AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry this is late. Frankly, it's a miracle that I wrote anything at all after janeitsarah's review about Jareth's bordello leather underwear. Dear lord, what a visual! I think I stared into space just thinking about that for an hour. Or two. How time flies when you're thinking about Jareth's bordello underwear! In fact, let's all just take a moment to think about Jareth's bordello underwear, shall we? And perhaps another moment…
As always, thank you for the reviews! They were very very humorous and inspirational. A little too inspirational in fact. Remember how I said that there was only one more chapter to go? The chapter about the dinner and the chaos (oops, I shouldn't spoil the plot, such that it is)? Well, I was happily writing that last chapter when I received several reviews from people who asked questions/made comments about the pro-wrestlers and their time in the Labyrinth (you know who you are—Jill O'Brien, janeitsarah, Natsuko37, snip-snippet, and of course Wolfish Oro). And I started thinking…gee, what did happen while the pro-wrestlers were in the Labyrinth?
So I wrote this BONUS CHAPTER, primarily to appease my curiosity and to please Wolfish Oro and to show just what Jareth had to go through in order to make his dinner appointment with Sarah (everything he does, he does for her etc etc etc). I also made it a somewhat more outrageous than usual to cheer Mercuralis up a little ;). I should warn you that this chapter is completely superfluous to the story and contains no leather or adult-type touching (well, there is the odd bit of wrestling between consenting adults, but I don't think that counts). And for those who are wondering, it is not Jareth/pro-wrestler slash. I know, I was disappointed too...
Disclaimer: I do not own the Labyrinth. Nor do I own pro-wrestlers. I touched one once, in a platonic way; it probably wasn't the most hygienic thing I have ever done. I do not own a llama, though it has always been a secret ambition of mine to do so. Right now, all I own is a very small, non-llama-like dog. I do own apple-scented fabric softener, which means that I often smell a little like an apple strudel. It's a hardship that I bear stoically.
BONUS CHAPTER: How you turn my world, you pro-wrestling team.
Standing on the hill before the gates of the Labyrinth, the Goblin King, resplendent in his black attire, stared haughtily at the runner cowering before him. He gestured imperially toward a large clock that materialized beside him.
"You have three hours in which to solve the Labyrinth or else your trainee pro-wrestling team becomes one of us, forever," he stated regally, placing his hands on his hips.
The runner, or 'Coach' as he was known, was a portly man in his late fifties with a thick, bullish neck, and large, beefy hands that looked capable of crushing small sedans. Those same hands were currently clenched in frustration as he stared over the vast Labyrinth that lay before him.
"Three hours!" he wailed. "How the hell am I supposed to solve that thing in three hours!?" He wiped his sweaty hands down the length of his white track pants, leaving greasy stains. "There is no way I can get through that thing in three hours!"
Jareth dropped his hands from his hips and gave a devilish smile. "You're quite right, old chap. There isn't." He walked over to the coach and bent close to his ear. "Technically, I'm supposed to give you thirteen hours, but you called me on a bad day," he said, rather conspiratorially.
The coach was outraged. He took off his red baseball hat and threw it onto the ground. "What the hell? That not fair!"
Jareth made an impatient hand gesture. "Yes, yes, life can be cruel, tra la la," he said blandly. He sighed and flicked his wrist; a crystal appeared and he effortlessly transferred it from hand to hand.
"Look, neither of us wants to be in this situation. Why not just leave them with me and I'll give you your dreams," he said persuasively, presenting the crystal to the coach.
The coach put his hands on his hips and shook his head forcefully. "Look pal, my dream is to win tomorrow's contest. I can't win the contest without those boys. So technically, my dreams are null and void if I don't get them back."
Jareth considered that. "What if I grant you a wish instead?" he said slyly. "Anything you desire. A full head of hair, perhaps?" he said, eyeing the coach's shiny dome.
The coach glared at him and reached down to pick up his hat. "No thanks," he said forcefully, jamming the hat back on his head.
"No?" said Jareth. He bent closer to the man. "Surely there is something about your person that could be…how shall I put this? …enhanced, perhaps?" he said persuasively, his voice dripping with innuendo. "I was thinking specifically of …." He whispered something in the coach's ear.
The coach stilled for a moment and looked at the King. "You could do that?"
Jareth smirked and inclined his head. "But of course. If you wish it."
The coach glanced wistfully at the King's tight breeches before looking down at his track pants. He then sighed sadly. "Sorry King, gotta get the boys back."
Jareth snorted. "Of course you do. Nothing in my life is going to plan lately." Jareth tapped his gloved finger against his chin. "I want this over as soon as possible. Since you have decided to run the Labyrinth, allow me to give you some words of advice. Be sure to heed them well."
