rock they’d found, it might be what he suspected. The entire walls of the cave were lined with it! Soon the sun rose, and Sam used a hammer and chisel to extract a few pieces of ore and examined them further in the bright morning light as the Munchkins played a game of jumping over a tall blade of grass. Sam called them over to his campsite.

Still looking odd in his medieval clothes, Sam said, “Okay, I don’t need the ransom money after all! Whatever your species or kind is, your lives have been spared. What you’ve all discovered is a bonanza of sapphire ore! It’s likely worth more than my ransom demand even several times over! You’ve proved you’re good for something after all.”

Sam fetched his chainsaw, fired it up and lifted it in the air. “So, I don’t need you anymore. Get your little butts back to town!”

“Hee, Hee, Hee, Hee, Hee!”

So, unharmed the Munchkins returned to Daleville. They eventually became more accepted into the community. With a little help they built themselves little houses and planted lavish gardens. They eventually built their own independent neighborhoods where they procreated like rats. Visitors from around the nation and even the world visited Daleville to view the Munchkin phenomenon. Their singing and dancing talents eventually led to paid performances. However, a few residents of Daleville, including Mayor Fleming, still saw the Munchkins as a nuisance even though Congress enacted a law to protect them. They popped their little heads up everywhere, they blocked traffic, they sang all the time, and continued to solicit as representatives of their individual guilds. One even had the audacity to run for mayor of Daleville, the royally dressed fat one who’d been the former mayor of Munchkin City. From Mayor Fleming’s perspective, it’d been better for Daleville if they’d taken the saw.

————

J. Michael Dashiell (Mike) has written 95 short stories, 10 essays and 994 jokes. When he began to attend college to help his writing career, he abruptly quit because no smoking was allowed, and he became too confused without a bartender nearby. Hey, he had to draw the line somewhere, didn’t he?

Appropriate Warning: The following anti-limericks are rated P, which could stand for “penis,” “peter,” “pecker” or “pee pee” (though the abbreviation should have one more letter, if that’s the case). Para las personas que hablan espanol, “P” sern­a igual a las palabras”pito” o tal vez “pene,”etc., tambien, depende del pa­s.*

Addendum to Appropriate Warning: For readers who like colorful euphemisms, the following anti-limericks should be rated PP for “punany perch,” “petunia pounder” and “peacock pricker.” It should NOT be rated PP for “potato peeler” (see www.urbandictionary.com for an explanation). It also should NOT be rated PP for Federal Bureau of Investigation, North Atlantic Treaty Organization or cardio-pulmonary resuscitation.

Anti-limericks celebrating Seamus Almodovar Igovshky Nao Davis and Juvimoricus

By Ivan O’Uris

I

There once was an old man named Hoin

Whose chickens kept pecking his groin.

It drove him quite nuts,

So he ordered a pizza

And told the delivery boy, “Hey, sonny, get these fuckin’ chickens off my cock!”

II

A would-be hermaphrodite from Venus

Wanted not just a coochy, but also a penis.

She thumb-wrestled a gong

‘Till she got her fat schlong,

Then said, “Crap, now I can’t jog naked ’cause my cock keeps flopping up and poking me in the frickin’ eye!”

III

A porn star named 10-Pecker Charlie

Tried humping while riding his Harley.

He found 10 chesty chicks

To straddle side saddle on his dicks,

Then said, “What the fuck?! I can’t see the taxis, turnpikes and terrapins ’cause of all these titties!”

Background Notes: Luscian-born poet and journalist Ivan O’Uris last appeared in Defenestration in February 2007. Since then, he has been trapped in the lining of his goatskin coat; has exiled himself to said goatskin coat after experiencing self-doubt, drunkenness and self-doubting drunkenness; and has been involved in a standoff with an IRS auditor. All of this has led to a cross-country chase involving the auditor, Ivan’s fans and – more often than not – Ivan himself. This saga has been chronicled in the background notes to the Ivan poems that have appeared online since … oh, sometime last year.

During a recent pause in fleeing from the IRS auditor, Ivan composed the above anti-limericks. Unlike much of his poetry, the anti-limericks were commissioned. One night while hiding out in a truck stop restaurant bathroom stall, Ivan received a message from the Luscian government, delivered by a carrier grassafu. A native insect to Luscia, the grassafu is a grasshopper known for its ability to take down species 40 times its size through kung fu kicks it learns from Luscian scientists that subject it to repeated screenings of Jackie Chan movies. The Luscian government regularly uses it to deliver messages across the Atlantic Ocean² to journalists and poets that are in hiding from the IRS.

