I had an excuse for not writing sooner, and here it is right here!

Here is an abbreviated version of my past few weeks, starting just before Christmas.

Kitty: You know you have a fanfic to write.

ROI (Rune-of-Iormangand AKA me): Can't write now, preparing for Woodford (Folk Festival starting Boxing Day)

:At Woodford:

Bartimaeus: Oi, shouldn't you work on the fanfic?

ROI: Can't write now, Woodford.

:Week after Woodford:

Jane Farrar: What are you doing? Get going and write that fanfic!

ROI: Can't write now, recovering from Woodford. And friend from previous town. So . . . much . . . breaking . . .

Characters from original work: Hello, there. What have we here? Aren't you supposed to be re-writing from the beginning?

ROI::Glances at original characters:

ROI: Can't write now, fanfic::Leaps for computer:

And that's basically my entire life. I am a heinous procrastinator, and you have every right to be mad. Just remember, you're on the wrong side of the computer screen, so HAH!

Hmm, shouldn't be acting so mean. I mean, I leave you all for such a long time! . . . Or, you haven't noticed. Never mind. I'll make it up to you. This is an extra long chapter (not intentionally . . .), and I have the beginning of a contest at the bottom. Or something.

Here are my latest review responses:

For chapter 4:

Bartyfarty: Thanks for the constructive criticism. I noticed that too. My on-scene off-scene were a bit awkward. I'll watch out for that.

The Thirteenth Councillor (what happened to the other twelve?): Thank you. I hope you read this in time.

Although you do offer an interesting alternative, I would like to see what snow would be like before deciding what to think of it. It's, hah, very rare here. A, hah, snowball's chance in hell. Hah. That . . . isn't funny. Oh well.

Gee, my instrument (flute) seems pretty well behaved compared to those examples. Just the occasional terrible embouchure, near fainting from lack of air, and misplaced wire. Mine just draws a lot of attention. Ever heard of a bent mouthpiece flute? No? Neither had I, but it really helps my wrist.

Thanks. I was worried that Bartimaeus's portrayal could have got many hard-core fans at my throat. But, apparently they didn't. Which is good, 'cause I can torture him some more . . . :laughs evilly:

Nothing better to do than nothing. See you later.

Chapter 3:

Clara Bell: Heh, heh, heh. Sure, can't have a Bartimaeus Trilogy fanfic without Bartimaeus. Or Nat. But Ptolemy? . . . I'm not sure; I could fit him in somewhere. Actually, I was thinking on adding some chapters that have nothing to do with the book or movie, just to give myself more things to do (I procrastinate and multitask) and he could end up in one of those.

Some late Chapter 1:

Mariasha: 'Course. Gee, these guys have a lot of names. I'll have to assume any I don't recognize apply to Bartimaeus. There's only so much Egyptian I can memorize.

Onono: Thank you, thank you. Unfortunately, school is starting soon, so I'll be swept off my feet by work. Or so I'm told. Keep reading though; it all makes me happy.

Ever considered one of those sharpeners with an inbuilt container for the shavings? More practical, and easier to find.

Alright, I've got to get going. I've wasted enough time, no more beating around the—

Oh, wait. I mentioned a competition, didn't I?

It's not really a competition. It's just an invite to write down or construct your own lessons you got from the Bartimaeus Trilogy. It could be specific, or just about life in general. I'll post some of my own down the bottom. It'll tide us until I finish the next chapter, which looks like a doozy. That means hard, right?

Disclaimer is down the bottom. Warning is on top. Here we go!

WARNING! THE FOLLOWING FANFIC MAY PUT BELOVED CHARACTERS IN UNFAVOURABLE SITUATIONS! OR, IT MAY PUT UNBELOVED CHARACTERS IN FAVOURABLE SITUATIONS! OR, IT MAY PUT UNBELOVED CHACTERS IN UNFAVOURABLE CONDITIONS! TAKE YOU PICK!

WARNING! THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS CHARACTERS FROM OTHER GENRES ENTIRELY! PLEASE USE DISCRETION!

AND FINAL WARNING! THIS FIC HAS FREQUENT JAPANESE LANGUAGE! PATIENT GUIDENCE MAY BE RECOMMENDED, OR YOU CAN JUST ACCEPT MY TRANSLATIONS I ACCEPT FROM OTHER PEOPLE!

Are we done? Can we go?

If I Never Had Kokoro . . . Yes, it's Japanese.

The outcome of letting one's guard down for a moment in the presence of a djinni is well documented in this case. Kitty fell asleep.

So it was no surprise when the Scarecrow stand-in Bartimaeus decided to take this opportunity for some mischief.

"Hmm, a stroke here, a stroke there, and oh, this is a perfect shade," he muttered to himself as he worked. "My, even Jabor would find this petty."

There was a well-placed caw from a well-placed crow just then, and Kitty jolted awake, staring around blearily.

"Good morning, human person that will take me to Pyrite City," said Bartimaeus politely. "Sleep well?"

The only answer Kitty could have made was a grunt. "Didn't you sleep?" she asked, feeling by the djinni's polite act something was definitely wrong.

"Oh, no. See, high entities like myself don't need sleep, and, on the other hand, neither do Scarecrows," Bartimaeus pointed out.

"Oh, right," said Kitty, rubbing her eyes, and frowning at the smudge this caused.

"Is there anything to eat?" Bartimaeus said, trying to give a prompt since Anna was away with a cough and two essays. "I am never hungry," he went on. "Because in one case I am the djinni that is practically self sustaining (and can absorb life-force from other creatures) and in another I am a Scarecrow who only has a painted on mouth I cannot open unless I want my stuffing to fall out and my head to form in the shape of a withered vegetable. However, there's bound to be civilisation nearby. You don't find too much unspoiled wilderness without finding a bunch of humans/Munchkins to spoil it."

Kitty had hardly listened to this. She stood up clumsily (try sleeping on a flat, damp ground for a while and see how you feel) and looked around.

"Is there some water around?" she said between yawns.

"Whatever would you need water for?" Bartimaeus asked politely.

"To wash and bathe and stuff," Kitty mumbled, heading in a random direction. You know, the Munchkins gave Dorothy food. I must have forgotten. Sorry about that, Kitty dear.

"Yeah, right," she muttered, following a sound that could either be a very deep and quiet gossip meeting or running water.

"It must be inconvenient to be a human," mused Bartimaeus. "For you must sleep and eat and drink. However, all of that must make you stupid, so it's good enough for you."

Kitty shuffled to where what could be a row of cornflowers blowing in the wind seen by very blurry eyes or a running water, and knelt down.

"Careful not to get your knees muddy," suggested Bartimaeus calmly.

Kitty paused. The tone of this remark and its placement only meant one thing. Bartimaeus had done something bad. And, judging by its tone and placement, it was on par of killing her parents.

Her blanching as she looked into the water could be interpreted as her discovery of a large, slimy, poisonous foot-long slug in the water, or that she discovered what was on par of killing her parents.

"BARTIMAEUS!" she screamed, standing up from the edge and stomping over to the grinning djinni. "How could you have done this?"

"I thought it looked nice!" said Bartimaeus angelically. "And I happened to have plenty of woman's cosmetics on me. Don't ask why."

Kitty, with her eyelids coated liberally with sky blue eye shadow, her eyelashes thickened like black cream with mascara, her cheeks green with blush not meant for her species and lips red like the sickest most unlovable shade of candy red, growled. Then she, quite reasonably, pounded Bartimaeus's head into the ground.

"DON'T" :Bang: "EVER!" :Bong: "DO!" :Dong: "THAT!" :Sound of hollow head hitting concealed rock: "AGAIN!" She finished with driving his head one-and-a-half feet underground, because she had cooled down just the slightest.

Striding to the water like she was the best advocate for Children's, Woman's, Commoner's and Canon Pairing's Rights, Kitty was just about to wash off the terrible makeup when . . .

"You know," said Bartimaeus, pulling his head out of the dirt. "Unless you do have all of that stuff on, you're never going to attract anyone but a weasel."

Perhaps not the most cunning thing her could say, but it got Kitty chasing after him again.

-XXX-

"Have you noticed," pondered Mr Tipple, "that we don't get many lines any more?"

"No, you fool, MOVE THE BLUE! You can get a five— no, no, NOT A CHAIN OF SEVEN!" Mr Buttons screamed in his sleep. They had been both left behind.

"And being left behind," Mr Tipple reflected, "could be just a convenience to avoid having us any input in the following events."

"NOOOO! GARY BEAT ME AGAIN!" howled Mr Buttons.

"Having two OCs stand in as Toto could make manipulation of the plot quite difficult," mused Mr Tipple. "But apparently we still are of some importance, since focus is on us right now.

"And I'm on Normal! OH THE HUMILIATION!" wailed Mr Buttons.

Gee, how did you know that?

"Well, the two Original characters are a fair bit away now," explained Mr Tipple. "And you're using a different speaking verb for our every line."

Hang on a moment, I want to try something. HEARTS!

"NO! YOU BASTARD, YOU GAVE ME THE QUEEN OF SPADES!" screamed Mr Buttons. "I DON'T HAVE ANY OTHER SPADES! NOOOO! SOMEBODY PLAY THE ACE OR KING!"

"You really do say a lot about cards," pointed out Mr Tipple reproachfully.

Sorry. There was Yu-Gi-Oh, there was Blackjack, and there is Hearts. That's the point of a parody story: you can have a lot of allusions from your own life.

"Well, do you think we could have another shout from Mr Button's nightmare before returning to Dorothy and the Scarecrow?" hinted Mr Tipple. "We'll catch up. Probably thanks to that misplaced Football team from last chapter."

