CHAPTER THREE: TRAINING DAY
--

Hieronymous Smith woke up in bed and blinked his eyes once or twice. His
bedroom at the building that served as a combination residence and
training facility for the ... well, the whatever they were... was large,
spacious, and was replete with hardwood floors and, strangely enough, blue
wallpaper complete with pictures of cute little ducks and bunnies. All the
furniture in this room was very, very old. Most of it was made out of
solid wood, and the antique electric light on the dresser beside his bed
had a little tag on it saying "Property of T. Edison" on it.

He felt around on the floor with his feet, searching for his slippers.
Pulling them on, Hieronymous blinked and groaned a little more. A little
more blinking and groaning, and as his eyes and brain finally connected,
he noticed Wilf standing in front of him with a very large tray full of
food.

"Mornin'," said Wilf cheerfully. "I made you breakfast." Hieronymous
stared at the collection of items on the tray. There were two fried eggs,
two pieces of fried ham, several fried sausages, five strips of fried
bacon, a fried kipper, fried potatoes, fried bread, fried mushrooms, fried
tomatoes, fried rice, an eight ounce steak, and an assortment of other
strange and exotic foodstuffs that had only one thing in common: they were
fried. Next to the plate of fried objects stood a mug of tea and a glass
of orange juice.

"Wilf," said Hieronymous, "Is there anything on that tray that isn't
fried?"

"Nah," grinned Wilf. "I only do one thing, but I do it well." He set the
tray down on the bed. Hieronymous picked up a fork, stabbed at something
at random, and chewed. It was... fried.

"What is this?" he asked. Wilf stared at the object on the fork for a
moment.

"Kumquat," replied Wilf.

Hieronymous was suspicious. "Wilf," he asked, "did you just take a random
assortment of objects out of the fridge and throw them in the frying pan?"

"Yeah," replied Wilf. "I may not know much about cooking, but what I do I
do well." Hieronymous sighed, and continued eating his kumquat. "After
you've finished that, you can meet me in the dojo. Mrs. Maple's doing the
dusting, so she asked me to get you started with your training. Oh ah."

Hieronymous quickly ate those objects on his plate that were remotely
appealing, pulled on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, and made his way down
to the dojo. When he arrived, he was slightly concerned to find Wilf,
still wearing his giant coat, hat, and scarf, running extension cords into
the center of the dojo.

"What's going on?" asked Hieronymous.

"Oh ah," replied Wilf. "Being a young fellow and all, perhaps you've seen
that talking motion picture with the young gentleman who leaps off of
walls, dodges bullets, and dresses in black?" After a little more
explanation, Hieronymous thought he'd figured it out.

"The Matrix?" he asked.

"That's the one," replied Wilf. "You know that scene where they upload all
the knowledge about martial arts into his brain by sticking things in his
spinal column?"

"Y... yes," replied Hieronymous, not entirely sure that he cared for where
this was going. "You mean to say that you're going to do that to me?
Upload knowledge directly to my brain?"

"Something like that," replied Wilf. He shuffled out of the dojo and
returned a few minutes later pushing a very, very old film projector.
Underneath his arms were several large reels of film, an assortment of
tapes, and a cassette player. He plugged in the projector, aimed it at one
of the walls, and started hooking up one of the movies.

"That's IT?!" asked Hieronymous.

"Nope," replied Wilf, who shuffled out of the dojo again and returned with
a terrifying piece of metal on wheels that might, conceivably, be a chair.
"We also have the Head Clamps." Hieronymous stared at the chair for a
moment. Indeed, there were Head Clamps. "Now sit down and let me get this
adjusted."

Hieronymous gingerly sat down in the chair. Wilf strapped his arms to the
chair, positioned his cranium in the Head Clamps, and turned the chair so
that he faced the section of the dojo wall that was being used as a
screen.

"This may feel a bit... weird," said Wilf. He turned the projector and
tape recorder on. A few seconds later, and the opening credits appeared
for a Bruce Lee movie, sped up beyond all recognition. "We've got a lot of
tapes to go through," Wilf added, "so you'll have to watch these quickly."

Three hours later, Hieronymous Smith was sick and tired of Enter the
Dragon. Fortunately for him, that was when Mrs. Maple showed up, wearing
highly sensible clothing as was her wont.

"Oh no," she said upon witnessing the scene, "not the Head Clamps. Wilf,
get your audiovisual equipment out of here so I can actually teach this
nice young man something."

"Yes, Maggie," replied Wilf, as he slunk away with his projector and
films. Mrs. Maple freed Hieronymous from the Head Clamps and other
assorted devices, and pulled him to his feet.

"So," asked Hieronymous, "you're going to teach me Martial Arts?"

"Yes, dearie," replied Mrs. Maple. "I'm not sure what to start with,
though - any preferences? We could do Karate, Kempo, Tai Chi Ch'uan, Muay
Thai, Jui-Jitsu, Tae Kwon Do, Aikido, Choy Li Fut, Hung Gar, Wu Shu,
Ninjitsu..."

Hieronymous picked a name at random. "Uh... Aikido?"

