The Amazing Stick Of Power Part Six
(So, this daily updating of the story stopped, didn’t it? Yeah, well.
It may have previously been noted that the author is something of a
feedback junkie, so the fact that all it took to destroy this
newly-formed work ethic was for the last part to gather *absolutely no
reaction at all* should come as little to no surprise. If there
appears to be a gap between the end of the last part and this one,
it’s because there is. It’s roughly 5000 words long, contains a
complete and researched formation of the world and it’s logic, and was
completely dumped when I came to the soul-destroying conclusion that
depth of world doesn’t matter here, there can only be puns. So I
stopped writing the panto, because there is only so much of that you
can do before you feel like you’ve been locked in a cell with Piers
Anthony. I’m no longer promising 25 parts. We’ll see what happens.)(March 2006: Note, There are no more parts. Yet)
Cookies of the Damned.
As is traditional, you cannot get information easily when you’re in a
story. In fact, if you’re ever in a story, it’s vitally important that
you carry about your person a series of maps, timetables and mystical
glass beads, for if you should fail to know which bus to catch while
you’re inside a fairytale, you can bet your preface that in order to
get the wizened old man at the bus-stop to part with a fresh copy of
the Tables Of Time you will need to supply him with the Razor Of
O’Kam, which can only be gained if you can defeat the Pirates Of K’Zah
in a fair battle of B’hackG’mon. On a ship.
In high winds.
With both hands tied behind your back.
There are two ways around this truism. The first is the aforementioned
predisposition to preposterous amounts of precollected press. The
second is the also-aforementioned glass beads of Much Mysticism. Blue
ones, preferably, because experience has found that the average NPC…
er… Wizened Old Man is unable to tell the difference between a
Magical Mysterious Orb Of Power; A non-magical, entirely normal, +5 to
orcs, Glass Bead Of Making-Vases-Look-Nicer; or, for that matter, a
hole in the head caused by a +2d10d10 Pokey Stick Of Making People Get
The Hell Out Of My Way.
Stark knew this, academically. The important thing about this
knowledge, however, was that this morning he had woken up expecting to
spend a relaxing day fretting about how he was going to pay the rent,
and it was just gone lunchtime and he was already knee deep in a
quest, complete with honourable knight and fair maiden.
The honourable knight – Sir James – was sat atop his horse a little
way in front. Alice – fair maiden of some repute – was walking with
Mil down the track towards the old factory, and they were catching up
with each other’s lives since they last met. Mil had – you may
remember – done some work with Alice on the nature of Wonderland’s
narrative tenancies. The three of them were heading towards a biscuit
factory, all part of the quest that the fairies on the island had sent
them on.
The biscuit factory had most recently been a front for one of Gretel’s
many sugar-smuggling operations before her sudden and recent
disappearance. Before that it had been the centre of the ever-growing
fairyland Gingerbread industry owned by Grisselda “The Wicked”, who
was a witch eventually done in by Gretel. Interestingly, Grisselda had
been chosen as the head of the factory after an extensive search in
the magazine guide to her profession published by the local consumer
society. The Gingerbread business did well up until her death, when
Gretel’s replacement of all staff loyal to Grisselda caused much of
the detailed knowledge of the process to leave the country. Inside the
factory, however, was some papers the fairies needed, and so Stark had
been sent.
Of course, the factory is now considered haunted, but that’s only to
be expected.
When Gretel took over the factory she shut down the gingerbread
department in favour of a new output for the company, a special kind
of drink made from gold leaf, dried, and then with boiling water over
them. Another attempt to freeze root-ginger until it was really
brittle didn’t work either, and the third new idea – a special type of
biscuit to help with indigestion – didn’t get past the design stage,
so the factory went back to baking Rich Tea, Ginger Snaps and
Digestives.
They entered the factory though the – abandoned, unlocked – front
gate. The great dark baking hall was dusty and totally silent apart
from the occasional scurrying mouse. They decided to split up and look
for clues.
Stark went up to Gretel’s old office, where he found almost nothing
apart from some interesting files which he sat down to look at. Stuck
in between a couple of orders for flour was half of the sheet of paper
that he was looking for.
“Bother,” said Stark.
Alice was in a Library, where her eye was drawn to a book with a deep
red cover. “Curious and more curious” she said, grammatically, as it
fell open onto a page. She began to read…
“Damn,” said Alice.
Sir James was atop a gantry over the bakery section, heading towards
the foreman’s office, when the gantry collapsed and dumped him into
the raw material of the biscuit factory, which had been there some
time.
“Dough!” said James.
He began to climb out of the vat (Which was only 17.5% full), a
process made slightly more complicated by the fact that the dough was
not only sticky, but seemed to be actively trying to drown him, so by
the time he heard Alice shout:
“Be careful of the vats! The dough may be sentient”, the stuff was
already rising past his trousers.
Being consumed in sticky dough wasn’t a pleasant experience. The cold,
slimy substance crawling up his shirt made him break out into a cold
sweat, and he grabbed the dagger at his side and started to slash
wildly at the pale brown goo that threatened to drown him. He screamed
and thrashed, but to no avail. The cookie-dough of the damned rose up
his neck over his mouth, then his nose, and Sir James – who may not
have had much of a character definition, but it would be a pity to
lose it – started to suffocate.
To Be Continued.
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