OK then.

"HA HAAA! TAKE THAT! AND THAT! AND— OH MY GOD! HE SHOT THE MOON! NOOOO!"

-XXX-

Djinn have amazing endurance as well as power, and as a particularly good example of this, Bartimaeus was no exception. But half the fun of escaping was being chased, and if he left Kitty behind and ended up in the Winkles country (the race that live in the country of the West you illiterate ignorant culture-blind simps!) that would underscore his elation. So he stayed just the slightest bit in front of the enraged Kitty.

"You imp! You imp! You imp!"

"I'm a djinni, darling. Do you want me to prove it?"

"If you do something like that again, I swear—"

"HA-HA HA HAAAAH!"

"WHAT ARE YOU LAUGHING AT!"

"The thought that a little human like you could do anything to harm me! You are but a measly mortal human, and I am Sakhr al-Jinni, N'gorso the Mighty and Serpent of the Silver Plumes! I am Bart—"

WHAM! That was the way to explain the following sound, but since I still don't have Japanese kana on this computer, I can only suggest that you hear it as a comical crash into a drum kit that broke half a xylophone. Ooh, I think that was a melodic minor!

-XXX-

"Actually, the closest thing to that would be an augmented fifth of some sort," said Mr Tipple.

"No, you're a— OH MY GOD! Stop! Stop! I'M LOSING EVERY TRICK!" screamed Mr Buttons.

Meanwhile, as we leave the djinni to writhe in agony and the sock puppets to patiently wait for more lines or nightmare about card games, a very familiar face was seen skulking around the woods.

Yes, dressed today in a fantastic but oh-so-impractical ensemble of black evening dress, black evening gloves, black silk scarf and closed-in high heels (so she at least had some consideration) was our Wicked Witch of the West for the story, the one, the only . . . yeah, yeah, it's Jane Farrar.

Sorry. I couldn't cross stories by having someone cool like, say, Haruko from FLCL be the witch, or I'd be exchanging all the characters for their cross-genre equivalents. Like, Susan of the Discworld replacing Kitty who replaced Dorothy, although she would be even more of an opposite. Or making Gourry Gabriev from the Slayers the Scarecrow, even though he wouldn't be as fun to make fun of as Bartimaeus. Or making Draco Malfoy the Tin Man instead of the one who will be coming up. Or making Rincewind from Discworld the Cowardly Lion! Hey, that sounds good!

"QUIET!" screamed Jane Farrar. "You're supposed to be paying attention on me. Not on random figments from your la-la Fairyworld!"

My la-la Fairyworld, do you say?

A few seconds later a rift opens in the fabric of time, space and realities. Two people fall out of it. One is a teenage girl with hair to remind one of a Goth origin or a bleached dandelion with a streak of black from 12 to 2 o'clock. The other is a heavily muscled barbarian named who, after a brief moment of surprise, brings out his sword, Kring, and bellows his strength.

"Hrun! No need to shout, she's right in front of you!" said the sword in a sword's voice, which could be like a claw being scraped across glass or a silk handkerchief being sliced by scissors. Did I mention it was a talking sword? Nah, it's not as fascinating as you think. Damn stubborn thing.

The girl glances around, and glares at Jane. Her glare is enough to equal that of her grandfather's. He has quite a famous name. He has quite a prosperous profession. Both are Death.

Another rift opens, dropping its occupant face first onto the ground. He hauls his swordsman self out of the ground, shaking his long blonde hair to get the dirt out. Then he stands and stares.

"Lina?" Gourry Gabriev questions, then shakes his head. "Must have been the Dragon Wine Soufflé."

And since he isn't much fun, I flick him back, and let two more people drop out.

"Damn! Why do I have to do this?" demands Zelgadis Greywords, a blue skinned human/brau demon/golem chimera, which makes him made of rock with hair like wire and a very distrusting personality. This isn't really the place for depressing explanations, so just take him as a one-shot character.

"Because it's fun!" said Xellos, a man with eyes usually kept tightly shut, purple hair cut neatly above his shoulders, and an agenda made no less mysterious than the reason he calls himself 'the Mysterious Priest'. Huh, that's odd. Normally I would imagine him to say, "That is a secret" or something.

"But I can't," he says.

Why?

"Sore wa himitsu desu!" he says in that teeth-grinding way of his.

"Why did you have to bring all these freak shows here?" asks Jane, not impressed.

"Freak shows?" growls Zelgadis.

"Hey, I think there's someone missing . . ." said Susan, looking around.

A growl in the distance . . .

"Look, if you're trying to impress me, getting a lot of stupid ugly barbarians isn't going to cut it," Jane hissed.

An angry growl . . .

"Hey, I not . . ." Hrun paused in thought. An act that would take him a few minutes.

An angry growl coming closer . . .

"So get your butts out of here!" spat Jane to the assemblage.

"I'm afraid I don't want to do that," stated Susan firmly.

The growl increases into almost a snarl . . .

"And what happened to you? Did you fall in a—" Jane stopped very abruptly as Zelgadis levelled a sword at her face.

The snarl is almost here . . .

"You might want to step away, Miss Jane," suggested Xellos, in a way that would have no-one so much as consider that he was capable of mass genocide. "For Mr Zelgadis isn't the only thing that is threatening injury.

The snarl escalated into a roar and there, heralded by a pitiless glow, came thundering into the clearing with a scream that sounded just like—

"Itadaki— . . . MAMMOTH!"

A Vespa 180 SS.

And on it, with absolutely no consideration for safety or speed limits, Haruko Haruhara— or Raharu, wielding her vintage Rickenbacker 4001 bass guitar (with modifications) came screaming. There are no metaphors in this.

With little to no concern, she slammed Jane with the guitar, ran over Hrun, zipped past Susan, and smashed into Zelgadis. He came out the better. All he got was a little winded and a skid mark on his white cape. Susan can be missed by anyone thanks to her ability to have herself 'disappear', just by making her unnoticeable (though whether that is a trademark of one of the Death profession or just a skill of one of her personality I'm not sure). Hrun survived just because he had stood up to avalanches before, but Haruko in full rage on his Vespa is like nothing he'd ever experience again.

"KUSO! I just fixed it!" howled Haruko. "Damn it! Oh, hang on," she suddenly paused, through off her helmet to reveal pink hair and yellow eyes. "I think I've got something to fix it."

All those that were capable of watching, Susan, Xellos, to some extent Zelgadis, watched as she pulled out a box from beneath the seat, opened the lid, pulled out a spanner and . . . what appeared to be a Gundam figurine. I'm still not kidding.

Without care, she inserted the figurine into a slot somewhere in the underbelly of the machine, and stood it up.

"Right, it should be enough to get me back home," Haruko said, wiping away some sweat from her yellow eyes with a gloved hand. "As soon as—"

The Vespa let out a large bang, then smoked.

"As soon as I solve that problem," she said, sitting down to pull out another box of Gundam figurines and start assembling them. "Ara? Where'd that part come from?"

"She's not dead," said Susan calmly, referring to Jane Farrar, who I really should have been focusing on instead of a bunch of crossover characters. Sorry, my story, my Fairyland la-la world. Think before you insult the author.

Neither of the still conscious ones paid any mind.

"Damn it, the new models never fly like the old ones!" exclaimed Haruko in frustration as the Vespa threatened to blow up in her face.

"Oh well, looks like I'm not needed here," shrugged Xellos, disappearing in black smoke classily, not like Jane Farrar, who would near choke us with her immense clouds of pink fog. You just can't get these girl characters to play down! I mean, Kitty is great; she's really OK with just a bit of subtle makeup and entrances (asides from a falling house), and Mrs Underwood doesn't really count. But Jane, geez, she wanted me to call her Miss Farrar! She's the one that needs the heart, but I already chose—

"Ahem," said Beastmaster Xellos politely, a name he did not get for interrupting politely I can tell you (but little else, or that'll spoil the plot). "Shouldn't you be moving on now?"

Right. Sorry, Sir.

We return to the relevant characters.

"Hey, wait! What about—" Zelgadis tried to ask, picking himself up from the ground, but was cut off by the impatient scene ch—

-XXX-

Kitty had escaped any injury by smashing into Bartimaeus as he had suddenly come to a stop, leaving her only a bit winded and surprised, and Bartimaeus an unidentifiable mass. And mess. He was a mess of mass. Ooo, that leaves a good thought in your head.

As Kitty attempted to push herself up from the spongy grey mass, she looked for what Bartimaeus had run into, and found . . . nothing. There were some trees shaking their incredibly knuckled fist at them, but they were unlikely culprits because Bartimaeus had crashed into the space between them.

There was also a stretch of rock, but that was on the other side of a large, strangely placed clearing. This clearing seemed a good size for a volleyball court but a bad size for a cricket field, and was all obscured by some sort of white mist. Kitty found herself wishing for Anne, or Stanley. Less likely Stanley.

Suddenly Bartimaeus reformed with the sound of a Wellington boot pulled out of deep mud. At first he was the straw covered gargoyle I inflicted on him. His face was pressed against an invisible surface, then his tongue popped out. Where his unpleasantly textured tongue touched this obstruction it glowed a quiet-but-threatening-to-turn-you-into-ash blue. Then there was the threatened and sudden jolt, and he dissolved in curls of grey substance once again, making Kitty jump back with a squeal.

"'Ello, 'ello, 'ello, wot's all this then?" came a heavily emphasised English bobby (policemen, for those culture-blind simps that remained! Oh, wait, don't go! I was only kidding! I love you all!) accent. "Oi reckon dere's some trespassin' goin' on 'ere!"

