As the Shadow Shifts

Episode 8

      
     "Dear ATSS:
     
     I have a question that I want to do a Trump scry on. But I can't, like 
     you said. Well, I was going to just mope, but I bet you could answer 
     it for me with a Quote Scry! Anyway, here it is:
     
     So, like, I keep hearing little bits about a jelly donut and pancakes 
     and syrup, but the syrup is going on the jelly donut. And even when I 
     go far away, like to Harvard, I run into people I didn't even know 
     knew about this jelly donut talking about it. And I have to tell them 
     to be quiet, because I'm not supposed to know about it. And then they 
     laugh at me. Oh, so, anyway, here's my question: What gives?
     
     I know that Quote Scrying will give me the answer I need, so I hope 
     you'll consider my question. Thanks,
     
     Cael"
     
     
     Dear Cael,
     
     We here in the Secret Ninja Zen Master Quote Scrying
     Department of ATSS thank you for this, the first question submitted to 
     us that we didn't have to make up ourselves.  Perhaps now our esteemed 
     editors will see our worth and move us out of the broom closet in the 
     basement and into a real office.
     
     Here is the answer to your query....

     
     What this situation calls for is a stupid, senseless, futile gesture . 
     . . and we're just the men to do it! 

Wow. If ever you were looking for a clear and easy interpretation, there it is. This Quote Scryer almost threw this one out and asked for another quote, figuring no one would believe him when this came up, but he instead decided to keep it for the following reasons:

A. it proves that Quote Scrying really works. B. it was way too amusing to take out.

Oh, yeah. and:

C. it would be wrong to interfere with a Quote Scry in any way.

Anyway the obvious interpretation is that Cael finds himself in a stupid, senseless, and futile situation and is overcome by a feeling of "When in Rome...."

The Likely Outcome of the Current Affair:

     It's better to be wanted for murder than not to be wanted at all. 
     -- Marty Winch 

Wow. Fairly clear and obvious once again...

Cael is feeling left out and unwanted by all these references to jelly donuts and syrup and '57 Chevrolets [Scratch that reference to the Chevrolet -- Cael's not supposed to know about that either. -ed.] that everyone in the entire world except him get to talk about. If nothing's done to help ease his feelings of being left out, he'll most likely resort to murder. I predict that the murderous impulse will manifest itself by Cael taking a banned assault rifle and gunning down all the customers in either: his local Dunkin' Donuts, his local IHOP, or his local Chevrolet dealership.

The Querant's Pursuer:

     If you don't care where you are, then you ain't lost. 

Well, there goes my chance at the world's record for the clearest and easiest to interpret Quote Scry.

Apparently Cael is hounded by the feeling that all this talk of jelly donuts and syrup and um, those other things, shouldn't be bothering him, yet it does. See above prediction under "Likely Outcome".

That Which Inspires the Querant:

     My theology, briefly, is that the universe was dictated but not 
     signed.                 -- Christopher Morley 

Sheesh. Just after snatching victory from the jaws of defeat on that last interpretation, I'm hit with this...

That which inspires Cael in this situation is his belief in an irrational universe that has conspired against him to force upon him this trial of the jelly donuts, syrup, and those other things that are not to even be subtly hinted at.

That Which Seeks to Manipulate:

     
     "Good-bye.  I am leaving because I am bored." 
     -- George Saunders' dying words

It would seem that Death itself is the puppeteer here, pulling the strings and maneuvering things. (see again the "Likely Outcome" above)

The Pivot or True Solution:

     
     You can have my encryption algorithm... when you pry my cold dead 
     fingers from its private key.
     -- John Barlow, "Decrypting the Puzzle Palace"
 

Yikes. It would appear that the answer to Cael's dilemma is to start killing people in an attempt to get their Amber Journals and read all about jelly donuts and syrup and those things that really have nothing to do with anything at all (honest).

     [This Quote Scryer would like to take this opportunity to point out 
     that of all the people involved, both he and any characters he may 
     play certainly know the *least* about what's up with all this donut 
     and syrup and other stuff.  So, like, if for instance, hypothetically, 
     someone were, say, looking to, um, well, you know, kill someone to get 
     information about all this, then, well, I'd be like absolutely the 
     worst place to start.  Definitely.] 

     
     [Editor's Note:  _As_the_Shadow_Shifts_ takes no responsibility for 
     and cannot be held liable for, any advice implied or explicit, that 
     might be implied or inferred from anything expressed within it.] 

     
     Well, there you have it. 

     
     Barring the door to the broom closet, 


     -Zen Master Dave 
     ATSS Staff Quote Scryer

I had just woken up from a dark and disturbing nightmare, in which I had been forced to wrestle with an endless series of doppelgangers, each incrementally more cynical than the last. The blood still pounding remorselessly through my head, I raised myself weakly from my bed to discover that I did not recognize my surroundings, nor could I remember my name, although my Social Security number was foremost in my mind, not least because it was tattooed in luminescent ink on the insides of my eyelids.

