Hookbill opened his eyes and mumbled to himself. Pulling his duvet closer he crawled out from under his desk, wiping the moldy tea stains off his chair before sitting down. Staring at the door he bobbed his head at every tick of the clock until it struck nine o'clock. There was a knock on the door-window; the backwards (from Hookbill's perspective) 'Editor' sign was chipped away a little by a hand wearing a gauntlet.
"Come in," sighed the Goomba, "What is it, Workm'n?"
A skinny Wight with green skin and red hair hobbled in. His left leg was bleeding quite badly, probably due to the spike sticking out of it. Hookbill raised an eyebrow.
"It's the latest style, sir," Workm'n assured him with heavy intakes of breath, "It's fine- REALLY- it's fine..." He was sweating more than normal, but the Editor lent back and blew an unnecessarily long raspberry.
"What have you got for me?"
"Well sir," Workm'n pulled a folder out from under his jacket and rifled through the pages before pulling one out; "
Dog discovered having affair with Elven chiefs?" Hookbill nodded.
"Okay, print it up. Have the full story on my desk by Friday. I won't read it, I just like having things on my desk." Workm'n bowed and trotted out of the office.
Hookbill's office smelled. Not badly, really, just strange; uncanny, some said. It was something to do with the two year old jaffa cakes lodged in the walls, the old cat food on the ceiling, the fact that Hookbill had never had a cat and the lingering scent of rotten milk. The piles of empty tea cups on and around his desk had built up a complex social-economic system of bacteria and flies who now had well established trade routs with the bins.
Tapping a well chewed pencil against his forehead, the Editor grumbled something about 'wasps in the pipes'. He threw the pencil in the general direction of the bins and pressed the 'a' key on his typewriter. It was a cold, dark, tangled contraption. There was not the regular 'click-click' sound when he began typing. It was more of a 'squelch'.
He stopped and sniffed. A rich yet musty smell was emerging from behind the door. Like the mixture of strange plants, warmed or burning in a pipe or bong. There was a scream. Sighing, he picked up his intercom (an empty soup tin with a piece of string attached to it).
"Spawn, let Mr Davem into my office."
"I'm not your bleeding secretary!" she replied. A second later, the other soup tin was resting on Hookbill's office floor surrounded by the glass of the door-window. Davem popped his head through and shook his long silver hair, getting it tangled in the glass shards.
"Hey dude," he said with his eyes obviously seeing things that weren't there, "did you see that? Man! It was all like; wooaaahhh! Man, I could, like,
feel the glass, man!"
"I see," Hookbill picked up another pencil and began chewing, "what can I do for you, officer?"
"I was just sent here to, like, urm..." he stopped and pushed the door open. Stumbling forward, he brushed down his flower patterned waist coat and torn up jeans. The dandelions in his pockets fell out and bounced off his bare feet. "What's the word?" he pondered, "begins with, like, a 'D'..."
"Defecate?"
"No, man, I did that in your car."
"What? Since when do I have a c- never mind... Delouse?"
"It's 'Des'... 'Destram'? 'Distr- Distul- Distract! That was it! Distract you!"
Hookbill's mouth opened, but before he could put together the right motor functions to speak, a flash of light filled the room.
Stumbling through the smoke, the Goomba coughed and cursed. The wooden beams once holding up the ceiling were now cast across his desk, splitting it open to reveal a complex ant colony. Scrambling forward on all fours, Hoobill blinked as a figure loomed over him. It was carrying a baton and grinning. The orange hair flickered in the flames as Lalwende raised her weapon and brought it down on the Editor's helm-less head.
There was a lot of grass. Grass, and cows. He knew there were cows. One was licking his face. Rolling over, Hookbill found his face falling into some dung. Swearing, he lurched up and headbutted the cow. It moaned and fell over, almost crushing his legs. With a yelp, he jumped to his feet and blinked. The field was flat, wide and lacking in hills.
"This isn't The Barrow Downs," he observed, "where on Middle Earth am I?"
"Safe," said a voice, like a well trained British actor who had gotten a little drunk, "for now at least. I have the finest wines available to humanity! Do you want some?" He emptied the last of it into his invisible mouth. "Blast. Look at me! I'm in a field and I'm practically dead... Wait..." he waved the bottle and examined the few drops. He threw it away. "there wasn't much in it, there's nothing left for you."
The Phantom waved his bottle in the air. His dark blue robes were covered in dirt and blood. He bore a bandage on one arm and one of his glowing white eyes was dimmer than the other. He fished in his pocket and flung a newspaper at Hookbill.
"What's this?" he asked,
"Something has to be done!" He staggered to his feet, "We can't go on like this! I'm a trained actor, reduced to the states of a bum! Nothing that 'reasonable members of society' demand as their rights! No houses, no food, no palantirs! Much more of this and I'll apply to meals on wheels!"
"What happened to your cartoon serise?"
"That's what I want to know! What happened to my agent? The idiot must have died!"
As Phantom ranted and raved, Hookbill opened the paper and gasped. He had never seen a headline like it. Reading on, he began to see what had happened to The Phantom. Though some questions were still unanswered...
Tune in Tomorrow for the continuing story!
