Copyright William Read 1998
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(remove the zzz in the address!)The Aimless Quest of Bungston Shag
Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6. Chapter 7. Chapter 8. Chapter 9. Chapter 10. Chapter 11. Chapter 12. Chapter 13. Chapter 14. Chapter 15. Chapter 16. Chapter 17. Chapter 18. Chapter 19. Chapter 20. Epilogue.Chapter 9
The damp and humid weather seemed to perk Robigus up in an extraordinary way; his red knit cap had metamorphosized into gray felt, and the polyseter disco duds were protesting their synthetitude in vain. Between the potent mildew aroma and Napoleon's wet dog ambiance, the flowers Bungston had liberated from Mr. Erskine's flower garden stood little chance. None of the threesome were too squeamish about smells, though, and all were exhausted. Mr. Erskine had set aside only two rooms, one with only a bed and one with a bed and a swath of carpet on the floor. Bungston and Napoleon did a scissors-rock-paper to see who got the bed in their room. Napoleon lost, but late at night he pulled all the covers off Bungston and onto the floor.
It was not quite dawn when there was a knock on the door of Bungston and Napoleon's room. Bungston, sleeping not too well anyway, woke up immediately. In the moonlight he noticed a strange pile in the corner, but no sign of Napoleon. Putting the matter from mind, he snuck to the door and tried to look underneath. Gray feet were a pretty good ID, and Bungston opened the door to find Robigus, fully dressed in his somewhat soiled disco suit but sans shoes. Robigus followed the wizard's eyes downward. "Your feet are smaller than mine, and your shoes pinched. I miss my sandals, although they never lasted too long. This suit, though, is miraculous!" Bungston did not take well to being awakened to debate men's fashions. He stared sullenly, not dampening Robigus' spirits in the least; his spirits operated best when damp. "I could not sleep, and the reason I awoke you is I thought that I could do some research while you slept. I realize I am no wizard, but perhaps I could lay some groundwork..."
"Yeah, go. Good idea. See you in the morning." Bungston swung the door to shut, but Robigus stuck his foot in the way, a trick which had worked well while he was wearing shoes. Bungston's lightning reflexes came to the rescue, and the wizard grabbed the door just before it smashed into Robigus' instep.
"The reason I came," continued the mildew god blithely, "is because, stupidly, I have forgotten the name of the artifact we seek! Is that not stupid?" Robigus actually smiled.
Bungston's late-night paranoia kicked in, and he began to suspect that some evil doppleganger had swapped places with their moldy companion and now sought entry to his bedroom with fakey smiles. Probably it had foot-long claws, just thirsting for his femoral artery. Bungston scratched hard at the gray patch on his forearm in an effort to dispel these half-awake nightmares. "Um, uh... the Aspiccast. That's it. Good luck."
Robigus squinted, as if better to hear the wizard's incomprehensible mumble. "Pardon me? What is it named?"
The wizard nodded sagely. "Yep. Chapstick Staff. Happy hunting." Bungston made a quick fake to close the door, and Robigus' foot snaked out again to block it. As the mildew god realized that the door was not actually going to close, he withdrew his foot, at the precise moment that Bungston really did close the door. Lightning reflexes had their advantages. Robigus did not knock again. Bungston flopped down on the bed again, noticing now that he had no covers. "Shagboy, give back my covers."
The pile on the floor shifted ominously. "I don't have them," it grumbled.
It was obvious that Napoleon did have the covers, but Bungston decided to let his sleeping dog lie. Plus the wizard was too lazy to rise again from the bed to repossess his blankets.
Mutant and magician slept late, and were awakened by a knock on the door. It was a servant, summoning them for brunch; the snoopy man peered furtively around the room, but fortunately Napoleon remained buried under his blanket heap. The man must have noticed the wet dog smell, though. After Bungston kicked out the servant, the wizard sat on the bed and thoughtfully examined his mutant St. Bernard, who had crawled into the light and was now lying full length on the floor. He was a pretty sorry sight, his body decorated with shoggoth sores, witchbroom welts, mud, and marshmallow. "I suppose you want to eat some breakfast."
The St. Bernard bounced to his feet, drool leaping to his jowls. "I suppose you want to shave it bare! Let's go!" Napoleon was making for the door when Bungston nailed him in the lower back with a small bedside table.
