The Grand Gonado Learns to Truss Himself, Part One

The Grand Gonado swirled, his wizard’s cloak flapping like giant bat wings, spinning on his heel to face his no doubt trembling visitor. But he kept turning, on account of his heel being inside his special wizard’s shiny silver shoes, polished to a mirror-like brilliance, top and bottom, by his faithful servant, Scrotumnal, so the Master could see his fearsome face in them when taking a pee.

“What insolence is this!” he bellowed, followed by a muttered, “Oh, shit, I really must stop spinning on my own damn heels . . . ”

He spun around several more times during which a strained silence descended upon B’Lok Hall, Gonado folding his arms and trying to look as if he always started an interview this way.

Eventually he stopped, facing the wrong way, then shuffled carefully around to stare at his guest.

“And who might you be?” he boomed, furrowing his brow in authoritarian scepticism.

“Whom, sir.”

“What kind of name is Whom?”

“It’s not my name, your worship. It’s what you should have said, instead of ‘who’.”

Gonado raised his wizard’s visage to the bat-shadowed rafters high above, buying a little time while he selected the appropriately outraged demeanour to employ.

“Let’s try again,” he said, displaying Dangerously Pleasant. “What is your name, what do you do and why are you here?”

“Name’s P’Lok, your Grace; I’m the King’s personal historian–”

“You don’t say,” said Gonado, now selecting Innocently Sarcastic, which appeared equally lost, however, on P’Lok who, judging by his wispy white hair, gravy-stained smock and mild countenance, stored most of his everyday mind in dusty volumes that no one ever wanted to take out of the library.

“–and I’m here to inform you that the Kingdom is in great danger.”

“Why would the King send a mere historian to inform me that we’re facing great danger?”

“I should think that was obvious, your Batlikeness.”

Gonado sighed heavily. “Why don’t you just tell me what the danger is.”

“You mean, you don’t know, sir? You haven’t already seen it in your crystal ball?”

“I don’t study my balls as much as I used to, if you must know, and I’m not sure what you unmagicked ignoramuses would consider dangerous–Queen Farjeina’s broken a fingernail and her cutician is away having a baby?”

“Actually, your Understatedness, we’re about to be attacked by people from another dimension who are in possession of weapons that can destroy our entire world.”

“I don’t believe it, and how would you know it’s true anyway?”

P’Lok shrugged. “They tried it once before.”

Gonado bent forwards to peer into his guest’s eyes. “Ah-hah.”

“Ah-hah?”

“Obviously, you would know about things that have happened before.”

“I’m one of the very few who do. There was something hidden in the text of our oldest records, that–”

“Does it involve dragons?” Gonado interrupted. “It usually does.”

P’Lok sat in Gonado’s favourite red leather easy chair, oblivious to the impertinence, and stared into the distance.

The greatest living wizard in Deferensia decided it would be futile to continue bullying a mere word drudge and sat too.

“The king instructed me to be honest with you, sir,” said P’Lok.

“Did he now? And why would he suspect you wouldn’t be?”

P’Lok’s focus returned to the room, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Well, you’re a wizard and I suppose he must have thought you’d be upset if I told you what dragons really were–are.”

Gonado sighed again, suddenly tired of keeping up magical appearances. “If you must know, I never really believed in dragons. I suspect they’re just the mythical manifestation of ancient people’s primal, probably sexual, fears.”

“Oh, they did and do exist, your Pyschosexualness. But as I started to say earlier, they come from another world, one that’s interlinked with but usually separate from our own, and they are largely mechanical creations, not living things.”

“You mean they don’t roast virgins for their supper or nest on mounds of gold?”

“Gold is involved but some believe more as analogy than fact.”

“Come again; I mean, pardon?”

“Well, an analogy is when you compare something with something different in order to make its function more easily–”

“I know what an analogy is, tome-breath!” shouted the wizard, his expression of Offended Brilliance unpremeditated for once, and P’Lok finally trembled a little at the sheer magical power it intimated.

“Forgive me, sir . . . gold is, as you know, the major alchemical substance, and the result of transmutating base metal into something more precious. I believe these dragons had the ability to transmute base oil into the fire that thrusts them through the air and wreaks destruction upon their enemies, and that seems more important to them than gold.”

“And what happened last time these oil-burning flying stoves came here?”

“They would have destroyed us all but for the intervention of the Great Rigidio.”

“How did I know you were going to mention that over-blown ninny?”

Despite his look of Lofty Disdain, the Grand Gonado’s innards churned with the frantic wing beats of several ego-bats coming home to roost. Now the King’s message was clear: see off these dragons or forever be known as the necromancer who couldn’t get it up.

“The belief was that Rigidio created a new form of magic especially to confound the invaders’ minds,” said P’Lok, “thereby causing the dragon riders to go mad and crash their steeds into the Sea of Steaming Serpents, so named after–”

“Yes, yes–but how do you know that’s what Rigidio actually did, rather than that the dragons just flew off course and drowned, followed by him claiming the glory.”

P’Lok looked at the back of his hands. “Well, it doesn’t really matter what he did or didn’t do, does it? Because you’re going to have to stop them anyway; the King commands it.”

#

Later, the Grand Gonado ate his dinner in the star-room at the top of the Hall, the spread of sharp lights across the inky void pricking at his conscience. Scrotumnal brought in the pudding, placed it in front of his master and had turned to leave when Gonado said, “Please, sit, Larj; I would appreciate your company tonight.”

Scrotumnal’s ancient face creased in surprise but he sat on the other side of the star-spat table.

“Um, nice weather for the time of year, sir,” he said.

“Yes, I suppose–look, you’ve known me longer than anyone, so I’d very much appreciate your help with a small problem I’m having.”

“Is it as small as the entire Kingdom being set alight by fire-breathing dragons unless you stop them? Because I would have thought that was actually quite a massive problem, sir.”

“So, you overheard P’Lok and I talking, did you?”

“Well, you do tend to shout when Righteously Offended, sir.”

Gonado fought a lifetime’s worth of righteous offence right then, finally subdued by the need for an action plan that would save the Kingdom without him losing face or, even worse, fancy life style.

“P’Lok told me that records predict a rent between worlds is about to appear five miles west of the city.”

“Then ’tis a shame the Great Rigidio lowered his flag ninety-odd years ago.”

Gonado studied the slow surge of creamy yellow custard down the sides of his spotted dick, wishing he had nothing other to worry about than whether to eat all the custard first or leave a little for the last spots of dick.

He thought about the small black currents popping out of the puffy mass of the pudding proper when you added heat, almost like magic–

“Scrotumnal,” he said, “I have an idea.”

To be continued . . .