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

In hindsight, it wasn't all that difficult. The true evil of any bureaucracy, aside from the requisite torture chambers and tasteless coffee, is its stubborn adherence to the Rules. A simple Sanglaw search provides access to the Annotated Code of Ministry of Happiness Regulations. Doesn't take long to find what I need, and I immediately begin drafting.

Several hours later I roll up the scroll, utter a standard triplication spell, and buzz Marvin.

"Take these to the Ministry of Happiness, and ask for the Civil Disobedience Division. Wait for the clerk to buzz security, then grab the first guard that appears and proceed due North, ignoring doors, windows and concrete walls, until you reach a room guarded by a sphinx. Whatever the riddle of the day is, speak the words "no soap radio" and the sphinx should step aside, at which point the door will open and a huge flame will engulf you. Feed the guard to the dragon on duty and proceed to the desk, where you will hand the clerk the three scrolls. After he sprinkles them with filing powder knock the clerk out, snatch one scroll back - any one will do - and return here post haste. Are those instructions clear?"

Marvin grins. "Can I grab two guards for the dragon? They work so hard, and so rarely get a snack."

"That's very thoughtful, Marvin. Just hurry back. I have to burn the third scroll and bury its ashes in a Pot of Procedurus before sundown, or the Request for Injunction could get bounced on a technicality before getting a hearing."

"I understand perfectly, sir."

I watch him lumber out and marvel at how fortunate I am to have a troll on the payroll.

"Well, another Halloween over and no trick or treaters" I say to Hans while looking over the full bowl of goodies. "What are we going to do with all these little perpetual motion machines that I was going to give out?"

Hans shrugs. "Should I put them in the cabinet with the ray guns from last year?"

"Yeah, I guess. You did leave the exterior lights on last night?"

"Yep. But I don't think it's the lights so much as the forrest around the castle. It has a bad reputation."

"Fair point. I probably should stop releasing the genetic experiments in there. But once I introduced the giant armored deer to eat the man eating trees, I had to put in the enhanced Utahraptors to keep the deer population under control. Ecosystems are hard."

My new city manager, Naphula walks into my office carrying a scroll. He puts the scroll down on my desk. "We have a problem boss."

I make no motion to pick up the scroll, I really am not fond of scrollwork. "What's the problem?"

"There's an injunction against the new beer laws."

I shrug. "So, who do I get to kill to make the problem go away?"

"It's more of a legal issue."

I let out a sigh, I really was hoping for a good kill to spice up the day. "Oh very well. Summon up a lawyer from Brim, Stone and Fyre."

Naphula takes a bottle of blood from the shelf and neatly pours a circle on the floor. Then, he sprinkles some ground-up bone into the circle from the magic gourd, gets a fistfull of shredded documents from the paper shredder and tosses the shreds into the circle like so much confetti. In a burst of flame, a tall and scaly lawyer in a pinstriped suit appears. He sets his human-skin briefcase down and expends a clawed hand, "Good afternoon Mr. Aeshma, I'm Mr. Oriax from Brim, Stone, and Fyre. How may I assist you today?"

I don't take his hand, I wasn't expected a junior partner. "I was expected Ms. Fyre."

Mr. Oriax sits down. "Ms. Fyre is currently busy working with a Mr. Voldemort."

I reach for my sword, but then I remember how much BS&F bills for killing junior partners and stay my hand. "Very well." I pick up the scroll on my desk and throw it at Mr. Oriax.

Oriax catches the scroll and proceeds to examine it. "Yessss. Clever, but nothing that cannot be addressed. I will take care of this matter."

"So the beer laws stay in place?"

"Yesss." Oriax replies with an unreadable expression.

I nod. "Good, then I'll let you handle it."

Oriax tucks the scroll under his arm and grabs his briefcase. "Good day then." He disappears in a flash of flame, leaving nothing but a business card behind.

I turn to Naphula. "Why. Does. He. Get. All. the attention!"

"Voldem..."

"Don't say his name, I'm tired of hearing it! They should all be fearing me, not some third rate wizard who can't even kill a baby. Oh yes, I heard about that one, he's a git."

"It's those books he's in, they're really popular. There's movies and everything." Explains Naphula.

I ponder this for a moment. "I need to be in some books. Find me a author Naphula."

Naphula looks thoughtful. "Well, there's this guy I know who's a published author and just lost his job." He jots down something on a piece of paper. "Here's his number. His real name is Lewis, but everyone calls him 'Scooter'"

I hab a code in my node. Petty vengenth for my not-tho-petty vengenth. I hate thith.

"Don't forget, wear a warm coat and keep your money hidden incase some gang members try to rob you," Gwen babbles at me over the phones and I roll my eyes.

"Gwen, this is my stop. Ciao." I hang up before she can start warning me about the shiftless characters in the Old Quarter. Mostly because that's all she's been babbling about ever since I agreed to take this bloody job.

Spend two months in the Old Quarter soaking up the culture, and win a a five grand scholarship. In the mean time, try despretely to keep a part-time job as an assistent, and try not to die.

I hop out of the bus in front of a crumbling building. Part of a balcony falls off the far right and I cring.

"Al, just keep telling yourself, five grand is worth it." A leecherous guy in a rusty trench coat shuffles by talking to himself. I feel the fear.