The well-fed man stood near the top of the staircase, his somewhat gourd-shaped face looking smug, white, and vaguely threatening. He descended the stairs with surprising ease, considering his corpulence and age, which must have been fairly advanced considering his balding head and untamed, whitened eyebrows. But his skin was unblemished, the well-mai…

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Devin plopped in front of the large flat screen and flipped on a movie channel. A jumpy shot appeared of long-haired girls running through the dark upper floor of a grungy hotel, fleeing a madman. The lunatic gasped and lurched after them, grasping a dirtied and bloody knife in his upraised right hand.

Clive sauntered in, with an apologetic expression.…

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Aha, so I have lured you to my Substack account? I’m not surprised. Few can resist the lure of the Count once they feel his aura.

Now look deep into my eyes. Yes, look directly into my eyes and you will begin to feel… Oh, wait. That’s right, you can’t look into my eyes right now because I haven’t figured out the Substack livestream yet. Curses. Damn livestream! Well, never mind. Just look deep into my thumbnail. That’s right. My thumbnail is calling to you.

It’s a very handsome thumbnail, is it not? Yes, I’m surprised there aren’t more glowing comments about it yet. Where are all those comments? Don’t be shy! Tell me what you really think. Somebody has to be first to comment! Like the first brave little bat that sets up housekeeping in a nice, new, dark cave.

It seems the only way to get comments on this site is to get subscribers. Don’t you feel like you want to reach out and click that Subscribe button right now? Yes, you can feel your finger moving! By clicking there you’ll be joining a very, very exclusive Count club!

I have many lovely benefits for you. Many beautiful things. Like my great ancestral castle. If you subscribe at the Lucky Bat level, I’ll provide a personal castle tour. Did I mention it has many secluded nooks? Well-appointed galleries? There are also hidden rooms where you can find very interesting historic…remains. For subscribers at the Sharpest Tooth tier, I’ve posted some delightful memoirs of my lesser-known romances overseas, in Nebraska and New Mexico. There are also some very special bonuses, like ‘home movie’ style videos of me playing pranks on the castle serving staff (watch out for that flying bottle of ketchup!) and ‘behind the scenes’ footage of the tailor who makes my fashionable capes.

Right now, I rank #89 in Eastern European Counts and Minor Nobility but with more subscribers and posts I hope to crack the top 50. It seems I need many more likes and restacks. I posted some tantalizing bits of my intimate Coffin Diaries. Be sure to check them out. I get a lot of writing done there in the coffin. Sometimes you get the strangest thoughts lying in a coffin all day. It’s quite remarkable. For instance, I wonder what it would be like if I were not the Count. If I were just a Lord or Marquis or maybe even a smalltown Mayor? Would I still enjoy the same traditional, lavish lifestyle if I was the Mayor of a small village near Brasov? I doubt I could afford as many servants or collect fine antique furniture. Some of those mayors probably don’t even have real silverware or handsewn damask curtains.

But maybe readers don’t want to hear my coffin musings. Perhaps instead I should post some of my art. After all, I am a bit of a weekend painter. Are you surprised? What’s wrong? Can’t Count Dracula express himself with a little painting once in a while? I’m especially fond of the still life genre. Very still life. But instead of flowers or pomegranates, I prefer using mice and small marsupials. Or when I can get them, lovely local serving girls.

I tried posting many other things. Like some of my sensitive poetry. Maybe you saw my poem, ‘Blood, Blood and More Blood’ and forgot to leave a comment? I can quote a little of it here so you don’t have to search the archive:

All around me exquisite blood

Delicious exquisite blood (I like that word ‘exquisite’)

Dancing across the floor

Like a very tasty red tomato bisque.

But I see many popular posts here are bits of writing advice. I’ve certainly had plenty of experience with many writing methods over the centuries. Perhaps the writing community would appreciate my morsels of wisdom. Here is some of the best writing advice I’ve collected over the years:

Write what you know. If you have lots of personal experience stalking and terrorizing elegant young women, use it! Don’t cramp your style by making yourself write about pursuing stout, middle-aged housewives or poorly dressed farmworkers.

Always have a flashlight or at least a smartphone with long battery life. If you’re like me, you do your best writing in small, dark, enclosed spaces. In such places, the lack of light can be a real drawback to effective writing. So I always keep a powerful flashlight in my coffin with an ample supply of D batteries. If you prefer, you can use your smartphone, but there’s no need to break the bank on the priciest model. You just need the light, after all, not the latest fancy camera.

Character development is overrated. Let’s be honest. You can really boil down all the people in the world into two categories: those who bite and those who get bitten. When you realize this basic truth, you see all the droning on about character arcs and journeys of self-discovery is a load of nonsense.

Don’t listen to your editor’s advice. When you have as much writing under your belt as I do, you develop a very strong sense of what to write. If I get unwanted advice from my editor, like ‘Can you slightly tone it down with the blood?’ or ‘Can we have some scenes set in the daytime?’, I simply hypnotize him, subdue his will and bend his mind to my desires.

Don’t write when your energy is low. I always have at least a few snacks before settling into a writing session. Once you’re in the coffin, it’s very hard (next to impossible really) to find anything good to eat. So be sure to ingest plenty of nutrients before you start writing. Nothing’s worse than being in the middle of writing a really great paragraph and feeling faint from lack of blood.

I’ll share more tips soon, and don’t worry. If you subscribe, there are many more posts on the way. Next week I’ll have my top ten tips on avoiding crucifixes. I’m also brainstorming my first piece of serialized fiction. It’s about a wealthy, mysterious recluse on a mission to find his ideal nighttime companion. Lots of young women fall under his spell, but none of them are exactly the right fit for his particular tastes. There will be lots of blood. Let me know what you think in the comments.

Nayra took her time cradling her giant mug and taking a careful, luxurious sip with her grape-lipsticked mouth. “She was institutionalized. Sent to the asylum. For the rest of her life.” Nayra put two crumpled dollar bills on the counter.

Devin rang her up and slipped the money in the cash drawer. “Is that what you think of me? That I’ll end up in …

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He took a step to the side. There was a gruesome creak that went on as long as Devin kept his foot where he’d just put it. He pulled back, taking a full step backward, stumbling slightly over a bump in the carpet. Some other assorted groans and scuttlings echoed out. The darkness and chill were unnerving and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. …

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Scene: The breakfast table in the castle at Elsinore. Mid-morning.

CLAUDIUS
Hamlet, wherefore dost thou slouch so forlorn

like some sad listless toad before his flies?

You hath barely even touched your hotcakes.

HAMLET

Hotcakes! What means a paltry hotcake to me?

that was an hour before a pound of flour.

Nay not so much! A mere half pound. And now

lays there forming the face of some poltroon.

GETRUDE

Hamlet, tis not princely to show such lack

of table gusto to the castle folk.

(gestures with knife to long table of retainers)

How will tongues wag when their prince biteth not?

What will Fish Fry Friday bring when you show

such scorn to heaps of warm hearty hotcakes?

CLAUDIUS

(chewing vigorously with mouth open)

Such who dine lustfully fight ruggedly.

Once I chomp down rich fatty bacon hunks,

beware weighty fiends who lurk by curtains!

I’ll trounce them with one hand wrapped in damask!

GERTRUDE

(tittering, clearly titillated)

Indeed, I’ve spied it – after ham haunches

your uncle in thick post-food sweat triumph

o’er dim fat knights of lunkish rough-hewn heads.

HAMLET

(violently knocks his plate to the ground, spilling the syrup)

Fie! Your bawdy breakfast byplay is gross

and rank and turns this food to wanny ash.

I’d as soon consume raw fish with hot sauce.

GETRUDE

(getting up and pointing upstairs)

Enough, brash boy! Get thee to thine lone room

And think on thy ungrateful saucy talk!

And think not of taking pastry with thee!

HAMLET

(getting up and making a ‘fie upon all of you’ gesture)

I scorn all your pastries and swinish talk!

Let a rich doom lie on this accursed meal!

Denmark never saw such vile gorging fools

nor such nauseating table manners!

(Hamlet storms out of the breakfast nook and up the stairs).

GERTRUDE
That did not go so well, my fondest Claude.

CLAUDIUS

Just wait until luncheon. We’re having ribs!

“Well, I backed up slowly, feeling my way down, hand on the bannister all the while. I wasn’t sure of my footing, and tried my weight out at each step, but it seemed like I was too slow for the ol’ resident spirit. It pushed me again, harder this time. I sped up, but it’s harder backing down a strange staircase in the dark than you might think if you…

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He squinted around the room, as best he could in the rudimentary phone light. The place looked like it was trapped in a previous time period, like a museum re-creation demonstrating how people of a prior era lived. Everything was heavy and handcrafted, tones of mahogany and cherry predominating, nothing looking temporary or slipshod. There was a huge, antiquated four-poster bed with a canopy, dark wood chests and cabinets, and several portraits on the walls, which were covered in dimly striped paper. He was just able to make out a folding screen in a corner with an elaborate Japanese design that seemed to be for changing.

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Devin hadn’t planned to find himself spending his Friday evening running toward the Rousten house. It hadn’t even been on his radar. But he especially hadn’t planned on running out to the abandoned manor after getting a panicked call from Clive Welter-Manes.

First of all, Clive was not the type to panic. Devin had seen him react coolly under very stressful circumstances. When his dad had accidentally shredded the painstakingly handwritten score for his piece ‘Caretaker’s Revenge’, he hadn’t panicked. When he was suspended for three days for sitting during the national anthem to protest the school band’s playing it out of tune, he hadn’t panicked. Even when his little sister spilled unfiltered grape juice into his priceless grand piano, Clive hadn’t panicked.

But the sound that came through Rex’s phone when Devin picked it up had been a muffled, static-filled, but undeniable sample of incoherent, extremely hectic panic.

The only thing Devin had made out for sure in the tumbling chunks of verbiage was something like ‘Rousten’, ‘house’ and ‘help’.

