When Ancalagon told me about the orb, I shook my head.

"He doesn't know what he has you guarding, does he?"

"I don't think so. And that's what is shocking to me. Isn't he supposed to be evil?"

"Yeah, I guess a mini-Voldemort."

"Except without the fear and trembling from his minions."

"Or the competence."

"Or the intellegence."

"Or the ability to do anything other than command the stupid."

Ancalagon smiled. "Voldemort. I did some freelance work for him back in '80. Remember when St. Helens Academy blew?"

"Yeah, it took what, 3000 wizards to convince the normal population that that volcano had gone off."

"I had to do some time-travel work. Cause some earthquakes. All part of the Gentlewizard's Agreement."

The Gentlewizard's Agreement. About the only time the minions of evil had to work with the minions of good to cover something up that would have revealed true magic to the non-magical, who would have then sicced the normal armies on them. Of course, the magical would have won in one form or another, but the loss of life would have been in the billions. And thus, the story the world saw and heard was Mt. St. Helens blowing up.

I smirked. "Voldemort. Now that's evil. Too bad we have a five-and-dime evil running things in this town."

"And he has me guarding that orb."

"He has to know what that thing is, what it can do..."

"...what it's done."

I shook my head again. "And I bet he thinks it's just controlling the weather and making everything gloomy."

And so, standing there over the pulped remains of a Ministry minion, I had a lot to consider. The beer ban would hurt business, but business lately was pretty awful, anyway. The Ministry might come after us, but the layers and layers of magic in the inn would protect me, just as it had protected all the other landlords of the last 200 years. And even if they were to get me or the rest of the family, the inn would take its revenge in some cruel and heinous fashion.

Far more frightening was the prospect of that orb being in this town, even if protected by some joke of a life-size D&D game.

There had to be a way to protect this town from what was coming.

And then, it all came together in a flash. Someone else would have to go down into that dungeon and get that orb, but I could certainly buy some safety and thumb my nose at authority at the same time.

That afternoon, after the lunch rush, I had the waitresses post a big sign in the front window:

WE HAVE BEER

And with a little help from Adolph Coors and John Courage, I put a little blessing on the beer. I couldn't wait for the Ministry of Happiness to try and figure out what I did to mess with their poor minions' heads.

From Sang Sacre Harold Classified Section

Petty vengence can be so limiting, some days. I want so much to smite the Ministry of Happiness, smite, smite, smite. Sang Sacre is the only place in this country I can find decent beer. But I can't do all that much. It's like the difference between hard-core porn, and a bit of bodice-ripping smut. Smite, smut. Smut, that's IT!

I flick my wrist, and several thousand cheesy romance novels replace the data files of Ministry of Happiness computers, filling their hard drives like the rampant shafts of the Fabio lookalikes fill the heated womanly cores of the previously unfulfilled girls in the books.

With no city manager, I have to get my status report from Mary from the ministry of happiness. The status report has been written out on a paper with some sort of pink floral pattern.

Dear Aeshma,

Things are going great at the ministry of happiness! We have had some computer problems...

I look over at the dull grey box in my office that I have been told is a "computer" wondering how one has problems with something that just sits there.

...but the new files are really cool! Things in the city are fantastic, you are the best mayor ever, deserving of great respect!!

I nod silently, yes I do deserve great respect. I start to think this Mary may be qualified to be the new city manager.

As per your new regulations, all beer in the city has been confiscated! There is one bar still advertising that they have beer but ministry officials haven't been able to find anything but water on the premises so maybe that don't really have any! We will employ a spy to make sure!

Mary

Well, everything seems to be going smoothly. I still need to have somebody make the arrangements for Evilcon with that stupid Voldemort guy.

Upon mature consideration I decide that the vengence taken on the Ministry of Happiness may not have been as vengence-y as I had planned.

With a blink and a wink, I transform all the stupid romance novels in the Ministry of Happiness's data banks into bad-fic, complete with hideous grammar, pathetic spelling, mary-sues behind every bush, and massive punctuation problems.

That ought to well and truly FUBAR their brains.

Hmm, my mobile phone is ringing. Only the home office has this number.

I'm screwed. Turns out the home office doesn't consider badfic a petty vengence.

They will get back to me on the terms of the official reprimand.

Screwed like a virgin in a biker bar.

My intercom buzzes. "Mr. Wolfram?"

"Marvin, which part of no interruptions is throwing you off?"

"Sir, I'm sorry but she refuses to leave a message."

"You told her I'm in court?"

"Actually sir, she's here and staring in that crystal ball she carts around and says you're definitely not in court, and something about this being more important than your flying doll set?"

Shit, most of my clients can barely hex a pot of water, but I do have a few higher-level folks. I make a mental note to have that magical security firm renew my privacy wards, and quickly mutter a temporary shielding spell and deactivate my Quidditch set. The action figures (not dolls, really) shoot me a sulking glance and whisk over to their waiting shelf which tucks handily out of sight.

"Offer her some water, or blood, and tell her I'll be right with her."

Sigh. I hate drop-ins. And a personal visit from the Madame is never a good sign. I don my robes and buzz my reception troll.

"Show her in."

I motion to Marvin to seat the Madame on the sofa, but she shoos him off. Generally, trolls aren't known for their swift-footedness but Marvin wastes no time in scarcing himself.

The Madame, with surprising grace, squeezes her generous heft into one of my leather client chairs. Miraculously, it holds.

"To what do I owe this unexpected, uh, pleasure?"

"It is time. Your services are needed."

It doesn't occur to me to refuse her. Mostly because it can't be done. I nod and wait for the kicker.

"This time Aeshma has gone too far."

"You mean the laugh track? Sure it's ruined Arrested Development, and last night's showing of Schindler's List was a bit surreal..."

"Not the laugh track."

"You mean the beer ban? What's the big deal? I mean I have lost a few of my regular Flying While Intoxicated clients, and jousting tournaments ain't what they used to be, but it's just beer."

"JUST BEER? Ignorant child, beer is the lifeblood of Sang Sacre." (And here I thought it was actual blood.) "It is the sacred fluid upon which the firmament of the city rests. Without beer our residents have been afflicted with that most horrid of diseases!"

"Sobriety?"

Her aged eyes stare deeply into mine. "Reality."

Then I finally get it. Oh shit.

"What do you need me to do?"

last night's showing of Schindler's List was a bit surreal..."

disbelieving snerk