Connie and I walk out of the theater, shaking our heads. Damn Nazgul got up three times for nachoes once the Ents started attacking. Bitches. We could take them out, but instead we opt for ice cream. Sitting in the corner booth of the small parlor, we go over what we know.

Connie shifts in her seat, licking her cone. "Miracleman's doing ... something. After that last fiasco, ita's been keeping a closer watch on him."

"Yeah, Hector's been keeping the town apprised of anything funky. Our Darling Hecubus has a nice deal going there."

"Well, look at the mess from last time. We had to do something. "

"I am not taking Bob and the boys out for a midnight flight in the middle of winter. Not enough polar fleece in the world to deal with that kind of wind chill."

Dang! I just realized this place has no apparent phone system whatsoever. It didn't bother me at the house, but now I need one.

Ah, well. Perhaps casting a message to the winds will work. Stranger things have happened. In fact, they happened yesterday.

ita, are you free Monday? I have my boots, gauntlets, knives and my .22 (Yes, I know you're not a gun person but we can't all be blade belles). I'm thinking a nice morning of hunting in the Eastern woods. You up?

Wondering the streets, Hector and I chat a while, trying to keep our eyes open for estate agents but also enjoying the festive lights.

"So," I say to Hector, in the intrests of having a little conversation, "You're a bogeyman, huh?"

"That's what Miracleman says, and I suppose he knows. But my mother always told me we were bogarts, and should be proud of it."

"Probably a generic term, instead of the exact species. William Darjeeling's excellent book, 'A Plodonoctologist's Guide to the Demonic Beasties of Temperate Earth' would tell you, but I left my copy at home."

"Plodonoctology?"

"Study of things that go bump in the night. A word invented by Darjeeling himself-- he's David Attenbourgh's Satanic double, you know. Here, an estate agent."

Several hours later, we're in what Hector calls the 'Dalrymple District'. The man who's showing us houses is bored, and so am I. "It's your standard detactched 3bed, 2bath, 4door, 3ley,6AU, 5POV, 1Mpreg townhouse," he drawls.

The sixth one we've seen, it has a major advantage over the others: it's furnished. More comfortable for the Discordian rituals if you don't have to perform them on bare floorboards. "I'll take it." I hand the man Miracleman's blue plastic cabbage leaf, and he rubs it through a device on his belt, which beeps twice and spews out paper.

"Will you be moving in at once?"

"I'll stay now, if that's okay."

"That's fine," he smiles, hands me the keys, and leaves.

I hand the plastic cabbage back to Hector. "Here- take this back to your..." Master? Flat-mate? Lover? "Back to Miracleman. Tell him thanks, and I'll see him soon."

When Hector's left, I take a good look around. No books, sadly, but the beds are all made. Now I can faint on my own time, I don't feel the least bit tired, so I set to dusting the place.

Well, I would, but there aren't any conveinent stakes and I'm not sure where the heart of a house is, so it'll just have to stay undead for now. I light a fire in the hearth, pull out the best oragen-saft, and sit to watch the flames leap up the chimbney.

I wonder: will anyone around here sell me a vegetarian hotdog on Sweetmorn?

Well, I would, but there aren't any conveinent stakes and I'm not sure where the heart of a house is, so it'll just have to stay undead for now.

t giggles

My hand touches a piece of paper in my pocket. I don't remember having placed it there, but one knows what they say about stranger thing, especially in Sang Sacre.

The handwriting is my own, the message is not.

I will need meat by Monday. And I always need the exercise. I don't think any of the wildlife has been shot before. I hope they don't decide to retaliate.

Hmmm. I don't recall buying an answering machine, but there it is, blinking away. Still no phone, though.

Yay, ita! Although her tone is a bit ominous. I think I'll bring my bow and snares, just in case the woods object to anything noisy.

Memo to self: Buy a spit.

So, now...what next?

Ah, yes. That "Penny B." evidently had need of a wizard. This doesn't feel like "Yoiks, dear sir, I'm being haunted by interdimensional undead Amway salesmen with a taste for human bile" or whatnot. I relax a bit before I sit before my scrying mirror. Probably no gibbons.

Someone, presumably this "Penny B." appears to be preparing for mayhem. Hm. Maybe it's gibbons after all.

I'll do the old flaming-letters-on-the-wall trick, I guess, to find out what she wants.

I watch in the black mirror as "What can Miracleman do for you today?" appears in livid infernal letters on her wall.

Firey letters appear on my wall. "What can Miracleman do for you today?"

Since I didn't ask for his help- and when I needed it, I went for fainting into his arms- I guess that he's got a crossed ley-line somewhere. I pull a small mirror out of my pocket, and do a quick scry. Penny B. Now where does she live?

Oh- they are appearing on her wall- but they're on mine as well. Tricky wizard is using my house as an intermediate point! He's sending his message along the ley lines (as one normally does) but then he's using my wall to change the direction!

I might have to do something about that. Stealing bandwidth isn't nice.

When I go out for that hotdog, I'll ask around. See if there's anyone else around who's looking to take over the world and crush wizard-kind in the process.

Oh, heck. You go out for a few days and the messages back up. This one is on my wall in fiery letters. The letters vanish upon reading. Cool. Fortunately, I'm ready. Field testing went well in dry, rushing water and even snow conditions.

I grab a piece of hand made paper from the big table and scrawl a note. "Dear Miracleman,

I would like to meet with you Tuesday afternoon at your quarters, if that is convenient. I shouldn't need more than 20 minutes of your time, and I think our meeting will be mutually beneficial. Don't worry about direction - I will find you."

I fold the note into a paper airplane and fling it out the window. It glides down the block rather purposefully and disappears around a corner.

Satisfied with business for the time being, I haul in my new spit. It needs seasoning, but should be ready for a turkey or any other medium-sized beast by Monday.