When our story begins, Drum was on his golf course at Hogberry: nothing he would boast of you understand, but honestly the largest in Scotland and the envy of everyone in the world. Drum was a big, beefy man with big, marvellous hair (all natural too!) and orange skin. The Slavic beauty Mellie was draped over him in his golf cart, reading a brochure, and in the driver's seat was a bulky man in — my goodness! — full highland dress.
His name was Chris. Drum and Chris had long been best buddies in New York, and when one drunken night Chris had confided that his father was Scottish, Drum had promised to fly him over in his private jet. Once he was safely across the pond, Drum had decked him out in a red kilt, argyll hose, a black barathea jacket with silver buttons, horse hair sporran, and bagpipes: he really did have to carry the bagpipes everywhere you know!
“Vot a beautiful day,” said Mellie. “To be een such a vorld-class luxury desteenation. A breathtaking landscape and a moody sky casteeng vonderful shadows on dee heavily contoured greens.” She narrowed her eyes but not because she was feeling suspicious: it was her sign that somebody was supposed to admire and compliment her at that point.
“I'm starving,” muttered Chris. He was trying to turn the vehicle, which struggled under the responsibility of carrying the weighty dignitaries across the links.
“Keep going straight,” said Drum.
“But your ball went over there,” said Chris.
“Trust me, this is the right direction.”
“Ven you can stop een dee vine textured, tight turv of dee undulateeng terrain,” said Mellie. She beamed and narrowed her eyes. She was slender with tight skin and heavy makeup like an air hostess.
The cart stopped.
“Okay folks, I’m real busy so we’re gonna go quickly,” said Drum.
Chris hauled out the bags. It was almost lunchtime, he was thinking.
“I am really proud to be here at the final hole,” said Drum. “With my bee-yootiful and successful wife, Mellie.”
“Today I zink dee only leemeet to dee achievements ees dee strength of dee dreams,” said Mellie.
“Hey, is that a hot dog stand right there?” said Drum.
Chris spun on his heel with an agility remarkable for a man so large. There was nothing there.
“Nah, musta been a mirage,” said Drum.
Chris turned back. He blinked. As if by some magic spell, Drum's golf ball had appeared only an arm’s length from the hole!
“Lemme tell you something, I'm really good at this game,” said Drum.
“Vot an amazing golfer,” said Mellie.
“Jesus,” grumbled Chris. “Gimme a fucking break. That's the third time today you got lucky.”
“C'mon Chrissy, say it like a pure-blooded Scotsman,” said Drum grinning broadly.
For a moment the enormous man looked as if he were going to explode. Then he seemed to remember something and gave a weak grin. “Jings!” he said. “Och ah dinna ken Mr. Tonnal is so jammy in the gammy! Ah cannae believe —”
“Nice try,” said Drum. “I gotta treat for you, Chrissy. I'm gonna show you something.”
He reached into the bag and pulled out a golf club he hadn't used yet. It was made of solid gold.
“I show this golf club to very few people. Presidents. Kings. This is the best golf club in the world. I give lessons with this golf club.”
“Ve need to pass doze lessons on to dee manny generations,” said Mellie. She narrowed her eyes.
Drum took his first swing.
“Yee-ouch!” Chris wished he could have put on something protective under the kilt.
* * *
They were back in Hogberry Hotel & Casino, sitting at a table next to the bar. Even though he owned the place, Drum hated the beer.
It used to be called Hogwash Academy. Drum had taken over when the school went bankrupt in mysterious circumstances. The first thing he had done was to have the whole outside painted in gold using imported workers from Romania. Then he realized to be consistent they needed to paint the inside of the building gold as well. For subtlety they added some red tiles and star-spangled banner decorations.
The school staff had got jobs too. Most of the teachers were now dealing cards, rolling dice, cashing chips, and serving alcohol. It didn't pay much but there was certainly plenty of room for advancement in Drum Enterprises. The brightest pupils meanwhile were allowed to make the beds of hotel guests, wash the dishes, and generally keep things functioning.
Things weren't functioning well today in Drum's opinion — or Chris's. At the table, Chris spat out some milk and soggy orange stuff.
“What is this crap?” said Chris.
“It's the cornflakes you ordered,” said the old man who was waiting on them.
“We ordered drum steaks!” said Drum.
“Cornflakes?” said the old man. His ears and mind were not what they used to be.
“Steaks!” said Chris.
“I'll get you all more cornflakes,” said the deaf old fellow. “And a cup of strong, sweet tea.”
Chris let out a long sad moan.
Drum tried to remember the name of the old man. Dipper? Dippy? He had been a headmaster in Hogwash Academy in a time nobody could remember. Scurrying about the bar, he was now a mere spectre of his former self.
The bowls of cornflakes were delivered by a skinny kid in spectacles. As he left, Drum gave him a cheerful thwack with his golden golf club. “Hey, you think those glasses make you look smart? When are you gonna get contact lenses? Maybe at the same time you get some real beer in this country?”
The teenager looked back over his shoulder resentfully. Drum noticed a weird scar on his forehead. As he peered at it, he suddenly felt a strange flash in his own head.
But just then all eyes turned to the door as a beautiful young lady sashayed in. Immediately she wailed across the bar, “Daddy, it's my period, and I forgot to bring my tampons on vacation.”
The embarrassed Scotsmen sipping their beers pretended not to hear and returned to their conversations. Still, it was hard to look away from the girl. At eighteen years old, Eva was an all-American beauty: tall, blonde, and lissom with a small nose and glistening red lips. She wore a pink skirt, high heels, a white translucent blouse, and a gorgeous jacket made of authentic Koala Bear fur, perfect for the nippy Scottish weather.
