The Mammoth Book of Awesome Comic Fantasy

by Mike Ashley

  An’ I took him over to the track office.

  Well, what his appearance done to them Florida lads was a caution! He threw them crackers into bedlam. The Head Steward, guy named McClannaghan, took one look at Nestros an’ keeled over in a dead faint. The Wet an’ Dry platforms split even on the deal: two onlookers signed the pledge, an’ another two hit the corn like a hobnailed boot in a crowd.

  There’d been eight guys – managers, track officials an’ so forth – at the office when me an’ Nestros appeared. A minute later there was only two left, the Track Commissioner an’ a guy that you’ve prob’ly heard of – “Thick Nick” Pappalousas, owner-manager of the Vulcan stables an’ the shrewdest tinhorn gambler which ever fumbled a form-sheet. The Chief was still with us because his piggies was peet rified; Nick was still on deck because his sense of direction was bad. He’d mistook an open closet for the THIS WAY OUT.

  Nestros helped me lift Harkrader, the Commissioner, down offen the chandelier. He looked sort of scornful of the human race, which I don’t much blame him. Atter Pappalousas’ teeth stopped chatterin’, I told the Chief what I wanted.

  His eyes bugged out of his head.

  “What!” he managed. “You want to enter th-that – I mean him – I mean that – in a race?”

  “Why not?” I ast him.

  “B-but he’s not a horse!” said the Commissioner.

  “No?” I said. “Then what is he?”

  “Why, he’s a – a human,” said the Chief. “I think. Or, no . . . wait a minute! He’s a—”

  “He’s a myth,” broke in Thick Nick. “A myth out of the folklore of my homeland. That’s what he is.”

  “Well, a myth,” I told them, “is as good as a miler – especially when he’s got four legs, like this one. I want to enter him in a race, an’ I mean to. I been studyin’ races since I was knee-high to a jockey, an’ there’s nothin’ in the rules against it.”

  I had him there. The Commissioner leafed through a collection o’ rule-books as bulky as an O.P.A. study on paper-conservation, an’ he couldn’t find no law against me enterin’ Nestros in a horse-race. The only ruling which come anywhere close to applyin’ was the one which says no six-legged horses or similarly improved models can run, on account of its bein’ unfair to standard nags, an’ therefore in restraint of trade. When I pointed out that Nestros’ forelimbs was arms, an’ that they couldn’t reach the ground no how, he give in.

  “Okay, McGhee,” he said hoarsely. “Looks like he’s eligible, so long as you pay the entry fee. What race do you want to enter him in?”

  “If he’s as good as he says he is,” I said, “plenty of ’em. But for a starter, I’d like to run him in the Silver Stakes tomorrow.”

  Thick Nick started.

  “Huh!” he said. “What’s that? The Silver Stakes?”

  “What’s the matter?” I grinned at him. “You scared because you had that one figgered in the bag for your colours? Well, you might as well scratch Printer’s Ink now, Nick. The race is as good as won. How about it, Nestros?”

  Nestros leered up from the divan he was settin’ on. “You said it, chum. I aint goin’ to show them punks nothin’ but heels. Hey – what’s that?” His eyes had suddenly lit on a decanter on the Chief’s desk; he rose an’ sniffed it eagerly. “Well, bless my withers, if it ain’t four-star ambrosia!”

  “Look—” I said.

  “I ain’t had a snort of this,” said Nestros, “since I left the Old Country. How about it, Chief?”

  He stared at the Commissioner hopefully, but I took the bottle away from him.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” I said sternly. “Tomorrow I’ll buy you all you want, but right now you’re in trainin’. Come on, now. We got places to go an’ things to do. See you guys later.”

  An’ we left.

  Squaredeal Sam paused, rubbing his chin. “All this talk about likker,” he said, “sort o’ dries me out around the gills. I don’t suppose you’d happen to have—”

  “Scotch,” I asked him, “or rye? Or gin?”

  “I ain’t choosy,” said Sam. “Just mix ’em.” When he had finished four raw fingers in a gulp, he sighed genteel appreciation. “Now, that’s what I call good stuff,” he said. “Eighteen months old, if it’s a day. It ain’t often you taste that aged-in-the-wood stock any more. Ambrosia – that’s what it is. Necktie an’ ambrosia, like Nestros was always talkin’ about.”

  “What – and – ambrosia?” I asked him.