The coach nodded.
"When the blue worm directs you to an entry way, turn left," said Jareth briskly.
"Left," the coach repeated. "Got it."
"And should you find yourself in a hole, suspended in the air by a number of hands, ignore their gratuitous fondling and tell them that you want to go up."
"Up at the fondling hands, got it," the coach repeated.
"Do you like dancing, Coach?" Jareth asked pleasantly.
"Hell no! Can't stand it."
"Well stay away from the peaches," Jareth said jovially and started to laugh. Noticing that the coach was looking at him oddly, he stopped. "Sorry," he said, wiping a tear from his eye, "I was picturing you in a ballgown."
"Ballgown!? What the hell!?" the coach yelled, backing away from Jareth. "What kind of screwy place is this?"
"Ah Coach, you have no idea," Jareth said pleasantly, smiling his pointy canine smile.
The coach took another step back.
Jareth smirked at him and looked back at the clock. "Very well, let's begin."
Jareth began to disappear, but then he remembered something and stopped. "Coach," he said, his voice a little faint. "If an old man wearing a bird tells you that the way forward is the way back, ignore him. In your case, the way forward is the way forward."
"Ok," the coach said dubiously, still making sure that there was considerable distance between himself and the King.
Jareth noticed and smiled, a predatory smile. "Your time starts now. Good luck," he said mockingly, and faded away completely.
The coach looked at the Labyrinth and sighed. "Oh well," he said stoically, making his way down the hill. "Serves me right for wishing them away rather than just making them do sit-ups."
The First Hour...
Jareth should have been a happy man. A very happy man. Sarah—his passion, his obsession, his delight—was coming over tonight. There would be dinner, dancing, and a gratuitous amount of adult-type touching, even though he had failed to mention the adult-type touching in his invitation. That thought alone should have made him joyous. Moreover, his joy should have been compounded by the fact that he now had several marvelous photographs of his beloved to look at, and a rather fetching scrap of her bordello-esque lingerie to contemplate. If that was not enough to make Jareth smile, all photographic evidence of Sarah's past suitors was now lying at the bottom of his bog. The satisfaction from that act alone would usually have led Jareth to perform a triumphant, testosterone-fuelled, song-and-dance number around the throne room that would have kept himself, and his subjects, amused for hours.
Oh yes—Jareth should have been a happy man. A very happy man.
But, the fact of the matter was, Jareth was not a happy man. Actually, he was an exceedingly unhappy man, and he was demonstrating his unhappiness by cursing so foully that the goblins standing around him were starting to feel a little nauseous. His deep unhappiness came primarily from job dissatisfaction; he should have been preparing for his evening with Sarah, but thanks to the summons, he was babysitting pro-wrestlers. Not that babysitting the wrestlers had been particularly difficult so far; although they had initially been convinced that they were experiencing some kind of shared hallucination brought on by spiked Gatorade, to Jareth's relief they had settled in quite well. In fact, Jareth had found their placid acceptance of the situation to be rather curious.
"You don't think that all of this is quite…odd," he'd asked them when they arrived, gesturing to the goblins and the castle.
The wrestlers shrugged. "No weirder than what we see daily," said one.
"I'm from New York," said another, yawning.
Jareth looked over at the three wrestlers in their matching navy tracksuits. They were sitting in the round stone pit, chatting quietly amongst themselves. One was a large muscled blonde with a rather crooked nose. What was his name? Jareth thought to himself. Chuck? Chump? He shrugged. The one sitting next to him was much taller and rather lean with limp, dark hair pulled into a low pony tail. Jareth pondered over his name for a moment. Dean, or some such thing. And then there was a sleepy-looking fellow with bleached streaky blonde hair and a bright orange tan, whose name, strangely enough, seemed to be Weasel.
Jareth looked at the clock and pinched the bridge of his nose. The coach had only been in the Labyrinth for thirty minutes. Good lord, would this torture ever end? He conjured a crystal and looked at the coach's progress. The three wrestlers jumped out of the pit and gathered around him.
"How's the coach going?" asked Chuck.
Inside the crystal, the coach had given up on trying to find an entry point past the outer wall of the Labyrinth and was instead attempting to climb over it.
"Dismally," said Jareth dismissively.
"Go Coach! Climb that wall!!" the wrestlers yelled encouragingly.
Jareth sighed. "Let me explain to you how this crystal works yet again," he said slowly to the wrestlers, as if he were speaking to the goblins. "We can see the coach, but he can not see or hear us. So let's keep the yelling to a minimum or I will render you all mute."
"Sure King," the wrestlers said good-naturedly.