Now that he’d made it to the bottom of the steeply inclining hill where the old house was situated, he stopped to catch his breath and take in the scene.

It was after eight and the street was quiet – no sign of any panic to be seen. The Rousten grounds were at the visible end of the curving street, a large, rambling property bordered by a heavy black wrought-iron fence.

Like many other Arcata roads, this one was a quiet, sparsely populated byway on almost any night, with a few scattered single-story homes on either side of its two lanes, ample greenery overshadowing the asphalt, ancient, gnarled oaks and pines at random intervals, an empty lot overgrown with local wildflowers and then the large, dark property at the end, surrounded by the iron spikes, overgrown foliage and dense stands of towering cypresses and thick oaks.

The house itself was barely visible from this vantage in the evening light, secluded behind stands of the thickly growing trees. Devin could just make out some black outline of an unlit structure, a huge mansion he knew from previous sightings in the daylight, that was three stories high and displayed many of the elaborate Victorian details so common on older Arcata homes. Traditional gables topped the exterior of the rooms on the topmost floor. Bay windows jutted out on the second and third floors, a huge covered portico ran along one side and steeply sloping tiled roofs were interspersed with several brick chimneys.

As on every other night, none of the rooms were illuminated. From Devin’s perspective it didn’t look at all like Clive or anyone else was inside. But Clive had let it be known he was on a mission to record the pounding sounds allegedly emanating from the place. If Devin had heard his message correctly, that was exactly what he’d been doing.

Devin had Rex’s cell in his pocket, but it was no help. He’d tried calling Clive back twice but there was no answer. A lonesome tone just kept repeating.

Devin approached the property at the curving point of the lane with a measured walk. He was in no hurry to reach the house but at the same time felt unable to walk away. Clive’s failure to pick up just seemed more of an indication that something wasn’t right, that he’d gone ahead with his crazy notion to record the manor’s spooky bedroom sounds and gotten into some kind of trouble, maybe stuck under a toppled cabinet or attacked by a family of startled squatting opossums.

The homes along the lane were so quiet it was unsettling. No sounds of blaring sitcoms or pounding hip-hop came out of them. No cars cruised the short stretch of pavement. Only the overgrown grass and weeds of the vacant lot rustled briefly in the wind.

Devin slowed further as he made the final steps toward the thick fence. Like the house itself, it was antiquated, an unfashionable, heavy structure that looked like it was serious about its guarding function. He stepped onto the curb, where the groundcover was a hardy combination of moss and dark, low weeds. Then he strained to hear any noise coming from the grounds, any sign of people or activity concealed somewhere behind the thick foliage.

There were the normal nocturnal noises of crickets, bird calls and the distant whoosh of cars on busier streets. At this range he could see between the nearest cypress trees, and make out the drive leading to the massive, wooden, double doors that were the main entrance.

The slivered moon’s ambient light played on a huge picture window to the right of the entrance and a large segment of the house that extended out on the right side, forming a seemingly stubby wing. A massive stand of pines rose in the background beyond the roof, marking the western edge of the building where wilderness took over and the hill took on an even steeper incline.

Still, he heard no sound of anyone inside.

Devin wasn’t usually one for breaking rules and certainly not for breaking into properties. But the image of Clive getting into a panic somewhere in that utterly dark and deserted house was not going to leave him alone. He took another look down the still-deserted street, glanced back at the immense Rousten property, then put one foot on the low rail of the gate, both hands on the upper rail, and pushed up, lifting himself over the pointy iron spires atop the gate with a heave.

With better foresight he would’ve taken off his barista apron before attempting the vault. The oversize garment hung down loosely and almost caught on the spires, hanging him up. But he sloppily cleared the points with an inch or so to spare and tumbled messily into the squelchy moss on the other side, the ground cover retaining enough moisture from the last rainfall to thoroughly dampen his pants and smock.

Devin stood up, took off the apron, wrapped it into a bundle that he tucked under one arm and quickly scooted up the property, darting between trees, and heading directly away from the gate. There was no use hanging around near the street where potential passersby could spot him.

Never having broken into a house before, Devin was not at all sure how to go about doing it now. But then he remembered what Jean had said at the marsh, after she’d run screaming back to the party: the business about the broken window she and Tad had used to sneak in. If Jean and Tad had done their trespassing the logical, convenient way, that window would have to be on the west side of the house, closer to the marsh, where they would’ve walked up from Emily’s place. Although now that he’d negotiated the massive fence, which seemed to surround the whole property, Devin was a little dubious about Jean’s tale of just walking up the manor and happening to stumble onto it. At the very least, she must’ve made an effort to hop over with a boost from Tad.

To reach the west side of the structure, Devin would have to wend through the thickly planted grounds and its neglected mix of tangled trees, overgrown juniper and rhododendron bushes and dense clumps of plants he couldn’t identify in the dim light.

As he slogged his way along, the grounds began to seem even bigger than they’d looked at a first glance from the outside. The more Devin tramped through dark plants, shoved aside wet foliage and felt his way between rough tree bark and dangling leaves, the more distant he appeared to get from the house, which he glimpsed off to his left, but less and less frequently. The neglected grounds had an untamed quality that made them seem almost wild, an effect that was only exaggerated by the night. He knew no Roustens had lived in the place for decades and the huge property had sat vacant all that time, with the landscaping presumably left to fend for itself. The flora had taken full advantage of the opportunity to cover nearly every inch of ground, creating a virtual miniature rain forest right on the edge of Arcata.

Skirting by an especially gargantuan bush, Devin suddenly tripped. Looking down, he saw he’d stumbled over a stone curb. He thought for a frustrated instant he’d lost his bearings and ended up back by the street, but looking up he saw the rounded roof of an outdoor structure. It was a segment of white stone or marble, part of a kind of gazebo set among a break in the trees. The gazebo’s small interior area, open to the outdoors but covered by a round roof, contained several stone benches and what looked like a dilapidated, dry fountain in the center. Other than these features, there wasn’t much of interest in the gazebo, so Devin used it as a spot to reorient himself.

The west wing was now much closer, but with all the interfering shrubbery it was still impossible to locate the broken window. From this fresh angle, the house was revealed as poised on the crest of a sharp slope, with the portico at some points jutting out to give onto a view of the grounds. The room with the opened window must still be to Devin’s right, probably obscured by a couple of especially bulky oaks.

He exited the gazebo through an opening on the west side and scrambled past a stand of thick pines, small stones scrabbling away beneath him and rolling down a slope. He made a lunge forward to a small jutting ridge, stepping on a large, flat, whitish rock. But the stone was unstable and came loose from its mooring. Just as he put his weight on it, the rock tilted back with a jolt. Devin slipped backward, and reached out for support, grabbing a slim tree trunk to keep from tumbling back. He regained his balance, pulled his hand away from the trunk and felt it covered with the viscous pine bark sap.

The closer he got to the house, the more difficult the effort seemed to become. The trees were closer together here, the ground rockier and steeper, and the night was getting darker and chillier with every minute. Devin stopped and shouted “Clive!” several times. He must be close enough now that he could be heard inside, at least from parts of the expansive structure. But there was no response.

He thrashed through a final thicket of enormous, jagged-edged leaves, slapped away at some sharp fern fronds and at last had a clear view of the undeniable, expansive front wall of the manor itself.

From such a close vantage, the structure was more imposing and retained its grandeur, looking less wild, although dark vines crept up its walls in crazed patterns. A pebbly walkway bordered the exterior and meandered in a curve making an undulating snake-like pattern. The white and gray stones constituting the walkway were plainly visible, even though at many points dark ground cover had spread over segments of it.

Devin made much faster progress once he was on the walkway, and quickly strode past four or five large multi-paned windows before spotting a smaller four-paned window with one square of its glass conspicuously smashed open.

The frame of this window was ajar, lifted up as if Clive had reached in through the jagged oval where the glass was smashed out and used the spot for his entry. Leaning toward the gaping hole, Devin again yelled “Clive!” but there was still no answer. Gritting his teeth, he clambered in under the aged frame. The wood was smooth and polished, posing little danger of splinters, and was open to an extent that Devin slipped through with just a few strains and pushes.

His first impression of the interior was of dense mustiness, a closeness of stilled, stale air, and the odors of mildewed carpet and antique wood. The light was much dimmer inside, with no lunar illumination, so Devin pulled out Rex’s smartphone and tapped on the flashlight app.

“Clive!”

There was still no response.

“I made little signs. To advertise the homemade oatmeal cookies,” said Ramona, taking out a pack of cigarettes.

She was looking directly at Devin after this pronouncement, as though waiting for him to make some kind of commendation or maybe an excited cheer.

“Yeah?” he finally said, after the silence in the quiet café had dragged out to an awkward length.

“So put them on the tables, genius.” Ramona gestured to a manila envelope on the counter. “Then use your suggestive selling.”

Devin picked up the envelope and emptied the placards out. They looked as homemade as the lumpy oatmeal cookies they were promoting: rectangular lengths of manila folders cut out and folded into little tents, with squiggly, would-be whimsical text balloons on them. “Feel my oats” said one of them.

“Would you like a fresh, homemade oatmeal cookie with that latte?” Devin asked.

“Huh?” Ramona looked at him blankly.

“I was practicing.”

“Funny. You’re a funny boy.” Ramona didn’t smile, but took her cigarettes and walked out to the little fern-dotted patio where she took her smoke breaks.

Devin went from table to table, taking his time in setting up the hand-drawn signs. Monday evenings were another quiet period at the café, so a specific chore could help the time go by if he concentrated on it enough. The problem with this chore was that there were only about eight tables in the café and it took virtually no time to set up the placards, but several of them were so awkwardly made that they kept falling over and then Devin had to return with tape to get them to remain upright.

