From the smoky depths an answering voice returned:
At first Frito saw nothing amid the iridescent wallpaper and strobe candles but what appeared to be a heap of filthy cleaning rags. But then the pile spoke again:
And then, as the boggies squinted their smarting eyes, the heap stirred and sat up revealing itself to be an incredibly emaciated, hollow-eyed female. She looked at them for a second, muttered, “Like wow,” and fell forward in a catatonic stupor with a rattle of beads.
“Doan’ let Hash bug yoo,” said Tim. “Tuesday is her day to crash.”
Somewhat bewildered by the acrid fumes and the flashing candles, the boggies sat crosslegged on a grimy mattress and asked politely for some grub, as they had journeyed far and were about to devour the ticking.
“Eats?” chuckled Tim, rummaging through a handmade leather pouch. “Jes’ hang loose an’ I’ll fimb somp’un f’yoo. Lemmesee, oh, oh wow! Dint know we had any this left!” Clumsily he scooped out the contents and set them in a bent hubcap before them. They were among the most dubious-looking mushrooms Spam had ever seen, and, rather rudely, he said so.
“These are among the most dubious-lookin’ mushrooms I’m ever a-seeing,” he stated.
Nevertheless there were few things in Lower Middle Earth Spam hadn’t idly nibbled and lived to tell about, so he dived in, stuffing himself loudly. They were of an odd color and odor, but they tasted okay, if a little on the moldy side, and after that the boggies were offered round candies with little letters cleverly printed on them. (“They melt in yoor brain, not in your hans,” giggled Tim.)
Bloated to critical mass, the contented boggies relaxed as Hashberry played a melody on something that looked like a pregnant handloom. Mellowed by the repast, Sam was particularly pleased when Tim offered him some of his “own speshul mix” for his nose-pipe. An odd flavor, thought Spam, but nice.
“Yoo got about ha’f an hour,” said Tim. “Wanna rap?”
“Rap?” said Spam.
“Yoo know, like... talk wif your mouf,” replied Tim as he lit his own pipe, a large converted milk separator laden with valves and dials. “Yoo here ’cause th’ heat’s on?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Frito judiciously. “We’ve got this here Ring of Power and—oops!” Frito caught himself, but too late; he could not unsay it now.
“Oh groovy!” said Tim. “Lemme see.”
Reluctantly, Frito handed over the Ring.
“Pretty cheap stuff,” said Tim, tossing it back. “Even th’ junk I pawn off on th’ dwarbs is bedder.”
“You sell rings?” asked Moxie.
“Sure,” said Tim. “I gotta sandal-and-magic-charm shop for th’ tourist season. Keeps me in stash for winter months, y’know whad I mean?”
“There might not be many of us left to visit the woods,” said Frito quietly, “if Sorhed’s plans are not foiled. Will you join us?”
Tim shook his hair. “Now doan’ bug me, man. I’m a conscienshul objectioner... doan’ wan’ no more war. Came here to dodge draff, see? If some cat wants to kick th’ stuffing outta me, I say, ‘Groovy,’ an’ I give ’em flower an’ love-beads. ‘Love,’ I say t’ him. ‘No more war,’ I say. Anyway, I fourF!”
“No more guts!” growled Spam under his breath to Moxie.
“No, I god guts,” said Tim, pointing to his temple, “no more braims!”
Frito smiled diplomatically, but was suddenly stricken by a severe stomachache. His eyes began to roll and he felt very light-headed. Probably a touch of the banshee two-step, he thought as his ears started to ring like a dwarf’s cash-register. His tongue felt thick, and his tail began to vibrate. Turning to Spam, he wished to ask him if he felt it too.
“Argle-bargle morble whoosh?” said Frito.
But it did not matter, for he saw that Spam had oddly taken it into his head to change himself into a large, pink dragon wearing a three-piece suit and a straw boater.
“What did you be sayin’, Master Frito?” asked the natty lizard with Spam’s voice.
“Ffluger fribble golorful frooble,” said Frito dreamily, thinking it strange that Spam was wearing a boater in late autumn. Glancing at the twins, Frito noted that they had changed into matching candy-striped coffeepots perking away like mad.
“Don’t feel too well,” said one.
“Feel sick,” clarified the other.
Tim, now a rather handsome six-foot carrot, laughed loudly and changed into a coiled parking meter. Frito, dizzy as a great wave of oatmeal flowed through his brain, grew heedless of the puddle of drool collecting in his lap. There was a noiseless explosion between his ears and he watched with terror as the room began stretching and pulsating like Silly Putty in heat. Frito’s ears began to grow and his arms changed into badminton rackets. The floor developed holes out of which poured fanged peanut brittle. A score of polka-dotted cockroaches danced a buck-and-wing on his stomach. A Swiss cheese waltzed him twice around the room, and his nose fell off. Frito opened his mouth to speak and a flock of flying earthworms escaped. His gall bladder sang an aria and did a little tap dance on his appendix. He began to lose consciousness, but before it ebbed completely, he heard a six-foot waffle iron giggle, “If yoo dig it now, jes’ wade till th’ rush hits you!”
III
Indigestion at the Sign of The Goode Eats
The golden brightness of late morning was already warming the grass when Frito finally awoke, his head sore afflicted, and his mouth tasting like the bottom of a birdcage. Looking about, every joint aching, he saw that he and his three still-slumbering companions were at the very edge of the Wood, and before them was the four-lane wagon rut that would lead them directly to Whee! There was no sign of Tim Benzedrine. Frito mused that the events of the previous night might have been the idle dream of a boggie whose tummy writhed full of spoiled potato salad. Then his bloodshot eyes saw the small paper bag resting next to his knapsack, with a scrawled note attached. Curiously, Frito read:
Dere Fritoad,
Two badd yoo copped outt sso sooon lazt nighgt.
Missed somm grooovy ttrps. Hoap the rring thinng wurcs outt awrighgth
Peece,
P.S. Hear ar som outt of sighgt stash which I am laying onn yoo guyys. Mmust sine off as rush iss comcomcoming ohgodohgodohgodohgod$5~%*@ + =!
Frito peeked inside the dirty paper sack and saw a number of colored candy beans, much like the ones they had eaten the night before. Odd, thought Frito, but they may prove useful. Who knows? Thus, after an hour or so of cajoling his fellows to their senses, Frito and the party tramped off toward Whee rapping much of their adventure the previous evening.
Whee was the chief village of Wheeland, a small and swampy region populated mostly by star-nosed moles and folk who wished that they were somewhere else. The village enjoyed a brief popularity when, through a surveyor’s fortuitous hiccup, the four-lane Intershire Turnpath was mistakenly built right through the center of the pathetic little twarf. Then, for a time, the populace lived high on the hog off the proceeds from illegal speed traps, parking violations, and occasional bald-faced hijackings. A small tourist influx from the Sty led to the construction of cheap diners, flimsy souvenir stands, and prefabricated historical landmarks. But the growing cloud of “troubles” from the east abruptly ended such trade as there was. Instead, a trickle of refugees came from the eastern lands bearing few belongings and fewer smarts. Not ones to miss an opportunity, the men and boggies of Whee labored together in harmony selling the heavily accented immigrants shorter names and interests in perpetual-motion machines. They also supplemented their purses by hawking black-market visas to the Sty to the few unfortunates who were not familiar with the place.