The wrestlers peered intently into the crystal. "Is it just me or has the coach put on some weight lately?" asked Chuck.
"Yeah, I think you're right," said Weasel.
"Man, we're screwed," said Dean, watching as the coach fell off the wall.
"Don't write the coach off yet," said Chuck optimistically. "I'm sure he'll be here soon."
"As heartwarming as your confidence in your rather obese coach actually is, I'm afraid that he won't be here soon, given that he hasn't made it past the outer wall," Jareth said grimly.
The wrestlers sighed. "I was supposed to be going surfing after practice," Weasel said miserably.
"Yes, well, we all have things that we would rather be doing," Jareth said testily.
"We were supposed to be eating ice-cream at the Lady's house and watching the soap show on television," said Squibble.
Ignor nodded. "And we were finally going to find out whether Roger or Phillip is the father of Veronica's baby."
Chuck looked surprised. "You guys watch that show too?" he asked.
The goblins nodded happily.
"It's totally Roger's child," Weasel said with conviction. The other wrestlers nodded in agreement.
"I agree," said Jareth, "there is no way that his emasculated son could spawn."
The goblins nodded their agreement with their King, although the blue-horned goblin did not look completely convinced.
Jareth turned to the large clock and grimaced. "This is taking far too long," he said angrily. He jumped up off the throne and began pacing up and down.
"What's his big hurry?" Chuck asked the blue-horned goblin who was standing beside him. "Does the King have a date or something?"
The blue-horned goblin nodded happily.
Dean looked at the King's outfit. "With a woman?" he asked dubiously.
"Yes, with a woman," Jareth said testily.
"The Lady is coming for dinner with the King!" said Squibble excitedly.
"Ooooohhh!" the wrestlers said jovially. "The Lady."
Jareth rolled his eyes, yet felt strangely gratified by their ribbing.
"So," asked Weasel, "is this Lady hot?"
Jareth shot him a black gaze. "Are you inquiring as to whether or not her body temperature is somewhat higher than normal for mortals? Or are you using that particularly imbecilic phrase to discern whether or not she is attractive?"
The wrestlers looked momentarily confused. "Ahh…both?" said Weasel, looking perplexed.
Jareth sighed. "Sarah's beauty is beyond compare in your world and mine." He paused. "I also believe her to be warm blooded so the answer to your question is 'yes'."
"Alright!" the wrestlers said, and went to high-five Jareth.
Jareth gave them a cold stare. "I thought that I had explained to you earlier that any attempts to touch me would result in dire and painful consequences," he said grimly.
"Oh come on now man, relax, it's just something us guys do," said Chuck, grabbing Jareth's arm playfully.
Within a heart-beat, the wrestler was lying facedown on the floor, his arm twisted behind his back and Jareth's booted foot on the back of his neck.
"Uncle!" Chuck yelled.
"What of him?" asked Jareth, coolly.
"He means let go," said Dean, obviously amused by Chuck's discomfort.
Jareth let him go and sat back down on his throne.
"That was AWESOME!" said Chuck in awe, not at all disgruntled. "Man, with moves like that and your look—the big hair, the tights, the leather—you could really make it on the pro-circuit."
"Yeah, if this whole king thing doesn't work out for you, you should definitely give it a try," said Weasel.
"At times like this, you have no idea how tempting the idea is," Jareth said drolly.
Jareth looked at the clock again and stood up. "I'm going to speed up proceedings and get Higgle to lead your coach to the centre." He turned to the goblins. "While I'm away, keep an eye on the wrestlers." He then turned to the wrestlers. "While I'm away, keep an eye on the goblins. If they begin to sing or play Wheel of Fortune, you have my permission to beat them senseless with whatever object you find handy."
"Ok King!" the goblins and wrestlers chorused.
As Jareth was about to disappear, he noticed that Weasel was happily accepting a tankard of ale from the frypan goblin.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Jareth observed. "Unless you want to be numb from the tongue down…."
Weasel did not look too convinced by Jareth's statement.
"…for the next decade," Jareth finished wryly.
Weasel put the tankard down and backed away from it.
The Second Hour...
"How did he manage to lose Hoggle?" the King asked incredulously, too shocked to mangle Hoggle's name.
The goblins shrugged. "Hoggle's pretty short," observed the frypan goblin.
"Maybe you should have asked someone taller," the goblin with the blue horns said helpfully.
Jareth rolled his eyes. He thought for a moment, tapping his finger against his nose.
"Desperate times call for desperate measures," he said dryly. He flicked his wrist and a crystal appeared. He gracefully tossed it onto the throne room floor; in its place stood four large signs.
"Four of you, come here," he ordered.
