CHAPTER TEN: THE EVIL WAKES -- [ Editor's note: We apologize, once again, for continuing delays in the serialization of the Chronicles of Hieronymous Smith. The delay in bringing you Chapter Ten was caused by a person using the online pseudonym "wilfsgirl_83", who succeeded in giving our previous author an embolism by presenting him with our first ever received piece of Hieronymous Smith fanfiction. Under normal circumstances this would not be a problem. However, after the wilfsgirl_83 incident, we are forced to institute a new policy, and it is thus: While we at the Conglomecon MegaCo Publishing Company support our fans - all ten of them, we humbly request that you do not send any more explicit male/male erotica featuring Hieronymous Smith characters to our new writer. Especially not Louis x Wilf. Thank you. -- The Management. ] -- Outside of Bakersfield, another dratted teenage martial artist slowly made his way up the road leading into town. On his back he carried a massive scroll, the size of an oil drum and covered in an oilskin bag to keep it dry. As he walked, he cursed the name of Hieronymous Smith. As he felt his back ache, he sated the pain by thinking about all the terrible, horrible, not-very-nice-things that he would do to Hieronymous Smith once he found him - possibly stopping to find a qualified chiropractor along the way. As he tripped and stumbled, as the rain poured down, as a passing car splattered him with muddy water, and as a passing hermit, labouring under the influence of several bottles of Old McWinkerly's Genuinely Bizarre Alcohol, amiably fired on him with a shotgun full of rock salt, he only had one thing to say: "Hieronymous Smith, this is ALL YOUR FAULT!" -- Hieronymous Smith was bailed out of jail the next morning by Wilf, who seemed somewhat amused by the entire affair. "I remember back in the day," he had started, "when me and Thrashing Niblick hit the town back in 1926, ..." and had continued ranting about flappers and dirty dancing in dens of negro sin until Hieronymous, whose head felt like it had small furry creatures grooving in it, pleaded with him to shut up. "Anyways," Wilf continued, "there's time for that sort of stuff later. While you were out, we ran into a little problem last night." "Oh?" asked Hieronymous. "What sort of a problem?" "While you were away," Wilf replied, "we got... a challenge." They pulled up in front of the house, and almost immediately Hieronymous noticed a horrible smell permeating the air. The smell of dead fish. "Somebody attached a challenge letter to one hundred and seventy five pounds of dead herring and left it on our front lawn," Wilf continued. "Look at this." He handed Hieronymous a piece of herring-scented paper. Hieronymous stared at it thoughtfully. It was, indeed, a letter of challenge, specifying a time (two weeks from now) and a place (outside the YMCA.) "Who do you think it is?" asked Hieronymous. "Weeeel....," replied Wilf thoughtfully, "it could either be a disgruntled herring trawler, or alternately.." "Willslop?" "Nah, not his style." Wilf stuck his finger in his ear and twirled absent-mindedly. "By my money, either somebody in town's heard about you and wants to take you down a notch, or..." "The Ancient Evil?" "Right," said Wilf. "Could very well be. Either way, we're going to have to get the lawn shampooed." "So who's answering the challenge?" asked Hieronymous as the two men strode into the hallway of the very large, rambling house that they called home. "Why you, of course, lad," replied Wilf. "Me?!" sputtered Hieronymous. "But... but I don't know how to fight!" "You know more than you think, lad," replied Wilf thoughtfully. "You know how to take a hit, you know how to get out of the way of a hit, and you've started to build up some leg strength and speed. That's something. Besides which, Maggie's laid up with her dislocated shoulder, the Psychic Apostle's a gibbering imbecile, Finkelstein only handles firearms and I've... well, I've got my own issues." "What about Louis?" "Louis's fighting style is... a little too unique for a formal challenge. I think it'll have to be you." They slogged down to the hall to the kitchen; Hieronymous slumped down in a chair, while Wilf fetched him a glass of water and an aspirin and started cooking breakfast. "An infusion of hot grease is what you need, lad, after a night like that." He started throwing things into a frying pan full of melted butter - eggs, ham, sausages, tomatoes, iceberg lettuce, asparagus spears - and thoughtfully started poking them around. "Anyways, with Maggie laid up, we'll have to find somebody else to teach you something. Mebbe I can come up with something.... oh ah, breakfast's fried." Just as Hieronymous was about to commence his ingestion of hot grease, the phone rang. "I'll get it," said Wilf," and picked it up. "Oh ah, Wilf speaking... ah? Ah? Not you too... oh ah. Oh ah. Ahh. Oh. Oh ah. Just a minute please." He passed the telephone to Hieronymous. "It's for you, lad." "Hello?" asked Hieronymous. "Who's speaking?" "It Is I, Bernard Petroff, Warrior of Destiny of Bakersfield..." "Oh good, I've been meaning to talk to you. Did you dump herring all over our lawn?" "What?! No, hang on, this is important. Shortly after you left, something happened that I think you ought to know about. Is this phone line secure?" Hieronymous gave a few tentative pulls on the cord. "Seems secure enough... why?" he asked, as he pronged a moody forkful of bacon. "I've just witnessed a meeting between some agents of the Ancient Evil!" Hieronymous blinked. "Hang on a sec." He put the phone down. "Wilf!" he exclaimed. "That idiot Petroff's on the line, and he says that he's just seen the Ancient Evil. Or some Ancient, Evil People. Or something." Wilf shot three feet into the air like he'd just had a poker rammed up his backside. "What?! Give me that phone." He grabbed the phone from the table and started barking into it. "Bernard, what do you mean you've encountered the Ancient Evil? Are you all right? No diseases? No dark curses? You don't have a weathervane growing out of your crotch?" Hieronymous, grumbling, switched on the speakerphone as Bernard continued: "After You Bailed Out Hieronymous, I Decided To Break Out of Jail. After I left, I ..." "STOP SPEAKING IN CAPITAL LETTERS!" yelled Wilf. ".... sorrysorrysorry, please don't yell like that again..." "Now continue. Slowly, and like a normal human being." "Anyways, I decided to break out of jail - a simple task for one such as myself, the Cyclone of Destruction. First, I tried to bend the iron bars in twain with my mighty chi, but when that failed I settled with prying them apart with a rigid, comatose stripper. While I was getting out of the building, I took a wrong turn and found myself outside of the Mayor's Office. Inside was a strange and mysterious figure, wearing red velvet robes and a fur cap. On his shoulder was a balding bird that I later learned was a parrot..." All of a sudden, Wilf had a flashback to something that happened many, many years ago. *** Many, many years ago: Wilf was walking in the streets of Bakersfield, preparing to fill up his gas tank, when he saw a man in red velvet robes and a fur cap with a balding parrot on his shoulder. *** Well, it wasn't much of a flashback. "Oh ah," replied Wilf casually. "That's the Mayor. Only he likes people to call him 'Burgomeister', or something. Name is Argbargle. Bloody loony if you ask me." Hieronymous decided not to comment about who was qualified to judge who was a loony or not. "Anyways," continued Bernard, "a bunch of other people were there too, and I soon overheard a terrible meeting. They're planning on killing Hieronymous!" "Oh," said Wilf thoughtfully. "OH?!" spluttered Hieronymous. "Somebody's trying to kill me and all you can say is 'Oh'?" He sat down at the table and tried to take a drink of water to steady his nerves. This wasn't the best of ideas; his hands were too shaky to hold the glass steady, so more water got on Hieronymous than in him. "Did they mention herring?" Wilf asked. "What is it with you two and herring today? Anyways, no, they didn't mention herring. Let me see if I can remember the conversation..." *** A slightly longer flashback, from the point of view of Mr. Bernard Petroff: Bernard sat outside the door of the Offices of the Mayor of Bakersfield, a large wooden door which somebody had affixed a post-it-note to reading "Burgomeister Argbargle - Hours of Operation: 8:30 - 5:30, Mon-Fri". He was currently concealing himself by means of the Petroff School of Environment's Interior Camouflage technique, which consisted of covering himself head-to-toe in glue, wallpaper and carpet. The effect might fool a blind hedgehog who was looking at him from the other side of the Grand Canyon. Even still, it was a better disguise than the last time he had used the Petroff School of Environmental Combat Interior Camouflage technique - he had disguised himself as a lamp, which had worked quite well until somebody