"Listen, they'll pound you with candelabras if you show up all shaggy and slobbery. Tell you what - I'll bring some food up here. Breakfast in bed." Napoleon, however, was very against this idea; he suspected that Bungston would season his food with unwanted additives or perhaps eat all the food himself.
"No way Bung. I'm going," ground the mutant. "I'll just bundle up in this blanket, and no-one will suspect." The mutant made good his word, rolling in the blanket heap until he looked like some sort of lavender lamprey, with a food nozzle rolled in front of his head. Bungston shook his head; Napoleon's hairy hands would show, and the servants would know that either he was a monster or had been overindulging in questionable activities. Also, most people didn't go to brunch with their heads swathed in their covers.
"BERYL BLOWSY HOSING HOUSEQUAKE BATDRAKE DRONING BONING MANDRAGORA CORNING FORGER GLOW PANDORA! SHEMP IS KING AND SIMON SPEAKS ENTRAIL MY BAIT OR CLIP THAT BEAK! YOW! PLUCKORILLO!" Napoleon abruptly began to thrash around under the blanket, emitting noises like a blender and a disposal locked in a death grip. "Jees! Calm down!" Bungston threw himself on the frenzied mutant, and eventually managed to grab his paws.
"Bung! Something's got my head!" Bungston pulled back the battered lavender covers to reveal a grinning latex Elmer Fudd. Tufts of maroon fur stuck out through the eyeholes and through a big gash in one cheek, torn there during Napoleon's thrashings. Elmer's face was interestingly conical because of Napoleon's muzzle crammed underneath.
"That doesn't look that bad", mused the wizard. "I was trying for Castro, but this will be OK. Fudd's a real man."
Napoleon was pushing the mask around, trying to orient his nose under the thoughtfully provided noseholes. "Hnnngg." Elmer's rheumy eye swiveled to fix on Bungston. "There's barely any mouth hole on this thing Bung," growled the muffled mutant. "How am I supposed to get food in?" Bungston, taking advantage of his mutant's limited field of vision, had jogged around behind Napoleon. "Bung? Bung? The mouthhole is too small." Napoleon turned to locate the wizard, but received a face full of pillow for his efforts.
"Hee hee! I think the mask is a big improvement!" Napoleon took a blind swipe at the annoying little man, but succeeded only in rapping the back of his paw against the wall. The frustrated mutant grabbed at Elmer's scalp to pull off the mask and better deal with his antagonist, but could not get a purchase on the tight-stretched latex. Bungston threw a few more taunts, but then had a feeling that Napoleon might go into another frenzy and rip the mask to shreds; Bungston did not feel like trying to summon up a new one with the brutely mutant aware of his intentions. "Ok, Ok, I'm sorry Nap. Look, I got some nice gloves for you." They were really mittens, but they were pretty nice, and they fit on Napoleon's paws. Napoleon had some problems with going to breakfast disguised as a cartoon character until Bungston pointed out that given Napoleon's facial contours, he could be Yul Brynner or pretty much anyone else bald. Thus pacified, Napoleon rewrapped himself in the blankets and he and Bungston went downstairs to eat.
Robigus and Mr. Erskine were already at breakfast. Bungston fell to with no delay, and after some troubles with the little mouth hole Napoleon joined in. "So Bungston," began Mr. Erskine, "Robigus has been telling me about this quest of yours. What progress have you made until now?"
Bungston's mouth was full of kippers, and he took his time chewing. He did not want to say that he had been completely unable to find any reference whatsoever to his goal, and that he had also forgotten what it was called. This would entail tremendous loss of face. "I fear we have devious opponents, Mr. E," he began, slowly shaking a spoon for effect. "I do not know what motives they have, or why they... despise us. A skulking cabal hindering our progress by concealing indispensable knowledge. It is truly a Sisyphean task, fighting these unseen foes on uncertain grounds." Bungston's conspiritorial tones had reached the ears of a curious female servant, who was peering around a corner. She was pretty good at this sort of thing, but Napoleon qua Fudd spied her.
"HEY! BRING ME MORE WAFFLES! PLEASE!", he bellowed at her in a stentorian voice. She jumped and scurried off. The mutant's outburst had cut short Bungston's growing verbosity. Robigus leaned in. "You have no idea who our enemies are?"
