Chapter 8: Mudge

Mudge was a rather ordinary hippopotamus. She was of a dull purple, a color which her dark black eyes nicely accented. Her large black eyes shone brightly at the sheer prospect of food—especially tasty appetizers. Mudge, like all hippopotamuses on the Smaller, Not-Quite-As-Big-Star star, measured life’s richness by how much food she could consume in any given day; the more the more better. Like many hippopotamuses, she had an affinity for hardboiled socks, especially gym socks which offered a unique flavor that only tasty dress socks could challenge, which she was also partial toward. Unlike any hippopotamus however, Mudge was partial to a rather non-hippopotamus-type food—Qualupace. Qualupace was an extremely controversial plate of the Smaller, Not-Quite-As-Big-Star star. Moreover, it was an extremely controversial human plate. Mudge however, felt as if enough Qualupace could not possibly exist to properly settle her appetite. So it is only fitting that Mudge’s thoughts were on Qualupace as she walked down Shilviny Lane with Hiemleck, on that warm wintry-laden day. They were strolling about the small urban community just outside the Epic Village of Bob, along one of their favorite paths which gently weaved through the large shilviny trees. Hiemleck was distracted as usual, and Mudge took advantage of the moment by quietly slipping away so as to explore the countryside in search of food, of course. She left the path and walked through the groves of trees, admiring the large limbs above. A small group of woosii were playing above, balancing elegantly as they attempted to knock their companions off the limbs.

                The trees seemed to race past Horace the Henchman as he sprinted past them, gasping for air. His body was virtuously large, and in addition to this reality, he was packing more than the clothes on his back, making running in such a fashion only more difficult. He stopped and ducked behind a large shilviny tree, allowing his team to catch up. Scanning the area quickly in search of angry chasers, he found it suitable to lay down his large weapon and slump against the large tree, if only for a moment. Gasping, he peered curiously at the large object which he still clutched tightly, for security purposes. It was a large steel canister, holding in essence the blueprints for the Count’s dastardly plan. These plans were the last necessary pieces of the Count’s plan, and thus Horace and the best of the thieves were sent to ‘retrieve’ them, immediately after the exciting meeting the afternoon before. Horace remembered how Count Berker fashionably assassinated the Prime Under-Secretary of the N.A.Q.; with his bright yellow shoe, nonetheless. As the Count had stepped lightly into his deadly shoe, he took advantage of the confusing happenings, and landed himself a fleet of new henchmen, all of whom were confused and scared for their own lives, and thus hurriedly swore an oath of loyalty in sheer terror. “All in the righteous gain of evil,” Berker had said coolly as he addressed his elite in the main armory that very afternoon. As his men armed themselves with large guns and sharp swords, Berker calmly paced the room, inspecting the various weapons he had designed, picking up the occasional project awkwardly, due to sheer weight. A muffled snort erupted from the back corner, and a shot of annoyance visibly manifested itself as Berker raised one of his eyebrows.

Horace, recalling this happening now as he sat slumped against the tree, still clutching the cylinder, saw now how ill-advised this action was. He closed his eyes, picturing in his head the next scene which was seemingly burned into his memory:

Picking up one of the lighter hand-blasters daintily with his fingers, Berker drew a stifled giggle from one of his larger men, a brute name Larry. The Count looked up in annoyance, and before the large henchman could explain himself, the Count, in essence, handed the man a notice of termination. Turning to the men behind him with a look of disgust and a sharp blow on the top of his blaster’s smoking barrel, he uttered. “Now then, you are all, infallibly clear on what you are about to carry out?” The men, peeling their eyes hurriedly off of the pile of ashes which occupied the portion of space where Larry had occupied, nodded frantically. “Good. I will expect a proper showing,” Berker said imperturbably, allowing them to examine Larry’s remains. “Well, then, I think I shall have a bath. Mmm, yes, my ducks aren’t going to play with themselves. Chow.” And with that the Count strut out of the room, stepping over the pile of ashes with a look of disgust. “Oh, and have Neviel clean that up before you go. It is messing up the gleam of my tile.” Horace remembered how the men stood in silence, none quite at ease, until a short and round, armor-clad, teary-eyed man named Gary broke the silence, “Larry made the best guacamole.” The men nodded, and in perfect silence, they shouldered their equipment and trudged heavily down to the loading dock, mourning the loss of their most prestigious guacamole maker.