tried to plug him in. The room inside was black. There were no lights, save for a few flickering wax candles arranged haphazardly on the floor. The furniture, such as it was, was black and gloomy. The curtains were black. Everything was black. In the middle of the room was a large black desk, behind which were four men wearing robes. Black robes. Long, voluminous black robes that swallowed up their bodies so that you couldn't tell a thing about who was inside. Bernard thought about this for a minute, and by applying his massive intellect to the problem he soon determined two things: 1. The men in black robes were obviously evil, and probably wore black robes for easy identification. 2. If the men in black robes spent most of their time in black rooms full of black furniture, they probably spent a lot of time bumping into things. Standing in front of the desk, in a small pool of light, stood a man in red robes of office. He had a black fur hat on his head, a vomit-inducing half-bald parrot on his shoulder, a series of gold chains around his neck, and a peculiar resemblance to Peter Lorre. There were probably many places this man wanted to be, but here, in front of these people in dark robes, was not one of them. "Now then," said one of the men in dark robes, "now that we have completed the old business we can get onto the new business. With that in mind, I have invited one of our agents in Bakersfield, Mr. Argbargle, to testify in front of the committee." *** "Evil By Committee," muttered Wilf. "Is there any hope for us?" "You're interrupting my flashback," replied Bernard testily. "Let me continue, please:" *** "Mr. Argbargle, things have gotten out of hand lately. The Society has been... active. For once." The voice of the man in black robes was smooth, seductive, and vaguely European. It conjured up the immage of a man who appreciated the finer things in life - fine food, wine, women, and killing little rabbits. "Yes, sir." Argbargle's voice, on the other hand, only conjured up phlegm. Lots of it. "Following recent incidents, the committee recently decided after three weeks of debate and two draft papers that it was necessary to act quickly. Somehow, the Society has started to learn how we really operate, and how to defeat us - almost as if they know our next move." "Hmm..." mused the second voice. "Just a thought, but perhaps they're reading the Hansard?" asked a second voice. "Fool! Nobody can stomach the Hansard of Ancient Evil!" replied the first voice. "Besides which, you're out of line. IF you have new business, please file one of THESE forms..." - there was a rustling noise - "with the clerk on your way out. Back to the purpose of our discussion - Argbargle, why haven't you killed Hieronymous Smith yet?!" "Ummm...." sputtered Argbargle, "I'm just the mayor, Lords. Sirs. Umm. Whatever. I can't kill anybody." "What CAN you do?" asked a third voice. "Well, I can raise their property tax, and I arranged for a three-week garbage strike last April..." *** "Hah!" screamed Wilf. "Wait 'till I tel Maggie, she owes me five quid. 'Oh no,' she says, 'there's no way that a garbage strike could be the work of diabolical forces! It's just the People exercising themselves!' Bah! As if! If the people wanted exercisin', they should do Kung Fu like normal people! Or Special Training! Yes, that's it!" Hieronymous kicked Wilf in the shins. "Shut up for a minute, will you?" he asked. Wilf simply glowered and went to retrieve his jar of Mrs. Vulpenia's Patriotic Shin Cream from the car. "Sorry, Bernard... what happened next?" *** "In that case," replied the first voice, "it becomes necessary to do the unthinkable: get somebody else to kill him." The fourth man said nothing. The fourth man never says anything. "All of our agents are currently occupied," said the second voice. "With what?" spluttered the third voice. "Being evil," replied the second voice. "Who approved THAT?! Pass me the Hansard." There was the sound of the rustling of pages, a violent scream, a Kraka-THOOM sound and then nothing, save for a disturbing sizzling sound like bacon frying. "Oh dear," said the second voice. "I do wish he hadn't tried to read the Hansard of Ancient Evil." "Enough," replied the first voice. "Make a note, clerk - place ad in Classified Section for new Third Voice of Council of Ancient Evil." "That was the clerk," replied the second voice. "Blast," replied the first voice. "This is highly unprocedural. Anyhow, let us continue. Argbargle, as Head of Monetary