And a Geep Shall Lead Them by Leila Allison

-1-

Enter the Adverb Queen

Daisy trotted into my office then up the small critter ramp that runs from the floor to my desktop (Cats ignore it, they’d rather leap up and give me a heart attack). She began speaking without a preamble.

“Human infants are somewhat lackingly* lacking. I read it takes you things about fifteen months to stand on your own. Walking takes longer. I was doing both a half hour after Mom had me,” said Daisy. (*Our Goatly Goatess is a little geyser of adverbs, most except that one and a few others to come, have been edited due to the word length budget.)

I looked up from my work. “How is your mother?”

“You mean Mrs Cloverleaf?**” (**Daisy spells her surname with a K–Goat spelling is flexible.)

“You call your mother Mrs Cloverleaf?”

“No, but you should.”

Ahhh, so you are in your bossy little pill mood today, I thought. “All right, Daisy, what’s up?” I said.

“What’s a Geep?” Daisy asked, first looking both ways to make sure no one was listening.

“It’s a cross between a Sheep and a Goat–like Horse plus Donkey equals Mule. Parrot and Canary hatch a Carrot.”

“Is that possible?”

“The Carrot–not yet, but I’m considering it. But I’ve read about Geeps. Unlike the Jackalope, Geeps happen–but rarely. Ha! Not like it’s raining Geeps, right?” I said–but upon spying something in Daisy’s eyes that mocked me I had to ask. “–um, it’s not doing that, raining Geeps, right?”

Something was up because Daisy smiled sinisterishly. I then understood that she knew about Geeps all along and was testing me for devious reasons all her own.

I applied strategy to the situation because Daisy can be a secretive little pill as well as one of the bossy variety. I engaged her in small talk in an attempt to get her to say too much.

“I recall that your mother’s first name is June. But for the life of me I can’t remember Mr. Cloverleaf’s name–something with a B, I think, right?” I knew it, of course, but snark is at the soul of our relationship.

“You darnly darn well know his namely name.”

“Nope–gotta leaky memory all of a sudden…Bernie, Barthol, Buzzy…damn…”

“Buckfast,” she mumbled.

“Come again?”

“BUCKFAST!!!” Daisy roared.

Daisy made it as though she was going to get tough on me. She reared up on her back hooves, and began making Kung Fu motions with her front dukes. Naturally, I tickled her stomach and she rolled over laughing like an infant, regressing into the Old Ruminant Tongue. “Stop, stop, baa, stop, gnaaa, gnaaa.”

“Gonna drop the Kill Bill act?”

“Yaaa, yaaa.”

“Promise?”

“Yaaa-gnaa.”

I laid off the tickling.

She rolled back onto her hooves. “That was a dirty trick.”

“I should let you bop me in the noggin with your fetlocks?”

“Yes, you must do that.”

“You know, Daisy, you really should get in front of the Buckfast thing–even though it is a lot like naming a kid ‘Glue Sniffer.’”

Again with the rearing up and Kung Fu business.

“Oh, settle down–now are you going to tell me what this Geep thing is all about or do I have to tickle it out of you?”

Daisy was halfway down the ramp before I could reach her a second time. “Look to the star,” she called back to me on her way out the door, that weird little sinister smile back on her face.

-2-

A Handy Contrivance

A good deal of admin work goes into running a realm such as Saragun Springs. Everyone has an idea or a complaint or a new idea for a complaint. It never ends. Currently, our Lamb population has been keeping me busy because the “Woolies” are smart, spoiled, excruciatingly immature and determined to be the butt lint of life. For example, they recently declared war on the rest of the realm, as the free nation of Lambistan. This was all due to their mandatory bedtime of 9:00 PM on school nights. I gave in and granted the request for 10:00 and let them call their area (which includes their school) Lambistan. Unfortunately, one less hour of sleep has made the Woollies a bit cranky, and coupled with the mistake I made by giving in to their bedtime demand, it has been one thing after another ever since.

Sigh. Gotta work this next part in, somehow, so the previous can connect to the next.

Hey, gotta Big Idea:

“Hello reader, yeah you with the hat, or hair that looks like a hat, or even a head that resembles both. As you see I’m currently seated at my desk imbibing nicotine and alcohol spiked coffee in defiance of the Sturgeon General, that Fish-eyed know it all. You see I need those (and other substances) in me to, once again, present the Lamb backstory in a seemingly seamless manner. It was all getting to be too much until I just hit on the idea of opening the fourth wall to invite you in to see the technical side of a Saragun Springs’ production. A behind the scenes sort of thing. Welcome aboard.

“By the way, one of the rules in the realm is when a backstory needs to be told, the ‘New Kid’–or first time performer has to tell it. Since you have stepped in (perhaps foolishly) without thinking it over, You are the New Kid. Please read the following:”

“Those daffy little Lambs are Talking Lambs because they were born in the realm of Saragun Springs. Their parents are real Scottish Blackface Sheep, who got into the realm and liked it so much that they have remained. Thousands of them. But being born on Earth they are still Sheep who neither speak nor can conceptualize the desire to be the butt lint of life.”

