His face was red and blistered from where the sizzling
sausages had struck him in the face, like tiny meaty battering rams. The
blemishes made him resemble a blushing toad more than anything else. He did not
look happy, even though he maintained his air of nonchalance. Unfortunately, the
spicy juices had not left him blind, as I had early speculated that they might.
With a flourish of his wrist he pulled out his long monocle
on a stick and put it to his eye, so as to better look down his nose at us. “I
see you’ve found an old friend of mine,” Sir Champagne said sarcastically gesturing
toward Yaga with a flick of his monocle.
"Wait!" Chris interjected. "You mean to say that you two actually
know each other?"
"I’m afraid that is indeed the case," Sir Champagne
confirmed. "The famous Baba Yaga and I go back a long, long way, of course I can
see that the years haven’t been kind to you my dear…" He remarked snidely. “I presume
it’s accurate what they say: ‘vermin of a feather do indeed congregate mutually…’”
(I didn’t like his rendition of the popular saying either.)
“That’s rich,” Yaga replied coolly. “For a man who has an
affinity for hanging around deranged delusional clowns, is it not Champagne?”
Champagne sniffed disdainfully and ignored Yaga’s
bighting comment. “Surrender the brats over to me now,” He said smoothly. “And
I will let you go free old hag.”
Yaga chuckled, a deep sort of challenging chuckle, like a
cross between a naked mole rat and hyena. “And just what do you think to do to
me, you little half-brained twit. Sing at me? You know that your talent will
not work against my magic.”
Sir Champagne smiled a little half smile. The kind of smile
that left me with an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach that gave me the
impression that Sir Champagne was about to pull a nasty card out of his sleeve,
the likes we knew nothing about.
Yaga’s lower lip pulled downward into a slight frown. She
seemed unsure.
She took a step forward. But as she did Sir Champagne
reached into his pocket with another impeccable handkerchief and pulled out of
the depths of his long tailed, suit coat a lump of something mysterious, fuzzy,
and dark orange in color. The soft lump began crumbling in his hand even as he
held it. I didn’t know what it was until I smelled the horrible stench that emanated
from it. It was another cheese!
I covered my nose and mouth with the inside of my shirt.
The smell of the cheese was so potent that it almost made me faint on the spot luckily
though I kept my scenes, and was able breath more through my nose. I saw Chris
next to me also struggling for breath before she too, sputtering and choking,
followed my example and pulled her shirt up over her nose and mouth.
Yaga didn’t seem to have any problem with the cheese in
the least. She breathed deeply as if probing the air. “Ahhhh,
Bloatanagousnastifungopolis,” Yaga said, apparently identifying the moldy
orange fuzz sprouting out of the rancid cheese. “Another excellent specimen
from The Curds of Wrath. Tell me how did El Stinko manage to travel to the
Superior Realm and back again and maintain what little sanity he has remaining.”
“I’m afraid that would be confidential.” Champagne said
covering his own mouth with a separate lacey handkerchief. “You may find out of
course if you ask Lord El Stinko himself when you go to visit him, willingly, as my prisoners. I do hope
you come willingly, corpses you see can’t ask questions.” Champagne glanced at
us and back at Yaga. “You know what this cheese can ensure, so I’m warning you,
surrender now, you don’t stand a chance.”
“What will it do?” I asked nervously.
“Bloatanagousnastifungopolis, is a nasty fungus that has
the property of making whatever it touches expand to incredible sizes, and fill
with helium gas, which then causes the victim to float into outer space.” Yaga said
all of this in a matter of fact sort of tone. A tone that didn’t, I felt,
portray accurately the seriousness of our predicament. All Champagne would have
to do was through the crumbly cheese and all of the tiny curdled missiles would
pelt us like putrid hail, we would be toast for sure. Or rather, giant fleshy
balloons. Take your pick.
To Be Continued…
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