Best Little Witch-House in Arkham

by Mark McLaughlin

  “Three words, H.P.: daily bouillabaisse enemas. Your mission is to fly out to R’lyeh, check into Cthulhu Royale, and find out what the 3D Cult and Vadda Fookenhottie are planning. I have a suspicion they’re up to something devilish. Of course, you’ll need a new batch of secret weapons. Let’s head down to Z.’s laboratory.”

  II. For Yog-Sothoth's Eyes Only

  W. and Bondcraft took the secret elevator in W.’s walk-in cigar humidor down to Z.’s lab.

  Z., a bone-thin man with a shock of white hair, greeted them at the elevator doors. “Ah, agent Double-Nought Pi! Good to see you again.”

  Bondcraft smiled. “You are mistaken. I’m only Double-Nought Three.”

  “I believe Z. has, as the Americans would say, let the cat out of the bag,” W. said. “You are being upgraded to Pi later this month, since you killed so many enemy agents last year. Bravo, old chap!”

  The laboratory was filled with shelves of beakers, petri dishes, and electronic components. Bondcraft pointed to a large black door marked with a peculiar symbol in blood-red chalk. “I say, someone has scribbled a bit of graffiti over there,” he said.

  “That door,” Z. remarked, “is the gateway to the dimension of Yog-Sothoth. We’re carrying out some tests in that heretofore forbidden realm. That symbol, traced in sacred Tibetan chalk, is the only thing holding back the vile apocalyptic forces of mindless evil and utter darkness.”

  “Do tell the janitor never to clean that door,” Bondcraft said.

  “Ah! Good thinking…” Z. pulled out a notepad and scribbled a reminder.

  They approached a stainless steel table in the center of the work area. Bondcraft picked up what appeared to be a common cigarette lighter.

  “This,” he said, “appears to be a common cigarette lighter. What does it really do?”

  Z. smiled. “It makes waffles.”

  “Cyanide waffles, in case I catch an enemy agent at a breakfast buffet?”

  Z. chuckled. “Cyanide? Ridiculous! How completely far-fetched. No, that small canister contains, in addition to pressurized waffle batter, time-released mutant scorpion eggs. Simply spray a layer of batter onto a plate. The formulated goo will instantly solidify into a delicious waffle for your target’s enjoyment. Later, when he or she is asleep at enemy headquarters, the eggs, warmed by your target’s innards, will hatch. Your victim will swell and split open, filling their camp with poisonous little monstrosities. That lighter has enough pressurized batter in it for five-hundred waffles—enough to kill a small, breakfast-loving army.”

  Bondcraft’s next selection was a wristwatch, with two of the legs of cartoon character Oozy Octopussycat as the hands. The other legs were part of the painted background. “How jolly,” he said. “Do the little legs spin so fast that the watch becomes a miniature helicopter, capable of carrying me to safety?”

  Z. shook his head. “What a crazed notion. Have you been smoking those marijuana cigarettes of which American hipsters seem so fond? No, that watch doubles as a high-power flame-thrower and a bidet. An agent’s personal hygiene is always a top priority. My assistant Belasco will give you a comprehensive demonstration later.”

  “I look forward to it.” H.P. next held up a pair of gold cufflinks. One had the letter ‘H’ on it—the other, ‘P’. “Explosives, right? Little nuclear bombs?”

  Z. laughed. “Great heavens above! I now believe you have been huffing oven-cleaner, or perhaps smoking crack instead of those smelly cheroots. The ‘H’ cufflink contains recombinant equine DNA. Make any creature chew and swallow the cufflink and it will turn into a lovely white stallion upon which you can gallop to safety. The ‘P’ cufflink is a miniaturized nuclear bomb.”

  “But that’s what I said!”

  “Not quite. You said both were nuclear bombs. How redundant!” Z. took the ‘P’ cufflink from Bondcraft and popped up its lid. “See this little red dot? Simply tap it once with something tiny, like the point of a toothpick, and then throw the cufflink. You will have three minutes to leave the blast area.”

  “But it’s a nuclear bomb,” the agent said. “Would it even be possible to reach safety within three minutes?”

  Z. looked with a lowered brow to W.

  W. shrugged. “Preliminary testing, H.P., has proved inconclusive. I’m sure you will cross that bridge when you come to it. So! Let’s go see Belasco, so he can give you that demonstration. Tomorrow morning, bright and early, he will drive you to the airport and you’ll be on your way. I trust you will use all your persuasive powers to assure this mission’s success.”