Horace sighed sadly as he recalled these happenings. Focusing on the time being, he looked down at the heavy cylinder in his hands, and allowed curiosity to fill his mind. He looked all about him, and found that he was still alone. He examined the cylinder again, this time holding it up to the light. The cylinder was smooth and silver, and there was a faint crease near the top, where Horace guessed was where the lid and body of the case met in one crisp fitting. He took a deep breath, and attempted to open the cylinder, gasping after a few seconds of attempting to turn it counterclockwise. He looked at it again, and after a minute, decided he would try his luck turning it clockwise.  He took a deep breath again, and upon trying, found that the lid came off easily. How odd, he thought, slightly perplexed. He laid down the lid and peered cautiously into the cylinder. Inside, rolled up crisply, was a single sheet of paper. Horace pulled it out, struggling mightily to fit his large hand into the canister. Grabbing an end of it, he pulled it out and gently set down the canister. Returning his gaze to the sheet of paper, he realized that it was gone.

Chapter 7: Curtains

Horace startled to attention. He had begun to doze off when a sudden uproar of cheers caused him to jump in feverish motion. The drab purple curtains had begun to spread apart, leaving an ever-growing gap in between them; a gap through which, a tall, handsome figure was walking through. Thankful that he hadn’t fallen to sleep’s tender clutches, Horace offered up a harried prayer of thankfulness to no one in general before pointing his attention towards the figure emerging from the dark background.

Count Berker swelled with unhealthy pride as he walked through the curtains. At the sight of his shadowed body, the Great Hall erupted in cheers of adoration. He dramatically paused twice--for effect. He advanced two more steps forward before raising his hands with ease, causing an eruption of feverish adorative cheers. He kicked the ground with his heel, sending one of his bright yellow shoes to flip upwards and into his anticipating hand.  He turned to Neviel who had emerged at his side. “Here boy,” he said with a look of deity, “you may hold my shoe.” With that, he thrust it into Neviel’s hands, much to the excitement of the feverish crowd. Neviel, looking down at the large shoe in his hands, looked up at the Count. “Uh, er I…but, well—” the boy’s sentence was doomed from the start, however, as not only was Neviel verbally-challenged, but the Count enjoyed the sound of his own voice far too well. “NO, nope! Don’t say it boy! I know that you have been touched,” and at this, the Count paused dramatically and touched the boy’s shoulder, continuing only then “…by my generosity and natural facial features that are obviously evidence of divine providence.” The Count looked off into the distance, modeling his face, then continued, “…but I as the kind and generous and…” the Count frowned, “… ahem…and kind overlord that I humbly am, I graciously perform random acts of goodwill to all who look upon my face in wondrous adoration.” The Count was a brilliant spokesman, for himself that is, and he showed his speaking prowess frequently, as he did now. “Those who adore the name of Count Berker are under my unfailing compassion, and also my fierce protection. BUT!!” the Count shouted dramatically,”…there are those who do NOT FEEEAAAR THE NAME OF…ME!” The Count straightened his bow tie. “What then,” the Count asked, “should I do to these that are arrogant to me? Shall I treat them the same as you?” The Count stopped. “For you see, it is not at all ME of whom they aim disrespect…” the Count, a master of drama, again paused and the crowd gasped, “they do not mean to disrespect me, but they intend to disrespect YOU. YOU and everything you have worked for.” The Count leaned forward and allowed the crowd to gasp twice before continuing, “…my image as a legitimate Count is exclusively my doing, I’ll humbly admit"-- Berker sniffed magnificently--"but when I am so rudely unacknowledged by society, disrespect is meant to you.”

The crowd looked collectively at each other, confused. Horace’s mouth dropped nearly three inches to a position of gaping surprise. His mind was racing with questions, all of which could be summarized quite effectively in one word: Wha?

The Count continued, “I, being the wonderfully gracious Count that I am, cannot, NOOOO—WILL NOT tolerate this any longer. Consequently, IIIII…I have a plan.”

Horace’s mind abandoned what was troubling it precisely eight seconds earlier, priming itself for what the Count was to say next. He watched in brief idolization as the Count slicked his hair back, and cunningly smiled at the group of hapless henchmen before him. He opened his mouth to as if to speak, and immediately a sharp noise intruded the air. Instantly the Count palmed his forehead in anguish, before letting out a loud cry of dismay:

“OH FOR THE LOVE OF—BLAST YOU WRETCHED NEIGHBORS!!!!!!!!”