He studiously avoided, the entire time, looking out the picture window at the gloomy, gnarled walnut tree. In the fall evening, it was lit vaguely by small landscape lights installed at the base of the narrow walk. They lined the square interior courtyard making the closed-off space look marginally less claustrophobic.

There had only been vague outlines of strange shapes in the tree lately, at least when Devin caught an unwilled glimpse of one from the corner of an eye. He spent a lot of his effort trying to look directly at customers or toward the hotel lobby, making every attempt to keep his scope of vision limited. Since he was usually stationed just opposite the tree at the register, he had to make a concerted effort not to look straight out toward the problematic courtyard.

He was taping the last wayward sign onto a countertop when Rex Hisakawa made him jump and sent the sign jiggling.

“Those cookies look like fake barf.”

Devin grimaced, since Ramona had already finished her smoke break and was back in her miniscule office, probably taking another managerial break. She was very industrious in coming up with special, supervisory-level breaks that none of the other employees were entitled to.

“Ramona baked those,” he said quietly, turning to see that Rex wasn’t alone, but was accompanied by Nayra.

Nayra was dressed in one of her most unapologetic outfits: black blouse and black jeans contrasted with bright pink eyeliner, bubble-gum earrings and a matching pink dog collar around her neck. “They look totally grody,” she said, emphasizing the point by sticking a finger in her mouth.

Ramona appeared at the door of her mini-office, her maroon lips in a sour frown. “Those are my aunt’s recipe. Made with organic nuts, whole grains, and apricot chunks.”

“Do they get you high?” asked Rex.

“Whole grains, not whole grass. You guys wanna hang out here, you gotta buy something. I’m sick of you wasting the staff’s time.”

Nayra looked around the otherwise empty café. “Yeah, I can see we’re interfering with the rush hour.”

“I’ll buy a mocha,” said Rex.

“Me too,” agreed Nayra. “A cherry vanilla mega-mocha with two raspberry shots.”

Ramona nodded at Devin to get started on the drinks and, giving one last baleful look at the offending visitors from under green-lidded eyes, returned to her lair.

Devin skirted around Nayra to get behind the counter and start on the mochas.

“Surprised to see you here, Nayra,” he muttered.

“I’m not mad at you,” she said with a lilt in her voice, rearranging the oatmeal cookies in their little basket.

“No? I guess not. Seems like I’m the one who should be mad at you.”

“Don’t be a sulkster,” said Rex. “I own up, she wheedled the camp story right out of me. Nayra’s very persuasive. She got me under her influence with frozen lemon cups.”

“I don’t wheedle,” complained Nayra.

Rex ignored her and leaned across the counter toward Devin. “But I told her only cause I figured Nayra could help out.”

Devin looked up from the mocha mixture, curves of hair dangling under his mandatory barista cap. “Help out? Her?”

“She knows about this stuff. You can’t just keep phasing out. What happens the next time you go all zombie-faced if you’re riding your bike through heavy Arcata traffic? Or taking a major test in Halstead’s class?”

“Keep your voice down,” Devin warned. “And I never phase out during a test.”

“Yeah? How about today in Biology?”

Devin froze while injecting raspberry shots into the larger cup.

“You didn’t even notice,” said Rex, in a voice that sounded like he was unsure if that was a good thing or not.

“Your case is a lot like a boy’s in Scotland back in the 1890s,” said Nayra, distractedly making a little pyramid out of plastic-wrapped vegan biscotti while she talked. “He ended up in one of those creepy old asylums out on a moor or something. I think his hands were tied down and they didn’t let him shave, so they could keep away the sharp, dangerous blades.”

“I don’t have a case, alright,” maintained Devin. He spoke in a low voice as he finished up the drinks. The last thing he needed was Nayra hearing about his latest phase-out from Rex. “All I need is for people to let me alone.”

As Rex took his drink his phone went off, playing a catchy synth beat. He picked up and walked toward the hotel lobby, leaving Nayra to grab her huge mocha.

“They left that Scottish boy alone,” she said. “Yeah, they left him alone all right. Until he was just a shell of his former self. A babbling, filthy, unshaven idiot shell.” Nayra licked the whipped cream on her mocha solemnly. “Devin makes the most delicious mochas!” she cried out, clearly for Ramona’s benefit.

“What do you know about insane Scottish boys?”

“I know enough. You can mock me. But I’ve studied this shit. Hell, I spent the last three summer solstices at Wiccan camp. There is a tide that moves in all of us!” Nayra suddenly raised her voice, looming closer to Devin. Her eyes were torrential black pools framed by crazed pink. “We don’t know where it comes from or what it wants. All we can do is ride.”

Ramona had reappeared at some point behind Devin and stood with her hands on hips. “Why don’t you ride on out of here, girl? You’re bothering my help.”

“Hello? I’m a customer. I bought a freakin’ mega-mocha.”

Ramona spitefully jutted out her chin. “I gotta speak to the hotel manager about supplies,” she said with an air of importance and walked away, perhaps partially scared off by Nayra’s big-eyed, persistent stare. Even as Nayra tracked Ramona’s movements down the hall, Rex returned, slapping his phone on the counter.

“That was Clive. He loves the idea of recording those pounding sounds.”

“Powerful manifestations,” said Nayra, nodding in agreement.

“He’s going to incorporate them into a new track. Maybe a huge ant dance or some Sasquatch-on-the-loose piece or something.”

Devin put his hands up in disgust. “You guys are all crazy. Recording sounds that aren’t there, talking about tides that don’t exist. Why don’t you just drink your drinks and have a nice, normal Arcata life?”

Nayra walked to the exit. “C’mon, Rex. I’ll show you those Scottish documents you wanted to see. At least somebody cares about the past.”

Rex gave a last half-apologetic look at Devin, and hurriedly grabbed his drink to trail after Nayra.

Devin was left by himself. Could anyone possibly have a weirder batch of friends? Nayra and her obscure historical obsessions, Rex and his habits of jumping to conclusions and spreading stories and Clive with his snobbish attitude, urbane comments and difficult music. And what kind of friends were they, anyway, always bringing up the last things he wanted to hear about? He sighed and stared ahead, but immediately knew he’d made a mistake.

The white figure in the walnut tree was clearer than ever. It formed a fluttering dress and a soft hood of some delicate fabric. Under the hood were the blowing strands of a woman’s hair. She turned and for the first time Devin could see that, not only was there a figure, but the figure possessed a clearly delineated face.

The woman’s head included an uncanny pair of lips, blanched a deathly white, and the lips were mouthing some comment.

Despite himself, Devin leaned forward, as though trying to hear. Hear something that clearly couldn’t be there.

She opened her mouth repeatedly, making a rounded shape, but he couldn’t make out what the accompanying sound might be. Then a techno ringing intruded on his ears.

Rex’s smartphone, left behind on the counter, had gone off.

Startled, Devin grabbed it without thinking.

“Hello?”

It took a moment for him to realize it was Clive’s voice on the other end. That is, it was Clive’s voice, but he wasn’t sounding at all like his usual urbane self.

The Indian’s head was dimly lit, visible only from the glow of the fogged-over full moon.

He had a fierce mouth, a dark, twisting scowl. Ink-black hair darker than the night framed his head.

He’d leapt from the canoe with his hatchet at the ready. Devin was immobile, petrified where he stood, his shoes captured by the muck of the loamy earth.

The Indian’s arm swung back in a slow whoosh. There was no mistaking his intention. A battle cry erupted from his gaping mouth.

Devin shook and instinctively crouched. The cold of the forest leaves shocked him. He jerked, thrashed reflexively.

His eyes felt glued shut. As he reached around manically he felt only the rough wool of a blanket and forced himself awake, only to see his bedroom drenched in deep black.

He glanced at the clock: it read 3:00 am. He grimaced, lay back and stared up at his ceiling.

**

Devin stood at the edge of a corner of the candle shop partitioned off to form a small section dedicated to handmade jewelry. Nayra was inspecting a range of beads, arms crossed. She had them spread out on top of a rectangular leather trunk, in a range from deep purple to ruby red. Nayra was so absorbed in taking in the rich colors of the beads, ogling them, almost cooing over them, that she didn’t notice Devin until he spoke up.

“There you are.”

Nayra turned with a big, guileless smile, her oversized, square, aquamarine earrings continuing to swing after her head had come to a halt. “These amethyst beads are awesome. I’m thinking a necklace, like an Indian princess would wear or something, on a leather strand.”

“Indian? What makes you mention Indian?” Devin asked suspiciously.

“Uh, because I like Indian jewelry. What’s your problem?”

“Nayra, what are you doing posting private conversation stuff about me on MyGhost?”

“MyGhost?” Nayra brushed some hair back. She had to think back a minute, or at least pretend to think back. “Oh, that. Only the Romanians look at that. You ever think how it’s weird that they call it Romania but it’s really nowhere near Rome?”

Devin advanced toward her. The shop was deserted except for the sulky owner, who sat behind the cash register reading a celebrity gossip magazine, and a stooped, elderly woman with a hearing aid who was looking at wooden raven sculptures, so he wasn’t too worried about causing a scene.

“It’s not just the Romanians who look at it, Nayra. Some guys at school got hold of that shit and spread it all around campus. You know they did.”

Nayra slightly rolled her eyes, getting up from her half-crouching position. “So what? What’s the problem? It’s not like I said you molested a dog or something gross.”

“So what?” Devin repeated, incredulous. “It’s getting people weirded out. They think I’m some kind of supernatural freak or something.”

“You are a very gifted individual,” Nayra said calmly, like a blissed-out, super-supportive counselor at some pyshcic rehab center. “You should be proud of it, Devin. Not everyone can see a ghost.”

“I didn’t see a ghost.”

“There are people that would give a lot to experience what happened to you. I’ve got a Romanian friend, you know, online? Bogya. She saves all her money the whole year so she can camp out at this old castle every fall, hoping for just one chance to see the fabled ghost of Countess Belododia.” Nayra’s eyes were open wide with the vision of it. “She’s known as the Screaming Countess. The legends say that every October she appears on the turrets to bemoan the loss of her two daughters with an unearthly scream.”