I turned to the great oaken barrel of sweet Spanish sherry by my bedside, and plunged my head in, in an attempt to clear my thoughts. But after several such headplunges, and one or two total body sponge baths, I still could not remember my name, nor how I had come to be in what I suddenly recognized as a hospital bed.

Restrained by sturdy iron bars as I was, I could not turn my head to look away from the cask of Amontillado. Its sweet, pungent scent permeated my mucous membranes, filling my soul with a longing to return home, and savor the much-superior wines available there, for quite reasonable prices. I wondered how it could be that I would remember in detail the pricing schemes of several major wine labels and yet not a thing about myself.

Determined to discover a few things about my situation, I bent the iron bars and made good my escape from that dreary vomit-green hospital bed, only to find myself confined to a chamber of rectangular prism form, enclosed on all six sides by walls, with no mode of entry or exit, save one -- the door. I approached the door cautiously, prepared for any eventuality. I was taking nothing for granted in this strange place; things were clearly not quite as they seemed.

Possessed by a sudden resolve, I reached out and firmly grasped the door handle, and turned it. It resisted slightly at first, but gave way once I applied extra pressure. A simple mechanical device concealed within the door operated, and it was possible for me to move the door with a simple tug. The interior mechanism returned to its original state when I released the handle, but as I had, with great forethought and planning, already rotated the door about its hinge, the device acted to no effect.

Thus allowed access to the hallway by my successful manipulation of the (to me) trivial construction, I ventured out to seek the facts that my brain desired so strongly. After a brief search of my environs, I discovered another person, ensconced behind an imposing massive block of Formica that he had probably believed to be a desk when he purchased it, inside an office marked "Director."

I picked the director up out of his chair and played handball with his head for a while before speaking. "Where am I, who am I, why am I here, and who is John Galt?"

"John Galt is, well, it's kind of hard to explain. Try reading this," he stammered, and reached into his desk drawer for his dog-eared copy of _Atlas_Shrugged_. Unfortunately for him, his hand slipped, and he accidentally grabbed a .25 caliber automatic pistol. I let him get off a few wild shots before unscrewing his hand at the wrist. I tilted the severed appendage a bit, squeezed two fingers, and blood sprayed all over his Armani tie. I didn't get a drop on the Pininfarina shirt, though; I liked it, and had decided that I'd be wearing it out.

I bound, gagged, trussed, tarred, feathered, and spanked the recalcitrant director, took his shirt, slacks, shoes, and belt, and made myself a passable pair of socks out of typing paper. I hate wearing other people's socks; it's just one of those things.

I rifled through his files for some of the information I was looking for. Conveniently enough, the papers were filed by photograph, in Luscher color test order. I found a picture that looked much like myself, although much smaller, and avidly devoured the personal details I found on the accompanying chart.

The chart claimed that I was one "ur-Corwin of Avalon." Apparently I was suffering from terminal recurring-villain syndrome (RVS); top specialists had attempted to excise me from the plot, and had been baffled. The early pages were relatively straightforward: I had been creating strange creatures, and ordering them to attack a place called Yellow. But then things became a bit confused. I had briefly been afflicted with a swarm of nieces and nephews, who had departed, then returned, then departed again, then returned again. The specialists at this time expressed total confusion; three of the top German experts in RVS had committed suicide in despair.

The memories were coming rushing back; an irritating man named Bernard, an even more irritating woman named Roenah, and a positively ridiculous man named Weasel, with whom I felt a strange kinship. My mind ablaze, the thoughts whirled around and around my head, until I could not stand it any more. I went back and read the logs.

Now I understood. That irritating swarm of nieces, nephews, and hangers-on had foiled my clever plans once too often. They had destroyed my favorite picturesque village, had killed my great-grandson and my beloved Empress, and had infested my lands with thousands of short screaming blue people. They had even captured me briefly, and beat the shit out of someone who looked a lot like me. I would have to have my revenge. But first, I needed something to eat.

The sun beat down over the peasants as they toiled in the scallion fields, drying their sweat as soon as it beaded on their skins, glinting off the dull edges of the scythes as they swung rhythmically through the onions, reminding the peasants' mistress of the last time she had seen ur-Corwin. The sun shone like the light in her great-grandfather-in-law's eyes, she thought, and like the fire in the heart of her husband Phaedron. But now the sun was gone from the eyes of ur-Corwin, and from Phaedron's heart, and remained only to dry the scallion harvest as it was cut. Natasha blinked reflexively, in order to clear the dust and other airborne particulate matter from the surface of her corneas, just as she had blinked every fifteen seconds or so since the day she was born.

She turned to face the scallion silo, into which the serfs were loading the latest batch of dried green onions. She grew scallions as a hobby; there was no market for them in the cuisine of Avalon, and so she merely stored them. She had accumulated 140 tons of dried scallions over the years, in 12 scallion silos. It would soon be time to kill a few more workers, and perhaps to build another silo. Definitely kill some workers, though. A few of them were really starting to stink.