Evil for our Bakersfield division, it falls upon you to hire a contractor... or maybe a few of them might be better. Naturally, you will be required to have your choices approved by the committee." "I have already thought of that, Lord, Sir, Umm," replied Argbargle hesitantly. "BWAARRK!" screeched the parrot. "That is why I have taken the liberty of putting together this " - Argbargle held aloft a large binder full of paper - " list of appropriate candidates. With your permission, I would like to leave this with the committee for further discussion." "Very well," replied the second voice. "Let's have a look." Argbargle deposited the book hesitantly on the desk, and the three Evil Men in Black Robes opened it up and took a look. "Hmm..." replied the first. "Terry the Twelve-Inch Tanto. Is that because he has a..." "You don't want to know, Lord," replied Argbargle. "Really." *** "So," continued Bernard, "they kept talking about who to hire for awhile - but I decided that discretion is the better part of valour." "Interesting," said Wilf thoughtfully. "So the Mayor of Bakersfield is in cahoots with the Ancient Evil, eh? Not only that, but they know about you. Oh well." "Oh well?!" spluttered Hieronymous. "The Ancient Evil is sending people to kill me, I've just gotten a challenge attached to a pile of herring, and you tell me to RELAX?!" "Don't worry about the Ancient Evil's people," replied Wilf. "You heard Bernard - until their usual people get done with whatever they're doing, they're just sending contractors. Regardless, now we have no time to lose. Oh ah. Anyways, there's only one thing to do." "What's that?" asked Hieronymous. "Finish your breakfast, lad, and meet me in the backyard. It's time for Special Training!" "Oh, crap," said Hieronymous Smith. *** Once upon a time there were many old, wise, Shaolin monks. If you're a martial arts junkie, you'll probably have seen films about them. You'll know that they subjected themselves to horribly rigorous training methods, so rigorous that those who suffer through them walk away shaken and mumbling to themselves, "My goodness, that was a rigorous training method." Except they probably say it in Chinese. Anyway, nobody really knows whether all of that stuff is true, and whether Shaolin monks can do everything that is attributed to them. These days martial arts is a hobby, not a profession. Nobody has the time to spend working on their Iron Palm, and nobody has what it takes to do the Cotton Needle set on top of the Plum Blossom Poles, overlooking a big pit full of large, spiky objects. In Bakersfield, however, people have no lives. There are folks in Bakersfield who are determined to practice the Old Ways, in as much as what they think are the old ways are really what they've seen out of old Kung Fu films. They crack walnuts, they stand in the horse stance, they try to cultivate their chi and they practice the Iron Shirt until you can clobber them over the back with a two by four... and the two by four will shatter. Does all this work? We'll find out eventually. What is important, however, is the emphasis that the Martial Artists of Bakersfield put on Special Training. Everybody has their own Special Training methods - Bernard Petroff, for instance, hurls himself at large, concrete objects to toughen himself up. This explains quite a lot, really. Louis swears by special "protein drinks" that aren't. Mrs. Maple favours swimming in a large pool filled with lime Jello to build up endurance; this mental image has caused scarring for life. Rottingus Harbnottle, Mad Hermit, spent several years meditating on top of a snowy mountain in Tibet in order to truly understand moonshine distillation processes and accuracy with a shotgun loaded with rock salt. Petunia the Goth, in order to achieve her lifelong dream of snaring a boyfriend with a minimum leg length of two meters, has... ... you get the idea. Everybody in Bakersfield *knows* that when you really need Special Training, the person who you really need to talk to is Wilf. Wilf is wise. Sometimes. Wilf knows things. Sometimes. If you are willing to pay the price, and sometimes even if you're not, Wilf can help you improve your ability to do anything you want. It should be noted at this point that Wilf really, really likes Martial Arts movies, especially Sammo Hung in The Magnificent Butcher. It should also be noted that Wilf is about to train Hieronymous to fight a duel against an enemy of unknown strength. Be afraid, Hieronymous. Be afraid.