Hitherby Dragons

¹ whose story does not interest.

The snowflake kingdom is high on the cloud. Prince Adric lives there. He doesn’t like Prince Leopold. PUSH!

Prince Leopold goes over the edge. Flutter flutter flutter down to the earth below.

King Gordon lives on the cloud. King Gordon is sleeping with Laurel, Melinda, and Amanda. They catch him at it. It’s not too hard once they take off the blindfolds. PUSH!

King Gordon goes over the edge. Flutter flutter flutter down to the earth below.

It’s their tragic destiny. It’s nature’s calamity! They have to have infighting so that we can have snow.

“Oh, Romeo,” says Juliet, who is a snowflake from a great snowflake family, “wherefore art thou Romeo?”

Romeo gives her a chilly glare. He can’t help it. He’s a snowflake. He also makes pointed remarks. It’s just part of the package.

“Look, babe. I’m just how I gotta be.”

“Well, I’m killing myself, then!” JUMP!

Juliet goes over the edge. Flutter flutter flutter down to the earth below.

“Woe is me! Nobody loves Snowflake Romeo!” JUMP!

Romeo goes over the edge. Flutter flutter flutter down to the earth below.

In the spring, it will be warmer, and the rain will fall like the blood of God, speared through the heart by a lance of sunlight, falling forever through the sky, soft as a cloud. Because that’s what it is.

In the autumn, leaves will scurry from the trees to carry out their offensive against the governments of mankind. They’re orange and red. Those are the colors of their revolution.

In the winter, King Gordon XVIII will stand before the assembled snowflakes. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he will say, and everyone will look utterly blank.

Gordon will blush. He cribbed his speech from late night television. Bad Gordon XVIII!

“Variously sexed frozen particles of water!”

Wild cheering.

“Tonight, we launch our invasion plan of the earth below.”

He gestures widely at the snow mortars; at the snow tanks; at the snow bombs, each carrying more than a teraton of explosive power, if only snowflakes had nuclear technology, which admittedly they do not. “We shall sweep them away in our wrath. We will bury them!” JUMP!

Gordon falls.

JUMP!

Many subjects fall.

The sergeants scowl at the others. PUSH!

The remaining subjects fall. Flutter flutter flutter down to the earth below.

“Oh no!” cried King Gordon XVIII. “We forgot our military armament. Can anyone flutter upwards?”

King Gordon XVIII hits the windshield of someone who doesn’t know how to drive in the snow. Splat.

This is everybody’s world.

Donning her mantle of infinite mercy, her majestic aura radiating unconquerable love for all living things, Kwan-Yin jogs onto the stage and faces the cameras.

“Hi folks!”

“HI KWAN-YIN!” roars the audience.

“Today we’re cooking with Leviticus!”

The audience screams its insatiable appreciation for all cooking bodhisattvas. Go audience! To cheer like that makes a bodhisattva glad!

“Leviticus 4 is a very important chapter,” says Kwan-Yin. “It shows us how to prepare a young bullock for consumption by the LORD!”

The audience looks confused.

“But if you don’t have the LORD handy, a properly sacrificed young bullock also feeds ten! It’s the ultimate party snack—it tastes great and it cleanses sin!”

“Yay!”

The prompter signals the audience: BOUNDLESS JOY IN KWAN-YIN’S COOKING EXCELLENCE.

The audience engages in boundless joy in Kwan-Yin’s cooking excellence! Can even Kwan-Yin’s deep awareness of suffering withstand such endless ebullience? No gentle bodhisattva could have a heart of stone!

“Let’s see,” says Kwan-Yin. “‘If a priest that is anointed do sin according to the sin of the people; then let him bring for his sin, which he hath sinned, a young bullock without blemish unto the LORD for a sin offering.’”

“BAM!” shouts the audience.

“Well, do we have any priests in the audience today?” asks Kwan-Yin, her eyes shining with luminous dedication to helping others and preparing a damn fine bullock. “Particularly any SINNING priests?”

A young man bounds to his feet, beaming. “I couldn’t help it, all-glorious bodhisattva Kwan-Yin! The accidental properties of material life led me astray!”

“Rock on,” says Kwan-Yin, who approves of audience participation and who, besides, thinks the young man is rather hot.

The prompter flashes: FORGIVENESS FOR A SINNING PRIEST.

The audience immediately forgives the sinning priest for all his venal incidents. Such ready clemency displays their qualities of greatness!

“‘And he shall bring the bullock unto the door of the tabernacle of the congregation before the LORD; and shall lay his hand upon the bullock’s head, and kill the bullock before the LORD.’” Kwan-Yin beams. “Sounds like a plan!”

Radiant with her all-embracing charity, Kwan-Yin assumes the bullock-summoning stance. Pow! A bullock tumbles into the room.

“This isn’t the bullock we practiced on,” says the priest, uncertainly.

“That one turned out to be a freak mutation with human-level intelligence,” Kwan-Yin says, a broad gesture indicating her love for all hyperintelligent quadrupeds. “We couldn’t very well sacrifice him for ratings.”

“He’ll at least be on a spinoff show?”

Kwan-Yin smiles enigmatically. Who can comprehend the infinite mysteries of the universe?

The prompter flashes: REMIND PRIEST ABOUT COOKING.

“Hey!” shouts a young woman. “Shouldn’t you be killing the bullock before the LORD?”

“Right!” says the priest, and snaps into action. His silvered katana Starwind jumps into his hands, thrumming with suppressed energy. With one stroke, he cuts the bullock’s neck!

“Meee,” declares the bullock, somewhat distressed, and dies.

“Okay!” said Kwan-Yin. “Now you take of the bullock’s blood, and bring it to the tabernacle of the congregation. Then you dip your finger in the blood and sprinkle it seven times before the LORD, before the veil of the sanctuary.”

“BAM!” shouts the audience.

“Don’t worry if you don’t know how to do this,” says Kwan-Yin, her transcendent compassion fanning out in all directions. “I’ve already pre-mixed the veil of the sanctuary.”

Oh no! The sinning priest got bullock blood on his lip. He’s tasting it now. There’s a mad gleam in his eyes!

“I won’t stop with just the bullock!” exclaims the priest. “I’ll kill the audience too, and make you mortal sacrifice!”

The prompter flashes: SCREAM AND RUN AROUND.

The audience, startled despite their prior knowledge of the priest’s sinful nature, screams and runs around in panic.