For you see, the loud cry was not the doing of the Count’s harmoniously fine-tuned voice; rather, it had erupted from the far-east side of the Great Hall. The Count, though brilliant and cunning and all the like, had months prior found it enormously difficult to keep up his spectacular underground fortress. His solution: he began renting the “unspectacular” half of it to various individuals in need of magnificently-designed and, consequently, expensive housing. The effects of this move were several-fold, though some of the effects lasted longer than others. Negatively, this was a move that had severely damaged Berker’s morale as the mere notion seemed to him as if he was losing his splendor. He had spent weeks upon weeks crying and cursing to himself alone in his bedroom. A welcomed benefit of this move, however, was not only the freeing up of the Count’s monetary assets, but also the liberal amount of revenue it produced on a monthly basis, allowing for Berker to act upon whim without having to sell his beloved rubber ducks. There was, however, another negative effect, one that constantly competed for airtime in the Count’s oft troubled mind. This effect went by the name of—“BLAST!!!!! YOU IDIOT NEIGHBORS!!!!” –The Count hated his neighbors, and since demand for a secret fortress was rather high, he often had neighbors. He often pleasured himself by evicting the boarders on a monthly basis. This monthly happening, however, had not quite happened yet as it was not quite due, though Berker was counting down the days until the next on fiscal period on three separate calendars, so as to not make any mistake.

The current renters were of the National Association of Qualupace, and they contented themselves by holding boisterous conventions twice-a-day, and an ill-timed meeting by the Count meant that the two groups had filed into the Great Hall at essentially the same time. The three-hundred yards in between the two groups was most definitely not far enough, and the large vaulted stone ceiling only magnified both parties’ clamor. Again, a shrill prolonged noise echoed loudly across the Great Hall—the NAQ’ees were singing, formed in a circle, arms locked in such a way which was customary for an opening of such a convention. In the middle of the circle was a tall plump figure, who was obviously leading the entire gathering.

 The Count fingered his temples as his own loud voice was only lost in the melodious lyrics of the NAQ:

“Qualupace, it is for you!

Qualupace, it is for me!

Qualupace, fairest of food,

Qualupace, instant glee!

Qualupace, divine its true,

To Qualupace, devoted are we!

As the NAQ’ees rang out in sequence, Berker discovered to his animosity that they were ignoring their landlord. The Count bellowed loudly across the Great Hall—“YOU LOWLY DOGS HAVE ONE LAST CHANCE TO SHUT YOUR—” “SHUT UP YOU IDIOT!! WE’RE TRYING TO SING HERE,” The NAQ’ees roared back defiantly. “I’ll take my shoe back now boy,” he mouthed to Neviel who was still looking down at the shoe, struck with confusion and anguish. The boy gladly released custody to the shoe and shrunk back into the Count’s long shadow, relieved to be out of the spotlight. The Count cocked his arm back and hurled the shoe in an awkward fashion toward the large, plump man in the middle of the ring.

Horace had been struggling to keep up with the developments of the morning for the morning’s entirety. He had jolted in terror when he had heard the sharp cries from across the Great Hall, and only calmed down when Brute, the cook, had consoled him that there were no explosives--Horace was desperately afraid of explosives. Horace watched now as the Count hurled his bright yellow shoe across the Great Hall. The shoe, upon leaving the Count’s practiced hands, became a blur of yellow which spun quickly in a large arc, first upwards, and then like a bomb, downwards. The yellow missile made a typical whining noise as it spiraled in a blur back toward earth, yet it did not strike the ground, at least not at first. Horace gasped as the shoe hit its target's large head with a resounding “CLUNK,” ushering immediate silence into the Great Hall. The henchmen stared, the NAQ’ees, including the tall, plump one in the middle, gasped in shock; a few of both crowds panicked and fainted. The man in the middle stood tensely in the middle of public gaze; he struggled to employ an expression not involving his eyes crossing. Suddenly, he collapsed in a heap in the middle of the floor, summoning gasps and seemingly waves of unconsciousness in both crowds. All at once, attention was directed toward the Count, who was sitting lazily on his large chair, examining his fingernails. Theatrically sensing the anticipated attention, Count Berker laughed to himself before directing his attention away from his fingernails and, with mild ease, onto both crowds who were gathering closer to see what he had to say. “Now then, where were we?” asked Count Berker as he lazily scanned the crowd. “Ah yes…”

…To Be Continued