She heard a noise behind her, a very familiar sound, the sound of a throat being ripped out by one of her genetically-enhanced Chihuahuas But this throat sounded different from most throats; a bit low-pitched, perhaps an operatic throat, a deep, resonant baritone.

She whirled to confront the owner of these newly-artistically-defunct vocal cords, and was instead stunned to face her great-grandfather-in-law, Emperor ur-Corwin, with his hands clasped together in a very strange position directly in front of his face, his lips contorted in a manner which seemed impossible for the human anatomy.

"My liege!" she exclaimed. "Whatever are you doing with your hands?"

"Ah, my dear great-granddaughter-in-law," he said as he removed his lips from around his knuckles and brought his powerful hands, glistening with saliva, down from his mouth and folded them gently in his lap, "I am of course imitating that favorite sound of your childhood, that of your genetically-enhanced Chihuahuas, which I gave to you as an Arbor Day present all those years ago, ripping out the throat of an intruder."

"But ur-Corwin, that is no ordinary intruder whose throat you are imitating the destruction of," she said breathlessly.

"But of course. I have always thought that your Chihuahuas would enjoy the voice box of Dietrich Fischer-Diskau, the German baritone whose performance of Parsival moved me to tears back on Shadow Earth many years ago," he said brightly, his mouth twisted around in that half-smile she knew so well, the one he wore when he was about to tell a particularly amusing joke, or to pillage and destroy a peace-loving society.

"I still have the lacquered enamel bulletin board you gave to me and Phaedron as a wedding gift," she sobbed, as she threw herself at his feet. "I thought you were dead, like my husband."

"But I am not dead," said Phaedron, as he emerged dramatically from behind an arras. "I have returned with my great-grandfather to claim what is rightfully ours."

"My God!" Natasha shouted. "Where did that wall tapestry come from? I don't have any tapestries at all, certainly not out in the scallion fields here."

"I brought it from Flanders on Shadow Earth, and while you were talking with ur-Corwin, I built a wall here in your scallions especially to hang it on, that I might be able to emerge dramatically from behind it," explained Lord Phaedron. "I am relieved that you did not mistake me for Polonius, and stab me."

With that, the three, reunited, retired to the antechamber, and from thence to the sitting room, and then to the drawing room, and finally to the dining room, where they planned their return to Avalon, and ate dinner.

You Feel the Beginnings of a Trump Contact...

To the Editors:
     
What's all this I hear about a duel with a weasel?  Don't these
Amberites have anything better to do?  It's not like there's a shortage
of Nefarious Villains threatening Conquest of the Universe.  To the
contrary, even.  And isn't it a little beneath their dignity? I mean,
how could it possibly be a fair fight, even if the weasel had tactical
thermonuclear weapons?  Which, of course, it didn't.  And decimating the
weasel population would be disastrous for the environment, and would set
a bad precedent.  Before we know it, Amberites will be slaughtering
other much-maligned predators, such as stoats, jackals, vorpal bunnies,
and lawyers, under pretext of ``satisfying honor.''  And we all know
what that can lead to.
     
What's that?  It's Liesl, not weasel?  Oh.  Never mind.
     
                                   Emily Litella

Dear Emily, 
     
Although you aren't terribly bright, you make a few excellent points,
probably entirely by accident. For example, wondering if Amberites have
anything better to than fight duels with weasels; it is only your
pathetically limited comprehension of the true meaning and purpose of
life which leads you to the erroneous belief that taking out Nefarious
Villains Threatening Conquest of the Universe is somehow a more worthy
activity than crushing rodents and small mammals. And wondering how it
could possibly be a fair fight really gives you away; NO Amberite has
EVER had a "fair fight" with anyone or anything. And in the spirit of
only fighting battles in which you are assured of victory, beating the
crap out of weasels, stoats, lawyers, etc., is a perfectly appropriate
activity.
     
Besides, weasels don't get death curses.


     
Dear Most Excellent Dudes,
     
Thank you for that totally apocalyptic issue #17!  I've waited for the
resolution of the Missing Pizza plot since #3, and ``Oberon Slept Here''
wrapped it up perfectly!  I hope we see more of the 47 illigit...
illegitimate princes and princesses, especially Bobo's identical twin.
But that pales in comparison to Part 2, ``Never Wed A Hendrake Lass,''
possibly the best Mikele-centric story yet!  Those guys sure got what
they deserved.  They sure won't be bothering her again any time soon.
Or any other Chaosbabes. Heh.  Will you ever divulge the rest of that
ballad?
     
                              Elric of Melvinbone
     
     
Dear Elric,
     
Glad you enjoyed it. We've been receiving mixed responses to issue #17 
-- a lot of people seem to miss the old writer and illustrator, and 
the chronologically organized plotlines. Some people have complained
that ordering events in alphabetical order is confusing, but most of the
responses have been quite positive. That and the new drawing style,
which some have labelled Dali-esque, or as having been inspired by
Fortran, have been quite controversial. Well, there's no turning back,
since we've already decapitated the old author/illustrator.  
Thanks for the support!

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