The Adventures of Tim Laughingstock. Four. In Boogle Hollow.

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It has come to this author’s attention that past tense and present tense are getting all mixed up in the story of Tim Laughingstock, causing readers some confusion and fussiness. The author wishes to state that he is not being lackadaisical about the matter, but is under a magical compulsion stemming from the residual magic of Svarm. Even though she can no longer practice any type of enchantment, Svarm’s previous magic was so deep that there are still manifestations of it extant. One of these manifestations is the altering and negating of the time continuum when writing about her. This means that Tim and Svarm and other characters may be described as doing something in the past -- or they may be described as doing something right now in the present. And there’s nothing that you or I can do about it. So grab a bowl of nixie nuggets and continue your reading unperturbed.

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Boogle Hollow was the closest village to Mountebank. It was about twenty miles due east, as the horse flies. And since horses don’t fly anymore -- the last flying horse had been shot and stuffed to put on display at the Jonesonium Institute back when Aloysius Laughingstock had been a babe in gilded diapers -- Tim was forced to walk through the Tiger Woods to reach Boogle Hollow to make his first sales pitch for pet lumdiddles. The regular road, of course, was chock-a-block with lumdiddles, and impassable. He wasn’t worried about the tigers that inhabited the woods very much, since they mostly rolled little white stones around while growling “Frowr!” incessantly. And they only ate cured hams -- so healthy actors and actresses avoided the place completely.

No, what worried Tim as he tramped through the weedy undergrowth beneath the trees were the McSkeeters. They are a tribe of savagely ill-tempered pixies, with long pointy noses as hard as steel. They don’t much like people tramping through their forest -- they consider Tiger Woods to be completely their property -- so anyone they catch in the woods is subject to a very painful poking around their ankles until they get clear of the trees.

Argyle socks attracted McSkeeters by the dozens, so Tim wore plain white socks. Every snick or click in the forest underbrush caused him to start and look wildly around while performing a sort of demented folk dance with his knees alternately pumping high into the air and his arms swinging blindly about.

But he worried for nothing. The McSkeeters were all on a long visit with their distant cousins the McHoppers over the mountains. The McHoppers had very long legs and enjoyed nothing so much as vaulting over anything that was taller than they were -- and since they all were only six inches tall, that included a lot of things. They were famous for jumping over conclusions and jumpstarting arthritic horses that didn’t want to move anymore. Their leader, Leapfrog Hoptoad, was summoning all the Wee Folk in the kingdom for a Council of War. He was determined to wage war on the Tall Tails (as ordinary humans were called) and drive them into the sea, for their many insults and bullying actions against the Wee Folk. He was a bit of a hothead and burnheart. So far none but his own kin had answered his summons, which made him even more hot in the head, and he was seriously considering declaring war on all the fairies and gnomes and others who had ignored his call prior to eliminating the Tall Tails. But since he was killed by a falling acorn soon after Tim arrived at Boogle Hollow, there is really no point in going on about him or the McHoppers and McSkeeters. Sick tranny glorious Monday, as the King of the Peacocks likes to tell his subjects.  

After spending a miserable night in Tiger Woods, Tim arrived in Boogle Hollow the next day at noon. He was tired and dirty and hungry, so he headed straight for the Boogle Inn, and, spending some of the gold the Council had generously given him, was bathed and fed and napped before you could say “grumpy gumption goes to gallows.” As evening fell, he strolled about the town to work out his marketing plan for the morrow.

Boogle Hollow had a perfectly good road going through it, with not a single solitary lumdiddle on it or near it. So there was lots of hustle and bustle going on throughout the village. Even as night fell. The street lamps glowed brightly, lit with hangfire, and the shops were wide open to cater to the tourists who came to town for a look-see. Tim stopped at a bake shop for a slice of watermelon cake. He was heartened to see so many children out with their parents of an evening, strolling about without any pets on a leash. With visions of leashed lumdiddles being dragged along by every family in town, Tim went back to the Boogle Hollow Inn to sit in the tap room and chew things up with the barkeep.

“Ho, barkeep” Tim called cheerfully. “A cup of your best licorice beer, if you please!”

“Right away, good sir!” the barkeep called back happily. He had seen how Tim had paid for his lodging with good gold coin, the King’s gold coin, and was determined to keep Tim happy and well supplied with whatever expensive fripperies he wanted.

“Have one on me” Tim said expansively when the barkeep came over with the cup of licorice beer.

“Thank you, your good graciousness!” replied the barkeep. “Might I ask what brings you to our perky little village tonight?”

“Lumdiddles” Tim replied.

“Beg pardon, but what did you say? Sounded like lumdiddles.”

“Lumdiddles. That is exactly what I said. Let’s have another round of this excellent licorice beer!”

“As you wish, sir.” The barkeep was no longer certain he wanted to cozy up to this particular customer, no matter how much gold jingled in his purse. Nasty things, those lumdiddles. They took over the road to Mountebank years ago, and now the place was practically a wraith hole. But barkeeps are inherently curious fellows; they can’t stay away from a puzzle.

“Here you go, sir. And thanks for the same. You say lumdiddles brings you to Boogle Hollow -- how so?”

Tim produced a flask of pimento wine from his coat pocket, uncorking it to pour out a very groggy lumdiddle onto the bar top. The barkeep recoiled as if he’d been bitten by it already.

“Get that nasty thing off my bar!” he yelled at Tim.

“Tut - tut. No need to carry on like that. This is a domesticated lumdiddle. Perfectly harmless and good humored. It makes an ideal pet.”

To demonstrate, Tim gave the lumdiddle a little shove so that it weaved unsteadily about the bar, dragging its pincers behind it and issuing a series of tiny belches that sounded something like “koop koop.” It had taken Constable Keystone several hours to catch several beligerant lumdiddles in a quilted blanket and poke them into flasks of pimento wine for Tim before he left for Boogle Hollow. The Mountebank Council had had to promise Keystone a promotion to Field Marshall before he consented to do it.

The barkeep approached the lumdiddle cautiously.

“Domesticated, you say? What does it eat?”

“Oh any crumbs and leftovers -- it’s not a picky eater. Just keep it moistened inside a flask of pimento wine every night and it will give you years and years of unadulterated pleasure!”

“The doofus you say. Hmmm. Well, mayhaps I’ll just have to get me one for the customers to play with on a slow night. How much?”

“For you, my good man, it’s on the house. Please accept this one as a token of my esteem for your splendid taproom services” said Tim grandly, as he swept the lumdiddle back into the flask and handed it to the beaming barkeep.

“That is a handsome gesture, sir, and I’ll not forget it until the frogs turn blue!”

Just then several thirsty customers came into the taproom, asking loudly for a bottle of Old Camel’s Breath and some belly button chasers. They were in very high spirits, and looked like a reckless bunch out for as much fun as they could get before dawn.

After serving them their drinks and putting a bowl of nixie nuggets in front of them, the barkeep proudly brought over his new pet in a bottle and poured it out onto the counter.

“Here’s something you gents might enjoy” the barkeep said.

Looking steadily at the lumdiddle, one of the Old Camel’s Breath drinkers picked it up -- and swallowed it.

“Hey!” shouted the barkeep.

“Not bad” said the lumdiddle eater. “Tastes like a lumbago salad.”

So saying, he turned white as a bed sheet and fell over.

“Holy cakes of soap!” moaned the barkeep, pointing at Tim. “Look what your little pest has done -- it’s poisoned one of me best customers! Call the Constable! I want this highbinder locked up and charged with pesticide!”