Chapter IX
For once in the great, unfathomable expanse of all the time zones in the universe, a chapter did not begin with the dull exploits of Shnibbidy Bob Joe.

This in itself was worth celebrating. But Vader, Dark Lord of the Sith, had even more things to be grateful for. The Seed of the Master Turnip was almost, almost within his iron-fingered grasp, and with the Seed the Universe would be his. And this time there would be no Wellenforf the Wriggly to do the unthinkable and idiotic, and eat the superweapon. The only things that stood in his way were the maniacs of the Nine and Three Quarters, and despite the loss of the squid and the Elf on the tracker Vader was confident he was a match for anything that came his way.

Besides, the army was setting out for the Vuebegon, to claim the Seed.

Lord Vader dusted off his hands and stepped up onto the big floating dais, clearing his throat impressively. He was ready. He had had a refreshing yell at a few Grand Admirals, strangled a few lower-class sergeants, and now felt as though he could take on anything. As he raised his arms high over his head, letting his black cloak billow out behind him, the umpires below began cheering furiously, waving their spears and shouting his name.

The Dark Lord looked upon his creation, and saw it was good.

Rank upon rank of umpires stretched from one end of the immense Central-Death Star Conference Room to the other, an immense and menacing sea of black uniforms and wire masks. Ten thousand spears glittered hungrily in the artificial lighting, waving dangerously to and fro as the mass of monsters cheered and leapt about to show their master honor. Underneath the catcher's masks, white fangs glittered in still paler faces, blood-thirsting, more dangerous than swords. It was a mighty army.

Lord Vader smiled grimly and braced himself.

"My minions!" he roared. The troops below roared with him. "What are you called?"

"UMPIRES!" The dread word came rasping out of ten thousand carnivorous throats. Vader was pleased.

"Who created you?"

"DARTH VADER, LORD OF DARKNESS!"

"For what purpose were you made!"

This time the yell was so powerful it shook the entire floating battle station.

"WE WILL FIND THE SEED OF THE MASTER TURNIP!"

Lord Vader nodded, a great pride welling up in his chest as he looked over his children. They were a force none could defeat. Pumping his fist in the air, he stepped to the edge of the dais and roared even louder, spurring the ranks of creatures below into wilder cheering.

"You are the Umpires!" he bellowed. "You are big! You are strong! You are bloodthirsty! You can turn into great black bats at will-"

There was a sudden crack of thunder, and ten thousand large black sticks of wood appeared on the floor, turning back into umpires seconds later with an equally loud bang.

"-and most importantly-" Vader waved his arms, trying to rouse the minions into mad fits of heroism-"No one argues with you! NO ONE ARGUES WITH THE UMPIRE!"

The troops below screamed and shook their spears.

"YOU DO NOT KNOW PAIN! YOU DO NOT KNOW FEAR! YOU WILL RAISE THE MASTER TURNIP!"

"RAISE THE MASTER TURNIP!" howled the umpires below. There was a moment of chaotic, bloodthirsty yelling, then suddenly the mass formed into ranks again. Raising their right hand to Vader in the traditional Imperial salute, every single umpire pounded his spear against the floor three times, causing several tons of electric paneling to tear off the ceiling and plummet into the mass of darkness below. And then, the loudest roar that the Death Star had ever witnessed shook the metal sphere from core to hull, the tumultuous dawn of a new dark age:

"PLAY BALL!!!!!!!!!!"

There was an ear-bursting shriek of silver whistles, and the ranks of umpires charged from the room, hooting and brandishing their spears. They were more than ready for the fight.

Lord Vader smiled, letting his arms drop to his sides. What force in the universe could stand against him and his umpires?

"Well, well, Nine point Seven Five," he hissed. "Who's thrown the first pitch?" *********
Evening two aboard the Flying Walkman. No improvement whatsoever.

Aragorn was still very, very seasick. There was still nothing to do but watch the waves splash by (which only made his stomach feel worse), read romance novels, and sleep, which wasn't exactly an easy thing to do either, courtesy of a certain mutant.

Right now, Britney was mercifully below deck, helping Gruntos, the ship's galley cook, prepare Gruntos' Famous Meat and Potato Dinner. Gruntos had invited her to help prepare breakfast that day, for some reason, and then lunch, and now at dinner Britney had finally rolled her eyes and agreed to come. Why the lads would actually want her anywhere near them, Aragorn didn't know, but hey, he wasn't complaining, as it kept her off him.