“I don’t care about screaming Countesses.”

“You should, you know. It’s that kind of apathetic attitude that keeps Americans so ignorant of history. Romania has a long and troubled past well worthy of study.”

Devin spread his hands in frustration. “Will you stop talking about Romania?”

“You’re the one who brought it up.” Nayra sat on the edge of the trunk, pushing the beads aside. “Look, I get it. You don’t want the attention. Well, you should be happy, Devin. You got invited to Emily’s marsh cookout didn’t you? For the first time, am I right?” Nayra was shaking a finger at him now, her spider ring bobbing. “I’ve never been invited. I’m the dippy fat girl who dresses too ‘exotic’. I’m too loud, too in your face, whatever. But you’re the cool ghost boy. So enjoy it while it lasts.”

“There’s nothing cool about it. She invited me because she felt sorry for me. That’s all. I don’t care about cookouts. It’s just another chance for people to dump on me about crazy supernatural crap.”

“I didn’t bring this on, Devin. It’s all in your head. I mean, not ‘in your head’ like it doesn’t exist but really in your head, where it does exist.”

“Jesus, what are you talking about?”

“Look, I talked to Rex. He told me all about that summer camp stuff.”

“I swear, I told that guy…Doesn’t anyone keep their mouth shut around here?”

“It’s all the same thing. This stuff is happening to you. Happening big time. And if you ignore it, it’s just going to keep grabbing and grabbing until you finally have to pay some attention. And by then, it’ll probably have done some serious damage to get through your thick skull.”

Leaving her beads behind, Nayra stomped out of the store, leaving Devin scowling, his lips pressed tightly together.

**

In American History on Monday, Jean and her terrified run out of the bushes was still a major subject of conversation.

Word had spread through the entire student body about her episode at the old Rousten house. The girls in general were not very sympathetic to Tad. They labeled him insensitive and doltish to be taking her up to the deserted house in the first place and for not being more supportive after what happened. But everyone also basically accepted Jean’s story that Tad had done nothing to physically harm her and hadn’t been involved with the mysterious pounding that unnerved Jean so much.

He’d been with her the whole time, according to Jean’s story, in a dark, musty bedroom lit only by Tad’s cell phone. They’d gotten in by opening a window with a pane knocked out and climbed into the cavernous room, Tad brushing aside some spiderwebs and dust drifting down from the aged curtains as the pair tumbled from the windowsill to the floor.

Tad had barely stopped choking from the dust, and was trying to get Jean in a quick, clumsy embrace on the creaky bed when the pounding started. It seemed to come from above them, a noise that came out of nowhere, breaking into the background of the bed creaks with a huge thump. Then it kept on, in an insistent, blunt rhythm, like an overweight, angry customer pounding on a resonant countertop. Then some muffled bellowing started, incomprehensible words growled out above them in a cavernous tone.

Jean was shocked, jerking out of Tad’s grasp and looking around wildly, her face unnaturally-lit in the phone’s blue glow. It was as if she expected some angry adult to be looming over them, banging the floor above and yowling to get their attention and tell them off. Tad had kept his composure, brushing it off at first.

“It must be some furniture that fell over. Some shelves. Or maybe some trapped cat.”

But the banging and growling kept up. A whole series of repeating thuds made it seem impossible this was any falling furniture. And the pounding rhythm kept up, slightly irregular but continuous so that it had to be someone or something doing the banging.

But who would be in the dark, uninhabited house on a random night throwing a crazed tantrum on the second floor?

“Maybe it was some homeless guy?” suggested Marissa Romero.

Jean shook her head. “It was too powerful.”

“Homeless guys are weak,” agreed Vanessa Lane. “They don’t get enough protein and stuff.”

“It would’ve taken like five homeless guys,” said Jean. “Ten. It was just boom, boom, BOOM!”

Devin winced at the last boom, looking up with annoyance from the crossword puzzle on Revolutionary War terms that Mr. Halstead had them doing.

Marissa was skeptical. “If it was that loud, why didn’t we hear anything at the fire pit?”

“Obviously, cause we were in the house it was way louder,” said Jean.

“That’s a good point,” Clive said quietly. He was sitting next to Devin, in earshot of the girls’ conversation.

“What?” Devin asked.

“Why didn’t we hear anything out on the marsh?” he repeated to Devin. “I was recording the frog sounds and didn’t pick up any booms.”

“I don’t know. Maybe there weren’t any booms.”

“You don’t believe her story?”

“Do you?” Devin stopped filling in the letters for ‘Lexington’ and looked at Clive, his expression impatient. “Why is everyone in this school suddenly having all these supernatural experiences?”

Clive twirled his pencil smiling slyly. “Hmm. You’re the first one who’s said anything about the supernatural.”

“Huh?”

“Nobody said anything about the booms or voices being supernatural, until you mentioned it just now. Maybe you know something no one else knows?”

“Don’t you start.”

“Well, what are the other explanations?” Clive counted them off on his fingers. “We know the house is vacant, the homeless theory doesn’t make sense. Even if some homeless guys were there they wouldn’t wanna call attention to themselves, right? There had to be something making the sounds. It was regular and repeated, so it couldn’t be an object falling over.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know. You’re so fond of recording sounds, why don’t you go up to the Rousten place with your equipment? Maybe you’ll hear some booms and moans of your own.”

Clive stared at him, his blue-gray eyes stumped into a thoughtful daze for a moment. Then he livened up. “Brilliant. You’re bleeding brilliant.”

“I was just messing with you.”

“No, man, you’re exactly right. Why not? I might get to the bottom of the whole puzzle. And if I can get something really ominous, really spooky, so much the better. I mean, it could be the basis for an entire new sequence of pieces.”

“You can’t do that, Clive.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing it’s trespassing.”

“What’s that Mr. Mulwray?” said Halstead. The teacher had appeared sometime during their conversation, looming over them with his protruding belly and peering down unhappily at their visibly incomplete puzzles. “Mr. Welter-Manes’ commentary is trespassing on your class time?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” said Devin meekly, turning back to his crossword.

“These puzzles have nothing to do with history,” said Clive, airing one of his frequent complaints. “I could do these without any in-depth knowledge of the colonial revolt. We should have a real, meaty debate, sir. Like, why didn’t the French enter the war earlier when it would’ve done some good?”

“Maybe they were just watching to see the British muddle through their own foibles. Much like I’m doing with you.”

“Not me. I’m foible-free.” Clive grinned at Halstead as Devin buried his head further into his puzzle.

Devin had been ready to head back to the fire pit, but Rex’s last words stopped him. “What are you talking about?”

Rex had a slightly open-mouthed awkward expression as though he’d just said something he wanted to take back. “What do you mean?”

“That comment about ignoring it a long time. What’s that supposed to mean?”

Rex grimaced, then dove in. “All right, I wasn’t going to say anything. But if you insist.” He glanced around to see if anyone was listening, then went on. “You remember that year we went to camp? Junior high?”

“Sure I remember.”

“And the night you couldn’t sleep because you saw the figure at the lake?”

“The figure at the lake?”

“You honestly don’t remember? Dude, you were totally freaked out.” Rex finished a last morsel of shrimp then tossed its hard tail in the grass. “Okay, I was in the cabin after curfew, playing Wolfievania on my laptop. I remember it clearly. You were gone, I didn’t know where, breaking curfew obviously. The other guys in the cabin were asleep. I think they were worn out from canoeing all day. Anyway, I’d just made it to the ninth level and was fending off some Goo Goo Monkeys with the pearl dagger when I heard the door burst open and you run in. Your face was totally pale, like you just ate some bad seafood or something. And you had sweat running down your face and your clothes were a mess, leaves all over them.”

“So I wasn’t well groomed. It was camp.”

“That’s not the point. You were out of your mind, scared. Like, your eyes wouldn’t focus at first. They kind of kept jumping around.”

“I don’t remember any of this.”

“Man, I’m just getting started. I was out of my sleeping bag and like, ‘What’s going on? What happened?’ Trying to shake some sense into you. And you just kind of stared and looked panicked. Then finally you started talking, like about ‘the lake’, ‘the canoe’, ‘in the lake in the canoe’. I had to get it out of you, word by word, but you said you saw this Indian in the lake, canoeing. Loincloth, moccasins, headdress, quiver, the whole Indian get-up.”

“That’s ridiculous. There are no Indians at Lake Massey.”

“Then why’d you say you saw one? Anyway, I’m just saying what you said. But the crazy part, was the Indian took the canoe and landed it on the shore, then he gets out with his hatchet.”

“His hatchet?”

“Indians love hatchets. And he walks up slowly to where you’re standing by one of the redwood trees. Then he takes the hatchet, like he’s going to toss it. He draws his arm back,” and Rex made the same movement, recreating the moment, using his remaining shrimp-laden skewer as a hatchet stand-in, “lifts high and swings forward, sending the hatchet twirling right at the redwood. You leap aside, diving onto the ground, just in time to see the ghost hatchet fly right through the tree. Not smack into the tree, but fly right through the tree and vanish. When you get up and look back at the lake, the Indian’s gone and so’s his canoe. No sign it was ever there.”

Devin stood staring at Rex, caught up in the tale. He couldn’t think how Rex could concoct such a crazed story, but at the same time he had no recollection of it ever happening.

“I don’t remember any of that,” he said at last.

Rex shook his head. “You never talked about it since. You musta been traumatized or something. Ghost traumatic stress disorder. I never heard you tell anyone.”

Devin looked around, concerned that this latest instance of his paranormal experiences had been overheard. But they seemed to be alone. “You haven’t told anyone else about this, have you?”

Rex shook his head silently.

“If you say a word to anyone ....Are you sure you’re not just imagining all this anyway?”