"Erm, well, we never knew this was here," said Kitty, uncertainly looking from side to side. As far as she could see, there was nothing but a forest clearing, trees, some furry forest dweller stuff, and a couple of my crows. I swapped Mr Leonard Charles Wildberry Balderdash III a pink ribbon (for his bear Mr Leonard Harrison Zhujiang Gooseberry-and-Cream Balderdash Simons, of course) for some of them. They stand in as my retribution until I find something else.

"That ain't an excuse!" said the Pommy Policeman accent, sounding closer now.

"Sorry, I mean, it wasn't my fault, you guys . . ." Kitty trailed off as the origin of the accent came into view just beyond the obstruction.

"Wot choo starin' at?" it demanded, obviously faking the accent. It wasn't just the terribly stereotypical English Peeler costume. It was the fact that it was a mass of eyes and tentacles on a pivot above three legs all over in the colour of mustard squashed into said uniform. A Triloid from the first book, if I parody correctly.

"Er . . ." went Kitty helplessly. She had forgotten to pick up her elemental orbs from the shop before. There was that pure silver pendant she had got from Jakob's grandmother, but this takes place just a bit before 'The Golem's Eye', so she doesn't know its use. Luckily, there was a distraction to prevent her from answering.

"There's a hole in my bucket, my bucket, my— Lord, who brought the disfigured action figures?" Bartimaeus asked, finally coming to. "And who made that dashing uniform for you? I must go and kill them."

The Triloid regarded the re-builder of the walls of Uruk, Karnak and Prague. "I don't think we ordered taffeta," he said, slowly, without the accent. "Wot choo want then?"

"What's in there?" Kitty asked bluntly, realising the oddness of a UFO shaped absence in the forest area.

"Wot? That?" the Triloid glanced behind itself. "Why, that's nothing. And if you don't move away from it, Oi'll be forced to kill you."

"I demand to speak to your superior!" said the taffeta, rising angrily. "Right now!"

The Triloid raised an . . . an eyelid or four. "If that's wot choo want, that's wot choo'll get," it shrugged . . . a leg. "Just be a minnit."

It wandered off into obscurity. Kitty touched the obstruction, which felt like it could be domed shape, and drew things with the blue light that was produced. Bartimaeus watched this interestedly, well, as interestedly as a tower of grey slime can communicate.

The Triloid came suddenly into view just in front of her, and she stumbled back in shock. Bartimaeus snorted, well, showed some sort of contempt, until when the other figure came into view.

The tower of what looked like an incredibly smooth kind of material crashed to the ground.

"F-Farquarl?" it stuttered. "What are you doing here?"

The cook— what looked like a cook anyway — raised a fully formed eyebrow. "I don't remember meeting any free willed columns of mucus of late," he stated.

Bartimaeus growled, and reformed into the form of a brown-skinned Egyptian boy we know was named Ptolemy.

"Oh! Bartimaeus!" said the cook, recognising him with greasy menacing charm. "So it is you! How have you been? I haven't seen you in such a long time!"

"Er, yeah, funny that," Bartimaeus said, trying a chuckle. "What with me being on the road for such a while and you, well, not."

Farquarl's smile did not flicker. "Very well then. If you would like to state both names and purposes, I would like to flatten you both."

"Hey, wait a minute!" Kitty said, waving irately to draw attention back to her. "I'm not with him! I just—"

"OK then!" interrupted Farquarl brightly. "Now that is settled, just wait, and I'll see if my master can come and see you!"

"Oi, hang on," Bartimaeus made a terrible face to get attention on him, and blow me if he failed! The Triloid advanced on him with scythes on claws, and Farquarl whipped up a handy . . . meat tenderiser. Don't ask. Bartimaeus leapt back with a squeal, then attempted an intimidating stance before striking . . . the dome again, which glowed blue again, and hurled him as a charcoaly goop out of sight.

"Now, if you just wait a minnit, missy, Oi'll go get me master," said the Triloid, tipping its hat. It then went out of sight on whirling legs.

"I'll be back soon, miss," said Farquarl politely, tipping his chef's hat too. "But before I do, I'd go several shades darker, darling. That red is bringing out your paleness." He too, left, before Kitty could spit poison on him.

-XXX-

The Triloid whirred itself into the gloom, which suddenly turned into a very defined complex that stood for a house in this profession.

It whirred to the door, it whirred down the hall, and it took the wrong turn left for the thirteenth time in its service. It could not be said he did so on purpose, because it was the bathroom.

Correcting its mistake, it whirred up two flights of stairs and down two hallways to come to a room. A very enclosed room. A room enclosed with many, many books.

Now it wasn't enclosed by dusty books. Nor by books stacked untidily. It was simply enclosed by many shelves of neat, white covered books all marked with individual sets of numbers, so it very much destroyed the romantic view of a room enclosed by many books. I was trying to sort of delay saying that. Sorry.

Anyway, in this room full of unromantic books, there was a person. A person who, in general terms, would be unromantic as well, but in the way that he has been handled and influenced had an opposite effect on him in the eyes of many who aren't in this story but are reading it. Hello out there! Yes, I know what you're doing! Stop trying to multitask for once!

— "Hypocrite," said Mr Buttons groggily from where he was abandoned.

"Shut up," I reply, forcing him back to sleep where he can nightmare about 'The Lands Of Lore'. —

Anyway (gee, I started two paragraphs with that), the Triloid came up to this person, and tapped it on the shoulder. With the shout of one that had been engaged in the breakdown of many difficult texts coming to in the middle of a cyclone, he bumped half his work onto the ground. Automatically reaching to pick it up, he stopped himself from this, and ordered the poor spirit to do the menial chore himself.

"Yes, Oi Master," sighed the Triloid, trying to remember how to manipulate its own essence into something like fingers.

"Master?" asked Farquarl, as he caught up. "We have a visitor."

"A visitor? Do you mean another assault of foliots?" inquired the 'master' suspiciously.

"Damn bones, can never get enough of them!"

"That was 'guests', Sir," said Farquarl. "I mean, we happen to have a person loitering on our edges asking to come in. A girl."

"Is it—?" his master asked eagerly but annoyingly shortly.

"Screw the fingernails."

"No, though I daresay this one is a damn sight better," muttered Farquarl, then returned to normal volume. "I'm afraid I don't recognise this one."

"Mmm," said the person, sounding somewhat disappointed. "Oh well. I'll go and check them out myself, then."

"Got it! Oh, damn. Forgot the stupid wrist!"

"Good idea then, sir," said Farquarl diligently, fingering a dangerous toasting fork behind his back.

"Tumber, forget about the papers. Get my hat and accompany me to the edge," the master ordered.

"I GOT IT! I GOT IT! Woo! Fear my digits! I— what, already, sir?" whined the Triloid, its newly created hand fingering the air.

"Yes. Unless you want to speak to my master," the master under the threatened master threatened.

"IT WAS ABOUT KITTENS!" howled Tumber.

-XXX-

"So, who is this mysterious master? Would he be that who replaces the Tin Man? Would he be wanting a heart? What is Jane Farrar planning? And what did his master do to the Triloid to make it so afraid? All these questions, except possibly the one about the kittens, will be answered in the following story."

"No, you're answered in the following . . . AHHH! NOOOO! THE WRAITHS ARE ATTACKING! HAND OF FATE, HAND OF FATE!"

-XXX-

After using her M4D /\/\4G1K 5KILLZ, Jane Farrar was just able to haul herself up, her bones grinding like a . . . bone grinder? Something like that. Anyway, all my off-topic minions had been taken care of. Susan had gone home using her L337 D347/-/ 5KILLZ, Hrun was currently raiding the treasury (there goes the backdrops) and trying to seduce a couple of maidens (there goes our makeup crew), and Zelgadis was having coffee and avoiding Xellos, who was annoying the crew. Haruko had gone to search for better parts, which I wish her good luck for, because I doubt that if there are any scooter stores in the area that aren't for old people, they would be able to serve her.

"DARN IT! More attention is being paid on those main characters and Fairyland characters than me!" Jane cursed, hauling herself on his feet. You better watch yourself, girly. My 'la-la magic powers' may be drained for now, but I still kept a few Jabberwockies from last chapter!

"OK, OK," Jane said, harassed, then started to limp her way into the woods.

"Right. All I have to do is find that scrawny brat and scare her out of those shoes," she said to herself. "It should be no problem at all, for I know how to intimidate her so that she will—"

Careful with the monologues! I heard the Disclaimer Demons escaped around here!

"Whatever," grumbled Jane. "I'll just go find that skinny girl with . . . with . . . with my mad magic skills and . . . and . . . do evil stuff!"

What a day for Anna to take off . . .

"THE IRON GRAZER STOLE MY ARMOUR! THE JELLYFISH ARE ATTACKING! WHY DIDN'T I CHOOSE AK'SHEL?"

Jane Farrar leapt into a grove of trees in fright, then was thrown out by an angry group of cedars that had been trying to discuss cold fusion until she offended them with her herbal shampoo. After picking up her still dignified face from the dirt, she looked around for the source of the unholy noise.

"DAMN YOU, YOU GIANT SLUG!"

"What the hell is that?" demanded Jane, the type of person who would rather something didn't exist unless it had her full approval. And she was about to stress that fact.

"GAMES OVERLOAD! GAMES OVERLOAD! OVERLOAD! MUST CHANGE GENRES!"

She stalked, stealthily and quietly (yes, I know they mean about the same thing), in the search for the unwanted noise. This wasn't very hard, because the trees were trying to move away from it as fast they could. Which made a snail look wild and reckless.

