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Nats
Tue Jun 01, 2004 at 11:21:17 pm EDT
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League of Improbable Gentlemen Chronicles #13; Act Three: The Mostly Dangerous Game
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The League of Improbable Gentlemen and the Mystery of the Walkabout Werewolves
Act Three: The Mostly Dangerous Game

Colonel Blanchford Bertram had seen it all, and shot at most of it. He had explored lost civilizations, found civilizations, spelunked in vast, mysterious caves, defiled the holiest of temples, blazed the newest of trails, seen indescribable sights, people, things, and creatures, and gotten drunk in the seediest of dives the world over. He was known for his amazing hunting skills, having hunted nearly every species of animal or monster, and lived to tell about it.
His knife, or as the knife would tell you, his partner, the sentient blade known only as Knifey, had also seen it all, but it was a different kind of all than Blanchford Bertram had seen, as the perspective was completely different. Naturally, Knifey had seen the good and the bad, and been wielded for untold ages by numerous warriors of the time, and had seen both the inside and outside of those he was wielded against. But now he was with the aging colonel, having met on an expedition in the lost city of Vesalia, or possible Versalia, depending on what mood the intelligent apes that lived there were in at the time.
Colonel Bertram, now in his fifties (although when asked his age, would only reply he was pushing fifty; but from which direction, one might ask?), was an old man, considerably older than his compatriots in the League of Improbable Gentlemen.
“This way,” he decided, surveying broken branches and disheveled shrubberies. “They must’ve gone this way.”
“How can you be certain you’re not simply tracking any local deer?” asked Hagatha Darkness, a young and fairly attractive witch.
“Trust me,” the colonel replied. “I know.”
“As long as we don’t run into any weredeer,” said Sir Mumphrey Wilton. “Why, I met one once… The chap called himself Admiral Pudu, but I never…” He noticed the others glaring at him. “…perhaps I’ll finish this story some other time, then.”
“This is certainly no place for a lady,” Dr. Hakenfakir regarded of Miss Harkness. “You should have stayed behind at the manse instead of Hastings.”
“Oh, I’m sure Hagatha wants--” said Mumphrey.
“--wants to speak for herself,” she interrupted. “I assure you, Doctor, I am quite capable of taking care of myself. These dark woods only remind me of where I was raised. I’m certainly no damsel in distress.”
“Besides,” said the EccentricEtherInvestigatorInventor!, also known as Prof. Phineas Quimby, “Good ol’ Hastings loves that old house. Talks to it more than he does to us.” He hefted a large device in his hands of his own invention which he had not yet explained the purpose of.
A large, dark tree stood before them all, towering in the darkness. The full moon shown overhead, casting a pale glow upon all it surveyed. Knifey metaphorically cleared his metaphorical throat.
“You know, um, Blanchford, that tree looks awfully famil--”
“No it doesn’t,” the colonel quickly interjected. “I’m sure the wolves went this way.”
“I could’ve sworn I’ve seen that tree before, though,” the blade replied.
“No you didn’t,” Bertram insisted. “All trees look alike, you know, especially to a knife such as yourself.”
“Knifey may have a point,” Mumphrey said. “I think that tree does look familiar, or at least quite similar to another tree we passed. And the stars above seem to be in a certain alignment that--”
“We’re going in circles,” Hagatha grumbled, cutting to the chase.
“Dammit, no we aren’t!” Colonel Bertram shouted. “I know how to track something, dammit! I’m the hunter here! You’re just an Englishman! And you’re just a damn woman! And you two! You’re, ehm, whatever you are!”
“Now, now,” said Knifey.
“Dammit, trust me on this one!” Blanchford argued. “Do you think just because I’m getting older that my skills are dying? No, dammit! If anything, they’re getting sharper! I’m a master at this! I know what I’m doing! In fact, look here! See that pile of werewolf droppings?”
“Oh dear,” said Prof. Quimby.
“How can you be sure they aren’t just bear droppings?” Dr. Hakenfakir asked.
“Well, they do look remarkably similar,” Mumphrey answered, “but I can attest that werewolf droppings have a certain odor to them that--”
“Why are we talking about werewolf dung?” Hagatha said. “Let’s just find the damn things and be on with it!”
“I agree,” Knifey replied. “There’s a time and a place for supernatural, er, manure, but this probably isn’t it. But you never know.”
“Now come on,” Bertram told them as they walked past even more trees and suspicious shrubs. “I’m sure it isn’t much farther. Pretty soon we’ll be out of the woods and into the cavernous cliff area. And seeing as how werewolves hate the water--”
“I thought that would be more of a werecat, myself,” said Phineas.
“We’re close,” said Bertram. “I’m sure of it. I can feel it.”
“That’s probably just your chafing britches,” Knifey said. “Common mistake.”
Alas, the intrepid explorers would probably never believe what Knifey just said, as that moment was the exact moment at which a werewolf chose to make its appearance known. It was huge, and muscular, and ferocious, with a gigantic set of jaws with gigantic teeth. Saliva dripped from its mouth uncontrollably as it snarled at the Improbable Gentlemen and Lady. And, as Hagatha was frightened to notice, it was most definitely a he.
“Blanchford, behind you!” shouted Dr. Hakenfakir.
“There’s no need to shout,” Bertram replied, “I can hear you. I’m not deaf just because I’m getting a little old---ahhh!” The werewolf swiped at him with one massive paw, bowling the colonel over, and onto his back.
“Mmmph!” gasped Knifey, buried under dirt and torn britches.
“Hold on!” instructed Phineas as he struggled with his ungainly contraption, pointing it at the monster, who was standing over the colonel as if the beast was about to make the old soldier a meal. “If this works, it should--”
“Less exposition, more action!” Hagatha yelled at him as she tried to remember a particularly helpful spell. Mumphrey circled around the other side of the wolf, looking for an angle with which to attack, his pistol in hand. Dr. Hakenfakir was pointing his cane at the beast.
“Right!” said Phineas, but by then the werewolf had noticed him and his device and lunged at the both of them, knocking the professor down onto his back.
“Try not to kill it!” Mumphrey said. “We need to capture it alive!”
“We’d have to be in a position to harm it first,” said Hakenfakir.
“Him,” Hagatha unfortunately noticed.
“Ahh, damn that,” the colonel grumbled, struggling to his feet and pointing his pistol at the wolf. “Silver bullets, you overgrown mongrel!” He fired a shot, but missed by inches, hitting a tree instead. “Damn!” he cursed, feeling more like a feeble old man than decorated war veteran.
“Mmmph,” added Knifey.
Sir Mumphrey reached for his chronal pocket watch as Dr. Hakenfakir leveled his stave and the young Miss Darkness quickly breathed the words to a spell. Colonel Bertram struggled to get up with his britches pinned to the ground by Knifey, and the werewolf stood over Prof. Phineas with all intent to clean his gigantic teeth with the man. All of this happened while the other eyes of the other beasts of the night looked on.

Meanwhile, back at the mansion, Hastings Vernal finished cleaning the tea cups that the members of the League had sipped from earlier. “I know you’re there,” he said. “And I know what you’re planning to do, so you may as well knock me out with something nice and heavy now and be done with it.”
The young Hopkins obliged.

To be continued yet again, in our next act!





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