BARRY TROTTER and the Shameless Parody.
Michael Gerber.
Back Cover.
150,000 copies inexplicably sold in hardback.

Hogwash is the most famous school in the wizarding world and
Barry Trotter is its most famous pupil. Its been that way ever since
J.G. Rollins' Bairy Trotter and the Philosopher's Scone broke publishing
Records worldwide.
So important has Barry become to the school's bottom-line that it
has been agreed that he can stay at Hogwash for as long as he likes.
Barry Trotter is 22.

Groupie- laden and scholarship-free, life has been good for the
perpetual student, but now disaster looms. The movie Barry Trotter 
and the Inevitable Attempt to Cash-in has gone into production and the
Marketing Dept. at Wagner Bros, is going into overdrive. Hogwash
will be submerged under a tide of souvenir-crazed Muddle fans, torn
apart and sold on eBuy, stone by mossy stone.

The movie must be stopped. Forget Lord Valumart - Barry, Ermine
Cringer and Lon Measly must try to defeat the most powerful force
of grasping sleazoids the world has ever known: Hollywood.

"Gerber has  succeeded in creating a marginally grotesque,
bouncing beauty of a throwaway tome. Down with Potter!
Trotter is the real thing."
The Morning Star.

Obligatory Legal Mumbo-jumbo.
Ahem, This book has not been authorised or endorsed by J.K. Rowling or the publishers of the Harry Potter books. Harry Potter is a registered trademark of Warner Bros.
Thank you. Now buy this book.
Illustrations by Douglas Carrel.
ISBN 0-575-07497-3


Barry Trotter and the shameless parody.

Also by Michael Gerber.
Are You There, God? It's Me, Hitler.
Harriet the Guy.
I Am the Sleaze.
Encyclopedia Brown Gets Punched, HARD.
Barry Trotter and the Unnecessary Sequel.


Hit Damaged Credit Trilogy 
The Golden Whupass Book I.
The Subtle Knish Book II.
The Amber Shotglass Book III.BARRY TROTTER and the Shameless Parody.
Michael Gerber.A MESSAGE FROM THE PUBLISHER OF THIS BOOK:
While the authentic series may or may not be Satanic, this book definitely is. It is
poorly written, incredibly crass, and contains jokes about bodily functions that
would embarrass a five-year-old. It has been produced as cheaply as possible,
using highly toxic ink and substandard paper. Every corner has been cut, from
eliminating every 500th word, to employing copy-editors fluent only in Spanish.
This book exists soley to make a quick buck.


A MESSAGE FROM SATAN:
Oh, no, you're not pinning this one on me! This book totally sucks.

A MESSAGE FROM THE UNIVERSAL COUNCIL OF CHURCHES:
Any book so clearly loathed by Satan, the embodiment of all evil, logically must
be the purest good. Otherwise, why would Satan hate it so? Therefore, I urge all
right-thinking Christians, as well as people of goodwill from every other faith to
read this parody.

A MESSAGE FROM YOUR LITTLE BROTHER:
This book is weird. I don't like it. Harry doesn't smoke. Smoking is for losers.

Copyright (c) Michael Gerber 2001 Alt 
rights reserved

This is a work of parody. Any similarities, without satirical intent, to copyrighted
characters/material, or individuals living or dead, are purely coincidental. This
book has not been endorsed by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Warner
Brothers, or any of the other entities holding copyright or license to the Harry
Potter books or film. No connection is implied or should be inferred.

This edition published in 2003 by Gollancz

The right of Michael Gerber to be identified as the author
of this work has been asserted by him in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

First published in Great Britain in 2002 by Gollancz
An imprint of the Orion Publishing Group
Orion House, 5 Upper St Martin's Lane, London WC2H 9EA

Barry Trotter and the Shameless Parody
Summary: Fans of the world's most popular children's book are unfairly cheated
after mistakenly purchasing a poorly-written, obnoxious spoof. They form a
vigilante group and track down the author, executing him in a particularly
unpleasant way.

A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
ISBN 0575074973
Typeset by Deltarype Ltd, Birkenhead, Merseyside
Printed in Great Britain by
Clays Ltd, St Ives plc


To Jon and Kate . . .
and J.K. Rowling, with impudent admiration.'Adults are just obsolete children,
and to hell with them.'
-- Theodor Seuss Geisel (Dr. Seuss)


Author's Note: Any instances of nonstandard
spelling, grammar, or punctuation are hereby
declared intentional, and should be considered jokkes.
CONTENTS
***
ONE The Trouble with Muddles	
TWO The Butcher of Hogwash	
THREE Mr. Barry's Wild Ride	
FOUR A Visit With the Head Master	
FIVE The Right Snuff	
SIX The Pinewood Peckerwood	
SEVEN In the Belly of the Beast	
EIGHT For Some Reason, Dogs Figure Prominently in this Story 
NINE The Prisoner of Aztalan	
TEN Fantastic!	
ELEVEN Charlie and the Mildew-Infested Used Bookstore	
TWELVE The Great Escape	
THIRTEEN A Breaking Windfall	
FOURTEEN All A-Bored	
FIFTEEN Nightmares can be Extremely Instructive
(Especially in Cheesy Books Like This One)
SIXTEEN Relax, It's Later Than You Think 
SEVENTEEN Yes, Adulthood Stinks, But Consider The Alternative
EPILOGUE	


Chapter One
THE TROUBLE WITH MUDDLES

The Hogwash School for Wizards was the most
famous school in the wizarding world, and Barry
Trotter was its most famous student. Hui ence made sure that each year, twenty candidates
applied for every open spot, no matter how rapaoou
Hogwash's tuition became. As a result, Barry and the
school had come to an unspoken agreement: regardless
of his grades, Barry could.remain at Hogwash as long
as he wished. He had just begun his eleventh year. This
arrangement made studying unnecessary and turned
each evening from a time of frenzied scholarship to one
of relaxed contemplation of the day's events. There was
also ample time for mischief.

Sprawled sideways across an overstuffed chair in the
Grittyfloor Common Room, in front of a cozy multecoloured
fire, Barry silently pitied the other students. And


the teachers, too -- anyone, in fact, -who didn't have it as
immaculately cushy as he did. He turned up the
headphones playing his favorite band, Valid Tumor
Alarm, a group so deeply hostile that any song without
the word 'kill' in the title was automatically classified as
a ballad.

'We collect our Fear and turn it into a God' Barry
read. I wonder what the hell that means? His mind
began to -wander, as it usually did when confronted
with a difficult thought.

Putting down his copy of Existentialism for Beginners, he pulled his -wizard pipe from his pocket. He had
bought it last week in Catty Corner, the magical
shopping district down in London. Barry thought it
gave him an air of mystery and maturity, the only
things that perpetual student status did not confer.
Girls seemed to agree. (Well, Muddle ones, at least.)

Wizard pipes were leagues better than the Muddle
version; they weren't addictive, nor did they lead to
galloping mouth rot. They also never had to be filled.
Barry clenched the little wonder between his teeth.

The pipe lit itself, and a skein of smoke curledupward. The bowl was made of the finest magical
meerschaum, which, as advertised, began to carve itself
into an exact replica of its owner. 'Cool!' Barry said,
taking it out for a second to look at the forming
portrait. There was even a tiny pipe sticking out of the
portrait's mouth - on which, Barry supposed, an even
smaller portrait was forming . . . boy, a thought like
that could break your brain.

Barry coughed. He had never actually lit the pipe
before, preferring to use it simply as a prop; besides
playing with the smoke, he couldn't figure out the
appeal. His mouth tasted like he -was chewing tree
bark. The smoke ww fun -- wizard pipe smoke could be
formed into any shape you -wanted. Barry gave himself
a sombrero, an arrow through the head, and a devil's
horns in quick succession.

As he puffed, Barry could see this book's already
slim chance at a Newlyburied medal quite literally
going up in smoke. Well, "he thought, if I'm sere-wed
already, I might as well go have some fun.

'Bloody --' an ash had spilled onto his lap. He
brushed frantically, but it was too late; a small hole had
been burned in his father's old Cape of Invisibility.
'Damn!' Barry said. 'I'd better put this bugger out
before it sets me on fire.' The pipe extinguished itself
and Barry slipped it into his pocket, then pitched his
book into the fire. It -was magical, so it screamed.3

Belching up a little institutional-grade rice pudding,
Barry slipped on his Cape of Invisibility and walked
towards the front door of Hogwash. He was the
epitome of laziness, except when it came to getting into
trouble, making a little money, or both at once; he
delighted in seeing just how far he could push old
Bumblemore and the rest. His first few terms had been
pleasant, in that ooh-lookthere'sthatfamous-kid
sort of way -- lots of ogling and jockeying for his
approval, the occasional theft of his knickers and
speedy resale of same on eBuy. But then, in
exchange for a few hundred pounds, some journo
friend of his Muddle Aunt and Uncle wrote a
couple of (mostly fictional) books about his life.
Then things got interesting.

Near the front door, Almost Brainless Bill glided by,
dragging his cerebellum and spinal cord behind him
like a child's pull-toy. It left a trail of spectral slime.
Barry took care not to bump into the spirit and arouse
suspicion -- although last time he did, he uttered a soft
'Moo!' and ever since Bill had believed that an invisible
ghost cow walked the halls of the school. 'I shudder to
think -what heinous circumstances led to her spirit's
imprisonment in these dank halls. Murder, perhaps?
Or a doomed love affair?' Bill had said at dinner a few
days later, -while Barry pulled a stomach muscle trying
not to laugh.

Outside of the school now, he moved through the
muddy, smelly crowd of youngsters with a quick step.
He could never get used to the rankness that assaulted
him every evening. Were everybody',) fans this gross? It
was not merely an unpleasant ripeness borne of too
many people living too close together with no sanitation
facilities, but a pervasive, penetrating, unnerving
funk that seemed to suggest a widely-held organic
disorder. Tonight, the tell-tale stench of roast centaur
also hung in the air. Mixed with the aftertaste of pipe
tobacco, it was unspeakably horrid. He coughed, and
spat to get the smell out of his mouth. The gobbet
landed on a small, thin, bespectacled girl who sat
crosslegged on a patch of dirt re-reading a worn copy
of Barry Trotter and the Philosopher's Scone. She

This book was released as Barry Trotter and the Magic Buicuit in America. As readers of the first book know, the Philosopher's Scone
contained the Elixir of Life, making anyone who ate it immortal.
(This is not to be confused with the Elixir of Lust, which makes
people immoral. Big difference.) Anyway, the Philosopher's Scone
seemed like a great career opportunity to the evil Lord Valumart,
who considered compound interest the only power greater than
himself -- gaining immortality gave the investment strategy 'buy and
hold' a whole new meaning. Anyway, after Barry thwarted
Valumart, Bumblemore locked the pastry in his desk. He meant to

felt her hair, then looked skyward. Barry laughed. If
she only knew, she'd never -wash her hair again!

Barry reached the Forsaken Forest. At a clearing
just inside it stood Hafwid, the school's giant gamekeeper,
surrounded by twenty or so women of all sizes
and complexions. Two centaurs, Thelonious and Bird,
stood talking to Hafwid, smoking tiny cigarettes.
Seldom without berets and never without shades,
centaurs are the hipsters of the magical world.

Barry slipped off his cloak, and all the Muddle
females gasped as one. He never tired of that.

'Well, well, Shm's here to get some slickum on the
hangdown,' Thelonious said.

'Hey T, Bird. Slip me some hoof. Who's out there on
the spit?'

'That there's Diz. Never did care for him.' Thelonious
looked over his sunglasses at Barry. ' JAMF, if you
ask me.'

'Time for us cats to split,' said Bird, and he and
Thelonious adjusted their berets and cantered into the
woods. In the distance, a lone bongo drum could be
heard.

throw it out, but eventually a mouse got to it and became immortal.
The other mice logically proclaimed him the Messiah, and ever
since, a dangerous cult had been growing inside the walls and
wainscoting of Hogwash.
Barry turned to the giant gamekeeper. 'Thanks,
Hafwid, of' buddy,' he said, flipping a coin to the king
sized oaf, who fumbled it. 'You know the drill: go hang
out with your pet bogarts2 for an hour or two.'

Hafwid picked up the coin, and bit it. 'T'anks,
Barry,' he said, and stumbled uncertainly into the
forest, clutching a bottle wrapped in brown paper.

Another night, another gaggle of groupies. By now,
it bored Barry stiff, but in some -weird way, it -was how
he reminded himself he was a celebrity, somebody
special. And (he rationalized) talk about giving back to
your fans! 'Okay, girls: line up for your de-lousmg
spell, and then we can get started' Barry said. 'Did
everybody remember to wash?'

The next morning at breakfast, Barry was describing
his exploits in graphic -detail to a group of rapt
sycophants. As was customary, they were showered,,
with well-deserved disapproval from Hogwash's
remale contingent. Just as a particularly indignant
fifth-year named Penelope' Bluggs was preparing a
Itching Madness spell, the morning owls arrived.
Everyone quickly covered their glasses and bowls from
*
A bogart is a shape-shifter that takes on the form of your worst
fear -- personified as your least favorite actor.*


the flurry of feathers and mites and such that accompanied
every delivery. Owls were a filthy -way to deliver
the mail.

Barry got a letter from the headmaster. He showed it
to the group.

'Maybe it's good news. Maybe old Snipe's got
cancer of the wand,' said Manuel Rodriguez, a third
year -who will not reappear, but was shoehorned in so
that not everybody in this story was -white, middle-class,
and British.

'Not likely -- it's a yowler.' Barry opened it. 'See me
immediately!' it boomed. 'And bring that good-for
nothing Lon with you!' There were scattered giggles,
which Barry silenced with a mean look and trademark
gesture.

Lon Measly, Barry's boon companion, was indeed
good-for-nothing. Or very little, at least. He had
suffered a tragic Quiddit accident during fifth year - a
Basher had whiffed on a Brainer, causing it to lodge in
Lon's noggin at great speed. All attempts to remove the
ball had caused it to work its way in further; it finally
came out the other side, so that Lon's head had a
peephole pushed through it about the size of a one
pound coin. (When the -wind hit it just right, it
whistled.) Nurse Pommefritte had jerry-rigged him a
new brain, using the barely-adequate faculties of a
hastily-euthanized golden retriever. Lon was left with
the capacities of a dim, good-natured seven year-old,
and some definite canine tendencies.

'Come on,' Barry said, distracting Lon from the
eternal quest to lick himself. 'Fuzzface wants to see us.'
Lon smelled -worse than usual. 'Have you been rolling
in raccoon poop again?' Lon also chased cars. On the
other hand, he was extremely loyal.

Penelope's Itching Madness spell thwacked on the
wall behind them as they left the room. 'Pigs!' she
yelled.


'Pffft.' Alpo Bumblemore shuffled the cards as he
watched the Woodstock-like scene below. He picked a
card. 'Ace of Clubs? No. Damn.' There had been a tent
city of the most unattractive sort on the lawn of
Hogwash for weeks now, ever since someone had
published directions to the school in The Stun. 'Stunningly
insipid!' -was the paper's motto, one it lived up to
- or, more accurately, down to -- every day. Its primary
claim to fame was that all the women in its pages were
computer-enhanced so as to appear naked. This did
wonders for circulation, except -when Margaret Thatcher
made news.

Anyway, Hogwash's lawn had been churned to
ankle-deep muck almost immediately by the masses of
Start-reading, Barry-loving Muddles encamped upon it.
Bumblemore grimaced as someone brazenly relieved
themselves in the lake. He mumbled a word, and a
small lamprey-like sea monster attached itself to the
offending part. 'That'll teach you' Bumblemore said
aloud.

Bumblemore heard a splash; Muddles had been
pushing each other off Hogwash's high cliff at the rate
of 5 an hour. The resident kraken was eating well. One
of its tentacles held an encouraging placard saying
'JUMP!' Unfortunately, this didn't thin their numbers
-- more fans were arriving every day.

Hippies, the headmaster thought, seeing a pair of
fans making 'the book with two covers' in the grass.
Drug addicts. DD players. He'd turn them all to
cinders if he could, even the ones who were just
bookish kids with a weakness for hero-worship and
savvy merchandising. But there -were a fair number of
adults in the crowd, too. Perhaps fans of the books,
perhaps Manson-like wolves moving among the sheep.

'Oh, -well,' he said. 'God protects drunks, blondes
and Muddles.' An ace fell from Bumblemore's voluminous
sleeve. 'There you are, you rascal.'

Is this about the girls, or selling the map, or something
else bad I did, but forgot? Barry wondered as he and
Lon climbed the crumbling stairs to Bumblemore's
office. If it was the map, nobody could blame him; he needed that money. His godfather Serious Blech had
sunk his entire inheritance into a harebrained scheme
which failed, and Barry had long since burned through
the money that J.G. Rollins gave him for telling his life
story. A whole summer in the Muddle world - in its
Dimsley-encrusted armpit, no less -- required many
cigarettes and much lager to endure.

But Bumblemore -wouldn't buy that. He'd wanted
Barry to shove off last year. 'Nobody ever in the
history of Hogwash has been held back for five years
in a row!' he had yelled. 'Trotter, you're a disgrace. I
know you're doing it on purpose. All this publicity has
turned you into a cosmically-lazy, slightly magical
slacker. Do us all a favor and switch over to the Dork
side -- they'll never recover!'

The musty old wizard was right, and Barry would be,,
the first to admit it. But who could blame Barry for
staying a student? He was a king here, a god. Famous,
surrounded by easy marks who -were all too willing to loan cars, do laundry, or any other favor for the great
Barry Trotter. Life can only go downhill from here, he
thought.

At least from Barry's perspective, this latest scam
had worked out brilliantly. Not only had he been well
paid for the map, but now he had a rag-tag, fetid mob
of his fans encamped on Hogwash's front lawn. No
instructor dared fail him with a 5,000-strong pro
Trotter vandal army so close at hand.

However, even he -was beginning to get a little
annoyed. Their constant, moronic chants of love added
sonic unpleasantness to the visual element so amply
supplied by their unsafe, rickety lean-tos and unimaginably
tatty appearance. They were obnoxious and
smelly -- then they had discovered Hafwid's still, and
the mass brawling had begun.

Hafwid's liquor supply -was nothing any sane person
would mess with; if Hafwid didn't get you, the jet-fuel
like spirits would. An apologetic jeroboam of magic
900-proof brandy patched things up, between him and
Barry at least -- Hafwid still despised the Muddles, and
they seemed to know it somehow, singling him out for
torment. Hafwid's Blast-Ended Brewts sent a few
intruders to the hospital, and some others went blind
from drinking raw alcohol, but Barry knew he had fans
to burn.

Boy, these stairs were taking a long time. 'I wish this
narration would hurry up,' he said. Lon whimpered in
incoherent agreement.

As they approached the door to Bumblemore's
office, they were dive-bombed by a flock of pickpocketing
bats lurking in the shadows. Whatever booty
these thieving marsupials got, they took back to
Grittyfloor's rival house, Silverfish, and -woe betide any
student that tried to get anything back. They didn't
mess with Barry, but Lon was a favorite target, since
he often carried old food in his pockets. Waving their
arms frantically, they ran towards Bumblemore's door.
It opened automatically.

'Trotter --'

Barry and Lon stopped, and the door swung shut.
Barry panted, 'Professor, I just want you to know that
I was interviewing all those girls for the school
newspaper.'

Bumblemore turned. He looked very fed up. 'Trotter,
you know very well we don't "have a school paper,
and if Muddle girls have, the bad judgment to let you
within 50 feet of them, they deserve what they get. This,
is altogether more serious. Come over to the window.'

The pair looked down at the chanting, moshing mass
of mud-covered Muddledom. There were thousands of
them, and not a Porta-Potry in sight. The smell was
almost visible, like heat coming off a road.

'Look at these muttonheads. It's like a bloody
Renaissance Faire down there' Bumblemore
grumbled. 'Do you know I had to deliver a baby this
morning? Very messy business, Muddle birth. They
named it Barry, of course. I was so appalled I nearly
threw up on it.'

Barry leaned out of the window, which galvanized
the crowd. A great ragged cheer rose up. Misspelled
banners unfurled. 'Go away!' Barry yelled.

'He says we can stay!' said a Muddle. 'Hurrah!
Hurrah for Barry Trotter!'

'Idiot!' Bumblemore spat at our hero. 'Now we'll
never be rid of them.' He grabbed Barry's elbow. 'Get
away from that window before you do more damage.'

Quick as a flash, Bumblemore licked his thumb,
raised Barry's fringe and rubbed the scar on his
forehead. The mark, in the shape of an Interrobang,3 was the result of Barry's battle with Lord Valumart
while an infant. It was also his proof of wizarding
greatness, and Bumblemore was convinced it was a
mistake.

'Get off!' Barry said, pushing the mothball-andpatchouli-scented
magi-git away.

They turned to see Lon putting the small end of


* In the Muddle world, the Interrobang is a failed piece of
punctuation, half question mark, half exclamation point. As in
'What the Hell was that?!' or 'I just ate WHAT?!' Being both
chronically confused and easily excitable, Barry's mother felt an
affinity with the Interrobang. Thus, Barry -was marked with one. *

Bumblemore's telescope into his mouth. Since the
accident, Lon was a great gnawer.

'Lon! No!'

Lon, startled, knocked over a tin of magic ants
which spilled all over the floor. They began to spell out
dirty -words on the floor.

The aged headmaster struggled to control his temper.
'Look, you two -- I want you to listen, so you can
get the blazes out of my office.' In the corner,
Bumblemore's pet phoenix Sparky, flickered as it
pecked at an asbestos cuttlebone.

Bumblemore brandished a copy of The Stun. 'Someone
- I suspect the latest odious issue of the
Malfeasance clan currently oozing all over Silverfish
House' -- Barry hoped his relief didn't show -- 'has
given this paper the directions to Hogwash. Ergo,
those pinheads down there.' He threw The Stun in the
wastepaper basket with great force. 'I am getting
entirely too old for this pile of fewmets.'

With the threat of punishment receding, Barry's
mind had wandered. His eyes played over the titles in
Bumblemore's bookshelves . . . She Wore a GoQen Whip
mum Harriett Torture Claret; and Barry's favorite, Prisoner at a Women' College, or the Private Diary of
Phineaj Bantam-Pullet, Flagellant. The first-year Barry
had been shocked; eleven years later, he -was just
amused -- Bumblemore had an odd idea of fun, but
who doesn't? The slap of paper against wastebasket
shook Barry from his reverie, and he heard Bumble
more say, 'Our deceptive spells are useless; it takes
basic intelligence to be deceived, and those knuckle
heads simply ain't got.'

'How could someone do something like that? And
for what? A bit of money!' Barry snorted derisively,
laying it on thick. 'There's more to life than money, I
always say, don't I, Lon?'

'Yep,' Lon sputtered, a spindle of drool sliding from
his chin.

'God, what a dolt you are, Measly.' Bumblemore
paused a moment, eyes closed, squeezing the bridge of
his nose, then said, 'Pardon me. This infernal chanting
has given me a splitting headache. As bad as things are
right now, they may get much, much worse - if today's Daily Soothsayer is right.' He grabbed the paper off his
desk and handed it to Barry.

'POOP,' spelled the ants.

'What? "Sex-for-Grades Scandal Rocks Academic
World"?' Barry asked, reading a headline.

'No, below that,' Bumblemore said.

'"New Penalties for Sodomy Called 'Unimaginably
Draconian"?'

'Let me see that!' Bumblemore exclaimed, grabbing
the paper back. He scanned in vain -- Barry had made
that one up. 'You think you're so funny,' Bumblemore
groused. He jabbed at an article. 'That one.'

'"Brit Wiz Whiz Flick Picked to Click,'" Barry read.
'All of Tinseltown is buzzing about the movie, "Barry
Trotter and the Inevitable Attempt to Cash In," slated
for release in just one month. Fans of the children's
fantasy series are expected to mob theaters worldwide.

'Wagner Brothers is betting on the big-budget
biopic, hoping that an all-out promotional and merchandising
blitz will make the movie a massive
international hit, even bigger than the publishing
phenomenon that spawned it.'

T don't understand,' Barry said. 'This seems like it
can only help Hogwash. You know what they say, "No
publicity is bad publicity.'"

Bumblemore smacked .his forehead at Trotter's
stupidity; as he did so, a single blue moth skittered s upwards from his robes. 'Trotter, you are a fool. How
many kids actually read books these days? One in ten?
A hundred? And yet, look outside --' as he pulled aside
the curtain, a handful of something hit the window. (It
wasn't mud.)

'We want Barry!' the crowd yelled.

Bumblemore made a rude gesture to the crowd,
which booed him lustily. 'Do you have any idea how
many people will show up here after the movie?
Adding in overseas, home video, and DVD rentals,
maybe a hundred million people will see it. That means
we'll have 500,000 people of all ages fighting, singing,
bleeding and God-knows what else-ing on our lawn by
Boxing Day.'

'UH-OH' the ants spelled, until Lon, giggling,
decimated the last 'H' with his foot.

The enormity of it broke in Barry's mind, and a
trickle of sweat rolled down his scalp. 'Why not just
move Hogwash? Magically, I mean?'

'Insurance' Bumblemore said. 'Our lawyers at
Warlocke and Wyvern tell me that it would break us to
move. We might as well close the school altogether,
and go back to correspondence courses. Anyway, since
you're the cause of all of this, I want you to fix it. Stop
that movie, Barry Trotter, or Hogwash is history'

'But if a Malfeasance was the one who --' said Barry
shamelessly.

'His parents are Trustees' Bumblemore said. 'Your
parents are mulch'

'Okay, okay' This could be my next book, Barry
thought, mental cash registers ringing. I'll call J.G.,
and - no. It was that kind of thinking that had gotten
them into this mess. 'Can Lon help? And Ermine?'

'As our only Special Ed student, I doubt very much
Lon will be missed. The experience may be good for
him. Miss Cringer is teaching at a remedial wizards
school outside Hogsbleede; whether she can help or
not is up to her.'

A knock came on the door, and Hafwid stumbled in.
As usual, he was wearing a battered baseball cap
advertising a brand of dragon feed. 'P'rfes'r Bummle
more, sum of thos' Muddles done broke into my cab'n
agin! Thair pawin' through mah smalls!' Hafwid's
'smalls' were as big as a pup tent. 'Can I kill 'um?'
'Son of a witch' Bumblemore muttered. 'No, Hafwid,
I'll handle it.' He moved to the door, then turned
back and said, in an almost fatherly way, 'Barry, the
school is depending on you. If you ever get into a tight
spot and think you might not be able to stop the movie,
I want you to remember one thing . . .' He put his hand
on Barry's shoulder. "... if Hogwash" closes, you'll have
to go get a job.' Then he and Hafwid left.

Lon scooped a handful of ants into his mouth,
leaving 'SHI' on the carpet. 'Yuck,' he said, sticking
out his tongue.

My thoughts exactly' said Barry.

Chapter Two
THE BUTCHER OF HOGWASH

After corralling the profane ants, Barry and Lon left
Bumblemore's study. They made quite sure the door
was locked - the last time that Sparky got loose, most
of Pufnstuff House was reduced to charred rubble. For
something that was mostly mouldy rock, these old
castles sure could burn.

Lucky for the boys, most of the larcenous bats had
fallen into a light slumber, and the few that were still
awake -were preoccupied with smoking cigarettes,
looking tough, and trying to rob each other. Barry and
Lon tiptoed past, leaving them to their fluttery squabbling.

As readers of Barry Trotter and the Chamberpot of
Secrete already know, Bumblemore often answered
Nature's call by means of an amazingly lifelike
porcelain reproduction of Barry's head. Bumblemore 
had placed it in the hall for a house-elf to empty; as if
radar-guided, Lon's shin upended it, knocking it down
the stairs -with a splash and smash. The roused bats
flew at them. 'Run!' Barry yelled.

Barry spied a door slightly ajar down the hall.
'Quick, in here!' he cried, and Lon piled in behind him.
They both regretted it immediately.

'Oh, GOD!' Barry said. 'Of all the rooms to pick.' It
was the dreaded Upper South Bathroom, home to one
of Hogwash's least-loved spirits, Flatulent Fanny.

'Who's out there?' a quavering, high-pitched voice
cried from one of the stalls. The air was rank with the
fruits of Fanny's ghostly intestine.

'Ohhh,' Fanny moaned, as another gastric salvo
sputtered to life. 'Go away, I feel sick.'

'P.U.' said Lon, pinching his nose. 'Blap,' Fanny
'replied.'

Fanny, whatever you're- eating, Stop!' Barry yelled,
breathing through his mouth. The bats outside beat
their tiny bodies against the door in a Morse code of
stupidity.

Don't yell at me. Everybody hates me [ploot!] but
it s not my fault,' Fanny said -weakly. 'I'm lactose
intolerant [brrrip].' Fanny was a first-year who had
died in 1952, after some Silverfish third-years hid a
massive amount of cheese in her dinner one evening.
As she crampily met her Maker, she swore vengeance,
and each of the bullies were driven mad by a
mysterious, visible stench which trailed them wherever
they went. No breeze could move it, no soap could
remove the sulphurous signature of Fanny's unhappy
gut - death was the only relief. After her tormentors
had done away with themselves, Fanny took up
residence in the bathroom where she had expired.
Ironically, locking first-years in with Fanny had
become a favorite trick of Hogwash's bullies.

Slowly, the beating of the bats stopped. Barry
opened the door a crack, letting in a trickle of sweet,
fresh air. The coast was clear.

'Okay, Lon, let's go,' he said. 'Seeya, Fanny.'

'Nobody likes me,' Fanny said. The rest of her
sentence was obscured by an abdominal outburst.

As Lon and Barry turned a corner, they were
suddenly confronted by one of Hogwash's most colorful
denizens, the semi-feral Mrs. McGoogle. Once
leader of Grittyfloor and a productive member of the
Hogwash faculty, the now spectacularly-unkempt
McGoogle had been unhinged by the constant stream
of dramatic events that Trotter and his cronies had
unleashed upon the school. After years of mayhem from
Lord Valumart's constant, clumsy attempts to do
away with Barry, to Ferd and Jorge Measly's endless
barrage of asinine pranks and now, finally, the appearance
of the unwashed masses at the school's very gates
- her hyper-orderly mind snapped. Overnight, the formidable Mrs. McGoogle turned into a world-class
nutter, skulking around the school dressed in a
discarded flour sack, subsisting somehow on the
leavings in student trashcans. It was a medical miracle
she had lasted this long; people whispered that
Bumblemore kept her in a secret sex dungeon, where
the wizened, barmy pervert aired a set of privates too
wrinkly to contemplate. Once quite a powerful wizard,
McGoogle now transformed into a cat only -when she
went into 'heat,' -which, at her age, -was blessedly
seldom.

'Boo,' Barry wheezed, out of breath. The addlepated
woman hissed, spraying Barry with sour-smelling spit,
and spun on her heel. Shje skittered away, her long
toenails clicking double-time down the corridor. The
bats reversed direction and followed her, a stupid
choice since she had nothing but her wits and precious
few of those. Barry and Lon heard her footfalls recede,
then what sounded like a crash as La McGoogle
careened into some metal something some distance
away.

Barry, how long will we be gone?' Lon asked.

Stopping the movie? I don't know.'
'Because I want to get my hat from my room.'
'Good thinking,' Barry said. Lon's hat, a double
coned Laplander knit cap with reindeer on it, was
essential for their trip into the Muddle world; its ample
flaps covered the hole through his head, and muffled its
cheerful bottle-like note. 'Before we do that, though,'
Barry said, 'I'd like to stop by Zed's.'

Zed Grimfood was Hogwash's armorer, an ex-Error
fired by the Ministry after killing too many Muddles in
his war against the Earth Eaters.4 Zed had always
held it against Barry that he'd never made it into the
books; he fancied himself the very model of a tough
action star.

Barry didn't blame J.G. Rollins for not putting him
in -- Zed was a paragon of bad judgment, a parent's
nightmare, pure sales poison. Crude, quick to fight,
incredibly hostile, the palest caricature of Zed would
instantly remove the series from school libraries all
over the world. Heck, Zed -was too intense for Barry, the guy who regularly doled out noogies to the Dork
Lord. As written, the Trotter series was strictly PG
rated, and old Zed was an ostentatious excessive


*They were called this because Lord Valumart made them eat
copious amounts of dirt as proof of their loyalty to him. *

violence, adult situations). And if he ever veered into
X, Barry didn't want to know.

'Why do We need to see Zed?' Lon asked. He was
afraid of Zed to the point of pants-wetting -- which, it
must be admitted, came a lot easier to Lon than most.

'Because if we tell him what we're doing, perhaps
he'll give us something helpful,' Barry said. 'Or
something we can sell.'

'For gum?' Lon loved chewing gum.

'Yes, possibly.'

'Goody' said Lon, then paused. 'But what are we doing, Barry?'

'Didn't you listen to Bumblemore? We're going to
stop the movie?'

'How?' Lon asked.

Barry didn't know, so he made something up. 'We're
going to kidnap J.G. Rollins,' Barry said.

'Oh,' Lon said.

Barry and Lon's ears had not deceived them: Mrs.
McGoogle had crashed into a haunted suit of armour.
Its ghost was picking up the pieces, grumbling all the
while. 'Blamed fleshies, think they can just run into
people ... no respect for the dead

Behind the ghost stood a door which had a brass
plate reading, Zed Grimjood, Armourer. 'Excuse us,'
Barry said, pushing the flimsy pieces of display armour
to the side with his foot. 'Watch it,' the ghost said
petulantly. 'That's me 'ome you're kickin'.'

'Mr. Grimfood,' Barry said, knocking normally. 'It's
Barry Trotter and Lonald Measly.' The whine and
grind of heavy machinery could be heard. Then, after
there was no answer, he pounded on the door,
shouting, 'Mr. Grimfood!'

Barry and Lon heard the machinery abruptly cut off,
then heard Zed's girlishly high voice cry out, 'Back, ye
devils!'

The door opened, and there stood Zed, all six foot
nine inches of him. He was a big, hairy man, with a
long, red, forked beard. His facial hair was so
impressive that he made the frizzy Bumblemore look
like a piker. In addition to his forked beard, Grimfood
had forked sideburns. His head hair was separated into
many tufts, each tied with a small ribbon, which stuck
out like a child's drawing of the sun. The whole effect
was kind of pirate-y, with heavy overtones of a bizarro
sexuality Barry shuddered to contemplate. His bear
like bulk was clothed in a smudged denim apron, and
he beat back a swarm of translucent pixies with a
freckled paw. They dodged it easily, snickering and
taunting.

'Why, if it isn't Trotter. And Lon. Come in,' Zed
offered a greasy hand, which promptly crushed Barry's


in a prehistoric show of dominance. He was holding a
pink featherduster, which was apparently the source of
all that racket. 'Hello, Sir Cyril,' Zed said to the ghost.
'I see Cyclone McGoogle's been here.'

'Some people shouldn't 'ave bodies,' Sir Cyril said,
his arms full of armor. 'Some people aren't responsible enough.' 'Quite,' said Zed, and closed the door.
'Pillow-biter,' Zed mumbled to himself.

'Don't mind the pixies' he said to the boys. 'That
curse is a royal pain, it is.' He tossed them two pairs of
plastic safety goggles. 'Put these on,' Zed said. 'They
like to lay their eggs in the fluid of your eyes.'

'Ahhh!' Barry and Lon squinted immediately, and
scrambled to put on the glasses. Professor Snipe,
Hogwash's evil-tempered Professor of Notions, had
given Zed a chronic case of the pixies after a dustup
several years ago. Nobody, would lift the curse for fear
of crossing Snipe, and it really curtailed Zed's success
with the ladies.

The dumb little pixies smacked into their safely
goggles incessantly. You got so as you didn't even see
it.

'I see you're still wearing your glasses, Barry,' Zed
said. 'I wish you'd let me do something about that.' Zed
had offered, many times, to make Barry a new pair of
magical all-zinc eyeballs. Barry, sensibly, had declined.

Grimfood stood in his fluorescently-lit, concrete
floored workroom, surprisingly up-to-date for Hogwash,
where the plumbing and wiring -was quintessentially
English. (Bumblemore was constantly calling the
house elves in to fix this or that thing, but they were
unionized and often on strike, so everybody had
learned to accept unflushing toilets and small electrical
fires - and incredibly, unflushing spark-throwing
toilets -- as part of life.5) Zed wiped his hands on his
apron, which was so smudged with grease (and blood?
it sure looked like it) that they came back dirtier than
before.

There, stretched out on Zed's worktable, utterly
defenseless, -was a blow-up sex doll. It wasn't very
high-quality; Barry bet it -wouldn't last thirty seconds
under Zed's -writhing bulk. Barry lifted a deflated arm.
'What are you doing -with your friend here, Zed?'
Barry asked. 'Dusting?'


*It must be admitted that Hogwash was crumbling in no small part
thanks to Bumblemore's terrifying ineptitude as a fundraiser. It was
difficult under any circumstances, since most of the Trustees were
pals of Valumart (because, let's face it --you can't amass a sizeable
fortune without being at least a little Dork). But Bumblemore's
tendency to give the more bothersome of them the of' one-finger
salute kept the Trustees in a constant state of near revolt. They
were, in fact, secretly funding the revolutionary mice. *

'Put that down!' Zed said testily. 'That's personal,
that is!' He grabbed it and stuffed it into a box.

'You really don't pay attention in class, do you,
Trotter? This isn't a featherduster, it's an Enchantoma
tic.' He took his wand from behind his ear and fit it
into the end of the duster. 'This focuses the magic juice.
Then, you get -whatever object you -want to enchant' -- he fished a Boarsbollocks' Brew bottlecap from his
pocket and placed it on the table -- 'put the duster
directly over it, and . . .' There was a flash, and a smell
of ozone. 'It's enchanted.'