  H.P. nodded. “Let me at ’em.”

  III. From R'lyeh With Love

  Entries from the personal journal of H.P. Bondcraft:

  Friday, 9 a.m.: On the plane to R’lyeh, thought the pretty French socialite in the seat next to me looked like a spy. Figured she might be Vadda Fookenhottie. Had sex with her in the loo, to see if that might make her fall in love with me and tell me all her spy secrets. But, it turns out she could only speak French, which is all blah blah blah to me.

  2:30 p.m.: Arrived at R’lyeh. Took the shuttle to Cthulhu Royale. Saw the sights along the way. Pretty island. Palm trees and whatnot. The non-Euclidean geometry of the buildings is really quite jolly. Arrived at the hotel and checked in.

  Noticed lots of foreigners in the lobby. Multi-colored outfits everywhere. Why in the world can’t everyone wear basic black?

  Had a few drinks in the bar. Forgot to leave a gratuity. My waitress Helga asked in broken English for her tip, so I took her up to the room and gave her the tip, and seven inches more to boot. But she didn’t know thing one about the 3D Cult, so I guess she wasn’t Vadda. Blast it all! This case is proving tougher to crack than a granite walnut.

  4 p.m.: Saw a display outside the hotel restaurant which read, CTHULHU ROYALE WELCOMES U.N. DELEGATES. That explains all those foreigners. Say, I wonder if there’s an American delegate wandering about? Those American girls are dead sexy—I just adore their loud voices and high, nasal accents! How exotic! British women, on the other hand, are dead common by comparison, with their low, purring voices—how dreary.

  7 p.m. Had sex with three maids here and there in the hotel, and with a homeless woman, too, out by the dumpsters. None of them proved to be Vadda.

  Later, had a lovely chat with a Belgian delegate after we had sex. She hasn’t seen the American delegate—oh, poo! And she didn’t know anything about the 3D Cult, though she once saw a 3D movie. She said the hotel gave all the delegates a great package deal for a big weekend get-together. The American must be here—those Yanks will hop on a plane at a moment’s notice, glamorous jetsetters that they are.

  11 p.m. Walked around the island for a bit, looking for clues. Maybe tomorrow I’ll sneak into Cthulhu Royale’s huge central tower. It shoots up way past the rest of the sprawling structure. I’d be able to see the whole island from up there. I wish I had a helicopter—what a pity the watch doesn’t turn into one, instead of a stupid flame-thrower/bidet. What if I accidentally got the two functions mixed up? I’d burn my bottom off while giving my enemies a refreshing spritz. Perhaps it’s time for Z. to retire.

  1 a.m. Showered, brushed teeth, put on pajamas. I’ve kept the watch on, and have put the cufflinks on my pajama sleeves and the lighter in my pocket, just in case I’m attacked by someone who climbs into my bed to have sex with me.

  Just as my head touched the pillow, it hit me: all those U.N. delegates are at the mercy of the 3D Cult! That whole get-together is a trap! Curse those wildly sexy Americans—just thinking about one distracted me so much, I wasn’t able to see the obvious danger!

  Am writing this with one hand as I use the other to call headquarters. Am punching in the numbers now. Must warn the world! Dear me, white vapors shooting out of phone receiver. Sleepy. Soooo sleeeepy…

  IV. Dagon Is Forever

  When Bondcraft awoke, he found himself in a maze of mirrors.

  What have we here? he thought. Why, I’m surrounded by countle
ss images of me. Look how handsome I am. Hair all tousled. Still wearing my silk pajamas. Of course, I’d rather have my tuxedo on, if I’m going to be doing any spy business. I wonder if anyone tried to have sex with me while I was unconscious?

  Suddenly a booming male voice erupted overhead. “Good morning, Mr. Bondcraft. By now you have discerned that you are within a maze of mirrors.”

  Bondcraft recognized the voice of the ruthless villain Blowhole. The devil! he thought. It’s as though he can read my mind. But he probably doesn’t realize that I know about the U.N. delegates.

  “And surely, you have pieced together our little scheme to kill the U.N. delegates and replace them with clones,” Blowhole continued.

  “Well, actually, I hadn’t latched onto the killing or clone concepts yet,” H.P. said, “but I’m sure I would have. I’m as sharp as a tack—and twice as deadly.”