“Thank you. It is greatly appreciated.”

-3-

A Rent A Star is Born

The best course of action in Saragun Springs is to wait and let whatever will be, be, because it will be along soon enough. Sure enough not ten minutes after Daisy left, Penrose the Flying Weasel was tapping at my window.

I acknowledged Penrose (who’s still being coy about her/his gender just to make me use the old pronoun slash), and s/he quickly pointed at a glowing light in the sky and flew away before I could ask her/him anything about it.

It was mid-morning, thus our little sun Pong was up to his usual zipping about the sky foolishness, but this object wasn’t as bright and it couldn’t have been our Moon, Ping, because he never works overtime. We used to have our own stars, but the Spring’s gravity is a bit weak and about a mile high there is none. A few have chosen to remain but the others have drifted off to heavier realms. A bunch formed a cluster that attached itself to Discworld when it passed by a year or so ago. We do have the asteroid 16 Psyche marked as our property, but it is still in the Earth solar system. Besides, being day, only Pong should have been visible.

Somewhere along the scrum of life I acquired a pair of opera glasses. I gazed through them and observed this: ©. Yes, a copyright symbol hovered directly above Lambistan. It glowed bright gold.

I picked up my phone and called my Second in Command and holder of the high office of Imaginary Friend, Renfield. We have an almost psychic mental connection.

“You see it?” She said upon answering. No hello, just You see it?

“Yeah. What does it mean?”

“I’ll scramble a trio of Wiseguys and have them look into it,” she said and hung up before I could reply.

-4-

A Tiny Info Dump

June and Buckfast Cloverleaf are Daisy’s parents. They are regular Pygmy Goats whom I brought to the realm so June could give birth to a Talking Pygmy Goat, which had been my lifelong dream. I like little Goats. It worked brilliantly, and there was a bonus because June birthed twins, so we wound up with Daisy and her brother Fenwick (he’s about three tenths of a second older, due to hitting the hay covered ground first.)

June is a mild tempered Goat, but Buckfast Cloverleaf is a rambling dude. Science should ask Bucky for a sample of blood and create a super Viagra from it because Bucky is never at a loss of ooh la la–if you catch my drift.

-5-

The Three Wiseguys

Later on I was just sitting there drinking a Guiness, smoking a cigarette and gazing out my office window. That’s about all I really want out of life–I enjoy sitting, drinking, smoking and losing myself in dreams similar to those dreamt by inanimate objects. Some compare me to a Sloth when I get that way, but Sloths go to the bother of climbing trees, which makes them look like workaholics in comparison.

Still, I really should know better because every time I locate my serenity something happens. The phone will ring or some small creature will tote a fresh vexation up the ramp. But I must admit that the interruption that queered my just being there was much more elaborate than the typical fare.

When I saw Penrose riding a broom, sky writing, I was certain it was a dream. At least I hoped for that much. But I recalled our Great Witch HeXopatha finding a broom at a Oz yard sale in the metaverse (oh, she gets around). Moreover, Penrose is one of HeXopatha’s minions, so s/he had access.

Whatever Penrose might be gender-wise, the Weasel is gleefully illiterate and had no idea what the broom was writing.

It said: SURRENDER DOROTHY

I turned around, ostensibly to fetch a flask of something harder than Guinness from my desk and saw the crystal ball on my desk flashing red. It might have been for awhile since I had my back to it. It is my direct link to the Great Wiccan herself, who resides in a castle in the Enchanted Wood.

I tapped it after I located a pint of Wild Turkey. HeXy’s beautiful yet crafty face filled the ball.

“See what you get when you buy from Oz,” she said, somewhat peevishly.

“Whatever you say,” I said, after feeling the hootch warm my esophagus.

“It’s supposed to say, ‘OVER HERE, DOLTS.’ Where did you dig up these so-called Wiseguys–Klown Kollege.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” I replied. “This particular scheme has been out of my control ever since the start.” I did not say that Renfield was responsible for the selection of the three Wiseguys, nor did I ask HeXopatha how she knew they were called the Wiseguys. Sometimes it is for the best to file things under “sacred mysteries” and be shut of them. Renny and HeXy are mortal enemies, so it is best to avoid the subject of the other when speaking to either.

“That figures,” HeXy said. She’s no dummy and must have realized who had sent the Dolts in question. But before she could begin a rant about “You know who”–I jumped the subject as best I could, even though I knew it would lead to my knowing all about something even though I was perfectly happy with my ignorance of it.

“Hold on there–no need to drag more personalities into this–I tell you what–describe the three Wiseguys and I will do something to help things along.”

“Beezer and Barkevious.”

“Who else?”

“And you.” On the stressed words, HeXy regaled me with a volley of the typical abusive laughter one associates with Witches as the crystal faded to black.

-6-

1925

The above number was where the word budget stood at the end of part five and, as Jacob Marley once said, I have “labored on it since.” This meant I only had a touch over a thousand words of our allotted three-thousand to bring this little opus to a satisfactory conclusion. Moreover this bit being set in the third person does not infer that it all has worked out all right, because this is what I am typing right now.

