(Warning: at the end of the second part of this post tomorrow some of you might feel hoodwinked. If so hoodwink back. It is allowed-LA)

-1-

I am always sitting in my office when I open these stories. People must have caught on by now, but they are either polite, or no one is reading, or anyone who does read me does so with lowered expectations, and my always being in the office is not the worst sin they must forgive. Still, why open it anywhere else in the realm? Why be wandering in a garden just to be approached by the usual thugs I write about? They can find me in my office where I always am when not pressed into going elsewhere. There’s booze, an ashtray and comfortable passing out places in the office; why would I need more? Therefore they would have to guess where I was when I might be wandering in said garden. That sort of thing would cost many words to straighten out and we are on a strict budget. This paragraph alone costs about a hundred and fifty words–something like five percent of the budget! No, it is best to always open in the office…

I sat back and looked at the paragraph I just wrote. “Let’s italicize that,” I muttered because I am addicted to using free stuff such as italics. They make the dumbest shit look important. I highlighted and clicked. “Perfect.”

That is when I became aware that Dame Daisy Kloveleaf was on top of the desk, just sitting there, studying me.

“How long?” I muttered.

“Long enough to know that you need a vacation. And I know just the place,” Daisy said, her little Goat eyes afire with naked avarice.

I knew something was up because: A.) Even though she is a Pygmy Goat, Daisy is numero uno as the local thugs go; B.) She is constantly up to things; it is her nature, and C.) Sincere concern for my well being is not exactly what you’d call high in Saragun Springs. Who prays “Dear Lord, I hope you are feeling well today,” unless they are buttering the Queen into springing for something big?

“What now, oh hooved wonder?” I lit a cigarette, which opened enough synapses to allow information to come in. My brain is mostly closed to new ideas, but nicotine opens doors.

“Daisy’s Dell is the place you should go,” she said, standing, moving closer, crowding me in. “We have gardens, sin and our liquor license.”

“So, that’s what happened to the case of Jack the *Boss sent over,” I said. All you need to have for a “liquor license” in Saragun Springs is the hootch itself.

(*“The Boss” is the person whom I am Penname to–fortunately I’ve turned out to be more real than she will ever be; she often sends goods to us via our **interdimensional vortex.)

(**All realms have interdimensional vortexes; ours is an older model once used in Pooh’s Hundred Acre Wood.)

“Are you through ***asteriskingly asterisking?” Daisy asked.

(***Daisy is shamelessly addicted to adverbs of her own conception; we all have a jones to feed.)

Daisy stomped on the desk. “No more asterisks!”

“Gotta fill in the backstory somehow,” I said. “****Anita Know has the day off.”

(****Anita Know is—)

“Hey! That smarts you little villain.” Daisy had delivered a well aimed hoof at my elbow. Upon comparing the minimal satisfaction that asterisking gave me to the potential of further hooves to the elbow, I decided to give up.

“Yes,” Daisy continued, “Daisy’s Dell is the place.”

“Oh, all right–let’s go.”

Renfield, the second in command of the Springs, entered the office. She was carrying the key to our electric golf cart, which meant a road trip.

I gave her the ugsome eye. “I smell a conspiracy.”

“Not every plan that you don’t know about is a conspiracy,” she said. “You need rest–we wouldn’t want you to get all Josef Stalin on us.”

(To be continued tomorrow)