Drum wrinkled his nose. “A woman's problem. Gross.”
“Send the private jet back to get my tamps, Daddy.”
“Whoa, just go to the store.”
“I asked in the village drugstore, but they didn't know what I was talking about. I guess they haven't invented them in Scotland yet.”
“Veel vresh all night long,” said Mellie. “Clean and comvortable, dee highest quality standards. Veed a sovt vlexible sponge —”
Eva joined them at the table.
Drum said, “Folks I can't understand why that shifty kid keeps giving me dirty looks. I have to tell you, if there were an Olympic prize for dirty looks … ”
The old man was doddering by. “That would be young Plotter. He —”
Drum spoke over him. “It's okay. Sometimes people will just hate me for no reason. It's okay. Yeah, I have a name for those people. Losers. That's what I call those people.”
The old man's long white beard was trailing dangerously close to Drum's cornflakes. He carried on: “Oh, the Plotters have been here a long time. His father plotted my land, and his grandfather plotted my father's land, and … ”
“Okay I got it!” said Drum. He loved talk, but he always noticed it was best when he was the one doing it.
“ ... a long line of plotters, but his parents, oh a terrible thing, they —”
“Shut it!” said Drum. The gabbling was driving him crazy.
“ … they said his mother was a witch. On his first birthday he got a toy broomstick … ”
“The fuck up!”
“ … they were murdered. Foul it was, dark and —”
Drum grabbed his arm. "What did you say?"
“Betrayed, his parents were. A strange evil force entered their cottage on Hallowe'en night, and killed them both. Only wee Henry was left alive.”
“Nobody told me he was an orphan,” said Drum with a twinge of true sadness. “We're suckers for paying him a regular salary.”
“Eh?” said the old man.
“Freeloaders,” said Drum. “You know, the welfare system here ... essentially, the welfare system, from day one, you got it easy.”
“Vot a joyride vor dose people,” said Mellie, repeating a favourite phrase of Drum's.
“Is the cottage haunted?” said Eva. “I wanna go if there's magic.”
“There's no such thing as magic,” said Drum curtly. “End of discussion.”
Eva pouted and started sulking. Then she caught sight of Henry again. He seemed to be having a losing argument with a blank wall. He kept walking into it and banging his head. The others followed Eva's gaze.
“Oh. My. God.” Eva dropped her voice to a loud whisper. “Is he, like, retarded or something?”
Henry vanished. Not literally. Actually he walked out into a hidden corridor reserved for staff. But it seemed like vanishing.
Drum frowned. There were too many strange things about the resort. It wasn't just one sullen kid. What about the confused guest who had asked him where he could find room “nine and three-quarters”? What about the old Scottish women who took turns sneaking onto his golf course and pissing on it? What about the Mexican flags that popped up in unexpected places, like his in-room jacuzzi? What about the smelly garlic potions in the kitchen? What about that other kid with the orange hair who was always talking to his pet rat? Was he seriously working there? So unhygienic!
“I'm sick of this nutty place,” said Eva. “No tamps. No Louis Vuitton. I wanna take the private jet and fly to Florida! Yay! Spring Break!”
“Don't worry about a thing, baby,” said Drum, patting her hand. “Chrissy will take care of it for you. If I know any guy who can find tampons, he's the guy.”
* * *
Henry polished his glasses in a sinister manner. It was cold in the corridor but that was the way he liked it. He was a bitter, twisted, skinny little git.
He wasn't alone. A creepy gang of adolescents had collected in the shadows.
Right beside Henry was Weed, his longtime crony. Weed was a round-faced, red-headed kid. His mouth turned to a big capital O and his eyes to small o's when he was surprised, which was often. He hadn't quite caught up to life. He did have the consolation of a pet rat, which he sometimes took out of his jacket and kissed affectionately when he thought nobody was looking. He had few friends and valued the ones he did have.
Next there was Hermorrhoida, the most annoyingly precocious of the group. She had billowing brown hair and a snotty face.
There were seven other kids there, but nobody could remember the names of these characters. The overall impression was of an unruly herd of child labour.
Hermorrhoida was in the middle of what she did best: complaining.
“It took all morning to scrub the toilets,” she said. “And the stink! All this on a zero-hours contract!”
“I have to sleep in a golf closet, my wizarding friends,” said Henry. “With the sawdust coming down.”
“What about me?” protested Weed. “I had to lie about my age to get this job. A hundred visits to the Jobcentre, and this is the best they can give me. I hate it.”
“I don't know what job you have,” said Hermorrhoida. “I never see you doing anything. Anyway if you don't like it, why don't you pack it in?”
“I would,” stammered Weed. “But how am I going to pay for my — ” He stopped.
“You've got skunk on your nose,” said Hermorrhoida innocently.
Weed rubbed his nose.
“Your nose is still dirty.”
The credulous Weed rubbed his nose more.
“Dirty, dirty, dirty!”
Henry pointed a plastic stick at them reprovingly. “Cut it out you wankers,” he said. “I mean, my wizarding friends. All of this is going to change.”
“You keep saying that,” said Hermorrhoida. Henry's leadership of the group was based on his penchant for dropping hints that he was in contact with a shadowy organization known as “the Ministry”. It was certainly no kind of official or respectable ministry.
A fat owl flapped along the golden ceiling. All the children gazed up at it. The owl made its way lazily to Henry, and dropped a thick envelope on his head, which nearly knocked off his glasses before bouncing into his hand.
“Yeah, I knew that was going to happen,” said Henry. “About flipping time really.”
The envelope had a blood-red wax seal with a fancy-looking coat of arms on it. Looking over Henry's shoulder, the crowd of kids could see writing in emerald-green ink.
