by Ira Nayman
“Oh, now, this will never do,” Missus Schmelson cutely complained. “The lease specifically states that tenants are forbidden from using blood to decorate! Do you have any idea how hard it is to get sheep’s blood out of floorboards?”
“Ma’am,” Hope informed her, “I’m pretty sure that blood did not come from a sheep.”
Without missing a beat, Missus Schmelson replied, “Even worse!”
This was the first building Faith and Hope canvassed in an effort to find the person who had turned the cars into frogs. The pair had jumped into their non-descript Chevrolet and driven directly to it (well, as directly as possible when you are dodging giant frogs). For a few months, the car had a WWCD? bumper sticker on the rear fender; despite the fact that Hope and Faith believed that the initials actually stood for “What Would Christine Do?”, Superintendent McCrae quietly (for him) asked them to take it off. Department lawyers were concerned that it might offend religious people, but Faith and Hope couldn’t see which religious people. Was there, perhaps, a cult of Hill Street Blues? In any case, starting their canvas of the involved neighbourhoods with this building wasn’t entirely a fluke; they decided to start at the epicentre of the phenomenon. Still. The fact that they had zeroed in on a serious suspect so quickly could be considered eerie or uncanny – you be the ju –
“What, in the name of the holy hairy heretic, art thou doing in mine apartment?” said a young human head sandwiched between a black robe and a silly-looking pointed hat. Faith, Hope and Missus Schmelson turned to see Solomon “Merry” Malvoncellious drop the grocery bags he was carrying. One hit the ground with a sickening thud, the other with the pink spray of a broken bottle of antacid. “Oh, bother,” he said as he watched the pink liquid spread across the floor. “I must needs clean that up.”
“Oh, you’ll have to clean up much more than that,” Missus Schmelson admonished him.
“Mister Malvoncellious,” Faith interjected, “we’d like to ask you some questions in regard to the outbreak of giant frogs this morning.”
“And, thou art?” he confidently asked.
“I’m Constable Farrah Achmed,” Faith told him, “And this is my partner, Constable Rachel Hoppshivitz.”
“Police?” Malvoncellious asked.
“Oh, he’s quick,” Missus Schmelson acidly commented. When the adorable ones turn on you, there is no limit to their harshness.
Malvoncellious quickly tucked his hand into his robes. Before anybody knew what was happening, Faith and Hope had their tasers out and trained on him. For his part, Malvoncellious was waving a…twig at them.
“Misticum malleficorum fidoo doo doo, de dah dah dah…” he chanted.
“Is that English?” Missus Schmelson asked.
“I think it’s…The Police,” Hope answered.
“…ooby doo ASTRACORMELIUM FASDIDDY!” Malvoncellious ended on a high note, brandishing the twig menacingly.
Nothing happened.
“Umm,” Malvoncellious commented, “Thou fallest to the ground not, stiff as boards with eyes glazed over.”
“Were we supposed to?” Faith asked.
“Rather, yes,” Malvoncellious told her.
“Sorry.”
“Dost thou not feel the slightest bit…boardy?” Malvoncellious asked.
“Not really,” Faith said. “Hope – how about you?”
“I have this weird craving for peanut butter cups,” Hope admitted.
“Aren’t you allergic to cups?” Faith asked.
“I know, eh?” Hope stated. “That’s what’s so weird about it.”
Malvoncellious looked at the two women in uniform, then threw his twig at them. In the moment it took Hope to bat it away, he ran down the hallway. Faith and Hope pursued him through several discontiguous neighbourhoods of the city (the creators of this narrative would like to thank the Toronto Tourism Board for their generous assistance in the development of these scenes). Missus Schmelson followed close behind, mocking him for being a naughty boy and shouting encouragement to the two officers; she was remarkably fit for her age. In the end, Faith and Hope cornered Malvoncellious on the ramp on the side of New City Hall and happily tasered him.
“That was fun!” Missus Schmelson gleefully commented, hardly breaking a sweat. “Can we wait until he regains consciousness and zap him again?”
“Sorry, ma’am,” Faith responded, breathing heavily “but that’s not the way it works.”
