"Guys, I suspect, it's just an idea, that these mirror things are a way out of here, because they're mirrors, right?" Cripes. I think tension and cold are cutting off circulation to my brain. "I want get one, or maybe more to keep still on the ground. Yeah. Also, if you caught the thing, maybe that means that my pleasant suggestions in this world act like curses in the other one. That was my theory."

Did that make any sense at all? I'm not sure. I feel dizzy and claustrophobic, and the damned bear is screaming like a tea kettle.

"So curse them! Suggest them! Whatever! Just do it before I feel the need for a human shield." BlackPants is getting really tense. He seems to have absorbed most of the brains of the group, though. What is it about evil boosting the IQ? Where have I heard that?

"Hey, Mirror Guys," I begin in my most soothing voice. "Why don't you take a load off. Stick around a while. Relax... just... relax... relax..."

I clamp a hand over edward to cork his screaming. It becomes very quiet. Too quiet? I risk a whisper. "Is it working?"

I check the flyers choking the mail box.

"A Vote for Aeshma is a vote for change? Vote early, vote often?" Huh. "Hey, honey, there's some sort of a vote going on. Is this an election year or is it another poll to decide how Jilli should have her bangs cut?"

I ignore the little bear's screaming and the erosion of my chest and the stone cold and listen.

"I don't hear anything."

"You could be a little more aggressive with the cursing," says Snidely. "Try get lost. Drop dead. Go to hell."

"An you please, fair inhabitants of the mirror dimension, molest us not in our passage through your fair realm," suggests Dudley the Do-Gooder. "Stand aside and let us pass!"

"who talks like that?" asks Edward.

"I don't know, babe," I whisper.

"I'll handle the cursing," says Penny. "You guys just keep walking!"

We keep walking. It's horribly cold, and my insides become my outsides become my upside-downsides. I miss my couch.

And suddenly, light blinds me. I cover my eyes and lower my head, blinking to readjust. "What happened? Where are we?"

"A hall of mirrors," says one of us, I'm not sure which. "Does this mean we're out?"

"I don't know," I say. "I've never been here."

"I can't see," says Penny.

"Me neither." Something brushes against my leg. I lean down to pick it up--it's some sort of paper. I squint at it. It looks like an election flyer. "Vote for Aeshma!" with lots of bullets for dicatorial experience and something about rounding up the opposition.

"Dudes, is it an election year?"

"Probably both," I mutter.

I sit at the table pouring over the 'Fuzzy Pumper Orthanc' instructions, wondering why in the hell they are written in Hellspeak. My command of the language is poor at best, but I'm fairly certain that the play doh we've been using to make orcs is actually ectoplasm. That would explain their come-to-life-run-amokedness.

I rub my jaw and stare at the box on the counter. A disturbing thought crosses my mind. The kind of thought that seems to take on a life of its own, as soon as you think it. I know the next few moments will probably lead to some horrible, yet zany, situation, but screw it. Ya only live once, eh?

I get up, reach into the Fuzzy Pumper box, grab up some writhing orcs and throw them into the electric mixer. From under the counter I haul out some flour, and brown sugar. I turn on the mixer and watch as both completed orcs and half formed ones scramble to get out of the way of the beaters, running around the bowl like some crazed marathoners being chased by a chainsaw-wielding maniac. I trip up the quicker ones with a wooden spoon and grin as the beaters reduce them back to demonic sludge. When little more than a clotted paste is left, I add the other dry ingredients. I grate fresh ginger and add it to the bowl, followed by butter and salt. A quick turn with the bread mixer attachment gives me a large brown lump of mealy dough.

This, I plop onto the counter. It gives a kind of yelp, which I end with a backhand from the wooden spoon. Grabbing up the rolling pin, I knead and stretch and roll the dough until it is long and flat.

