Do Not Remove This Tag
Piers Anthony
Nate stared at the purple tag. DO NOT REMOVE THIS TAG. There was no other information on it, so what was the point of it? It was on the second-hand mattress he had bought cheap, all that he could afford, and the mattress was not very comfortable. In fact it was lumpy, and the lumps tended to poke him almost as if self-animated. He was getting ready for bed, dreading another bad night’s sleep, with the night yet young, and in no mood for arrogant tags. It was bad enough existing on unemployment and limited savings; he didn’t need this.
What the hell. At least he could deal with this annoyance. What could they do, throw him in jail? He took hold of the tag and pulled.
It resisted his effort. “So it’s like that, is it?” he muttered. “Well, we’ll see, you self-important little piece of fluff.”
He went to fetch a pair of pliers. He fastened them on the tag and yanked hard. It ripped out of the mattress seam with a pained noise of separation. It truly had not wanted to be removed. But it had tangled with the wrong person.
Then mist issued from the small tear where the tag had been. Purple mist or smoke. Was the mattress on fire? Fascinated for the moment, Nate watched the vapor curl out and spiral upward, thickening and expanding. There was evidently a lot of it inside the mattress, now released by the slit. It became a dark cloud eighteen inches in diameter, swirling internally.
The vapor formed into a horrendous face with cauliflower ears, beetling brows, a crude vent of a mouth, flame-like hair, and darkly smoldering eyes. “So, mortal!” it rumbled. “Thou hast released me at last, thou foul son of a she-dog!”
This was weird. It was also insulting. “Listen, airhead. If you’re what inflated the mattress, get back in there and do your job. The damned thing is bad enough without going all the way flat.”
“I be the Ifrit Ibraheemstukobritch,” the face said, or something that sounded something like that. “Three thousand years have I been trapped in this vile container. Other ifrits got confined to fine glass bottles, but no, I was stuck in this ill bag. King Suleiman, may the gods defecate on his name, doubtless had a sense of humor I share not.”
This was one of the genies the ancient Israeli king had confined to bottles so they wouldn’t bother human folk? That didn’t make sense. “How come? He must have had a reason.”
More of the demon formed. Now he was a complete figure of a supernatural spirit, with muscular limbs and an impressive naked torso. “Know, O foolish mortal, that I always had an eye for the damsels. The queen was one luscious creature, but her suite was warded to repel ifrits like me. So I sneaked into a mattress that was being delivered to her bedroom, and when she sat her bountiful bottom down in it, I gave her a little poke up through the cloth.” He illustrated by poking a single ham-finger up suggestively.
“That wasn’t smart,” Nate said, smiling.
“Mayhap not. Her scream roused the entire palace staff, including the king, who was not much amused. He was in his night dress, with a disheveled concubine trailing behind. ‘O foul spawn of hell,’ he swore, ‘since thou does like mattresses so much, be thou forever confined to it.’ Suddenly I was locked in, with a magic tag for the seal, and the mattress was heaved onto the trash pile. I could hear what passed outside it, but could not see, and of course I could not escape. It were not the mattress that confined me, but the seal, which I could not remove from inside. The mattress passed from beggar to beggar over the centuries, and each insisted on using it despite my efforts to make it uncomfortable. It was in my mind that I might torment someone into burning it, and when the flame made a hole I would escape. But the infernal thing was fireproof. Thus I remained, until this moment thou didst free me. So thank thee, mortal, and now begone.”
“Begone?” Nate repeated, outraged. “Listen, you refugee from Arabic fantasy, this is my apartment. You begone. In fact, cram yourself back into the mattress where you belong, because I paid for it and it’s mine along with all its contents, including you, and I want to be able to use it, uncomfortable as it is.”
The ifrit contemplated him thoughtfully. “Thou beest correct. The mattress should have its occupant. Since it be thine, I will cram thee into it, and thou canst spend the next three thousand years contemplating thy insignificant navel therein.”
“The hell with that!” Nate said. “I’m not getting inside any—”
But the ifrit reached out with a hand suddenly grown huge and gripped him about the body. “In thou goest, fell mortal,” he said, and jammed Nate’s head at the slit. The vent actually enlarged to take him in.
Obviously he had misplayed this situation. The demon had powers he couldn’t match. He needed to talk his way out of trouble in a hurry, because he suspected that he would not be able to escape the mattress once he was inside. “Wait!”
The ifrit paused momentarily. “What, mortal?”
“You—you’ve been trapped for three thousand years. You have no experience with the modern world. You’ll be hopelessly lost if you try to wing it alone. You’ll get in terminal trouble. You need a guide who is familiar with the local customs.”
“Trouble? With what? Suleiman be long gone.”
Nate thought fast. “The IRS, for one thing. It will come after you for having no visible means of support and not paying taxes. You could wind up confined again.”
The ifrit considered. “I know not this Iris. Be she a powerful goddess?”
“The worst! Nobody can stop it, uh, her. Even the worst criminals get caught in her clutches.”
“She must be a distant daughter of Suleiman.”
“Very distant,” Nate agreed. “And she’s just one of the hazards of the modern world.”
The ifrit considered further. “Be there damsels here?”
So he was a lecherous knave, as had been hinted when he got into the queen’s bed. That was the undoing of males in all cultures. “Oh, sure. Gals galore. Here, I’ll show you.” He wriggled out of the demon’s grasp and went to turn on the TV, and set it to a porn station. The raunchy action was continuous.
“In a magic box!” the ifrit said, impressed. “Lovely creatures.”
“They’re actually full sized,” Nate explained. “This is merely a picture. But as you can see, they have the essential features.”
“They do. I want some of those.”
“Uh, you can’t just fetch them. They are protected by, uh, wards. This is just to prove that they exist. First you have to blend in with the culture.”
The ifrit sighed. “Ever thus. Very well, mortal, I will spare thee the mattress, for now. But thou must show me this blending.”
“It’s a deal.” He considered. “But first some cautions. You’ll need to don some clothing. Contemporary clothing, not pantaloons and slippers.”
“Clothing,” the ifrit agreed with resignation. Pajamas matching those Nate was wearing appeared on his body.
“That’s night clothing,” Nate said. “I’ll show you day clothing. But first, you’ll need a name. Not a ten syllable Arabic moniker. Why don’t I just call you Tag? That should pass muster.”
There was a rude sound, followed by a ruder smell. “There, I passed mustard. Be that satisfactory?”
“Uh, no,” Nate gasped as the thick odor made him gag. “No mustard gas. Not in public. I just meant that the name Tag should do. Next, the language. You’re speaking an archaic dialect. In fact, how is it you’re speaking my language at all, if you’ve been out of touch for three thousand years? Shouldn’t you be speaking Aramaic or something?”
“I could hear folk speaking when they were on the mattress. I picked up on the languages as they gradually changed. There was a really nice damsel about three centuries ago in England. She put her ear to the mattress, and we conversed. So I learned her dialect.” He frowned. “But she wouldn’t remove the tag, so I tuned out.”