CHAPTER FIFTEEN: THE GREAT CHALLENGE! -- [ Editor's Note: Once again, we apologize for the ever-increasing delays in the serialization of the Chronicles of Hieronymous Smith. In order to surmount rising labour costs, we attempted to outsource the dramatization of this series to a call center in Bangladesh. Instead of a novel, we received a video dramatization of this series entitled "The Chronicles of Hari Srivastana", with an all-singing, all-dancing, all-moustached cast of thousands, and poor customer service. The part of Wilf was played by a two hundred year old fakir with a dirty loincloth and an Indian rope trick. In order to ensure that you, our reader, achieve the best Hieronymous Smith experience that we can get for the cheap, we have outsourced the production of this and further chapters to Ron Weaselsmith. Mr. Weaselsmith currently lives as a homeless tramp in the town of Meatlust, Oregon. We wish him well. -- The Management. ] "So?" asked Finkelstein, "do you have a car?" Bernard considered the superspy carefully. "I don't have a... car, per se," he said slowly, "but I do have a vehicle." "Splendid!" exclaimed Finkelstein. "Just as long as it'll get us to the YMCA in one piece. You know where that is, by the way?" "Of course," replied Bernard testily. "EVERYBODY knows where the YMCA is. Now come on - I'm double parked." The two men legged it down the streets of Bakersfield, and wound up in the parking lot behind the Buns of Steel Coffee Shop and Bakery. There, nestled in a space marked "RESERVED FOR LARGE VEHICLES, MILITARY WEAPONS AND ANTI-AIRCRAFT GUNS" was Bernard's vehicle. Finkelstein stared at it in awe. While his tongue was erudite, and despite the fact that he once boasted that he could beat, if not Shakespeare, at least a mildly besozzled Christopher Marlowe, he found that he had nothing to say. "It's a tank," he said at last. "Isn't it beautiful?" exclaimed Bernard happily. "My father got it for me for my sixteenth birthday. Now get in." They clambered into the iron belly of the beast, and Bernard locked the door shut and revved up the engines. "You can man the gun while I drive," said Bernard. "Why would I do that?" "In case we want to shoot things, of course!" "Oh," said Finkelstein. He hadn't thought of that. Now that he had thought of it, however, he rather liked the idea. Shooting things was good. Bernard snorted and started to drive. --- It was now one o'clock in the afternoon; Hieronymous's mysterious challenge was slated for five o'clock so that after the inevitable carnage everybody could go and enjoy a nice, relaxing dinner. Hieronymous wasn't particularily worried. Knowing the adversaries that he'd faced so far - in other words, Bernard - his opponent probably practiced Martial Arts Gumboot Dancing or some other ridiculous art form. Wilf, on the other hand, was visibly upset. He held a borgelnuskie in one hand and a pitcher of root beer in the other, and took bites out of them indiscriminately. "Oh, ah, bauggergh," he mumbled to himself. "Where are Maggie and Louis? Where's the Restaurant Owner? They were supposed to be here hours ago, and we can't have a challenge without..." His musings were interrupted by the sound of a honking automobile horn. Off in the distance, Hieronymous could see Louis's faithful Volkswagen Rabbit slowly making its way down onto the front lawn. "Bloody hell!" Wilf grumped. "It's about time." The doors of the Rabbit opened and Louis emerged, followed by Mrs. Maple and the Restaurant Owner, who always kept changing his business and his appearance. Today he was dressed like the chef of a major restaurant ought to be dressed, complete with a chef's hat that was about two feet tall. To Hieronymous's bewilderment, the back seat of the Rabbit was filled with what looked like samurai armour. "We came as soon as we could," said Louis. "I fixed the Rabbit today, but I didn't quite fix it enough and the transmission fell in the lake..." "Never mind that," barked Wilf. "We've got a challenge to get ready for. Maggie, you go and alert the... Hieronymous, lad, who's in charge of this shindig here?" "The Grand Astroglide," replied Hieronymous. "Oh, good. The.... the WHAT?!" Wilf stared at Hieronymous as though he had suddenly sprouted daffodils from his ears. "Does he know what that particular product is?" "Don't ask," muttered Hieronymous. "He thought it sounded impressive, and doesn't know what it means. You can't argue with the Grand Astroglide." "You're all bonkers," muttered Mrs. Maple as she headed in the direction of the largest, most opulent tent on the back lawn. Hieronymous suddenly had a very disturbing thought. "Wilf?" he asked. "Oh ah?" "How do YOU know what Astroglide is?" Wilf considered the question carefully. "Ever tried to tear apart a grilled cheese sandwich?" he asked. Hieronymous hadn't, and was very sorry that he'd asked. "I'm sorry I asked," he said. "Good for you," muttered Wilf. He turned his attention to the restaurant owner. "Now, did you bring the Challenge Things?" "Everything is in the back of the car," replied the Restaurant Owner, "exactly as you requested." His voice retained a faint trace of the Indian accent that he had sported when he was playing the role of Captain Nemo at the Undersea Curry