The fellas and I have been up to our earlobes in a weird new tale, so settle
back and I'll unfold it for you.
---------------------

It is a sultry afternoon in West LA and Tim, Dix and Rowan are relaxing around
the pool in Tim's back yard.  The boys are in Speedos to catch a few rays and
Dix is in her meltdown bikini (that looks as if it had melted down from one
that actually could be worn in public).  It has taken our friends a few days
to recover from Tim's birthday party.

Rowan [rolling over on the deck and reaching for his Mai Tai:]  That chat room
group certainly was enthusiastic.  I never saw so much champagne disappear so
quickly.

Dix:  At least the younger Timbos were sticking with sparkling cider and
cheese doodles.  I think.

She applies more sunblock to Tim's sweaty shoulders.

Dix:  You're awfully quiet today, Tim.

Tim [thoughtfully:]  I was just wondering who those four masked Timbos were.
You know, the ones who suddenly leapt to their feet and did the 'Full Monica.'

Rowan [smiling:]  I have my suspicions.

Dix:  Never you mind.  We have other things to think about at the moment.

Tim [under his breath:]  Speak for yourself...umm, yes, you're right.

Rowan [stretching like a jungle cat:]  Hadn't we better start getting dressed
for the show?

Dix:  Mmmm, rippling muscles...what?  Oh, yes.

Our trio heads for the house to get ready for their gala evening at Planet
Hollywood.  Tim is scheduled to do a couple of songs to help raise funds for
the Actors' Guild, so they need to arrive early.

Later, at the restaurant.

Tim:  This is nice -- what a huge dressing room.

Dix:  I didn't know that the restaurant HAD dressing rooms.

Rowan:  Probably for dressing the entree's.

Tim sits before the makeup mirror and begins applying a few dabs of stage
makeup.  Dix and Rowan examine the furnishings of the luxurious room.

Dix:  What a strange-looking lamp.

Rowan:  Yes...three feet tall and glowing with an odd-coloured light, a
mixture of green, yellow and purple...

Tim:  Can't you turn it off?  It's making me feel ill.

Rowan grasps the switch and turns it, but the room is suddenly flooded with an
intense otherworldly glow.

Dix:  Oh, no!  That colour is octarine -- it only occurs on Disc World!!

There is a clap of thunder and a smell of burning feathers and everything
turns velvety black...


---------------------------------------------------------

Tim, Dix and Rowan regain consciousness to find themselves lying on the stone
floor of a dimly-lit room.  A delicious scent of cinnamon, cloves and
something else fills the air.

Tim sits up and bumps his head on an overhanging ledge.

Tim: Ouch!

Dix looks around and sees rows of oddly-shaped kettles and other metal
implements hanging on the greasy-looking black walls.

Rowan:  I don't wish to seem inquisitive, but what happened to our clothes?

Tim and Rowan find that they are both dressed in leather jerkins and black
tights.  Each of them also wears a gold neck chain with a strange medallion.
Dix is more casually clad in a leather skirt cut in strips and an intricately
wrought metal breast-plate.  There is a short sword in her belt and Tim and
Rowan also wear swords in scabbards.

A diffident cough attracts their attention and our friends get to their feet
and look for the source.  At the end of the vast ill-ventilated room is an
eight-foot-wide fireplace and a tall thin man is stirring something in a
kettle.  Whatever it is isn't happy about being stirred:  green tentacles
twitch nervously over the rim and the man pokes them back in with a ladle.

The man is wearing a long yellow apron over a fuzzy green robe; a crumpled
chef's hat perches crookedly on his head.  He sets a lid firmly on the kettle
and turns toward our trio.

Man:  Well, it took you long enough to get here.

Tim:  Who are you?

Rowan:  And where are we?

Dix:  And why?

Man:  I'm Ricewood, Chief Chef to the Other Ones.  You're in the kitchen of
Cuisine University.  You are here to save our civilization, if you'll pardon
the expression, from Hagvald the Terminally Ugly and his creatures-so-hideous-
that-it-is-forbideen-to-describe-them.

Rowan:  Hang on a minute.  What happened to Planet Hollywood?