Bungston hated nothing worse than having his competence put in question. He felt obliged to produce an answer. "I have a suspicion. A strong suspicion. A strong, sneaking ... uh, sibilant suspicion." Mr. Erskine frowned at the wizard's polemic license, so Bungston tapped his spoon against the table to allay any doubts. "I think that our chief foe is none other than...." His mind shifted into overdrive. "Angar Firestorm!"
Robigus gasped. "The court wizard of Avalon! Why? Why does he bear us malice?"
"WAFFLES! THANKS!" A steward set gingerly set the plate before this loud bald person with the unhealthy skin, and then stepped back to watch. Napoleon couldn't care less; this way the woman would be handy when he ran out of waffles again and needed more. The mutant ripped the waffles into strips and packed them through the mouth hole with the bottom of a salt shaker.
Bungston now had to think of some plausible reason why Firestorm might want to sabotage the mission. He added syrup to his plate, then produced his nifty nutmeg grater and grated some nutmeg for his waffles while he thought. Napoleon held out his plate to receive some nutmeg as well.
Robigus spoke up. "As I think about this, it does not seem so unlikely after all. Angar Firestorm would certainly be humiliated if you succeeded in finding the Chapstick Staff where he had failed. Perhaps he merely wants to avoid such an indignity." It was a pretty believable reason, but Bungston had not thought of it himself. It would not do.
"No, no, that's not it at all. Firestorm never really looked in the first place. He never even tried. Because he doesn't want it to be found. Because...," Bungston bent low to the table, his eyes getting shifty. "He is a demon worshipper."
Mr. Erskine and Robigus were both aghast. "Demon worship!", exclaimed Mr. Erskine. "With Black Mass, human sacrifice..."
Bungston ran a syrup coated hand through his sunbleached crewcut with an air of nonchalance. "Yep. The works. Demonic graffiti too. And he eats beets. And...and...he has three noses!"
Robigus interjected here, a mystified expression clouding his grayish face. "I had never noticed that Firestorm has three noses..."
Bungston whacked the spoon against the table, bending it into a right angle. "He conceals it well! Because... he is Demon Spawn!"
"Didn't you just say he was a demon worshipper?", asked Mr. Erskine.
"The two go hand in hand," explained the wizard. Bungston proceeded to demonstrate how it might be that Firestorm might have three noses but appear to have just one. After a few moments the wizard decided that his artistic endeavor was unappreciated, and he redirected his attentions toward the kippers.
After breakfast, Bungston, Napoleon and Robigus went to the library to begin their studies, locking the door to exclude nosy servants. The library was beautiful and comfortable, equipped with overstuffed chairs, green reading lamps, a great worn table salvaged from some medieval hall, and everything else a big turn-of-the-century private library should have. There were rows of ancient leatherbound tomes lining the walls, and a large collection of scrolls in a glass case. A stuffed ostrich stood watch in the corner. Once inside, Napoleon quickly asserted that there was no more need for him to wear the latex Elmer Fudd mask, and so with help from Bungston, Robigus and a deftly handled shoehorn the mutant St. Bernard was freed with minimal loss of fur. He was also confined to the library, a rather boring lot since he could not read. Bungston set him to work scanning books for likely looking pictures.
As Bungston had previously asserted, Mr. Erskine did indeed keep track of magic things in general. He spent a few moments showing Robigus and Bungston how his library was organized, then left them to their search. Robigus happily took up where the search he had begun last night left off. Bungston grabbed a book with an attractive green and gold binding, then crumpled into an armchair to rack his brain. He just could not remember what the thing was called, although he was fairly certain it was not called Chapstick Staff, as Robigus for some reason seemed to think. Staves were usually not small items. Aspic Cast? The wizard tugged on his lower lip. There were probably a million aspic casts, and no easy way of sorting out the magic ones. Adze Burgraff? He nodded to himself. "Hey guys, how big would you say your average adze runs?"
Napoleon gently patted his own maroon-upholstered posterior. "About twenty pounds. But mine's far from average." Bungston resisted the urge to wing the rare green and gold book in his lap at his mutant. His resistance faltered after several seconds, but his throw was off.
Robigus had been pondering the question. "I believe an adze is akin to a small hatchet, but with the blade set at a different angle. So it would be no longer than a man's forearm, if that." The polyester-garbed god noticed the excited expression on Bungston's face. "Bungston, do you think that perhaps this thing is not really called the Chapstick Staff? This is very possible - mistranslations occur often. Perhaps we should begin searching for an adze!" Robigus' enthusiasm flared anew. He added the book he had been perusing to a mildewy pile of books he had already looked through, then marched to another area of the library. Bungston joined him there.