Thank heavens she was gone; now he could sleep at last. All day, he had only to close his eyes and Britney would come scuttling over, making little sheep-type noises and gazing wetly at him. Once or twice she had even started to sing something, but of course that had brought the rest of the Walkers down on her head, and when Luke grabbed her in a rather unsubtle attempt to wring her neck she finally got the message and shut up. Of course, she then began to sniffle and predictably turned to Aragorn for comfort, but he had taken advantage of Luke's attack and slithered away up the mast. Now he was on unofficial crow's nest duty.

Lucky it was unofficial, because he was pretty much asleep.

The mast swayed gently from side to side, rather like a cradle. The crow's nest was pretty much like a cradle too: it was about two-and-a-half feet in diameter. Not that size mattered much to Aragorn, who could have slept anywhere by this point. He realized that he must look rather silly, flopped on his back with his feet dangling out through the crow's nest railings, Flaming, Burning Passion propped open on his stomach, and another day's growth of beard stubble making the green-bean hue of his face much more apparent. (Even the seagulls wheeling overhead were snickering at him, though he was not to know this.)

Suddenly, an all-to-familiar drawling voice cut into his dreams of Roughly Central Earth, accompanied by the clunking of Gruntos' tree-trunk feet up the ladder and the clinking of plates.

"Dinner, all you guys and gals!" Britney yelled, whacking on a large tin plate. "Dinner!"

There was a rousing, "Hurrah!" from the lads, and a sudden scuffle to find seats on water barrels. Slowly, reluctantly, Aragorn opened his eyes and pulled himself upright, sending the dog-eared romance novel plummeting fifty feet to the deck below. His stomach gave a huge lurch. Gods, why did dinnertime have to exist? The scent of roast beef wafting up from the deck below was making him feel extremely nauseous. Now that's an idea, he thought woozily, grabbing the railing and hauling himself to his feet. When I'm King in Gondor, I'll ban dinnertime. That would make me very popular with seasick people. Except that Gondor is three hundred miles from the ocean, so seasick people aren't a critical majority. Hmmm. Have to think about it.

"Oh Aragorn," Britney called in a singsong voice. "Dinnertime, Aragorn!"

Aragorn swung one leg over the edge of the crow's nest, slipped and let out a spectacular wounded-tiger yell. Britney squealed as well, sounding very hurt. Just as well, Aragorn figured, swinging his other leg over onto the rigging. The more she thinks I hate her, the less she'll like me. Imagine what Arwen would think if she found out I have a bird- woman tagging after me every minute of the day.

The thought dissolved into a mental shudder. Arwen was not a lady to be reckoned with. Seeing as her favorite game was commonly known as "Troll Bowling" (rules: one, knock out a mountain troll somehow; two, grab it around the middle and throw it at things) he didn't want to get on her bad side.

Thinking of Arwen made the sting of being away from Roughly Central Earth more painful, so Aragorn decided to stop thinking. His stomach lurched again, presumably from loneliness, as he scrambled down the rigging.

A minute or two later he was back on deck, and there was one barrel- chair left. Urgos, first mate of the Walkman, was eyeing it predatorily. Aragorn was in a bad mood, however, and if he had to sit and watch other people eat, he wanted to sit and watch other people eat. He smiled at Urgos and waved his dagger at him in a good-natured sort of way. Urgos got the point, and plopped himself down on the ground, letting Aragorn have the seat.

The rest of the lads looked deeply impressed.

Aragorn was starting to worry. The lads seemed to resent Odysseus, and admire him.

If there was a mutiny, he really would kill himself.

This pleasant strain of thought was broken by Britney, of course. Having finished doling out gobbets of pot roast and mashed potatoes to the crew, she noticed there were no barrels left."

"Oh dear," she simpered, looking straight at Aragorn. "There seem to be no chairs left. I'll have to share a seat with someone? Now who would- "

Instantly the lads were on their feet, waving their arms and bellowing, "Me! Me! I have a vacancy!"

Aragorn's stomach lurched again, this time so hard he was knocked back against the barrels. My, my, this was quite some stomachache. He'd never had one this bad before.