The bottlecap gave a squeak, and began to hop
about, bending itself in half like a mouth with every
jump. Zed squashed it with a meaty fist. It gave a little
shriek, then moved no more. Lon felt sad. Barry felt
sorry for the latex lady fated to play Pinocchio to Zed's
booty-starved Geppetto., In the best public school
tradition, there was something about Hogwash that
encouraged kinkmess. All those rules, all those teenage
hormones . . . the students usually came out okay, but
the staff were all strange, sexually (and otherwise),
almost -without exception.

'What can I do for you, boys?'

Lon jumped right in. 'We're going to kidnap
somebody!' This explained nothing for Zed, who
looked at Barry, puzzled.

'We've got to go out into the Muddle world -- maybe
even to America - to prevent some people from making
a movie about me' Barry said. Feeling sure that he wouldn't be in this project, either, all the helpfulness
drained from Zed's manner.

'Well, I can't see how the lowly Hogwash Armourer
can help you with that' Zed said. 'Now, if you'll
excuse me, I have this lollipop to disarm' He picked up
what appeared to be a standard lollipop. It was covered
With foreign writing, and through a gap in the
wrapper, Barry could see that the candy -was fiery
orange.

Lon's eyes brightened. 'Oooh! Can I have it?'

'No, Lon' Zed replied, smiling at him. 'It could be
lethal. Your rascally brothers left it in their secret
candy stash by the Iron Maria on the second floor, and
a third-year found it. Almost ate it, too. No telling what
couldVe happened then' Zed said. Barry agreed -- eating any candy that had passed through the hands of
Ferd and Jorge Measly -was a bad idea. He remembered
the sweets they passed out to the first-years a
few years back. Camouflaged as a delicious chocolate
truffle, it caused monarch butterflies to hatch in your
guts and stream out of your bottom. It -was marvellous!

Zed stepped towards the door. 'I'll be up all night as it is, so if you'll excuse me . . '
'Wait! Mr. Grimfood, listen' said Barry, concocting
a suitable lie, 'the reason -we've got to stop this movie is
that we've seen the screenplay and, well, it gets it all
wrong. Certain people are missing, important people' Zed
brightened -- 'and we are going there to make sure
they're in it, and get the recognition they deserve'

'Hm, well, in that case . . Zed tried to conceal his
upsurge of interest by using the muscles of his right ear
to pop the wand nestled behind it into the air, then
catching it with his hand. This nervous habit was
impressive enough the first time you saw it, but after a
whole semester of Magickal Shop, it was simply
irritating. 'What can I do for you?'

What a sucker, Barry thought, and reeled him in.
'We need some things for our mission. Things to help
us if the going gets rough'

'How about this saw?' Zed said, hoisting an eight
foot silver halberd into the air. 'You flip a switch here on the handle and -- ' The blade at the pole's end began
to -whirl with an awful buzz.

'Best saw in the world. Cuts through anything!' Zed
shouted. 'This will persuade those Hollywood types!'

Lon, smiling broadly, hands clapped over his ears,
hopped up and down. Loud noises excited him. Barry
did not share his enthusiasm. 'No thanks' he shouted.
'We need something smaller! More concealable!'
'Suit yourself!' Zed said. Distracted by the racket,
he put the saw down before switching it off. It was as
good as advertised, cutting through the floor effortlessly
with a spray of concrete chips. There was a
scream from the classroom below. Zed yanked it
backwards, and switched it off. 'Sorry' he yelled.

'Turn it on again!' Lon yelled. He was ignored.

'Zed, do you have anything concealable?'

'I've got a thigh holster for your wand. Helps if
you're ever frisked. Want it?'

'Sure,' said Barry. Zed tossed it to him. It was
leather, and had a nude woman clumsily tooled into it.
'What about something that looks Muddle but isn't?'
Zed reached a furry red arm into his apron pocket. He
pulled out a pack of gum. 'How about this?'

'All right!' Lon hollered, excited. 'Now we don't have
to sell -- '

'Shut up, Lon,' fearing that Zed would catch on to
his fencing scheme. 'Toss it over. Wait -- it isn't going
to explode or anything?'

'No, more's the pity.' Zed tossed it to Barry. It
looked like gum, smelled like spearmint. 'It will clear
out a room, however. It's tear gas gum; chew a piece,
then breathe on somebody. They'll make way in a
hurry.'


Barry -was instantly charmed. He could get into real
trouble with this. 'Great!' he said. 'Got anything else?'

Zed opened a many-drawered standing chest and
started rooting around. 'It's the beginning of the term,
so I don't have much . . . Serious Putty(r) -- you don't
want that. Magic slugs?'

'You mean like for slot machines?' Barry asked
hopefully, thinking of a detour to Vegas.

'No, I mean like for gardens.'

'What do they do?' Barry asked, crestfallen.

'They write your name in slime. Very slowly. It's quite amusing if you have an afternoon to kill. Entirely
non-lethal, though. What about this? Loyal jelly.' He
turned, and tossed -what looked like a toothpaste tube
to Barry. Barry opened it and squeezed a little onto his
fingertip. He immediately felt the sensation of being
tongue-kissed on the finger.

'It's useful stuff. Made by a species of superaffectionate
bee. There's nothing that jelly won't do for you.'

'But what can it do for you?' Barry asked.

'Stop leaks, protect your skin from heat or cold . . .
say you have to fish a piece of toast out of the toaster.
Squirt a little loyal jelly on your hand, and they'll
gladly burn to death to protect the fingers of the one
they love.'

Not really convinced of the product's usefulness,
Barry tucked it into his pocket anyway. 'Thanks, Zed.'

As the adults talked, Lon was down on all fours, his
nose at a mousehole, sniffing. Suddenly, a needle flew
out of the hole, trailing thread. It hooked on Lon's
collar, and there was a tiny cheer from inside the hole.
Lon was so startled by this that he sprang to his feet
and backed away. An old-fashioned flat roller skate,
scrounged from somewhere, emerged from the hole,
carrying seven mice. Lon turned and began to run.

'What else do you have?' Barry asked. 'I mean, if
you can spare it. We'll take good care of anything you
give us.'

'Aaaah!' Lon yelled, running past, trailing the
zigzagging skate full of cheering mice.

'Not if you're using it right, you won't,' Zed laughed.

Still running around the room, Lon realized that the
skate was attached to his collar, and began slapping at
it. He dislodged the needle, and the mice were sent,
their cheers now turned to screams, veering off into the
wall. A few were injured, but none seriously. They
weaved dizzily back to their hole, dragging the skate
behind them.

Zed continued to root around in the nicked and
spattered cabinet. 'Here, I've never even opened this.
But it's good for incapacitating a Muddle or two.' He

tossed a round brown and silver tin to Barry, who
read, 'Phelgmberry Farms' Snot Chocolate.' He flipped
it over. 'Inside this tin is the world's finest Snot
Chocolate. This savory drink, a secret Phelgmberry
family recipe, combines the richest, most finely-milled
cocoa available, with an impossibly-powerful industrial-strength
expectorant. Just one sip and you'll be
saying, 'Mmmm . . . my sinuses are packed solid.' Your
nose will run -- gallop! -- and you'll be hawking up
fistfuls of creamy sputum for hours. Anytime's massive
bogie time with Snotberry Farms!'

'I realize this is incredibly gross, Zed, but how could
it help?'

Zed didn't look up. 'It will distract your assailant.'
Lon reached over. 'Mmm, smells like chocolate. Let

me see.

'No, Lon,' Barry said, whacking Lon lightly on the
nose. 'Zed, what if I don't want to distract the
Muddles. What if I need to splatter one all over the
place?'

Zed turned, his eyes lit with glee -- the thought of
violence against Muddles warmed Zed's heart. 'I've got
just the thing,' He pulled open a top drawer, and pulled
out a vicious-looking, metallic pistol. Yes! Barry
thought. Here'd something I can pawn. '. 
Police issue, nickel finish. Snub-nosed for easy concealment.
You could stop a manticore with this baby'
purred Zed. He cocked it with a snap. 'Careful, it's
loaded.' He tossed it to Barry before Barry could
fathom what a bad idea that was.

Scared, Barry fumbled it, and they all dove for cover
as it discharged. The bullet ricocheted, and -- in a
million to one shot -- bounced cleanly through the
newly-cut hole in the floor. A groan was heard, then
Professor Snipe's voice, 'Cyril Broadbottom, I remind
you that no one can be shot in my classroom without
permission. Five points from Grittyfloor!'

Zed leaned over the hole and yelled, 'Sorry again!'
He grimaced. 'Ew. Looks like that can splatter
wizards, too. You guys had better go, before Snipe
curses you, too.'

'Thanks, Zed,' Barry said, gathering up his loot.
'Wish us luck.'

'What happened?' said Lon, still in his defensive

cower.

'Nothing, Lon. Good luck with your kidnapping'
Zed said. 'And Barry ..."

'Yes?'

'If you can't stop it, and they make the movie
anyway . . . well, could you make sure George Clooney
plays me?'


Chapter Three
MR. BARRY'S WILD RIDE

Barry and Lon hurried out of Zed's office, just as real
bedlam began to erupt. 'Now, see here, Grimfood, you
can't go shooting one of my students!' they heard the
exasperated Snipe shout before the door closed.

They took off their goggles and placed them by the
door. 'This place is an asylum' Barry said to Lon. Lon
was unsure of the -word 'asylum' so he just smiled and
nodded. It -was amazing how far playing dumb could
get you. He showed Barry the lollipop -- he had swiped
it off Zed's workbench in the commotion.

'Well, you are a Measly brother, aren't you? Good
work. But I wouldn't eat that if I were you'

'I CAN!' Lon said belligerently.

'Okay, but ask Ferd or Jorge first, okay?' Barry
asked. 'Do you have to get anything from your room
before we go?'

'Just my hat' Lon said.
'Right, right' Barry said. In addition to the essential
flaps, Lon's hat had strings coming down that could be
tied under his chin to keep the quasi-canine manchild's
fuzz-covered jowls warm. But as it was only September,
it was sure to look strange. Barry had quit caring
ages ago.

'Okay, put that on, and get whatever else you want
to bring, and I'll meet you at the portrait in five
minutes,' said Barry. Lon went, his meandering sort of
gait unsullied by any sense of purpose.

Barry headed towards his room. A first-year, Basil
Basingstoke, passed him in the hall, carrying a round
container. This gave Barry an idea.

'Hey, you -- what's your name?'

'B-Basil,' Basil stammered, shocked that the great
Barry Trotter was speaking directly to him.

'Yeh, Basil, give me that tin, would you?' Barry said.

'Oh, sure, Barry! Be glad to!' Basil immediately
dumped its contents on the floor -- he collected buttons -- and handed it over. The buttons, enchanted, rolled
away laughing, secreting themselves in every nook and
cranny of the hallway. Basil -would be rounding them
up for hours.

'Thanks, kid,' Barry said, and continued walking to
his room, knowing that Basil would gush to his friends
about this chance encounter.

When Barry opened his door, he was greeted by the
usual disaster area: an unmade bed smelling of sweat;
carelessly taped-up posters for Reservoir Dog, Bob
Marley, and of course, a life-size one of Art Valumord,
the lead singer of Valid Tumor Alarm; a broken lava
lamp; a writing desk piled high with old assignments,
angry letters, traffic tickets, bills and other trash; and
his prize possession, a stolen street sign ('Road
crumbles away into Pit of Hell, 5 kill'). There were a
few books, on shelves and in careless piles: some
Camus and Hesse, never read; Salinger, Kerouac,
Vonnegut, skimmed; Brautigan, from when he suspected
he was deep enough to write poetry (he -wasn't)
lots of comics, and a subscription to Viz that his
godfather Serious had gotten him ten years ago, which
kept coming for some reason.

And of course there -was his faithful owl, Earwig,
who sat grumbling in h'er cage. Earwig had been
confined to Barry's room since she -went for Dorco
Malfeasence's soft bits five years ago, and as usual, her
cage was filthy. Barry's rule was: 'Don't clean it until
your eyes water.'

Holding the fruitcake tin in one hand, he went over
to Earwig's cage. Opening the door, he folded the
corners of the feces-loaded newspaper over the top,
making a bundle. He then deftly slid the bundle into
the tin; the pile of droppings was a little higher than the
tin, but he scrunched the lid down supertight. It was so
full, he had to tape it shut.

Barry laughed to himself. It's the little pleasures in
life that make the difference.

Taking some brown paper, he carefully wrapped the
tin, then began to address the parcel. He stopped; this
mustn't be traceable, thinking of the Muddle court
order that had been passed a few years ago. Waving
his wand, he mumbled the ancient summoning spell.

'Cmere!'

His magic pen unearthed itself from his desk and
flew over to him. It stood poised over the package until
Barry spoke: 'Mr. Vermon Dimsley, 4 Trivet Row,
Piddlesex, England.' And, for the finishing touch, the
return address was that of Uncle Vermon's boss. Barry
smiled at the psychological damage he was about to
inflict. Then, for some reason, he felt the tiniest twinge
of conscience, which he squashed like a defenseless
pixie.

Though his fans had been threatening them with
death for years, Barry had been tormenting the
Dimsleys as well, and rightly so. First, he had driven
the obese, sadistic son insane by placing an endless
loop of dogs barking 'Jingle Bells' in his head. Then,
he had given the Missus a powerful sapphic crush on
the Queen, which had the double benefit of not only
ruining the Dimsleys' marriage (Vermon was driven
into the arms of other even more shrewish and less
attractive women), but also putting Mrs. Dimsley
under 24 hour surveillance by MI5. To Barry's
surprise, Vermon had proven to be the toughest of all
three, like a cowpat baked rock-hard by a white-hot
sun of obtuse stolidity.

'Here, Earwig. Muddle post, please,' Barry said,
giving the owl the unpleasant task of ferrying her own
droppings. But she was so glad to be free that she
grabbed the twine with her talons without complaint,
and swooped out of the window. She circled back to
give Barry a dirty look, however, and he could've
sworn that she stuck her tongue out at him. It was an
inconvenient reality that his celebrity meant nothing to
animals; they put up with less. Barry threw on his old
Army jacket, which was ratty, and covered with ink
blots from that brief period when he used fountain
pens because they made him feel smart. He checked
the pockets for various necessities (pipe, lighter, bottle
opener, gun) and walked out.


Lon was waiting for him in front of the portrait in the
Grittyfloor Common Room, cap on, ready to go. He
was holding a thick book. Lon can't read an adult book
like that, Barry thought. 'Hey, Lon, what's that for?'

'It's my journal,' Lon said. 'In case we have
adventures.' Usually, Barry was much too protective of
his brand identity to allow such a thing, but since it
was Lon, who was still stuck on the cursive Q and
therefore no threat to become an author, Barry decided
not to be a sourpuss.

'After you,' Barry said. 'I see London, I see France,'
Lon sang, and stepped into the painting, which
obligingly lifted her hoop skirts and let him through.
Barry followed, and the pair found themselves outside
Hogwash. Barry threw the Cape of Invisibility over
them both, so that the masses of Muddles milling about
wouldn't see them. Unfortunately, Lon was considerably
taller than Barry, so both pairs of legs showed
from the knee.

'Follow me,' said Barry, heading to the Forsaken
Forest.

'Barry, I don't think you should see your girlfriends
right now!' Lon said with the peculiar moral intensity
of the pre-pubescent. 'Shut up, stupid! We're going to
get Ermine.' Lon was momentarily chastened, but soon
lost himself in the myriad pungencies of the breeze.

Barry made sure he and Lon stayed far away from
the infamous Buggering Birch. Whenever anyone
would stray too close, this loathsome plant would reach
out and -- no, it's just too disgusting to describe.

'How are we going to get to Hogsbleede?' Lon
asked.

'By hedgerow, of course,' Barry replied. Muddle
England was covered with rows of large hedges,
certainly large enough to cover an 'underground
railroad,' especially if a little space-warping magic were
applied. The wizarding community of England used
this as their primary way to get around; Barry had
forced J.G. Rollins to leave that part out of her books,
as Muddle discovery of it would be a real headache tolls, taxes, emissions tests and God knows what else.
Still, it might not have mattered even if she had, since
one of the things her mostly fanciful series got the
nghtest -was this: Muddle,) never pay any attention to
anything but thenuelvej. And the ones that do look
around, are dismissed as lunatics. 'A network of v highways disguised as hedgerows, and used by magical
people? Preposterous!' And it was, but that didn't
make it any less true.

The hedge was a special variety; in addition to
containing a form of mass transit, it produced leaves in
the shape of letters. These letters, read in the correct
order, formed words, and it was said that each hedge
told its own unique story. Each fall, a masterpiece fell.

But each spring, new chapters sprouted. These stories
didn't grow in the telling; they were told in the
growing.

'This way in' Barry read in leaves, as they arrived at
the entrance to the hedgerow. Barry pulled off the
Cape, and Lon lifted some outer branches to reveal a
good-sized opening. (Some Muddles saw them appear
out of thin air, but chalked it up to the undercooked,
day-old centaur roiling in their bellies.) 'Thanks, Lon'
Barry said, and ducked inside. Lon followed.

They suddenly found themselves in a room, much
bigger than a hedgerow, about as big as Grand Central
Station, if you've ever been there. Barry always
enjoyed the illusion when he made the shift. Most magic was pretty utilitarian, shabby even, but this was
different, impressive. The effect of the sparkling lights
peeping through the roof, a mass of branches and
greenery, made one feel as if they were snuggled under
a Christmas tree, getting sticky sap in their hair, ready
to dodge falling ornaments.

At each corner of the square room, there was a line
of toboggan-like vehicles, red two-seaters -- one in the
front, one in the back - with a vertical lever at the front
for steering and for inclination control. A queue of
magical, semi-magical, and wannabe creatures stood
waiting for their turn in the toboggan rank. Somebody


M

Mr. Barry'j Witt RSe


Would get in to the toboggan, slide out of a tunnel-like
opening in the chamber wall, and the next group would
get in and do the same. It always reminded Barry of an
amusement park ride.

The pair walked to the line under a large branch
reading, 'Southeast Portal' shuffling in behind a zoot
suited centaur, -who twirled his long watch chain and
tapped his hooves impatiently. The line moved slowly, but steadily, and soon Lon and Barry were climbing
into their toboggan.

'Watch your step getting in,' the conductor said. The
man's nose looked like it had been partially eaten away
by some disease, and the rest of his face, while present,
was similarly unwholesome. Barry didn't like the looks
of him - or the toboggan, either: it was old, rusty,
spotted with crude, flimsy patches-and streaked with
scorchmarks. There was a big hole in the floor board,
and there looked to be a used condom in the backseat.

The interrobang on Barry's forehead throbbed a
saucy samba of pain. He hesitated; should he ask for
another toboggan?

'Step in, step in, got a whole line of people behind'
the conductor said, flashing a gapped grin that Barry
thought was . . . evil? An image of this man flashed
through his brain -- scraggly, unshaven, wearing only a
knee-length nightshirt and nightcap, the man danced in
the moonlight around a massive bonfire of books -- Barry's books. The shirt read, 'I Hate Barry Trotter!' in
large, black, iron-on letters. Cavorting demonically in
Barry's mind, he ripped off the shirt, howling like an animal, revealing the grisly tattoo on his chest -- a
picture of him, Barry, with a traffic-sign like circle and
diagonal line through it.

'I don't think we should take this --' Overcome by
pain, Barry swooned.

'Yer friend seems to've fainted,' the conductor said.
'I'll help you load 'im in.' Lon and the creepy transit
officer dumped the limp Barry into the backseat. Lon
assumed the controls, and the toboggan zoomed into
the tunnel, leaving the ghastly laughter of the conductor
behind them. The branch over their head read,
'You'll be sorry' -- but only Lon was awake to read it.


Barry came to, and "was immediately confronted with
his worst nightmare: Lon at the wheel of a major
conveyance. Lon's brain injury had robbed him of any
perception of speed. Or momentum. Or balance. Also,
he was a little bit blind, even though he never admitted
it.

'Lon! Look out!' Barry yelled, as they narrowly
missed a bum sleeping it off against the -wall of the
tunnel. Copies of the Daily Soothsayer went flying. 'Lon,
let me --'

'Huh? No, Barry!' Lon bellowed; he was touchy
about things like this. 'I can drive! I can do it!'

'Listen, nano-brain . . .' Barry reached for the wheel.
'No! I can!' With a shrug, Lon threw Barry back.
Barry gave away about 50 pounds of bulk to the red
haired quarter-wit. The toboggan was careening on
and off the path, scraping against the walls of the
hedge, sending a flurry of leaves and twigs flying. A
branch smacked him in the head and broke off. It read:
'Boy, are you in trouble.'

They were going much, much too fast. Even though
the passageway was completely flat, pushing the lever
forward magically increased the incline of the slope,
increasing the vehicle's speed. Lon had the lever
jammed as far forward as it could go.

Barry covered his eyes and prayed. Something 
zinged past his ear; he looked down and saw that the
rivets of a large patch of the floor of the toboggan were
popping from the vibration. With every bump (tree
root? unlucky squirrel? another drunk?) the sled gave
a violent shudder, and the various holes became a little
wider.

Lon seemed totally unconcerned, singing his favorite
song, 'Do you know the muffin man, the muffin man,
the muffin man ..." Barry spotted something to his
right. There, perched on the top of the back seat, was a
gremlin, green-skinned, yellow-eyed and chuckling
malevolently. He was taking real pleasure in Barry's
terror. Leering evilly, he pointed at Barry, then drew a long, talon-like finger across his own throat. The
gremlin was predicting the near future, and relishing it.
A lot.

'Why, you motherfu --' Barry lunged at him, but just
before this book could contain serious profanity, the
fragile network of patches holding the sled together
gave a final crack, and the toboggan began to separate.
Barry grabbed the back of Lon's seat and held on for
dear life. Just as his strength began to fail and the
contraption -was about to fall into two, they slid to a
stop in front of a small sign reading, 'Hogsbleede
Station.' Chagrined, the gremlin smacked a fist into his
palm and disappeared.

T love to drive,' said Lon. He looked back at Barry,
just as the whole back end collapsed. 'Oooh, Barry
broke the sled,' he said. Getting out to do a little
hopping dance, he pointed and sang, 'Barry broke the
sled, Barry broke the sled'

Happy to be alive, Barry crawled queasily over to
the exit.


Chapter Four
A VISIT WITH THE HEAD MASTER

The hedgerow dumped them out on Crowley Avenue,
Hogsbleede's notorious Strip, a collection of bars,
gambling dens, and houses of spectacularly ill-repute
that slumped like a police lineup through the middle of
that malignant town. Any vice, no matter how nasty,
could be satisfied here -- for a price. It was a great
favorite with the rougher run of Hdgwash students, so
it was a rare Sunday morning that Hafwid didn't have
to make the trek into town to post bail for a motley
collection of chewed-up scholar-ruffians. The rumour
was that the town jail had a special student section.
Barry had always been too scared to find out -- and
besides, his fans took care of him.

Ahead of them, a clot of Arithromancers, clearly
blitzed, were arguing over the future, getting ready to
brawl. 'You couldn't predict Christmas if I gave you a
calendar, punk!' Hogsbleede was a big convention
spot, and no matter how respectable the group was
regularly, this burg invariably brought out the worst in
them.

'Let's cross the street,' Barry said to Lon, -who was
mesmerized by the profusion of neon and flashing
lights. 'What's "Satyr on Satyr Action" mean?' Lon
asked.

'I'll tell you later' Barry said, stepping over the
shards of a broken butterbourbon bottle. Just walking
on the Strip made him feel soiled. They finally got to
Corleone Street, and took a left. Almost immediately
the atmosphere changed from actively evil to simply
lawless, and Barry was glad for the improvement. They
immediately saw a sign for where Ermine taught, St.
Hilary's. This was a good thing, since Barry had
twisted his ankle a bit during the toboggan crash.

'Pull down your cap,' he told Lon. 'I can see your
hole.'

'Oops,' Lon said. 'My brains get hot.' There was a
jingle bell at each of the cap's dual cones, which jingled
with every step. It quickly became irritating, but Barry
had trained himself to block it out.

Jingle, wince (as pain shot through Barry's ankle),
jingle, Wince. They turned into a narrow lane, and saw
a squat little building, tidy in that compulsive English
way, but obviously long past time for demolition. A
sign near the door clearly read, 'St. Hilary's Academy
for the Marginally-Magical.' The struggling institution
had no money for the expensive anti-Muddle spells and
enchantments of a place like Hogwash; it relied on the
ancient gambit of 'hiding in plain sight.' So far, it had
worked -- or nobody had cared.

St. Hilary's -was one of about a hundred schools, put
up in the Fifties, after the Ministry decided that places
like Hogwash -were snobbish and elitist. Now that
house elves did most of the menial jobs, thousands of
people -were free to aim higher. Every -wizard or witch,
no matter how talentless or clearly unsuited, deserved
magical instruction. It was a noble idea, but in reality
such schools were merely underfunded, crumbling
holding pens for students destined for a TV-sodden
life of obesity and squalor on the dole. St. Hilary's
was the most famous of these schools, since a student
last year broke into his father's wand cabinet and went
postal.

Lon and Barry opened the door and were buffeted
by the distinctive perfume of secondary education: a
stomach-churning melange of fried food, disinfectant,
the too-sweet scents favored by old ladies, and airborne
chalk. Taking shallow breaths, Lon and Barry walked
down the main hall, and entered a room marked
Headmaster's Office.'

They were startled to find the disembodied head of a
puffy, smoke-haired man levitating some feet about a
desk strewn with papers and a large speakerphone. A
luxurious pair of muttonchops jutted from both jowls,
and acted as hairy aerilons. Behind him was a picture
of St. Hilary, the dumpy patron saint of backwards
children everywhere.

"... but Headmaster, government regulations require that the school be free of pixie dust. It causes cancer in
rats,' the speaker squawked.

The head swooped down and yelled into the speaker.
'Well, when -we start educating rats, I'll be sure to call!'
He gave a lusty series of coughs, the kind that pull stuff
up from deep down.

But Headmaster, St. Hilary's is the most infested
place we've ever encountered,' the concerned governmental
voice said. 'You're putting your students at risk! Barry thought he would've been quite distinguished-looking,
in a porcine way, if he had a body.

'Sir, apparently you haven't heard: here at St.
Hilary's, it is the teachers who are at risk. Good day to
you!' Coughing violently, the head hung up the phone
by slamming its forehead down on the console. The
force of this left him momentarily dazed, and he
wobbled in the air a little before addressing his visitors.

'Gentlemen - I am Betjeman ffolkes-Ptarmigan,

A VLiit with the Heat) Master


headmaster of this Godforsaken educational sludgepit.'
He had a red mark on his forehead. 'What can I do for
you?'

Lon began to speak, but Barry leapt in, since there
was no telling what might emerge from that addled
half-canine brain.

'Mr. ffolkes-Ptarmigan, we're from Hogwash --'

ffolkes-Ptarmigan's eyes narrowed with immediate
cupidity. 'Fine school. What I -wouldn't do with just half of their budget. A villa on Majorca, perhaps, or a
Greek island

'We're on urgent business for the school. One of
your teachers, Ermine Cringer, is a former Hogwesian,
and we'd like a -word or two -with her. If it wouldn't
cause too much trouble.'

Barry could see ffolkes-Ptarmigan's mind -working  quit) pro quo, with as much emphasis on the 'quid' as
possible.

'Certainly, Mister ... uh

'Barry Trotter.' Barry extended his hand. 'And this
is my associate, Lon Measly.' Lon waved. 'Hiya!'

'Not the Barry Trotter, I trust?'

'Yes, sir.'

The head beamed even more. 'I've read all your
books,' ffolkes-Ptarmigan' grin reached alarming
proportions as his avarice was well-whetted. 'Such
interesting, lucrative adventures you've had. I trust this
is your latest one?'

Barry didn't like the way this was going. 'Sort of. I
mean, not really. And those books were mostly bullsh --'

ffolkes-Ptarmigan realized he'd overreached. 'Of
course. They always are. Now, Ms. Cringer--' The
head whipped around to look at the clock on the wall;
Barry and Lon got a fine view of his thin, dandruffy
backfringe, some of which caught the wind during this
brisk pirouette and floated down slowly. How did he
comb it? thought Barry. Lon didn't think anything, as
was his wont.

'Ms. Cringer is just finishing up her last class of the
day, Zoology. It will be over in fifteen minutes.'

'Great -- can we wait here?'

ffolkes-Ptarmigan smiled his oily smile. 'No, no, my
dear Mr. Trotter, this isn't Hogwash! Just barge right
in! In addition to not being very magical, our students
aren't very scholarly. They will -welcome the interruption.'

The head zoomed over to a bookshelf, grabbed a red
binder with his teeth, and yanked it out, sending it to
the floor. He descended, opened it, and flicked through
its pages with a moist tongue.

'Yet'h thee . . . Ginja . . .' ffolkes-Ptarmigan said as

A Vuit with the Head Master


he flipped. He made a sour face - the ink tasted foul.
'She's in room 207.'

'Oops.' Lon had just broken one of the Headmaster's
desk toys, and Barry always took such incidents as a sign to clear out.

'Thanks very much, Mr. ffolkes-Ptarmigan. We'll try
not to disturb her class,' Barry said, turning towards
the door.

'Don't worry about it,' ffolkes-Ptarmigan said,
zooming up to eye level once again. 'Happy to do a
favor for the great Barry Trotter. Sure you'd do the
same for me, someday.'

Barry reflexively felt for his wallet.


Barry and Lon mounted the stairs, and padded down
the hall. Each footfall sent clouds of fine, white dust
into the air. Mortar? Piaster? Pixie dust? Unlike the
first floor, which simply smelled weird, this one '
showed that the entire building cried out for immediate
demolition, with extreme prejudice.

They peered through the window of Room 207.
There was Ermine, in her element, behind a desk,
telling other people what to do. In an aggressively dull
white blouse, beige skirt and matching corduroy jacket,
she stood in front of the most lifeless class Barry had
ever seen. The stupidity seemed to come off them in
waves.

What was wrong with Ermine's hair? Barry
thought. The answer was that an attempt at straightening
her unruly locks -was growing out, creating an
effect that can only be called 'Einsteinian.'

Barry and Lon opened the door silently, -waving at
Ermine, and slipped into two desks in the back row.
Lon was much too big for his, and knocked it over with
a clatter. 'Sorry,' he mouthed silently, as every head in
the room turned to stare.

'Class, these are two, erm, teachers from another
district,' Ermine said. 'They are here for a visit.
Proceed, Sally. You were telling us the answer to
Question Five,' Ermine said patiently. 'How does a
panther repel a dragon?'

An elfin, frizzy-haired blonde girl in a green jumper
spoke. 'The panther chases away a dragon by giving a
great belch,' Sally said, by rote. 'The dragon cannot
stand the smell.'

'Correct, Sally. Who knows the answer to Question
Six? Not many of you got this one right. Trevor?'

Barry shuddered inwardly as an insipid Dork boy
gave the answer, -with a superior smirk. A finer
argument for corporal punishment had never graced a
classroom.

A VLtit with the Head Master


'Question Six. The dung of which bird is good for
eye trouble? Answer: the caladrius.'

I'll stick to my specs, thanks, Barry thought. Lon
had given up on trying to force his large body into the
desk and was sitting cross-legged on the floor.

'Excellent, Trevor. Thank you.' Ermine glanced at
the clock. 'Drat. We're running late, so I'll give the rest
of the answers. But before I do, I want to tell you that I
was very unhappy with the performance of the class on
yesterday's test. All you have to do is read your
bestiaries. It's not difficult, nor does it take any magic.
But you must apply yourselves -- lazy ant) unmagical is
no way to go through life.

'Okay, Question Seven: What animal does the lion
fear? Answer: the cock.'

Sniggers danced throughout the classroom, including
from Lon. Ermine shot him a dirty look.

'Question Eight: How does the hyena lure its prey? '
Answer: it mimics the sound of human vomiting and
sobbing. Question Nine: How do cranes fly in blustery
weather? Answer: they eat quantities of sand and small
pebbles, to give themselves ballast.'

Barry heard some student mutter, 'Bollocks.' Good
for you, he thought.

Question Ten: How does the beaver avoid capture?
Answer: When pursued by a hunter, it will rip off its
testicles, and hurl them at his assailant.'

A student said, 'Trevor's already done it,' and several
others laughed.

Ermine tapped her ruler on the lectern. 'That's enough.' Barry recognized the last-gasp efforts of a
young teacher to keep control in those giddy moments
before the bell rings. 'Just because we have guests,
that's no reason to act up!'

Suddenly the class exploded in laughter. Some of
them pointed at Ermine, who looked down. A student
had made her shirt invisible.

'Well, aren't we clever, misusing our paltry knowledge
as usual. Take a good long look, Mr. Palaver -- you're going to pay for it, you might as -well get your 
money's worth.' Faced with their teacher's nakedness, i
some students blushed. However, a few shadow-jowled
boys looked unashamedly, appraisingly, and Barry felt  bad for Ermine, having to deal with such a jaded  bunch. She ejected the student -with businesslike aplomb.

Her shirt slowly faded back into view. 'Now, for the
extra credit question -- and since none of you got it, I'll
have to read it myself: Everybody knows about the
jaculus, a flying snake that throws itself at its prey like
a javelin

A hand shot up. 'It's like a spear.' The hand
dropped.

'Yes, but wait to be called on, Murphy. Now, for
extra credit, name two other interesting facts about
serpents. Obviously, there could be any number of
these, but a few are: before drinking water, snakes
spew their venom into a hole; a snake will never attack
a naked man; if a snake goes blind, it can cure itself by
eating fennel; if a snake drinks the spit of a fasting
man, it dies; and finally, there is a type of two-headed
snake that can roll like a hoop.'

The bell rang. Ermine shouted over the class, 'Read
the section on Fish for tomorrow.' There was a groan.
'There will be a quiz.' There was a bigger groan, and
Ermine -walked over to Barry and Lon.

'I saw a hoop snake once,' Lon told her excitedly.

'No, you didn't, Lon,' Ermine said. 'To what do I
owe this hideous intrusion, I mean, unexpected pleasure?
If this is about being on "Behind the Magic," the '
answer is still "no."'

'Nice to see you, too, Ermine,' Barry said. 'It's kind
of a long story. Is there someplace we can go to talk?'

'The last time you said that to me, Barry Trotter, I
ended up with a ripped blouse and shoes that smelled
like vomit.'

'I don't remember that,' Barry said.
'I'm. not surprised, Mr. Purple Jesus Punch,' Ermine
said with a sigh. 'Follow me. We'll go to the lounge.'


Moments later, the three were sitting in uncomfortable
plastic chairs, in a smoky, dingy room. Is there
anything more depressing than hackneyed motivational
posters? If so, Barry didn't want to know.

'Coffee?' Ermine asked, brandishing a pot. Nobody
accepted; she poured herself a Styrofoam cup full of
acrid sludge the consistency of maple syrup. 'I'm an
addict,' Ermine said cheerfully, acknowledging that
anyone who would willingly drink what she had just
poured herself really was a slave to the Demon Bean.
She put the pot back, then tapped the side of her cup
with her wand. It lightened a few creams' worth. She
sipped and Barry massaged his ankle, which was
feeling better. Lon was drawing his name in a pile of
sugar.

'So -what's up? Is He-Who-Smells acting up again?'
Ermine asked.

'Nah, Valumart has nothing to do with this,' Barry
said. 'Or maybe he does, I don't know.'

After he had explained the situation, Ermine stirred
her cup of muck a bit and said, 'So you want my help?'

'Yes! Lon's nice and all -- loyal -- but, well, you
know. A crow could beat him in Scrabble.'

Ermine said, 'I'm to be the brains of the operation, is
that it?' Smiling, she calculated a bit. 'Actually, I do
have some vacation days. I may regret this -- I always
do - but what the hell.'

Relieved, Barry said, 'That's great, Ermine! It'll be
just like old times!'

Ermine smiled a little less. 'Not quite, Barry. Not
everybody is a brand name adored by millions, you
know. Some of us have to work for a living.'

Barry was in a familiar bind. He wanted to explain
that he didn't have any money, that he'd just gotten a
bit at the beginning and a little more every time he
talked to the author. Oh, and there were the endorsements,
but those got cancelled after a Valumartian acne
attack.6 Still, his pride liked being considered a rich

guy

'My price is, pay off my student loans,' Ermine said.
'My parents work for the National Health, and I need all the money I can get.' Ermine's parents were holistic
dentists, and the pickings are slim for dentists who
'refuse to remove the tooth from its natural ecosystem.'

Picking up the spirit, Lon chimed in. 'Yeah, Barry, I
want five bucks' He was ignored.


For details, see the fourth book in the series, Barry Trotter and the
Acne of Fire.61
Barry panicked, 'But Ermine, I don't -- '

'Then I can't.'

'Be reasonable, Ermine.'

'I am being reasonable, Barry.' She cracked each
knuckle slowly; Barry recognized this gesture from
many earlier times when Ermine had somebody -- usually Barry -- by the man-grapes, and was squeezing.
'Okay, okay.'

'Got a plan?'

'Don't I always?' Barry said. 'We're going to kidnap
J.G. Rollins, and hide her someplace. If they don't stop
the movie, we'll turn her into guacamole.'

Ermine made a face. 'That's a little bloody-minded,
don't you think? J.G. has always struck me as a
reasonable sort, so let's just find her and ask her
nicely.'

'And if she doesn't agree?'

'Then we kidnap her.' Ermine said, 'But there'll be
no guacamoling. That's just as bad as Lord Valumart.'

Ermine raised her glass to drink. Suddenly, she
screamed, throwing the cup to the floor.

'What?' Barry and Lon exclaimed, as Ermine ran
around the room spitting and wiping her mouth
furiously. She pointed at the coffee cup. She gave a
gag, and sprinted out of the room as fast as her sensible
shoes could carry her.