“What is it?” said Weed. His mouth formed a big O. Even Hermorrhoida seemed impressed.
“The long-awaited missive from Comrade Dumbelass,” said Henry gloatingly. He opened it, glanced at the letter inside, and took out a long silver key.
“I've seen that key before,” said Hermorrhoida. “There was a time … ” She trailed off.
“Well, of course,” said Henry in a low voice. “The vaults.”
“It's dark down there,” said Hermorrhoida.
Henry pressed a switch on his plastic stick. It lit up.
“Wicked!” said Weed. “Wo!”
* * *
It was late afternoon already. Drum pushed his way into Hogberry Barber Shop and plonked himself down in the chair to the astonishment of the villagers inside.
“I'm freezing my balls out there,” said Drum. “At times like these I wish global warming was real.”
“Er, how much do you want taken off?” said the barber.
“Nada mucho,” said Drum who had been practising his Mexican. “But it's gotta look perfect. I gotta speech to make. The biggest speech in the history of Hogberry. Right on Guy Fawkes Night. Bigger than the Scottish Declaration of Independence.”
“Eh, what?” said the befuddled barber who could hardly understand the tycoon's accent. But he began the job while Drum busied himself on his phone, sending out choice tweets (“Scottish cornflakes. Highly overrated!”).
After a while, Drum sensed the barber was a bit nervous, and tried to put him at ease by making small talk. “Lemme tell you something. I'm a really smart guy. Okay, part of the beauty of me is that I'm very wealthy. But I am also really proud. I am really honoured to be here in the land of my mother. She wasn't very rich, okay she was kind of a loser. But I'm very proud to be in a shop where she might have worked or washed the floor at least. Proud and honoured.”
The barber was being very careful, as if overawed by Drum's fabulous mane. He was gingerly making tiny snips, sometimes just snipping the scissors and not cutting anything.
“You gotta provide more spirit,” hinted Drum. “Folks, what's going on here? What a low energy barber!”
“I'd be afraid to — ” said the barber hoarsely.
“What?”
“I'd be afraid to hurt it, er, damage him ... er — ”
“Lame!” said Drum.
He stormed out without paying.
* * *
Chris had tramped the length and breadth of Hogberry Village without finding anything like a modern pharmacy where he could ask about tampons. Despite the cold weather, the larger-than-life New Englander was sweating profusely. Finally he saw some flasks and crystals in a shop window and hope filled his cholesterol-clogged heart. The sign said, “Ministry Misc.”.
He went in. It seemed more like a curiosity shop than a chemist's. Rare dusty rugs were strewn on the floors; quills and rolls of parchment filled tottering cabinets; ventriloquist dolls leaned eerily against peeling wallpaper. The only light came from the slowly dimming sky outside.
He had to feel his way around carefully. He was still in highland dress, and worried that a swing of his bagpipes would knock over some of the telescopes and little lacquered boxes that littered the shelves. He looked everywhere but realized in frustration that he didn't know what tampons looked like and was too embarrassed to ask at the counter.
After about twenty minutes of huffing and puffing around the shop under the suspicious gaze of the elderly lady proprietor, he finally found a box with strange lettering that looked Greek or possibly Russian but seemed to spell “TAMPON”. He could just about make out a dark yarny sponge inside. He brought it to the bowels of the shop, where the shopkeeper stood on a high platform and looked down her beaked nose at him.
“Uh, is this the you-know-what for girls?” said Chris.
“Well … !” said the shopkeeper.
“Why is there only one in the packet?”
“One is enough in Scotland,” she snapped as if he had made a terrible suggestion.
“Okay, but why is it so hairy?”
At this the old lady looked so annoyed that Chris slapped a twenty pound note on the counter and beat a hasty retreat. His stomach was rumbling again, and he had spied a mouldy haggis in the hotel kitchen that he thought might get through him the day. Owls flapped about him, hooting mockingly.
Behind him the old lady was closing the shop.
* * *
Drum strode through his casino, still swinging his golden golf club. Here was one place at least he could be cheerful. All around him was the evidence of the jobs he had created. How about Ms. McGoggle over there, by the Wheel of Fortune? In the Hogwash days she had been the Deputy Headmistress and taught Religious Studies. Now dressed in a shiny pink jacket and fishnet stockings, with pursed lips and bunned-up hair, she took no nonsense from the local punters.
There was also Mr. Queer, a pretentious young man who had been Master of — what? — something Arts. He wore a large purple turban to attest to his status as a world traveller and never told people he was from Dundee. He smelled of garlic: it was part of his mystique. In the casino he was supposed to be showing people how to use the slot machines but spent more time regaling them with tales of how he used to fight zombies in Morocco or some such nonsense.
The roulette wheel was being spun by the hook-nosed Mr. Snake, formerly a chemistry teacher. That was thought to be a very clever line of work so he was now a croupier. Elegantly attired in a tuxedo, he had such a practised sardonic expression on his face that people felt cheated even when they won.
Because it was the so-called “Halloween Season” at Drum Resorts, in addition to their normal costumes they had all been forced to wear black pointed hats, apart from Mr. Queer who claimed some kind of multicultural exemption. Ms. McGoggle discreetly carried a broomstick. Mr. Snake was supposed to be a vampire and had to cover his face in a sickly yellow paste, but nobody could tell the difference from his usual look.
Above all the machines and card tables there hung a great red banner: “MAKE HOGBERRY GREAT AGAIN!” In the centre of the casino stood a nine-tier cake soaked in Grand Marnier and covered in thousands of golden icing roses. At the far end, a podium had been prepared specially for Drum's visit.
