Tales of the Parodyverse

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Nats
Wed May 19, 2004 at 07:03:36 pm EDT
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League of Improbable Gentlemen Chronicles #13: The Mystery of the Walkabout Werewolves; Act One: Old Friends and Fresh Tea
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Hi there, kids. I've stolen a page from HH's book, and decided to go the 'daily/semi-daily' route for posting this story. So here's the prologue, the title credits, and the first act. Tomorrow or the day after will be the second act. It'll run five parts, so there's four more after this one.

For the last two LLCs, go here and here.


The Chronicler sat. Nothing important had happened in the Parodyverse for at least five minutes. This led to a lull. His giant coffee mug was still full, and the ravens hadn’t aggravated him in days. Something had to be done to alleviate the boredom and tedium of his job. He was a third of the Triumvirate, Those Who Sit above the Parodyverse. His job was to chronicle the major and minor events of the universe. Currently, however, he had nothing to chronicle. So he stood up and walked into his library.
The library consisted of each and every chronicle ever chronicled, except for one book that was written by Wilbur Parody when he held the office of Chronicler. Still, however, the nigh-complete collection of writings was massive. The shelves seemed to stretch off into an infinite distance, and an infinite height. Normally the Chronicler would send his ravens to find a particular tome, but today he decided he needed the exercise.
The Chronicler levitated upwards, to the highest shelf in the room. If he hadn’t been moving outside of any semblance of time, it would’ve taken him a while. However, the Triumvirate was beyond such simple human laws as time. The Chronicler fetched the volume he was searching for. Then he returned to his massive oak table and massive porcelain coffee mug, and sat.
The Chronicler then dusted off the book and reread the past.



#13

Written by Nats!

Logo by Bry



The League of Improbable Gentlemen and the Mystery of the Walkabout Werewolves
Act One: Old Friends and Fresh Tea