Squibble, Beep, the blue-tusked goblin, and the goblin with the blue horns came up to the throne.
"Now, each of you take one of the signs. Make sure that the coach sees you, and then lead him to the castle. Is that clear?"
"Yes King!" they chorused and ran out of the throne room, holding their signs aloft.
The coach wiped a hand across his sweaty forehead. He'd lost the ugly little fellow he'd been following. Hedgehog? Hobbit? Whatever, he'd lost him. How the hell was he supposed to make his way out of here now?
Suddenly, directly in front of him, four goblins appeared, each holding a sign that said: Follow me to the castle. One of them was even holding it up the right way.
"Come on Coach!" they yelled.
"Lead the way!" he said jovially.
And all was well.
Until the goblins all ran off in different directions.
The four goblins entered the throne room, still carrying their signs aloft. They received a hero's welcome; goblins cheered and handed the sign-bearers tankards of ale, patting them on the back as they walked past.
"We're back, Majesty!" they yelled triumphantly.
Jareth looked up from the throne. "Excellent. Where is the coach?"
The sign-bearers stopped grinning. They looked behind them.
Then they looked at each other.
Then they hid behind their signs and gulped down their ale as quickly as possible.
Jareth closed his eyes and tried to rein in his temper. He took a deep breath. "You imbeciles,' he said in a deathly quiet voice that made all the goblins in the throne room tremble in terror; particularly the leprosy-encrusted frypan goblin, who trembled so hard that he lost a finger.
Jareth stood up from his throne and began to circle the sign-bearing goblins. "All that you had to do was bring the coach back to the castle. I sent out four of you. I would have thought that, by sheer luck alone, one of you would have carried out my orders correctly. Instead, you have just demonstrated yet again that I am far too optimistic when it comes to estimating your intelligence."
"Sorry Majesty," they said contritely.
"We were just too excited about holding a sign," said Squibble mournfully.
The wrestlers snickered.
Jareth looked at the wrestlers. "Do you see what I have to deal with?"
"Man, it sucks to be you," said Weasel sympathetically.
Jareth pinched the bridge of his nose and then turned back to the sign-bearing goblins. "I will deal with you all when this is over," he said ominously.
Beep looked horrified. "I'm not going back to the bog sober!" he wailed. He ran to the nearest barrel of ale, tore open the lid, and shoved his head inside, sucking down as much ale possible, his little legs flailing in the air.
"That's my kind of goblin," Weasel said admiringly.
Jareth shook his head and looked at Squeak. "Make sure he doesn't drown before I get the chance to throw him in the bog," he ordered.
Squeak nodded. "Yes Majesty."
Sighing, Jareth summoned a crystal. "The coach is with the helping hands," he said tersely, peering into the crystal. He then swore under his breath. "And he looks as though he is about to make the wrong choice."
The goblins laughed uproariously. The wrestlers groaned.
"Shut up!" yelled Jareth. He glared at the coach. "What part of "choose up!" didn't you understand?!" he yelled at the crystal.
"Dude, he can't hear you, remember?" Weasel pointed out.
Jareth gave him a deadly look. "Don't make me bog you, Ferret," he said curtly.
"It's Weasel," corrected Weasel.
"Close enough," Jareth said irritably, and disappeared.
"Which way?" asked the helping hands.
The coach looked perplexed. "Ahhh…hang on, what did that king guy say I should do?"
"Up or down?" the hands asked impatiently.
The coach looked down. "Well, since I'm on my way down…
"Choose up, you imbecile!" Jareth yelled testily, peering down the hole.
The coach looked up and saw Jareth. "Oh, ok. Up it is. Thanks Fairy King!"
The helping hands started to snicker.
"It's Goblin King," Jareth said through clenched teeth. "I'm nothing like the Fairy King, you twit. The Fairy King is a drunken egomaniac who wears a corset," he said in disgust.
"Whereas the Goblin King is a sober egomaniac who wears tight pants," said one set of hands.
"Big difference," said another set.
The treasonous hands gave each other a high-five. The rest chortled happily.
Jareth raised an eyebrow and there was a sudden fleshy sound. It was the sound of fingers being twisted.
"Ouch!" yelled the treasonous set of hands. "My pinkies!"
"Say anything more and I'll break them…" said Jareth menacingly.
The hands continued to chortle.
"…off," he finished.
The hands went silent.
Jareth looked sternly at the helping hands. "Send him up, and quickly, or I'll relocate this oubliette to the bog," he said coldly and disappeared.
The helping hands made a number of obscene gestures at Jareth's retreating back.
"I saw that," Jareth's disembodied voice said menacingly.
"Well, you heard the man," said one set of hands.