The boys looked down into the Styrofoam cup, and
saw ... an ear, so pallid and desiccated it must've come
from a corpse. Not only was the coffee undrinkable, it
was full of Dork Magic! And now, somebody knew
their plan. Angrily, Barry grabbed the cup and yelled
into it. 'Go tell Lord Valumart he smells like bad
Chinese food!' Then he poured it down the sink.


Chapter Five 
THE RIGHT SNUFF


As the trio left the school, Barry said to Ermine, 'S
what do you think the best -way to get to Scotland 
Shall -we take the Magic Bus?'

'Ugh' Ermine said. She had an aversion to
Buses. For one thing, since her parents were Mudd
she had to sit in the back. 'The last time I rode
one of those, Keith Moon's ghost spilled che
plonk all over me. It stank so bad, I had to bu
my dress.'

'All right, then. Should we use a little Muc
magic?' Barry asked, sticking out his thumb.

'Can we do the hedgerows again?' Lon pleade 'PleaM?

'No!' Barry said. His bowels gave a heave at
mere mention of it.
'Hold on a moment.' Ermine rooted around in
handbag, a cute little red number. 'Aha' she said,

and pulled out a flat metal tin about the size of her palm.
'Travelling snuff.'

'Can you get a buzz off it?' Barry asked.

Ermine made a face at Barry. 'Shut up, mini-mind.
It's a way to travel long-distances without "misting
off'" Evaporating and disevaporating (vulgarly called
'misting off) were how wizards and witches got from
place to place, riding the breeze as sentient puffs of
damp -- once they had received their license, of course.
Lon had long since turned sixteen, but that murky dog
brain of his made the Department of Evaporation
Services wary. Barry thought that was terribly unfair;
all Lon might do was chase a few cars. But evaporating
without a license was a hefty ticket, so 'misting off was
out.

It works like this: you sniff some into your nose, and
-- you know how, when you sneeze, the stuff comes
shooting out your nose at a bazillion miles an hour?'
'Yeah'


With travelling snuff, the stuff stands still but you shoot out!'

Cool! said Lon, reaching for the silver tin.
Ermine Deftly blocked him. 'Wait, Lon. First, take

off

your socks'

Huh?' Barry said.

Just do it) okay?' Lon grabbed the back of his collar
and began to pull. 'No, Lon. Not your shirt -- your
socks.' Barry and Lon sat on the ground untying their
shoes (Lon's were velcro), peeling off their socks.
Ermine stood above them, looking smugly efficient.
Barry had forgotten how much he didn't like being
bossed by her.

'Give them to me. Gad, Barry, ever heard of
laundry? These could stand by themselves. Now stand
next to each other. Stick out your left arm, Lon. Barry,
your right.' She took a sock and tied their wrists
together. 'Now, your feet.'

Once they were attached, she slid next to Lon and
tied herself to his free hand and foot. 'This is so we
don't go flying away from each other. Which way is
Scotland?'

'That way, I think,' Barry said. They galumphed 90
degrees to the left.

'Oh, I almost forgot.' Ermine pulled out a pair of
sunglasses from her purse and put them on. They were
a -wedge-shaped piece of smoked brown plastic, real
old-lady glasses. Barry gave a derisive snort.

'Laugh all you want, nimrod,' Ermine said. 'These
MagiSpex will let me see -where J.G. Rollins' mansion
is. I got 'em at Seers.

'Everybody ready? Take a handful. Remember,
when we start to descend, jam some more up in there.
Ready, set -- sniff!'

Lon sneezed first, and shot into the air, yanking the
others skyward. Barry's arm felt like it was being
dislocated. Then he sneezed and found that pulling was
much more comfortable than being pulled. The air was
a little chilly; at least it wasn't raining.

After a few sneezes, they were a good distance up,
and could see a panoply of lawbreaking and squalor
beneath them. The school was in a frightfully crappy
neighbourhood. Three kids were setting fire to an
abandoned sofa. A robber stopped breaking into a car
to gawp. A housewife snapped a photo from her back
door. Barry made a face to spite her, and she flipped
him off. Finally, Ermine's schnozz kicked in, and the
figures receded.

The trio cruised along, falling into a rhythm: Barry
and Lon sneezing heavily to provide the power, 
Ermine sneezing more frequently, almost daintily,
nudging them this -way and that whenever necessary,
like retrorockets on a space capsule.

Lon was first to see it: off in the distance, two
dragons, Irish Whiskeybreaths, -were playing a game
with an airliner. The dragons were flapping beside the
jet filled with Muddles, each no doubt vacillating
between their old reliable disbelief, and trousers-fouling
terror. The dragons were breathing fire on the
fuselage, each one trying to see how hot they could
make the plane without igniting the fuel.

They watched this game for several minutes, with
the plane desperately trying to evade the dragons and
the dragons effortlessly maintaining their positions,
until Barry decided he'd had enough and fished out his
wand. Timing it between sneezes, Barry yelled,

'Cumultw!'

The dragons immediately turned into puffy, white
versions of their former selves. They looked about
puzzledly for a moment, then dissipated.

They ought to be getting close now. Using her old
lady glasses, Ermine peered down through the clouds
for the fabulous Rollins estate. Eventually, she pointed
earth-ward and nodded yes.' Lon was about to give
them another mighty blast, but in the nick of time,
Barry reached his free hand over under Lon's nostrils.
For one horrible second, he wondered if a blocked
sneeze would blow Lon's head off. It didn't, but twin
jets of air shot through his head-holes, flapping the
flaps of his hat so fast they were a blur. Laughing, they
floated like leaves to the sand below, with Barry's
slowly dissipating sock musk as their stinky contrail.
Ermine and Barry started untying themselves. 'What
do you think of travelling snuff?' Ermine asked.

'It's better than the tube' Barry said. 'Hard on your
sinuses, though.' He felt his face, which was warming
up, and starting to hurt like hell. 'Mine feel like I
buffed them with sandpaper.'

'Well, at least we didn't have to -worry about
climbing the gate,' Ermine said, pointing to the massive
wrought iron fence. On their side of it was a strip of
beach 25 yards deep, bordered by impossibly blue
water. On the other was the dewy, damp greenness of
Scotland.

Something -white at the base of the fence caught
Ermine's eye. 'Look, it's a rabbit!' she cried. The
placement of a Caribbean beach in the middle of
Scotland -was clearly perplexing to- this, and doubtless
many other, indigenous creatures. 'He's caught.'

'I will save him! Woof!' Lon said, and bounded off.
The others followed.

The rabbit had -wedged itself between two posts
(wands shooting fire, Barry noticed). Lon gripped
them at shoulder level, testing their strength; it was a
queer feeling -- the beach side of the metal was
painfully hot, but the fen side -was chilly. He tugged,
but they weren't budging.

'Looks like I'll have to use -- this,' Lon said, pulling
out his wand. It was covered with puffy stickers
featuring Timothy the Treacle Train and Bradley the
Puce-Colored Dinosaur.

'I don't think that's a very good idea' said Barry.
The path of well-meaning destruction that Lon and his
wand had carved out over the years was considerable.
'Maybe you should

Lon paid no attention, and knelt down. The rabbit
was vibrating with terror, its red eyes wide and rolling.
'Nice bunny, I'll get you out. Pretty bun . . . YOW!'
The terrified animal had nipped Lon's finger. 'Arrgh!'
Lon yelled, popping his finger in his mouth. 'You
farthead!' Lon pointed his wand at the rabbit, and a
red beam immediately turned it into jerky. Then,
realizing what he had just done, Lon burst into tears.

Ermine tried to comfort him. 'There, there, Lon.
Don't cry.'

'Come on, you two,' Barry said impatiently. 'It's hot
out here.'

'Yeah' Lon sniffed, his tears subsiding. 'Can I take
off my hat?'

'No -- oh, wait' Ermine rooted around once more,
and pulled out a rubber bathing cap. 'Yes, wear this if
you like. I was going to do water aerobics this
afternoon, before you two shanghai'ed me.'

'Thanks' Lon said. Barry wasn't so sure if that was
the right response, since the frilly white latex cap
looked even more ridiculous on him than what it
replaced.

'Hey Erm, what's -with this place? It doesn't look
like Scotland to me.'

'Yes, well, when J.G. first hit it big, y'see, she paid
some wizard landscapers to carve out a little Caribbean
hideaway for her. They did it in exchange for frequent
mentions in the next book. Now they make a packet
doing mini-versions of the Rollins estate for fans.'
Ermine stood up and brushed the sand off her
backside. 'So many, in fact, that's it's starting to cause
global warming. It -was all over the newspapers.'

'The newspapers are all lies' Barry said. 'It's what
the corporations want you to think'

Ermine made a dismissive sound with her lips.
'You've been saying that .since you were fifteen, and it
was simple-minded then, you poser'

Barry was crafting a rejoinder that would finally
teach Ermine the way the world really worked, when
he saw a group of humans clumped together, on the
beach ahead. 'Let's ask these guys -where the Rollins'
castle is' Barry said.

'Good idea' Ermine agreed.

As they got closer, the identity of the group became
clear: it was a chain-gang of Earth Eaters. The
incarcerated followers of Lord Valumart -were being
overseen by a paunchy wizard-cop in mirrored sunglasses
who spat tobacco and swore at them, holding
back a slavering, sixteen-headed dog.

'Y'all better keep eatin', else Fifi here might just slip
outen mah hand,' the wizard guard said. 'Y'all don't
want that, do you?'

'Mnfhth,' chorused the Earth Eaters. Each of them
was busily chewing rocks, and spitting the result, finegrained
said, on to the beach. The Ministry of Magical
Corrections had landed a lucrative contract to -widen J.G.'s beach.

'Excuse me, officer,' Ermine said. 'Could you direct
us to the Rollins estate?' Several of the hellhound's
heads -- those that weren't nipping each other's ears -- tried to sniff Lon's bottom. Lon reciprocated.

One of the prisoners recognized Barry, and threw
himself at him. 'Mr. Trotter, you gotta help me! I was
framed!' His breath smelled like dirt, and with each
word, a little grit landed on Barry's face.

The cop pulled the hapless wizard off with one
pudgy hand. 'Get back ter chawin', amigo,' he drawled.
'It's ovuh theah, Miss,' the cop said to Ermine,
gesturing in a strange way. 'I'd ask y'all whut ch'all
was doin' here, but seeing as it's the great Barry
Trotter un'all . . .'
After the cop's spell, an impressive cluster of stucco
and tile buildings was suddenly visible off in the
distance. 'Thanks, officer,' Ermine said, and they
trudged off in that direction, Lon gallumphing ahead.


As they walked, Barry attempted to make small talk.
'How's teaching duds? Do you like it?'

Ermine sniffed, 'The proper term is "marginally
magical".' Barry decided he'd already heard enough on
the topic, but Ermine continued. 'Marginally-magical
Muddles play a vital role in our economy, especially
the rapidly growing service industries. St. Hilary's
allows them to acquire the knowledge and skills that
they need to get real, satisfying jobs. Twenty years ago,
the only thing they could do -was eke out a few bucks
as beauticians or conjurers at "children's birthday
parties. Now, they can live with dignity.'

Listening to Ermine -was often like watching cable
television, and not one of the more interesting channels.
'Thank you, Mother Theresa. Look, Lon's almost
to the door; let's catch up. I'll race you!' A pound of
sand in each shoe later, Barry and Ermine joined Lon
in front of a medium-sized house, made of stucco and
roofed with thatch.

'Doesn't seem rich enough,' Barry said. T thought
she was loaded.'
'Can I knock?' Lon said excitedly.

'Use the knocker' said Ermine. There was a brass,
fist-shaped knocker hanging on the door. As soon as
Lon touched it, a doorbell chimed.

'Ooh, it's magical,' Ermine said.

'Ooh, it's stupid,' Barry retorted.

A moment later, the door opened, and a tall man in a
three-piece suit stood in front of them.

'Can I help you?' he intoned pompously, raising a
pair of thick, black eyebrows. Barry noted that he had
liver spots on his forehead, and began to count them.

'We're here to see Ms. Rollins? Is she in?' Ermine
said.

'Is she expecting you?' the butler said. His eyebrows
reminded Barry of caterpillars.

'Um, no.' The door began to close slightly. 'But it's
very important that we talk to her.' The door closed
faster. 'We're fans of her books --'

The door was only open a crack now, and Ermine
was desperate. 'This is Barry Trotter!' she blurted out,
pushing Barry forward. He hit the nearly-closed door
with a clunk. 'Hey! That was my head!'

Immediately, the door swung open. 'A thousand
pardons. Come right in; let me show you to the living

room.

'Thanks,' Ermine said, a bit irritated by the way
Barry's name had gotten results. She began to take off
her shoes.

'Wait a tick -- we don't want to track sand in.'

The butler gave a wave of his hajid. 'No matter -- it's
magical. It will melt away by itself.'

Twenty-two spots, Barry thought. I hope I die
before I get horrible-looking. Did the butler's eyebrows
just move? They were caterpillars!

They were led into a room that looked like the
entrance hall of an ancestral castle. Ermine paused
halfway over the threshold, looking at the modest
stucco outside and then marveling at the immensely
bigger, Ye Olde Tyme Manor structure inside. 'Come
on,' Barry whispered, 'Act like you've seen magic
before.' She always turned pure Muddle in situations
like this.

They followed the butler down a wide hallway. He
scooped the caterpillar off his brow and put it in his
coat pocket. Everywhere there was dark -wood, rich
tapestries, old, gloomy, paintings of old, pale people. It
looked a lot like Hogwash would, Barry thought, if it
hadn't been tormented by the constant rain of petty
destruction that is the calling card of students everywhere.

The butler opened a door into -what appeared to be
the Great Hall; flags hung from sconces in the walls,
each showing the Rollins' family crest: a lion and a
unicorn rampant, on a field of gold, with a screw and
an eightball framing the motto, 'Semper ubi sub ubi.'

'Wait here,' the butler said. 'I will get the gentleman
of the house.'

Gentleman! 'Thank you,' Ermine said, and gave a
little curtsy. Barry elbowed her. The butler said
nothing and left.

'Ass!' Barry hissed at Ermine. 'He's just the butler!'

Lon had -wandered down to the opposite end of the
room, which was dominated by a huge fireplace. They
went down to investigate, and stretch out on the large,
leather couch.

A heatless green-and-blue fire crackled merrily.
Silverfish colors, Barry noted. He saw a small dial on
the side of the grate, with settings like 'cool,' 'warm,'
'hot,' 'infernal,' and you cannot be serious.' It -was set
on 'cool'; he cranked it up to 'hot.' An enormous blast
of warmth came from the fire.

'Hey,' Lon said, looking up from a snowglobe he had
found. 'You're gonna make me sweat in Ermine's hat!'

'Ick!' said Ermine. 'Barry, turn it down.'

Grinning evilly, Barry was just about to turn it up to
'infernal' when his interrobang throbbed. He looked
up, and there, standing at the far end of the room was
an all-too-familiar figure. The gleaming, spike-topped
helmet; the impossibly bushy moustache; the chestful
of made-up medals; the glittering, porcine eyes pressed
like twin black fruitgums into ten pounds of lard . . .
'We meet again, Trotter. Prepare to die.'


Chapter Six
THE PINEWOOD PECKERWOOD

The trio sprang into action. Ermine fell into her
characteristic battle crouch, which made her look like
a Shaolin master suffering from severe menstrual
cramps. She clutched her stomach and mumbled
furiously, the spit flying as her hex took shape. It
winged towards Lord Valumart, hitting him square in
the stomach.

'Oof,' said the Dork Lord.

Lon threw the snowglobe blindly and leapt behind
the couch. It landed with a tinkle nowhere near
Valumart, but this bought Barry the time he needed to
extract his wand. Strapped to his inner thigh, it was
sweaty and disgusting, but there was no time to wipe it
now. Barry yelled, 'Aveda Neutrogena!' In an instant,
the infamous death-by-moisturizing spell spurted forth
in a bolt of viscous green fire.

Lord Valumart screamed, his voice somewhat
higher-pitched than Barry remembered it. The Dork
Lord skittered behind the door. An instant later, the
green bolt hit it with a loud, wet smack, turning it into
a slab of aloe-smelling goo.

As the goo slid to the floor the three saw something
that they never thought possible: the great Lord
Valumart on his knees, with his hands up, yelling,
'Truce! Uncle! Please stop! I was only kidding!'

Huh? He couldn't be giving up, Barry thought -- there's plenty of book left. The bespectacled heartthrob
of the wizarding world approached, warily, wand out.
Ermine followed, still in a half-crouch, ready to hex
again if necessary. Lon peeped over the couch.

'Hey Dork Lord,' Barry said. 'Not so tough without
all your mud-mouthed cromes, eh?'

'Yeah,' said Ermine, piling on. 'I-betyou're about to
nip off your testicles and throw them at us!' Sometimes
her great intelligence got in the way of Ermine's sense
of humor.

As they came closer, they saw that Valumart's
cadaver-like skin seemed to be smudged, and that the
spiky helmet covered a mop of blond hair.

Barry grabbed it: 'Valumart, I've been meaning to
tell you this for years: that has got to be the wont hairpiece I've ever seen.' He gave it a yank, but it
didn't budge.
'Ow! OW! Stop it, you bully.' Valumart grabbed
Barry's hand, trying to lessen the pulling, 'I'm not
really Valumart --'

'What?' said Ermine.

'I just do that to scare off the fans! You have no idea
how many of them there are --'

'Oh, I think I know,' Barry said wearily, letting go.
If he had sixpence for every faux-Valumart he'd beaten
over the years . . . 'Who are you?'

The man scrambled to his feet. He pulled off his
moustache, and threw the ends into his upturned
helmet.

'Hold still for a second,' said Ermine, now out of
battle crouch. 'I have to remove the constipation hex I
put on you. Now, what's the remedy for a Bowel
Blocker . . . ?'

Upright, the man gained some dignity. Brushing the
dust off, he said, 'My name is Trevor Nunnally. I am
Ms. Rollins' live-in companion. How do you do?' Each
of them shook the proffered hand. 'Normally, I'd sic
the dogs on you, but if it's really the great Barry' -- Barry raised his wand menacingly, and Nunnally
flinched -- Which it so clearly L, there can be no doubt
of that, you'll all have to stay for dinner. Will you?'

Given the reception they had just received, Barry
was inclined to say no. 'Yes,' said Ermine. 'We'd be
delighted.'

Barry started to sheath ,his wand, then licked his
thumb and rubbed it. No luck; the Led Zeppelin
ZOSO runes he had drawn on with a Sharpie when he
was 14 didn't budge. He was such an idiot back then.
Trevor was staring at it, so he put it away quickly.

'I'm hungry!' said Lon.

'All right, we'll stay,' Barry said.

'Excellent. I'll summon the cook,' said Nunnally. He
removed a small silver bell from his pocket, and rang it.
Almost instantly, a familiar creature flitted into the
room. He was small, dark, perhaps Spanish, with
bugged-out eyes and an incredibly pointy moustache.

'You rrrrang, Mast-- BARRRRY! It is the gret
Barrrry Trrotter!' Dali the house-elf sprang into
Barry's arms, still rolling the final r. 'I aming so happy
to see you!' He kissed Barry on both cheeks Continental-style,
his moustache coming perilously close to
going up Barry's nostril.

'I'm happy to see you, too, Dali. You owe me some
money.'

Oh, Misterrr Barrry, I always meaning to rrrepay
to you those pietcui. You are having them beforrre efta
noche. Arrre you staying herrre long?' The profusion of
Latin rolled Vs -- which Barry could never do, and
suspected that Dali talked this way to twit him - made
conversations with Dali take forrreverrr.

Nunnally tapped Dali on the shoulder. 'If I might,
I'd like to talk about dinner.' Dali dropped from
Barry's arms, and -whipped out a small notepad. 'I arrre
rrready,' he said.

'Tonight, Dali, we shall have a feast in honour of our
guests. I will leave the details of the menu to you,'
Nunnally said. 'But spare no expense. And bring
something special up from the cellar.'

'How lovely,' said Ermine sweetly. Barry could tell
that she was falling for him. It happened once or twice an adventure, guaranteed if the guy was a creep. Barry
was resigned to it.

'You can depend on me, sirrr,' Dali said, slipping the
notepad into his pocket. 'I aming to prrreparrre it
immediately.' He twirled his moustache, popped his
eyes, and skittered away.

Nunnally turned to his guests. 'Would you all excuse
me for a few moments? I need to get out of this
ridiculous costume.' He was right; the white pancake
was now all over his jingling tunic, and the cape was
covered -with dust from his cowering, punctuated by
flecks of the deadly lotion. Barry saw that the red satin
lining of the cape was frayed and ripping.

Nunnally looked about him. 'Drippings?' The liver

spotted butler emerged from the shadows, -where he
had been stroking his caterpillars. 'Show our guests to
the dining room. I shall be there shortly.'


Barry, Lon and Ermine followed Drippings through a
wood-panelled maze of halls to the dining room. It was
huge, with walls of red fabric and gilt-edged paintings
packed together cheek by jowl. It was a little over the
top, frankly. I should have asked her for more money,
Barry thought.

'That's a Turner,' Ermine said, pointing at an
expensive seascape.

'Did he mean for it to be so blurry?' said Lon.

The room -was dominated by a long table, covered
with spotless linen and interspersed with golden
candelabras, with space for 40, at least. The three felt
foolish, cramming themselves down at one end. Barry
said to Lon, jokingly, 'Why don't you sit down there?'

'Okay,' Lon said cheerfully. Barry started to tell him
that it was a joke, but decided not to.

Presently, Nunnally appeared, and sat at the end of
the table, between Barry and Ermine. 'Why's he all the
way down there?' he said, pointing towards Lon.

'He rolled in raccoon poo,' Barry said totto voce. Nunnally was puzzled but didn't pursue it. Lon smiled
and waved, and -went back to driving his silverware
around the table, complete with sputtering, spitry car
sounds.

As they waited for Dali to present dinner, they
talked. Nunnally was very interested in Lord Valumart,
'to improve my impression.'

'But why do you do an impression?' Ermine asked.

'Let's just say it plays a role in J.G.'s and my
relationship,' Nunnally said, blushing slightly. 'So
you've actually jeen He-Who-Smells?'

'Who, Lon?' Barry said. 'Oh, Valumart. Yeah.'

'Well . . . what does he smell like?'

Barry paused, trying to conjure the distinctive odor
of Ultimate Evil in his nostrils. 'The closest I can come
to it is toejam. He tnes to cover it up with cologne, which only makes it smell like spicy toejam.' Barry
turned to Ermine. 'It's that dimestore stuff. I always
forget the name of it.'

'Bold Spice,' Ermine said, keeping her eyes fixed on
Nunnally. 'It's a knockoff.'

'You're kidding me? A man that rich and powerful
wears Bold Spice?'

'Yeah, -well, Lord V.'s kind of ... peculiar.'

'I'm hungry!' Lon yelled at them. Their host reached
into his pocket, pulled out a small box, and threw it to
Lon. Lon caught it.


'Raisins!' Lon chirped. 'Boy, if the rest of this dinner
is as good as this, -well, it's gonna be pretty good!'
'You were saying.'

'I forgot what --'

'You were telling Trevor how He-Who-Smells is a
weirdo,' Ermine said.

It was 'Trevor' eh? Ermine was right on schedule,
Barry thought.

Nunnally turned serious. 'So. Barry, in your opinion
- what makes He-Who-Smells so evil?'

'Nobody really knows,' Barry said. 'Though he got
teased constantly when he was at Hogwash. There is a
rumor --' he turned to Ermine, 'Should I tell him the
rumor?'

'Yes, please!' Nunnally said.

Ermine looked put out. 'If you must.'

An unkind smile crept onto Barry's face. 'Well, some
people say that the great Lord Valumart was the victim
of a botched circumcision.'

'No!' Nunnally was genuinely shocked.

'Yeah! Isn't that amazing?' They all snickered.

'What are you guys talking about?' Lon yelled.

'The surgeon was drunk,' Ermine chimed in.

'A guy who went to Hogwash with him told me that
he's all colors of the rainbow,' Barry said.
Wait 'til I put that up on the website!' Nunnally said
with glee.

'I'm still hungry!' Lon shouted irritably. He wore his
napkin like a bib, and banged his silverware on the
table. His Hogwash friends were familiar with this
mood. 'I see "King Baby" has emerged,' Ermine said.

Then Dali appeared, followed by a troop of house
elves carrying covered silver salvers. 'Yay!' Lon yelled,
from the end of the room.

'Lady and gentlemen, I prrresent to you, my latest
masterrrpiece!' On Dali's signal, the elves uncovered
the plates. The famished humans saw plates filled with
twisted copper wire, clockwork gears, Styrofoam
peanuts; a tureen of paint, and -- clearly the piece de
remittance -- a silver platter heaped with liquid plaster-ofParis.
Barry's mouth fell open -- thi) was dinner?

'Amazing, isn't it?' Nunnally said, misreading
Barry's horror as admiration. 'Thank you, Dali, you've
truly outdone yourself tonight.'

'Thank you, masterrr,' Dali said, bowing low.

A house elf led a mammoth red gelatin into the
room, cracking an enormous bullwhip and swearing
loudly. The gelatin, which had eyeballs, ears, and other
biological necessities embedded in it, shambled slowly
forward, leaving a presumably cherry-flavored trail of
slime in its wake. The blob quivered whenever the
whip was raised.

'Why on Earth did you bring that up here?'
Nunnally said.

'Because you asked for something special from the
cellar,' Dali said. 'I naturally assumed you meant
Clarence.'

'No, no! I meant wine. Clarence has been in J.G.'s
family for generations,' Nunnally explained to the
table. 'It wouldn't be right to eat him.'

'My mistake. I shall rreturrn him to his quarrrterrrs.
Bon appetit,' Dali said, and left the room.

'Dali is the foremost surrealist cook in the United
Kingdom, and maybe the world,' Nunnally said,
beaming. 'There aren't many of them. Dig in, everybody.
'

'How?' Barry said as Ermine dutifully loaded up her
plate with inedible flotsam and jetsam.	

'Hey! Send some of that stuff down here!' said Lon.

'Okay, but you're not going to like it,' said Ermine,
picking up the plate of plaster and bringing it to him.
'Wow, that's heavy.'

'What I like to do with Dali's creations is arrange
them on my plate. Some patterns I create are pleasing;
others confrontational; others strangely sad somehow.

Meanwhile --' he pulled several more boxes of raisins
out of his pocket. 'I find these very filling.'

Barry took it without relish. 'Thanks.'

Apparently feeling that there was now a bond
between them, Nunnally's mien turned serious. 'Barry,
I have to be honest: I think the books are silly rubbish,
but they do have their uses. For one thing, it makes life
a lot easier for Muddles -who are magical but don't
know it yet.'

'How?' Ermine asked, smiling sweetly. Barry's
gorge rose.

'Say you're 11, and you discover you're magical -- if
you've read the series, chances are you won't freak out.
Oh, you may be disappointed when you find out that
the real wizard life isn't nearly as fun or glamorous as
J.G.'s books, but that's a small thing.

'I remember when I discovered I -was a wizard,'
Nunnally said. T started hearing my pet gecko talking
to herself. "I am going to lick my eyeball. There, I just
licked my own eyeball."'

'You're a pretzeltongue?' Barry said.

'Yes. I thought I was going insane. Luckily I lived
next door to a weird woman who took me under her
wing, a Mrs. Robinson,' Nunnally looked wistful. 'She
taught me the ways of the wizarding world.'

Ermine's face fell; Nunnally didn't notice. 'Still -- I
wish those books were around when I was a kid. It
would've made coming out of the magical closet a lot
easier. There used to be an appalling number of
magical Muddles going 'round the bend. Now they just
smile to themselves and wait for the acceptance letter
from Hogwash to arrive.'

Nunnally gestured expansively with a raisin. 'Why,
if Barry Trotter had been around, maybe William
Shakespeare would've become a profitable member of
society.'

Ermine snorted into her plate of Styrofoam peanuts,
blowing several into the air. 'But --'

Nunnally paid no attention, mesmerized by the
sound of his own voice. 'Anyway, J.G. is getting tired
of them. Has she told you?'

'Told me what?' Barry asked. .

Nunnally paused. 'Hell, this is awkward. I assumed
she had told you.'

'Spit it out, for God's sake,' Barry said, irritated.

'This will be the last Barry Trotter book, I'm afraid.'

'What?' they chorused.

'I probably shouldn't tell you this, but J.G. has let
me in on a little secret: you die in this one, Barry.'

'But why would she . . . she can't . . .' A chill went
through Barry's body as he saw his notoriety ebbing
away.

'Well, you're an adult now. Your adventures are no
longer appropriate; -what is she going to write, Barry
Trotter and the Difficult Tax Return! Or maybe she's just
sick of it - I don't know, you'd have to ask her. But I
do know she's planning to hang up her pen.' He looked
over at Barry, with an amused expression that showed
he didn't share the general consternation that wreathed
the table. 'Don't -worry, Barry -- you may die, but you won't feel a thing.'

Nunnally pushed away his plate. 'Well. Wasn't that
nice?' He looked at his watch. 'It's getting a bit late.
Do you all need to be moving on? Where were you
going, anyway?' He laughed, possibly at this book's
inept plotting. 'I just realized, I still have no idea why
you're here.'

Hungry and tired, Barry said crossly, 'We're looking
for J.G.'

Lon leapt in. 'We're going to kidna--'

'--talk to her.' Ermine said, saving the day. 'We want to convince her to stop the Barry Trotter movie.'

'Oh, J.G. has nothing to do with that. If I were you,
I'd go talk to Fantastic Books in New York -- they own
all the rights. But 'why -would you lot -want to itop the
movie? I'd think it was a dream come true.'

Ermine said, 'It's rather complicated, but let's just
say that if the movie comes out, Barry will have to
grow up and get a real job.'

Nunnally gave a guffaw. 'Oooh, I feel your pain.
Life's too short for a real job. I myself have been
fortunate enough -- through J.G.'s generosity -- to
devote the last several years of my life to something
that I believe can change the -world.' Nunnally's face lit
up. 'Can I show you? Would you like to see it?'

'Oh, yes, please!' Ermine gushed. Barry -was amused
to find that the inedible surrealist supper hadn't cooled
her eternally-questing libido.

'Right, follow me.' Nunnally got up, and practically
trotted out of the room. Barry, Ermine and Lon
followed.

They reached a door. Nunnally stood in front of it
and asked them gravely, 'If I show you what's behind
this door, do you promise not to steal my idea? I'd
usually make you sign something, but I guess I'll simply have to trust you.' Nunnally opened the door,
flipping on the lights. Twenty fluorescent fixtures
buzzed to life, revealing a row of 144 wood tracks, all
humped at one end, and sloping gradually down to the
floor.

This is it,' Nunnally said proudly.

This is what?' Barry asked.
'Oh, nothing much. Only the -way to end all conflict
in the world, for all time.'

The trio looked on dumbly.

'It's pine-wood derby! See, look!' Nunnally walked
over to a large chest, opened it, and pulled out two
wheeled objects. When his back was turned, Barry
looked at Ermine and made the 'cuckoo' sign and
pointed at their host. Ermine frowned and hit him on
the upper arm. It hurt.

'Here you go, Barry, you take Trinidad.' It -was a
"wedge-shaped piece of wood, painted in the green, blue
and yellow of that Caribbean nation. He flicked the
right front wheel, spinning it. 'Ermine, use this one -- Great Britain. It's the one I always use.'

'Thank you,' she said.

'Ermine, Barry: put your cars next to each other, at
the top of the track. When I say, 'go,' let them roll.'

'You're going down, Trotter!' Ermine said to Barry,
running her wedge-shaped car back and forth on the
track aggressively.

'Gof

The two contestants let go. Sure enough, Barry lost
-- Ermine's car reached the finish line about a second
before his, which seemed to have a wobble.

'Let me try!' Lon cried. Nunnally gave him a car
from the chest. 'Wasn't that fun?'
'Sure,' said Barry. 'But I don't get how it can save
the -world.' Nunnally wasn't barking mad, yet, but he
was definitely growling.

Their addlepated host swept his arm across the
room. 'In this chamber, there are AA tracks; one for
each sovereign nation in the world. Currently, they all
sit in New York, at the UN, debating about how to
solve this or that problem. But, you see, logic and
argument have their drawbacks. Words can be slippery,
agreements can be confusing. Things don't always mean
what you think they mean, especially if you're a little
dim. This method is much fairer. As I always say, "The
cars never lie.'"

Barry -wasn't convinced. 'But why cars? Why not,
say, badminton?'

Nunnally was appalled. 'My God, that would be
anarchy!'

Seeing that Barry wasn't convinced, the crane-like
man pulled out an extremely dog-eared piece of paper,
and, reprising a performance given innumerable times
m front of his bedroom mirror, read:

Only through racing can the -world's problems truly
be solved. Only through the mute judgment of aerodynamics
and gravity -- through impartial, cleansing
speed -- can we find our way to Truth's Finish Line.
Because, if you look at it a certain -way, isn't life itself a
race? And is it mere coincidence that we're called the
human race! Aren't -we all just small, wooden cars,
hurtling down a wooden track the size of Infinity?'

'But-'

'Go ahead, call me a racist. That doesn't mean I'm
not right.'

It doesn't mean you're not mad as a hatter, Barry
thought.

As crazy as his plan sounded -- wcu -- Barry
suspected that Nunnally would be successful; after all,
he had an enormous melon of a head. One thing that
Barry had learned from his hobnobbing with the rich
and famous (not as often as he'd liked, sure, but still, it
happened occasionally) was that they all had huge noggins. The theory still had some holes; did big heads
cause success, or were they only a side-effect of it?
Nunnally looked like a great bet; he had big hair, too.
Big head and big hair on one individual was a dead
lock, the equivalent of wagering on the one horse in a
race where all the others are forced to wear plastic
bags over their heads. I'd like to put a plastic bag over
Nunnally's head, Barry thought.

Since his appearance as Valumart, through dinner
and now standing in the reflected dumbosity of his
scheme, Nunnally hardened, in Barry's mind, from the
merely eccentric to the genuine article, an Al,
government-inspected, UL-laboratories tested nutbar.
'Speaking of New York, -we have to --'

'Let's race again!' Ermine said, changing the subject.
'Trevor, I want to race you!' Their eyes unmistakably
met, and Barry became pissed off as he saw their
chances of leaving Planet Goofball tonight shrink to
zero. It was clear that Ermine's libido -- that great,
impersonal force which created and destroyed at its
whim -- Was going to carry the day.

'I guess we're sleeping here,' he mumbled to Lon,
who paid no attention. He was on his hands and knees,
engrossed.

'Vroom, vroom! Screech! CRASH!' said Lon,
whamming Finland into Mozambique. 'Ahh! I'm on
fire! I'm pinned under the car! I'm burning to death!
Help! Ahh! AHHH!'

Disgusted, Barry decided to go find Dali and turn
him upside-down. Maybe "some money would fall out
of his pockets.


Chapter Seven
IN THE BELLY OF THE BEAST


The next morning, Barry's first waking thought was (to borrow a phrase from the Jewish Wizards' Defense
League) 'Never again.' Though Lon had the mind of a
lil" shaver, as far as snoring was concerned, he was
already in the full flower of manhood. Maturity might
deepen his tone and improve his range, but he'd never
be any louder than he was last night. So Barry was less
than cheerful -when Ermine bounced down to the
dining room.

Hello, guys! How was your night?' She was happier
than anyone had a right to be before 10:30.

'Awful. And yours? Oh, forget it, I don't want to
know.' Barry's empty stomach lurched when he
remembered last night's final tableau: Nunnally,
brandy snifter in hand, leading Ermine up to the
Observatory to gaze at the square Moon that J.G. had
put in. After that, his imagination mercifully went
black. He couldn't wait to blow the whistle on this two
timer, once he found J.G.

'Awful? Why?'

'Because Baron Buzzsaw here sounds like there's a
playing card stuck up his sinuses,' Barry said irritably.

"I said I was sorry, Barry,' Lon said petulantly, then
went back to driving his pinewood racer over the
tablecloth. As usual, sound effects were supplied, con
brio e saliva.

'Well, that's too bad," Ermine said, without real
sympathy. 'Is there any juice or anything?'

'Why is your hair all wet?'

'Trevor and I have just come back from the loveliest
swim in the ocean. It was like a warm bath!' She bit
open a bobby pin, and stuck it in her curly mane. 'We
saw a snake. It was scribbling figures in the sand.'

'An adder, I'll bet' Barry said. He delighted in a rare
opportunity to lord it over Ermine, factually, and
poured it on. 'Deadly poisonous, filled to the eyes with
neurotoxin. You're dead in five minutes, putrefying in
seven. Was Nunnally bitten?' he asked hopefully.

'Very funny. Has Dali paid you yet?'

'No, he hasn't, thanks for asking.' The next time
somebody asks you to buy a surplus airplane for a piece of conceptual art, say no, he reminded himself.

Ermine put a napkin on her lap. 'Well, after dinner
last night, he might give you a dead rat and call it
even' she said. 'Which reminds me, what outrage is
slated for breakfast?'

Ermine was answered by a commotion in the
doorway. 'Make -way, make -way!' Nunnally said,
carrying a covered dish. Nobody -was in his way, Barry
thought. And take off that stupid hat.

Nunnally noticed Barry's glare. 'You like my tocque.
Thank you. I thought it was appropriate after making
this masterpiece' -- he uncovered the dish with a
flourish -- 'toast with marmalade and pickles!

'The kitchen is full of auto parts and bubble wrap --
-we're having another banquet here tonight -- so I had
to scrounge around . . . What's everybody waiting for?
Dig in!'

Quit saying that, Barry grumbled to himself. The
flavors clashed so violently in Barry's mouth that he
expected to hear cymbals. He swallowed it anyway. It
tasted bad, but at least it -wasn't more Art.

When they finished, Nunnally said, 'So! Off to New
York, I suppose?'

