CHAPTER 11

BILL CRAPS OUT

Bill looked up, screamed hysterically, tried to run. There was no escape. The dragon's jaws dropped down neatly over the head and body of Missionary Position, the Cattlelick priest. Teeth clamped shut like a turbo-steam shovel, snapping off the priest's legs at mid-calves. The elongated neck reared up — leaving priestly boots wobbling on the ground — the mouth crunching and smacking.

Blood squirted out upon the party of adventures like the jet of a sanguine lawn sprinkler just cutting on.

"Maybe the dragon won't be so hungry now," Rick commented through chattering teeth, as the Supernal Hero cowered behind Clitoria the Amazon.

"Better yet, maybe a bellyful of religion will poison the monster!" sagely observed Hyperkinetic, who was cowering behind Rick.

Bill, who in his precautionary, some would say cowardly, turn was hiding behind Hyperkinetic, took the remaining few guzzles of drink from his wineskin and stared back at the creature, who was in the act of swallowing his meal noisily and messily.

Bill had never seen a bigger dragon in his entire life. This was a true and logical observation since, of course, Bill had never seen a dragon before.

And this one was a particularly nasty looking mother-bowber. Gigantic bats' wings fanned out from its side, their purplish, veiny membranes tattered at the edges, shot through with holes here and there. Its body was a scaly horror of reptilian revulsion, reddish green and revolting, glistening and raw. From four long, well-muscled limbs scythelike claws protruded, hung with strips of the skins of its victims. But it was the thing's head that was a particular abomination; bug eyes bloodshot and rolling, nostrils scabrous and flaring, great fangs depending from its hideous mouth, above which a thick black mustache-like growth dangled.

In short it could be said that it looked like the dear departed Deathwish Drang in one of his gentler, kinder moments of recruit destruction.

"Beast!" cried Clitoria, her broadsword swishing erect before the heinous monster. "Prepare to have thy legs dismembered and jammed piece by bloody piece down thy frightful, stenchy maw!"

"Javel!" cried Ottar, his own broadsword stabbed up toward the low, rumbling clouds as though questing for the power of the lightning. "And double from me, too!"

The dragon raised its heavy, hairy eyebrows high on its forehead. "Hey guys, have a care with those toothpicks," it said, reaching back and picking up its lit cigar from the hole in the ground where the dragon had carefully placed it, then took a deep puff. "I'm a bleeder." It tapped ash on Clitoria's blade. "Say you'all, did you know that I shot an elephant in my pajamas the other day. What it was doing in my pajamas, I'll never know."

It burped mightily and its smoky foul breath, redolent of disgusting items best left unmentioned, as well as alcoholic drink, and rump of priest, which can be mentioned, wafted down to the questers.

Bill realized that he should have seen this thing with the dragon coming. After all, the day's worth of trek across the hellish panorama of this dimensional plane had been unpleasantness piled upon misery, dismay stacked upon dismal disaster.

First, the questers had discovered that not only was the landscape fraught with odious smells, twisted sights and infernal noise, it also was populated by creatures who made the Chingers on Empire Propaganda posters look like dewy-eyed lambs. Fortunately, Clitoria and Ottar had a way with their broadswords and cut a nasty swath through the fiercely fanged teddy bears and the clawed giant plush animals — but it was only a matter of time before they stumbled across a mythical monster that was their match and more.

Second, it took only a few hours of slogging through the muddy swamps and nasty moors to discover that all of the staunch band of brothers, and one sister, uniformly loathed and detested one another. Even Rick and Bill — the best of buddies on board the starship named DESIRE — had words with each other, arguing about gagging, or possibly murdering, Hyperkinetic to eliminate his constant balladeering. It appeared that Rick actually enjoyed it and even joined in with a verse or two. Bill, though he'd loved Rick's ballad, found Hyperkinetic's songs ear-gratingly off key and poorly rhymed — i.e. "bowb" and "duck"; "bowb" and "fit"; "bowb" and "mugger."

Thirdly, their liquor was rapidly running out, and they were all sobering up and realizing that agreeing to this journey across the twisted glandscape of the human psyche had been an incredible mistake of disastrous proportion.

A gigantic dragon squirming out of its cave and promptly chomping down on one of their members was the last thing their practically destroyed morale needed.

"Say the secret word and win a hundred dollars," said the dragon, confidently puffing away on its after-dinner cigar.

"Hack!" said Clitoria, waving her sword.

"Destroy!" roared Ottar, his own weapon windmilling above his head.

"Sorry. Neither of them correct. So how about you Three Morons standing over there with your jaws gaping adenoidally? Any takers?"

The barbaric duo, swords still awave, roared and were about to charge, but Rick, his eyes suddenly gleaming, a candle almost glimmering above his head (no lightbulbs here — no high technology) caught hold of his belt, dodged the outraged swipes of their swords, and whispered something in their ears. Grumbling, but nodding their heads, they lowered their weapons and stepped back a pace.