"WHY MUST IT BE IN QUARTETS!"

So in a series of further sneaky movements and demands, which I don't feel like making another paragraph of, Jane came to a clearing. There, between the foliage of the flinching trees, she saw two colours that were rare to find naturally. Purple and green.

Well, of course green was a natural enough colour in this shade. And purple would be completely normal around a lavender, lilac bush or jacaranda tree. Alright, alright, let's just say she played on a hunch that something was odd.

"Something is odd," she states to clear that up. "Didn't that . . . that . . . girl have sock puppets like that? Meaning . . ." she pauses for drama.

Speed it up!

"Meaning that kitty brat is in there!" Jane exclaimed in frustration. "Geez! Can't I work a little talent into this meaningless scrap of data?"

I wonder how Haruko is doing . . .

"Oh, hi! We were just talking about you!" came a voice to thankfully stop the stand off.

"TORTALL! TORTALL! WHY IS IT ALL ABOUT TORTALL!"

"Eh?" went Jane understandably, staring at the forgotten sock puppets.

"Look, Mr Buttons! It's that Malicious Magician, Jane Farrar!" said the purple sock puppet cheerfully. We already knew that paragraphs ago, but because these are such under appreciated characters, we'll let this pass.

Jane gave a relieved sigh. "Finally!"

I was referring to the sock puppets, not you. Get on with it, lest I call out a Monty Python reference.

"Fine, fine," sighed Jane in annoyance. "What, sock puppets in a forest? I must be dreaming . . ." she said with no enthusiasm. I don't blame her.

"Never mind, dear," said Mr Tipple kindly. "We'll just pretend we're dreams for you."

"I WANT EMELAN, DAMMIT!" Right on, brother!

"Wait . . . the little brat's sock puppets?" Jane repeated, as a thought suddenly landed like a telephone pole on her head (ouch). "Most likely her prized childhood possessions! And if I have them . . ." an evil, evil smirk grew from her face like bamboo. You know, all fast and steady and woody and stuff. With branches. Produced from her slight genetic skin imperfections she must cure with our patented solution of moisturiser, bitter lime juice and liquid sensors as seen in Eion Colfer's "The Supernaturalist"! Send only 17 easy payments of $9.98 SWE to:

Alleyway

Next to the busker on Thursdays

Between Mall and Central Station

—And we may return you feelings of self-esteem and confidence, although it's hardly likely.

"SHUT UP!" screamed Jane.

Or, take the alternative options, and just listen to a lot of Linkin Park and non-funny songs of Eminem and you will be so depressed your skin will be the least of your worries! Please walk this way—

"If I could walk that way, I wouldn't need—"

"Ahem," Mr Tipple coughed, before Jane Farrar could cross the forbidden line of Narrator Upstaging (again). "I have a feeling that this would be a good time to go back to the action?"

Right, right. One more from Mr Buttons then.

"Hey, wait a minute, I didn't illustrate my plan well enough!" Jane protested.

Plan? HAH! This is what I excuse as a plan!

"WHY ALANNA? DAINE IS MORE INTERESTING!"

-XXX-

Kitty was still waiting by the dome, but now was trying to break it with her shoulder. The blue glow thickened and sparked, but it did her no harm. Bartimaeus still hadn't returned, but she didn't care about that.

"Stupid—" –slam-- "bloody—" –Slam-- "Useless—" –Slam!-- "Impractical—" --SLAM!-- "Annoying—" --SLAM!-- "POWER BLUE DOME!"

"Actually, it's electric blue," said somebody suddenly, out of view. Kitty stopped slamming immediately (in the case when you need to break down a door, do not slam it with your shoulder as seen in cop dramas. Using your leg to kick it down is stronger and safer, although you won't come rushing into the room as dramatically as you would like. Sorry, just had to mention that). It sounded familiar . . .

"Now, what are you doing banging on my dome?" asked the seeker and stealer of hearts, the summoner of djinn, the youngest Minister in history. You know him, some love him, some hate him, some are indifferent, some pair him with Jane Farrar, some with Kitty, a rare few with Bartimaeus, he had a dramatic beginning and a dramatic end, it's . . .

The boy, just a bit younger than Kitty, leaned out of the dome as if it was a screen of water. He had on a hat strangely shaped and position like a funnel, but black. He scrutinized Kitty.

"I don't remember ordering one of these," said the Tin Man stand-in, Nathaniel.

/Interlude No. 1/

ORANGE no SLIDE utsusu sora

(Slide of Orange, the sky that it reflects)

SPONGE no PRIDE burasakete

(Pride of Sponge, being dangled)

SPIDER

Kike totta sono yokan wa

(The apprehension that was caught alive)

Kakusanakuta tte ii n da

(It's okay even if I don't hide it)

Iro no tsuita yume mitai na

(I want to have colored dreams)

Ride on Shooting Star

Kokoro no koe de sandanjû no yô ni

With the voice of my heart, like a shotgun

Utai tsutzuketa

I kept on singing

/Right . . . back to the written work/

"One of what?" shouted Kitty, with good reason. I'm never going to define it, you'll just have to figure it out for yourself, because I am not raising this rating. Hah, you probably know it now.

"I won't be twenty-one for a while now," mused Nathaniel, extending the joke for too long now.

Kitty grabbed him by his exuberant— hang on, that means enthusiastic! Let me repair that:

Kitty grabbed him by his expansive— damn, that means big. Not quite what I'm going for. Third time lucky:

Kitty grabbed him by his exaggerated collar (good enough) before he was able to retreat inside the dome.

"I AM NOT YOUR BIRTHDAY GIFT!" she shouted. "Now, tell me what is in there, and if there is food, right now."

Nathaniel tried to regain his air of experience-won confidence, but the hungry Kitty put a stop to that sharply.

"Listen you over-dressed over-achiever," she hissed, giving him the full menace of a short-tempered Resistance member. "I am tired, hungry, and thirsty, and if you do not tell me where there is bed, food and bath, I will strangle you with your stupid red handkerchief."

"It's burgundy . . ." muttered Nathaniel unhappily, fingering it. Then his eyes dropped to Kitty's legs that, on the whole, were not very interesting in this kind of genre, but he was actually looking at the Mercenary's boots with nothing else on his mind (strange, strange child).

". . . Are those . . . those . . ." he stuttered worriedly. "Er, I think you should come inside."

He offered his hand, which, at this stage, at least, Kitty would never accept. Instead she marched self-righteously through the dome like it was water, wait, I used that metaphor several paragraphs before. Ahem: through the dome like it was a curtain, but it wasn't clingy or floral . . . Darn, must plan this better next time. Third time lucky: through the dome like it wasn't there . . . Oh, that is so damn stereotypical!

"Like rice," said Kitty, walking through. "Dry rice."

Wow, you are hungry.

"Of course I am!" Kitty snapped. "Since you keep switching from movie to book, you forget the little details LIKE GETTING ME LUNCH!"

Sorry, sorry, planning is not my forte . . .

Much too hungry and impatient to continue berating Nathaniel, the djinn and the poor unorganised author, Kitty strode through the gloom with the certainty only one with an empty belly can hold.

"Hey, excuse me," Nathaniel hurried after her, nearly tripping in his terribly impractical shoes. "Hey, wait! Could you— would you—?"

"Save the Seuss 'til after breakfast," snapped Kitty, finding the complex suddenly looming out of the shadows. She didn't pay it any mind, but I thought it would be worth a mention.

Kitty flung open the door, which was not supposed to open to anyone not an occupant of the house, and strode down the posh hallway in search of the kitchen.

"Don't take the fifth door on the left!" called the Triloid. "That's the master's bathroom."

Kitty steered clear just in time, and ended up instead in what could be classified as a living room. The only thing opposing this idea was that a 'living room' involved the use of 'living', and this one seemed to be as lively as the waiting hall of a morgue.

Kitty finally stopped, realising she had just barged into the incredibly expensive house of a stranger who had specifically designed it to be un-barge-er-in-able. Sorry, I couldn't think of a better word. I'm afraid my vocabulary is rather 'tabula rasa' at the moment.

She stepped off the carpet, looking down at her feet. "Sorry, should I take off my shoes?" They had already tracked seven metres of mud up the white tiles of the hall and white fabric of the carpet.

"Er, no. My servants will take care of that," Nathaniel said, directing the poor Triloid to its task.

"But, er, Master?" questioned the Triloid. "We don't have a vacuum cleaner."

"Oh. Right then. Instead, I'll—" Nathaniel suddenly cut himself off, as if remembering something or changing his mind. "No. Do it. Swallow it if you have to."

"What?" squeaked the Triloid. "But I don't have a stomach or anything! You can't just rustle up a digestive system like a suit! It takes time and effort, not to mention a degree in biology . . ." It trailed off unhappily, sighed, and started work on elongating its mouth.

"Do you have anything to eat?" Kitty demanded, back on task. "I am starving. And if you don't give me food, I'll eat those decorative lilies in that pot over there."

"Um, those are fake," pointed out Nathaniel, having lost control of this situation.

"What? Fine. I'll just have fruit!" Kitty grabbed an apple of a suspiciously shiny arrangement.

"Wait! Don't eat those!" exclaimed Nathaniel.

"Why? Oh, I bet it's wax," said Kitty, glaring at it. "Never mind. I don't care," she said, biting into it anyway.

"Actually, those are sprayed with furniture polish," pointed out Farquarl. "Good quality, but it only comes in these little spray cylinder things that aren't flammable enough to kill your master in bed."

"Huh?" went Nathaniel, as Kitty spat out her mouthful in front of the Triloid.