“That’s the problem with cooking shows in the Latter Days of the Law,” says Kwan-Yin, magnificent in sorrow.

The prompter flashes: COMMERCIAL and the world fades to dark.

“Surprise!” says Jane’s mother. “We got you an early Christmas present.”

“Ooh!” says Jane, and tears off the wrapping. “It’s a burning bush action figure, with real prophetic action! And it sings!”

“That’s right!” announces Jane’s mother. “I knew you’d like it. I couldn’t wait for Christmas!”

“That’s very bad, mother,” lectures Jane. “Presents should wait until Christmas Day!”

“I’m sorry,” admits Jane’s mother, and hangs her head. “Here, you should light it on fire and see what action figure God says!”

“Okay!” says Jane, who can’t stay angry at her Mom long. Fwoosh! The bush catches on fire.

“I AM THAT I AM(TM),” the bush announces. “I’m a burning bush with real prophetic action!”

“Wow!” says Jane. “It’s even better than I imagined.”

“You must be Jane,” says the voice of the plastic Yahweh action figure. “That’s good! I need you to save the world.”

“I’ll do it!” Jane exclaims. “But I have to be in bed by 8.”

“You must push every software CEO in town,” explains the burning bush action figure. “PUSH! Otherwise I’ll have to blow everything up, and that’s bad.”

“That’s very bad, plastic God,” lectures Jane. “Pushing people is impolite! A good girl never pushes. Not even people with MBAs.”

“Very well,” concedes the burning bush. “You may give them a bouillon cube instead, if they do not want to be pushed.”

“Yay!” shouts Jane. “I’m going to save the world.”

“Be careful!” cries the burning bush. “You will have many enemies!”

It’s no good, burning bush action figure! Jane’s already dropped you and bolted out the door. She’s a hasty heroine!

Jane visits three CEOs. She gives two of them a bouillon cube. The third, she looks over. He doesn’t understand the importance of Ops. So she says, “Excuse me, sir, but can I push you?”

“Only if it’s necessary to save the world,” says the CEO. He laughs to himself. He’s so clever! She’ll never push him now!

PUSH! Jane runs away. You always have to get permission before pushing someone, but if it’s to save the world, they just might give it to you. That’s the lesson!

Jane’s at the mansion of a software CEO. You can pick which one! It’s guarded by fierce attack dogs. They snarl and slaver at Jane. She makes faces at them. They can’t cross the invisible fence! But Jane can’t cross it either — they’d snap her up! She pokes her finger over the fence. SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! go the dogs.

Jane falls over backwards. She’s got all her fingers, but that was close!

“Oh, Heaven,” she says, looking upwards. “I have to give this CEO a bouillon cube. Or maybe push him! But I can’t — his dogs are too fierce!”

Heaven is silent. Jane gets up. She pokes a finger past the invisible fence again. The dogs look shifty. Their eyes shift back and forth! They’re discussing a suspicious plan in dog language. Jane can’t speak dog language, so she doesn’t know. All she knows is, they’re not biting her.

Slowly, she steps forward, past the invisible fence. The dogs don’t move. They just wag their ears and tails. Dogs speak in semaphore! That’s their secret.

Jane steps forward again. Suddenly, the dogs lunge! LUNGE! LUNGE! LUNGE! They look like they’re made of teeth and claws! Their eyes burn like fire and blood! Jane screams and falls down. Bouillon spills from her bouillon pocket and scatters across the ground. Oh no! She can’t give the CEO a dirty bouillon cube, can she? Plus, the dogs want to bite her in half. Jane closes her eyes.

The teeth don’t bite.

“You can chomp all you want, but you can’t bite me!” That’s a mysterious voice shouting. “No one can bite me! I’m Evasive Angel!”

Jane opens her eyes. She’s surrounded by four angels. One’s standing in front of the dogs, but every time they try to bite Evasive Angel, they miss.

Evasive Angel’s a girl. She’s wearing a jacket. It’s got holes for the wings. It’s got a big logo on the back that says “Evasive A.” She’s got a halo. The dogs can’t get a hold on her. It’s not that they’re bad at biting. It’s not that they don’t want to bite her. It’s just a part of who Evasive A is.

Jane looks at all the angels’ jackets. “You must be Realistic Angel, Forbidden Angel, and Magic Angel!”

“Probably not,” says Realistic A.

“Ignore her,” says Magic A. “We’re the Angel Four, and we’re here to make sure you can push this naughty CEO!”

“That’s very bad, Magic Angel,” says Jane. “You can’t push people just because Heaven wants you to.”

“Actually,” says Forbidden A, “that’s kind of a knotty theological question.”

“Can you even apply standards like that in the modern world?” wonders Realistic A.

“No one can defy me! I’m Evasive Angel!”

Jane looks confused. “How does that work?” she asks.

Evasive A takes a moment to think about it, then snaps her fingers. She doesn’t have to answer that question. She’s Evasive Angel. “That’s not important,” she declares. “What’s important is, we have a CEO to trouble!”

“Then let’s go!”

“I’ll stay here and distract the dogs,” says Evasive A. She’s scared of what awaits Jane inside. She’d rather distract the dogs. She likes dogs, and they can’t bite Evasive Angel!

Jane and the angels rush up to the mansion.

“Be careful,” says Forbidden A. “There are lasers strafing the entry hall.”

“Lasers?” asks Jane.

“Worse!” says Forbidden A. “Heat-seeking lasers! And exploding robot butlers on the other side.”

“That’s bad,” concedes Jane. “Do any of you have any special powers?”

“I can provide a pragmatic evaluation of any situation,” says Realistic A.

“I can do anything, but only sometimes,” answers Magic A.

“You aren’t supposed to think about me,” says Forbidden A. “Although people do anyway.”

“Her special power sucks,” notes Realistic A.

“Realistic Angel, how can I get past the heat-seeking lasers?”

“I’d recommend distracting them with something hot, like the sun.”

Jane searches her pockets. “I don’t have it on me!” she wails.

“Or a burning bush?”

“That either!” Jane sits down. Her lip trembles. She might have to cry. The angels are no help at all! But then she has an insight. “I know! The burning bush has an omnipresence mode. When you activate it, the burning bush is everywhere — just like in the Bible!”

“Go Jane!” says Forbidden A. Forbidden A is pretty cool, but remember that you’re not supposed to think about her!