After several hours of searching Bungston admitted to himself that there was no record of the Adze Burgraff or any other kind of adze on the French Riviera. Napoleon interuppted every now and then to display especially interesting pictures he had run across. Most of these were of funky looking naked people, but there were a few which bore promise. One picture showed some funky looking naked people summoning up a big demon. "Hey Bung," rasped Napoleon. "Maybe you should try to summon up a demon. I bet they give the instructions right here. You can make the demon go fetch your thingy, and have it fix your stereo to boot,"
Bungston shook his head. "Nah. It sounds good, but I might screw up, and then that demon would make hors d'oeuvres out of my spleen. I think back at the cabana I have a djinni or something in a bottle; I might let it out as a last resort. Plus Firestorm tried a demon already and it didn't work for him."
Robigus was perturbed by this. "But Bungston, you said that Firestorm did not try at all, because he is a demon worshipper and a demon spawn."
"Yeah... that's why he tried a demon. To keep up appearances and all. Probably it was his uncle. I have to go to the bathroom." Bungston beat a hasty retreat. On the way back to the library he ran into Mr. Erskine, who invited him and Robigus to a dinner across town that evening. The hostess had said she would be pleased to have them, he explained. Bungston was very pleased for an excuse to quit looking through musty old books, and he graciously accepted the invitation. The wizard stopped at the kitchen before returning to tell Robigus; he foresaw great indignation on the part of Napoleon for not being invited, and felt sort of guilty about it himself, so he wanted to have plenty of appeasement on hand.
Back in the library, Bungston found Robigus hard at work, with several likely references marked and set aside on the study table. Napoleon was napping on a couch. Bungston quietly set his steaming bucket of boiled sausages under the mutant St. Bernard's nose, leaving the dog to twitch and slobber in his sleep while the wizard looked through what Robigus had turned up. The industrious warrior had found references in two different books to an artifact that very well could be an adze, located in the Vatican. Bungston was not sure why they would keep an adze there, but he was willing to believe anything. Plus the Vatican was a really secret place; they were always turning up mysterious old relics and long-lost goodies. Who knows what might be hidden in there? Robigus apparently had a flair for research, and had turned up several other leads on special adzes and sound-alike items. Napoleon eventually woke up with a yelp. "You guys!", he called in his chainsaw voice. "I had the weirdest dream! There were these pork chops on mopeds and they were so fast I just couldn't... Hey! Are these for me?" Napoleon had discovered the bucket of sausage and dug in with relish. After eating, the greasy mutant was not interested at all in going to a dinner party, insisting on the importance of continuing his own research.
It took Bungston several tries to summon up suitable dress clothes for the period. In three attempts he summoned a sombrero decorated with wax fruit, a pair of natty green spectacles, and a crate of plastic wrap. The fourth time he finally got two late-19th century suits, and after some coaxing Robigus reluctantly agreed to wear the green spectacles along with his new clothes. Bungston scraped the patch of mildew on his arm with the back of his cravat, and the twosome went off to meet Mr. Erskine and go on to dinner.
Lady Spongeley had a very nice house in a livelier section of London; the passengers were able to do a fair bit of people watching from inside Mr. Erskine's brougham. At the house a servant escorted them in to where the other guests were seated at the table. Mr. Erskine made the introductions. "Lady Spongeley, I am pleased to introduce to you my friend Mr. Bungston Schagg and his associate Lord Robigus." Bungston made a bow and Robigus nodded regally to the group, as befitted his divine status.
Lady Spongeley looked her name; a plump matronly woman in magenta who seemed born to host dinners. She fluttered her hands and smiled at the three from her seat. "Please, please, Lord Robigus, Mr. Erskine, Mr. Schagg, do sit down!" Bungston wondered why she had said his name last but then realized she had said them in alphabetical order. "Let me introduce you to my other guests. This is Lord Henry Wotton, Miss VanderCrab and Mr. Dorian Gray," she said, indicating each in turn. Lord Wotton was a pudgy toad in his thirties with a sardonic cast to his features. Miss VanderCrab was a little younger with wide eyes and an unassuming look. Mr. Gray was a beautiful blonde young man in his early twenties. "So Lord Robigus, what brings you and Mr. Schagg to London?"