Britney was now stalking though the rows of crewmen, her eyes fixed, predictably, on Aragorn.

"I think Aragorn's got the nicest seat on the ship," she said loudly. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I joined him."

Aragorn opened his mouth to protest, but his stomach suddenly gave such an immense lurch that the Flying Walkman flew ten feet into the air and landed with a huge splat several yards from where it started.

Instantly the tone of the lads' bellows changed. Now they were waving around short (and beautifully maintained) swords, and yelling about war and honor and glory. Aragorn flushed a little, astounded that his own stomach could have produced such a tremendous reaction, when suddenly a giant hand snatched him out of the boat and lifted him into the air by his bootlace.

Aragorn nearly had a heart attack.

Yelling madly and trying to grab his sword, Aragorn looked around him for the source of this tremendous indignity. It was rather difficult, as he was swinging around upside down and his head was throbbing from all the blood rushing into it. However, he managed to thrash around until he was facing the monster, staring right into its dreadful face.

Aragorn let out a gasp as all his blood went cold. (His head now felt like a freezer.) Never before had he seen such a beast, such a fearful beast, so horrible in its utter irrationality. It possessed the head of a pin, and likewise the eye of a needle. However, it had the mouth of a river, the teeth of a storm, a cold shoulder, the arm of the law, the hand of fate and the leg of a journey. Worst of all, through its nonexistent hide Aragorn could see the heart of the matter pulsing grotesquely in the middle of its chest of drawers, churning up its nonexistent blood.

Fifty feet down, on the deck of the Flying Walkman, the lads had gone very, very quiet.

"There is evil afoot!" he heard Odysseus calling from far off. "We are no longer safe here!"

There was a sudden scuffle as the lads all tried to climb through the trapdoors at once.

So he was alone. Aragorn quickly reviewed his options, which appeared to be 1) stay where he was and get eaten by the giant whatever-it- was, and 2) try to break free and fall fifty feet onto the deck, where the impact would certainly reduce him to a gelatinous state.

Aragorn looked down at the seven people still on deck, looked up into the hideous squashed face of the whatever-it-was, and decided he would die fighting. Swinging around again, he clumsily drew his sword, which promptly flopped backward and sliced his nose. Barely managing to steady the huge blade, he shook blood out of his eyes and faced the giant fingers that held his bootlaces. One cut, he figured, one accurate cut to the forefinger and he would be free. Then he would fall and trust in God (Adonai, Allah, Vishnu, Buddha, Manitou, etc.) to do the rest.

"Be careful, Aragorn!" Beatrice yelled from below. "It's the dreaded Idiomox of Gibraltar! One bite from its river-mouth and you'll be reduced to speaking in idioms all your life! Two bites and you'll become a thing like it, with the head of a pin and a chest of drawers! 'Tis a terrible fate! Don't let it hurt you!"

Britney shrieked helpfully, scuttling around in circles like a decapitated chicken.

Aragorn gulped and gripped his sword more tightly. The great blazing eye of the needle was fixed hungrily on his face, and a wagon tongue was lolling wetly inside the Idiomox's mouth. He squinched up what little courage he possessed, trying to imagine a life in which he could speak nothing but idioms, and swung his sword back over his head.

"To infinity, and beyond!" he yelled, and swung the sword at the Idiomox's forefinger.

A little blood welled up from the gash his sword left in the immense finger, and the Idiomox let out the roar of the surf. The wind of change produced by the roar almost sent Aragorn plummeting down to the deck, but the Idiomox, clearly not going to give its prey up that easily, grabbed Aragorn's ankle and yanked him towards its yawning river-mouth. It intended to idiomize Aragorn, that much was plain, and it didn't make Aragorn happy. Once more Aragorn raised his sword, hacking at the finger in a last, desperate bid for freedom.

Then a sort of red mist clouded his eyes and he was floating gently away. In the distance someone was yelling and whacking madly at the Idiomox, but Aragorn couldn't imagine who it might be. In fact, he wasn't exactly sure who he was, or where he was. Everything was hazy.

"Out, damned spot!" the figure was shrieking. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Past, but call me Ishmael! You can run, you can hide, but you can't escape my love-" Each word was punctuated by another slash of the sword, and another roar of surf from the Idiomox-

And suddenly Aragorn was Aragorn again, and found himself falling sickeningly through the air, down, down, towards the deck of the Flying Walkman far below.