"Damn it! I can never the right amount of intestines!" cursed this Triloid.

As if Nathaniel hadn't been stressed enough, there came at that moment a call from upstairs.

"APPRENTICE!"

Nathaniel squeaked out a pansy curse in Czech. It could be said the glaze on the fruit cracked at the tone of the descending newcomer.

"Apprentice! I check your room, and you are not there. How can you expect to amount to anything if you cannot stay up sixteen hours without sleep or an English word?"

The lilies even wilted, and they were half plastic.

"And only one of your djinn are cursing your name! How can you expect to inspire fear into the enemies if you can't get loathing from your servants? Well, apprentice? What have you got to say for yourself?"

And by about the time a glass cabinet's front caved in, there stood the master of the master of the djinn. Jessica Whitwell!

-XXX-

"This plot makes no sense," said Mr Tipple, as Jane Farrar was carrying him through the forest. "Here we have Nathaniel under the tutelage of Ms Whitwell, and he has not his magician's name yet, and then we have Farquarl, that Triloid and Kitty!"

"Yeah," agreed Mr Buttons. "YOU SCREWED UP THE PLOT BIG TIME!"

Look, basically I'm having all the characters I need to fill in the necessary roles set to succour to Kitty's knowledge just before 'The Golem's Eye', because any other time would be near impossible and my favourite book is 'The Amulet of Samarkand'. And being a parody it would only need that I merge the purpose of my parody with the characters while keeping it attached to original storyline so it won't be Alternate Universe and I am trying to keep in mind coming events (as well as the end). Besides, all this stuff is just a game to me!

"A game, huh? WELL, YOU'RE PLAYING IT LIKE A—"

Switch back to game genre!

"AHHHH! MY WISPS ARE ATTACKING ME!"

"Why do I feel so unimportant?" sighed Jane.

-XXX-

"Er, good morning, ma'am," said Nathaniel nervously, sweeping back his sweaty hair with his just as sweaty hand.

"It's afternoon, apprentice," said Ms Whitwell crisply (the fruit peeled itself). "Why aren't you studying in a stuffy room with bad light?"

"Well, um, you see, ma'am," Nathaniel babbled, which Kitty would have found very entertaining if she wasn't near to fainting. "My, er, slaves alerted me to a guest— intruder, so I, um, ventured out to meet . . . the girl there. She has the boots."

Ms Whitwell's head turned like a turkey when it hears there is a holiday feast coming soon. I thought that was a good description. She looked at Kitty anyway.

"Well," she said (the fruit broke into segments). "That's different, then."

-XXX-

Ah! But what about Bartimaeus at this time?

Well, I can't tell you. It would ruin the narrative flow. Let's just say he's going through a lot of things that would have my head bashed repeatedly into a cinderblock many times if his fans knew about it.

Ah, we always hurt the ones we love . . .

Why am I saying this now? Well, basically, I'm staggering the parts to ease flow and excuse myself from many boring descriptions, like the way they walked to the kitchen and stuff. And I also like to hear myself write.

It has nothing, and let me make this clear, absolutely nothing to do with shirking or my lack of inspiration. Absolutely nothing. You hear me? WHO THOUGHT THAT! I'LL RIP YOUR EYES OUT! —

-XXX-

"And now for something much the same," said Mr Tipple calmly.

"WHERE THE HELL DID THOSE ROTTING CORPSES COME FROM!" screamed Mr Buttons. "I DON'T WANN PAY YOUR BLOODY NECROMANCER TAX!"

Jane was sulkily silent.

/We have another Interlude . . . trust me, you need it/

GRUNGE no HAMSTER otona bite

(Grungy hamster, act adult)

REVENGE no LOBSTER hiki tsurete

(Revengeful lobster, drag it along)

SNIPER

Fuchi totta sono sekai ni

(I'll say, "What can you see—)

Nani ga mieru tte iu'n'da

(In that fringed world?")

Nerau mae ni sawaritai na

(I want to touch it before I aim for it)

Ride on Shooting Star

Kimi o sagashite kindanshôjô chû

(Searching for you, and in withdrawal syndrome)

Uso o tsuita

(I told a lie)

Ride on Shooting Star

Kokoro no koe de sandanjû no yô ni

With the voice of my heart, like a shotgun

Utai tsutzuketa

I kept on singing

/Feel better? The end/

To say the room was sterile was a euphemism. That means a word skirting around stating that the object has no right in a calm, happy state of mind. So, euphemism is a euphemism for shirking using the actual term, which could sum it up in one syllabic word. Anyway, there is one word for the decor and atmosphere.

The word is BONE.

The place was dry and white. The table was a little shiny, but that just made it eerie. Kitty stared down at her white bowl of white noodles, and resisted the urge to change her own colour and mind to blend in.

"So," said Ms Whitwell crisply (a chopstick split uneasily). "Who are you?"

She was a magician. Obviously. There are hardly any other beings that can radiate such incredibly charisma and repulsion to all in their vicinity. The Triloid had evolved a neat inner waste burning complex just at her glance.

So Kitty didn't answer. She scooped up a noodle (inexpertly. The Orient is a far bit away from London) that tasted of flour and looked like mucus.

Ms Whitwell let the pause stretch out, making Nathaniel squirm in his brutally ergonomic seat and the skin of the Triloid to peel.

"I am Magician of the North," she stated. This surprised Kitty enough to lose all control of her chopstick but not enough to lose the food from her mouth.

"Buf I'f alfready met da Mafifian off da Norf," she said through her noodles.

"What?" inquired Ms Whitwell politely (the chandelier tinkled nervously).

To her Resistance shame Kitty quickly composed herself, but made sure she slurped up her noodles loud enough to show rebellion.

"But I've already met the Magician of the North," she pointed out. "Mrs Underwood, the Merciful Magician?"

Nathaniel looked interested, but glancing at his master's stony expression, hurriedly disguised this as demure attention. Not doing a good job, but still.

"I am a Magician of the North," repaired Ms Whitwell (the frame of a picture of an artic landscape glittered). "Specifically Magician of the North-east."

"North-east?" Kitty repeated.

"'North-east From The Elbow'," continued Ms Whitwell. "Inner Elbow." (That picture frame buckled.)

"Ah. Right," said Kitty politely, the only thing between her and a safe alley a foot of wall and five magic Nexuses. Or Nexi? Not sure. Nexuses sounds silly, but Nexi doesn't show up . . .

"Next time I find a book of guarding spells I can read I'll check," said Kitty, standing up. "Thank you for the food."

"You haven't eaten it all," pointed out Ms Whitwell (the frame wobbled without wind). "Or answered any of my questions."

"Yeah, sorry, but I've got a journey to get back to. I'm going to Pyrite City," Kitty excused herself, eyeing the Triloid that was unfortunately in her path.

"I'd like you to stay a while longer," said Ms Whitwell (the glass of the frame clouded). "And answer my questions."

To her hatred, Kitty found herself forced back into her chair by something worse than an invisible djinni.

"Such as, how could a Commoner such as yourself have managed to—" she paused, then put a stick-thin hand to her tissue thin ear.

"What? How much? How could you? —" (the glass cracked in a spider web shape). "Fine. I'll be there. You attend to the company."

She stood up like a . . . an intimidating person standing up intimidating-ly and stuff. Hey, I'm working through this as quick as I can. You can't expect much lik spellinn and smart words.

"I shall be back soon. Nathaniel, deal with the girl and our new company," ordered Ms Whitwell (the legs of the table shuddered). She then stalked away on some real important stuff.

Farquarl shook his head in sombre comprehension. "'Company'. That means something on level of demi-afrit or successors."

With Ms Whitwell gone, the kids didn't know what to make of each other. Kitty slurped her noodles, Nathaniel tested how far he could bend his knees before threatening his fertility.

So it was a damn good thing when Bartimaeus returned.

'Returned' is too dignified an analogy for my good-natured description of this character. He was more of 'brought'.

The football team from last chapter arrives carrying several armfuls of a dark goop. They deposit this on the clean white table, and walk out of attention. Thanks guys! Please, give it up for the Football team of some place!

Unenthusiastic clapping

Farquarl inspected the goop with a long serrated blade of some sort. It seemed to react to the touch, and jerked up to attention in some goop-like way. It glanced at Kitty.

"Ooh, my little pretty one, my pretty—" it paused. It inspected Kitty more closely with what I could only refer to as eyes in my laziness.

"Hello, Bartimaeus," said Farquarl smoothly. "Having some trouble?"

The goop swivelled to, er, face him. It sighed.

"Caught again. Damn . . . Never gonna stop . . . give it up . . . Such a dirty mind, always give it up for the touch, of the younger—!" it paused again.

Nathaniel tapped the table in what he would hope would be an authoritative way, but it would have ended up flat if being goop hadn't made Bartimaeus extremely attentive and uninhibited.

"Eh? What's all this then?" he asked.

"Oi!" exclaimed the Triloid. "That's my line!"

"Demon," said Nathaniel sternly. "You are in the company of—"

"Hey!" interrupted Bartimaeus. "Is that who I think it is?" he looked at Farquarl. "My— my— my—"

The cook gave a smile as greasy as one of his hamburger patties. "Why yes. We meet a—"

"MY SHARONA!"

Kitty gave him a stern slap. "Pull yourself together, demon!" she snarled.

The mass of attractive grey goop looked affronted. "Why? I don't mess with the way you look."

Kitty jabbed at her face.

"Yes, I admit it does look a little plain, and capable of attracting only a narrow-minded sucking-up Commoner, but really, child, you should know it is only what matters inside. Or money."