Business was good that day. Drum was delighted at the success of the casino and the throngs of tourists who had flocked all the way from ... Dumfries. The only thing that disturbed him was the sight of some of the younger staff. In a dark corner Henry was stroking his pet boa constrictor and talking to it mysteriously. The ginger kid had his rat of course. Shit, it was a like a zoo in here, thought Drum. He would have called them out but he had a speech to make.
He mounted the podium. Everyone stopped what they were doing to gape at him. Mellie was near the front with a big smile on her face. Chris had just arrived, puffing. Eva was late.
“What a great honour it must be for you to honour me today,” joked Drum. “This is a very good looking group of people here. And the reception I've had in Scotland, lemme just say, it's been yuuge. I'll be walking down the street and have cabbies yelling out the window at me.
“I'd like to thank the staff first. When the bulldozers first came into Hogberry, and you were still busting your nuts over shitty copy books and screechy blackboards, I bet you never imagined you would one day be part of a worldwide enterprise dedicated to the entertainment of people everywhere, a world of luxury like heaven ... that's because I'm not just creating jobs here, I'm creating an economic zone. I'm creating a way of life.
“You know I often say I'm not just your employer, I am your voice. I'll shake hands, I'll work hard, but you know I'm working for you a hundred and thirty percent. When I was sleeping with some of the top women in the world, my mind was back here with you poor slobs. I have lobbyists. I have to tell you. I have lobbyists that can produce anything for me.
“The clowns in the media said it would be a bust, but you know what I said? Who cares? No really, who cares? When I think I'm right, nothing bothers me. I will fight for you. I will bring the same determination to your cause that made me a hero to the renters of New York. I was there at the burning towers on 7-Eleven, hauling survivors out of the wreckage … ”
Ms. McGoggle raised her broomstick and squawked something sarcastically, but he couldn't understand her accent.
“Right. Remember when they set up wind turbines right next to my golf course, killing the birds? How stupid is that, right? I can't even imagine. Who are the ones ruining Scotland with poisons in your water, in your air? Don't believe what the scientists tell you.”
Out of the corner of his eye he was irritated to see Henry. The teen had dropped his boa constrictor and now held a black plastic stick like a baton, which he was waving about as if to some music that only he could hear. He had a beatific wide-mouthed smile on his face, the same one he wore whenever he saw somebody else's misfortune. In this case, it was more of a precognitive, anticipatory smile.
“Look at that kid,” said Drum, pointing. “Too many vaccinations. Very sad!”
He returned to his main theme. “With my investment, Scotland is safe. Never again will you have to face the nightmare of the Chinese buying up Holyrood and selling it to jihadis so they can sodomize your livestock. Make Hogberry safe again! Everybody knows I am right that we need a truly great leader now. Let's bring back the highland regiments and give them M-16s. Let's make Hogberry work again! Let's set up a nuclear plant right here where we can use it. I guarantee it will generate enough power to keep this casino running for a million years. Make Hogberry great again!”
He waited for the cheers to die down, which didn't take long as there weren't any. Instead there was a unexplained tinkling noise which he ignored.
“Thank you. Thank you very much. Okay folks, I know you all want to get back to winning money here in Drum Casino. The dream is alive. I wanna wish all of you, including even the haters and losers, a happy — ”
Just then there was a blinding flash of red light and a terrifying bang as a gold chandelier with a thousand black candles came crashing down into the cake at the centre of the floor. Seeing jets of sparks whizzing around, Drum ducked behind the podium. He heard shrieks as everybody fled the casino. Toads and bats had appeared out of nowhere. Drum realized he couldn't stay where he was.
He decided to take a chance and make a dash across the carpet with his golf club. He didn't get far before he nearly tripped over Henry's boa constrictor; instead, he made a flying leap and crashed into a slot machine. People were running everywhere. He careened around, dropped his golf club, and dived under a baccarat table.
Gradually the noise died down. Drum tried to stay as quiet as possible. But he could still hear a scratching — or was it a slithering? — sound. It was getting closer. Drum whimpered, legs drawn up. Something shuffled outside, abrading the side of table. And there appeared ...
A rat.
It was a big one with sharp little teeth, and a shabby look even for a rat. It stood on two legs like a circus animal. It was sniffing at Drum as if sensing a way to take advantage of the situation.
“Go back, go back,” breathed Drum. He was convinced that terrorists were swarming all around, and didn't want the rat to give his position away.
Drum nearly panicked when he heard a voice. It said, “If I liked the smell of ganja, I would.”
“Where's that voice coming from?” muttered Drum.
The rat scampered on to his knee. Drum shuddered. “It's me,” squeaked the rat.
“Wacko situation!” whispered Drum. “How the hell can I understand what you're saying?”
“Only the gifted can understand Arsetongue,” squeaked the rat with a ratty grin.
“Arsetongue? What rats speak?”
“Not just rats. Also most reptiles, cockroaches, and estate agents.” The rat gazed down at Drum admiringly and nuzzled at his face. “You probably don't even know it, but you are the Shakespeare of Arsetongue.”
Drum was getting annoyed and starting to recover his chutzpah. “You scruffy grubby little rat, I was speaking Arsetongue before you were sucking on your mom's teats. I am the Ronald Reagan of Arsetongue and I will lick anybody that doubts it.”
“That's the spirit!” said the rat. “But if you want to fix this disaster, you're going to need more than that. You're going to need a magic horcrux.”
“Whore-what?”
“It's what I came to tell you. The prophecy says you must take the horcrux to Loch Haerless under a full moon and confront your deepest fears. A rowboat is waiting. It will take you across — ”
“Uh, whatever, Whiskers. Maybe I'm gonna see your bank statement before I take you on as my campaign manager. Aren't you with the ginger freak anyway?”