  “Necktie. He was a sort of a poetical guy, Nestros was. ‘I ain’t much on music,’ he used to say, ‘but firewater an’ fillies is my dish. Give me the Princess an’ a moonlight night, an’ we’ll sup necktie an’ ambrosia together—”

  “Nectar,” I said. “You mean nectar!”

  Sam sighed again, sadly. “I’ll say he did!” he declared. “But I was just gettin’ around to that—”

  Well (Sam said), what happened was my own darn’ fault. I ought to of knew better than leave that centaur out o’ my sight with the big race comin’ up the next day. But of course I had preparations to make, like slippin’ a few of the rival jockeys a few bucks an’ bettin’ a few centuries with my bookie pals before word got around how fast Nestros was. An’ so I turned the centaur over to Dumbo for safekeepin’.

  “Rub him down good,” I said. “Give him his supper, an’ see that he gets a good night’s sleep tonight. Get it?”

  “Yessir,” said Dumbo. “What’ll I do, Mr McGhee – pour ice-water on him?”

  “Ice-water!” I yelled. “Are you off your button?”

  “You said he was to get a good nice sleet tonight,” said Dumbo.

  “Night’s sleep, you nitwit!” I told him. “Not nice sleet! He’s runnin’ in the Silver Stakes tomorrow. He’s got to be in tiptop condition. I’ll see you in the mornin’.”

  “Yessir,” said Dumbo.

  “So long, pal,” said Nestros. “Bet your shirt.”

  Dumbo led him away. The last I seen of them, Nestros was hummin’ I’ll See You in My Dreams as Dumbo led him past Princess Sally’s stall, with a good grip on the halter.

  The next mornin’ I got to the paddock early. An’ a good thing, too. I arrove in the nick o’ time, just as Dumbo come bustin’ out o’ the enclosure like a whirlwind with ears. He bumped into me, an’ I grabbed him.

  “Hey!” I yelled. “What’s the matter?”

  “Lemme go!” he howled. “Gimme a gun – a knife – an ax! Let me at him!

  “Who?” I demanded, shakin’ him. “What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong?” he sobbed. “Nothin’ except that that darn’ centaur got into the Princess’ stall last night. Wait till I get my hands on him, the low-down—”

  “Take it easy!” I soothed him. “You must be wrong. Everything seems to be okay. Come on, let’s have a look.”

  But it was me that was mistook, not him. We walked over to Nestros’ stall, an the closer we got, the stronger we smelled the aroma of alcohol. I flang open the top door, an’ there sprawled the centaur, tight as a starlet’s sweater, one mitt clenchin’ an empty bottle. Half asleep, in a triumphant mumble he was croonin’, “Oh, the ol’ grey mare, she ain’ what she used to be—”

  “I’ll murder him!” bawled Dumbo. “I’ll chop him up into point rations—”

  “You’ll do nothin’ of the sort!” I told him. “This drunken sot may be a heel without a soul, but he’s our chance to get rich. I’ve bet every cent I own an’ a few I don’t own, on his winnin’ today. How did this happen, anyway? How come he got out of his stall?”

  “How should I know?” ast Dumbo.

  “Well, you was here, wasn’t you?”

  “Not atter you sent word I was to go home.”

  I stared at him. “Me? I sent word? Who said so?”

  “Thick Nick. He come down about twelve o’clock an’ told me you said I was to go home an’ sleep—”

  “Thick Nick!” I repeated, understandin’ everything now. “That dirty crook! He knew Nes
tros would run the pants offen his Printer’s Ink, so he framed this. Well, we’ll learn him! Come on! We got to get Nestros sobered up so he can run!”

  Well, we done it. Don’t ast me how. We worked out on that refugee from a sideshow with Epsom salts an’ ice-water an’ steam-baths till he was seepin’ alky like a still.

  By ten o’clock we had him standin’ up without help; by noon he could walk a reasonably straight line; an’ by two-thirty he was feelin’ good enough to trot around the paddock. He had a terrific hangover, o’ course, but that was to be expected. He was meeker than I ever seen him.

  “I’m sorry, McGhee,” he said. “I only meant to get a little edge on. But it’s been so long since I had a snootful—” He shook his head ruefully. “Who was that guy gave me the ambrosia?” he ast.

  “Thick Nick, the Greek,” I told him. “He’s entered a horse in the Stakes, too. He wants you out of it.”