  “While you were unconscious,” the villain bellowed, “we scraped a few cells off the inside of your mouth and made a clone of you. We’ve accelerated its growth and taught it to slowly kill people in pajamas, and right now, it’s roaming around in that maze of mirrors, looking for a victim.” He laughed maniacally. “A victim in pajamas, Bondcraft! Ha ha ha!”

  “Thanks for the warning,” H.P. said. He removed the lighter from his pocket and the cufflinks from his sleeves, and then took off the pajamas and put them in a neat little pile by the wall. He was now wearing only his watch.

  “I can see you, you know,” Blowhole said irritably. “Hidden cameras and all that. Put those pajamas back on. Why, you’ll catch a cold.”

  “Better than being murdered by a clone.” The spy began to walk through the maze, surrounded by a pink fleet of nude reflections.

  “What are you carrying?” the villain asked. “What are those little objects you have in your hands?”

  Bondcraft noticed that some of the reflections farther ahead were wearing tuxedos. He had an idea. “I’m not carrying clone vitamins, if that’s what you’re thinking!”

  “Clone vitamins?” a voice echoed from among the tuxedoed reflections. “Give me one, you handsome naked fellow over there!”

  “It’s a trick, you stupid clone!” the voice boomed. “You are not to take anything offered to you by a stranger. Especially a naked one.”

  “Fortunately, I’m not a stranger,” Bondcraft said. “I’m your cellular Daddy—one look in any of these mirrors will confirm the resemblance.”

  “Daddy!” A tuxedoed figure sprang forth from the preponderance of reflections and ran to Bondcraft, giving him a warm hug. The spy popped the ‘H’ cufflink into the clone’s mouth. “Chew. It will make you as strong as a horse.”

  The clone did as he was told. Soon he began to twitch. “I say, my clothes are getting awfully tight.”

  “You’re a growing boy. Here, let Daddy help you take off that stuffy old tuxedo.” The clone disrobed and H.P. put on the garments.

  “Putting on the clone’s tuxedo isn’t going to fool me!” Blowhole cried. “Where are my storm-troopers? Still on their coffee break, I suppose. How am I supposed to get any killing done around here?”

  Suddenly, with a loud, wetly explosive sound halfway between a ‘pop’ and a ‘slurp,’ the naked replicant biped blossomed into a large equine quadruped.

  “Bad clone!” the voice thundered. “I command you to regain human form at once!”

  The horse studied its reflection, confused but intrigued. Then it noticed what it had between its hindlegs. “I think I’m going to like this shape much better. It’s so well-equipped!”

  “A talking horse. How jolly!” H.P. climbed onto its back. “Do you remember how to get out of here?”

  “Yes. Right this way.” The horse began to trot out of the maze. “So tell me. Do I have a name, Daddy?”

  “Let me think…” Bondcraft patted the creature’s neck. “How does ‘Thunderball’ sound?”

  “Rather dashing,” the horse replied.

  Red and blue lights started to flash, and shrill alarms sounded. “Good, because it’s about time we dashed out of here,” the spy shouted.

  The sturdy horse raced through the maze. Several of the mirrors pivoted to one side as doorways, releasing armed storm-troopers. Some of the soldiers were still holding styrofoam coffee cups. The horse simply sped around and past them all, kicking a few along the way.

  “Are we the good guys or the bad guys?” the horse whinnied.

  “Definitely good,” Bondcraft asserted. “In fact, we’re fantastic. By the way, I’ve been told they’ve taught you to kill people in pajamas.”

  “That’s right!” Thunderball neighed. “People in pajamas! Bloody, hideous freaks of nature, that’s what they are! They deserve to die!”

  “Not quite. People in pajamas are thoroughly delightful,” the spy said. “It’s the fishy-smelling villains who created you who are in fact the hideous freaks. Can you remember all that?”

  “Oh, yes.” Thunderball nodded. “Makes perfect sense, now that I give it some thought. Say, I know a short-cut. Put your head down by my mane, so you don’t get hurt.” With that, the horse leapt straight through a mirror and landed in the middle of a laboratory. Startled scientists scrambled out the door.

  “That was a two-way mirror,” Thunderball said. He shook his nose toward a large animal cage in the corner of the room. “Should we let their prisoner go? They’ve locked her up with some monkeys. I was chatting with her earlier. She’s ever so nice.”