“Oh,” Missus Schmelson pouted. “So, what happens now?”
“Now,” Hope responded, “we have to give our boss a big disappointment…”
3. When Jurisdictions Collide
Bob Blunt had a problem.
He had wanted to pull a prank on the new guy in the office, especially since the new guy was actually a girl. So, late one evening, he placed a holographic postcard of a Prassmodic brood mare in the bottom drawer of Noomi Rapier’s desk. Prassmodic brood mares have seven [NAUGHTY BITS], three [VERY NAUGHTY BITS], two [OH, REALLY, IF YOU WANT TO HEAR ABOUT NAUGHTY BITS, WHY DON’T YOU SURF THE INTERNET!] and a zyzzyfix, an alien sex organ that doesn’t have a counterpart in human anatomy; not only could it mate with itself, but because it had a tendency to become unstuck in time, it could be its own ancestors! The Prassmodic brood mare was completely naked, and the three dimensions of the hologram, while limited to unflattering angles, nonetheless revealed everything. Blunt had been assured by the trader on Prassmos that the image was so erotic that just looking at it could send members of all six genders into ecstasy; personally, he was both repelled and fascinated at the same time.
The problem was, Noomi didn’t acknowledge the prank.
Blunt was sure she had seen the postcard. He watched her out of the corner of his eye across the large room in which all of the detectives worked. He knew that she had opened the bottom drawer of her desk to get a DW40-123a Salmon with Tan Speckles (an anti-matter requisition form), and ended up staring into it for five minutes. The way she tilted her head, first this way, then that, made it clear to him that she was looking at the holographic image. There was a moment when he thought he saw her head shake in disapproval, but it could just have been her hair moving independent of her head; like many who encountered her, he was convinced that her hair had a life of its own. But, in the end, Rapier pulled out the form and closed the drawer without the slightest hint of offended outrage.
What is a prankster to do? If Blunt mentioned it to the other investigators the next time they all went out for a drink at The Elliptical Garter Snail, they would know the prank had failed and he would lose Qloutt. Bragging rights, the whole purpose of pulling pranks, were on hold. But, what if Noomi figured out he had been the one who placed the photo in her drawer and pranked him back? He would have to not acknowledge her revenge prank, lest his own failed prank be revealed. But, would he be strong enough not to react? He considered pulling a more personal prank; the Bobbo Bruit caper, one of his favourites, rested on his knowledge of Bobbo’s attitude towards terrapins (Bruit was against them). The only drawback to this idea was that it would mean actually getting to know Noomi, and Blunt wasn’t sure he needed to prank her that badly. Another option would be to ramp up the prank. How much trouble would he get into if he actually brought a Prassmodic brood mare to the office to dance the Dance of the Seven Intangible Volatilities in front of Noomi’s desk?
Workplace hijinks were so much simpler before girls were allowed to wear the green vests of Transdimensional Authority junior investigators.
Blunt’s deep thoughts were interrupted by a whispered, “Blunt. My office. Now, please.” He looked up to catch the silver haired head of his boss, Albert Abrachnel, disappearing behind the door of his office. Abrachnel never raised his voice, yet he was always clearly heard by whomever he was speaking to, no matter how far away they were or how noisy the space was. Everybody assumed the acoustics of the office were responsible. Of course. The acoustics. However, the truth is that Abrachnel learned to throw his voice by responding to an
ad in the backs of comic books he read as a youth. Clearly, somebody hadn’t entirely wasted his childhood!
Blunt was a typical Transdimensional Authority investigator: a fire hydrant with dark glasses and limbs. (His model had also come equipped with sandy brown hair, really tiny ears and missing pinkies.) The muscular solidness of the current make of TA investigators tended to intimidate suspects. Abrachnel, on the other hand, was a member of an older generation of TA investigators: willow trees with dark glasses and buzz cuts. Their ethereal presence tended to hypnotize suspects. Blunt figured he could take Abrachnel out with one punch, and not just because of the age difference. Still, there was something in the way that Abrachnel whispered that commanded his investigators’ attention.
Blunt scampered out of his desk and into his boss’ office.