"He chose up!"
While Jareth was with the coach, the wrestlers decided to pass the time by instructing the goblins on a few wrestling moves.
Chuck knelt down in front of Skeep. "Now, you're only little. Who do you usually fight?"
"Chicken," Skeep said, pointing to a chicken who was currently pecking a sleeping goblin.
Chuck looked at the chickens wandering around the throne room. "Well, you're probably pretty well matched. You've just got to be prepared to fight dirty. If all else fails, get yourself a folding chair and hit your opponent with it. That's what I do."
Skeep looked around the throne room. "No chairs," he said sadly.
The wrestler looked thoughtful. "What else could you use as a weapon?"
Skeep pulled out his fork.
"Whoa! That'll work. Just jab the chicken in the kidneys with that."
"Ok, kidneys," said Skeep happily.
"And when the chicken is on the ground, jump on it, landing elbow first, ok?" he said, demonstrating the landing.
"Ok Man!" Skeep said, happily.
"Off you go and give it a try. I'll be watching," Chuck said encouragingly.
Jareth reappeared in the throne room and watched in amusement as Skeep stalked a chicken with his fork. He turned to Chuck. "Your coach is back on the path, and I've instructed Hedgewood to bring him to the centre as quickly as possible."
"Thanks," said Chuck. He watched Skeep put down his rubber duck so that he could better stalk the chicken. "So what are you planning for your big date tonight?" he asked the King.
Jareth thought about that for a moment. "I'm still making preparations, but there will be a sumptuous dinner and dancing, and…well, other amusements," he said, rather wolfishly.
"Alright King!" said Weasel, leering.
Jareth returned his leer. The two nodded at each other in a male-bonding moment.
Chuck looked around the throne room. "You might want to clean this place up a bit."
Jareth snorted. "Sarah said that she preferred reality," he said indifferently.
Dean looked dubious. "This may be a little more reality than she can handle."
"Yeah dude, I just saw a goat being chased by a big lizard outside in the hall," said Weasel.
"Oh no!" wailed the blue-horned goblin, running out of the room. "Bad Waffle! Bad Waffle!"
Jareth took a good look around the throne room and tried to see it from Sarah's perspective. Chickens were wandering around, free-range, laying eggs on the rafters and scattering feathers and filth on every available surface. There were drunken goblins and their drunken chicken pets sleeping all over the floor. The sober goblins were playing tug-o-war with a string of sausages. Consequently, the entire room was beginning to smell like a rather diseased delicatessen. Jareth looked up and noticed that the bunny-shaped stain on the ceiling had mutated so that it was now approximately the size of a llama. He suddenly felt queasy.
"You may have a point," Jareth conceded.
"If you want, we can give you a hand," Chuck offered. The other wrestlers nodded.
"Sure, it's not like we're really doing anything at the moment," agreed Dean.
"And dude, you need all the help you can get," said Weasel, pityingly.
Jareth looked at them, surprised. "Actually," he said thoughtfully, "there are a few items that I need thrown into the bog, including a fountain."
"Well, let's get to it," Chuck said happily, rubbing his hands together.
The Third Hour…
Overall, the throne room was looking much better. The majority of the chickens had been herded out of the room by the blue-horned goblin. Jareth was not sure where they had been herded to; he just hoped that it was not his closet. The remaining chickens were being used, rather successfully, as feather dusters, so now the widow ledge and the other surfaces were dust-free. Despite the fact that Jareth had thrown a number of crystals at the llama-shaped stain, it had refused to budge, so the goblins were cleaning it the old fashioned way; they strapped Skeep to a sponge and attached him to a spear. They then smeared Skeep back and forth over the stain.
"Tickles," said Skeep, giggling.
Jareth rolled his eyes at Skeep and turned to watch Squeak and another small goblin as they scrubbed the throne. His attention was caught by a goblin tugging on his breeches.
"Majesty," said Squibble, "can I put this near the throne? You know, to brighten the room up." He handed Jareth a cracked tankard filled with soil. A stick had been pushed into the centre, and was currently leaning rather precariously to the left.
Jareth looked at it critically. "And what is this supposed to be?"
"Potted plant. The Lady has some in her house."
Jareth squatted down beside Squibble. "Oh dear," he said sympathetically, putting his hand over his heart in mock distress. "This potted plant seems to be a little, shall we say, deceased."
Squibble nodded happily.
Jareth stood back up and handed Squibble the tankard. "There is so much wrong with this pathetic attempt at a potted plant that I believe that my life would be infinitely better if I was to never see it again. Remove it," he ordered.
"What if it had two sticks in it?" Squibble bargained.
"Remove it!" Jareth said tersely.