Bungston was a little miffed this time; he was the one in charge, so his hostess should ask him why they were in town. He chalked it up to the fact that Robigus had been introduced as a lord. In fact, thought the wizard, since he was a bonafide god of mildew Robigus probably was his better, socially at least. Maybe Robigus would put on his `stern divinity' act and impress the poop out of them.
"Bungston and I are on a quest," proclaimed Robigus in commanding tones. "We seek an ancient item which has been lost for ages, and have come to London to pay a visit to Mr. Erskine and make use of his excellent library." A little terse, thought Bungston, but it sounded good. And those green shades made Robigus look stern and a half; Bungston regretted not getting a matching pair for himself. The wizard only hoped that the mildew god's linen collar would hold out until dinner was over.
"A quest!", breathed Miss VanderCrab. "It sounds so romantic! But what is it that you're questing for?"
Bungston smiled his best disarming smile at her until she looked thoroughly disarmed. "It goes by many names, and has been in many places," he murmured in pedantic tones. "We have found references to the Adze Burgraff in one books, the.. uh, Masterflaph in another, and still more names in different sources. Only when at last we find it will we be certain."
Lord Wotton leaned back in his chair. "It seems to me, and I mean no offense, that quests and such are for those men who feel a compulsion to expunge themselves of their sins - to perform a penance, as it were. But this should not be necessary! We should be accepting of our sinful nature, and learn to appreciate and cultivate the pleasures it might have to offer. A man who cuts away half of himself becomes but half a man."
Bungston was profoundly irritated. It was not so much what the flabby lord had said, which might have been worth something if it weren't utterly irrelevant to the quest in question. It was Lord Wotton's supercilious attitude, plus the fact that the other guests gobbled up his every word, that Bungston could not abide. But before the wizard could make a comeback in defense of the quest, dinner was served, and living with Napoleon had given Bungston the habit of concentrating wholeheartedly on food when it was in front of him. He could talk later.
"So Lord Robigus, where is it that you are from?", asked Lady Spongeley. "You are not English..."
"I am from a very old Italian family", replied Robigus. "I date back to pre-Roman times."
Mr. Erskine spoke up at this point. "Lord Robigus' ancestors controlled much of the agriculture in the Roman area of Italy". Mr. Erskine did not seem to think that having Robigus declare himself a god at the dinner table would go over very well.
"And War," added Robigus. "I am a god of War and mildew."
"Well! That's fascinating!", warbled Lady Spongeley. "Just like in those elegant old myths one reads - they're full of heroes who are descended from some god or goddess or such. But I had no idea that in these Christianized times there were still families who could trace their roots back to the old gods! How marvelous!" The Lady Spongeley had evidently misinterpreted Robigus' statement. "And you Mr. Schagg? Are you from Italy too? With your blonde hair I should think not!"
Bungston was going to smile his disarming smile again, but then feared he might have broccoli in his teeth and didn't. "I am more of a wandering savant, Lady Spongeley," he said suavely. "I specialize in things of...magic. VEINY BLAME ME WEIGHTY MATINGS! UNFADED BLAZE OF BAIZE CRAZED BAITINGS!" Bungston quickly lifted the cover of a soup tureen to release a small bright blue butterfly and received enthusiastic applause.
"Christianity has become somewhat of a nuisance in our times," began Lord Wotton. "As an instrument to keep the lower classes from becoming unruly it has its place, but so many capable and worthy people are spoiled by close contact to such old-fashioned sets of morals." Bungston frowned at this strange nonsequitor. "It's probably atheist," he said, inclining his head toward the butterfly, which had landed on a teapot.
"I was referring to Lady Spongeley's earlier statement..."
"Do you know any card tricks?", interrupted Mr. Gray. The young man produced a set of cards and offered them to Bungston.
"Now we shouldn't incommode Mr.Schagg," began Lady Spongeley.
"No, no, I'm still plenty commode. I know a few simple tricks, nothing too impressive." The tan wizard shuffled vigorously, then offered two cards to Miss VanderCrab. "Pick a card, any card."
"Oh, these cards do remind me of poor Ronny! I don't think I want to pick one!"
Lady Spongeley leaned over the table toward where Mr. Erskine and Robigus were seated. "Oh, it's the most horrible thing!" she said in hushed tones. "Poor Ronny Adair, murdered in his own sitting room! Shot through the head. And the police don't have a clue!"