“How could I imagine that? I’m not that creative. I couldn’t even come up with my own haiku in English class.”

From the crowd by the fire pit, the music was getting louder. A few girls had turned up the volume and were dancing and even kicking up some little splotches of mud. They were singing along with some pop tune about shaking around and acting like the singer was coaxing them to.

Rex wouldn’t let the camp story drop. “You’re sure you don’t remember any of it? Nothing bad about camp at all? No sinister dreams? I mean I figured that’s why you never went back to Lake Massey.”

“I never went back because I didn’t sign up for camp.”

“Exactly.”

Just as Rex was smiling smugly over making this point, there came a wild, frightened female scream.

The screaming repeated and cut through the music. Everyone in the vicinity stopped and turned, trying to locate the sound. The raw screaming got closer and it became clear that it came from the bushes on Rex and Devin’s left.

Through a mass of dangling tree limbs and dense vegetation, there were sounds of running footfalls. Then a distraught figure appeared - a short girl with messy black curls of hair hanging in her face. Her sweatshirt was torn and a smattering of wet leaves had stuck to it. Breaking through the last undulating brush onto the clearer, flat ground, she accelerated her run, heading straight toward the fire pit, looking breathless and ready for another scream.

She rushed by Devin and Rex without so much as a glance. But before she made it to the clutch of partiers standing and staring in her direction, another figure ran out of the vegetation. It was a boy in a leather jacket with short blonde hair. He was more collected than the girl but still looked unsettled. In one wide-eyed glance he saw the scene the girl was creating at the fire pit - people were already approaching her and trying to calm her. The boy slowed to a walk and moved forward with apparent sluggishness, as though knowing he was in for an earful over the screaming girl’s distress.

Emily was trying to comfort the panicked girl and get her to warm up by the fire.

“Pounding. Had to get away from the pounding.” She was talking in between gasps as she tried to catch her breath.

Travis Linderson was next to the two girls, his arms crossed. He eyed the blonde boy in the leather jacket warily. “What pounding?”

“What happened, Jean?” Emily held the frightened girl’s hand, trying to soothe her.

“We were walking through these old trees. Way past the swamp’s edge. And then he took me into this place. There was so much pounding.”

Travis stepped up to get between the boy and Emily. “Who did any pounding?”

“I didn’t touch her,” the boy said. “At least, not that way. We were in the old Rousten house.”

“It was windy,” said Jean, at Emily’s puzzled look. “We wanted to get out of the weather.”

“Brilliant, Tad,” said Travis, still looking sternly at the blonde boy. “You always take your girls into abandoned houses?”

Tad stepped up to the taller boy, looking ready to push at his chest. “Get off my back, Travis. I didn’t do anything.”

Jean shook her head, agreeing. “It was the house. Someone was in the house.”

“Besides you?” snapped Travis.

“There was pounding. It wouldn’t stop.”

“Probably a tree branch,” explained Emily. “You said yourself it was windy. We all felt it out here.”

Jean looked up from the fire, her face illuminated in the orange glow. She was insistent. “No. This was way louder than a tree branch. And it wouldn’t stop. Pound, pound, pound.” Jean rocked forward toward the fire with each pound sound, with a sort of obsessive look in her eyes.

Travis was still skeptically facing Tad. “If this is some practical joke, it’s pretty low.”

Devin and Rex, while still planted in the spot where they’d first heard the screams, had found themselves drawn into listening to the whole conversation, the animated voices carrying across the quiet marsh. So they were startled when Clive came up to them from nowhere. “You gotta hear this.”

Devin jumped a little, turning away from the fireside scene. “What?”

Clive held out his smartphone. “These frogs here are amazing. I already made a little sample loop.” He played back a sound clip he’d recorded and quickly edited down into a rhythmic several seconds of sonorous, looping croaks. “Can you just hear that in a woodwind piece? Some crazy texture with bassoons, huh?”

“Wild,” said Rex, not sounding especially excited.

Clive’s interruption had broken the spell of the traumatic scene of the frightened girl. “Let’s get out of here,” said Devin. “This thing could get ugly with Travis and Tad.”

Wrapped up in manipulating sound samples, Clive had been completely oblivious to the confrontation. He shrugged. “Let’s head back to my house. I want to throw this loop over some beats.”

The trio turned their back on the marsh party and headed to the street. In their rear they heard Jean going on, in her quavering but convincing tone, trying to describe her frightening experience and the inexplicable noises at the old Rousten house.

Captain Horgan Dewpath smoothed his narrow mustache with an extended finger and surveyed the Elevation Booth. It was his first time meeting the Space Lords for an assignment on Borroga base and he was eager to make a good impression. He examined his attire with satisfaction. “Any Lord would surely be impressed with a spiffy, well-groomed captain wearing an authentic water buffalo-skin jacket!” He experimentally sat on the Elevation Booth, legs crossed and arms extended on the back cushion, but this posture felt too casual.

At the same time, he saw the countdown clock on the silver wall in front of him. Only four seconds remained until the meeting time, so he quickly adjusted his pose with back ramrod straight and feet firmly planted on the floor. He was adjusting his narrow black tie when the buzzer sounded and the booth shot up.

He immediately found himself in the Space Lords’ conference room, three lords facing him from their semi-circular counter across from the booth. Lord Scalligan, the elder lord in the center, leaned toward his microphone. In standard Space Lord fashion, the special distortion mic disguised his voice to increase the Lords’ air of mystery, making him sound like a cross between a cranky, poorly maintained robot and a sullen but verbose gibbon.

“Welcome to Borroga base, Captain,” Scalligan said in a tone that wasn’t especially welcoming.

“Thanks for the time! Do you like my mustache?” Dewpath grinned and patted his mustache with a pair of fingers. He leaned forward so the Space Lords could get a better look. “It comes in kind of sandy-colored naturally, but I dyed it yellow to celebrate.” Dewpath kept smiling, convinced his cheerful personality was his most appealing quality.

“To celebrate what?” asked Scalligan.

“My new posting here on Borroga Base! I hope it appeals to your sense of esprit de corps!” Dewpath briskly turned his head to show his left and right profiles, so the Lords could appreciate the mustache from all angles.

Lord Mogone, impatiently moved to end the discussion of Dewpath’s mustache. “We’re not here to discuss your facial hair, Captain.”

Dewpath laughed lightly, pointing to Mogone. “Very witty, Lord Mogone. Of course that’s not our primary purpose, but I’m sure you agree that no part of a captain’s appearance and demeanor is too small to consider when measuring his impact on his team.”

“Mustaches are too small,” growled Mogone.

Dewpath took a floppy beret from a pocket and put it on. “Then we can talk about my blueberry beret!”

Scalligan broke in. “We’re not here to discuss hair or berets! As you’re aware, the Space Lords are dedicated to expanding our network of planets, moons and other celestial bodies to eventually become the largest network in the galaxy!”

Dewpath nodded and pointed at Scalligan. “That’s the spirit! We’ve gotta beat those sly devils at Deep Grobble!”

“Don’t point at me,” said Scalligan.

Dewpath grinned again and dropped his arm.

Scalligan yelled at the ceiling microphone. “Multiscreen, drop down!”

A complex set of screens descended from a slit in the ceiling. As the device moved down, a set of legally required notices and disclaimers flashed across its screens in various formations, thanking the videographers, the Space Lord editing team and the people of Murkdumon M-D. Dewpath noted a warning banner that no one involved in producing the videos was responsible for any deaths or injuries resulting from a mission inspired by the material. A title flashed by with electronic fanfares: “Villainy on Small Murkdumon M-D!”

Lord Noomsa, the third Space Lord present, gestured at the screens. “Captain Dewpath, one of our longtime allies are the Sloggan people on the small planet of Murkdumon M-D in the Plantorsia system.”

“I hear they’ve got great seafood there!” Dewpath cried.

Noomsa pretended she hadn’t heard him. “While the Sloggan people are firm allies, their society is extremely primitive and they maintain a traditional lifestyle.”

The screens showed clips of very short, lavender-skinned people doing tribal dances, hunting small game and trading brightly painted monkey skulls.

“We’ve received reports that the Sloggans recently suffered a series of mysterious attacks. Some unknown enemy force from space targeted their villages with powerful explosives.”

The screens showed wood and straw huts exploding in flashes of intense light.

“That’s a shame!” said Dewpath. “I don’t like to see our allies getting harassed, even if they are purple.”

“Your mission is to journey to Murkdumon M-D, find out who’s behind these lawless attacks and stop them,” Noomsa concluded.

Mogone added, “You must also maintain utmost respect for the Sloggans and their traditions, even the ones that are foolish, destructive and extremely disgusting to people from civilized societies.”

“Sounds like an extended mission that’ll require a luxurious craft…” mused Dewpath, thinking of the elaborate Space Lord ships he’d seen with built-in aquariums and dedicated archery fields.

“We can only spare our smallest craft, a Drippler D-Bunt, and you must complete the mission in four days,” said Mogone.

Dewpath kept smiling and blinked several times. “Right. And I’m sure the team will include a bevy of top notch, veteran soldiers!”

Mogone consulted his notes. “You’re getting an intern, a space anthropologist, a monkey hunter and a Nagellian.”

“Well, I’m sure you know best,” Dewpath gamely responded, maintaining his cheery outlook. “I’d best bone up on my Sloggan cultural knowledge, so looks like I’ve got some days of research ahead.”

“The mission leaves in four hours,” said Mogone. “The original captain came down with a bad case of cantaloupe poisoning this morning, so you’re his last-minute replacement.”

Dewpath rubbed his hands together. “Sounds like a job for Captain Dewpath! When the chips are down and you need a captain on the move, Dewpath’s your man! In fact, this reminds me of a mission to Darstabb 11. I can tell you stories about the native’s hygiene habits…”

“No time, no time!” cried Mogone. “We’ve got urgent meeting minutes to review. No time! Goodbye, Captain!” Mogone punched the booth control button repeatedly and Dewpath dropped through the floor as he was still making his ‘thank yous’.