Squibble muttered under his breath and moved away.
Skeep walked toward the king, unstrapping the sponge from around his waist.
"Finished," he said to the King.
Jareth looked up. The stain had shrunk down to its original size. "Ahh, I see the bunny is back," he said sardonically.
Skeep nodded happily. He looked around the throne room. "Need flowers," he said to the King.
Jareth looked around also. "You're right. Flowers would be good; they may help to dispel the rancid sausage smell." He turned to Squeak. "Inform one of the dwarves to pick flowers for the throne room." He paused a moment. "Tell him to avoid the poisonous ones, the ones that bite, and the strange orange ones that smell like rotten fish."
"And what about the purple ones that induce forgetfulness?" asked Squeak.
Jareth thought for a moment. "Let's keep a few of those handy just in case the night is a complete disaster."
"Yes Majesty!" said Squeak, running off to the gardens.
Jareth looked toward the throne room entrance as the wrestlers and a group of goblins entered. They all looked tired but surprisingly cheerful.
"Everything's bogged, King," Chuck said happily.
"Everything?" Jareth said incredulously. "Even the carriage?"
The wrestlers grinned. "Hell yeah!" said Weasel.
Jareth summoned a crystal and looked at the bog. Sure enough, there was a carriage slowly sinking into the fetid waters, along with a multitude of shirts, letters, crystals, portraits, hair ribbons, a velvet chair, and three riding crops. The fountain sat at the centre, refusing to sink. In fact, it looked rather picturesque.
Jareth shook his head in disgust. "The fountain makes the bog look like a picnic spot," he said wryly. He sighed. "The things I do for Sarah." He turned back to the wrestlers. "Excellent job, fellows. Many thanks."
The wrestlers smiled at the praise. "It helped pass the time," said Dean modestly.
Jareth looked over at the clock. "Speaking of time, let's see how your coach is doing, shall we?" he said, summoning a crystal. The wrestlers and the goblins gathered around and watched as the coach put a firey into a headlock.
"Go Coach!" yelled the wrestlers and goblins.
"He really needs a folding chair," observed Chuck.
Jareth raised an eyebrow. "Such a chair would speed up proceedings?"
"Oh yeah!" said Weasel.
Jareth focused on the crystal and a blue folding chair suddenly appeared next to the coach. The coach grabbed it and started to systematically beat the fireys with it until the fireys ran for their lives. Whooping in delight, the coach ran off after Hoggle toward the castle.
"See, much better," said Chuck.
"Quite." Jareth said, surprised.
Chuck looked around the room. "It's looking good in here."
"I must admit, it's the first time I've actually seen the floor in years," Jareth confessed.
A goblin, who was now wearing the tug-o-war sausages as a scarf, ran past.
"Pity you can't clean up the goblins," Dean said dryly.
Jareth looked at the sausage goblin with a raised eyebrow. "Who said that I can't?" he said arrogantly. "I am, after all, the King."
The wrestlers grinned at him. "Go King!" they cheered.
Jareth laughed and walked over to the window ledge. Looking down, he dropped a crystal from the window. The goblins and wrestlers gathered around to watch as the crystal fell onto the stones below. It bounced once, twice, and then became a large stone tub, about the size of an average swimming pool.
Jareth turned to Squeak. "Have it filled with water. Everyone is going bathing."
The goblins looked at him, horrified.
"Don't do it, Majesty! Please!" wailed Squibble.
"Be merciful, Majesty! Send us to the bog instead!" Beep slurred in drunken desperation.
The goblins all nodded and fell to their knees.
Jareth waved his hand impatiently. "Come now, we must all make sacrifices if we want Sarah to become our Queen. Lord knows I just lost a fountain and several of my favorite shirts," he said dryly.
There was a sudden commotion at the throne room entrance. The coach came running inside, swinging his folding chair madly back and forth, a wild gleam in his eye. The goblins ran to greet him but he batted them out of the way, managing to hit Squibble so hard that he flew out of the tower window.
"I'm coming Rosalinda!" Squibble called out happily as he fell.
Skeep watched Squibble fly out the window and his little face contorted in rage. He ran toward the coach, his fork raised menacingly.
"KIDNEYS!!" yelled Skeep, and stabbed the coach in the knee with his fork.
"KNEE CAP!!" yelled the coach, dropping the chair.
"Good work Skeep," Jareth said encouragingly. He walked over to the coach, who was looking at the fork marks on his knee. "Congratulations, you have made it to the centre of the Labyrinth. You have won back your wrestlers."
"Way to go, coach!" the wrestlers cheered, patting him on the back.
The coach looked relieved.