'Yep,' said Barry. 'What's the best -way? Is there an
airport nearby? Or can we borrow Ms. Rollins' private
jet?' he said, half-joking.

Nunnally chuckled. 'No jet here, but I'm sure you
noticed our ocean outside? It's magically connected to
the Caribbean, so you can pop over to the States quite
easily. J.G. finds it do useful for business trips.'

Ermine piped up. 'So she takes a boat?'

'No, shark.'

The table exclaimed!

'Don't tell me you haven't heard of this. Shark travel
is the rage among all the bright young things.' He
smiled at Ermine, who responded with a smile. Barry
felt another pang of nausea, so he jumped in.

'And how does one travel by shark, exactly?'

'They're very big, 75 feet at least -- the smaller ones
simply don't have the legroom. They open wide, and
you -walk right in. But their stomach has all the
amenities of home, and has been hosed out, top to
bottom. You can read, sleep, do whatever you like
without fear of being digested. Then, -when you've
arrived, you give them a tickle and they vomit you up,
easy as you please.'

Barry didn't like the sound of this, and his face
showed it.

'Barry, I'm sure Trevor -wouldn't suggest it if it
wasn't perfectly safe,' Ermine said. 'He says his wi --
companion takes it all the time.'

Exactly, thought Barry. In an effort to turn Ermine
off the idea, he pulled out the heaviest artillery he could
think of: 'It must smell like dead fish in there.'
Nunnally parried. 'Hardly. They clean it before and
after every journey. Otherwise nobody would use it,
even though it's frightfully fast. You'll be there in three
hours.'

'Barry, come on, let's do it,' Ermine said. 'It'll be an
adventure.'

Barry, drowning, grasped for the one remaining
reed. 'Lon, what do you think?'

'Can I keep this car?' said Lon.


An hour later, after a shower, the three were down at
the beach, staring at their conveyance with varying
degrees of apprehension.

'Who'll be the first to board the S.S. Feeding
Frenzy?' quipped Barry.

'Now, Barry, corragia.' Nunnally -waded out to the
immense shark. With every fiber of psychic energy,
Barry sent a message to the fish: eat him! Eat him
NOWl As usual, Barry was suffering a psychic
brownout. Nunnally tapped the shark on the snout,
and was suddenly standing next to an oval hole
rimmed with green teeth. It was easily large enough to
-walk through, and, as Nunnally said, touching one, 'the
teeth are all covered -with kevlar mittens' -- he pulled
one off and -waved it -- 'so he couldn't hurt you even if
he wanted to.'
'Put that one back on!'

'Come on, Barry. Don't tell me you're afraid.'
Nunnally was playing dirty pool. 'Children do it.'
Barry had a brainstorm: he grabbed the pinewood
derby car out of Lon's hands, and threw it into the
shark's open maw.

'Hey!' Lon yelled, aggrieved. 'Whatja do that for?'
He clambered in after it and climbed into the shark's
mouth. Barry and Ermine watched, waiting for the
nightmare to begin. Ermine thought to scold Barry for
the trick, but the truth was that she -was as scared as he
was.

Lon's head emerged. 'Hey you guys! They got
Playstation in here!'

Good-byes were brief, but, in one instance, sahvay.
Barry -was glad as hell to be shot of the place and
especially of Nunnally. After sitting down, he pulled
out a soda from the mini bar.

'I wouldn't drink that,' Ermine said. 'I bet it's really
expensive.' Barry looked at her and cracked it open 
with extra relish.

Ermine picked out a postcard from the rack leaning
against the gently undulating pink -wall. The shark had
swallowed not only postcards, but recliners, a TV,
several varieties of snacks, a sleeping mask, Dram
amine -- really anything a traveller could want.
'Who are you writing?' Barry asked.

'Trevor' Ermine replied. 'To thank him for everything.'

'What an idiot,' Barry said without venom -- it was
simply too obvious to be under dispute.

'Oh, you're too hard on him' Ermine said, smiling.
'He's only idiot-esque. If you knew him like I do --'

Barry was set to make a pointed comment, but
thought better of it. Their quarters -- though easily the
largest stomach Barry had ever been inside -- -were not
expansive. Ermine, like many furry animals, looked
cuddly but could be dangerous when cornered. Barry
took a swig of his Morgana-Cola and belched. T can
understand why you like him. He looks kind of like that guy from that group you liked. What were they
called? 'N'Sane? 'N'Competent?'

'N'Grown' Ermine said scornfully. 'I was hardly the
only one -who liked them. They had millions of fans.
But since you do as "well, I see your point'

Barry was mildly affronted. 'At least I didn't have to
resort to a Kuteness Konjuring' He and Lon had a
field day, after the Department of Magick discovered
the group's illegal ploy. 'What a bunch of knobs, right
Lon?' Barry said, laughing.

He laughed alone; Lon had drifted off to sleep. As
usual, Lon's four limbs were twitching; during sleep,


his dog-brain was in control. Barry heard the sound of
swallowed barks. On Lon's chest there lay a small
book. Barry carefully lifted it up, turned it over.

'Don't read that. It's Lon's. Maybe it's private'
Ermine said. Ermine and Lon had a 'thing' for each
other, back before the accident, and she "was protective.
Barry ignored her, and read:
'Dear Dairy:

Yu won't belev this but I am in a SHRK! A big
big 1. I am siting in his stumic. It is cul and not as
stiky as you think. Tuday, Ermn saw an adr (poysin
sneke).Bary is bing meen as usl hee grabd my car
and thru it. Wy is he so meen? It is not rite to tret
frends that way'

Barry replaced the book. Lon looked cute as he
slept, in a sort of unsettling stunted man-child way.
The fact that Lon was snoozing without nasal fanfare
momentarily irritated him, he ' could hardly afford
blows to his credibility, especially with Ermine. But
this annoyance was more than offset by the fact that
Barry could now sleep himself. Which he did -- after
taking an aspirin for his aching interrobang, and
making a mental note to quit being 'so meen' to Lon.
He shouldn't punish Lon just because he missed the
friend he used to have before the accident. It wasn't
Lon's fault he was a moron dog-boy.

A few hours later, Barry felt a pain between his third
and fourth rib, where Ermine was jabbing him with her
chewed biro.

'Wake up. We're almost there.'

Barry yawned and stretched. He shook Lon gently.
In addition to having that scar-ache -- it'dl -- he had the
kind of brain-fog that comes from catching up on
night-sleep during the day.

But even if Barry had been really awake, he couldn't
have guessed why his scar had been paining him so
persistently: attached to the shark, not six inches of
undulating fishflesh away from his resting head, a
remora loyal to Lord Valumart was attached, and
taking notes. They could expect a warm reception in
New York.


Besides being useful, the ability of Muddles to ignore
magic was a running joke in the wizarding world. It
formed the foundation of a rich vein of ethnic humor,
for example: 'How many Muddles does it take to see a
flying carpet?' 'That -was no carpet, that was a weather
balloon!' Okay, not so funny -- but relations between
the two groups weren't very acrimonious, either. The
efforts of bleeding hearts like Ermine to stamp out such
jokes (one of many Hogwash crusades) had proved
mostly successful, but complete eradication was impossible.

However, as willfully ignorant of the magical as
Muddles are wont to be, a 75-foot Iberian-registered Carcaradon Meglodon vomiting three smiling Brits onto
the dock would be enough to make the most jaded
New Yorker drop a dime to the nearest tabloid. So, the
shark had to be sly. He swam over to the West Side,
up the Hudson, to the Christopher Street piers, where
the only onlookers would be transvestite prostitutes
who would chalk it up to bad batch of blender drinks.

At the appropriate pier, with the various denizens of
the sexual underground looking on, the shark hefted
itself out of the water and threw up our heroes, who
were gently propelled onto the weathered wood. After
all three had 'disemsharked,' the "fish smiled, dropped
back into the water, and, swam away.

'Do you have any idea where we are?' Barry said.

'No,' Ermine replied.

'Hey, mister -- want me to jingle your bells?' an
extremely bulky, hirsute lady said to Lon, giving his
hat a playful pull.

Ermine grabbed Lon's arm. 'Let's go, Lon.'

'Hey Erm, hand me your cell phone,' Barry said.
I'm going to call Ferd and Jorge.'

Ferd and Jorge Measly were several years ahead of
Barry, Ermine and Lon, their littlest brother. They had
been full of mischief at Hogwash, and the school
frankly hadn't been the same since their hasty, unwilling
departure. They had been expelled - with only one
semester to go - after Bumblemore had eaten one of
their trick candies and grown an extra (nonfunctioning,
thank God) penis. Everyone agreed that it had
been worth it. Up until that point, the brothers' great
claim to fame was 'inventing' crop circles, something
even Muddles had noticed.

The pair had moved to New York, where they felt
their anarchic genius would be appreciated. It was one
worked for the FDA, putting charms and
curses on cigarettes to ward off underaged smokers,
while the other demolished buildings magically for the
City.

Unlike -wizard pipes, wizard cell phones were no
better than the Muddle kind; you often had to be a
pretzeltongue to decipher what somebody -was saying.
Hearing (intermittently) that Barry and company were in town, Ferd and Jorge immediately spat out an
itinerary of mayhem lasting several days. Barry got
their address and hung up. The three hailed a cab, and
Barry gave the address.

'How are we going to pay for this?' Ermine
whispered. 'I didn't get a chance to hex a cash
machine!'

The cabbie recognized them immediately. 'You're -- you're dat guy! What'cher name? Harry something?'

As if! What a stupid name! 'Barry, actually,' Barry
said. They got the cab ride in exchange for some
autographs written with Ermine's lipstick.


'Barry! Erm! Lon!' Ferd and Jorge greeted the
travellers exuberantly. 'Come on in!'

Barry found himself in the dirtiest apartment that
the inviolate dicta of Time and Space would allow. His
screaming nostrils quivered in an effort to block out
whatever was wafting from the fridge -- it smelled like
one of Ferd's Chinesefoodturnedscience-experiments.
Still, they were among friends, and "that was quite a step
up from Nunnally, Barry .thought.

Other than the mess, the primary feature of their
apartment was the bathtub in the kitchen -- and the
walls, -which had been painted a Pepto-Bismol pink by
a previous tenant. Ermine remarked that it looked like
the belly of a shark.

'Huh? Whatever. Anyway, great to see you,' said
Ferd. 'Want a beer? Lon, let me put some soda in a
dish for you.'

'Let's go out on the fire escape,' Jorge said. 'It smells
better out there.' At least they smelled it too, Barry
thought.

With much laughter and some spillage on the mangy
shih-tzu yapping at them from the garden below, the
five old friends caught up.

'How's your mum and dad?' Ermine asked.

'Same as always,' Ferd said. 'Loving and normal on
the outside, perverted and dysfunctional on the inside.'

'Isn't everybody?' Jorge said.

'This is a cool old building,' Barry said. 'It's a shame
they've let it slide.'

'We do our part,' Ferd said, saluting the group with
his beer before taking a swig.

'What's this building called again?' Ermine said. 'It's
rather famous, isn't it?'

'The Oneida,' Jorge said. 'Yeah, a lot of old-time
celebrities used to live here. Before it got chopped up
into littler apartments. James Dean, Carmen Miranda.
A lot of actors. John Wilkes Booth.'

'It's haunted,' Ferd said matter-of-factly. 'I've seen
the ghost.'

'You have?!' Lon said, excitedly.

'Sure, several times,' continued Ferd. 'He's an
improv ghost.'

'What do you mean?' Ermine said.

'The story is that he was a poor improvisational
actor -who died onstage one night. So he's condemned
to do improv for all eternity,' Ermine sighed over the
romance of it all. Ferd continued: 'So here's what
happens: you'll be -walking down the hall, or closing
the front door behind you, and suddenly Tony -- that's
his name -- will be standing next to you, and he'll say,
"Is this the first time you've been to the doctor?" or
"Welcome to the Army, Private!" or -whatever, and
you'll be forced to go through the entire scene with
him.'

'If you don't, he'll play tricks on you,' Jorge said.
'Like make your shower go cold suddenly, or make
your key stick in the door.'

'This building sounds like a super's nightmare,'
Ermine said.

'It is, and so are we,' Ferd said," smiling. 'So why're
you guys here?'

When Barry told them their ultimate goal, Jorge
frowned. 'That's gonna be tough. You're going to have
to kidnap her. Think about it: why would J.G. want to
stop the movie? She'll make a pile more loot just from
the merchandising.'

'I don't know, but -we'll figure something out.'

Ermine chimed in. 'She's always struck me as a
reasonable woman. If we could only find out where she
is. Do you have any ideas?'

Ferd said, 'The New York Ghodt said she was in St.
Bait's with Ben Afflict and Courtney Lust last month,
but that's all I and ten million other New Yorkers can
tell you.'

Barry had a brainstorm. 'Hey! I bet Serious -would
know.' Serious was a schoolchum of his dad's and
Barry's godfather, although the only religious instruction
that Serious had ever imparted, was how to count
cards in blackjack.

Barry climbed through the -window and picked up
the phone. There -was no dialtone. 'Guys, you have
jobs. You really ought to pay your phone bill.'

Ferd walked over, and tapped it -with his wand.
Barry put it to his ear, and heard a dialtone.

'We get it free that -way,' Ferd said. Barry nodded,
marveling at their irrepressible semi-criminal impulses.

Barry opened his address book, and dialed the last
number his godfather Serious had given him. On the
eighth ring, a gruff male voice picked up.

What was that accent, Russo-Haitian? Haito-Rus
sian? 'Hi, may I speak to Serious Blech?'

'Nah, he's not here no more.'

'Oh. Do you know -where he is?'

'No, but I remember t'rowing the bastad out. He had
a whatchacallit, a hippogriff. Tore up the floors,
crapped all over da place.'

Barry rolled his eyes. What -was it about wizards
that made them such deadbeats? 'Okay, thanks.' He
then tried -wizard information, dialing the number he
had crank-called so many times, 970-WIZZ. He then
had a very American moment: instead of hearing that
familiar slightly harried Welsh-accented voice asking,
'What listing?', he was greeted by something very
strange.

'Hi there,' a sultry voice said. 'Welcome to 970
WIZZ, where beautiful women with very full bladders
want to fulfill your wettest, wildest fantasies

Barry hung up.

Chapter Eight
FOR SOME REASON, DOGS FIGURE PROMINENTLY IN THIS STORY

Frustrated and a little nauseous, Barry put down the
phone. He stuck his head out of the window. 'Serious
isn't listed,' he said.

'Have you checked the Bowery?' Ferd joked.

'Hey, that's my untrustworthy, utterly shiftless godfather you're talking about,' Barry said, climbing
out on to the fire escape. 'So you guys have no idea
how we can find J.G. Rollins?'

Jorge shrugged. 'Haven't a clue,' Ferd added.

'Come on, guys! You two are -- well, maybe not major characters in the books, but still -- I find it hard to
believe that you wouldn't run across her. That she
wouldn't look you guys up occasionally, just to pump
you for--' Barry quoted their favorite review - '"rich
details to make the wholesome characters throb with a
magical life all their own."'

'Nobody who's lived with you sods could call you
"wholesome'" said Jorge. 'Ante-wholesome, perhaps.'

'Actually,' said Ferd. 'I know who might know how
to find her.'

'Spit it out, you colossal berk,' said Barry, irked.

'You shouldn't say bad words,' said Lon quietly.

'There's a girl here who's, like, the biggest Barry
Trotter fan ever. She runs the fan club for all of
America,' Ferd said. 'She invited us to a convention,
back when we first got into town.' He turned to Jorge.
'Do you remember that girl you met?'

'The bloody stalker, you mean?'

'You shouldn't say, "bloody,"' Lon said in quiet
indignation.

Barry grew exasperated. 'Look, we'd all like to hear
about your romantic misadventures, but please: tell me
the name of this girl!'

'Barry, she's trouble --'

'I don't care! I just want to know where the fucking
author IS!'

Like a stick of old sweaty dynamite, Lon exploded
without -warning. 'Stop saying that! Stop saying bad
words, Barry! That is bad and you shouldn't do it and
I'm going to tell!' He then collapsed into outraged
tears. Ermine comforted him. 'It's okay, Lon, Barry
will stop.' She gave Barry a dirty look. In his sorrow,
Lon slyly humped her leg.

'Yeah, I will. Sorry, Lon.' Lon looked mollified, and
the tears eventually petered out.

'Her name is Phyllis DeVillers,' said Ferd. 'I don't
have a number, but I do have a website address.' He
wrote something on a piece of paper. 'It used to be
barrytrotter.com, but Wagner Brothers threatened to
sue her.'

Barry read: www.BuryTrotter.com. 'I resent that,'
he said, smiling.


They all climbed back into the dark little apartment.
'Barry, Ermine was telling me about her new boyfriend,'
Ferd said.

'He's not my boyfriend,' Ermine said. 'I was trying
to wheedle information from him.'

'It's the Mata Hari method: wheedle via the peedle'
Barry snorted. 'Has she told you about his plans to
change the world?'

'Yeah,' Jorge said, chuckling. 'It couldn't make
things any worse.'

'What about splinters?' Ferd chimed in. 'Erm, just
make sure you don't say the -wrong thing to J.G. when
you meet her. You don't want to start a catfight with a
bilhonairess.'
'I don't see that there was anything wrong with it.'
Ermine said defensively. The others hooted with
derision. 'I can't see who it hurt.'

It was consistently amazing to Barry how flexible
people's morality could be when they really -wanted to
do something. They knew it was wrong, but made up a
reason excusing it. He was glad he was made of sterner
stuff.

'Hey, who wants to watch our illegal cable?' Jorge
asked.

'Cool,' said Barry.

As they watched TV, they all drank cans of
delicious, refreshing RhuTastic.7 With the magic of
like calling to like, the Measly twins had an incredible
ability to find a steady stream of true-life mayhem,
from shakycam police footage, to videoed pranks, to
sadistic Japanese gameshows. Right now, they were
watching a new reality TV show called, 'Geronimo!',
where a bunch of volunteers are thrown off a small
cliff. Whoever survives is thrown off again, until
there's only one person left, the winner. Then the
winner is thrown off, so the network doesn't have to
pay and the prize rolls over to the next week. It was


A promotional consideration has been provided to the author by
the makers of RhuTastic, America's only rhubarb-flavored soft
drink.
currently $428 million. Six months into it, people were
still applying.

'I love the look on the winner's face when he realizes
they're gonna throw him off, too,' Ferd said.

'BOR-RING!' Lon said. 'Turn to cartoons.' He was
ignored.

'Oof!' said Barry as the contestant hit the ground.
'Look, he's still moving.'

'Jorge,' Lon said. 'What's this?' He was holding the
lollipop he stole off Zed Grimfood's worktable.

Jorge took it, smiling. 'Where'd you get this? It's
from our secret candy stash. By the statue of the one
eyed wizard.'

I'LL show you a one-eyed wizard,' Ferd mumbled,
eyes still on the set. Barry chuckled; for him, potty
humor was one of Life's most reliable sources of
pleasure. (As you doubtless have noticed.)

'Shhh! Lon's here!' Ermine said. The brothers
shrugged.

'It's not a secret stash anymore,' Barry said. 'A third
year found it.'

Jorge and Ferd laughed. 'Oh, God, I'm glad I'm not
Nurse Pommefritte! 

*A school full of students swel


*Nurse Puppy Pommefritte drank, heavily, and it was rumored
that a Grittyfloor named Penelope Browser went into the infirmary
with a stomach ache and came out with a cat's gut. Now all she can
ling and shrinking, sprouting feathers, going mirror
colored. 'What was in there? Besides Flood o Drools?'
Ferd asked.

'Diarrhea Creams, Blink Blockers, Spastic Rolls,
Dandruff Babies, tons more,' Ferd said. It was
unnerving to see how much pleasure such stuff gave
them.

'But what's this one?' Lon asked. 'Can I have it?'

'It's an Ono's Fire-Breathing Lollipop, with pure

napalm center,' he said. 'Japanese pain candy. You

have to callous up your tongue or else it burns like hell.

Acquired taste, Lon. I wouldn't eat it, if I were you.'

Barry put down Ferd's copy of The Muddle World on

Five Spells a Day, all this talk of candy made him

hungry. He noticed a bakery box on the kitchen

counter. 'What's in that?' he asked.

'Cannoli,' Jorge said. 'Some girl in my office had a
birthday Friday and didn't want them. I, on the other t
hand, do not care how big my thighs get,' he said,
slapping an ample haunch. 'Have some.'

Barry got up and brought the box over. Picking one
up, it slipped from his grasp. 'Oops,' he said quietly.
How many of History's most fateful moments have


eat is milk and dead mice. Her parents are considering a lawsuit.
Still, that Nurse Pommefritte is a geniiu with animal parts.
been announced by that homely syllable! This was no
exception.

The carpet upon which it landed -- face-down,
naturally -- was so foul, with crumbs and bitten
fingernails and dry boogers -worked so deeply into the
weave, that it was impossible to figure out where the
fabric ended and the disgusting matter began. The
cannoh was worse than inedible now; it was contagious.
Barry threw it away with a shudder. What he
didn't realize was that this cannoli had been planted by
the minions of Lord Valumart (one of whom worked at
an Italian bakery) with a tracking device smuggled
inside the cheese filling. If Barry had eaten it, Dork
forces would've been able to plot his every move, until
excretion or death, and they were rooting for the latter.
Unbeknownst to our heroes, a day later a garbage
scow heading to the Fresh Kills landfill in Staten Island
blew up spectacularly. Why Barry Trotter was hanging
out on a garbage scow, Valumart's underlings couldn't
say. All they knew is that 'even the great Barry Trotter
couldn't have survived that explosion, your Dorkness.'

Evil masterminds have been saying this for years: it
is impoMible to get good help.


'Crikey, look at the time,' Jorge said. 'We gotta get
over to Astral Park.' Astral Park was a dimension of


Central Park visible only to wizards. This kept the
crowds down, especially on weekends.

'Jorge and I play in a Parks and Rec Ouiddit
League.' Ferd said. 'Would you guys like to come?'

Ouiddit, as everybody knows, is a game where
wizards and witches fly around on mops trying to put a
ball through a hoop. The hoop is guarded by a
goalkeeper. In addition to goalies, there are Bashers,
whose job it is to hit things: Brainers (the very type of
ball that took a core sample of Lon's bean), other
players, and in particularly slow matches, themselves.
When Bashers would hit people, their victims would
invariably yell, 'Quit it!' -- hence, the game's name. It's
pointless, and very violent.

Finally, there are the Sic'ers, who chase a flying,
sentient meat patty called a Sneetch. Whoever catches
the Sneetch gets a zillion points and wins the match.
This is a very stupid rule because it renders all other 
facets of the game meaningless; on the other hand, it is
very useful from a literary standpoint, since it allows
for a speedy, dramatic conclusion whenever the narration
begins to drag. Barry was one of the best amateur
Sic'ere ever. He loved this mindless, brutal, guts
rreezmgly dangerous sport.

Ermine, predictably, didn't. If you guys don't mind,
I'll take a miss,' said Ermine. 'Kate Spade has the
cutest wands on sale.'

'Kate Spade!' Barry said, aggrieved. 'You said you
were poor!'

'Priorities, Barry, priorities,' Ermine said.

'Lon? Barry? You'll come?'

'Sure,' Barry said. 'It'd be good to mount the old
mop.'

'Okay!' Ferd said. 'Here, put this on.' It was a
purple robe which read, 'Ty's Bar' in white, Olde
English-style decals.

After they had all changed into their Quiddit robes --
which had an athletic supporter skillfully -woven into
the crotch, the easier to straddle those splintery
mophandles -- they trooped out of the apartment and
into the street, their mops slung over their shoulders.
Lon tagged along, but having him zooming around
would've been asking for trouble.

'Guys,' Barry said, pointing at the mops. 'Won't
Muddles freak out?'

'Nah, nobody cares' said Jorge. 'It's New York.'

The new, 'non-meen' Barry dutifully held Lon's
hand as they crossed the street into the Park. Once
inside, they walked by the Reservoir. 'A kraken lives
up there,' Jorge said, pointing towards the lake-sized
tank. 'He's a bad mamma-jamma.'
Ferd laughed. 'Every so often, he plucks a jogger off
the path and eats 'em, in broad daylight. Doesn't
matter how many Muddles see it, the newspaper
always calls it "a jogging accident.'"

Jorge said. 'They put the kraken in there because
they had an infestation of merdemaids. The kraken ate
them, but now the City's twice as screwed!'

Merdemaids, blech, Barry thought, shuddering.

They got to the field, which was freckled -with people
in robes stretching, unwrapping their sticks, and trash
talking before the match: 'What are you, a janitor?'
Ouiddit trash talking was strictly for appearance's
sake. A couple of other guys on the Ty's Bar team
walked over.

'Hey, guys,' Jorge said. 'This is our friend Barry.
Can he play?'

'Gee, Jorge, that's kind_a cheat--'

'Lift up your fringe,' Ferd said to Barry. Barry
showed off his interrobang.

'You're kiddm' me! Heck, yeah, he can play! Hi,
Bar! I'm Spud and this is K-Dawg. Evan and Herr
Doktor are over there stretching.'

Introductions were exchanged. 'Tell me, Barry,
why're-you hanging out with these losers?' KDawg
asked.

Barry started to respond, then K-Dawg stopped
him. 'I'm just kidding' she said. 'Listen, you're not
really allowed to play with us, and if they find out who
you are, they'll totally make us forfeit. So you're, uh,
my cousin Pierre from France, okay?'

'Okay,' Barry said.

'No, Pierre, it's "oui",' Spud said. Barry laughed. It
would never work.

And by all measures it wouldn't have, had the team
opposite them, Brooklyn's own Nosferatu Heating and
Cooling, been anything less than mouth-breathing
troglodytes. They were all products of New York
City's notoriously shoddy (and shady) wizarding
schools, fly-by-night graymarket places with names
like AAAAA Charm School and Swami Patel's Prestidigitation
Palace. According to Mr. Measly, a lot of
them had ties to the Magi-Mob -- which eventually led,
like slime running down a drain, back to Lord
Valumart. If you were rich, you could afford to send
your kids to the few ritzy 'magical academies,' but for
these the waiting list started at conception. Or before,
if you believe in astrology and oracles.

Anyway, none of these dim bulbs discovered the
ruse, even after Barry's obtuseness forced Ferd to blow
his cover: 'Pierre! The sneetch! Over there, Pierre! . . . Pierre! Pierre, I'm talking to you, BARRY!'

'His name is Pierre Baris,' Jorge added nervously.
He needn't have worried, because the closest opponent,
'Ox,' had a thick finger jammed up his nose and was
fully absorbed in what he was encountering there.

As unhealthy as they were brutal, Nosferatu Heating
and Cooling all smoked cheap, noxious cigars as they
played.9 Their mops sagged to a preposterous degree
as they ferried the economy-sized goons to and fro.
The opposing Basher, Barry noticed, had jowls on h'w
jowi). These were so pendulous, they snapped in the
breeze like a flag whenever he put on speed. Quiddit is
not very physically demanding, but from the start of
the match the men and women of Nosferatu were
sweating like morbidly-obese clydesdales chasing the
last sugar cube on Earth.

Unfortunately, there was one member of the opposition
who -wasn't fooled by 'Pierre,' and that was
Barry's rival Sic'er, a delightful gentleman nicknamed
'Meat.'

As Ty's Bar fell further and further behind (thanks k to the rough play obligatory for opponents of Barry
Trotter), it became clear that (as usual) Barry's team
could win only if he caught the Sneetch. After
Nosferatu muscled through another seven goals, Barry


Wizard cigars have a dial on the side of them, which allows the
smoker to set the level of smell emitted. Team Nosferatu had all
theirs on full-blast.
realized this, and doubled his concentration. So did
Meat, who zoomed over to him and growled, in a thick
Brooklyn accent, 'I know who yeh are, ya wormwood.
Yer not going anywhere.' As he said this, Meat .1
clamped a simian-strong hand on the end of Barry's
mop. Barry saw that pinned to his robe was a button
with the same 'no Barry Trotters' symbol -worn by the
evil toboggan man back in Chapter 3 or 4, somewhere
around there. Barry's scar danced a jig of discomfort.

'Let go, Meat!' Barry yelled. Meat laughed. Barry 1
tried to accelerate away, but his mop -- a cheap
Slopsucker Seven -- creeped forward, screeching and I
groaning -with the effort of dragging Meat's added
bulk. Wisps of foul black smoke began to appear; the
mop was burning out.

Meat was delighted. 'When yer mop craps out, I'm
lettin' go, and it's bye-bye Barry!'

'Barry, the Sneetch!' Jorge yelled, forgetting their
trickery after too many bashes to the head. The
Sneetch -- not star-bellied like English ones, Barry
noticed - glimmered forty feet below, near the ground. 
Barry swung his mop around and began to descend
slowly; he hoped the Sneetch -wouldn't look up from i
the magazine it was reading, see him, and zoom away.
He hoped that his broom would make it. Meat yanked 1
harder, even throwing his mop (a much more powerful 1

Puddleman 2000) into reverse. A great plume of acrid
smoke was now pouring from Barry's mop, as it
burned the last of its oil. Barry heard Meat coughing,
then the ominous screech of metal against metal.

Ten feet from the ground, the smoke became too
much for Meat and he let go. Barry leapt forward, and
grabbed the startled, slightly greasy Sneetch. ('You
crumpled my magazine!' said a tiny outraged voice.)
At the same moment, his broom -- which was only
standard Parks and Rec issue, after all -- gave out, and
he tumbled to the ground. Luckily he didn't have far to
fall, and the turf was soft -- but his already sore ankle
got a twist.

'Yeouchl Son of a witch, that hurts!' Barry yelled,
and held up the Sneetch who was frying angrily
against his palm. 'I got it!'

'We win!' Ferd yelled.

Ty's Bar reveled in their victory (not that it was such k a shocker, given who this book is about). The men and
women from Nosferatu were glad to have the game
over, and departed immediately to attend to the
afternoon's real -work: drinking and getting into fights.
When Barry caught the Sneetch and sealed Nosferatu
s fate, they didn't even touch down -- they just gave a
rew obscene gestures and zoomed off towards their
pub. Barry alone knew how dangerous the 'friendly'
game had been.


As the sweaty warriors of Ty's congratulated each
other around a tub of sports drink (which Ferd had
spiked), a mink-coated woman walked a poodle on the
path below. A runty specimen even for that pint-sized
breed, the rheumy-eyed dog somehow broke free, and
ran over to the crowd, with its owner in leisurely
pursuit. The escapee, feeling amorous, made a beeline
for Barry, and began to vigorously hump his leg.

'You go, guy!' Lon said. 'Get some!'

'I'm so sorry,' a -well-upholstered, homely matron
said to Barry, as she pulled the dog off. She buckled a
little as the scent of ten sweaty witches and wizards
slammed into her olfactory organs. 'Come on, mon
petit.' Coughing, she retreated to the path, pulling the
yapping, straining, unwilling little pooch behind her.

'That dog looked so familiar,' Barry said to no one in
particular. 'I swear I've seen it somewhere before.'

'I think Barry's fallen in love,' Spud said, and the
others joined in.

'Ferd, Jorge, wait here,' Barry said. 'If I'm not back
in 15 minutes, take Lon home.' Then he ran after the
lady, who was heading out of Astral Park.

He followed her for the rest of their walk, keeping
well behind so that she couldn't see (or smell) him. As
the pair entered a posh building on Astral Park West,
Barry saw a surprisingly tough, seedy-looking doorman
touch his cap and let them in.

Barry stopped at the edge of the Park, crouched in
the bushes, and contemplated his next move. Before he
could decide, the dog came sprinting out of the
building, trailing its leash. Eluding the doorman, the
dog dashed across the street, narrowly missing a
squishy death several times.

The poodle -was heading straight for him. 'Come on,
boy, come on!' Barry yelled, crouching down with
open arms to encourage the dog. The dog ran right
past him, into the Park.

The red-haired matron (even from across the street
Barry could see that it -was a dye job), hollered, 'Hey,
young man! Get my dog back, and I'll give you $1000! Ant) a plaster cast of Art Valumord's todger!'
When somebody makes an offer like that, and you're
as big a fan of VTA as Barry was, you don't stop to ask
questions like, 'Where -would I put it?'. Barry turned
and ran into the park. He had gotten about 100 yards
down the path and hadn't seen any sign of the poodle
when he heard a hoarse voice.

'Hey, Barty! Over here,' A shabby-looking man in a
worn old tuxedo about three sizes too small was
crouching behind a bush. Looking around, he
motioned Barry over.

It was none other than his godfather, Serious Blech. 
'Great to see you, Barry,' Serious wheezed, still

recovering from his dash to freedom. He always got
Barry's name slightly wrong. At first Barry thought he
was trying to be funny; now he thought it -was just
another irritating facet of Serious' thoroughgoing
insanity. 'You've finally conquered those spots.' Barry's
face was still lightly pocked from. Valumart's attack
several years ago, which his fans knew as Barry Trotter
and the Acne of Fire. Barry remembered the publicity
tour for that book quite unfondly.

'Watch it, mate,' Barry said in (mostly) mock anger.
'Can you help me snag that plaster cast?'

Serious grew serious. 'Perish the thought, Beany.
That's how I got into this predicament. Two years ago,
I caught Mrs. Throttlebottom's dog and brought it
back to her. I've been her excruciatingly-reluctant love
slave ever since.'
'What? I don't understand.'

'Minerva Throttlebottom's loaded - her first husband
made a tidy packet in -wart remover. She was his
test subject, and boy, did she earn every penny. Maybe
you couldn't tell from -where you -were standing, but
trust me. Nobody'd kiss her unless they were compelled
to by powerful Dork magic.'

'Oh, I get it' Barry said. 'You were doing the old
"kept man" routine and got a little more than you
bargained for'

Serious looked around, making sure that Throttle
bottom hadn't come after him. 'No, no -- well, yes. But
she tricked me. She said that she'd give me the secret
formula to Coke'

Barry whistled. 'She sure had your number'

'Yours, too, I note' Serious retorted. 'She uses an
enchantment to find out -what you covet most. She's a
sort of Siren of goods and services. Once you're inside,
you can't leave her apartment until you touch a
relative. You -were that relative -- close enough for
purposes of the curse, I guess' Serious said. 'She killed
her old dog, a school friend of your father's and mine
named Cecil Squiffington, right in front of me. She
threw him into a big vat of wart remover, and he just
dissolved. It -was sad. And all because Cyril collected
Charles and Di memorabilia'

'Wow' said Barry.

'That whole building is full of Dork magicians.
"Drovatull Arms" . .. "Lord Valumart's", get it?'

'That anagram thing again' Barry said. 'How dim
does he think we are?'

'Pretty dim' said Serious, 'and he's usually right,
Barney. Let's get out of here, just in case Minerva gets
brave.'

He brushed the dust off and they started to walk,
'So, do you still like "Doctor Whom"?' Barry had sewn
a Doctor Whom patch on his Army jacket last year,
simply for irony's sake, and while most people Barry's
age got the joke, Serious didn't. The first time Serious
had met Barry, Barry was going through a Doctor
Whom phase -- wearing long, ugly scarves, mucking
about in police boxes, perming his hair, the whole lot.
While Barry hadn't seen the show _in five years and
hadn't liked it in seven, that was clearly still stuck in
Serious' head. Barry equals Doctor Whom. Until
death.	,,

Barry supposed that it was simply misguided sentimentality
that had saddled him with such a useless
holepocket for a godfather. The and your dad were
best mates at Hogwash, Billy' Serious told Barry for
the umpteenth time. 'Held his head over the bowl after
many a drunken revel. Emptying the contents of your
stomach in the presence of another ... it may not
have happened to you yet, but it'll happen someday,
and I'm here to tell you: it's an unbreakable bond,

son.

Barry fought against the familiar feeling of way too
much information. As they walked through the park,
Serious scanned the ground for dropped change. He
picked up a scuffed washer, then threw it away.

'Yes, Britney, I take my position as your godfather
very seriously,' Serious said. ' I think of you as my own
son, because that's the "way your dad would've wanted
it. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. I want to
help you along the road of life. Now--' he stopped
walking for a second and faced Barry, placing his
hand on Barry's shoulder manfully, ' -- can I borrow
$50,000?'

Barry laughed in his face, amazed at his chutzpah.
'No way, Serious. Don't even try it. I've been burned
by your schemes before.' He started to -walk away -- giving Serious money was like handing an arsonist
your gas station credit card.

Serious followed. 'I know our earlier strategic
alliances didn't turn out as planned, but this one is
quite different. It's practically guaranteed. Anyway,
give me a break. So the magic fuel pill -was a fraud --
my engine got ruined, too! Nobody else got hurt; I was
the one who the Errors hauled off to Aztalan.'

Barry shuddered at the mere mention of the place.
Aztalan was the dreaded wizard prison, a MesoAmerican
theme park lovingly guarded by members of
a shadowy group known only as La Raza. Once you
went in, it was said that they fed you tons of delicious,
very greasy, jalapeno-filled food, but nothing to drink. When you begged for relief from the chili-fueled heat,
they gave you Mexican water straight from the tap.
Then, they made you ride the rides.

Chimichangas, nausea-inducing rides, stifling heat,
and Montezuma's revenge meant that prisoners grew
to loathe Aztalan more than any regular jail. Strong
men melted away; hairy men grew bald; obnoxious
men grew quiet. But nobody ever-stayed the same, nor
did they, in the end, survive. Serious had survived
Aztalan -- the only person ever -- by following two
rules: one, always sit in the front car, you get jostled
less; and two, don't drink the water. 'No ice, no lettuce,
nothing. I lived on that queer tamarind soda and
sangria smuggled in by a bribed guard,' he confided to
Barry.

After years of riding the Pinat-a-Whirl morning,
noon, and night, Serious escaped by using a secret
shrinking spell. One morning, when the guards led him
up to the admissions sign, he was just a mite shorter
than it demanded. The guards were amazed, but rules
were rules, so they let him go.