Abrachnel explained the frog situation on Earth Prime 4-7-5-0-0-7 dash iota to him. Since it was not a universe with magic, the local cops’ conclusion that the evil mage had come from a different universe seemed sound. Blunt was to interrogate the mage in order to find out where he had come from and what his purpose for being on Earth Prime 4-7-5-0-0-7 dash iota was. Once that had been established, Blunt was to take him back to his home universe and deliver him to the proper authorities there. Any questions?
“Can I get the keys to the Dimensional DeloreanTM?” Blunt eagerly asked.
“Ah, no,” Abrachnel told him. “We can’t risk our most sophisticated piece of technology turning into a frog. Sorry, but you’re going to have to use a Dimensional PortalTM.”
“That’s not fair!” Blunt pouted. “You let Crash use the Dimensional DeloreanTM whenever he wants!”
“Investigator Chumley has the best record of closing cases in the department,” Abrachnel stated.
“Is that why you like him better?” Blunt blurted.
“If this was Crash’s case,” Abrachnel calmly assured him, “I wouldn’t let him take the Dimensional DeloreanTM either.”
“You do! You do!” Blunt loudly accused him. “You do like Crash better!”
Abrachnel sighed, the sort of sound that lovers thought they might hear in the trees if they listened closely enough. “Do you want me to give the case to somebody else?” he asked.
Blunt bit his lower lip. “No,” he admitted.
“Any other questions?”
“Am I on my own?”
Ordinarily, Transdimensional Authority investigators work in pairs, but Blunt’s partner, “Breakfront” Balboa, was on leave after an unfortunate incident with the Vulvar Ambassador to Earth Prime and a staple gun.†
† For more on this, see: “The Wind Cries Marigold: a Bob and Breakfront Adventure.” If you do, be sure to read the version in the collection Alternate Schmalternate!, not the version that first appeared in Waverly Pudding magazine. The editing of that version was so bad, you may get the impression that Mary Poppins was the villain!
Abrachnel explained that they didn’t have anybody free to help him, so he would just have to make the best of it. Any more questions?
“Sure,” Blunt wisecracked. “Why do fools fall in love?”
“Okay,” Abrachnel ignored him. “Fill out the transdimensional travel permission slip, I’ll sign it and you can be on your way.”
While standing in line for the next available Dimensional PortalTM (there was a sign on the wall behind him that read: “Seven Dimensional PortalTMs, plenty of waiting;” well, alright, maybe there wasn’t, but there should have been), Blunt leafed through a copy of the file on Earth Prime 4-7-5-0-0-7 dash iota. It was basically the same as Earth Prime, with some subtle differences. Among the differences that leapt out at him: Germany had won World War II, but immediately after the signing of the Treaty of Munich the country declared bankruptcy, somebody assassinated Hitler and Germany had to go crawling to the United States for financial aid (so, history went on pretty much as we know it); oranges were green; paper was made from carrots; Oliver Sacks wrote award-winning books about his profession, orthodontics; Spanish Fly was Norwegian; the moon was made of cheese (much to the chagrin of astronomers and fairy tale writers); in 1965, Charlie Reeves and the Mersey Kumquats were almost as big as The Beatles; July 4th took place on August 22nd; Fox News was the most trustworthy source of information in the world; Mercury had three per cent less mass; Google was a word you didn’t say in polite company for an act you wouldn’t engage in in front of strangers or small children; Ben Stiller was an inch taller; blood flowed in the opposite direction in the southern hemisphere; the word ‘hodgepodge’ meant ‘a small flicking of the tongue’; the 3,764th digit of pi was 8; and Tiger Woods was allergic to five irons.
“Room for one more,” the pimple-faced kid wearing a sticker that read: ‘Hi! My name is Chet’ on his white shirt said.
“You’ve always wanted to say that, haven’t you?” Blunt asked.
“Not, really, no,” Chet told him. Sighing, Blunt handed him a permission slip. After looking it over carefully, Chet took a stamp off the top of the ticket box in front of him and slammed it down on the permission slip. “Take this to the technician at Dimensional PortalTM three,” he advised, sweeping an arm towards the room with the three-story-tall devices that looked like women’s private parts carved out of stone, “and have a nice trip.”