Ricewood:  Nothing.  YET.  It is Elsewhere.

A small gnomish figure crawls out of the coal scuttle, yawning and scratching
itself.  It is three feet tall, quite hairy, and has a dish towel tied around
its middle.  It peers up at Tim suspiciously with its small yellow eyes, then
picks up a beetle and pops it into its mouth.

Dix notices something:  Umm, that goblin doesn't seem to have any nose...

Ricewood:  That's right.  He lost it in a friendly game of Strip Scrabble...he
was playing with the trolls, Geode and Dermot, and they usually cheat.  Once
Bleeb here had lost his elf-string, he was out of wearing apparel so Geode
settled for biting off his nose.

Dix:  That seems a bit drastic.  How does he smell?

A breeze come in through the narrow window slot and her question is answered.

Rowan [a handkerchief to his nose:]  Good God! -- go downwind, you repulsive
rubbish-heap!

Tim:  I don't like to seem unhelpful here, but I DO have another commitment.
I'm sure that you have us mixed up with some other trio of adventurers who
save civilizations.  So if you could direct us back to Los Angeles...

Ricewood:  Not...really possible, I'm afraid.  Until Hagvald is dealt with,
your destinies are entwined with those of this world.  And they may be rather
short...


---------------------------------------------------------
Having little choice in the matter, our fearless threesome allow Chef Ricewood
to introduce them to some of the other inhabitants of Por-Mercat City, the
plague-spot of Slipped-Disc World...

They are strolling along Whistling Alley at the rear of the University when
Ricewood gestures toward two ominously craggy granite hillocks overlooking the
campus.

Ricewood:  There's Dermot and Geode.  They'll be your guides, walls,
bridges,-- ammunition if necessary.

Both of the grayish fifteen-feet-by-ten towers bow slightly, gleaming little
mica eyes leering in an unsettling way.

A long-nosed wizened woman with several well-developed warts appears in the
doorway of Molefeather's Grogg Shoppe & Spinning Emporium at the end of the
street. Seeing our group, she wraps her black cloak with its garish plaid
lining about her and waves as she tremulously hurries forward.  But there is a
sudden deafening whooshing sound as a freak tornado springs up from nowhere
and drops a one-story farmhouse -- splat! -- on the old lady.

Ricewood strolls over and looks down.  He reaches out and quickly pulls a pair
of emerald slippers off the defunct crone's protruding feet.


Dix:  Uh, was that one of the people who were going to be so helpful to us in
defeating this Hagvald?

Ricewood:  Afraid so.  That was Granny Witherwick, Caster of Serious Spells,
Witch Woman Extraordinaire and Left-Fielder for the Slipped-Disc Dickey-Birds
softball team.  She will be hard to replace.

Tim:  But at least you saved the slippers.

Rowan:  And let me guess,--Dix puts them on, takes our hands, clicks her heels
together,--

Tim: --and says, "There's no place like home,--"

Ricewood: And you would all be transmuted into small painted wooden ducks, to
the dismay of your creditors.

Tim:  Well, what good are they then?

A small voice near his left knee murmurs:  Just what I was wondering.

It is a furry brown hesitant-looking animal with big black eyes and an anxious
expression.  
                                             
Ricewood [waving a hand at the beast:]  Gaspipe, the Wonder Wombat.  He's
perfectly useless, but he'll be company for you.

Rowan:  What makes him a wonder?

Gaspipe [eagerly:]  Isn't it a wonderful day?  I wonder if it will rain later?
Do you ever wonder why the sky is green?--

Rowan:  Sorry I asked.

Ricewood [pushing the wombat into a nearby drain and walking on:]  The
slippers have a secret power, known to no man and very few women.  It is
believed that it is something to do with an occult poison.  Or a unique
crochet pattern.  Just keep them with you in case of emergencies.

Dix:  Well, none of us has a knapsack so they're going to be a bit of a
nuisance... must be size nines at least...

Ricewood whistles a piercing note and a large bat-like object swoops down from
the west tower of the University and perches on his shoulder.

Ricewood:  Put them in this.  (The object seems to be a black leather satchel
with silver clasps.)