Anyway, that was years ago, and Serious remained
as deeply committed to fraud as ever. That was his
magic.

'Serious, I can't believe that you really thought there
was a little pill you could drop in your gas tank so your
car could drive forever. That's the oldest urban legend
there is.'

'You invested in it,' Serious said.

'Yeah, but I was 14!'

Serious shrugged. 'The fellow looked like a scientist
to me. How was I to know he -was a few parts short of
a spectrometer? My current associates are men of the
most sterling character and fine reputation. Trust me.'

'Uh-huh,' Barry said, already feeling his wallet
growing lighter. 'Why don't you just rob a Muddle
bank and use that?'

Serious put on an offended look. It -was surprisingly
authentic. 'The Code, Boney, the Code. There are
certain things a wizard must never do, and "magically
manipulating Muddles for personal gain" is the first
and most important rule. It's for our own good.' Barry
gave a puzzled look; Serious continued. 'Forget money
-- without the Code, we could enslave the billions of
them with a single spell. Within 24 hours, every half
decent wizard and witch would have their own private army. Where would we be then, as fractious as we are?
No, fleecing Muddles with magic is definitely not
cricket.'

'But putting the bite on your godson is?'

Serious paid no attention. 'I know a gentleman who
can provide us with an endless supply of coal oil and
fly ash. Do you know what that is?'

'No,' Barry said without enthusiasm. Serious could
provide enough for them both.

'The secret ingredient of Gooø, America's favorite
toy!' Serious said excitedly, making a bright little noise
with his tongue for the copyright symbol. 'Only they
don't know it yet.'

'You're off your nut!' Barry said.

'Kids love goo! They relate to goo. Goo's one of them. Remember when you were a boy, and you'd find some
goo on the street? You'd play with it for hours.'

'Speak for yourself.'

'You'd poke it with a stick, get some on the stick,
fling it at your friends! Try to get the dog to eat it,
dance around it, try to push your fellows into it. What
I'm saying is we can harness that wonderful, innocent,
goo-loving instinct that every child has, and make a
real packet off it.'
As they exited the park, Serious started sticking his
finger into every parking meter they passed. 'All right,
maybe fifty grand is a little steep. Can you give me a
lightning bridge loan of 75 cents?'

'Not if it's for Goo(r),' Barry said.

'No, I just want a pretzel.'

As Barry ransacked his pockets, his -wizard pipe
tumbled out.

'I see you've taken up the vice of smoking, Bernie,'
Serious said. 'I used to smoke a pipe, until I had a
rather unsettling experience.'

'What happened?' Barry asked, pretty sure he didn't
want to know.

'Well, as you know, I am chronically short on funds.
As a consequence, I am always being lured down odd
paths bargain-hunting. This predicament was, I'm
afraid, fairly representative.

'I had just begun smoking a pipe, and was enjoying
my cheap one quite a bit. I would smoke anything -- tobacco, shredded newspaper, mashed potatoes, string -- simply for the pleasure of it. One day, while passing
my local tobacco shop, I spied a fine pipe for sale at an
outlandishly small price. Someone had died, and they were selling off his -- at least I think it -was a he, it
could we been a she - belongings right and left.

'I am not a squeamish man, so I purchased the pipe --but it was only after I began using it that I realized
why its price was so absurdly low. It was haunted by
its previous owner. Quite aggressively and, I dare say,
disgustingly.'

'Serious, would you be too offended if I said that,
out of all the people I know, this would only happen to
you?'

Serious kept talking. 'Hell's Own Meerschaum
would light itself, go out at odd times, flare up most
alarmingly (I lost more than one eyelash during our
brief association) and the like. Worst of all, the
mouthpiece -would grow eerily cold and clammy, as
if-'

Serious paused for emphasis. ' -- as if it were covered m ghostly jpit.'

Barry snorted. He knew from experience that this
story was almost certainly ,a lie, but that Serious would
never admit it. If he admitted making this anecdote up
from wholecloth, every facet of his life -would be up for
debate. And who knew how many 'facts' about him
were out-and-out falsehoods? Serious did - and that's
why he would never budge.

'It put me off smoking, I'll tell you that. Let it be a
lesson to you, and a -warning: never smoke the pipes of
the dead. They won't stand for it.'

They had walked down to the bustling abdomen of
the city. When they found themselves in front of a
particularly squalid construction site, a muddy hole
waiting for a foundation, Serious turned to Barry and
said, 'This is my stop.'

Barry was surprised. 'Boy, you're living rough,
Serious.'

'Turn around, bend over, and look between your
legs,' Serious said. Barry did, and saw a medium-sized
building flying a big blue banner with two intertwined
'W's on it, 'The Wizards' and Witches Club,' Barry
said.

'Pretty neat, huh? It moves around randomly to
avoid prying Muddles -- and property taxes. Wherever
you see a big hole in Midtown, it's probably the Club.'

Barry -was still confused. 'This place costs money,
Serious. They'll throw you out on your ear.'

'The President is a friend. One of my investments
made him a lot of money -- something you declined, I
might add. We have an understanding.'

'Fair enough, ' Barry said. 'I'm at Ferd and Jorge's
apartment. Lon and Ermine are -with me, too.'

'What's the reunion all about?'

'It's a long story, but the short version is: we're
trying to stop this new Barry Trotter movie,' Barry
said.

'I personally think that having a motion picture
made of your life would be delightful. If somebody
made a movie about me, I could get money from Bill
Gates. Still, you must have some good reason for
wanting to stop it'
'Which I am not going to tell you, because if I did, it
would be all over the Club in milliseconds.'
'You underestimate me, Beaujolais, really you do.
But how are you all crammed in the boys' apartment?

It can't be big,' Serious said.
'It isn't. And it smells.'
'I suspect that I could get you all some rooms here

for a few nights. I'm sure they have spares,' Serious
said. 'Think about it. It's the least I can do after you
gave me back my freedom.'

'I -will, Serious. Thanks,' Barry said, and the two
parted. Despite his name, Serious was the least sensible
adult Barry had ever met --or could imagine, really. He
was pretty entertaining, if you avoided thinking about k the collateral damage that habitually sprung up in his
wake. Serious had no conception of consequences: for
as long as Barry had known him, his godfather had
been actually rooting for a nuclear war, because, in his
words, 'The value of my comic book collection would
then skyrocket.' Barry never had the heart to tell him
what million-degree heat does to newsprint.

Chapter Ten 
FANTASTIC!

I like this city, Barry thought, as he walked between
the skyscrapers. I like the way it looks, how nobody
cares if you're magical or not, I even like the way the
bus exhaust Simonizes the insides of your lungs. There
was so much action - music blared, electric signs
blinked, crowds of people streamed in every direction,
it made Barry feel alive.

It was past lunchtime, so Barry bought a hot dog.
On a whim, Barry stopped at a pay phone, and called
Fantastic Books; maybe they could help. The woman
who answered said that J.G. wasn't there, and even if
she -were, 'we both know that Barry Trotter is just a
fictional character.' Fantastic got about one hundred
calls a day, an equal mix of pranksters and the
institutionalized.

Finally Barry got tired of it and sent a charm
through the phone line. Though spells are much
weakened this -way -- please don't try this at home -- she
came around enough to connect him to Fantastic's
public relations officer.

The flack, on the other hand, had no trouble
-whatever believing that Barry was who he said he was. It wm almost m if )he had been expecting hi) call.

She told him to come down to their offices, have a
soda, and meet everybody. She seemed very friendly,
almost eager to help; it was a nice change. Barry
agreed, and called Ermine and Lon. Lon would like a
children's book publisher and Barry was determined to
root out 'meenness' in all of its forms. The trio were
soon on their way to Fantastic's offices, which were
only ten Quiddit fields or so away from the Measly
boys' apartment, as the owl flies.


On the 39th floor of Fantastic Towers (called, with
good reason, 'the house that Barry built'), Barry,
Ermine and Lon all sat opposite a large desk in a 
nondescript corporate hutch. The name on the desk
was 'Susan Thompson,' and she -was Fantastic's Vice
President for Public Relations. There -was a window --
Thompson was a corner, that's for sure -- but the room
wasn't large, and reeked of ozone, Windex, and strong
perfume.

'So this is the young man who's made us so much
money. Welcome to Fantastic - can I get you all some
coffee?'

'No, thanks,' Barry said.

The flack noticed Lon eyeing a stuffed animal on her
desk. 'Do you like him?' she said. He nodded, and she
tossed it to him. 'Keep it. That's our company mascot,
Randy the Happy Rottweiler.'

While most men simply crumble, the hardness of the
upper reaches of business has a tendency to hone a
woman -- particularly the ambitious and able kind -- as
sharp as a razor. All non-essentials of Thompson's
personality had been sloughed off long ago. Whatever
friendliness she showed was an annoying necessity, like wearing pantyhose.

Thompson told them about the company's illustrious
history; it had started in 1903 as 'Kill-It,' a newsletter
for teenage BB-gun enthusiasts, 'and currently sits
astride the children's publishing field like a Colossus.'
Sits astride? Ermine thought. She couldn't imagine
being tucked in by her at night -- she imagined
recovering from that embrace bleeding slightly. And
yet, the woman did have children, the proof was right
there on her desk. They looked unhurt. Ermine
guessed that she sheathed herself somehow before
going home.

'. . . But enough of my chatter,' Thompson said,
flicking her glasses up on her nose. 'What can
Fantastic do for you?'

Barry and Ermine both began to talk at once. For
the sake of harmony, Barry let Ermine explain.

'Well, Mrs. Thompson, for a bunch of reasons, we
are looking for J.G. Rollins. We need to speak to her
immediately.'

'She's a very busy woman, Ms., uh --'

'Cringer.'

'Ms. Cringer. How could I forget, after reading all
the books?' she lied, preferring an endless stream of
forgettable lawyer-thrillers. 'Ms. Rollins needs peace
and quiet to write, and while we'd like to help you
three, our first obligation is to our star writer. Surely
you understand.'

'But we have to talk to her. If -we don't, Hogwash
may -- '

Don't tell her any more than she needs to know,
Barry thought, and jumped in. 'Look, Mrs. Thompson.
We need to talk to J.G.who I've met many times --v who's a friend -- and convince her to stop the Barry
Trotter movie.' Oops, Barry thought.

Thompson -was genuinely shocked, blanching at the
possibility - then she laughed. 'Oh, Barry Trotter. I've
read enough of your books to know that you're a
trickster!'
'I'm serious. We all are,' Barry said. 'If I can't find
J.G., I'm prepared to do whatever's necessary to stop
it. I'll get arrested, check myself into rehab. Ermine
here will seduce a politician . . . and Lon, well, he'll bite
somebody. What I'm trying to say is, we'll stir up a
shitstorm of publicity so unremittingly awful that the
film will tank. And, you'll have to end the series.'

'End the series? God forbid. Why on Earth would
we do that?' Thompson gave a hard smile. 'Barry, if
you're half as intelligent as your fictional self, you
know that you can't stop J.G. from writing the books.
She has a right to practice her livelihood. And as long
as there are books, there will be movies,' Thompson
said. 'If the movie were a scatological, sex-obsessed
parody or something, then maybe you could lead a
boycott. But, as it is, the only person who can stop the
Barry gravy train, in all of its many forms, is J.G.
herself.

'And she's not about to, I assure you. There's much
too much at stake.'

For a moment, Barry began to tell her what
Nunnally had said. Ermine silenced him with a look;
hold on to that trump card until the last possible
moment.

'So I would suggest you relax, and enjoy all the
attention.' The warmthless smile returned.
'Well, after so many books, I thought maybe J.G.
was getting tired,' Ermine said.

'Not a bit - she loves to write Barry Trotter. It's
what she was born to do. Yes, I think that Barry
Trotter will only stop' -- and now her voice grew hard -- 'after they pry the pen from her cold, dead handd.' Ermine felt the plentiful brown hair on her arms raise.

There was a second of quiet, then the conversation
returned to its original tapioca-like consistency. 'Would
you like a tour of the building?'

'Sure!' said Lon, who was by this time very fidgety.

'All right, then.' The group trooped out of her office,
and into the elevator. What followed was ten or so
floors of typical corporate environment: beige carpets,
cubicles, vaguely disgruntled employees, fluorescent
lighting. There were only occasional touches -- exposed
ductwork painted primary colors, framed kids drawings -- reminding you that the business was childrens'
publishing, and not, say, PCs or tampons.

One exception to this blandness was the floor where
they created magazines, filled with people keeping their
constitutional anarchism under corporate wraps, for
the sake of decent health insurance. In the space of five
minutes, Barry, Lon, and Ermine were introduced to
an experimental Jello sculptress, a musician who
composed symphonies for fish, and no fewer than
seven aspiring standups. When they passed through
the art department, Lon saw another Randy on an
employee's desk. Only this time, some wag had
attached a big pink erection. 'That's my Happy the
Randy Rottweiler,' the employee said subversively.
Lon blushed and giggled. 'You're bad,' he said.

As they rode the elevator down to the lobby, Barry
noticed a button that clearly read 'Torture Chamber.'
'What's that about?' he asked.

Thompson hesitated, then said, 'Oh, that's -what our
employees call the basement gym. We're a crazy,
creative bunch here.'

Two faceless gentlemen in matching pinstriped suits
got on. Barry was immediately seized with cold; it
spread out from his chest, as if his heart had been
turned to ice. The -world began to spin, and he fell.

T Barry said, then collapsed.

'Oh my God, Barry I Lon, help me,' Ermine held
Barry up.

'What's wrong?' Thompson said. Ermine thought
she saw the shadow of a smile. The blankfaced men in
suits looked impassively at Barry, -who gave a small

moan.

'We have to get him out of here!'
Just then, the doors opened, and Lon and Ermine
carried Barry off the elevator. They lay him down on
the carpet and Ermine pinched his face, which was
bone-white. Thompson got off the car and the door
closed. Barry immediately began to revive.

'I'm sorry,' Thompson said. 'I had no idea that he
would be so sensitive to our Marketers.'

Ermine was apopletic. 'Those soulless bloodsuckers
could've killed him!'

The flack tried to calm her down. 'I understand, Ms.,
uh . . .'

'Cringer!' Ermine barked.

'Cringer, but they are a regrettable necessity. Fantastic
must market itself and its products, just like
everybody else.' Lon growled at her.

'Ah, Barry's coming around,' she said.

Barry stirred back to life. 'What happened?'

'I'm afraid you met two members of our Marketing
Department, Barry. I had no idea that you'd react so
strongly to them.'

'I'm a brand name,' Barry murmured. 'They feed off v my identity.'

'Well ... I'm really very sorry, Barry. Look, we're
having a small party tonight, celebrating the one
billionth copy of Barry Trotter sold. We'd all be
honored if you could come. It's at a club near here,
Chez Spirochete.'

'Will j.G. be there?' Ermine asked.

'Oh no,' said Thompson, with an odd laugh that
sounded a little like, 'I know where J.G. is.'

'We'll think about it,' Ermine said between gritted
teeth. 'Right now, I'd like to get Barry some fresh air.'

Chapter Eleven
CHARLIE AND THE MILDEW-INFESTED USED BOOKSTORE

The farther Barry got away from Fantastic's marketers,
the better he felt.

'There's no way in hell I'm going to that party,'
Ermine said.

For once, Barry spoke with the. voice of reason. 'I
vote that we grin and bear it and see if we can't find
something out. Did you hear her laugh? I'll bet she
knows where J.G. is.' Ermine admitted that Barry had
a point . . . but she didn't have to like it.

The three friends walked the busy cobblestone
streets of Greenwich Village. After wandering pleasantly
but aimlessly for a half-hour or so, they found
themselves totally lost; uptown's orderly streets had
turned into a warren of winding lanes, each picturesque
but indistinguishable from the others to out-of
town eyes. Ermine was on the verge of hailing a cab
when they turned a corner and saw a shop.

'Tomorrow's Pulp Used Bookstore!' Barry said. 'I
know this guy, I met him at a convention once; let's go
in and say hi.'

'And ask him directions,' Ermine said. 'I'm sick of
being lost.'

The door opened with a tinkle, and after two steps
inside, the trio already felt cramped. Books were
everywhere -- in shelves that stretched to the ceiling, in
musty scrawled-on boxes waiting to be sorted, in small
kickable piles on the side of every aisle. Everything
seemed to be in various comforting shades of brown;
the buff of aged paper, the khaki of cardboard, the
beige of spilled coffee, the ochre of cockroaches. A
medium-sized man in a green cardigan said, 'Can I help
you?' He had a slight English accent, sandy blond hair,
and wore wire-rimmed glasses.

'Charlie, do you remember me? It's Barry Trotter,'
Barry said.

Charlie immediately offered a hand. 'Of course I do,
good to see you again' he said, with a genuine smile.
'You -were the saving grace of that entire convention.
Ham-on-Rye, wasn't it?'

'Right,' Barry said. 'These are my friends, Ermine
Cringer and Lonald Measly.'

Charlie shook their hands. 'I know their characters
well -- but we both know how true-to-life those usually
are, don't we?' They all smiled. Charlie was himself the
star of one of the most popular children's books in the
world, but a case of incredibly severe adult-onset
lactose intolerance made his next tnp to a chocolate
factory sure to be his last.10

'How's business?' Barry said. Lon wandered off to
give the premises a good sniff.

'You can see for yourself,' Charlie said with a sigh.
The store was empty. I make most of my money from a
website. I sell videos -- hard-to-find and children's,
mostly -- and movie memorabilia. My rent here is
murder. I couldn't keep going if it were just books.
People just don't buy 'em like they used to.'

'Speaking of movies,' Ermine said, turning to Barry.
'Can I teU him?'
'Sure, Charlie can be trusted,' Barry said.

'Now I'm interested,' Charlie said.

'We're trying to stop the Barry Trotter one.'

Charlie grabbed Barry's hand. 'Oh, I am o happy to
hear that. I -wish you all the luck in the world. I wish

*Charlie's author was one of the few who could give J.G. a run for
her money, sales-wise; his classics included BFD, The Tit, and of
course, the immortal anti-Oedipal screed, Jamej and the Giant Bitch. He was dead, killed by a vigilante mob of school librarians. *

somebody had stopped mine.' Charlie's tone became
bitter -- many days behind the counter were spent
stewing about this very topic. He didn't talk to many people all day long, so when he got a chance, the wor
poured out of him. 'Willy Wunka was no hero! He '
a meglomaniacal, high-handed, money-mad, crook
Charlie's color rose. 'Do you know how much the
boompa-doompas got paid? A nickel a day! My winS
a boompa-doompa. She hates Wunka like poison.'

'I don't want to be a jerk,' Barry said, 'but I alway
liked that movie.'

'Sure you did, everyone does. It's funny. But
Milder was the star, not the kid. Not Charlie,
whole thing -was a total lie,' Charlie said. 'The
Willy Wunka -was such a drunk he could hardly m caramel and stand at the same time. And such a vic
bastard. Ask a boompa-doompa if you don't

me.

Charlie regained his composure a bit. 'I'm sorry i
it was ever made. Mark my words, Barry: if you
stop it, when this is all over, you'll feel the same

'So,' Charlie said, 'how can I help?'

'I don't know if you can,' Ermine said.

'Oh, I know!' Charlie said. 'Hold on a second
I dig around in the back room!'

Barry and Ermine browsed for a minute,
Charlie came back holding a bulky light with a heavy
metal cowl.

'This will stop them in their tracks. I was going to
sell it on my website, but heck, it's for a good cause.'

'I don't understand,' Barry said.

'This is a klieg light, for use on a set. The first person
who used it was Orson Welles. Then, it -was passed
down from director to director, moving from lot to lot,
ruining careers,' Charlie said. 'It's cursed. No picture
that uses it will ever get finished. Guaranteed.'

Barry and Ermine looked at it. 'The legend is that a
, young witch actress was promised a part in Citizen
Kane II: Rosebud j Revenge if she'd sleep with the writer.
She was naive enough to do it, but of course the writer
couldn't come through, so she put a curse on this light.
That's why Welles' sequel to Kane was never made,'
Charlie said. Ermine was dubious, but said nothing.
Charlie seemed harmless, and besides, they needed all
the help they could get.

Check it out. You're the magical people, you'd
know better than I would. Since you're friends, I'll give

o you for -- ' Charlie then named a price that struck øarry as exorbitant and Ermine as outrageous.

Charlie, I don't know-' Barry said.
Charlie cut him off. 'Look, what are you planning to
do instead? Sabotage the cameras? Kidnap the director?
Trust me, those studios are wily. They'll find a"
way around it. Directors are like hydras: kill one, and
ten Alan Smithees will take his place.'

'Well . . .' Barry said, weakening. 'Okay. Erm, can
you put it on your card? I'll pay you back,' Barry said,"
Ermine grudgingly offered her plastic. 'Oof, it's
heavy,' she said, holding the light with both hands.
'Can we pick it up when we need it?'

'Sure,' Charlie said. Ermine waved her wand over it.
Now it would transport itself from Charlie's storeroom
to wherever she was, upon command. Magic could be
damn useful.

'If I buy this, will you read it to me?' Lon, said,
showing Barry a copy of A Good Night to Moon.

'The book that bared a million bottoms' Barry said,
reading the back. 'Ermine, would you . . . ?'
'Hey, since when am I Ms. Moneybags?'
'I just thought, since I'm going to read the book, you 
could pay for it.'

'All right,' she said, taking her card back out and 
slapping it down. 'What ui it about guys and dropping
trou?'

'It's genetic,' said Charlie.
'It's pathetic,' said Ermine.

It was a beautiful evening, the kind that comes once or
twice a fall, when the best parts of both seasons are
mixed to perfection, like the elements of a properly
cast spell. At dusk, after a bright blue day, it was still
warm enough to walk in shirtsleeves (or light robes, if
you prefer). A breeze dodged in occasionally. It was an
evening where everyone you pass on the sidewalk is
going out to dinner.

But Barry, Lon and Erm had weightier things to
attend to. After a coffee at a sidewalk cafe -- Barry
needed a jolt; his ordeal with the marketers had been
draining -- they headed to Chez Spirochete.

When they arrived, Barry turned to Lon and said,
'Act old, okay?'

'Sorry -- private party,' the bouncer said.

Yeah, we know' said Barry, flashing their invitations.
They got their hands stamped and walked in.

The club had a vaguely medical motif; all the
waitstaff was -wearing surgical scrubs as they scooted
to and fro, taking orders on clipboards. Ermine noticed
that the bartenders (all cute) were all wearing hospital
gowns, which revealed their bottoms. Drinks were
served in beakers or drip bottles; bar food was served
in bedpans.

They got a table, and Barry called Jorge and Ferd.
He described the mark the bouncer gave them,
confident that the brothers could reproduce it via
magic -- they had been doing that kind of thing for
years. Within the hour, they were sitting beside him.

The party was dead; the bosses all stayed on one
side, drinking mineral -water and talking about stock
options. The underlings, without hefty portfolios to
buffer their troubles, attacked the open bar with a
vengeance.

A steady stream of employees came over to fawn and
grovel, but Barry felt awkward. Lon was content
enough to drink his kiddie cocktails and make Jorge's
spent limes talk to each other. Ermine "was ogling the
bartenders shamelessly, and, if gross motor skills were
any sign, was feeling no pain. She 'accidentally' spilled
a drink on Susan Thompson, who like-wise pretended
to act graciously. There -was a whiff of cat in the air.

Barry tried to chat up some employees (the pretty,
young ones, obviously), to find out where J.G. might
be, but in the hour before intoxication descended like
the mists of the Forsaken Forest, he got precisely
nowhere.

Dejected and getting a headache from the cigarette
smoke, he turned to Ferd and Jorge, who were playing
a drinking game involving enchanted coasters. 'You
guys wanna get out of here?'

'Sure,' said Ferd.

'That's all right,' said Jorge, 'I'll stay here and make
sure Lon and Ermine get home okay.'

'Ermine might not want to get home,' Ferd said.

'Noted,' said Jorge.

After Barry got his army jacket from the coat check,
he and Ferd stood on the street. It was drizzling.

'Man, that was -worse than the Silverfish Ice Cream
Social,' Barry said. 'If that's being an adult, leave me
out.'

Ferd smiled. 'I had forgotten about those,' Ferd said.
'Being a grownup isn't so bad.'

'Yeah, but your apartment -- '

'What about it?' As they walked to nowhere in
particular, Barry began to cite the many weirdnesses of
the Measly duo's living quarters, from the Pepto-pink
walls to the singing bathtub in the kitchen and the
crunchy carpet. Ferd let Barry speak for awhile, then
said, 'Let's change the subject. What do you want to
do?'

'Look at that,' Barry said. High in the night sky, two
dragons - a Connecticut Blueblood and Newark
Needletail -- wheeled, sizing each other up. 'I bet it's a
drug deal gone bad,' Ferd said. The pair watched,
waiting for the mayhem to begin.

Quick as a flash, wizards from the Metropolitan
Magic Authority whizzed in between them to break up
the fight. Back in World War Two, a dragon slammed!
into the Empire State Building as part of a frat prank. 1
The MMA had to cast spells for years so that the
Muddles thought it -was a bomber accident.

They stopped inside a wizard bodega and Ferd got al
packet of beenuts. They buzzed in your mouth.

'I can't believe you eat those,' Barry said. 'They!
jiggle your fillings.' Ferd shrugged. A few blocks later,!
they passed a large sign that read, 'Genital Readings,!
$5.'

Barry was just drunk enough to consider it. 'Let's dc
it, Ferd. Let's get a reading.'

'Nahhh,' said Ferd. 'I don't want some old weirdc
prodding my weewee. I got enough of that from Alpo.i

Barry laughed. 'Come on, maybe she can tell us
where J.G. Rollins is.' He tugged at Ferd's arm.

The alcohol quietly dissolved Ferd's better judgment
-- not that there was much of it to began with -- so the}
walked in. They were greeted by several generations of
heavily-mustachioed females, doubtless all genitc
mancers; the skill -was rumored to be genetic, unteach
able. The oldest paid no attention to their arrival
sitting in a high-backed chair by a window watching
the traffic, rooting for a collision. The youngest wa
similarly transfixed by a large television, which blarec
a shoddy, insipid cartoon. Illustrations covered the

walls of the dimly-lit room, each one slightly mystical
but so explicit Barry was embarrassed to even look at
them.

Every piece of furniture was covered with plastic.
Barry seemed to remember hearing in Madame Tralala's
class that having a lot of plastic slipcovers around
helped seeing the future. Or he could have been misremembering.
Barry could 'remember' any fact, no
matter how outlandish. Did he hear that or didn't he?
Did he learn a fact, or make it up? Back and forth he
went; it was like having hiccups of the brain.

The third woman -- who could've been anywhere
between 25 and 60 -- looked up from a book and
greeted them, 'Welcome boys. I am Madame Charlemagne.
Are you here for a quick glance, or the full
reading?'

'Uh, quick'

Full reading,' Barry said.

All right. I -will take one of you at a time.' She
snapped on a pair of latex gloves. 'Come -with me. Step
inside the beaded curtain and unbuckle.'


r or reasons of decorum, we will leave the details of the
readings to the mists of Time. Suffice to say that
Madame Charlemagne was no fraud; and that Ferd and Barry each learned something of great importance.

Ferd learned that his path in life would have many
twists and turns, though not so many that she would
recommend plastic surgery. And what Barry learned
made him grab Ferd and sprint back to the club as fast
as he could.

They pushed to the front of the line, showed the
bouncer their stamped hands, and ran through the
gloomy club, spilling people's drinks, looking for .
Ermine. The blacklight that bathed every room made it
nearly impossible to find anyone. They searched in  vain - but then, Ferd spotted a flash of brassiere over'. in a corner.

'I found her, Barry!' he yelled over the music.

'She's up to her old tricks!' Barry yelled. Ermine,!
when she had too much to drink, became an exhibitionist. Her friends knew every freckle on her body.l
They were sick of it, frankly, but as Jorge said, 'At
least she isn't a mean drunk.'

Barry and Ferd wended their way through the!
crowd. When they got to Ermine, she gave them both a
big hug and kiss. She was blitzed.

'Put your sweater back on,' Barry hollered. 'Wei
know where the author is!'

'Guys! I know where the author is!' Ermine yelled,!
not hearing a word.

'What?' Ferd and Barry yelled.

'What?' Ermine yelled.

Just then the song ended, breaking the impasse. 'I
know where J.G. is,' Ermine said.

'How?' said Ferd. 'Did you get your fanny read?'

'What?' Ermine -was completely befuddled. The
deafening music started again, so they moved to a
quieter hallway to sort it all out.


'So now we know she's at Fantastic,' Barry said.
'That's a start. Now the question is: Do we break her
out ourselves, or wait for a -wandering acromandela to
do it for us?' As any reader of FabuioiM EecuU and How
to Prepare Them knows, acromandelas were gigantic
black spiders with a passion for civil rights. Unfortunately,
they were also native to South Africa, not
Manhattan.

'We can't wait. I say we do it ourselves,' Barry said.
They had rounded up Jorge and Lon, and repaired to

* my s, a local subterranean jazz joint favored by New
York's centaur community. Ferd and Jorge were fans
øf the club's regular 'charm slams,' where men with
goatees and women with stringy hair tried out their
latest free-verse incantations.

* The entrance to Tmy's was a steam-release tube, in
the middle of Seventh Avenue, in Greenwich Village.
No matter how closely they looked, Muddles could
only see the plastic orange tube, -with steam pouring
out of the top, a common sight in New York. Wizards
and other magical creatures, however, could walk into
the tube through a secret space in the side, down some
steps, and into Tiny's. *

A quartet ran through the final chords of 'Relapsin'
at Camarillo,' then an emcee appeared onstage.
'Witches and Wizards, centaurs and centrinas, I give
you . . . Miss Spatula Clark!' He placed a wicker
bottomed Chianti bottle on the stage. Pink smoke
began to pour from the spout, and formed the lumps
and curves of a woman. The vaporous chanteuse began
to sing. 'It's -witchcraft . . . cra-zy witchcraft . . .' There
was much applause. The ghost of Frank Sinatra
wandered the club, slugging people -- but, as a ghost,
his fist passed through everyone harmlessly.

Jorge said, 'Are we sure J.G. even wants to leave?
Do we tell her we're kidnapping her?'

'I don't think that will be necessary anymore. My I
guy told me she lives in the basement, in a teensy little ]
cell,' Ermine said. 'The floor's electrified, and when-1
ever she drops below a certain number of words per
minute, she gets a shock. I think she'll be glad to get!
out of there, and grateful enough to help us.'

The males at the table were all transfixed by the smoky singer, who was constantly shifting shape into

different women, all beautiful. Ermine felt the familiar
irritation of being surrounded by cavemen. 'Stick with
me, guys. We have a job to do. Any ideas? How can
we get to her?'

Jorge said, 'Well, it's probably nothing, but there's
going to be a Fantastic Board of Directors meeting
tomorrow. Everybody at the party was talking about
it.'

'That's good,' Ermine said. 'A lot of unfamiliar
people coming and going's good.' Her wheels were
turning. The band played and everybody thought.
Phantom Frank stalked around, attempting to brawl.

'If I transformed myself into an overhead projector
' Barry offered.

' -- everybody would be watching .you. And besides,
Barry, -we all need to get in there, just in case things get
sticky. I have a better idea,' Ermine said. Barry hated
being cut off, but let her go on.

'Any big meeting like that, they always order in
food. I'll pretend to be the caterer, and bring in a
bunch of bagels.'

'I'm sure they'll appreciate your thoughtfulness,' said
Barry.

Ermine rolled her eyes. 'You're the bagels! You and
Lon and Ferd and Jorge. I'll transform you.'
'Good plan' Jorge said. 'I've always wanted to tour '
the alimentary canal of a publishing fatcat.'

'Don't -worry, Jorge, I'll put some real bagels on top. They'll eat those, and leave you to get stale.' Ermine
said.

They all thought for a moment, except for Lon, who
never did, and Ferd, who had fallen asleep. Barry
broke the silence. 'I think it's a stupid idea,' -- Ermine
opened her mouth in protest -- 'but since it's the only 
one we've got, okay.

'Let's get home and get some sleep,' Ermine said.

'You blew on some other guy's dice, babe! The
Chairman don't stand for that!' Sinatra yelled at
Ermine and hauled off. She didn't even notice; the
haymaker passed through her chin without effect. 'Dammit!' Sinatra hollered.


Chapter Twelve 
THE GREAT ESCAPE

While the rest of Hogwash's Finest were enthusiastically
preparing to violate Fantastic's property rights,
one alumnus was not looking forward to the running,
jumping, possible bullet-evasion, and maybe even taser
shots to the groin, that the morning held in store. Ferd
had gone back to 'the 'Chete' after the rest of them had
called it a night. He had rambunctously greeted the
dawn, with a nurse'waitress on each arm, and now he
was paying for it.

He had quaffed some smart drinks -- not a wise
move for somebody of only middling mental capacity -- and though the rush of abstract thought was pleasant
while it lasted (he finally understood UlyMej, modern
art and trig), the freefall back down to Ferd's normal
IQ had produced the granddaddy of all hangovers. He
had a big glass of water and read from the Encyclopedia
Brittanica before catching a few hours of sleep, but 16-4
it hadn't helped. Now, he alternated between weak 
moans and demands for his customary remedy, Jaffa cakes.

Gracefully suspended in the no-man's-land between1'
biscuit and cake, these charming little orange-and
chocolate confections have no medical effect whatever.
Nevertheless, Ferd had fastened onto them as his hangover palliative of choice, so six packages worth
were now on their way from Kablooey.com.

The doorbell rang, and Barry answered it. There, 
helmet under arm, was the Kablooey.com delivery-
man . . . and on his forehead was a perfectly-shaped
interrobang.

Barry gawped. Did he have a long-lost brother? If
so, could he get free stuff from Kablooey.com?

'It looks a shitload better than yours,' the delivery
man sneered. 'I'd be pissed if I had that shaky shit
carved on my forehead.'

Barry exhaled silently. 'But . . . why?'
'I was totally into the books when I was a kid,' the
guy said, handing over the crate of Jaffa cakes. 'Then I
discovered girls. Sign here,' he said, handing Barry a
clipboard. The deliveryman sighed, doing the wounded
bird bit for a bigger tip. 'This is my last delivery; the
company's going under as of noon.' Barry wondered if
he was getting scammed, but gave him a fiver anyway.
'Thanks,' the guy said, and left.

Barry closed the door, and handed the box to Ferd,
who tore it open with the ferocity of a wolverine.
'Thank you! God, my head is killing me,' Ferd said.

'Oh well, as Sartre said, "Life is pain."' Ferd didn't
respond, chewing like mad.

'That was Buddha,' Ermine said.

'Same diff,' Barry shrugged.

'Let's blow this joint,' Jorge said. 'Since crime
doesn't pay, I have to get to -work by noon.'


Barry, Lon, Jorge and Ferd lined up and waited for their transformation into breakfast food. Jorge was the
first to go, and he paid the price: he was turned into a
bugle and a beagle before Ermine finally got it right.

'These -wands warm up slowly in the morning,'
Ermine said, shaking hers like a thermometer.

'Put seeds on me! Put seeds on me!' Lon yelled,
hopping for emphasis. He loved poppy seeds. Ermine
smiled; at times like these it was almost possible to
think of Lon as a loveable little boy, rather than a
demanding, freakishly-injured ex-crush woefully untutored
in the ways of adult personal hygiene.

Once the boys were all bread, she put them into a
paper bag, then walked down the street to get twenty
more. She put them on top, much to the consternation
of her cramped colleagues. Their muffled cursing soon
stopped, however; Ermine assumed they were sleeping.
She yawned sympathetically -- it had been a late night.
She got into a taxi, and gave the driver Fantastic's
address. Picking a moment when he was particularly
engrossed in his cell phone, she waved her wand over
herself and mumbled the ancient spell. ' Cheejituu!'

Ermine's normal togs were replaced by an appropriately
horrible, sweat-trapping polyester uniform. A
magical needle and thread embroidered 'Taste Sensations'
on her matching green hat and overalls.

Ermine ran through everything mentally during the
ride, so when she got to Fantastic, everything went
smoothly. She got in the door; took the elevator up to
ten; arranged the bagels quickly (and rather professionally,
she thought) on the conference table; and was
just about to take the bag containing the four bagelized
humans back downstairs with her when a red-faced
man in a boring grey suit touched her on the arm.
'Oh!' Ermine jumped.

'Why so nervous?' said the man. 'I won't bite.'
You'd do more than that, if you knew what I'm up
to, Ermine thought.


'There's going to be more of us than usual,' he said.
'Better leave 'em all.'

'But. . . these are stale,' Ermine said, holding the bag
close to her chest.

'That's okay,' the man said, taking it from her. 'We'll
toast 'em.'

Ermine hoped her horror didn't show. 'Ttoajt them?'

'Yeah, don't you do that in New York?' He dumped
the contents of the bag on top of the arrangement.
Ermine gulped. He handed her the empty bag.

'Hey, do you like Barry Trotter?' the man said,
smiling.

'Doesn't everybody?' Ermine said, with just a hint of
irony.

'I've got something for you,' he said, taking a
bendable action figure out of his pocket. 'Who do you
like better, Barry or Ermine?'

'Ermine? Who's Ermine?' Ermine said. 'I've never
read the books.'

'She's Barry's girlfriend.'

'She is not' Ermine said, forgetting herself.

'I thought you said you hadn't read the books,' the
man said, laughing. 'It's okay, a lot of adults don't
admit it at first. As long as you buy it, -we don't care!
Here, take an Ermine.' He held the figure's face next to
hers. 'Wow, you two could be sisters!'

'Think so?' Ermine said, smiling weakly.

