• Translation: feed me or I eat the cat.
• which contains the key-hole
• Why are rich people like this?
• they wanted a dead body
• evil influence of Uranus

Tune in next time part 798      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Bingo,” the tall, lightly polarized man said. “Here’s the message: trapezoidal zoology ferments pawprint neckerchiefs.”

To an ordinary person, that sounded like a password generator having a stroke. But I recognized it as an example of the Anarchy Code. Translation: feed me or I eat the cat. Which was, hopefully, another code. It had to be one that Jason and Lyudmila cooked up together, and I had no idea how, in this case, her twisted brain — which contains the key — would try to communicate with my twin’s twisted brain — which contains the key-hole.

“So, now you’ll let us go, right?” asked the tall man.

I winced.

“I knew it!” he said. “I knew you’d screw us over. Why are rich people like this?”

What made him think Jason was rich? His #1 ranking might sound impressive, but most wedding-goers wanted a rapper in the ceremony as much as they wanted a dead body in place of a cake.

“I know why, actually,” Tallness went on. “It’s the evil influence of Uranus. You think us normals don’t know about that, but we see it!”

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• , the occasional magician
• it had been about eels
• don’t be cruel to me
• “How genius of you.”
• a very long running affair

Tune in next time part 795      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Lyudmila had a very sketchy romantic history. She’d dated con-artists, exotic animal smugglers, back-alley dentists, the occasional magician. You get the picture. She said being a contortionist made her tastes flexible, too. The night of the butternut incident her date was an accordion player who’d had one hit song, and it had been about eels. Lyudmila wanted him to sing it for her, and he was refusing because he wanted to be known for something — anything — else.

“Don’t be cruel to me,” she pouted. “Sing it.” She pouted very fetchingly, but he refused.

I plucked the accordion from his hands and, thanks to my Academy training, played a passable version of the hit, which, in the Yankovic code spelled out the word “Butternut” over and over.

“How genius of you.” Lyudmila purred, running her hand up my thigh and cupping my very own butternut. And that was the beginning of a very long running affair between myself and my best friend’s sister.

Things ended messily, of course, but that’s a story for another day. For now I needed to know what she’d sent these two wooly dreamboats to tell me.

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• only poets could properly express
• fart and fall down
• how your boss feels about robot nipples
• The first rule of Magic Club is
• regretted not bringing his own clogs

Tune in next time part 792      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I grabbed the tall man’s ankles and started dragging him across the chapel. I said to Tessa, “I’m going to stick you with the little one.” And friends, only poets could properly express how sly her smile became. We got both of the Right Anglers loaded onto those couches, and I managed not to fart and fall down even once during the whole process.

Each couch’s polarizing controls were located on the end, so that if you were sitting by the arm you could reach down and activate them. Why you’d want to do that is a mystery. I moved into position by one button and Tessa manned the other. Then we just had to kill time until the mime juice wore off.

“Why were you so concerned about whether I’d killed them?” Tessa asked.

“Well, Fleur would probably disapprove, and she’s not only my wife but also kind of my boss on military matters.”

Tessa shimmied a little, her Ultra-Druid getup making it quite a show. “Did you ever wonder how your boss feels about robot nipples?”

I blinked. “Are you telling me that you’re a Tessabot?”

She laughed. “The first rule of Magic Club is not answering that question!”

“What’s the second rule?”

“Can’t tell you, but I can say it’s why a certain viscount regretted not bringing his own clogs.”

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• violent constipation
• I know what a kitchen is for
• he’s… “passionate”… about… fish?
• “Observe: a perfectly shaped square.”
• movie stars with long hair, rosy cheeks, and beards

Tune in next time part 790      Click Here for Earlier Installments

If you’re like most people, you’ve given a lot of thought to what someone who lurks in the shadowy recesses of a pickle chapel should look like. And, how someone whose greetings are vulgar and hostile should dress. In neither case do you probably expect movie stars with long hair, rosy cheeks, and beards that could conceal adult raccoons.

The owner of the booming voice was a hairy adonis, as was his companion. Both men held up their left hands, palm outward. Booming-voice said, “Observe: a perfectly shaped square.” Inked onto his palm was a lopsided oval that might have been an eggplant. The other man’s hand displayed a horseshoe, complete with nail holes.

“Who are you?” I demanded. Under my breath I added, “And who taught you geometry?”

“All things are squares to us, for we are Right Anglers. Your ass-kicking is the thing I’m second-most passionate about, right behind our finny underwater friends.” He stood, and I was startled by how little difference it made. His companion, however, was fully a head taller than me.

I tried to inventory the situation, but it made no sense at all. I’ve never heard of this guy, but he wants to kick my ass, and he’s… “passionate”… about… fish? Then what’s he doing on an airship? Now he’s coming toward me, so I better do something.

My favorite stance for unarmed combat was the one they called a kitchen in my dojo. There were all kinds of other options, from powder rooms to breakfast nooks, but their purposes were never clear to me. I know what a kitchen is for: not getting my ass kicked.

“Ugh, men!” Tessa huffed. “Your emotional landscapes are nothing but violent constipation.”

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