Jareth raised his hand for silence. "As a Champion of the Labyrinth, we would like to present you with this goat as a token of our esteem," he said rather sardonically, gesturing to the doorway where Ignor was leading in the wished-away goat.
"Wow," said Weasel. "Free goat."
"He can be our mascot," Dean said dryly.
"Did the last Champion get a goat too?" asked Chuck.
"No," said Jareth, "the last champion is going to become my Queen."
The coach shuddered. "I'd rather take the goat."
"Trust me coach," the Goblin King said silkily, "the other option was never a possibility in your case."
The coach gave a reluctant smile. "Well," he said heartily, "I won't say that it was a pleasure because that would be a big fat lie. But it certainly wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be." He looked at his wrestlers. "We have a contest tomorrow. Can we go home now?" he asked the King.
The King nodded. "But of course." The King summoned a crystal.
"Hang on," said Chuck, "let us say goodbye first."
The wrestlers said their goodbye to the goblins who clustered around their knees.
"You did some fine stabbing today, Skeep," Chuck said encouragingly, "but the kidneys are a bit higher."
"Ok Man!" Skeep said happily, experimentally jabbing his fork in the air as high as he could reach.
The wrestlers turned to Jareth.
"Good luck with your date, King!" said Weasel.
"Yeah, let us know how it goes," said Chuck.
"Keep her away from that big lizard," Dean advised.
"Freezer alligator," corrected the blue-horned goblin.
Jareth grinned at them. "I shall. Many thanks to you all," he said smiling. He threw the crystal in the air and promptly sent them Aboveground.
The goblins looked forlornly at the place where the wrestlers had been standing.
"Sad," said Skeep, still brandishing his fork.
The blue-horned goblin sniffed.
"Is it just me, or are the summons becoming increasingly odd lately?" Jareth asked.
"Weird," agreed Skeep.
Squeak came running into the throne room. "Your Majesty, the pool has been filled."
The goblins all groaned.
"Excellent," Jareth said rubbing his hands together. "Gather everyone outside."
"It's not too late to bog us instead of bathing us, Majesty," the blue-horned goblin said hopefully.
"The day is young," Jareth said pleasantly. "I could still do both."
Two Hours Till Sarah's Arrival…..
Jareth walked into the courtyard and groaned when he saw the pool; there were fireys frolicking in the water.
"What the hell are they doing in there?" Jareth asked Squeak.
"Heating the water, Majesty. How else would we have warmed it up?" asked Squeak.
Jareth gave him a scathing look.
"Oh, right. Magic. Sorry Majesty," he said penitently.
Jareth looked at the fireys distastefully. "They better not have left too much hair in the water," he muttered.
Jareth strode up to the stone pool. "Out," he ordered the fireys.
The fireys ignored him. "Come on in, boss man! The water's fine!" a fiery yelled irreverently.
Jareth looked at him scathingly. "Don't make me hurt you."
"Oh boss man, you need to chill," said one.
"Don't loose your head!" called another.
They all began to laugh uproariously.
Jareth made a small gesture and the fireys' heads flew off into the hedge maze. There was a sudden blur of black feathers and Rosalinda came tearing out of the bushes, pecking furiously at the heads.
"Ahh! It's a voodoo chicken!" yelled one of the beheaded fireys as Roslinda viciously pecked him on the nose.
"YEAHHY ROSALINDA!" cheered the goblins.
Jareth smiled, a rather sinister smile. "Odd, but that chicken is starting to grow on me," he said in mild surprise.
The goblins cheered as they watched Rosalinda menace the heads. Jareth looked back at the pool and made another quick gesture; this time, the fireys' bodies were suddenly ejected from the pool, thrown in all directions.
"No fair, boss man! You play rough!" one of the fireys complained, as he tried to remove himself from the top of a hedge.
Jareth ignored him. "Ignor!" he called. "Do you have the box?"
Ignor and four goblins came toward him, carrying the box of fabric softener that Sarah had given them.
"Here it is, Majesty," Ignor said happily, unpacking the box.
Jareth reached in and pulled out a bottle. "Pour the fabric softener into the pool," he commanded.
The goblins gleefully began emptying the bottles into the pool, the crisp scent of green apples filling the air. Inhaling deeply, Jareth began to read the label. "Apparently, this product is guaranteed to make your clothes twenty percent softer than all other leading brands of fabric softener." He looked up at the goblins. "See, only the very best for you, my fine fellows," he said jovially.
The goblins cheered and continued to pour.
Jareth went back to reading the label. "Hmm," he said thoughtfully. "Apparently you should not get this product in your eyes. Keep that in mind, won't you?" he said, addressing the crowd of goblins.