'We've just shipped twenty million of these to
McDaniel's. I guess it'll encourage kids to scarf down
more of that salty slop. Never touch it, myself. Bad for
your ticker.' He picked up a pumpernickel bagel.
'Now, these are another story -- low fat.' She had to
fight an urge to knock the bagel from his hands. If she
did, the jig would be up; but if she didn't, the boys
would be eaten.

He took a big bite. Ermine expected to hear tiny
screams, but thankfully, there -were none.

'I'm Brent,' the man said, offering a crumby hand.

'Hi, Brent, I'm --' Ermine had forgotten to give
herself a name. ' -- in a really big hurry, so if you'll
excuse me

The only thing to do was to leave the boys to fend
tor themselves (as much as bagels can 'fend'), bust
J-G. out as fast as she could, and come back for them
later. Ermine excused herself, went to the elevator, and
jabbed at the buttons ferociously. It finally came, and
she pushed the button marked Torture Chamber. Gym,
my glutes, Ermine thought. She descended slowly -- the
building looked new, but the guts of it were old. The


doors opened, and there stood a large security guard,
his gun resting prominently on his hip.

'I'm sorry, Miss. You must have the wrong floor.
This is a restricted area.'

Ermine played dumb. 'Oh, I'm so sorry.' How am I
going to get past this fathead? she thought. 'Can you
tell me how to get to the lobby?'

'No problem,' the guard said. 'Just hit "I", like so.'

The doors closed, and Ermine -whipped out her
wand, passing it over herself.

'AnorexianervcMa I'

She was now the flack, Susan Thompson. It would
be nice to get her into trouble, Ermine thought. When
she got to the lobby, she hit 'TO' again, before anyone
could enter. Their cries of protest died away.

The doors opened, and there was the guard again.
This time, he stepped aside to let her pass. 'Good
morning, Mrs. Thompson. The prisoner's been fairly
quiet.'

Ermine turned. Trying to sound authoritative, she
said, 'I've lost my key to the prisoner's cell. Could you
come open it for me?'

The guard immediately smelled a rat, for he was
smarter than he looked; Thompson always called the
prisoner 'our golden Mother Goose.'

'You don't need a key, you just wave your ID in
front of the door. You know that.' He picked up the
phone. 'Stay right there, whoever you are.'

'Oh, hell!' Ermine griped, and swiftly knocked him
unconscious with a hex. 'I'll take this, thank you very
much,' she said, unchpping his ID.


A moment later, she was standing in front of a thick
metal door, with a sign that said. 'Nothing to See Here
-- Simply a Broom Closet -- Authorized Personnel
Only.' She swiped her magnetic card across the chest
high black plastic panel, and the massive door swung
open. There, in the semi-darkness, was the once-proud
figure of J.G. Rollins.

'Eeek!' she screamed, and cowered in the corner.

The room appeared to be made of burnished steel
from floor to ceiling. Beside a naked bulb dangling
harshly from a cord, the only implements in the room
were a table with a typewriter on it, a prison-style
commode, and a human-sized hamster water bottle.
There -was a shredded pile of Publisher,)' Weakly magazines in the corner, presumably where the world's
most popular children's writer now slept.

'Oh, God, I just had the electrodes yesterday!' J.G.
croaked. 'I gave you your chapter!'

How had it come to this, Fantastic holding its star
author hostage? The fifth book, Barry Trotter and the

Order of the Penui, dealt -with Barry's stormy puberty and
fueled an ocean of inaccurately-erotic fanfic, as -well as
breaking all sales figures for the printed word. A risky
choice, but one that worked. After the sixth book, Barry Trotter and the Scary Magical Whatever, critics
accused her of becoming lazy. This was followed,
however, by the ambitious 4700-page seventh book, Barry Trotter and the Knights of Loqorrhea, -wherein J.G.
attempted to tie up every thread introduced in the
earlier books. Lawsuits brought by readers injured by
the massive tome necessitated book eight, Barry Trotter
Goej Crazy andKilL a Bunch of Lawyer,) (-which Fantastic
made her retitle Barry Trotter and the Briefcase Brigade).

Clearly, J.G. was becoming unhinged, and stronger
and stronger methods of coercion had become necessary
simply to keep her -writing 'at all. She cringed in
front of Ermine, who waved her -wand, and Susan
Thompson was replaced by Taste Sensations ErmiV


J.G. promptly stopped cowering, and stood up. T'm
sorry, I didn't order any food,' she said. 'You probably
got off on the -wrong --'

'It's me, you nitwit,' Ermine said. 'Ermine Cringer.'

'Oh, thank God,' J.G. said. 'Please help me! I'll do
anything! I'll make you less geeky in the next book, I
promise!'

'The first thing you can do is shut up,' Ermine said.
The author looked a sight -- she had come for a meeting
with the Marketers, and instead had been hauled
downstairs and pitched into this Krups-styled dungeon.
For the last two weeks, she had lived a life of
Dickensian servitude. Ermine surmised that she'd been wearing the same tasteful business attire for the entire
time; the soles of her pantyhose had -worn completely
through, and the tatters flapped helplessly at her
calves. 'Come on, ' she said, grabbing the fabulously
rich, dangerously undernourished wnter by a slender
arm. 'Let's get out of here.'

They ran -- well, one ran, the other sort of staggered -- over to the elevator. Both -women jittered nervously
as they waited. Several times the author started to
speak, only to be shushed by Ermine, who was
thinking hard. How could she get the author out?
Have the boys been chewed up yet? And, should I buy
those shoes I saw yesterday?

The elevator opened, and there -- like Fantastic's
totem spirit rising up in anger to protect its most
valuable asset -- was Randy the Happy Rottweiler.

Randy removed his head, revealing a balding young
man with bad skin. 'Sorry' he said. 'Wrong floor. I
can't see a thing through this head.'

Ermine and J.G. got into the elevator. J.G. was
terrified, and she had a right to be, Ermine thought.
She had no doubt that Fantastic would rather kill J.G.
than see her go free and spill her guts to Squawk. The
author couldn't prosecute them for her imprisonment -- Amnesty International turns a blind eye to publishing
companies -- but she could hurt them in the place
they'd feel it most: taking all that sweet Barry loot to a
competitor. Suddenly, Ermine had a brainwave.

'What's a nice guy like you doing in a costume like
that?' she asked.

'There's a school group coming for a tour at 10:00,'
the man-dog said. 'They go bonkers for Randy.' He
laughed bitterly. 'I keep asking, "I went to Yale Drama
School for this?"'

'Great, that's all I wanted to know,' Ermine said. 20
minutes would be perfect. Pulling out her wand, she
zapped him -with a Soporiffic Suplex spell. He slumped
to the floor of the elevator, fast asleep.

'Help me take off his costume,' she told J. G.. 'Start
putting it on!'

By the time they reached the tenth floor conference
room, the author was fastening Randy's head. They
stepped out of the elevator, leaving the underwear-clad
man slumped in the corner, dreaming happily.

'Follow me, and don't say anything,' Ermine said.

They walked to the conference room, from which
the executives were fleeing, coughing and choking.

'There's something very wrong with those bagels!'
one Woman said, wiping her eyes. 'Those aren't baked
goods, they're an obscenity!'

'I know, ma'am,' said Ermine, not missing a beat. 'I
just got a page from Headquarters alerting me to a
batch of bad bagels. I'll take them back, and make sure
they're destroyed.'

'My God, I never smelled anything like that,' said
another executive, holding a handkerchief over his
nose. 'What's wrong with them?'

'They're highly experimental,' Ermine said. 'Made
with olestra. Your H.R. people signed you up as test
subjects.' She excused herself, leaving confusion in her
wake. I wonder what happened, she thought.

Mean-while, a group of execs -were taunting Randy,
poking him, slapping his snout. Ermine hoped that
J.G. wouldn't rise to the bait. Keeping one eye on
them, she hurriedly grabbed up the bagels and threw
them into a bag.

'Hey, I'm eating those,' said a deep voice standing
behind her. She whirled around with a look of horror.
'No! I mean, don't --you can't --'

'Oh, I know, the smell. I shouldn't stand here and let
it ruin my suit.' He took another bite. Ermine saw
crumbs from his earlier victims nestling in a luxurious
walrus moustache. Ermine listened hard for a tiny
scream. 'But I lost most of my olfactory organs in
'Nam' (he pronounced this so it rhymed with 'jam') 'so
it doesn't make any difference to me. I can't smell a
thing.'

Ermine forced herself to look away from the jaws of
death she was sure was remorselessly masticating one
of her school chums. Well, nothing to be done about it
now. She knew the risks of changing into a foodstuff,
they all did. It was time to leave.

'Here, leave me a couple --' the man asked.

'No can do,' Ermine said, trying to sound briskly
authoritative, like she thought an American might.
'Defective. Thanks. Bye.'	k

Grabbing the sackful of bagels, she strode over to
the elevator and pushed the down button. It came, and
they all piled in -- Ermine, the executives, and Randy,
who was still having a pretty hard time of it. Seasoned
bullies all, the execs were enjoying a second spin
through childhood.

'Come on,' one lout in a suit said, 'Let's see who's
under there.' He gave the head a tug. J.G. clamped her
hands on his forearms, trying to remove them. They
struggled.

Ermine jumped in. 'Uh, he's very sensitive.'
The lout turned to her. 'How the hell would you
know?'

'He told me. He's got bad skin.'

The lout was preparing to invoke the f-word, when
another exec clearly senior to him said, 'Bill, stop
acting like an ass. We need to think about how to sell
Barry to the Aborigines.'

She'd heard that voice before ... on C-PAN's
'Kooknotes' . . . With a start, Ermine realized that she
was standing next to the CEO of Fantastic Books. He
looked harmless, like somebody's grandpa -- which, no
doubt, he was. Still, a bead of sweat trickled down her
back.

Inside the suit, J.G. sneezed. 'Sorry,' she said,
attempting a deep voice.

After descending several floors, the doors opened
and there was Susan Thompson. Ermine faked a
cough, trying to cover her face.

'All full up,' an exec said.

'i'LL get the next one,' Susan said.

Just as the doors were starting to close, a hand shot
out and Ermine heard Brent holler out, 'Susan, look at
this girl -- isn't she the spitting image of Ermine?'

Thompson glanced up from the report she was
glancing through, and looked at Ermine. Please don't
recognize me, please don't --

'The real Ermine is chubbier,' Susan said. She
returned to her papers, and the doors closed. Enraged,
Ermine mumbled a few words, and ten pounds of
unslimmable celluite appeared -without a sound on
Thompson's hips.

They finally reached the fifth floor, and all the
executives piled out. When the door closed, Ermine
allowed herself to exhale. She heard a muffled prayer
of thanks issue from approximately Randy's neck.

They reached the ground floor, and -walked towards
the door. Would the security guard stop them? Had
the sleeping actor or KO'ed guard been discovered
yet?

The guard turned and looked. 'Hey Randy, the
tour's waiting for you,' he said.

'Uh,' -- change your voice, Ermine thought frantically -- 'I gotta get something out of my car.'

'What, your flea collar?' the guard said, laughing
dopily.

On the way out, they bumped into a woman in a
uniform carrying a big bag full of food. 'Sorry,' said
Ermine, and realized that the real caterer had arrived. . They'd better get gone, and quick!

As confusion erupted in the lobby, the two women
hailed a taxi and gratefully sped away. Moments later,
a man in boxer shorts ran into the guard, skidding to a
stop on the freshly-waxed floor.

'Listen, man, you can't walk around like that.' the
guard said. 'There's a tour group full of second
graders --'

'That guy stole my costume! I paid a $250 deposit!'
And the first few pieces of you-know-what hit the fan.


Chapter Thirteen 
A BREAKING WINDFALL

The untrammeled weirdness of Manhattan insures that
the city's cabbies become tolerant to a fault. However,
even in precincts as free-wheeling as this, large terry
cloth mascots draw attention. The cabbie turned up his
radio and hoped that these freaks wouldn't cause any
trouble.

J.G. took off her head. 'Freedom!' she yelled, over
the loud, reverberating cadences of. non-Anglo music.
'I'm free!' She kissed Ermine impulsively.

The cabbie eyed them nervously via the rearview
mirror. This was, after all, Greenwich Village.

'Just drive,' Ermine said. She didn't appreciate
wandering eyes, not when she was getting ready to put
the 'witch' back in Greenwich. Ermine picked out a
bagel and put it on the seat next to her.

'Thanks, Ermine, but I've had enough bread and
water to last a lifetime.'
Ermine tapped it with her wand. Nothing happened,
so she tossed it out the window; it hit a woman waiting
for a bus.

'What are you doing?' J.G. said.

'You'll see,' Ermine said, taking out another bagel.

This time, there was a split-second flash, and Jorge
was suddenly sitting there, brushing sesame seeds out
of his hair. Ermine transformed Barry, Lon, and finally
Ferd -- none of whom (not so surprisingly, given the
title of this book) had so much as a toothmark on them.
By the time she was finished, the backseat of the cab
looked like a fraternity prank: Barry's foot was actually
hanging out of the window.

'You'll have to pay extra!' the cabbie said, not
missing a beat.

As they pulled onto Ferd and Jorge's street, Barry
was the first to see the enormous crowd outside the
Oneida, milling around malevolently. Somebody with a
bullhorn was leading a chant: 'Please don't stop the
movie! The movie will be groovy!' A few others were
burning Barry in effigy.

'Drop us off here,' he said. 'Jorge, you've got
Muddle money. Pay him.' Jorge slapped $10 into the
driver's hand, and they all piled out, crouching behind
the taxi door so as not to be seen. Somebody must have
revealed that Barry was in town, and why. The whole
thing smelled strongly of Bold Spice. Barry's interro
bang throbbed in silent agreement. They sneaked
around the corner without being seen.

'We can't go back there,' Barry said.

'They didn't look so tough to me,' Ferd said. 'I bet
they're all falsies.' Palsies were a zombie-like creature
created and controlled by Marketers. They were
usually found in packs called focus groups, ruining
movies with their moronic preferences, giving stupid
answers to poll questions, and electing idiotic politicians.
Here's a rule of thumb: whenever you think,
'How could people be so stupid?' it's not people, it's
falsies.

'Quiet, Gasbag,' Jorge said. 'Barry's right. Falsies
and Marketers we could handle with a Dontchu Believem spell, but there might be Fantastic thugs in that crowd.'
J.G. gulped.	

'Let's go to Tiny's,' Jorge said. 'I bet they're still
cleaning up after the overnight set. Mitch'11 let us in.'

Minutes later, safely underground and amidst many
bottles of Rhutastic and sandwiches brought from a
nearby deli, the comrades celebrated their successful
operation. Barry shook up his soda and squirted
Ermine like it was champagne. High-spirited, slightly
destructive -- it was just like old times.

Meanwhile, the next shift of musicians milled
around in the candle-lit gloom, practicing, setting up,
and telling jokes that apparently only other jazz
musicians could understand. Neither group paid any
attention to the other.

'So what happened up in the conference room?'
Ermine asked. 'When I got up there, everybody looked
like they were about to puke.'

The boys all turned to Ferd expectantly.

'I couldn't help it' Ferd said, mumbling. 'I had really
bad gas.' The old drinker's wisdom of
Smart drink then beer, never fear
Beenuts, then smart drinks, nasty fart stink had been proven vulgar-but-true yet again. Only this
time, it had saved the boys' lives.

The executives had been hungry, and polished off the
non-sentient bagels quickly. Luckily, the first one of our
transmogrified heroes slated for a cream-cheese slathered
demise had been Ferd, who had been brewing up
horrific flatulence all morning (an unhappy byproduct
of the strange intellect-inducing concoctions he had tried
the night before). Just as he was being lifted into the
Vice President for Distribution's gaping maw, fear got
the best of him and he let one rip. As usual, once one
emission had been released, others followed, each riper
and ruder than the last. Soon, the -whole room was
enveloped in a foul greenish haze, and Fantastic's
bramtrust had gone from coughing and dabbing their
eyes, to unkind recriminations, to finally dropping to the
floor and attempting to crawl for safely. Needless to say,
nobody ate any bagels after that.

They were all laughing. Onstage a mummy trumpet
player with a zombie rhythm section were warming up.

Thanks to rhubarb's status as Nature's truth serum,
the conversation grew serious -when Barry suddenly
turned to J.G. and said, 'You're probably wondering
why we busted you out. We need to stop the Barry
Trotter movie, and we figured you knew how.'

At the mention of the word 'movie,' J.G. stiffened,
and said in a loud monotone, 'I am overjoyed that
Wagner Brothers will bring my creation to millions of
new fans worldwide.'

The group was puzzled by the non" sequitur. 'Uh . . .
okay,' Ermine said. 'So, J.G., is there anybody at
Fantastic that --'

J.G. spoke again, even louder this time. 'The people
at Fantastic are the kindest, bravest, most wonderful
people I have ever known.'

'But you can't be serious. Those Fantastic bastards --'

'The people at Fantastic are the kindest, bravest,
most wonderful people I have ever known.'

'Wow,' Ferd said. 'I think she's gone bonkers.'

'I'm not so sure,' said Ermine. 'J.G.: movie.'
'I am overjoyed that Wagner Brothers will bring my
creation to millions of new fans worldwide.'

'Fantastic.'

'The people at Fantastic are the kindest, bravest,
most wonderful people I have ever known.'

'She's being controlled somehow,' Barry said. 'Hypnotized?'

'I don't think so,' Ermine said. 'J.G., stick out your
tongue.' The author did so, and revealed a shiny
microchip. Quick as a flash, Ermine picked it out.
'That's the problem. Whenever she hears certain
words, she's being forced to respond in certain ways.'

J.G. looked groggy, as though she was -waking up
from a fitful dream.

'Thanks for taking that out. One gets awfully tired
of saying the same things over and over.'

Jorge piped up. 'So that's why she's let Wagner be
such bastards to Barry's fans all those years, shutting
down -websites, all that. Didn't seem in character.'

'It wasn't,' Ermine said.

'Lemme see that,' Barry said, and Ermine gave him
the chip. On the back -was engraved, 'Property of Z.
Grimfood.' Barry was shocked -- Zed -was on the
Fantastic payroll. Then again, it made perfect sense.
Zed probably figured that helping the bad guys was
the best way to get famous.
Ermine and the others explained the situation to the
author, who looked progressively more aggrieved, and
maybe a little scared, too.

'I don't know anything,' J.G. said. 'I've been in a cell
for the last two weeks. I've got nothing to do with the
movie. I'm sorry, I feel ungracious, but I don't have
any power. I signed those papers years ago.'

Barry made a snap decision. 'Okay. If you promise
to go home and stay quiet,' Barry said, 'then we won't
have to kidnap you.'

J.G. looked offended. 'Am I a sack of potatoes to be
lugged about and locked in the cellar by everybody?'

Ermine jumped in. ' J.G., of course we won't kidnap
you. Do you know who's behind it? Who do we need
to convince?'

'Oh, I know who's behind it all right,' J.G. said, and
gave a queer, scared smile. 'It's Lord Valumart.
Onstage, the trumpet player dumped some spit from
his horn.

Jorge said. 'Am I the only one who's not surprised?'

'I'm surprised,' Lon said. He was drawing in a pile of
sugar with a swizzle stick.

'Look,' said J.G., 'If anybody knows how bright you
guys are, it's me. And it's impressive how you've
beaten Valumart so many times. But this time is
different. Not only will you be going up against the
Dork Lord, you'll also be taking on Hollywood, and
they don't mess around.'

'So what?' said Barry defiantly.

'They're a multi-billion dollar industry, that's what.
Fantastic kidnapped me over a few million bucks -- beenuts. You guys will cost Wagner Brothers a lot
more: the millions they've already spent on publicity,
plus the millions they're going to make for this movie,
not to mention the next five. They'll play rough.
There's no telling what they'll do. Remember, these are
the same people who run the cable company.'

J.G. let this sink in for a moment. 'I don't intend on
getting on their bad side. I've already gotten a taste of
what they will do, and I don't have any magic to
protect me.' She picked up Ermine's cell phone and
began to dial.

Ferd realized what was about to happen, and
slapped it to the floor.

'Chill, bro,' a musician said.

'Hey, that's my phone!' Ermine yelled. She picked it
up, and pressed a few buttons to see if it still -worked. It
played 'Black Magic' -when it rang.

'You're not ratting on us!' Ferd said. 'Move and I'll
fumigate the joint!'

Barry looked serious, almost . .. adult. 'Since you're
useless to us, you're going to walk out of here, go back

to Scotland, and pretend like nothing happened. You're
not going to tell anyone, because if you do, I'll tell
Fantastic that you're planning to quit writing the books.'

That's a lie! Who told you that?' J.G. said.

'Your husband,' Barry said.

'Oh, pleade. Just my boyfriend. Trevor could never
keep a secret,' J.G. said. Barry saw Ermine give a tiny
start of alarm.

Barry continued. 'So take the first shark back to
Scotland, and don't say a -word until -we've put a stop
to the movie. If you so much as cough, I'll make a
phone call to Fantastic, and you'11 wake up with Randy
the Happy Rottweiler sitting on your chest.'

There was a long silence. The author finally spoke.

'All right, I won't say anything,' J.G. said. 'Listen,
they asked me if they could make "movies out of my
books. I did -what any writer would; I said, "Yes,
please!" And while I do stand to make a fair amount,
I'm more interested in the possibility that if they make
a movie, maybe more kids -will read the books. What's
wrong with wanting people to read my books?'

'And you don't care about what happens to Hogwash,'
Jorge said.

'She just cares about herself,' Ferd said.

'Of course I care about Hogwash. But that school
was on its way out decades before I -wrote a word. It's

a dinosaur,' J.G. said. 'The best wizarding schools are
all online now.

'Things change. Old-fashioned things are replaced. I
love books -- I spend my life writing them -- but movies
are -what people want today. You can't stop progress,'
J.G. said, then added with exasperation, 'I can
understand you helping Bumblemore out for old times'
sake, but why are you so angry at me?'

'Because you've made me into a fraud,' Barry said.
'Everybody thinks I'm this great wizard who can save
the world -with a -wiggle of his wand. 1 can't -- nobody
can. 1 spend all my time either acting like the big,
powerful jerk people expect me to be, or fighting with
He Who Smells! Before you made us famous, Valu
mart just tried to make my life hard because he didn't
like my parents. Now he's actually trying to kill me!

'Plus,' Barry said. 'I never have any money.'

J.G. was quiet, cogitating. After a few moments, she
pulled out a pen, and her checkbook, and wrote out a
check. 'Barry,' she said, "I can't make you un-famous,
but 1 can help with the other thing.'

'Oh no, J.G., you can't buy me off--' Barry said.

She handed the check to Barry. It was for twenty
five million pounds.

'--or you can . . .' The check was so large, it seemed
to vibrate in Barry's hand,
'That should be enough to take care of yourself and
your friends. You could go someplace new, change
your name, remove that scar. Or not, it's up to you.

'As far as your current quest is concerned, I won't
hinder you. I'll do as you all ask and stay quietly at
home.' The author wrote a name and number on one of
Lon's opened sugar packets. 'Here's somebody who
might be able to help get you near the movie. Her
website got shut down, so she's filming a tell-all
documentary -where she follows all the Wagner people
around asking impertinent questions and getting
thrown out of buildings.'

Ermine read: 'Phyllis DeVillers. 310-555-5902.'

'Hey, that's the girl we told you about,' Ferd said.

J.G. got up to leave. 'Thank you all -- for your lives,
your stories, for making me rich, for breaking me out.
I'm sorry if my books have made things more
complicated. If you ever want for anything, please
come see me,' J.G. said.

The table was still flabbergasted as J.G. collected  her purse, finished the last few drops of her drink, and
walked towards the door. Just before she reached it,
she turned and said. 'One piece of advice, Barry.'

'Yes?'

'Don't give Serious your ATM card,' J.G. said. 'He
calls me two or three times a -week, asking for money.
She waved, turned, then walked up the stairs to the
steamy street.

They sat there staring at the check, basking as if it
were some sort of heat-lamp of prosperity. Eventually,
Barry spoke. 'That J.G. Rollins is all right.'

It was like a spell had been broken: the group ran to the nearest bank, and deposited Barry's check.


'What now?' Ferd said, everybody's pockets full of
Barry's new money.

'Not so Measly anymore, eh guys?' Barry said. 'You
going to tell your parents?'

'Of course they are,' Ermine said. 'How are we
going to get rid of those fans?'

'Lure them away -with $1000 bills,' Jorge said,
puffing on an expensive cigar. (Jorge didn't even
smoke, he just felt it was appropriate, under the
circumstances.)

'Forget them. We'll just stay the night in the
Wizards' Club,' Barry said. 'Serious can get us some
rooms.'

'As much as I am inclined to doubt every word
Serious has ever, or indeed will ever, utter,' Ermine
said. T need a shower, so let's go.'
To everyone's astonishment, Serious wasn't lying
about the pull he had at the Wizards' Club; once the
front desk had connected them to the President's office,
accommodations -were arranged -- four rooms right
next to each other on the seventeenth floor.

'You're lucky' the bellhop said as he opened the
door to Barry's room. 'There's a big oracle convention
in town. These are the last four rooms left.' Barry
tipped him $100. 'Wow! Thanks!' The bellhop said.
'Your buddy in the wool hat gave me a dog biscuit.'

Alone, Barry surveyed the room. It -was careworn,
but nice, a little musty -- sort of Hogwash away from
Hogwash. Prints hung on the walls, all with a magical
theme; a stilted depiction of an alchemist discovering
Serious Putty (no relation to Barry's godfather -- or to
Goo(r), for that matter) hung over the bed. The
furnishings were strictly academic: lots of books, big
desk, small TV. Peeling off his jacket, Barry flopped on
the bed, and turned on the. tube.

He cruised aimlessly, and finally paused on a local
public access channel. A burly gentleman in fatigues was standing in front of an American flag, fulminating about
the mongrel races.' To hear him tell it, every human
darker than a peach crayon -was welded together in a
conspiracy to 'enslave the Aryan race.' Even in this era of
reality television, it was rare to see someone so openly
insane on TV; Barry was about to change the channel
when a mischievous idea popped into his head.
His wand hung in its thigh holster on the bedpost. He
grabbed it and walked over to the television. Pausing for
a moment to make sure he got the spell right, he "waited
for the moron to launch into a high-octane rush of
ranting, then tapped the figure on the screen.

'Armenia!' Barry said softly.

As quick as a belch, the man became an AfricanAmerican,
as dark as any son of the Congo. He continued
on, unaware, becoming more ironic by the second. The
horrified shout of the camera operator finally stopped him.
Barry watched the fool go through anger, denial,
bargaining, grief, and finally acceptance all in the space of
five minutes. Barry fell asleep with the sense of a job well
done.

Some hours later, the ambient noise in the room -- the
air-conditioning, Lon's snoring and cartoons coming
from next door -- fell away, revealing a tapping on
Barry's window. He looked towards the grimy pane,
Which faced an airshaft. There stood Earwig. A squashed
cigarette dangled from her beak; she had picked up the
vice from -watching Barry's fitful experiments with
tobacco. Now she was hooked, constantly scavaging
gutter-butts, tottering up to one person after another,
nipping them until they gave her a light.

The window -was painted shut. 'Hold on' Barry said,
jamming a letter-opener between the sill and frame,
trying to lever the window open. The opener snapped.
'Guess I'll have to break it,' Barry said aloud, giving
himself permission. He grabbed a nearby paperweight -- a bust of Bumblemore -- and brought it against the glass.
The pane broke with a satisfying crunch and tinkle, as the
shards fell down the shaft. He threw the paperweight out
the window, so the Club couldn't dust it for fingerprints.

Earwig hopped in, presenting her ciggie eagerly.
Barry lit it. She was looking shabby, her snow-white
plumage stained yellow from cigarette smoke. His
familiar -was an affront, an indictment, a jittery, crabby
nicotine fiend. Barry untied the messages from her foot.
He stroked her little skull absently as she buzzed and he
read the notes. The first one read:

'From Alpo Bumblemore

Hogwash School by magic dictation pen


Dear Barry:

I am writing to find out your progress on Plan X. Things
are getting bad here. Yesterday, two Muddles broke into the
school and scrawled profanities all over, not even having the
common decency to spell them correctly. I will not repeat the
exact words and phrases, but I assure you that they conjure
up images of enduring foulness and represent the outer
bounds of verbal depravity. They also have set several small
fires.

A small group of Muddles have taken to hanging around
the Buggering Birch. They seem to enjoy it, which takes all
the fun out for the tree. He won't even bother you anymore.
It's sad.

I have been able to keep a contingent of anti-Muddle
students from taking matters into their own hands, but I am
not sure I can hold them off much longer. I am not sure
whether I want to.

Come in. Oh, hi, Hafwid. Some Muddles have broken into
your cabin and stolen your Sacred Object?'


Barry winced. Hafwid's 'Sacred Object' -- his term for it -- was a ill-rendered charcoal drawing of the gigantic,
teddy-clad Headmistress of Beaubeaux Academy.12 Bumblemore did not approve of Hafwid's having it -- not
least because his colleague looked like a baby beluga
trapped in a tuna net -- but as most of the rest of Hafwid's
race had been exterminated, he turned a blind eye.
Anything to keep Hafwid out of the fleshpots of
Hogsbleede. Barry went back to reading:


'I understand you're upset. Okay. No, I don't think killing one


*This was France's most prestigious magical academy, their
version of Hogwash. The third major European school was a
shadowy, semi-civilized place called Schadenfraude. The three
periodically competed for completely meaningless awards, slaughtering
tens of their students in the process. Nobody said being
magical was being smart. *

person a day and putting their head on stakes outside your house
will get it back. They don't understand; they're an ignorant
people. I'll help you. Hold on for a secl'm writing to Barry.

Barry, what is going on? Have you stopped the movie yet? If
you can't do it, I think we've got a real bloodbath brewing here.
The Blare Witch has offered to help - she's a Trustee - but I
hope to Merlin I don't have to take her up on it. We'd be knee
deep in eviscerated Muddles and shakycam footage in no time.

Otherwise, things are pretty much as always. Hafwid says
hullo, and asks, What do I tell the girls this week?' (??)

Hoping that - for the Love of God! -you stop this movie,

Alpo Bumblemore

PS - A group of mice are occupying the library and have
taken Madame Ponce hostage. They have presented me with a
list of demands. Do you know anything about this?


Barry crumpled the letter. 'Great. He thinks it's bad
now, just wait 'til the fans over there find out we're
trying to stop the movie,' Barry thought, picturing
colorful, Middle East-style rioting on the lawn of the k school. Barry received this added pressure -with all the
py of the Elephant Man being forced into a jitterbug
gmg contest. Bumblemore could be overreacting.
However, if he -wasn't, one way or another, Barry
could count on a couple thousand fewer fans in the
next week or so. And if Dorco Malfeasance and all the
other louts got into the action, Hogwash would soon be
going toe-to-toe with the armed forces of Great Britain
-- and probably NATO -- in no time.

Unsure of which side he would root for, Barry
turned to the next letter. Earwig was standing on it,
cat-like. He shooed her off, but immediately wished he
hadn't read it: the letter was a demand for payment
from Fuselage and Sons, for that surplus airplane he
had purchased for Dali. After J.G.'s gift, he could pay
this with five minutes' worth of interest. But he didn't
like their tone',, so Barry -wrote underneath: 'Kiss my
cauldron.' He refolded the letter, then motioned for
Earwig to come over so that she could wing it back to
England. Instead of approaching, she took two steps
away and stuck out her tiny tongue; she was hungry,
tired, and not going anywhere.

'I could use some food, too,' Barry said. After calling
the front desk and complaining that 'a small meteor'
had broken his window, he and his weary owl went
downstairs to rustle up some grub. Buck yourself up,
he thought. It won't do to let the others see you down.
Time to be the Invincible Barry Trotter again.


Chapter Fourteen 
ALL A-BORED


?SS


The Club's scholastic ambience extended, unfortunately,
to the food. Patrons unwise enough to dine
there were confronted -with standard -- that is, inedible
boarding school fare. If boiled was good, fried was
better, and steamed, then boiled, then fried, seemed to
be their idea of culinary Nirvana. The meat was of
undefined quadripedal provenance. Everything was
encased in a heavy, paste-like batter, -which extinguished
whatever glimpses1 of flavour that had survived
the multi-stage steaming'boiling'frying process. The 
daily 'specials' -were just regular entrees covered with a
fiercely-orange, oily, bland yet disgusting cheese,
which most diners wisely avoided. Cute names masked
dishes that were especially deadly; the toad-inthe-hole
racked up fatalities as effortlessly and remorselessly as
a machine gun.

Architecturally, the room -was more pleasing.
Fashioned to look like the immense Grand Hall at
Hogwash, the only thing that broke the illusion was the
steady stream of New York traffic tooting outside. It
was lit by chandeliers filled with flickering candles,
-which meant that you couldn't examine the food too
closely -- a small mercy. There were paintings on the
walls of famous members; their severe looks suggested
that each had endured a Wizards' Club meal directly
before sitting for their portrait.

Such was the power of nostalgia that the Hall was
constantly packed with men and women shoveling
down horrible food carelessly prepared, in a drafry,
poorly-lit cavern. Just like the old days, it -was rowdy,
too -- charms being tossed around as well as food,
chairs being pulled out from under people, somebody's
familiar getting loose and biting the patrons, et cetera.
All told, it -was a thoroughly unpleasant dining experi

ence.

By the elevators at one end, Barry saw a sorry sight
-- the Picking Cap, the means by which innumerable
Hogwash students had been assigned houses for
centuries, had been finally put out to pasture. (This
was now done by a Muddle company down in London
with computers, for a fraction of the cost. Picking
Caps, like Italian sportscars, require lots of maintenance,
and occasionally parts flown in from overseas.)
Senile, the cap sat on a chair, mumbling. 'Silverfish!
No, Gritryfloor! No, wait - Pufnstuf! No . . .'

Jorge -waved. The three Measlys and Ermine were
sitting at a table near the waiter's station. Barry gave
Earwig to the Familiar check -woman to his left, and
walked over.

Jorge was hitting on a pretty witch at a neighbouring
table. 'My brother and I invented crop circles, you
know . . . Hi, Barry! This is my friend, Barry Trotter.
Perhaps you've heard of him?"

Barry left Jorge to his honey-tongued chatter and
greeted the rest. 'Wow, I'm hungry,' he said.

'Well, you came to the -wrong place," Ermine said
glumly. The menu was an insult to the very concept of
food, and Barry ordered -with an eye simply towards
damage control.

'Do they eat this bad at BeaubeaXix?' Ferd asked.
"Vole-on-the-road?" What u that?'

'Breaded D-A-C-H-S-H-U-N-D, I think,' said
Ermine, spelling so as not to -worry Lon.

Why are we doing this to ourselves? We're loaded,'
Barry said. 'Let's go eat someplace nice'

No, Barry, -we can't risk it,' Jorge said, freshly
rejected. 'Someone might recognize that famous face of
yours, and tear you to pieces.'

Then can you go get takeout and bring me
something back' Barry said, throwing down his menu.
'I eat this slop all the time at school.'

'That sounds good,' Ferd said. 'I saw a Chinese place 
around the corner.'

Barry gave them an order, and they headed over to 
Chen's - which turned out not to be Chinese at all, but
Italian, run by Greeks. They hadn't gotten around to 
changing the sign.

Whatever its nationality, the food was tasty. They all
sat on the floor of Ferd's room and ate, -while Barry!
heard about how Ermine won $500 from a three-card 
monte guy outside. 'I wore my granny sunglasses,' she!
said. 'I could see everything. The poor fella kept
thinking he was screwing up!'

'Speaking of messing with the minds of Muddles,'1
Jorge said, 'I called a gas leak in to Con Ed. Those!
fans outside our building will be gone soon enough.'

'Now that we have money, Jorge, let's get a nicer
apartment,' said Ferd.

'Okay,' said Jorge. 'What are you guys going to do?
next?' he asked.

'Go to L.A. and find this Phyllis chick, I guess'  Barry said, through a mouthful of fried ravioli.

'I've been thinking about that' Ermine said. 'Valu- mart obviously knows -where we are and -what we're!
doing. I think taking any magical transportation would]

All A-Bo red


be asking for trouble. I vote for kicking it Muddle
style'

'Like how? Plane?' Barry asked.

Ermine remembered watching the dragons play
heat-the-jet. 'I vote for train'

'To Los Angeles?' Barry said. 'That's, like, three
days'

'Exactly. In the States, anybody who can afford to
fly would never, ever take the train. That's -why the
Dork Lord would never, ever look for us there'

'She's right' Jorge said.

'Oh, God!' Barry said. There -was a cigarette butt
cooked into his cacciatore. He lost his appetite.

Sometime later that evening -- after Lon had beaten
all corners in Ping Pong - our heroes returned to their
rooms. Ermine convinced the boys te stay in for the
evening, to prevent alerting Dork forces to their
whereabouts. 'Plus' she added masochistically, 'we
need to be at the station no later than eight a.m.!'

Making the best of a bad situation, Jorge, Barry and
Lon sat in Jorge's room playing gin rummy. (Ferd was
downstairs on the fifth floor, attending a 12-step group
for recovering addicts of F.X. Potts' Everyflavor
Legumes.) They discussed how best to get back at Zed
Grirnlood, and it was decided that Jorge and Ferd
wouldn't come to L.A., so they could plan a proper,
non-lethal, revenge. Barry noticed that the room was
already a complete catastrophe -- and all Jorge had
done was take a nap in it. Well, Barry thought, we all 
have our talents.

The butterbourbon that Barry had drank with
dinner to kill whatever germs were on the cigarette
butt had made him sleepy. After only a few hands, and
to the protestations of the Measly brothers, who were  simply uncanny at the game (even Kibblefor-Brains
regularly wiped him out), Barry excused himself and
went to bed.

Exhausted again, Barry thought. A real job couldn't!
be this much work. Then he fell fast asleep.