**

Two days later, Dewpath stood before the control panel of the Drippler D-Bunt watching a greenish-blue tinged planet on the viewscreen. “There it is! Munnomund, the majestic, outermost planet of the Plantorsia system! Doesn’t it just give you shivers of excitement?”

Space Cadet Bunky Chagall watched beside Dewpath, stretching up on his toes for a better view. “Why? Because it’s so much bigger than Borroga?”

“No, because it’s a sign we’re nearing our destination!” Dewpath darted a look at Bunky, his green eyes filled, as usual, with nervy energy. “I’m telling you, Cadet, I’ve been on countless missions, some more exciting than others, but every time I see the first planet in a new system I get the same old thrill as on my very first assignment.”

“Gee, Captain Dewpath, if you’re that thrilled now, how excited will you be when we actually reach Murkdumon M-D?”

Dewpath laughed a ringing laugh he considered his ‘captain in complete control’ laugh. He clapped Bunky’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Cadet. I’ll no doubt be vibrating and steaming with inner verve, but on the exterior I’ll retain the calm attitude of a complete professional.”

Colonel Nuggly Groonin entered through the sliding door and glanced at the screen. He was a muscular, stocky, intergalactic hunter who’d pursued countless prey on dozens of worlds and caught a surprising number of them. He wore his reddish-brown hair in a bushy, disordered mop and sported a mustache more than twice as wide as Dewpath’s. Groonin, as usual, was in his safari gear: thick canvas attire with plenty of pockets and pouches. “What’s this? Murkdumon at last? Time to finally get my legs off this space dinghy and back in the thick, dark stink of the jungle?”

“Ha, ha,” Dewpath laughed, even though Groonin hadn’t said anything funny. “There you go again, Colonel, with your colorful hunting language! No, I’m afraid we’ve got more planets to pass before we reach our final destination.”

“Final destination, aye? Not sure I like the sound of that. I don’t intend to get bushwhacked and left for dead by some rabid elephantoris.”

“Ha, ha. No, we don’t want any untoward elephantoris encounters. It’s a sacred animal to the Sloggans. According to my research they light ceremonial torches every night to illuminate their temple’s great elephantoris statue.”

“Sound like some real primitive pagans,” huffed Groonin. “Think they’ve seen a spaceship before? Or will they burn us alive as some demons from the sky?”

“Don’t fret. The Space Lords have visited the Sloggans many times and established good relations,” Dewpath said confidently. “I expect they’ll welcome us as great friends from the past.”

“And after a festive greeting we jaunt off into the jungle to kill as many beasts as possible?” Groonin looked eager for action, leaning forward with hands on hips, ready to grab a long skinning knife from his utility belt.

“Now, now, we’re not going to kill any animals, unless specifically invited to. Our mission’s to find the source of the attacks on the Sloggans and stop them!”

“Then what in blazes am I doing on such a good will excursion?” Groonin suddenly looked ready to pounce like an angry canyon lion about to tear apart an irritating raccoon. “I’m a hunter, damn it, not a military strategist.”

Dewpath waved a finger and used a soothing tone. “Remember your oath, Colonel. We’re never to question the Space Lords’ decisions. Who can know the purpose of their far-seeing directives? Perhaps the Lords felt that as a man of the wilds you could empathize with the jungle-dwelling Sloggans?”

“Empathize with a pack of stunted, tree-swinging, idol worshipping savages? What do they take me for? A caveman?”

“No, but perhaps a man with well-honed survival skills,” said a new voice.

The trio turned to see Doctor Pinnibald Wim, who’d just entered from the mini-elevator. Wim was a rotund space anthropologist in a tailored charcoal suit and slim black tie. He had a small black mustache and narrow nose that perched in the middle of a large, pale face.

“Survival skills?” Groonin replied gruffly. “Do they expect me to babysit a troop of them on a desert island?”

Wim moved forward with a mincing step and indicated himself with a gesture of his right hand. “As a space anthropologist who’s studied the Sloggans, among other races, for decades, my usefulness here is self-evident. But in your case, Colonel, the Space Lords must be betting your jungle savvy will win the Sloggans’ respect, increasing our worth in their eyes. You see, they place great value on a man’s ability to survive in the wild.”

“Lovely,” said Groonin. “So we’re not only dealing with ignorant bands of jungle goons, we also have to hear this pompous windbag drone on about their so-called culture!”

Wim clasped his hands together and smiled. “You may appreciate my expertise more when you’re faced with a tribe of shocked and restless Sloggans. For instance, there are certain elephantoris-related rituals one can perform to assuage Sloggan suspicions about our intentions.”

“I’ll be stuffed and mounted before I bow down to worship any blasted elelphant, oris or otherwise!”

Wim shook his head. “At least we know you’re not here for your diplomatic skills.”

**

When the ship reached the orbit of Murkdumon M-D, Corporal Snebbly Littgink, the Nagellian guest crew member, joined Dewpath on the captain’s deck. Littgink was present as part of a long-running astronaut exchange program, designed to spread cross-cultural understanding, tolerance and diverse recipes for durable space snacks.

“At last our wretched confinement in this glorified anchovy tin will end,” Littgink snarled

Dewpath, having met Nagellians before, was aware they were sardonic and argumentative at the best of times. Knowing the Nagellian’s temperament, he took the comment in stride. “Coming up for a look at Murkdumon M-D?”

“No, Dewpath, I’m here as a back-up pilot in case you bungle the landing of this disintegrating hunk of scrap metal.”

Dewpath flicked a few switches on the console and watched the altimeter reading decrease. Below, a heavily jungled segment of Murkdumon quickly came into view.

“Have no fear, Corporal, there’s a good reason my colleagues call me Do-Good Dewpath.” Dewpath grinned broadly and raised a triumphant fist.

“Yes, I’ve no doubt you can often be found volunteering at a space babies rescue shelter. But this is a matter of landing a rickety craft on a planet of gaping gorges and tangled trees. We Nagellians have a saying: ‘The penguin that slams the fish isn’t the one that crafts the cradle.’”

Dewpath started to compliment Littgink on the folk saying, but quickly realized he had no idea what it meant. “Very colorful. But you won’t find any penguins waddling about Murkdumon M-D. I hasten to remind you, the Sloggans have a high level of respect for animals. It’s critical we all demonstrate appropriate behavior toward any creatures we encounter.”

Nagellian barked out a harsh laugh in two parts, a distinct, punctuated laugh typical of his race. “It’ll be a hot day on Conchalonk 12 before this Nagellian kneels to kiss some reeking badger’s paws! On Nagellia, we hold ourselves in higher esteem. The Great Nagel himself said ‘Behold the bounty of wild creatures in your midst, and don’t hesitate to roast them or toss some in your soups for extra flavor.’

Dewpath shifted uneasily, realizing he should’ve held a quick animal sensitivity course to better prepare the crew, but now there was no time. “I’m not asking you to kiss any badgers, Littgink. But we must respect Sloggan customs. Please don’t disparage any apes or elephantorises we encounter.”

“Elephantorises! A more grotesque, misbegotten creature never walked a habitable world! If I see one I’ll assuredly burst into snickers of derision.”

“That’s unacceptable! The Sloggans worship the elephantoris above all other animals. If you disrespect one, we could all end up stacked on a sacrificial bonfire!” Dewpath rotated a knob to slow the Drippler D-Bunt as Murkdumon zoomed closer.

Littgink shook his head. “Very well, Dewpath. As incredible at it is, you’re captain of this excursion, and I’ll try to follow your directives.

Dewpath didn’t respond. He was making final landing preparations and a surge of fresh new-planet excitement was humming through him. He grabbed the captain’s mic hanging from the ceiling. “Attention crew, prepare for immediate landing! Prepare for immediate landing!” He looked at Littgink. “Landing on a planet for the first time! The excitement never fails!”

The Nagellian raised his eyebrows. “Just remember, if the thrill deprives you of control over your faculties, I’m here to step in.”

**

Despite Littgink’s skepticism, Dewpath successfully landed the craft on a dirt expanse near the edge of a jungle. A cluster of Sloggans among the trees heard the Drippler’s engines as it descended and approached the ship with gaping expressions.

As they prepared to depart the craft, Dewpath cautioned the crew to emerge in stages. He faced them, hands on hips. “I know you’re all excited about stepping onto a new planet, but remember, these particular Sloggans may never have met humans like us before. They may be startled or frightened at our comparative height, elaborate clothing and mastery of complex sentence structures. So please wait until I’ve introduced our party before exiting.”

Littgink mumbled that he felt like he was being introduced at a very strange awards banquet. Dewpath motioned for the others to stand back, then opened the exit hatch.

As he walked out, Dewpath raised his open hands to show he was unarmed, then waved energetically. “Greetings, Sloggans!” The Sloggans stared at him open-mouthed and copied his hand waving.

Dewpath pointed to the Space Lords insignia on his gray-striped spacesuit. “I’m one of your friends from the Space Lords. Remember, your allies across the galaxy?”

One Sloggan, slightly taller than the others and with more wrinkled violet skin, stepped forward. “We know many legends about the Space Lords.”

Dewpath laughed with assurance, meant to indicate that of course there would be legends about some of the greatest planet rulers in the galaxy. “Yes, I imagine there are many tales of how we helped you narrowly escape harrowing hazards, fend off incursions from sinister enemies…”

The Sloggan spokesman interrupted in his high-pitched, scratchy voice. “There’s a legend about how the Space Lords owe us many chimp bucks for taking tiny pretty rocks from our caves.”

“Tiny pretty rocks?” Dewpath laughed a heedless, you-can’t-be-serious kind of laugh. He walked forward to shake the Sloggan’s hand, but the native backed up suspiciously. “There must be some misunderstanding…”

“And Sloggans all know the story of the Space Lords who said they’d trade us four gibbon bears for a magic food slicer. But the food slicer stopped working after one day.”