Turning back to the counter, I search through the cluttered gadget drawer and eventually find the cookie cutter box. I rifle the contents of the box and extract several cutters. They are copper and in the shape of creatures from the Cthulhu Mythos. Just holding them gives a sense of dread in the pit of my stomach.

I pause.

No going back from here.

But like mad scientists have done throughout the ages, I simply shrug and turn back to my creation.

My tongue periodically hangs from the side of my mouth as I cut, and I hum Wagner's 'Flight of the Valkyries'.

"What are you doing, dear," Elena says from the parlour.

"Demon gingerbread," I respond, cutting furiously.

"Oh, that's nice. I like Mal, could you make gingerbread Mals?"

I pause. "No. They don't make those cutters."

She shrieks with laughter at something on the TV. I don't think she heard me.

I turn back to my task. Now cut, I lay the cookie-demons onto a baking sheet. I grab up a scorched oven mit and edge close to the oven. Pulling open the door very quickly, I surprise the fire Afrit within. Before the little flamer can project a gout of fire at my face, I toss in the cookie sheet and slam the door. It howls with rage, swearing in arabic. The little djinn is not happy.

Trapped, it has no choice but to obey my wishes. I whisper that the cookies are to be cooked perfectly and the little monster growls in dissatisfaction. I know that it'll obey though. I have sixteen dozen cherry pies to prove it.

I barely wait a minute when a hoarse voice emits from the oven. "Done, you ill-begotten-son-of-a-donkey..."

I don't let it finish the insult, opening the door with a flourish. Ready, it gives a toothy grin and prepares to crisp my loins...or it would have...had I not had the extinguisher handy. I give it a face full of foam and the little bugger falls over choking. As it gags, I grab the tray of cookies, and once again, slam the door.

Ignoring the Afrit's protests and threats, I dump the hot ginger-demons onto the counter. I watch the pile of cookies for several minutes. They begin to twitch, then to move about slowly. One by one the netherworldly desserts stand.

Triumphant, I look up and yell, "THEY ARE ALIVE! ALIVE!"

"It's a little late to think about finding breakfast, isn't it?" I ask.

She nods. "There's also the matter of the perimeter breach on your secondary property. You might want to look into that before the pancakes."

"What?"

"The hall of mirrors. It's being used for dimension-hopping."

Well, fuck, of course. After I bought the ground and persuaded the traveling circus to leave behind the hall of mirrors for me, I'd sort of forgot about locking it up from anything but the physical realm. Even in an ordinary mirror-hall, all those reflections over and over could provide a focal point for a power that would be....

I take off running towards the ex- circus grounds. My twin stands where she is, smooths her hair down, picks a loose flyer off the ground. A Vote for Aeshma is a Vote for Change! it reads. She regards the colors of the slick, oily ink on the paper; then sets it back down on the sidewalk. When she walks away again, there's a patch of moss growing there.

Triumphant, I look up and yell, "THEY ARE ALIVE! ALIVE!"

t oh, dear

(bwah.)

"Dudes, is it an election year?"

"No."

"You sure?"

I sniff. "I'm the evil one, remember? If it was an election year, I'd know."

Considering our recent experiences, I'm reluctant to look into any more mirrors--but there isn't much choice. The ceiling and floor seem to be made of soft white light, and everything else is mirrors. Not wanting to create more trouble, I look at my fellow travelers. Which is when I see that Wishy-Washy is still holding the Shard in one hand, a flyer in the other.

"What's 'Autocratic' mean?" he asks.

"Why did you bring that with you?"

"I didn't, man. It was on the floor. Oh, you mean this dude? I kind of forgot about him, actually." He casually sets the Shard on the floor. It blinks and gives us a jagged glare, then runs down a corridor of mirrors.

"You mental incompetent! Why in the name of HGTV did you let him go?"

"My hand was cramping up."

This is the problem with truces. It's so rarely acceptable to kill the people you make them with.

"Still not home?"

