Lord of The Wrinkles

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Excerpts from “The Lord of the Wrinkles”
from Part One: The Foolship of the Ring
“So, Sourman, old buddy, old pal,” Gandoff said. “How’s it hanging?”
The evil white wizard frowned. “Do not beat around the bush, Gandoff Gravybeard. Let us cut to the chase. I know why you have come.”
Gandoff whistled, feigning innocence as he inspected the gloomy living room of Sourman’s tower, IcingLard. “This place could use a facelift,” he said. “I can recommend a great feng shui consultant.”
“I have a better idea,” Sourman said. “Join with us. Join the forces of evil that have allied themselves with Sarong. His is the lidless eye that never sleeps.”
“Hmmm, insomnia, yes. No wonder he’s so cranky all the time.” Gandoff backed way from Sourman, whistling.
“Not so fast, Gandoff.” Sourman pressed the panic button on his security system. All four chamber doors slammed shut and a pantry cupboard flew open, revealing a week’s worth of bottled water and canned goods.
“Put up your dukes, Gandoff!”
Sourman held out his staff and flipped Gandoff upside down in midair. Pennies rained from Gandoff’s pockets. Sourman pointed his staff at the ceiling, and Gandoff rose higher, grey robe billowing down around his face, revealing spindly legs and a pair of boxer shorts with “Thursday” printed all over them.
Sourman advanced toward Gandoff. “You dare to oppose Sarong,” he snarled. “Now you will know what it is to feel pain.”
“Actually,” said Gandoff, his voice muffled by the robe, “I already know how pain feels, so we could skip this part and save ourselves some time.”
“No,” Sourman said. “Let’s not and say we did.”
* * *
from Part Two: The Deja Vu Towers
The four companions sought out the battle site described by Ee-i-ee-i-oh-mir. Before long they spotted it, and when they pulled up on horseback and chariot, the pile of Urk and Oink remains was still smoking. A chill wind blew discarded paper napkins along the ground, and the scent of barbecue sauce lingered in the air. Most poignant of all, a little charred bobbit belt sat atop the pile.
“Then we are too late,” Legolips said, his countenance grave.
“Not so much as a baby back rib to be had.” Gimme hung his head. “The picnic is long past.”
“I meant too late for Morrie and Pimple,” Legolips said. “We failed them.”
Bonyrear whispered, “Fate.”
“Perhaps not.” Airborne dismounted, studying tracks in the dirt. “Here lay a bobbit,” he said, pointing to a spot, “and another.” He quickened his pace, pursuing the trail. “They crawled away from the battle.” Airborne’s sharply honed tracking skills led him onward. “They stopped for a shot and a beer.” The other three, increasingly excited, followed Airborne closely.
“They phoned their broker,” he said, pointing to a flat outcropping of rock, “and discussed how to reduce their tax burden by deferring gains in a Roth IRA, which allows for tax-free distribution of the account’s earnings provided that certain conditions are met.” He knelt, crawled several feet ahead, and sniffed the ground. “Then an Oink came after them with a hacksaw, and they ran…”
Airborne stood, looking up. The others followed his gaze, and a deep sense of foreboding fell upon them.

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