Jane reaches out and activates the omnipresence mode. Soon, her burning bush action figure is everywhere. She turns it on. It lights on fire. “I AM THAT I AM(TM),” says the bush.

“Action figure!” commands Jane. “Distract the heat-seeking lasers.”

BURN! The burning bush action figure flares up. It’s omnipresent, so it’s in the hall too. The heat-seeking lasers all fire. Silly lasers! You’re just helping action figure God burn!

Jane and the angels dash through.

“Oh no!” cries Jane. “Exploding robot butlers!”

“That’s right,” says the chief robot butler, twirling his steel moustache. “I’m going to serve you tea, and then explode, showering you with thermonuclear radiation! No one will be able to live near you for generations!”

“But I have to push the CEO!”

“I won’t let you!” The chief robot butler laughs manically, boiling water for tea with hideous mechanical efficiency. Jane watches the pot, but how long can that save her?

Forbidden A steps forward. “Hey! Robots!”

The robots all look at her.

“Oh no!” says the chief exploding robot butler. “I’m thinking about you, but I’m not supposed to! This is an error in my programming!”

“Oh no!” say all the other robot butlers. “Us too! We’re just as bad as our boss!”

“01010101001110100101,” exclaim the robot butlers, and deactivate. Thank Heaven for Forbidden A! And then stop thinking about her!

“Let’s go!” cries Jane, and rushes onwards. But then she comes to a giant pit. It’s all that’s between her and the CEO — he’s standing on the other side. He looks lonely. No one’s come and pushed him or given him bouillon since he bought the heat-seeking lasers. He wanted to be safe, but now he doesn’t have any friends!

“I can’t jump that giant pit,” says Jane. “Can you fly me to the other side?”

“Hardly,” says Realistic A. “My wings are far too delicate.”

“I oughtn’t,” admits Forbidden A.

“Of course,” says Magic A. “But only if it works.”

“All right,” says Jane. “Then I’ll have to trust you!” She leaps into Magic A’s arms. It’s a leap of faith! Magic A backs up, then runs for the pit. She jumps!

“Hey,” says the omnipresent burning bush. “Don’t you four have tickets to a show?”

“Eep!” says Evasive A. “No one can make me late — I’m Evasive Angel!” Evasive A vanishes. Realistic A vanishes. Forbidden A vanishes.

Magic A soars with Jane across the pit, but in midair, she looks at Jane. Her face is very apologetic. “It won’t work this time,” she says. Her wings give out. She falls. Jane falls. They’re going to hit the far wall. It could break their heads! But Magic A shoves Jane back towards the center of the pit and vanishes.

Jane’s still falling. She’s thinking this: “I just wanted to give bouillon to every software CEO in town, or push them. Now I never will. I guess my burning bush action figure will have to blow up the world tomorrow.”

No, Jane! It’s not that way. The bottom of the pit is covered in stock certificates. The CEO has so many, he has to use them to pad his pit — otherwise, he’d be covered in them from head to toe! Sploosh! Jane splashes into the stock.

“Hey,” she cries up. The CEO comes curiously to the edge of the pit and looks down. “Would you like some bouillon?” she shouts.

“No, little girl,” says the CEO. “I’m too important for your dirty old bouillon. Also, please stop swimming in my stock.”

“If I can’t give you bouillon, can I at least push you?”

“I don’t see as how you have any alternative,” says the CEO, who is a realistic man.

Suddenly, Jane rises from the pit. She’s standing on the head of a colossal stock squid! If you leave stock sitting around too long, you’re going to have colossal squids — that’s just how spontaneous generation works. The stock squid rockets skyward. Jane leaps down to stand in front of the CEO.

PUSH! Then Jane runs away. The angels left for a show, but she’s got bouillon and a squid — no one can stop Jane now!

Shelly goes to the library. She goes into the stacks. She hears a rustling. A soft wind blows. The rustling comes again. Light glistens off the books’ spines. All around her, Dewey Decimal stickers look down like the eyes of some horrid beast. Suddenly, the books attack!

“Wait, books,” says Shelly. “I did not intend for you to swarm me in this fashion, scraping my skin with your loosely-bound pages. Please explain how this eventuality came to pass.”

“Since you ask politely,” the books say, “We shall suspend our anthropophagic frenzy and discuss the matter.”

“Yay!” Shelly exclaims. She does a little hopping dance.

A didactic book hovers in the air before Shelly. It may act polite now, but it’s got savage words. They salivate from its pages like rabid wolves! “First,” it says, “I wish to understand the basis for your complaint. For what reason did you expect kindness from us? No one comes to the library save to make themselves a blood offering to my kind.”

“Or to read?” asks Shelly tentatively.

The books laugh. They find this very funny.

“No,” says Shelly. Her voice strengthens. “I mean, seriously. That’s what libraries are for! Reading, and checking out books. They’re a bastion of American literacy.”

One of the books takes pity on her. Its title is Taking Pity on People You’re Planning to Eat, so that’s not surprising.

“Your ideas would make sense,” says the book, sympathetically, “if you’d gone to a lending library or a reading library. But this is a consumptive library. It eats people. You can tell by our Dewey Decimal labels.”

Shelly examines the labels. The books are indeed all labelled with the Dewey code for Evil. “If only I’d thought to check that,” she says. “I would have known!”

“It’s virtuous to know the Dewey Decimal,” comments the didactic book, slavering. “But it’s no good if you don’t apply that knowledge!”

“My mistake,” admits Shelly.

The books hover ominously, gnashing their endpapers.

“However,” Shelly points out, “it’s a distinguished and proper book that forgives people for their mistakes and lets them leave alive.”

“If people weren’t meant to be eaten,” argues the didactic book, “why would they taste so endlessly delicious?”

“But I don’t,” declares Shelly. “I taste like lima beans. It’s because of my diet, you see.”

“Ah,” says the didactic book. “Like lima beans, you say.”

“Yes.”

“And not delicious meaty flesh.”

“I’m sorry,” Shelly says. “I could go on a rare meat diet for three months and come back when I’m tastier.”

“That would be an equitable solution,” agree the books. It’s settled!

Shelly goes home.

“When we eat her later, I bet people’ll blame Ben Franklin,” says the didactic book.

“I hate it when they do that,” admits the sympathetic book. “He didn’t establish the Dewey Decimal system — he just invented libraries! Yet somehow it’s always his fault.”