He was falling, he realized. He was going to be liquidized. He was going to die. He had escaped the Idiomox, but he was going to die anyway.

"Arwen!" he shrieked, but the wind rushing around him tore the word to pieces as soon as it left his mouth. "Gandalf! Mother! Mother! HELP ME!!!!"

Britney's shrieks reached a fever pitch, but they were all starting to fade away now. His life was flashing before his eyes, hour by hour, minute by minute.

My, my, thought Aragorn dizzily. I did spend a lot of time sleeping, didn't I?

And then he hit the deck.

And plunged through the deck.

And landed smack dab on top of Gruntos and Urgos where they were cowering in the hold, the wind completely knocked out of him, his body already bruising where he had hit the deck and several thousand splinters jabbing into him at odd angles.

There was one final roar of surf outside, and a huge splash of water. It sounded as though the Idiomox had accepted its defeat, and was heading off for other quarry. Thank heavens his chopping work had come to some good use. That might make him feel better about the splinters.

Gruntos and Urgos seemed as stunned as he was, so the three of them just lay there for a minute, trying to regain their breath and their bearings. Gruntos was shuddering and staring into space with a glazed look, rather like that of a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car, or a man with whom a tiger has suddenly decided to play. Urgos appeared to be completely unconscious. Aragorn, of course, was still trying to recover from the shock of falling fifty feet and not even breaking any bones. Also, he was fruitlessly attempting to reconcile himself to how much of his life he had devoted to sleeping.

Then the splinters in his back decided to make themselves known, and he sat up with a yowl.

There was the sound of an echoing yowl-Britney. Then seven pairs of footsteps came pattering over to the hole in the deck, and six very pale faces leaned over the edge and peered down into the darkness of the hold. (The seventh face, being permanently gold-varnished, could not physically be pale, but Aragorn assumed SOS was concerned anyhow.)

"Holy mother of avocados," Han breathed after several long moments. "The guy's alive!"

A huge, artificial smile split Britney's face down the middle. With a joyous flap of her wings, she raised her head and began to sing the first verse to some obscure pop song, making Aragorn's head pound. Luke and Leia screamed and began clubbing her over the head with paperback romances. Britney swiped at them in protest, and three faces vanished from the hole.

Beatrice, Odysseus, Han, and SOS, however, were still staring at him as though he was a ghost.

Finally, Beatrice whispered, "I absolutely don't believe it. You're alive, King-bro. You have to be the only person ever to escape from the clutches of the Idiomox, seriously.They didn't choose you to be one of the Nine and Three Quarters for nothing. Congratulations. I'll have to submit this to McGillarvey's Book of Universal Records as soon as I get back to Vuebegon."

Aragorn groaned and tried to sit up, making the splinters in his legs hurt worse.

"I'm sorry.about the deck, Odysseus," he croaked. "Didn't.know.I would cause so much collateral damage."

"No problem." Odysseus waved a dismissive hand. "The Walkman's seen worse than holes through her deck. She's a hardy little ship. I'm just glad you're alive."

"Yes," squealed SOS, "we are all perfectly delighted to see you in a fully functional state, Master Aragorn! Except that we wants you dead I would like to extend my personal congratulations to the vanquisher of such a dreadful beast kill you, kill you all."

Aragorn was hardly listening to this. The pain of the splinters was starting to make him decidedly woozy.

"-I don't know how you did it," SOS was rambling, "you just took your sword as bravely as you please and wham!-I do declare, Master Aragorn, are you all right?"

Aragorn groaned again, watching the world dissolve into little flecks of black.

"Master Aragorn? Oh, I do think he's going to faint! Master Aragorn?"

"That hurt," Aragorn muttered, his head lolling unpleasantly.

"Good!" SOS hissed. "We wants you dead-"

Han slugged SOS in his metallic ear. SOS started and protested, in a perfectly normal voice, "Well, I do believe that was uncalled for! Really- "

"Shut up, you two," Beatrice said urgently. "We need to get him up and into the cabin before he keels over. Hang on, Aragorn, I'm coming down."

There was a scuffle of footsteps. Aragorn looked up one last time at the peaceful evening sky, and fainted.