Ivan pulled the message from the grassafu – and then cursed a lot as he struggled to get up after the grassafu accidentally floored him with a reflex-triggered kick. The Luscian government was asking him to write three official anti-limericks for the S.A.I.N.T. Festival, a national festival held whenever the Luscian people feel like it to honor Seamus Almodovar Igovshky Nao Davis. A 19^th-century Luscian writer, inventor and bull burper, Mr. Davis believed that Limerick, Ireland, was plotting to overthrow Luscia and force Luscians to express themselves only through limericks and launched the Sean-Antonio Igovosobitshky Nao Davis Rebellion of 1821. For three straight months, he wrote only anti-limericks, which he mailed to Limerick city officials. His rebellion ended when he got the run-around. Limerick’s city officials told him he needed to send his anti-limericks to the British Parliament because Ireland was still part of Great Britain. Parliament told him he needed to send them to Funkadelic because Britain was too busy beating up on African and Asian countries to deal with a petty rebellion like his. Funkadelic referred him to George Clinton, who referred him to Bill Clinton, who referred him to Hillary Rodham Clinton – or rather, all of them would have if they had existed in 1821.

The government also wanted Ivan’s anti-limericks to be in keeping with the festival theme: a tribute to Juvimoricus, the Ancient-But-Doesn’t-Look-It-Because-He-Works-Out-Bunches god of all sexually raunchy, emotionally stunted, potty-mouthed humor. According to Luscian legends, Junivmoricus was banished to pull the finger of a giant statue to the god Flatugassicus after angering Maxiusdadilies – the lord of all Luscian gods – for making Maxiusdadilies wet his bed in his sleep by sticking Maxiusdadilies’ left hand in warm watermelon wine.

Honored but intimidated by the request, Ivan sought inspiration. He found it after building an altar out of his bathroom stall door. On the altar, he placed pictures of Sarah Silverman, photocopies of writings by Marquis de Sade and Allen Ginsberg, a Beavis and Butt-head talking cuckoo clock, a South Park: Bigger Longer, Uncut commemorative napkin, a laptop computer that played a loop of select scenes from Pink Flamingos and porn films starring 10-Pecker Charlie⁴, the Mel Brooks Giant Rubber (Eraser, That Is) and a scented candle. He scribbled his anti-limericks on a nearby wall. A few days later, Ivan O’Uris scholars E.E. Pointer and Shawn Roney copied them and submitted them on his behalf.

As of this writing, it’s uncertain if Ivan will write any more anti-limericks. He’s pressed for time, mostly because he can’t stop looking at his pictures of Sarah Silverman – and doing one-handed activities related to looking at pictures of Sarah Silverman.

Asterisk-Related Notes

*Roughly, the sentence in Spanish translates as follows: “For people who speak Spanish, ‘P’ also would be short for the words ‘pito’ or maybe ‘pene,’ depending on the country.”**

**For those who speak Spanish, a humble apology is offered if the above Spanish is sloppy. If it’s not, then save the apology and redeem it the next time sloppy Spanish is used in the notes to – or body of – an Ivan O’Uris poem.

Pierced Pancreas Notes⁵

1. To read more of Ivan’s poetry and to learn more about Ivan’s coat saga and IRS standoff, visit http://www.lawrencian.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=blogsection&id=9&Itemid=55.

2. But only the Atlantic Ocean. Studies have shown the grassafu instinctively refuses to cross any other bodies of water, unless they have bridges over them.

3. Originally, the festival was called the S.A.I.N.D. Festival, but was changed in 1991 so it would have a catchy acronym.

4. Some Ivan O’Uris fans erroneously believe 10-Pecker Charlie is a play on the name of Kansas City, Mo.-based traffic reporter Nine-Finger Charlie. It’s actually a play on the name of ex-porn star of Nine-Pecker Farley, who’s best known for his role in 1994′s Go (Down on the) Team, Farley! Go, a three-part epic set in the 1940s, in which Farley conducts a marathon orgy with the Gallatin Gazongas, a professional women’s baseball team. Now retired from porn, he’s the spokesperson for People with Multiple Schlongs – or PMS, for short.

5. “Pierced pancreas notes” are end notes that think they’re too good to be considered footnotes and prefer to associated with a higher body part, yet want to show they’re suffering for art and scholarship.

————

Since the 1990s, E.E. Pointer and Shawn Roney (with occasional help from others) have devoted themselves to sharing Ivan’s vision of the world. In December 2007, using a “how-to” book, they performed cataract surgery to try to improve Ivan’s vision of the world, but were unsuccessful.