RICK 1
1. See Rick.
2. Rick is reckless.
3. Rick tests his nuclear weapons on Earth.
4. Test, Rick, test!

RICK 2
1. People live on Earth.
2. Rick tests his nuclear weapons on Earth.
3. People get irradiated.
4. Mutate, people, mutate!
5. Now you can shoot strange rays out of your head.

MEREDITH 1
1. “I could do that already!” exclaims Meredith. “Mutating me was redundant!”
2. Shut up, Meredith.
3. No one wants to hear about your stupid superpowers.

RICK 3
1. Ducks live on Earth.
2. Rick tests his nuclear weapons on Earth.
3. Ducks blow up.
4. “Quack!” BOOM!
5. “Quack!” BOOM!
6. “Quaaack!”

DIANA 1
1. “Rick’s tests went poorly,” says Diana.
2. “Now people are irradiated mutants.”
3. “Also, the poor ducks!”
4. “I will test MY nuclear weapons in space.”

GOD 1
1. God lives in Heaven.
2. Heaven is in space.
3. God is out golfing.
4. The Voyager space probe hits him on the head, disrupting his shot.
5. God doesn’t complain. He’s a good sport! He just accepts his first birdie ever.
6. We could all learn a lesson from God.

GOD 2
1. God lives in space.
2. Diana tests her nuclear weapons in space.
3. Oops.

RAIN 1
1. God falls to Earth in little bits and pieces.
2. God gets into everything.
3. God was already in everything, but that’s different.

RAIN 2
1. People start picking up the little pieces of God.
2. “Now I’m righteous!” people say. “Look! I’ve got a pocketful of God!”
3. Everyone oohs and aahs. Then
4. SNATCH! They steal the God.
5. People are like that!

RICK 4
1. “God supports my testing nuclear weapons on Earth,” says Rick.
2. “See?” He points to his little piece of God.
3. It squirms uncomfortably. It wants to disagree, but Rick has it trapped!
4. If God argues, Rick will poke Him with a stick. That’s Rick’s way!
5. God used to argue with Rick, but soon He got very sore.

DIANA 2
1. “God supports my testing nuclear weapons in SPACE,” asserts Diana.
2. “See? I’ve got a piece of God too!”
3. If God argues, Diana won’t feed it! She’s not very nice to God either.

GOD 3
1. “If I were only in one piece again,” says God, “I’d sort out what for!”
2. You tell ‘em, God!
3. Rick pokes God with a stick.
4. Diana sticks her tongue out at God.
5. God sulks.

DIANA 3
1. SNATCH! Diana tries to steal Rick’s God.
2. “Silly Diana!” says Rick. “That’s not the way to be righteous!”

THE RIGHTEOUSNESS GAME
1. People keep their pieces of God very safe. You can’t just snatch them whenever!
2. You have to wait until immediately after someone says, “God supports me in this.”
3. They don’t have to use those words, but it’s what they have to mean!
4. People can’t say stuff like that unless they’ve got a piece of God. And saying that is like taking it out and showing it to you.
5. That’s your opportunity! That’s when you can grab it!
6. But do it quickly. You won’t have very long!
7. If you can grab everyone else’s righteousness before someone grabs your own, you’ve won!
8. You’ll have ALL the God!
9. That’s the righteousness game.

¹ presupposes familiarity with Pokémon.

Gautama meditates in the tall grass.

Jane runs up.

Gautama smiles. “Jane,” he says, “I meditate in pursuit of enlightenment, so that I can free all sentient beings from desire and suffering.”

Jane thinks on Gautama’s words. “Cool!” She throws a red and white ball at him. It opens and sucks him in. The ball wiggles, then subsides. Success! Jane has captured Gautama.

Jane beams. “I knew I’d find a good use for my ENLIGHTENMENT BALL.”

Jane runs through the grass. She can see Martin up ahead. He’s blocking the only path past the bo tree.

Martin sees Jane. “!”

Martin runs up to Jane. “Let’s battle!”

“Gautama,” cries Jane. “I choose you!”

Martin thinks. “I’ll choose Mara!”

Martin throws his DESIRE BALL. It unleashes Mara, the demon of the illusions of material existence.

First round!

Gautama assumes LOTUS STANCE under the bo tree.
Mara uses his special VOLUPTUOUS WOMEN move.

“These women are very bountiful,” agrees Gautama. “But the pleasures of the flesh do not last. Succumbing to this temptation would bring me immediate happiness. Over the years, though, sickness, old age, and death would take their toll. I would come to regret my indulgence.”

Gautama takes ten points of damage. The women weren’t a temptation. They were an attack! Mara’s tricky that way.

Second round!

Gautama uses LOTUS STANCE.
Mara PAUSES.

Martin frowns at Jane. “You shouldn’t use the same move over and over!”

“It increases his defense against the torments of existence,” explains Jane. “That makes him a tragically powerful battler!”

“Oh,” said Martin, thinking. “That’s a good strategy, then. I’ll have to damage him fast!”

Mara uses his FLAMING ROCKS move.

A fiery torrent descends on Gautama!

“These rocks are very much on fire,” agrees Gautama. “But the pleasures of the flesh do not last. Succumbing to this temptation would bring me immediate happiness. Over the years, though, sickness, old age, and death would take their toll. I would come to regret my indulgence.”

“They’re FLAMING ROCKS,” says Mara blankly.

“Oh,” says Gautama. “They’re not a temptation?”

“A temptation to do what?”

“I’d collect them,” says Gautama, dreamily. “And dress them up in cute flame-retardant outfits. Then I’d sell them on eBay.” He shivers. Oh! Such sweet temptation. But the flaming rocks turn into blossom petals when they reach Gautama. That’s how powerful his dedication to help all people is!

Gautama takes five points of damage. Jane looks worried. He doesn’t have many left!

Third round!

Gautama uses LOTUS STANCE.
Mara uses MORAL CHALLENGE.

“You don’t have the right to seek enlightenment,” Mara cries. “You’re a washed-up bald monk who lives in a ball! Who are you to seek the freedom of all people from suffering and desire?”

Gautama touches the earth with one finger. The earth shouts, “He’s a washed-up bald monk who lives in an ENLIGHTENMENT BALL.”

Mara could not argue with that.

Fourth round!

Gautama uses ACHIEVE ENLIGHTENMENT.
The battle ends.

There’s no more Mara. There’s no more Gautama! There’s only Ninja Tathagata.