Adventure. Maybe this is what he really looks like, Hieronymous mused. "Good!" exclaimed Wilf. "Now help the lad put it all on." "What?!" asked Hieronymous. "You want me to fight in... in that pile of Japanese cast-offs?" "Absolutely!" exclaimed Wilf. "The Ancient Society Members have ALWAYS worn the official challenge uniforms when they go into combat. Heck, I have to put mine on too. I haven't worn this thing since... oh, gosh, since I was on the run from..." "Who?" "Can't remember. Oh ah." Hieronymous wondered, not for the first time, if Wilf wasn't completely sane. In fact, he had serious doubts that sanity entered anywhere into Wilf's mental makeup. Lately he had noticed very large signs on his road of life, saying, "Danger! Insane Little Old Men!" Then his brakes would fail, and he would always wake up in a cold sweat. When he got back to sleep, he would always have that dream about Bernard Petroff, naked, and he would always wake up in an even colder sweat. He was certainly forced to admit that he had not been sleeping well lately. Hieronymous considered what to do about this fact while Wilf and the Restaurant Owner helped him into piece after piece of obsolete, bulky, and obscure Japanese samurai equipment. The armour experience reminded him somewhat of the time when a seventh-grader had trapped him in a locker at the tender age of five. It even smelled like mouldy gym socks. Finally the helmet was placed on his head and the procession lurched off towards the challenge field. Hieronymous led the way, moving his legs forward like some sort of a zombie. Wilf followed, banging a gong; behind him, the Restaurant Owner shook a small tambourine. The Restaurant Owner's daughter held up the rear; she was holding a pitchfork, and looked like she wanted to stab people with it. As Hieronymous walked through the crowd of Smiths, the crowd of Smiths began to slowly fall behind him. The mood of the party slowly became somber. There was low whispering. Some of them withdrew weapons from underneath their jackets. Others held borgelnuskies, which can be used as a weapon in times of duress. Somebody handed Hieronymous a shotgun full of rock salt, and he grabbed it appreciatively. It didn't matter who he was going to be fighting; they were his family. Some of these people he had never met, but they were his family and if the fight didn't go his way... they might slip up behind the challenger and hit him with a blackjack. Just in case. For the first time in many weeks, Hieronymous felt a little reassured. --- "Listen, are you sure this is the main road?" "Yes!" said Finkelstein. "I'm just not sure which main road this is! And don't drive so fast!" Truly, Bernard noted, they WERE driving fast. The brakes didn't seem to be working all that well. He wasn't sure why a tank needed brakes, but somehow or another this one did. He wondered if his "Student Driver" sign had fallen off yet. --- The Restaurant Owner handed Wilf a megaphone. The crowd of Smiths respectfully parted in order to let Wilf speak. "We have accepted your challenge!" exclaimed Wilf. "Hieronymous Smith has come to accept the challenge. Let the challenger appear!" There was a pause. Hieronymous vaguely hoped that the challenger had given up and had gone home. "I repeat," exclaimed Wilf, "let the challenger - " He stopped mid-sentence as the crowd of Smiths parted and a six-foot tall Nordic blond with a giant scroll attached to his back worked his way through the crowds. He threw the scroll on the ground, faced Hieronymous, and suddenly took his shirt off and flung it to the ground. You could have used his chest to teach an anatomy lesson. The female members of the crowd applauded politely. "And you are?" asked the Restaurant Owner. "My name," said the stranger, "is... Asuma K. Dango!" The Restaurant Owner studied the stranger. "You're full of beans," he said at last. "Like I haven't heard THAT one before," said Asuma K. Dango. "Now... prepare to die, Hieronymous!" Without a word, he lunged at Hieronymous. Hieronymous reacted instantly; he pulled the emergency-release cord on the armour and lunged backwards, wearing nothing but his boxers, into the Stance of the Ocelot. The female members of the crowd cheered appreciately some more. "This is like one of those wierd novels you keep reading, Maggie," snapped Wilf. Mrs. Maple said nothing, but simply watched the two youth. Hieronymous circled Dango, waiting for him to make a move. Dango was curled up in a stance unlike anything he had ever seen. He looked cocky. "That's not a martial arts stance," said Mrs. Maple suddenly. "Pardon me?" said the Restaurant Owner. "How can you tell?" "He's got a great big hole in his defense," replied Mrs. Maple. "Look, his flank. Will the boy...?" There was a brief pause as Hieronymous leapt forward, his right fist extended into the Tiger Claw, his left hand twisted into the Mushroom Fist. There was a crunch and the sound of bones breaking and teeth flying; Dango collapsed to the ground. "He did it," said Mrs. Maple. "I knew we taught him somethi... he's getting up?!" Her mouth hung open and her dentures fell out. "How could he get up after a hit like that?" Sure enough, Asuma K. Dango was slowly pulling himself to his feet. There was a