2006

Shit. Well, I had better get a move on.

-7-

I drove the Springs’ electric golf cart to Lambistan. (For those snowflakes who now think I am glorifying drunk driving, please remember this is a work of fikshun–and, while I have you here, go to hell, please.) The © was still glowing above the rebel nation. I knew that the boys had probably gotten distracted by either food or a rotten stench. So I brought a pizza with me, which is a most effective Dog whistle. Due to its weird geometry (based on my being an F student in geometry) nothing in the realm is farther than “boutta mile” from anywhere else. The cart has a top speed of two, so in about twenty-five minutes down the road, Beezer and Barkevious came to meet the pizza in their usual hurry.

I let them eat it and tipped back some more Wild Turkey. Lit a cigarette too.

As they finished up, I said “So, as you know, I am the third Wiseguy.”

Did I mention that Beezer is a Talking British Bulldog, and that his “brother” Barkevious is a chatty Scottie? Probably not, but that really no longer matters now that I wrote this paragraph.

The Anita Know function, the realm’s unwanted Alexa AI, unwantingly connected to all my devices by a mischievous Ghost, screeched the word count: “2261.”

“Shit.”

“2262.”

-8-

The boys rode with me to the “border” of Lambistan. When we got there the giant copyright symbol winked out of existence.

There were two Lambs on guard duty. The path was blocked by a Walmart shopping cart (such things occasionally pop into the realm via the interdimensional vortex). They were “armed” with a water balloon catapult fashioned from a variety of Fisher Price toys that got in the same way as the cart. (I saw only one water balloon; I imagine that hooves makes throwing them a challenge.)

“What’s the password?” A little Ewe, dyed neon pink from head to hoof, asked, all snotty-like. Her companion, a boy Lamb wearing a bike helmet and wrap-around shades, laughed the low laughter of the ruminants.

“Yo mama,” I said.

Naturally, my wit activated the catapult.

Since it is my story, rest assured that the payload missed me, alas Beezer was not as fortunate.

“I will fill a tampon dispenser with the both of ye for that!!” said a drenched Beezer, who is renowned for the quality of his empty threats.

Barkevious found the situation infinitely funny. “Eh, it wuz the time o’ year fer yur annual bath.”

“Yo ho, ye wee loo-brush faced besterd.”

“All right, you had your little fun,” I said. “We are reaching the 2500-word count. If you guys want to get this one over, start talking.”

-9-

The Lambs refused to remove the block, but they told us to come in. We left the cart behind and followed them to a droopy barn, a few hundred feet down the lane. A Donkey named Willie was guarding the door. Willie is a Magic Donkey, a minion of HeXopatha, thus in cahoots with the Lambs who attend HeXy’s Lamb School.

“You bring the goods?” Willie asked, without as much as a hihowareya.

The boys were wearing kerchiefs as usual. But inside them, unknown to me, both had a stashed object. Barkevious removed a small Frankenstein doll from his and Beezer presented Willie with a tiny hand mirror.

“You may enter,” said Willie.

I made to follow the boys into the barn but Willie stepped in front of me. “Your admission fare, sister.”

“What are you talking about, ye mouthy jackass?”

“The Three Wiseguys must bring Frankenstein, mirror and gold, before they may meet the prince.”

I ran that through my head and of course they had messed up frankincense and myrrh. But, naturally, gold was left alone.

“Gold?” I said. “Who do I look like a rapper?–oh, wait a moment.” I searched my pockets and presented Willie with a pack of Old Gold cigarettes. “Howzat?”

“It’ll do,” he said with a sigh.

-10-

“2718” Anita croaked over my phone. I didn’t reply, cleverly saving words that I just now blew on this sentence.

There were few surprises left in this adventure. Every writer is required to at least once “do” something with the virgin birth. This was ours.

Ahead, Beezer, Barkevious and the Lambs were huddled over a manger, to which a bamboo rod supporting a toilet seat was attached. I figured that was the occupant’s halo.

I approached and saw a remarkable sight in the cradle–manger. A tiny Geep, swaddled in tweed. And even though new to the realm, he had a full red beard, and he was smoking a cigar and reading a Horse racing form that had blown in from Earth.

My phone rang. It was Daisy

“Meet Buckfast Junior, my half brother,” she said.

“Why the messiah act?”

“We had the manger and the halo–it seemed wasteful not to use them.”

“What’s the copyright symbol about?”

“We plan on marketing Bucky as the Football Geep. Penrose placed it up high for us. You can find LED symbols pretty easily on Earth. Apparently it needs to be recharged. Anyway, we see great financial prospects in the little guy.”

“We?”

“It means everyone but thee,” Buckfast Junior said, crawling from his crib. “Think of me as a surprise, the child you never had.”

He was a cute little guy, weird beard withstanding. He was clearly Scottish even with a Springs’ accent.

“Daisy, how do you feel about your Dad cheating on your Mom?”

“What’s cheating?”

Most Animals, even the Fictional Character critters, have no concept of monogamy, so I let it go. “Never mind, never mind.”

“Warning,” Anita Know croaked: “2998.”

“Shit.”

“Finis.”

Leila