"Alright," said Mrs. Maple, "that's as good as anything. You'll have to
learn them all eventually, you know..." She wandered over to a practice
mat and indicated that Hieronymous should follow. He did, slightly
worriedly.

"Okay," said Mrs. Maple, "now then... throw a punch at me."

"Like this?" asked Hieronymous, who gently moved his arm out in a forward
motion.

"KYAAH!" yelled the eighty year old woman in sensible shoes. WHAM.

"Yes," said Mrs. Maple as Hieronymous's world slowly spun back into focus.
"Something like that, dearie. Now next time you punch me and I flip you, I
want you to push your arms out like this, and relax your shoulders a
little..."

"Like this?" asked Hieronymous, as he staggered to his feet and tried to
throw another punch.

"HIYA-HUT!" WHAM.

"Sort of, dearie... now this time, use your hips more, and try to blend
with the mat."

Three hours later, Hieronymous was royally sick and tired of aikido. Mrs.
Maple had apparently decided that his attempts to blend at the mat were
unsuccessful, and had taken it upon herself to assist him with blending at
the mat by throwing him at it at high velocity. Repeatedly. After awhile,
Mrs. Maple decided that her arthritis was playing up, and proceeded to
show Hieronymous a number of techniques that he could use to hurl himself
at the ground for no apparent reason. Instructing Hieronymous to keep
practicing until the Psychic Apostle arrived, she went off to find some
epsom salts.

Hieronymous practiced throwing himself at the ground for another two
hours. The ground refused to move.

At twelve thirty the Psychic Apostle arrived; his arrival was heralded by
the sound of him stumbling around and bumping into walls and furniture.
Hieronymous stared in mute fascination as the ancient Asian man stumbled
into the abandoned Subconscious Expansion Chair, and wound up trapped in
the Head Clamps.

Hieronymous quickly disentangled the elderly man, who proceeded to sit
down on the floor in a cross-legged pose. The Psychic Apostle happily
stared off into space with a big smile on his face.

"Hang on," said Hieronymous to nobody in particular, "there's a note on
your back." He peeled the note off of the Psychic Apostle's back, where it
was held on with tape. It read:

	See me in the greenhouse after you're done with the Psychic
Apostle. - Louis

"Now then," Hieronymous thought to himself, "what exactly does one DO with
a Psychic Apostle who's blind, deaf, and mute?" The Psychic Apostle smiled
at him serenely. Not knowing what else to do, Hieronymous sat down on the
floor, crossed his legs, and stared moodily at the Psychic Apostle for two
hours.

By now, it was late in the afternoon, and Hieronymous realized that he
hadn't had lunch yet. He left the Psychic Apostle contemplating his navel
and wandered down to the kitchen, where he found Wilf reading the Ojibwe
Military Surplus Home-Order Catalogue, and making notes on a small piece
of paper.

"What's for lunch?" Hieronymous asked, and was promptly hit in the head by
a flying bologna sandwich. Wilf never seemed to move an inch from where he
was sitting. Hieronymous thoughtfully chewed on the sandwich, and headed
down to the greenhouse.

The greenhouse was situated in the yard behind the large mansion, and was
surrounded by empty cardboard boxes labelled "Hydroponics". Hieronymous
opened the door to the greenhouse, and walked in. He was not surprised in
the slightest to note that half of the greenhouse was filled with trays of
mushrooms growing in dirt, and the other half with plants that he was
quite sure weren't ferns. In the midst of the chaos was Louis, wearing a
tie-dyed "Never Trust a Prankster" t-shirt and hemp trousers and smoking a
pipe. The smoke had a smell that was somewhere between marijuana and
burning rubber tires.

"You wanted to see me?" asked Hieronymous.

"I did indeed," said Louis. He wandered back to a table and returned with
a couple of glasses and a pitcher of red liquid. "But first have some
Kool-Aid." Hieronymous accepted the drink gratefully - the day had made
him thirsty.

"Thanks," said Hieronymous. "I appreciate that. Now what did you want to
talk to me about?"

Louis blew a smoke ring. "It's like this, man," he said. "It's come to my
attention that you aren't exactly the strongest man alive. That is why I
have spent the past day preparing massive quantities of anabolic
steroids."

"Uh," said Hieronymous Smith.

"No need to thank me," said Louis.

"It's not that," Hieronymous replied. "It's just that I'd rather not take
homemade anabolic steroids. Thanks, though."

"Oh, c'mon," Louis wheedled. "The chicks'll be all over you with your new
muscles."

"No thanks," said Hieronymous. He looked down for a minute, and suddenly
noticed that the greenhouse floor was wobbling, like it was made out of
jello. He blinked for a moment, and it disappeared.

"Umm..." he started, then turned amazed as the mushrooms in the greenhouse
grew larger, then sprouted little legs and began to dance on the tabletop.
He collapsed as the world exploded in colour and light and dancing
mushrooms. Through the din he heard Wilf's voice, echoing strangely:

"Hieronymous? We... oh no. Louis, you didn't give him any of your damn
kool-aid did you?"

"Er....."

Well, thought Hieronymous Smith to himself as a mushroom jumped on his
chest and started dancing like a Russian Cossack, today HAS been
interesting.