The rat winked. “There's one born every minute. And another thing: better look for your daughter. A little birdie told me she's getting a wee bit too cosy with someone's cauldron.”
Drum pushed the rat outside. “Just tell me if the terrorists are gone.”
The rat looked around melodramatically, then winked again. “All clear, your majesty.”
Drum crawled out from under the table, grabbed his golden golf club, and gave the rat a whack, sending it flying into the collapsed cake.
“Gotta be a bullshitter to read a bullshitter,” he muttered.
Apart from the toads and bats, the casino was nearly empty. But suddenly a thin waxy woman threw herself in Drum's arms weeping. Her makeup was hopelessly smeared but he could still recognize his sixth wife from the classy nails.
“Mellie, think of something happy!” said Drum. “Hey, where's Eva? We gotta find Eva. Get Chris. He better still be carrying those bagpipes.”
Above them, the banner carried a new and sinister message: “GO HOME CLOWNSTICK!”
* * *
Eva had decided to skip the ceremony at Hogberry Casino. She had strayed to the edge of the village, still thinking of the “haunted cottage” where Henry Plotter's parents were supposed to have been murdered. It was already dark when she stumbled across a gypsy encampment. She found a caravan with a sign that said “FORTUNES TOLD”. It excited her. The girls back in New York would ask her about her visit to Scotland, and she so wanted to tell them that she had been to a real gypsy fortune teller.
An old woman at the window motioned her in. Eva climbed in the caravan. Her nose was assailed by a terrible smell of cabbages and rotten fish that emanated from a cauldron in the corner.
The gypsy stayed in the shadows, so she couldn't get a good look at her, but she could make out a beaked nose and gold ear rings.
“I'm Eva. Wow, I just love your broomstick collection,” she gushed. “It's so quaint — but practical too.”
“Do you have a question for me?” said the old woman.
“Yeah, what's with the kooky tampons you have in this country? We had to get Chris to find one for me, and when he did, it's like, where's the applicator? And it barely fits in me? And do they have to be so hairy? Seriously.”
“A question about the future,” said the old woman.
“Okay, when are you gonna get some malls here? The Scots are so uncivilized. Not you of course. But I came all the way from Tahiti to see you and I'm missing the fucking regatta.”
“What a dreadful ... sacrifice.”
“Totally,” said Eva. “That's been my whole life. Sacrifice. You know I always felt stigmatized because I'm pretty? It's like every decade has an iconic blonde, like Princess Diana or Paris Hilton, and, right now, I’m that icon. But deep down — and I'm deep! — I'm just an ordinary person. I just wanna know the ordinary girlie things. Like my destiny and stuff. First, do I need a boob job to meet an investment banker?”
The fortune teller stretched her fingers stiffly over her crystal ball and gazed at Eva. In the creepy light of the orb, Eva could see she had dark red hair under a tartan bandana, green almondshaped eyes, and skin like yellowed bubble wrap. Beside her were Tarot cards, a teacup, and a saucer with signs of the zodiac.
The gypsy turned her gaze to the crystal ball.
“Just look at it like I'm an ocean,” said Eva. “I'm really deep. Search deep enough and you will find all these like rare exotic treasures.”
Eva waited, fidgeting. It seemed to take forever. She was beginning to get sleepy.
In the distance there was the lonely sound of bagpipes. It was as if they were calling.
Eva frowned. “That reminds me of somebody but who?”
“You have loved many men.” The old woman's eyes grew wide as she stared into the ball gaping. “Many, many men.” Saliva dripped from her toothless mouth. Eva felt mesmerized and unable to move. It was a putrid, mystical atmosphere.
“The sacrifice is ready,” said the old woman greedily.
“Awesome,” murmured Eva. She hadn't got a clue what the old hag was talking about.
Suddenly there was a crash and a draught of wind behind them. It was Drum, waving his golden golf club. Not to be left out, Chris and Mellie crowded in as well. They were all jumbled up in the creaking caravan.
“Private consultations only,” sniffed the hag.
Drum caught a glance at what was going on in the crystal ball. “Cut the Wifi!” he yelled. “Eva, we're not safe here! And I'm not just talking about the smell!”
A bony hand grasped Eva's wrist. The girl seemed to be in a trance. “You cannot interfere,” hissed the witch. “She has been chosen as an offering!”
Drum began battle with the witch in his own way. “You gotta tell me, sweetie, what's your brand? Is it ‘Ugly’ or ‘Freak’? I guess you need to roll back some of those plastic surgeries that didn't work. Yeah, some people are unattractive both inside and out. Where's your husband? Oh I know, that was him outside getting a blowjob from that village girl. What's the matter, can't satisfy him these days?”
The witch's face darkened, which was impressive as it was already pretty ominous. She held her arms over Eva and began to chant: “Slither slather capricornio! Bobcat babybat ugga wugga stupefy! Duh wuh eight ball gemini, thoth libra raytheon, buggle juggle exlaxio! Beelzebubbio hofaemter rildo dildo hierophant …”
Drum shook Eva out of her trance before the curse could be completed. Now she could feel blood bubbling up in her face and extremities. She screamed. Quickly Drum and Chris dragged her out of the caravan. Then Drum headed back in to trade insults. Of the group only he understood Arsetongue and he was learning a pile of new material.
* * *
An hour later, the four plucky Americans were making their way through Hogberry Village. The sky was black and ancient street lamps flickered feebly, lighting the silver mist and casting ghostly shadows. An inexplicable plague of owls had fallen upon the village: Mellie twitched whenever one glided past, while Chris dreamed about catching one and bringing it back to the hotel kitchen.