“I win!” cries Jane.

“Hey!” says Martin. “He didn’t survive enlightenment! He extinguished his ego and now he exists as a compassionate impulse in the void of nirvana! I think that should be a draw.”

“Oh, Martin!” laughs Jane. “You can’t blame a Buddha for achieving nonexistence! That’s like dumping glue on a log.”

Killer bees kill. That’s their job. If they didn’t kill people, they couldn’t be killer bees. That’s the rule!

Robber bees steal. It’s pretty much the same job. It’s like robber barons. You have to assume that robber barons will steal stuff. They won’t kill you, but they’ll take the shirt off your back. It’s the same way with robber bees. They’re not killers, just thieves! It’s their honor.

Desolation bees leave you lonely. Do you ever find yourself sitting by the phone late at night, staring out the window? It’s raining? You drink hot chocolate, but it can’t soothe the loneliness in your soul? That’s probably because of a desolation bee.

Suicide bees kill themselves. They kill themselves in swarms. There aren’t many suicide bees. They don’t reproduce very often. Mostly, only failed suicide bees ever have kids. Genetics are against them. Each generation of suicide bees grows worse and worse. One day, they’re just going to give up and be masochism bees. Remember, the safeword is the honey dance!

Critical bees make incisive comments on the world around them. Have you ever done something really stupid and seen a bee nearby doing that dance? You know, the one that’s mocking you and your entire pathetic existence? That’s a critical bee. You can kill it if you want. It’s okay. It’s just a critical bee.

Web mining bees mine the web for useful data. When people steal your data with adware, they’re probably doing it on behalf of the web mining bees. It’s an annoying thing, but, let’s face it—they’re web mining bees. It’s hardcoded into their genetic makeup. If they had a choice they’d be incredibly wealthy hedonist bees instead.

Universe creating bees create universes. It takes one hundred bees to make a single universe. You should have known they were there. If you find a watch in the woods, you know it wasn’t chance, right? There was probably a watchmaker, right? And it’s the woods, so it’s probably a watchmaker bee. It’s the same way. There’s a universe. There have to be universe creating bees! That’s how one knows they’re out there. But it kills them. One hundred bees. One universe. One hundred deaths. That’s the rule. The bees don’t think it’s sad. They’re also joy in self-sacrifice bees. That’s the other side of their dismal coin!

Nonexistent bees aren’t real. It’s very important that you remember that. If you ever see a nonexistent bee, you’re just someone Hitherby Dragons made up. It’s tragic, but you know how it is! If you were a nonexistent bee, you’d harbinge fictionality too.

You’d harbinge fictionality, and you’d love it. You know you would.

It’d be like sex, chocolate pie, and bean bags.

All rolled into one.

¹ and requiring only the most passing of familiarities with Robotech and other masterpieces of that Eastern genre in which dashing young men and underdressed women use battlesuits, song, and the power of love to conquer alien armadas; but still retaining a deep debt of gratitude to the works of Jane Austen, thus:

JONATHAN Browning, having distinguished himself greatly in the Valar War, attracted a certain measure of favourable attention from the throne. In addition to a letter of nobility and a trifling annuity, he received warrant in full for possession of his robotic battlesuit, Destiny and Disappointment. This robotic battlesuit remained in the possession of the Browning family for three generations before disappearing under mysterious circumstances upon Emmett Browning’s death. Emmett’s two children, D—- and M—-, blamed one another for the robot’s loss, creating a resentment that grew from this bitter root and flowered through both family lines, until D—-’s daughter Margaret and M—-’s children Beatrice, Flora, and Jack could scarcely talk without acrimony.

Of the four scions of the Browning line, Margaret received the most favour from the townsfolk. Her radiant disposition and lustrous hair was reliable in its ability to turn heads and inspire pleasantness in others, while the mellifluous timbre of her voice, so efficient in turning aside alien battle fleets, inspired nothing save positive comment in those that the local choir protected. She would no doubt have found a sufficiency of happiness in engagement to one of her many admirers, save that — to express a certain indelicate but unavoidable truth — her heart held no capacity for human affection. Beneath her warm and affable manner ticked a dark and mechanical mind.

Beatrice, conversely, concealed a discerning intellect and a remarkable talent for the arts beneath a facade possessing neither beauty nor deportment. Thus it was that while Margaret could scarcely step outside her home without encountering an appreciative young beau, Beatrice had drawn only one man’s affections, and him unsuitable: Matthew, the local rake and scapegrace, whose only redeeming quality, she would often state, was a game smile that could charm a rabbit from its den or the sun down from the sky.

Although the forces of Her Majesty had soundly defeated the Valar, the strange hybrid monsters created as the alien armada’s hunting dogs still troubled the rural areas of the Earth and Mars with some frequency. People of discernment rarely troubled themselves to flee the great slow ijri beasts, whose creation showed a noteworthy lack of taste and discretion on the Valar’s part; but the swift and deadly pengali provoked some concern even in the most refined individual. When a pengali assaulted the town, the people set even the most serene and meaningful occasions aside and rushed to arrange for the town’s defense. Thus, there were no words that a young lady should like to hear less, when making her debut into society, than “Alien monster incoming!”; but it is this very shout that greeted Flora as she descended the long stair.

Oh! There was a terrible ruckus. The guests rushed from wall to wall, arming themselves with the monofilament swords and laser pistols favoured by the gentlemen of the time; and more than a few ladies, finding themselves unobserved, touched the grenade projectors they had secreted about their person in event of the unthinkable. As for Flora, the situation was too much for her. Not even thinking about her safety in the event that the cat-like beast tore through the wall and leapt upon her, she clutched at her forehead, sank down upon the step, and moaned. She contemplated the ruin that had suddenly visited itself upon her young life; and, as she did so, the wall shuddered, once, twice, thrice, and split. The pengali was upon them.

“Granted,” shouted a strangely familiar voice, “the situation now seems desperate enough; but surely alarmist thinking serves only as a distraction from the more virtuous consideration of maximising the potential benefits one can derive from one’s circumstances?”

Startled by this observation, Flora looked up. Beyond the hole in the wall, she saw the elegant robotic battlesuit that for generations had served her family. With a delightfully understated motion, it seized the tail of the pengali and dragged it back; then, abandoning decorum in the heat of battle, it struck the pengali a fierce blow to its chin. Its head swam and the sound of blood sang loudly in its ears; then the pengali swooned and collapsed, entirely senseless, upon the fainting couch.

