A cagey little character drifts in, a cigarette (real, or candy?) held between its lips. It is an androgynous creature, unremarkable, with a manner which others cannot pinpoint entirely. Deftly, it sidles up to a nearby bar and listens to the conversation with its overgrown ears. The ears are how this creature exists, for, like a spielsnape, its eyes and tongue are under-developed.
“Fie!” cries one man at the bar. “I hath heard Master Pertwee is but a load of horse dung. It is told that of his performance, only his last is of any consequence, for, indeed, it was his last.”
“I am but to disagree,” says another. “Master Pertwee seems to me far greater than Master McCoy… is he any more than a brain-addled clown? If I am to see Silver Nemesis again I shall turn my stomach inwards-out.”
“Is it so unaccustomed of you,” speaks the listening creature quietly, “to respect one another’s opinions?”
“Get away with it,” mutters the first man at the bar. “I will hear none of this pacifist bilge. We are in an argument of unsurmountable anger, and will not be done until we have wrenched each other’s throats.”
“As you like,” whispers the creature, shrugging. “I am but a Lurker, and obviously know little of these matters.”
The second man sneers. “I wager you have dropped your wick for
both Masters Pertwee and McCoy, although surely it would be best if you
did it to yourself!”
The bar erupts in laughter at this.
The Lurker sighs and shakes its head as it shuffles off. “Such public rudeness. Surely this place of fun does need to throw such men out?”
With speed and agility surprising in a creature so rotund, Eloise the troll puts down her fiddle, hops off the stage, and sprints to intercept the Lurker before it can reach the door. “Having trouble, are we dear?” she says, putting her arm around the creature’s small, furry, mouse-brown shoulder, and steering it gently back to the party.
The Lurker whispers shyly into the troll’s ear.
“You don’t say?” Eloise responds. “Complaining? Here? Well, let’s see what we can do about that.”
Leading the reluctant creature back to the bar, she confronts the Complaining Trolls.
“Excuse me, Gent-le-men,” she says, enunciating the last word with strained politeness. “But I’m not sure you realize that your conversation is drowning out the rest of our entertainment.”
She sees that the trolls are not drinking from “Iron Chef Catering” glasses, but from old bottles hidden in greasy paper bags. Taking one from the astonished Complaining Troll, she takes a whiff, and her two-foot long nose wrinkles like an accordion. “Whew!” she says. “How many bitter pills did you dissolve in here?!” She cranes her neck, scanning the crowd. “Where is that barkeep, anyway?” she mutters. “He’s supposed to be monitoring beverage consumption around here… Oh, there he is, dancing with a gal dressed like Nicola Bryant… never mind. I’ll just take care of this myself.” Taking both bottles, she slips behind the bar and unceremoniously pours the contents into the garbage.
There is a shocked pause from the Complaining Trolls, then one of them speaks up. “’Ere!” he says, “we were enjoying those!”
“That’s right!” another pipes up. “We can drink whatever we want!”
“Of course you can,” Eloise agrees. “But this is a pro-fun hoedown and, right now, you are squelching several people’s fun.” She pulls two, tall, elegant glasses from under the bar and sets them up. “Besides,” she adds, “too much bitterness dulls the palate, and contributes to ulcers.” Taking out a crimson crystal decanter, she pours a beautiful golden liquid into the two glasses. “Have some honeyed wine, instead.” She nods to the Lurker, who is looking somewhat lost. “And you, dear? What will you have?”
The Lurker thinks for a moment. “Millennium drink,” the creature finally responds. “Tall as the oak tree.”
The avocado-green troll looks pleased. “One or two shots cranberry juice?”
“Four. A finer brew is not made for the fine-tuned taste of ladies and men.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Eloise responds, adding the four shots of cranberry juice with a little flourish. The tall drink on the counter gradually turns a deep, glowing red.
The grateful Lurker takes the drink and looks about. “I see that you, in fine character, have obtained the best of musicians, which indeed have brought me out into the open with their lyrical notes and gentle touch of string. Tell me, good troll, are there other of my kind about? Many have been drove away by the likes of the spotted Azaxyr beast, but I know some of us still remain in these parts…” After this uncharacteristically long speech, the Lurker promptly swallows its cigarette. It doesn’t cough, so the smoke was probably candy. (Why, then, is the Lurker’s vest-front covered in fine ash?)