"It could have been a suicide," suggested Mr. Gray.
"Then they would have found his gun next to him, and they found no gun at all," pointed out Lady Spongeley.
"Perhaps not," interjected Robigus. "I have heard of knives made of ice which melt after they are used. It could be that this gun was likewise made of ice, and it had vanished before any could see."
"Or maybe it was a wooden gun and he threw it in the fire afterwards," added Mr. Gray.
"After shooting himself? I think not!" exclaimed Lord Wotton.
"Maybe he just hucked a bullet at his head - real hard. Sort of flicked it." Bungston demonstrated how this could be done using an olive pit, which embedded itself in the far wall.
Miss VanderCrab rolled her eyes. "Oh, let's not talk about this. It makes me ill."
Lord Wotton turned to face Miss VanderCrab, a smug look on his face. "But Miss VanderCrab, is it not human to be fascinated by death? Just as an artist cannot paint a light without adding the shadows, we cannot think of life without sometimes confronting death. We should try to free ourselves of inhibitions in thought, as well as in action; certain trains of thought arise naturally in the mind, and a person who allows her inhibitions to attack these thoughts and drive them out will become mediocre and conventional." Lord Wotton was warming up, his jowls vibrating and his cheeks flushing. "It is a shame that people have such a fear of strong emotions - greed, disgust, lust, jealousy. All of our customs are designed to quash these emotions back into the void from which they spring. But what could be more human, more spontaneous than these, the epitome of humanity? We should set inhibition aside and seek out situations where emotion tends to arise - for what experience is more exciting than the utterly subjective and personal experience of emotion?"
Bungston cleared his throat, his crewcut bristling. "So Lord Wotton, you believe that we should all try to get rid of our inhibitions?"
Lord Wotton shrugged and picked up his glass. "I only believe that inhibitions do nothing except diminish the range of experiences this life has to offer. We must do as we will despite what society has trained us to believe is right and wrong."
Bungston nodded. "Yeah? Like what? Do what sort of things?"
Lord Wotton cleared his throat. "Well, discuss forbidden topics, for example. Sample uncommon pleasures without fear."
Bungston had begun to mix stuff from the table together in his glass; he added some gravy and pear nectar, then a splash of cream, then some wine and mustard, and finally a few squirts of vinegar. The wizard then produced his nifty nutmeg grater and ground a little nutmeg on the top of the brownish mess. "Ok Lord Wotton, how about you drink this?"
Lord Wotton crinkled a nostril at the formidable melange in Bungston's wine glass. "It smells nasty."
Bungston clucked at the reluctant lord. "What's the matter Henry? Inhibitions got your nards? Come on, O uninhibited one, I sense some strong emotion in the making. Drink up!"
"Yes Lord Wotton. You have to drink it," added Miss VanderCrab.
"It's disgusting and I don't want to," spat Lord Wotton.
"She's right, Lord Wotton. Now you have to drink it," said Mr. Erskine.
"You got to. You just got to!", put in Mr. Gray.
Bungston leaned craftily over the glass, stirring in pepper with the handle of his fork and chanting in a low voice. "Drink..drink..drink.." The other guests quickly joined in. "Drink...drink..." The rhythm of the chant grew faster and faster. Bungston began to pound out a tempo on the table.
"Enough! Enough!" Lord Wotton grabbed the glass and pounded the clotted mixture in a single gulp. He grabbed for his water glass as a chaser but Bungston had slid it out of his reach. "PLLAAAHH! MULLAAHHH!" Lord Wotton made some interesting sounds.
Bungston waggled a finger at him. "Just another of those experiences life has to offer. And you would have missed it if you had been inhibited! Maybe there's a message here, hmmm?" Lord Wotton seemed all choked up, so Bungston seized the moment for a bit of philosophy. "The problem with emotion is it isn't all that subjective. I mean, it's subjective because it's your own experience, but it really depends on the situation you're in. Like, if I want to make Mr. Erskine feel angry, or Miss VanderCrab feel embarrased, I can do that. Emotions can be manipulated by other people; whether it's love or jealously or loathing, there's no emotion which someone can't make you feel, and maybe against your will. So emotions aren't really all spontaneous and springy from the void - they spring from other human beings." Bungston speared a chunk of cork out of his wine glass with his fork, and examined it thoughtfully. "Except one. Grumpiness. Grumpiness is the nomad of emotions. Nobody can make you be grumpy. Maybe irritated, maybe frustrated, but not grumpy. Grumpy is the only feeling which truly comes from within. So it's the purest emotion, the master emotion, because it is the only one not subject... to the whims of fate." The wizard flourished fork and cork for this final poetic sprinkle. "And I propose a toast to Lord Wotton who has munificently provided us with the proof of my fine theory."