mushroom-shaped bruise across his abdominal muscles. "So," he said, "you want to play rough?" "Fine," said Hieronymous. Dango smiled. Then he blurred. "Bugger!" said Wilf. "How the hell can he do that trick?! That's MY trick! I taught the boy, that was supposed to be his ace in the hole... oh, bugger, oh sod, oh holy..." Hieronymous turned around, but it was too late. Then he felt... something pushing into an area where things normally only come out of. With a sudden cry of shock and alarm, he leapt three feet into the air. "... that's NOT a martial arts move," said Mrs. Maple. "In fact, that's..." She started to laugh. "What?" said Wilf. "What's so funny?" Hieronymous landed on the ground; somehow he found the strength to roll into a landing position. "WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR?!" he yelled. "IF I'D KNOWN YOU WERE GOING TO STICK YOUR FINGERS UP THERE, I'D HAVE LEFT MY ARMOUR BACK ON!" "Ancient pressure point technique," said Dango. "Attacks the prostate." He smirked; his smile could launch a thousand ships, provided that nobody was particular about where they headed. "So do you admit defeat?" "No," said Hieronymous. He spun into a reverse wheel kick, which shortly changed into a scissor kick and then a jump kick. Dango spun around on the ground; next thing Hieronymous knew, he was lying on the ground with Dango on top of him.. and a tongue down his throat. And somehow, they were both naked. The female members of the crowd cheered. The male members of the crowd, clearly seeing where things were going, had already left to watch baseball. "Mmpph!" exclaimed Hieronymous. His knee went up, and there was a sound vaguely reminiscent of two eggs being broken. Dango made a pathetic-sounding 'eep' noise, and rolled over onto the ground. "WHAT SORT OF MARTIAL ART DO YOU CALL THAT?!" exclaimed Hieronymous loudly. A brief look of confusion passed over Asuma K. Dango's face. "... martial art?" asked the challenger. He leapt out of the way of Hieronymous's next attack, still clutching his injured regions, and hobbled over to his clothing. He rummaged around in his pockets and pulled out a sheet of paper, studying it intently. Hieronymous ran up behind him and prepared to deliver a knife hand to the neck, but Wilf appeared in front of him and stopped him. "What did you do that for?" asked Hieronymous. "The battle's over," said Wilf. "In fact, we can call this a complete draw as it is clearly a win for nobody whatsoever." He turned his attention to Dango, who had found his underwear and an icepack and was busy attempting to figure out just where he had gone wrong. "I don't get it," said Dango. "How could I have been... so defeated?" "Now look," said Wilf gently, "this is why you should always seek instruction under a trained master. What you have there... is a marital arts course." "Mari-" said Hieronymous. "LOOK OUT!" somebody yelled. Hieronymous and the Restaurant Owner turned around in time to see a very large tank roaring down the road leading to the YMCA. The top of the tank opened, and a familiar looking idiot stuck his head out and addressed his arch rival. "It is I, Bernard Petroff! And... er, the brakes aren't working. Help?" Wilf turned to Hieronymous. "Just between you and me," he mused, "I don't think that Finkelstein is quite as good at the subtle bits of the spying game as he used to be. Oh ah." With a sickening sound of metal smashing into brick, the armoured Ojibwe Military Surplus Tank crashed head-on into the offices of Deacon Willsop, who was busy dreaming of better days when he used to be a hockey coach. A terrible, earth-shattering bellow emerged from the YMCA. "..... WWWWWWWILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLFFFFFFFFFF!!!!!" "Ah, that'd be the Deacon," mused Wilf happily. His eyes crinkled with happiness. "What a good day this has been." "Indeed!" exclaimed the Restaurant Owner. "And while we are here, I wish to announce... I HAVE OPENED A NEW RESTAURANT!" "Gee, what a surprise," chorused Wilf and Hieronymous. "No, no," replied the Restaurant Owner. "This is my best effort yet - and you are all - yes, all of you Smiths, and wandering martial artists, and other assorted lunatics - you are all invited to eat for free at my new restaurant!" The Smiths cheered. There was nothing a Smith liked more than free food, except maybe a good fight and a rousing bout of fornication. They clambered into their vehicles and RVs, and a steady stream of cars were soon driving down the highway towards Bakersfield. Hieronymous found himself sitting on top of a Russian-made Dexeldorf double-decker tour bus, next to a familiar looking girl with knee-high white boots and a skirt that barely covered her underwear. "It's you!" he exclaimed. "That stripper from... from the thingy!" "I'm not a stripper," replied the girl. "I'm a Magical Girl. I only strip on the weekdays to pay my tuition fees at Magical Girl School." "Oh," mused Hieronymous. He had never suspected that there WAS a magical girl school. "Unlike you, some of us don't have ancient organizations to sponsor us, ya know!" sniped the girl, with more than a little resentment. Hieronymous briefly wondered why everybody hated him, then decided that some questions were best left unanswered.