Eloise eyes the Lurker with new interest. How does this being know that the Azaxyr is spotted? (There is an ongoing debate within the walls of the Rogues’ Gallery itself, where only the boldest posters tread, whether the beast is spotted or striped, or even, perhaps, both.) Then she notices the fine ash that sifts down the Lurker’s vest-front. Could it be that this shy, big-eared little creature has been caught in the cross-fire of an Azaxyr flame war? Well, whatever the answers to these questions may be, it is clear that this is no ordinary Lurker.
Remembering at last the Lurker’s question, Eloise goes to the door and looks out. Sure enough, there are other creatures of that kind, barely visible in the shadows, for they do not dare come into the light. The avocado troll would call to them to invite them in, but, alas, she does not know any of their names. And, she knows, yelling “Hey, You!” into the crowd milling outside in the yard will only frighten them away… especially with the dreaded Finn Fang Foom rumoured to be in the vicinity. The Chocolate Snark has brought Eris as his escort for the evening, and the avocado troll knows only too well that such a general summons would bring all three: the eighty-story lizard, the demon of mockery, and the goddess of chaos, long before it enticed any Lurkers to join in. With these uncomfortable thoughts racing in her mind, the troll glances at her watch. “Oh, good! Almost time for the first square dance! I’d better get back on stage.”
She manages to find the bartender as she makes her way through the crowd, and leads him with authority back to his post. “Now,” she warns him, “We’ve already had trouble with Complaining Trolls. So I want you to keep an eye out for anyone slipping bitter pills into the drinks.”
Slouching at the bar is a tall figure with long, pert, almost jackal-like ears pointing upwards and a friendly smile playing across his muzzle. He might almost resemble a member of some ancient pantheon were it not for the pure silliness of his bright orange fur. He sips at a large drink and looks around with interest.
Noticing him, Eloise relaxes. Friendly smile, or no, silly fur, or no, she can rest assured that no Complaining Troll, nor yet any Nasty Troll would dare risk being sent to a premature judgement at the hand of Orange Anubis.
She turns to the Lurker. “Enjoying yourself now?”
The Lurker nods happily.
Eloise smiles. “I’m glad you approve,” she says. “If you like what you’ve heard so far, you might enjoy the work of one Rufus T. Firefly. He’s around here somewhere…” She cranes her neck. “Oh, yes. There he is – I think he’s discussing the similarities between Groucho Marx and the Doctor, if I’m not mistaken…” She points to a fellow wearing a pair of obviously plastic Groucho-glasses complete with nose and moustache, who perks up at the sound of his name. “In any case, he’s choreographed a rather amusing ‘Doctor Dance’. It can be seen performed at the theater down the street, if you’re interested.” She hands the Lurker a slip of paper on which the following cryptic address is printed: http://rtf.kracked.com/drwho/index.html *
Rufus slips through the crowd toward the pair, and waggles his eyebrows in greeting. “You call this a party?” he teases. “The drinks are warm, the women are cold, and I’m hot under the collar.” He turns to the Lurker. “So, you are interested in music, are you? Well, you may be interested in this…” He produces a violin suspiciously similar to the one all were entertained with earlier. “Here we have a genuine Stradivarius, built by Isaac Stern, son of Junior Semples. I brought it for a fellow named Allemande, but Allemande Left. You seem like a connoisseur, so I’m prepared to part with it for the paltry sum of–”
He is interrupted by a tug on his sleeve. Looking down, he is greeted by Eloise, sans violin, pulling a mock-angry face.
“Er… Thank goodness I found you! You accidentally dropped this. Here you are…” He gingerly hands over the violin.
“Dropped it. Yes, sure I did. Thank you, Rufus.” Taking the instrument, Eloise shakes her head and goes back to the stage. “Who’s next?” she mutters under her breath, “a Henny Youngman impersonator?” She tests the strings. Sure enough, they need to be retuned. She sighs.
“I heard that,” mutters Rufus as he removes his fedora and unwraps a stick of gum kept in the hatband (for emergencies.) “Henny Youngman, indeed… did you know that Henny’s so short he had to shine his shoes before taking his passport photo?”
Meanwhile, hidden in a corner of the room, a small, fluffy mouse-like creature with a pom-pom tail munches on a piece of cheese. He turns and looks at the small table next to him, upon which is heaped every possible form of expensive and rare cheese ever created, and his eyes go doe-like with appreciation. Only the very best cheeses for the mouse at a pro-fun party!