"Hear hear," said Mr. Gray. The toast was drunk, but Lord Wotton was not there to appreciate it - he had turned a little green in the face halfway through Bungston's lecture and had fled the room.
After dinner Bungston, Robigus and Mr. Erskine were getting ready to leave when they were approached by Mr. Gray. "I thought the things you said tonight made a great deal of sense, Mr. Schagg," he said shyly. "I was very impressed."
"Aw shucks," blushed the modest magician. "Wisdom comes easy for guys like me."
"I would be flattered if you would come to my house sometime for us to discuss these matters."
"Well, now that you mention it," said Bungston, "you've got a picture at your place I've just been dying to see. Can we go right now?"
Mr. Gray was agreeable to this, and so Bungston and Robigus said goodnight to Mr. Erskine and left in a cab with Mr. Gray. At his house, Mr. Gray took the adventurous duo to a little used room where he kept the picture. It was a portrait of Dorian Gray himself, executed with exceeding skill. Every detail was perfect, from his golden hair to the curve of his jaw. Robigus examined the picture closely. "It is a marvelous work. The artist has truly captured you on canvas."
Mr. Gray did not seem so enthusiastic. "Yes, so much so that sometimes it scares me. I feel as if the picture were a window on to my soul."
Bungston smacked his lips. "Yeah, well how about that. But you know, whoever painted this puppy left out a few things. Like this." Bungston wielded a mean felt tip, and he added a big cartoon smile to the picture. He also made the nostrils a little bigger. "How's that grab you Mr.Gray?"
Mr. Gray just grinned at him. "I think it looks even better than it did before! I'm twice as pleased with it now!"
Bungston nodded. "Yeah, I thought you would be." A far away glint appeared in the wizard's eye. "SCARVISH MARMOT BARNS AND PLUMMET PUPPY SCRAPEY MADE OF YARN AND TWICE AS LATE AS FAMOUS REAMS OF WHIPPING SPATE!" A palette and brush appeared in the wizard's arms and he went to work. Soon a big rasta doobie grew in the mouth of the golden lad in the picture. It was joined by a hint of sparkly fluorescent green over the eyes, purple accents on the lashes, and finally a big Jolly Roger as a background for the young man's head. Bungston held up a thumb appraisingly. "There. Just a few touch-ups. Now a little preservative..." Bungston sprayed a clear acryllic coat over the whole thing, fixing the pigments for eternity. "Ok Dorian, what do you think now?"
Mr. Gray blinked his half-lidded eyes in bewildered amazement. "Man...it's just so, so... me!", he said slowly but with emotion. "Bottle my bollocks, but I never realized it before! It's just... perfect! Oh, how can I thank you enough, you fabulous man!" The beautiful young man flung his arms around Bungston in a grateful embrace.
The wizard shuffled around proudly. "It was the least I could do in this, your hour of need. But now we must go. Take it easy." Robigus and Bungston left Dorian Gray staring contentedly at the rakish young man in the portrait.
Robigus was none too pleased as he and Bungston walked down the street. "Bungston, you did not improve that portrait in the least. It is a crime to deface such an excellent piece of art."
"But I didn't deface it! He liked it!"
"That is his own stupidity. When the artist has finished, his work should be left as it is."
Bungston patted the scowling god on the shoulder. "Bob, no need to get your dander up. Normally I would agree with you, but that was a special case. That portrait was the soul of Dorian Gray. The soul! How could I pass up a chance like that?"
"Do you mean that you altered Mr. Gray's very soul? How could you do such a thing?"
"Well Robigus, look at it this way. Yes, he has the soul of a stoned transvestite pirate, but it's a very happy and damn good looking stoned transvestite pirate, and it will continue to be very happy and damn good looking just about forever. Not that bad a deal, huh? There are plenty of worse things that could happen to old Dorian, like turning into an evil bloodstained prune. Hey, check it out."