"Yes Majesty," they said, nodding solemnly.
Jareth put the bottle down onto the floor, and began flinging goblins into the pool. "Eyes shut, chaps," he said pleasantly.
Some goblins chose to jump in the pool rather than be flung by the King. Unfortunately, they typically landed on the other goblins who were already inside, leading to a kicking, screaming, seething mass of apple-scented chaos.
"Majesty, are we allowed to drink the water?" asked one goblin.
Jareth finished flinging his final goblin and walked over to an empty bottle of softener. He quickly read the label. "It says here that the softener is not for human consumption but it says nothing about goblins." Jareth snorted. "Anyone who can survive goblin ale can survive fabric softener. Go right ahead," he recommended.
"Yeahhy!!" cheered the goblins. They cautiously sipped the water.
"Fruity," said Skeep happily, lapping the water from his hand, his rubber duck floating happily beside him.
Jareth looked over at Squeak who was pouring the last bottle of softener into the pool. "Squeak, I need to organize a few things for this evening. Supervise the bathing," he said, turning to leave.
"Yes Majesty," Squeak said dutifully.
"Oh and Squeak—don't let them out until they are twenty percent softer," he said slyly.
"I wouldn't dream of it, Majesty," Squeak said solemnly.
One Hour Till Sarah's Arrival.
The goblins were gathered in the throne room. Their helmets were shiny, their clothes were clean, and their skin had that just-bathed-in-fabric-softener-against-the-recommendations-of-the-manufacturer kind of glow.
Jareth looked over his apple-scented subjects and smiled happily. He cleared his throat.
"Hear me now. As you all know, Sarah is coming over tonight. You all like Sarah, don't you?"
The goblins nodded reverently. Skeep looked around the congregation to see if anyone disagreed, his little fork ready. Satisfied, he turned back to the King.
"Now," said the King "for whatever reason, Sarah appears to like you too; a fact that would typically make me question her mental health. However, she has also made it clear that she also likes me, so it must be a selective form of insanity on her part." He paused and looked at them all. "So tonight is a very important night as I intend to ask Sarah to become our Queen. Would you like that?"
"YEAHHY!!" the goblins cheered happily.
Jareth smiled widely. "Excellent. So let me say this quite clearly; if any of you ruin this evening for me, there will be dire consequences," he said ominously.
"Like what?" asked one.
"Will you send us to the Bog of Eternal Stench?" asked Squibble.
"I'll send you to somewhere worse than the bog," Jareth said grimly.
"What's worse than the bog?" asked Ignor.
Jareth pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll create something worse than the bog"
"Like what?" asked Squibble.
"The Swamp of Perpetual Suffering," Jareth improvised.
"Oooooohh!" said the goblins in horrified glee.
"Sounds bad," said Skeep.
"What does it do?" asked the frypan goblin, completely fascinated.
"If you should even dip your toe into the Swamp of Perpetual Suffering, you will be turned inside out,' Jareth said with relish.
"OOooooooooh!" the goblins said, clearly impressed.
"And then would you suffer?" inquired the goblin with the blue horns.
"Perpetually?" Squibble said hopefully.
"Yes, just as the name suggests," Jareth said sardonically. "So, pass on the word that by Royal Decree, anyone who ruins my evening with Sarah will be dipped into the Swamp of Perpetual Suffering."
"Yes your Majesty!" the goblins cried and ran off to tell their friends. However, given the rather limited mental capacity of the goblins, and their general excitement at having something new to fear, it was no surprise that their message become corrupted with each telling, so that by the end of the hour the Royal Decree had become: "King says bring in your frypans for a free buffing!"—a message that caused just as much excitement in the buffing-obsessed population as the original decree.
Jareth, however, was completely oblivious to the desecration of his decree. He was basking in his sparkling-clean, flower-and-apple-scented throne room. Looking around, he noticed the leprosy-encrusted frypan goblin sitting near the throne.
"How are you doing, old chap?" he asked solicitously. "Only four hours to go before you're cured."
The frypan goblin gave him a thumbs up. That is, until his thumb fell off.
Jareth sighed. "Be sure to pick that up; we don't want Sarah tripping on it."
AUTHOR'S NOTE #2
Given that this is a bonus chapter, I'm happy to give you a break from reviewing.
Skeep runs into the room, brandishing his fork. "Review!" he says, sternly.
The blue-horned goblin clears his throat. "But Skeep, Lixxle said that there's no need because…"
"REVIEW!" yells Skeep.
The blue-horned goblin shakes his head. "No, she said…"
"KIDNEYS!!" yells Skeep, raising his fork menacingly.
"Better do what he says," the blue-horned goblin says warily, "he has a fork..."