“Ah! Well, I might have some batteries that could get your food slicer back in shipshape…”

“No,” retorted the native. “The Sloggans got so mad at the food slicer we threw it off a large cliff. It is no longer something to use.”

“Okay, okay. There clearly have been some communication issues. You see, we’re here to investigate the attacks on your huts. The attacks from space.” Dewpath pointed helpfully to the sky. “With our superior space knowledge, we can help stop the attackers!”

The Sloggan made a series of movements that seemed to show frustration, shaking his entire body and giving a series of hacking coughs. “The Space Lords tell many stories,” he went on, voice scratchier than ever.

“If you show me the damaged huts I can prove we’re here to help. We can use our tools to find evidence…”

All this time Groonin had paced restlessly in the Drippler, eager to breathe fresh jungle air once more. He finally grew so irate waiting for Dewpath’s signal he marched out of the hatch.

“What in blazes is the hold-up, Dewpath?” he roared, marching to the captain’s side. “I can’t stay in that miserable junk heap another second!”

The Sloggans cried out at the big, bustling colonel’s appearance, backing up several steps in unison and breaking out in spontaneous quivers.

“Colonel! You’re intruding on a very delicate discussion!” Dewpath cried. “I’m trying to convince these fine Sloggans to show us a damaged hut.”

“What? What? I’ve seen enough damaged huts to last a lifetime, Dewpath.”

“To examine it! Examine it, Colonel!”

The spokesman had stepped back with the others but moved forward to continue the discussion. “I can’t show you a hut. I can’t show you. I’m only a low Sloggan. Only the Most High Slog can grant such a request.”

Groonin raised his eyes to the heavens. “Then take us to the High Slog, for pity’s sake.”

“Very well. But you’ll each need to bring a Stump Monkey as a sign of respect.”

Groonin glared at the Sloggan fiercely. “And suppose you tell us exactly where we’re expected to find these Stump Monkeys?”

The Sloggan raised his tiny right arm and pointed to the jungle.

**

Groonin led the crew on the Stump Monkey hunt, which involved several hours of thrashing through wet, fungi-ridden, rotted-tree-trunk-filled jungle. Tracking the source of the monkey’s uniquely shrill, punchy calls, Groonin finally found a tribe of the very small creatures cavorting on a mango tree.

Dewpath laughed heartily as the monkeys pelted the crew with overripe mangoes until their already-stained suits were all dotted with orange splotches. But with the help of one of Groonin’s mesh nets attached to a pole, they eventually collected their quota of monkeys.

After counting the restless animals several times to verify their number, the Sloggan spokesman led them on a path that emerged into a huge clearing dotted with stubby huts. Clusters of Sloggans were busy making meals or repairing damaged structures.

At one end of the clearing stood a huge wooden building much more elaborate than any of the huts. It was decorated with huge murals depicting oversized animals cavorting in mystical landscapes.

The Sloggan took them to a low entrance barely tall enough for an average Sloggan and turned to Dewpath. “This is the sacred temple of the Most High Sloggan. I must prepare his Slogginess for your arrival. Please wait until I call for you.”

Dewpath nodded and the Sloggan entered the temple. The crew soon heard a shrill argument break out between three or four Sloggans inside. It went on for several minutes, punctuated by thunks and thuds that sounded like various animal skulls and wooden blocks being thrown at the walls. Finally, there was a last loud proclamation and the contentious voices stopped. The next moment, the spokesman slowly re-emerged from the entryway.

“The Most High Slog will see you now,” he said, attempting to sound dignified but looking extremely harried. “Be sure to prominently display your monkeys!”

The Colonel distributed the monkeys to the crew members and there was a long delay as the monkeys kept trying to scrabble away. All the crew finally firmly clutched a monkey by their torso. This was challenging since the monkeys were barely larger than hand-size and kept trying to bite their captors and wriggle free.

Dewpath entered the temple first, ducking low to pass through the doorway. Once inside, he stood up to see a dark interior filled with piles of carved tree branches, large strange-shaped stones and many scattered animal bones. In the temple’s center was a large, roughly-carved elephantoris statue with a long, twisted trunk and huge, stumpy feet. Candles placed among the paraphernalia provided dim light. Between two columns of weighty rocks stood a wooden throne painted in various shades of green. The Most High Slog sat on the throne, looking older and more wizened than the other Sloggans. He kept rotating a wooden block with one hand and wore a stubby, green-painted wooden crown.

Dewpath bowed awkwardly, still holding his monkey. “Your Most High Slog, allow me to present greetings from your allies, the Space Lords.”

“Space Lords?” The High Slog rotated his block faster, scrunched up his dark violet eyes, then turned to a retainer beside the throne. “Aren’t they the ones who tried to steal our lovely green moon with their giant space hauler?”

The retainer glared at Dewpath. He wore a more formal robe than the typical Sloggan attire and had a severe-looking face. “Correct, your highness. We nearly lost our beautiful moon Globbog to those thieving Space Lords.”

“Ha, ha,” Dewpath laughed nervously. “Seems you and the Space Lords had lots of colorful encounters I hadn’t heard of! But never fear! We’ve come on an urgent embassy of assistance. We even brought you five fine Stump Monkeys as a sign of goodwill.” Dewpath held out his monkey and the creature promptly bit his thumb. The captain yelped, then forced a smile as the other monkeys hooted in excitement.

The Most High Slog brushed his chin thoughtfully with a finger, looking over the monkeys. “They do look like fine specimens. Collect the monkeys!” he screamed at the retainer. The retainer grabbed a wooden cage and proceeded down the row of crewmembers, each monkey squabbling and wriggling as he took them.

Doctor Wim stepped forward. “Perhaps I can assist here, with my knowledge of Sloggan culture. Not only have we brought these monkeys. We’d also be pleased to perform the supplicatory monkey dance as partial compensation for any injuries you’ve suffered from earlier Space Lord visitors.”

“Is that really necessary?” Dewpath whispered to Wim.

“Nothing makes a High Slog happier than a good monkey dance,” Wim assured him.

Littgink crossed his arms and moved his feet as close together as possible. “I, for one, will not prance about on command like a demented primate.”

The Most High Slog stared at his block, considering the offer, then nodded. “A short monkey dance will do.”

Wim bowed and demonstrated the dance steps for the others. They were pretty humiliating and involved lots of crouching, squirming and leaping. The Most High Slog commanded members of his retinue to pound out a rhythm on conga drums and Dewpath, Bunky and Groonin joined Wim in a short, chaotic dance. The drummers brought the messy display to a quick climax and the Sloggans burst into applause.

Bunky got carried away by the dance and almost leaped into a tree that was part of the temple décor. “That was fun! Let’s do another round!”

Dewpath adjusted his uniform and cleared his throat. “That will be all the monkey dancing for today, Cadet. Your Most High Slog, we’re here to find out who is behind the recent attacks on your huts. When it comes to our allies, your huts are our huts, and we feel your hut pain.”

The High Slog pointed outside and spoke to his retainer. “Show them the huts in the Guaba Plain, Grumley.”

The retainer nodded, then pointed at the cage. “What about the Stump Monkeys?”

“Put them on the iguana rock.”

**

Groonin stepped delicately around the piles of scattered, burned straw and thatch that were the remains of a decimated hut. “This is all that’s left? What dreary, primitive materials. What a sad display of Sloggan backwardness and architectural sloth.” He pointed at a tiny nearby hut that remained standing. “A monkey could destroy that hut with a sharp rock and a dead snake!”

Grumley looked offended as Groonin kicked the debris, further scattering the remnants. “The Guaba Plain has some of our finest huts,” the retainer retorted. “One of them even has two rooms.”

Dewpath cleared his throat and approached the hut Groonin had indicated. “I don’t know where you learned your hut-evaluating techniques, Colonel. These are some of the finest huts I’ve seen in all my travels. The Sloggan people should be proud of these lovely structures. Why, if I had a wife and a collection of three or four little Dewpaths, I wouldn’t hesitate to set up housekeeping in one of these sturdy domiciles.” Dewpath grinned and leaned on the hut, but as he touched it, the hut collapsed, disintegrating into a dusty pile of dead vegetation. Two angry Sloggans looked up resentfully from what had been the hut’s center. They jumped up, brushed debris from their shorts and yelled epithets at Dewpath and Grumley in the local dialect.

Dewpath stepped back and grinned at the hut’s former residents. “Sorry about that, Sloggans. Must’ve pressed a little too hard on the wrong spot there. Fine looking hut, though. I’m sure it was very well built.” He looked down at the pile of bits and pieces. “No doubt, my team can reconstruct it in no time. Come on, Bunky. Let’s get this hut back in mint condition.”

Bunky gamely trotted over and he and Dewpath began sorting the hundreds of fragments. But Grumley intervened. “Most of these pieces are broken. The villagers will have to make more muddy-mud to piece them back together.”

Wim stood by looking pained. “Yes, Captain, it’s no good trying to reconstruct this home without fresh muddy-mud. You see, it’s all disintegrated into dust.”

“Of course,” said Dewpath, putting a twig on a stack of three other twigs. “Anyone can see we’re going to need plenty of muddy-mud. I was just getting a head start. You must identify your bits and pieces, after all, before you apply your muddy-mud.”

Groonin was still examining the debris of the destroyed hut. “Aha! Here’s your smoking gun, Captain! The telltale sign of the fiends behind these attacks.” He held up some dark green shards of glass. “Bits of exploded Lime Glass Bombs. The only beings in this galaxy that use such bombs are the Half-Chimps!”

Dewpath walked over to see the evidence. “Good work, Groonin. But there’s no need to resort to name calling. We can’t treat the enemy like partial primates, even if their behavior is reprehensible.”

“What are you talking about, Dewpath? I’m referring to the Half-Chimps from Bavagourd 10. Their chimpanzee genetic heritage is well-known.”