Bright and early, Barry, Ermine and Lon trooped out
of the Wizards' Club (which had magically relocated!
itself 20 blocks to the south) and headed for the train!
station. Using her credit card -- 'credit is Muddle!
magic,' she always said - to purchase a ticket, she then!
used an elementary spell to issue duplicates to Barryl
and Lon. Serious would be proud, Barry thought.

They boarded the train, a piebald conveyance that I
showed every year of its age, and smelled like no I
window on it had ever been opened. Barry and Lon, ]
while less offended by the aesthetics of the train, were 
equally annoyed by the uncomfortable chairs. Erminel

immediately 'upgraded' them all to private compartments.
(Anything more ostentatious would attract
unwanted attention, she said.)

So Barry was ensconced in his own cozy cube,
looking out of a scratched and smeary window, with
his headphones blaring Valid Tumor Alarm. Their
latest, 'Kill You? Sure!', had just gone platinum, and
Barry picked up a copy on the way to the train station.
Its raunchy lyrics and hyperaggressive beats soothed
him in a -way incomprehensible to the old and unhip.

As they pulled away from New York and Barry saw
his last glimpse of Manhattan, he thought how much
he'd like to come back to visit, preferably as a famous
musician. He drowsed to the rocking movement of the
tram, lost in a hostile lullaby, until Ermine passed his
door and gave it a rap.

Barry didn't hear, so Ermine opened it a crack and
waved. Barry took his headphones off. 'What's up?' he v said.

'Lon and I are going to the observation car, do you
want to come?' Ermine said.

'What's that?'

The observation car is about five cars down. It's got
rood and soda and tables to sit at. There's even a
Plexiglas roof that you can look through -- if there's
anything to see, which I doubt. We're just in New!
Jersey.'

'I think I'll sit here for a while.'

'Suit yourself' Ermine said, smiling, and slid the
door shut.

Barry returned to the testosterone-infused babbling!
of Valid Tumor Alarm. 'I'm gonna cut you, cut you upl
good, cut your butt, like a nut would' Art Valumordi
screamed over a stuttering beat.

For a quasi-nymphomaniacal know-it-all, Ermine!
was pretty great, Barry thought. She was always doing!
things like seeing that Lon had a good time. I should!
do something nice for her, Barry decided, turning toi
his book. It -was a thriller he had picked up in the!
station. This was reading of last-resort; he always!
found these books so unrealistic. No magic whatsol

ever.


Ermine had been looking out the window drinking al
soda less than five minutes when a man asked if he
could sit next to her.

'Sure,' she said. He was a tall, somewhat scrawny!
guy with close-cropped brown hair and large glasses. He had a poky Adam's apple, and one of those large,} pendulous, wen-like, upper lip moles that sort of hung 
down and totally distracted anybody who talked to
him.

'My name is Joel,' he said.

'Hi, Mo-- I mean, Joel. My name is Ermine.'

'Going ALL THE WAY to L.A.?' Joel asked,
emphasizing the words strangely.

'What? Yeah,' Ermine said. Definite weirdo.

'Oh, that's great. I love A LAY,' Joel said. 'BUTT
IT'S HARD to spend such a LONG trip alone, isn't
TIT?'

Ermine got annoyed. 'Excuse me, but what's your
deal?'

'Are you turned on yet?' Joel said gleefully. 'Let's
make out!'

Ermine laughed. This guy was too scrawny to pose a
threat. 'Turned on by who? You?' His shirt sleeves
were at least one size too long.

'Damn! Damn, damn, damn!' Joel moaned. 'I spent 
$1000 on a "Super Seduction" seminar, and it doesn't
work at all! I'm s'posed to sprinkle "sexual words" in
my conversation, and you're s'posed to get hot. But
you don't! Nobody does!' He banged both his fists on
the formica table between them, making a weak
sounding thump.

Look, here's a tip from an actual, real-live girl,'
Ermine said. 'Quit with the seduction techniques, and
get that gross mole removed.'

'I can't.' he said. 'I need it for business.'

Oh God, Ermine thought. The depths of Muddle
crazmess.

'I'm a writer, I write T-shirts. You know "Your
Problem is Obvious"?'

'No,' Ermine said, keeping all enthusiasm out of her
voice.

'It's the one with the cartoon of the guy with his
head up his butt. It's a classic.'

'Your mother must be very proud.'
Joel bristled. 'Hey, don't laugh, I make good money.
Anyway, my mole is the secret to my success. It's
lucky. My lucky mole.

T can't really explain it but, every time I've even
made an appointment with a dermatologist, something
bad has happened. Last time, I lost a huge account "Ten
Reasons Why a Beer is Better Than a Woman".'

'That's always struck me as particularly insulting.'

'Hey, I did "Ten Reasons Why a Cucumber is Better
Than a Man," too,' Joel said defensively. 'I'm just
giving the market what it wants. If Shakespeare were
writing today, he'd be writing T-shirts. Who watches
plays?'

'I do,' Ermine said.

'I thought you might, that's -why I said it. Anyway, I
lost that account, the beer versus women one. (If
you're wondering, I prefer women.) Then I had a
dream where my mole said, "Listen, buddy, if I go, you
go." It sounds silly, but I'm not going to chance it. He
sounded serious. He had a voice like a hitman.'

Barry -walked by them on his way to the bar at the
middle of the car. 'Hi, Erm,' he said. Who was that
weird guy she was talking to? She was always such a
freak magnet. Just to his right, he saw Lon hustling a
group of kids in a card game. At least he wasn't the
only one who Lon took money from.

'Rummy!' Lon said, 'And I'm out.'

A youthful groan went up from his opponents as
Lon swept the change into a paper sack. 'Ha, ha, you
lost!' he said, smoothing the moist dollar bills his
ragtag opponents had fished from their socks and
shoes.

'You gotta give us a chance to win our money back!' v
said a kid with a big nose.

'Yeah, re-tard,' another kid said, not meaning it
kindly.

'No way, Jose,' Lon said, and walked over to the
bar, where Barry stood. 'Bartender,' he said magnanimously.
'A kiddie cocktail for me and my friend here.'
He handed the paper bag to Barry. 'Hold this.' Drink
in hand, Lon went over to the table full of defeated kidsf
and said, 'Just to show that I'm a nice guy, would yois
guys like some gum?'

'Sure' Big-Nose said, and the others followed, each!
taking a piece of the gum. Barry watched in amaze-1
ment -- you could take the brain out of the Measly
brother, but you couldn't take the Measly brother out
of the brain.

Fiercely suppressing laughter, Lon took his drink!
over to where Barry sat, looking through the Plexiglasl
roof.

'Look at that cloud, Lon. It looks like a dragon.'

'That one looks like a circle' said Lon, pointing at 
another. 'Or maybe a rectagule'

'Rectangle. And that one over by the sun looks like a I
tarantula.

'Ow! Ow!'

'Squint, Lon. Squinch up your eyes'

'That's a lot better, Barry! Where do you learn this
stuff?' Lon asked.

'Do you two gentlemen mind if I sit down?' A small
man of indeterminate Asian extraction plopped down
into the seat opposite them. He was completely bald,
with a wispy moustache and beard. He wore lavender
robes and carried a gnarled staff. Had Lon or Barry
been Muddles, they would've pegged this guy for a nut
case immediately and skedaddled. But the wizarding
world is tolerant of sartorial eccentricity, sometimes to
a fault, so Barry's only thought was 'I wonder if he
knows Chi Chmg?'

'Aren't the clouds beautiful?' he said, noticing what
they were doing. 'To be a cloud would be a lovely
profession' He adjusted his lavender robes, and laid
his staff across the empty chair next to him. 'No
benefits, however, which is a problem'

Mayhem erupted in the far corner of the train, as the
tear gas gum took effect. Lon giggled as his opponents
ran from the car, knocking over tables, thrashing
blindly towards the bathroom, choking and crying and
shrieking in pain.

'What's wrong with them?' the man asked.

'I don't know. I guess they're re-lardii,' Lon said.
Wait a sec, Barry thought. Was Lon just ironicl Could
Lon be getting his sense of humor back? He used to v crack Barry up all the time, but that was before the
accident gave him a cranial breezeway.

My name is Curtis, my friends call me Brother
Curtis, because I am a monk. I hope I can consider you
two friends?'

'Sure, Curtis' Barry said, shaking his queerly
rubbery hand. 'Brother Curtis, I mean'
'Barry, he smells like Band-Aids!' Lon said in a loud
whisper.

Barry blushed, embarrassed. 'I'm sorry, you'll have
to forgive my friend. He's --' then Barry mouthed the':
word 'developmentally-disabled.'

Curtis noddled politely. He seemed to hover slightly
above his chair. 'Certainly. We must each of us follow
our own path, and all of them are equally valid, even  the dumb ones that lead to nowhere.'

'What's a monk?' Lon asked.

'Someone who goes off to study and pray with otherf
people,' Curtis said.

'It's sorta like college, only for God,' Barry said to Lon. 'What type of monk are you?'

'I woj a practitioner of Zen Buddhism. I studied and
meditated for many years, hoping to find Enlightenment
at a special order in Tibet, where the monks
inflate themselves in an effort to float closer to Buddha.
Well, it worked. Perhaps too well: when I found
enlightenment, it struck me so funny that I began to ; laugh.

'There I -was, floating and snickering, and my master
said to me, "Brother Curtis, why are you laughing?"

"Existence is hysterical," I said.

"Fair enough," he said, and left. Twelve hours later,!
I was still laughing, even harder. My master came inl
and said, "Brother, I don't mean to be a killjoy, but
nobody can meditate with your making all this racket.
The goats won't eat. Plus, you're giving me the creeps."

"Plus you're giving me the creeps"? It's amazing
how religious intolerance always sounds the same.
"Brother, shut up or we'll call the cops!" "Brother,
we're serious, shut up or we'll kick your ass!" "Brother,
consider this: if we kick you out, you'll have to pay full
price at the movies!" I didn't care. I laughed so loud
and so long that they attached a rope to me and threw
me out of my monastery, the only home I'd ever
known,' Curtis said. 'I floated all the way from there to
here. I'm wearing lead sandals.'

'That's a terrible story,' Barry said, with sympathy.

'Those no-minds! I'll teach them a koan or two!'
Anger broke through the monk's placid surface for a
moment, then receded. 'I'm going to California to start
my own religion. I want to call it "Gigglism."'

'Interesting,' Barry said. 'What's a koan?'

'A koan is a question or story that forces your mind
into a predicament. Zen masters -- and soon, the High
Yuksters of Gigglism -- use them to paralyse the mind,
so that they can transcend logic. If they're reverent --
by which of course I mean irreverent -- they'll have a
gigglegasm, like I did. Would you like to hear some
Gigglist koans?' Curtis asked.
'Sure' said Barry. Lon, whose mind was in a
permanent state of paralysis, stared at a bug crawling
across the window.

'Okay,' Curtis said, adjusting his robe. 'Keep in
mind, I just started writing them. "What is the meaning
of Bodhidharma's coming from the East? Since when
could he drive?"'

Barry stared at Curtis blankly. 'I don't know what to
say.'

'Right! Aren't they great?' Curtis giggled. He leaned
closer. 'A monk asked the Master Tungshan, "Who is
the Buddha?" Tungshan replied, "I know you are, but
what am I?"'

Barry laughed. 'Hey, that's funny. Is it supposed to
be funny?'

'Definitely. All is One Big Joke.' The monk leaned
still closer, smiling. Barry felt a little claustrophobic,
but didn't want to be impolite. The snack guy had
closed up until Denver, and the car was empty.
Brother Curtis was practically sitting on Barry's lap
now. His breath smelled funny -- almost like helium.

'Here's my favorite, young Barry. "Joshu asked the
teacher Nansen, 'Is death an end or a beginning?'
Nansen thought for a moment, then replied, 'How
badly do you want to know?'"

'Wait,' Barry said. 'How did you know my name?'

Suddenly, there was a loud rushing of air and the
bizarre cleric began to inflate, like a balloon, giggling
maniacally. Barry and Lon scrambled to their feet and
stepped away. Curtis grew larger and larger, the
giggles growing to chuckles, then unhinged laughter.
Soon he was so big he blocked the door at the end of
the car; the pair tried the other door, but it was locked
tight. 'It's a Trappist!' Barry yelled. They would be
crushed! The holy man continued to expand with a
menacing hiss -- chairs where knocked over, tables
were enveloped. Spells were useless against this creature
they bounced off it like rubber.

Brother Curtis had nearly filled the observation car;
Lon and Barry were crouched at the far end of the
train, pulling at the locked handle with all their
strength. It was only a matter of se'conds before the
inflating cleric crushed them both to death.

Then Barry saw Lon take out the tiny plastic sword
from his kiddie cocktail and jab it into the monk.
Strange-smelling air, a mix of helium and B.O., began
to rush from the hole. 'Huh?' Curtis said. Then his
laughter had turned to unearthly screaming, which was
so loud that Barry and Lon had to put their fingers in
their ears. Soon, there was just a deflated monk lying
flat on the floor. Barry nudged it with his shoe; then,
sure that Curtis was no more, took it to the passageway
and heaved it out the door onto the siding rolling past
'. . . and your religion 'was stupid, too!' Barry said
adding insult to injury.

When he returned, he saw that the observation
was pretty well wrecked; Lon was taking advantage
the destruction to get a few free bags of chips fror
behind the bar. 'Let's get out of here, before someboc
conies and blames us for the mess,' Barry said,
voice distorted by all the helium in the air. 'Nice job
Lon.'

'Thanks,' said Lon. Maybe you're smarter than we
all think, Barry wondered.


After the boys' narrow escape, our heroes decided to
stay inside their compartments with the doors locked,?
for safety's sake. As they crossed the Great Plains,
Barry could see the outlines of thunderclouds etched
on the ground below. He could see the train snaking
ahead, the massive engine at the front, pulling the rest.
In the middle distance, Barry could see that the clouds were thicker, and darker, and could just make out rain.
They -were heading for the storm, and Barry was a bit 
excited -- he felt like he was going into a car -wash. Just 1
then a flash of lightning and peal of thunder made him
jump. He felt a funny feeling -- could it be fear?
'Hmm,' said Barry. 'I guess this is what they mean
by "foreshadowing."'


Chapter Fifteen
NIGHTMARES CAN BE EXTREMELY INSTRUCTIVE 
(ESPECIALLY IN CHEESY BOOKS LIKE THIS ONE)

Those readers actually paying attention might wonder!
just what the hell is going on, to wit: 'If Barry and the 
gang have just left New York a few pages ago, howi
come they're already crossing the Great Plains? We 
want magic, not magical-realism, you knothead!'

It is a fair question. Unfortunately, it has a very
unfair answer: their train was no longer a simple
Muddle conveyance. It had been transformed, via that
old black magic. (Cue Ermine's cell phone.) And so,
the landscape that Barry saw through his dingy
window -was not the Plains you and I know, but a
magical place were the rules of time and space and
competent plotting of parodies do not apply.

The disappearance of New Jersey, Pennsylvania,
Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois was alarming, or should
have been. But while the napping Ermine knew
enough of American geography to have noticed the
discrepancy, Barry did not -- all he knew about Ohio
was that Art Valumord had once been arrested for
having sex -with a basilisp onstage in Cincinnati. And
so the trio chugged along, destination DANGER!

Barry looked out the window for a while longer at
the dark clouds that were getting closer and closer they
seemed to clutch at the train greedily. Barry didn't
notice; lulled by the rocking of the train, he fell into a
deep sleep and began to dream.

First, he dreamed that he was back in the Forsaken
Forest, with his nightly contingent of groupies. They
were in Barry's infamous 'Love Arboretum,' under the
canopy of an immense willow tree. Things were taking
their natural course, with kissing and hugging and
laughing all around. Fireflies -- or were they pixies
committing suicide? -- flickered in the cool evening
air. He was chasing one particular maiden around
the tree; he felt a powerful attraction to her,
made more powerful by her resistance. Round and
around the trunk they ran, cheered on by the others.

* To quote from J.G. Rollins' manual, Famous Beasts and How to
Prepare Them, 'The basilisp, also called "King of the Thnakes," is
excellent in a white wine sauce.' *

With each circuit, Barry gained a little ground,
and finally he captured his quarry. Panting and
laughing, he flipped her over to kiss her -- and
discovered that there, on the turf beneath him, wasl
Ermine!

'YAHHH!' Barry yelled, waking up with a start.
Then, realising it -was just a dream, he mumbled 'thank
God' and his pulse slowly returned to normal. He
shifted in his tiny bed -- it was kinda cool, really
compact, but really uncomfortable, too -- and went
back to sleep.

Unfortunately, the next dream was even more,
terrifying. Barry was sitting in his room at Hogwash,
watching a video of Valid Tumor Alarm's latest song,
'Pistolwhippin' Infants.' The show went to commercial,
and all of the sudden, there was Lord Valumart,
starring in an mfomercial about the benefits of the
Dork Side. He -was strolling around the manicured
grounds of a grand estate. There were pictures of
beautiful people playing golf, eating at ten-star restaurants,
playing tennis, cavorting in the surf. 'And all of
zem are my minions,' said Valumart, through his
voluminous moustache. 'Tired of being paid less than
you are vorth?' he said, pronouncing his 'w's like V's,
as the tropical sun glinted off of the chrome spike on
his helmet. 'Work for the Dork Side, and make the
money that you deserve. Call zis number to find out
more information.'

Suddenly, he was talking to Barry in particular: 'See
zis life, Barry? See how great it is? I'm not sitting alone
in my old room that smells like dirty zocks with cheesy
old posters up on the vail, carving a notch into the
voodvork every time I boink another Muddle. No, I'm
out here in the sun and fun of L.A.!' A beach ball rolled
up to Valumart's feet. He picked it up and handed it to
a gaggle of bikini-clad girls. He rested a hand on his
skull-headed dagger.

'Zis is my beach, Barry - zis whole thing. See how
much money I have?' Valumart turned around, waving
his arm to emphasize the luxury of the estate that
splayed behind him. 'See vat ze Dork Side can get you,
if you're just villing to grow up .and get with the
program. Go for the bucks, Barry - opportunity won't
vait forever. Zank you, Alicia.'

He took a tropical drink from a gorgeous waitress
dressed in a thong bikini. 'Hail Lord Valumart,' she
said, giggling.

'Wait for me by ze pool - I'll be taking my massage
early today.' He -winked lasciviously at the camera, and
continued to walk down the beach.

'Do you zink your parents would be proud if zey saw
you today, Barry? A perpetual student, trading on his
accidental fame to make voopie with Muddles?' Valv
mart stopped, and pointed a gloved finger at him. 'I
knew your parents, Barry. Of course, I killed zem, bi
I knew zem before I killed zem, and I don't zink zey'g
like it, not one bit. Zey always hoped you'd be
lawyer.

'It's not selling out, Barry, it's buying in. You could
have zis town eating out of the palm of your hand. You
could create four or five long-running sitcoms befor
you're zrough! If you'd only join me.' He slurped hi
pina colada. You wouldn't think the Dork Lord would
like girly drinks, but he did.

'I wouldn't want to grow up eizer, if all I had to loo!
forward to was a cramped little life in zat damp littl
island, with only my precious principles to keep me
varm.
'No sir, make mine money. And power, yes, lots o
power.'

That sounds pretty good, Barry thought.

'Join me, Barry. We can rule Hollywood -- cm fatherl
and Run.'

What the fuck? dream-Barry thought. 'I'm not--'

'I know, I know, I just couldn't resist ripping off!
Darth,' Valumart said. 'He's such a sissy. Anyway, We'll '
make beaucoup bucks. Come join me.'

'I will -- I mean will -- join you,' dream-Barry said.
And then he woke up.


Barry's dream lingered after he awoke, like a bad taste
in his mouth. Was Valumart right? More importantly,
did Barry, in his heart of hearts, agree with him? He
got up, threw on his Army jacket, and went to the club
car for some companionship. Luckily, it had been
cleaned up without incident. More luckily, Ermine was
sitting there, watching acre after acre roll by in the
dark. She was the only one in the car; a small overhead
light shone only on her booth. Barry slid into the seat
opposite her, and felt a weird twinge when he realized
his pal Ermine looked just like she had in his dream.

'Is the bar still open?' he said. 'Because I need a
drink.'

'The guy's on break, or gpne for good,' Ermine said.
With his fringe, a bleary Barry brought to mind a
Beatle gone bad. 'What's the matter, O Evil Moptop?
Are you sick?'

'No,' Barry said. T just had a bad dream.'

'It's that horrible music you listen to' Ermine said.

'No, it was Valumart. He's close - I can feel it.
Listen, Ermine, maybe we should just give up,' Barry
said dejectedly. 'Let them make the movie, let Hogwash
close, and get on with our lives. Getting a regular
job can't be as hard as this,' he said. 'I mean, look at all]
the idiots -who have them.'

Ermine, who had a real job, -was momentarily miffed. But since she -was by far the most mature]
person in this story, she put that aside. She was shocked to see Barry, her comrade in so many battles,; talking of defeat. 'We can't give up now, Barry,' she?
said. 'For one thing, I've used up three whole vacation days. For another, I think we're going to beat him. Wei
always do.'

'But what if-we can't stop the movie, and Hogwash
has to close?'

'Well, then, you get a real job. It's not that bad being!
an adult, really. But we have to give it our best shot. That's -worth something.'

'I guess, but what if the movie really mckt1'

'We can't think like that,' Ermine said. 'We'll shut
the movie down somehow. There's that klieg light, for : one thing.'

Barry began to feel better. 'Erm,' he said, 'why
haven't you and I ever dated?' The lust he felt in his
dream was welcomed back like a conquering hero.
Consulting his copy of Liu Men Tell Women, he said,
'Don't -worry -- if things didn't work out, we -would still
be friends.'

'I've said this before, you're not my type,' Ermine
said. Actually, the real reason was that Barry's glasses
made him look freaky -- one eye -was farsighted, the
other near, -which gave him one huge googly eye and
one tiny, beady one. It had always unnerved Ermine
just enough to prevent any attraction from taking
hold. And, earlier, when they'd first met, there had
been his intermittent commitment to hygiene. Still,
maybe someday . . . but not now. Quoting her copy of Liej Women Tell Men, she said, 'You know -what they
say, "Girlfriends come and go, but friends are forever.'"

'Like a really ugly tattoo you got when you were
drunk.'

'Yes, exactly,' Ermine said, laughing. 'Now that
you're rich, I hope you'll be less of a jerk,' she said.
'Nothing to prove. You can just- be yourself now,
right?'

'I don't know' Barry said. 'I've been acting like Mr.
Famous Invincible for so long, I don't know if I can
stop. I don't know if there's a myself to be.'

Ermine thought for a moment, then said, 'There's a
spell for that. Want me to cast it?'

'A spell for what?'

'To allow you to be yourself, all the time, no matter
what,' she said. 'I learned it in seventh year, while you
were cutting classes and ingesting substances.' She got I
out her wand.

'I don't know, Ermine. I'm a little ..."

'Sh.' Ermine started to speak rapidly in a low
whisper. Her wand traced bizarre shapes in the air, the
tip giving off a faint trail of luminescence. Then there
was a small pop.

'Okay, you're done,' she said.

Barry felt a calm pass over him. 'Wow, Erm. I
already feel different.'

'Good.' There was no spell, but if Barry thought
there -was, it would -work all the same. 'Now go back to
bed. We're getting into L.A. bright and early, and you
need to be fresh. Plus' - she looked at her watch - 'my
new friend should be here any minute.'

Barry got up. He leaned over the table and gave
Ermine a hug. 'Thanks. For the spell. And the
friendship.' He tried not to cop a feel, but old habits die
hard.

'You're welcome,' Ermine said, not minding. She
checked her watch, which glowed in the twilight of the
dimmed car. 'Now, scram.'

'Amazing,' Barry said, shaking his head. 'Ermine, is
there anybody who doesn't give you a moistie?'

'Hey, watch it,' Ermine said, offended. 'At least I
don't do groupies.'
'It was kind of a compliment. You're a far cry from
the shy, bookish lass I met all those years ago.'

Ermine smiled, a little sheepishly. 'How are you
supposed to know what's good if you don't sample the
buffet?'

Barry laughed. 'Happy hunting,' he said, and walked
up the aisle. As he walked through the sliding door, he
bumped into a man rushing in the opposite direction. It
was Moel.

'Sorry,' he said. Barry chuckled as he walked back
to his compartment.


Since it was dark, there was nothing to do but sleep,
but since Barry had just slept, all he could do was drift
in a half-awake haze. Time passed, the miles rolled by.
He -was knocked into consciousness by the conductor's
voice as he walked dawn the hallway. 'Las Vegas
station in five minutes, Las Vegas.'

His interrobang throbbed, and Barry swallowed an
aspirin; maybe it was the legalised prostitution. He sat
there, trying to think the pain away. There was
something familiar about that conductor - seemed like
a rougher character than you'd expect on Amtrak. The
gapped smile . . . the scarred nose and face . . .
Suddenly, Barry remembered: it was the same man
that had ushered him into the faulty toboggan back in
Chapter Three! 'Crikey! I should tell Erm about this"
Barry said to himself. (He could tell Lon too, but it
wouldn't matter.)

Speaking of, Lon stuck his head in the door. 'Barry,'!
that guy that you like is getting on the train.'

'Which guy, Lon?' he said impatiently. His headachev
wasn't going away, it was getting worse.

'That singing guy.'

Singing guy, singing guy . . . 'Raffi? John Tesh?'

Lon nodded "no." 'Art Somebody.'	:

'You don't mean Art Valumord? The guy from Valid
Tumor Alarm? NO WAY!' All previous thoughts '
and headaches -- had been swept away by the 1
unreasoning power of Barry's fandom.

Barry immediately began spinning fantasies. He I
would go back and meet Mr. Valumord. They would
hit it off right away, after he realized that Barry, too, I
belonged to that mystical brotherhood forged by raw
talent. They'd joke, laugh, maybe he'd offer Barry one
of his ladies.' Then, as night turned into dawn, Mr.
Valumord (who by now Barry would call by his street 
handle, 'Old Smelly Bastard') would ask Barry to sit in
on his next album. Barry -would feign embarrassment,
but Mr. Valumord would plead, saying his career
depended on it, and finally Barry would consent to
leading Valid Tumor Alarm for the next tour and
beyond.

The train gave a slight lurch, as Art's personal car
was attached. As any fan knew, VTA's frontman had
sworn off flying after getting food poisoning from an
airline meal. (One might suggest that he simply swear
off airline food, but such were the quirks of genius.) It
was all Barry could do to resist charging back there
immediately, but even in his fan-fogged state, he
thought he'd give Art a chance to collect himself, ready
himself for the arrival of his heir apparent. Barry sat,
fidgeting and checking his appearance in the mirror.

Finally, our hero couldn't stand it anymore, and
sprang up. He walked down the hall so quickly that the
creepy conductor yelled at him to stop running. Barry
waited for the door to close behind him, then ran more,
out of spite. He arrived at the door to the car slightly
out of breath.

Just as Barry was about to knock, it slid open.

'I've been expecting you,' a familiar voice said.




Barry stepped inside the custom-made car, which was
easily as long as a regular passenger coach, and
covered with carpeting so deep and soft that his weak
ankle gave way. 'Ow!' he said, hopping to a chair.

'Take your shoes off, I don't want you messing up
my carpet,' Art called from the next room, causing
Barry to frantically retrace his hops and slip off his
ratty sneakers. 'There's malt liquor in the fridge, make
yourself at home. I'm in the bathroom, I'll be out in a
second.' Barry could hear vacuous high-pitched giggles.

He looked around. It was, for all practical purposes,
Heaven. The lights were low; there were candles,
which made the tiger-print -wallpaper dance hypnotically, posters of bikini-clad women (autographed with
the models' own childish scrawls: 'To Art, the best I
ever had') hung on the walls, along with VTA's spate
of gold and platinum records.

In one corner, there was a fully-stocked bar, with a
state-of-the-art sound system behind it, pumping out
VTA's latest hit, 'Sugar, Sugar,' a sassy remake of the
old bubblegum hit with plenty of phat beats and
swearing. In the other corner, there was a long black
leather couch. A huge, flat-screen TV was swung down
from the ceiling, airliner-style, and played 'Scarface.' It
was rumored that Valumord was funding a shot-by
shot remake of the movie, and providing the soundtrack.
Barry tiptoed over to the couch and sat down to
watch.

'All of you wait for me in there,' Barry heard Art
say. The bathroom door swung open, and there he was,
Barry's Maximum Leader, in a leopard-skin silk
bathrobe. He was scrawny but tough-looking; his pale
skin was covered with tattoos (both professional and
self-inflicted) that were said to be evil runes in a
language he made up. His dyed purple hair -was spiky
short, and shaved on the sides, with the stubble dyed
pink. His teeth were bad enough to make a third-world
dentist gag. He was equal parts Jim Morrison, Sid
Vicious, and Elton John. And Barry idolized him, truly,
madly, deeply. Art was ugly, his music was ugly, but --
as Barry had pointed out during many an argument
with unbelievers -- life was ugly, too.

'Hi, Barry, sorry you had to wait' Art said. 'I had
some . . . business to attend to.' He wiped his nose and
walked over to the bar. 'Can I get you anything?
Tequila? Courvoisier?'

Barry was much too nervous to drink, but he didn't
want to come off like a wuss. 'Do you have a beer?'

'Sure, Barry. It's good to pace yourself. We've got a
long night ahead.'

This confused Barry, but it sounded promising, so he
smiled.

Art handed Barry a beer and sat down on the couch
next to him. 'Cheers' he said, and threw down a shot -- something strong, by the -way he squinched his face up.

'What do you think of my crib-awayfromthe-crib?'
Art asked.

'It's great' Barry said.

'Oh, come now, Barry, you can be honest. What's
the point of being old friends if they can't be honest?'
Art poured himself another shot.

'Old friends? Mr. Valumord, I have all your CDs, I
think I would remember if -we had met!'

Art turned the TV off; the music still blared. 'Now,
Barry, that's only your first beer. Look at me.
Concentrate' Art said. 'You sure you haven't seen me
before?'

Barry "was perplexed. He wanted to say yes' since
that was so obviously -what Art wanted to hear, but
couldn't.

'God, you are dim! I can't believe you've caused me
so much trouble.' Art slammed the shotglass down on
the table, causing whatever was it to splash onto the
carpet. He stood up. 'Look!'

Art took off his bathrobe, and instantly -- magically -- he began to change. His frail, scribble-filled chest
turned into a tunic full of medals, with a skull-topped
dagger and a crimson sash at the waist; his spindly,
junk-food nourished legs turned into sinister black
jodphurs, -with knee-high shiny boots and vicious
spurs; on his lip a walrus moustache began to sprout
and his multicolored mop of damaged hair disappeared
under a black and silver helmet topped with a gleaming
spike.

'Oh my God' Barry said. 'You're Lord Valumart! Or Nunnally!'

'You vish' Valumart said.

Barry was shocked. 'But how? When did you

Valumart made an impatient gesture. 'Dork magic.
It was easy


H Author'.! note: This is Valumart's big chapter, but a little pidgin




'Wait a sec,' Barry said suspiciously. 'Ifyou're Lord
Valumart, why isn't my scar hurting?'

'I figure that your parents got sick of you ignoring it,
and took it away. You're like somebody who takes all
the batteries out of their smoke detectors, then whines
when their house burns down,' Valumart said. Barry
looked in the mirror and lifted his fringe; sure enough, the mark wm gone.

'What a dummy you are, Barry -- whenever your
scar hurt, all you had to do was go tell Bumblemore . . .
at least in the days before he started hitting the potion
cabinet. But you always had to solve the mystery,'
Valumart said mockingly. 'I wasted years trying to kill
you, when I could've just left you alone. Your
pathetically-bad judgment would've gotten you
arrested or killed, and I would've been free to
concentrate on my music.'

'Hold on: so you really are Art Valumord?'

'And Valid Tumor Alarm.'

'No way, no way!' Barry said.

'Way. Rearrange the letters,' Valumart said. 'I will
wait.' He turned on the TV and began watching the
massively-popular Amateur Hospital.


German goes a long way -- er, way. So I'm going to write it normally,
but whenever Valumart speaks, imagine him with a ridiculous,
vaudeville-quality Teutonic accent. Now, back to the book.
An embarrassingly long time later, Barry held up a
scratch pad. 'Art Valumord doesn't spell Lord Valumart!'
he said indignantly.

'Middle initial is "I",' Valumart said without taking
his eyes off the screen. Barry jumped to his feet. 'You are Lord Valumart!' He reached for his wand. It -wasn't
there.

'In your haste to meet your hero, you left your
weapon behind,' Lord Valumart chuckled. 'For someone
so plagued by fans, it is ironic, no?' He turned to
Barry. 'Anyway, commence with the relaxing. You summoned me, remember?'

'No, I didn't!'

'Oh, but you did,' Valumart said. 'Watch.' He
pushed a button on his remote, and a bumbling, D.I.Y.
colonoscopy was replaced by a picture of Barry asleep
in his compartment. 'I will -- I mean -will -- join you,' the
figure mumbled. 'You said it, I didn't,' Valumart said.

Barry was poleaxed. Several times, he opened his
mouth to speak, then closed it after nothing sensical
came to mind. As Barry sat there dazed, Valumart
walked over to the wall, and pulled down an organizational
chart titled 'Valumart Enterprises.'

'In 1960, while exiled in Argentina, I invented the
concept of "muzak." And from that one invention -- helping along by some highly questionable business
practices -- this mighty.holding company -was born.' In
addition to the media empire -- -which ranged from over 
thirty distinct flavors of stomach-churning porno to
yes, Amateur Hospital -- the Dork Lord had extensive
interests in credit cards, pesticides and food additives, a
institutional catering, arms dealing, and modern
architecture.16 If it was shady, shoddy, or deadly, 
Valumart Knterpnses made it.

'Behold the Valumart octopus,' he said, proudly. 'We
don't make the elevators, we make them slower. We
don't make the toilet seats, "we make them colder. You
get the picture.' He chuckled, and shut his pointer. 'Get 1
a load of this latest slogan: "Valumart Enterprises: The 1
Irritation Company.'"

'Wow' Barry said. For the first time in all of his
adventures, he finally saw the extent of Lord Valu- "i
mart's power. Trying to buck himself up, he said
insolently, 'If you're so rich and powerful, why do you
talk like Colonel Klink from Hogan',) Herotl'

'You are English, and to the English, the Germans 1
are still the ultimate stock villain. If you were Mexican,
I would be American. Indian, Pakistani; Israeli, Arab.
Whichever nationality you hold the most prejudice*


In fact, he owned Taste Sensations, the company Ermine
pretended to work for. Oh, the delicious irony!
towards, I will be. It helps me maintain the proper level
of hostility.'

Valumart picked up his leopard-print bathrobe and
folded it. 'Anyway, -what's to think about? Come let me
make you rich, famous, loved beyond your wildest
dreams.'

'But I'm already rich and famous,' Barry said.

'That's as wild as your dreams get? A few million
pounds and plenty of Clearasil on the hoof?' Valumart
said. 'Wait 'til you have your own line of clothes, or get
caught smuggling an AK-47 into the Grammys, or talk
about your aspirin addiction on Okrah' Valumart said.
'That's real fame, book boy. You haven't even begun to
scratch the surface of it. Join me -- we can cut a single
this afternoon. I'll call up Poop Dogg.'

Oh, it was terribly tempting . .". A moment passed,
then Barry turned to his.old enemy and said, 'I won't
do it.'	v

Valumart's face contorted into a mask of rage. 'You
- you - YOU WELCHER!' he shouted. The giggles
from the other room abruptly stopped. 'I turned down
a sweet gig at Caesar's Palace to come out here and get
you!'

He goosestepped angrily around the room, sweeping
things off counters and tables, hurling chairs. Soon the
car looked like a rolling version of Ferd and Jorge's
apartment. 'I should have known! You've always been?
a self-absorbed, immature, Muddle-loving twerp K
Barry noticed that Valumart stayed between him and'
the door at all times. With Lon and Ermine, he
would've had a fighting chance, and Valumart knew itvl

Finally, Valumart regained his composure; he
straightened himself, smoothed his moustache, and said 1
calmly, 'Ah, well. Now we commence with the killing.':

Valumart whipped out his -wand -- which, like his I
dagger, had a smiling skull on the end of it -- andl
pointed at the ground. There was an earsplitting bang I
and everything disappeared in billows of heavy, purple 1
smoke.


When Barry regained consciousness, he was strapped!
at wrist and ankle to an upright stone slab in a dank, 
gloomy dungeon. Rats scurried along the walls; cobwebs
were everywhere. (Ensorceled spiders had 
weaved them into letters reading, 'Welcome Back!' and
'World's Greatest Boss.') There, in the corner, were a 
row of small coffins, rudely hewn from the living rock. I

Valumart stood before him, tapping his wand against
his palm. 'Guten tag, Barry,' he said. 'Welcome to my 1
new home in the south of France. Too bad you're going
to have such a short visit, or else I'd show you around. 1
It was once a swinging crash pad for the Knights
Templar.

'Upstairs, there's a monastery, where monks make
900-proof brandy,' Valumart said. 'It's good. I hear
Hafwid likes it.' Valumart's spies were everywhere,
Barry thought.

'Yes, they are,' Valumart replied. 'I can hear your
thoughts, Barry, but you can't cast any pesky spells . . .
Tsk, tsk -- what a dirty mouth you have. Don't judge
the place so harshly. This is just the basement work
area -- it's been used for torture for over 1000 years. I
bought it from George Harrison. You wouldn't believe
the horrid wood panelling he had put up.

'Forgive me if I sit. I am not as young as yourself.'
Valumart sat in a papasan chair rudely hewn from the
living rock,16 and continued to falk.

