The men of Whee were stooped, squat, splay-toed, and stupid. Heavily ridged over the eyes and prone to rather poor posture, they were often mistaken for Neanderthals, a common confusion that the latter deeply resented. Slow to anger or pretty much anything else, they lived peacefully with their boggie neighbors, who were themselves tickled pink to find somebody farther down the evolutionary scale.
Together, the two peoples now lived on the few farthings they made off the wetbacks and the dole, a common fruit shaped like your pancreas and about as appetizing.
The village of Whee had some six dozen small houses, most of them built of wax paper and discarded corks. They were arranged in sort of a circle inside the protecting moat, whose stench alone could drop a dragon at a hundred paces.
Pinching their nostrils, the company crossed the creaky drawbridge and read the sign at the gate:
WELCOME TO QUAINT, HISTORICAL WHEE
Population 10X04 3X88 96 and still growing!
Two sleepy-eyed guards bestirred themselves just long enough to relieve the protesting Spam of his remaining tablespoons. Frito surrendered half of his magic beans, which the guards munched with speculation.
The boggies beat it before they took effect and, per Goodgulf’s instructions, headed for the orange-and-green flashing sign at the center of town. There they found a gaudy plexiglas and chrome inn, whose blinking sign portrayed a boar, rampant, devoured by a mouth, drooling. Beneath it was the name of the inn, the Goode Eats & Lodging. Passing through the revolving door, the party signaled the bell clerk, whose nametag read Hi! I’m HoJo Hominigritts! Like the rest of the staff, he was costumed as a suckling pig with false sow’s ears, tail, and papier-mache snout.
“Howdy!” drawled the fat boggie. “Ya’ll want a room?”
“Yes,” said Frito, stealing a glance at his companions. “We’re just in town for a little vacation, aren’t we, boys?”
“Vacation,” said Moxie, winking at Frito broadly.
“Just a little vacation,” added Pepsi, nodding his head like an idiot.
“Ya’ll sign here please?” said the clerk through his fake snout. Frito took the quill chained to the desk and wrote the names ALIAS UNDERCOVER, IVAN GOTTASECRET, JOHN DOESMITH, and IMA PSEUDONYM.
“Any bags, Mr., uh, Undercover?”
“Only under my eyes,” mumbled Frito, turning toward the dining room.
“Wal,” chuckled the clerk, “just leave these here sacks an’ I’ll ring a bellhop.”
“Fine,” said Frito, hurrying away.
“Now y’all have a good time now,” the clerk called after them, “an’ if y’all want anything, just ring!”
Out of earshot, Frito turned worriedly to Spam. “You don’t think he knows anything,” he whispered, “do you?”
“Naw, Master Frito,” said Spam, massaging his stomach. “Let’s grab some grub!”
The four entered the dining room and sat at a booth near the roaring propane fireplace that eternally roasted a large cement boar on a motorized spit. The soft notes of a badly played Muzak eddied through the crowded room as the ravenous boggies studied the menu, which was ingeniously shaped like a sow giving birth. As Frito considered an “Uncle Piggy’s OinkOink Burger-on-a-Bun” flambéed in purest linseed oil, Spam hungrily ogled the scantily clad “piglets” who served as waitresses, each buxom wench also outfitted in fake tail, ears, and snout.
One of the piglets sidled up to the table for their order as Spam greedily took stock of her big red eyes, crooked blond wig, and hairy legs.
“Youse slobs wanna order yet?” asked the piglet as she teetered uncomfortably on her spiked heels.
“Two Oink-Oink Burgers and two Bow-Wow Specials, please,” answered Frito respectfully.
“Somethun’ t’ ring, uh, I mean, drink, sir?”
“Just four Orca-Colas, thank you.”
“Gotcha.”
As the waitress lurched off, wobbling on her heels and tripping over her long, black scabbard, Frito surveyed the crowd for anyone suspicious. A few boggies, some swarthy-looking men, a drunken troll passed out at the counter. The usual.
Relieved, Frito allowed his three companions to mix with the others, warning them to keep their lips buttoned about the “you-know-what.” The waitress returned with Frito’s burger as Spam traded some pointless anecdotes with a pair of leprechauns in the corner and the twins entertained some seedylooking gremlins with their cunning pantomime, The Old Cripple and His Daughters, a sure-fire hit in the Sty. As growing numbers roared with mirth at their obscene posturings, Frito munched his tasteless burger thoughtfully, wondering what the Great Ring’s fate would be when they reached Riv’n’dell, and Goodgulf.
Suddenly, Frito’s grinders jammed against a small hard object in the burger. Cursing under his breath, Frito reached into his throbbing mouth and extracted a tiny metal cylinder. Unscrewing the top, he removed a tinier strip of microvellum, on which he made out the words: Beware! You are in great danger. You are embarked on a long journey. You will soon meet a tall, dark Ranger. You weigh exactly fifty-nine pounds.
Frito drew in his breath with fright and his eyes sought the sender of this message. At last they came to rest on a tall, dark Ranger seated at the counter, a double root beer untouched before him. The lean figure was dressed entirely in gray, and his eyes were hidden by a black mask. Across his chest were crossed bandoleers of silver bullets, and a pearl-handled broadsword dangled ominously from one lean hip. As if feeling Frito’s eyes upon him, he turned slowly on his stool and met them, putting a gloved finger to his lips for secrecy. He then pointed toward the door of the men’s room and held out five fingers. FIVE MINUTES. He pointed toward Frito and then to himself. By this time half the patrons had turned to watch, and thinking it was a game of charades, were encouraging him with shouts of “Famous saying?” and “Sounds like!”
The young boggie pretended to take no heed of the stranger and reread the note. Danger, it said. Frito stared thoughtfully into the sediment of fish hooks and the frothy head of ground glass on his Orca-Cola. Making sure no one was watching, he cautiously took the glass over to the large potted palm nearby, which accepted it and placed it carefully on the floor.
His suspicions now fully aroused, Frito edged from the booth, careful not to disturb the decorative listening tube placed in the center of the plastic floral arrangement. Without being seen, he went into the little boggies’ room, there to await the dark stranger.
After he had been waiting a few minutes, several patrons using the facilities began to eye Frito curiously as he leaned against a tiled wall whistling, his hands in his pockets. To allay their further inquiry, Frito turned to the vending machine that hung on the wall. “Well, well, well,” he said in a stage whisper, “just what I’ve been looking for!” He then proceeded, with elaborate carelessness, to work the machine with the change in his farthing purse.
Fifteen bird whistles, eight compasses, six miniature lighters, and four packs of nasty little rubber novelties later, a mysterious knocking was heard at the door. Finally one of the patrons hidden by a stall yelled, ‘F’cryin’ out loud, somebody let the s.o.b. in!” The door swung open and the masked visage of the dark stranger appeared and beckoned Frito around the corner.