The two had reached the street outside the townhouse of the murdered young man whom they had briefly discussed at dinner. A small group of passers-by was clustered along a flower bed which lay under the window. Bungston pointed at the window. "Right there, Bob. That's where Ron Adair bit it big."
Robigus' furrowed his brow and stared up at the window through his green spectacles. Then he abruptly turned to face Bungston, a sizeable hunk of his moldy collar falling away with the sudden movement. "Now Bungston, tell me truthfully. What is your opinion of the possibility that the man committed suicide? In some cases it may be an honorable thing to do, yes?"
The wizard reached into his pocket and retrieved a tuft of broccoli saved from dinner. He offered this to a horse tied to a nearby post, which accepted eagerly. "Well, it's not so much the honor thing, but they didn't find a gun. Or a note, I don't think. Wouldn't he leave a note?"
A teenager in a plaid cap had been eavesdropping. "Maybe the note blew out the window."
"Yes, and the gun could have been constructed of ice, as I said during dinner. Perhaps the force of the shot shattered it, and this is why there was no puddle..." Robigus was off and running, and he seemed to have an attentive audience; several passers by had slowed to hear this tall gray fellow talk about guns made of ice and puddle principles and whatnot.
Bungston just couldn't get too interested. The horse next to him nosed at his hand in search of broccoli. "SCABROUS RABID BRASSICA BATTING. MATTED WINE ACID CASTING IS FINE FOR THE PORCUPINE. TRY ME!" Bungston's pockets bulged with cauliflower, which the horse proved equally fond of. There also appeared in his vest pocket a small crazed enamel ball. It was perfectly round and rattled when shaken, but it didn't have a latch or any hinges. "Heh. Maybe this is the thingy." The horse sniffed at the enamel ball but was nonplussed. Bungston's attention was diverted from his new possession by a old man wearing white muttonchops hobbling down the street with an armful of books. Occasionally the old man peered at the Adair apartments, feigning nonchalance. He seemed to actually be a very tall man wearing a short coat and doing a good job of making it fit.
Bungston snuck over to the old man and tugged on a muttonchop. which came away in his hand. "Hey!" he whispered in conspiritorial tones. "The butler did it! Naw, just kidding, just kidding. I'll swap you this mask for Origins of Tree Worship. Make a great disguise someday!" The wizard dangled the fur-festooned Elmer Fudd mask and the lost muttonchop in front of the old man's face, who at first seemed peeved, then rather nervous.
"Yes, yes, fine," he said in a strange croaking voice. The old man fished out Origins with long nimble fingers and shoved it at Bungston, then snatched the latex Fudd and muttonchop, quickly pressing the latter back onto his face. "But I must be going!"
"HOW COME?", bellowed the wizard. "DON'T YOU WANT ANYONE TO NOTICE YOU? Hee hee hee!" The wizard giggled as the unnaturally hunched old man scurried away, only to slam into a solidly built doctor several yards down the street. "Oh, that's rich." Bungston turned to listen to Robigus, who was still going full tilt and was gaining an impressed audience. As the warior got more excited, his clothes seemed to decay even as he spoke. Bungston realized a disaster was pending.
Suddenly there was a ruckus at the cross-street two blocks away. A dangerous-looking mob was making its way up the street. They carried lanterns to penetrate the lengthening shadows, and they looked like they were armed. "Yo, Robigus! Something's going on!"
The idlers listening to Robigus had all hurried away to join the mob, and the mildew god hastened to where Bungston was standing in the street. Robigus was now wearing only a suit coat over bare flesh, his shirt having given up the ghost. "What do you think is going on, Bungston?"
"I have no idea, but I want to find out. That's pretty stylish there Bob," he added, indicating the warrior's exposed chest. "Come on, and watch out for horse heaps." The two jogged off down the street.The mob had not only lanterns but torches, which struck Bungston as odd and pretty risky, considering the built-up area. Many of the people running along were armed as well, most with clubs and similar bludgeons, but some with rifles, pistols and swords. Weirdest of all, there were people carrying silver carving knives and candelabras. Bungston winced when he noticed all the candelabras in the crowd. "I'm getting really bad vibes from this, Bob."
The puffing warrior nodded grimly as he jogged and pushed his green spectacles higher on his nose. "My vibes are none too good either."
NEXT CHAPTER (10)