CHAPTER ONE: FINDING YOUR DESTINY -- The YMCA was a very, very ugly building. It was built out of dull and unattractive concrete blocks that somebody had painted, by hand, to look like dull and unattractive bricks. The grass was brown and dying, the playground behind the building was badly in need of repair, and the community message board that stood in front of the building was badly in need of repair. Hieronymus Smith sat on an ugly bench and tried to pretend that he was actually interested in looking for a job. He had graduated from high school three weeks ago. Two days after his graduation, his father had noted that he appeared to have no plans for the future, and had wisely taken to kicking him out of the house at eight o'clock every morning with a copy of the Help Wanted section from the local newspaper. "After all," his father had said over the breakfast muesli, "It's not as if you can expect destiny to come and find you - you have to go out and take control of your own fate!" Once upon a time, Hieronymous would have pointed out that that was exactly what fate and destiny were all about, and that his father's statement was gibberish. After listening to his father spouting gibberish for the past seventeen years, however, he had built up a tolerance. He stared at the help wanted advertisments in the paper for a little while longer, then decided to give up for the day and threw the paper in the trash can. It wasn't as if he knew what sort of job he was looking for anyway. He leaned back and stared up at the ceiling, then noticed that he was actually outside and decided to stare up at the sky instead. Hieronymous's father was quite wrong, of course. Sometimes you can expect destiny to come and find you - it just works in strange and mysterious ways. Today, for whatever reason, the powers that be - call it Destiny, Fate, Dao, Belldandy, whatever name you choose - decided to act very subtly indeed, and planted a little seed of an idea on Hieronymous's head. As his mind wandered to and fro, Hieronymous Smith suddenly found himself wondering if there was anything interesting on the community message board. He got up from the ugly bench and idly wandered over to the board. Like everything else at the YMCA, it was very ugly - a hideous concoction of wood and corkboard that looked like it had been assembled by a three year old with a hacksaw. He scanned the contents of the message board - this didn't take long, as there were exactly two pieces of paper on it. The first, an advertisment for "Creative Bible Reading", was printed on a sheet of pale green computer paper and was affixed to the board by an elderly thumbtack with the words "Property of the Ojibwe Military" written on it. The second sheet of paper was a sign that claimed to have been signed and personally affixed by the Director of the YMCA himself. It read: "Please do not post Satanic Announcements on the YMCA community message board." "Who the heck posts satanic announcements on a YMCA message board?" wondered Hieronymous out loud. "I do," said a voice behind him. Hieronymous jumped up in the air and turned around. At first he thought the figure behind him was just a pile of clothes, but as he stared at it for a moment he realized that buried underneath the checkered cap, coke-bottle glasses, thick scarf, giant blue jacket, and baggy trousers was a human being. An elderly old man, in fact, who was staring at him with a mad grin plastered all over his wrinkled face. His ears stuck out at odd angles, and his nose was large, red, and bulbous. The entire mess was completed by a giant mane of hair and two enormous oversized white eyebrows that contorted themselves as he talked. "What?" asked Hieronymous. "It's good fun," replied the little old man. He spoke with an accent that came from somewhere in the United Kingdom. Hieronymous couldn't place it, and he wasn't entirely sure its owner could either. He rummaged around in his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper and a black pen. "Now what should I write today?" He ruminated for a moment, then grinned and scribbled something on the sheet of paper. Hieronymous watched as the old man reached into another pocket and withdrew a small metal box of thumbtacks, from which he produced a solitary tack. The old man stared at it for a moment, as if he was waiting for it to strike first. Hieronymous stared at the thumbtack box for a moment. "Does that box say 'Property of the Ojibwe Military' on it?" he asked. "Quiet," replied the old man. "Thumbtacks is tricky buggers. They likes to wait until you're distracted, and then WHAM! They strike." All of a sudden his hands started shaking, shortly followed by the rest of his body. "Oh," said Hieronymous. He watched as the old man, covered in several layers of clothing, thrashed and wobbled about as if he was having a seizure. Every so often he would hurl himself at the community message board, cursing and swearing violently, as he attempted to line up the thumbtack, paper, and message board in a combination that would yield a successful fastening. When one attempt failed he would back away from his opponent, then run at it again screaming, thrashing, cursing, and wobbling. "You 'orrible lil' cod-swalloping hog buggerer..." he shouted. He lunged at the community message board again, and somehow despite everything managed to ram the thumbtack through the paper and