Drum strode ahead confidently although he had no idea where he was going. His followers just assumed they were headed back to the hotel and that he had some great plan to save them all.
Eva's high heels kept slipping on the cobbled street. “I want my own private jet,” she whined. “Daddy, you promised me, remember?”
Drum had other things on his mind. “First thing is to fire that four-eyes kid. And fire the guy who hired him. Probably that guy with the turban. Who wears a turban at Halloween? He fits the profile. Then gotta call my buddy Vladimir and get some submarines out this way, get some boots on the ground. Yeah, boots on the ground.”
“Gorgeous hair is the best revenge,” said Eva.
Drum looked at Eva in disgust. “There's blood coming out of your eyes, blood coming out of your ... whatever.”
Chris pointed helpfully to a trail of red drops on the cobblestones. Blood dribbled down her legs as she walked.
Mellie repeated the words of the witch musingly. “Slither slather capricornio.” She had an uncanny memory for speeches and loved to practise. “Bobcat babybat …”
“It's making it worse,” wailed Eva.
But her stepmother continued. It was as if the words had triggered something deep in her Slavic collective unconscious. “Ugga wugga stupefy … ”
“Shut your mouth or I'll turn your visa to confetti,” growled Drum. “You make Eva look like a rock scientist, I'll tell you that.”
“It's moving inside me,” said Eva. “It's like it's alive.”
“Thoth libra raytheon. Buggle juggle… exlaxio!”
A dark shape popped out from under Eva's miniskirt and skittered across the road before diving into a grating.
The flow of blood increased. Eva began to panic. “Daddy, daddy, where is it?”
Drum jabbed at the grating with his golden golf club. It wouldn't go through.
“You're screwed,” he told Eva.
“Please Daddy,” she said. “Please.”
For the second time that day, Drum dropped to his knees. He squeezed his stubby fingers through the grating. But his fingers were just a little too short to reach the hairy tampon. He tried to pull them out, but they were stuck. Furious, he found himself repeating the curse from the witch: “Exlaxio!”
Suddenly Drum felt a burst of power similar to when he first saw the scar on Henry Plotter's forehead. His fingers lengthened and narrowed and turned as white as pus. With his new pale blue fingernails he was able to skewer the tampon and draw it out of the grating.
He squeezed the tampon. Blood ran down his hands. Energy surged through his body. Forbidden knowledge swirled in his head.
“It's an enchanted tampon,” realized Drum.
“Mine!” yelled Eva.
“What'll ya gimme for it?” said Drum.
Eva started clawing at him. Fortunately Drum remembered some good moves from watching WWE. He grappled with her and ended up throwing her into Mellie. The two models collapsed on the street in a tangle of bare legs and beautiful hair.
“I feel like a million dollars,” said Drum. He laughed. “Yeah, but I'm worth seventy billion, so that's not saying much.”
“I'm still bleeding, Daddy,” said Eva miserably.
“So plug yourself up!” said Drum. “Learn to be self-reliant!” He turned to Chris. “Do you know where Loch Haerless is?” Chris nodded. “You're coming with me. I finally figured out the plan I knew all along. I gotta date in the lake!”
* * *
Chris was looking for mistletoe in the forest by the side of Loch Haerless. Drum had told him it was a “very special mission,” and assured him mistletoe was plentiful in Scotland, though he didn't say what it was for. It was less embarrassing than looking for tampons, but it was pitch-black in the forest, with even the light of the full moon blocked out by the heavy branches. He was searching for so long that he was at the end of his wits. His large body was covered in scratches. Spiders kept jumping in his hair. In the distance he heard the howl of wolves. Werewolves? On this spooky night anything seemed possible. When he saw a clump of berries he just grabbed it and headed back to the shore.
Emerging from the undergrowth, the first thing he noticed was an absence of horrible lowflying owls, which was eerie because he had started to get used to them. The second thing he noticed was a rowboat. Drum had pushed off from the shore.
“I'm back!” yelled Chris. “Wait for me!”
Drum had considered it and didn't think the boat would take Chris's weight. “Whaddaya think, two guys on one boat? Very gay.”
Chris waded into the black water. “Come back for me later, Mr. Tonnal!”
He could barely hear Drum's voice echoing over the water: “Tough luck Chrissy. From this point on, it's winners only!”
* * *
The old silver boat glided along the surface of the lake, which reflected the clouds above like black glass. Cold mist blanketed Drum, but in the distance he could see a greenish glow and headed towards it. He was annoyed that he had to do the rowing by himself and blamed Chris. Every now and again, he would reach across the boat and squeeze the tampon to soak in its occult energies. It was more than a drug to him. It filled him with anticipation. Some mysterious premonition told him that out there in the black expanse there was someone who would complete his life, someone or something more soul-satisfying than all the leggy bimbos he had bedded in the past.
The intense calm of the night was disturbed by an eagle. It swooped low, too low. Drum dropped the oars and took up his golden golf club. “Shoo! Go-arn! Get outta here!” The eagle swooped again. It seemed to be trying to claw at his head, but he swung the golf club and drove it away. The oars fell into the water, and the boat pitched wildly.
The eagle withdrew into the sky but the ripples must have wakened something in the deeps. A great black head rose out of the water. It was like a gigantic serpent with a poisonous green body and it was moving closer. The monster opened its mouth revealing fangs like sabres and fixed Drum with a stare that would have killed anybody with less money in the bank. Rotten breath blew over him.
Drum was not helpless though. He knew the language of these creatures; he knew how to deal with them. “Get outta my way,” he said in Arsetongue. “I'm looking for someone.”