  He nodded. “I might have knew there was a catch in it,” he said. “Timmy O’Daniels, doughnuts forever—”

  “Excuse me a minute, Sam,” I interrupted. “Are you sure that’s what he said?”

  “Well, somethin’ like that,” said Sam.

  “Are you sure he didn’t say: ‘Timeo Danaos et donæ ferentes’?” I asked. “That means, ‘Beware the Greeks bearing gifts.’”

  “Could be,” said Sam . . . Well, anyhow (continued Sam), the Silver Stakes was scheduled fourth on the ticket – around four-thirty that would be. One thing I’ll say for Nestros: he had good recup’rative powers. By four o’clock he was fit as a fiddle an’ ready for anything. I sent Dumbo on up to the tack-room to get dressed in his silks – he was our jockey, you know – while I saddled Nestros an’ give him last-minute instructions.

  I was just tightenin’ the final cinch when into the paddock come Commissioner Harkrader an’ Thick Nick. Nick was grinnin’ like a cat in a creamery, but his smirk curdled when he seen Nestros. The Commissioner looked puzzled too.

  He said, “I – er – there seems to be some misunderstanding, McGhee. Nick led me to believe you were scratching your entry.”

  “Unless he develops hives between now an’ the post-time,” I said, “Nick’s wrong. Nestros is runnin’, Chief.”

  Nick moaned, “I – I don’t understand it! He was as stiff as a boiled shirt—”

  Nestros chuckled. “A mere truffle, chum,” he said. “Drop around tonight, an’ we’ll split another keg – on me, this time.”

  Harkrader turned to Nick. “Well, Pappalousas – you were wrong. Apparently this – er – horse is quite capable of running, and eligible too. I’m afraid there is nothing more we can do to stop him.”

  “No,” said Thick Nick. “I guess not—” He paused suddenly, his eyes lightin’ on Nestros’ hoofs. “Hey! Wait a minute!” he yelled. “There is somethin’ else! This horse is ineligible!”

  “Why?” demanded me an’ Harkrader together.

  “Because,” pointed Nick, “he aint shod! Accordin’ to the rules of horse-racin’, no horse can enter a race which aint properly equipped with horseshoes! He ain’t got none!”

  I took a quick look. The Greek was right. Nestros didn’t have nothin’ on his pedals but grass-stains.

  I groaned. Nestros looked puzzled. “Horseshoes, chum?” he said. “How long does it take to get them?”

  “Too long,” I told him. “There’s a blacksmith here on the track, but it would take him a half-hour, at least, to shoe you. An’ the race starts in less than thirty minutes.”

  “Half an hour,” said Nestros thoughtfully. “That’s not so bad. I think I can fix it. They delay the race if it rains, don’t they?”

  “Yes,” I told him. “Long enough to see if it’s goin’ to clear up again or not. Why?”

  “Why, because,” said the centaur, “I think I’ll let it rain a little.” He lifted his head an’ started whisperin’ something in foreign words. The sky, which had been as clear as a crystal ball, all of a sudden started gatherin’ wisps of cloud. They got thicker an’ heavier an’ darker by the minute – an’ before you could raise an umbrella, down come the rain in a regular cloudburst!

  Nick howled like a kicked pup, tossed one horrified look at Nestros, an’ ran. Harkrader lit out too. You see, what Thick Nick had forgot to take into consideration was the fact that centaurs, in addition to bein’ legendary creatures, is also – demi-gods!

  In a tight spot, Nestros had turned on a miracle!

  But there wasn’t no time to waste. I grabbed aholt of Dumbo, who had just returned from the tack-room.

  “Quick, kid!” I yelled. “We’ve got a thirty-minute lease on life, liberty, an’ the pursuit of filthy lucre. Not a minute to waste. Hurry Nestros down to the smithy an’ have him shod!”

  “Huh?” said Dumbo, gawkin’. “You mean it?”

  “Of course I mean it! Get goin’!”

  “Sure, Mr McGhee!” he said. “Yes-sir! Right away, Mr McGhee!” he said. An’ he grabbed Nestros’ reins, an’ off they went.

  I should of knew right then. I should of seen that he was too anxious, too willin’ to help. But I was too eager to get goin’, too wrapped up in my own thoughts . . .

  First hint I had that anything was wrong came a few minutes later when I heard somethin’ like an auto backfirin’. The minute it sounded, the rain stopped. I was just thinkin’ to myself how funny this was, when Dumbo appeared, exposin’ a mouthful of molars in a grin that stretched from the nape of his neck to his tonsils. He was carryin’ Nestros’ saddle an’ gear. I stared at him.

