Part 18 (1/2)
IT HAS TO BE A PARTICULARLY PAINFUL DEATH.
Roger's slight hope evaporated instantaneously. She kicked the door open and dragged him outside before he could further react to the bad news, once again circling both her hands around his neck.
”Oons!” she continued almost cheerfully. ”Norts gebort. Minsky providentially voola- voola shebang!”
COME. EVERYTHING IS READY. IT IS PROVIDENTIALLY COINCIDENTAL.
THAT SOMEONE HAS LEFT A BOAT.
Roger caught a quick glimpse of his surroundings as he was tossed outside. There was indeed a small rowboat at the edge of the lake, but it looked in worse repair than the woman's shack, like the faded memory of a craft that once, in the distant past, before six holes had appeared in its hull, could have conceivably floated on the chill gray water.
The pressure left his throat for an 'instant. Roger felt his hands being tied tight behind his back, and then the choke-hold was back. In a matter of seconds, he had been dragged down to boatside.
Liv said a single word: ”Krensk.”
The subt.i.tle, however, was much longer.
I THINK DEATH BY DROWNING IS ALMOST PUNISHMENT ENOUGH.
DEATH BY DROWNING AFTER BEING TRAPPED IN A BURNING BOAT.
IS EVEN BETTER.
Roger was tossed roughly into the boat, which was filled with dry twigs and leaves.
Liv smiled as she pushed the boat out into the lake, then lit a match which in turn ignited an oil-soaked rag.
”Lars!” she called as she tossed the rag into the dried brush. ”Tootles!”
Roger struggled, but his hands were firmly tied, the ropes digging cruelly into his flesh. The brush caught fire energetically at the other end of the boat-a fire that would reach him in a matter of seconds, if the ancient, leaky craft didn't sink first.
Oddly enough, the only thing Roger could think of at that moment was that Liv hadn't used the knife.
That's when she threw it at him. He saw the s.h.i.+ning blade headed straight for his chest, its cutting edge pa.s.sing cleanly through the single word of Liv's last subt.i.tle: goodbye.
^ ^ 14 ^ ^
”DREAD COINCIDENCE!”.
”Plssm grrsmm!” the gang leader mumbled. ”Blssm grssm!”
”You play one more guitar chord,'' the thin gang member elucidated, ”and we'll use our blades on your guitars.”
”Yeah!” another of the gang added heavily. ”And not just the strings, either!”
Bix Bale and the Belltones stopped strumming abruptly.
Delores stared at the approaching gang, smirks on their faces and weapons of destruction in their hands, Her companions gathered around her, ready to confront this newest threat with everything from royally jungle-trained muscles to canine Wonder Teeth.
But confrontation was not the answer. There had to be some way out of this pattern of battle after battle. If they did nothing but fight, how would they ever find Captain Crusader?
That's when the sand rose up before her. The gang stopped.
”Oh no, you don't,” a deep, all-too-familiar voice intoned. ”Delores is mine.”
The figure was vaguely man-shaped, although slightly taller than most men. Beyond that, Delores could tell nothing, for the figure was entirely coated with sand.
”Scffmmm prfffss drrrtt!” the fellow who mumbled ordered.
His unpleasantly skinny sidekick added in his most sarcastic tone: ”The Mumbler wants to know if you guys are scared of a pile of dirt!”
The entire gang jeered at that. Those among the mob intelligent enough to talk added a few comments of their own: ”Yeah-dirt!”
They advanced again.
”Dirt needs to be stomped!”
They brandished knives.
”We'll bulldoze 'im!”
They swung chains.
”We'll ex-ex-uh-excavat'e 'im!”
They pounded bra.s.s knuckles into b.l.o.o.d.y palms, the pain apparently not reaching their small and distant brains.
”We'll throw him into the ocean and turn him into mud!” the unpleasant skinny fellow added as the gang formed a semicircle half a dozen paces from the sand creature.
But all the monster did was laugh. ”I am more than a pile of dirt. Beneath this sandy exterior lurks a heart of pure slime!”
The gang stopped to look at each other.
”Sliffmm?” the Mumbler demanded.
”Nah!” the thin fellow exclaimed. ”It can't be that bad.”
The gang approached the sand-covered creature, perhaps a bit more tentatively than before.
”I have warned you,” the monster replied solemnly. It turned its featureless head toward Delores and her band. ”If you would stand a little farther back, it would insure you are out of the line of sludge.” The creature took a deep breath, then continued hurriedly. ”I dedicate this new work to you, Delores. I call it 'Gang Covered by Slime.' ”
With that, the Slime Monster lifted up what might have been its arms, or possibly its tentacles-it was hard to tell underneath all that crusted sand. The gang rushed forward. One of them whipped a chain across the creature's shoulder. The metal links landed with a dull thud. The monster did not seem to notice.
”I begin!” the creature announced, and sludge burst forth from the twin points the thing had raised, more like dual hoses than fingers.
Brownish-gray slime covered the gang in a matter of seconds. When they moved, they slipped. When they slipped, they fell. When they spoke, they said only ”glub” or ”gurgle.”
”My work is done,” the creature declared proudly.