"Excuse me—"

Kitty reached out and grabbed his neck, or, what could possibly be a neck, although it was likely that could be around the bridge of the nose now, or a foot, or possibly an intestinal wall or the like. Anyway, just to be nice, Bartimaeus gurgled in a choking way.

"Excuse me—"

"Can I have a turn next?" asked Farquarl eagerly.

"Oi!"

"That's my line too!" cried the Triloid in frustration.

"Ahem," went Nathaniel impatiently. "Can we get back to me now?"

The assemblage glanced at him, then at each other, and resumed their activities beforehand.

"Why you little—"

"Hack Hack"

"You're hogging him! Give me my turn!"

"I mean, I get no quotes in the books, and when I finally get a place—"

"Why do you carry make up anyway?"

"I told you not to ask me!"

"You're more a copper tone."

"Admittedly not in the best of situations, but anyway—"

"Hey!" cried Nathaniel in frustration. "Don't ignore me!"

"And I hate cherry flavoured lip gloss!"

"Sorry, Mr Long Name from last chapter used all the Gooseberry and Cream!"

"Fascinating though this conversation is . . ."

"AND THEY KEEP STEALING MY LINES! Which were, admittedly, stolen already . . ."

"I am the authority here!" Nathaniel yelled.

"Hey! That sounds like a good line too!" the Triloid perked up.

"You ain't moi master," said Farquarl, mimicking the accent in spite.

"WHAT! YOU SELFISH BULL, YOU'RE IN TWO BOOKS!"

And so they continued squabbling.

"Listen to me or I'll . . . I'll . . . step on your foot?"

They continued ignoring him.

"I'll use the Systematic Vice on you!"

That caught the attention of Bartimaeus at least.

"Who are you?" he asked, while Kitty strangled his shin.

"Hah!" Nathaniel tossed his head in what was probably supposed to be an aloof way, but probably sent a screen of grease around him as well. "I have been well taught in the ways of guile in djinn! You cannot fool me with your riddles and tricks!"

"What's your name?" asked Bartimaeus.

"Nathaniel. Aw, (rude word in Czech)!"

"Wot 'e say?" went Farquarl, as he fought to get the Triloid's foot out of his ear.

"DARN IT! MY LINE TOO!"

Kitty blinked. "You're name is—"

"Quiet!" went NATHANIEL. "I can't let anyone know my name."

So he can't say HIS NAME IS NATHANIEL? Are you sure about that, NATHANIEL? Because in the books, his name was usually NATHANIEL, until he got is MAGICIAN'S NAME, giving up his BIRTH NAME, and by now he should have given up his BIRTH NAME, which is NATHANIEL, so—

"Shut up!" went NAT— the apprentice in subject. Sorry.

"Damn it! And I'm supposed to be the dumb one!" exclaimed Bartimaeus, shaking his . . . goop sadly.

"Farquarl! Tumber! Go find something else to do!" Nathaniel ordered. "Far away! Out of earshot!"

"Aw, can't see if Oi can do that," said the Triloid, trying to strangle Farquarl. "Your Master told ooce to stay 'ere."

"Go now, or I'll tell you the story about the kittens!" threatened Nathaniel.

"No good, sir," said Farquarl, leaning on an unpleasant salad scoop. "You can't do the hand movements."

"Leave now or I'll sing," threatened the goop— er, Bartimaeus.

That made Farquarl stop. "What?" he asked.

"I'll sing. I will," said Bartimaeus, lifting what might have been his chin, but was probably a kneecap. "Just like in Zimbabwe."

"You wouldn't," hissed the cook, a salad fork pressing into the Triloid's . . . hub.

"100 skulls of blood on the wall . . ." Bartimaeus started. "100 skulls of blood . . ."

"Stop it . . ." growled Farquarl, getting off Tumber.

"If you take one down and pass it around . . ."

"It won't work. I've built up a resistance," said Farquarl triumphantly. "I worked in an opera house, and it echoes in those kitchens!"

"There'd be . . . MY SHARONA!"

Bartimaeus leapt onto the newly formed feet of Ptolemy, dressed in a shiny leather jacket and pants . . . sigh . . . Isn't fanservice wonderful? — And struck a dynamic pose. Sigh . . . Why can't I be a better artist at a time like this?

Anyway, there came from nowhere the sound of guitar backup, and I wish that I could have an mp3 player at the moment to make it sound more realistic, but I have no Japanese kana or midi player to play at this exact time, so you'll have to imagine it.

"Ooh, my little pretty one, my pretty one, when you gonna give me some time Sharona? Ooh, you make my motor run, my motor run—"

"Dear Seth . . ." growled Farquarl.

"Isn't this just the slightest bit off topic?" asked the Triloid to no-one in particular.

"—Never gunna stop, give it up, such a dirty mind—"

"This is wrong on so many levels," pointed out Nathaniel unnecessarily.

"Do you get the feeling that the author is just stalling for space?" Kitty asked, dangerously loud for someone in the vicinity of a mighty flock of crows that would burst through the walls and peck her eyes out if I wished!

"—Of a younger kind . . .

"MY, MY, MY, MY, MY— WHOO!

"M-M-M—"

And then, just at my favourite damn point of the song, who should come barging through the wall like my threat beforehand, but JANE FARRAR!

"Yeah! I got a dramatic entrance!" cheered Jane, before realizing she would have to put on a guise of evil. "Anyway, cower, you losers! Before my wrath and stuff!"

I just wasted 25 words. Please ignore. Disregard the paragraph before last. When checking the number of Words in my total story, please subtract 25. This has been a service announcement of some sort.

"NOBODY LIKES ME!" screamed Jane.

"I DON'T GET ENOUGH NARRATION IN THE LAST TWO BOOKS!" screamed Bartimaeus in a latent attack of idiocy.

"I'M JUST A DISPOSABLE CHARACTER!" wept the Triloid.

Why isn't Anna here?

"OK, OK, break it up," said Kitty authoritatively, clapping her hands. "Can we get back to this screwed up plot?"

NOBODY RESPECTS ME!

"Right, right," waved Jane. "Now, hear me my . . . somewhat obsessed boot-wearing foe! You give me those boots right now, or I'll—"

"Miss Farrar!"

Everybody turned around to see the source of that high-pitched badly placed interjection.

And of course, knowing my track record of torturing and teasing my important characters, it was Nathaniel.

He was suave and debonair. Ha, you really think I'd let that happen? He was aiming for suave and debonair-ness, but it came out as try-hard and hopeless.

"What a pleasant surprise it is having you here!" he said, over-enthusiastically.

"Whatever," said Jane, not even looking at him. "Anyway! Hand over those boots, or I'll—"

"Although I wasn't expecting you; I haven't even got a kettle boiling," Nathaniel babbled on infuriatingly. "Tumber, would you please—"

"Shut up!" went Jane cruelly (is she the one without a heart?). "I'm talking to the girl!"

"We have Earl Grey, Irish Breakfast, Darjeeling—"

"Excuse me! I am blackmailing here!" Jane snarled.

"I am just trying to be a gracious host, Miss Farrar. It is quite an honour to have you here."

Jane Farrar gave him such a death stare to scare puppies into being rabid Rottweiler

But Nathaniel must have had superpowers or something, because he was completely oblivious. I mean, Jane was no Ms Whitwell. She didn't split tablets in two with the sound of her voice. But any such female such as Jane Farrar has mastery over a particular glare that communicates such arrogance, derision and high-ranking power it's almost impossible to . . . impossible to . . . to . . . impossible . . .

"'To think!'" Kitty helpfully finished. "What do you want, you witch?"

"No swearing, this is PG-13," Jane warned. "Now, I have the weight that will tip the scales in my favour, and before anyone can jump in a spoil my glory, I shall pull them out! Behold, your Toto!"

And with, like, this really impressive action or the like, she, like, pulls out the two sock puppets she, like, kidnapped, like, a few sections ago.

"Since my narrator is evidently a spiteful cold hearted snake—" (Horse, actually) "—I shall embellish myself with extremely detailed dialogue no-one in real life would actually say unless paid ala an extensive collection of novels based on vampires!" (Copyright author of that particular series based on historic facts and mythology).

She, like, did a pose. "And now, as I strike an imperial pose—" (Why? What did it ever do to you?) "—I glance down upon you all with scorn! For I, Jane Farrar, have succoured the beloved toys of my only adversary, and, although she stares with such unperturbed expression, she will be forced to relinquish those boots in order to grant back her symbols of childhood!"

Kitty cocked her head. "And if I don't?"

Nathaniel blinked cluelessly (is he the one without a brain? Just kidding, just kidding! He's a brilliant wit; brilliant, just please don't hurt me!). "You mean, you really only came for that girl?"

Jane, like, did something. "Hah! I mock you with my tone and body language! You, my inferior in age, wisdom, and everything other than status (DAMN IT!), I have no care for you! But as for your plain companion—" ("HEY!" went Bartimaeus indignantly) "—All I want from her are those boots! And so, Kitty . . . person, surrender, or I'll—"

"So you don't want a cup of tea?"

Jane stopped dead. I am describing this because I like scenes of intense irritation. In good humour. And if I arranged them.

Jane clenched her jaw and growled.

"Look, boy. We talked for five minutes and most of that was about feta cheese and crackers. If you think that meant something to me, you are sorely mistaken and bound for a life of misery. So would you just shut up, because your speak like a teacher's pet and your upper body is scrawny."

And just after this terrible, terrible verbal assault (which I claim no responsibility for), you could just see Nathaniel's self-control break like a china teapot with a delicate pattern of blue flowers dropped on cheap ceramic tiles. Not that I've experienced this.