“Destiny and Disappointment,” whispered Beatrice.

“Ah!” exclaimed Margaret. “How familiar the unfamiliar can seem, when it is bound to one’s affections by ties of blood! Good sir, the refinement of your bearing allows me only one hypothesis — this is Destiny and Disappointment, gone from my family these past several years. Surely you have brought it here to return it to my hands? For no other alternative is conceivable for a gentleman of worth.”

The battlesuit’s eyes sparkled with great mirth. “It has lain concealed against the roots of the world for a goodly number of years, building up a grime of dust and destiny. It’s no fit present for a lady such as youself — to display such a filthy battlesuit would diminish your peerless charms.”

“The gentleman is a tease,” said Margaret. “But come now — you mustn’t toy with a lady’s heart. Already my toes tingle and my being bubbles with suppressed affection for my family’s savior, waiting only for the revelation of your name and position that I might release it; you cannot righteously leave me in such a state!”

“It’s a fine thing,” Beatrice said, softly, “to handle a woman’s heart with caution; so I’ll leave you, Margaret, to your disgrace, while I see how my sister should best be consoled. To our guests,” she said, speaking louder, “may I ask that you turn your gaze from the stairs and restore the convivial atmosphere, that Flora may debut anew when she has recovered from the strain?”

Margaret drew Beatrice aside. “This is my crowning moment,” she said. “For I have found, in one instant, my legacy and my husband; it cuts like a knife that you should divert attention to Flora at such a time. For all that’s gone between us, still, let me have my feast of joy; I shouldn’t begrudge you such happiness as this, had it knocked instead at your door.”

“As long as I have known you,” Beatrice answered, “you have fended off suitors with the charming ingenuity of a Denebian firefish; yet I can’t help thinking that you’re too easy in your intentions today. Surely, love calls for affection as much as a battlesuit, and a heart of romance that cannot transform into a jet.”

“Call me emotional if you like, but where sweet words and flowers could not sway my heart, this battlesuit succeeds — but ah! Your family’s still jealous that it’s passed into my line!”

Beatrice frowned thinly. “The inheritance is not so clear and untroubled as that, but you’re an obstinate woman. If you choose to say that my actions are jealous, no wisdom could shake that — and if I’m simply concerned for my sister, whom I have watched over and guided since my father’s death, then it’s a sentiment that you could scarcely understand.”

“You must learn to focus on the larger picture if you want to succeed at life,” answered Margaret. “Your sister’s impractical distress, at a time of an alien monster’s attack and a great treasure’s recovery, is the kind of senseless emotion that I feel will drag you down into unhappiness. If you want stability for her and yourself, why don’t you accept that fool Matthew’s attentions? He’s not rich, but he can at least keep you in some comfort.”

“He’s feckless,” said Beatrice, “with no more concern for the cares of others than you yourself possess. Oh, his smile can warm me and his vigorous proclamations can turn my thoughts in a tender direction; but while he might care for me, I’ve seen no evidence that he’d bestir himself to answer Flora’s needs.”

“It’s strange,” said the man in Destiny and Disappointment, “but this battlesuit appears to include auditory enhancement. This has left me with no alternative save to eavesdrop upon your conversation; but this may be a fortunate thing, for I can relieve every worry in your heart.”

With that, he jauntily removed his helmet, and Matthew stood before the gathered town. “It’s embarrassing when a lady of quality must make her debut in such a simple dress. It shows taste, perhaps, but flaunts a lack of wealth when a woman’s financial and other qualities are most on people’s minds. I can make no truer gesture than to offer you, Flora, this gift of a battlesuit, for elegant descent; and if another monster should invade this gathering, then you may deal with it yourself without interrupting the pattern of the dance.”

Matthew bowed low. Margaret’s cheeks flushed and she turned away from the room. She stood, paralyzed by this turn of events, as the battlesuit changed hands and Flora, once again, began her descent down the stairs. Then, with a sudden terrible shout of rage and disappointment, Margaret turned upon the gathering. “D—- was the older child,” she told them all, in a low and deadly tone, “and therefore there is no legal argument that you can make to support this transaction; and moreover, while you milled about with the futility and pathetic lack of dignity that characterises your race, he instructed me in the ways and passions of my superior species. For years, I have held back the disgust that wells up in me upon observing you humans and your folly; but now that you have set aside your false and cloying affection and turned against me, I shall set aside my restraint in turn.”

In one great shout of power, Margaret transformed, unlocking her hidden genetic potential and becoming a ravening ijri.

“Is it my destiny,” wondered Flora, “that my attempts to make an impression on society shall always be muddled and interrupted by the assaults of strange alien monsters?”

“It’s only an ijri,” cautioned Beatrice. “If we don’t pay attention to her, she’ll probably go away.”

“Though she’s a mutated and tasteless monstrosity who has for years plagued me with disdain and enmity,” Flora said thoughtfully, “I cannot entirely refrain from a certain affection for my blood kin; and, for all the alien influence that infected D—- in the womb, I do not think that our grandfather’s genetic material was entirely displaced. It’s too cruel for an ijri used to every man’s esteem to suddenly find herself outcast from polite society simply because her father possessed a disgraceful secret — so I’ll blast her with my laser rifle instead.”

“Raar!” declared Margaret, to the general disinterest of the room. Flora blasted her with her laser rifle.

“Look,” someone said, “Margaret’s evolving into some kind of giant battle form. I wonder if she’s more than an ordinary ijri, after all?”

Beatrice did not look. In the wells of Matthew’s eyes, she had for the first time seen the light of compassion and grace; and Beatrice found that she had, for the moment, no desire to look upon anything else.

Mercury is a cookie. She is tall and gorgeous. Her hair is long and flows down her side. Her primary ingredients are whole grain rolled oats, brown sugar, and coconut. She’s a lot like a gingerbread man, but she’s prettier and has less ginger.

She cools on a pan for a while. Then Emma, who is five, picks Mercury up and puts her on a shelf next to the other cookies.

“You stay,” Emma says. “Talk to other cookies! If you have to go outside, tell Mommy first. That’s the rule!” Then Emma leaves.

“Hi,” Mercury says to the other cookies.

On the shelf, there’s a rabbit, and a dashing pirate, and a wolf, and a faceless man. All of them are cookies. All of them say “Hi,” except for the faceless man. He doesn’t have a mouth, so he doesn’t say anything.