into the corkboard. He stood up and stopped shaking, huffing and panting as he caught his breath. "Name's Wilf, by the way," he said. "Hieronymous Smith," replied Hieronymous. "Glad that's over with," said the old man. "Now if I was you I'd run and hide in those bushes, or else you'll miss the best part." "Best part?" asked Hieronymous, only to see that his elderly companion had already started flinging himself at the bushes. "RUN!" yelled Wilf. "IT'S STARTED!" With that, he dove into a bush and a baffled Hieronymous followed suit. "Now listen to and watch the front doors," he continued. As Hieronymous watched and listened in fascinated horror, a loud thumping, banging, and rattling noise could be heard emerging from the YMCA building, accompanied by shrieks and loud, terrible moans. "Is that a demon?" he asked. "Nah," said Wilf. "That's the lard ass Director of Operations at the YMCA trying to get out of his office." Hieronymous continued to watch the front doors as four hundred and ninety-three pounds worth of Deacon Willsop, Director of Operations at the YMCA, tried to force himself out of the YMCA's single and very small front door. This was a fascinating process - like trying to squeeze a watermelon down a chimney. After a few minutes of squeezing and grunting, the Director finally shot out of the building, making a popping noise like a cork flying out of a champagne bottle. He collapsed on the sidewalk and caught his breath, than slowly began waddling up to the message board. "Wilf, you old bastard!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "I know you're out there!" He removed the offending article from the message board with a pair of tweezers, then dropped it in the trash, walked back to the building, and started squeezing himself through the doors again. Bang-pop, thunk. Wilf and Hieronymous extracted themselves from the bushes. "See, lad?" said Wilf. "Told you it was good fun." "But why do you do it?" asked Hieronymous. "I mean, it seems a little immature to me." "If I didn't do this every day," replied Wilf, "that fat bastard would never get any exercise." He shrugged. "Besides, what's wrong with being immature?" "Good point," said Hieronymous. Wilf stared at him for a minute. "I've seen you 'ere before, lad," he said after a moment's thought. "Always pretending to read the help wanted ads. You lookin' for work?" "I guess," said Hieronymous. "It's mainly my father's idea, though... I guess the problem is that I'm not really sure what I want to do with my life." "Ahh," said Wilf, "I had that problem once upon a time. 1870, in fact. Anyhow, how'd you like to come work for me? It doesn't pay much, but room and board is included and you'll be doin' some of the most fascinatin' work there is to be done." "What's the job?" asked Hieronymous. "Ahh," said Wilf. "It's a little tricky to explain..." He stuck a finger in his ear and spun it around at incredible speed. Ear wax and white hair flew out in amazing quantities, accompanied by a noise that sounded like an orangutang being tortured by a belt sander. Hieronymous covered his own ears and tried to get out of the way of the debris. "Much better," Wilf said. "Now look, this is going to sound like gibberish..." "Don't worry," said Hieronymous, "I'm immune to gibberish." "Alright then," Wilf replied, "but you've been warned. Now have you ever heard of the Forces of Evil?" "Huh?" "Oh for cryin' out loud," Wilf exclaimed. "Don't they teach you kids anything in those damn schools of yours?" "Not really," said Hieronymous Smith. "Sheesh... okay, listen carefully. Suffice it to say that I am a member of a secret organization of highly trained and adequately funded professionals who have dedicated our lives to defending the world against the return of the Forces of Evil, a ..." Here he paused. "A what?" asked Hieronymous. "Well," continued Wilf after a moment's thought, "we're not entirely sure. You see, nobody's ever actually encountered the Forces of Evil. But if are Forces of Evil, and they do return, the purpose of our organization is to be ready for them, if they ever show up." Hieronymous was forced to concede that this made a certain amount of sense. "There's one little problem, however," continued Wilf. "Oh?" "All our members are getting on in years, and we need to start worrying about who's going to take over the organization when we retire. That's why we're trying to get you young people to start taking an interest in defending the world against the armies of darkness." "How many other people are you training right now?" asked Hieronymous. "Well," said Wilf, "you're the first person I asked. Dunno why." He grinned apologetically. "So what do you think? You get room and board, a small income, and we'll teach you everything you need to know - swordfighting, martial arts, engineering, automotive repair... You can start tomorrow, even. I'll drive round to your house and pick your stuff up in my car." Hieronymous thought for a moment. The entire thing sounded like pure, unadulterated rubbish to him, and he knew perfectly well that there was no such thing as the legendary forces of evil. What's more, putting up with Wilf the Elderly Nutcase and several more just like him didn't seem like his idea of a good time. Still, if it got his father off of his back... -- "Guess what, Dad?" said Hieronymous Smith as he closed the door of the house. "I've got a job."