“Could be me,” said the monster in a surprisingly harmless if somewhat hoity-toity voice. “My name is Basil.”
“If you wanna nice juicy bird for supper, I gotta treat for you,” said Drum. “There's a bald eagle out there that would love a piece of my hair. So jealous!”
“There's a reason for everything,” said Basil. “These are dark days. I've got heaps to tell you.”
“Take it from the beginning,” said Drum.
“I was born from a chicken's egg, hatched beneath a toad — ”
“Not about you, dumbass!” barked Drum. “About me!”
“Well, maybe it's better if I show you,” said Basil. “If you want to know how dire the situation is really getting, look into the water.”
Drum looked down into the smooth surface of the lake. It was blank.
Basil's forked tongue shot out and retrieved Drum's golden golf club. “Try waving it on,” hinted the monster.
“What is going on here? With my golf ... ?”
“It's not a golf stick you nincompoop! That's your wand.”
“I knew that,” said Drum. “Because it's long, longer than Henry's. Like every other part of me.”
He waved it over the black water. It lit up and an image appeared. He seemed to be peering into a deep vault. But it was filled with rowdy teenagers. He recognized Henry and the ginger kid and a snotty-looking girl and some of the other staff, all dancing about like little goblins. Flaming torches illuminated the cellar and gold coins were scattered on the floor. The most amazing thing though was the presence of thousands of living chocolate frogs jumping all over the place; the kids would catch them, sadistically pull their legs off, and pop them into their mouths. He saw Henry do this and then disappear. Then the orange-haired teen disappeared and Henry reappeared. It was baffling at first, but he gradually figured out the kids were passing around some kind of invisibility cloak.
Basil explained: “Long before you came here, Hogwash Academy was a hotbed of radical magic and the darkest sorcery you can imagine. They called themselves ‘The Ministry’. After you took over, they hid all the most dangerous spells and extremist pamphlets in the vaults. Even after long exile, Dr. Dumbelass and his minions on the inside plan to form a union — ”
“A union?” breathed Drum, recoiling in terror.
“A union of all the most disruptive scum in the hidden world: the fairies, the elves, the dwarves, the centaurs, the Easter bunny, even the freaking hobbits … ”
“Motherfucking … ” breathed Drum. “We gotta put up a wall. A yuuge wall around the the whole resort so nobody can get in unless they're loaded with money or guns. Only pure-blooded Americans. And pure-blooded Scottish. And half-German, half-Scottish.”
He was so absorbed that he didn't notice the eagle swooping behind him. His head was jerked backwards and his hair was ripped off — all of it, strangely, as if it were in one piece. Looking up, he saw it being carried in the eagle's talons and then dropped far away.
“Get it!” said Drum desperately. “That hair is seventy years old!”
“Like a family hair-loom?” said Basil.
“Weak joke! So old!” He scanned the water anxiously.
“Don't worry,” said Basil. “It was meant to be. Fate. It's a horcrux.”
“That stupid word again,” said Drum.
“In your case, a haircrux,” said Basil. “It's always had a life of its own and now you must let it go free.”
“It isn't fired till I say it's fired,” said Drum.
“You don't understand,” said Basil. “It's like a guarantee for you. While the haircrux lives, Drum Tonnal cannot die.”
Drum's boyish smile returned. “Amazing! I wanna order ... a thousand.” Suddenly he frowned. “Hey, what's the catch?”
“The catch is, every time you grow a new haircrux, you become less human.”
“No, I mean what are the disadvantages?”
Basil was speechless for once.
Drum said, “I get it. I gotta go round looking like a boiled egg for a while. No more goodnight kisses from Eva.”
Basil said, “I've got you covered.” Again his forked tongue came out. It dabbed at the tampon, which seemed to have grown in size.
“Quit licking my tampon,” said Drum. “Totally disgusting.”
“It's not a tampon,” said Basil patiently. “It's the sacred, glorious hairpiece of V-V-V— ”
“A badass gator with a speech impediment,” said Drum. “How ridiculous is that?”
“His worldly name was Dread Tonnal.”
“My ... father?” said Drum.
“Yes! Dread Tonnal! It was he who discovered the secret to immortality. But few people truly knew your father. Few knew of his trips to his humble wife's homeland. The dearest joy of his innocent heart was to be surrounded by white people, so whenever he was tired of the sleaze of New York, he would come to Scotland and rejoice with the pure-blooded people in the glens and lochs.”
“Get to the money shot,” said Drum.
“Your father was a hero in the war against the Magic Ministry.”
“Let's save that word for guys that don't get their spirit beat out of them,” said Drum grimly. He remembered his father in his later days.
“His spirit didn't die,” said Basil. “His spirit lives on.”
“In our hopes and dreams?” said Drum, rolling his eyes.
“And our hair,” said Basil.
“You mean … ?” said Drum, finally starting to get it.
“Your father's unsurpassed wizardry had achieved the most elegant hair style on both sides of the Atlantic. He was besieged by nymphs, and by junior sorcerers wishing to emulate it, but he would not give away his secret. Then one Hallowe'en, at the height of the underworld Hippie Wars, the father of Henry Plotter, the most treacherous wizard in the whole world, snuck up behind Dread on the golf course and yanked at his hair. Everyone was shocked when it came off, revealing that it was a toupĂ©e.
“Your father went back to New York a broken man, and handed over all his businesses to you, his most cunning offspring. Back in Scotland, Henry's father's unemployment benefits ran out; he got drunk, died in a motorbike crash, and was downgraded by the Emcees of Limbo to eagle form.