  “What are you doin’ back here?” I demanded.

  He nodded happily. “It’s done, Mr McGhee. I done it myself.”

  “Already?” I gasped. “You mean to tell me you shod a horse in less than five minutes? Dumbo—”

  His jaw dropped. “Shod!” he said, “Sh-shod! Gee, Mr McGhee – I thought you said to take him away an’ have him shot!”

  “So,” said Squaredeal Sam, “that’s all. I told you I’d bet everything I had on Nestros. I maybe forgot to say I also bet everything Akers owned. Which is why his stables is bein’ auctioned off next Sattiday.”

  I stared at him dubiously.

  “This has all been most entertaining, Sam,” I said, “but it still doesn’t explain why you want three hundred dollars. An investment, you said—”

  “That’s right,” nodded Sam. “I got to buy Princess Sally at that auction. I may be wrong – but from what I know about centaurs, it looks to me like there’s still a chance to hit the jackpot. Like the fellow says, ‘There’s no foal like a young foal.’”

  BAD DAY ON MOUNT OLYMPUS

  Marilyn Todd

  Marilyn Todd has a wicked sense of humour, as anyone who has sampled her Roman mystery stories, which began with I, Claudia (1995) will know. I was sure that she could also turn her talents to comic fantasy and the following is her first venture in this field. I’m sure it won’t be her last.

  The meeting was going well. Boring, but hey. They only come round once a year. Who’s going to quibble about the odd satyr too fond of his own voice to relinquish the floor? Or some nerd of a faun who’s all presentation-this/flip-chart-that? Let it ride, that’s what I say. If these guys get off on pie charts and graphs, who am I to begrudge them their fun? Not everyone’s idea of a good time is free-flowing wine and the chance to get to know one another afterwards.

  By which, of course, I mean sex.

  And lots of it.

  Also, you get to catch up with the gossip. After all, Cupid’s still a kid. Not every shot is on target. Some really interesting alliances can result. Plus – a real bonus, this – we get to see who’s been turned into what animal, tree, bug or whatever. Naturally, this year’s big story was Io. Apparently (and you didn’t get this from me), but apparently Juno walked in on Jupiter relieving Io of the rather cumbersome burden of her virginity and . . .

  Look. Let’s just say the wife wasn’t any too pleased at the picture, OK?

  Well, we all know wha
t a bitch Juno can be when she’s mad. Look what she did to me. I’m her friend. Anyhow, Jupiter’s thinking he’d best get in first, if he’s looking to protect the girlfriend, so . . . Spotting a herd of cows on the hill, quick as a flash, he turns Io into a heifer. Find her among that lot, he smarms to the wife. But this was the thing, see. Juno didn’t want to go looking for Io. “Who needs it?” she says. “Didn’t I always say she was a scheming little cow?” (Incidentally, Io’s apologies for absence at this AGM have been duly noted.)

  Anyways, like I said, the meeting’s going well. After a few millennia you get to know the pattern and this was the point on the schedule when whichever river god was spouting off this time would begin to run out of steam. Happens every year. Someone, somewhere, gets fed up with what he’s doing and wastes hours of precious drinking time by making out a lengthy case for changing course. The response from the rest of us is the same each year, too. We let the old windbag make his speech and then say yes. The reason we don’t say yes straight off is that then some other windbag would get up and start making demands. So we let it run and then pretend to vote according to our conscience. Of course, the reason we all say yes every time is that if we didn’t, we’d lose even more drinking time during the debate. This is democracy, see. It’s the only way to do business.

  So we vote. The motion’s carried. Some little stream in Arcadia (or was it Thrace?) will change course and the river god, bless his sediment, duly gets his change of scenery. Tedious or wot? But any minute now Sagittarius, half-man, half-horse who’s chaired the last three hundred meetings, will start to wind things up. We’ll get the usual jeers of Sagittarius always wanting to be the “centaur of attention”. Some wag will ask Pan, doesn’t he want to, ho ho, “pipe up” with a question. And someone else will accuse Orpheus of “lute behaviour” in a public place. The usual stuff. Old as Olympus. And call us sad, but we still find it funny.

  By the time our equine chairman was rolling up his scrolls and murmuring “Any other business?” Bacchus was already on his cloven feet, heading for the wine. We almost missed the voice that boomed out “Yes” from the back . . .