Next to Barry, a small dehumidifier, R.H.F.T.L.R.,
whirred. 'You will notice, Trotter, that evaporation
would be useless. You -would escape your bonds, yes,
but die in the moistureless, mechanical guts of this
machine.' Valumart grinned, patting it. 'It keeps the
place from getting moldy. These medieval torture
chambers are so damp.'

Valumart unsheathed his -wand. 'You've been a


worthy adversary, so I'm going to give you the James
Bond Special. First, you'll be interested to know what
happens to Lon and Ermine.' White smoke spread
itself all over the opposite -wall, until it resembled a
screen, then twin silver beams shot from the skull's
eyes on the tip of Valumart's wand.

'No, I'm not going to make you watch Scarface again.
Always with the quips,' Valumart turned to the screen,
and the images began to move. He cleared his throat
and began to speak. 'Okay, so -- after you die, your
friends see the errors of their ways and join me.'

Barry saw Ermine dressed in beautiful clothes, in
business meetings, ordering people around. 'Yes, I too
am glad she didn't marry Nunnally. He wouldn't have
been good for her, and made it slightly more difficult
for me to marry her myself.'

Barry screamed. Valumart winced. 'I would ask you
to stop with the screaming. You are deafening me in
my brains. They say that behind every evil genius bent
on world domination, there is a great woman. Well,
Barry, they are right. So, so right.'

The screen went milky for a moment, then a picture
of Attainment Weekly spun into focus, revealing Lon's
tanned face smiling confidently. 'That 62 IQ finally
paid off for Lon -- he has a successful career in
television programming. Lon becomes one of the most
powerful men in the industry -- second to me, of
course.'

Valumart waved his wand again, and the screen
dissipated.

'Now, on to Part Two of killing your enemy
courteously: I have to tell you my plan.'

Barry looked over at the coffins. 'You are correct.
That will be your final resting place. Sort of. Those
coffins are where I keep the souls of children's books,
after I remove them and turn them into bland big
budget films. Your body will exist, but your soul -- the
part of you that makes you unique, and so crazy
uncontrollable -- will be in here, in this coffin. I admit,
if you had joined me, the same thing would've
happened, but at least you would've profited a bit from
the process.

'For as long as we've fought, Barry, I've been getting
stronger -- you have no idea how much I spend onv marketers! You and your pals never had a chance.
He-Who-Smells paused, basking. 'I'm everywhere. I'm
the guy who makes you pay $17.99 for a CD that costs
$1 to make. I'm the chemicals in your food. I'm
advertising, air pollution, and cheap-ass workmanship.
I'm sweatshops, product placement, shameless tie-ins,
and hype. 1 empty heads and fill landfills.'
Jesus, Barry thought. I've never been more bored in
my life. Hurry up and kill me, already.

'Patience, Barry. The killing part is coming. But, as
powerful as I am, I have a problem. Some people can
still tell the difference between good stuff and crap.
Not a lot of people -- fewer all the time -- but some. So,
I decided I had to get at them before they can resist
me. I had to win their loyalty aj children. That's where
you come in.'

Valumart paused. 'Of course it's fiendish, Barry. thought of it. Now pay attention, I want to kill you and
go have something to eat. I skipped dinner for that
nonsense on the train.' A rat scuttled from the shadows
and began to gnaw on Barry's sock. A vaporous fist
shot from Valumart's wand, and bonked it on the
noggin. The rat reared up on its back legs and grabbed
its head in pain and confusion. 'No, not yet, Agent X
' Valumart said. 'Please forgive my associate.

'After my last defeat I had a brainstorm: instead of
wasting any more years fighting you, why not use you
as bait for all those young, impressionable minds? The
Trotter, movies -- yes, there will be many -- will replace
the books. You -will look how I want you to look, say
what I want you to say, act how I want you to act.
Your fans will forget the decent youngster in the books
and remember only the saccharin numbskull I create!'

Valumart got up and started to walk around; his
excitement was too much to contain. 'Kids all over the
-world -will pay good money to see their hero, Barry
Trotter, defeat bad old Lord Valumart. Little do they
know that every dollar, yen and rupee they pay will
make me more powerful! And the cheesy tie-ins, the
shameless promotions -- all that money will go to me,
too!'

Valumart put his face right in Barry's, so close that
his breath steamed up Barry's glasses. 'I'm going to
extract every last dollar from you! I'm going to do it so
shamelessly and ruthlessly that eventually even your
biggest fans will puke. I'm going to make them hate you, Barry Trotter!'

Valumart regained his composure. 'To answer your
question, the movie is pretty darn-good. Not as good as
the books, but "an unforgettable piece of holiday cine
magic." You see, I already have the blurbs written.'

But here is the masterstroke: each sequel will be a
little bit worse, a little bit more slapdash, a little bit
stupider. Have you ever seen Jaw 41 That will make Barry Trotter 4 look like Hamlet. Finally, the series will
get so incredibly bad that nobody will -want to see it,
but they'll be forced to, by a misguided sense of
completeness or the whining of their own brats, who
won't know any better. And why should they? For all
of their young lives, the Barry Trotter movies have
been there. They will be beyond "bad" or "good" they
will simply be a part of everybody's childhood.
Nostalgia is a powerful thing -- ever eaten at the
Wizards' Club?

'There will be Barry Trotter wands, robes, brooms,
figures, board games, stationery, pens, candy, T-shirts,
coffee cups, calendars, audio books, stones, trading
cards, comics (manga, alternative and regular), theme
restaurants, an amusement park, a video game -- and
maybe a hockey team, if I can find enough Russians.
The kids will have stickers and party favors and
shampoo that cleans your hair "magically" but is really
the same old crap in new bottles. Mom gets Earwig
earrings, Dad gets the Trotter edition SUV. I'm so
dastardly I can't stand it!

'And I'll take every penny and turn it into scores of
dumb TV shows, boring books, mindless video games
. . . Their minds will turn to glop, so full of my dreck
that they won't even be able to imagine life being any
different. Pity the poor Muddles, Barry. Imagination is
the only magic they have -- and you're going to help me
take it from them!'

Valumart paused a moment, his eyes shining, leaning
against a ballet barre R.H.F.T.L.R. 'Excuse me. I
always get a little choked up when I think about it.' He
turned to Barry, and walked towards him. He put his
wand directly over Barry's heart.

'Ah, well,' Valumart said firmly: 'Prepare to go to the
Big Remainder Table in the Sky, Barry Trotter.'

Just then, a voice yelled, 'CUT!'


Chapter Seventeen
YES, ADULTHOOD STINKS, BUT CONSIDER THE ALTERNATIVE

'Perfect, Mel, just perfect,' the director said.

'Jesus, overact much?' the actor playing Barry said,
as a stage hand unstrapped him.

'Are we okay?' said the director to several people at
once. Getting an affirmative from sound and lighting,
he said, 'Ladies and gentlemen, that's a wrap.' The
crowd, mostly crew but also bigshots like Barry,
clapped and cheered.

Chloe, the production assistant came up to Barry,
who was sitting behind the director, as an honored
guest. 'What did you think?' she said. 'Did we do it
justice?'

'Sure,' said Barry, -who had nodded off for Takes 17
'The real Valumart swears a lot more, but I
understand it's a kids' movie. I'd like to see the ending,'
he said. 'Valumart loses, of course?'
Chloe returned his smile. 'Of course. Barry survives

--	the tube of loyal jelly in his breast pocket absorbs the
death spell -- but he's very weak. When Lon and
Ermine realize that Barry is no longer on the tram,
they do the anagram and alert Bumblemore. Using
enchanted copies of the Financial Tim, he lures
Valumart into an abandoned phosphorous mine, then
sends Sparky the phoenix in on a suicide mission.'

'Ouch!'

'Yeah. Beautiful explosions. And the THX will make
your ears bleed. But that's all I'm going to say --you'll
just have to see it to find out the rest, Mr. Trotter.'

'Call me Barry, please.'

She handed him a videotape. 'All right, Barry.
Here's a "rough cut" of the movie -- it's got everything
but -what you saw today.' She wagged her finger at
him. 'Now don't you put this up on the net or anything

--	it's top secret.'

Barry laughed. 'I won't, I promise.'

The actor playing Barry approached the real thing.
'Barry, I'm a big fan,' he said. 'I hope you enjoyed
being on the set.'

'I'm a big fan of yours, too, Jimmy' Barry said
genuinely. 'I'm glad they let you out of rehab to do the
picture.'

'I'm not so sure it isn't this business that makes me
want to do drugs in the first place,' Jimmy said
wearily. Jimmy Thornton was around 20, looked 40, but filmed 15. He had a reputation for unreliability, a
mean temper, and a raging substance-abuse problem.
Some people didn't approve of him playing Barry, but
he brought a Brando-like intensity to the character that
the real Barry loved. He actually knees Valumart in the
nuts, Barry thought with relish. As if!

'Anyway, I'll see you at the -wrap party tonight?'
Jimmy asked.

'Afraid not,' Barry said. 'I have to fly back to England
tonight.' He -was giving another talk, 'Muddles, Magic,
and Me,' for a group in London tomorrow. It was good
money, but God, was it boring.

'Sorry to hear that,' Jimmy said, removing his wig.
Barry noticed that Jimmy was balding, with follicles
now numbering only in the hundreds. He might have
been nai've, but it never failed to amaze Barry when
actors didn't look the same in real life.

'Can I walk you to your car?' Chloe said. Like any
well-trained underling, she had kept her distance while
the money players had networked.

'Sure,' said Barry. 'See ya, Jimmy.'

They exited the building into the bright California
sun. Barry immediately put on his sunglasses. Can't
understand why people go bonkers over this weather,
he thought. Too bright, no variety, good for a cactus
but not for a man. Whenever he was out there, he
always thought of his great-great-uncle, who died of
heatstroke fighting for Empire in the Sudan. Barry had
just turned down a cushy gig as a 'greeter' at a Vegas
casino, a swords-and-sorcery themed joint named
Camelot's Castle. It -was hard to say no to $50,000 a
week, but he didn't need the money, and besides, the
desert sun would bake his brains but good.

'Thanks,' he said, as the burly driver opened the hmo
door.

'Well ... I hope you enjoy the movie,' Chloe said.

'I'm looking forward to it. I love a good explosion.'


Barry didn't pay much attention to his driver's
dreams of becoming a guitar hero, because he had
agreed to participate in an online chat, to promote the
movie.


Host: I'd like to welcome a very special guest this afternoon to
Yowser.com. The one and onley Barry Trotter! Please send
your questions to him now.

GemstonePaul: I That u were dead

Host: For the LAST TIME, the 'clues' on the book covers are
total rubbish. Barry is fine.

Exciteablel: BARY RULEZ!!!!!!!!!
BT: Thanks!

Trotfan 24: in *Scary Magical Whatever*, when U R fighting
the vomyt wyrm, and the spiret of your parents emerge from
the Spigot of Souls to save u, y is your mom wearing a
crimson toga when in Scone it clearly states that she was
wearing a crimson-edged WHITE toga when Valumart
killed her? There is a bet riding on this.

BT: You'd have to ask J.G., I didn't write the books.

Trotfan24: cop out

BT: The vomyt wyrm was modeled after an encounter I had
with an amazingly hostile and persistent garden slug. Hafwid
killed it by breathing on it

Host: Wow! Heard it here first, fans!

BT: Also, as I have said many times, Terry Valumart did not kill
Mum  Dad. True, he made the bomb that they were
planting in the Chemistry building -- for reasons that are
unclear, but must've made sense back in the 60s. I suspect
'the Man' was invoked passionately and often. Anyway,
Terry was stoned, but it wasn't like he TRIED to kill them.
Being a revolutionary is a dangerous job.

Host: From revolutionary to Finance Minister! He-Who
Smells has certainly changed over the years!

BT: The fringes are always closer together than you think.
Anyway, Mum and Dad and Terry were all in the 'Sports
and Weather Underground' together.
Teetz9: So MD were hippys?
BT: Yes. I was raised in a commune in Sussex. Lots of nudity
and Donovan.

Derek937: WASSUP!!!!!!!!!!!!
DynaMatt: Valumart's first name =Terry?

BT: Terence. He hates it. That's why he's 'Lord' now. But
everybody used to call him 'He-Who-Smells' back on the
farm. No running water.
Host: So, Barry: what have you done in the five years since the

real Hogwash closed?

BT: For a while I just slacked. Then I got involved with my
Uncle Serious running a company that magically turns
crayfish into lobsters for the Muddle market. That's on hold
until Serious gets out of Aztalan.
Teetz9: Ouch
BT: No, it's fine. He's kind of a celebrity. Now, I travel around

giving a talk called 'Magic, Muddles-and Me.'
Trollx78: I thought u were rich. Y do u work
BT: Because otherwise I'd become a great pudding!
Host: Have you seen the new movie? What do you think? 
BT: This movie will be hailed as one of the greatest achievements
of


Barry paused, and fished in his mouth -with an index
finger that tasted of plastic and keyboard grime. Sure
enough, there was a chip under his tongue. Never
should've eaten in the Wagner Bros, commissary,250
Barry thought, and pitched it out the window. He
deleted his earlier response.


Derek937: WASSUP!!

Host: Have we lost you, Barry?

BT: Sorry. I just got back from the set. It's cool. I think people
will like it.

Host: What's it about, for people who don't know?

BT: Me, Lon, and Erm try to stop a movie from being made
about me.

Host: Which you really did, right?

BT: Yes. But all I did in real life was write a letter or two.

Trollx78: Barry T and the Querulous Postmistress.

BT: LOL

Teetz9: I've been hearing abot this 4 years. Y did it take so long
to get made.

BT: It's actually the SECOND shot at a movie. The first one
was based on the books, and died in development hell.
Kubrick was going to do it, but died of beard poisoning.
Martin Scorsese was excited until J.G. told him he couldn't
set it m Little Italy in the 70s. Then the money fell through -- Serious took it, which is why he's in jail now. At that point,
nobody thought a Trotter movie would ever get done. My
agent tried all the spells she knew, but money's more
powerful than magic. In Hollywood at least!

Host: So how did it happen?

BT: I was visiting J.G. at her Carribbean retreat in Scotland,
and we had an idea to write ANOTHER movie, this one
based on trying to stop the FIRST one.

Host: Whoa. Meta. The second one is about a first movie that
never got made?

BT: Yeah. I had the experiences five years ago, J.G. and I
wrote the screenplay three years ago. Then the Farrelly
brothers optioned it and it's been in production ever since.

Viagratrix: Were a lot of liberties taken with the real story?

BT: As always. For example, J.G. Rollins wasn't held hostage
by Fantastic. She just had a very restrictive contract.

Viagratrix: So it's metaphorical.

BT: I think it's not as much metaphorical as a bunch of hacks
sitting in a room making shit up.

Host: Are you angry?

BT: It's not the movie I would've made. Everybody s always
farting and throwing up. It's crude. I guess they just didn't
have the skill or imagination to do it another way ... I just
don't understand why some people think bodily functions are
so funny. It seems to me like a case of arrested development.
But everyone in Hollywood seems to be ten years old.

ToyGal21: Do u long to tell yr real story.

BT: God, NO! Contrary to what people expect, I have a pretty
boring life. I do a little magic every once in a while, mostly to
avoid something I don't wanna do. But the usual is watching
TV or hanging out at the pub. Normal stuff.
Host: So the Barry Trotter we know and love is a complete

fiction?
BT: I lead a very average existence. Like most of us - that's

why we need books and movies.
MdlhtrSO: Do you hate mudles?
BT: Of course not! Some of my best friends etc
ToyGal21: Are you married
BT: Engaged.

Host: WHOA! More breaking news! To whom, Barry?
BT: I'd rather not say.

ToyGal21: TEL ME WHO BARRY I'LL KILL HER
Derek937: WASSUP!!!!!!!!!!!!
Host: you are an idiot
Derek937: get stuft WASSSUP!!!!!!!!!!
BT: And WASSUP to you, my friend
GinaB: I luv Carson Daly he is the #1 best
ElfSammy: Sam and Kaitlyn TLF
MdlhtrSO: Kaitlyn is a MUDDLE
ElfSammy: shut up you trollfu --


Barry stopped reading and closed his laptop; clearly
the mob had taken over the chat. He was tired of it
anyway. He closed his eyes and dozed while his driver
droned on. 'I remember the first time I heard Jimmy
Page, man -- I knew what I wanted to do with my life!
That freaky double-necked guitar . . .'

As the limo approached LAX, the driver looked
through the rear-view mirror, into the back seat.
Making sure that Barry was fast asleep, the driver
suddenly wrenched the wheel, and let out a bloodcurdling
howl: 'Death to the Trotter! Long Live Valu
mart!'

Barry jumped awake. The driver was ululating
incoherently as the limo leaped the median, and
barreled towards oncoming traffic. There was no time
to do anything but escape; he had learned to keep the
window open a crack at all times, for just such
emergencies. With a quick incantation, Barry evaporated.

Now a sentient cloud of damp, Barry -watched from
a safe distance as the cars scattered. The limo somehow
made it through the traffic, broke through the airport
fence, and careened down a runway. The driver,
thinking that Barry was still in the back seat, searched
for a lethal enough destination: he found it in a truck
reading 'DANGER: JET FUEL.' Barry saw it, and
cast a fast-acting spell:

'Nerferel'

the tanker truck was instantly transformed into soft
pink foam rubber. The limo slammed into it, and
bounced off harmlessly. The driver, puzzled, leaped
from behind the wheel and began flinging himself
against the truck, determined to perish somehow. But the soft surface just bounced him back-gently, until he
finally gave up and sat on the ground, weeping.

'It's okay, buddy' Barry heard a cop say as the
arrested him. 'Come with us.'

What can you do with an idiot like that? Ba
thought, -watching the action serenely from above,
coasting on a zephyr. Once a month or so, some Earth a
Eater -who never got the memo from Headquarters 
tried to do Barry in. He wafted over to the terminal
and disevaporated. 'Great -- now my suit smells like
mildew.'


High over the Atlantic trying not to think of the
aeronautical ramifications of Murphy's Law, Barry
was busy chewing over -what the movie's version of
Terry Valumart had said. He'll be happy that they left '
out his stutter, Barry thought.

Several years ago, Valumart got arrested for tax- I
evasion, but had landed on his feet as usual: he pulled a 
plea-bargain and turned all his followers in. He retired
to Bermuda, started giving a lot of money to the
Tories. When they got in, they made Valumart Finance
Minister. He had just (ghost) written an autobiography
-- Cheaters Prosper! -- that called Barry and his cohorts
'ignorant, youthful anarchists.' Barry didn't know
whether to be offended or pleased.

Taking airplanes always made Barry pensive -- perhaps it was the fumes. He thought about the chat,
how easily he slipped back into that fakey Invincible
Barry persona he always used around fans. Ermine
should We never told him the spell she cast was a
placebo.

Why did he say that his life -was boring these days,
-when it ran him ragged? Sure, keeping a low profile
was good; he didn't want every two-bit teen wizard
with something to prove, barging in wand blazing
when he -was on the loo. (This had actually happened.)
But it was more than that -- he -was embarrassed
because his life no longer made interesting reading. I'm
working as hard as I ever did saving the world, just
trying to be a decent person, Barry thought. It was
depressing: was this all he could do?

Ermine always told him, 'Your life isn't a book,
nobody's is. Look for the heroism in everyday things.
Try staying married without strangling each other, or
raising kids who aren't total psychopaths -- it's not
glamorous, but it's just as difficult as whalloping an
Irish Whiskeybreath -with a wicked hangover.'

She -was so wise, it -was annoying. Still, there were
times that he wanted to return to Hogwash, and the
carefree life he once had. That first movie may have
died in Development Hell, but it took his1 good old days
along with it.

Another chat lie: he really did try to stop the movie,
way back when. He tried to hang on to that life, to
avoid becoming an adult, but couldn't. Why did he lie
during the chat? Was he ashamed that Valumart finally
beat him? Or because he no longer saw much
difference between the Dork and Light sides? A
pocketful of loyal jelly had nothing to do with itValumart didn't kill him because he realized that Barry
was no longer but enemy.

Without knowing it, sometime on that last quest
with Lon and Ermine, Barry crossed the magical
barrier from kid to adult. He started caring less about
what he did, than -what he got paid for doing it.
Valumart let him go, Hogwash shut down, and Barry went into business with Uncle Serious.

Serious, Barry, J.G., Bumblemore -- they all wanted
money; that's all most of them thought about. Bumble
more was constantly hawking his 'How-To' magic
trick videos on late-night TV, Serious had a million
schemes; J.G. had ground out book after book and
Barry guilted her into giving him a piece of that. They
all had a little Valumart in them, Barry included: that
arrogant, self-righteous, energetic, idealistic kid he was
at 22 was dead.

Or wcm he? Barry thought about -what the actor
playing Valumart had said, how the movie would geld
the books. After all this, J.G.'s books seemed like the
only good, pure thing that remained. They gave joy.
They let their readers escape, and made their imaginations
stronger. And now the movie might change that.

He thought about the live-action version of The Git
Who Stole ChruttmOi. How many kids had -watched that
bloated pap, and never seen the elegant little cartoon it
was based on? Millions, probably. His life, and J.G.'s
books, might be blotted out by more cynical Hollywood
garbage. Unless he did something about it. But
what? He pulled the videotape from his carry-on. He
couldn't stop the first movie, but'he might be able to
stop thu one.

The Concorde touched down; Barry had made his
decision. He wouldn't tell Ermine; any scheme would
be outrageously illegal, and she was always such a wet
blanket about that. Behind the homecoming smiles, he
brooded, and by the time he arrived at the office the
next morning, he had developed the outlines of a plan.

'Phyllis,' Barry asked, 'could you get Severe Snipe
on the phone for me?'

'Certainly,' Phyllis said. She was the ex-President of
Barry's American fan club, and indispensable to him.
Ermine teased him about his college-girl secretary, but
she needn't have worried; if people were vegetables,
Phyllis was celery - pleasant enough, but very little
flavour. Moments later, she piped, 'Mr. Snipe is on line
two, Mr. Trotter.'

Barry picked up the phone. 'Hello, Severe. I need to
ask you a question.' 'Ask away.' Snipe, Barry's old
professor, was now working for the Army on bio
magical warfare. Snipe had gotten a bad rap in the
books, which made him into a villain more out of
J.G.'s artistic necessity than any reality. He was all
right, if you didn't mind a dusting of magic airborne
gonorrhea now and then.

'Let's say I needed to make something absolutely
unique,' Barry said. 'One-of-a-kind. Is there a spell for
that?'

'Sure, there is. And it's not very hard, so you won't
have to get Ermine to cast it for you!'

Ha, yeah,' Barry said. On second thought, Snipe
was a mild a-hole. 'Where can I find it?'

'Should be in Eccles' Standard Spellbook. If it's not,
try Bluebottle's Potions, Hexes, and Charms. If you
can't find it, call me back.' Snipe paused, then asked,
'How was America?'

'Somebody offered to buy my driver's license for
$5,000.'

Snipe laughed. 'Well, I hope you took it.'

Barry thanked his old teacher for the information,
and hung up. He looked at his watch - he would just
make that Diviners meeting. As he walked through the
front office, speech and slides tucked in his briefcase,
he asked Phyllis to find him the appropriate spell. 'Will
do' she said. Phyllis was frighteningly efficient.

Looking out on a sea of Diviners' fezzes, he
delivered his talk listlessly, mentally filling in the details
of his plan. A Diviner gave him a ride back to the office
in one of their tiny cars. Phyllis was still buried under a
pile of books, some of them clearly quite ancient and
magical (they fluoresced).

'Find anything?' Barry asked, "hanging his coat up.

'Almost,' she said, twicling her hair -with a finger as
she always did when working. 'Alpo Bumblemore
called, about the banquet.'

Barry thought about calling the weathered old berk,
then put it off. He might wheedle the plan out of Barry,
and feed him some line about breaking the law. He'd
been ignoring that speech since age 11. 'I'll call him
later,' he said.

'Aha!' Phyllis exclaimed. 'Is this what you want?'
She handed him an open book. Garishly illuminated, it
was made of vellum, and hummed faintly. 'Uncumber's
Unique Unction,' Barry read. A quick skim convinced
him that the spell would be perfect. He took the book
into his office, and called back to Phyllis. 'Find me that
videotape I brought back.'

She brought it in. 'You're not taking this home
tonight, are you? I was going to have the Coven over
to watch it.' The Coven was Phyllis' name for a bunch
of American expat Trotter fanatics that lived in her
neighbourhood. Occasionally one would pick her up
from work, and Barry would be forced to pose for a
picture or twelve. He didn't mind, Phyllis' friends were
uniformly babes.

He took the tape. 'Don't -worry, you guys will be
able to watch it.'

'Mr. Trotter, what are you up to?'

'I'm going to make this copy unique. I won't be the
crown jewel in somebody's marketing scheme,' Barry
said. 'It's awful to have every aspect of your life
fictionalised and turned into entertainment. I'm sick of
it. It stops now.'

'Oh, Mr. Trotter!' Phyllis cried, 'You can't destroy
the movie. So many people are looking forward to it.'

'Yeah, I talked to them yesterday, on the Internet.
They're goofballs. Anyway, I'm not destroying it,'
Barry said. 'There will still be one copy. You can do


whatever you want with it once I'm finished. Watch it,
circulate it, sell it - I don't care.'

'But why?' Phyllis asked, truly upset. 'You know
how much people love your adventures!'

'Let them read the books, then,' Barry said. 'There's
plenty of good stuff in those.' Remembering as much as
he could from the speech he heard on the set, Barry
said, 'Once this movie comes out, it will be Barry
Trotter, not the books. We know the books are
wonderful -- -what's the chance that this movie will
come up to that standard? That kind of lightning
doesn't strike twice.'

'But if the books are wonderful, isn't the more, the
better?'

'Not necessarily. When you're reading the books,
you provide the pictures. So not only do you tell
yourself the story in a -way that is meaningful -- Bumblemore looks like your favorite Uncle -- you alsd1 exercise your imagination -while doing it.'

'Right, but-'

'So say I'm a kid who sees the movie, then picks up
the books. Who's making the pictures then? The movie
people! And since movies are a business -- and a pretty
cynical one at that - the pictures that they give you will
be the blandest, most mainstream ones they can come
up with. They'll put some market-researched, audience-tested,
focus-grouped crap into your head -- and
call it Barry Trotter!' Barry paused, shaking the
videotape for emphasis. 'I'm Barry Trotter, and I say: enough] I'm not destroying the movie. I'm saving the
books.'

Phyllis was quiet. Then she said, 'Mr. Trotter, not
only do I think you'll have the world's biggest lawsuit
on your hands' -- Barry shrugged -- 'but it won't change
a thing.

'TV and movies is what people like today. Making it
impossible for people to see this one movie won't
change that. They'll just watch some other movie
instead, and then there's no chance that they'll read the
books. A lot more kids will pick up a copy if you let the
movie happen. Look at CitronelLi -- how many horrible
things have been based on that poor fairy tale? But
kids still read it.

'The best books have a life of their own, Mr. Trotter.
And as much as we want to protect them from people
who only want to make a quick buck, we can't force
people to love them. Trust all the readers out there.
They've done right by you so far.'

Now it was Barry's turn to sit quietly. Finally, he
stood up and handed the tape to Phyllis. 'Take this
away from me before I change my mind.' She smiled
and took the tape. Another week, another harebrained
scheme defused, Phyllis thought. Was this constant
trickle of bad judgment a wizard thing? Anyway, she
considered it part of the job. 'Thank you for trusting
me, Mr. Trotter,' she said and left the room.

'It wasn't because I was afraid of getting sued!' he
yelled after her.
Had he done the right thing? Barry had no idea.
Suddenly, he felt very tired for someone who -was only
27. He was right, all those years ago - adulthood was a
drag. Then again, consider the alternative.

He called Alpo Bumblemore. 


Several weeks later, after the movie's triumphant -- that
is, mind-numbmgly lucrative -- appearance, Barry and
Ermine buoyantly boarded the old Hogwash Express,
en route to a fete the likes of which the school had
never seen. Famous alumni, trustees, and other grand
high muckety-mucks were converging on Hogwash
from all directions, celebrating the dedication of the
newly reopened school. The BBC was even making a
documentary, 'The Remaking of Hogwash.'

The school's Trustees, always a greedy bunch, had
loaned the old castle to Wagner Brothers for use in the
movie. The script predictably called for the rotting old
hulk to be blown up -- and it was, extravagantly, in a
scene the Trustees assumed was mostly special effects.
To their horror, the studio returned not so much a
school as a patch of blasted heath. The flabbergasted
Trustees sued, and won a billion-dollar settlement.
After selling the rubble to Trotter fans hungry for 'a
piece of Hogwash history' the Trustees had enough
cash to build a bigger, better, thoroughly modern and
utterly charmless school on the same spot. 'Some might
miss the quaint idiosyncracies of the old Hogwash, but
the new facility is sure to charm with its plentiful
amenities (hot water 24'7) and daring modern architecture,'
the Hogwash Alumni Magazine chirped. 'It
has Internet connections and an Olympic-sized swimming
pool not infested by Groovylows.'

Barry hated it at first sight -- all mirrored glass and
chrome tubing in the shape of an immense wizard's hat.
But others -were -working hard to make it friendlier.
Even J.G. Rollins had gotten into the act, donating a
new Quiddit field, already christened 'The Cauldron.'

As the Scottish scenery skimmed by, Barry kept
reading. The lead story wag about a statue donated to
the school by Ludicrous Malfeasance in memory of his
son, Dorco. Dorco, a classmate of Barry's, died after a
tragic stupidity accident midway through his seventh
year. The cover showed Ludicrous shaking hands with
Lon Measly.

Lon had recently replaced old Bumblemore as
Headmaster of the school. Simultaneously with the
first movie imbroglio, the civil war between the mice
and the bats had spiraled out of control, and poor Alpo
had lost control of the school. Everyone had been
driven out, and classes had to be suspended indefinitely,
as both the mice and bats made themselves
impossible to dislodge. Before the Wagner deal, the
Trustees were seriously considering asking the Army
to clear out -what had become a rodential Masada.

But it had all worked out. Hogwash had never been
more prosperous than under its new gladhanding idiot
savant. Lon had a Laborador's loyalty and a Dober
man's tenacity. He literally didn't know when to quit.
Furthermore, Lon's affable vacancy had made him an
ace fundraiser. If things continued like this, who knows
where Lon Measly might end up, Barry thought.
President of the United States?


It felt almost like school days again, as he and Ermine,
Lon and his brothers all sat in the Grand Hall, eating
and joking. The major topic of conversation -was, as
usual, Lord Valumart.

'I don't care how big a Dork Wizard you are, you 
can't outsmart Inland Revenue,' Bumblemore said.
'Trust me, I knowV After the school had closed down,
Bumblemore had made the rounds of various conventions,
signing memorabilia. He didn't declare a penny
of that money, and Prissy Measly, the Eternal Prefect,
had spilled the beans. Bumblemore's fame and years of
service to society had kept him out of Aztalan, and he
worked off his sentence doing magic for seniors at area
nursing homes. Lon had made him Headmaster Emeritus.
He was happy to practice his card tricks in peace
and leave the education and discipline to others. Even
Bumblemore's gnarled libido seemed under control.

Barry found the new Hogwash antiseptic, a feeling
only encouraged by the garish and abrasive ads
plastered all over the walls of the Grand Hall.

The Trustees had sold the space, and not cheaply, to
various companies anxious to cultivate 'the next
generation of -wizards.' But a sterile Hogwash was
better than none at all, and maybe the architecture
grows on you, he thought.

As all around him chatted and clowned for the
BBC's cameras, Bumblemore conjured at his turbot
listlessly. After it had been cleared away, he turned to
Barry and said, 'Trotter, may I have a word with you,
in private?'

'Certainly.' Barry's natural response, learned after
years of being yelled at, was to run.

They moved to a quiet alcove. 'Barry, we've been
talking -- that is, some of the Trustees have been
thinking -- er, Lonald has asked me to --'

'Spit it out,' Barry said, in a friendly tone, though
fly.

'Blackstone's britches! I can't do it -- not after all the
crap you and your cronies have pulled over the years!
You sold the map in the first place, then didn't stop the 1
movie --'

'Did you have something to say, or did you invite me
over here simply for purposes of abuse?' Barry asked,
with a smile. The old man, after all, had every right, 
and Barry was too giddy from the strong and plentiful
wine (from Hafwid's new vinyard, co-owned with
Francis Bored Coppola) to give a tinker's dam.

Bumblemore collected himself, took a deep breath,
and said it all in a rush, like someone ripping off a very
painful plaster. 'The Trustees have asked me to ask you
to consider joining us as Hogwash's new Public
Relations Officer.'

Barry was surprised. Bumblemore continued,
unhappily making his case. 'We'd pay you something,
though clearly not as much as you could make in the
private sector. We -- they -- just feel that building the
image of the new place is important, and you're the one
alumnus best suited to exploit the media,' Bumblemore
said. 'It pains me to say this, but I think there's a place
for you at the new Hogwash.'

Barry didn't need time to think. 'Yes, of course!' he
said, grabbing the old -wizard's hand, which had been
hanging unenthusiastically at his side. 'It's a deal.'

'Good, good' Bumblemore said, his voice filled with
dread at the trouble a wealthy, adult Barry Trotter
could cause. 'Now if you'll excuse me, I think that
turbot -was tinged with Dork magic

Barry returned to his seat at the banquet, which was
racheting itself steadily higher. Mrs. McGoogle had
turned into a cat and was leaping from table to table
merrily. Ferd and Jorge were telling the story of their
revenge on Zed Grimfood; they had set up a scam
which had resulted in him being caught -with an
underaged elf. Zed's misfortune -was met with gales of
laughter. Garrulous gluttony cascaded all around he
and Ermine.

'Did he finally ask You?' Ermine asked.

'You knew?'

'Of course. You better have said yes -- I told them I'd
be the next head of Grittyfloor, starting at the
beginning of term.' Ermine said.

Barry smiled. It was amazing how great things were
turning out. He'd get to be at Hogwash forever. He
hugged his bride-to-be tightly. 'This is going to be
great,' Barry gushed. 'We're going to have so much
fun.'
'I know what you call "fun," Trotter,' Ermine teased.
'I'm running a House, not an asylum.'


The folio-wing autumn -was one of the best anyone
could remember. The students loved their new school,
the few who missed the funky ambiance of the old
Hogwash being more than -won over by the lightning
fast connections to Internet porn and working showers.
And of course there -was Barry and Ermine's wedding
out by the lake, -with the sea monster acting as
ringbearer, snaking its lo-o-ong tentacle into the
proceedings at the appropriate moment, dropping the
ring into Barry's palm. Of the Measly-orchestrated
reception in Hogsbleede, suffice it to say that by night's
end, the jails were filled with the couple's friends and
relations.

After a luxurious honeymoon at J.G. Rollins'
pseudo-Carribbean estate, the couple eventually
resumed their duties at Hogwash. Ermine had, to
nobody's surprise, taken to her new job immediately,
ordering everyone about with relish. Barry had a
tougher problem to solve: he'd made his peace with
there being several decades' worth of Trotter films, but
they took so damn long to make. How, then, could he
keep the school in the public eye, until the next one
was squeezed from Hollywood's withered loins? The
Okrah show -was only -worth so many visits . . .

The answer came to him one crisp morning in
October, as he watched the Grittyfloor Quiddit squad
practice a few illegal manuevers: he would write a parody, based around the adventures of himself and his
friends! It would be clumsy sometimes, but heck, the
bar was pretty low for that kind of thing.

As he walked back from The Cauldron, kicking up
piles of bright orange leaves, the ideas came fast and
furious. At his brand-new desk, Barry set his phone to
voice mail, turned on his computer, and began to write:
'The Hogwash School for Wizards was the most
famous school in the wizarding world, and Barry
Trotter was its most famous student


The end.17"


' I've been reading this over, and I have to say that I have no idea
what's going on. First, it's a book about a movie. Then, the book
turns out to have been a movie all along -- about trying to stop an
earlier movie. Now it's all a parody written by Barry Trotter
HIMSELF? Kids, let this be a warning to you: postmodern tools in
the wrong hands (i.e., mine) can be cleaMy. If you know -- or even think you know -- what I might be getting at with all this, please print
your explanation legibly in ink on a 3x5 card, and eat it. Ha, ha, just
kidding: send it to me, care of the publisher. We can still save this
book! Send your solution today!


SPECIAL SECRET
BONUS!



I realize that many of you may have been offended or
confused by this book. Younger readers might even
have been turned-off reading for good. That's a real
shame, but the hectic pace of modern life makes taking
time out to tell me a thing or two impossible. So, as a
heartfelt thank you for making it all the way to the end,
I have written a generic letter of offense that can be
photocopied and mailed to me at your leisure. Enjoy,
and thanks again for reading Barry Trotter and the
ShamelM Parody!
I HATE YOU!

Dear Sir:

I was very offended by your book Barry Trotter and the
Shameless Parody. I am ...

(tick all that apply)
an overprotective Potter fan
an outraged parent
a confused preteen
a world-weary 15-year old
an unamused copyright holder
J.K. Rowling
an embittered fellow humourist
an aspiring assassin
an ex-girlfriend

I am writing to say how appalled I was at your ...
turning something wonderful into something sordid
unrelenting scatology 
shaky grasp of grammar, spelling and syntax (note no
serial comma)
inept plotting
reliance on cheap meta-tricks
irritating characters that sound all the same
cheap-ass paper
getting drunk and calling me, asking to get back
together
teaching my young child about 'water sports' for God's
sake	contd overleafHow does it feel, Mr Gerber, to be ...
a shameless parasite?
crippled by an oppressive cynicism?
the defendent
a poisoner of fresh, young minds?
clearly history's greatest monster?
immature beyond belief?
Mr King Ripper-Offer?
on Jesus Christ's 'official shit list'?
the only one whose sacrifices will STOP the VOICES

I hope you're happy now, jerk-o.
Cordially yours,