Sir Mumphrey Wilton did not like lateness. He preferred punctual people. After all, if he could be bothered to show up not only on time, but ten minutes early, the other person or persons could at least be kind enough to be on the dot. Perhaps the fact that he was a stickler for punctuality coincided with his minor cosmic office. He was keeper of the chronometer of time, as well as a few other trinkets. He could control chronal energy, speeding it up, slowing it down, stopping it entirely, or just sending an object into the past or future. This proved invaluable in his career.
You see, Sir Mumphrey was not just a proper English gentleman. Well, he was a proper English gentleman, but an improbable one at that. Mumphrey was an adventurer, and almost something of a mystery man. He went on grand travels and adventures, thrashing the villains and rescuing the damsels that required rescuing, all without missing a single tea break. However, he felt he would very well miss a tea break if everyone came late to the meeting.
Sir Mumphrey checked his pocket watch again. By now he was wondering if anyone would manage to make it to the meeting before the turn of the century. It was about two minutes to seven. It had been fifteen till when Mumphrey had arrived. He was not looking forward to holding the meeting with himself.
“Ahh, Mumphrey,” a voice came from behind him. The young Mumphrey immediately jumped to his feet and greeted the familiar face.
“Hastings,” he nodded. “A pleasure.”
“As always,” said the League’s secretary, Hastings Vernal. “Apologies for my tardiness, but I was off investigating some new interesting developments in a few of the lower cellars I’d never noticed before and lost track of time.”
“My forgiveness is assured, Hastings,” Mumph told him, shaking his hand. “But perhaps if you carried a timepiece in your pocket like I did we wouldn’t we having these misgivings, would we? Why, I remember when time saved my life. You see, old bean, it was some few years ago, before I had this new pocket watch, but I was traveling down in South America in a semi-hidden civilization that had just been discovered by Carrington Windyway and his wife, Cressida, God rest her soul, when I came upon this gigantic sundial that--”
“Er, certainly,” Vernal said enthusiastically nodding and finishing the handshake. “Why, is that tea? I could certainly use some tea. I do love tea, you know.”
“Ahh, quite,” Mumphrey replied. “Well, we can always continue the story later. It was interesting, though, I do say.”
“Indeed,” HV said. “Hopkins, boy!”
“Yes, sir?” another voice came. This one was less assertive and mysterious. It was the League’s young page.
“Would you mind fetching me some vanilla for my tea?” requested the assertive and mysterious HV.
“Vanilla in your tea?” Mumphrey pondered.
“It’s just a taste I’ve acquired,” Vernal replied.
“Well, just give me a good lemon any day, I say,” said Mumph. “Why, I remember the one time I was trapped in a mine collapse on the outskirts of Morocco, with nothing but three lemons and a nose hair plucker on my person. You see…”
“Oh, look!” HV noted thankfully. “Company has arrived.”
The man that walked in was wearing a white coat and had a single-eyed goggle strapped to his face but resting above his eye. “Greetings, everyone! I hope I didn’t arrive too late. Say, is that tea?”
“Yes, it is,” Sir Mumphrey said. “Hello, Phineas. You’re right on time, however. To the second, actually. Quite uncanny.”
“Why,” said HV, “It’s not uncanny. It’s just improbable.”
Professor Phineas B. Quimby, the EccentricEtherInvestigatorInventor! grinned. “Hello, hello, my good friends! Hastings, Mumphrey. Ahh, the young mister Hopkins! Hello, lad. What’s that, vanilla?”
“I enjoy the taste,” Hastings Vernal said. “Perhaps someone should put it into a more popular or secular beverage.”
“Indeed!” EEII! said. “While you’re at it, Hopkins, my friend, could you sniff out a wedge or two of lime for my tea, please? It’s a refreshing bit of flavor.”
“So how goes your exploits with your Improbable Aether, Phineas?” asked Mumph. “I could’ve used some the other week, m’lad. I was caught between two dreadful chaps, both of whom were armed with some ingenious automatic sword of some kind, and my pocket watch had fallen out of my jacket on the carriage…”
“I’d imagine that would’ve proved to be a sticky situation, Mumph old boy, but…oh, look, my lime! Thank you, my boy, for choosing the right one. After all, I don’t need to line the fields or kill any starfish today. But these should add just the right hint of taste to the tea.”
“Er, anyway, chap, as I was saying, I was trapped between these two sworded and dastardly oiks who--”
“Ahh, but look over there, Mumphrey!” the esteemed Prof. Quimby interrupted. “It’s our good friend and fellow adventurer, Dr. Hakenfakir! Good to see you again, Hakeyfakey.”
“Salutations, gentlemen,” said the surgeon/musician/hypnotist. He was a gentlemen himself, stemming from the Bombay area. He gripped his cane, which most likely unbeknownst to most of the present Improbable Gentlemen was the Psychostave, and the only thing keeping Hakenfakir from not toppling over lifeless.
“Hello there, Doctor,” greeted Mumph. “Care for tea?”
“Performed surgery recently? Played some music? Hypnotized anybody?” HV asked.
“Not in the immediate past. I’ve been meditating quite a lot.”
“That reminds me of the time I had to disguise myself as a fakir in order to solve a terrible murder, and the only clue was a single fingerprint imprinted in a block of fine cheese,” Mumphrey recalled. “I meditated for quite a few days until the solution finally came to me. You see--”
“It would be quite pleasing if I could have my tea without sugar, thank you,” said Dr. Hakenfakir. “I do not particularly care for a sweet taste.”
“Almost everyone is here,” Vernal noted. “Everyone except--”
The door burst open, and Colonel Blanchford Bertram barreled in. “Is there beer available?” he boomed. “Oh, hello, everyone.”
“Yes, hello,” said the general area around his loins. The voice belonged to Knifey, the colonel’s sentient blade.
“We were having tea,” Sir Mumphrey explained.
“Tea? Hah!” replied the American in his late fifties. He chuckled through his thick mustache. “Tea is for you boys from across the water. I’m a nice barley brew man, myself. Or at least a strong coffee!”
“I wouldn’t mind being dipped into the tea, then,” Knifey said. “As long as you don’t butter your scones with me.”
“Scones,” snorted Bertram. “Hah.”
Mumphrey sighed. “Hopkins? Would you put on the coffee, or fetch the Colonel some… beer?”
“Yes, your sirship,” answered the youth.
Dr. Hakenfakir nodded his greetings. Phineas Quimby smiled and shook the Colonel’s hand vigorously and then tried to shake Knifey. Hastings Vernal sat down and dipped some vanilla into his tea.
“Say, Knifey, you glorious bounder, you,” Mumphrey said. “Remember that time you were separated from Blanchford and you and I were trapped in the bowels of the Japanese underworld with that treacherous Baron Zemo and that conniving traitor to the crown Donald Clancy?”
“If I must,” retorted the blade.
“It appears,” Hastings Vernal said, noting the grandfather clock against the wall of the meeting room, “That the only one late is--”
“Ahh, the famed feminine wiles,” Prof. Quimby laughed.
“Sure would be a woman like her to take time powdering herself up or putting on an extra petticoat to arrive so late like this, eh?” grunted the Colonel, lighting a cigar.
“I resent your terrible insults to the feminine gender,” announced Hagatha Darkness, the fetching young lass with a spitfire spirit. “Truth be told, my carriage man was too afraid to approach the place.”
“The Colonel was just being his usual gruff self,” Mumphrey assured her. “Come, my dear. Would you care for tea?”
“I’ll have milk in mine,” she stated.
“Milk in your tea?” remarked Bertram. “So like a woman.”
“I’d appreciate a cease to your remarks, Blanchford, how unremarkable they are,” Hagatha said.
“Perhaps we can get down to business?” Dr. Hakenfakir finally spoke, seated in front of the fireplace. “There must be a reason why we were all called here to this meeting.”
“Yes,” HV told him. “That reason should be arriving soon.” As he spoke, a loud rapping came upon the door.
“Send Jakes to fetch it,” Hagatha said.
“My dear lady,” replied Mumph, “I’ve been here for a long while and have not espied the good butler yet.”
“I’m here,” announced the butler Jakes, suddenly appearing. He, unfortunately, was a closet hunchback. “I shall get it.”
“Was everyone down in that bloody cellar?” Mumph asked, agitated.
It was then that a small man with a small mustache, small hat, and small umbrella walked into the room. “Hello, all,” he said in a small voice.
“Greetings, chap,” greeted Mumph. The others bid their hellos as well.
“Now, sir,” HV bade him, “Please, tell us why you came to us for help.”
“Well, last night,” began the man, “it came to my attention that, well…”
“Out with it, man!” said Bertram. “State your case!”
“My werewolves have gone missing,” the small man stated.

To be continued…






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