Tim:  Ah, what IS that thing?

Ricewood:  That's right.  It's a Winged Thing.  Most useful.  And now we must
hurry along to the Library and look up the Receipt for Cooking Hagvald's
Goose...     
                         

---------------------------------------------------------
Our bemused friends follow Ricewood into the University and down several long
hallways and twisty staircases to the Library, wherein are stored several
centuries' worth of arcane culinary lore.  Tim has slung the Winged Thing over
one shoulder where it is singing quietly to itself:  "...fearsome faceless
fiends what be,/ cringe and cower, flinch and flee/ when the Mighty Ones
advance / I shall lead the victory dance..."

Ricewood stops before a heavily-carved oaken door, opens it cautiously and
peers inside.

Ricewood:  Ah.  Maybe he's gone to luncheon.

A cheery voice from overhead disappoints him:  Customers!!  I'll be right
down!!

The walls are lined with bookcases smelling of musty leather and little-known
spices and in the murky yellowish light a moving ladder ratchets along the
shelves.  At the top is a curious figure:  a plump bald man wearing purple
tights, a hairy tunic and a barbecue apron that reads, "Kiss Me -- I'm
Discish."  He jumps down, landing in front of Tim, Dix and Rowan with an eager
smile.

Ricewood [sotto voce:] Damn.

Man:  What an honour to meet Your Excellences! [fawning and bowing]  I'm Colin
and I'll be your Librarian.  [rubbing pudgy hands together]  Now, what will it
be?  Midnight Supper for Three?  Glittering Affair for Four?  Slap-up Banquet
for the Hunting Party?

Dix: Uh, *what* hunting party?

Colin:  Why, YOUR invincible, chuckle-in-the-face-of-certain-dismemberment-
and-scattering-to-the-man-eating-stoats SELVES, of course.

Rowan:  Time out. Nothing was said about dismemberment, and I have a very
strict clause in my contract,--

Tim:  I do the rock myself.  Listen,--what's that noise?

From overhead comes the rumbling sound of grinding mortar and enormous great
thumping noises...like two massive trolls walking downstairs.  Which is what
it is, actually.

The library door suddenly crashes to the floor in a heap of jagged splinters
and a troll head the size of Cincinnati peers in.

Ricewood:  Geode, how many times must I tell you:  the floors here aren't
strong enough to support your weight,--

There is a rending crash as Geode disappears from sight and plummets to the
sub-basement, which hasn't yet been built and now will not need to be.

From outside the University, far overhead comes the sound of a brazen trumpet
badly played.  Ricewood turns pale.

Ricewood:  The Challenge!!  And we haven't even looked up the Antidote!!
Slipped-Dish,--I mean "Disc",--World is Doomed!!

------------------------------------------------
(Is it actually doomed or just about to get a bit bent?  Stay tuned...)

(and what of the Winged Thing and its Sinister Contents?  What indeed?)

---------------------------------------------------------
As the notes of the trumpet die away, Dix, Tim and Rowan look at each other
and shrug their shoulders.  Rowan pulls his sword out of its scabbard and runs
a thumb thoughtfully along the blade.

The Winged Thing slips unnoticed from Tim's shoulder and flutters off into the
rear of the library, seeming to seek something among the dusty shelves...

Ricewood has dropped to his knees and is trying to recall an effective
petition to the gods, while Colin has scurried off and secreted himself in the
Apprentice Cooks' billiard room in the annex.

A thundering voice echoes off the walls...well, TWO thundering voices:
Foolish Mortals!!  Come out else I fetch you out!!  Out you fetch I else out
come,--Mortals Foolish!!

Tim: Let's go see what's on this monster's mind.  At this rate, I'll be too
late even to do any encores at Planet Hollywood -- assuming it's still
standing.

Dix [drawing her sword:]  All for one,--

Rowan:  --Unless it's me.  Why don't I slip around the back and reconnoiter?
Size up the enemy before we rush into anything futile.

Ricewood [shakily:]  No one sneaks up on Hagvald.  Can't be done.