“Meanwhile the degenerate Ministry hired a down-on-her-luck English schoolteacher to put about a story saying that your father Dread had murdered him and his witchy wife.”
“It's totally rigged,” said Drum. “The media, the press … ”
“All was not lost,” continued Basil. “Dread's hair remained in Scotland, waiting, searching, influencing events, always hoping for a reunion. When your Eva came to Hogberry, it smelled something it hadn't tasted in a long time: pure blood.”
“Who can blame it?” laughed Drum. “What a girl. My blood.”
“Now is the time to fulfil the prophecy,” said Basil excitedly. “Assume the bloodied haircrux of your father, and you will be greater than you can imagine, greater even than he was.”
Drum considered. “Thing about this I don't see. What's in it for me?”
“You mean apart from the living forever bit, the priceless magical artefacts, the ownership of a large military composed of first-class demons, the power of teleportation, the — ”
“And what do you get out of it?” said Drum.
“I was assuming a comfortable sinecure at the head of an army of Death Beaters.”
“Lemme tell you, I'll think about it,” said Drum.
“Don't you get it?” said the giant lizard. “Together we will be be unstoppable! We both win!”
“Uh uh,” said Drum. “You want it too much.”
“Only wearing the haircrux can you kill Henry Plotter!”
“What a lightweight!” said Drum. “So overrated! He looks like a little boy. Okay, you got the words I hate to say: it's a deal.”
With a sense of destiny Drum took the hairpiece in his hands and lowered it onto his bald pate.
Immediately he had a feeling like a thousand orgasms under a Christmas tree. His skin seem to light up and confidence flowed through his body.
“I feel like I could whack a brigade of Henry Plotters. The squirt thinks he's a wizard? Seriously?”
Basil snorted. “He always claimed to be a full wizard, but people couldn't help noticing he is strangely powerless when not supplied by his dealers in the spell trafficking trade.”
“I'd give a million dollars to see his birth certificate," said Drum. "Can he produce his birth certificate?”
“Seems to be a sensitive point,” said Basil. “A Transfiguration Priestess released a document purporting to show that Henry is pure-blooded, but she died in a broomstick crash not long after. To this day the affair remains shrouded in doubt.”
Drum looked at the talking lizard puffing out foul breath and whispering to him in Arsetongue by the light of the full moon. “Okay, you're a credible source. So how are we going to defeat the Magic Ministry?”
Thunder growled and there was a flash. The reptile's eyes flicked upwards. “We in the Death Beaters Club have friends in high places.”
Drum nodded. “Targeted strikes against the ringleaders. Nuke them from the sky. Clean. I like that.”
Drum looked in the water to refresh his memory of his enemies frolicking in the Vaults of Hogberry. But the image had been replaced. He saw a big face as white as chalk with glowing red eyes and a hideously flat nose with slits for nostrils.
Drum waved his golfing wand without result. "Hey, you changed the channel."
“No, the signal dropped,” said Basil. “Once the storm starts, it's hopeless. There's nothing there now.”
“The fuck there is,” said Drum. “What the fuck is this? Ugly.”
Basil looked. “Oh. The surface is just reflecting.”
Uneasily Drum touched his own lips with a blue claw. Nothing there. He had always been proud of those lips.
Rain beat down, dissolving the image. Drum felt nothing. He stared out at the dark horizon thoughtfully.
“The only way I can lose this war is through cheating.”
“Henry does a lot of that,” warned Basil.
“You know what? I'm gonna cheat a bit just to keep up with him.”
“Some of the Death Beaters would love to get near to him. Just close enough to send a little spell flying right between the lenses of his smug little spectacles.”
“Oh you got some Second Amendment people too, huh? Why not? I can think of a lot of folks that would be looking the other way.”
“There's also his stockpile of magical charms to deal with.”
“What happened to your buddies in the clouds? Send down a nuke.”
“Lightning bolt,” Basil corrected him. “Wait a minute, why do you keep talking about nukes?”
Drum waved it off. “It's a shorthand. Relax you pussy snake. I don't mean that, obviously ... Maybe it's time for me to get back to dry land and kick some ass, and you to get back to Slimeville.”
“I'm coming with you,” said Basil. “I just left my last job. If it's all the same to you, I'd be grateful to reach the shore before the crowing of the rooster.”
“You're gonna stand out,” pointed out Drum. “Even with these Scottish freaks.”
“I generally take a harmless-looking form on land to let me blend in,” said Basil.
“Harmless? Nah, better make it something tough-looking like Jesse Ventura or Mike Tyson. Uh, not Mike Tyson. Or any guy with ‘Muhammad’ in the name.”
“Non-magical folk,” said Basil. “I hate them. We have a special name for non-magical people. Suckers.”
“Yeah, they don't believe in magic,” said Drum. “Like scientists. Suckers.”
The storm screamed on around them in Loch Haerless, thunder rolling, waves smashing across the boat, and rain lashing down on their heads, but they continued discussing tactics throughout the night, as cosily as if they were seated around a fireplace in some enchanted cottage. The first glimmers of light were appearing when the boat glided in magically to the shore.
Drum clambered out. Chris was lying flat out in the rain like some giant tartan squid, seemingly unconscious.
“You've been challenged before,” said Basil behind him, “But this will be the most epic, the most awe-inspiring battle of your career.”
“I once had this fight with a baby … “ began Drum. “Hey, where did you go?”
The huge dark form with the sword-like fangs had disappeared. In its place was an ordinary human-like creature with a piggy face.
“Uh, Basil?” said Drum.
“Not any more.”
“Then what the hell are you?”
“Just call me Dave.”
Drum sized him up. “You're fired.”