"Eh? Eh?" went Nathaniel, and I wish I had kana, so I wouldn't have to waste two characters on a syllable.

She paid him no heed. I mean, she, like, didnnt car. "My unworthy politically-related opponent, I pay no heed to you!" (I just said that!) "Kitty, whose last name I need to effect an air of malice and scorn but don't remember hearing—"

"It's 'Jones'," sighed Kitty, just to stop the terrible sentence deviation.

"Ah-ha! That was your first mistake!" Jane, like, said. "I say triumphantly! For in the occupation of Magician, whether Malicious or Merciful, a name has much power! Although you, who is a Commoner, one without the skill or influence to be worth worrying about, have none of my afore-hinted powers, with those boots, that are on your feet, which are attached to your scrawny knees—" (Her knees are not scrawny!) "—By your ankles and shins—" (You are going off topic!) "—You are both immune to my power, which is wickedly cool and powerful—" (You are not using semicolons at all!) and have that its own mystical powers that you have—" (Grammar enthusiasts are gagging in their seats!) "—And so are deserving, unworthy though you are, to face the full, which is strong and mighty, —" (You are using too many commas!) "—Of my power!" (And I don't like you.)

When you have finished twitching from that abomination, see that Nathaniel has a huddled under the table chanting "Safe, Secret, Secure' under his breath, and Kitty is still unmoved. Notice I only used two commas in that previous sentence (not including brackets, 'cause they don't count), and all for grammatically correct purposes. You wouldn't have dropped dead before reaching its end from oxygen deprivation.

"QUIET!" said J.

"As much as I regret being nothing more than a torture for Bartimaeus and this time one to move the plot along, I feel I need to point out that Master's, whose name I didn't catch because the author is cruel, Master isn't back yet," pointed out Farquarl.

"That's because she's a little tied up," said Jane Farrar smugly, and I'm saying this only because there's a punchline coming soon.

"You mean she's bound in ropes tied with a fiendishly devised knot with a gag in her mouth in a room slowly filling with an unidentified gas?"

"No, she's just got a hole in her nexus and a boot to the face," said Jane, ruining the gag DAMN YOU!

"Look, just to get this exchange slightly faster, why do you think I care about sock puppets?" Kitty asked.

"Because they told me!" stated Jane Farrar frankly, and so I state too, because its result is thus follows . . .

Kitty, Bartimaeus, the unimportant other djinn and even the cracked Nathaniel looked blankly at her.

"They told you?" Kitty repeated dubiously.

"Of course they did!" said Jane, offended. "I was in the forest, and the next thing I knew—" she broke off to look at Mr Tipple, who had somehow fixed himself to her hand. "No, that was after the attack by those other characters!"

There seemed to had been a shout from Mr Buttons, who had also attached himself to her hand. "No, it's near impossible to hit a Sapphire Ooze with close combat," she said. "Use magic instead."

The deadpan look of the assemblage was so deadpan it could have caused a kitchen to weep.

She glanced back at them. Not the kitchen, the assemblage.

"Hey, don't look at me like that," she said, with little success. "They did so tell me that, after that barbarian, death chick, swordsmen, golem, mysterious priest and crazy girl on a Vespa ambushed me! I'm not crazy!"

There is a very pregnant pause.

Then Bartimaeus said, with an Elvis accent, which is a brutal leap from the Knack reference several paragraphs ago, "But that's crazy. The Vespa is a left-handed scooter, uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-huh."

"I don't care. Keep the sock puppets," shrugged Kitty carelessly.

But we need a Toto!

"Don't worry, I know what I'm doing," she whispered.

"What? But I don't want these stinking—" Jane paused, as if someone had interrupted her, and glared at her hands.

"Shut up, OK? I don't care how many Troglodytes you have to kill, you have to find—"

She looked at Mr Tipple. "Him? Anti-social, psychotic personality, hostility, abnormal fear of pincushions? Non-funny schizophrenia and Tourette's Syndrome? And— you can't have that in PG-13!"

She looked ill at Mr Buttons.

"No, don't, don't, GET OFF MY HAND!" she screamed, throwing down the puppets, but Mr Tipple stayed on.

"Shut up! Shut up! I don't care! Stop talking to me!" she shook her arm crazily, stumbling madly around so she stood on that pretty dress she had.

Finally, after a few minutes and sobs, the final puppet came off, and she turned around, and ran in the opposite direction.

"I'll be back, and don't you dare make fun of this!" she cried, running into the Master's bathroom. And because I am just the slightest bit sorry, I let her run through the wall and into the unknown.

"Well, that was elongated," commented Farquarl.

-XXX-

Meanwhile, on the edge of the dome, just so I can stagger the flow the slightest and have a break from writing in the location beforehand, Ms Whitwell was poked by the woody finger of a large and oddly muscled willow.

Then it hurriedly retreated, because it wasn't that brave.

-XXX-

"—Eight, seven, six, five— oh, you're already on. My bad," said Tony, hurriedly clapping those clapper thingies they have in Hollywood and running away.

Gee, I miss Anna.

Anyway, after the Chinese takeaway boxes were hurriedly swept away (Kitty was still hungrily eating Sweet and Sour pork) the Dorothy, Scarecrow and Tin Man of the story were seated around the table. The Triloid had gone to pretend to look for Ms Whitwell, and Farquarl was hovering somewhere just close enough to reach if an opportunity to torture Bartimaeus arose.

"—And that's the pointless recount of my life until now," Nathaniel 'finished'.

"That your parents gave you up for adoption and there were eight mysterious years up until now?" questioned Bartimaeus.

Look, I can't think of anything, OK?

"Yes, if you don't want to have crows pecking out your eyeballs," said Nathaniel, his hands folded gracefully and everything.

Kitty noticed this. Well, she would have, if she didn't have her nose in a carton of fried rice!

"If you had fed me— hang on, just wait 'til I've finished . . ." Kitty hurriedly slurped up the last bits of her meal.

"Right. Hey, you didn't look so confident when that witch was here!" she pointed out, wiping her mouth with a napkin.

Nathaniel nearly choked on a string of cabbage caught in his throat. Once he had suitably washed this down with a cup of watery tea (you need to let it sit for about ten or fifteen minutes next time!), he tried to affect a look of calm interest on his face. Which made him look like he was about to sneeze.

"Do you need a handkerchief, if you can't prise that one from your breast pocket?" asked Bartimaeus in that same 'I just did something like kill you parents' he used ages ago at the start of the chapter. Boy, is it long. Better step up the pace.

"No!" squeaked Nathaniel, sounding more like a rusty hinge than a magician. "I mean, um, never mind . . ." he sounded so depressed I could have changed the genre to angst. I won't, though.

"It's just . . . these days, I don't feel like a real magician any more . . ." he said sadly, no-one wanting to point out that this is a parody work and anyway he's fourteen. Well, Bartimaeus wanted to, but I shot a crow-feather dart through his coif.

"Master noticed it to. Last week, she wanted me to fire a poor single father with three kids and two medium sized dogs from his job, but I couldn't," Nathaniel said miserably. "And I can't make the djinn anguish working for me. They nearly . . . they nearly . . . they nearly enjoy it," said Nathaniel in disgust. He looked on the verge of tears, but not breaking, because that would slow everything down.

"There, there," said Bartimaeus soothingly.

And because there was a smidgen of kindness left in her soul, and not much space left between this and a novella, Kitty mentioned: "We are going to see the Great Magician of Ahz to have him solve our problems. How about you come to see if he can give you a heart?"

And Nathaniel said: "NO!"

Great. No Hook of Bruised Souls.

"I do not want a heart. I want less of one," Nathaniel explained. "No, wait, that could be misinterpreted. What I want: is less kokoro."

"Huh?" went Kitty and Bartimaeus.

"Kokoro," Nathaniel started. "Is Japanese. Means 'heart', 'feeling', 'spirit'. Basically, I want less of that."

"So what you're saying is that you want less free will?" asked Bartimaeus.

"Pardon?" went Nathaniel, and poor Kitty, who could not speak Japanese.

"Because 'kokoro' can also apply to your will, or emotions and such," Bartimaeus explained. "And what does Japanese have to do with djinn anyway?"

Sorry.

"There's few references to the culture, and those are tourists and a pig dressed in a kimono. What kind of poor, obsessed sap would draw connections to a great book of the Literate era and a genre indulges the viewer in flighty fantasies with pretty girls and boys and—"

There is spiteful activity on my part.

"I'm going to the Magician to get less brain," said a feather and soot covered Bartimaeus. "You can come to, and bring all your friends. Bambi, Rupert the Bear, Big Bird, and the Red Baron! And then we can pick flowers, and dance to a polka played on the accordion, and—"

"Are you sure? I mean, I still have a career to think of, and my master—" Nathaniel broke off, and looked around the area. It was littered with thick black goop, several cooking instruments, hair grease, noodles, Chinese food, and a good number of my school books which have somehow fallen in there . . . oh, that's where they went.

"Aren't you magicians like really uptight?" asked Kitty, but with really no expectation for an answer. The BONE-like décor already answered the question.

There is a pause, as Nathaniel weighs up the options in his grease-covered but admittedly amazing head.

". . . Let's go," he said, and without much further ado (for one who is used to schedules aligning his toilet breaks) they leave the complex.

But just as they reach the door, Kitty looked down on her hands and asked aloud, "When did I put these on?"

Mr Tipple and Mr Buttons were there, blinking innocently with their button eyes.

"We missed you," said Mr Tipple, only to her.

"ALL MY CHARACTERS GOT TURNED TO STONE BY MEDUSAS!" said Mr Buttons sorrowfully.