While they're talking, our trio are walking back up the twisty staircases and
along the lengthy cobwebbed corridors toward the Library exit.  Ricewood is
managing to stay well in the rear to offer advice (and run like a thief when
necessary).

Dix opens the door and is the first to see the monstrous shaggy shape the size
of two trolls and a Buick, flanked by a seething horde of undescribable clawed
objects with bad breath and filed fangs.

Dix: Uh, what's that great hairy horrid lump on his shoulders?

Ricewood [now whiter than fresh-bleached laundry:]  His head.

Tim:  I think she means that other great hairy horrid lump.

Ricewood [sinking again to the floor:]  His OTHER head.  It faces backwards,
which is why it's so very difficult to approach him from behind if you wanted
to give him a friendly slap on the back.  Or a large sharp knife, for that
matter.  It speaks backward as well.

Hagvald:  Enough chit-chat!!  Come forward and be diced, chopped and
julienned!!  Julienned and chopped, diced be and forward come!!  Chit-chat
enough!!

Tim, Dix and Rowan sigh and unsheathe their swords.  None of them can help
noticing that Hagvald is accoutred with broad leather bands supporting several
swords, maces, what look like hand grenades, a portable flamethrower and a
personal-sized cannon.  In one dirty hairy paw he clasps what may be the
largest battle axe ever forged.

Meanwhile the Winged Thing has not been idle.  Hastily gulping into its
interior a small brass-bound Receipte Booke it makes chewing sounds for a
moment, then soars in pursuit of our beleagured adventurers.  As Tim, Dix and
Rowan march resolutely toward the pack of Nameless Entities and their fearsome
leader, the Winged Thing alights on Tim's shoulder and opens its flap...

A delicious scent of hyacinth and roast duck floats on the air as a misty
spray envelopes Tim and he suddenly grows to the height of a three-story
building, towering over the nonplussed Hagvald.  Orange flickers of light
outline Tim's body, crackling with unearthly power.  The Winged Thing repeats
the process on Dix and Rowan, bathing their now-gigantic figures in the
tangerine glow...

Dix: This is more like it!

Tim makes a tentative pass with his sword and skewers four of the snarling
entities neatly:  Look,--shiskabob.

Rowan swings his blade and beheads half a dozen more:  Fore!

Hagvald has recovered his aplomb and is unlimbering a large black hissing
bomb.  As he is about to throw it, the Winged Thing snaps out a command:

WT: Triangle formation!!  All strike together!!

Tim, Dix and Rowan surround Hagvald and all raise their swords and strike --
CLANG!!!!  The swords meet in mid-air with a reverberating echo and Hagvald's
two heads emit their final croaks:

Heads One and Two:  I'm dissolving!!  Dissolving I'm!!

And sure enough, Hagvald melts down into a disgusting mass of greenish sludge
and runs into a drain...

As our friends turn to deal with the rest of Hagvald's helpers, a furry head
pops up out of that same drain, wiping sludge off its muzzle in a dazed way.

Gaspipe, the Wonder Wombat:  Wonderful job, you chaps.  Wonder if you could
give me a hand?

Ricewood shudders and gives Gaspipe a foot, pushing him back into the drain.

At the Slap-Up Banquet later that day, our friends learn that they will be
transported back to Planet Hollywood by Winged Thing and that they will arrive
at the same time they left (so Tim will have time to go on and charm the
customers with his golden voice as originally planned).

Dix [to Ricewood:] So the recipe for Hagvald's defeat was that spray stuff
that the satchel whipped up?  Why didn't you just use in on yourself instead
of dragging us into your civic affairs?

Ricewood:  It only works on Off-Worlders.  Our warlocks have found that it's
impractical to experiment on Slipped-Discians.  Turns them into soup,
actually.  Like a thin, ill-smelling bouillabaise.

Tim [looking at the bowl of soup in front of him:]  I'm not really hungry.
And I think we'd better be going now.

Rowan: I have a question too:  what about the emerald slippers you took off
that extinct witch lady?

Ricewood:  Oh, they were just in the story as a none-too-subtle homage to
another Wonderful World...

The End     .   .   .    Or is it? 

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