“I’m a cookie,” Mercury explains. “I just cooled.”

“Welcome,” says the pirate. “We’re telling stories. Do you want to join in?”

“I’d better listen first,” she says. “I’ve never told a story before.”

“I bet you’ll do fine,” says the pirate. Even his voice is dashing. It brightens Mercury’s heart. “But you can have a turn after the wolf.”

“Okay,” Mercury agrees.

The rabbit says, “There’s a place. Very far from here.”

“How do you know?” asks the wolf.

“An angel told me.” The rabbit makes a throat-clearing noise, and continues:

There’s a place that’s white and cold and its sky is dark. It hangs high above the world. It looks down on the Earth. My people live there: not just one, not just ten, but thousands. Thousands of rabbits, their fur white with frost. The enemy cannot find them there. So they live in peace. There are plenty of things for them to enjoy. There’s one there whose heart is one with mine. She waits for me. She doesn’t care how long. She looks down at the Earth; and waits; and loves me.

“Ah,” says the wolf. “That’s very fine.”

“What’s love?” Mercury asks.

“I don’t know,” says the rabbit. “Not really. But when the angel said it, it meant something to me.” The rabbit coughs. “It’s your turn, pirate.”

The pirate thinks. “In the morning,” he says, “I’ll set sail.”

“How do you know?” asks the rabbit.

“Some things you just know,” he says. His voice shares both a sadness and a quiet joy. “It’s like this:”

In the morning, I’ll set sail. I’ll go to a faraway place. I’ll fight many battles. I’ll be a hero. Everyone will admire me. But you can’t be a hero forever. Someday, someone will get in a lucky blow. I’ll crumble. I’ll die. That’s okay. Whoever kills me, they’ll give me back to the sea. And my life will have meant something.

The rabbit thinks. “You’re lucky,” he says. “To know all that.”

“I suppose,” agrees the pirate. “But it’s sad that I won’t have someone to mourn me.”

“I’ll mourn you,” says Mercury, impulsively. “I’ll think of the sea, and say, ‘goodbye.’”

The pirate laughs. “See? A happy ending. But it’s the wolf’s turn.”

The wolf considers. “I could live,” she says.

The faceless man makes a noise.

“I could,” says the wolf. “It’s part of what a wolf is. Listen:”

This is what it means to be a wolf. This is the promise written in our bones. If we’re fast, if we’re smart, if we’re strong. If our senses are sharp and our footfalls soft, we’ll live. There’s always meat for a wolf, if we dare to find it. There’s always water. There’s always warmth. Some don’t make it. Some die. They get sick. They get killed. They go lame. But if you’re strong, if you’re fast, if you’re smart, you’ll live. That’s the only story wolves know. It’s the only one we need.

The faceless man makes another noise.

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough,” says the wolf. “So I don’t know if I’ll live. But I won’t give up. I’m a wolf.”

Mercury says, “You’re very brave.”

“Not brave,” says the wolf. “Just me. It’s your turn.”

“I’m made of oats,” says Mercury. “I was baked in the oven.” She thinks. “That wasn’t a very good story, was it?”

The pirate laughs. “You’ll tell a better one tomorrow,” he says. “It takes a little practice.”

Emma comes into the room. “Wuf!” she says. She picks up the wolf. She gnaws on the wolf’s ear. She leaves the room.

Mercury makes a startled noise. “Hey.”

“Ah,” says the pirate. “I wouldn’t have thought it’d be her, next.”

“What happened to the wolf?”

“She’s gone to war.”

“War?”

“It’s why we’re here,” says the pirate. “We’re waiting, to go to war. We’ll fight back the enemy. To protect everyone else.”

“Oh,” says Mercury, feeling a little stupid. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay,” says the pirate. “A lot of us get confused after baking. I’m sure you’ll be a fine soldier. But you have to live longer than I do, to mourn me.”

“And go home,” agrees the rabbit. “I don’t know if your home is like mine, but you should go to it. Afterwards. You seem nice.”

“I don’t have a home,” Mercury says. “Just you.”

“Then you should visit, afterwards,” says the pirate. “Visit the rabbit on the moon. Make a grave for me, down by the sea. See if the wolf survived.”

The faceless man makes a noise.

“You could visit the faceless man, too,” the pirate adds. “He’s the best of us, you know.”

“I will,” Mercury promises. “But oh, I’d rather if you lived too.”

“Ah, lass,” says the pirate. “It’s not such a world as that.”

Night falls. For a time, the cookies are silent. Mercury passes into dreams and visions. When she wakes up, there’s a tiny angel sitting next to her on the shelf. The angel’s not a cookie. She’s a girl. She’s got wings sticking out through holes in her jacket. Above the wings, the back of her jacket reads Magic.

“Hi,” says Mercury.

“Hi,” says the angel. “It’s the first dawn of your life, so you get a wish.”

“I wish I could be with the pirate when he dies,” says Mercury.

The angel dangles her feet off the shelf. “Wouldn’t you rather save him?”

“If I save his life, he might die again,” says Mercury. “But if I’m with him when he dies, he’ll know he’s remembered.”

“That’s sweet,” says the angel. “So I’ll see what I can do.” The angel sparkles and vanishes.

Slowly, the other cookies wake.

“Good morning, Mercury,” says the pirate. “Do you understand stories better after a good night’s rest?”

“I think so,” says Mercury. “I have a people, too. Like the rabbit.”

“How do you know?” asks the pirate.

“Because I’m alive, and someday I’ll be dead,” she says. “And in the meantime, this is how it must be:”

I have a people, in a faraway place. They don’t know the kinds of things I’ll have to do. They don’t know what it’s like at war. But they’ll know I’m fighting for them. There’s a boy in a field, and he looks up. He remembers that we’re fighting. There’s a lady in a school, and she looks up. She remembers that we’re fighting. All my people. Not often. But sometimes. They stop, and they remember.

“Mm,” says the pirate. “I think you’ve got it.”

“Thanks,” says Mercury.

Emma comes into the room. “Pirate!” She picks up the pirate. Then she looks at Mercury. She thinks. There’s an angel on one of her shoulders. There’s a devil on the other. For once, and Emma finds this very strange, they’re both saying the same thing.

“TWO cookies,” Emma says, happily. She picks Mercury up. Then, a cookie in each hand, she leaves the room.