Dewpath took a shard from Groonin, handling it with a sanitary cloth. “Of course, the Half-Chimps. One of the most reckless, destructive races known to the Space Lords!”

“Those simian sinners!” cried Groonin. “They’ve always wanted to create some pernicious quasi-paramilitary primate league. I’ll bet you a giant spotted snail moth they’re scheming to bring the Stump Monkeys into their nefarious network!”

Dewpath gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “Good deductive work, Colonel. I knew your deep monkey knowledge would come in handy.” He turned to Grumley. “We know who’s behind those attacks now, Grumley. Buck up, old man! We can handle those marauding Half-Chimps.”

Groonin bowed his knees and stretched out his arms to imitate a cannon. “We’ll blow them straight out of the sky.”

Dewpath straightened some hairs of his mustache. “Space Lord protocol calls for negotiation first, but it may well come to fisticuffs, or worse.”

“Wow! I’ve never seen space fisticuffs before!” cried Bunky.

“Men,” stated Dewpath, “it’s time for one of those clear declarative statements of immediate intent from your Captain. Back to the ship!”

**

Within hours, the Drippler D-Bunt was back in orbit around the Sloggan home world, scanning for the Half-Chimp craft.

Littgink looked dismissively at the view screen. “How humiliating. Nagellians would never descend to negotiate with a species from a lowly chimpanzee heritage.”

Groonin turned away from the navigation eyepieces. His face had been pressed so close to the viewing mechanism that red imprinted circles ringed his eyes. “You’d change your tune after they blew up a town full of your precious Nagellians. I’ve seen these Half-Chimps in action, Littgink. They’re half-chimp alright, but the other half is a highly explosive combination of wolverine and cave hyena. Once they go on the attack, you’re in for a maniacal display of bloody and ruthless, but also loose-limbed and fun-loving, mayhem.”

“Hopefully we can talk them out of more attacks without resorting to violence,” said Dewpath.

“Send me to their ship! I’m ready to face them, mano-a-half-chimp,” declared Groonin.

“I’m afraid your approach might be a tad too confrontational, Colonel,” Dewpath responded cautiously. “I’m actually calling in Doctor Wim to lead the negotiations.”

Groonin was again using the navigation gear. “You’d better have him start warming up those dulcet, professorial tones. I’ve got the Half-Chimp vessel in our sights.”

Dewpath magnified the site of the coordinates on the viewscreen and the Half-Chimp vessel swung into view. The strange ship was shaped like a massive Half-Chimp head, a kind of distorted circular primate face but with an extended wolverine-hyena snout and an open mouth revealing sharp white fangs. The ship rotated at the rate of a complete head turn every thirty seconds and lights flashed on the exterior and from a ring of windows above the eye area.

Bunky gasped. “Wow, it’s a flying outer space giant Half-Chimp head!”

Groonin grunted. “They’re so proud of their perverse physique that all their ships, vehicles and buildings are built in their own likeness. A more pompous pack of primates you’ll never meet.”

Before Groonin finished speaking a cacophonous hooting and screeching reverberated through the ship, combining a high-pitched chimp call and a ferocious wolverine snarl.

“Blast it!” cried Groonin. “They’ve hijacked our audio system!”

The triumphal-sounding animal noises abruptly stopped and a voice with a thick, dark wolverine accent spoke. “Greetings, Space Lord flunkeys. This is Mizbach. I’m warning you to back off from our vessel. If you come within three thousand chimp-lengths of our ship, we’ll blast your pathetic airborne closet to bits!”

Dewpath flipped on the communication screen and a foreboding face appeared, like a miniaturized version of the rotating head-shaped ship.

Wim scooted forward on a rolling chair and faced the screen. “Greetings Half-Chimps. This is Doctor Pinnibald Wim, an expert on galactic primates with the Space Lords.”

“Half-Chimps!” cried Mizbach. “We are the Woezerone! ‘Half-Chimp’ is a derogatory term used by the ignorant and malicious!” Mizbach followed this statement with some angry hoots.

Wim winced at his faux pas and attempted a return hoot to show fellow feeling, but it came out more like a feeble whine. Dewpath made a slicing motion across his throat, signaling Wim to drop the chimp noises.

Wim tried again. “I apologize for the error. This is my first interaction with the Woezerone. We’re here because we’re friends of the Sloggans…”

Mizbach erupted in more hoots. “The Sloggans are mindless fools! We offered them five million chimp bucks for their Stump Monkeys. But they refused our generous offer. Until they turn over their monkeys we will continue to harass them.”

Wim muted the microphone and turned to Dewpath. “The Sloggans never told us about an offer.”

Groonin fumed. “Those jungle munchkins kept us in the dark!”

Dewpath briefly considered their options. “Find out the minimum number of monkeys they want. We’ll have to get back to the Sloggans.”

Wim flipped the mic back on. “What are your demands? How many monkeys would satisfy you?”

“All of them,” came the reply. “And back off. Your ship is too close to our vessel.”

“All of them! That would throw off the planet’s entire ecological balance!”

“That’s not our concern.”

“But why would you need so many monkeys…,” Wim began plaintively.

“Our monkey needs are none of your business.”

A husky hyena-tinged voice was heard from off-screen. “Don’t say they’re for our primate guerilla paratroops.”

Mizbach barked in irritation and glanced to his right. “Of course not, you badger-brained moron.” He faced forward again and checked his instrument panel. “You’ve broached the chimp-length barrier. Prepare for punishment.”

The giant chimp head immediately swung in a half-turn to face the Drippler D-Bunt and blasted a Lime Glass Bomb out of each artificial eye.

The Drippler shook with the blast impact and Groonin rushed to the weapons console. “Those tree-swinging troglodytes! It’s time they got a taste of Space Lord medicine!”

Dewpath lurched over to intervene. “Back away from that panel, Colonel!”

But Dewpath was too slow. Groonin fired the ship’s phasers, but the Woezeronians took evasive action, the chimp ship ducking down in altitude. The phaser barely knicked the top of the vessel, blasting off the tip of a Half-Chimp ear.

“You vandals!” cried Mizbach. “You’ve damaged a precious Special Head Cruiser, desecrating a Woezerone image. The only proper response is the destruction of another precious object!”

“No!” cried Dewpath. “Not my ship!”

Mizbach didn’t reply, but the giant head tilted downward and fired a barrage of Lime Glass Bombs from its giant eyes at Murkdumon M-D.

“Uh-oh,” said Bucky. “Looks like they took out their anger on the Sloggans.”

Dewpath took over the navigation system. “We’re backing out of here! No more firing, Groonin!”

Littgink rolled his eyes upward. “Looks like I’ll have another lovely set of mishaps for my diary tonight.”

**

The crew paid a return visit to the Most High Slog, who’d set up a temporary new headquarters by a large tree stump on the edge of the jungle using a few well-shaped rocks for chairs.

Dewpath apologized profusely. “We’re truly sorry about the attack on the temple. But look on the bright side: we can offer you a huge discount on some excellent balsa wood planks straight from Space Lord headquarters, perfect for building a brand new, bigger, taller, more modern prefabricated temple!”

The Most High Slog ground his teeth and held up a twisted, burnt piece of elephantoris trunk that had survived the Woezeronian attack. “Our sacred elephantoris was destroyed. I’m completely disgraced and my people will now depose me as the Most High Slog and select a replacement through the dangling ritual.”

“Ah, didn’t know about that bit.” Dewpath tried to cheer up the sullen Slog. “But now you’ll have lots of free time without all those High Sloggy duties to worry about. Think of all the Stump Monkeys you can fondle!”

“I’ll be burned in a pit, like all former High Slogs,” he replied morosely.

“That’s barbaric!” huffed Groonin.

Doctor Wim made a tut-tut sound. “Now, don’t condemn another culture’s traditions just because they’re different from your own.”

Groonin wasn’t so easily appeased. “I’m putting out the word to all the villagers that the High Slog’s not at fault!”

“There you are, your Slogginess,” said Dewpath. “We won’t leave you hanging! And don’t forget – the Half-Chimps left after we persuaded them to take only two thousand Stump Monkeys. You still have dozens left! We’d love to stay around and help rehabilitate your image, but we really need to take off and return to Borroga base immediately. A Space Lord captain’s work is never done, you know! But we enjoyed our stay tremendously. Do take this official Space Lord mug as a token of our thanks.”

Dewpath bowed slightly and motioned for Bunky to hand over the small mug emblazoned with the green Space Lord logo.

The Most High Slog took it and tossed it to Grumley. “Here, take it. I won’t be needing it.”

**

Back at Borroga base, Dewpath gave the Space Lords his report.

“All in all, giving up a few thousand tiny monkeys was a small price to pay for peace,” he concluded.

Mogone was gripping the tabletop in frustration. “Thanks to your hapless behavior, the Woezeronians destroyed the Sloggan’s most sacred temple!” he roared. “The Sloggans retaliated by slapping a full trade embargo on us. From now on we won’t be getting any more of their jungle fruits or exotic stuffed toucans!”

Lord Noomsa made a sour expression. “I loved those guava smoothies!”

Lord Scalligan scowled as he typed on his device. “You also violated several Borrogan animal movement regulations by coming back with three of those lice-ridden Stump Monkeys!”

Dewpath chuckled. “But they’re so frisky and full of good-natured fun. Why, watching them scuttle around my patio tables and throw little gooseberries at each other is a complete delight.”

Scalligan shook his head. “For the last time, Dewpath. The monkeys need to go by the end of the week!”

“You’ve got to see them for yourselves. I’ll invite you all over for some imported cheese and appletinis. You’ll change your tune if you’ll just nuzzle one!” cried Dewpath.

“This meeting is over!” yelled Mogone. He punched at the Elevation Booth button angrily and before he could give any more details about his invitation, Dewpath plummeted through the floor.

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