"Can we go now? My djinni sense are tingling," said Bartimaeus, suitably recovered. "It's bad enough travelling with a Magician. And by the way, that is a terrible hat."

-XXX-

Ms Whitwell was, just a bit later, standing in the middle of her hallway, noticing the damage.

"WHO RAN THROUGH THE WALL OF MY BATHROOM!" she screamed. "TUMBER!" The table cracked at the tone of this.

"It wasn't me!" whimpered the unfortunate Triloid.

"Fix this while I take my shower, and if there is a single brick out of place, I will Invert Skin you," Ms Whitwell ordered. Every surface of paint peeled.

"I HATE MY LIFE!" howled Tumber.

Hello. Are we done? Woo, that took a long time. Sorry.

Now with much further ado (AKA procrastinating), we have the disclaimers, done kindly by Nathaniel.

Nathaniel looks sickly at the page he is holding. "What, all this?"

Sorry, I went a bit crazy.

"You're telling me!" called Bartimaeus, combing out his coif in the empty makeup room.

Ah well, that which does not kill us can only make us stronger.

"Darn it! A Sun Tzu reference!" growled Nathaniel, pencilling in another line.

And Anna said I couldn't make it through the day without her! Hah! It's only a small repair bill for the props, replacement for the scenery and staff, and a lot of excess characters I have to carefully get rid of . . .

Zelgadis dashes past. "Get him away from me!"

The source of his frustration is close behind. "Wait Mr Zelgadis, orange will go with your eyes!" called Xellos happily.

. . . Damn. Shouldn't have let him near Bartimaeus.

Bartimaeus walks past, his face streaked with makeup. "He overpowered me, OK?" he growls as he leaves.

Overpowered? With force or charisma?

"Shut up!"

"As there is now a lull in conversation, I will try to do the disclaimers," says Nathaniel, shuffling about two pages.

"Alright," he said, sounding business like. "The author owns nothing of the following. 'The Bartimaeus Trilogy', by Jonathon Stroud; 'The Wizard of Oz' by Frank Baum or its movies; Japanese kana; Xylophones; British accents or policemen; Taffeta (a water-like material for those not interested in sewing); a story involving . . . kittens; Monty Python references; Eion Colfer's 'The Supernaturalist'; any alleyways or train stations; 'Ride on Shooting Star' by the pillows, theme of the FLCL six episode nonsensical series; Dr Seuss; football teams; 'My Sharona' by Knack; the mp3 technology; any types of tea such as Earl Grey, Darjeeling, but Dragon Eye is really nice; a series of novels based around vampires and their interference in historic acts (AKA Anne Rice's vampire novels); really bad writing (I think, I'm only being paid to say this); Elvis; any mental 'disabilities'; Chinese food; Bambi (by Disney); Rupert Bear (by someone); Big Bird (from Sesame Street); and The Red Baron (I got it from Peanuts). Phew!"

Nathaniel smiles, until he checks the other side.

"There's more? Games, books, and anime? Dear Gladstone," he put a hand to his head.

"Oh well. Genre, games not owned by the author," Nathaniel sighed. "Pokemon Puzzle League; Hearts; 'The Lands of Lore' by Westwood; and the 'Might and Magic series', reference to XII and XIII." He took another breath.

"And yet more. Books not owned by the author: The Discworld series by Terry Pratchett; the Harry Potter series by J. K. Rowling; Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky (which is a poem in 'Through the Looking Glass'); and Tamora Pierce's various Quartets."

"Finally, anime not owned by the author . . . geez . . . I need more pay . . ." Nathaniel wiped his forehead. "OK. FLCL by Gainex, and all those things related to its characters (Vespa, Rickenbacker bass); and the Slayers. This is supposedly restraint. Oh well. I'll just leave now."

Hey, wait!

"No, I'm too exhausted. I'm going home," Nathaniel muttered, limping away.

But who's going to do the next chapter . . . Oh, Haru-san!

:Minutes later:

Haruko: Hey there! Haruhara— Whoops, Raharu Haruko here! Age 19—

ROI: Ahem.

Haruko: Hai, hai. Age 20, somewhat evil psychopath but a good-looking one at that!

ROI: --Cough-- Former housekeeper of Naota AKA Takkun.

Haruko: Yeah, but there was all that business with Medical Mechanica and stuff . . .

ROI: You used him! And the plot made no sense! I don't know whether to hate or like you!

Haruko: Shrugs Whatever. Currently next chapter synopsis-er here. I'm paid in modelling sets. Whispers Send some to me; they are way too cheap here.

ROI: Ahem again.

Haruko: No planes or anything. Robots generally. Some Nadiesco for sentiments' sake. Normal voice And now, coming up next!

Takes deep breath, then says all without pausing

Ya know how there're all those trilogies, and then there's all these groups of three? Like the smart one, dumb one and nice one? Sort of like the maiden, the mother and the other one like Terry Pratchett said. He's good at that sort of thing, you know? But then there're three plus Dorothy, so it doesn't really count, does it?

Next chapter of the Wizard of Ahz: 'If I Only Had a . . ." "If I Never Had a . . ." Alright, we don't have a title or plot yet, but you know the Cowardly Lion's coming. But who is it? I'm not sure either . . .

See ya later, anyway!

ROI: Pretty good.

Haruko: Whatever. Can I go now? Vespas don't fix themselves, you know.

ROI: Maybe you could buy one of the latest versions that might?

Haruko: --Draws out guitar-- What . . . did . . . you . . . SAY!

ROI: Er . . . Evidently a very bad thing?

Haruko: HEATHEN FOOL! YOU SHALL BE PUNISHED FOR YOUR SPOUT OF BLASPHEMY! --Gives chase with bass guitar--

ROI: AAHHHH! DON'T HURT MEEEE!

Xelloss: --From sidelines, of course-- Run little girl, run!

ROI: --Is doing just that--

Tony: Hey, watch out for the lighting equipment.

Susan: --Returned from Death's World for paycheck-- This is why you do not let out-of-genre characters into your parody stories.

Disclaimer Demons: --Pop up from nowhere-- AND ALSO USING PREVIOUSLY CREATED CHARACTERS ARE TERRIBLE CATALYSTS FOR CLICHÉS AND ALLUSIONS!

Tony: Like, hey, why didn't yous come up in the chapter when you were mentioned?

Disclaimer Demon #1 (Male): IT IS STEREOTYPICAL TO APPEAR WHEN THERE IS A BRIEF MENTION OF YOURSELF!

Disclaimer Demon #2 (Female): YES! AND WE WERE ON A TASK GIVEN TO US BY OUR MASTER!

Tony: Jane Farrar?

Disclaimer Demon #1: NO! SHE IS NOT OUR MASTER! ANOTHER ENTITY IS!

Donald: --Comes hauling light fixture-- Is its name something like Hellmaster or Hellraiser or something?

Xelloss: Hellmaster is already taken.

ROI: --Over shoulder-- 'Hell' is a prefix used too often in making names!

Donald: --Drops light-- DON'T HURT ME! --Runs--

Tony: Hey, we're running out of backstage staff!

ROI: Sorry. Haruko, stop!

Haruko: --To everyone's surprise, she does--

ROI: Great, now, maybe we can put up the competition examples before—

Haruko: ITADAKI-MAMMOTH::Revs up bass:

ROI: AHHHHHH! HELP ME!

Anna walks into the scene of chaos. Hrun has seduced all female staff, Susan is gone, having rode away on Death's horse (AKA Binky), Zelgadis is drinking coffee in a huff in the corner, Xellos is encouraging my beating, and all the Canon characters have left.

"Is this what happens when I leave for a day?" she asks grumpily, her thesis not defined and her headache not gone.

I can't answer because I'm using Donald as a shield. Admittedly, I may be an ethereal force here, but the bass still hurts.

"Alright, I'll drop the examples," Anna sighs. "No need to thank me—"

Please, please get rid of the out-of-context-characters!

"Fine," Anna sighed again, getting out her Hook of Bruised Souls. "Alright you lot! If you don't get out of here now, you'll feel the bad end of my critique! And you to, Demon thingies! I don't remember employing you!"

"WE DO NOT COME WHEN EMPLOYED!"

"BUT NOW WE ARE QUESTIONED, WE SHALL DISAPPEAR!"

"I think I will do that too," says Xellos, disappearing in boredom.

"I'll . . . find a way . . ." said Zelgadis weakly, walking out.

"Whatever! Gotta find Atomsk!" shrugged Haruko, leaving me.

Hrun has passed out in a costume room, having found a strange supply of wine.

"Right," said Anna, putting away her Hook. "Now, finish up!"

All I ever needed to know I learned from the Bartimaeus Trilogy!

1. If you are at first a brief mention, then a helpful plot point, you will warp into becoming the main plotter in the conclusion of the book then get yourself killed (AKA Makepeace)

2. If your name is a phrase relating to goodwill, you must be bad.

3. If you are a stubborn, unreasonable, shouting prat who will not accept the wisdom of an older character or let go of a grudge, you will become a popular character. And maybe die, negating all your past mistakes.

4. If you are a sarcastic, jaded, ancient violent entity with a smart mouth and dumb mistakes, and narrate in first person, you will have a series named after you and become a popular character. And kind things will happen to you when you are certain everything is cruel and evil.

5. If you have been repressed and held in distain by a class of people, and try to cause a revolution against them, all your friends will die, your parents will become estranged, you will get beaten up, betrayed, do something nice for the person who betrayed you, and still never get up. Then possibly fall in love for one of those who repressed you, who will then sacrifice himself, making it impossible for you to hold a grudge.

Bye. See you all later.