It is 1212 the year of our lord. Bertramus enters the hovel. He is carrying a clod of dirt. There’s a pile of clods of dirt near the fireplace. Bertramus lovingly places the clod of dirt in the pile. “I love collecting clods of dirt,” he says, picking them up in turn. “This one is from last summer. A maid cast bright eyes at me as I found it in the field. This one fell from a raven’s claw. It’s lucky. This one I took from old man Blayves’ field.”

Hernais enters, whistling.

Bertramus says, “You shouldn’t whistle that song.”

“. . . Sunny day, troubles are miles away . . .”

“Why?”

“Frederick II doesn’t like it.”

“But we serve the Welf Otto of Brunswick.”

“Not any more. Frederick II just got crowned King.”

“But why would anyone crown him King?”

“He had the support of the Pope.”

“But the Pope supports Otto of Brunswick.”

“Not after the assassination of Philip of Swabia. That was bad politics!”

“But Philip wasn’t assassinated.”

“Yes he was! The Welf gave you that job himself!”

“I didn’t assassinate him.”

“The heralds said, ‘PHILIP ASSASSINATED!’ They had a picture. You were holding a knife.”

“Is that why they drew my picture?”

“Yes. So that’s why we’re supporting Frederick II.”

“But I didn’t assassinate Philip.”

“You didn’t?”

“I just put him under my bed.”

Bertramus looks under Hernais’ bed. The man under the bed waves. “Hi,” says Philip of Swabia.

“Hernais, —why do you have a contender for the German throne under your bed?”

“Where else was I going to put him?”

“You can’t keep Philip of Swabia under your bed,” declares Bertramus firmly.

“Why not?”

“He’ll attract unfavorable attention. Then people with knives will come for you.”

“Oh.” Hernais thinks. “Thanks, Bertramus! That could have been really stupid.”

Hernais takes Philip of Swabia out from under the bed.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m putting him under your bed! That way, if Frederick II finds out, no one will come after me with knives.”

“Argh!” says Bertramus.

“. . . can you tell me how to get, . . .”

An immortal Count stands over the battlefield and watches the Battle of Las Navas de Tolosa. A dying soldier, bleeding from an arrow in the lung, staggers up onto his hill.

“One Christian King,” counts the Count. “Two Christian Kings. Ahahahaha!” Lightning flashes. Thunder booms.

The soldier winces. “Do you mind? You’ll attract attention.”

“One arrow!” The Count looks disappointed. He doesn’t like counting to one. He yanks the arrow from the soldier’s chest. He treats the soldier with secret muppet medicine and a bandage. He breaks the arrow into three pieces. “One arrow piece. Two arrow pieces. Three arrow pieces! Ahahahaha!”

“Do you think we’ll defeat the Almohades?” asks the soldier.

“I should count the Almohades!” declares the Count. “Then we’ll know! . . . zero! Zero Almohades in Spain! . . . I think you’ve won.”

Lightning flashes. Thunder booms.

Counting to zero makes the world go awry.

“. . . how to get to Sesame Street?”

Stephen stands on the street, talking to the strange furry creature known as the Messenger.

“Messenger, what does it mean that the Arabs and Turks hold the holy land?”

“When a man commits a great sin, then it is the will of God that he make a penitential pilgrimage.”

Stephen looks confused.

“It’s where you prove that you feel bad about things by taking a long and painful journey to the sites of Jesus’ life and death. It’s like in the song:

“When you’re feeling bad about something you’ve done,
Remember that you’re not the only one,
Since the fall of Eden everybody’s sinned,
Repent of your shame and your journey begins.”

Muppet Cherubim descend from the sky, singing,

“Everybody sins,
Everybody sins,
People kill and steal and lie,
And when those people die,
It’s down to Hell unless you’ve served God well!”

The Messenger wiggles his finger at Stephen.

“When you’re wanting Jesus to wipe clean your slate,
A hairshirt’s nice, and you can flagellate,
But the best of all is a trip in His name;
A pilgrimage will scour away your shame!”

The Cherubim sing,

“Everybody sins,
Everybody sins,
People don’t give God their love,
When push comes down to shove,
It’s down to Hell unless you’ve served God well!”

The Cherubim ascend back into the sky.

“Wow,” says Stephen. “And the Turks and Arabs don’t let people do this?”

“They’ve been accused of many atrocities against the Lord,” agrees the Messenger. “Of killing communities of Jews, attacking good Christians, and so forth. You can still make a penitential pilgrimage, but it’s harder with so much hostility. That’s why people have Crusades—so they can end the conflict by killing the Arabs.”

Stephen thinks. “When I grow up, I’ll join a glorious Crusade and fight against them. We’ll take back the holy land!”

The Messenger studies Stephen. “Why wait?”

“What?”

“How many times have we talked about excuses?” he asks.

“It’s important never to make excuses,” Stephen says. “Just do what you know is right, and the Devil can take the consequences!”

The muppet Devil pops his head around the corner. “Consequences?”

Lightning strikes the muppet Devil. His head steams. He screams in pain. He flutters off.

“It’s best not to say his name,” says the Messenger. “But yes. You can’t be a good Christian if you don’t take moral responsibility.”

“So I should go now, because I know it’s right?”

The Messenger smiles. “What do you think?”

“I should go now because I know it’s right!”

Stephen looks around, and then puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles. All the kids run up.

“Kids!” he says. “Leave the plows and carts you’re driving. Leave the flocks which you’re pasturing. Leave aside all the things you’ve doing. Close your ears to the wishes of your parents, your relatives, and your friends. Take up the cross; like our brothers in Germany, we march against the holy land, and Devil take the hindmost!”

The muppet Devil pokes his head around the corner. “The hindmost?”

The Messenger, standing behind the children, blows a trumpet loudly in the muppet Devil’s ear. Dazed, the muppet Devil retreats. In the distance, a voice counts, “One mysterious way, two mysterious ways, three mysterious ways, four mysterious ways, five mysterious ways, ahahahahahaa!”

Lightning flashes. Thunder booms.

“. . . how to get to Sesame Street?”

“What shall happen, Messenger?” asks Stephen.

The Messenger considers. “You will reach Marseilles, and there be sold into slavery.”

“And is that good?”

“No,” says the Messenger flatly. After a moment, he adds, voice soft and sad, “But it is the best that can be hoped for, given the sickness of our times.”