Maybe Rick's clever mind was going to get them out of this jam, thought Bill. He certainly hoped so.

Hyperkinetic plucked cacophonically upon his lute and lifted his head in song:

"The supernal Rick said, 'What the bowb.

Secret word? I'll try my luck!'"

"Would you be so kind as to please shut up," Bill suggested as he grabbed the man by his throat and throttled out an expiring gurgle.

"No, Bill, leave him be," said Rick, prying Bill's fingers loose. "He may be off-key — but he's quite right." Rick the Supernal Hero swung around to face the leering, cigar-smoking dragon. "Well then dragon. Arrr! The secret word, then. But if we say this secret word, will you let us pass unmolested?"

"Sounds fair to me. I've had my dinner." The dragon rubbed his protuberant tummy happily and belched another cloud of smoke.

"All right then, but dragon — there must be all of several hundred words in your vocabulary! Low odds on picking the right one!"

"Please!" huffed the dragon. "I know one hundred and thirty-three thousand words at least — and that just in English!" He burped. "That, for an example, was an 'eructation.'"

"Sounds like an old fashioned belch to me," mumbled Bill. His nerves were getting frayed. And, more important, he was becoming uncomfortably sober.

"Marvelous," Rick marveled. "Which means that the odds on my choosing the secret one are truly astronomical." Rick paced back and forth, pursing his lips and clearly thinking very hard. Suddenly, his finger smote the air and he spun to face the dragon. "I know. Surely a dragon of your clear intelligence and erudition can construct a riddle around this secret word.... So that we might have some slim chance of getting it right!"

"Hmmm!" said the dragon. "And why not. I like riddles, though it's my good buddy Winks the Sphinx who uses them the most. But blast it, whatever Winks can do, I can do as well. You'll have to give me a few minutes to think one up, though. And you'll have to realize that if you don't get it right, you have to lay down your weapons and allow me to eat you all, one by one."

"Certainly, certainly," said Rick, allowing the others to see the crossed fingers he had put behind his back. "But good dragon. A few preliminary questions. What, pray tell, is your name?"

"My name? Why, Smog, of course. Yes, I'm called Smog, because of certain habits I have." He pointed at the lit cigar and grinned.

"And what land are we presently traveling through?"

"Land? You do not know the name of this land?" The dragon snarfed with amusement. "Why, it is the Country of Absurd Fantasy of course. It is the subconscious territory of the human mind whence writers of imagination fill their ink wells to assay splendid novels of High Comedy! It is the part of the Over-Gland where puns are the highest form of humor, and juxtaposition of the mundane and myth produce hearty chuckles in flocks and flocks of faithful readers!" The dragon peeled off his eyebrows and mustache. "Hence the Groucho Marx imitation. Pretty funny, huh?"

Rick managed a laugh, but Bill, who had never heard of Groucho Marx, could only slap on an unconvincing goofy grin

"Yes, yes. Very funny, Smog. One more question, and then you can have a moment to think up your riddle. Have you heard of a place called the Fountain of Hormones!"

"The Fountain of Hormones! Why yes! Everybody's has heard of the Fountain of Hormones! It's in the very center of this terrain, right between the Land of Feelthy Magazines, and Bodiceripper Romances." The dragon lifted a claw and pointed. "You go south all the way." It grinned and licked its lips. "That is you go south if you answer my riddle correctly." Smog scratched his ear with one great filthy claw, making an irritating rasping sound, then reared up to its full height and gazed down with fascination at its pronounced belly-button. "Come to think of it, folks, you go south either way!"

Clitoria and Ottar rattled their swords and snarled, but Rick silenced them with a gesture.

"We'll give you a few minutes of silence to concoct your riddle. Meantime, we will just step a short distance around yonder hill, where we may tinkle in the bushes. You don't want to gobble down travelers full of it, do you?"

Superb, thought Bill. What a great thinker Rick was! All they'd have to do when they got past that hill was to take off for the South. There was no way that those flimsy, tatty wings of Smog were going to keep him aloft to follow very long.

"No way, Sonny," the dragon said, though. "I've heard that old bowb before. Once around the hill and you are in the next county in seconds. Besides, I've got my riddle. Are you ready? I'm only going to give you to the count of ten to answer, folks, and then I'm going to gobble you up!" He winked at them. "Oh, this is a really good one! Are you ready for it?!" The dragon snickered coyly. Which, when you think about it, is a pretty repelling sight.

"Riddle on, Smog!" said Rick, standing up to every inch of his heroic height.

"Very well, tender people. The riddle:

"What travels on four legs at dawn, two legs at midday, and three at dusk?"

The dragon leered at them, waggling his eyebrows knowingly. Rick slapped his forehead. "Gosh. Arrrrr! That's a hard one. You'll excuse us while my friends and I huddle together on the matter."

"Of course," said the dragon. "But the count begins now," it reminded them. "One!" it rumbled.

The group convened, frowns of puzzlement all around. For Bill's part, he didn't have the faintest. It was the stupidest riddle he'd ever heard!