  “That would be the chivalrous thing to do,” Bondcraft said. Through the cage’s thick screening he could see a young woman streaked with monkey filth. He climbed off the horse and stepped up to the cage door, which was made of cedar. He used several well-placed blasts from his watch’s flame-thrower to burn away the wood around the lock and hinges, so that the door simply fell to the floor. All the monkeys happily scampered out.

  He used the watch’s bidet function to splash the young woman clean. “There. Now you’re not caked with poop,” he said. “Quite an improvement.”

  “I should hope so,” the prisoner said. She picked a piece of banana out of her short auburn hair. She had pert, mischievous features and bright green eyes. “So I take it you don’t recognize me?”

  H.P. shrugged. “I guess not. Are you that lady scientist who lives with the chimps…?”

  The woman laughed. “We’ve known each other for quite some time, Bondcraft. We chatted very recently by my desk, outside W.’s office. And we had sex on the plane. And in your room. And out by the dumpsters. And in a few other spots here and there.”

  Bondcraft stared wide-eyed at the young lady. “Miss Tuppenceworth? Fifi? Helga? Trashcan Suzie? And all those other women? But they were all different ages…weights…heights!”

  “Mere details. I am, after all, a mistress of disguises, hired by the 3D Cult to keep an eye on a certain spy.” She stepped up to him and stroked his cheek. “But they locked me up when I told them I had fallen in love with you.”

  “Vadda Fookenhottie!” Bondcraft cried, puckering his lips to kiss the alluring double-agent. He leaned toward her and—

  “I hate to break up this romantic moment,” Thunderball said, “but those fishy-smelling villains just walked in. You know, the hideous freaks of nature.”

  Blowhole had a pistol in one hand and a laser-gun in the other. Tunamunga raised his spear gun and Baitbreath held out a poison-dipped fish-hook, ready to attack at a moment’s notice.

  Goldflipper, who would have had difficulty holding any sort of weapon, pointed a mean look at them instead. “Well, if it isn’t H.P. Bondcraft…and the girl…and a talking horse!” wheezed the flabby turtle-man. “The Deadly Disciples of Dagon are not to be trifled with. Prepare to meet your doom!”

  V. That Is Not Dead Which Can Eternal Lie /And With Strange Aeons, Even Death May Live And Let Die

  An hour later, Bondcraft, Vadda Fookenhottie and Thunderball were all tied with thick ropes to the middle of a missile, which was standing inside Cthulhu R
oyale’s lofty central tower.

  “You know, I really should have figured out that this missile was hidden in here,” H.P. said. “The tower is so much taller than the rest of the hotel, and it doesn’t have any windows.”

  The villains were standing at the base of the missile. “Very soon,” Goldflipper said, “we will fire this missile and it will fly off and blow up the home office of Der Moneygrubben, a prestigious chain of Swiss banks. This will throw the world’s finances into a tizzy, and I will step forward to take control.”

  “Meanwhile, all the major powers will blame each other for the explosion,” Blowhole explained, “and I will fan the flames of warfare—and sell arms to all the involved parties. And the U.N. delegates won’t be able to stop me—for I’ve fed them to the sharks! Later today, I will fly their clones back to their native lands to replace them.”

  “Oh, H.P.,” murmured Vadda. “Is there no hope for humanity?”

  “Or horses?” Thunderball added.

  “Leave it to me,” Bondcraft whispered, giving them both a wink.

  Tunamunga squealed, “At least let me spear one of them! Just one!”

  “Yes, and let me throw just one hook,” Baitbreath shrilled.

  “Why bother?” H.P. shouted down to them. “Nearsighted little fishies like you couldn’t hit the broad side of Moby Dick. I bet a million pounds, neither of you could knock the gold cufflink off my sleeve! Left wrist, see it? Shiny little bit of finery?”

  “Pompous flounder!” Tunamunga hissed, raising his spear gun. “Eat silver!”

  He fired at the cufflink—but H.P. simply turned his wrist so that the tip of the spear snicked open its tiny lid. The projectile then hit the missile’s casing next to the spy’s arm and bounced off.

  “Nice try—for a stupid idiot moron!” quipped Baitbreath. He then flung one of his poisonous hooks. Bondcraft merely turned his wrist again, and the wee point of the hook pressed the cufflink’s red button before falling away.

  “Farewell, H.P. Bondcraft…and girl…and talking horse!” cried Goldflipper. He pulled a lever on a control panel next to the missile, and then he and the other villains ran off.