Some people enjoyed transdimensional travel. Not Blunt. It made him queasy and made his teeth feel like they were in the backs of his knees. It usually took him several hours to remember that he didn’t eat with his legs. After an incalculable amount of time, a police station shimmered into existence around him. Everybody in the room – police, perps, kumquat whisperers – turned to look at him. He thought he heard somebody mutter, “Oh, great. First frogs, now this!” Holding up his ID card, he shouted, “Bob Blunt, Transdimensional Authority. I’m here to see Superintendent McCrae!”
Ah. That explained it. Everybody went back to their business.
Two women walked up to him. Although they looked physically nothing like their TV counterparts, for some reason they reminded him of Cagney and Lacey.
“Rachel Hoppshivitz,” the tall one introduced herself, extending a hand to him, which he shook. “This is my partner, Farrah Achmed.”
“Hello,” she said. The handshaking was repeated. “I’m delighted to work with a Transdimensional Authority agent.”
“Good. Good,” Blunt gooded at them. “Now, if you’ll just take me to see Superintendent McCrae…”
“Ah,” Faith ahed back at him. “Superintendent McCrae – not so much.”
“Not so much?” Blunt asked.
“He’s not a big fan of the TA,” Hope told him. “By which I mean he hates the TA’s guts.”
Blunt frowned. “We can have that effect on people,” he allowed.
“If you’ll just follow us,” Faith said and started walking.
As they moved through the police station, Blunt asked, “What does Superintendent McCrae have against the Transdimensional Authority?”
“Nobody knows,” Faith answered.
“But, it must be serious,” Hope added, “because he reserves a special level of throwing objects around his office when talking about it.”
“Not a happy man, is he, Superintendent McCrae?”
Hope shrugged. “Everybody has their own way of coping with stress,” she observed.
They spent the rest of the journey to the interrogation room that held Solomon Malvoncellious in silence. Since they were only three seconds away from it, the journey really didn’t give them time to develop a thought more complex than, “I wonder what I should have for -”
They looked at Malvoncellious through the one-way mirror. He had taken off the pointy hat, which rested on the table he sat at, and was running a hand through his thinning hair, his head bowed with an air of despair.
“That’s the evil sorcerer who turns cars into frogs?” Blunt asked in disbelief. “He looks rather…bedraggled.”
“I would have said forlorn,” Hope responded.
“Definit
ely not happy,” Faith concurred.
“Okay,” Blunt informed them, “I’m going in.”
“Don’t you want any more information?” Hope asked.
“Naah,” he told her. “Interrogation is my area of expertise. If you don’t mind, just keep me supplied with coffee – my knees can get awfully dry when I’m on a roll!”
TRANSCRIPT
INTERROGATION OF SUSPECT SOLOMON “MERRY” MALVONCELLIOUS
INTERROGATOR: Bob Blunt, Transdimensional Authority
Interrogations may be monitored for quality control
00:00:37
BLUNT: …this is how this is going to work. I’m going to talk. I may talk for a very long time. I may talk for a very short time. That is entirely up to you. I can assure you of one thing: when I have finished talking, you will tell me what I want to know. Let us start with a simple question: where are you from and why have you been turning cars into frogs in this dimension? (long silence; sighs) Nobody ever wants to do things the easy way. Alright. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. (brief pause) I was born a poor sharecropper’s child in the swamps of Juneau, Alaska…
INTERROGATION OF SUSPECT SOLOMON “MERRY” MALVONCELLIOUS
INTERROGATOR: Bob Blunt, Transdimensional Authority
Objects in mirror are closer than they appear
00:12:45
BLUNT: …didn’t realize was that the Wottaman Empire was doomed to implode because of resistance from the natives, as well as the fact that everybody on the planet Fungo was allergic to pineapples, which made them break out in vases. Unfortunately, Prince Wallaballoo the Cretin was certain that the AffPleck Islands had something of value worth plundering. Oh, how history was to give him a swift, knowing kick up his royal backside!
MALVONCELLIOUS: Thou thinkest thou wilst get me to talk to thee by giving me an lesson, historic?