"I know!" ventured Hyperkinetic, tapping his long narrow nose. "A Martian orgy! At least, that's the answer I thought I saw in GALACTIC PLAYBOY Party Jokes!"

Rick shook his head. "We're not in the land of Feelthy Magazines yet! We're in the land of Absurd Fantasy. We need something appropriate."

"Two!" growled Smog.

"Chingers?" ventured Bill hopelessly and they all looked at him with disgust.

"Three!" drooled Smog.

"Let us not be too stupid, Bill." said Rick. "I know a lot of morons that would have a hard job coming up with something that dumb."

"Tempers, tempers, time's a-wasting. Four!" cozened Smog.

"I know what is!" said Ottar happily. "Sammy Wallund, come home after all-night drink, stagger, fall on face..."

"Five!" roared Smog.

"No, no, no!" said Rick, beginning to tear at his hair. "I know it! It's on the tip of my tongue, but I just can't spit it out!"

"Six!" sneered Smog.

"How about a Denubian Slime Dog?" ventured Clitoria.

"What comes after six?" asked Smog, starting to count on his claws. "Oh yes! Eight!" But the bewildered dragon was running out of said-bookisms, so he just declared this number in a simple monotone.

"Man," said Bill. "This is one tough riddle!"

"Seven!"

"That's it!" cried Rick. "That's the answer!" He scampered over to the dragon, waving his arms wildly. "Ed Rex told me this one in the Holy Bar and Grill!"

"Ten!" said Smog. "You guys come up with the answer or what?"

"Yes, I think so," said Rick. "What walks on four legs in the morning, two in midday and three at dusk, Smog? Why, a man of course! Four legs when he crawls after he's born, two when he is a mature man — and then three, in the twilight of his years, 'cause he needs a cane! Where'd you get that one, fellow? Your sphinxy buddy, Winks?"

Smog's lips curled unhappily. "Drat. I should have dug a little deeper in my riddle memory. Oh well. That's the way the corpses crumple."

"Then we get to leave now?" Bill cried happily. "Can you also maybe let us know where the nearest bar is?"

"No to the first question — and I don't know to the second," the dragon susurrated succinctly through a singularly wicked grin. "I have no intention of letting such succulent suckers as yourselves go! Besides, I've rather a hankering for a good, long bloody fight!"

No sooner were the words spoken, than its great head speared forward, planting its considerable fangs around Hyperkinetic and his lute. The bard was quickly drawn up into the air, wriggling and screaming most unmusically, and then swallowed down with a gigantic gulp, following the priest to digestive destiny.

"Lying lout!" cried Clitoria, raising her sword for battle.

"You lie to Ottar!" bellowed the Viking, sword whistling in fast circles. "Ottar chop you into hundemad, dog food!"

"Well, at least no more bad ballads!" Bill philosophized, dragging out his sword. Since the Troopers used only guns and heavy weapons, he wasn't sure how well he could handle one of these. He could only hope that his instincts and great desire for survival might teach him quickly enough.

Rick's weapons were also drawn. "Go get the foul fiend!" he cried. "I'll guard the rear!"

The barbarians trundled forward, slashing, feinting and stabbing at the green, snarling beast.

"That's a good idea," Bill agreed as a roaring blast of flame wrapped him in soot. He saw the flashing claws of the dragon rake out toward the barbarians. "We never can be sure who's going to attack from our backs, can we?"

Clitoria and Ottar were oblivious. They had turned into the fierce, fighting-machine berserkers that were their nature. Swinging their broadswords, they dived happily into battle.

Unfortunately, the battle was over much too swiftly for Bill's taste.

Ottar was swiftly gutted and then swallowed down in three or four chunks, whiskey bottles in his pockets and all.

Clitoria was slightly more successful. She managed to scratch the dragon here and there, but as soon as Smog's gullet was free of Ottar, he snatched the woman up and sent her right after him.

Using the sword as a toothpick, Smog turned and smiled down at the two remaining travelers, leering sanguinely through the blood smeared on his chops.

"Yum, yum! And now, for dessert. Who goes first? The clever one or the stupid one!"

"Him!" cried Rick, pointing at Bill.

"No, him!" cried Bill, pointing at Rick.

"My, my, what a frightful choice." The dragon pounded forward toward them, bent over them, leering obscenely, its stomach a bloated green wall of flesh, the belly button as big as a pool table popping out at them. Bill blinked up, shivering with fear, blinked again at the dragonian umbilicus, at the brass head of a screw in the middle of it. A screw?

For want of anything better to do, faced with certain death in any case, he jabbed the point of his sword into the slot in the screwhead. And turned.

"Don't do that!" the dragon screamed in a high girlish falsetto. Then shrieked again, weaker and feebler. The next scream was hard to hear at all.

And began to fade away.

But as the dragon grew dimmer ghastly shapes appeared in its stead. Dark forms that coalesced and shimmered.

Something pretty exotic was taking place.