"I fear not, my ursine friend," says the Do-Gooder, and although I detest his melodramatic phrasing I think he may be right.

"What did you just call me?"

"Hey, my clothes are on the right way again!" says Penny, and they are. It's far less cold here, as well.

"Hm."

"What's the 'Hm' for?" Penny asks. At least someone here recognizes my evil intelligence.

"We're in a hall of mirrors inside a mirror," I say. "This may not be a good thing."

"Smash the mirrors," says Wishy-Washy. "It worked for Conan."

"Smashing mirrors is what got us into our current difficulty," says the Do-Gooder. "Prudence is called for."

"Don't know her," says Wishy-Washy. "Hey, I think I might vote for this guy. He's for education, and more jobs, and something called 'trans-dimensional incursions by infernal creatures subservient to the Lord Mayor.'"

"I'm ignoring you," I say. "I'm open to suggestions."

"Go through the mirrors," suggests Edward.

"We may have to, but I'm reluctant to," I say.

"Why?" Penny asks.

"We are reflections at this point, more or less. And what is a reflection of a reflection?"

"The only way to check the back of your haircut?"

I really need some evil minions. They never try to be funny.

"My point is, I think we may be going deeper into the mirror dimension, rather than out. We have already traveled from a dangerous borderland to a chamber. I hesitate to guess what might be next."

"Do we have a choice?" asks the Do-Gooder.

"Perhaps. Let us investigate."

The ringing of my voice fades. I lower my arms and look down on my creations. I scratch my ear. An uncomfortable silence ensues.

The Cthonians writhe back and forth on the counter. As one, they raise their tentacles in greeting. I respond with a, "Hey."

The Hounds of Tindalos run to the corner, where the fridge and counter meet. One by one, they thud into the wall, each unable to figure out why they can't enter into the angle. Apparently their ability to travel through space and time is impaired by their gingerbreaded-ness.

The Deep Ones look at me expectantly. A smaller one, overcome with hunger, decides to bite off its hand. It croaks in pain and steamy-ginger-goodness fills the air. The rest of the pack smells this, and like something out of a Cousteau-esque nature documentary, fall upon their little brother like a school of pirhanna.

It apparently takes less than three seconds to skeletonize a gingerbread monster.

I turn away from the disturbing scene to look at the little gingerbread Nyarlathotep. The largest of all of the dessert demons, it stares back at me with its big tentacle of a head. A single eye on the tentacle blinks at me.

My heart pounds in my chest and my mouth goes dry. The room begins to feel too small and my body too hairy. The trees outside of the kitchen window begin to take on a sinster aspect. The knives and other instruments-de-cuisine mock me with their sharp shininess. The bottles of herbed oils and fragrant vinegars beckon to me, imploring me to drink their obviously poisonous contents.

I shake my head and grab a banana from the fruitbowl. I lunge onto the counter and pin the evil little bugger. Holding the fruit to its cyclopian eye, I yell, "STOP IT!"

Like being hit by a splash of cold water, the irrational fears fade. Dejected, Nyarlathotep pouts. Pretty impressive considering it doesn't have a discernable mouth.

I get off of the dark lord of the Cthulhu Mythos and confront the evil baked goods. "Okay, here's the drill. You don't make me crazy, and I don't eat you. Capish?"

The critters nod in unison.

"Now. What to do with you."

I yell out of the kitchen, "Honey? What should I do with a batch of ginger-demons?"

Without a missed beat, she responds. "Let them run for office."

I grunt. The Deep Ones all rub their chins speculatively. The Hounds nod amongst themselves. The genius Cthonians writhe in agreement. Ginger-Nyarlathotep scratches its butt with its head-tentacle, clearly uncertain. Eventually it wanders across the counter and grabs a magnetic notepad from the fridge. It scribbles a note and holds it up.

Is death, destruction and madness an okay platform?

I shrug. "Sure. Why not. It worked for Nixon."

t this can only end in pain. and crumbs